Conard County Spy by Rachel Lee Page A

whatever she might have been stewing about earlier had been pushed into the background. Her expressive face reflected only natural curiosity.
    â€œYou won’t believe it,” he said. Anticipating her reaction, he felt a bit of humor leaven his gloomy, angry mood.
    â€œWhy not?”
    â€œDo I look like I was raised by medical missionaries?”
    Her eyes widened, then she laughed. “How in the world did you wind up here?”
    â€œDifferent ideas of helping the world. A stethoscope in one hand and the Bible in the other didn’t appeal to me. When it comes to religion I’m sort of a live-and-let-live kind of guy.”
    â€œAnd your parents?”
    â€œVery deeply involved in their faith and good works. I grew up in Indonesia, India and Africa.”
    â€œWhere are they now?”
    â€œThey went racing into Sierra Leone at the outset of the Ebola crisis. Unfortunately...” He shrugged a little. “They died doing what they believed in. You can’t ask for much more than that.”
    Her entire face drooped. “I am so sorry, Trace.”
    â€œI miss them occasionally, but I understood them. Belief is a powerful motivator. We just had different sets of beliefs about how to make the world a better place.”
    He wondered if he actually had, though. He’d believed in what he was doing for a long time, but lately... Well, this wasn’t the time for soul-searching. Not that kind. If he survived this, he could take some time for that. If he survived this, he was going to have plenty of time to examine his sins.
    â€œAnyway,” he said, trying to bring the conversation back from the brink, “you could say I’m a typical preacher’s kid. I rebelled and went my own way.”
    â€œBut with the same set of ideals.”
    â€œNot quite.” He smiled almost bitterly. “Not by a long shot, really. But the basic goal was the same.”
    â€œSo what was it like growing up in such exotic places?”
    â€œKids adapt rapidly. I melded with the surrounding culture as much as I was allowed to. I developed a facility for languages, learned how easily I could be a chameleon.”
    â€œWill the real Trace Archer please stand up?” she said lightly.
    â€œCan’t do that. I took a pain pill, and anyway, you’re getting the real me. What’s left, anyway.”
    Again that shadow flitted across her face. “You need some coffee?”
    â€œI made some, but right now I don’t want to move. Pain pill is kicking in, and at this very moment the fire seems a long way away.”
    â€œWant me to bring you some?”
    â€œPlease, if you want to talk to a guy who isn’t half brain-dead.”
    â€œSo it burns?” she said as she poured and brought him a mug of coffee, placing it within reach of his good left hand.
    â€œBurns. Yeah. Sometimes it feels like it’s in a blacksmith’s forge and being hammered on. Not all the time, thank God. But right now...hey, that hand must belong to someone else.”
    She laughed as if she felt it was expected, and he admitted he’d been hoping for it. He liked the sound of her laugh. She should always laugh.
    He grabbed the mug, realizing he was in danger of becoming sappy.
    â€œSo you learned to be a chameleon,” she remarked as she retreated to her desk chair. “How did your parents feel about that?”
    â€œMy folks were good people. More tolerant than some. When I adapted to the local culture, it was good for them, too.”
    â€œI guess I can understand that. But what about later? The path you took?”
    He paused, sensing dangerous waters here. He resorted to the stock answer, even though he felt bad about not being able to share all the truth with her. “I traveled a lot for the State Department.”
    Her face shadowed. “I see.”
    And there he had to leave it. She already guessed or knew more than she should. Nor did the irony of it