____________________ In the Heart of the Wind [Book 1 in WindTorn Trilogy] by Charlotte Boyett-Compo ____________________ Copyright (c)2004 by Charlotte Boyett-Compo First published by Hard Shell Word Factory,February 2004 Hard Shell Word Factory www.hardshell.com Suspense/Thriller Bloody Dagger Award Winner, Scribes World Reviewer's Choice Winner ____________________ NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Duplication or distribution of this work by email, floppy disk, network, paper print out, or any other method is a violation of international copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines and/or imprisonment. ____________________ To Aurora: Daughter of my heart. ____________________ *Prologue* Terror was beginning to build in him as the orderlies pushed the gurney through a set of double doors and he realized he was in some kind of treatment room. He lifted his head and looked around, confused. There were strange-looking pieces of equipment in the room and a large circular operating room light hanging over a stationary operating table. As he was rolled toward the table, his heart began to lurch. "What are you going to do?" He was aware that his voice was filled with primal terror. The men simply began to unbuckle the straps on the gurney, their eyes boring into him, daring him to give them trouble. He knew if he did, the retaliation would be swift and exacting. He began to tremble violently as they lifted him to the table. A low moan of abject terror welled up in his throat and he whimpered. The white orderly laughed. "Dr. Lassiter's going to give you something to groan about, pal." The man buckled another strap tightly across Jamie's forehead. "And you ain't gonna like it," one of the black men said and chuckled as he tugged on the strap that ran across Jamie's chest. Instant recognition flooded Jamie's mind and his eyes flew wide. He stared with terror-stricken shock at the black man who had spoken. He had heard that voice before. A long time ago. On a rainy night in 1986. "No," Jamie whispered, his voice quivering with fright. "Oh, God, no."
The black man glanced across Jamie to the white orderly and grinned. "I think his memory ain't all that bad." "It will be when the Doc gets through with him!" ____________________ *Chapter 1* There was crisp white snow piled high to either side of Gabe and Annie James' driveway. A white arc of powder flew from the curving sidewalk as the snowblower munched its way to the front door. Nine inches of fresh snow had fallen during the night, adding to the four already on the ground, and the front yard of the James' two-story home looked like a winter wonderland. Drifts along the northern side of the house were up almost to the bay window in the dining room, and had swept back a good five feet to the left of the garage. The air was crisp with a biting northwesterly wind blowing, even though the sun was shining down beneath a sky almost totally devoid of clouds. Gabe was out in the arctic twenty-degree weather of Kellogg, Iowa's second snowfall of the season, having fun with his brand new 'snower-thrower,' as he called it. Watching him from their cozy bedroom, Annie felt a twinge of guilt as she sat on their bed, their little dog curled up asleep in herlap. After all, Gabe had been born and bred in the Deep South, somewhere near a place called, ironically enough, Frostproof, and had spent his college years in Gainesville at the University of Florida. Upon graduation, he'd taken a job in the Panhandle of that state, although he had never really explained to her what that job had been. He was used to a warmer clime, a less frigid winter. And he bitterly detested snow. She'd met him through a friend at the college in Grinnell, Iowa, at the start of the September classes where she had been taking some courses toward her Masters in education. His big brown eyes, dark complexion, and shock of thick, curly brown hair had made female eyes stray his way often as they sat in Hardee's that morning. His six-foot, two-inch frame and thickly-muscled physique had even turned the heads of a few strapping farm boys who happened into the fast food restaurant. No doubt they'd thought him one of their own. One or two had nodded his way, sizing him up as men do other men, obviously approving of what they saw, sensing no threat from him, no intrusion on their territory, for they'd ignored him from then on. She'd studied his face: full and round, his nose a bit too broad, but bold and hinting at a sensuality she could actually feel emanating from him. His thick brows peaked at the center and met over the bridge of his nose. His lower lip was thin with a wavering boyhood scar running parallel to it. His teeth were white and perfectly straight and even; a movie star's teeth, she had thought. "What do you do here, Gabe?" she had asked, pleased with the dimples in his cheeks, the cleft in his chin, and the way a lock of his dark hair couldn't seem to keep from falling over his right eye. "I work for Iowa Southern." He'd smiled, looking down at his biscuit and gravy. His eyes had lifted to hers as he raised his coffee cup and grinned as he began to sing off-key, "I am a lineman for the county…" She'd been fascinated with his soft, Southern accent, his polite, gentlemanly ways. He'd looked absolutely mouth-watering in his gray stone-washed jeans which had hugged his lean flanks like a second skin; pale brown shirt rolled up to the elbows to expose the thick furring of hair on his forearms and hands; and his very white, and very large, tennis shoes. Unlike most of the men she'd known all her life, he'd been very solicitous of her, asking if she'd like more coffee, sugar, cream. His manners were impeccable and his face was not only handsome, but honest and open, and just a touch boyish. He had the tendency to blush often, lower his eyes as he spoke. She found his mannerisms refreshing compared to the too-direct, bulldozing mystique that is the Iowa male. "Have you been in Grinnell long?" she'd asked, holding her breath for his answer, not even aware his answer was very, very important to her. "Since May." He'd ducked his head, looked up with a sheepish grin on his face. "I'm not sure I can drive in the snow up here." He had, true to form, blushed.
"Piece of cake," she'd assured him, instinctively reaching out to touch his hand where it lay on the table between them. She'd looked into those remarkable brown eyes and felt lost. Six months later, they were married. A month after that, they'd moved to Kellogg. She'd taken a teaching position at the high school in neighboring Newton and he had gotten a job as a cable installer with the local cable company out of Gilman. "Jack of all trades," he'd told her when she questioned his choice of jobs. Laying cable, running service calls, didn't seem like much of a job for a man with a college degree. "Don't worry, darlin'," he'd assured her. "I can still support us on an installer's pay." It hadn't been that that had worried her, but at the time, Annie couldn't put her finger on what it was that nagged at her about Gabe's reluctance to get a job commensurate with his education. "Gabe's still a little boy," her friend Helen had commented. "He likes 'playing' at working." Now, two years later, he had changed jobs again. For the third time. Now, he was working at the local super store, managing the automotive department. "I just got tired of being out in the cold," he'd explained to her when she wondered about the change of job from electrician to retail sales. He wasn't accustomed to snow and sleet and freezing rains - the legacy every Iowan had learned from cradle to grave. Even though he'd been north two winters, his blood still had not thickened and he complained about the cold every winter. "Do you have trouble feeling your toes in the winter, Annie?" he'd grumbled. "Would you rather we moved south? Maybe go down to Florida?" she'd asked one blustery morning when she had found him cursing over the light snow covering the driveway. "No," he'd hissed, turning to face her with eyes suddenly very wide, and to her mind, very frightened. His face had gone from the slight pink of annoyance over the offending snow to stark white paleness, to an infused angry red, and she had reached out a hand to him, surprised when he batted it away and spun around. "I'll be late," he'd snapped at her as he banged the door shut behind him, heading for, at that time, his job as an electrician with a small Kellogg company. Annie shivered, remembering that look on his face. It had been one she had not seen since. Most of the time, her husband was quiet, rather shy, and totally devoted to her, but there were times when his silence worried her. She saw him glance up, no doubt feeling her eyes on him, and he threw up a thickly gloved hand. She waved at him, smiling. Letting the curtain drop, she moved away from the window and sat on the still-unmade bed. She gazed at the rumpled sheets around her. He'd had another bad nightmare the night before. It was the second one that week. Putting her hand on his pillow, she smoothed the pillowcase and sighed. Gabe was a private person, something she had learned early on in their marriage. He had secrets he wasn't willing to share with her, so she'd simply grown accustomed to allowing him his moodiness and silences, his moments of staring blindly out of windows whenever it rained, his reluctance to take even an aspirin when he wasn't feeling well. But lately, since one of his best friends, Kyle Vittetoe, had been injured in a robbery attempt at a Casey's convenience store, Gabe had become withdrawn, restive, even sulking, at times. "What's bothering you, baby?" she'd asked before they had gone to bed the night before. "Nothing," he'd mumbled, pulling up the covers up, turning to his right side, away from her, and dragging the coverlet up to his chin. "I'm just tired." He'd turned back over, pecked her on the cheek, and had quickly retreated to the far side of the king-size bed. An hour later, he'd awakened her with a cut-off yelp as he sat bolt upright. Annie had turned on the lamp at her night stand and saw her husband's white face glistening with sweat, his arms wrapped painfully tight around his drawn-up knees, his body stiff and trembling. She'd gathered him into her arms, crooning to him, smoothing the wildly rumpled brown hair against her breast. "Just a bad dream, baby," she'd told him, feeling his shaking, hearing his teeth clicking together. "Just a bad dream." The second one that week.
Annie sighed again and stood, drawing her nightgown over her head. She neatly folded the fleecy material and opened her dresser drawer to lay the gown inside. Taking out panties and bra from another of the drawers, she happened to glance at herself in the full-length mirror beside the dresser and began a critical survey. Annie, at thirty-one, was eight years younger than her husband, but already there were silver threads in her short, fine brown hair. Her eyes were still good, despite having to wear glasses to read, the hazel orbs framed with long dark lashes. She wasn't especially tall for a woman - five foot five in her stocking feet, just right for her husband's six feet plus height. Her weight needed work, as did her hips, but her breasts, according to Gabe, were just right. "More than a handful's wasted anyway," he'd once remarked with a leer. Her legs weren't all that bad, but her thighs were in dire need of exercise. Or liposuction. Or both. But the one thing she hated most about her body was her nose. "There's Indian blood in you, darlin'," Gabe had teased. "Just enough to give you that 'Buffalo Head Nickel' look that's so in vogue." She'd thrown a wet washcloth at him and locked him out of the bathroom. **** Gabe turned off the snow blower and leaned against the handle as he stared down the street before his home. The snowplow hadn't been by yet and the road was a ribbon of white untouched by any of the neighborhood cars. He sniffed, feeling the cold air invading his lungs. He shivered. He knew he'd never get used to the Iowa cold. He hated the winters with a depth of passion even his wife didn't suspect. "Store closed today, Gabe?" Gabe turned his head within the restriction of his ski suit and waved a hand at his neighbor across the street, Jake Mueller. "I'm off today!" he yelled back. He jerked his thumb at the accumulated snow. "Just as well, I guess, huh?" Jake waved in reply, then trundled back into his garage. The whine of the electric door opener pierced the still air and a dog barked down the street in protest. A stiff wind howled around the side of the house and rocked Gabe. He glanced up at the sky and frowned. Off to the west, clouds were building again. "Damn," he spat, hating the threat of more snow. He turned on the snow blower to finish the walkway. **** Annie stuffed two pairs of her husband's jeans into the washer after zipping them and buttoning the top button. She wondered why Gabe couldn't remember to do it when he pulled them off. She reached for a third pair, absentmindedly going through the pockets just in case Gabe had left a crumpled dollar bill or two thrust deep inside. "That's mine!" he'd grumbled once when he'd seen her stuffing a five dollar bill into her shirt pocket. "You leave it in your pants, sonny boy, and it's the property of the cleaners," she'd informed him. She'd giggled at his wagging brows as he told her "everything in his pants belonged to the cleaners." Her fingers closed around paper and she smiled, looking down at her canine companion. "I think Daddy left us some money, Kibs." Drawing out her find, her brow crinkled when she came up with a folded section of newspaper. Unfolding the page, her brows lifted in surprise when she saw the masthead. She scanned the page, made note of the date, and her eyes narrowed in puzzlement. "Where the heck did you get a week-old copy of the _Pensacola News Journal?_" she asked, turning over the page. There was nothing much to the news on that sheet of newsprint. Nothing, at least, that she had not seen plastered on that date's _Des Moines Register_. There was the usual Middle East crisis report, economic disaster, multiple slayings in Detroit, the normal slandering of Vice-President Quayle.
Nothing out of the ordinary except the three-inch column devoted to the death of a policeman in some place called Navarre, Florida, which Gabe had outlined in red pencil. 'Cop Slain in Convenience Store Shoot Out,' it read. Annie lifted her eyes and stared at the bright display of brown gingham wallpaper behind her washer. A cold finger of unease scraped down her spine and she shivered. Looking back at the article, she began to read. **** After rolling the snow blower back inside his garage, Gabe plucked a snow shovel from its wall peg and trudged back into the cold, blustery wind. He swung the shovel up to knock icicles from the eaves of the garage, batting the stalactites away with obvious joy. He watched them sail across the driveway with a grim smile of satisfaction on his numb lips. When he was finished, he hung the shovel back in its niche and stomped the snow from his boots as he walked to the door leading into the kitchen. His mind was on the cup of mulled cider he would heat in the microwave. "Gabe?" He turned, spying Annie in the opened doorway of their laundry room, a separate room built into the garage. "Yeah, just a minute." He shucked off his heavy thermal-insulated gloves and laid them on the garbage can just outside the kitchen door. He turned and headed for his wife. "What ya need, doll?" Annie held something out to him. "Where did this come from?" Gabe looked at what was in her hand and glanced up. "Where'd you find that?" he asked, a slight stiffness to his voice. "In your jeans." She thrust the paper out to him. "Where'd you get it?" He shrugged, but his expression belied the nonchalance of his attitude. "I had the newsstand over in Grinnell order it for me." He took the newspaper page, folded it and stuffed it into the left pocket of his snowmobile outfit. "No big deal." He turned to walk away. "I haven't seen that newspaper around here." He glanced over his shoulder at her. "I keep it at work to read when I'm on break." He walked to the kitchen door and started to open it. "Why'd you circle that article?" Gabe stilled with his hand on the doorknob then turned to face her. There was a tight, annoyed look on his lean face. "What is this? Twenty questions?" Annie's face burned hot, but she held her ground. "I just wondered. Did you know the policeman?" He jerked open the door. "It was just an interesting article, okay?" he snapped, eyeing her with a look that told her he didn't want to discuss it further. He slammed the door behind him as he went into the house, not even remembering to remove his snow boots. With the chill air from the opened garage door blowing in at her, Annie stepped back into the large laundry room and shut the door. She was more worried now than when she had found the newspaper page. She had wanted to ask him about the policeman who had died, a man named Bill Hinote. Her woman's intuition told her Hinote's death and Iowa State Trooper Kyle Vittetoe's vicious beating by two would-be robbers were somehow connected. "You must have known him," she whispered as she added detergent to the washer and closed the lid. She stood there, her hands planted on the machine's lid, and stared at the wallpaper. "Did you know him, Gabe?" She pushed away from the washer, put her hand on the doorknob, and as she did, she heard her husband's car rev up in the garage. A frown marred her forehead as she opened the door. Gabe caught sight of his wife as he pulled out of the garage. He could see the look of astonishment on her lovely features, saw her lips open to call out to him. He furiously shook his head and drove out of the garage at a faster speed than was either necessary or safe. Pulling out into the street, he glanced sideways to see her framed in the opening of the garage, staring after him as he drove away, the tires crunching and
sliding on the fresh snow. ____________________ *Chapter 2* The week of Thanksgiving, Annie made up her mind to unpack the Christmas decorations early so she and Gabe could put up the tree after the Thanksgiving meal. It was not a chore she looked forward to each year, but habit, family custom, and a long-ingrained obligation to carry on a tradition that was generations old. She put her hands on the pull cord of the attic and her feet on the rungs. Normally, the task of dragging down the ornaments would be left up to Gabe, but her husband was still at the store, logging in Christmas merchandise, and she knew he would be there until long after closing. Annie never ventured into the attic for, in the summer, wasps built nests in the rafters and cupola, and in the winter, it was like the outer reaches of the North Pole. But since things had been strained of late between her and Gabe, she wanted to surprise him by having everything down where it would be handy, saving him the trouble. Climbing the ladder always made her dizzy for she was afraid of even the simplest heights, but lugging the lightweight boxes down proved to be more of a chore than she had anticipated. It wasn't the heaviness of the boxes of lights and decorations, or even the bulk of the artificial tree that bothered her. It was the knee-weakening trip down the squeaking ladder, the fear of falling, that had her sweating as she toted three boxes of decorations and the tree down to the garage and carried them into the laundry room for safekeeping. Outside, the wind howled, freezing rain snicked at the overhang and tickled the black walnut tree limbs. A light patter fell on the windows now and again, and scraped against the fiberglass garage doors. It was a bit chilled in the laundry room; she had neglected to turn on the wall heater that morning since she was not going to be doing wash. She grumbled at her lack of foresight, cursed her stupidity, for the room was colder than normal. "Just get to it and get out of here, Patricia Ann," she mumbled as she walked briskly to the wall heater. After rubbing her hands together, she flipped on the dial of the heater and set about sorting which boxes were which in the hierarchy of decorating. When she discovered she had not found the box that contained the blinking lights for the tree, she rolled her eyes to the heavens and sighed, knowing another trip up the shaky ladder would be required. The attic was now as frigid as a walk-in freezer. The overhead timbers crackled, rain fell heavily against the roof and her lips were trembling, her teeth chattering, as she searched for the errant box of lights. Pushing aside box after box, she was about to give up when she spied a carton emblazoned with the single word: blinkies. "You idiot," she said with a giggle, smiling at her husband's childish scrawl. Gabe James would never think to categorize the Christmas ornaments with such inane words like tree, decorations, lights, or swags. Pushing her way through to the box, she was about to take hold of it and wiggle it past two other boxes when a footlocker caught her attention and she stopped, frowning. She could not remember ever seeing the army-green footlocker before. Somehow its presence in the attic seemed forbidding and sinister, and it sent a warning through Annie's whole being. Squatting down before it, she saw no lock, and feminine curiosity being what it is, she flipped open the lid and was surprised at what she found. **** "Gabe?" He turned, smiling at the older lady who trudged toward him through stacked cartons of steering wheel covers, license plate holders, and other 'stocking stuffers.' His eyes lit with genuine affection as he extended his hand to help her through the maze of boxes.
"Did it come in?" He nodded. "I've got it saved for you, Miss Edna," he assured her. Edna Mae Menke beamed. "You'd damned well better have, young man!" She gripped his strong fingers in her frail arthritic ones and let him pull her into the safety and comfort of his arms. Nestling against his tall bulk, she hugged him back. "What are you doing out on a day like today?" he asked, easing her back so he could look down into her heavily lined face. "You ought not to be out in this mess." Edna Mae shrugged away his admonishment. She allowed a pretend sulk to pout her ruby-red lips where tiny rivulets of lipstick were trying to escape along the wrinkles. Her watery brown eyes twinkled as she peered up at him through her trifocals. "Son, I've been driving in this kind of weather for over fifty years. Longer than you've been living." She patted his back, then reluctantly removed herself from his light embrace. "I reckon I can drive another fifty if the good Lord's willing." Gabe shook his head and wagged a finger at her. "And God help those who get in your way, huh?" The twinkle in her eyes turned to a brilliant sparkle. "Damned right!" She nodded her shock of white hair in emphasis. "I'm hell on wheels when I want to be!" Gabe laughed, enjoying the way her fading eyes were flirting with him. "Let me go get your wheel cover, Miss Edna," he told her, stepping around grouped-together boxes of accessories. Winding his way through the store's warehouse, his mouth stretched into a grin of merriment, Gabe chuckled as he searched for the box of wheel covers. He located the stacked column of six wire-spoke covers and lifted one from the stack. Each of the six boxes bore the name of the lady for whom they'd been saved. "She lose another one?" Mary Bernice Merrill called to him from her perch where she sat inventorying curtain rods. "Third one this month." Mary Bernice shook her head. "Edna Mae would be better off if she just dug into her deep pockets and laid out a couple hundred for some rims." She laughed. "But then she wouldn't have these clandestine meetings with you, would she?" Gabe grabbed his chest with his free hand. "Oh, God," he gasped. "Does everyone know about me and Miss Edna?" "Child, please!" Mary Bernice shot back. Her dark cinnamon eyes glowed in the sheen of her chocolate face. "You can't hide your sleazy affairs in Jasper County, baby!" Gabe's face turned solemn as he looked up at Mary Bernice. "I guess we'll just have to meet over in Powesheik County then, huh?" Nodding sagely, the black woman eyed him with humor. "Honey-child, y'all will have to go all the way out of state for the folks in small-town Iowa not to know your business!" Mary Bernice Merrill was a transplanted South Carolinian, having migrated to Iowa with her husband of thirty-five years when Delbert Merrill got a job with the local meat-packing plant. Her accent had not faded in the ten years since she had been forced to live in a state she found as backward as the hills of Tennessee. So indisposed was she to her adopted state, she had refused even to give birth to her last child in Iowa, going home instead to stay with her mother, Louise, during the last trimester of her pregnancy. "No self-respecting Southern woman would allow a child of hers to be born in this iceberg!" she'd snapped when Gabe had questioned her. She'd rolled her eyes. "Besides, when Del retires, we're going home, son! We might have snow in Columbia, but we don't have blizzards!" Gabe felt a great deal of homesickness wash over him whenever he had dealings with Mary Bernice. Both their accents tended to deepen as they spoke together, and their common, unbreakable bond of Southern man and woman no matter race, class, or creed, bonded them. They were, and always would be, despite however many years either of them stayed in Iowa, outsiders to the clannish residents of that state. And they knew it. "Tell yo' sugar mama to get herself some rims, baby," Mary Bernice advised Gabe as he left the
warehouse. "Here you go, Miss Edna," Gabe said as he extended the flat box toward her. "Try not to hit any more potholes, okay?" Edna Mae took the box and brought it to her thin chest, batted her eyes, and puckered her lips in a seductive kiss. "Why, thank you, sir." Her lids fluttered madly. "You know, I always rely on the kindness of strangers." Gabe snorted at her make-believe, exaggerated Blanche Dubois, and eyed her with a stern look. "It ain't nice to make fun of folks, ma'am," he drawled. Edna Mae's eyes were alight with mischief as she winked at him. "If you were thirty years older, or I was thirty years younger, I'd give Annie a run for her money." Gabe nodded. "I bet you would." Lifting a cool hand to his face, Edna Mae caressed his lean cheek and leaned toward him. "Damned right, I would." She searched his handsome face. "You're my kind of man, Gabe James." Gabe took her hand and kissed the palm. "And you're the kind of woman who'd tempt a man to sin, Edna Mae Menke." He'd arched one thick brown brow in a lecherous, Clark Gable-like salute. "Lord, but I bet you give Annie her money's worth!" Edna Mae chuckled. "Us Southern boys try, Miss Edna," he agreed. He took her hand and helped her through the maze of boxes once more. "Speaking of the South, when are you leaving for Naples this year?" Edna Mae thought of her cozy condo on the Gulf of Mexico and sighed. "It may be spring before I get there this year, son. But I'll be thinking about you all while I'm there!" **** Buckling her seat belt in the parking lot a while later, Edna Mae could still feel the tingle of the young man's kiss in her palm. She flexed her fingers, looked down at the score of lines running through her slightly trembling hand. Age was not something she had either dreaded or bemoaned until that very moment. Glancing up into the rear view mirror, seeing the old woman gazing forlornly back at her, Edna Mae knew there was a first time for everything. **** Annie James sat back on her heels and stared across the expanse of the rafters. In her hands, now cold and nearly numb from the frigid air around her, were a sheaf of newspaper clippings, magazine articles, photostat copies of articles which had most likely been found in library stacks and newspaper morgues, and page after page of notes written in her husband's undisciplined scribble. The articles had one thing in common and this unifying component was now the source of both bafflement and high concern for the young woman. Looking down at the top article, Annie scanned the headline and winced. She fanned through the other articles, one by one, before laying them aside and digging deeper into the assortment of papers in the foot locker. As she brought out each additional clipping or article, her concern grew, knitting her brows together as she read. A rumble of thunder shook the roof over her head, causing her to look away from her reading, but when she lowered her eyes once more to the collection of things in the foot locker, which was not all papers and notes, a shudder went through her slim frame. She slowly replaced the stack of articles into the footlocker, then pulled down the lid, shutting out the wealth of knowledge she had garnered in an hour's time. Getting painfully to her feet because her legs were numb, her toes tingling with fiery stabs of cold-induced agony, Annie trudged to the ladder, turned, and made her way shakily down into the garage. Settling the attic ladder back in place, she opened the kitchen door and went into the cheery warmth of her home, seeking a warmth she wasn't sure she'd ever find again.
**** The drive home was nerve-wracking that night. Highway 6 was crusty with ice, slick along the sharp turns that wound their way through cattle and corn country. The sand trucks had not ventured out in the last twenty-four hours and the road conditions in Central Iowa could best be described as deadly serious. Gabe listened to Des Moines' KIOA radio station, 93.3 on the dial, and frowned as the sultry voice of the station's traffic girl informed him that conditions were worsening around the state. He listened for a moment and just as an 'oldie-but-a-goodie' began to warble through the air waves, he snapped off the radio, cutting off Roy Orbison in mid-vibrato. "All I need," he growled as he slowed the car down another five miles per hour. He sat hunched over the steering column peering nervously at the rain and ice-slick road ahead of him. Some fool behind him was riding his bumper, flashing his brights to get him to speed up. He'd already turned his driver side mirror all the way down to alleviate the piercing high beams shooting his way, and he'd flipped up the rear view mirror as well, but the idiot behind him didn't seem inclined to pass whenever there was a clear stretch of unlined road. Ahead, the faint glow of the street light that marked his turning lit the dismal night in a pale yellowish-white halo, and it was to this beacon that Gabe steered his course. His anger at the motorist behind him, the slippery condition of the black top and the inability of his heater to provide enough air to warm his legs and feet, combined to give him a blinding headache that was throbbing at his right temple and bringing nausea to his throat. "Get the hell off my ass, you bastard," he snarled, slowing down another mile or two per hour when the car threatened to slide to the right as he took a meandering left-hand curve. He tapped his brakes in an attempt to warn off the clown behind him, but the half-wit didn't seem to understand, or care. Gabe ground his teeth, a reaction that increased the pain in his temple. "Son-of-a-bitch!" Five hundred yards down the dark road, the highway stretched out without a car in sight. The turn Gabe was to take was fast approaching. He slowed down still more for he knew the turn onto the gravel road would be treacherous at best, and heard the fool behind him lay on the horn in protest. "Up yours, asshole!" Gabe shouted, nearly losing control of his car as the driver behind him swung out into the passing lane and shot by with an icy spray of rain and sludge flung onto Gabe's windshield momentarily blinding him. As the triple-edged wipers swept away the obstruction, Gabe got a glance at the Mississippi tag on the car. Even as he glared at the retreating car, he saw the taillights wobble from side to side, saw the bright red of the brake lights come on before the harsh flare of high beams swept in an arc across the ebony countryside, then settle to weaving brake lights again. Grinning viciously to himself, Gabe knew the idiot from Mississippi, a breed of Southerner most native Floridians despised for their inability to drive safely anyway, had done a doughnut on the slick pavement. "Nice going, asshole," he said and chuckled as he eased onto his turnoff. "Hope you shit your britches, bubba!" The two-mile drive along the gravel road that led to Rock Creek State Park was worse than he would have imagined or desired. The slipping and sliding was enough to intensify his headache to such a degree, he could actually taste bile in his mouth when he took the ninety-degree turn onto his street. His house, one of several lake homes built on the southeastern side of the state park, was on a slight incline and he could see from the glistening concrete that the driveway was slick with ice. Before he could pick up the remote unit to raise the garage door, light came on in the garage and the fiberglass panel began to lift. "Thank you, darlin'." He grinned. He idled on the icy pavement until the door was all the way up, then his tires spun for a second on the slick surface until the front wheel drive dug in and the car shot up the incline, crunched over the ice, and slid gently into the safety of its brightly-lit berth. Gabe drew in and let out a nerve-cleansing breath, then unbuckled his seat belt. Of all the things he
hated most about Iowa, winter driving was right at the top of his list. Taking up the small bag of groceries he'd remembered to get from the supermarket, he opened the car door and headed for the button on the wall beside the kitchen door. Pushing it, the garage door shuddered for a moment as though it, too, was shivering with the cold, then began to lower. The dog down the street barked his disapproval. "Annie?" he called, setting the bag containing bread, milk and coffee on the kitchen table. When he didn't get an answer, he shrugged out of his gloves, jacket and muffler, draping them on the hall tree beside the door, and called to his wife again. "Honey?" There was a pleasant smell of homemade soup and toasted coconut filling the U-shaped kitchen. Something was bubbling away on the center island stove and Gabe lifted a lid to peer into a big pot of marinara sauce. Lifting another lid, he spied Brunswich Stew, a Southern winter mainstay he had taught his wife to make. Lowering the oven door, he saw a fruitcake steaming away in a pan of water. He frowned. There were at least four things cooking in the kitchen and the counters were laden with oatmeal cookies, a lasagna, and two casseroles. His frown deepened. The only time Annie ever went into a frenzy of cooking was when she was upset or worried. The vast array of food prepared was a sure sign of trouble. "Honey?" he called again, leaving the kitchen for the semi-darkness of the den. There was a shaft of light coming from their guest bedroom, so he made his way among groups of furniture to the half-closed door. Pushing the door all the way open, he was surprised to see his wife standing next to the closet, her back to him. "Babe?" Annie tensed, took a deep breath, before turning to face her husband. "What's the matter?" he asked, his brow furrowing. "Has something happened?" He looked around. "Where's Kibby?" "He's at Al's, remember?" She asked. "He's okay, isn't he?" Gabe asked. His love for the little dog evident in his worries look. "There's nothing wrong with him is there?" Annie slowly shook her head. "Kathy's Pom is in heat and Al is going to introduce them." Annie explained. "Remember?" "Oh. Right," he acknowledged, blushing. "But you've been cooking." It was a dumb thing to say. It sounded foolish even to his own ears, but he knew Patricia Ann Cummings James as well as he knew himself. His words were not so much an accusation as a statement of understanding. "I need to talk to you," she said, blanching at the fear that darkened his brown eyes. She waved her hand in negation. "Nothing's happened. I just need to talk to you." He couldn't quite bring himself to breathe a sigh of relief. There was still a look on his wife's face that he had never seen before. It was a look that warned him he sure as hell wasn't going to like hearing whatever it was troubling Annie. "Did I do something, darlin'?" he asked. His lips twitched in his manly attempt at apologizing. "Did I forget to do something?" "It's nothing like that, Gabe," she answered. He became aware that her hands were gripped together in front of her, the knuckles white with the pressure. "I just have something I need to ask you." He looked at her for a moment. Her eyes were haunted, worried. "Okay." He moved into the room and sat on the foot of the bed. Patting the silken coverlet for her to join him, he was even more concerned when she shook her head in refusal. His shoulders slumped. "I have done something, haven't I?" He stood. "Whatever it was, it can't be so bad you're afraid to come near me." Annie bit her lip. Taking a deep breath, she let it out in a rush of words. "You were a policeman in Florida, weren't you?" He stared at her, knew she'd found the trunk in the attic, and felt a sudden blazing, jarring pain of betrayal.
"I should've locked the damned trunk," he snapped, getting up from the bed. He ran his hands through his hair. "But I didn't think you'd go snooping…" "I wasn't snooping," she defended. Her face turned crimson at his sneer. "I didn't think you'd mind." "If I'd wanted you to see what was in that trunk, I'd have showed you," he growled. "Maybe you did and that's why you didn't lock it." Her eyes narrowed. "Maybe you wanted me to know." "I sure as hell did not." His face turned hard. "What I did before I met you is none of your damned business! If I'd wanted you to know, woman, I'd have told you." After spinning on his heel, he stomped from the room. "Gabe, wait!" Annie followed him. "Let's talk about this." She came to a skidding stop, almost colliding with him when her husband turned and faced her. She flinched at the expression on his face and the fury in his voice. "No!" he thundered, leaning over her to glare into her face. "It's none of your business." He reached out a hard hand to shake her. "And I have no intention of ever talking about it with you!" "But why? What happened to you?" "Nothing," he shouted, shoving her away. His eyes were livid with rage, his face tight and uncompromising. Turning his back on her, he walked to the small room he used as an office and slammed the door behind him. Annie heard the snick of the lock falling into place. ____________________ *Chapter 3* He kissed her goodbye, softly touched her cheek, told her he loved her. "I love you, too, Gabe," Annie told him, her love in her eyes. Gabe smiled. "I know, darlin'." He ran his thumb over her lips. "See you tonight. Hope you get to feeling better." "I'll try," she answered. She watched him pull out of the driveway, heading for the supermarket and his Tuesday morning cup of coffee with Kyle Vittetoe. She looked at her watch. It was just a little after six. She closed the front door, locked it, and walked to the phone. For three days Annie had debated over making the call. The fight she and Gabe had participated in was still fresh in her mind, the hurt still a probing finger on an open wound. Her concern for her husband was exceeded only by the callous way in which he had come to apologize the next morning after spending the night in their guest room. "I'm sorry I yelled at you, but I don't want to talk about Pensacola, Annie. What happened before I met you has nothing to do with us." "It does if you can't let it go," she had stubbornly reminded him. "If what happened to Kyle Vittetoe happened to you…" "Nothing - " He had stressed behind clenched teeth. " - happened to me, Annie." He shrugged with indifference. "I was a sociology major in college, babe. I was just interested in the aspects of what had happened to those officers." "Because you were one, too?" She searched his eyes and saw a flicker of tight annoyance flame. Did he forget there were other things in that trunk? Things that only a cop would have? "No, I was not a policeman. If you just have to know what it was I did down there, I was a social worker for the HRS. It was my enviable task to try and squeeze child support from bastards who didn't want to support their families." He had glared at her. "Are you satisfied now? I was just a glorified collection agent!" His face had hardened. "Not exactly putting my degree to good use, would you say?" The matter had dropped, but Annie had not been satisfied. For one, his eyes had avoided hers, his hands had been trembling, and she could not see any reason why he had wanted to keep his former occupation hidden. It made no sense.
"There's more to it than what you've said," she whispered as she picked up the telephone book and thumbed through the pages until she found the area code map. Running her finger down to Florida's Panhandle, she found what she was looking for. She laid down the book, picked up the phone and punched in 1-904-555-1212. "Directory Assistance for what city?" came a deeply accented male voice. "Pensacola." "Yes?" "I'd like the listing for the Pensacola Police Department, please." "One moment." There was a slight delay. "Here's your number." Annie grabbed a pencil as the metallic, hollow voice droned the number. Scribbling down the number, Annie noticed her hands shaking. When she'd finished, she laid down the pencil and stood staring at what she had written. Making up her mind as the number was repeated, she pressed the cut-off button and dialed. It seemed to take forever before the phone was picked up on the other end. "Pensacola Police, Sargent Dixon speaking." Annie froze, wanting to slam down the receiver. The policeman repeated his greeting, this time with a threatening hint of annoyance. "Ah, yes," she found herself saying. "I… I, uh…" Her lips felt numb, frozen. Finally taking a deep breath, her request came out in a rush. "I'm trying to locate an officer who used to work there. James? Gabe James?" "Who's this, please?" the policeman asked. His voice was gruff, but not unfriendly. It sounded a little surprised. "Oh, I'm sorry!" She could feel her face burning. "My name is Annie, Annie Cummings. I'm an old friend of his from Iowa, and the last place I heard he was working was for you guys." The lie seemed to scald her tongue as she spoke. "I see. James, you say?" There was a guarded hesitation as Annie heard papers rattling in the background. "Yes, James. Gabriel James." A long pause at the other end. Finally, "I've been on the force nearly twenty years, ma'am, and I don't ever remember an Officer James. Are you sure he wasn't with the Escambia County Sheriff's Department?" Annie bit her lip. "I don't know. I hadn't thought about that." Her eyes searched the room. Maybe he _had _been with the sheriff's department. "Ah, could you give me that number, please?" "Sure. It's…" Copying down the number and calling the Escambia County Sheriff's department had proven a dead-end as well. The lady at the Sheriff's department had given her the numbers of three nearby law enforcement offices, but Annie had no better luck with them. Frustrated, and with a nagging feeling of having overlooked something tight in her belly, she waited until nine o'clock knowing Pensacola was in the same time zone, and then made two other calls: one to Directory Assistance; the other to the _Pensacola News Journal_. "Good morning, Pensacola News Journal." "Yes, I'm Annie Cummings and I'm doing a book on crimes committed against police officers all over the country." Again the lie seemed too natural for Annie's liking. "Is there someone there who might be able to help me with some research?" "Mrs. Johannsen might. She's got the police beat. Let me connect you." Annie waited, her breath held until a thick, no-nonsense, masculine-sounding voice came on the line. "Johannsen." "Ah, yes. My name is…" **** Waiting for the call back from the newspaper was like anticipating a visit to the dentist. Annie found
her palms sweating, her mouth dry. She tried to do some housework, but gave up in the end, realizing she was simply doing busy-work that was beginning to tell on her nerves. By the time the phone rang, she was close to having a screaming fit. "Hello," she spat into the receiver. "Ms. Cummings?" That same, overly-gruff voice was on the other end. "Yes. Yes, this is she." She found herself pressing the receiver painfully close to her ear. "Johannsen, here. I had one of the interns search through the morgue for what you wanted. I came up with about ten incidents in the last five years. I'll mail them to you…" "Could you fax them? I mean, I can give you a fax number if you can." Annie put some whining respect into her voice. "You understand how it is with editors. Deadlines are a bitch, aren't they?" There was a heavy, put-upon sigh and when she answered, Ms. Johannsen's voice was tight. "Oh, I suppose so. What's the fax number?" Annie gave her the number. "I really appreciate this. I - " "Yeah, yeah," came the disinterested reply. "I won't take up any more of your time," Annie promised and was about to thank the woman again when the line went dead. Staring at the receiver, Annie shook her head. "Rude bitch." **** Leland Kassinger was the General Agent in southeastern Iowa for the Knights of Columbus insurance company. Not only was he Annie and Gabe's agent, he was also their friend. He'd been trying to get Gabe to join the Knights for several months, but Gabe had been procrastinating, not at all sure he wanted to join. But Lee was persistent, smiling in his hangdog way, expounding the pleasures of joining the fraternal brotherhood and was slowly wearing down Gabe's resistance. "Knights of Columbus Insurance," came the pleasant reply to Annie's call at ten minutes past ten. "Hey, Lee. It's Annie James." "Hi, there! How you doing?" "Fine. Listen, I've got a favor to ask." "Shoot." Annie could picture the short, bearded man on the other end of the line. No doubt he'd have his black hair parted just so, his pipe clutched between his teeth. His puppy dog brown eyes would be shining, alert, hoping Annie had talked Gabe into joining. There was always a smile on Kassinger's face, a hearty laugh wanting to explode. He was the kind of man who encouraged you to trust him, and who would never, ever betray that trust. "I've got some information coming in from Florida, and I gave them your fax number. Is that all right?" "You know it is, honey. When's it suppose to get here?" Annie hesitated. She hadn't had the chance to ask. "I… uh… I don't know exactly." "Well, I've got some appointments over in Marshalltown in about an hour, and I was just about to leave. If you'd like, I'll leave the key with Dolph next door and he can let you in to get the fax if you think it'll be here today. Otherwise, I'll bring it out to you whenever it comes." A stark white bolt of dread entered Annie's gut. "No," she was quick to say. "It's… well… it's a surprise for Gabe. I don't want him to know about it." "Say no more, honey. I'll keep it under my hat. Well, gotta go. Have a good 'un!" If there was one thing Leland didn't like, it was talking on the phone. The man actually hated it. The sooner he was off and out selling, the better he liked it. "Thanks, Lee." "Don't mention it." The line snicked closed. Getting dressed, getting to Newton to Lee's office, took no more time than Annie would allow. She found herself literally quivering with anticipation as she waited for Dolph Stodenmeyer to open Lee's door for her. "When you're through, just push in the lock, Annie." Dolph smiled at her. "And don't walk off with the
furniture." She answered his warm, open smile with a nervous twitch of her lips. She could barely wait to close the door behind him and lock it. Hurrying to the fax machine, she stared at it, willing the information to come. **** Gabe leaned back in his chair, shot his long legs out in front of him and brooded. Four times he'd called his house, and four times there had been no answer. He'd tried the school, just in case Annie had felt like going in after all. "Annie isn't here, Gabe," the school secretary had informed him. "She called in sick. You must've left real early this morning." He'd tried their doctor's office. "No, she hasn't called in for an appointment. Maybe she's got this darn stomach virus that's been going around." He'd called her best friend, Helen Bryant, but there had been no answer there either. Only Helen's quirky message that if you were tall, dark and handsome to leave your phone number; otherwise just leave a message and she'd think about getting back to you. Sitting in the break room, his mind seething with questions, Gabe had a nagging feeling that something wasn't right. He was tempted to go home to check on her. A part of him was worried she had become very ill, but another part of him fretted Annie was probing into his past. And it was that worry that had him chewing his lower lip. When she had floored him with the question about Florida, he had almost blurted out the truth. But there would have been more explanations if he had - explanations he wasn't ready to give; explanations he knew would make things even worse and possibly even end their marriage. Not only had he changed his name when he'd left Florida, he'd gone from state to state, city to city, job to job - at last count, over two dozen. He'd colored his hair for awhile, trading in the lush brown locks for a straw-colored blond he'd hated and shorn almost to his scalp. He'd even hidden his bright brown eyes behind blue contact lenses for nearly two years. He managed to obtain a fake driver's license, social security card, phony birth certificate and high school and college transcripts. He'd spent a lot of money on fake electrician and plumber's union cards, and carried phony membership cards in the Kiwanis and Jaycees. And he'd hidden himself - buried himself - in small towns across the northeast and midwest where he thought no one would think to look for him. Gazing at the blank wall before him, he somehow knew Annie was at that very moment delving into a past he wanted to keep buried. A past that had nearly killed him. A past he wished dead and buried, as he thought his life had been after the attack. "Why couldn't you just leave well enough alone, darlin'?" he growled, his eyes bleak with fear and betrayal. He thought back to all the articles she had found and read, and a shiver went through him. Annie was a smart woman, a very intelligent woman, and she had no doubt put two and two together and had come up with an answer he knew must have stunned her. Combined with what had happened to Kyle and his reaction to it, he realized she knew something similar had happened to him. She had even asked him if it had. And there had been the tools of his profession: handcuffs, leather sap, night stick, and other paraphernalia left over from his early days with the Florida Highway Patrol before he'd been recruited by the DEA. He closed his eyes. Despite the fact he did not want to tell her about his past, or what had led up to it, he could see he would have to. Lies between them did not set well with Gabe, and he knew she deserved the truth, but the whole truth, nothing but the truth, was something Gabe was not prepared to tell; nor would he ever be. Sometimes, he knew, the truth could be worse than lies. But a portion of that
truth was going to have to be told that night. Making up his mind to tell her as much as he dared made for a very edgy rest of the day for Gabe. His tension showed up in the shortness of his speech, the vague and annoyed look in his normally bright eyes, the unaccustomed rudeness that made his fellow workers look at him with surprise. ____________________ *Chapter 4* Annie stared at the fax in her hand. Whatever she had expected, it was not what she had received. The reported attacks on officers who worked in the Florida Panhandle, the beatings, shootings, and deaths were grief-inspiring. Most of the time, there was a picture of the officer and a shot of his or her assailant accompanying the article. Now and again there was an attached obituary as well. Ms. Johannsen, or more likely her intern, had been very thorough. But there was no mention of a Gabriel James in any of the clippings. He had not been on the police force there. There was, however, a two-inch blurb. _Dateline Pensacola:_ _James Gabriel Tremayne, the Federal Drug Enforcement Agent who disappeared on November 19th of this year, was found early Tuesday morning as he staggered drunkenly along Berryhill Road in Santa Rosa County._ _Lt. Amos Bellew of the agency's public affairs division was quoted as saying: "The officer's fine. Just fine. He went on a drinking binge and holed up in a vacant house near Spencerfield and Berryhill Roads in Pace. This isn't the first time we've had problems with Tremayne, but it will be the last time."_ _According to sources within the agency, possible disciplinary suspension charges are pending against Tremayne, who has admitted to being an alcoholic._ There was nothing else concerning the matter. No further articles were among those faxed. But there was a hastily scribbled note attached to the original article. According to our sources, the note explained, Tremayne had been missing for four weeks when found wandering along a county road in neighboring Santa Rosa County. He was taken to the hospital in Milton for examination and was later brought back by ambulance to Pensacola where he was admitted to The Pavilion, a chemical dependency unit here. He stayed there nearly two months undergoing treatment for heroin abuse and was subsequently fired from the D.E.A. Scuttlebutt suggests that Patrolman Tremayne had a serious drinking and gambling problem, but no one knew he was into hard drugs. As a matter of fact, those who knew him said he was almost militant about those who took drugs of any kind. When he was found wandering along the road, he was dazed, in the hard throes of withdrawal, and appeared to be terrified of those around him. He was also badly bruised and scraped around both his ankles and wrists as though he'd been tied up. There were other bruises on his upper arms and torso. Official word says he went on a binge, but a source at the police station in Milton thinks Agent Tremayne was kidnapped by the very people he'd been investigating and that was their way of getting back at him, by getting him hooked on heroin. It happened to another D.E.A. agent here awhile back so that isn't as farfetched as it might sound. Let me know if you want this pursued. I find it all very intriguing. Someone is lying about what really happened to Agent Tremayne. "Tremayne," Annie breathed. Her eyes glazed. Right after they had first married, she had found a high school class ring in a box of Gabe's belongings. On the crest of the ring was scrolled Benedictine Military School and the year 1971. Inside were the initials JGT. "Who's ring is this?" she had asked her husband. Thinking back on it now, Gabe's reaction had been a bit strained, a touch hesitant as he had taken the ring from her. He'd polished the ring against his sleeve, looked at it for a long moment, his eyes narrowed, then shrugged. "Jeff Teague's," he'd told her. "We went to college together and I somehow wound up with his ring."
"Why didn't you give it back to him?" She had watched him toss the heavy ring back into the shoe box from which she had extracted it. He'd shrugged again as though it was of little importance. "Lost touch with him." "Do you know where he lives?" As she remembered it, Gabe's lips had tightened. "Used to live in Savannah. I don't know where he is now." "What about his parents? Do they - " He'd cut her off with a grimace. "They died our sophomore year. It was lucky Jeff was there on a scholarship." He'd turned away, his back rigid, and nothing was ever mentioned of the ring again. Annie laid the fax paper on the desk and stared out the picture window in front of her. She shook her head. In the three years she'd known him, she'd never seen him take a drink, neither had she ever smelled alcohol on his breath. Looking down at the fax once more, she couldn't help but wonder if that was because her husband had at one time been an alcoholic. Nor did Gabe gamble. The good Lord knew Kurt had tried to con him into many a game at his house. Of course, if Gabe had a problem with gambling, that would explain why he never took Kurt up on any of his weekly poker games. Why tempt fate? _But drugs?_ Gabe didn't even like to take aspirin. He didn't smoke. As a matter of fact, once you got him going about drugs of any kind, you had to practically gag him to shut him up he was so opposed to them. Annie couldn't believe her husband would ever willingly put drugs into his body. Annie sat behind Leland Kassinger's desk. There was no doubt in her mind that Gabe James was actually James Gabriel Tremayne. It all made sense to her and explained Gabe's moody reaction to his friend Kyle Vittetoe's brutal attack; his refusal to discuss what he had done in Florida; his violent refusal to allow her any knowledge of his former life. It explained the initials on the class ring; the police weapons in the foot locker; the newspaper articles. Her eyes dropped to the three pages of faxed information. Before her lay a litany of murdered, maimed and missing police officers from the Pensacola, Florida, and Mobile, Alabama, area. Among them, missing, and even more importantly, probably attacked, had been James Gabriel Tremayne. "You were hurt, weren't you, baby?" she whispered in the stillness of the insurance office. "Someone hurt you as badly, if not worse, than they hurt Kyle." Tears filled her eyes. "And you still haven't dealt with it, have you, Gabe?" Her heart ached at the knowledge her husband needed help she thought him too proud to ask for. There wasn't any hesitation as she grabbed the phone and dialed the _Pensacola News Journal_ one more time. ____________________ *Chapter 5* Andrew R. Tremayne frowned heavily as he sat hunched over the expanse of his polished, gold-veined malachite desk. His sharp green eyes narrowed as he read the report just handed to him. An angry, irritated sigh pushed from his lips as he read, his fingers drumming rapidly in annoyance on the top of his desk blotter. At last, having reread the report twice more, he laid it down, pushed it away from him as though it were contaminated, and sat back in his two thousand dollar custom-made, body-fitting black leather chair. Turning his head, he folded his hands in his lap, fingers intertwined, thumbs revolving around one another, and looked out the wide expanse of his office windows at the sweeping Atlanta skyline. For a long time he said nothing, his attention seemingly held by the vista. When he finally turned back to face the man standing before his desk, the man who had just ruined what had promised to be a very fine afternoon, his voice was sharp and his eyes hard. "There's absolutely no mistake?" he asked. "No margin for error?" The man shook his head. "None whatsoever, sir."
Tremayne let out an angry hiss of breath, closing his eyes to the fury building in him. He was more than aware that when he opened his eyes to glare at the man before him, the man took a protective step away from the savageness emblazoned on Andrew R. Tremayne's face. Putting his hands on his desk, Andrew pushed himself up and leaned toward his visitor. "Who knows about this?" "Just our man in the Pensacola Police Department, sir. He took the call when it came in. I didn't think we should inform Mr. Connors until you were told." Tremayne nodded, squared the shoulders of his expensive suit, shot the cuffs of his silk shirt, adjusted his diamond-studded cuff links, and put his hands behind his back, lacing his well-manicured fingers together as he did. "You did the right thing, Cronin." "What are your orders, sir?" The nastiest smile Mike Cronin had ever seen slipped over Tremayne's thin lips and the silky voice, so penetratingly cold and deadly, spoke in a pleasant, conversational tone that made Cronin's groin tighten. "You go get him, of course." **** "Miss Johannsen? This is Annie Cummings. I called you earlier about the police officers." "Yeah? How's the article coming?" "Fair," Annie told the newswoman. "I just had a few questions I wanted to ask your intern about the info she gathered." "He," was the clipped reply. "My intern's a he. I don't hire women to work for me." "Well, he, then," Annie replied through clenched teeth. "Is he where I can speak to him?" There was a long pause. "No, but whatever he knows about something, I know even more about it. What in particular did you want to know?" "About the policeman who was missing for a month back in November of - " "Agent Tremayne." "Yes, I believe that's his name," Annie confirmed. "Why are you interested in him?" Panic nudged Annie's nervous system, and for once that morning, the lies didn't come out quite as quickly. Her hesitation brought a sharp question from across the miles. "He's there in Iowa, isn't he?" "Who?" Annie could feel her heart pounding. "The narc who disappeared," came the amused reply. "He's out there and you're calling about him, aren't you?" The voice sobered. "And you don't have any notion what you've done." Annie's eyes widened. Her hand clenched on the receiver. "I don't know what you're talking about." There was a disbelieving snort from the other end of the country. "I'm talking about Agent Tremayne, Miss Cummings. You call here and the next thing I know I'm getting flack from one of Andrew Tremayne's goons wanting to know where you're calling from and where I faxed those articles." Fear suddenly blossomed in Annie's mind. "Who's Andrew Tremayne?" A bitter laugh sounded from the phone. "No one of any importance in Iowa, Miss Cummings, but one hell of an important wiseguy lawyer here in the South and Agent Tremayne's older brother." Her mind racing, Annie heard the woman's words as though they were coming to her from the depths of a bottomless well. _Gabe has a brother?_ He never mentioned his family. As a matter of fact, he'd told her he had no living relatives left; that he was all alone in the world, having been an only child, and his parents were supposedly dead. "Ms. Cummings?" came an annoyed bark from the other end of the line. "Are you still there?" Annie took a deep breath before she answered. "What if he is? What if that policeman was here?" The newswoman's voice took on a serious directness. "Then if I were you, I'd tell him to get his ass out of Iowa, Miss Cummings. By now, Andrew Tremayne will have his men on the way to Iowa in the fastest Gulf Stream Tremayne owns to pick him up. I'd just as soon not see the boy spend the rest of his
life locked up." A cold chill ran down Annie's spine. "You know him?" "I've had the police beat a long time, Miss Cummings. I get to know all the cops on the force. But when a man makes as much noise as Agent Tremayne did, you get to know him even better. He was a good cop and that's something some people down here sure as hell didn't like." Annie bit down on her lower lip, her eyes swinging from side to side as she thought. "You said you didn't want to see him locked up. Is he wanted for something he did down there?" She had to know. Was Gabe a cop who'd gone bad? Who'd been 'on the take,' as they called it? "It's more like something he didn't do, Miss Cummings. You can bet Tremayne has already sent his goon squad to Iowa to correct that problem." Her heart pounding like mad, Annie stood up slowly. "What did he do, Miss Johannsen? I've got to know." "Listen, Miss Cummings, if that's your real name and I'm inclined to think it probably isn't, Tremayne was a good guy. He was a good cop until he got messed up with Kristen Connors. I tried to warn him about that trashy little bitch, but he wouldn't listen. When do men in love ever listen?" There was a snort of disgust before the newswoman continued. "He didn't even know who the little tart was until I told him, but it didn't seem to make any difference with him. Anyway, he kept seeing her until he went and put one in her oven. Know what I mean?" Joan Johannsen didn't give Annie time to answer. "Her Daddy went ballistic when he found out his only child was, shall we say, in the family way? He put a contract out on Tremayne." The air around Annie wavered. "Contract? You mean a - " "A mob hit, sweetie," the newswoman clarified. "Kristen Connors' Daddy is Griffin Connors, one of the Irish mob bosses down here on the Gulf Coast. You don't knock up the daughter of a man like Griffin Connors without paying dearly for it. Chances are, if that hit had ever been made, they'd have buried James Gabriel Tremayne with less than the equipment he'd been born with, if you get my drift. It wouldn't have been a quick hit, either. "But then Connors found out a few things himself and the contract was canceled. Of course, there were other incentives that made him change his mind, too. By that time, Connors' daughter and her lover were hitched." There was a chuckle on the other end of the line. "Along with finding out who his daughter's lover really was, that took the starch out of Connors' sails, I can tell you." Annie's world jerked to a stop. "You mean Agent Tremayne was married to this woman?" "Was?" Johannsen chuckled. "There isn't any 'was,' sweetie. Tremayne's still married to the bitch!" **** Even before he pulled into his driveway, Gabe knew Annie wasn't home. He automatically looked at his watch and marked the time. _Five o'clock._ Long past time for her to have come in from school, if that was where she'd been. Although classes were out for the holidays, today had been a work day for the teachers, but Annie had been sick. Or so she'd claimed. Easing the car into his side of the two-car garage, he sat with his engine idling, his mind in gear, wondering, worrying, a niggling fear beginning to intrude into his orderly world. _Where the hell had she gone?_ And, with that niggling fear turning to instant concern, what had she found out? He switched off the car, but sat with his hands and forearms braced on the steering wheel, staring at the large clock on the far wall. Five minutes past five. He turned his head to the empty stall beside him where her black car should have been. "Where are you, Annie?" he whispered. He sat back in the seat, his hands gripping the wheel. Closing his eyes, he could feel the insidious cold creeping into his soul. Something was wrong. Very wrong. He could feel it. Could almost smell it. Letting out a long breath, he opened the car door and got out. For a long moment he stood staring out the door of the bay, watching the occasional fat snowflake drifting down, the white speck of it illuminated by the streetlight across the way. "Damn it!" he finally spat in frustration and walked around the car to slam his fist at the button which
lowered the garage door. The machinery clicked into place and the door began lowering with a grating whine. The neighbor's dog howled in answer. Gabe swung open the storm door and poked his house key into the lock. When he had the door unlocked, he reached into the breakfast room to switch on the light and froze, his fingers on the light switch. Flanking the entry door from the garage into the breakfast room were two windows, covered with mini-blinds to block out the unpleasant view into the garage, but always left half-open unless the James' had company coming. The glare of the overhead garage door opener light shone into the house, and along with it, Gabe could see on the floor of the breakfast room the unmistakable shadow of someone standing just to the right of the door. Not even giving himself time to think, Gabe leapt back from the opened door, slamming the storm door shut, and slapped his hand on the garage door button, all in one motion. Scampering around the front end of the car as fast as he could, he slipped on the cold concrete floor, reaching out with a desperate hand to keep himself from falling on the garage floor, clutching at the car's side mirror. "Get him!" The man's voice was like a dagger thrusting into Gabe's exposed back. It sent a shiver of pure terror racing down his spine. He heard the storm door squeal open, heard running footsteps even as he dropped under the slowly opening garage door, folding his elbows in, squeezing his legs tightly together, and rolled over and over out into the frigid air. His shoulder hit hard on the concrete driveway as he came down, but the pain didn't register as he scrambled to his feet, the soles of his sneakers skidding on the ice-coated driveway. With his legs pumping, digging deep furrows into the now-rapidly layering snow, he darted into the darkness of the winter's night, cutting a path toward the woods at the far end of the lake. **** Griffin Connors smiled into the phone. "Iowa?" Andrew Tremayne chuckled. "Thelast exit to nowhere." Toying with his letter opener, Connors glanced up at his daughter. "They've found him." Kristen Connors-Tremayne nodded. "Tell them not to hurt him, Daddy." Connors nodded and swung around in his chair so his only daughter could not see the look on his face. "Did you hear that, Andrew? My daughter doesn't want your men to hurt her husband." From the other end of the line, Tremayne chuckled again. "You may tell Kristen I gave my men explicit instructions there was to be no overt use of violence unless we could bring him in in no other fashion." Connors sighed. "Well then, let's hope he has better sense than to put up a fight." "Daddy…" Kristen began. She blinked as her father spun around and fixed her with a stern look. "Your husband is in deep trouble, Kristen Marie. Andrew's men aren't going to gun him down like the dog he is, but they will use whatever force they deem necessary to bring him back." He tossed the letter opened to the desk top in annoyance. Her green eyes flashing, Kristen Tremayne leaned over her father's desk and fused her own hard look with his. "If they harm one hair on his head, you'll wish they hadn't, Daddy. Is that clear?" Connors shrugged. "It's up to him, Kristen, how he's treated. Not us." "There's one other thing, Griff," Tremayne injected. He lowered his voice. "Can she hear me?" "No." Connors eyed his daughter. "It seems there's another woman involved here," Tremayne reported. "The one who called asking for the information?" "Yes." "Spit it out, Andrew," Connors snarled, sensing trouble. "How deeply involved is he with this woman?" He saw his daughter stiffen, saw her green eyes harden. "About as deep as you can get, Griff," Tremayne explained. "He married the slut." Griffin Connors' sat forward in his chair, hunching over the phone. "Repeat that." Tremayne let out a ragged breath. "He married the woman in Iowa about two years ago."
Kristen Connors watched the play of emotions crossing her father's face and knew the instant his fury became full blown. The black Irish eyes flashed with rage and the thick lips pulled back over snarling teeth. She watched in fascination as a vein began to throb in his temple. She could see the fingers of his left hand which held the phone turning white with the force of his grip. "There's no mistake?" he growled. "None. I'll have a copy of the marriage license in my possession within the next forty-eight hours," Tremayne answered. For a long moment, Griffin Connors sat clutching the phone in his meaty palm, his eyes on his daughter's strained face. When at last he spoke, his voice was neutral, under control, his face a carefully blank canvas. "It seems," he began, speaking to Kristen, "your husband has once more proved to be the bastard I knew him to be before you married him, Kristen Marie. Apparently, while he was on the run, he managed to ally himself with some woman in Iowa." "He's been living with this woman?" she asked in as steady a voice as she could manage. Connors smiled. "The son-of-a-bitch married the woman, Kristen Marie," he told his daughter, relishing the stunned look of surprise on his child's face, the shock of betrayal. "Married her?" Her voice was a mere whisper. "But he's already married." "Apparently he forgot," Connors said in a dry voice. He lifted a thick black brow in challenge. "What do you want done about the woman out there, Griff?" Tremayne inquired as the silence on the other end of the line played out. Griffin Connors watched his daughter's face infuse with color before she turned her back on him. "I'm going to put you on hold a moment, Andrew," Connors said, leaning forward to push the button on the phone. He sat the receiver in its cradle and stood, looking at his daughter. "Do you still want him brought in unharmed?" Kristen turned to her father. "It's not his fault." Griffin Connors stared at his daughter, disbelief rampant in his thick Irish brogue. "And just whose fault do you think it is?" Her head came up. "The bitch who trapped him into marrying her, of course!" Connor stared at his daughter. "Then do you want me to have Andrew's men solve that problem?" "Tell them to leave her alone." "Hell, Kristen! The woman has been cohabiting with your husband and you don't care?" her father shouted. "Have you no honor?" "Of course, I care!" Kristen shouted back. "But think about it, Daddy! If he lov…" She couldn't say the word. "If he married the bitch, then he's attached to her. We can use that to our advantage." Connors snorted in disgust. "How do you propose to do that?" Kristen replied, "If he thinks she might be harmed, he's likely to do as he's told, don't you think? If he knows we can reach out whenever we want and wipe that whore off the face of the earth, don't you think he'll bend over backwards to see that we won't?" Griffin looked at his daughter in a new light. Had the girl finally developed a backbone where Tremayne was concerned? Had it taken having Tremayne's affections claimed by another woman to make Kristen Marie see what she had to do to help rectify a messy situation? "As soon as we get him back here, he's going to be locked up, Kristen," Connors reminded her. Kristen nodded. "I know, Daddy. I'd have it no other way. I love him, but he has to be punished for what he did." Father and daughter stared at one another. Some kind of deep understanding passed between parent and child. Connors picked up his phone once more. "Andrew? About the woman out there in Iowa…" ____________________ *Chapter 6*
Annie switched on her turn signal as the van behind her moved in too close for safety on the slick road. The turn into her neighborhood was a good two hundred feet away, but she wanted the van riding her bumper to back off before she began to brake for her turn. Looking in the rear view mirror, she saw the dark expanse of the van's windshield fading behind her and relaxed. As she took her turn, the van sped up, hurrying on toward the gravel section of road just west of Annie's turn. "You'd better slow down, mister," she commented as the van's tail lights disappeared over the hill. Never in Patricia Anne Cummings' life - she could no longer think of herself as Patricia Anne Cummings James - had she ever felt so depressed. Neither had she ever known the kind of desperate hurt she was experiencing, and had been experiencing, all day as she sat in Leland Kassinger's office. Shock had given way first to stunned realization which had then turned to anger, to a sense of betrayal greater than she had ever known, and finally to the numbness of acceptance. Over and over again, she heard Joan Johannsen's words plowing furrows of unremitting hurt through a mind already seeded with grief. "He's been married to Kristen Marie for almost seven years. They have a daughter, Melissa, who just turned six. She's the apple of her granddaddy's eye." Seven years, the words kept echoing, sprouting seedlings of disbelief and deception in Annie's wounded heart. _Seven years_. The seedlings dug deep into the soil of Annie's being, the roots spreading out, squeezing the life from her. And she'd watered that vicious crop with more tears than she had ever cried in her life. Idly, she wondered what kind of harvest would be culled from the things she'd learned that day about the man she loved. When she confronted him with what she'd learned, would Gabe finally tell her the truth, or would he invent more lies to pacify her? "No," Annie hissed to the empty car. "No more lies, Gabe. No more!" Lightly tapping her foot on the brake pedal, she slowed the black car down to a crawl as she came to the switchback part of the street where many a car had slid off the road for taking the first turn too fast. Just as she rounded the corner, she gasped, finding a mini-van skewed sideways across the road, blocking the way into the second serpentine curve. Its rear tires were in the ditch. Again, she tapped the brake, feeling her car slide to the right, but managed to bring the car to a safe, out-of-the-ditch halt. Someone waved to her from the side of the road and Annie recognized her neighbor in the glare of her headlights. She rolled down the window as the man came slipping and sliding up to her. He skied into the side of her car, laughing in embarrassment. "How you like my new van, Annie?" he teased. "I'm trying out the sideways gear." Normally Annie would have shot back at him with the same brand of black humor, but tonight neither her humor nor her patience was part of her. She gazed up at him with a blank look of annoyance. "How am I supposed to get home, Rick?" she snapped. She turned and looked behind her. "I can't back up." Rick Wilder's face puckered with hurt. "I'm sorry. I sent my son to Granger's house to get him to help me turn her around again. It shouldn't take long." With a hangdog expression, he looked past her into the car. "Do you mind if I pop in there for a minute? I'm freezing my long johns off out here." Annie was about to tell him no when she saw Stuart Granger and Rick's son, Ned, hurrying toward them. She motioned with her chin. "Your help's here." "Are you all right, Annie?" Rick asked. "Just get your car off the road, Rick," she told him, her eyes blazing with frustration. "Okay," he mumbled, nodding at her. "Drive safe." He pushed away from the car, looking back at her over his shoulder before once more slipping and sliding, arms cartwheeling, toward his car on the slick, ice-coated pavement. **** Jake Mueller thought he heard shouting outside his living room window and stood up to pull the drapes aside. His forehead creased in bewilderment as he saw Gabe James come running hell-bent-for-leather
across his and Annie's yard, two men close on his heels. With a grunt of surprise, Jake saw one of the men tackle Gabe, bringing the young man face down in the snow. "What the hell?" Jake snarled. At first he thought Gabe and the men were just horsing around, but it finally registered with Jake that Gabe was struggling. And yelling for help. "What is it, dear?" his wife Alinor asked. Jake hurried to the front door. "Something's going on over to the James'," he had time to explain before he yanked open his front door and stepped out on the stoop. **** The air had been knocked out of Gabe as he came down with a soft thud into the wet snow, his arms splaying out in front of him. He had tried to scramble forward, digging his hands into the snow, but the man who had brought him down grabbed a handful of his hair, lay on top of him, and dragged back his head. Gabe tried to scoot out from under the man, despite the vicious tugging on his scalp, but all he managed to do was scrape the side of his face on something just beneath the surface of the snow. "Uh-unh, Bubba," the man hissed at him as fingers tightened in his hair. "Don't even try it." "Help!" Gabe yelled. "Someone help me!" "You ain't going nowhere, son," another of the men growled as he stooped down on the other side of Gabe. Planting his knee in James' back, he jerked Gabe's right arm behind him, snapping a handcuff around the wrist. "Give me his other hand, Brady." Gabe's eyes watered as his left arm was forced behind him and he felt the tight constriction of the metal bracelet clamped around his wrist. The heavier man's knee was digging painfully into the small of his back and he was having trouble breathing for the man who had tackled him was now pressing a hard hand on Gabe's head as he held it firmly in the snow. His cheeks were stinging from the cold. "What's going on here?" Jake Mueller asked as he came across the road. He watched the two men dragging Gabe James to his feet, the two of them struggling to hold on to a wildly bucking prisoner. "Jake!" Gabe was jerked around so viciously, his voice was cut off. Jake stepped onto Gabe's lawn, but one of the men stopped him. "Federal Marshals, sir. We have a warrant for this man's arrest," the bigger of the two men growled. "Jake, please…" Gabe called, stopping once more as the grip on his arms was increased. He yelped with pain, his head going back. "Now, wait just a minute," Jake snapped, stepping further onto the James' lawn. He'd seen the look of agony flash across his neighbor's face. "There ain't no call to hurt him." "He's resisting arrest, mister," the man holding Gabe snapped. "And if you want to be charged with obstruction of justice, we can certainly oblige you!" Jake saw Gabe's eyes in the glare of the overhead street light and even though Jake had spent a lifetime on Guadalcanal, he knew he'd never seen true terror on anyone's face like he was seeing it that night. He opened his mouth to ask to see the warrant when a dark sedan, its lights off, came roaring out of the night from the east end of the street. He turned to look at it, saw two other men hurrying to get out of the front seat, and looked with confusion back at Gabe. "What did you do, Gabe?" he asked. "Call Kramer!" Gabe yelled at him. "Hurry, Jake! Call Kramer! Tell him these men are not - " His words were cut off in mid-plea as the men holding him shoved him roughly toward the sedan. "Let me see that warrant," Jake demanded. He wasn't prepared for the gun thrust into his ribs by one of the men who had bolted from the idling car. Being a gun enthusiast, Jake knew that weapon and he knew it held a.357 cartridge with his name on it. "Get back in the house, Pops!" The man jammed the gun into Jake Mueller's ribs. "Or I'll arrest you, too." "Jake!" Gabe screamed as one of the men pushed down his head to get him in the sedan. "For the love of God, call Kramer! You've got to help me, Jake!"
Jake stared at the man holding the gun on him. No emotion showed on the man's beefy face, but a real promise shone in his hollow eyes. He only managed to tear his eyes away from the lethality of that gaze when he heard Gabe begging him to get the car's license number. "I wouldn't if I were you, old man," the guy with the gun warned. "I'd just mind my own beeswax." He holstered the revolver in his suit coat and pivoted on his heel, plowing toward the car with long, confident, arrogant strides. Jake watched as the two men climbed into the backseat, one on each side of Gabe. He could see Gabe struggling, kicking out at the back of the front seat; could hear Gabe's shouts of both pain and outrage. As the sedan was jammed into gear and the car spun its tires on the slick street before finally digging in with enough traction to propel it forward, Jake's eyes went automatically to the license plate as the car's headlights came on, lighting the tag. Alinor Mueller had just stepped off her front stoop when the dark sedan shot by her house. The car seemed to be heading straight for Annie James' car as it came down the street. "Oh, Lordy," Alinor gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. She stood by in silent fear as Annie jerked her car out of the path of the sedan, her car skidding off the street, plowing through a snow bank, sending the fresh powder in a dividing wave before the front end of the car came to rest in the middle of Jed Hancock's front lawn. "Nora," her husband shouted at her. She reluctantly tore her eyes from Annie's car. "Call the sheriff! Now!!!" Alinor didn't waste a precious moment. She hurried up her stoop, yanking the door open as fast as she could. She had only a glimpse of her husband of fifty-nine years rushing toward Annie's car as she grabbed the phone to make her call. **** Gabe had recognized his wife's vehicle. He knew she'd be forced off the road and his heart stopped beating as irrational terror took over. He'd screamed out her name, twisted violently between the two men beside him to stare out of the back window as her car went off the road. As she hit the snow bank and the back end of her car had dug into the snow, he'd called out to her again, thrashing as hard as he could to rid himself of the hands that were now digging painfully into his flesh. "Annie!!!" His bellow of enraged grief was loud and prolonged in the confines of the car as it skidded around a corner and he lost sight of his wife. He opened his mouth to scream again when something sharp jammed into his neck and liquid fire spread quickly throughout his entire body. He felt himself jerked around as the needle was withdrawn. He stared into the face of the man in the passenger seat, syringe in hand, and with a sinking feeling, recognized him. "You're more trouble than you're worth, Tremayne," the man hissed as darkness shut out the ugly contortion of anger on the man's shadowed face. "Annie," Gabe whispered as his eyes closed. **** Annie James was flung forward as the car came to rest up against Jed's squirrel feeder and the seat belt was digging into her left shoulder with a vengeance. Spitting with fury, she slammed her finger into the seat belt's release button and shrugged out of the confining strap. As she did, her door was yanked open and she gasped, looked up with shocked eyes to see Jake Mueller framed in the doorway. "You all right?" the old man asked. Annie nodded, wondering at the wildness in Jake's normally placid eyes. "What's happened?" she asked. Jake reached into the car, pulling on her arm. "Come on, Annie. There isn't any time to waste standing out here jawing!" He literally dragged her, unresisting and surprised, from her car, propelling her
forcefully across the road toward his house. "Jake?" she asked, his grip on her arm starting to hurt. "What's the matter?" "It's your man, Annie. They took your man, and unless I miss my guess, they sure as hell ain't who they said they was!" ____________________ *Chapter 7* Virgil Kramer looked up at his opponent and smiled. "You sure that's where you wanna move?" he asked. Dean Allen frowned as he looked down at the checker board. His gray eyes shifted over the men staggered about the playing field, and seeing no other alternative worth making, slowly nodded. He looked up at Virgil and groaned. There was defeat staring at him from behind tortoise shell frames. "You sure now?" Virgil repeated. Dean's upper lip curled in resignation. "Ah, go on, Virgil, and get it the hell over with it. I've lost and you know it!" Digging his hands deep into his pockets, he slumped in his chair, his face puckered in a little boy's grim pout of defeat. With a quick flick of his hand, Virgil took the last four of Dean's men in one fell swoop and picked up his opponent's king. Bringing the red checkers to his lips, he kissed them, making a loud, exaggerated smack. "Go to hell," Dean growled as he pushed up from the table. Virgil chuckled. "You're a sore loser, Dino." He began rearranging the checkers on the board. The younger man snorted. "I ought to have my ass kicked for letting you sucker me into playing you." His hand came out of his pocket and he slapped a quarter down on the table. "And gambling should be illegal in the station!" He pushed the coin toward Virgil. "Mighty obliged," Virgil said as he pocketed the coin. "Wanna make it best three outta five?" Dean's eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth to make a vulgar comment, but Milo Afton, the night shift dispatcher, stuck his head in the break room door. "There's been some trouble out to Rock Creek, Chief." Virgil craned his head around to look at Milo. "What kind of trouble?" Milo ambled into the room. "Old man Mueller - you know, Thad's grandpa? Well, his wife called in to say one of her neighbors was kidnapped a few minutes ago right out in his own front yard." Virgil's brows arched upward. "Kidnapped? The hell you say! Did she say who it was?" Milo nodded, shifted his wad of tobacco from left cheek to right. "That young guy who bought the old Barnes' place." "Gabe James?" Dean asked, glancing at Virgil. "Who'd want to kidnap Gabe?" "Every woman in Jasper and Poweshiek Counties," Mavis Long, the police station secretary, commented. She shut up when Virgil sent her an annoyed grimace. The dispatcher shrugged. "She said they told Jake they had a warrant. Called themselves Federal Marshals, but when old man Mueller asked to see the warrant, one of the men pulled a gun on him and threatened him." Virgil shot out of his chair. His eyes behind the obstruction of his glasses hardened as he impaled Dean Allen with a furious glare. "See who the hell sent Federal Marshals out to Rock Creek without letting us know about it," he snarled. "And you get me the name of that bastard who dared pull a gun on Jake Mueller! I'll have his damned badge!" Milo barely had time to move out of the sheriff's way as Virgil Kramer plowed through the door. The dispatcher glanced at Dean and sniffed. "I wouldn't wanna be them Feds when Virgil lays into 'em." ****
At twenty minutes to six that evening, Iowa State Patrolman Kyle Vittetoe picked up his telephone. Kyle's sister, Ellen, watched him from the hallway as he nodded to something being asked of him, heard him answer quietly that he'd be right there. As he hung up the phone and just stood there, staring at the wall, fear rose in her heart and she walked to him. "Kyle? Is something wrong?" He turned to her. There was a look she'd never seen before in her brother's dark eyes. Her hand went to his arm. "Kyle?" "That was Virgil. Gabe's been arrested," he said in a hollow voice. "Gabe? For what?" At her brother's silence, fear shot through Ellen. "Who arrested him? Virgil?" Kyle shook his head. "No. Virgil can't find out who they were. They just came and took him." Ellen flinched. Her hand tightened on her brother's arm. "When?" Vittetoe plowed his trembling fingers through his hair. "About thirty minutes ago, I guess. Virgil's with Annie." "How much does she know?" "Virgil said she found some newspaper clippings that suggest Gabe might have been a cop down in Florida. Other than that, I don't think she knows anything." "And Virgil?" Ellen watched her brother's face turn angry. "He's got a call in to Florida. He's mad as hell the Feds didn't let him in on the bust." A sick laugh pushed from Kyle's tight lip. "'Inter-agency protocol has been compromised,'" he said. Ellen rubbed Kyle's arm. "What are you going to tell him, Kyle?" A long sigh, dredged up from Kyle Vittetoe, wavered out from between his clenched teeth. He shrugged. "The truth is as good a thing to tell him as not." "But Gabe asked you - " Kyle shook his head. "It's too late for promises now, Ellen. Gabe James is in deep shit and he ain't got no shovel." **** Paul Oliver peeked out from behind the bushes just west of the old bridge and watched with drunken fascination the curious goings-on taking place up on the road. He strained to hear the men talking, but all he could hear was the low mumble of their voices. He thought about trying to get closer to the gravel road, but with all the fallen branches, he figured he might call attention to himself and that was the last thing Paul wanted to do. Instead, he craned his neck around the black walnut tree blocking his view of the two vehicles and watched as the men who had climbed out of the car reached inside to drag something out. "Get his legs, Brady," he distinctly heard an angry voice growl. "Oh, shit," Paul whispered, fearful the men were about to drop a dead body over the side of the old wooden bridge. He held his breath, staring with fearfully wide eyes as a body was lifted out of the car. Only when the men holding the sagging body moved toward the second vehicle, a dark van parked behind the car, did Paul let out his breath in a wavering relief of quiet sound. "Hurry up! We can't wait around 'til the cops start looking for the car!" The two men who had been driving the dark sedan scurried to the van behind the two men who carried the body. Ducking inside, the driver of the car helped the men lift their burden into the van. No sooner were all the men inside than the van's lights came on and it moved into the road, the rear door slamming shut as the minivan picked up speed and crunched westward on the snow-packed gravel. An eerie silence followed the van's departure. Paul Oliver waited for what seemed like hours before he straightened up behind the bushes. He had been watching the car, looking for signs of movement inside. He looked around him, half expecting to see someone coming at him with a drawn gun, to silence him for witnessing whatever the hell it was he'd seen. He was about to step out from behind the bushes when headlights flashed over the rear of the sedan.
Paul ducked in blind panic, urine gushing out to stain his hunting pants. Once more he held his breath as another car pulled in behind the abandoned sedan. It wasn't until he recognized the Sheriff's emblem on the door that a wave of relief spread over Oliver. He flinched as the harsh yellow lights of the car's Smith and Wesson bar began to rotate. Deputy John Michalek picked up the radio mike and keyed it to call in the license number and make of the vehicle. "Looks like it's the one Mueller told us about," Michalek told Milo Afton. "I'm gonna take a look at it." Opening his door, he picked up his flashlight, thumbed on the beam, and stepped out into the once-again falling snow, drawing his service revolver as he walked gingerly toward the sedan. He played the beam of his flashlight over the trunk, into the rear view window as he cautiously made his way along the side of the vehicle. Stepping closer, he aimed the light into the car, relieved when he found it empty. He was about to open the sedan's door when he heard movement in the bushes. Automatically crouching, he swung his revolver toward the sound. "Who's there?" he yelled, his eyes narrowing in an effort to see through the large clumps of falling snow. "Don't shoot, Johnny!" he heard a voice he thought he recognized pleading. "It's just me. Paul Oliver. Don't you shoot now. I'm coming out!" Pointing his flashlight toward the voice, Michalek watched as Oliver stumbled up the incline from the other side of the bridge. The old man lost his footing a couple of times as he pulled himself up onto the roadway. When he was standing on the gravel road, arms high above his head, his body rocking as he tried to maintain a semblance of sobriety, the deputy lowered his gun. "What the hell are you doing out here, Paul?" Oliver scrunched up his thin shoulders. "Just out for a stroll, Johnny." "Poaching out of season's more like it," the deputy spat. He holstered his gun. "You see where the people who drove this car went?" "I did," came the slurred reply. "Then you better tell me about it." **** "I see. Yeah. Yeah. Well, get an APB out on the van then," Virgil barked into the telephone. "Something ain't right here!" He slammed down the phone and frowned at Jake Mueller. "I got a bad feeling about this." "If them men was Federal agents, I'll eat my hat," Jake said. "What did you just find out?" Virgil glanced into the living room where Annie James was sitting and lowered his voice. "Johnny Michalek found that sedan with the license number you called in. It was abandoned over on the other side of the Grange Camp about thirty minutes ago. That old drunk, Paul Oliver, was out hunting and said he saw the car and a black van. According to him, four men got out of the sedan and lifted a dead body into the back of the van." Jake's face paled. "A dead body?" Virgil snorted. "You know Oliver. He ain't got a lick of sense. More'n likely Gabe was unconscious. Maybe drugged. I don't know." Jake let out a long breath. "They was manhandling the boy, Virgil. He was scared shitless and I don't mind telling you when that bastard pulled that widowmaker on me and stuck it in my ribs, I wasn't feeling none too brave myself!" Jake flung out his hand in disgust. "Even if they was arresting Gabe for something, why in tarnation would they knock him out?" "To keep him quiet," Virgil replied. He pulled Jake with him into the kitchen. When he was sure Annie James couldn't hear them, he told Jake what he'd learned from the sources Dean Allen had called. "There isn't any agency in Iowa that knows anything about a so-called warrant out for Gabe. It would have to have been a felony charge for any Feds to come out here to get Gabe and they'd have to have gone through the Jasper County judge to serve paper.
"Ain't nobody from Florida or anywhere else either been up to the courthouse about a warrant for Gabe. We checked with the Feds, too, and they don't know squat about any of this." Jake stared at him. "If they weren't lawmen, Virgil, who the hell were they?" "Mob flunkies," a voice spoke from the doorway and both men turned to see Kyle Vittetoe standing in the breakfast room with his cap in his hands. His brown eyes were bleak. "And if we don't get Gabe back before they leave Iowa, we'll never see him again!" ____________________ *Chapter 8* Annie James accepted the cup of tea from Nora Mueller and smiled her thanks. Bringing the steaming brew to her lips, she took a tentative sip of the apple-spiced liquid. She blinked against the rising steam, then lowered the cup to her lap where she braced it in the hollow of her left palm. Her eyes, glazed over with shock and confusion, strayed to the picture window and she stared out into the heavy fall of snow. Watching her from the breakfast room doorway, Kyle knew she was struggling to keep from crying, for now and again her body would hitch. "What are we gonna tell her?" Jake asked. He looked from Kyle to Virgil and back again. Kyle turned his eyes from Annie to the old man. "She's got to be told the truth, Jake. She's got to know where she stands in all this." Virgil plowed a meaty hand through his thick, silver-shot hair and leaned against the doorjamb. "I wish you'd said something to me about Gabe, Kyle. If we'd known he needed protection, we could've been on the lookout." He turned accusing gray eyes to the highway patrolman. "As it is now, we don't know if Gabe James is alive or dead." Vittetoe's eyes locked with Virgil's. "Gabe asked me in confidence not to say nothing about his past. I ain't never betrayed a man's confidence before this, and I hate like hell to start doing it now!" "Well, you'd best be thinking of a way to explain to Gabe's wife why her husband's in trouble with the mob," Virgil shot back. He leaned his six-foot-tall frame against the doorjamb. "That he's got mob connections at all scares the bejesus out of me!" Kyle's face turned rigid and red. "Gabe isn't a criminal!" "He stole someone else's money, didn't he?" Virgil bit out. "That's larceny, officer." "He might've taken the money, Virgil," Kyle grated, "but he took it to get away from them. If he'd stayed in Florida, he'd have wound up being fitted for cement galoshes." "He should've went to the Feds with what he knew! They might have put him in a witness protection program." "The witness protection program is about as reliable as my old '64 Harley! At least I can keep that cycle together with baling wire. The damned witness protection program's so filled with moles, Gabe wouldn't have lasted a year, what with him being an ex-cop. You know about how much protection Gabe would've got! My God, Virgil, what choice did he have but to run?" Virgil lowered his voice to a grating rush as he glared up at Kyle. "If you'd come to me and told me the story, I'd have kept my mouth shut. You know damned well I'd have done everything I could to have kept Gabe safe. Now it's too late. You done went and shut the barn door after the horse has left!" "They won't hurt him." The three men turned to stare at Annie through the doorway. She leaned forward and set her tea cup on the coffee table. Her eyes were hollow and empty as she looked at them. Folding her hands in her lap, she nodded. "His wife will see he isn't hurt." Virgil walked into the den and sat on the edge of a chair. "Is there something you know that'll help us find him, Patricia Anne?" Slowly Annie moved her gaze from Kyle to Virgil. "All I know is that she won't let her father hurt him." "Honey," Virgil said in a soft, understanding voice, "what are you talking about?" Ignoring Virgil's comment, Annie went on. "Gabe's safe. I know he's safe, but I don't think we'll ever be allowed to see him again." She shivered, looked down at her hands. "And they may come back to
finish what they started." "Finish what?" Jake asked as he sat on the arm of his wife's chair. Annie shrugged. "Killing me." Their collective faces blanched white and their eyes widened. They looked at one another with concerned faces filled with fear. "Why would they want to hurt you, Patricia Anne?" Virgil finally asked, breaking the long silence. "You didn't have anything to do with stealing the money. You didn't even know anything about Gabe's past until this morning." "Virgil," Nora Mueller said, catching the sheriff's attention. "You didn't understand what Annie said." Her eyes locked on Virgil's. "Annie found out Gabe has a wife down in Pensacola - a legal wife," she stressed. She paused as the men gawked unbelievingly at her. "Most women don't take kindly to finding out their husbands went off and married another woman. Especially if that wife is the daughter of a man capable of sending goons halfway across the country to pick up her runaway husband." "Wife?" Kyle whispered. He looked at Virgil. "He didn't say anything about a wife." "Why would he have?" Annie asked in a bitter voice. She looked up at Kyle. "You're a cop. He couldn't very well have told you he'd committed bigamy now, could he?" "Are you sure about this?" Jake asked. There was keen disappointment written on his aging face. Annie's eyes went to her neighbor. "I spent most of the day talking to a woman in Pensacola who knew him. She told me more than I wanted to know about my hus…" Annie clenched her eyes shut and lowered her head once more. "He lied to me. He lied to all of us. Gabe wasn't who, or what, he said he was." Kyle stood staring out the window at the falling snow. "None of that matters right now. We've got to find him before they get him out of the state." "He told you he ran away from Pensacola because he was afraid they were going to kill him," Alinor said, looking at Kyle. Her eyes swung to Annie. "You know that might not have been why he was running." "What do you mean?" her husband asked. Alinor shook her head. "Something just don't ring true. I can see him running from the mob, but why didn't he take his wife along, too? I'm just thinking he might have been running from her as well." Annie nodded. "I expect that's closer to the truth than anything else." Her eyes narrowed. "Except - " She looked at Kyle. " - did you know he'd been hurt when he was in Florida?" At Kyle's nod, she turned her head to one side. "He was kidnapped, wasn't he?" Kyle felt uncomfortable. "Kidnapped and tortured. They shot him full of dope until he was strung out on it, then they took him off it and left him to go cold turkey by himself." Virgil blanched. "My God, what a horrible time the boy must have had!" "Did they ever find out who did it?" Jake asked. "No," Kyle answered. "Gabe just figured it was someone in the mob trying to get back at him for an investigation he was on." "Or it could have been his father-in-law's way of getting back at him," Annie said quietly. ____________________ *Chapter 9* Light - pale, flickering, filtered - played across his eyelids and he struggled to open his eyes, but a heaviness kept them closed. He could hear the slapping of tires on wet pavement, the flick of windshield wipers, the sound of a hard rain falling on the roof. By the loud and tinny sound of the pummeling rain, he knew he was in a van of some sort. He could smell food: hamburgers, fries, onion rings, and his stomach leapt with need, his mouth beginning to water. The sound of a straw slurping liquid, sucking air, made him swallow and underscored his thirst. His head ached; his belly growled; his bladder throbbed with the need to urinate. A slight groan of frustration and despair and anger he knew he could never vent came up from the very depths of him
and he heard a voice he recognized. "He's coming 'round." Gabe tried to move, but he felt constrictions around his wrists, holding his arms down to his sides. He felt his ankles rubbing together and knew his feet were tied as well. His head was on a soft, fresh-smelling surface and he turned his face into the fabric, feeling the coolness of cotton against his cheek and recognizing the faint scent of bleach and detergent. "Here's another 10cc's. If he gives you any shit, just zap him back to la-la land." Turning his head back around, forcing his eyes open, making them focus on the face floating above him, Gabe stared up into the smiling visage of Mike Cronin sitting beside him. "How ya doing, Jamie?" Cronin asked chuckling. "Feel like a game of one-on-one?" Gabe became aware for the first time of the swaying IV bottle hanging on a hook just behind him. His eyes widened, his breath stopped. He was in an ambulance. Strapped down to the gurney. He turned to Cronin, whom he hadn't seen since he was eighteen years old. The man was older, a little frayed around the edges, but still as deadly-looking as he ever was. "Nice little house you had there. Too bad you won't be seeing it again," Cronin snickered. A memory - bright, alive, painful - shot through Gabe's mind and he struggled to sit up, his eyes wide with fear. "Annie?" he gasped, his eyes boring into Mike Cronin's dark gray orbs. A hard hand pressed into his chest. A hard voice spoke to him with a clear-cut warning as Cronin pushed him forcefully down. "Safe as long as you behave yourself." Cronin's eyes squinted to slits of firmness. "Do you understand me, old son? You do what you're told and that little Iowa farm girl gets out of this without a blemish." There was a slight pause. "Those were Mrs. Tremayne's orders. The old man wanted her throat cut." Gabe stared at Cronin. Understanding hit him like a sledgehammer between the eyes and he closed them, his panic building. Sweat dribbled down his temple, cold shivers trembled his body. He laid his head down and nodded his compliance, his eyes squeezed tightly together to keep the tears at bay. "I won't give you any trouble, Mike." Mike patted his leg. "That's a good boy." "Untie me, Mike. I can't go anywhere - " "Orders, Bubba," Mike snapped, cutting him off. "The restraints don't come off until you're twenty-thousand feet up." "And they may not come off then," another man insisted from the front seat of the ambulance. "Johnny O'Callahan," Mike growled. "You remember him?" Gabe did and the memory was one of dislike, distaste and discomfort. He was deathly afraid of Johnny O'Callahan and had been since they were cadets at Benedictine where John had been an upper classman who delighted in terrifying the plebes. "Can you keep him away from me?" Gabe asked, his voice betraying the fear he had of O'Callahan. "As long as you behave yourself and do what you're told," Mike agreed. "Where are we?" Gabe thought he heard a lot of traffic around them. "On Interstate 35. We just crossed into Minnesota." "Minnesota?" Gabe asked, puzzled. "They've got cops looking for us all over Iowa." Mike leaned back. "We've changed vehicles four times since I gave you that first injection." Gabe turned his head away. "They'll be watching the airports." Mike shrugged. "As soon as we left the Des Moines airport, the plane we came in on took off and headed back south. Another plane's waiting up in Minnesota for us." Mike chuckled. "Who's gonna be on the lookout for an ambulance on the interstate? When we get to Minneapolis, we just carry you on board the plane and jack back to God's country." Gabe turned his eyes to Mike. "Shot full of your joy juice, no one the wiser." Mike nodded. "You got it. Just one very sick patient, lying all calm and sedated on a stretcher, on his way to a hospital in New Orleans." Gabe flinched. "He planned it down to the very last detail, didn't he?" There was deep bitterness and
regret in his voice. "You're taking me to the clinic in Metarie, aren't you?" "Mr. Tremayne doesn't leave anything to chance, Jamie," Mike said in a sober voice. "You should know that by now. And if you don't, you will before it's all done." A hard thrust of terrible pain shot through Gabe's eyes as he turned his face away from Mike Cronin. "Do you know what they'll do to me there, Mike?" Cronin agreed. "I have some idea, yeah." Gabe turned back to face the man he'd known nearly his entire life. "I don't deserve this, Mike." Mike's eyes searched Gabe's. "As I see it, you do. After all, you brought it on yourself." ____________________ *Chapter 10* Liam Tremayne put the telephone down on the table beside him. He ignored his wife's question about who had called and instead stared out at the moon-flecked waters beyond his deck. Absently, he reached out to pat her hand to forestall any further questions. He needed time to think, to plan, to throw a leash around the deadly temper activated by the unexpected call. His wife, having lived with the man a very long time, grew quiet and still, allowing her husband time to come to grips with whatever had turned his relaxed body rigid with fury. Tremayne took a deep breath, released it and took another. His eyes cooled somewhat, but his temper was still lethally smoldering. Acute annoyance, mixed with unnatural emotions of which he had long since tried to rid himself, came back to prod at him much as one thrusts a tongue at a sore tooth. His anger took him back to a time he had tried to push from his memory, and with his memories came intense hate. Only once in his sixty-nine years had any man, woman or child dared to stand up to him, dared to test his authority. Tremayne was used to absolute, total control of those around him. He pursued a ruthless dominance of his people, requiring mindless submission from every business acquaintance, employee, rival, or family member under his rule. He was quite capable of relentlessly destroying and eliminating anyone whom he even remotely suspected of not giving him full, blind obedience. His single-minded pursuit of the absolute pinnacle of power and control made him a deadly enemy and a formidable opponent, and a stern and uncompromising parent. Liam Tremayne was the kind of man other men feared, and he worked hard to maintain that image. Having risen up from the ranks of street thievery and petty larceny in the Georgia port city of Savannah to become the head of a multi-billion dollar racketeering empire, Liam Tremayne wasn't about to let anything, or anyone, stand in his way of becoming the most influential man in North America. He was already well on his way with fingers in more pies than the Feds even dreamed. He was well-insulated from the reaches of the law by layer upon layer of middlemen, legitimate enterprises, and dummy corporations fronted by lesser men of his ilk who answered only to the Tremayne Group. And those men were loyal, willing to drop a dime on one another if the need arose, or willing to do time themselves to keep Liam Tremayne out of the limelight and out of jail. He'd chosen his lieutenants well - men who would rather die than betray Liam Tremayne. He only wished he'd been able to choose his family as well as the men with whom he did business. His thoughts turned to the three children he claimed as his heirs. Calm thoughts always came when he thought of his sons and daughter. His eldest son, Andrew, was a success, Liam thought as he stared out over the flickering lights of Miami - Harvard graduate; Phi Beta Kappa; Magna Cum Laude. A red-haired giant of a man at six-feet, three-inches tall with eyes the color of new-mown hay and a powerful physique well-maintained with a vigorous regimen of physical training. The boy had a thriving legal practice in Atlanta, specializing in corporate tax law. Married with three charming, well-mannered little girls and one polite, respectful fourteen-year-old son, Andrew gave Liam the deference he demanded. He also maintained the air of respectability his father required: Permanent Deacon at his church in Marietta; Past Grand Knight of the Knights of
Columbus; past Parish Council President; President of the Atlanta Bar Association; on the board of one of the local hospitals; chairman of numerous charities. Well-thought of, admired, spoken-well of, Andrew Tremayne was an asset of whom Liam could be proud. A brilliant lawyer and businessman, he had taken to the family business like a duck to water. When the time came, Andrew would inherit the control of the multi-billion dollar empire Liam had carved out for his children. Patrick, the middle son, was just as successful a physician as his older brother was an attorney. After graduating with similar honors from Harvard, Patrick had done his residency at Johns Hopkins, honing his skills with the very best of them. His tall good looks, rust-colored hair and dark green eyes had caught the attention of one state senator's wife, and with her help, Patrick was soon able to start his own practice. With a celebrity patient roster of some of the country's most beautiful and influential people, Patrick had snipped and stitched his way into the hearts and pocketbooks of Hollywood star and Washington politico alike. Author of three bestsellers dealing with the more glamorous side of cosmetic surgery, Patrick had denoted the proceeds from the books' sales to help needy children throughout the world who needed reconstructive surgery in order to live a full, normal life. And Patrick hadn't let his help stop there either. The young man had made several trips to Latin American countries to do surgery on those pitiful children himself, all at his own expense, taking with him other surgeons and nurses with soft hearts. A Eucharistic Minister at his church in Orlando; State Deputy of the Florida K of C; past President of the Florida AMA; Eagle Scout leader; and co-host each year of the Jerry Lewis Telethon in Orlando, Patrick was a warm, caring individual who took his job and his family life very seriously. Having married his childhood sweetheart, Mary Marlene Shea, the young couple were the proud parents of six rambunctious, bright, and athletic boys ranging in age from eight to seventeen. Then there was Bridie. Liam smiled as he leaned back in his lawn chair. The warm tropical air blew over him, rattled the palm tree high overhead, and moved on to ripple the water of his private marina. The thought of his only daughter brought tears to Liam's eyes. Of all his children, he loved Bridget the best. Whenever he had reason to think of her, and if truth be told, he made time to think of his lovely, intelligent daughter, the heart of stone he had always been accused of having softened. How could he best describe his Bridie? he wondered as he closed his eyes and pictured the glorious mane of strawberry-blond hair that framed Bridie's elfin face. Beautiful? Yes, she was certainly that. With her pert, turned-up nose with its light sprinkling of leprechaun freckles across the bridge and her long reddish gold lashes that hid startlingly emerald green eyes, she had won the Miss Georgia Contest and been first runner up at the Miss World beauty pageant. A true Irish lass from the crown of that Gaelic hair to the tips of her pretty feet which could dance a jig with the best of them, she had also won the Miss Congeniality contest at both pageants. Of all his children, she alone had taken the time to learn the old language, and she sang the ancient songs of his parent's homeland with a crystal-clear soprano that could bring tears to the eyes of those who listened. Intelligent? Oh, yes, he thought, nodding. Bridie, of all his offspring, had what it took to take over the business when the time came. Not that the woman would ever be given the chance to grip the reins of the Tremayne Group in her slim, elegant hands. But she would do well, better even than Andrew, and Liam understood that. He'd thought Vassar might well make the girl snobbish, ashamed of her shanty Irish roots, but it hadn't. If anything, that Ivy League education had instilled a deep sense of family honor in the girl, allowing her to see beyond the way the Tremayne money had been made to the possibilities of the way it could be spent to change the world. Dedicated? Bridie was dedicated. Dedicated and determined. One of the first women to graduate from Harvard medical school, she had come away with a degree in behavioral science, setting up her practice of psychiatry in Savannah among the poor, wanting to make a difference with the victims of domestic violence and sexual abuse. She had labored long and hard hours to make a name for herself in the realms of psychoanalysis and many of her papers had been published in the American Medical Association Journal. Her name was well-known in psychiatric circles for her innovative techniques for
treating children scarred by incest had been applauded by her peers when she had won several prestigious awards for her work. President of the Altar Society at St. Anthony's; on the Board of Directors at Savannah General Hospital; also an Eucharistic Minister at her church, as well as President of the CCD program, Bridie and her husband, Michael, President of the First Security Bank of Savannah and Chairman of the Board of the Connors Corporation, had three daughters and two sons to keep them occupied when not at work. "Occupied!" Liam chuckled, thinking of the twin boys, Liam and Leon, who had just served their first Mass that past Sunday. Standing there, angelic-looking in their altar boy robes, Liam had seen the wicked twinkle in the boys' eyes as they had caught him watching them. His namesake, the older of the two by three minutes, had dared to wink at his grandfather. "Did you say something, dear?" Liam's wife, Margaret asked. Liam turned his head and looked at his wife of fifty-two years. "I was just thinking about little Liam." Margaret sighed. "He's been grounded, Bridget told me this morning. Father didn't appreciate his little joke, I'm afraid." "I would think not," Liam agreed, hiding his smile behind a sip of his expensive bourbon. That audacious wink little Liam had given his grandsire should have been a warning of what was to come, but Liam had no way of knowing what it meant until he'd seen the horrified expression on Father Wellmeyer's face when a tiny tree frog had hopped across the altar table to land in the chalice of communion wine. "You can't blame Michael for blistering his backside," Margaret commented, as if sensing her husband's condoning of the affair. "No, of course, not," Liam assured her. But silently Liam had applauded his namesake's audacity. The boy had spunk and Liam admired that in a child. Long after his wife had retired for the night, Liam sat out in the soft Miami night, turning his face up to the brilliant globe of a full moon that shone its creamy yellow light down on Biscayne Bay. His thoughts were of his family, especially his sixteen grandchildren. Sixteen._ A deep frown slid over Liam's face. He wasn't as fond of his youngest grandchild as he was of the others. Of course, that had to do with the child's parents more than the child itself. Not that the child had had any more control over her parents than Liam had had over the child's father. His frown deepened. Liam hated his youngest son. He hated him so completely, so thoroughly, he found it intolerable to even look at the young man's picture Margaret insisted still be kept on the mantle alongside his siblings. Everything about his youngest son offended Liam from the color of his hair to the color of his eyes to the shade of his skin. There was nothing, not one single trait, in the man Liam could find acceptable. The common thread that linked him with his other children was missing, had unraveled, with the youngest. As far as Liam Tremayne was concerned, the boy was no longer a part of the family for he had disowned him many years before. "Insufferable little ingrate," Liam hissed from between clenched teeth. From the time his youngest child had been old enough to walk, until the hot July morning Liam had physically thrown him out of the family home, there had been violent battles between them. Often the vocal skirmishes between father and son had found expression in actual physical violence, the father enforcing lessons upon the son; lessons in obedience that had left emotional, as well as tangible, scars on the boy. No one in the family would have ever admitted that Liam abused the boy, emotionally, as well as, physically. No one would have dared to even suggest such a thing. But that had been the case. The child seemed to bring out the worst in Liam Tremayne's nature. And when it was discussed amongst the others, they had all agreed that the boy had, indeed, brought it all on himself with his attitude. "Why don't you love me?" the boy had once asked his father and the other children had held their breath for the answer. "Because you're a loser," Liam had shouted at him. "You're not good in school, you haven't been picked for any of the teams, and you're a trouble maker, always in the principal's office. That's why I'm sending you to military school. Maybe they can make a man out of you!"
"You're sending me there to get rid of me," the boy had cried, garnering for himself a vicious backhand across his mouth. Liam's heavy signet ring had torn open his chin and left a scar below his lip. "And I can't wait until you're gone," Liam had screamed at the bleeding child. Yes, Liam thought. The boy had been a loser all his life. He had never excelled in anything - anything that mattered at any rate. His grades, even after military school, were low, unacceptable. Liam wondered at the boy's intelligence level and even had him tested. "There's nothing wrong with your son that a firm hand wouldn't cure!" The sociologist had confirmed what Liam already knew. His youngest son had just been born a loser. Liam Tremayne didn't like to lose. And he didn't like losers. He was a competitive man, thriving on the contest between himself and others, gleefully crushing those who were ill-prepared to come up against him, and demolishing the careers of those who would dare to challenge his authority. His intellect was no match for lesser men and his bulldozing concept of winning at all costs had utterly destroyed many opponents who weren't quick enough, intelligent enough, or were lacking the necessary ruthlessness with which Liam Tremayne played and won his games. But with his youngest child, he had finally lost the battle of wits that had raged for eighteen years between them. That knowledge drove deep in Liam Tremayne's gut and had festered there, suppurating, oozing hate throughout the man's body, dissolving whatever parental care and concern he might have once had for the boy. And rather than do what he had feared he eventually would, he had simply disowned his son, kicking him out on his own, refusing even to acknowledge the young man's existence after he was gone. "But, Liam, why?" his wife had cried, her eyes red from still more tears she had shed over their youngest offspring. Her son had just graduated from military school that past spring and was already enrolled in Georgia Southwestern, a college Liam considered beneath contempt, but the only one the boy could get into. "If he stays in this house one hour longer, Maggie, I'll strangle him and be done with it. Is that what you will see happen?" "But what will he do?" she'd sobbed, clutching at her husband's arm. "How will he live?" "That's his problem, Maggie." Liam had been adamant in his decision. "It'll do him good to have to fend for himself for a change. He's always had everything given to him on a silver platter and has always, always, thrown it right back in our faces. He says he detests where the money comes from that has fed and clothed and tried to educate him all these years. Let him feed and clothe himself and see how well he does!" "He's just a boy, Liam." "He'll grow up soon enough." And so the boy had left with only the clothes on his back and thirty dollars - money his mother had managed to slip to him - in the pockets of his torn jeans. That had been twenty-one years ago, Liam remembered. And for most of that time, the Tremaynes had lost track of their son. It wasn't until Liam received an angry phone call from one of his associates seven years earlier that he found out where his youngest son was living. And what a dishonorable man he had become. "With all due respect, Liam," the man on the other end of the phone had said in a tense voice, "I understand he is one of your sons, but it's a matter of honor. I know there's no love lost between you and the boy. You do understand, don't you? Out of respect for you and your family, I'll see to it that it's quick and clean. He won't be made to suffer." A hard frost of fury had hardened Liam's eyes as he listened to the speaker. "And you understand, of course, that even though I am not on friendly terms with him, he is still flesh and blood of my beloved wife. Should anything happen to him, I would be obliged to make it right for his mother - like unto like, an eye for an eye." He had listened to the silence at the other end for a moment then he had lowered his voice to a friendly, commanding tone. "I can see advantages to this, though."
"Advantages?" the shocked voice from across the miles had gasped. "I don't see how - " "I'm speaking of family ties - business mergers, if you will," Liam had interrupted. "Things which can not necessarily be bought, but which might have, say, a rather substantial gift attached to them?" Again the silence had been telling. Finally, "How much of a gift are we speaking of?" Liam had smiled. "I'd think one million would satisfy, don't you?" The silence had not lasted as long, but the voice at the other end of the phone was no less chilly. "And what of the other matter? As much as I detest what has happened to my family, I can live with it. The money will ease the dishonor, but my business is suffering even more because of your son's goddamned interference." The pencil Liam had been holding in his hand snapped in two at the reminder of just how low his son had sunk. "I have such shame at hearing of what he's doing. My wife and I have somehow failed to instill in him the proper values. What can I say to you? How can I apologize for his lack of respect?" "No one holds you responsible, Liam," the other man had hastened to say. "We know where the fault lies in this." "Let me handle it," Liam had asked. "Let me set things right. I have ways of dealing with my son." "You give me your word of honor this will be taken care of as soon as possible? There are others involved in this who don't know you for the magnanimous man you are." Grinding his teeth with sheer fury, Liam had forced sincerity into his words. "Within the next four to six days. Out-of-state arrangements will need to be made for what I have in mind to be effective. We don't want anything traced back to you or me. But I can promise you, after I am through disciplining him, you'll have no more trouble with him." "All right. I'll leave it up to you." "Fine," Liam agreed in a friendly tone. "And I look forward to doing business with you." Sitting in the warm Miami air, going over in his mind what Andrew had told him only that morning, hearing again the phone call from Mike Cronin confirming James Gabriel had at last been caught, Liam bitterly regretted having stopped his son's murder that night nearly eight years earlier. Now, once more, his youngest son was proving to be a problem that would have to be dealt with. This time, it would be once and for all. ____________________ *Chapter 11* Virgil stepped to the phone and took the receiver from Kyle. "Yeah." He listened, his brows furrowing. "When was that?" He leaned back against the wall and reached up with his free hand to pinch the bridge of his nose, pushing up his tortoise shell glasses. "Well, now, that's a fine kettle of fish, ain't it? No, I'll call 'em back when I get in. Just tell 'em I'll handle it from this end. Yeah. Yeah. All right." He hung up the phone and swung his eyes to Kyle, who was regarding him with anxious eyes. "Did you find out something?" Kyle asked. There was a long, drawn-out sigh from the sheriff. "It seems there's a warrant out for Gabe after all." "You've got to be kidding," Kyle scoffed. "I don't believe it!" "We ran his fingerprints through the system just in case, even though we had no wants or warrants on him, and we got a teletype from Atlanta saying there was a warrant on a guy with those fingerprints. The name on the warrant is for James Gabriel Tremayne." Annie heard the name and looked at Alinor and Jake; Alinor touched Annie's hand. Virgil came to sit once more on the sofa and his kindly eyes were grave as he spoke to Annie. "Patricia Anne, do you know what 'involuntary hospitalization' means?" "No, but I don't like the sound of it," Annie answered, her eyes swinging from Virgil's face to Kyle's. She took in Vittetoe's expression and fear shone in her eyes. "Kyle?" Kyle shook his head. "It's like this, honey," Virgil explained. "There's this thing called the Myer's Act. Under that law, if a
person's family thinks he or she might be incapable of managing his or her own affairs, and might well be a danger to themselves or others, they can have a warrant issued for that individual to be picked up in order to have him or her tested for competency." Virgil sighed. "There's just such a warrant out on Gabe, Patricia Anne. That's the reason he left there. A judge in Georgia had already ruled he was incompetent. Gabe was already in a clinic in Augusta and somehow he found out he was about to be picked up and taken to a private hospital for commitment." He looked around at Kyle. "That's probably why he took the money. He must've taken it to get as far away from his family as he could. I would have, too, if I'd been him." "He wasn't all that incompetent if he had the forethought to steal money for his escape," Kyle snarled. "I don't understand," Annie said. "On what grounds had they declared him incompetent? Gabe is as sane as any of us." Virgil blushed a deep red. "He was being treated for an addiction to heroin. He just up and left the hospital one night, and they haven't seen him since. They think someone helped him escape, but they never found out who." "Who signed for his arrest?" Jake asked. "Some of his kin," Virgil answered. "Andrew Tremayne?" Annie asked, remembering the lawyer Mrs. Johannsen had mentioned. She didn't believe for a moment that the man she had thought was her husband was a heroin addict. "No. His father, Liam Tremayne, was the one who signed." Jake flinched. "I know that name." Virgil nodded. "There was a segment on him on 60 Minutes a few weeks ago. He's as dirty as they come, but the Feds can't prove it." "He's Gabe's father?" Annie gasped. Her face showed her consternation. "Gabe and I saw that show. I wanted to watch Life Goes On like we usually do, but Gabe insisted we watch 60 Minutes that night. He was glued to the set when that story about Liam Tremayne came on. I remember Gabe saying they ought to…" Tears filled her eyes. She clenched her hands together. "Ought to what, Patricia Anne?" Annie lifted her eyes to Virgil's. "He said they ought to put the bastard in jail and throw away the key so he couldn't hurt any more kids. The report said Tremayne's organization was thought to be the largest distributor of heroin and cocaine in the South." A tear slid down her cheek. "I thought Gabe was talking about the man hurting other kids by selling them cocaine." Her eyes overflowed with tears. "Maybe that's where those men got the drugs they gave Gabe." "That's probably why he became a cop, Annie," Kyle said quietly. "To stop men like his father." His eyes pleaded with Annie. "I didn't know about him being married. I really didn't." "What does Annie do now?" Alinor asked. "Well, the marriage isn't legal, darling," Jake answered. "That can be annulled right off." He looked at his young neighbor. "Unless you want to press charges against him and have him brought back here." Virgil looked up, light registering behind his thick glasses. "Bigamy charges! That's it! That's how we can get him back. We can have him extradited here on bigamy charges." "Won't wash," Kyle said, remembering some of his civil law classes. "Bigamy's a misdemeanor, Virgil, you know that. You can't extradite on a misdemeanor. Besides, if there's a question as to his competency, the marriage to Annie would be null and void anyway. They'd just say he didn't know what he was doing." Virgil's pug nose turned up. "Then we'll charge those fellows who took him with kidnapping! That's a federal crime." "How you gonna do that unless you find 'em first?" Kyle snapped. "They could be half-way to Kentucky by now." He shook his head. "Or farther." "I can give you a description of them," Jake suggested. "Will that help?" "Seems to me," Alinor Mueller injected, "that those men were probably hired by Gabe's family to come get him. Is there any kind of legal recourse for that?" "What's been done here is kidnapping. Pure and simple. They came into this state and illegally forced
one of our residents, against his will, to accompany them back to Florida," Virgil reminded them all. "If they'd come to us, had the correct papers for him to have been picked up, we'd have had him tested here to see if he was incompetent. If our psychiatrist said he wasn't, that piece of paper they have on him in Georgia wouldn't be worth diddle." "But they didn't dare do that if nothing was wrong with Gabe, did they?" Alinor asked. "They couldn't take the chance of him getting away from them." "So where does that leave us?" Jake asked. "On Judge Terry Lampiere's front porch first thing tomorrow morning," Virgil stated. ____________________ *Chapter 12* Andrew R. Tremayne spoke from across miles and miles of fiberoptic line. "Judge Lampiere, I can appreciate your concern, and the concern of my brother's friends there in Iowa, about his safety. I, too, am worried sick about him, and have been for the last seven years. It had been just that long since we had heard anything from him or about him, even though we've been looking diligently all this time. "You can imagine my delight when I learned he was living in Iowa. And yes, I have sent some family friends out there to try to persuade him to come back, but they haven't arrived yet. The plane should be arriving later this afternoon. "If someone has abducted James, and I pray to the Blessed Mother they haven't, then those of his enemies who have also been searching for him have, without doubt, reached him first." Terrence Jean Lampiere rolled his eyes at the tone of voice coming to him from across the miles. Did the man in Atlanta think him a country bumpkin? From the slick, condescending way the bastard was speaking to him, the judge could well imagine the grin of amusement on the fellow's face. "We are aware your father has signed a request that your brother be picked up for involuntary hospitalization, counselor," the Judge stated in a no-nonsense, direct tone. "We're also aware of your family's connections to organized crime." "That has never been proved," came the waspish reply from Atlanta and the judge knew he'd touched a raw nerve. "Be that as it may, your father, and Gabe James' father - " "James Gabriel Tremayne is my brother's name," Andrew snapped. "He may call himself anything he wants, but his family knows him as James." The judge went on as though he had not been interrupted. "…has been linked with crime families all over this country, and the men who abducted Gabe James were professionals. We have composite drawings of two of them. Our law enforcement agencies here will be faxing those drawings all over the state of Florida. When we find those men, Mr. Tremayne, we'll call for an extradition order from your governor. I would imagine he's not in the employ of the Tremayne Group." A hiss of fury came over the line. "What precisely are you intimating, Judge Lampiere?" Andrew growled. "I've told you my family did not have anything to do with kidnapping James." "If not your family, then perhaps the family of his wife, Kristen Marie Connors Tremayne," the judge shot back. "Either way, we'll prosecute to the fullest extent of the law." "If - " Andrew purred into the receiver. " - you can find the men who abducted him." Terry Lampiere's gray eyes narrowed into thin slits of pure dislike. Even though he couldn't see the man to whom he was speaking, he'd already developed an intense image of the slick, just-one-finger-outside-the-law litigator. He was receiving vivid flashes of a hard, cold face, glittering eyes filled with the unholy light of victory, a thin slit of a mouth that was grinning with that victory even as it hissed its warning. The man's next words made the judge draw in his breath. "You know James owed a lot of money to - shall we say, deadly people? - when he left Florida, don't you, Judge Lampiere? I understand his gambling debts ran into five figures. These are men who don't take running out on debts lightly. "I'm sure you also know James stole nearly a quarter of a million dollars from his father-in-law when
he skipped the state. My father has repaid that money out of respect for James' wife, Kristen. After all, James can't be held accountable for what he did during that time to feed the expensive monkey on his back. And if he doesn't have any of that money left to settle up his debt, the men who took him just might not ever give him back." "Oh, we'll get him back, counselor," the judge bit out from between clenched teeth. "You have my word on that!" There seemed to be a light chuckle from the other end of the line, although Andrew Tremayne's voice was perfectly steady and seemingly sincere. "I hope so, Judge Lampiere. For James' sake, I certainly hope you find the men who abducted him. Our family will be praying for his safety." If Terry Lampiere could have crawled through the phone, he knew his fist would be plowing down Andrew Tremayne's throat by now. It took every ounce of his professionalism and control to level his voice and taper off his temper to answer Tremayne's sugary remark. "If I find out you had anything to do with Gabe's disappearance - " he began, only to be cut off with Tremayne's knife-through-hot-butter voice. "I'm sure you went to a good law school, Judge, and you have no doubt numerous years on the bench with which to grasp what I am about to say. You are perfectly aware kidnapping is a federal offense and those who are a party to it are as culpable as those who actually commit the crime. Yes, our family would like to have James back. He is quite incompetent to manage his own affairs. His bigamous marriage to a woman in Iowa is proof positive of that. "But, as you well know, we can't serve papers for committal on him until he comes back into the state of Georgia. Once he does, we'll have him picked up and remanded to a chemical dependency unit where, hopefully, we can help him kick his drug habit." "Gabe James does not have a drug habit," the judge snarled. "Gabe James might not," Tremayne said in a reasonable voice, "but James Gabriel Tremayne certainly did. If you'd care to check, you'd see he was hospitalized in Florida several times for both alcohol and heroin addictions before my father had him transferred to a private clinic in Augusta. "If James managed to kick his addiction while he was out there, the family will be utterly thrilled, but until we have proof positive he has, that he is no longer a danger to himself or to anyone else, and that he's fully capable of taking care of his own affairs, the order for involuntary hospitalization will stand. We have only his best interests in mind." "I just bet you do," the judge hissed before he slammed down the phone. "Well?" Virgil asked, leaning over Terry Lampiere's desk. "You didn't really think the man would admit to having his brother snatched, did you?" Terry asked, heaving an aggravated sigh as he stood. "There's no doubt in my mind he did, though." "What did he sound like?" Kyle asked. "Tough as nails and twice as sharp," Terry grumbled. He poured himself another cup of coffee. "We'll have one hell of a time finding those men who kidnapped Gabe. I don't believe for a minute he'll be taken back to Georgia to whatever hospital they had him in before. That could be too easily checked. And unless I miss my guess, once they get Gabe to Florida, his kidnapers will be entitled to a nice, long vacation in Sicily!" "Dublin," Kyle corrected. At the judge's look, he shrugged. "They're Irish mobsters." "That's neither here nor there, Kyle. Those men will go underground once they've finished their job," Lampiere prophesied. "What can we do then?" Virgil inquired. The judge sipped the hot brew in his cup, his eyes squinting from the steam. When he swallowed, he looked directly at Kyle. "If we knew what hospital they'd take him to, we might be able to get in to see him, but chances are they'll take him to a private clinic. They'll probably register him under another name and no one will be able to see him but the family. I'd imagine there are dozens of private clinics throughout Florida, which for the right amount of money, will look the other way. And we aren't even sure that's where they'd take
him." "You mean they could take him anywhere," Kyle clarified. Lampiere nodded. "Anywhere in the United States, Canada or Mexico." His face took on a bleak look. "Or beyond." "My God," Virgil breathed. "What are we going to tell Patricia Anne?" "Tell her the truth, Virgil," Terry advised. His eyes showed his concern for the young woman who was his eldest son's teacher. "Tell her it may be a long time before she sees Gabe again." "If ever," Kyle mumbled. "If ever," the judge agreed. **** The midnight-brown jet arced into its descent into Atlanta's International Airport, the silver tips of its sweeping wings blinking red in the early morning sun as a flare of sunlight touched the plane's wing span. The engine geared down and the jet's nose leveled off as the runway came into sight. In the cockpit, the pilot's hand was steady on the throttle, his face a relaxed, experienced visage of concentration as he neared his craft earthward. In his ears, the static voice of the controller, guiding, encouraging, beckoned him down. Those seated in the passenger compartment behind him were talking in louder than normal voices as the cabin pressure blocked off their hearing and kept them from understanding one another easily. "Is he out?" the pilot heard O'Callahan snap. "Like a baby," was the reply from Mike Cronin. On the gurney on which he lay, James Gabriel Tremayne slept on, oblivious to the plane's landing, the sudden throttling back of the mighty engine, the roar of the jet's tires on the tarmac, the faint bounce, the strain of whining engines as the jet taxied down the runway. Mike Cronin looked up at the IV bottle, followed the tubing down to Tremayne's arm, checked the pet cock to make sure the flow of D5W was correct. His eyes swept up to the bandages wrapped completely around Gabe's head obscuring his face and hiding the color of his eyes and hair. He glanced at the bandages that encased the young man's hands. For all the world to see, if they cared to, the patient lying so still on the gurney must have been burned very badly and was heavily sedated, or unconscious, because of the pain. When the plane came to a stop and the door hissed open on its pneumatic hinge, Mike stood, waiting for the ambulance attendants who would come to get James Gabriel Tremayne. As soon as the patient was safely inside the ambulance and away from the airport, the Lear would once again leap skyward. "Dublin, here we come," Johnny O'Callahan said as the ambulance attendants boarded the plane. ____________________ *Chapter 13* "I'll meet you in Albany," Andrew told his sister. "Pat's flying up from Orlando and should be there by the time the plane lands." "What about Dad? Is he coming to New Orleans?" Bridget asked. "In a few days. Mom doesn't know anything about this yet. I seriously doubt he'll be inclined to tell her." "And Kristen?" "She's already at the clinic." There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "Do you know how he is, Drew?" "Dad?" "Yes." "As well as can be expected. He's not happy about all this." "I wouldn't want to be in James' shoes," Bridget remarked.
"We have to be tough, Bridie," Andrew warned. "We have to put up a united front." "I know that," his sister snapped. "I don't have any more love for James than you do. All I'm saying is, I wouldn't wish what's going to happen to him on my worst enemy." "He is our worst enemy, Bridie," Andrew reminded her. **** Patrick Sean Tremayne glanced at the city spread out below him as the jet banked for its landing. There was a heavy frown on his handsome face; a worried look in his green eyes. He barely heard his pilot telling him they were cleared for landing. He leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the port window and stared at the cluttered scenery passing below the silver gleam of his jet. He hated the city into which he was flying. He'd once had a patient from here - an ex-baseball player whose face had been almost totally destroyed in a car crash several years earlier. The reconstructive surgery had been done in Patrick's private clinic in Orlando, but the ballplayer had insisted on recuperating in his hometown in one of the two understaffed, totally inadequate hospitals of which the town was so proud. Patrick had found the doctors on staff incompetent; the nurses slovenly and complaisant; the facilities years behind in technology; and the town an eyesore. He had loathed every minute of the time he had had to spend here checking up on his patient's progress. Had it not been for the large sum of money the ballplayer's insurance company paid him to make the man once more presentable, Patrick would have washed his hands of the entire situation. But at that moment in time, Patrick had desperately needed the money to open a clinic in Paraguay. And he had endured Albany, Georgia. "Dr. Tremayne?" Patrick jumped, quickly glancing around to see the cabin steward watching him with carefully polite eyes. "We've landed, sir." Patrick nodded and returned his attention to the bleak concrete wasteland and outdated building the locals called an airport. His frown turned to a look of disgust as he saw several rubbernecks pointing to his plane, no doubt wondering who was inside the sleek jet. He looked around at the steward. "Fix me a martini, Bill. A double." The steward nodded and headed for the well-stocked bar. He looked up as the jet's hatch opened and the doctor's shapely sister stepped onto the plane. She was wearing a sleek, form-fitting emerald green silk dress, slit high up the right thigh, her long, tanned legs enveloped in apple-green stockings. She handed the steward her brown-leather medical bag. "Good afternoon, William," she said, smiling vaguely in the young man's direction. "Nothing for us, thank you." "Dr. Casey," the steward acknowledged. He saw the elder of the Tremayne siblings enter the jet and nodded his greeting, respectfully, and somewhat fearfully. He didn't expect a return greeting, neither did he get one. He heard Andrew Tremayne's querulous voice speaking and tuned out the man. "The ambulance should be here any moment now. They called us about twenty minutes ago from Leesburg." Andrew Tremayne sat in a seat across from his brother. "You look like hell, Paddy." Patrick Tremayne grimaced. "I really didn't want to come." He glanced at his sister. "And I would imagine you didn't either, Bridie." Bridget Tremayne-Casey shrugged. "I can think of better places to be than this burg." She looked out the window. "This town gets uglier every year." "And more crowded with jiggaboos," Andrew scowled. "They're taking over the damned town." "Papa calls it the Detroit of the South," Bridget said with a laugh. She opened her purse and took out a silver cigarette case, opened it and withdrew a cigarette. Patrick made a face. "I wish you wouldn't smoke in here, Bridie." Bridget arched a delicate strawberry-blond brow and withdrew her silver lighter. Flicking the flame,
she lit the cigarette and blew a long stream of noxious smoke toward her brother. She smiled. "If Papa knew you smoked," Andrew commented, waving the air to rid his nostrils of the pungent scent, "you'd get one of his infamous lectures on polluting your body with chemicals." Bridget flicked the ash from her smoke onto the clean gray carpet. "I think Papa has more on his mind right now than my harmless habit." "It's not a harmless habit," Patrick reminded her. "And second-hand smoke is - " "Shut up, Paddy," she commanded, her eyes narrowing. She held his gaze until the younger man looked away. "Here they come, Mr. Tremayne," the steward informed Andrew. Andrew let out a long breath. He pushed himself up, walked to the jet's open hatchway and stared at the white-and-orange ambulance pulling onto the tarmac. He looked at his brother and sister. "Family reunion time, kids," he sneered. Bridget joined her brother in the hatchway. Andrew returned his attention to the ambulance as a third man climbed out of the back, spoke to the driver and his assistant, glanced at the plane, then stepped back for the other two men to offload the gurney. "That's Roger MacGregor," Andrew announced to his sister. "He's married and he won't be interested in what you've got to offer." Bridget shrugged. "You never know, now, do you?" "You're disgusting," Andrew hissed at her. Bridget smiled. "I might as well make the most of this little trip, Drew." Patrick still sat in his seat, his eyes glued to the hatchway. When Andrew and Bridget stepped back to make way for the men carrying James on board, Patrick looked away. He felt the blood pounding in his head; felt the sweat running down his armpits, his temples; felt his groin tighten in fear. He clenched his hands in his lap and stared blindly out the window. "Take him back there," Andrew ordered. Patrick heard the gurney rolling by him; smelled the aromatic scent of disinfectant from the hospital sheets; and sensed the presence of his youngest brother as the gurney passed. His breath caught and held in his throat as he heard a low moan, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "He's coming around," the ambulance driver said. "I'll give him another injection," Bridget commented. Patrick heard her opening her medical bag. He heard her unwrapping a disposable syringe. He heard the faint whoosh as the syringe's needle jabbed into the rubber membrane covering the vial of thorazine; heard the plink as his sister thumped the air from the syringe; heard the jingle of the IV tubing as Bridget introduced the thorazine into their brother's vein. "Nighty-night," he heard her say with a chuckle. His eyes squeezed closed even harder as another low moan - helpless and desperate; pitiful and somehow obscene - drifted back to his ears. "The other drivers are here for the ambulance and we've been cleared for takeoff, Dr. Tremayne." The others strapped themselves in and the jet's engines revved, the high-pitched whine grating on Patrick's already-frayed nerves. It pulled gently and expertly away from the terminal and began to taxi. As the jet sped skyward, its wings dipping in farewell to the city, Patrick stared out the window, refusing to look around to the spot where James' body lay strapped to the gurney. He ignored the idle chit-chat between his sister and brother and shook his head at Bill's offer of another drink. His mind was in New Orleans, at his clinic there, one of many he had established over the years. His thoughts were on what would happen tomorrow morning and he began to pray he could do what his father wanted. "God help you, Jamie," he whispered. "God help you, because I can't." ____________________ *Chapter 14*
Virgil Kramer belched and his face took on the sour look that mirrored the taste in his mouth. He put down the burrito he had been eating, wadded it up in its wrapper, and dropped it into the trash can beside his desk. The hollow plink as the burrito hit the can's metal bottom seemed to make the hot taste in Virgil's mouth worsen and he reached for the cup of pop on his desk. "I don't know why you buy those things when you know you can't eat 'em," Dean remarked around a mouthful of hamburger with extra pickles and extra ketchup. "I like the taste," Virgil said with a grimace. Wiping his mouth on his napkin, he sat back in his chair and went over what had transpired before Dean had reported in to work. "He wasn't all that bad for a Fed." Dean nodded. "I met him once." At Virgil's look of interest, Dean nodded. "Remember when I had to go over to Des Moines to bring back the Koontz boy? Sadler was in there waiting to interview some lady who had kidnapped her son away from her husband." He took a large bite out of the hamburger. "He seemed okay." Virgil nodded. "Knows his stuff, I hear. Gets called in on most kidnapping cases in the midwest." "Sure is a tough-looking character," Milo commented. He'd come in to get his paycheck and had stayed upon learning the FBI had sent an agent to talk with Virgil. "Don't rightly look like no Fed, does he?" "How's a Fed supposed to look?" Dean inquired. "You know," Milo said and shrugged. "Like one of them ferrets you see in the zoo. All narrow-faced and shifty-eyed. Can't trust them critters, I don't reckon." He sniffed. "Can't trust them Feds neither." "If he can help find Gabe James, I suppose we can overlook how he looks," Virgil said with a grin. "It's been over forty-eight hours, Virgil," Dean complained. "You'd think there'd be some word on that van Paul Oliver saw." "And Annie saw," Milo added. "Wish one of 'em had thought to get the license plate number." He shifted the wad of tobacco from one side of his mouth to the other. "It's like Gabe done went and vanished off the face of the planet." "He's out there," Virgil said, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on the desk. "His family's got him. I don't doubt that for a minute." "What did Agent Sadler say about the Bureau investigating the Tremaynes in this?" Dean asked as he slurped his pop. "Well, so far they've only interviewed the old man. It seems the two brothers and sister are 'out of town on business.'" Virgil's eyes narrowed. "I figure wherever the hell they are, Gabe is, too." He folded his arms over his chest. "The Feds won't leave no bale unturned on this since who they're looking for is Liam Tremayne's son." "And just what in the brown, blazing hell are you doing about it, Virgil Earl Kramer?" came an angry snap from the doorway. Virgil's feet came off the desk with a thud and the men turned to face the diminutive hurricane that blew into Virgil's office. "Howdy, Miss Edna," Virgil croaked, coming to his feet as the old woman advanced on him with a face pinched tight with fury. "How you doing to - " "Don't waste your breath on niceties with me, Virgil Earl," the old woman groused. She stomped to the sheriff's desk and glared at him with hot, unblinking eyes. "I want to know what you're doing to find Gabriel!" "Now, Miss Edna," Virgil began, "we're doing all we can. I've got men out trying to find the van he was last seen - " "What's this I hear about his family being responsible?" Her watery eyes snapped brown fire. "Why haven't you sent someone down to Florida to bring that boy back?" Virgil groaned. "That's out of our jurisdiction. We can't just traipse down to Florida, barge our way into Gabe's father's house and - " "Why the hell not?" Edna Mae Menke demanded. "Where's your balls, man?" She jabbed an arthritic finger into Virgil's chest, ignoring the look of intense pain that flashed over his face. "I thought you were a
friend of Gabriel's." "I am, Miss Edna, but…" Virgil felt like a school boy as the old woman glared at him with true disgust. "Then why aren't you on your way to Florida?" She turned, surveying the room. "I was told the Vittetoe boy was to be here this morning. Where is he?" "On his way, Miss Edna," Dean answered, swallowing heavily as the old woman's eyes swung his way. "I'll wait," she snapped and seated herself in the chair Dean had hastily vacated at her arrival. Folding her gloved hands over her purse, she sat perfectly straight and lady-like in the hard chair and glared across the desk at Virgil. "Would you like - " "I wish nothing, thank you." Virgil didn't know whether to sit back down, keep standing, or leave the room on some pretext or another. He didn't think the last option would sit too well with Mrs. Menke because the old woman's eyes were locked on him, her annoyance with him plain behind the sparse white lashes. Slowly, almost apologetically, he sat down, dropped his eyes to his desk and fussed with the papers lying helter-skelter on top. He could feel her eyes stabbing into him, but he couldn't make himself look up. He'd been afraid of - a little bit in awe of - Edna Mae Menke all his life. The old lady had been his third-grade teacher before she'd married Joseph Menke, and six months later when Joe had been killed in a silo collapse, became wealthier than anyone in the state. Dean looked at Milo. Milo looked at Virgil. Virgil pushed papers this way and that, rolled a pencil into his drawer, adjusted his lamp and was about to stack some envelopes in the out-basket when Edna Mae's whip of a voice lashed out at him. "Stop that piddling, Virgil Earl! You're making me nervous." Instantly his hands came away from his desk, his face flooded with color and he looked sheepishly up at his old teacher. "Yes, ma'am," he answered. Edna Mae nodded, her eyes gleaming. A victorious smile twitched at her lips before she schooled her face once more into the harsh lines of command. With all the Kramer boys, she had had to be precise and no-nonsense. Virgil Earl had been no exception to that rule. Lucille Kramer had let the boys run wild and it had been up to teachers like herself to instill in them a sense of who was in charge. The good Lord knew their daddy, Karl, hadn't. Virgil felt like crying. Those frigid eyes were locked on his, making him feel the cold of the winter's day worse than he had when he'd shoveled his walkway that morning. He could feel the hair at the back of his neck stirring as Miss Edna continued to glare at him. Idly, he wondered how she could just stare like that without ever blinking, then remembered he'd thought much the same thing when he'd been in school and wondered how the old biddy could see you doing something wrong even though her back was to you. "Do you boys have something you need to be about?" Edna Mae asked, sweeping her disdainful glance to Dean and Milo. She almost smiled when the men replied "Yes, ma'am!" almost in unison. "Be off with you then!" Virgil glared at his men as they hastily departed. "We're going to find him, Virgil Earl," Miss Edna told him. Virgil's eyes fused with the old lady's. "I hope so, Miss Edna." She nodded emphatically. "We will. I've no doubt in my mind of it at all." **** "Did you hear about what happened to Gabe James?" Frank Wilder asked the man who was pumping gas into the Wilder's station wagon. "He went and got himself abducted." "My old lady heard it down to the dress shop this morning," the gas station attendant said, shaking his head. "What you reckon this here world is coming to, Mr. Wilder?" Dave Schmitz leaned out the window of his pickup truck as he waited for his mother to come out of
the convenience store. "It was on the ten o'clock news on all three Des Moines stations last night and in the paper this morning. Word is spreading faster than a twister coming up Tornado Alley." "I liked that boy," an old farmer remarked as he paid for his purchase at the feed and seed store. "Always polite, he was." "He's Patricia Anne Cummings' husband, isn't he?" one of the ladies at the beauty parlor asked her hairdresser. Scratching his head, the veterinarian had looked at the dairyman. "Used to bring their cat in before the old tom had to be put down. I remember Gabe crying like a baby when I handed him the box I'd put the cat in. He was a tender-hearted man." "Just ain't right," the mechanic told his customer. "Gabe James was a nice man. If he was a dope head, don't you think we'd have known it around here?" "Can you imagine his own family wanting to lock him up in an insane asylum?" a cable installer asked his dispatcher. "He wasn't anymore strung out on dope than Dan Quayle is," the manager of Taco John's told his assistant manager. "Lord, I hope they find him," the florist told her best friend over the phone. "This is just about killing Annie." "So what if they weren't married?" one of the teachers at the high school snapped. "Have you heard about his other wife?" "Did you hear what happened to him down in Florida?" "I remember him coming to the hospital to see Kyle Vittetoe," a nurse told her patient. "He was so upset. Poor baby. You could just tell it was tearing him up to see Kyle all black and brown like that." "And now we know why." "His Pa is a gangster, no less!" "Something ought to be done!" "I wish I could find the men what took Gabe James!" "Poor Annie! Can you imagine what this is doing to her?" By the time Kyle Vitettoe arrived at Virgil's office, the town was boiling mad. **** Annie lay perfectly still in her lonely, cold, melancholy bed. Her eyes were turned to the spot where Gabe had lain beside her for two years. She touched his pillow, drew it to her and inhaled the scent of him. Tears fell heedlessly down her cheeks. For the first time in those two years, she had slept alone. The night had been long, filled with memories and worries, and fears of never seeing Gabe again. The night had stolen from her all the tears she had thought she could no longer shed. And the night had given her a cold feeling in the pit of her stomach that Gabe was in terrible, terrible trouble. She could sense his pain like a sentient life crying out to her. "I love you, baby," she cried into his pillow. "I love you so much." Alinor Mueller heard her neighbor through the bedroom door. The older lady wondered if she should go in, speak to Annie, try to comfort her. "I want to be here when he comes home," she'd said. Nothing either of them could say would change Annie's mind, so Alinor had decided to spend the night in the young couple's guest room so Annie wouldn't be left alone. Throughout the night, she had heard soft, muffled crying between short periods of utter silence. It had torn at Alinor's heart, but Annie's refusal even to get out of bed the next morning had stabbed right through Alinor's soul. "Now, Gabe wouldn't want you acting this way, Annie," she'd admonished her charge. "You need to get up and bathe. Get dressed. Eat some breakfast. Maybe we could take a walk down by the creek." Annie had shaken her head, turned her face into her pillow and closed her eyes. And Alinor had wondered if she should call Doc Nathan to come see to her young neighbor. "Just let her deal with it in her own good time, Nora," Jake had cautioned his wife. "She's gonna have
to come to grips with this herself." So Alinor had stayed - would stay - until Annie was strong enough to be on her own. If she ever would. **** Kyle put a hand on Edna Mae Menke's shoulder. "What is it you're suggesting, Miss Edna?" "I'm saying we call a town meeting," Edna Mae told him and Virgil. "There are a lot of people out there who'd help if we gave them the chance." "But what can any of us do that the FBI isn't doing already, Miss Edna?" Virgil asked. "We don't have the money and resources the federal government does." Edna Mae's eyes glittered dangerously. "Call the damned town meeting, Virgil. Put the word out that anyone interested in helping us find Gabe James should be there. Maybe someone will have some notions the FBI hasn't even thought of yet." **** "Attention, shoppers! There'll be a town meeting at Sacred Heart Church this evening at seven p.m. to discuss…" "This just in to the station. A town meeting to be held at Sacred Heart Catholic Church in Newton…" "Rose Ann? Sarah. Have you heard about the meeting tonight?" "What time is that meeting supposed to be?" "Are you going to be there?" "Damned right, I am!" "Can I ride with you?" Whether out of concern, curiosity or chance, the church was filled to overflowing by 6:45 p.m. that night. As a soft snow filtered down through the black walnut trees and the dump trucks geared up to sand the county roads, a large majority of Jasper County residents were crammed into the pews of the Catholic church. When Sheriff Virgil Kramer began to speak, you could have heard a pin drop. **** At 7:45 p.m. Eastern Standard Time, Liam Tremayne listened for a moment, murmured a reply, then pressed his finger down on the phone's cut off button. He called to his personal assistant as he began to punch in a long distance telephone number. "Bring the car around, Tory. I'll be leaving for New Orleans now." "It's over?" Griffin Connors asked when Liam identified himself. "For now," came the short reply. "Is there any reason I should fly up there?" "None that I can foresee," Liam answered, hating the smug sound of the other man's voice. "If anything of importance happens, I'm sure Kristen will inform you." "Well, then, I'll just leave it in your capable hands," Griffin replied. When he hung up, Liam glared his hatred at the phone and the man to whom he'd been speaking. Finally making up his mind about what he wanted to do about Griffin Connors, and the problem the bastard represented, Liam smiled. It was a deadly smile. ____________________ *Chapter 15* His face hurt.
His eyes hurt. His mouth hurt. His throat hurt worst of all. He knew what they'd done to him. Had known what they'd planned before it had ever happened, but the realization of it as he woke in the sterile confines of his hospital room cut through James Gabriel Tremayne's heart like a well-sharpened scalpel, slicing through his defenses, excising his carefully constructed world. If he could have, he would have cried, but considering what they'd done to him, it was probably just as well he couldn't. He was helpless against them. Powerless now to change or alter the machinations his father had set into motion. He couldn't lift his hands to plead with them to leave him alone because his wrists were strapped down to the bed. He couldn't see the damage they'd done because his eyes were taped shut and thick gauze was wrapped securely around his head. He couldn't speak because they had seen to that, too. All he could do was lie in the darkness, in the horrible silence, and feel the weight of his terror pressing down on him. Endure the tragic loss that had once been his life. "It'll be an improvement." There was a sneer of masculine laughter. "But then anything would have to be an improvement." Even after all this time, after all these years, Gabe recognized that arrogant, dispassionate voice. He tried to say the name. Couldn't. Felt that if he could, it would somehow make the pain less permanent. "Do you want something for the pain?" Another voice from his past. He tried to shake his head, to deny the question Patrick had asked. "It doesn't really matter what he wants, does it? Give him 100 milligrams of demerol." He recognized that voice, too. A coldness like the depths of the Arctic flowed through his very soul. He could imagine the frigid green eyes gazing down at him with contempt; could hear the hate in his sister's words. "Just in case you're wondering," she said. "Paddy has done a rather remarkable job on you, James." Her laughter was like a shattering chime ringing through his bruised mind. "Once the bandages come off, your own mother won't recognize you!" "It's fascinating what can be done with plastic surgery today," Andrew commented dryly. "With special intraocular lenses, you can change a person's eye color from, say, brown to black." His eyes hurt so badly, like there were pins sticking into them. Even worse than when he had first began wearing those contact lenses years ago. He tried moving them beneath his taped lids and gasped with utter agony. "A little nip here, a little snit there on the vocal chords," another feminine voice put in and he remembered that voice with instant regret, "and you can even change the way a person's voice sounds. Isn't that right, Paddy?" His throat was sore. Just to swallow saliva was an agony, too. He could feel something rubbing deep in his throat. Something painful and raw. He wondered if he screamed, how the sound would come out. In his mind, he called out Kristen's name. In his mind, it sounded the same to him, but he knew if he ever said the name aloud again, it wouldn't. "Did you know Patrick has a marvelous oral surgeon working with him, James?" Bridget taunted. "It's absolutely amazing what they can do with crowns to change the way a person looks." His gums ached. It hurt his throat to move his tongue, but he ran the tip of it against the back of his upper teeth. His central incisors were longer; the canines were a bit longer as well and one of them turned slightly outward; his tongue passed over a rigid metal framework at the base of his gums. "I told them how I wanted you to look, Jamie," Kristen said and giggled. "As Andrew said, anything would've been a real improvement. He said your voice will be husky, more masculine." She touched his hand and innuendo filled her throaty voice. "I'll like that." Bridget's voice: "I'll put the demerol through the IV." He felt the stinging spread of the demerol going through the vein of his right arm and groaned. They were going to keep him doped up to keep him manageable. He almost welcomed the insidious warmth of the drug as it began to blot out their hated voices.
"Papa will be here in the morning. He'll stay until the bandages come off." Andrew's voice was like pouring salt into an open wound. "If he's content with the way you look, there won't be any more operations. If he isn't…" He let the words hang in the air like the gleaming blade of a guillotine. Words - taunting, malicious, and filled with years of built-up hatred and mistrust came at him from out of the darkness into which he was slipping. He heard them moving out of the room, laughing at him, congratulating one another on having brought him to ground at last. The last thing he heard before the blackness claimed him was Bridget's sugary voice telling him to sleep well. The last thing he felt was a soft, gentle hand on his own, squeezing, striving to comfort. But the comfort had come too little, too late. The wings of unconsciousness spread over James Gabriel Tremayne and he began to sink down into a labyrinth of hopelessness. "I'm sorry, Jamie," he heard Patrick whisper. "I am so very sorry." ____________________ *Chapter 16* "We don't have the money or the resources," Virgil had said, but Edna Mae had stood and told them she did. "I've got more money than I'll ever need or could spend in my limited lifetime. Joe and I had no children, and I was going to leave the money to Gabe and Annie anyway." There was a mumble of surprise through the crowd along with raised eyebrows and nodding heads from those who had suspected as much. "Whatever it takes, however much it costs, I'll underwrite the expense." Edna Mae sat back down. "But where do we start, Miss Edna?" Tom Bridges, the local fire marshal asked. "Yeah, Miss Edna," Horace McTaggert put in. He was one of four undertakers in Jasper County. "Do we hire private detectives to help us? Do we send out flyers? What?" "We do all of that," Kyle answered for the old lady. "Buck Privett has already offered to print up the posters. If each of us would take ten of them to interstate rest areas, truck stops, anywhere people might be traveling and have seen Gabe, it'll help. If some of us can make calls to Florida, call people we know there, send them the posters, have 'em put them up, that'll help." "We're gonna send 'em to radio and TV stations down there, too," Jake Mueller informed the crowd. "Have any of you got people down in Florida or Georgia?" Virgil asked. Two people, Melba Greer and Steve Fraust, raised their hands. "Where do they live?" "My brother lives in Panama City. That's over in the Panhandle," Melba explained. "I looked it up in the atlas and it's not all that far from Pensacola." "My daughter lives in Ocala," Steve said. "But that's a long way down there." "Didn't you say one of Gabe's brothers lives in Orlando?" Mary Bernice Merrill asked. The black woman's eyes were red from crying. She'd really cared for Gabe. If truth were told, maybe too much and not exactly in the proper way either. Kyle looked at a paper in his hand. "Yeah, Patrick. He's a surgeon." "I can send posters to Evelyn, then," Steve suggested. "She works for a print shop. Maybe she can print up more posters and put them along the interstate." "The FBI will be putting up posters, too," Virgil informed them. "They'll be canvassing the areas around where Gabe's people live - Savannah, Atlanta, Orlando, Miami, Pensacola. That's a lot of territory, folks, but maybe someone, somewhere, has seen something." "What about this hospital you say they may be taking Gabe to?" Jack Kirchmeyer, one of the Jasper County tax appraisers, asked. "Do you have any notions about that?" Virgil shrugged. "All we can be fairly sure of is they won't put him back in one of the hospitals where he's been before." "Why not?" someone in the front pew called out. "Well, think about it, Jeff," Kyle demanded. "If they want to hide him, they're not likely to put him
anywhere where he can be found easily. Chances are they'll stick him in a private clinic under an assumed name and keep him so stoned on medication he won't even know where he is." "I can get a list of all the clinics in Georgia, Florida and Alabama. Louisiana, too, if you want," Dr. Al Striegel, Chief of Staff at Newton's Skiff Memorial, offered. "Do we really want these people to know we're doing this?" Angela Bakerfield spoke up, coming to her feet at the back of the church. "I mean, shouldn't we be rather circumspect about going around trying to find Mr. James?" Gabe had once fixed her washing machine for her. "What are they gonna do, Angela?" Sarah Renbarger snapped. "Come here and kidnap us?" "Angela's got a point," Edna Mae interrupted. "I think we should go about this is an organized way. They'll expect the FBI to be brought in. You can bet they've already laid plans for that." "And they'll be expecting Annie to hire detectives," Kyle added. "But won't they just hide him that much more carefully if they get wind of an all-out effort to find him?" Angela insisted. There was a buzz of concern and Virgil pounded his hand on the pulpit. "I don't think any of us are gonna go out and speak to the media about this." "There's media here tonight," one of the women near the front snapped. Her eyes turned to a group of men sitting together. "My paper isn't going to put anything in it that might jeopardize our search for Gabriel," the local newspaper owner shot back. "We wouldn't do that." "Besides, how the heck are them folks in Florida gonna hear about what we do up here?" Herbert Graves, the county's extension agent inquired. "Do you really think them guys didn't have no help snatching Gabe?" Milo Afton snarled. "You go broadcasting this all about and you can sure as hell kiss Gabe's ass goodbye! I'll be willing to bet the men who helped snatch him came from Des Moines, but Des Moines ain't but fifty mile away." "So what you do," Judge Terry Lampiere said, standing, "is make plans only a few people are involved in. You keep it tight, you keep it secret, and you use only help that Gabe's folks will be expecting. You think up a plan, with folks who can be trusted, and you don't deviate from that plan." "Who decides who can be trusted?" Delbert Merrill, Mary Bernice's husband, asked. "We decide by vote," Edna Mae said. "Terrence is right. We need a core of individuals who'll head up this operation, who at the drop of a hat, can take off to Florida or Georgia or wherever the hell it might be to bring our boy back!" Applause shook the rafters until Virgil raised his hands, waited for quiet and pointed to a man who was standing. "I don't know what use it might be to you," Melvin Vanderwoode, owner of a cartage company, said, "but I can put one of my semi trucks at your disposal. I can drive it, if need be." "I ain't got all that much in the way of money or time to help," Harry Burnside remarked. "But if you need a place to stay in Florida, I can get access through my company to a condo in Destin. That ain't far from Pensacola." "My husband and I will help anyway we can," Jennifer Warrington, one of the hospital nurses piped up. Her husband was one of the county's physicians. Dr. Richard Warrington stood next to his wife. "I've got vacation time coming if you need me to go down there. If they've doped Gabe up like you think they have, and you're able to find him, you'll need a doctor you can trust to look after him." "What about…" Long into the evening, the people of Jasper County, Iowa, made their plans to find Gabe. Those gathered wrote down the names of people they thought would be of the most help in finding him. The names with the majority of votes were compiled and twelve people were chosen to be on the rescue team. Other than Virgil Kramer, Kyle Vittetoe, and Edna Mae Menke, no one else in the church that night knew precisely who was on the list. And it was to be kept that way.
**** "A vigilante group of country rednecks?" Griffin Connors laughed at the report the next morning. "You've got to be kidding." "No, sir," the man from Des Moines reported. "My brother was there. They chose a dozen people to head up what they're calling 'Operation Snowbird.'" The news made Griffin Connors laugh so hard his eyes watered. "Now I've heard everything! I can't wait to tell old man Tremayne his son has got the Iowa Dirty Dozen on his trail." "You're not taking it seriously then, sir?" "Hell, no," Connors growled. "And Tremayne won't either!" "Is there anything you want me to do from this end?" "No," Connors said with another laugh. "Let them look for the little bastard all they want. Gabe James doesn't even exist anymore. There's no way in hell they'll ever find him." "I could send some surveillance pictures of who my brother thinks may be on this so-called rescue team. Just to be on the safe side, sir." "Oh, all right," Connors agreed, more to get the man off the line than from any actual interest. "Send them addressed to me personally. And Gotlieb?" "Yes, sir?" "Don't be bandying this about, okay? It's too stupid to have anyone hearing about it." "Whatever you say, Mr. Connors." **** At 8:45 a.m. Central Standard Time, Alex Gotlieb, one of a score of mid-level lieutenants in the Adolph Baumann organization and a paid informant for Griffin Connors, was traveling too fast for conditions, slid onto a patch of ice, lost control of his vehicle and rolled his 1973 classic automobile into a ditch on Interstate 80 just outside Altoona, Iowa. The car, along with Gotlieb, burst into flames and was totally engulfed before rescuers arrived on the scene. Everything in the mobster's car, including a still-wet assortment of glossy 8 by 10 black-and-white photos, was burned to a crisp. **** At 11:53 a.m. Eastern Standard Time, Griffin Connors was gunned down in front of his Gulf Breeze, Florida home as he climbed into the passenger side of the candy-red sports car that belonged to his current mistress, LaVonda Deanne. His bodyguards, Shamus Flannery and Harve O'Malley, returned fire and were cut down from the twin blasts of machine guns. There were no survivors. **** Shortly before 2 p.m. Central Standard Time, Liam Tremayne pulled his daughter-in-law into his arms and patted her heaving shoulders. "It's going to be all right, Kristen Marie," he soothed. "I'll find out who killed your Daddy. I promise you I will. You're family, child, and we'll take good care of you, won't we, Bridie?" Bridget Tremayne Casey nodded, her face cold and hard with a vengeful smile. "Indeed we will, Papa." Her eyes fused with her father's. "Indeed we will." "I'll have some papers drawn up, Drew. You'll take care of this, won't you? And we'll handle everything your father was doing until you're able to do it yourself. Is that all right with you, Kristen?" The grieving woman nodded miserably as she clung to Liam. "Okay, then. Drew, get started on those papers so Kristen won't have to worry about someone taking
over her father's business in this time of trouble." Liam kissed his daughter-in-law on the top of her head. "Now you go with Bridie, sweetheart, and she'll give you something to calm you down, won't you, Bridie?" "I certainly will, Papa. Come along, Krissy." She took the younger woman by the shoulders and pulled her to her side. "We're going to take very good care of you." Kristen glanced up at Andrew as she passed and reached out a hand to him. When he took it, pressing it lightly between his own, his face a study in compassion, a small smile flickered over Kristen Marie's face. "Thank you, Drew," she whispered. "Like Papa said," Andrew commiserated, "we're family. I'll take care of you just as I would James." The delicate smile on Kristen's face wavered and her eyes became slightly clouded, but the sincere look on her brother-in-law's face reassured her and she moved on, allowing herself to be comforted in the arms of Bridget Casey. As he watched the two women turn into one of the hospital rooms, Andrew R. Tremayne wondered just how soon Kristen Marie Connors Tremayne would be joining her father and LaVonda. ____________________ *Chapter 17* Liam stood beside his son's bed observing with detached interest. His green eyes moved over the bandaged face, the wrists strapped tightly to the bed frame, the slight rise and fall of the sheet covering James' chest. He looked up at the IV bottle hanging beside the hospital bed, followed the tubing down to his son's arm, spied more tubing along the edge of the bed and turned a questioning eye to his daughter. "He's being catheterized," Bridget explained as she wrote something into her brother's chart then flipped the stainless steel cover over the record. "Until his face has healed enough he can't do damage to it, he'll remain in restraints." "Do you consider that a possibility?" Liam inquired, looking back to his son's bandaged face. Bridget shrugged. "Who knows what he's likely to do, Papa. It'll be a couple of weeks before the bandages are fully off, and until then, until he sees we haven't mutilated him, we'd rather have him unable to undo all we've done." "What about food?" Andrew asked. He was staring intently at the IV bottle. "You can't sustain him on that, can you?" Bridget shook her head. "We can't introduce a feeding tube right now for fear we'd damage his vocal chords. His nose is packed also. He won't starve to death with just the IV for a few days." "Let me see those pictures you told me about," Liam demanded. Bridget slipped a manila envelope from under her brother's chart and handed it to her father. "The first photo we took before Paddy operated. The second is a computer-generated composite of what he'll look like after the swelling and bruising are gone." Liam slid the photos from the envelope and studied the first one. His eyes roamed over the face of his youngest son, not happy with what he was seeing. Although James' vivid brown eyes were closed in unconsciousness, Liam could imagine their shade. It was a color he had always detested; a tint he thought feminine. "He doesn't look like any member of the family I can bring to mind," Liam sneered. He brought the picture closer, scanned the faint lines that had come into his son's face. Liam found the character lines even more detestable. "He looks like a cop." Bridget smiled. "He used to." Sliding the computer-generated photo on top of the first one, Liam nodded. "This I like." He scrutinized the face before him, looked into the dark eyes, evaluated the shape and contours of his son's new nose and cheekbones, approved of them, even thought them remarkably handsome. He turned his eyes to his daughter. "Now this is an Irish face." "We thought you'd approve," Bridget commented. She glanced at Drew and found him smiling. "Is
there anything you'd change, Papa?" Liam shook his head. "Not a thing. This is a face I can look at without becoming ill." He slid the photo back into the envelope and handed it to Bridget. "Destroy this." "I will." "When will he be awake so I can talk to him?" Liam inquired, once more turning his attention to the still man on the bed. Looking at her watch, Bridget estimated the time. "Two, maybe three, hours. I gave him a shot of demerol, but it didn't knock him out for long. I gave him a strong tranquilizer about an hour before you arrived." "As soon as he wakes, call me. I'll be in your brother's office." Liam started to turn away, but stopped. "Have the arrangements been made for his transfer to Metarie?" "In the morning." "I'd rather it be tonight. I don't want to take the chance of someone coming here looking for Gabriel James. By now, the FBI knows every clinic you or Paddy owns." Liam pointed a stubby finger at his daughter. "Have him moved tonight." "Yes, sir." **** "Good morning." Annie looked up to find Kyle standing at her breakfast room door. She smiled. "How did the meeting go last night?" The little dog in her arms yapped excitedly and wiggles to get free. Kyle hung his coat on the hall tree and came to sit at the table with her, shaking his head to Nora's offer of breakfast. "Ellen fixed a pancake feast this morning." Patting his lean belly, he sighed. "If she and Virgil don't get hitched soon, I'll be topping in at four hundred pounds!" "Give them time, Kyle," Nora said and laughed. "Courting takes time, son." She eyed him from behind her wire-framed glasses. "Something you haven't been doing of late, I gather." Kyle blushed. "Who has time to court?" "How did the meeting go?" Annie repeated. Kyle's dark eyes flicked to Annie's. "I didn't realize how many folks in town liked that man of yours, Annie. Didn't Jake tell you how many people turned out?" Annie nodded. "But I want to hear it from you. I want to know just what's being done to find Gabe." Her eyes were intent on his. "Well, we've formed a team to go to Florida." He glanced at Nora. "Did you tell her about that?" At Nora's nod, he turned back to Annie. "There are a dozen of us, who - " "Us?" Annie questioned. "I'm taking a leave of absence until we find Gabe." "That could take a long time, Kyle." Kyle fused his gaze with hers. "I'm not going to rest until I have you and Gabe back together." He took her hand in his and held it. "Gabe is the best friend I've ever had. We told things to one another we've never told to another living soul." "And yet he lied to you, Kyle," Annie quietly reminded him. "About some things, yes, but I understand why." His fingers tightened on Annie's. "I can see why he wouldn't want me to know about his father. He was ashamed of me finding out what kind of folks he came from." Annie cocked her head to one side. "What did he tell you about himself, Kyle?" Her eyes narrowed in pain. "I have to know. I feel like I didn't know him at all." Kyle took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. He ran his free hand through his thick blond hair, tugged at his scalp, and brought his hand back down to cover the other which held Annie's. "I thought about this all night trying to decided what, if anything, I should tell you. How much I should tell you. Wondered just how much of it was the truth and how much was something Gabe might've made
up. I did some checking before I came here this morning and much of what I'm gonna tell you I know is the truth. The parts that aren't, well…" He shrugged. "I guess we won't know the truth about them until we get Gabe back." "Go on." "How 'bout a cup of coffee, Kyle?" Nora interrupted, sensing the young man's need to collect his thoughts. "That'd be nice." When the steaming cup of coffee sat before him, Kyle began his tale. **** FBI agent Mark Sadler sat in his Des Moines office and went over the file on James Gabriel Tremayne one more time hoping to discover something, anything, that might help the Bureau find the missing man. He looked at the 8-by-10 color glossy the man's wife had provided, compared it to several other photos taken over the last 33 years of Tremayne's life, and glanced at family pictures of the man's father, mother, sister, and brothers. There were pictures of his grade school years at Sacred Heart School in Savannah, and photos taken at Benedictine Military School. "A fate worse than death," Sadler commented, thinking of his own years at Lyman Ward Military School in Camp Hill, Alabama. His eyes moved to the photo that intrigued him most - a 5-by-7 portrait of James Gabriel Tremayne taken at Lachland AFB, Texas, in 1971 just before Tremayne had graduated from boot camp. "We were there at the same time," Sadler said to the grim-faced young man staring back at him from the photo. He didn't remember Tremayne, although they had gone on to Military Police training for their 'A' school. Somewhere along the line, he had to have met James Tremayne, but for the life of him, he couldn't remember doing so. The young man in the photo didn't look familiar, but he and Sadler had had the same instructors through that portion of their military careers. "Were you hiding from your father even then, Gabe?" Sadler asked the photo. When Thomas Mark Sadler had enlisted in the Air Force in 1971, he already had four years of college under his belt and a degree in political science. He had joined the military, wanting to go to Vietnam needing to go - because his older brother, Jerry, had died there. Sadler felt he had an obligation to avenge his older brother's death and had figured he'd have a better chance of going to 'Nam as an enlisted man than as an officer. He'd been wrong. He spent his first two years at McCoy AFB, Orlando, until one of his officers nominated him for Officer's Training School, and Sadler had jumped at the chance to get away from Florida where he had been born and raised, and felt smothered. James Gabriel Tremayne had gone to Vietnam. Had served a tour there in 1972 and '73. Had been there when the troops were pulling out. Had earned himself an Air Force Commendation Medal and a Bronze Star. "Not exactly what your father would have planned for you, huh, Gabe?" Sadler asked as he reviewed the distinguished record James Tremayne had made for himself in the military police. There were commendations from Tremayne's commanding officers; good APRs from his NCOs; glowing recommendations from community leaders at Chanute AFB, Illinois, where James Gabriel Tremayne had helped tutor school kids. Tremayne had gone to night school, weekend classes, and had taken as many CLEP tests as he could so by the time he left the Air Force, he had a little less than two years left before getting his college degree. Tremayne had not re-enlisted as Sadler had in 1975. James Gabriel Tremayne had gone back to Florida and taken a job with the Florida State Patrol in Marianna. And in the two years he worked in Marianna, he had earned his Criminal Justice degree from FSU in Tallahassee. Tremayne had graduated with a 3.5 GPA, and one cool February morning, a DEA agent from Panama City came knocking on his door.
"Agent Tremayne is an exceptional law officer. He is well-versed in the legal aspects of his profession, has taken numerous courses to enhance his understanding of the problems we, as drug enforcement personnel, must face in stopping the flow of illegal drugs into the State of Florida, and has instigated several programs into our school system to help draw out underage traffickers. "He has a firm grasp of the overwhelming odds against us in this profession, but has the drive, the desire, and most importantly of all, the commitment to see those who deal in drugs are brought to justice." Sadler's brow arched in admiration as he continued to read the glowing commendation Tremayne's superior officer had given him. Setting the letter aside, he read the last report written on DEA Agent James Gabriel Tremayne. "He has been in and out of several drug dependency units in the last three months. With his past problem with alcohol and now this even more severe problem with heroin, we have no alternative but to discharge Agent Tremayne." "What happened, Gabe?" Sadler asked. He had studied every report available. He'd read and re-read Kyle Vittetoe's statement. He'd read the newspaper article, interviewed via phone Joan Johannsen, who appeared to be a friend of Tremayne's. "Jamie Tremayne was in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong woman, Agent Sadler," the newswoman had told him. "It might've started out just being a fling, you know? But he fell in love with Kristen Connors. I really believe he loved her. I don't think he'd have married her, pregnant or not, if he hadn't loved her, but I think there was more to it than that by then." "What do you mean?" Sadler had asked. "By the time he married Kristen, Jamie knew who her father was. I think he thought that would be a good way to infiltrate the Connors' organization. He didn't count on Griffin Connors calling Liam Tremayne into it." "Was Tremayne afraid of his father, Mrs. Johannsen?" There had been a snort of derision on the other end of the line. "Afraid of him? Agent Sadler, I don't think there was anything that man was afraid of before November 15th, 1986. Jamie Tremayne had guts. He had grit, you know what I mean? He'd just have soon spit in his father's face as look at him. "I don't know what that man did to Jamie when he was growing up, but the boy sure as hell didn't have any good feelings for the old man. Jamie had a chip on his shoulder a mile thick and I'll be willing to bet Liam Tremayne carved it there. Fear him? No. Jamie didn't fear him." There had been a long pause. "Not then anyway." Mark Sadler sat back in his chair. Johannsen told him she thought Tremayne had been responsible for having his son kidnapped in 1986. Sadler was having a hard time imagining a father doing such a cruel thing to his own son. "You have to realize something, Agent Sadler," the newswoman had told him. "There wasn't any love lost between Jamie and his father. The old man used to beat him, you know? Jamie didn't tell me that, but he didn't have to. I lived through it myself and you can read the signs in someone else. Tremayne kicked his son out of the house when he was eighteen is what Kristen told me when Jamie came up missing in 1986. "I went to interview her and the girl was pretty shaken up. She thought the worst had happened and she feared it wasn't her Daddy who'd done it, but Jamie's. She really didn't expect to ever see her husband again. They'd only been married a week when he disappeared." "Did he ever see his daughter?" "No. By the time Kristen had the baby, Jamie was in that clinic in Augusta. That's the last I heard of him until that Cummings girl called here." Agent Sadler closed his eyes and leaned his head on his chair. He, like Virgil Kramer and Kyle Vittetoe, knew James Tremayne's family had him. He just had to find out where. ____________________
*Chapter 18* Edna Mae sighed as she rubbed the small of her back. She, Kyle and Virgil had been going over the list of clinics in Georgia, Florida, and Alabama all morning. Her head was aching, her eyes were blurry, and the arthritis in her spine was beginning to make a nuisance of itself. "Why don't we take a break, Miss Edna," Virgil suggested as he stood up from the table at which they'd been sitting for well over three hours. "I'll send Dean to get us some lunch." He saw her nod her agreement and walked to the door to speak to his deputy. "You know something, Virgil Earl?" the old woman said, "I feel like we're missing something really important here." She'd picked up one of the lists. "It's almost like there's a common denominator we're overlooking." "Like what, Miss Edna?" Kyle asked, looking at her. Edna Mae shook her head. "I don't know, son, but it seems like I should." She lifted her hands. "I just have a gut feeling there's something vital we're missing." "Well, all these clinics have a few things in common," Kyle stated. "They're all privately owned and operated, they're mostly outside large cities, and they're all federally inspected." "And everyone of them is being checked out by the FBI," Virgil added. "But Sadler seems to think Tremayne will have put Gabe in a place that won't be so easily checked into. He knows they won't be using Gabe's real name." "Patient confidentiality," Kyle put in. "You can't make a clinic open its records on who's being treated without a court order, and even then its got to be a damned tight order or the clinics lawyers will eat you alive. Sadler's been lucky so far he hasn't run up against some hotshot shrink with more money than conscience." A flash of inspiration flew through Edna Mae's mind and she turned to Kyle. "Is there a list of charges or fees for those clinics of yours?" "Yes, ma'am," Kyle answered. He shifted through the stack of papers before him and looked down the list. "They are basically about the same. Expensive as hell." "What're you thinking, Miss Edna?" Virgil asked, watching the spark grow in the old lady's eyes. "Well now, Virgil Earl," Edna Mae said, "if you were a man as wealthy as Liam Tremayne, and had as much influence, would you care about how much it was going to cost to hide a son you considered to be an embarrassment?" Virgil's eyes narrowed. "No, probably not." "And would you be likely to put him in a place where the FBI could just waltz in and look around with any ease?" "No, ma'am." "Would you put him somewhere close by where you could see him if you were of a mind to? Where you could be sure of where he was?" Kyle glanced at Virgil. "Yes, he would." "Then let's concentrate on clinics near Miami," Virgil answered. He walked to the table and rummaged through the lists until he found the one for the southern portion of Florida. "No, he wouldn't have put Gabe that close to home," Edna Mae told them. "Orlando? Savannah?" Kyle asked. "Atlanta," Virgil said. "Somewhere near that lawyer brother of his." Edna Mae shook her head. "Not in any of those places, but in a place where all of them could get to easily, yet far enough away so the FBI wouldn't necessarily think to look there." "The ones in Alabama then," Kyle said. "A very expensive clinic, and maybe one that might well be owned by someone with underworld connections," Edna Mae corrected. "Sadler could look into that." Virgil placed his hands on the table and looked up at the old woman. "You're thinking he's not in these three states we've been reviewing." The old woman eased into one of the straight back chairs, wincing a little as the pain in her spine
intensified. She breathed out slowly and looked at the two men. "If I were Liam Tremayne, I'd hide Gabe in a place that wasn't all that far away by plane, yet outside the normal areas the police will be searching. They can't investigate every clinic in the nation, but they can look into those which meet certain criteria." "Such as being real expensive," Virgil repeated. "And out of the way," Kyle added. "And with certain illegal connections." Edna Mae took the map they had been using to pinpoint the clinics. She put her finger on Pensacola and then westward. "We haven't even looked into Mississippi, Louisiana or Texas. I don't think they'd go further north than Atlanta either." Her finger traveled from Mississippi to Louisiana and stopped. She looked up. "New Orleans," she stated with conviction. "My old bones tell me the boy is somewhere near New Orleans." "Why is that, Miss Edna?" Virgil inquired. "Do those old bones tell you why they think he's there?" Edna Mae stared at the boot-shape of the state. "New Orleans is about equal distance for all of them Bridget in Savannah; Andrew in Atlanta; Patrick in Orlando; the old man in Miami." She looked at the men. "It's not a place Gabe's ever been that any of us know about. He's not connected to it in any way." "But his brother is," Kyle answered. He reached into his satchel. He pulled out a file and handed a paper to Edna Mae. "Patrick Tremayne has a satellite clinic in New Orleans." Looking over the report on Gabe's brother, Edna Mae felt her conviction slipping. It didn't seem possible they'd put Gabe near where one of his siblings could easily be investigated. She looked up at the men. "Maybe I'm wrong." "And maybe you aren't," Kyle told her. "It won't hurt to check." He glanced at Virgil. "I'll call Sadler and see if he'll look into it." **** At twenty minutes past five that afternoon, Agent Mark Sadler called Kyle Vittetoe at his home. Ellen Vittetoe informed the FBI agent that her brother wasn't home, but she took the message he had called to give Kyle. "Tell him there are nine clinics that fit the criteria he gave me this morning. I'm having the Louisiana Bureau looking into them. Out of the nine, there are just three that look like they might have mob connections. They are The…" **** Snow flitted softly past Annie's bedroom window as she sat in the window seat and watched the dying day. The soft gray light filtered through the barren branches of the walnut trees and left pale shadows on the snow-dusted ground. "Where are you, Gabe?" she asked the silence. "How are you, my darling?" Her heart was aching; her heart was breaking; and the quietness around her only underscored the loneliness eating away the fabric of her composure. She had been trying desperately to hold on to her sanity, to keep her anger in check, but the fury inside her, the fear, was building to a crescendo and she dreaded every passing minute that she would run screaming, mindless and unfixable, through the gathering night. "I will find you," she told the last flickering shard of light as it faded from sight. "If it takes the rest of my life, I'll find you and bring you home, Gabriel." Annie knew she had to. Or silently lose her mind. Her eyes went to the phone beside her bed.
**** Nurse Angela Palmer adjusted the pillow under her new patient's head. She carefully checked his vital signs, checked the drip on the IV bag, checked the urine output, satisfied herself everything was as it should be with the man in 158. She filled out his chart, made note he was mumbling incoherently in his sleep, and left the room to get the injection his doctor had ordered for him. In the hall, she passed a middle-aged gentleman, sharply dressed, debonair, and immaculately groomed. She smiled at him and felt a chill go through her heart as he seemed to look right through her. "Which room is Jim Sinclair's?" he asked her in a voice as cold as the morgue lockup. Angela Palmer pointed to 158. "Are you a relative?" she asked, intending to tell the man it was well past visiting hours, but the glare he aimed her way told her the gentleman would not have cared. "Has he awakened yet?" the man asked, glancing at the room's door. "No, sir, but he seems to be coming around. I'm about to give him a shot that will let him sleep until morning. Dr. Lassiter - " "The shot can wait. His father is on his way in to see him." "But visiting hours are…" Angela Palmer was stunned as the man gripped her arm in a bruising clutch that made her cry out in surprise and pain. "Mr. Sinclair can see his son whenever he has a mind to, nurse," the man grated. "If you have problems with that, I suggest you call Dr. Lassiter." "No problem," Angela answered, her eyes watering from the grip on her arm. She rubbed her flesh when the man took his hand away. "As soon as Mr. Sinclair arrives, show him to his son's room and see we aren't disturbed." His pale brown eyes bored into her. "Are we clear on that, nurse?" Angela nodded. "Yes, sir." She watched as the dapperly-dressed gentleman entered room 158 and closed the door behind him. She became aware of her rapidly beating heart and heavy breathing. She should be used to the people who occasionally came through the clinic, but she wasn't. Sometimes they scared her. Tonight was no exception. **** "It's Danny, Jamie. Johnny's brother. Are you awake?" A voice came to him from far, far away out of the darkness and the antiseptic smell that enveloped his existence. He felt rough hands on his shoulder, gripping him, shaking just enough to make his face throb with more pain and he groaned, pushing the sound up from the very depths of his soul. "The old man's coming to see you." He wished whoever it was would leave him alone. He wanted to sink back into the merciful oblivion from which he had only recently come. The darkness was just beyond his grasp, taunting him, hovering about him like a waiting bird of prey, lurking there to trip him up if he could but reach out to it. He tried, but the insistent voice speaking to him from the light of consciousness would not allow him to. "He'll want you wide awake, Jamie," the voice hissed. "You'd better quit that moaning." Was he moaning? James wondered. He supposed he was. Pain made you moan and the Lord knew he had enough of that. His cheekbones ached; his jaw felt as though someone had taken a sledgehammer to it. His lower lip seem to have a life of its own and his eyes were still an agony unto themselves. He worked the spittle down his throat, not feeling the intensity of pain that had been there earlier, but still feeling the grating rawness that was a vivid reminder of what Patrick had done to him. Patrick?_ The memory of what had happened rushed up through James Tremayne like a speeding locomotive. He gasped, instant memory flooding his battered mind and he came fully awake, his aches and pains with him.
"Is he awake?" He knew that voice. Profound fear settled on him like a heavy mantle of freezing snow. Beneath the chill, his body flooded with sweat and he began to tremble. "I think so, Mr. Tremayne, but I'm not sure." Daniel reached down to shake him once more and an agony of bursting fire shot through Jamie's face. His fingers clutched at the sheet beneath them, digging into the crisp material as though his life depended upon their hold. A shudder ran through him and yet he tried to remain perfectly still, hoping if he could, the men would leave him alone. "He's awake," that hated voice sneered. "You can leave us, Danny." Jamie heard the door close, knew he was alone in the room with the beast from the very deepest part of hell. A chair scraped across the floor and its cushion deflated as his visitor sat. He waited, dreading the voice, but there was only silence and the soft breathing that wasn't his own. Liam Tremayne braced his elbows on the chair arms and steepled his fingers, rested his chin on the tips and stared at his son. The bandages across the young man's eyes kept James from seeing him. He had a wild urge to rip off the bandages, to look into those now-black eyes and see the fear he knew he'd put there. He desperately wanted to see the terror, the knowledge that James had lost, in his son's altered eyes. He wanted to see the dismay, the dread, the hopelessness as it registered. His hands itched to do it, but his common sense told him his actions might upset Patrick's delicate surgery. "Are you listening, James?" he finally asked. He felt the man on the bed trying to withdraw, to escape. He looked down as his son's fingers dug into the sheet, snatching it up from the mattress to twist it into his hand. Liam Tremayne smiled. "I see you are." He leaned forward in the chair. "How do you feel, James?" James knew his father hadn't asked the question of his physical state. His father didn't care if he was in pain. If anything, Liam Tremayne would relish that knowledge. The old bastard wanted to know his mental condition, his state of mind. How did the man expect him to feel? James wondered. He had been kidnapped, taken from the only love and warmth he had ever known, brought here against his will, had his face altered to only God knew what, and been kept strapped helplessly to a bed, tubes controlling his body. Was he supposed to feel good about that? "Do you remember me once telling you I'd bring you down to a manageable level, James?" his father asked. "And do you remember me saying that when I did, it would be down hard enough to break you?" He remembered. And he remembered the fist that had plowed into his young face when the words had been flung at him. He remembered feeling so totally alone, so adrift, cast off from his family - an alien whose very existence his family despised. "I promised Griffin Connors I'd take care of the problem you were causing him in Pensacola. Do you think I handled the problem efficiently, James?" Liam watched as the bandaged face turned slowly toward his voice, the hands still on the twisting sheets. "Yes," he confirmed the fear staring blindly from the bandages. "It was me, James. I'm the one who ordered those men to snatch you." Not once, not ever, had James thought his father loved him. Just the opposite, he thought with bitter irony. His father hated him. Had always known that. A father doesn't abuse his child and care what happens to the child. James had come to rely on that hate, on the absence of any feeling on his father's part. But the knowledge it had been his own flesh and blood who had ordered the torture that had almost driven him mad was not to be borne. A keening sound of pure grief came from James Tremayne's soul. "Are you surprised?" his father sneered, leaning so close to him he could almost feel the man's breath against his bandaged flesh. "I had every intention of making you regret ever having rebelled against me, James." There was a vicious smirk in the old man's voice as he put his lips to James' ear. "You won't escape this time, James." He lowered his voice to a low, insidious whisper. "There won't be anyone who will help you. But should you try to run away again, I promise you this. I will cripple you, James. I'll have Patrick insert his scalpel in just the right place, and have him sever your spinal cord. Do you understand me?"
A primal terror, sure and swift, settled in James' heart and there was no doubt in his mind that his father meant exactly what he said. Outside of killing him, and he didn't think his father would order that no matter what he did, crippling him would serve the depraved need Liam Tremayne seemed to have to hurt him. And it would insure he never escaped again. He would become what his father had also wanted - helpless. "Do you understand me, James?" Liam repeated in that strange, sinister whisper. "Have I explained it to you in terms even a simpleton like yourself can understand?" Jamie felt tears of humiliation forming in his eyes. What was there to understand? He was trapped - a prisoner. There would be no running away from his family now. Where was there to go? By now, Annie must know of his past. If she didn't, she would. His bridges had all been burned for him and there was no crossing back over the river that had separated him from his past and the future he had hoped to build. "I'm waiting, James," his father said. When Jamie still did not acknowledge the question, he felt his fingers grabbed, pulled up from the sheet, twisted back toward his wrist with cruel, vicious strength. He groaned, knowing Liam Tremayne would break his wrist if he did not answer. Liam watched his son frantically nod, but he kept the pressure on the fingers in his hand, holding it tightly in his own, bending the wrist back almost to the point of breaking it, then letting it go and patting his son's hand as he pressed it to the sheet. "Good," Liam said in an encouraging voice. He sat back in his chair, smiling as James tried to flex his wrist. "Good," he said again. "It's good to see we agree on something for a change." There was a long, horrible silence. James could hear the man beside him breathing, could feel his eyes crawling over him. He had never felt so helpless in his entire life. Nor had he ever known this terror as he waited for his father to bring up the subject he knew would forever seal his fate. If he had been capable of speech, he would have been begging, and he understood that would eventually to be required of him. If words could have come from his injured vocal cords, he would have sought the reassurance that his good conduct would insure. He would have swallowed what pride he had left and put the past behind him, looking, if not to the future, at least to facing it with some semblance of masculine honor intact. "As to the matter in Iowa…" James tensed. "Kristen Marie does not want the whore eliminated. I, on the other hand, feel she should be - " "Please!" The force of the word tore at his throat and he tasted blood. He gagged, pain rocketing through his whole face, especially his nose. His second plea was not as strained, not as loud, but it hurt just the same. "Please." "You don't want me to have her killed?" "Please." It was a mere whisper, a pleading so pitiful it even managed to wipe the smirk from Liam's face. He stared at his son. "Papa, please." The lips had moved. Liam had understood the words, but no sound had come forth. He watched his son's lips trembling and knew he had, at last, achieved his goal. He had broken the young man's will. He had found the tool with which to do it. "All right, James," he said. "As long as you do as you're told and cause no problems, she'll be safe. So long as you understand I can send Johnny O. after her anytime you don't do as you're told." He saw his son's chest heave with emotion. "I don't think you'd want Johnny O. to go after her, would you?" Again the frantic shake of his son's head brought a smile to Liam's face. "Well, then, we'll leave her alone and won't discuss this sorry chapter in your life again, will we?" He nodded as his son slowly shook his head in denial. "Danny?" Liam called out and the door opened immediately. "Yes, sir?" "Find that nurse and have her bring him the shot Lassiter ordered. You see, James Gabriel? I'm not such a terrible person. I'm going to let you have the dreams that'll wipe out all your pain and suffering. I'm going to allow you to drift off into never-never land where I intend you stay."
James felt the touch of his father's hand on the side of his face and gasped as the bruised flesh rebelled at the contact. "You're so unhappy, aren't you, James?" his father cooed to him in a commiserating voice. "You're so profoundly miserable I almost feel sorry for you. You had a taste of happiness, but like a starving man you devoured it, never dreaming the banquet wouldn't last. And now that it's gone, you're suffering. Your hunger for what you will never be allowed to have again is making you waste away." His hand on his son's face pressed cruelly. "But don't worry, James. I intend to see that your hunger doesn't go unsatisfied." Liam looked around as Daniel O'Callahan brought the nurse into the room. He looked at the syringe in her hand. "Is that the injection Dr. Lassiter prepared himself?" Angela Palmer nodded. "Give it to me." Her eyes grew wide. "But…" "Give… it… to… me," Liam Tremayne ordered, his eyes steady on the nurse's pale face. He held out his hand. The nurse handed over the shot. "You may leave," he told her as he walked around to the other side of the bed. Angela took one last look at her patient and hurried from the room. What was it to her if the man's father wanted to give him the sedative? It was against regulations, but around the clinic, regulations were broken every day. Somehow, she didn't think Dr. Lassiter would care. She didn't think anyone at the clinic would care. Liam held up the syringe, thumped the air bubbles to the top, pushed some of the liquid through the needle, then laid the syringe on the bedside table. He held out his hand to Daniel O'Callahan and was given a strip of rubber tubing. "I wanted to be the one to give you the first injection, James," Liam told his son. He smiled at the whimper that came from the bed. He ran the tubing under James' forearm, tugged it above his elbow and tied it tightly in place. He picked up his son's arm as much as the restraints would allow and began to tap his fingers smartly on the underside of James' elbow. A vein popped up on James Tremayne's arm. Liam picked up the syringe and thrust the needle into the distended vein. Jamie felt liquid fire traveling through his veins, felt the lethargy setting in, and only vaguely wondered what he had been injected with. His mind began to shut down almost simultaneously as the drug sped throughout his brain and spinal column. The room tilted, his father's voice seemed to be coming to him from the coldest regions of space. "And now you know what life is going to be like from here on, don't you, James?" his father asked. "You're going to spend the rest of what little time you have left in a stupor." ____________________ *Chapter 19* Mark Sadler's lunch was growing cold as he listened to the agent from Florida telling him how cold the trail had become on James Gabriel Tremayne. "We've got tails on the entire Tremayne family, but other than that one trip they all made to New Orleans for the Grand Opening of Patrick Tremayne's clinic, they've stayed in their neck of the woods." "And you thoroughly checked out the clinic in New Orleans?" Sadler asked, looking at the congealed mass that had been mashed potatoes and gravy. "We even put a man in there. No one's seen Gabe James or anyone who even remotely looked like him come through the clinic." "What about the clinics in Louisiana? Did you check them out?" Sadler picked up his fork and moved one section of roast beef to the opposite side of his plate. "All nine of them," came the somewhat peevish reply. "I'll stake my pension on Tremayne not being anywhere in Louisiana."
Sadler sighed. He shoved his plate away. "So what now? Are there taps on the Tremaynes' phones down there?" There was a slight pause, then the Florida agent's voice came across the line with a hard, uncompromising staccato snap. "Agent Sadler, we are doing everything according to Bureau guidelines. If we can find Tremayne, we will." "Sorry," Mark Sadler drawled. "It's just that it's been three weeks since he disappeared and the trail is getting colder by the day." "Yeah, well, we'll keep in touch." The agent in Tallahassee hung up, the action leaving no doubt in Sadler's mind that the man in Florida wasn't happy. He hadn't meant to tick the guy off. Nerves were fraying in this case, especially the civilians who waited to hear something from him. What did you tell people who were desperate to hear good news and all you had to give them was you hadn't found their friend's body yet? "A tough one, huh, Dad?" Mark Sadler glanced up at his son. A rare smile stretched over the FBI agent's face. "A really tough one, Cary." The seventeen-year-old hoisted his school books closer up his hip. "Do you think you'll ever find Mr. Tremayne?" Sadler shook his head. "I don't know, son. The longer it takes, the harder it becomes." "I hope you find him, Dad," Cary said, his young face earnest. "Me, too, Cary." Sitting alone at the dinner table, Mark Sadler couldn't help but think they had missed something. His sixth sense told him there was something just beneath the surface, tugging gently at his mind, that would solve the matter of how a man whose face had been plastered all over the South could just simply disappear off the face of the earth. "Where are you, Gabe?" Sadler asked as he stared out his dining room window at the bright gleam of snow. **** "I told Sadler just what we agreed upon, Mr. Tremayne." "Good." As he spoke to one of his men on the phone, Andrew signed a paper his secretary slid onto his desk. "Anything else to report?" "No, sir. You're already aware your brother is flying to New Orleans tonight. I'll make sure one of my men tags along for appearance's sake." Andrew handed the paper to his secretary then leaned back in his chair. "When you fill out your report, make sure there's no mention of Patrick going to Dr. Lassiter's." "Of course not, sir. It'll be handled in the usual way." "And you'll find your usual payment in the usual place," Andrew sneered before hanging up. Cops were all alike, Andrew thought as he swiveled around to stare out the window. If you kept them in line, you could control the world. **** At 8:37 p.m., CST, Patrick Tremayne stepped from his jet into a muggy, too-warm Louisiana night. He glanced up at the sky, wished it wasn't drizzling, hunched down into the protection of his raincoat, and headed for the limo waiting for him. He nodded at the chauffeur, crawled into the comfort of the deep leather seats and settled himself in for the fifteen-mile trip to Bruce Lassiter's clinic. A dry martini waited for him in the rack of the limo's bar and he took a large gulp, then held the chilled glass to his forehead. Tonight the bandages would come off. Tonight he would show his brother Jamie his future. He took another gulp of the martini, draining the glass, and reached for the bottle of gin. His hand shook as he poured the booze into his glass. Some of the aromatic liquor dribbled onto his pants, but
Patrick hardly noticed as he tipped up the glass. He had other things on his mind. **** Annie James had gone to bed early feeling an overpowering need to sleep. But sleep had eluded her and she lay, staring at the ceiling, feeling the walls closing in on her, wishing with all her heart she could turn to the empty side of her bed and see Gabe's smiling face, could wiggle toward him until she was safe in his warm arms. She ached for him, her body acutely aware of the month-long separation. A single tear fell from her left eye and she angrily swiped it away. She flipped to her side, away from his side of the bed. Her eyes bore into the darkness, trying to see beyond the boundaries of wall and space and time. In her mind's eye, she could see him. See him as he had been the night he had finally made love to her in the hotel in San Diego where they'd gone on their honeymoon. "I've wanted to hold you like this for so long," he had whispered as a soft, gentle ocean breeze had frothed the curtains into their room. He had nestled her head into his shoulder and had kissed her forehead. "I could hold you like this for the rest of my life." His lovemaking had been tender, almost reverent. Both of them had decided on waiting until their wedding night. Somehow they had each understood the waiting would make the final culmination of their love even more special, more unique. In an age when lovers tried out one another's bodies long before it was proper or legally and morally sanctioned, Gabe had insisted they wait. He had respected her. She knew it had been more difficult on him than it had been on her, but wait they had. Until the moment was right. Until the moment was sure. Until the moment when they had, in the eyes of God and man, belonged to one another. "Do you know how special you are, Gabriel James?" Annie remembered asking. He'd shrugged. "I'm nothing special, Annie. I'm just in love." Now, two years later, she wondered if he was being special to the woman to whom he was legally bound. A woman who no longer wanted him, but refused to give him up. Annie's eyes went to the phone and the memory of the call she had made to Kristen Marie Tremayne came back to scald her. "Hello?" The voice had been soft with a little girl's pitch, but the accent had been sultry, giving lie to the childish image the voice instilled. "Mrs. Tremayne?" "Yes." There was politeness in the voice, a slight touch of confusion. "Who's this, please?" Annie had almost put down the receiver, but her heart had refused to let her. "Annie James, Mrs. Tremayne. Gabe's wife." There was complete silence on the other end as though either shock or fury was building. She could hear the woman's breathing, shallow and loud. "Please don't hang up on me," Annie had begged. "I have to know how he is." The breathing continued even more loud and rapid. "You don't have to tell me where he is…" "I don't know where he is," came the stiff, angry reply. Annie had closed her eyes, squeezing them so tightly shut they hurt. Her hand had clutched the receiver, pressing it against her head until she could feel her ear stinging from the contact. "Just tell me if he's all right." Tears flooded her eyes and slid down her hot cheeks. "Just tell me he isn't being hurt." Silence played out along the wire. Annie could hear the faint beeps and chirps that sped along the miles of telephone line. She began to think the woman was going to hang up on her, but then the sultry voice, sharp with dislike and filled with contempt, hissed at her. "I would imagine that wherever my husband is, Miss Cummings, he is being well taken care of. No one would dare harm the son of Liam Tremayne."
Annie had not missed the use of her maiden name. "He was hurt once before." The drawl deepened. "There are those who would say he asked for what he got, Miss Cummings." "I was told you loved him. I thought you might - " "Love him?" came the grating voice with a laugh. "Oh, I suppose I might once have loved Jamie, Miss Cummings. But he rather effectively killed that love when he took up with you!" The voice grew cold as ice. "Let me make something clear to you, bitch. I don't care where he is, I don't care who has him, and I don't care what they might be doing to him. As far as I'm concerned, Jamie Tremayne can rot in hell!" The line had gone dead. To anyone listening in on the conversation, they would have heard a woman's angry voice. But Annie James had heard pain in the woman's voice - the pain of betrayal. A betrayal for which Kristen Marie Tremayne would make Gabe pay dearly. **** Kristen put out her cigarette and stood. She adjusted her skirt, fluffed her hair, and took up her umbrella. Smiling absently at the doorman, she walked past him into the rainy New Orleans night and waited until he had opened the door of the limo for her. "Thank you, Edward," she drawled as she allowed him to help her into the car. She nodded at the limo's other passenger. "Good evening, Paddy." Patrick Tremayne looked away from his sister-in-law's predatory face. "I trust you are well, Kristen." "Marvelous," she answered. She crossed her legs and settled into the seat, put her left arm along the back of the seat and patted Patrick's tense shoulder. "I got a call from Jamie's whore." Patrick's eyes widened and he slowly turned to face her. The smile on her face was evil, almost vicious. "What did she say?" Kristen shrugged. "She wanted to know how her play pretty was." She giggled. "If he was being hurt." Tremayne's green eyes slid closed. "What did you tell her?" "That I didn't care if he rotted in hell." Opening his eyes and staring ahead of him at the back of his chauffeur's head, Patrick didn't answer. He didn't think for a moment Kristen's answer was the truth, but he didn't feel like discussing the matter with her. As did his father, sister, and brother, Patrick detested the cheap woman sitting beside him. "My line is tapped, you know," Kristen sniffed. "All our lines are tapped." "Not that it matters. Drew's got it all under control." Patrick looked around at her. "You signed control of your father's business over to Papa, didn't you?" Kristen flung out an impervious hand. "I didn't want to be bothered with details." Her face sobered. "But I do want to be there when Liam finds the men who killed Daddy." Her eyes shone. "I want to pull the trigger on them myself." There was a moment of conscience which pricked at Patrick's mind, but he nudged it away. He didn't like Kristen. Jamie had been betrayed by the bitch, so what did it matter if she wasn't long for this earth? It was only a matter of when and how she was eliminated. He turned his head and looked out the limo's smoked windows. "Will there be any scars?" He looked around, surprised. "What?" "On Jamie's face," Kristen answered in exasperation. "Will he be scarred?" Patrick shook his head. "Some bruising and discoloration. Maybe a little swelling still. But once the stitches are out, he'll heal quickly. He'll never even know he'd been operated on." That wasn't true, Patrick thought with a frown. Jamie would know every time he looked into the mirror. "I can't wait," Kristen said gleefully, rubbing her hands together. I can, Patrick thought with a sinking feeling. And I'm sure, so can Jamie. ____________________
*Chapter 20* The last bandage was unwound from Jamie's head. He heard Kristen's sigh of what? - surprise? pleasure? - shock? "Now I'm going to take the pads off your eyes. Keep your eyes closed until I tell you to open them." He could feel the cool air on his face as the gauze came away from his flesh. It felt strange. "Kristen, lower the lights please." The brightness beyond his closed lids darkened and he flinched as his brother's cold fingers touched his cheekbone. "It's okay." Patrick's voice was soft, encouraging. First one pad was peeled gently away, then the second. He heard Kristen grunt. "Now, I want you to open your eyes very slowly. Just ease them open. There may be some blurriness at first, but your eyes will adjust. Don't let it worry you." Very slowly, as though he were a flower budding, Jamie opened his eyes. "My God," Kristen said on a long breath. Jamie flinched at her tone, his head going down, his eyes closing against the sound in her voice. Patrick turned his head and glared at the woman. "You've seen what he looks like, Kristen. Now leave us alone." Kristen continued to stare at her husband. "You look… You're…" She couldn't find the words. Her entire body jumped when Patrick shouted at her. "Get the hell out of here, Kristen!" Kristen hurriedly left the room, slamming the door behind her. For a long moment, Patrick said nothing, then Jamie felt his brother's fingers on his chin lifting his head. He tried to keep Patrick from looking at him, but his brother's hand was insistent. "There's nothing to be ashamed of," Patrick said. "She just wasn't expecting what she saw." His palms slid to each side of Jamie's face and he lifted his brother's head. "You look fine, Jamie. Really, you do." Jamie searched his brother's eyes, looking for the truth of those words, wanting to see it written there, aching, needing, desperately needing, to see it written there. What he saw was compassion, tinged with guilt, filled with sorrow. Patrick pulled Jamie forward, brought his brother's head to his shoulder and slid his arms around him. "You're going to be all right, Jamie. I promise you will." He held his brother tightly against him. "Mirror." Patrick squeezed his eyes shut. "Not right now. There's still swelling. I've got to unpack your nose." "Mirror." It didn't hurt Jamie to talk anymore. He'd been speaking when spoken to for over two weeks. He'd been stunned at the grating, smoky voice that had come from his own mouth the first time he had answered Dr. Lassiter's questions, so he had refused to talk unless it was absolutely necessary. He didn't like the sound of his voice. It made him acutely aware of just how much he had lost in the last month. "Jamie, let's wait awhile, okay?" Patrick said, easing his brother back. "Give yourself time to adjust to the way you feel. I didn't butcher you, if that's what you're afraid of. You know I wouldn't have mutilated my own brother's face, don't you?" "Please." One word at a time, Jamie thought. If I speak just one word at a time, it doesn't sound so bad. Patrick shook his head. "I don't think - " "I have to see," Jamie insisted, wincing at that horrible voice issuing from his lips. Patrick shook his head. "I'd rather you didn't. Not right now." Jamie's chin trembled. "Is it that bad?" Patrick moaned, swinging his head away from his brother. He closed his eyes, then buried his face in his hands. He began to cry. Jamie took a long, wavering breath. He looked around, spied the mirror over the wash basin in the operatory and stood, his weak legs wobbling beneath him. They'd only been allowing him to walk for a
little less than a week. Before that, he'd still been strapped to his bed, fed by his nurses, washed by the orderlies. He felt lightheaded as he stood there. The drugs flowing through his system: the haloperidol, secobarbital, librium, and whatever else they kept him doped up with made him weak and made his head ache. At times, he was so nauseous he couldn't eat. Sometimes he was so lightheaded he almost passed out. Straining to hold on, he stepped around Patrick's chair and walked on unsteady legs to the mirror. Patrick watched as Jamie made his way to the mirror. Sometimes the drugs they forced into his defenseless system made him confused. Sometimes he hallucinated and imagined things that weren't really there. They depressed him, made him acutely afraid of those in power around him. Sometimes he fainted, sometimes he went into mild convulsions. The powerful combinations of tranquilizers and barbiturates caused unexpected reactions to occur in him. He was always weak, always detached, always dizzy. His mouth was continually dry, his hands seemed to tremble all the time. Most of the adverse side effects which plagued him weren't all that bad, but the confusion and hallucinations were. Sometimes he forgot who he was, where he was, why they were doing to him what they were doing. Sometimes he spent an entire day in the fog listening for some landmark to tell him where he was, who he was. The confusion was bad enough; the hallucinations were worse. Sometimes he thought he was being tortured, sometimes he thought he was in prison, locked away from any human contact. Sometimes, like now as he looked into the mirror and saw his new face for the first time, he thought he had died and gone to hell. "Jamie?" Patrick slowly he came to his feet, lowered his hands. "Jamie, are you all right?" He took a step toward his brother. When Jamie'd been attacked that cold, rainy night in November of 1986, he hadn't thought he'd live to see daylight ever again. When he'd been thrust into the back of Mike Cronin's car that snowy night in November just a month before, he hadn't expected to survive then either. When he looked into the mirror above the wash basin, he knew he hadn't. "Jamie?" Dimly he heard Paddy's voice speaking to him. He felt his brother's presence just behind him, then shifted his eyes away from the image in the mirror to stare at Paddy's image beside him. He locked his eyes on Paddy's and heard an agonized scream tear from his own throat. ____________________ *Chapter 21* Patrick turned away from the struggling man on the bed and walked to the wall, slid down to the floor and buried his head in his hands. He listened as Lassiter ordered 25 milligrams of thorazine administered, and flinched as Jamie bellowed in protest. He could hear Jamie thrashing on the bed, the orderlies and nurses cursing as they struggled to lash his wrists once more into the restraints. He looked up at a grunt of pain in time to see an orderly fly across the room, his nose pouring blood. "The bastard kicked me," he heard the man's nasal shout of fury as his hand, held up to his battered nose, dripped blood between the fingers. "Stop it," Lassiter ordered. He grabbed a handful of Jamie's hair and slammed his head into the pillow. "Stop it this instant or I'll have you gagged!" Jamie's keening had been going on for more than ten minutes. His shrieks had brought orderlies rushing into the room, Lassiter at the run. It had taken two men to wrestle James Tremayne to the floor, two more to lift him, kicking and screaming, to put him in bed. His violent struggles had only gotten him pinned to the bed, the canvas straps cinched cruelly around his flailing wrists, but still he strained to get free. "If you don't stop, I'll call your father!" It was Lassiter's last effort at controlling his patient, a gambit he had counted on to subdue James Tremayne. Patrick stared in awe as Jamie suddenly stopped struggling, fear blazing from his eyes. Jamie
shivered violently then lay perfectly still, the keening, now a low moan of pure hopelessness, coming from deep within his soul. "That's better." Lassiter let go of his hold on his patient's hair and took the syringe his nurse had brought on the run. He jammed the needle into Jamie's upper left arm. "You've just earned yourself some time in isolation and maximum restraint!" The orderlies moved in, buckled the wide canvas straps across Jamie's chest and hips, and lashed his ankles to the bed frame. All the while, Jamie lay utterly still, his eyes turned up to the ceiling, tears of frustration and hopelessness easing down the sides of his face. "Your brother will not be allowed to disrupt this clinic," Lassiter growled as he strode heavily to the door. Patrick looked up as Lassiter walked past him. He didn't miss the look of disgust on the man's bearded face as he exited the room. He knew there'd be a call to Miami within the hour. And he knew Jamie would pay dearly for his outburst. Scooting his back up the wall, Patrick stood, waiting until the others had left before he went to his brother's bed. Jamie's eyes were glazed. He was fighting the tranquilizer, desperately trying to stay awake. His breathing was shallow, deep, and his lips were open, trying to speak. His gaze found Patrick's and held, the look pitiful and full of regret. His cheeks were wet with tears. "Forgive me," Patrick whispered. He started to touch his brother's face, wanting to wipe away the moisture, but the look on that carefully constructed face stayed his hand. It was a look that said this last betrayal had been the final straw. Something painful stirred in Patrick and he began to cry once more. "Please forgive me, Jamie. I didn't want to do it." His shoulders hitched. "I really didn't want to do it." Jamie tried to focus on Paddy's face. He could hear the tears in the man's voice. Patrick had always been the sensitive one; the weakest of the three boys. His heart was even more tender than James Tremayne knew his own to be. There was such desperation in Patrick's voice, such shame, Jamie wanted to reach out to his brother to soothe him, but his hands were lashed to the bed frame, his legs and torso as well. All he could do was tell his brother he understood, but when he tried, his words were slurred and unintelligible. In a fog of numbness, he saw Paddy's head come up. "Can you ever forgive me?" his brother cried. He tried to nod, but he couldn't do that either. The drug was taking over, controlling him, doing the expected to him. He wanted to reach out to Paddy, knowing the contact would save him from the bitter darkness creeping up for him, but he couldn't. He couldn't. He turned his head into his pillow and saw again the image he had seen in the mirror and he felt another scream building in his throat. Just as he began to go under he heard Kristen speaking softly to Patrick. "It's just what Liam wanted, isn't it, Paddy?" Her voice was hushed, a bit afraid. "Oh, God, what have I done?" Patrick sobbed as he hid his face. "He's handsome, Patrick," Kristen whispered. She walked to the bed and stared down at Jamie. "I didn't know he would be so handsome." Patrick gazed out from between his fingers and looked into the face of his brother, but it wasn't Jamie's face. This face was thin, the cheekbones high, the bridge of the nose straight and perfectly formed. The lower lip was now full, seductively so, and the cleft was gone from the strong chin. Gone, too, were the dimples Jamie had inherited from his mother's side of the family and the thick bushy brows which had been electrically tweezed to a bold, perfectly arched line. Even the scar that had somehow looked so interesting beneath his brother's lip was gone. No, it wasn't Jamie's face Patrick saw as he looked at his handiwork. The only similarity between this face and Jamie's was that it, too, was the face of a thirty-nine-year-old man with minute crow's feet beside the beautiful black eyes; faint creases in the smooth forehead; shallow laugh lines beside the mouth. It was handsome, there was no mistaking that. In some ways, it was far more handsome than the face Jamie had grown into. There was strength in this face. There was a bold signature written across this visage that said this was a Celtic face with its soft angles and masculine look. And it was an exact replica of Liam Tremayne's at that age.
**** "What do you suggest, Bruce?" Liam took a sip of his whiskey. "I'm going to increase the dosages for a few days so I can keep him manageable, then I'll taper it off. He'll be in maximum restraint until morning, possibly beyond. It depends on how he reacts." Liam nodded. "I agree with increasing the drugs, but keep them at the increased levels until I tell you differently. What about electroshock therapy? I understand that's effective for manic depression." "I can obtain the same results with insulin," Lassiter explained. As he spoke on the phone with his patient's father, he toyed with a lead paperweight, bouncing it in the palm of his hand. "Insulin shock has the same therapeutic value as electroshock without the side effects." "Will he feel the insulin?" A cold premonition of what was to come shot through Bruce Lassiter. He gently laid the paperweight on his desk. "Do you want him to feel it, Liam?" "Yes." Dr. Lassiter stared at the receiver in his hand, the connection to Miami broken, the incessant buzzing a low-key warning going off in his ear. Slowly he replaced the phone in its cradle and looked up at his night nurse. "Was I right?" Marjorie Petersen asked. "Yes. Yes, you were." Lassiter sighed. "I don't like this sort of thing, Marge. I'm here to help my patients, not hurt them." "Do you want my advice, Bruce?" the nurse asked. At his slow nod, she lifted her head. "Keep Liam Tremayne happy. Just this once, teach his son the lesson he wants you to, then keep James Tremayne so tranquilized he won't even know he's in this world." "But electroshock?" Lassiter shook his head. "If I do it Tremayne's way, it could induce acute psychosis in the patient." "If you don't," Marjorie reminded him, "who knows what Tremayne will do." She reached out to touch his hand. "To his son or to you." Lassiter flinched. "But James is already receiving a high amount of barbiturates. The man will become addicted in no time. If I sedate him with higher doses, he'll be nothing more than a vegetable." Marjorie shrugged. "Isn't that what his father wants?" **** Patrick was quiet as the limo wound its way along the two lane blacktop with rain misting softly against the tinted windows. Beside him, Kristen was pensive, her thoughts on the new face her husband had been given. At first, seeing the bruises and discolorations, Kristen had been dismayed. There was puffiness along the nose and cheekbones. Both of Jamie's eyes had been black and brown. Dried blood had crusted under his nostrils and there were delicate stitches still left along his cheeks, chin, and temples. But it wasn't the bruises or stitches which had shocked her. She'd been shocked by the uncanny resemblance to her father-in-law. It was like looking at a younger, weaker, very vulnerable version of Liam Tremayne. Like the man he might once have been before high living and rich foods had filled out his cheeks and added an extra layer of fat under his chin, and absolute power and authority had given his face a hard, cold edge. It was not a thought she liked to entertain. A nagging worry entered her mind and she turned to Patrick. "That computer picture I saw," Kristen said. "Whose face was that?" There was a fierce scowl on Patrick's face. "Papa's idea of a joke. He had me make it up. That's the way he wanted my brother and sister to think Jamie would look. He thought it would be funny to be there when Drew and Bridie see Jamie for the first time." He clenched his teeth. "Real funny joke, huh?" He
turned his eyes to the window once more. "But why?" Kristen probed. "As much as he hates Jamie, why would he do this?" Patrick let out a harsh sigh. "You'd have had to have grown up in our house to understand, Kristen." He reached for the bottle of gin and poured a generous measure into his glass. He took a swallow, grimaced at the strong taste and then gulped down the liquid. He poured another. "When Jamie was growing up, he hated everything Papa stood for: the racketeering, the prostitution, the drug selling. We all knew what Papa did for a living. We knew where the money was coming from. Some fathers were doctors and lawyers and architects. Our father was a mobster. It didn't mean anything to Drew, Bridie, or me. If anything, it was rather exciting, you know? "Of course you do. You grew up that way, too. But, Jamie - " He took another long swallow. " Jamie was bothered by it. It ate at him." He looked around at Kristen. "He was different from us. From the time he was old enough to ask 'why?', he was different. And Papa despised him for it." "Liam abused him." Kristen had heard the tale from Jamie's own lips. Most of it she had either discounted or ignored. Now she couldn't. "Was it bad for him?" Patrick's eyes glazed with memory. "It was as though Papa thrived on hurting Jamie. Every bruise, every cut, every welt seemed to give him pleasure. At first Jamie would cry, but soon he realized that by crying, he only prolonged the pain, so he stopped and took it as best he could. Stoically, I guess you'd call it. Once Papa found out he couldn't make Jamie cry, the abuse didn't usually last as long and the beatings became less frequent." "Didn't your mother try to stop him from hurting Jamie?" Kristen loved her daughter. She couldn't imagine any woman condoning the abuse of her child. Patrick nodded. "But she's weak where Papa's concerned. She does what he says. It was the way she was brought up - to accept her husband's absolute authority in all matters. Jamie was wild and arrogant. He had an 'attitude' as they call it now, and whenever there was trouble, Mama just turned her head away. She trusted her husband to chastise their son." Kristen felt sorry for her husband. She had long since banished any love she might have for the man, but he was still hers, and Kristen Marie Connors never let anyone take what was hers. Jamie would be hers until he died. "He must've had a horrible childhood." Patrick poured another drink and sipped at it. "Once, when Jamie was about fifteen or sixteen, I don't remember, he and Papa got into it over this boy who'd been expelled from Benedictine for doing drugs. The kid had OD'ed, but survived. He was a friend of Jamie's and Jamie was spitting mad when he found out Mike Cronin, one of Papa's men, had been the one to give the kid the dope. "Drew and I were home for summer vacation and were working on a class project. I don't even remember what now, but we were in the study when Jamie came running into the house, slamming the front door behind him. He yelled for Papa then stormed into Papa's office." Patrick winced. "That was something you did not do, but Jamie was so angry, he just barged in without knocking. He told Papa what had happened, demanded he fire Mike Cronin, and threatened to go to the cops if Papa didn't." Patrick shook his head. "You can just about imagine what Papa said to that." "Did Jamie really think your father would listen to him after everything that had happened between them?" "He knew he wouldn't. He just wanted to push the envelope, as they say, and wanted Papa to know just how angry he was. I remember me and Drew going to the office door, watching them shouting at one another, standing there in awe as Jamie threatened the part about the cops. We couldn't believe he'd be so stupid to make such a threat." Patrick ran his hand over his face. "I can still hear him telling Papa he couldn't stand being a part of a family like ours, knowing where the money came from, knowing what Papa did to little kids by selling them drugs. Papa hit him and knocked him down, but Jamie got back up again. He faced Papa as though they were equals, as though he had the same strength and power. Drew laughed, but I was scared out of my mind. I was so afraid Papa was going to kill Jamie. You should've seen the look on his face. If Jamie had been anyone else, Papa would've beaten him to death."
"What happened?" Kristen whispered. "Papa left the room. I think he knew if he stayed, he'd really hurt Jamie. I went to Jamie to shut him up, to calm him down. I thought if he didn't, Papa would come back, and by the time it was over, Jamie would've been in the hospital. Drew thought so, too, especially after Jamie yelled he couldn't stand the sight of his own father because he was a drug-dealing gangster." Patrick shook his head. "Papa heard him." Kristen let out a long breath. "So now, after all these years, just to get even with him, Liam had you turn Jamie's own face into the one face he hated the most. What a horribly exacting revenge." Patrick held up his refilled glass of gin in salute. "He told me, 'Make him look like me, Paddy. Make it so whenever he looks into the mirror, he sees the face of the man who put him where he is. I don't want him to ever forget.'" "Poor Jamie." "Yeah, poor Jamie." Patrick tilted his glass and drained it. ____________________ *Chapter 22* Kyle rang the doorbell again, listening for movement inside the house. He cupped his hands and tried to peer into the breakfast room, but all he saw was Annie's dog, Kibbles, staring up at him, his little tail wagging furiously. "Where's Mama, Kibby?" Kyle asked, tapping on the glass of the door. "Is Mama in there?" He grinned as the little Pomeranian began to turn around and around in circles. "Go get Mama," Kyle said and laughed. "Go tell Mama she's got company!" After an excited yip, the little Pom disappeared. Kyle could hear continuous yipping, then he saw Annie. She smiled apologetically as she opened the storm door. "Sorry, I was on the phone and I couldn't get off." "No problem." He hung his state patrolman's cap on the hall tree, sniffed, then rubbed his hands together. "Is that mulled cider I smell?" Annie laughed. "You know where the cups are." She followed him into the kitchen. "Any word this morning?" Kyle nodded as he poured a cup of the steaming cider. "Virgil got a call from a sheriff's deputy down in Escambia County, that's Pensacola, and the man offered to help in any way he could. He was a friend of Gabe's. He's going to be flying out here." "Why?" Annie sat at the breakfast table with Kyle and pushed a plate of homemade oatmeal cookies at him. "All right," Kyle said with a grin as he crammed a cookie into his mouth and began to speak around the treat. "He says he wants to talk about something important and he doesn't want anyone down there knowing about it." "Could he know where Gabe is?" Kyle looked at her over the rim of his cup. "No, but whatever he has to say might help us find him." Gabe took her hand in his. "We're going to find him, Annie. Don't you ever forget it." She eased her hand from under his. "But what will we find, Kyle? What kind of cripple will they have made him by now?" She stood and went to the big picture window facing Rock Creek. "I'm so afraid they may be brainwashing him or turning him against me." Her voice quivered. "I'm so scared." Kyle came to his feet, went to her and turned her into his arms. Almost instantly she began to sob, her body wracked with violent tremors. "Let it out, baby," he said softly. "Let it all out." "I want him back, Kyle," she cried. "I want my husband back!" "I know." He ran his hand up and down her back. "Why can't they find him?" Her tears were wetting the front of his uniform shirt. "Why can't they?" "They will. We've just got to give it a little more time."
Annie pushed away from him and looked up with red and swollen eyes into his face. "What if he doesn't have time, Kyle? Everyday they've got him, they may be hurting him. They may be - " "Stop it," he said in a stern voice. "You can't think like that. If they'd wanted to hurt him, Annie, they wouldn't have gone to all the trouble they have. They would've just put a bullet in his head and that would have been the end of it." "You don't know they haven't," she spat at him. "Yes, I do," he shot back. Annie stared up into his eyes so positive, so sure, so filled with the absolute certainty Gabe was still alive. Her shoulders slumped. "I'm sorry." He pulled her into his arms once more. "It's okay, baby. This has been hard for you." Both of them jumped as the phone rang. "I'll get it," he told her and eased her from his embrace. Annie sat at the table and stared out the back windows to the barren cornfield beyond. She barely heard Kyle speaking to whoever was on the phone, but when he returned to the table, she looked up at him and stilled. His face was chalk white. "What's wrong?" she stammered, coming slowly to her feet. Kyle stood there, wavering, his big hands clutching spasmodically by his side. Annie had to repeat her question before he could answer. "They found Gabe's wallet." His eyes bored into hers. "It was on a riverbank down on the Georgia-Florida line. Some fishermen brought it in." Unbounded fear washed over Annie. "Gabe?" "They found the clothes he was wearing that night. His wedding ring was in one of the jacket pockets." His voice became strained. "They've began dragging the river for his…" He couldn't say it. Annie's eyelids fluttered, her eyes rolled up in her head and her knees buckled. She would have crashed to the floor in a heap had Kyle not leapt to catch her. **** He stared up at the grim, hateful face of the white orderly who had come in with two of the black orderlies to get him. No one said anything to him as they unbuckled his restraints. They had rolled in a gurney. His eyes flickered with fear as he looked up at them. "Where are you taking me?" he asked, but they didn't answer. He felt their hands on him, lifting him onto the gurney and his fear rose higher. "Where's my brother?" The white orderly, his broken nose encased in a splint, squinted his eyes and smiled. The smile was vicious, but he didn't answer. "Is Patrick here?" Their silence was evaporating what little bravery he had. "Is he going to take the stitches out this morning?" They strapped him to the gurney, the cinches so tight they dug into his flesh, but the men wouldn't answer him. Two of them were looking at him as though he were the main course for lunch, while the third, one of the black men, was looking at him with eyes that begged forgiveness. It was that look that terrified him the most. "Where are you taking me?" he asked again, his head swiveling to look from one man to the other. His heart was beginning to pound against his rib cage. His mouth had gone dry. Then he remembered Lassiter had told him he was going to be put in isolation. Somehow the thought didn't calm him. He swallowed hard as they rolled him into the corridor. Overhead, the fluorescent lights hurt his eyes and he turned his photophobic eyes away from the glare. He passed nurses and orderlies who watched him go by with detached interest, turning to speak to one another as he passed, him the obvious topic of conversation. He saw men wandering down the hallway, eyes glazed, mouths slack, their shambling gait indicative of the drugged existence of most mental patients. He craned his neck to see a beautiful woman standing in one of the doorways, a doll held lovingly in her arms. "Want to see my baby?" she asked, hurrying to the gurney. One of the black men pushed her gently
away, said something softly to her and she faded behind the gurney. Terror was beginning to build in him as the orderlies pushed the gurney through a set of double doors and he realized he was in some kind of treatment room. He lifted his head and looked around in confusion. There were strange-looking pieces of equipment in the room and a large circular operating room light hanging over a stationary operating table. As he was rolled toward the table, his heart began to lurch. "What're you going to do?" He was aware his voice was filled with primal terror. The men simply began to unbuckle the straps on the gurney, their eyes boring into him, daring him to give them trouble. He knew if he did, the retaliation would be swift and exacting. He began to tremble violently as they lifted him to the table. A low moan of abject terror welled up in his throat and he whimpered. The white orderly laughed. "Dr. Lassiter's going to give you something to groan about, pal." The man buckled another strap tightly across Jamie's forehead. "And you ain't gonna like it," one of the black men said and chuckled as he tugged on the strap that ran across Jamie's chest. Instant recognition flooded Jamie's mind and his eyes flew wide. He stared with terror-stricken shock at the black man who had spoken. He had heard that voice before. A long time ago. On a rainy night in 1986. "No," Jamie whispered, his voice quivering with fright. "Oh, God, no." The black man glanced across Jamie to the white orderly and grinned. "I think his memory ain't all that bad." "It will be when the Doc gets through with him!" Both voices, Jamie thought with pure terror. He had heard both those voices on that horrible night, and all the equally horrible nights that had followed. He had known then he would never forget how those faceless voices had sounded. And he hadn't. Even though the straps were firmly in place across him, the canvas pinching into the flesh of his wrists and ankles, pressing the breath from his lungs, holding his head in place, gouging into his hips and anchoring his knees to the table, he tried to get free. Tried to get away from the maniacal laughter that was making the hair on his scalp stir. "Let's get this over with," he heard Dr. Lassiter bark. He tried to call out to the man, to beg, but the white orderly gripped the lower portion of his face and pried his mouth open, forced a thick black wedge between his teeth, and held his chin tightly, keeping him from opening his mouth. Jamie grunted, tried to move his head, but the orderly kept a tight hold on his face even as he stepped aside to let the doctor move to the head of the table. "I don't want you to think this will become an everyday occurrence, James," Lassiter explained as he began to rub something wet and cold onto Jamie's temples. "But you have to endure it. If you behave in an acceptable manner, this won't have to be done again. If you don't…" Jamie's eyes rolled wildly as something tight was clamped on his temples. His heart hammered in his chest, sweat pouring from his pores, his adrenaline pumping through his body like a runaway piston. He screamed behind the constriction of the rubber wedge in his mouth, but all he managed to do was strain his already injured vocal chords. He tried to buck, but the restraints were securely in place. "Shock therapy," came the white orderly's smug voice. "Shut up, Beecher," the doctor ordered. The demon had a name, Jamie had time to think before Lassiter's voice stopped the breath and the pulse in Jamie's body. "Clear!" Beecher stepped back, as did the other men, then a current of pure agony shot through Jamie's defenseless body. The moment the electricity snapped into his head, Jamie felt the pain all the way to his toes and back again. The agony was excruciating and he had clamped his teeth down on the rubber wedge, instinctively realizing that had it not been in his mouth, he would have bitten through his tongue. His head snapped
backward as far as the strap would allow, his toes curled, his fingers curled into claws, his spine went taut as steel, and his pelvis shot up from the table as his entire body went rigid. He screamed. He knew he did. The pain seemed to go on forever. ____________________ *Chapter 23* Edna Mae Menke sobbed quietly as Virgil glared with pure hatred at the telephone on his desk. They were all there: Edna Mae, Annie, Kyle, the Muellers, Mary Bernice and her husband, Del, Kyle's sister, Ellen, Dean Allen, Milo Afton, a few others. They'd been there for more than two hours waiting for a phone call from the State of Florida's forensic lab in Tallahassee with the results of an autopsy that had been done just that morning. Annie James, dry-eyed and silent, her hand clutched tightly in Nora Mueller's, sat looking out the window. Her body was straight as an arrow in the chair, her knees clamped tightly together, her chin up. She, like the others, didn't really want to think the body the Florida Marine Patrol had snagged in their net in the Chattahoochee River was Gabe. Mary Bernice was staring at the floor. Del's arm was on her chair and now and again he would pat her back or rub her shoulder as he thumbed through an ancient _Field and Stream_. Dean and Milo were silently playing checkers. Neither really wanted to play, but both were unable to just simply sit and stare like everyone else. Kyle and Ellen were talking quietly together. Jake was standing in the doorway, his arms folded, his eyes staring blankly ahead of him. When the phone rang, no one moved, but all eyes leapt to the instrument. It rang again. Once more and the day dispatcher answered it out front. He came to the door, smiled apologetically at Jake and nodded at his boss. "It's the lab, Virgil." Virgil flinched. He took a deep breath, another, and put out a hand he didn't even know was trembling to pick up the receiver. Slowly he brought it to his ear, more than aware every eye in the room was glued to his face. "Kramer," he started to say but his voice broke. He tried again. "Sheriff Kramer." Kyle watched Virgil's face carefully. Edna Mae was looking at Virgil's hand on the phone. The knuckles had bled of their color. Ellen Vittetoe Harper got up from her chair and walked to Virgil's desk. Quietly she laid a hand on his shoulder. "Thank you," Virgil said. "Thank you very much." With infinite care he replaced the receiver and looked at Annie. Annie lifted her eyes and looked at Virgil. "It's not him," Virgil said quietly. "It's not Gabe." **** When Jamie woke, his head was throbbing with intense pain behind his eyes. He tried to turn his head on the pillow, but the movement made his head ache unmercifully and he stilled. He was confused, unable to concentrate, but perfectly aware of what had been done to him. And who had ordered it. He closed his eyes. They flew wide again when the door opened. Despite the agony it caused, he turned his head, and with relief, saw Patrick. He began to cry. Patrick shook his head. "It's over and done with, now, Jamie. Let's just get on with it and put it behind us." He reached for the button that would lift his brother's bed. "I'm going to take the stitches out today." Tremayne reached for his brother's chin, turned his head, and frowned. "How did you tear these
stitches in your temple?" He clucked his tongue. "Damn it, Jamie, you don't want there to be a scar there!" He let go of his brother's face and opened his medical bag, took out his suture scissors. He glanced sideways at Jamie. "It's a good thing the incision is healed and held or I'd have had to re-suture." He slid the hook of the scissors under a suture and snipped. Laying down the scissors, he took up the college pliers and carefully began to pull the suture material from his brother's face. "It hurt, Paddy," Jamie whispered. "This?" Patrick asked, his voice elevated with surprise. "I didn't hurt you." Tears were sliding down Jamie's cheeks. "It hurt." His conscience already pricking him, Patrick ignored the complaint and moved on to the next incision. He snipped the suture and began working it through the discolored flesh of his brother's chin. "Don't let them do it to me again, Paddy." His voice faded. "Please don't let them do it again." The scowl of Patrick's face deepened. "Don't cause Papa any more trouble and you won't have to worry about it." He pulled the last stitch free. After dropping his instruments back into his bag, he took hold of Jamie's face and carefully inspected it. "There might be a few faint scars, but they'll heal in no time." He glanced at the restraints around his brother's wrists and looked quickly away. "Behave yourself, do what you're told, and things will work out all right." Jamie nodded. His face was a sincere mask of hurt. His eyes were shining globes of promise. "I won't cause them anymore trouble." "Kristen will be coming in to see you before she heads back to Gulf Breeze." Patrick made his face stern. "Don't ignore the woman, Jamie. She's your wife." Jamie nodded again, willing to promise anything, do anything, to keep them from hurting him. A tremulous smile hovered over his quivering lips. "I won't cause them anymore trouble, Paddy. I promise." "Good." Patrick closed his bag and picked it up. He looked down at his brother. "I won't be coming back to see you for awhile, but I'll have someone checking on you." Jamie flinched. The words seemed to be a warning. "All right, Paddy." "Just do as they tell you, okay?" Jamie nodded a third time, unable to ask for the warmth of comfort he wanted - he needed - from the only member of his family who had ever cared about what happened to him. Long after Patrick had gone, he lay there, wishing his brother had touched him with something less than the chill professional laying on of his hands. Wondering why Patrick wasn't as upset with what they had done to him. But then maybe Patrick no longer cared what happened to him. **** "You tell Mr. Tremayne I've got information I think he ought to have," the man growled into the phone. Andrew R. Tremayne's secretary rolled her eyes to the ceiling. "I've told you, Mr. Tremayne is out of town until next week, sir. If I may take the message - " "This is about his brother. The one he snatched!" Pamela Westman had been Andrew Tremayne's secretary since he had hung out his shingle. She was not only the man's confidant, she was his mistress, his advisor, and anything else the lawyer wanted her to be. At the mention of James Tremayne, the woman tensed, and she lowered her voice knowing the phone was tapped by the FBI. "I don't know what you're talking about, sir. Now, please, unless you can give me a message for Mr. Tremayne, I'd like you to hang up!" The man cursed and slammed down the receiver. He looked at the other names on his list and angrily dialed the second number. His foot tapped rapidly on the phone booth's floor as he waited for the long distance call to go through. "Dr. Casey's office. This is Nancy." "Let me speak to Dr. Casey." "Who's calling, please?" "Shit! You don't need to know, girlie. You get the doctor on the phone. Tell her I'm calling about
Gabe James. She'll talk to me!" She hung up the phone. "You bitch," the man shouted into the receiver. He jammed the black plastic into its cradle and fished in his pocket for more change. Slapping down a handful on the metal shelf of the phone stand, he jerked up the phone, thumbed in some coins and pounded out the third number on his list. He could barely restrain his fury as the phone rang. "Dr. Tremayne's office." "Now, you listen, lady! Don't you hang up on me, do you hear?" the man began, his eyes bulging, his face hot with irritation. "My name is Henry DeLong and I need to talk to Tremayne about his brother Gabe. You tell him it's urgent!" Patty Ramsey was stunned by the man's anger. It fairly rippled over the line. "Just a minute," she said. Not even thinking, she put the man on hold and punched in Patrick's office. When he answered, she told him some man was calling about his brother on line two and that it was urgent. Patrick jerked up the phone. "Tremayne." "This Gabe's brother?" came the suspicious answer. All the color flowed out of Patrick's face. He thought of hanging up because he knew other ears were listening in, but decided he'd just be careful what he said. "If you're talking about James Gabriel, yes, I'm his brother." There was a long sigh on the phone. "Listen. My brother used to work for old man Connors, you know?" He didn't wait for Patrick to acknowledge the remark. "Well, he got killed out here after he'd taken some photos for the old man, you know?" "I don't know at all what you're talking about," Patrick snapped. "Who is this? How do you know my brother?" Henry DeLong snarled, his teeth pulling back over his lips. "I took them pictures for my brother and he was going to send them to old man Connors. Only he got in a wreck and the car and him burned up. Connors wanted to know who was going to be coming down there to try to find Gabe James and them photographs was important to him." "I don't have the foggiest notion what you're - " "I need money," the man shouted. "I'm in trouble and I need five big ones, Tremayne. If I can get you the pictures and names Connors wanted, will you pay me for 'em? If you won't, will anyone else?" "No, I won't, and neither will any of my family. If Jamie has friends looking for him, I hope they find him. Their efforts can only help my brother, not hurt him." "Who're you trying to kid, Tremayne?" the man bellowed into the phone. "Kyle Vittetoe wouldn't last two minutes down there if he stepped foot near where you got Gabe James stored!" Patrick wrote the name down on his pad. "I'm sorry I can't help you," he said and hung up. For a long time he stared at the name on his pad, then picked up the phone and dialed Iowa information. **** "It was someone who was the same height and weight and all, but the fingerprints weren't Gabe's." Virgil patted Annie's arm. "I'm sorry we worried you for nothing." "We're gonna take her on home, Virgil," Jake said as he slipped his arm around Annie's shoulder. "It's been a rough day on all of us." Edna Mae walked to Annie and took her hand. "No news is good news so they say." She put her hand under Annie's face. "Keep your chin up, okay?" Annie nodded. She turned her eyes to Kyle. "You'll call if you hear anything else?" "You know I will." After Annie had left, Virgil, Edna Mae, Ellen and Kyle stayed in the office. Virgil shut the door and turned to face the others. "I think it's time some of us went down there, don't you?" "When is that Florida deputy coming in?" Ellen asked. Virgil looked at his watch. "About four this afternoon. I'm thinking maybe some of us ought to go back
with him. Doc Remington said we could use his plane." "I'm thinking the whole team ought to go," Edna Mae told them. She looked at Kyle. "To get everything in place. We can stay at that condo in Destin. Set up shop and wait." "I think we should do some investigating of our own into these clinics down in Louisiana," Kyle said. He picked up the file on Virgil's desk. "I don't know why, but I don't think we got all the skinny on them from that guy in Florida." "I didn't like his attitude and neither did Sadler," Virgil agreed. He looked at Kyle. "You think he may be on Tremayne's payroll?" "I don't know, but I do know I'd just as soon go down there and see for myself," Kyle answered. "And how do you propose to do that?" his sister inquired. Kyle ducked his head and Ellen's sisterly instinct moved in. "Kyle? What're you planning?" Kyle grinned. "I'm feeling like I need a rest." Ellen's eyes narrowed. "What kind of rest?" "That's dangerous, Kyle," Edna Mae told him. "I don't see a problem," Kyle remarked. "Maybe you don't," Edna Mae mumbled. She looked at Virgil. "You better talk some sense into this boy." "What're you planning, Kyle?" Ellen asked again, her worry evident in her face. "Yeah," Virgil said. "You'd better tell us." His face was rigid with distrust. "Doc Remington said he had a friend down there who could tell them he was my doctor. He trusts the guy and I trust Doc. If the man can put me in the clinic - " "What?" Ellen yelled. "Are you out of your mind?" Kyle smiled. "That's what the Doc would tell them." "No," Ellen snapped, furiously shaking her head. "Absolutely not! It's out of the question." "Ellen, look," Kyle said, trying to calm her. "If the Doc can get me in the clinic, he can get me back out again." "That's not what scares me, Kyle," Ellen told him. "What if they find out who you are? What if you pick the right clinic and Gabe gives you away?" "He wouldn't." "You don't know that. The good Lord only knows what they've done to him by now! He may not even know you." "All the better," Virgil answered. "All we need to do is find him first, Ellen Marie. Then we can worry about getting him and Kyle out." "If we can get either one of them out." She turned her fierce gaze on her boyfriend. "Damn it, Virgil Earl, we could get them killed with a plan like this!" "We're going to have backup, Ellen," Kyle explained. "It's not like I'll be going into a place where none of you know where I am. We'll let Sadler in on it and he'll be able to help." "Kyle's right," Edna Mae said. "Let's get everyone together and talk before this deputy comes in. If he's got anything to tell us we can use, we can get this damned ball rolling! This waiting is starting to cramp my innards." "This is wrong," Ellen said. "Wrong!" "The longer we wait," Virgil told the woman he loved, "the deeper under they're going to put Gabe. Is that what you want?" "I don't want anything to happen to him or Kyle," Ellen protested, close to tears. "This scares me, Virgil!" "It scares us all," Edna Mae commented. "But we aren't helping Gabe with us being here and him down there somewhere." She looked at Kyle. "Your brother is a strong man. He's capable of taking care of himself." "I don't see a better plan coming down the pike than this one," Virgil told them all. "It's at least worth a try." "God help us," Ellen whispered. Her eyes were wide with fright. "God help us all."
____________________ *Chapter 24* Deputy Thais Dupree shook hands with Virgil, Kyle and Dean, then jerked his thumb over his shoulder to the burly man who had accompanied him to Iowa. "This here is Galen Whitney. He's with the Alabama DEA." Dupree's accent was pure Cajun and his grin was infectious. His big white teeth gleamed and his coffee brown eyes twinkled. He was a big man tall, thick set, and with muscles like chiseled rock. He looked more like a pro wrestler than a deputy, but his smile gave him away. It was pure country and soft as a baby's butt. "Galen's a friend of Jamie's, too." Agent Whitney's handshake was like a vice, and at Dean's grimace of pain, he ducked his head and apologized. "Sorry, little fella. Sometimes I don't know my own strength." Kyle looked the two men over liking what he saw, feeling comfortable with them, and trusting them immediately. They had about them the look other lawmen recognized and he'd stake his life on these men being honest. Dupree's next words only solidified that impression. "Listen here," he said in a bulldozing directness that brought everyone's eyes to him. "We were real close to Jamie Tremayne. Real close. Galen worked with him on a couple of cases and I used to live near him in Pensacola. I never worked with him, but I sure as hell respected him. He was a straight shooter, know what I mean?" Kyle nodded. "When we heard he was missing, back in '86, we thought some drug dealers had snatched him like they had Camerino." Whitney's big brown eyes turned grave. "I worked with Camerino, too. When a man just up and disappears like that, you expect the worse and we was afraid it had happened to Jamie." Dupree sat forward in his chair. "None of us what knew that boy ever believed all that horse manure about Jamie having a drug problem." "Hell, no," Whitney snarled. "Not Jamie Tremayne! You couldn't find a straighter arrow." "Oh, he had a problem with the booze," Dupree acknowledged. He looked at Whitney. "A lot of us do." "It's the stress," Whitney clarified, "that causes it." "Yeah," Dupree agreed. He looked back at Virgil. "But Jamie didn't drink no more'n the rest of us. Didn't gamble all that much neither. All that was a bunch of crap." "That family of his is meaner than a cornered rattler," Whitney told them. "I've heard the worst one of the bunch is that sister of his." His frown was ugly across his broad, flat-nosed face. "She's a real bitch." "I heard that," Dupree concurred. "It was her that came up to The Pavillion to pick up Jamie and take him to Augusta. You ask them at The Pavillion what they think of Miss High-and-Mighty. They'll have a bug to put in your ear about her!" "She comes in there," Whitney explained, his face contorted with remembered anger, "all arrogant and uppity. I was there visiting Jamie, although his family had told them not to allow visitors. I snucked in and was trying to talk to him." The big man scowled. "He was so doped up I didn't think he hardly recognized me, but when that bitch of a sister of his come in, he started begging me real pitiful-like not to let her take him nowhere." Whitney hung his head. "I wished I hadn't." "Jamie was afraid of her, see?" Dupree interrupted. "I think he knew what she was planning." "Which was?" Virgil asked. "To have him committed," Dupree said. "And that's basically what that damned family of his went and done." Kyle was watching Whitney's face. The man was huge - at least six foot five; 265 pounds; a body built like a steam shovel and a face that would have been perfect for a bad ass motorcycle ad. The nose had been smashed repeatedly; the cheeks were rough and pocked; the lower portion of his face was covered with a scraggly beard and his low forehead, disappearing into a thinning crop of nondescript brown hair, was heavily lined. The man reminded Vittetoe of Randall 'Tex' Cobb, the Hollywood character actor who did biker
movies, but the words 'Gentle Giant' came to mind as he watched the man sitting nervously on a chair that looked too small for him and he was afraid he'd break. "There's about five of us you can damned well trust to help you folks looks for Jamie," Dupree was saying and Kyle turned his full attention to the deputy. "There's two of us from the Escambia County sheriff's office and one from the Florida State Patrol." "And there's me and another DEA guy from Louisiana what used to be with the NIS, that's Naval Intelligence - " Whitney began, but Dupree interrupted him with a snort. "Ain't no such thing," Dupree said and laughed, "as Naval Intelligence. That's one of them oxymoron things." "I heard that," Whitney agreed. "But Taylor ain't bad for a squid. He and Jamie was pretty tight." "And there's Badger up in Georgia," Dupree injected. "The Badger?" Dean asked. "His real name's Dooley. Dooley McBride. He was named after Coach Dooley - you know with the Dawgs? - but we all call him The Badger 'cause he's like one of them little critters. Once he gets his teeth into something, he don't let go until the thing's either dead or can't cause nobody no harm," Whitney told them. Dupree nodded. "He works with one of them government groups nobody really knows that much about except they're mean as hell and twice as bad as that when they're mad." "You don't even want to make The Badger mad at you!" Whitney nodded. "And he's mad as Granny's goat about Jamie being missing and all." "The thing with The Badger is he can go places and do things - " "Get you things," Whitney added, "that no one else can." "You need a tag from Paris, France for your car?" Dupree grinned. "You call The Badger." Kyle stood, jammed his hands into his back pocket and faced the men. "We think his family is behind this." "We know they are," Dupree said. "And we've had guys we could trust all over Florida looking for him in them fancy clinics and such, and he ain't nowhere to be found." Whitney locked his gaze with Kyle's. "I've been nosing around in Alabama, too, and I ain't come up with enough spit to shine my boots." "The Badger's had his people up in Georgia doing the same thing, even looking into some of them places the AMA don't want to know about." Dupree shook his head. "He ain't come up with squat." "We think he may be in Louisiana," Virgil told them and saw Dupree's eyes turn to Whitney. "See? What'd I tell you?" Whitney asked. Kyle sat on Virgil's desk. "We've got a plan and we think it may work, but there are a lot of loose ends we haven't been able to solve yet." Whitney stood so fast his chair turned over, but the big man didn't seem to notice. "You tell us what you need, Mr. Iowa State Trooper, and we'll tell you when you can have it!" ____________________ *Chapter 25* It was Sunday, and the patients began gathering at a little past nine, wandering aimlessly down the hall toward the clinic's small chapel. There was the melodic strains of a twelve-string guitar vibrating in the air as a young man practiced the entrance hymn, "Gather Us In". Some of the orderlies were already in the chapel, watching their charges file slowly and lethargically through the double pocket doors into what had once been the parlor of the old antebellum house which had been turned into Dr. Bruce Lassiter's private clinic for the sons and daughters of wealthy, discreet families. The Catholic priest who presided over the Sunday Mass, was slipping on his chasuble as he spoke in low tones to the patient who was to be his altar boy. One of the nurses helped a young woman of twenty-two seat herself, bending over to admire the doll the woman held up for her to see, a doll she held protectively in her arms as though it were real. The nurse smiled, patted the doll's head and walked away.
Two male patients picked up the hymnals on a small table and began to distribute them through the room, although no one would bother to sing the music Father had chosen, even though it was the same three songs each week. "Has everyone who is to receive Communion put their wafers in the bowl?" Father Tolbert asked as he looked out over his small congregation. He smiled patiently as several of his flock got up to add their wafers to the small collection on the altar. When they were reseated, he nodded at the guitarist. "If you'll turn to page four-forty-nine in your hymnals, we can begin," the guitarist said and began the first chords of the entrance hymn. Father Tolbert watched his flock slowly turn the pages of the hymnals and stare at the page with blank, stupefied looks on their faces. He sighed, opened his mouth, and began to sing in a rich, baritone that would have fit perfectly at Carnegie Hall. The patient in Room 158 heard the beautiful music and lifted his head, his eyes glazing with an inner pain that was pitiful to see. He listened intently to the music, the words having a greater meaning for him than they ever had before. "Gather us in, the lost and forsaken, Gather us in, the blind and the lame." He hummed to the music, tears filling his wounded eyes. His hands were clasped tightly together as he stared out his barred window at the lush, late-winter day. He tried not to think about the Sunday three weeks earlier when he had tried to attend the Mass in the little chapel down the hall. But even as he tried not to think of it, it leapt up at him to strike at his heart like a viper. Its poison entered his entire being and he could feel it killing his soul. On that Sunday nearly a month past, Jamie Tremayne had heard the guitar first, becoming aware it wasn't a radio, but someone in the building strumming carefully but with little expertise. He had immediately recognized the hymn, had listened to the priest's magnificent voice giving an inflection to the words he had never heard before, and had sat up in the bed, marveling at how strongly the man's voice carried to him. In his drugged state, detached and purposeless, he imagined the words were being aimed directly at him. "Here in this place, new light is streaming "Now is the darkness, vanished away…" He swung his legs from the bed, thrilled when his feet hit the floor and he did not slide in a heap to the tiles as he had the previous day. It took him a moment to adjust to the wavering of the room and to the detached vibratory undulations of the air. His first step was cautious, but he managed to shuffle barefoot to the foot of the bed while holding on to the railing. He stretched out his hand, reaching for the wall four feet away, and stumbled forward, his head spinning, his knees weak, but somehow finding the strength to gain the door. It seemed almost a Herculean task to pull open the heavy oak paneled door, but when he did, he felt stronger than he had in over two months. Somehow the small and seemingly simple task of opening a door pushed away some of the fog and his consciousness became aware of what was lurking around it. For the first time in a long, long time, he felt associated with his surroundings. It had only been three days since they had done away with his restraints. Only a day since they had begun to decrease the massive amounts of medications they were forcing into his system. Five days since they had strapped him to that horrible table and zapped the will from him. He was weak, unsure of himself - painfully so - and awkward as he moved into the hall, furtively looking about him, half-expecting someone to shout at him and drive him back into his room. But no one did and he ventured down the hall sliding his shoulder along the wall, bracing himself to keep his watery legs from buckling beneath him. The closer he came to the source of the singing, the stronger he became. He had always taken great strength from the religion he had practiced all his life. Whenever there had been turmoil and pain, indecision and worry in his life, he had garnered his courage from his unshakable belief in God. It had always been a source of comfort to him and a need nothing else ever seemed to fully satisfy. Now, as he struggled to make his way to the opened doors of the chapel, to sit and listen to the tenets of his religion spoken, he absorbed a keen vitality that strengthened his legs and whisked away the drug fog like a
freshening breeze. A gentle smile played over his lips and his eyes held light for the first time since he had been brought to this terrible purgatory. In his drugged mind, he saw a faint glimmer of light. "Where the hell do you think you're going?" Beecher stopped him. The orderly stepped in front of him blocking his way into the chapel. His ugly face and mean look made it plain he wasn't going to let Jamie inside. "I wanted to go to Mass," Jamie whispered, so afraid of the man standing in front of him he could barely be heard. He began to tremble, his chin quivering. He lowered his eyes to the man. "Well, you ain't," Beecher sneered. He half turned away and reached for the handle of the right pocket door to pull it closed. "Beecher, please," Jamie begged, looking past the man to the little priest who was staring back at him with pity. "I just want to go in and hear - " Beecher spun around and shoved Jamie causing the younger man to stumble and fall, crashing to the tiled floor with a grunt of unexpected pain. "Your Daddy said you wasn't to attend none of the services 'cause you been kicked out of the church," Beecher hissed at him as he stepped inside the chapel and began to pull the left pocket door to meet the right. Jamie stared up at the man with confused, stricken eyes. "Kicked out?" he echoed. His heart leapt at the word, his head hearing the real word 'excommunicated.' "But why?" He could hear the whining in his own voice and it sickened him. "What have I done?" A smirk plastered itself on Beecher's face. "'Cause you're married to two women, that's why! You took off on your real wife and little kid, left them to fend for themselves, and that's a sin." He shut the door with a snap. For a long moment, Jamie crouched on all fours staring with bewildered eyes at the closed door. The last ray of hope dwindled in him, the light flickering in the distance, and he began to feel for the first time the horribly exacting revenge his father had planned so well. Jamie crawled to the door, wanting to pound against the portal, knowing he'd better not or Beecher would gladly make him regret it. Instead, he curled up to the door, his back to the panel, his knees drawn up, and listened as best he could through the wood. He made the sign of the cross. He softly answered the greeting and said the Creed, the Our Father; silently mouthed the words to the Communion and Recessional hymns. When the people inside the small chapel began to filter out, they ignored Jamie Tremayne, sitting quietly on the floor, his head down, his eyes filled with tears. Only the little priest looked down at him as he came out of the chapel. "Pray, my son," Father Tolbert said in a gentle voice. "Pray for God's forgiveness." He reached out to touch Jamie's head, but drew his hand back slowly, uncertainly. Jamie looked up, his need in his eyes. "Will you hear my confession, Father?" he pleaded. The little priest hesitated as if understanding the pain in the young man's bewildered voice and recognizing the desperation in his eyes. It seemed as if he wanted to turn back into the chapel, to ask Jamie to accompany him inside. But Beecher stepped out of the chapel and took Father Tolbert's arm in a firm grip. "I'll see you to your car, Padre," the orderly warned. Jamie watched the priest until he was out of sight. He was still sitting by the chapel door when Beecher stalked back down the hall and reached for him with vicious, hard hands even as Jamie threw up his arms to ward off the blow which, thankfully, did not come. "From now on," Beecher snarled as he dragged him down the hall to his room, "when they're having church services, you keep your ass in your room or I'll tie you to the bed! Do you understand me, boy?" He understood. There was to be no comfort, none at all, for him in this place. There was to be no solace, no peace, no words from his God to him here in this darkness. There was to be no light at the end of the tunnel for him. "Not in the dark of buildings confining,
"Not in some heaven, light years away." ____________________ *Chapter 26* Bridget Tremayne Casey thrilled to the clandestine. She was invigorated by deception and underhanded operations. Her body throbbed with impatience as the sleek black sports car wound its way through the foggy Louisiana night to Lassiter's clinic. She hummed as she expertly handled the car, proud of her driving as she slid around an armadillo intent on committing suicide under her wheels. Glancing in her rearview mirror, she smiled at her carefully made up appearance and reached up to fluff her strawberry sweep of hair. She liked what she saw staring back at her. Sweeping her eyes to the woman sitting in the passenger seat, Bridie Casey sniffed and turned her eyes back to the road. It had taken some maneuvering to leave her clinic in Savannah to make a run for the helicopter her father had placed at her disposal in La Grange. The chopper had touched down only briefly in Fort Walton Beach to pick up the other passenger for Baton Rouge, Kristen Tremayne. The two women had left Baton Rouge at 10 a.m. and headed south, careful precautions made which would see that no one followed them. "I wish you'd let me bring Melissa," Kristen complained as she glared out the window. "He's never seen her." Bridget ground her teeth. "And he's never going to." Kristen turned an angry face to her sister-in-law. "Don't you think that's carrying his punishment just a bit far, Bridie?" Shrugging her elegant shoulders in her suit, Bridie turned her face to Kristen, one titian eyebrow lifted in challenge. "Are you questioning Papa, Kristen?" The question sent a warning through Kristen Tremayne and she shook her head. "I don't see what harm it'll do for Jamie to meet his daughter." The smooth white hands clutching the steering wheel increased their pressure as rage began building in Bridget. With practiced ease, she geared down, slid the sleek black car over to the side of the road, and stopped. She turned in her seat to face her sister-in-law. "Because he's asked to see her, that's why!" With the high performance engine of the car idling like a panther ready to pounce, Bridget drove in her point. "Because he seems to think he can simply ask and he'll be given, he won't!" "That's not what he's doing," Kristen protested. "He's not trying to manipulate you or his father. He's just asked to see his child." "A child he abandoned," Bridget pointed out. Her eyes narrowed. "As he abandoned you!" Kristen knew it would do no good to argue with Bridie. All the woman was doing was parroting her father. Slowly she turned her head away from the ugly smirk on Bridie's face and gave up any notion of trying to make life better for Jamie. Bridget's eyes flared with triumph and she eased her foot from the clutch. The powerful car moved onto the road and began to pick up speed. Bridget shifted the gear and looked down to watch the needle on the speedometer arcing to the right. "You do know he's developed some rather bizarre behavior over the past three months, don't you, Krissy?" Kristen flinched. She looked at the woman beside her. "What kind of bizarre behavior?" Bridget glanced in the rear view mirror as they passed a Louisiana State Patrol car. She kept her attention divided between the road in front of her and the patrol car until the vehicle was out of sight and she could breathe easier. "What kind of behavior?" Kristen repeated. "James had always shown signs of latent neuroses." She glanced over at Kristen and smiled. She had the other woman's attention. "When he was a child, he was always falling into deep spells of depression
and going about the house trying to avoid the rest of us. He was always hostile toward me and Drew. Always imagining we didn't like him." Kristen's eyes turned cold. "And did you?" "Not especially. What was there to like? He was forever twisting reality, distorting everything he heard and saw at home, imagining boogie men in the closets." She laughed. "There was a conspiracy against him, you know!" Kristen stared at the woman's profile. "There was always trouble between him and Papa." Bridget shrugged. "James was a very angry person, inflexible in his belief Papa was a horrible person. Not a day went by Papa didn't have to get on to him about something he'd done. No matter how many times Papa took the belt to him, James just turned around and did what he wanted, and hang the consequence. He was self-centered and self-absorbed. In psychiatric terms, we call it 'rigidity.' "In such a personality disorder, a child will develop certain tendencies. One such tendency is to repress the anger he feels toward a parent because he has no real control over that parent. In James' case toward Papa, he developed even stronger hatred toward his family, imagining we were somehow in league with Papa and 'out to get him.' James was always babbling about how Papa tried to control him and keep him down. In the beginning stages of this neurotic state, he began to have a craving for a freedom he thought he'd been denied." "Freedom from control and discipline," Kristen injected. "Precisely. And he expressed that need by running away from the family when he was eighteen, by running away from the hospital in Augusta, by leaving you, by marrying that woman in Iowa. Chances are he would've eventually left her, too." "Has he tried to run away from the clinic?" "He hasn't been given a chance." Bridget changed lanes, shooting past a slower-moving vehicle. "He's been kept well-sedated and manageable, but he's developed certain tendencies that are the reason I was sent here." "Such as?" "In James' mind, he had an unbearable childhood." "He did, didn't he?" Bridget frowned, cutting her eyes over to Kristen. "He made his own childhood unbearable, Krissy, by constantly testing Papa's authority." "So now he's right back where he started from being controlled, denied his freedom, and that's done something to him," Kristen said quietly. Bridget glanced at her sister-in-law, surprised the woman had any grasp at all of the situation. "James has began to detach himself from those around him. He's showing signs of acute disassociation." "Which means?" "There are two commonly know dissociate reactions. One is amnesia. You understand what that is?" "Yes." "The other is somnambulism. The everyday term for that is 'sleepwalking'." "And which has Jamie developed?" Bridget slowed the car, took a sharp right turn down a long, live oak-draped corridor. Ahead she could see the double, wrought-iron gates that barred the entrance to the old Harrington House where Lassiter's clinic had been established. "James has been showing a rather dramatic type of dissociate reaction which is rare." She pulled up to the gate and honked. A speaker box on her side of the car came to life. "One moment, please, Dr. Casey," the disembodied voice crackled. Kristen watched the heavy gates begin to open and shuddered. It would be virtually impossible to escape this place. The grounds were surrounded by the wrought-iron fence work ten feet high and no doubt electrified. Twin cameras were positioned on stanchions on each side of the gate, and as she looked behind them, she could see another hidden in the branches of a tree, taking pictures, she'd been told, of their license plate. Even as the gate began to open, two armed men strolled out from a small,
carefully-camouflaged building to the right of the gate and headed their way. "They don't take any chances of being invaded, do they?" Kristen sneered. "There are patients interned here who are from influential families. We don't need reporters from the tabloids or other rubbernecks disturbing them while they recuperate." Kristen snorted in a very unladylike way. "Or being able to find them." Bridget smiled. "Precisely so." She put the car in gear and moved through the gate as the two guards took up positions behind the car to block anyone from attempting entry. "You said Jamie had developed a rare reaction?" Kristen prodded. Bridget nodded. "Indeed he has. I've been sent to address the situation and see if I can't find a way to control it." Kristen clenched her teeth. "Are you going to tell me what's wrong with him or are you going to just let me stroll in there and find out the hard way?" A cold grin settled on Bridie's smooth features and she turned blank eyes to Kristen. "Well, dear, it seems you're going to get two husbands for the price of one!" **** Dr. Bruce Lassiter offered Kristen a chair. "Would you like some tea, Mrs. Tremayne?" Kristen shook her head. "Where's Bridget?" Lassiter seated himself behind his gilt-edged Louis Quinze desk and folded his hands. "She's gone in to see your husband." Kristen leveled her gaze on the doctor. "She has explained to me that Jamie is having problems. I'd like you to give me your impression of what's happening to my husband." "Your husband has developed two separate, independent personalities, Mrs. Tremayne. One of them, James, is a very cooperative, well-mannered, polite young boy of about eight years of age. He does as he's told, causes no trouble, just sits and plays solitaire hour after hour." Kristen stared at the man. "An eight-year-old boy?" Lassiter leaned forward over his desk. "You have to understand something about personality disorders. With your husband, he has repressed what undoubtedly happened to him in his later childhood. Perhaps up until the age of eight, the severe problems he was having with his father had not yet reached the stage where James couldn't endure them. "When a child is in the developmental stages of his personality, he gathers certain signals from his parents. His mother is usually the central point of control and denial in a child's life. She's responsible for his safety - for his very survival - by feeding and clothing him. In some instances, when the mother is the weaker of the two parental influences, it's the father to whom the child looks for that physical and emotional nurturing. If the father is not a person who readily exhibits such feelings, even knowingly withholds them, the child begins to feel a sense of abandonment; he fears he'll actually cease to exist. "The instinct for survival at any cost, is very strong in every living thing. It's a primitive need, an inborn craving for self-preservation. How a child reacts to the withholding of love and protection by his parent depends on certain capacities that child develops as he grows." "Such as rebelling against authority," Kristen said. "Exactly. Certain criteria begin to manifest themselves at an early age. Such things as how well a child handles emotional pain, physical pain, stress, fear, the feeling of being ignored will shape how he'll react to others as he grows older. "What kind of parents he has is also one of the primary shapers of a child's personality. If the sterner of the two parents seeks to exhibit his or her own will on the child and does this with excessive punishment or emotional abuse, certain children begin to seek ways of fighting back, asserting themselves, establishing their own persona separate from and independent of the parent he perceives as his enemy. He strikes back at his parent with the only weapons at his disposal - anger and rebellion." "From what I know of Jamie's childhood, Dr. Lassiter, Liam Tremayne abused him both physically and emotionally."
"That would be my assessment. Such physical and emotional abuse would've caused your husband to rebel even more. He'd have become progressively more angry and aggressive. By doing so, he'd have received even further rejection by his father. Even as he continued to be severely unhappy about his situation, he would've been unable to break the chain of exhibiting his anger and thus being punished for doing so." "He couldn't win his father's love, so he won the man's attention any way he could," Kristen said quietly. "That's what happened. The severity of the problem between the father and son must have begun somewhere around James' ninth birthday. That must've been when the child finally decided there was no way to ever gain his father's love, so he settled for simply gaining his notice." Lassiter fixed Kristen with a steady look. "Up until that time, he must've still been striving to do what he later discovered was impossible. The young James would have tried to be polite, to be a good child and one his father would be proud of, but the more he tried, the more rejection he received." "So the James my husband is revealing now is the child he thought his father wanted." "Correct. He believes if he's cooperative, malleable, as good a boy as he can be, no one will hurt him, no one will ignore him, and no one will mistreat him." "And the other personality?" Bruce Lassiter sat back in his chair. "Tell me, Mrs. Tremayne, what are your feelings toward your husband?" Kristen's eyebrows lifted. "I don't see what that has to do with - " "It might well have quite an impact on my talk with you, Mrs. Tremayne." Something about the man's tone of voice captured Kristen's immediate attention. She shrugged. "I can't say I have any feelings of love for him at the present time. I was in love with him when we were together. After all, he is the father of my child." "But how do you feel about him now? Today? At this very moment?" Lassiter pressed. "I have feelings for him, Dr. Lassiter. I care about what happens to him. I certainly don't want to see him hurt." She watched the man's eyes very carefully and when he looked away, his face reddening, she thought she understood the man and his motives. "What's been going on here, Dr. Lassiter?" "Are you aware your sister-in-law is actually James' physician of record?" Kristen was taken aback. "You mean she is directing his treatment?" Lassiter nodded. He searched the eyes of the woman seated across from him as if trying to gauge her reactions and feelings. "When you and Dr. Tremayne were here last time when the bandages came off, were you aware we had some rather severe problems with your husband?" "Paddy told me Jamie reacted rather violently to his new face." Her eyes narrowed. "You understand how it is between Jamie and Liam, Dr. Lassiter. Were you surprised with his reaction?" "To some extent I was, yes." He smiled, but the smile seemed forced. "Do you smoke, Mrs. Tremayne?" At her shake of the head, he asked if he could. At her nod of agreement, Lassiter reached into an ornately carved rosewood box and extracted a Cuban cigar. Lighting the fat cigar, he drew on it until the tip flared a bright red, then blew out a long stream of thick, brown smoke. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. "In what way were you surprised?" Lassiter sighed. "It was far more violent than I'd anticipated." He watched her carefully through the haze of smoke. "Of course, I had to report that reaction to Mr. Tremayne." "Of course." The doctor squinted as if feeling the woman's dislike of her father-in-law. "I wish I hadn't." Kristen's eyes, which had been on the Ormolu clock on the mantel, shifted back to the doctor. "Why not?" "Mrs. Tremayne, when a patient exhibits such a violent and on-going reaction to certain conditions or stimuli, it is sometimes advisable to, shall we say, 'shock' them out of that aberrant behavior. We give
them a rather substantial amount of sedative and apply shock therapy." "And you did that to Jamie?" "At his father's orders, yes, we did." Kristen sat forward in her chair, her eyes fused with the doctor's. "And?" "And, again at his father's orders, we did not inject a sedative. Your husband was quite aware of what was happening to him." Kristen's mouth dropped open. She stared at the man, hating him, mistrusting him, wishing she could rake her nails down his bearded face. "That's nothing less than torture!" The doctor blushed furiously. "That was my feeling, exactly, Mrs. Tremayne. I did not wish to use that treatment in the first place, and using it in the way we did, it was most offensive to me both as a professional caregiver and a human being." "Does Patrick know about this?" Even as she asked, she knew the answer. "Mr. Tremayne gave me the impression he didn't want anyone other than his daughter to know. Mrs. Tremayne, you have to understand. I don't want to do that to James again, but if things go as I suspect they will, what I had promised him would be a one-time procedure could become a way of life." The color drained from Kristen's angry face. "What do you mean?" "One of the tools of our trade to treat multiple personalities is shock therapy. Today, insulin shock is more readily used than electroshock therapy, but there are those who insist only an electric shock sent through the brain will snap the patient back from that dream world he has created. Since James has developed two distinct, totally opposite personalities, I'm afraid Dr. Casey will insist we use electric shock to force the second persona out of James." Kristen winced. Lassiter stood and walked to his window. He stared out across the elaborately landscaped lawns to the Spanish moss-draped oaks beyond the wrought iron gates. "The second persona did not manifest itself until recently. Up until a week ago, James was in control." "Is this second personality Gabe James?" "Not exactly," Lassiter replied. He looked over his shoulder at Kristen. "I'd imagine this personality isn't anything like the Gabe James the people in Iowa know." Kristen didn't like the sound of that. "In what way is he different?" Lassiter let out a long breath. "Well, for one, I seriously doubt the man in Iowa was violent. He might've exhibited anger or aggressiveness, but not to the extinct this personality has." He faced her. "This man was so violent we had to put him in a straight jacket and lock him in a padded cell to keep him from hurting himself or someone else. Then as quickly as he came, he left. You can't imagine the harm waking up in that straight jacket caused James." Kristen looked away. "Is Jamie aware there's another personality?" "He's aware of Gabe, but he's afraid of him." "Why?" "He perceives Gabe as a threat. James knows, if he behaves, there won't be any repercussions. There won't be any need for restraints or more potent tranquilizers to control him. All he need do is be the good, little boy his father wants him to be and everything will be fine." "And Gabe, like the older James, causes trouble." "Yes." Lassiter stubbed out his cigar and laid it on the lip of his marble ashtray. "And it's trouble James doesn't want Gabe to cause because James will be the one to suffer for it, not Gabe." "Obviously you think this is the wrong way to go. Have you explained that to Liam?" "Your father-in-law doesn't want to hear such things, Mrs. Tremayne. He has his mind set on the way he wants it. All he wants to hear is that we're completely controlling his son's behavior." "And he doesn't care how you go about it," Kristen mumbled. She stared at the doctor. "Even if it means destroying what's left of Jamie." Lassiter looked away. "I believe that's a fair estimate of the situation." "What about Gabe? Why can't you just leave that personality alone?" "He hates James. Gabe perceives James as the enemy. James is everything Gabe doesn't want to be:
controllable, institutionalized, unworthy of anyone's affection, abandoned. James is weak, ineffectual, allows things to happen to him. Gabe has mentioned several times that, when he gets the chance, he's going to kill James." The doctor drew in a breath and exhaled slowly. "The possibility of Gabe doing just that in an effort to rid himself of James is very real. We have had to be very careful whenever Gabe appears." "If there's one thing Liam doesn't want, it's Jamie escaping, either alive or dead." The intercom on Lassiter's desk buzzed and the doctor flicked on the switch. "I asked not to be disturbed." "Dr. Casey asked me to call you, Dr. Lassiter. She says you'd better come down to one-fifty-eight immediately." Lassiter glanced across the desk to Kristen. "That's your husband's room." He turned back to the intercom. "Has something happened?" There was a short, concerned pause. The nurse's voice sounded worried. "He's developed another personality, Dr. Lassiter." ____________________ *Chapter 27* Bridget glared at her brother. Her nails were digging into her palms in an effort to keep from slapping the smile from his face. She had already slapped him once. The palm print was fiery red on Gabe's face, but the face that looked back at her now was eerie; the eyes deadly. "Gabe and James don't like you," he whispered to her. His eyes turned cold as ice. "And I don't like you, either." Despite the heavy canvas straps confining his wrists to the bed frame, Bridget had a sinking feeling in the pit of her belly that the man watching her from the bed could snap the restraints in half. She turned anxious eyes to Beecher. "Have another set of restraints brought in. I want him absolutely incapable of movement." "Are you afraid of me, Bridie?" the man on the bed said with a laugh. The smile slipped from his lips. "You should be, if you aren't." Dr. Lassiter shoved past Beecher as the orderly left the room. He hurried to the bed and saw gleaming black orbs that promised lethal intent. Lassiter felt a distinct chill in the air. He looked at Bridget Casey. "What happened?" Bridget tore her eyes from her brother and stared at Lassiter. "I was talking to that Gabe personality when this one showed up." She turned back to her brother. "He hasn't told me who he is yet." The man on the bed smiled the most evil smile either doctor had ever seen, then his eyes shifted to the woman who had accompanied Lassiter into the room. His lips twitched. "Hello, Krissy," he said. "Came to see Jamie being put in his place, did you?" "Who are you?" Lassiter asked. He felt those eyes leap to his almost as though it had been a physical blow. "The name's not important," the patient said. "Call me whatever you want - Jim, Jimmy, whatever." "Jimmy," Kristen whispered and stepped back as those deadly eyes encountered hers again. "As good a name as any," he snorted. "Why are you here?" Lassiter had the feeling the patient was laughing at him, but the eyes were cold and the sensual mouth still. "To protect Jamie Tremayne. Why else? I know what you plan on doing to him." Bridget sneered as Beecher stepped up to the bed and began to buckle extra restraints around her brother's wrists. "And how do you think to do that? You're just as helpless as James is!" The cold eyes hardened even more. "I won't always be helpless, you whore. And you'll be the first one I go after when I'm lose." Bridget spun around, fixing Lassiter with a glare that made the man take a step back from her. "Get the therapy room ready. Now! I have no intention of standing here and listening to this shit."
**** Kristen sat in the staff lounge and stared at the fabric of her wool dress. The overhead lights flickered, sputtered, dimmed, then returned to their normal brightness. "Oh, God," she whispered, knowing what had caused the lights to dim. She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to think of something other than the horror taking place down the hallway. From out of nowhere, a picture of her dead father flitted across her mind and she firmly pushed away that image. "Out of sight and out of mind," she mumbled. "No love lost there, Daddy-O." The lights wavered overhead causing her to flinch. She stood, paced the floor, flinched again as the lights flickered and dimmed once more. "How many times are you going to do that to him?" she shouted. Her voice was trembling, her hands shaking, and she felt as though she was going to vomit. "Mrs. Tremayne?" Kristen spun around and glared at the black man standing in the doorway. "What the hell do you want?" Martin Cobb took a hesitant step into the room. "I just wanted to see if there was anything I could do, ma'am." Before Kristen thought, she snapped, "Can you stop them from hurting my husband?" As soon as she said it, she started to yell at the black man, but his soft voice stopped her. "I wish to the Lord I could, Mrs. Tremayne." He shook his head. "I wish somebody could help that man." He looked at her with an apology. "It wasn't until they did that first shock treatment that he started being different folk." Kristen had already figured that out for herself. She sucked in a long, wavering breath and locked her eyes on the black man's concerned face. "Is there a phone around here I can use? One that might have a scrambler on it?" He nodded. "You wanna call his brother? Mr. Patrick?" Suspicion narrowed Kristen's eyes. "I didn't say that." "He's about the only one of Mr. James' family what cares about him, ma'am. I just thought he'd be the one you called." He lowered his eyes. "I didn't mean no disrespect, Mrs. Tremayne." "Just show me where the phone is." **** Even as he was strapped down to the table, Jimmy glared his defiance up at the woman behind him. His cold eyes, so alien, so deadly, stared right through her as though she no longer existed for him. There was no begging, no obvious reaction to what was about to happen as Bridget shoved the rubber wedge between coldly smiling lips. "You won't be so damned smug in a minute," Bridget snarled. She turned her eyes to Lassiter. "Hold his chin while I get the electrodes." There was pain on Lassiter's face as he firmly gripped his patient's chin in the palm of his hand. He looked into the insolent eyes. "I'm sorry," Lassiter apologized as the man on the table drew his lips back in a chilling grin. Bridget fastened the electrodes on her brother's temples. "Clear!" The moment Jimmy's body slammed back down on the table, James appeared. His confused, pleading eyes, so filled with the need for love and affection, stared back at Bridget with an accusatory look that infuriated the woman. "Clear!" Jimmy returned, his eyes boring into hers with an anger that was beyond rage, beyond human understanding of the word. He bucked, trying to get free, grunting in fury as his sister stepped back. He
was still there when James Tremayne's body settled once more to the gurney. He glared up at Bridget Casey with such hatred, such violent intent, the woman stepped back and activated the machine once more. "Clear!" The machine buzzed and the man on the table turned rigid. "That's enough," Lassiter shouted, pushing Bridget aside. "You'll kill him!" James Tremayne whimpered, pain rocketing through his body as he pushed Gabe aside to return. Tears welled in his eyes and he gazed up at his sister with wounded hurt. As the wedge was drawn from his mouth, he whimpered again. "Why, Bridie?" he pleaded. "Why don't you love me?" Bridget Casey's own fury was irrational. She wanted to reach out to the machine, turn it on and leave it on until the brain of the man lying on the table was beyond repair. "Go to hell," she shouted and fled, her hatred of the man evident in the way she slammed out of the room. "Give me a hundred milligrams of meperidine," Lassiter ordered his nurse. He leaned over his patient, peering into the young man's eyes with his light, checking the reaction. He took the prepared syringe and injected the powerful analgesic into James Tremayne's upper arm. "It's all right, James," the physician said in a soothing voice. "It's all over for now." He started when a soft, understanding voice replaced the harsh voice of Jimmy, the angry voice of Gabe, and the child-like voice of James. "My name is Jamie. Where am I?" **** "Paddy?" Kristen said into the phone. "You'd better get down here quick!" She was breathless, her anger making her hyperventilate. "What's the matter?" Patrick Tremayne's voice sounded as though he had been expecting trouble. "It's Bridget! She's here and she's putting Jamie through shock treatment without anesthetic!" "What did you say?" "Liam okayed it, Paddy. They're trying to get rid of Gabe James. They don't want Gabe James to exist anymore so they're trying to destroy him. Only it's Jamie who's suffering, Paddy," she cried. "Bridie is deliberately hurting him!" "No," Patrick whispered. "No. She can't do that." "She's doing it, damn it! You've got to stop her, Patrick." "I don't dare go down there, Krissy. Papa would have my ass if I did. But I'll find a way to stop it. Believe me, I will!" "Hurry, Paddy," Kristen begged. "You've got - " She jumped as something sharp was jammed into her back. Half turning, she saw Bridget's angry face glaring at her. "Bridie?" she questioned before her eyes rolled up in her head and she slumped to the floor. **** "Hello, Patrick." Instant alarm shot through Patrick at hearing his sister's voice. He knew, without any doubt, that Kristen Tremayne was as good as dead. He gripped the phone, pressing it hard to his ear. "Don't hurt him, Bridie. He can't harm Papa." There was a hollow laugh from the other end of the line. "Don't be such a wuss, Paddy. You just might wind up taking a nice long rest alongside James." The line went dead. For a long time, Patrick sat with the receiver's ear piece pressed against his mouth. He stared across
his luxurious office not seeing the expensive furniture and modern decor. His eyes were seeing a struggling Jamie, hearing his brother telling him, "It hurt, Paddy". He knew now Jamie had not meant the removal of the stitches, but what had been done to him before Patrick had arrived. "No," Patrick whispered. "No." His eyes fell on the sheet of paper where he had copied down a name. He stared at it. "No," he repeated. "I'm not going to let you do this to Jamie again." He stood and hurried from his office. ____________________ *Chapter 28* They were all sitting there: Kyle and Ellen; Edna Mae Menke; Mary Bernice and Delbert Merrill; Dean Allen; Dr. Richard Warrington and his wife Jennifer; Thais Dupree and Galen Whitney; Mel Vanderwoode; Jake Mueller; Dr. Chad Remington. Looking about her dining room, Ellen knew these people could be trusted and looked on to do whatever needed to be done to get Gabe back. She had decided to go along with them, replacing Joyce Barnes. Had she not, she would have been a nervous wreck awaiting word from Florida. Plans were being solidified and assignments given out. There was much to do, even more to discuss, and the phone had been taken off the hook to keep them from being interrupted. "I'll fly the three of us out of here in the morning," Doc Remington, a retired Army medic, told Kyle and Edna Mae. "Alec will meet us at Harry Burnside's condo in Destin and we can start on the paperwork to get you committed to Harbor House." "Jake and I will be leaving around midnight tonight," Mel Vanderwoode, the trucking company owner, put in. "It'll take us about twenty hours to get down to Mobile." "Where are you going to be staying?" Kyle asked. "Don't know yet, but Galen's going to be looking into that," Mel answered. "We want to establish Jake down there as an independent trucker," the DEA agent told them. "Badger will have all the necessary papers for the rig and he'll get us a Louisiana tag for the trailer." "Mary Bernice, Del and Dean will be flying back with us," Thais reported. "We'll set them up in Pensacola for now." "I ain't too happy about them arrangements," Del groused. "I ain't never flown and ain't wanting to! And I ain't never liked Florida." "Shut up, Del," Mary Bernice said as she poked him in the ribs. "We can't drive down there. It'll take too long." "Besides," Galen said with a twinkle in his eyes. "We got the whitest sands in the world on our beaches, Del." His brows wagged. "You can work on your tan!" "What about you and Jenny, Dick?" Edna Mae inquired, smiling at Del's black face glowering at Galen. "As soon as we get to Memphis and pick up the vehicle we'll be driving, we'll arrange for the cargo for Mel's truck, then we'll meet them in Mobile." He consulted some papers. "We'll be staying at the Ponderosa Inn and I'll give all of you a copy of the number. We'll be registered under the name Hampton." Ellen let out a long breath. "I'll be staying at the Briarcliff Motel in New Orleans under the name Carol Cean. I'll provide you with the number there, too." She shrugged as she looked at Del. "I've never flown before either, Delbert, but at least you'll be with people you know. I won't." "There's still time for us to get Joyce," Kyle told his sister, but Ellen shook her head. "All right," Thais said as he laid out a map on Ellen's dining room table. "Here's all the rest stops, truck stops and exits around those three clinics we're going to be trying to get Kyle into. I've made copies of them for each of you and I want you to familiarize yourselves with the ones around Harbor House. The others we won't worry about until we can safely rule out Harbor House as being where Gabe is." Galen pointed a thick finger at one particular rest stop. "This here place is convenient to them all.
Make sure you study it 'cause that's the way we'll be going as soon as we have Gabe under our wing. Let's know exactly what we're going to be doing, people. You guys may be amateurs but you make up in moxy what you ain't got in experience." He looked around. "We can do this." "We have to," Kyle said in a grim voice. "There's no turning back now." **** "Damn it," Patrick snarled as he slammed down the pay phone. The operator had just informed him there was trouble on the line at Kyle Vittetoe's house. He glared at the instrument, hating it almost as much as he hated his sister. Yanking it up, he began to savagely punch in the number he hadn't wanted to call. **** Kyle handed out sheets of code words - bits of songs, snatches of poetry - as Ellen passed around the two-way radios they'd be using. "All the vehicles will be equipped with CBs," Jake explained to them, "but we just might need to make some conversation we don't want nobody else to hear." "Make sure you learn how to use these things," Doc Remington warned everyone. "It's important we be able to contact each other every minute of the time after we snatch Gabe." "Learn them signals, too," Galen told them. "You gotta know what every blink of the other guy's lights means. What two short blasts and one long mean on somebody else's horn. We ain't fooling around here, folks." "How about the other guys?" Dean asked. "When will they be joining us?" "Not until we absolutely need them." Thais looked at Galen. "Even then, you won't necessarily see what they look like." "It's safer for them that way," Galen cautioned. "We can appreciate that," Edna Mae agreed. "It's enough they're risking their jobs to help." "What about Sadler?" Dean wanted to know. "Is he in on this or not?" "To some extent," Kyle explained, "but he doesn't need to know any more than is absolutely necessary." He glanced around the room. "I'm not saying I distrust the men under him, but there's been some leaks I ain't too happy about." "His job begins when we get our boy back here," Thais said. "Once Gabe's under Iowa jurisdiction, Sadler can do a lot more legally than he can while we're doing our thing in Louisiana." "Anybody have anything else we need to discuss?" Kyle asked. At the shaking of heads, he shrugged. "Then let's call it a night." "Here's to a successful hunting trip!" Jake said as he held his beer can aloft. "Happy hunting," the others chimed in. **** Annie James dried her hand on the dishtowel and picked up the phone. "Hello?" "Annie James?" Her voice became fearful. "Yes. Who's this?" "You'll find him at The Chancel. In Metarie, Louisiana." Annie's world skidded to a stop and her breath caught. "What?" She could feel her heart moving up in her chest. "What did you say?" "James Tremayne. You'll find him at The Chancel in Metarie, Louisiana." "Who is this?" Annie asked, but the line was already buzzing, the connection broken. "Hello?" she shouted, knowing it was futile. "Hello?" Slowly the knowledge of what the man had said sank into her brain. The Chancel, owned by a Doctor
Bruce Lassiter, was one of the three on the list Annie had obtained from Virgil without his knowing it. She had gone over the list and knew it by heart - where it was, who owned it, what it cost for inpatient care. Of them all, The Chancel was the last clinic on the list and the one they had considered the least likely for Gabe to be in. Annie wavered, her legs threatening to buckle beneath her as she began to realize the person who had called her had sounded a lot like Gabe. She stared at the phone, hoping it would ring again. When it didn't, she put out a trembling hand and began to dial Kyle's number. **** Everyone was getting ready to leave. Ellen had brought in their coats from the spare bedroom, and Kyle was helping distribute hats and scarves. When the headlights flashed on the window, those at the front door looked out and were surprised and alarmed to see Annie James hurrying from her car. "Uh, oh," Jake commented as the young woman headed their way. "She's found out." "Let me handle it," Kyle said. Kyle opened the door as Annie came rushing up the stoop. He barely had time to step back before she collapsed into his arms. "I've found him, Kyle," she sobbed into the dark brown fabric of his shirt. "I've found Gabe!" ____________________ *Chapter 29* There was quality of strength in the face that looked back at him. Dr. Lassiter could see the change that had taken place inside his patient. The dark eyes were glazed with a powerful tranquilizer that he had been given just as he had awakened, but Lassiter could make out the keen intelligence behind those eyes. There was purpose and commitment in those bleak eyes. "Why have you come, Jamie?" the doctor asked as he drew up a chair to sit beside James Tremayne. Even the voice possessed strength. It was quiet, soft, but filled with resolution. "Gabe came here to kill James." Lassiter nodded. "We know that." The gentle, mild voice was very low. "Jimmy came to keep Gabe from doing that." "And you came to do what?" A soft, dreamy smile appeared on the relaxed face. "To keep peace among them all." James Tremayne, Lassiter thought, had been a peace officer. He would want to see no harm came to anyone. "What happens to James when the rest of you appear, Jamie?" The soft smile faded. "He goes away." The dark eyes narrowed with pity. "Far away." "Where he can't be hurt?" Jamie nodded. "He won't be back." Dr. Lassiter's left brow arched. "Why is that?" "Jimmy took him where Gabe can't find him. Where no one will ever find him again." A sly look came over the calm face. "And Gabe has gone after them." "Will he find them?" Jamie shook his head. "Not ever. Jimmy will see to that." "And so you're left here all alone." Lassiter watched the face flicker with fear before the black eyes lowered. "All alone." "As you've always been." The dark eyes lifted and fused with the doctor's. "As I've always been." Sadness filled the voice. Sitting forward in his chair, Lassiter took Jamie's hand in his own. "If I keep you sedated, will others come here to help you?"
Jamie shook his head. "I'm all by myself from now on, Doctor. There won't be anyone to help me." The eyes were calm, accepting of their fate, but tragically sad. "Your sister wants to continue with the shock treatments until Gabe is forced away. How will this effect you, Jamie?" There was a brief, eloquent shrug. "I'll endure." "But Gabe won't be back. Perhaps there'll be no more need for the treatments." The most sorrowful and melancholy look the doctor had ever seen crossed over the face before him. It was a pitiful sight that wrenched at Bruce Lassiter's heart. "It won't matter," the trembling voice said. "It's too late." The dark eyes shifted to the barred window. "I have to be the strong one. I have to be the example for the others. The one to whom the others turn for solace." He looked back at Lassiter. "They trust me, although Gabe doesn't like me. As long as I'm here, no harm will ever come to James again." Lassiter watched as tears formed in the dark eyes. His eyes held such a devastating look of utter loneliness and helplessness. In a voice breaking with pain, Lassiter heard the young man pronounce his own fate. "My mind feels numb, Dr. Lassiter. From all the years of running and hiding James from his father. Now he's been captured at last and all my defenses are down. My freedom is gone, too. I can't fight him anymore. I have to live with the despair that'll be my life from this moment on." A tear slid down his face. "I can do that as long as James is safe." For the first time in his life, Bruce Lassiter felt another human being's pain and it struck him to the very core of his being. He covered Jamie's hand with his own. "I'll do whatever I can to keep her from bothering you, Jamie." The sad, fatalistic smile wavered, the dark eyes lowered, and the soft voice went lower still. "It's all right, Dr. Lassiter. Everything will be all right." The wounded eyes lifted. "Don't worry about James. He's where no one will ever hurt him again." "But what about you?" Lassiter asked quietly. There was a slight lifting of Jamie's shoulders. "I don't matter." **** Edna Mae looked out over the ocean waves as they crashed onto the shore. Far out in the water, she could make out a lone sailboat, its multi-colored sails full in the brisk wind. Looking up at the gunmetal sky, she wondered why the Coast Guard hadn't called the little boat in. She watched as it tacked south, keeping an eye on it until it was out of view beyond the sweep of the condominium's window. Vaguely, she was listening to the doctor speaking to Kyle, quietly telling him all the symptoms he should exhibit, going over in detail what Kyle would need to know once he was taken to The Chancel. "I'll order a light sedative, Kyle. They'd be suspicious if I didn't. Try not to ingest it if you can. Hide it under your tongue until the nurse is out of the room. I've brought some placebos with me for you to practice with." Edna Mae turned away from the window and sat on the cheerful West Indian print loveseat flanking the window. She watched as Kyle placed a small pill in his mouth and tried to move it under his tongue without being caught. "You're going to have to practice with that," Doc Remington said and laughed. "I could see you doing it from way over here." He poured himself a cup of coffee and lifted an eyebrow at Edna. "No, thank you," Edna Mae replied. Coffee would only make her more nervous. She plucked at the braided cord that ran along the sofa pillow. "It's going to work, Miss Edna," Doc told her as he took a chair. "We won't send Kyle in until everything is in place." She tried to smile, but found she couldn't. Now that they were here and the plans underway, her nerves were churning like the waves along the shoreline. "I worry about him," she told Kyle as the young state trooper came to sit beside her on the loveseat. "I
just worry what they've done to him." "We all do," Kyle said as he took her hand in his and patted the frail, vein-ridged flesh. "I'll help anyway I can," the psychiatrist told her as he hunched down before her. "I've never liked Bridget Casey. I've never trusted her." He looked at Doc Remington. "I never understood why I didn't." His eyes hardened. "Now, I do." Edna Mae looked at Dr. Alec Gardner and admired the way his neat white mustache and sincere brown eyes shone. She had liked this elderly man and had instantly trusted him the minute she'd met him. He was Doc's oldest daughter's godfather and Doc trusted him implicitly. "He's one of the top men in his field, Miss Edna," Doc had explained. "His reputation will get us into The Chancel without the slightest hitch. The man in charge down there will be so awed at having Alec Gardner send him a patient, he'll wet his knickers!" And that had been exactly the reaction Edna Mae had heard over the speaker phone when Dr. Gardner had called to speak with Bruce Lassiter. "Dr. Alec Gardner calling for Dr. Bruce Lassiter," Doc's wife had announced to The Chancel secretary. It hadn't taken a heartbeat until Lassiter was on the phone. "Dr. Gardner, this is indeed a pleasure! I've heard such wonderful things about your programs for treating manic depressives." There had been an ingratiating tone in the man's soft, Southern voice. "How may I be of help to you, Dr. Gardner?" Alec Gardner had rolled his eyes at the effusive tone. "I, too, have heard good things about you, Dr. Lassiter. I understand your clinic is perhaps the best kept secret in the psychiatric community." He had let his voice drop to a conspiratorial level. "I've also been told your security is top notch." "Oh, absolutely, Dr. Gardner," Lassiter had gushed. "We are very security-conscious with our patients." Lassiter's own voice had dropped. "Our client's value their privacy." "Of course," Gardner said. "I'm hoping you might be able to provide such - shall we say - 'privacy,' for one of my patients." There had been a short moment of shocked elation at the other end, then Lassiter's hurried: "All you need do is ask, Dr. Gardner!" Alec Gardner had smiled a nasty little smirk which told the people watching him what he thought of the supercilious man to whom he was speaking. "Please, call me Alec. May I call you Bruce?" Another short, stunned moment of breathlessness at the other end before Lassiter had sighed with pleasure. "Oh, please, by all means." "Well, Bruce," Alec had began in a too-friendly, condescending way. "As you're aware, I have quite a few clients who are well-known in entertainment and political circles. Most of them I send to my own private clinic in the Catskills, but there are some, like the patient we'll be discussing, whose family doesn't want the media to bother him while he is recuperating." "Naturally not," Lassiter had agreed. "My patient is from an extremely wealthy and affluent old Georgia family. Old money, shall we say? He's gotten himself mixed up in a rather embarrassing position and his mother - the woman is a veritable saint…" Gardner winked at Edna Mae. Edna Mae smiled. "And, of course, this has been a source of worry for her," Lassiter commiserated. Alec crossed his eyes. "Your perception is very astute, Bruce." "I try." "What I'd like to do is bring David down to Metarie myself - " "You're coming down?" Lassiter gasped such intense joy in his tone, those listening had to cover their mouths to keep from laughing. "Well, I've long wanted to meet you, of course, Bruce," Alec gushed, "and since David's family is one of my main contributors, I think it best I accompany him there personally." "This is such an honor," Lassiter breathed. "Such an honor! I'll have my wife set up a little party…" "I won't be able to stay, Bruce, much as I would love to, but you know how tight our schedules are,"
Alec was quick to say. "I'm sure yours is as hectic as my own." "Well, yes," Lassiter said. It was evident to everyone the man was keenly disappointed that his illustrious guest would not be there to enhance Lassiter's reputation among the locals. "I understand perfectly. Perhaps some other time?" "Most definitely! I look forward to it. Will tomorrow, at three, be too soon for me to bring David to The Chancel?" "That would be fine, Alec. I'll have a room prepared." There was a slight hint of pride in Lassiter's voice. "You're in luck that we have any rooms left, but one of our ladies went home just this morning." "Fine, then. I'll see you tomorrow at three. By the way, the patient's name is David Boudreaux. I'm sure you're familiar with the family?" Edna Mae grinned as Lassiter faked his answer. "But, of course! The Boudreaux family is quite well-known." She could almost see the man furiously writing down the name on a pad. "Fine. I appreciate your help, Bruce," Alec told the man, then eased down the receiver. "The nominations for Best Actor are…" Doc laughed. "And the award goes to…" Kyle chimed in. "Please," Alec begged, holding up his hand. His face sobered. "I wish to thank all the little people who have made this possible." "Offhand, I'd say he bought it hook, line, and sinker," Edna Mae commented. "Let's hope the phony information our man in Georgia provides for Kyle will hold up." "What about Bridget Casey? She lives in Georgia. Won't she suspect something if she meets this David?" Edna Mae asked. Alec smiled. "There is a real family and there is a real David. He's in France at the moment in a private sanitarium there. His mother, Elise, is a very dear friend of mine and I have her cooperation in this. She'll be leaving for St. Tropez this afternoon, so in case someone just happens to check on Edna Mae, they'll think she's the real Elise Boudreaux." "Let's hope Bridget Casey has never seen Mrs. Boudreaux," Kyle said. "It wouldn't be likely since Elise moves in much higher circles than Dr. Casey ever will. Elise spends most of her time abroad and there's enough similarity between her and Edna Mae, I doubt even if Bridget Casey were to carry on a conversation with you, she could tell the difference." Edna Mae's lip thrust out in a pout. "Are you trying to say all us little gray-haired ladies look alike, Dr. Gardner?" Alec's eyes gleamed. "You're a flirt, aren't you, Mrs. Menke?" "One of the very best," Kyle warned. "Did Alec tell you he's not married, Miss Edna?" **** "We'll pick them up at two tomorrow," Mel told Dick Warrington. "I spoke with Thais earlier and he says the tags'll be here by tonight." "Everything's all together on our end," Dr. Warrington explained. "Anything else we need to do?" "Just hurry on down. They're gonna be taking our little fella on out to Louisiana tomorrow afternoon." Mel took the coffee cup Jake extended toward him. "Let's hope they find our boy early enough so we can be back for the UNI game Saturday." He took a sip of the hot brew and winced. "I got money on that game." **** Ellen Vittetoe tipped the bellman and sat on the edge of her bed. She sighed, bone-tired, a headache playing at the edge of her right eye, the noise along the busy New Orleans street filtering in through the window to distract her. She laid back, looking up at the ceiling. "Be careful, Kyle," she whispered. "Please be very, very careful."
**** Del's face was at least three shades lighter than his normal _cafe au lait_ complexion. He swallowed convulsively, trying to gain his land legs again as he stepped off the jet. He glanced at his wife's grinning face and scowled. "I ain't going back up in no air, no time, ever," he spat. "Relax, Del," Galen scolded him. "Y'all won't have to." "I wouldn't, no way, any way." "Lighten up, Del," Thais said with a chuckle. "He get much lighter, he be white!" Mary Bernice joked. Del growled at the three laughing people and stomped off, his pride hurt. He felt the humidity wash over him like an excited German Shepherd's tongue and he sighed. He didn't like Florida. Not no way, not at all! **** Jenny and Dick Warrington climbed on board and settled in. It would take them all night to get to Destin, but they were in no hurry. They'd arranged everything on their end and were looking forward to a leisurely drive down to the coast. "Have you checked all the medical supplies?" Dick asked as he keyed the ignition. Jenny sighed. "Twice over." "We've got plenty of everything?" "Yes, we do." "I guess we're all set then." "I guess." She waited, her eyes on her husband. "Did you think to bring…?" "Yes." Dick Warrington glanced at her. "How do you know what I was gonna ask?" Jenny shook her head. "I've been married to you for fifteen years. I've been your nurse for eighteen. I know how you think, Doctor. We've got everything we need." "You're sure?" he pressed. Jenny nodded. "Very sure." **** The Badger handed over two Louisiana license tags to the Alabama DEA agent. "You guys got your instructions?" The other man nodded. "If you need anything else, you know how to reach me." "I had those Georgia driver's licenses and registrations sent over to the condo a little while ago. The Warringtons picked up their Tennessee licenses yesterday when they ordered the two vans. The folks in the condo know not to leave outta there until they get theirs. Just in case." The Badger nodded. "I've got people listening out for them. If even one of these people get even so much as a parking ticket, I'll find out about it. We want to cover their asses as tight as plastic wrap." "Consider it done." "What about Gardner's plane?" "Taken care of. The pilot's DEA." A rare smile touched The Badger's firm lips. "I think I'm gonna enjoy this." "Putting a kibosh to Liam Tremayne is like winning the lottery. It don't come everyday, but when it does, look out!" ****
Patrick Tremayne sat in the parking garage of his office complex in Orlando and stared at the gray concrete pylons that soared up to the ceiling. His telephone conversation with Bridget only a half hour earlier had made him mad as hell and scared that hell out of him. "When I left there, he was sitting, staring at the wall. He hadn't moved in over two hours. I left instructions with Lassiter that if he started acting up again, he was to be taken immediately to therapy." "What are you trying to do to him, Bridie?" Patrick had yelled at her. "I'm trying to control him, Paddy," his sister had said in a reasonable voice. "You wouldn't want him hurting himself during one of these personality splits, would you?" "I want you to leave him alone! He's not doing any harm to Papa. Why don't you just leave him alone?" The line had gone dead. Sitting there, the smell of spent oil, gas and motor fumes drifting under his nostrils, Patrick Tremayne gripped the steering wheel of his automobile and took long, steadying breaths. He wondered if the woman in Iowa had understood what he had told her. "She had to," Patrick whispered. "She just had to." **** Annie James listened only partially to what Nora Mueller was saying as the older woman went about rolling out the dough for a pie. Her mind was on the people who had left Iowa the day before. She had wanted to go, too. Had argued with them. Had begged and pleaded and shouted and cried. But in the end, they'd left without her. "It's too dangerous, Annie," Kyle had told her. "Don't you think they know what you look like, darling? If they see you anywhere down there, they're gonna know something's up. We'll lose the element of surprise, and right now, that's all we've got!" So she stayed in Iowa while Gabe's friends had gone to his rescue. It wasn't easy to just sit there and try to be calm. It wasn't easy to try to take her mind off what might happen, or be happening, down there. It wasn't easy just doing nothing to help her husband. It was almost as hard as losing him had been. ____________________ *Chapter 30* He walked clumsily, his motor functions impaired by the massive amounts of barbiturates in his system. He couldn't seem to hold onto any one thought for very long. His thinking was rambling, cloudy, confused, and sometimes where he had been going was a complete mystery to him when he stopped and tried to remember. Often, he found himself simply staring into space, his roaming attention seemingly caught and held, but by some inner voice speaking to him on a level he couldn't quite hear. It seemed to him it was as though, at the periphery of his consciousness, he had a guide showing him the way he should go, should act, must act, what was required of him, and he would behave accordingly; but at other times, he was without that star of understanding to guide him and he wandered aimlessly about, moving from place to place, seeking something he couldn't remember wanting to find. It became obvious to him, on some primal level that still held meaning, that his thought processes were not progressing beyond the here and now. They did not wander back through time and space to what had been, neither did they move forward to what might be. He became a present-focused zombie lurching from one end of the day room to the other seeking, but never finding. Then the hallucinations began. At first, when he had seen the man sitting across from him at the table, he thought he recognized him. The face was vaguely familiar. The man's hair was the same shade as his own, although the eyes were a vivid, startling brown.
"How's it going, Jamie?" the apparition had asked him. "All right," he had answered. "Who you talking to, Sinclair?" Beecher had sneered, coming to stand over Jamie. It was then Jamie realized no one could see his visitor but him. Others had shown up. People he thought he should know, but couldn't seem to put a name to. There was an elderly woman, kindly and smiling, teasing, who often chatted non-stop with him about the merits of shoveling snow. There was the man his own age, curly brown hair gleaming beneath the overhead fluorescent lights, brown eyes sparkling, who discussed trout fishing and quail hunting. Sometimes there was a black woman, her eyes gleaming with mischief, who came to sit on the edge of the table and complain about how much she hated snow. Most of the time, he sat there at the little table, dealing the fifty-two cards onto the top, putting red eights on black nines, black Queens on red Kings and listened silently to the people who came to visit him. They faded away whenever one of the orderlies came near him. "Uh-oh," the older gentleman - somehow he knew the man's wife was the lady who liked to shovel snow so much - whispered to Jamie. "Here comes that bastard we hate." Jamie watched as the man slowly phased away, his smile, like the Cheshire cat's, the last thing to leave. "Don't leave," he said, reaching out, but the image faded. He jumped as the cards before him were swept to the floor by an angry movement of Beecher's arm. "Were you winning, James?" The voice was slick with contempt. "I'm so sorry. Life's a bitch, ain't it?" Jamie looked up to see Beecher grinning down at him. "Why don't you leave that boy alone?" Martin Cobb asked as he walked over. Beecher turned, his face ugly with contempt. "Why don't you mind your own business, before you get some of what he's gonna get?" "What's he gonna get, Beecher?" Cobb snapped. "He ain't down for no treatments." Beecher put a stubby finger in Cobb's chest and pushed. "A bath, as if you can't smell it!" He turned away from Cobb and reached down to jerk Jamie to his feet. "Who ordered him to have a bath?" Cobb asked, his face unsure, his eyes wary. "We've got company coming this afternoon," Beecher growled. "If you'd care to look at the schedule, you'd see the Doc ordered all the patients to be cleaned up." His eyes raked down the black man. "That is, if you can read!" "I can read!" "Then you'd better do what's written." Beecher shoved Jamie away from the table. "I'll bathe him," Cobb said, reading the look of terror in Jamie's eyes. "You," Beecher snarled, "will do what you're supposed to do!" He shoved Cobb out of the way. **** "Dr. Gardner?" Alec lowered the window on the limo and looked toward the camera positioned above the car. "Yes." "Welcome to The Chancel, sir. One moment, please." Edna Mae's hand tightened on Kyle's as the gate to the imposing mansion ahead of them began to open. Her eyes were intent on the clinic, on the sweeping portico, the white expanse of brick and mortar which, in her mind, seemed to loom at them out of the lowering January sunset. She flinched as she saw two men with shotguns walking toward the car. Kyle swung his eyes to Doc Remington's in the rear view mirror as the older man sat behind the limo's wheel, his chauffeur's cap at a jaunty angle. "Just a precaution, I'm sure," Alec said. "Don't let these men scare you, David." He nodded as the man on the left of the car tipped a cap to him. "My patient's a bit skittish around firearms," he explained. He touched the window button and the smoked glass panel slide upward, concealing the passengers in the back seat. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Edna Mae whispered, crossing herself. "Those were twelve gauge pumps!"
"Calm down, Edna," Alec told her, patting her knee. "There's nothing to worry about." When her frightened eyes met his, he smiled, his own warm eyes raking over her face with an admiring glance. "Remember you're a Southern lady. Southern ladies aren't intimidated by anything. They intimidate!" Doc Remington smiled. He winked at Kyle in the mirror. Kyle's smile was shaky. His eyes slid away from Doc's. "You okay, Kyle?" Doc asked. He thought Kyle's face just a tad too pale. "David," Alec corrected. "Don't make such a mistake again, Doc. It could be lethal." Doc nodded. His hands tightened on the wheel and he could actually hear his blood pumping in his ears. It had been a supremely dangerous error on his part to call Kyle by his real name. Very dangerous for Kyle. "I'll be just fine as soon as I see Gabe," Kyle answered quietly. "It's him I'm worried about. Not me." Kyle Vittetoe hadn't liked the looks of the mansion from the moment he spied it at the gate. The closer the limo came up the gravel drive, the uglier the thing looked to him. As Doc pulled up to the wide front steps and Kyle could look past Edna Mae to the double doors, a chill quivered along his spine and made the hair on his neck rise. He shivered. "Just remember you're only too glad to be here, David," Alec reminded him. "It was either this or jail, and you chose The Chancel." Kyle grunted. Two men were coming down the steps toward the car and he tensed. One man, his skin so black it glistened, was in the white shirt and pants of an orderly. Every bad thing Kyle had ever heard or read or seen in films about mental institutions became centered on that man and his pristine white uniform. Edna Mae, sensing the fear in her young friend, put her hand on his and squeezed. "I'm fine," Kyle repeated. "Let's go, baby," Edna Mae said softly as Doc opened the car door on her side. She patted Kyle's hand and swung her legs out the door, reaching up to accept Doc's hand as he helped her from the car. _Hail Mary, full of grace_… Kyle silently began as he scooted toward the opened door. **** Jamie fumbled with the snaps on his pajama shirt. His hands were shaking, his entire body quivering. He was intently aware of Beecher standing at the door, watching him, his pale eyes steady. Once he had glanced up to find a strange look on the orderly's face and he had quickly looked down again, not daring to think of what that look could mean. "Hurry it up, Sinclair. I ain't got all the bloody day to fool with you!" He shrugged out of his shirt and turned to hang it on the peg outside the shower stall. Looking down at his bare arm, he saw goosebumps on the pale flesh and knew it wasn't from the slight chill inside the shower room. "You want me to take them pants off you?" Beecher snapped as he took a step forward. Jamie looked up, true fear making his eyes wide. He furiously shook his head. "Then hurry up and shuck them pants 'fore I do!" Quickly, his hands went to the snaps on the pajama bottom. He pushed them down to his ankles, stepped out of them, then stepped out of his briefs. His heart thundered in his chest as Beecher pushed past him and turned the water on inside the ceramic shower stall. "Go on. Get in." Jamie, his head down, too afraid to look up at Beecher, glanced at the driving water. There were eight stalls on the men's side of the bathing facilities, none with doors or curtains. They were set back sufficiently deep enough so the water could not spray onto the shower room floor, but they offered no privacy. Normally, Cobb brought him for his daily bath, bringing along with him a newspaper or magazine, or one of the many western paperbacks the man devoured, to read while Jamie was bathing, thereby allowing him some measure of privacy while still keeping watch over him. "What the hell are you waiting for?" Beecher snapped.
Jamie could see no steam coming from the water as it cascaded down. He hadn't seen Beecher even touch the hot water side of the faucets. The temperature of the shower water, pre-set so no patient would ever run the risk of being scalded, was never warm enough for Jamie even at its highest hot water setting. He somehow understood Beecher knew that. "Do you want me to throw your ass in there?" Jamie shook his head, took a deep breath and walked under the jet of the water. His gasp of shock brought a laugh from Beecher. "A little too cool for you?" The water was so cold it was numbing. The initial impact of it had literally taken his breath away. Even as he stood there, beginning to shiver, his teeth to click together, he could see his flesh turning a mottled blue. Water fell over his head, plastering his hair to his forehead, pooling at his feet, and he shivered so intensely he couldn't even lift his hand to reach for the soap. "How do you like it, James?" Beecher cooed. Through the pinprick pain of the shower's iciness on his flesh, Jamie could feel the heat of Beecher's gaze as it swept over him. He feared that gaze even more than the pain the electric shock had caused him. It was that fear that galvanized him into action and he forced up his trembling hand to grab at the soap, lathering it down his chest in slick spirals of acute coldness. He scrubbed vigorously at his flesh, lifting his legs, scouring his thighs and calves, his feet, dragging the soapy bar down his arms. He started to put the soap back when Beecher's voice stopped him dead under the flow of the chilled water. "Ain't you forgetting a portion of your anatomy, James?" An instant lurch in his chest made Jamie drop the soap, step to the very back of the shower stall, his head up, eyes wary, like a cornered animal, his wide-eyed stare fused with Beecher's sardonic leer. "Want me to finish your bath for you?" the man asked in a husky, menacing tone. Jamie stared at the man, his heart thudding in his chest. He was trembling from the cold, from the flow of the icy water, from the fear that kept him plastered against the shower stall's tiles. When Beecher took a step forward, a wild, keening scream of pure primal terror forced its way up from the bottom of James Tremayne's being and echoed through the shower room. **** "What the hell was that?" Kyle asked as he instinctively stepped closer to Doc. The sound had made the hair on his neck prickle even more than it had when he had first got a close look at the mansion. Dr. Bruce Lassiter frowned and he turned his eyes to Martin Cobb. "Would you see what's happening?" Martin Cobb had a damned good notion what was going on as he turned away and his large body moved purposefully toward a long corridor off to the left of the main reception area. Doc glanced toward Edna Mae and found the old woman's eyes squinted. Lassiter's explanation didn't take the worry out of those aged eyes. "I think one of our patients must be having an episode. Several of our male patients are manic depressives." His ingratiating smile was directed to Alec. "You know how it is. We keep them on medication, but every now and then, despite our best efforts, they lapse." "Yes," Alec said. His eyes were steady on Lassiter and the other man looked away, unable to meet that too-knowledgeable stare. A young woman, pretty and neat in her pale lavender housecoat, came shyly forward, her eyes on Edna Mae. In her arms she held what appeared to be an infant, its blanket a pretty swathe of pastel colors. The young woman's smile was engaging, her lovely eyes warm and inviting. Before Lassiter could stop her, she held out her bundle to Edna Mae. "Would you like to see my baby?" she asked. Her voice was soft, gentle, deeply Southern. Edna Mae smiled. "Well, of course I would, darling." She looked at the wrapped bundle. Inside was a pretty little doll, its cobalt-blue eyes staring glassily up at the older woman. Edna Mae's smile wavered only a little before she lifted her eyes to the young woman. "What a lovely baby you have, my dear.
What's her name?" There was a wistful sigh from the young woman. "Angelina." She brought the bundle up to her chest and patted the doll's blanket-wrapped back. All the while her eyes were on Edna Mae. "She'll be a year old tomorrow." Edna Mae's eyebrows shot up. "Are you going to have a party for her?" The young woman's smiled faltered and her eyes slid to Lassiter. At the doctor's reluctant nod, the smile returned to the young woman's face and she nodded vigorously. "Will you come to my baby's party?" Lassiter let out a small grunt of embarrassment and stepped forward, putting his arm around the young woman's shoulders. "Now, Rebecca, you shouldn't ask Mrs. Boudreaux to interrupt her schedule for Angelina's party. There'll be plenty of people here to attend." "Can Jamie come, too?" the young woman asked, her eyes wide. "Please, Dr. Lassiter? Can Jamie come, too?" "Well, I suppose he can if he feels like it," Lassiter said in an aggrieved tone. "But we'll have to ask him, now won't we?" He turned his attention to Edna Mae. "Rebecca doesn't understand what a busy woman you are, Mrs. Boudreaux. I'm afraid she - " "I'd be delighted to attend Angelina's party," Edna Mae informed the man and felt an inner thrill at the slight scowl that seemed to mar his carefully-controlled, fatherly smile. "May I bring her a present?" Rebecca squealed with pleasure. "Can she, Dr. Lassiter? Oh, please, can she bring a present? Can she, Dr. Lassiter?" Kyle, sensing the man's anger, feeling the fury building in him, looked at Doc and something silently passed between them. Bruce Lassiter wasn't at all what he appeared to be. He moved to avoid the denial he could see forming on Lassiter's lips. "I'd imagine Mother will find more delight in buying the baby a present than you could imagine, Dr. Lassiter." He feigned boredom, looking around him with a studied air of arrogance. He even managed a yawn. "Since she isn't going to be getting any grandchildren from me." Lassiter obviously didn't want to alienate such a wealthy client. "If you'd like to bring a gift, I don't suppose there'd be a problem." He looked at Alec and saw the faint nod of approval. "I would venture to say Angelina would certainly appreciate a gift, wouldn't she, Rebecca?" "Does Angelina have a baby crib?" Edna Mae asked. Her smile widened as the young woman literally jumped with happiness. "Oh, I've wanted one for her for so long!" She hurried forward and wrapped her arms around Edna Mae's neck. "Oh, thank you, ma'am. Thank you!" A nurse, at Lassiter's quiet command, came forward to gently help the young woman back to her room. The two women, heads bent over the doll, seemed to be discussing the coming party. "What caused her transference?" Alec asked. Lassiter looked up at the elderly physician, schooling his face into the proper sad visage of professionalism. "Rebecca was the unfortunate victim of a rape last year. It was a brutal attack that left her unable to communicate for several weeks. When it became apparent she had conceived during the rape, her mother sought a court order under which a therapeutic abortion could be performed." "But poor little Rebecca wanted to keep the baby," Edna Mae said quietly. Lassiter shook his head. "That was quite out of the question, Mrs. Boudreaux. Her mother is an important woman. Such a scandal would've been devastating to the lady's career." He smiled that ingratiating smile he had used on Alec. "They were able to conceal the rape from the press, but the media would've had a field day with a pregnancy. Can you imagine the speculations of who the father might be?" He shook his head. "No, the abortion was the wisest choice." "Abortion is never the wisest choice," Alec said stiffly. His eyes raked over Lassiter. "Especially so, if the mother was unwilling." Lassiter blushed, swallowed and nodded as though he had never considered the possibility of being in the wrong. He stammered as he flung his hand toward the staircase off to the right.
"I'll have someone take David's bags up to his room. He'll be in room two-thirteen." "Will I have a roommate?" Kyle asked in a bored yawn. "All our rooms are private." "Good." Kyle glanced around. "I snore." "Edward, my chauffeur, will take up the bags. If we can go to your office, Bruce," Alec said, "we'll discuss David's case. Can one of your nurses introduce him to the other patients?" "Yes, of course. Abby? Will you take David and his mother to his room, then escort them to the day room? Introduce them around, if you would." A red-haired woman, gum popping as she came toward them, swept her eyes over David and smiled. Obviously, she liked what she saw. She took his arm and started forward, propelling him toward the spiral staircase. "You all are gonna like it here, sweetie." She turned her batting eyes up to his. "I can just about guarantee it." "He likes it anywhere he goes," Doc mumbled as he followed behind Edna Mae, Kyle and the ass-wiggling nurse. He grinned as the nurse glanced back at him and winked. "We do try to accommodate." Abby sighed. "I just bet you do," Edna Mae snapped. At the nurse's puzzled look, she arched one patrician brow. The younger woman turned red and her eyes darted forward. Just as they reached the stairs, Kyle happened to glance down the long corridor. He saw the black orderly who had accompanied Dr. Lassiter to the limo helping a man from one of the rooms off the corridor. He noticed the black man seemed to be the only thing keeping the man on his feet. "The more sedated patients are kept on the lower level," the nurse said, seeing where Kyle's attention had gone. "That one there is a real pain." She sniffed. "No one has much to do with him." Edna Mae stopped on the bottom step, her eyes intent on the stumbling man. His hair, although darker and much longer than Gabe's, his height and weight about the same, caused her to draw in a breath and hold it. But as the two men drew closer and the young man lifted his head to look at the orderly, to nod to something the black man had asked, Edna Mae let the breath out in a sigh of keen disappointment. The man with the orderly didn't look anything like Gabe. The letdown making her heart ache, she hurried up the stairs after Kyle and Doc. **** "Don't you worry none now, Jamie," Cobb said as he tucked James Tremayne into bed. "I'm gonna talk to the doctor about Beecher." The black man's lips pursed into a tight, disapproving line. "Ain't no call for him to go on tormenting you like he does." Jamie closed his eyes. All the talking in the world Marty did wouldn't help. Beecher was his hell on earth. Liam Tremayne had seen to that. "Now, you go on to sleep. I'll bring you your dinner myself." He walked over to the barred windows and pulled the curtains. "I'll make sure the cook gives you a double helping of that rice pudding of hers." "Marty?" "Uh-huh?" "Who was that old woman I saw on the stairs?" Martin Cobb shrugged. "Missus Boudreaux. She brought her son, David, here." He shook his head. "I don't know what's ailing him, but he looks kind of haughty to me. You know how them rich boys are." Jamie opened his eyes and looked at the black man. "No. No, I don't." "Like your brother, Andrew, that big shot lawyer from Hotlanta." At Jamie's slow nod, Cobb smiled. "You go to sleep now, hear?" Jamie turned on his side and curled his knees up to his chest. He stuck his hands between his legs and buried his face in the pillow. "She looked nice, though," he said as Cobb pulled his door shut. "Go to sleep."
The door swished shut on its well-oiled hinges, cutting off more of the afternoon light in the room. It would be seven o'clock before his meal tray arrived, twenty minutes after that when they injected him for the night. He tried to push the thought of the drug and the well-remembered sting of its needle out of his mind. He tried to concentrate on the little, old lady he had seen watching him from the stairs. Her eyes had been kindly, and her face sweet and gentle. She had looked at him as though she would like to know him, but when he had glanced at her, he had seen such keen disappointment registering on her lined face that he had ducked his head, ashamed in some deep part of his soul that she had found him lacking. There was something vaguely familiar about her, something that nagged at him and wouldn't let her escape his mind's eye, but whatever it was, it was well-hidden, buried, pushed so far under he couldn't retrieve it. Instinct warned him that he had better not try, and yet he couldn't seem to stop thinking about her. Somehow he associated her with potholes in the road, small silver things flying, rolling away, getting lost in the snow, but that made no sense at all to him, so he finally gave up trying to make a connection. But her kind face remained behind to ease him into sleep. ____________________ *Chapter 31* Kyle listened to one of the patients telling him all about the little men who lived in the closets at The Chancel. As he listened, he watched one of the women patients bend over, pretending she was picking flowers from the carpet. He shook his head as she offered the non-existent bouquet to one of the nurses, who ignored the woman and continued on with her rounds. His gaze shifted to the short, balding patient in the corner whose left hand was tucked into the front of his robe. The man thought he was Napoleon Bonaparte. A loud giggle swept his eyes to the two young women playing jackstones by the front desk. One of them was Rebecca. The little men were sneaking out of the walls, the fellow beside him gasped, drawing Kyle's eyes back to him. "See them? Can you see them?" There was horrified fascination on the man's moon-shaped face. He reached out a hand, grasped one of the invisible men, then twisted his hands as though wringing the invader's neck. He smiled up at Kyle. "All gone, all gone." He dusted his palms together and smacked his lips. Kyle shivered, turning his eyes away from the man, thankful when one of the orderlies came to take the looney away. He looked about him, gauging the sanity of those people left in the day room, eyeing them as warily as he would have a darkened corridor down which a suspect had run. "Mr. David?" Kyle looked up, smiled at the black man who stood beside him, white pill cup and water glass in hand. "That my joy juice?" Kyle asked in as bored a tone as he could muster. "Dr. Gardner thought you might need something to help you sleep." Martin Cobb extended the pill and water to Kyle. "Are all the folks as looney as the ones I've seen in here?" He took the pill and tossed it back, tonguing it between his lower teeth and lip. "These folks have some problems, yes, sir," Cobb said. He swung his eyes back to David. "But I guess we all do, don't we, sir?" Kyle's eyes narrowed. "Some more than others," he sniffed. He drained the water from his glass and handed it back to the orderly. "How many patients you got here?" "Twenty-four, sir," Cobb answered. He started to walk away, but stopped at the hard, leering voice that questioned him. "Any young men my age?" As the orderly stood there, glaring at him, his dislike evident, Kyle shrugged. "Someone I can talk to?" He looked around. "Most of these men are too old and too crazy for my taste." Cobb's face became a stone mask of disgust. "Mr. David, we are very careful with our patients. They are never allowed out of our sight." It was a warning, clear and simple.
Kyle's eyebrows lifted slowly. "Is that your way of telling me to stay away from that man I saw you with this afternoon?" Martin Cobb's jaw clenched. "Mr. Sinclair is a very troubled man, Mr. David. He's got enough problems without having any more added to them." Stiffly, he turned and walked away, his huge fists as tightly clenched as his jaw. "He's not my type anyway," Kyle called out to the man. He had to look away to hide the laughter on his face. "We're going to give you a mental condition which would seem totally natural to those watching you if you should find Gabe and try talking to him," Alec had explained. "What kind of mental condition?" Kyle hadn't liked the look on the psychiatrist's face. "An abnormal attraction to young men," Alec had said. "What?" Kyle had nearly swallowed his gum. "You're going to make me a pervert?" "But a nice pervert," Doc Remington said with a chuckle. "It was either jail or a private sanitarium, dear," Edna Mae explained. "You opted for The Chancel." Her eyes were twinkling. Kyle's face had turned hard and mulish. His lower lip had thrust out in an aggrieved pout. "I am not a pervert!" "No, but if you should show an interest in the young men your age at the clinic, it'd seem altogether in character, though, wouldn't it?" Alec had asked. Sitting there, feeling Cobb's eyes on him across the day room, Kyle couldn't stop the blush of embarrassment that stole over his expressive face. He ducked his head and looked around at the people gathered in the room. None of them bore even a hint of similarity to Gabe James. He counted the people around him. There were eighteen patients. That left six - five if he counted himself - unaccounted for. He hoped in his soul one of those absent patients was Gabe. **** Jamie stared up at the nurse as she uncapped the top from the syringe. A shiver ran through him as the gleaming stainless steel needle with its tiny drop of liquid fire at the tip was revealed. "Turn over, sweetie," Abby Anderson told him. He turned onto his side, closing his eyes as she pulled the waistband of his pajamas down to gain access to his hip. Tightly clutching his pillow, his face buried in the softness, he drew in his breath as the alcohol swab cooled his flesh and the needle slid into his hip. He winced as he always did when he felt the thick, fiery liquid spreading through his muscle. "That's a good boy," Abby said, pulling up his pajama bottom. "You don't ever give me any trouble, do you, Jamie?" "No." He turned onto his back, feeling the stinging in his hip, knowing there would be another lump there come morning. The languid numbness began to flush through his system and he sighed, hating the feeling more than anything he could think of. "Have you met our new patient?" Abby asked him as she adjusted his covers. "No." "His name is David Boudreaux." A dreamy expression entered the woman's eyes. "He's gorgeous." A slight frown replaced the dreamy expression. "But he's not interested in me." Jamie watched her as she turned out the light over his bed. Her breasts, large and full, strained against the cotton of her uniform and seemed to make her slim waist even smaller. When she looked down at him, a little smile on her lush lips, he looked away, not wanting the attention she sometimes gave him late at night when no one else was around to see what she did. "You be careful around him, Jamie," she said, her face serious. "He's in here for molesting other men." A stark wave of fear shot through Jamie and he shuddered. Even the woman's hand on his shoulder,
kneading softly, promisingly, did not dispel the anxiety such news brought him. Even as her hand moved to his chest, pushed down the covers, lingered on his body, caressing the taut muscles, slid lower to allow her slim fingers to dip beneath the waistband of his pajamas to the crisp hair under his navel, could he dismiss the feeling of acute dread her words had caused. "Who sent him here?" he asked, his voice husky with anguish, fearing the worst and expecting it. "His mother," Abby answered. She slid her hand lower, but a sound in the hall made her jerk back her fingers. She glanced at the door, fear of being caught evident in the soft brown of her eyes. She found Jamie looking up at her with apprehensiveness. "Don't worry, baby," she assured him. "He won't bother you. Cobb'll keep a close eye on you." She patted his hand, re-adjusted his covers and turned to go. "Abby?" The nurse looked over her shoulder. "Don't shut my door. Please?" "I'll leave it open," she answered, smiling at him. Jamie lay there, feeling the strength seeping from him, draining him of his energy, his consciousness. He fought it for as long as he could, his eyes on the door, but at last the strong medicine took complete control of him. His eyelids fluttered, closed, opened wide in an effort to stay open, then fluttered shut again as he drifted uneasily into a fitful sleep. **** "What's dat over dere?" Justin Thibodeaux asked the man sitting in the back of the pirogue. Andre Boucharde peered through the swampy darkness trying to see what his buddy was pointing at. "Don't see nothin'." "Over dere. By dat cypress stump." Boucharde narrowed his eyes. Through the gassy whiteness that hovered over the bayou's surface, he thought he could make out a pale cylinder lying beside the cypress. Digging his paddle into the murky water, he aimed the flat-bottomed boat toward it. "Hold up de lantern, Justin," he ordered in his thick Cajun twang. "How you 'pect me t'see?" Something jumped off to their left, crashed back into the muddy waters of the bayou. The cicadas quieted along the far bank as the humans slid their boat closer to shore. Only the slap of the paddle entering the water and the soft skidding sound of the boat as it moved made any sound in the swamp's vast darkness. Justin lifted his arm, the lantern sending a faint halo of harsh yellow light over the blackness of the water. A splash of luminescence shone on the water-logged cypress stump and the pale cylinder was lit with ghastly clarity. "Holy Jesus, Mary and Joseph," Andre Bouchard gasped as his eyes took in the grisly scene. "Dat a fille?" Justin asked, peering at the partially decomposed body floating in the water. "Where de rest o' her?" Andrew crossed himself. "Gators." He thought he was going to puke. "We better call de constable," Justin breathed, also making the sign of the cross over his chest. As the two men backpedaled to turn their pirogue around, the top half of the woman's body bobbed and slapped, undulating with sickening eroticism against the black stump of the cypress. One thin, partially-eaten arm dangled in the water while the other lay hooked over the soggy cypress stump. Her eye sockets were empty and her mouth, open and wide, half-filled with the murky bayou water, seemed to be screaming in terror. ____________________ *Chapter 32* "Drew?" Bridget Casey stubbed out her cigarette and blew smoke out her pert nose. "Have the
authorities contacted you about Kristen yet?" "Just this morning," her brother answered. "What is the world coming to when a woman can just disappear on a major interstate?" "Papa had to be sedated when he heard the news," Bridget said. She leaned back in her chair and smiled into the phone. She knew their conversation was being recorded by the Feds. "This on top of James disappearing has just been too much for him." "How's Mama taking it?" "You know Mama," Bridget sighed. "She's at church praying for Kristen's soul." "Have any arrangements been made?" Bridget kicked off her pumps and put her feet up on her desk. "The rosary will be said tonight, but the authorities won't release the body until they're satisfied with the autopsy report." "Do they have any clues?" "I suppose they would've told you that before they'd tell me. But my Lord, Drew, when did we report her missing? A week ago?" "At least." "I just hope they find something." Bridget let her voice break. "Poor thing." She sobbed. "I just can't talk about it any more." "I understand." Andrew's voice was appropriately grave. "Call me if you need me, honey." As Bridget Casey hung up the phone, she smiled. It had been so easy. _So very easy._ **** It was the first time Kyle had really gotten a good look at the man in 158. He glanced at him, noting the dark hair, the build, dismissing him when the dark eyes and thin face turned to look at him. He thought he saw immediate fear in the man's eyes before they hastily lowered and realized with a grunt of understanding that the man had been warned about him. But he was the right age, the age David Boudreaux was supposed to like, so Kyle pushed back his chair and ambled toward the card table where the man sat shuffling cards. "Hi." Jamie had seen the man coming toward him. His groin had tightened with dread and his hands had begun to tremble. He had glanced around him searching for Cobb. Seeing the man watching them, he had relaxed some, the terror fading a little as he forced himself to look at the tall blond man smiling down at him. "Hello." "My name's David." Kyle pulled out the chair across from the other patient and sat, his grin tight on his face. "What's yours?" Jamie glanced once more at Cobb and saw the man walking slowly toward them. He ducked his head. "Jamie." Kyle could feel the man's discomfiture, almost smell his fear, but he had a role to play and he thought he'd best establish himself early on. "Do you play anything but solitaire?" Kyle asked. When the man just shook his head in answer, Kyle reached for the cards. "Let's play gin rummy." The patient flinched, jerking his hands away from the cards, letting them fall in a haphazard heap on the table. His fearful eyes widened and his head jerked around, his gaze going to the black orderly headed their way. "Mr. David?" Cobb called in a soft, stern voice. He headed for the men. "Mr. Jamie don't like to be bothered. You go on and find somebody else to talk to." He reached the table and put a hand on Kyle's shoulder. Kyle glanced at the set face above him. "You his keeper, Cobb?" He let just the right amount of
arrogance and annoyance tinge his voice. "I look after Mr. Jamie, yes, sir." The pressure of the man's big hand increased on Kyle's shoulder. "You go on now." Kyle swung his eyes back to the man called Jamie and saw the man was sweating, breathing heavily as though he were terrified. The dark eyes were filled with fear. He felt sick that he had frightened the man even more. "I won't hurt you, Jamie," he said, wanting to kick himself for showing any remorse. He shook his head angrily and pushed up from the table. He smirked, making himself seem even more arrogant. "I like brown-eyed men." "Mr. David," Cobb warned softly. Kyle shrugged. "See you around, Jamie." He turned his back and walked away, feeling Cobb's eyes on him. Jamie gathered up his cards, scooping them together into one pile, turning them over until he could arrange them in a deck once more. He was aware Marty Cobb had walked off, but was still watching him. He glanced nervously at David, saw that the man's attention was no longer on him, and began to relax. His hands stopped shaking. After all, David had said he wouldn't hurt him. "I like brown-eyed men," he'd said. Jamie wondered why that piece of insight into the man's preferences didn't really seem to ease his own fear. "He's my friend," Rebecca said as she came to stand by Kyle. She was holding her doll on her shoulder, patting the doll's back as though trying to burp it. "Who's your friend, Becca?" Kyle asked, smiling up at the pretty young woman. "Jamie," Rebecca said. She craned her neck and looked down at her doll. "That's a good girl, Angelina," she said and lowered the doll to cradle it in her arms. She smiled as Kyle pushed out the chair beside him for her. "Why, thank you, sir." She giggled. "I always rely on the kindness of strangers." Jamie's body jerked. He turned his head toward Rebecca and David, and felt a shiver of memory go down his spine. He stared at them, his eyes puzzled, and his face a mask of concentration. Where had he heard that before? Who had once said that very same thing to him? "When is your Mama coming?" Rebecca asked. She sighed. "I can't wait for the party. Can you?" Kyle's smile turned to a pitying grimace. "I suppose so." "Angelina is going to love her cradle. I just know she will." Her smile wavered. "I have to keep her in an old dresser drawer at night." Her face lightened and her eyes beamed. "But from now on, I can put her right by my bed, can't I?" "Yeah." Kyle felt very uncomfortable talking to the woman. He was unaware his edginess was being noted and taken as proof of his abnormal tendencies. For a reason Jamie couldn't explain, he found himself getting up, going toward Rebecca and David. He had almost reached them when they turned their heads away from him and the man lifted a hand to wave. Jamie looked past them and saw an elderly woman and a black man dressed in chauffeur garb coming into the day room. "Good morning, Mama," Kyle said, standing up as Edna Mae reached their table. He nodded at Delbert Merrill, wanting to laugh at the haughty way the black Iowa meat packer looked in the stiff gray uniform. "Grimes," Kyle acknowledged and had to cover his mouth with a cough as Delbert's exaggerated Southern drawl poured out. "Mr. David, sir," Delbert conceded with a stiff bow. "Well, good morning, Rebecca," Edna Mae said. "And how is our lovely little lady today?" She leaned over the girl's shoulder to peer at the baby doll. "Where's her cradle?" Rebecca asked, her face devoid of the light that had been there just moments before. "You said you were going to bring a cradle." Her voice was an accusing whimper of grief. "And I did," Edna Mae told her. She swung her gaze to Delbert, her glance passing briefly over the
young man standing a few feet away, staring at them with such a lonely, disturbed look on his face. "Grimes, would you go get Miss Angelina's cradle out of the car for us?" Delbert nodded politely and turned, his nose going in the air as he imitated what, in his mind, a wealthy white lady's chauffeur would most certainly do. Squaring his shoulders, he walked out of the day room. "Grimes gets stuffier with age, Mama," Kyle couldn't keep from saying. Edna Mae's stern look, shot at him from beneath one arched brow, made him look down at his hands. "Everyone's going to be at the party," Rebecca informed Edna Mae. "Everyone except maybe that poor man out in the bungalow behind the clinic." She frowned for just a second and then her expression cleared. "But he never comes in here anyway." Edna Mae and Kyle exchanged a look. "What man is that, dear?" Edna Mae asked. Rebecca shrugged. "I don't know his name. I've never seen him, but that time when they brought him in and put him out there." She seemed to lose interest in the conversation and stood, her avid eyes on the large box being brought to their table. "Is that it? Is that my baby's cradle?" Edna Mae clenched her hand, digging her nails into her flesh. She wanted to hear more about the mysterious man in the bungalow. She forced a smile to her lips. "Yes, dear. You want to open it now?" "Yes," Rebecca answered. She turned her head and looked at the man standing near them. "Come here, Jamie! Come see my baby's cradle." Edna Mae's gaze fell to the young man. He was shaking his head. Even as Rebecca pleaded with him, he continued to stand where he was, his face a study in confusion and bewilderment. His eyes looked so lonely. "You're certainly welcome to join us, dear," Edna Mae called to him. As his eyes met hers, the strangest sensation ran down the old woman's spine and her eyes narrowed. He shook his head at her and took a few steps back, his eyes now filled with even more perplexity than before. "Jamie's shy," Rebecca announced. She walked to the young man and held her doll out to him. "Hold my baby, please, Jamie?" She cocked her head to one side. "Please? Just until I opened her present?" Reluctantly, the young man reached for the doll, taking it as gently into his arms, cradling its tiny head as carefully as he would have a real infant. A faint smile hovered on his face as Rebecca stood on tiptoe and kissed his flushed cheek. "I'll be right back," she told him and hurried to the table where she began to tear at the paper covering the gift. "We'd love to have you sit with us," Edna Mae told Jamie. But he shook his head again, his eyes never leaving hers. A great pity welled up inside Edna Mae and she had to look away. There was such loneliness, such desperation on that thin face, it was hard to watch. Her eyes met Kyle's and she could see the acknowledgement of her feelings in his own eyes. He stood there, weaving on his feet, confusion and chaos running through his mind. He stared at David talking to the black man named Grimes, then swung his gaze to the man's elderly mother. He tried to concentrate and still the turmoil boiling inside his head as he looked at them. But the intense and prolonged effort only served to confuse him more. It felt as though he should know these people, remember them, but there were great black holes in his memory which had swallowed up everything but the here and now. They were nothing to him and had never been anything to him, but the persistent, nagging feeling that they should be something to him would not leave him. He was jerked back to reality when Rebecca's ecstatic cry of delight brought him from wherever his thoughts had tried to take him. "I love it," Rebecca cried. She lovingly stroked the doll cradle's pale pink wood surface, traced the rocker arms with her finger and looked into Edna Mae's happy eyes. "Thank you," she whispered, bending to kiss the elderly woman's cheek. "Oh, thank you so much, Miss Boudreaux." Edna Mae patted the girl's hand. "You're most welcome, dear." She watched as Rebecca rushed to the young man to retrieve her doll. "Come and see the cradle, Jamie!" Rebecca tugged on his arm. "Please?"
Jamie shook his head and turned away, overwhelmed once again by his confusion. Feeling lost, vulnerable, completely alone. He returned to his card table and sat, keeping his eyes from straying across the room to where those people - people he should know - people he wanted to know were gathered around Rebecca. He tried to shut out their voices, the old woman's especially. Folding his arms on the table, he laid his head in his arms and squeezed his eyes shut. Maybe if he couldn't see them, couldn't hear them, couldn't feel them across the room, he would remember where he'd seen them before. And he had, a nagging voice whispered to him from out of the darkness of his madness. He had seen these people before. And he did know them. They had been something to him. He just couldn't remember. "How's it going, Jamie?" He looked up and found the old man sitting on the table, his kindly smile encouraging. He didn't know the old man's name anymore than he knew the black woman's who hated snow or the old wife who liked to shovel the stuff. "Go away," Jamie complained and lowered his head again, shutting out the sight of the man only he could see. "Now, you know we can't do that, Jamie," the old man said in a soft voice. "We're all you've got left." When his intellectual capacity came close to returning to what it had once been, Jamie always managed to retreat, some portion of his primal soul understanding that total recovery of what had once been was a pain to be avoided at all costs. It was something he had lost. Something that had been forcibly taken from him. Something he would never have again. It was safer, easier, less painful to remain in the dark than to try to step forward into the light. To remember. "Leave me alone," he begged, lifting his head and looking up at the man with pleading eyes. "Please, just leave me alone." "Try to remember, Jamie," the old man said. He turned his fading head and looked toward the group of laughing people across the room. "Try very hard to remember." Jamie shook his head. He put his hands over his ears to blot out the old man's words. He tried to suppress the image of the old man, to will it away, becoming more and more frustrated as remembering strove to crowd into his consciousness. He urgently pushed it back, sensing such terrible pain in the memory, refusing it entry into his world. "Go away," he shouted, banging his head on the table. Cobb pushed away from the wall where he had been leaning. He saw Beecher heading toward James Sinclair. "Get Dr. Lassiter," one of the nurses shouted. She hurried toward Jamie. "Jamie," she called, reaching him before either of the orderlies. "Stop that. Do you hear me?" She caught his head, anchoring it against her hip, stroking his rumpled hair. "It's all right, baby. Nobody's gonna hurt you." She glared as Beecher put out a hand to take her patient's arm. "I'll handle this, Mr. Beecher." Bruce Lassiter glanced at the people standing around Rebecca and her doll's new cradle. He frowned, but his entire concentration was directed at the young man whose arms were clutched tightly around Marjorie Petersen, the night nurse who had waited around that morning so she could attend Angelina's birthday party. "Make them go away, Marge," Jamie cried. His face was buried in the soft polyester of the nurse's uniform. Lassiter pulled a chair out of his way, hunched beside Jamie and put a hand on the young man's shoulder. "They're gone, Jamie. The bad people are gone." Edna Mae felt her heart breaking as she watched the doctor and nurse help the young man to his feet. She saw another nurse coming toward them with a hypodermic needle. As the young man was being led away, his eyes moved to Edna Mae's and she could feel his hurt. "Poor Jamie," Rebecca whispered, clutching her doll tightly to her chest. "Poor, poor Jamie." Kyle looked away. The sight of the man being led like a bewildered child bothered him more than he
would have thought possible. Rebecca sighed. "Jamie's going away for awhile, Angelina. Poor, poor Jamie." **** "Are you going to tell him?" Marjorie Petersen asked Lassiter after they returned to his office. Bruce Lassiter opened his desk drawer and drew out a bottle of whiskey. Pouring himself a liberal amount, he drained the amber liquid before he shook his head. "He doesn't need anymore heaped on him right now." He poured another shot of the scotch and held up the bottle in question. Marjorie declined. "I'd never fall asleep if I drank that." Lassiter sat at his desk, his face creased with the weight of his knowledge. "I hope they find the bastards who murdered Kristen Tremayne!" Marjorie had heard it all, having been informed by the doctor when he had arrived that morning. The cause of death was, as yet, unknown because most of the woman's body had been savaged brutally by the denizens of the bayou. "When will you tell him?" she asked, rubbing her grainy eyes. Sleep would be a long time in coming, she thought. "His brother will be visiting at the end of the month." Lassiter grimaced. "That's all I need. Every time one of them comes, it takes us a week to calm James down." "Maybe you should let Mr. Tremayne tell him then." "The hell I will," the doctor snarled. "I can just about imagine the glee on that bastard's face as he tells James." He shook his head. "No, I'll tell him. When I think he can handle it, I'll tell him." **** Potholes," Jamie whispered as he lay in his bed, groggy with the thorazine that had claimed him. "Potholes." "Think, Jamie," a voice he seemed to recognize told him. "Imagine where those potholes are." Jamie forced open his drooping eyelids and stared at the dark-haired, brown-eyed man looking down at him. He whimpered. "Go away, Gabe," he said. "Think about the potholes, Jamie," his visitor insisted. "Think about what causes potholes in the road." "No." Jamie squeezed his eyes shut. "You go away!" "Ah, come on, Jamie. Just try to remember about the potholes." He turned his face into the pillow, pulled its softness over his ears to shut out the invisible man's words. The drug was racing through his system, calming him, making him sleepy, waiting to trip him up. He concentrated on the numbness, the hollow sound in his ears, the rushing noise, and tried to ignore his visitor's soft voice. "Potholes, Jamie. What causes potholes?" As he drifted into sleep, the question remained, echoing through his brain. He mumbled the words and let them sink down into oblivion with him, a welcome partner in the darkness. **** "Paddy?" Patrick Tremayne ground his teeth. "Yes, Bridey?" "The authorities in Louisiana are releasing Kristen's body to the mortuary in Baton Rouge today. Papa will have one of his jets there to bring the body home. The Mass will be said this Friday at two o'clock with cremation to follow." His hand tightened on the phone. "Is that what Kristen specified she wanted?"
There was a long moment of silence. "It's what Papa thinks best under the circumstances, Patrick." His sister's voice was cold, as frigid as the snows on Mount Everest. Her next words chilled him to the marrow. "There was very little left of her to be buried." "I'll be there," he answered and hung up the phone, feeling as though he desperately needed a bath. **** Jamie stared at Bruce Lassiter. _Kristen? Dead? Who the hell was Kristen?_ What did she mean to him? He looked away. "Are you all right, Jamie?" Lassiter asked, his eyes squinted with concern. Jamie nodded. He couldn't remember ever knowing anyone named Kristen. _What did it matter if she had died?_ "Your daughter will be taken care of. You don't have to worry about her." Jamie looked back at Lassiter. He had a daughter? No. He would remember if he had. Or would he? If he couldn't remember having a wife named Kristen, how could he expect to remember having a daughter? His dulled senses reacted with puzzlement and he shrugged. None of it seemed to matter. "Are you sure you're all right?" Jamie got up and walked to the door. "May I leave now?" "Have you spoken to James lately, Jamie?" A strange, startled look shot over the young man's face. "Just Gabe." He put his hand on the knob. "May I go, please?" "What did Gabe say to you?" Lassiter was more concerned than ever. The faraway, blank look in his patient's eyes was eerie. "He asked me what causes potholes." Lassiter's brows shot up. "Potholes?" At Jamie's slow nod, the doctor thought he understood. "You mean like holes as in someone's memory?" Jamie shrugged. "I guess." He turned the knob. "May I go?" "Yes." Lassiter sat back in his chair, made a temple with his fingers and stared at the closed door. "You're getting worse, aren't you, son?" he asked quietly. "Much, much worse." **** Kyle saw Jamie Sinclair weaving aimlessly around the day room, stopping to look out the barred windows, running his hand along the chair rail above the wainscoting. There was such a strange look in the young man's eyes, so empty of life, so devoid of energy and alertness, that it was painful to see. As Jamie sank to the floor, his back pressed against the wall, Kyle could see the lack of understanding emblazoned on his face. It was as though he existed on a different plane, in a different dimension from those around him. He appeared oblivious to the comings and goings of the other patients and the staff. He stared straight ahead, eyes dull, face slack, and simply stared. "They told him about his wife," Rebecca whispered as she brought Angelina over to Kyle's table and began to change the doll's diaper. Kyle looked up at her. "He's married?" "He was." Rebecca pulled the fresh diaper on her doll and began to fasten the tabs. "She died." "Recently?" He saw Rebecca nod. She lowered her voice in a conspiratorial manner. "She was murdered." Kyle flinched. "And they told him?" "Uh-huh." Rebecca picked up her doll baby, hooked it over her shoulder, and began patting its back. "But Jamie doesn't remember her." She looked at the young man sitting on the floor. "I do. She was nice. She liked my baby." "She used to visit him?"
"Sometimes. Not often. No one comes to visit him much any more. Not since that mean woman gave him those awful shock treatments." As Kyle's head jerked up and he looked at her, she nodded. "I used to get them, too. I know what they're like." She lowered her voice. "They make you forget things." She shrugged. "Sometimes you remember…" She looked over at Jamie again. "Sometimes you don't." Kyle looked back at Jamie. No wonder the man was so confused. What kind of emotional problems had brought him to The Chancel? What kind kept him there? For the hundredth time, Kyle Vittetoe felt immense sympathy and pity for the young man across the room. **** "Why does he stare at us like that?" Edna Mae asked Kyle. It had been a week since her last visit to her 'son' and Kyle was happy to see her. "Who, Jamie?" He glanced at the man and saw Jamie look away. "He's lonesome, but he won't talk to me. He thinks I might jump him, I guess." "I feel so sorry for him," Edna Mae said. "It just breaks my heart to see anyone that alone." "Rebecca told me he was married, but that his wife was found murdered." Kyle shook his head at Edna Mae's look of horror. "She'd been dead several days when they found her." He glanced at Jamie. "He took it well. I don't think he even remembers having a wife." "Poor thing," Edna Mae said, tearing her eyes away from Jamie Sinclair. There were more important things than the poor man's problems. She lowered her voice. "Have you been able to get outside? To have a look at that bungalow?" Kyle shook his head. "They watch us like hawks. I was hoping maybe you could talk Lassiter into letting you take me out on the grounds. I don't know of any other way." "I'll see what I can do." Her eyes strayed to Jamie Sinclair once more and found him watching her intently. A slow, hesitant smile formed on his face; hope lit his dark eyes. Edna Mae smiled at him, watched his smile widen before he shyly looked back at the cards with which he was playing. Jamie slowly put the red two on the black three. The old lady's smile had made him feel better. He sighed, smiling to himself. She hadn't ignored him as most of the others always did. "Heavy trucks will do it." Jamie looked up. His smiled slipped away. The brown-eyed man was sitting on the edge of the table, his left leg swinging. He glanced toward the old woman, then looked back at Jamie. "Or defective asphalt." He leaned closer to Jamie, who moved back away from the man. "Or sink holes under the asphalt." He nodded. "All those things cause potholes, Jamie." Jamie's hand shook as he laid down the small deck of cards. He fused his dark gaze with the man's steady brown stare. "Please go away, Gabe," he whispered. "Can't do it, Jamie. Not until you remember about the potholes." He folded his arms over his chest. "Can't you think of some other causes for them?" "No!" Kyle glanced at Jamie, saw him staring - no, glaring - straight ahead as though he were looking at someone. He let out a long breath. "Here we go again." Edna Mae tensed, expecting another episode like the week before, but it never came. Instead, she watched as the young man got up from the card table and walked rapidly to his room. "What's wrong with him?" she asked Kyle. Kyle shrugged. "Manic depression they said." "It must be awful," Edna Mae commented. She shook herself, spying Lassiter heading their way. She put on a haughty, demanding face and looked the doctor in the eye. "I'd like to walk outside with my son, Bruce. Do you have any objections to that?"
**** Jamie flung himself down on his bed, his hands digging into the blanket. The word pothole kept echoing in his mind, driving him to a different kind of madness than that which he already knew had claimed him. "Why don't you leave me alone?" he shouted, turning over, curling himself into a fetal ball. "No self-respecting Southern woman would birth no baby in the snow!" There she was, Jamie thought with exasperation. The black woman who didn't like snow. He got tired of her litany about snow. He ignored her. "You need a scoop, Jamie. A scoop shovel will just push the snow right out of your way." Now it was the old lady, the wife of the man who came more often than the others. He ignored her, too, squeezing his eyes shut to keep from seeing her there at the foot of his bed. "I don't know if I can drive in the snow." "Oh, merciful God," Jamie whimpered. Gabe had followed him into his room. He covered his ears with his hands and pushed his face into the mattress, but he could hear the old man speaking softly to him, as though he had crawled inside Jamie's head. "Snow plows sure do make a mess of these roads, don't they, Jamie?" Jamie's eyes opened. "That's right," Gabe told him. "Think about the snow plows! They can cause a hell of a pothole, can't they, Jamie?" His breathing stopped. "You don't have snow plows in the South," the black woman commented. "Don't need 'em. Ain't no snow down here." His heart thudded hard in his chest. "But you got snow plows up north, don't you, Jamie?" the old man asked. "Up where it snows." His eyes widened. "Or out in the Plains States," Gabe injected. "Out in the heartland, Jamie." He drew in a hitching, gasping breath. "Like out in I - O - way," the black woman snapped. Ahead of him, a patch of fog was lifting. He stared at the wall. The dimness was giving way to light. The darkness was receding. Slowly, but surely, the confusion was being pushed away. "That's it, Jamie," he heard the black woman saying. "That's it, baby. You can do it." "Just try, Jamie," the old man encouraged him. "Just keep on trying." "He will, won't you, Jamie?" the old woman asked. "You won't let us down, will you?" "Potholes in the roads, Jamie," Gabe whispered urgently in his ear. "Potholes in the snow-covered roads." The mist wafted, a hole showing at its murky center. The mist pulled back, lurched, blowing away as though a breath of clean, pure air had whistled over it. "Iowa," he whispered, his heart aching. "Yes, Jamie," the old man sighed. "Iowa." He could see a bright, clear sky and rolling hills with every shade of autumn: red and gold, orange and yellow and every shade in between flowing softly across the landscape. An endless vista of clear, smogless, smokeless azure sky was stretching as far as he could see. Overhead, hawks soared on vagrant streams of ever-moving wind. Back on earth, pheasants strutted proudly along rising and falling country lanes; wildflowers grew in profusion; willows spreading their lacy arms over meandering sun-shot silver streams and farm ponds, pussywillows standing sentinel proudly along the shore. Here and there were pastures of feeding cattle, squealing pigs and rollicking sheep. Here and there were tall, shiny-roofed silos, red barns with gambrel roofs, white farm houses with lightning rods along the high ridges of their slate roofs, and white crossbuck fences stretching along the
roadway, and barbed wire fencing in acres upon acres of lush pasture. Here and there were farmers on tractors, waving and smiling, tipping their caps, saying howdy in their slow midwestern twang. Here and there were farm wives, feeding chickens, lifting a hand to acknowledge the beep of a horn. A wedge of Canada geese stitched across the sky, joining the clouds in a garment of wonder. There was the mighty river rolling, and iron spans of arching bridge connecting one glorious vista to another. _The sights of Iowa._ "Iowa," Jamie said as a slow, painful tear eased down his cheek. Fall festivals at the church with the smell of Iowa chops lingering in the air; community breakfasts at the Grange camp; volunteer firemen flipping flapjacks; Knights of Columbus frying fish during Lent; Polish suppers with brats and beer and kolaches, cherry-filled or plump with poppy seed; Amish raisin pie; Kiwanis barbecued chicken; orange roughie and fried cheese and mutton. Fresh corn on the cob and Muscatine melons. The tastes and smells of Iowa. Iowa: A Place To Grow. Iowa: Where The Heartland Begins. Iowa: his home. The way became clear. The way became solid. The way opened for Jamie Sinclair like a rosebud blossoming. "Potholes," he whispered, slowly taking his hands down from his ears. He saw county workmen, slow-moving and joking with one another, filling in the holes with buckets of tar; putting in their hours as they moved from one pothole to another along the road to Rock Creek. He sat up. "Potholes caused by the snow." Rock Creek - where he and Annie had lived. Annie - the woman he loved; the woman who waited for him in Iowa. Who waited for him at home. The only real home he had ever known. "Iowa." It was more a sob than a word. There was no mist in the room now. No mist clouding his eyes, his vision, his memory. A brightness had settled over the room, a lightness that shone like a beacon. "Things flying." His eyes narrowed. _Not the geese. Not the golden hawks or the kestrels._ "Rolling things, Jamie," he heard Gabe whisper. "Rolling away into that godawful snow, baby," the black woman reminded him. "What happens when you roll into a pothole, son?" the old man asked. "Better yet, what rolls away when you hit a pothole, Jamie?" Gabe crooned. Round things. Spinning. Shining as they rolled. Cartwheeling out. Becoming lost. Needing to be replaced. Jamie's eyes narrowed to thin slits of concentration. "Think, Jamie," Gabe insisted. "Think about things that have to be replaced." He was straining so hard to remember. There was something there, lurking just beyond his consciousness, waiting for him. Not hiding to jump out at him and hurt him, but to make him remember. It hovered there. Waited. Patiently. Benignly. Waiting to take him home. "Iowa," Jamie said aloud. "Now think about those things that have to be replaced, Jamie," Gabe insisted. "Think hard now." "There were stacks of them, baby," the black woman reminded. "Stacks and stacks of them." Her voice became urgent. "What were they, baby? What did you have to replace?" _What indeed?_ "Those round, shiny things," the old man whispered. "Wheelcovers," Jamie whispered back, his breath a hard shaft of tension in his chest. "Wheelcovers for who?" the black woman asked. Jamie looked toward his door. He saw the old woman and her son passing in the hall. Saw her glance his way. Smile uncertainly at him. Move out of his line of vision.
"Who is she, son?" the old man asked. "Who is that woman?" "Miss Edna," he sighed, her name like a talisman to ward off the evil surrounding him. And with the name, full awareness returned to James Gabriel Tremayne. ____________________ *Chapter 33* The lush grounds of The Chancel were lovely even in the dead, ash-gray light of winter. The tall sweeping oaks, laden with still-dropping leaves, arched over the brickway behind the mansion, and soughed politely in the errant breeze that played over the grounds. The shrubs were bare, but their shapes were still elegant, their plantings along the grounds in clusters of fours and fives gave evidence of just how beautiful the landscape would be with the return of spring. A hiding sun peeked now and again from behind the gray sky, heating the ground as best it could, chasing away the briskness which made Edna Mae lean into the warmth of Kyle's wool coat. Sunlight wove through the drapes of Spanish moss overhead and splashed over the two people. "I don't see any way to get into that bungalow," Kyle said in a low voice. Edna Mae looked at the red-tiled roof of the little building and shook her head. "Not unless we burst in there with Uzis blazing." Kyle looked down at her. "Uzis, Miss Edna?" He grinned. "Who've you been talking to?" "Galen," Edna Mae sniffed. "He showed me one of those little guns." Kyle chuckled. "It may be little, Miss Edna, but it's loud!" "I like my forty-four," Edna Mae informed him. "That will stop a rogue elephant at twenty paces!" Kyle, who was holding the old woman's hand in the crook of his arm, leaned against her. "You're a bloodthirsty little baggage, aren't you?" "I want my Gabe back," Edna Mae said fiercely. She turned angry eyes to the bungalow. "He's here, Kyle. I can feel it!" Kyle sobered. "I can, too." "We'd better be headin' back, Miss Elise," Cobb called to them for they had ventured too close to the bungalow. "Damn it," Edna Mae swore beneath her breath. She turned, glowering at the black man. "I have to go to the ladies room, Martin. Can I use the facilities in this cottage?" Cobb shook his head. "I don't even have a key to that place, Miss Elise. Only Dr. Lassiter and the nurses go in there." "Who's in there?" Kyle asked, letting go of Edna Mae's hand and walking toward Cobb. "Is this where they're keeping JFK? Or is Jimmy Hoffa in there?" "I don't think so, Mr. David. Just one of Dr. Lassiter's special patients." He lowered his voice as Kyle approached. "I hear the gentleman has leprosy." "Is that so?" Kyle turned his eyes to the bungalow. "They keep his face bandaged and all that?" Cobb shrugged. "I don't know, sir. I ain't never seen the gentleman." "And no one else has either, have they?" Kyle asked. He schooled his face into a wide-eyed wonder of excitement and turned to grasp Edna Mae's arms. "It's Hoffa. That's what happened to him, Mama! They're hiding Jimmy Hoffa here! I bet they've given him a new face and he's in there healing." "Oh, for the love of Pete, David," Edna Mae said with feigned exasperation, rolling her eyes at Cobb. "Do come along before I soil my underthings!" She took his arm and began propelling him back toward the house before the amused look on Cobb's face could settle to perplexity again. **** He watched the old woman saying goodbye to the blond-haired man. The man's name was elusive, but he knew he knew it. It would come to him as the old lady's had. It was only a matter of time. And thought. Now that he was capable of thought.
Edna Mae Menke cocked her head to one side, waiting for the kiss the blond-haired man always gave her on her withered cheek. She fanned her fingers at those mulling around in the day room and left with her black chauffeur. "Delbert," Jamie thought. His name is Delbert and he's the husband of the woman who hates snow. "Be careful, Jamie," the black woman had warned him as he had left his room earlier. She had come out of one of the rooms on his left. _Mary Bernice and Delbert Merrill._ The names flitted through Jamie's mind like a firefly on a late summer's evening. The old man opened the door of one of the rooms on the right and fell in beside Jamie, walking along with him. "Don't let them see you know these people, son." Jake. Jake Mueller is his name and his wife's name is Nora, Jamie remembered. She has this thing about snow shovels. Gabe was following closely behind him, almost on his heels, whispering to him in that soft voice he was capable of using when he wasn't angry at James. "If you tell them who you are, they won't believe you. Just look in the mirror and you'll remember why." Jamie glanced at his reflection as he passed the glass door of the library. He didn't look any different than he had that morning. "It's not Jamie they're looking for," Jake Mueller reminded him. "They're looking for me," Gabe said. "But I am you," Jamie whispered, understanding making his heart throb with fear. "You're all of us," a little boy's voice sounded from far, far away. "You've got to help us all, Jamie." "Go on, son," the old man told him. "Go on out there." Jamie walked down the corridor, his eyes never leaving the brightness that was the day room and the smiling, laughing face of Edna Mae Menke as she was getting ready to leave. "Just remember we love you, Jamie," Nora Mueller told him. "You and Gabe." Jamie stopped at the end of the corridor and looked back, aware that the others had stopped. He waited for them, but they shook their heads in unison. "You don't need us anymore, Jamie," the black woman answered for them all. Gabe lifted a hand. "See you around, old hoss." No, he thought, clarity and purpose chasing away the dullness in his mind. He didn't need them anymore. Not as they had come to him. Not as they were as they began to fade in the corridor behind him. He smiled as the last outlines disappeared, then turned back to look at Edna Mae Menke. "Come again, soon, Miss Elise," Dr. Lassiter was telling her. _Not Edna Mae. No. Her name was Elise. Elise Boudreaux. _He had to remember that. Edna Mae saw the young man staring at her from the corridor and waved at him. Her brows shot up when he lifted a hand and waved back. She smiled and he smiled back. Jamie's eyes followed her from the room, watching until the light green of her stylish wool dress coat was no longer visible. He walked to the window, looking out, wanting to see her car, needing to watch her for as long as he could, but he realized with a pang of sadness that he couldn't see the driveway from this part of the house. He looked back at Kyle. Kyle._ The thought shook him with its sudden appearance. He whispered the name to himself, savoring the strength he drew from it. _Kyle Vittetoe. My best friend._ A lump formed in his throat. They had come for him - Edna Mae, Kyle, Delbert. How many more had journeyed from Iowa? Iowa. Snow. Roads with potholes. Potholes that flung wheelcovers far and wide along county-maintained roads. Wheelcovers that had to be replaced. A gentle smile touched Jamie's lips and he looked around him, trying to see who might be watching. No one was paying particular attention to him. He looked to Kyle. No one was near the man named David Boudreaux.
Jamie began to walk toward his friend. **** "Dr. Lassiter." The call had come in on the scrambler. "Yes, Dr. Lassiter. This is Andrew Tremayne. How are things going down there?" Lassiter frowned. "As well as can be expected under the circumstances." "Has he been informed of the tragedy?" A cold rage filled Bruce Lassiter's body. "Yes, Mr. Tremayne. I've told him." "How'd he take it?" There was humor in the voice. A warning went off in Bruce Lassiter's head. "Not well," he lied. "He had to be sedated." "Really?" Andrew Tremayne actually laughed. "That's sad." "Isn't it?" Lassiter snapped. The muscles in his jaw clenched. "And did you tell him Papa is taking care of Melissa?" Again he lied. "Yes, Mr. Tremayne. I made sure he understood that." "Excellent! So long as he knows the child is being well-cared for, we won't worry, will we?" _Well-cared for? _Lassiter seethed. Like the father had been well-cared for as a child? Would he be seeing James Tremayne's daughter here before too long? "Is there anything else, Mr. Tremayne?" Lassiter forced himself to ask, wanting to get off the phone with the odious man on the other end. "Nothing of consequence. I'll be coming down to visit earlier than expected. Papa has had a minor setback in his health and he wanted to make sure things were running smoothly with James. You can expect me there at the end of the week." "Fine," Lassiter ground out. He was about to hang up when Andrew Tremayne's bombshell dropped like a lead weight. "Oh, by the way, Dr. Lassiter. We'll be relieving you of James when I come." A dark stab of shock drove through Bruce Lassiter. "What? I don't think I heard you." "I said we'll be taking James with us when we leave. I'll settle up with you on his bill at that time." "But why?" Lassiter's eyes shifted back and forth, confusion and fear for Jamie Tremayne's safety and what was left of the young man's sanity tearing into him. "Papa wants him in Miami. Close at hand, so to speak. It's been long enough we can safely transfer him to one of the institutions down here. But that need not concern you, Doctor. I have to run. See you at the end of the week." Bruce Lassiter hung up the phone. "Son-of-a-bitch." ____________________ *Chapter 34* Kyle turned around as Jamie Sinclair touched his shoulder. "What can I do for you, Jamie?" Jamie looked into that face, a face he trusted, a face he had always trusted, a face he had loved as though it had belonged to a brother - a real brother - a brother who cared for him. He stared into those kind eyes that had always laughed with him, cried with him, gleamed at him. He saw those eyes squint with question. Before he could lose his nerve, before someone could make him get away from Kyle, Jamie dredged up all the strength that beloved face and those gentle eyes had always instilled in him and he spoke, his voice gentle, but strong. "I saw your mother driving away." Kyle's eyebrows slanted toward one another. His confusion showed on his face. "I beg your pardon?" Jamie's eyes locked with Kyle's. "I saw her driving away. She hit a pothole out on the road." Kyle laughed, somewhat relieved by the urbanity of Jamie Sinclair's speech, even as he was confused
by it. "She's not a very good driver, I'm afraid." "I know that," Jamie said in a quiet, steady voice. Kyle's smile wavered. Jamie could sense the willingness of Kyle Vittetoe to help someone he knew needed help, could feel Kyle reaching out to him even though he didn't know who it was he was so willing to help. His eyes bored into Kyle's. "Will you listen to me?" Jamie asked. "Will you do something if I ask you to?" "If I can," Kyle said, glancing around them. "She lost a wheelcover," Jamie said, his expression steady. "Your mother lost a wheelcover when she hit that pothole." A look of astonishment crossed Kyle's face. "Really?" Kyle shook his head. "I'm not surprised. She loses quite a few of them." "Will you tell her for me that she lost her wheelcover?" The dark eyes were intent. There was something so bizarre in the way the young man was staring at Kyle so steadily, never blinking, his eyes seeming to be trying to convey a message beyond his words. It was almost eerie the way those eyes had fused with his own and Kyle felt a shiver run down his spine. "Will you tell her?" Jamie repeated, gripping Kyle's shoulder. "Yeah, I'll tell her." The contact of the man's hand on his shoulder had sent a strange flutter through his body. "Sinclair!" Kyle glanced around, saw Beecher heading their way, but Jamie hadn't even flinched, hadn't looked past him, didn't seem to even be aware that the orderly was bearing down on them, his massive shoulders hunched forward in anger, his face suffused with color. "Promise me," Jamie said. "Promise me you'll tell her about the wheelcover." He took away his hand. "Sure," Kyle had time to say before Beecher grabbed Jamie's arm in a punishing grip. The young man's eyes wavered in pain, flickered, but the gaze held. That steady, probing gaze held. As he was jerked away, he did not break that gaze until Beecher shoved him forcefully into a chair and yelled at him not to bother the other patients. Kyle stared in disbelief as he watched Jamie calmly take up the playing cards and begin to shuffle. "Man, oh, man," Kyle whispered. He could still feel that grip through the sleeve of his shirt. His pity deepened for Jamie Sinclair. The man needed more help than he, Kyle, could give him. **** Normally, Edna Mae came to visit her 'son' every other day, but there had been times when nearly a week would pass before she bustled into the day room, her smile like a bright beacon of hope. Jamie had not expected to see her again for at least two days and was pleasantly, uproariously, surprised when she showed up the very next morning. "It is such a glorious day," he heard her say to Kyle. Her smile was effusive. "Too beautiful a day to be inside, David!" She took his arm. "Get your coat and let's walk outside. You stay cooped up in here too much." Jamie saw her glance his way and he smiled. She smiled at him, then turned away. He could feel his heart thudding in his chest as she and Kyle headed outside. "Don't forget, Kyle," he whispered. "Dear God, please don't let him forget." **** Kyle could tell Edna Mae was a bundle of nerves as they left the back steps of the mansion and headed onto the lawns. Her body was rigid in the confines of her coat, her face was set, her hand so tight on his arm it was cutting off his circulation. "Has something happened?" he asked, quietly.
"We had a meeting last night." Her glance went to the bungalow and her face became a rigid mask of fury. "Outside of a commando raid on this damned place, no one could think of a way for us to get inside that bungalow." Her voice was quivering with outrage, her eyes gleaming. "Calm down," he warned, looking behind them to the other black orderly, Harrison, who was following. "Did you talk to Thais?" "Of course I talked to Thais," Edna Mae mimicked. She looked up at Kyle with a vengeance of offended womanhood. "Who did you think I'd call - James Bond?" Kyle sighed. The little woman was spitting mad and itching for a fight. He wanted to take her mind off things for a moment, calm her down. "You'd better be more careful driving around out here, Mama." He shook a finger at her. "You don't want to get a ticket." He saw Harrison glance their way, snort at the remark, then look away. Edna Mae snatched a dead leaf from the live oak tree and crushed it between her fingers. Kyle's words weren't even registering with her. "Did you find your wheel cover?" Edna Mae stopped, his inane patter finally invading her anger. She glared up at him. "What the hell are you talking about?" Kyle shrugged. "Jamie came over to me yesterday and said he saw you when you drove off. He saw you hit a pothole and lose one of your wheelcovers. I told him you weren't much of a driver." Edna Mae's face looked as though it were close to a hot oven. The red infused on her cheeks fairly radiated heat. "I wasn't even driving yesterday. Delbert was, as usual, and don't you go telling some stranger about what kind of driver I am, young man!" "Touchy, aren't we?" Kyle teased. At her unladylike snort, he nudged her with his shoulder. "One of these days, they're going to stop giving you your license." "Will you shut up?" Edna Mae snapped at him. She squinted her eyes in annoyance and lowered her voice to a hiss. "Such foolishness won't take my mind off that damned bungalow!" "A promise is a promise and I kept mine." "What are you babbling about?" "You know how Jamie is. You've seen him when he goes off the deep end. He made me promise I'd tell you about the wheelcover and I did." Kyle put an arm around her, feeling her tense against him. He hugged her. "It seemed so important to him that I tell you you had lost a wheelcover. He made me swear I would. I couldn't go back on my word." Edna Mae opened her mouth to vent her anger, but Kyle put a finger to her lips, trying to make her laugh as he wagged his brows at her. "I didn't know you were such a bad driver," he teased. "Did you aim at that pothole? You'd better just take it nice and slow, like an old lady's suppose to drive from now on. I doubt they have a supply of wheelcovers that would fit the limo down here." His eyes crinkled, expecting her to join in his mirth, but her eyes widened in what he thought was absolute fury. "Now, Mama," he had a chance to warn before her fingers dug into his arm, eliciting a startled yelp from him. "Tell me exactly what he said," Edna Mae ordered, jerking on Kyle's arm and pulling him down to a stone bench beside the lily pond. She sat beside him. "Tell me what he said!" "Who?" "Jamie," Edna Mae spat, lowering her voice. She took a deep breath, calmed herself, and looked at Kyle. "I want to know everything that was said." Her grip was so tight on Kyle's arm, her knuckles had bled of their color. "He just said he saw you driving off yesterday and that you lost a wheelcover. He was so insistent I tell you, it gave me the willies." He remembered the look on Jamie's face. "That's the first time he's ever spoken to me without me speaking first. It was strange." He looked at Edna Mae and saw her staring across the grounds to the mansion. "What's the matter?" Edna Mae stood, her face was stark white, her mouth open, her eyes staring at him. He glanced at Harrison and saw that the black man wasn't paying attention. He lowered his voice. "What's the matter? You look like you've seen a ghost."
Edna Mae swallowed, her eyes closing, opening, staring at Kyle. Kyle came to his feet, concerned, and helped her to sit. "Edna Mae?" he asked, wincing at the name he had used. "Mama," he corrected. "Are you all right?" "Dear merciful Jesus," Edna Mae mumbled as she bent forward, her face in her hands. Kyle switched his eyes to Harrison, but the man wasn't even aware something was happening. He pulled Edna Mae into his arms. "Tell me," he insisted. "Is it your heart?" Her eyes lifted to his. "Oh, Kyle," she whispered. "Kyle, he's here." She looked toward the mansion. "I'm going to get Dr. Lassi - " "No," Edna Mae commanded. Her hand clutched his arm. "If you're sick…" Her eyes bore into his. "Isn't one of Gabe's brother's a plastic surgeon?" Kyle's eyes narrowed. "I don't…" "Andrew." She shook her head. "No, Patrick! Patrick Tremayne. He's down in Orlando. One of the best, they say. 'Cosmetologist to the Stars' the tabloids call him." She pulled sharply on Kyle's arm. "They say he can change a person's face so completely their own mother won't even recognize them!" "What has that got to do with - " "Think, damn it," she hissed. "Who would've known about me losing wheelcovers all the time, Kyle? I haven't driven since we've been down here and there aren't any wheelcovers on that damned limo. It has those fancy wire rims! I couldn't have lost one unless I lost the whole damned car!" Kyle stared at her, not understanding. Her face was chalk-white, twin red spots of heat high on her cheeks. Her lips were trembling. He was beginning to think she was having a seizure of some sort when her next words stunned him to complete immobility and breathlessness. "He stares at us all the time. All the time! He knew us. He recognized us, but we didn't recognize him." Her eyes closed. "How could we?" When her eyes opened, she looked into Kyle's. "They've changed his face." Kyle let out a long breath. The poor old lady was grasping at straws, going as around the bend as the patients at The Chancel. He put sympathy and firmness in his voice. "Miss Edna, if you're thinking Jamie is Gabe, you're wrong. Even if they had given him a new face, you can't change a person's eye color." "Norma Collins had cataract surgery on her eyes and she got brown lenses instead of the clear ones her doctor advised. Turned her eyes an entirely different color!" She snorted. "Ugly color at that." Kyle winced. She had him there. "But the voice isn't the same, Miss Edna. When he was talking to me yesterday, don't you think I'd have recognized Gabe's voice?" Edna Mae looked away from him. "They could have changed that, too. It makes sense, Kyle! Just in case he ever tried to call Annie and tried to reach her. She'd have thought it was a hoax." "You're letting mere supposition, wishful thinking - " "There's one way to tell for sure," she snapped, standing. Her eyes were set, militant. He got up and took her arm as she started to stomp off. "How you going to do that? You can't just go up to him and - " Edna Mae raked him with her angry eyes. "Just watch!" **** Jamie glanced up from his game as Edna Mae and Kyle came back into the day room. From the way Kyle's eyes jerked to his then away, from the look he'd seen in Kyle's eyes, he knew his old friend had told Edna Mae about the wheelcover. He wasn't the least surprised when she headed his way, her eyes steady on him. "Are you winning?" she asked, placing herself between him and the rest of the room. She put her hands on the card table, leaning down to see the spread of playing cards. Her eyes lifted up to his and held. "I'm trying to," he managed to answer.
Edna Mae smiled at him and was rewarded with a hesitant smile. "I'm a solitaire player myself." Her fingers edged toward one of the aces at the top of the table. "Do you win often, Jamie?" Jamie glanced down, saw her hand covering the ace of diamonds, though not touching its surface. He looked at her and felt rather than saw her pick up the card carefully between her thumbnail and ring finger nail and slide it toward the edge of the table. His eyes shifted, saw no one watching them, then lifted to hers. "Yes, ma'am," he answered. "I win most of the time." "That's nice." She straightened up, slid her hands into the pockets of her wool coat, the ace of diamonds disappearing from sight. She smiled at him, took her hands from her pockets and turned away. As she did, her handbag slid from her shoulder and fell to the floor. Jamie picked up the bag and handed it to her, his eyes never leaving hers. "Why, thank you, sir." She batted her lashes. "I always rely on the kindness of strangers." Jamie blinked. "If you were thirty years older…" She let the statement hang in the air. "It's not nice to make fun of folks, Missus Boudreaux." His eyes filled with moisture. Edna Mae let out a breath. Her lips twitched once, then went still as she turned rapidly away. Jamie's eyes followed her as she made her way to the door, motioning for Delbert to follow. A part of him wanted to cry out to her, to beg her to stay, to talk to him, to touch him, to take him in her arms and tell him everything was going to be all right. Even as the door closed, shutting him off from her, Jamie could feel the old woman's love like the crackling flames of a comforting fire in winter. **** From his office doorway, Bruce Lassiter had followed the exchange with growing certainty. His eyes slid to David Boudreaux, saw him trying not to look at Jamie, came back to rest on Jamie, who was smiling, then leapt back to Boudreaux. There was a tension in the Georgia man that hadn't been there until today. Bruce Lassiter knew he had a problem. ____________________ *Chapter 35* Thais sprinkled the powder over the playing card, careful not to touch the surface. He didn't think he could get a good print. The cards were well-worn, the edges curled and split. If he got anything, it was likely to be a partial, and that of Edna Mae Menke's. He'd never been that good at forensics. "You want me to do it, Thais?" Galen asked. "Just let him do his job," Edna Mae snapped, waiting for Thais to finish. "There's a good thumb print here," Thais finally said. He looked up at Edna Mae. "Did you put your thumb on this?" Edna Mae shook her head. "Compare them with Gabe's fingerprints you got from Sadler," she insisted. Her annoyance mounted as Thais looked at Galen. "Will you hurry?" Thais unfolded the sheet containing James Gabriel Tremayne's military service fingerprints and slid the playing card with its coating of pencil lead shavings beside the thumb print the Air Force had used on Tremayne's ID card. He squinted his eyes, comparing the two prints. The wait seemed eternal for Edna Mae. "Well?" Thais Dupree looked at her. "It's Jamie Tremayne's print." She repeated the name. "Jamie." Up until that moment, she hadn't connected Jamie Sinclair to James Gabriel Tremayne - Jamie Tremayne. "Are you okay, Miss Edna?" Galen asked, worry rampant in his gravelly voice. As she looked up at him, tears in her eyes, he put his hand out to her. "Give me the phone," she ordered, almost completely unaware of Delbert's and Mary Bernice's eyes
on her as well as Thais' and Galen's. As Galen gave her the phone, she let out a calming breath and dialed. **** Nora Mueller answered the phone on the third ring. "Nora, it's Edna Mae. Let me speak to her." Something in her friend's voice told Nora not to hesitate. She ran to the screen door, yelling to Annie who was walking back from the mailbox. "Annie! It's Edna Mae!" Annie James looked up, her breath catching in her throat, the mail falling from her hands. For a second she didn't move, then her legs began pumping on the driveway, carrying her faster than they ever had before. She slammed through the opened door Nora held for her, grabbed up the phone. "Miss Edna?" she breathed, heart racing. "We've found him, dear," Edna Mae said in a calm voice. "We've found Gabe and I've talked to him. Annie?" There was a slight hesitation, a fear racing along the phone line from Iowa to Louisiana. "Yes?" "He's all right, dear. He's all right." **** He was going to be all right. All right. Jamie took in a long, wavering breath and sat back in the chair. Kyle had gone to his room, a look passing between the two men that said more than words ever could have. _You're not sure who I am_, Jamie thought, but Edna Mae knows. He looked down at the fifty-one cards on his table and smiled. A snatch the Statler Brothers' "playing solitaire 'til dawn with a deck of fifty-one," flitted through his mind and he nearly chuckled. She'd take the card to someone she trusted - maybe Virgil, if he was here - and they'd somehow check his fingerprints. They'd find out it was him. And they would be back. They would get him out of this place. They would take him back to Iowa. _Back to Annie._ A deep unease slid the smile from his face and he looked around needing to see who might be watching him, taking note, keeping an eye on Liam Tremayne's 'problem.' No one was looking his way. No one spying on him. He relaxed. "Be careful," he heard a faint childlike voice warning him. "Watch your step. Don't give yourself away." He scooped the cards into a pile and stood, gathering them to him. He pushed back from the table and was about to return to his room when Dr. Lassiter called to him. "Jamie?" He flinched, wary as he turned to face the man. "Yes, sir?" He could feel his body quivering. Lassiter stared at him. "May I see you, please?" He walked into his office as if expecting Jamie to follow. There was something chilly about the way the man had looked at him, Jamie thought as he dropped the cards in the pocket of his robe. He glanced around and saw Cobb looking at him with curiosity. He shrugged. Lassiter was standing at the window, his back to the door when Jamie came in. "Close the door behind you, Jamie." A vague trill of unease fluttered down Jamie's spine as he shut the door and waited for the doctor to
speak. He was more than aware of his clammy hands and too-rapid breath. When Lassiter turned around and held out his hand, Jamie felt like running. "Give me the cards, Jamie." He stalled for time to think, something he had, up until that morning, been incapable of doing in a rational manner. For months he had been lost in a fog he hoped never to enter again. "I don't understand, Dr. Lassiter," he mumbled. An immediate frown appeared on the doctor's face. "Yes, you do." He stepped from around the desk. "Give me the cards in your pocket." The vague trill of unease became a shudder of fear. "Why?" The fog was hovering just at the edge of his vision. Lassiter smiled. He reached into his own pocket and pulled out a brand new deck of playing cards, the cellophane wrapper intact, and extended it toward Jamie. "Because Mrs. Boudreaux wanted me to give you these." He held out the cards. "She sent them to you." Jamie's heart missed a beat as he took the cards. He glanced down at them, then up at the doctor. The lie came easily. "My old deck is missing a card." He fumbled in his pocket and withdrew the battered deck. He held them out to Lassiter the way a small child would have, a nervous smile twitching at his lips. Bruce Lassiter nodded. "I expect that's why she sent you a new one, don't you?" There was something strange in the doctor's eyes, but Jamie couldn't read it. He put the new deck of playing cards in his pocket. "May I go now?" He wanted desperately to get out of the room before the fog chose to roll closer to him. Lassiter smiled. "Certainly." Jamie was almost out the door when Lassiter spoke again. He turned. "You're a lucky man, Jamie." "Sir?" The fog slipped closer. "To have such good friends." He dropped the battered playing cards into his metal wastebasket, took a box of kitchen matches from his desk drawer and slid one wooden match from the red box. He struck it and dropped the blazing torchlet into the wastebasket. As flames leapt from the wastebasket, Lassiter tossed the match box back into his drawer. "We wouldn't want anyone to come across that deck with a card missing, now, would we?" Alarm shot through Jamie like summer heat lightning stepping down through the heavens. It jolted him, staggered him, and he clutched at the door. His heart thudded once, heavily and painfully in his chest, and he caught in his breath, not daring to breathe as he stared at the doctor. _He knows._ _He knows Edna Mae took the card!_ "That'll be all, Jamie," Lassiter said, turning around, facing the window. "Dr. Lassiter…" he began, but the man held up a hand. "Close the door behind you, will you?" He looked over his shoulder. "No one needs to know our business now, do they?" His smile was filled compassion before he turned away again. **** "Dick? Thais. Move it out!" **** "Mrs. Carol Cean's room, please." Mary Bernice Merrill wiped her eyes. Sweat dripped down her forehead as she stood in the telephone booth. "Mrs. Cean?" she asked as Ellen Vittetoe answered on the first ring. "This is Mrs. Snow from the Hawkeye Agency. Your apartment will be ready this Friday."
**** "Jake? This is Del. Let her roll." Jake Mueller slammed down the phone and hurried to the bathroom door. He opened it and stuck his head in, squinting against the steam wafting around him. "Hey, Mel! We got the call. Gotta be there by Thursday. We move the shipment Friday night." **** Doc Remington hung up the phone at the motel and looked around at Edna Mae. "The ball is rolling." **** "Dr. Tremayne? This is Dr. Lassiter. May I have a word with you?" Patrick threw down the article he'd been reading. He sat forward over his desk, clutching the receiver. "What's happened to him now?" "Your brother is fine," Lassiter spoke into the scrambler. "He's sleeping." "Something's wrong or you wouldn't be calling," Patrick snapped. The slight hesitation on the other end of the line made him furious. "Tell me!" "Are you aware your sister is having him moved this weekend?" The chair in which Patrick had been sitting crashed against the wall of his office with enough force to dent the sheetrock and knock a painting from the side wall. "Who told you that?" he shouted. "Your brother called me yesterday. I take it you have not been informed." "I certainly was not." Bruce Lassiter let out a long breath. "You seem to bear a stronger attachment to your brother than either Dr. Casey or Mr. Tremayne. I thought perhaps you might be able to help me make a decision here, Doctor. A decision I think might best serve James' interests." Fury such as Patrick had never known was gripping him like the talons of a ravaging beast. He was aware of his heart thudding in his chest, of the way his breath was coming in hard, shallow gasps, of the way his hand was gripping the phone. "What kind of decision?" he managed to ask through the constriction of his grinding teeth. Again there was a slight hesitation before the psychiatrist spoke. "There are certain - shall we say considerations? - that might need to be rethought. Do you understand me?" Patrick's brows drew together in a deep frown. "No, I don't think I - " "Your brother has just recently formed a strong attachment to a new patient. The gentleman hails from Georgia, but he has such a heavy twang you'd swear he was from out west somewhere." "A midwestern twang, would you say?" Patrick asked, his heart skipping a beat. "That would be my guess." Patrick closed his eyes. "And you think this new patient might be able to help my brother?" "It would be a shame to separate them, don't you think? Especially now Jamie has found himself a friend. A friend who might be able to take Jamie away from his problems." Patrick gripped the phone even harder. "Are you aware of the position this puts you in, Doctor?" Bruce Lassiter sighed. "I am, but for once in my life, Dr. Tremayne, I believe I'm doing what is best for my patient." He cleared his throat. "I like your brother, Dr. Tremayne. I think he's been dealt a rather cruel hand. A hand he doesn't deserve." Another eloquent pause sizzled on the telephone wire. "Am I correct in that assumption, Dr. Tremayne?" "You sure as hell are." Only a fragment of worry crossed Patrick's mind as he wondered if the doctor in Louisiana was setting him up. Any man who crossed Liam Tremayne was either very stupid or very shrewd. Or his conscious had gotten the best of him.
He hoped for Jamie's sake it was the latter. "What do we do to see my brother is helped, Dr. Lassiter?" "Can you see the considerations are rethought then?" "I don't see how I can. If I hire someone to go down there, my family will know about it almost immediately. I don't know how to contact those who are there or even know how many are involved. If I call out west, I can't be assured the message will reach them in time. Isn't there someone there you can speak to?" Lassiter let out another long, edgy breath. "I can try, Dr. Tremayne." "You will let me know when things are back to normal?" The psychiatrist's voice wavered. "If I am able to, yes." He hung up. Patrick Tremayne slowly replaced the receiver and did something he hadn't done in a long, long time. He knelt on the floor of his office and began to pray. **** Mel Vanderwoode shifted his semi into gear and the big rig rolled up the westbound ramp and onto the interstate. He glanced at Jake, smiled, and slid his eyes back to the road. "I ain't been this antsy since I asked Nora to marry me," Jake confessed. He put his thumbnail in his mouth and began to chew. "I ain't been this excited since I beat Van Wyck's outta that government contract," Mel said and chuckled. He began to whistle the University of Northern Iowa fight song. Jake looked out the window at the bleak Alabama landscape. He would never get used to the monotony of the scrub oaks and overgrown bushes along the roadways. There was nothing scenic along Interstate 10. Nothing worth looking at. It was the dullest, most bland sight he could ever remember having to endure. It made him even more nervous. "Don't they get bored driving out here?" he asked. Mel shrugged. "They're boring people." He patted the map on the seat between them. "Tell me what exit that rest area is near where we're supposed to meet up with Dick and Jenny." Jake picked up the map and unfolded it. Lifting up his glasses, he peered down at the map. "Looks like we'll be coming up on it right soon." He looked up, glancing briefly at the road sign they were passing. "Yep. Next one will do it." "What you wanna bet Dick's gonna be late getting here?" Mel groused. "You ever play golf with that man? I can have four drinks at The Oak Room before he even pulls in the parking lot!" "What you bet he won't?" Jake queried. Mel looked over at Jake. "Ten'll get you twenty." "Twenty'll get you thirty!" Jake shot back. "I'll cover that," Mel said with a laugh. He smoothly shifted the big rig, his foot coming off the clutch with professional ease. Jake nodded. "Don't you pay attention to the traffic around you, Mel?" "When I need to." "Well, I suggest you pay closer attention. That inattention just cost you thirty dollars!" Jake pointed to the vehicle that moved past them in the passing lane. Mel groaned as Jenny Warrington waved up at him. He waved back, flashed his lights twice to let Dick know he could safely pull into the lane ahead of him and turned his grimace to Jake. "That wasn't fair, Jacob Mueller." "Life ain't fair, Melvin Vanderwoode," Jake replied. **** Jamie curled up in his bed that evening and let the drug carry him away. He didn't even try to fight it.
For the first time in a long, long time, he felt content. Not even Beecher's angry stare as he'd poked his head in to check on Jamie could dispel the warmth that had settled around Jamie Tremayne. Not even the funny looks he kept getting from Dr. Lassiter could shake the firm foundation of sanity that Jamie was beginning to rebuild under his shaky legs. Turning his face into his pillow, he hid the satisfied smile that knowing he had people who cared about him brought to his lips. "You're going to be all right," he whispered. "All right." "Just what is it you think those people are going to be able to do for you?" Jamie jerked, his head coming up from the pillow, his face blanching of color. Jimmy, the hard-eyed, flint-tough persona who had shown up to protect James from Gabe was standing at the foot of his bed. The pale brown of the apparition's eyes were cold as ice and filled with contempt. "What… what do you mean?" Jamie asked, sitting up. Jimmy propped his foot on the foot board of the hospital bed and leaned his arms over the bottom railing. He cocked his head to one side. "So they're here," Jimmy said. "They've found you. What do you think they can do about it?" A shiver of dread began at the base of Jamie's neck and crawled down his spine, lodging like a burrowing insect in his gut. "They can get me out of here," Jamie replied. He flinched at the snort of derision from his alter-ego. "And what then, Jamie? What's your family gonna be doing while these do-gooders whisk you back to Iowa?" A lethal smile began to pull at Jimmy's hard mouth. "Think about it, Jamie. Just think about it." "I'll hide. I'll take Annie and go where they can't find me." Jimmy shook his head. "They found you once. They'll find you again." He lowered his foot and stepped back from the bed. "I'll go where they can't find me," Jamie cried. His eyes shifted back and forth, searching for a way, looking for the opening that would see him to safety. Jimmy turned his back and walked to the door. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. The smile on his face slowly slid off. "You just might be able to find a place they won't think to look, but what about the people who came here to help you?" His eyes turned a piercing sapphire brown. "Where are they gonna hide, Jamie?" Jamie's warmth began to fade away. **** Thais Dupree and Galen Whitney briefed the two law enforcement officers who would be riding shotgun. Speaking in low whispers, their eyes taking in those who were also stopped at the rest area just across the Alabama-Florida line, the men finalized their part in the coming plan. "You know where the exit is?" Thais asked and the Florida patrolman nodded. He turned his head to the other law officer and the woman smiled at him, her mouth a tight grin of sarcasm. "Are you sure?" "Get bent, Dupree," the Alabama policewoman sneered. She hitched up her low-riding jeans. "I'll meet you men right where I'm supposed to. I'll do what I need to do for Jamie Tremayne." Flinging her long braid behind her, she stalked off, her hips snug in the clutch of her jeans. "She's something," the Florida patrolman said. There was a wistful expression on his broad, ruddy face. Thais and Galen exchanged a look. There would be more than a combined agency endeavor where those two were concerned. "Keep your mind on business, Williams. We don't want no mistakes," Galen reminded the Florida patrolman. "There won't be none," the Florida officer replied. He watched the Alabama woman until her car merged onto the interstate. "I hope not," Thais answered. "We sure as hell can't afford to let anything go wrong." The Florida lawman turned his eyes back to Thais. "Jamie Tremayne saved my life." His eyes narrowed. "Do you think I'd let anything interfere with my job in helping get him back where he belongs?"
Galen shook his head. "No more than any of us would." **** Ellen Vittetoe signed the car rental ticket, giving her false name and handing over the Louisiana license The Badger had supplied. She took the keys from the counter girl and smiled. "Y'all have a nice trip, you hear?" the girl said in a breezy voice. "We will," Ellen answered. Once she was inside the silver car, Ellen unfolded the sheet of instructions, glanced up to get her bearings, and refolded the sheet. She put the key in the ignition and drove out of the lot. She had fifty miles of driving before she could rendezvous with the others. **** Kyle was so nervous waiting for Edna Mae to come back, he couldn't sleep. Glancing down at his watch, he grunted with spite when he saw it was close to three in the morning. It might be another day before she showed up again and he didn't think he could wait that long to find out if Jamie Sinclair was really Gabe James. He couldn't very well go up to the man and ask him. Obviously Jamie could see that. As a matter of fact, Jamie had not been out of his room since Edna Mae left. There had been no contact with him at all. Turning onto his side, Kyle viciously punched his pillow, punched it again, still again, then sat up running his hand over his sweaty face. Throwing the covers aside, he got up, stalked to the barred window and looked down at the moonlit gardens. "Don't keep me waiting, Edna Mae," he snarled. "I can't take this not knowing." But what if Jamie was Gabe? he thought. The knowledge that he very well could be sent shivers of pain through Kyle Vittetoe. He'd seen how Jamie Sinclair was treated; how he wasn't treated; how horribly insecure the man was. He'd seen the outbursts of irrationality that brought swift retaliation from the staff. In the weeks he had been here, he had witnessed Beecher's cruelties that had seemed harmless enough until he thought about them. That those cruelties might have been practiced on his best friend set Kyle's teeth on edge. He jammed his fist into his palm and wished it was Beecher's beefy face. "Oh, God, Gabe," Kyle whispered, leaning his forehead against the window sill. "I'll make them wish they'd never found you!" The dark night was as bleak as the pain inside Kyle Vittetoe's heart. It was going to be a long time 'til morning. **** Annie James couldn't sleep. She'd tried reading, but the words all blurred together. She'd tried hot milk and gotten heartburn. She'd tried counting sheep. Gabe's face kept intruding, glowing out of the darkness at her with hope lighting his beautiful brown eyes. Finally, she had risen, put on a pot of coffee and resigned herself to another sleepless night among many. Since Edna Mae's call, Annie had not been able to sleep. Or eat. Or concentrate. She had not been able to sit still. Or lie still. Or rest. She could not answer the daily phone calls of friends checking up on her, she'd had all her calls forwarded to Nora's. "Don't let on to nobody that we've found him," Edna Mae had cautioned. "We can't take the chance of his family finding out. They'll move him for sure." So she sat. By the phone. For as long as she could before jumping up and pacing. She lay down, her
eyes on the phone, willing it to ring, hoping to hear Gabe's voice on the other end. Waiting to tell him she loved him. "His wife's dead, Annie," Edna Mae had told her. "Somebody killed her." But all Annie could think of was one bit of information - he was free. The thought kept looping through her mind like a computer program that had crashed. It thrilled her and it made her more than ever aware that she and Gabe James - no, James Gabriel Tremayne - had never been legally wed. Their wedding vows, spoken from hearts filled with great love, had never been sanctioned legally. She prayed they all lived to correct that problem. **** "I want you," the voice wheezed, "to move him out of there." Another wheeze. "Thursday night." Andrew Tremayne rolled his eyes. "Papa, I've got to be in court Thursday. All day. I can't leave here until after - " "Thursday night!" Liam Tremayne screamed into the phone. A liquid fit of coughing followed his outburst and he sucked in great gasps of breath before he could speak again, his voice hoarse and filled with utter contempt. "Do you hear me, Andrew? No later than Thursday night." Andrew R. Tremayne knew something he didn't think his father did - the old man was dying. His latest bout with the lung cancer he had been fighting for five years had taken a great chunk out of the old man's life expectancy. There would soon be a new CEO at the Tremayne Group. "Papa," Andrew soothed. "Don't worry. I'll do it. You just rest, and let me and Bridie take care of everything." "I want him here," Liam Tremayne growled into the phone. "I want him where I can see him!" "Yes, Papa. We'll take care of it." "Thursday," the old man said and coughed, wheezing in his next breath as though it would be his last. "I'll do just what you say." After the connection with Miami was broken, Andrew sat back in his chair and smiled. It wouldn't be long before the reins of the largest crime syndicate in the southeast was firmly in his grip. The only thing he had to worry about was Bridget's unladylike ambition. _It just wouldn't do._ Not at all. A deep scowl marred Andrew's handsome face. Someone would have to take care of Bridie and her insane hope of being the hand that would wield the power at the Tremayne Group. He sat forward and circled Thursday, February 20th with a red felt-tip pen several times. "And when you're out of the way, Papa," he said, sitting back in his chair, "and Bridie is out of the picture - " He put a large cross mark through the date he had circled. " - I'll get rid of James." Andrew R. Tremayne didn't consider Patrick Tremayne a problem. **** "Mr. Giafaglione, please. Patrick Tremayne calling." Carmine 'Cheech' Giafaglione picked up the phone at his Long Island estate and listened intently to the son of his worst enemy. He jotted down a few names, addresses, then hung up. "Can he be trusted, boss?" Frankie Pearl asked the man whose life he was sworn to protect. "Never trust a man who would sell out his own father, Frank," Cheech answered. He handed the paper on which he had written down three addresses to his bodyguard. "Check this out and let me know what you think." "You want I should make a few calls? Maybe have some guys standing by?" Cheech Giafaglione shrugged. "Wouldn't hurt." He smiled. "Somebody from out on the coast maybe. Not local boys."
"I'll take care of it, boss." ____________________ *Chapter 36* Edna Mae's eyes were worried as she took the phone from Mary Bernice. "Yes?" she answered, her voice little more than a whisper. "Mrs. Boudreaux, there is an urgent matter I need to discuss with you as soon as possible." Bruce Lassiter put firmness in his quaking voice. "Normally, I'd wait until your next visit to your son, but I fear this is of such an immediate nature, time is most assuredly of the essence. Can you get here this morning?" Her mind racing, Edna Mae sat on the bed in her suite at the New Orleans hotel and stared at Doc Remington across the room. "May I ask what this is in reference to, Dr. Lassiter?" "I would rather not discuss your son's case over the telephone, Mrs. Boudreaux, but I would ask that you make arrangements to remove him from the clinic this afternoon." Edna Mae gasped. "Please, Mrs. Boudreaux. I must see you as soon as possible. I must explain to you why I can not continue having David here." "I can't just move him on a moment's notice, Dr. Lassiter!" Edna Mae said, aware of the other eyes in the room rounding with shock. "I have to - " "Mrs. Boudreaux," Lassiter interrupted. "We are transferring James Sinclair tonight around ten or so. His family will be here at that time and I have to deal with them. It is imperative you make arrangements to remove David before the Sinclairs arrive. I'm sure you understand it's quite taxing to dismiss two patients at the same time, and since Mr. Sinclair is a rather impatient individual, I'll need to make every effort possible to keep him happy." "Jamie is being transferred?" Edna Mae understood all too well. The Merrills and Doc Remington stood, their faces filled with alarm. "You see the necessity of coming up here right away, don't you?" Lassiter asked. "I'll be there in twenty minutes!" **** "You don't know if the bastard can be trusted," Thais yelled into the phone. "We don't know that he can't," Doc shot back. "What choice do we have, Dupree? If Gabe's really being transferred, they might take him out of the country to somewhere we'll never find him. We can't take that chance." "Why the hell do you think they're moving him, Remington?" Thais yelled back. "Hasn't it occurred to any of your cornshukers that the Tremaynes might've caught on to Vittetoe? That they know who he is and why he's at the clinic! My God, man, think before you go running out there!" "We've thought about all that, but we're not going to risk losing Gabe again. Now, either you're with us, or you're not. We've got to change all the plans and move them up a day. That's not going to be easy, but it sure as hell will be nigh impossible without your help!" Thais cursed, his burst of vulgarity exploding across the line. He looked at Galen Whitney, who shrugged. Turning back to the phone, he pressed the receiver tightly to his ear, speaking into the mouthpiece as though his words were meant to pierce Doc Remington's soul. "We'll take care of things on this end, but if this is a setup, Remington, I'll see you regret it to your dying day!" Dupree slammed down the phone as hard as he could. **** "Are you all right back there, Miss Edna?" Delbert asked. He was watching his passenger through the
mirror as she sat huddled in the far left side of the limo's rear seat. Edna Mae looked up and met Del's gaze in the glass. "Are you a religious man, Delbert?" "Yes, ma'am. I was brought up to be." "What religion are you?" "Baptist, Miss Edna. Southern Free Will." He smiled. "Hellfire-and-Brimstone Baptist." Edna Mae nodded. "Do you believe in the Holy Spirit?" "I do," Del answered gravely. "Don't you?" Edna Mae let out a long sigh. "I'm Catholic, Del, and Our Creed, says: 'We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life.' I've always believed there was a Holy Spirit somewhere up there looking after us. I'm not so arrogant I think my God is the only God, Del, but I believe there is only one Holy Spirit. He might be called God or Mohammed or Buddha or Jehovah or Wankantanka. Only He knows what His true name is." She shook her head. "For all we know, it might be Irving." Delbert grinned. "The thing is," Edna Mae continued, "Whoever or Whatever He is, we need Him right now." Her eyes misted. "Do you recite the Lord's Prayer at your church, Del?" "We sure do, Miss Edna." Delbert Merrill felt his throat constricting. The old woman's voice broke as she asked, "Will you say it with me, my friend?" **** Calls were made to Ellen Vittetoe; Dick and Jenny Warrington; Jake and Mel; Dr. Alec Gardner; The Badger; Virgil Kramer; Nora Mueller; the two law enforcement officers who would be running interference; two more Federal and local agents who were involved deeply in the effort to rescue Gabe James. The telephone lines buzzed with code words, with plans moved forward, with unspoken worries best left unsaid. In Iowa, on her knees in a small town church, Annie James looked up into the serene face of the Virgin Mary and felt a calm she could not explain. The statue's gentle eyes and flawless stone expression of sympathy seemed to be a comfort hard to dismiss as Annie clutched her Rosary beads. "Blessed Mother," Annie prayed, her lips barely moving with the words. "Please protect him. He needs your help. I can't help him right now." Tears fell down her cheeks as she looked at the statue. "I can't do anything to help our friends either. Please, please, intercede with your Son. Please add your prayers to mine and help us bring Gabe home." Long ago, a precocious Annie Cummings had been taught by her very wise mother that the best way to a man's heart was not through his stomach, but through his mother. Once you had the mother on your side - once you had her nod of approval - it was easy to gain the son's attention because his mother would be in your corner, rooting for you. That belief had only been reinforced by the ancient, little priest who had blessed Annie's first communion. "Sure, and wasn't it the Lady who kept Him in line when His head got a wee bit swollen there at Canaan? Aye, and wasn't it Herself who put Him in the mind of multiplying the fishes and loaves?" The Irishman had grinned his leprechaun twist of the lips and had pointed to the little boys and girls in the First Communion class. "And isn't it Herself you need to be praying to when you need a wee bit of help to make a point with Him? It don't hurt, lads and lassies. No, don't hurt none at all, at all!" Annie felt a presence beside her and looked up. "Do you mind if I pray with you, Annie?" the parish priest asked. Annie reached out a hand to the man. **** Liam Tremayne sagged against the pillows behind his back and glared at the falling rain outside his hospital window. His chest was on fire with pain making him pant and causing him to clutch the covers
over his legs with harder and harder grips to keep from moaning aloud. The demerol they were giving him could not seem to dull the spreading disease eating its way through his lungs. The doctors had done all they could, they'd said. When the pain became too tough to stand, the demerol would become morphine, injected intravenously. "I want to go home," he'd yelled at the young oncologist who had dared to tell him he couldn't. "I want to die in my own bed, in my own home!" "Mr. Tremayne," the young physician had tried to explain, "we can't treat you at home as well as we can here at Dade General." "You can't treat me at all," Liam had bellowed. The coughing that followed had nearly done him in. Lying there in the bed, his anger at the ravages in his life the cancer was causing, making him less and less inclined to be civil with those around him, Tremayne came to a decision he had been trying to make all day. He closed his eyes, a grimace of a smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Death was coming for him. He'd known that all year. Oh, there had been the remissions, the interludes of relative pain-free moments when he could pretend he wasn't being eaten alive, the times when he could thrust to the back of his mind the knowledge the Grim Reaper hovered just over his shoulder, sickle in hand, eagerly waiting, a bony finger crooked in taunt. But the certain knowledge of his own approaching closure, the ending of his life, had not bothered Liam Tremayne. It had not crippled him or made him cower down to the fates that had closed this final deal on him. No, it hadn't stunted his growth. On the contrary, it had caused a resurgence of animation, of Liam's assurance that he would win in the end. Not against death; no one won in a clash of wills with death. But in the absolute conviction that, even in death, he would run his empire from beyond the grave. The day the phone call had come from Andrew telling him James had been found at last had caused the turning point in the fight Liam was battling with cancer. For the very first time, he thought he just might not come out the winner when he died. It was a realization that rocked the old man to the roots of his foundation. It took away some of the self-imposed armor he had hammered around himself. It had insulated him both from the ravages of the disease and the accompanying pain. There was also the surety he had arranged things just the way he had always wanted them by insuring Andrew's easy slide into the seat of power in the Tremayne Group. "What's going to happen when you die, Papa?" Bridie had asked. "What the hell are we going to do with James then?" She had paced the living room of the Miami mansion, her fingers tapping against her side. It was obvious to her father she was desperate for a cigarette, aching for one, but dared not light up in his presence. She didn't know he knew about her filthy, dangerous habit. "We'll move him to the sanitarium in Coral Gables," Liam had explained. "They'll keep him sedated and in a state of complete control. I'll leave provisions for that in my will." His Bridget, his little girl, the child he had loved most, adored almost to the point of worship, had turned on him eyes flaring, mouth ugly and twisted. He had hardly recognized the vicious woman who looked back at him. She had lost the beauty that had always made him so proud, so happy. The face she showed him was the one he somehow understood came from her soul and it had shocked him as much as her words. "Why not just kill him, Papa?" she'd asked, coming to her father's chair, kneeling beside him. She'd taken his hand in hers, patted it soothingly. Her eyes had been alight with sheer evil. "He's no good to anyone. Drew and I can't stand the sight of him. Why waste money keeping him alive? No one but Paddy will even bother to go see him. I certainly won't!" Liam had stared at his daughter, seeing her for the first time and realizing the monster she had become. Oh, he had known she had been responsible for Kristen's death. Maybe not the actual murder itself, but of at least planning and arranging the details. He had approved of that. Kristen Marie Connors was a tramp of the first order; an embarrassing little baggage certainly not worthy of carrying the Tremayne name. The only good thing the bitch had done was give birth to a marginally interesting child - Melissa, James' daughter. But to know his daughter was capable of suggesting her own brother be murdered shocked Tremayne to his core. He had said as much.
"I don't see why," Bridget had snapped. "You don't have any more feelings for the son-of-a-bitch than Drew and I." "He's my son," Liam had shot back. "Flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood! If I wouldn't let Griffin Connors kill him, do you really think I'd let you?" "What good is he?" his daughter had shouted. "Just tell me that? What good has he ever been to this family except to be your punching bag?" Her eyes had narrowed and her venom had spat forth like an erupting pustule. "Or your plaything in bed!" Liam had come up out of his chair, his hand going to his daughter's cheek. The loud crack of his palm on her flesh was like the split of lightning. The blow staggered Bridget Casey and she had stumbled backward, eyes flaring wide, hand to her injury, her mouth an 'O' of surprise. "Don't you ever," Liam had gasped, "ever speak in such a manner to me again, Bridget!" He had lurched over to her, his hand lifted again, wanting to slap her once more to knock both the defiance and her forbidden knowledge from her. "I am your father." Bridget had nodded, her fear more than evident in her pale face. She'd murmured as apology, backing away from his upraised hand, her own out in an effort to keep him at bay. "I'm… I'm sorry, Papa," she'd told him. "I don't know why I - " "James is your brother," Liam said, ignoring her, skipping over why he had just hit his beloved child. "He is my son. As long as he lives, he'll be taken care of." "Yes, Papa," she had agreed, her head wobbling in acceptance of what he was saying. Liam's eyes had narrowed to thin slits. "And he will live as long as the Lord has plans for him to, Bridget. No one will shortchange him on that account. Is that clear?" "Yes, Papa, perfectly clear." Long after his daughter left, Liam Tremayne had stood rooted to the spot, his dirty secret out in the open, his control slipping, his mind replaying Bridget's words over and over and over again. "Only the once," Liam admitted to the empty room. "It was only the once." But that wasn't true and he knew it. As much as he had tried to block out of his mind what he had done to his son, it now came back to him in flashes and leaps of scenes that made him sink to the floor and bury his face in his hands. It made him nauseous. It made him sick. "I couldn't help myself," he cried. "He made me do it to him. He made me!" That was not true and he knew that as well. As much as he had tried to pretend it was James' fault, that it was his son who had seduced him, who had forced him to come into the child's room late at night, it now came back to him in a rush of pleading and begging and hysterical cries of pain that made Liam collapse to the floor in a sobbing heap. It made him remember. It made him vulnerable. "It was your fault," Liam had been saying over and over again when his wife had found him prostrate on the floor, spittle flowing from his mouth. "It was all your fault!" In the ambulance on the way to Dade General, the words had tumbled out in a litany of accusation. "Whose fault, dear?" James' mother had asked. "Who are you talking about?" Now, sitting glowering at the rain and waiting for the orderlies to come to take him to the ambulance to carry him home, Liam had finally made up his mind about what to do with James. No one could know. No one. No one must suspect what terrible secrets lay hidden in the damaged soul of James Gabriel Tremayne. No one must ever wonder about the relationship between father and son or whisper about it behind the family's back. No one must ever learn of the awful things that had happened in the house in Savannah. It had been a game Liam had always won. For anyone to find out now, would be a loss of devastating honor to the family. A loss Liam would never allow. Bridget had been right. _What good was James anyway?_ **** Edna Mae sank into the chair Bruce Lassiter offered her and folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes were wary as the psychiatrist seated himself behind his desk and a hesitant smile touched his full lips.
"I'm so glad you understood the urgency, Mrs. Boudreaux." He glanced around the room, put his finger to his lips and pointed at the intercom. Edna Mae frowned, not understanding what he meant, but then the knowledge someone might have bugged the man's office made her eyes flare with worry. "You understand, of course," Lassiter continued, "that a man in my position can't afford to form personal attachments to his patients. It would be highly unprofessional and counter-productive to the treatment of that patient. But sometimes, as in the case of your son, we find a patient whose plight touches us to the marrow of our being and reminds us that we're only human." "David has certainly had his share of problems, Dr. Lassiter," Edna Mae acknowledged, wondering about the man's words. "He's a good boy, Mrs. Boudreaux. One who has not been dealt with fairly in this life." "I agree." The old woman's eyes were boring into Lassiter's, studying him, judging him. "As a physician, I have a moral obligation to do everything I can to see that my patients are returned to a normal, healthy, productive life away from the dangers into which they've fallen." He leaned forward. "I want to do what I think is best for your son." Edna Mae knew he wasn't speaking of Kyle, but of Gabe. "But not here." Lassiter leaned back, spread his hands. His face was grave. "Unfortunately not, I'm afraid. David is proving to be more of a challenge than I'm equipped to handle." Edna Mae could see the man's dilemma. He was pleading with her to understand, to help him do what he knew might cause him a great deal of trouble. Could possibly even cause serious repercussions that might endanger his own life. But his sincerity and his need to help was emblazoned on his face. An astute judge of character, Edna Mae knew Bruce Lassiter was on their side. "I've made arrangements to transfer David this afternoon around six, if that is all right with you," she said. "I'll go back to the hotel and collect my things, then bring the limo for my son. Or I could hire an ambulance if you think his condition warrants it." "I have another patient being transferred tonight as well." Lassiter clenched his hands on the desk. "They'll be coming for him in an ambulance. A much better way to transport patients, I believe." Edna Mae nodded. "Do you think David would be more manageable if I hired an ambulance to transfer him back to Georgia?" "Yes, I do. The patient I am dismissing later this evening is going to be sedated." Lassiter's eyes narrowed. "Heavily sedated and that might not be a bad idea for David as well. Such a precaution is almost certain to be easier on the attendants." Edna Mae drew in a long breath. The doctor was telling her Gabe would be unconscious - easier to transport him. Lassiter stood and walked around the desk. He held out his hand to her. "I wish I could be of more help, Mrs. Boudreaux, but I've done everything I feel I can for the patient and it's now up to others to care for him." Edna Mae stood and took the doctor's hand. "I appreciate your concern and all you've done for my son, Dr. Lassiter. I am sure, if he could, he'd thank you himself." Lassiter shook his head. "His complete recovery would be the best thank you I could ever receive, dear lady." He covered Edna Mae's hand with his own. "God speed you back to your home, Mrs. Boudreaux, and be with you on your journey there. My prayers will be with you." Edna Mae fused her gaze with his. "As mine will be with you, Dr. Lassiter." ____________________ *Chapter 37* Jamie turned the corner, heading for the day room, hoping to see Kyle there, wanting to somehow warn him, to tell him not to interfere, to leave, to go away and not bring the fury of Liam Tremayne down on the heads of the people Jamie had grown to love and who were risking their lives to free him. Jimmy's words had chilled him, had cut so deeply into his soul, he was bleeding. To be the cause of anyone
getting hurt would be the death of him. But as he came around the corner, Beecher stepped in front of him with Harrison, the other black orderly at his side, and Gina Jeffers, one of the nurses bringing up the rear, syringe in hand. "Get back to your room, Sinclair," Beecher ordered, reaching out to take Jamie's arm. Jamie looked past the trio, craning his neck, striving to see Kyle, but the day room was empty, no one about. His eyes flew to the nurse. "Where is everyone?" he asked. Her frown, a part of the woman's overall makeup, deepened and she clicked her tongue in annoyance. "Get him in bed, Mr. Beecher," she ordered. "I have other patients to see to before supper." "Where is everyone?" he asked again, flinching, trying to jerk away as Beecher gripped his arm. "Why are you giving me the shot so early?" "If you don't turn your ass around and start back to your room, I'm going to put you in restraints," Beecher warned, pulling on Jamie's arm in an attempt to turn him in the opposite direction. "No," Jamie told him, jerking against the hold on him. His hand snapped around as Harrison stepped forward and grabbed his other arm. "What are you doing?" He pulled against them. "Let go!" "Will you get him in bed?" the nurse snapped. She stepped around the men, pushed open Jamie's door, moving back quickly as they hustled him into the room, his feet dragging, his body twisting frantically against them. "Damn it, let go of me!" He tried to stomp on Harrison's foot, instinctively realizing something was wrong. Terribly wrong. "Let go!" "Shut him up," Gina Jeffers yelled. They half-picked him up, flung him onto the bed, pushed him face down into the pillow, and held him there. He jackknifed his legs, pushing against the mattress, striving with all his strength to free himself, but the two men were larger, stronger, and had no mind-numbing drugs flowing through their systems that would cause weakness. Even as the needle jammed into his shoulder, the strong, thick liquid causing instant pain, he fought them. Their hands were like steel bands on his arms. Beecher's elbow was pressing against his neck, digging into his spine. Jeffers' uniform was all he could see from the corner of his eye, the white nylon glowing in the harsh light cast from the lamp over his bed. "When he calms down, strap him to the bed and turn out the light. They'll be here for him around ten. I'm to give him another shot at nine." The drug was invading him, raping him of his will, brutalizing his resistance, but he had heard the nurse's words, their meaning sinking into him as fast as the drug was plunging him down into darkness. "No," he mumbled, his tongue thick, his mouth dry, his words coming from a long, long way away. "Please. No." Somehow his father had found out about Kyle. About Edna. About Delbert. And how many others? How many of his friends were in trouble now because of him? For trying to help him? "God," he thought he said, but wasn't sure. It didn't matter what happened to him. They could bind him in a straightjacket and leave him that way the rest of his life as long as Kyle and Edna Mae and the others were safe. They could pump him full of drugs, lock him in a padded cell, and throw away the key as long as his friends were spared Liam Tremayne's swift vengeance. As the drug swept through his body, inching its way into every pore, every muscle, every vein, across nerve endings, invading tissue and organs, claiming him, his last thought was that it didn't matter if he forfeited his life as long as his friends were kept out of harm's way. He felt them turning him over. His body was limp and unresisting. He looked blankly up at Beecher's angry, hateful face, his own slack eyes straining to stay open. He winced as the restraints were dragged across his flesh and his arms and legs were pinioned to the bed in brutal jerks of the canvas straps. His last sight was of Beecher grinning, the smile a death's head smirk of promise. ____________________
*Chapter 38* Kyle wondered why they had all been gathered in the little chapel. He'd watched in surprise as the other patients were given pills and water, before they were led to the room where they now sat and were given hymnals. "It's not Sunday," Rebecca had protested to the nurse. "It's a Holy Day of Obligation," one of the patients had cried, clapping his hands. "No," one of the nurses had said. "Just an assembly. Doctor has a surprise for you." "What kind of surprise?" "Now, you know it wouldn't be a surprise, Vincent, if I told you," the nurse said with a laugh. Everyone was there: the patients; the nurses; the orderlies; the kitchen staff; the grounds keepers… Everyone except Dr. Lassiter and the poor man kept in the bungalow out back, and he suspected, the guards out front. Kyle looked for Gabe in the crowd and didn't see him either. He leaned toward Rebecca. "Where's Jamie?" Rebecca shrugged. "I don't know." Her eyes were dreamy. The drug she had taken was making her smile. Everyone had been given those drugs. All the patients at any rate. All except himself, Kyle thought. _Had it been an oversight? _Were they even now realizing he hadn't been medicated along with the rest of them? He saw Beecher staring at him. Did the man know he hadn't been given meds along with the others? As Beecher's eyes moved on to stare at one of the other men, Kyle breathed a heavy sigh of relief. "David." Kyle turned and found Dr. Lassiter standing in the doorway. He faked a smile, nodded at the psychiatrist. "Is my mother still here?" Lassiter shook his head. "She had to leave, but she'll be back when it's time for you to go." The smile slid from Kyle's face. "Go? Go where?" "You're being transferred this evening, David." Lassiter nodded at one of the patients, then turned his eyes back to Kyle. "Back to Georgia." Absolute astonishment filled Kyle and he stood facing the doctor. "Who said so?" "It was your mother's idea, I believe." The astonishment Kyle had felt at the physician's words turned to dismay, then a letdown so great he thought he might cry. If Edna Mae was taking him out of the clinic, that could only mean one of two things - either the man she had hoped was Gabe, wasn't or Gabe had been found, and if he had been found, the chances weren't in their favor or she would have stayed around long enough to tell him. "You may be excused from the assembly in about thirty minutes, David. In order to get your things ready for departure." His eyes bore into Kyle. "James Sinclair will also be leaving tonight. I hate to lose two of you at the same time, but such are the vagaries of fate, eh?" "Jamie is leaving?" Why did that news send a cold finger of dread down his spine, Kyle wondered. "His family is coming for him this evening." Again the doctor's eyes fused with Kyle's. "After your departure, I believe. I explained to your mother, it might be best if the two of you didn't leave at the same time." For a second, Kyle didn't understand the implication behind the psychiatrist's words, but when the full realization of exactly what it meant finally penetrated the fog of confusion in Kyle's mind, his eyes widened and his heart began to hammer. My God, a voice inside his head screamed. It is Gabe! Jamie Sinclair really is Gabe James! "I wish you both success, David," Lassiter was saying, drawing Kyle's eyes to his own. "Both you and Jamie." Kyle stared at the physician. _What did the man mean?_ Lassiter smiled sadly and Kyle finally understood. There could be only one explanation for the look in the doctor's eyes - Lassiter knew what they were up to and he had warned Edna Mae that Jamie was about to be transferred. _Who else
knew?_ "Cobb will accompany you when the ambulance arrives. He'll be sent back on one of Dr. Gardner's private jets." Lassiter looked toward the black man and nodded. "He's never flown and he's looking forward to it, aren't you, Cobb?" "Yes, sir, Dr. Lassiter, sir." He shifted his eyes to Kyle. _You know, don't you?_ Kyle looked at the orderly. _Lassiter has told you what's going to happen tonight and you're a part of it._ Idly he wondered if the black man still felt a strong sense of dislike toward him; if he still thought Kyle was the pervert Dr. Gardner had labeled him. He didn't think so because the way the black man was regarding him was different than the way he usually looked at him. "I won't bite you, Cobb," Kyle said. His eyes slid down the orderly. "I don't like dark meat." Cobb's lips twitched. "Then I won't have anything to worry about. Will I, Mr. David?" Kyle sniffed and turned his head away. He found Beecher's stony eyes sizing him up and felt a shiver of dread travel down his spine. He didn't trust the man. He actually loathed him. If Beecher was a Tremayne family plant, he would have to be dealt with. And soon. **** Staring from across the room at Boudreaux, Beecher was satisfied he had intimidated the queer. The man was big, Beecher acknowledged. And he looked in pretty good shape. But he thought he could take him. No, in a fair fight, or one heavily in Beecher's favor, the orderly knew he could take the candy-assed fruit. The bastard couldn't even meet his gaze for long without turning away. Oh, yeah, Beecher thought. I could whip your ass in a New York minute! The bulk of Beecher's mind wasn't on Boudreaux though. He was pleased with himself for being able to carry out Mr. Tremayne's orders without anyone on the staff knowing what he'd done. A sick smile stretched his lips and he glanced at Harrison. Not even Harrison knew what he'd been able to achieve after all the nut cases had been gathered in the chapel. "One hundred milligrams, Beecher. IV," the old man had gasped on the phone. "One hundred at five-thirty and another at seven." "That'll dust him, Mr. Tremayne," Beecher had protested. "That bitch, Jeffers, gave him a hundred at four-forty-five." There had been a short pause, then the chilling, malevolent voice of Liam Tremayne had rasped across the line. "And another hundred at eight." A wet cough barked into the receiver. "Don't get caught. The ambulance will be there by nine at the latest. It'll be impossible for them to revive him." Another cough, then words as cold as the farthest reaches of hell. "Make sure he's gone before the ambulance arrives. Do I make myself clear, Beecher?" "Yes, sir, Mr. Tremayne," the orderly had confirmed. "He'll be history by the time they get here." "I'm counting on it, Beecher." The line had gone dead, as dead as Jamie Tremayne was going to be once the drugs in his system began to shut down his respiratory system. It had been easy popping the unconscious man an extra dose. There had been no one around to see the needle Beecher had thrust into Tremayne. Just like there wouldn't be anyone around to see the IV go into him at seven.** Beecher's eyes slid to Boudreaux once more and he frowned. He'd wait until the fag was gone, then slip the man in 158 another dose of calm. A slight chuckle rattled in Beecher's chest. _It's going to be easy as killing baby chicks._ **** Andrew Tremayne glanced past the limo driver's shoulder to the orange-and-white Fairfield
Ambulance Service van ahead of them. The rain had started almost as soon as he had landed in New Orleans and was slashing against the windshield of the ambulance with enough force to slow the driver. They had been practically crawling along the road, water sloshing against the car's undercarriage, the tires hydroplaning occasionally as the water on the road streamed across the pavement in sheets. "What time is it, Curtis?" Andrew asked. He'd dropped off his watch at the jewelers to be cleaned that morning and felt lost without it. The driver flicked on the map light, held up his left wrist and glanced in the rear view mirror. "A little past six-thirty, Mr. Tremayne. We should be there by seven." Andrew looked away. "I hope so. I want to get this the hell over with." He hated Louisiana. Despised it actually. The less time he spent there, the better. He considered the people rude, uneducated, and as liable to in-breed as not. His opinion was only reinforced as bright high-beam headlights suddenly flashed into the back seat, casting the interior of the car into a gray light. "Turn them brights off, you idiot," Tremayne's driver snarled, flipping the night time driving portion of his rear view mirror into place. He moved to the right in his seat, away from the sharp, piercing glare of the lights in his side mirror. "Let the bastard pass," Andrew griped. The driver slowed, then cursed as the vehicle behind them pulled into the passing lane and started around them, its brights still slashing spears of light into the rainy night. "Son of a bitch, if that ain't an ambulance," the driver grumbled as the van passed them. "That fool ought to know better than to ride around out on a night like this with his high beams blinding a person!" "Well, he's going a might too fast for conditions," Andrew observed. "It wouldn't surprise me if we rounded a bend to see him on his side in the ditch." The driver snorted. "Wouldn't hurt me none if we did." He chuckled. "Might hurt his patient, though, if he's transporting one." Andrew thought no more of the ambulance, but settled back in the seat, closed his eyes and went over the day's trial in his mind, looking for ways he could have been even better in the courtroom. He ignored the limo that sped past them in the wake of the ambulance. If some fool wanted to kill himself on a dark, slick, rainy Louisiana road tonight, he sure as hell didn't care. **** Beecher pulled back on the plunger, wondering why he bothered since the man lying in the bed was as good as worm fodder anyway. So what if he caught an embolism? He had enough dope in him now to kill two men. What was a little bubble of air amongst friends? Capping the syringe, he slid it into his pocket and pulled the sheet over the needle prick on the inside of Tremayne's elbow. He was about to turn away when he saw Boudreaux standing in the doorway. "What are you doing here, Boudreaux?" he snarled, walking away from the bed, wondering what, if anything, the faggot had seen. Kyle looked past the burly orderly and saw that Jamie was sleeping. His eyes slowly slid back to Beecher. "I'm being transferred home tonight and I came to say goodbye to Jamie." "That and what else?" the orderly sneered. "You get your ass up to your room. We'll call you when your ride gets here." Kyle shrugged, pretending nonchalance, but his sixth sense told him Jamie wasn't merely sleeping, but as far under as drugs could take him. He turned sideways, allowing Beecher to walk through the door. "Go on," Beecher snapped. "Get on upstairs." He reached for the handle of Jamie's door to pull the heavy oak closed behind them. "You're a real sweetheart, you know that, Beecher?" Kyle asked in a harsh voice. "How many men have you put it to?" Beecher's meaty hands balled into fists. "Get… up… those… stairs, Boudreaux." "Save some for me, eh, Beecher?" Kyle grinned, knowing the big man was all talk and no show as
long as you stood up to him. **** Doc glanced at Mary Bernice as he turned the ambulance into the clinic's driveway. The black woman's hands were digging into the dashboard as she stared with wide eyes at the high wrought-iron gates. "Easy does it, Mary Liz," Doc said in a low, calm voice. "You're supposed to be an EMT, girl. You're supposed to have nerves of steel, remember?" Mary Bernice turned her worried eyes to Doc Remington and nodded. Her mouth was too dry for speech; her lips too rigid to do anything but press together even harder. She sat back in the seat, her hands going to her lap as Doc rolled down the window. A thin sheet of rain swept in. "May I help you?" came a disembodied voice through the speaker on the gate. "Fairfield Ambulance to pick up Boudreaux," Doc called out. "All right. One moment, please." Doc rolled up his window as the double gates slowly began to swing inward. "Two guards," Mary Bernice said quietly. She nodded to the left. Doc let out a long breath. "I see 'em." He also saw the rifles held in the crook of their arms as they watched him from the overhang of the guard roof. "Don't look like they're of a mind to come out in this downpour," Mary Bernice remarked. She bent her head and looked into the side mirror. The limo was right behind them. "Hurry," Doc snarled beneath his breath. The gates weren't moving fast enough for him. There was no doubt in his mind that the other ambulance and the limo they had passed weren't too far behind them. They would be cutting it close. **** Edna Mae chewed on her fingernail as Delbert Merrill drove through the gates behind Doc. Rain was driving so hard against the windshield, it was hard to see the guards, but she knew they were there. "Gates closing," Delbert told her. "How far back do you think that other limo is, Del?" Edna Mae asked. Delbert looked into the rear view mirror. "They were going pretty slow, Miss Edna. I'd say we got twenty, maybe thirty minutes on 'em." "Lord, I hope so," Edna Mae breathed. **** Doc saw the black orderly motioning for him to swing to the left side of the mansion. He put up a hand acknowledging the order, but wasn't sure the man could see his action. He pulled under a wide roof and put the ambulance in neutral as the orderly hurried up to Mary Bernice's side of the ambulance. As she rolled down the glass, the orderly's worried face thrust into the opening. "You Mrs. Boudreaux's driver?" he asked. "Yeah," Mary Bernice answered. "You'd best hurry then. We got another transfer due any minute now." His eyes narrowed. "They're coming earlier than we expected." Doc leaned forward to see past Mary Bernice. "We passed them on the road." "Then you'd better get going." **** Edna Mae sat in the limo, her fingernail bleeding where she had bitten into the quick. There was no
need for her to get out, but she wondered if she should. She nearly screamed when someone tapped at her window. "Dr. Lassiter, Miss Boudreaux," Delbert told her as he pushed the button to lower the old lady's window. "Don't bother getting out in this mess, Mrs. Boudreaux," Lassiter said. "We'll bring David to you." The physician was crouched beneath an umbrella being held by the orderly Edna Mae remembered was named Beecher. There was a black orderly with them, his hands thrust deep into his raincoat, his bull neck pulled down into the coat's collar. "We're going check on our patient in the bungalow or I'd invite you in for tea. I just wanted to wish you luck with your son." He put his hand through the window. Edna Mae squeezed it. "Thank you for all you've tried to do, Dr. Lassiter. We won't forget it." Lassiter smiled. "Neither will I, ma'am." He let go of Edna Mae's hand and stepped back from the limo. "Y'all drive safe now." He turned away and headed for the walkway leading around the right side of the mansion to the rear courtyard. "You take care," Edna Mae called and saw the man's hand come up in acknowledgment. **** Doc looked around as he and Mary Bernice and the orderly who had been awaiting them walked through the small hallway into the clinic. The place was spotless, antiseptic, but pleasant in an ostentatious way. The walls were a creamy beige, the wood mold and trim in a pale oak; the floors were parquet with deep rose runners and area rugs scattered about. The furniture was rose and teal - very expensive and very pretty. Even the lighting overhead reeked of money. "Not a bad place to recuperate," Mary Bernice whispered in awe. She gawked as she helped push the gurney they had taken from the ambulance. "I wouldn't say that," Cobb told her. He stopped them beside a closed door. His eyes went to the door, then to Doc. "We have a patient in there who is being transferred tonight. I'm going to go up and get Mr. David." "Where is everybody?" Doc asked. "They're having an assembly," Cobb said. He jerked his thumb to the closed door. "I'll go check on them first while you take care of whatever needs taking care of here, then I'll get Mr. David for you." He headed down a short corridor toward a set of double doors. Doc watched as the man opened the doors and stepped inside. He looked at Mary Bernice. "Let's go!" Mary Bernice was right behind Doc as they pushed the gurney through the wide oak door. As Doc found the light switch and hurried to the bed, she stood guard. It can't be him, Doc's mind told him as he looked into the face of the unconscious man. Even given an expert plastic surgeon's hand, this man couldn't be Gabe James. There was nothing in this man's face that bore any resemblance to Gabe. "Is it him?" Mary Bernice asked, looking out the door as if half-expecting to see a horde of people rushing to stop them. "I don't know," Doc answered. He pulled the sheet away from the sleeping man. His fingers went to the buttons of the man's shirt and undid the first two, pushed the fabric aside. A gasp of stunned disbelief shook his body. "Well?" Mary Bernice asked, "is the scar there?" Doc could only nod. "It's Gabe James." He stared for only a second more at the wavering gash on the young man's chest - the legacy of a barbed wire fence that had ripped Gabe open on a hunting trip - then he called for Mary Bernice to help him get Gabe on the gurney. He tossed away the sheet and then sucked in a furious breath. "What is it?" she asked as she pushed the gurney to the bed. "They've got him tied down like an animal!" Doc hissed as his fingers snatched at the canvas straps. "Damn bastards!"
It didn't take them long to unbuckle the restraints, roll Gabe onto the gurney and strap him down. Mary Bernice pulled the sheets up to Gabe's neck, turned his head to the side then walked to the door, cautiously poking out her head. Doc's jaw clenched tightly as they pushed the bed into the hall and headed for the exit. **** Martin Cobb didn't even glance at the opened door into Jamie Sinclair's room as he passed. He'd seen the gurney disappearing around the corner as he'd come out of the assembly. His footsteps increased in speed as he came to the stairway, progressed up the risers, taking them two at a time, all the impetus he needed to break out in a cold sweat. In his hands, he carried an orderly's uniform. He nearly groaned with relief when he saw the man he knew as David Boudreaux standing at the top of the steps. "Hurry, Mr. David," Cobb whispered urgently, tossing the uniform to him. Kyle didn't take time to answer. He snatched off his pajama bottoms, threw them to Cobb, stepped into the white uniform pants and nearly tore the pajama top in half in his effort to drag it over his head. Cobb wadded the pajamas into a tight ball before thrusting them under his uniform top. Kyle yanked on the uniform shirt and brushed against the black man as the two men turned to head down the stairs. **** The moment the gurney rolled out of the mansion's side door, Delbert turned. "They got him, Miss Edna." "Gabe or Kyle?" Edna Mae whispered. She sat forward, clutching the seat. Only a few moments later, she saw Cobb and Kyle hurrying from the building, Kyle heading for the back of the ambulance where Doc and Mary Bernice were pushing the gurney into the ambulance. Kyle climbed into the ambulance, Cobb right behind him. **** As the doors slammed shut, Kyle flinched. He was barely aware of Cobb moving the gurney into place inside the ambulance. "Help me, Mr. David," Cobb said, drawing Kyle's attention. "Kyle Vittetoe," Kyle corrected, giving his real name. He heard the front doors of the ambulance opening, closing, and stumbled as Doc put the van into gear and pulled out from under the wide roof. **** Delbert sat hunched over the wheel, his hands clutching the cushioned ring so hard his fingers were becoming numb. Every prayer he knew had escaped his lips as they had sat waiting for Mary Bernice and Doc to reappear. Every word he'd ever spoken in anger to his wife had blared out of his conscience to scald him. Every moment of pleasure the two of them had ever shared passed before his eyes. Every plan and dream and hope he had ever had for their little family came back to taunt him. "It's gonna be all right," he heard himself say as the ambulance neared the closed gates. "Before the good Lord Almighty, it's gonna be all right." Edna Mae's hands were clutched in her lap, pressed down so tight to the wool of her coat she could no longer feel them. Her eyes did not blink; did not move away from the back of the ambulance. Her heart was hammering in her chest, her breath a short, shallow grunt of worry. She, too, was praying her entreaty to St. Jude in a soft murmur. ****
Doc stopped the ambulance, his breathing loud in the confines of the ambulance's cab. His eyes were glued to the closed gates, willing them to swing toward him. He could feel Mary Bernice's own edginess; almost smell her fear. "Open, damn you," she growled. "What's the hold up?" Kyle called. "Gates are closed," Doc answered. "How's he doing back there?" "He ain't breathing right," Cobb said. **** "What are they waiting for?" Edna Mae asked. The gates were still closed, the guards standing under the overhang of their guard hut, not making any move to open the wrought-iron barrier. "One of them's going inside," Del said. **** "Doc?" Kyle called. "Trade places with Mary Bernice as soon as you can. Cobb says Gabe isn't breathing like he should." Doc twisted his head and peered through the ambulance. "Can you take his blood pressure?" Cobb reached for the sphygmometer. He wrapped it around the sleeping man's arm and secured the Velcro closing. "I can't see the dial." He began to pump the bulb. "I don't dare turn the lights on," Doc reminded them. He thrust out his left leg, fished into his pocket and pulled out his lighter. He handed it to Mary Bernice who passed it to Kyle. "Shield that as much as you can," Doc warned. He looked at the gate, wondering if they'd been found out. "Car coming," he said. He was looking east at the road beyond the gate. The twin sweeps of headlights were cutting through the driving rain toward them. Another set closely followed. "Shit!" He gunned the idling motor, thought for a moment of ramming through the gates, the threat of them being electrified passing like a warning through his mind. "His blood pressure is one-ten over sixty," Cobb called. "Normally it's around one-thirty over ninety even with all that junk they pump into him." Doc felt a chill run through him. "Check his pulse rate!" Eyes glued to the approaching lights, Doc's heart was triphammering in his chest and he could smell his own sour sweat. His eyes narrowed as he glared at the ambulance and limo now on the other side of the closed gates. If that was, indeed, the Tremayne family coming to transport Gabe, they were bound to have firepower, weapons and men more than able to use them. He became aware of the tremor in his hands and looked at Mary Bernice. "They're under my seat," she told him as if reading his mind, bending forward to withdraw the box containing the two semi-automatics Thais had given them. She placed the box on her lap. **** Kyle shielded the lighter's flame over Cobb's watch as the man took Jamie's pulse. No, a voice inside Kyle's head reminded him. It's not Jamie. It's Gabe. It's your best friend, man. Kyle's eyes shifted to the unconscious face at the head of the gurney. There was nothing in that face that looked even remotely like Gabe James. The angle was all wrong. The nose. The cheekbones. The cleft in the chin was missing. He was finding it hard to believe the man lying so still was connected to him in any way. He didn't feel anything as he looked at the closed eyes. ****
"His pulse is fifty, sir, and thready." Cobb's voice was strained, nervous. Doc spun around in his seat. "Are you sure?" "Yes, sir." "Damn," Doc snarled. He turned around, his jaw clenching. "What the hell did they give him?" "I don't know, sir," Cobb replied. "Something ain't right though. He's all clammy and sweaty, too." "What does that mean?" Kyle asked. "That he may be going into shock," Cobb answered. "But why?" "Overdose," Doc snapped. "Only God knows what the bastards shot him up with! The gate's opening," Doc nearly shouted. He gunned the engine and slid the gear into drive. "Praise Jesus," Mary Bernice cried as the gates began to part. The gates shuddered as they opened all the way and Doc shot through the opening as though the hounds of hell were on his heels. He looked down briefly to make sure the limo was right behind him before he turned past the other ambulance and flipped on the emergency flashers. "They're shutting the gate behind us!" Doc said as he looked into the rear view mirror. The heavy sweep of the ambulance's emergency flashers cut through the pulsing rain, washing over the passing trees along the roadway, and cutting into the darkness beyond the road. A bright flare of lightning jagged through the heavens and turned the blackness of the night to a crisp, eye-hurting whiteness. The strange glow lasted only a second, but everything around the two moving vehicles looked like the decorations one might find in the ante-chamber of hell. "Cobb?" Doc yelled as he turned on the lights in the back of the ambulance. "Taking his pressure right now," the orderly yelled back. "Ain't no cars coming, Doc," Mary Bernice said. "Just stop and let me drive. You go back and see about Gabe." Doc didn't answer. He glanced in both rear view mirrors, let his foot off the gas, and began braking the ambulance gently on the rain-slick highway. "Ninety over seventy and his pulse is at fifty, sir." Doc was already out of the driver's seat, Mary Bernice crawling over the console, and Kyle opening the back door when Delbert got out of the limo and shouted at them. "What's happening?" He received no answer, only the slamming of the ambulance door and the vehicle's burst of power as it shot forward. Doc's hair was dripping wet, rain falling down his nose as he took Cobb's place beside the unconscious man. He ripped open his patient's shirt. "Hand me my bag," he demanded as he took the stethoscope from Cobb, put it on, and placed the instrument's head against Gabe's chest. Kyle swung around, found the black medical bag and handed it to Cobb. "What you need, sir?" the orderly asked. "My light," Doc snapped. He didn't like the sound he'd heard - the slow, irregular heartbeat, the faint respiration. Taking the instrument from Cobb, he lifted Gabe's right lid and shone the light into the eye, then switched to the left eye. "Shit. His pupils are fixed and dilated." He jerked the ear pieces of the stethoscope from him. "Give me a hypo and some epinephrine." "What's wrong with him?" Kyle asked. "Don't bother me, Vittetoe." He tied a tourniquet around his patient's left arm. "Here you are, sir," Cobb said. Doc took the syringe and bottle and tore the protective plastic from the hypo. Taking off the needle cover, he plunged the needle into the rubber membrane of the bottle of epinephrine to draw the drug into the syringe. "Put the oxygen on him, Cobb." He tapped the glass cylinder of the syringe. "Can you start an IV?" "Yes, sir," Cobb answered. He slipped the nose piece of the oxygen into Gabe's nostrils. "I was a combat medic with the 101st, sir." A faint smile stretched Doc's lips as he tapped on a prominent vein in Gabe's arm then slid the needle
into the flesh. "The Screaming Eagles, eh?" he asked as he tore off the tourniquet. "Yes, sir." Cobb took the empty syringe from Doc. "You, too, sir?" "I was with them in 'Nam in '67 and '70. Fine group of men." He looked up. "Step on it, Mary Liz. We got a slight problem back here." Mary Bernice's foot slammed on the accelerator, throwing those in back off balance. "Want me to open communications?" she asked. "Wait until we're out on the highway, then send the signal. Let 'em know we're coming. Edna Mae and Del will have their CB on by now." Doc put his stethoscope back to Gabe's chest and listened. "Push it, Mary E. I mean really push it, girl." "You got it." "Is it that bad, sir?" Cobb asked. "I wasn't expecting them to have tried to kill him, Cobb," Doc said quietly. "But whatever the hell they gave him, they pumped him full of it. His heart rate is depressed and he's not responding to the epinephrine." He reached for the bottle again. "We don't have all the stuff in this ambulance Dick and Jenny brought with them. If we don't get to them soon…" ____________________ *Chapter 39* Andrew Tremayne's eyes were thin slits of malevolent rage. His nostrils flared and his lips clamped so tightly together one could hardly see a delineating line between them. His shoulders were hunched forward, his hands clenched at his sides, and he was fairly quivering from head to toe as he glared at the psychiatrist. "I don't know how this could've happened," Lassiter explained, true fear in his soul as he stared up at Tremayne. "I had gone to the bungalow to - " "I don't give a rat's ass what you were doing, Lassiter," Tremayne hissed, taking a step toward the smaller man. Satisfaction lit his stormy eyes when the doctor backed away. "You have allowed strangers to come in here and kidnap my brother!" "How was I to know the Boudreauxs would do something like this, Mr. Tremayne?" Lassiter whined. He was already sick to his stomach, a sour taste filling his dry mouth. "They came highly recommended by one of the finest psychiatrists in - " Tremayne spun away from the doctor and fixed Beecher with a stony stare. "Where were you when all this happened?" "With him," Beecher answered, nodding toward Lassiter. Tremayne glared at the orderly for a split second then turned on his heels, stalking toward the ambulance that had accompanied him to the clinic. "I'll ride in back," he barked to the two attendants who were standing outside. "Find that other ambulance. Now!" Beecher was about to enter the ambulance with Tremayne, but the lawyer held up a warning hand. "You'll have to account to my father if James makes good his escape, Beecher." "He won't," the orderly pronounced. "I saw to that." "What do you mean?" Lassiter gasped. Beecher snorted. "He's shot so full of meperidine, he'll be lucky to make it to the interstate before he kicks." Tremayne swung his eyes to Lassiter. "What's he talking about?" Lassiter took the orderly's arm in a tight grip. "Tell me what you've done!" Beecher tore free of the grip and pushed away the doctor. He looked back at Tremayne. "You want me to help or not? I was doing what your Daddy told me to." "Get in," Tremayne snapped. "You can tell me on the way!"
**** "Breaker, breaker," came the slow, sweet, Southern drawl over the CB radio. "This here's the Snowbird calling all you good ole pedal-stompers out there on this rainy Louisiana night. I've got my pedal to the metal and I'm rollin' right at you." "That's Mary Liz," Delbert said as he heard his wife's voice crackling over Channel 17. He listened as some truckers came on the air to flirt with his woman. "Well, now," the Snowbird said and giggled, "I sure do appreciate all the good wishes, fellow travelers, but I'm lookin' for that special guy of mine." Another giggle. "He calls himself the Ramblin' Hawk. You out there, good buddy?" "With my entire flock, Snowbird. How's it goin', darlin'?" "That's Dick," Edna Mae and laughed. "Got troubles with my engine, ramblin' man," Mary Bernice reported. "Best have your tools all handy for when I see you." **** Dick Warrington looked at his wife, Jenny. "Something's wrong," she said. He keyed the CB mike. "How serious is your problem, darlin'?" "Close to an overhaul, I reckon." Dick closed his eyes. He keyed the mike again. "We can handle that, I think. Just roll your cute little caboose on in here, darlin'." "Much obliged, Ramblin'. I'll be there in about eight shakes of a lamb's tail." **** The Badger nodded as he listened to the exchange. "They're just now pulling onto the interstate. That means they're about sixteen miles from us." "Hey, Ramblin'?" Every ear on the team cocked toward the CB. There wasn't to be anymore communication after that first message to let everyone know where they were. Snowbird signing back on meant even more trouble. "Yeah, Snowbird?" Dick's voice had turned hoarse. "Did I mention I got myself a spoiler put on?" **** Thais groaned. "They're being followed already." "Won't make no difference, darlin'," came a new voice over the CB. Every one listening to the exchange, whether team member or not, knew that voice wasn't Ramblin' Hawk's. The voice was deep, melodious, sexy as hell. "Who's that?" Mary Bernice asked. "The guy with all the tools, baby," the Badger said with a chuckle. "We can fix your engine without worrying about the spoiler." "That's a relief, darlin'," Mary Bernice said. "See you on the flip side, Snowbird," the Badger sighed into the mike. "Keep it cool 'til I can get it hot!" **** Delbert's lips tightened. The man might be some kind of supercop, and he might be their biggest help
right now, but he damned sure didn't like the way he'd just talked to his wife. He reached for the CB mike, but Edna Mae stopped him. "It's all part of the game, Del," she said in an amused voice. "She won't ever meet him." Del sniffed. "Well, I'd like to meet him." He looked at his passenger through the mirror's glass. "I don't like nobody hitting on my ole lady!" As he looked at her, his eyes widened. "We got company, Miss Edna." Edna Mae turned and saw the watery glare of an ambulance pulling onto the interstate. "Floor it, Del," she snapped and lurched backward in her seat as the limo shot forward. She heard Del's voice speaking, not in the fear or anxiety she would have expected, into the CB mike. "Breaker, breaker, this here's the Raven coming at you. I'm a flying outta here." **** Mary Bernice watched the limo shoot past her and whistled as she looked at her own speedometer and saw it edging toward 110. With emergency lights flashing and siren blaring, she posed no real threat to the cars she was passing, but the limo was like a great silver eel slithering through the rain-soaked night into the darkness beyond. The tail lights soon disappeared. "How far are we from the ramp, Mary Liz?" Doc asked, injecting another drug into Gabe's vein. "About ten miles." Kyle was staring at the jagged scar on the sleeping man's chest. He hadn't seen it until that moment, but when its significance finally pierced through to him, he had squeezed his hands together. "It's really Gabe, isn't it?" he asked in a quiet voice. Doc grunted his answer. His eyes were glued to the ragged rise and fall of his patient's chest. His ears were attuned to the spasmodic breathing that was getting softer and softer. "Come on, Gabe," Doc Remington whispered. "Don't leave us, son. Hang in there." Kyle's thoughts flew back to the day Gabe James had stumbled into old man Koontz's barbed wire fence. They'd been out hunting - him and Gabe, Jake Mueller and one of Jake's grandsons. They'd been after quail and hadn't found a single covey until just before Gabe made contact with Koontz's hidden fence. "Son of a bitch!" Gabe had yelled as he began to fall, sliding chest-first over the sharp tines of the wire. Birds had flown up all around them, four separate flocks. Jake's grandson had hastily lifted his gun and fired off a round before his grandfather swatted him with his hunting cap. "Gabe's hurt! Can't you see that, Rainor?" Jake had shouted. When they had reached him, the front of Gabe's hunting jacket was stained with blood and he was cursing so vividly, the men were stunned into stillness. Gabe was hanging upside down, his chest snared to the fence, his fists pounding the ground. It had taken then nearly half an hour to extract him and Doc Remington nineteen stitches to close the gaping wound left by the razor-sharp tines. "I don't care if I never see another quail again," Gabe had mumbled on the way home, the pain killer making him irritable and unmanageable. Looking at the scar, one Patrick Tremayne would never have thought to remove, there was no doubt in Kyle's mind who this man was. Edna Mae had been sure of it from the moment she had come to realize who Jamie Sinclair might be, but Kyle had been reluctant to make that conclusion, needing more than just mere speculation to form his decision. He had always prided himself on being a rational, down-to-earth thinker - a man who formed his decisions with clear forethought. And there had been another reason he hadn't wanted to believe Jamie Sinclair was Gabe James Jamie had been treated worse than an animal and had behaved like one. Jamie Sinclair had seemed quite mad. "Lord," Kyle whispered, looking away. His mind was tumbling with thoughts he didn't want to acknowledge. Thoughts like, what if Gabe really was crazy now. He'd been through so much, suffered so greatly, been treated so badly. How had it effected him? Had it really driven him mad? If so, how would they all handle that?
**** The ambulance in which Andrew R. Tremayne sat was speeding down the interstate, its own emergency flashers revolving. Cars pulled over to the side for it; some already idling along the breakdown lane for the first ambulance which had passed, remained where they were, expecting perhaps a third emergency vehicle to scream at them out of the rainy night. "Must be wondering what the hell happened." He heard one of the EMT's chuckle. "Can't you make this piece of shit go any faster?" Tremayne snarled. "We'll catch them, Mr. Tremayne. Don't you worry," the ambulance driver yelled back at him. "I've got them in sight." **** Mary Bernice Merrill glanced in her side mirror with anxious eyes to watch the flashing roof lights of the rapidly-approaching ambulance. She looked at the speedometer and pressed her foot harder on the accelerator, praying with all her might she could keep from hydroplaning on the slick Louisiana highway. By her calculations, she was within four miles of her target, and she knew the rest of the team would be waiting. She picked up the mike of her CB radio. "Break One-Seven. This is the Snowbird coming at you out of the rain." "How ya doin', Snowbird?" a strange voice came back to her. "I'm riding four-by-four, good buddy," she shot back. "And feeling like singing a little song for my Ramblin' man out there." "You can sing for me any time you want, little darlin'," the stranger told her. "Do you know any Reba McEntyre, sweetness?" "Hey, Snowbird? How you readin' me? This here's your gamblin', Ramblin' Hawk watching out for his little doll. How about crooning for me, babe?" Mary Bernice breathed a sigh of relief. She had Dick Warrington on the line. She put up her hand and rapped on the glass partition between her and the men in back. "We're about three miles from the cut off, Doc." Doc Remington let out a long sigh. "Chirp at him, Mary Liz, until you're down to two, then start singing." **** Dick Warrington rolled down his window as Jake Mueller ran toward them. "They're almost here, Jake. Open her up!" Jake nodded and ran back through the pouring rain, shouting for Mel Vanderwoode. Mel jumped out of the cab of the semi and joined Jake at the back of the trailer. "Here's a little ditty I remembered you like, Ramblin'," Mary Bernice said into her mike. "Anybody who wants to can sing along." **** "She's got 'em right on her ass," Thais growled to the female trooper beside him. "We're gonna crank this baby up!" He started the car, pulled on his lights, flashed his high beams four times, saw the lights of the station wagon parked on the other side of the road come on and answer the signal, heard the blare of a siren, and watched as the vehicle directly in front of him begin to roll forward, its lights off. He prayed no other cars would come past them any time soon.
**** Mary Bernice could see the ambulance behind her gaining. She glanced nervously at her side mirror, looked ahead of her, caught the sweep of chrome bumper up ahead on both sides of the two-lane road, and she began to sing into the mike. **** Edna Mae and Del were sitting at the rest stop, peering anxiously through the driving rain. Car after car had pulled into the parking lot, but none of them was the car they were looking for. Feeling conspicuous in the limo, seeing people eyeing them strangely as the travelers jumped out of their cars to venture into the restrooms, even knowing no one could see that well into the front seat, Del felt as though he were slowly being suffocated in the limo's confines. "Miss Edna?" Edna Mae jumped. She looked up into the rear view mirror. "Should I turn on the CB and see what's happening?" "I suppose so. I feel like I'm sitting in a red ant bed as it is!" Del turned on the engine, flipped on the CB and heard Mary Bernice's husky voice. He smiled. "That woman never could sing worth a toot." **** Andrew Tremayne could see the watery flashes of light from the ambulance they were trying to catch. He frowned as the lights abruptly disappeared as the vehicle crested a long, rolling hill. His nails were digging into his palms, his palms sweating, and his jaw clamped so tightly he was getting an earache. **** "She'll be coming 'round the mountain. She'll be coming 'round the mountain…" Mary Bernice sang. Her hand began to lower the CB mike as she sang the third line to the verse. **** "There she is," Thais shouted as the ambulance came over the hill behind him. He eased his foot down on the accelerator and pulled onto the outside lane of the interstate, glancing out of the corner of his eye as the station wagon pulled into the inside lane and kept pace with him. "He's moving," the female trooper said in a quiet voice and watched as the vehicle in front of them, its lights still off, pulled out onto the interstate and began to pick up some speed. **** Mary Bernice sighted the off ramp, glanced briefly ahead to the two sets of tail lights moving eastward on the interstate. She dropped the CB mike and reached for the switch that would shut off the emergency flashers. Her fingers were damp with sweat. She eased the ambulance onto the ramp. "…when she comes," she said. **** Thais smiled as three things happened at the same moment. First, the emergency flashers, then the headlights of Mary Bernice's ambulance died and the vehicle
dropped out of sight on the off ramp. Second, the vehicle ahead of him on the interstate, another ambulance, identical to the one Mary Bernice was driving, this one driven by Galen Whitney, turned on both its headlights and emergency flashers, and sped down the highway like a bat out of torment. Third, the ambulance that had been following Mary Bernice came over the hill toward him at breakneck speed, but found itself blocked by the new vehicles running parallel to one another in the two lanes. A blast of the ambulance's siren sounded its warning and Thais turned to grin at the woman beside him, heard her hoot, then pulled his car to the side of the road to let the Tremayne ambulance pass. He saw the station wagon pull over into the right lane behind the ambulance. "Ti… i… i… ime is on our si… ide," he heard the DEA agent in the wagon singing from the CB and he answered, "Yes, it is!" **** The ramp way was dark as sin as Mary Bernice rolled slowly up it with her lights off. She'd seen the other ambulance flash by the ramp on its way down the hill, knew she'd fooled its driver, then heard the sweet tenor voice singing the 'all clear.' She pulled on the headlights and, ahead of her, saw the octagonal red glow of a stop sign. **** "Open her up," Jake yelled as he saw the sweep of headlights jutting out of the dark rainy night. **** Dick was out of the driver's seat of his vehicle, at its side door as the arc of the ambulance's headlights swept across the windshield of his motor home. He heard it pass and could see the headlights playing over the trees behind him on the road as it turned and came back toward the motor home. "Lights on, Jenny," he called and blinked as the motor home's lights lit the interior of the vehicle. **** Doc Remington gave Cobb his instructions and Kyle already knew what to do. As soon as the ambulance stopped behind the motor home, both he and Cobb were opening the ambulance's back door, Kyle carrying an unconscious Gabe in his arms with Cobb carrying the IV bottle. As he stepped to the opened door of the ambulance, Kyle looked at Mel Vanderwoode. "Be careful with him," he said as he lowered Gabe into Mel's waiting arms. "Hurry up," Doc yelled. "Get him inside before he gets soaked!" **** Mary Bernice watched Mel and Cobb disappear around the side of the motor home and pressed down her foot, heading for the car ramp by which Jake was standing. She drew in a deep, nervous breath, then drove the ambulance onto the ramp and into the trailer. Even before the engine stopped sputtering, she was out of the ambulance's cab and running for the double doors. Her feet skidded down the slippery ramp and she began cartwheeling, and would have fallen had Jake not rushed forward to break her fall. She slid against him with enough force to stagger the old man. "Easy does it, Mary Liz," he said with a chuckle. "I ain't as strong as I use to be, girl!" Mary Bernice laughed as she helped him slam shut and bolt the trailer's doors.
**** Inside the motor home, Mel laid Gabe on the pull-out bed and stepped back as quickly as he could, brushing past Kyle as that man entered. "See you!" Mel told them and rushed for the cab of his semi. He passed Mary Bernice, gave her a wet grin and heard her tell him to drive careful as she hopped up the steps of the motor home and the door slammed shut. Even before he had the semi in gear and rolling, the motor home, now driven by Mary Bernice, had passed him and was heading for the entrance ramp to the interstate. He looked at Jake once more in the passenger seat of the semi and grinned. "That ran about as smooth as a colicky baby's shit, wouldn't you say?" Jake asked. **** Galen Whitney picked up the CB mike and started calling for the Ramblin' Hawk. "How's it goin' there, little buddy?" "The Eagle has landed," Mary Bernice told him. Galen glanced in his side mirror and watched the emergency flashers of the Tremayne ambulance coming fast toward them. "How much further to the cut off, Carol?" he asked Doc Remington's wife. Carol Remington turned on her map light and surveyed the mimeographed sheet of rendezvous points. She looked over at Galen. "We should be coming up on it in about four or five minutes. Can you hold him off that long?" "Longer, if I have to." He eased the straining speedometer over the 110 mark. Glancing back through the partition, Carol smiled at Ellen Vittetoe. "How you doing back there, lady?" "I feel like it could be any minute now." Carol laughed. **** Jenny Warrington was busy taking Gabe's blood pressure. Her husband, Dick, was preparing another injection as Doc listened through his stethoscope to the irregular rhythm of Gabe's heart. "He's gonna be all right, isn't he?" Kyle asked. Cobb touched Kyle's arm. "Don't bother them, Mr. Vittetoe. They're doing all they can." **** Andrew Tremayne swore as he watched the ambulance ahead of them gaining ground. If it hadn't been for those two local yokels getting in their way, they'd have caught the other ambulance by now and forced it off the damned road. He was fuming, his nostrils flaring. He wished he had his hands on James right then. He'd make the little son-of-a-bitch pay for every moment of aggravation he had caused. "You just wait, James," he seethed. "You're going to wish you'd never been born." "He's more'n likely kicked the bucket by now," Beecher said. "I gave him enough juice to fry him up right." Andrew turned his angry glare to the orderly. "I can't believe my father would order such a thing." He narrowed his eyes. "If I find out you lied…" "I'm Mr. Tremayne's man," Beecher defended. "I've been his man a long time. I do what he tells me, when he tells me!" There was an ugly glint in the big man's eyes as he stared at Andrew. Andrew looked away, hating the bastard beside him, thinking of ways to get rid of him when the time came. He knew he'd enjoy it.
**** Dr. Bruce Lassiter picked up his telephone. "How may I help you, Dr. Tremayne?" Patrick Tremayne heard the strained quality in Lassiter's voice. He knew to be careful. Very careful. "I was just checking up on my brother, Dr. Lassiter. Has there been any change in his condition?" "I don't guess you heard then." A cold shiver ran down Patrick's spine. His hand tensed around the receiver. "Heard, what?" "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this, Dr. Tremayne, but it seems your brother was abducted this evening. I am terribly sorry. I was not in the clinic when it happened." The cold shiver warmed. "Abducted by whom?" Patrick asked, letting anger and disbelief enter his tone. "We don't know really. One of my patients, a Mr. David Boudreaux, or rather someone claiming to be him, since I've now found out the real David Boudreaux is in a clinic in France, was being transferred by his mother this evening and your brother seems to have disappeared with this impostor. Your brother, Mr. Andrew, arrived to relieve us of James and it was then we found James was not in the clinic." "And what did Andrew say? Does he have any idea who could be responsible for this?" Patrick asked. He was aware he was sweating and that the cold shiver was now a hot flash of relief down his backbone. "Mr. Tremayne believes it could be someone from out west who somehow found out where your brother was being kept. He's gone after them, although they did have a rather substantial lead due to a malfunction with our gate that kept your brother outside the grounds for nearly ten minutes. Ironically, he saw the ambulance that no doubt contained your brother pass him." Lassiter sighed. "I'm so terribly sorry this has happened, but what can I do?" Patrick smiled. "Hope for the best, Dr. Lassiter," he said gravelly. "Just hope for the best." "Oh, I do, Dr. Tremayne. I most surely do!" **** Mel eased down on the air brakes, brought his semi to a gentle stop in the darkened parking lot of the abandoned strip mall. It was still pouring, but the occasional overhead flashes of lightning were decreasing. The storm moving out to sea. He looked at his watch. "I'll give 'em another twenty minutes before they show. There's no sense in getting out in this muck until we have to." Jake nodded. Folding his arms, he scrunched down in the seat and closed his eyes. It was going to be a long night. **** Edna Mae saw the brown car before Del did. Leaning forward, she tapped him on the shoulder. "There's Thais." The station wagon pulled in just behind the other car and both parked as close to the limo as space would allow. One of the occupants of the car got out and climbed into the back of the station wagon. "You ready, Miss Edna?" Delbert asked as he reached for the handle to the limo's door. "Yes." It was a wet, slippery run to the car for Edna Mae and Del. They nodded a quick greeting to the female patrolman who passed them on her way to the limo. Once inside the car's musty interior, Edna Mae let out a long breath. "Any word?" she asked. "Not yet." Thais introduced them to the law enforcement officers who were in the front seat. The CB came alive with the female state trooper's throaty voice. "You boys be careful now, you
hear?" The limo's lights came on and it pulled out of the rest area on its way back to the rental agency in New Orleans. **** The parking lot of the Hancock Medical Center in Bay St. Louis, Mississippi, was nearly barren as Galen Dupree headed for the emergency entrance. He was more than aware of the ambulance nearly on his heels. "Here we go," Galen whispered as he began to maneuver his vehicle up to the emergency room doors. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw two men piling out of the other ambulance's rear doors. **** Andrew Tremayne was vaguely aware of the people from the hospital emergency room coming out of the building pushing a gurney, but his eyes were on the ambulance that contained his brother. "What you got?" the head nurse shouted at Galen as he stepped out of the ambulance. "Stop," Tremayne yelled, pointing at the people gathering around. "I demand you stop!!" Galen smiled at the head nurse, opened the doors of his ambulance and grunted as Beecher reached out to shove him aside for Andrew Tremayne. Without stopping to think, Andrew climbed into the ambulance, his eyes wide and flashing, his lips drawn back over clenched teeth. He came to a skidding stop when the woman lying on the ambulance's gurney sat up and let out an ungodly scream. "What the…?" Andrew said as he stared down at the screeching woman. "Where is James?" "James?" the woman bellowed. "Who the hell is James???" The head nurse's forehead crinkled. "What's going on here?" "Where the hell is my brother?" Andrew screamed at the ambulance driver. "I don't know what you're talking about," the driver snapped. "Get the hell out of there so I can get this woman into delivery. Can't you see she's about to have a baby?" For the first time Andrew noticed the huge mound that was the woman's belly. He stared at her for a split second, then pushed angrily out of the ambulance. He turned deadly eyes to the driver of his own ambulance. "You've been following the wrong damned ambulance, you imbecile!" Andrew strode to his ambulance with the others in tow. "Call in the chopper from New Orleans," Andrew yelled. "Find that ambulance!" "Yes, sir, Mr. Tremayne," the ambulance driver shouted as he climbed hastily behind the wheel of his vehicle. **** "May I ask what's going on here?" the head nurse inquired after the one ambulance peeled out of the parking lot and into the flowing darkness beyond. "Nothing," Galen answered. He smiled. "Just a case of stupidity, I suppose." She sniffed. "Well, let's get this lady into - " "There's no need," Ellen replied as she flung aside the blanket covering her and removed the pillow resting on her stomach. "We were just making a practice run." **** Half an hour later, Galen drove his ambulance into the back of Mel's semi and parked his vehicle behind the one already there, got out and joined Carol Remington and Ellen Vittetoe inside the sleeper of
the cab. It was a tight fit, but it would have to do until they met up with the motor home. "Got word from Snowbird that the boy is doing better," Jake told Galen as Mel shifted the rig out onto the highway. "They've got him stabilized." "That's all I needed to hear," Galen sighed. He leaned back and closed his eyes. ____________________ *Chapter 40* At 3:20 in the morning in the parking lot of the Florida welcome station just west of Pensacola, two people transferred from the cramped sleeper of Mel Vanderwoode's semi to the relative comfort of Dick Warrington's motor coach. The semi gave a light blast of its air horn as it pulled out of the parking lot and headed for Birmingham, then Memphis to deliver the ambulances back to their rightful owners. Across the rainy parking lot of the welcome station, the driver of the station wagon turned on its headlights and backed out of the slot in which the wagon had been sitting. Inside, behind the steamy windows, three law enforcement officers talked quietly among themselves as the fourth member of their fraternity pulled onto Interstate 10. Glancing behind him, Thais saw Edna Mae and Delbert entering the motor home from the welcome station's brightly lit interior. He turned to Galen and smiled. **** At 3:30 a.m., the motor home eased onto the concrete slab of I-10 heading for its connection to I-75 that would take those inside up through Georgia. At 4:06 a.m., Andrew Tremayne finally got up enough nerve to call his father to tell him they had lost James. At 4:45 a.m., at the Santa Rosa Truck Stop in Milton, Florida, Edna Mae made a call to Iowa. At just a little past 10 a.m. the next morning, as the motor home neared Valdosta, Georgia, on I-75, Liam Tremayne began to experience something he had never thought he ever would - towering fear. ____________________ *Chapter 41* He came awake slowly, reluctantly, because his head throbbed with an intense agony behind his right eye and his stomach rolled with nausea. There was movement beneath him: slight bumps, jars, and a whining sound he couldn't quite identify. He wondered why he didn't smell the antiseptic stench of betadine and alcohol; why he didn't hear the mumbling voices of the nurses and orderlies going about their tasks outside his room. Dimly, he was aware of a different feel to the mattress upon which he lay, a hardness that seemed vaguely out of place. Without opening his eyes, he moved his hand along the sheet and encountered a rough, textured surface that somehow felt all wrong. It didn't feel like his blanket. In fact, it didn't feel like anything he was accustomed to. He shifted and heard a tinny squeak as springs popped beneath him. His brow furrowed and he concentrated on experiencing the aches and pains that tormented his body. He could feel the IV in his arm and wondered briefly why they'd felt the need to feed him in that manner, but mentally shrugged away the question. Why did they do anything to him? "Gabe?" Somewhere above him, to his left, he heard the soft, feminine voice, but it meant nothing to him. The name meant nothing, so he ignored it, knowing whomever had spoken had not been speaking to him. "Gabe?" He wished whoever the hell it was would leave him alone._ Go away. Drop off the face of the earth. _He hurt so bad, felt so rotten, that the single word was like an ice pick being driven in his ear. Another sound, spoken with more authority, broke over him in a wave of agony. "Jamie?"
Slowly, with little real inclination to do so, he opened his eyes. There was a bright light above him, two blurred, floating faces he couldn't quite see or make out looking down at him. He squinted, trying to block out most of the light, closed his eyes again to keep the pain at bay. He winced as the stronger, male voice spoke again. "Does your head hurt?" "Go away," he forced himself to mumble. The sound of his own voice was excruciating and he pressed his cheek down into the cool softness of his pillow. Again the voice skewered into his pounding brain. "Give me fifty of demerol, Jen." He felt his arm being lifted, something cold and clammy being wrapped around his upper arm. He tried to pull away, but the movement brought fresh pain to his head and he groaned. "Hang in there, buddy," the masculine voice whispered to him as the blood pressure cuff began to fill and a tight constriction banded his arm. "Please," he sighed, wanting to be left alone. He was so tired of them hurting him. "Can you turn over on your side?" the feminine voice asked him as the sheet covering him was pulled away. "No." He heard the petulance in his voice and flinched, thinking they would hurt him for sure now. He forced his eyes open and tried to look at the woman, but all he could see was the round blob of a face bending over him. "Leave me alone." Gentle hands, warm and soft, reached under him and carefully rolled him toward the right. He felt hands on his pajama bottoms, pulling them down over his hip, exposing his flesh to the cool air. He opened his mouth to protest as the chill wash of alcohol swabbed over his skin and the woman's velvety hands spread over his hip. "You're going to feel a little prick," she told him just before the needle slid into him. The liquid fire spread through his muscle and he whimpered, hating the feel, knowing what it would do to him. Even as they rolled him back over and adjusted the sheet, the languid unreality of the drug began to take hold. "Shit," he managed to mumbled. "Give it a few minutes and the pain should be gone," the man told him. He felt the pain receding, leaving him, and he sighed. There was a heaviness in his chest, a pressure on his senses that commanded him to sleep, but he wouldn't, couldn't. A part of him wanted desperately to know what game they were playing with him now. With a great deal of effort, he made his eyes open and he willed them to focus on the faces. "How ya doing?" the masculine voice asked. James Gabriel Tremayne stared up at the face weaving into focus. He concentrated hard on making out the features. "Do you remember who we are?" the feminine voice inquired. He shifted his eyes to her. Her face - smiling, sweet, freckles ranging blatantly across her pert nose and sun-blushed cheeks, green eyes warm and friendly - looked down at him with expectation. He could see worry in her eyes. He shook his head. He didn't know her. "How about me?" the man asked. There was something vaguely familiar about the man. His ruddy complexion bore the unmistakable stamp of the outdoors. The man was deep into middle age - fifty, sixty, maybe. His face was craggy, his eyes showing many years of seeing what probably shouldn't ever have been seen in them. There was a gentleness in those eyes, but a great sadness as well. The peaked eyebrows, silver-shot hair, the rugged build all seemed familiar, but the name wouldn't surface. He shook his head. He couldn't really remember ever seeing the man at the clinic before. "Do you know where you are?" It was another voice, deeper, more gruff, filled with impatience. He looked past the woman and saw a man standing behind her. As he watched, all three people swayed and the bed beneath him lurched upwards. He heard the blare of a horn and blinked. "You're in a motor home."
The explanation might as well have been someone telling him he was on his way to Mars. His eyes widened and he tried to lift his head, tried to look around him, but couldn't. He glanced up and saw a ceiling that wasn't the white tile that stretched over his bed in the clinic. Shifting his vision, he saw curtains, moving gently to some unknown rhythm. He saw polished oak and a fancy wallboard, saw what looked like cabinets at the far reach of his vision. Slowly, his eyes shifted back to the woman. "It's all right, sweetie," she told him. "You're safe now. You're with people who love you." He closed his eyes. He wondered where they were taking him. What godawful place would be his prison. Who would be his warders from then on. He sank down into a silent, uncommunicative limbo into which no one could follow. Their words passed over him like flotsam along the seashore. He went deeper beneath the waves, shutting out their gentle words, wondering when their anger at him would surface and their real purpose make itself known. "Just sleep, Jamie," he heard an inner voice demanding. "Just sleep." **** Doc Remington looked up at Jenny Warrington and frowned. He shook his head and straightened his tired back. "Do you think he knows us?" Kyle asked. Doc shrugged. "I'm not sure." He ran a weary hand over his face, flinching at the day's stubble that scraped his palm. He walked to the little table where Edna Mae and Ellen were sitting, coffee cups clutched in their hands. "How is he?" Edna Mae asked. "I think he's trying to retreat into one of those personalities Marty told us about." He glanced at the black orderly who was sitting beside Delbert on one of the sofas. "He answered to Jamie." "It was Jamie who realized who we were," Edna Mae reminded him. "Yes, but maybe Jamie doesn't remember me and Doc," Jenny replied as she came to stand beside them, her hand on the railing that ran along the overhead cabinet. She swayed as the motor coach changed lanes. "What concerns me is that he didn't recognize Kyle." "He didn't really look at me," Kyle answered. "Give him time," Mary Bernice told all of them. "He's been through so damned much, is it a wonder he don't want to go through no more?" **** He could hear them talking. Were they talking about him? Surely not, for their words were kind and gentle. He thought he knew who Kyle was. The word conjured a warm and glowing feeling inside him, but he just couldn't seem to recollect an orderly by that name. "You have to protect them, Jamie," that inner voice warned. "Remember?" A wavering memory flitted over his tired mind and he strove hard to latch onto it, but like a will-'o-the-wisp, it moved out of his reach, floating past him into the darker regions of his subconscious. As he slipped into an uneasy sleep once more, he wondered who could possibly trust him to protect whomever he was supposed to protect when he couldn't even protect himself. ____________________ *Chapter 42* Liam Tremayne glared at his son. If he had been able, he would be up, his palm lashing out to wipe the fear off Andrew's face. The young man's terror was palpable, a scent like stale grease. "We've got men on the way to Iowa right now," Andrew whimpered. "We'll find out who those people were. We'll send men to - "
"Did it ever occur to you - " Liam cut him off with a sneer. " - that those people might've been hired by that woman in Iowa." He cut his eyes to his daughter. "What was her name?" "Annie," Bridget answered. "Annie Cummings, Papa." Liam impaled Andrew with a stony stare. "Did that ever occur to you?" "Where would she get the money?" Andrew asked. "She's just a school teacher." A snarl erupted from Liam's throat. "James' picture has been plastered all over this state," he snapped. "That took money, Andrew. Renting that ambulance, the limo, all that shit. It cost money. Shitkickers from Iowa can't plan like this, Andrew. This was done by professionals. People who knew what the hell they were doing!" Bridget nodded. Patrick looked away from his sister. If only they knew, he thought with a malicious sneer. There was no doubt in his mind that the people in Iowa who loved and cared for his brother had made the trip south to retrieve him. "What do we do about Lassiter?" Bridget asked, drawing eyes to her angry face. "Do we let him get away with his ineptitude?" Liam snorted. "Lassiter is the least of our worries, Bridie!" He turned his hot eyes to Patrick. "Do you have photographs of James after the surgery?" Warily, Patrick nodded. "Why?" Liam flicked his eyes to Andrew. "Get those photographs from Paddy and have a thousand copies made. I want them distributed all over Iowa. Send them to every newspaper, TV station, every contact we have in that pissant place. I want him found. Do you understand, Drew?" He raked his eyes over his son. "Or is that too much for your feeble brain to handle." The hot eyes narrowed. "If it is, I can turn the whole thing over to your sister. I'm sure she could see the job done!" "I could," Bridget agreed, her eyes blazing. Andrew glared at his sister. "I'll take care of it." "You'd better," Liam warned. Patrick excused himself, knowing his father neither wanted nor needed, any help from him. He gently closed the door to his father's room behind him and met the worried look of his mother. He smiled and walked to her, took her into his arms. "Don't worry, Mama. They won't find him." His mother shivered. "Are you sure, Paddy?" Patrick knew what his father had had planned for Jamie at the clinic in Louisiana. Andrew had made the mistake of telling him when he'd called Paddy on the scrambler in his Orlando office. "Can you believe it?" Drew had laughed. "Papa was actually gonna have James snuffed!" And Patrick had known a fury unlike anything he'd ever experienced. Both Andrew and Bridget had long wanted James eliminated. He'd known that for quite some time. But finding out their father not only wanted his son out of the family's way, but had ordered his death, brought Patrick himself to the edge of murder. The knowledge sat like a heavy weight on Patrick's chest and he had unburdened that weight upon his mother's frail shoulders. "You must've misunderstood," Margaret Tremayne had said. "Surely - " "No, Mama," Paddy had told her. "They want to see him out of our lives forever, Mama, and I don't intend to let that happen." "No," she'd sighed. "We won't let it happen." Jamie had always been her favorite. He had been the one child among all of them to whom she had felt the closest. He hadn't been serious like Patrick, or vain like Andrew, or mean-spirited like Bridget. He'd been a warm, loving, shy little boy who hadn't even been given a chance to win his father's love. He'd been despised from birth, not wanted, not loved, ignored by his father. Until the beatings and abuse began. "I didn't want to see it," she had told Patrick that afternoon when he arrived at the mansion in Miami. "I didn't want to believe Liam could mistreat his own flesh and blood in such a horrible way." "Why didn't you ever try to stop him, Mama?" Patrick had accused.
"I… I…" The old woman had broken down and wept bitterly, her past actions no longer making sense to her. On this day of his brother's freedom, as Patrick held his mother, he glanced past her to the grandfather's clock in the hall. It was three in the afternoon. He wondered where Jamie was and if he was safe. He worried the drugs Beecher had given him might have taken Jamie's life, but somehow deep in his soul he knew if that had been the case, he would have felt it. He would have known it. "Don't worry, Mama," he whispered to the woman who had given him life. "Jamie will be just fine." **** The Atlanta beltway was clogged with afternoon traffic. Cars were gridlocked ahead of the motor coach. Up ahead, the revolving roof lights of two Georgia State Patrol cars kept the cars and trucks, vans and semis at a distance from the accident that had blocked all three lanes. "I'm getting hungry," Delbert told his wife. Dick looked around from the driver's seat. "Jenny stocked up on sandwich meat and salads, Del, and there's bread and snacks in the cupboard. If you're gonna make something, how about piling some pastrami on wheat for me?" Delbert nodded and got up to go to the mini fridge. He asked if anyone else wanted anything and was surprised to hear a weak voice from the back of the motor coach ask for something to drink. He stopped, glanced at the others and saw Ellen Vittetoe push hurriedly up from her seat to rush back. "You want some water, baby, or pop?" she asked as she knelt on the floor next to Gabe. She covered his hand with her own. He stared up at her for a second, eyes narrowing. He licked his lips, swallowed, then let out a long breath. "Ellen?" he asked. Her face broke into a wide grin. **** Annie James let go of the curtain that covered the front window of the little apartment in which she and Nora Mueller and Annie's little Pomeranian had been staying for the past several days. It wasn't home, just a safe house, but it wasn't bad. "Where do you think they are now?" she asked Nora. Nora looked up from her knitting. "I don't know, dear. Maybe in South Carolina if they're lucky." She laid her knitting in her lap. "I haven't ever traveled that way so I'm not familiar with the country or how long it takes to get from one place to another." She smiled gently at the younger woman. "I'm sure they'll check in soon to let you know how things are." Annie sighed. "I hope so." She went back to the window, pulling the little muslin curtain aside with the backs of her fingers. She gazed out into the parking lot and shifted her vision to the high-rise medical center just to the north. It was one of Des Moines' prettiest buildings and the sight of it seemed to calm her. It seemed to remind her there were three medical experts on that motor coach with Gabe. "He's gonna be just fine, dear," Nora said quietly. "He's in good hands." "I know," Annie whispered. **** FBI Agent Mark Sadler cursed. He was staring at a photo just handed to him by his assistant. He pitched the faxed photo onto his desk and swiveled his chair around, staring out at the cold Iowan afternoon as snow drifted sullenly past his window.
"They changed his face," Sadler snarled. His assistant, Henry Butler, glanced at the photo and back at Sadler. "Do they really think we'll cooperate with them?" Sadler snorted. It was an ugly sound. "What was it that bastard down in Florida said? 'We cooperated with you trying to find Gabe James. Now, it's up to you to help us find James Tremayne!'" He growled. "Mentally unstable, my ass!" Sadler spun around in his chair. "When you send a reply to Florida, tell them unless they come out here and get a federal extradition order signed, we aren't going to be busting our butts trying to find Tremayne." After his assistant was gone, Sadler smiled. Butler knew nothing about the team that had gone to rescue Gabe James from the clinic in Louisiana and he didn't need to know. He hoped things had gone well down there. Chuckling softly to himself, he reached for his phone and punched in Virgil Kramer's home number. "Virgil? Mark Sadler. How's things down south?" "Bright and sunny's what I hear on the Weather Channel. How's things where you are?" "Heating up, but I've got my finger on the thermostat. How's our little weather girl holding up?" Virgil's gruff voice softened. "Just heard from her and she and Toto are hanging in there." "Keep in touch," Sadler advised his local counterpart. "And good luck on your fishing trip in Minnesota." Virgil sniffed. "As though I'm really looking forward to it!" "Don't slip through no cracks up there, Virge," Sadler said with a laugh. "We're gonna need you back here." ____________________ *Chapter 43* "As best I can tell, boss," Carmine 'Cheech' Giafaglione's right-hand man told him, "all this is on the up and up. Old man Tremayne had his son kidnapped in Iowa and had him locked in some private clinic in Louisiana. They was keeping him doped up down there." "The Chancel?" Cheech asked. "How'd you know?" the man asked, his eyebrows nearly meeting over his craggy nose. "I've used it a couple times," Cheech said. "Go on." "Anyway, it seems Tremayne's son, James, got snatched from there, too, by person or persons unknown. His whereabouts isn't known at this time." Cheech frowned. "No idea who took him?" "Rumor is it was some of Tremayne's friends from out west. The young Tremayne, that is." A rare gentle smile creased Carmine Giafaglione's lips. "Got some ballsy friends, don't he?" "He was a cop," the man sniffed. "DEA in Florida." Cheech leaned back in his chair. "Is that so? And he was married to Connors' daughter, eh?" "Yeah, but she's dead, now." He lowered his voice. "I hear tell it was Tremayne's daughter who ordered that hit." Light speared through Cheech's hooded eyes and he made a temple of his fingers. "Bridget Casey." "That's the one." "That bitch is a pit bull in disguise," Cheech growled. His own daughter, Teresa, had gone to finishing school with Tremayne's arrogant girl-child. Teresa had told her father more than he had ever wanted to know about Bridget Tremayne. He looked out his garden window. "Do you have all the information I requested?" "Yes, sir. We've got some guys from Palermo just waiting for orders. We gonna help, boss?" Cheech's eyes lifted slowly to his henchman. "If we're asked, yes. Cop or no cop, James Tremayne has a friend in the Giafaglione Family." The henchman cocked his head. "Why is that - if you don't mind me asking, boss?" Cheech shrugged. "I like cops better than I do Irish riffraff. And I like Irish riffraff a hell of a sight
better than I do Liam Tremayne and his two upstart guttersnipes!" "What about the other one? That surgeon?" "Patrick?" Cheech inquired. He shrugged again. "If he wants the family business, maybe I'll cut him in as a partner when the time comes." He stood, put his hands behind his back and clutched them together as he stared out across the expanse of his formal garden. "In any case, I'm going to see done to Tremayne what he, himself, did to the Connors' organization. "As soon as Tremayne kicks the bucket, there's gonna be a power struggle between that bastard lawyer down in Atlanta and old man Tremayne's bitch daughter." He turned to grin at his henchman. "I intend to see both of them lose!" **** Bridget Tremayne Casey reluctantly tore her eyes away from the guard strolling slowly along the pathway between her mother's rose garden and the mansion's brick patio. Bored, angry at her father's tiresome tirade against Andrew's incompetence in handling James, and only a bit worried about what might happen to the family should James ever be allowed to tell what had happened to him, Bridie sat in one of the lush, velvet Queen Anne chairs in the library and stared at the Monet over her father's desk. Her eyes wandered to the telephone, skipped away, then returned. A slight frown marred the perfection of her face as she tried to make up her mind on how she should react to what was happening. One part of her wanted to let it ride, let Andrew hang himself; another part wanted to act, to take matters into her own hands as she had with Kristen, and in doing so, replace Andrew in their father's eyes as the offspring better suited to take over the Tremayne Group. "He has to be found." she could still hear her father shouting. "Damn it, Drew! Do you understand what damage he can cause?" "What damage he may have already caused?" she had added only to have her father's furious eyes scald her. She'd demurely lowered her eyes, face hot, hands clenched in her lap, but her own fury was directed toward her father, not Andrew. "I don't care what it takes," Liam had bellowed. "Use every informant we have in the Florida Bureau and the FBI. Someone out there knows something!" Bridget drew in a long, slow breath and reached her expensively manicured hand to the ornate, white French Provincial telephone. Her finger twirled the dial, careful not to break one of the bright red nails. She pursed her lips, cleared her throat and brought the receiver to her ear. The muted ringing at the other end made her hold her breath, made her heart beat heavily in her chest until the long-distance connection was made. "Giles' Seafood. Can I help you?" She smiled. "I hope so. A while back, I ordered a special order of crayfish gumbo. Monsieur Giles prepared it himself, and I was very pleased with the order. May I order another?" ____________________ *Chapter 44* "How are you feeling?" Ellen asked him as she lifted the cool glass of cola to his lips. Her right hand was beneath his neck, bracing his head. James Gabriel Tremayne closed his eyes as the chill liquid flowed down his parched throat. He felt as though he were on fire, standing in front of the doors to a roaring furnace. Sweat was dripping down his face, running into his eyes. His head was throbbing - pounding really - and a ragged shudder shook him now and again. As the last of the cola dribbled into his mouth, he opened his eyes and looked up at Ellen's pretty face. "More," he croaked. His eyes narrowed with pain. "Please?" Ellen smiled and gently lowered his head to the damp pillow. She disappeared from his line of vision. He slowly turned his head and saw Mary Bernice and her husband looking at him, smiling. Shifting his
gaze, he could see Edna Mae, Jenny Warrington, Carol Remington and, blinking to clear away the confusion, Martin Cobb. His brows drew together. "Just felt like going for a ride," Cobb joked as their eyes met. Ellen came back toward him with a tall glass in her left hand. She knelt beside him and slid her hand under his neck, once more placing the glass to his chapped lips. The tang of the soda pop flooded his mouth and he gulped more forcefully, consuming the liquid as fast as Ellen would allow. "Easy does it, sweetheart. There's plenty more if you want it." "How's our boy doing?" He looked past Ellen to see Doc Remington smiling down. Doc bent over him, his left hand braced on the shelf behind the pull-out bed. "Feeling kinda shaky, Gabe?" He licked his lips as Ellen withdrew the glass. "Where?" he managed to get out. Doc shrugged. "We'll be in Columbia, South Carolina, in about an hour, I think. We're goin' be stopping soon so Edna Mae can call Virgil to let him know how things are." His breathing stopped and his eyes flared. "Annie?" he gasped, trying to sit up only to have both Ellen and Doc push him back down. "Annie?" The one word was a whimper of pure fear. "Annie is safe, Gabe," Ellen told him. "Virgil's watching over her." He violently shook his head, ignoring the crush of agony. He struggled to get up. "I have to go back!" His voice was dry, cracking, hoarse. "They'll hurt her! They'll - " "Gabe," Doc said in a stern, no-nonsense voice, "Annie is in a safe house in Des Moines and only Virgil knows where she is. Nora's taking care of her, so there's nothing for you to worry about." Tears filled his eyes. Didn't these people, these wonderful, good and decent people, know what his family was capable of doing? Didn't they realize the first person Liam would send his goons after would be Annie? Didn't they understand the fury with which his family would react to what had been done? He tried to push himself up in the bed, to twist away from Ellen's gentle restraint and Doc's grasp on his legs. "They'll go after her," he cried. "I can't let them hurt Annie." His eyes pleaded with Doc. "She's all I've got!" "And she's safer than you are right now," Doc snapped. His eyes were on Gabe's face. "Dick? He's starting to withdraw." Ellen's hands were on his perspiring face, holding him, trying to get him to calm down, to look at her. A furious trembling made his body quiver. His teeth chattered even as he begged her to let him get up. Ellen let go of him and stepped back, allowing Dick to move into her place. "It's all right, Gabe," Dick said. "We're going to help you through this." "Annie!" he yelled, struggling to get away from the needle coming toward him. He fought; he pushed away from the two men; he spat at them until he felt a third man's hands on his ankles, pinioning his legs. "Annie!" The needle slid into his arm and he howled with frustration and fear and hopelessness. "Take it easy, son," Doc told him. "Everything's going to be all right." "Gabe?" Doc asked, looking deeply into his eyes. "Gabe?" "Jamie," he whispered, his speech slurred. "My name is Jamie." "All right. Jamie. I want you to listen now, and don't interrupt. Marty's told us what they were giving you and most of it we already have on board. Once we get to New York, we'll get the rest of your medications so we can begin weaning you." "New York?" _What the hell is the old man talking about?_ "We've got a friend in Watertown in upstate New York," Dick explained. "She's a doctor, too, and she's going to look after you until you're well enough for Annie to join you." "Can't go back," he mumbled, feeling the numbness spreading throughout his system. "Can't ever go back." "You don't have to," Doc assured him. "We can get Annie to you and the Tremayne's won't ever know about it." "They'll… come… after… you…" He had to tell the old man. He had to warn him and the others. "My father will - "
"Shit and go blind," Edna Mae yelled. She pushed Dick Warrington aside and bent over to look at Gabe. "You listen to me, Gabe James or Jamie Tremayne or whatever you want to call yourself. We didn't come two thousand miles to rescue you just to have that son-of-a-bitch kidnap you again! I don't know where you got all that fake identification from before, but The Badger has provided you with new documents and I've already purchased two one-way tickets to Australia for you and Annie, or whatever the hell the name is on her documents. Nobody, and I mean nobody, is ever going to find you again. Do you hear me?" He stared up through the fog of the drugs at the little old lady. Her eyes were flashing behind the glass of her spectacles and her face was set in a furious, stubborn scowl. He wasn't sure if she was quivering with rage or if it was the drugs making his vision waver. It didn't matter. He could see how angry she was and how adamant, and he tried to smile, but his mouth wouldn't obey. "Don't you backtalk me either," Edna Mae told him. "All I want to hear from you is a 'yes, ma'am' and that you'll let us take care of everything. Is that clear, young man?" He was sinking beneath the drug and could hear James calling to him, begging him to help. Could hear Jimmy's cautioning voice warning him not to cause these people trouble. Could hear Gabe's angry denial of what was happening, his furious warning that he'd be the death of these good people. "Jamie?" Doc inquired. "Do you understand that you're safe, son?" _Safe? _There was no such thing with his family, he thought grimly, his mind swirling with grief. As long as he was alive, and not in the hands of Liam Tremayne, no one was safe. Especially not the people who cared so much for him, they were willing to risk their own lives. And most especially, not Annie. He wanted to cry. He wanted to curl up and die. But more than that, he wanted to keep these wonderful people safe. Only he could do it. Only he could prevent the horrible retaliation he knew was, at that moment, being planned in the mansion in Miami. "Yes, ma'am," he forced himself to say. "I'll let you handle it." **** Doc let out a long sigh and looked at Dick, who nodded tiredly. Both men glanced at Edna Mae and found her frowning fiercely. She was staring at James Gabriel Tremayne, her eyes locked on his closed eyes and still face as he slipped into a deep, troubled sleep. "What's the matter, Miss Edna?" Dick asked. "Don't you believe him?" Edna Mae shook her head. **** Even after the call came in from Virgil telling her everything was fine; even after Virgil also told her Jake and Mel were safe and on their way to Iowa, Annie Cummings James knew something was going to go wrong before she could see her husband. "There ain't no reason why the two of you can't be married for real now," Nora had told her. "His wife's gone and you two can be safe wherever Edna Mae sends you. There ain't nothing standing in your way now, dear." But Annie could sense something else waiting, lurking, insidiously prowling around their lives trying to disrupt the building peace. She didn't know what it was, when it would come, or how it would reveal itself, but she knew it was there nevertheless. She didn't think it was his family that would bring about this new problem. Somehow she knew in her heart it would be Gabe. But what he would do, when he would do it, was beyond her understanding and foresight. "He'll run away again," she found herself telling Nora. "He'll leave and I'll never see him again." "You don't know that," Nora had comforted her, but Annie could see the same fear in the older woman's eyes. "He'll think he's protecting me and he'll run, Nora." She'd covered her face with her hands and had spoken through the barrier of her fingers. "He'll keep running until they either catch him again or kill him."
Her sobs had been pitiful. "He's going to do something. I know he is. I can feel it. He won't ever come home!" **** "We received a call from Des Moines, Mr. Tremayne," Danny O'Callahan said into the phone as he spoke with Andrew. "There are five people James was really friendly with out there." Andrew heard paper rattling and knew the man was looking at his notes. "And?" he snapped through clenched teeth. "One is an Iowa State trooper named Kyle Vittetoe. He lives with his sister - " "I don't give a rat's ass**who he lives with," Andrew screamed. "Who else?" "Neither the trooper nor his sister have been seen for nearly a month now. I think it's safe to say they were involved. I believe the man pretending to be David Boudreaux was probably the trooper." "All right," Andrew snarled. "I'll buy that. Now I want to know who the old lady is!" "It may have been the woman who lives across the street from James. Both her and her husband are missing, too. Your father thinks it was this Mueller woman who was masquerading as Mrs. Boudreaux and her husband who was driving the ambulance. As for the nigger man and woman who were the chauffeur and ambulance attendant, chances are good that they're Delbert and Mary Bernice Merrill. The nigger bitch worked with James in Iowa." "And are they gone as well?" "Yes, sir. There are some more people that haven't been seen, but I don't think there's any more involved in this than those I've already mentioned." Andrew's face drew up into a fierce scowl. "You think two old ladies and an old man, two niggers and a cop did all this?" "Your father doesn't care about any of these people except the trooper. It seems he was James' best friend. We've got orders to take him out when we find him. Also, we're to waste the broad James shacked up with." Andrew snorted. "That goes without saying." He swiveled his chair around and stared out the window at the dying February sun. "Do her first." "It's already been ordered. As soon as we find her, she's history." **** He woke up and looked around. It was dark inside the motor coach. He could hear gentle snoring and a few lowered voices speaking. Through the long corridor to the front of the coach, he could see Delbert and Kyle sitting up front. Del was driving and Kyle sat, his foot propped on the dash console, his face turned toward Del. He moved his gaze and saw Edna Mae in one of the side beds. Her hands were tucked demurely under her chin as she lay on her left side. Doc and Carol were sleeping side by side on pallets on the floor; Dick and Jenny were laying on another. Martin Cobb was propped up along the pantry door, his head lowered, his gentle snores somehow childish. Ellen was lying in the top bunk on the right side of the coach and Mary Bernice was stretched out on the bed formed when the two dinette couches were folded out. "They're in this because of you," Gabe hissed at him from the dark recesses of his conscience. "You're gonna be the cause of them dying, you selfish prick!" "Don't listen to him, Jamie," James whimpered. "He just wants us to get caught again. He doesn't care about the rest of us. He just wants us to get hurt like him." "The kid's right," Jimmy's harsh, impersonal voice broke in. "You'd better skip the first chance you get, buddy boy. If you don't, these fine folks are gonna pay for your foolishness." He slammed his hands against his ears to shut out the voices, but he couldn't. They were inside him, taunting him, muttering, speaking over each other's words. Their warnings and threats blended into one
another and became a cacophony of sound that thrust everything else out of his mind. He couldn't think with their blaring words running into one another. He couldn't think with all the possibilities that were beginning to form with their words. "They'll go after Annie first," Gabe warned. "You know they will. And what they'll do to her won't be pretty." "They won't get her unless you let them," Jimmy reminded him. "If you don't do anything to stop it, they will, but you can do something, can't you, Jamie?" "You can't let them catch me again," James pleaded. "They'll kill me next time." "Who cares?" Gabe shouted into the darkness. "What good are you to anyone? Even your own father knew you were worthless!" "I want to live," James cried, his little boy sobs shrill and sullen. "I've never had the chance to live and I want to!" "What you got to live for, you sniveling little bastard?" Gabe bellowed. "You let the old man do whatever he wanted. You ain't nothing but a coward and a faggot!" "And what are you?" Jimmy scoffed. "You're the coward. Running and hiding. Letting other people do your dirty work for you. You're a thief. You lied and you cheated and you caused a lot of heartbreak for a good woman who sure as hell deserved better. You think she'll want you back?" Jimmy laughed scornfully. "Even if you could go back to her - which you can't - she'd be better off without a liar like you." "And you're better, huh?" Gabe yelled. "Who the hell are you to judge me?" "I'm who I am," Jimmy answered. "And it's gonna be up to Jamie to let me handle this. Isn't it, Jamie? I can take care of you, Jamie, and everybody else." "Jamie's a looney." Gabe tittered. "He's a certified looney tunes. Who the hell cares what happens to him?" "Jamie can't help me," James pouted. "He's a druggie. Who can trust a druggie?" "Just say the word," Jimmy whispered. "Just give me a chance. I'll see that everything's done up right." He tried to block out the words tumbling around inside his head. He squeezed his eyes shut, turned over on his side, drew up his knees and pressed his face into the pillow. His whimpers escaped the notice of those in the motor coach. "Go away," he screamed at the voices in his head. "Go away and leave me alone!" "You ain't alone," Jimmy warned. "You got these good people to think about." "He's gonna get 'em killed," Gabe said and laughed. "Every last one of them." "He doesn't care what happens to me," James sobbed. "Nobody does." "Stop it!" **** Doc Remington was on his feet even as the scream's first sound blasted through the motor coach. He bumped into Dick as the two of them hurried to the thrashing man who was kicking his feet against the coach's side panel. "Leave me alone!" Marty Cobb pushed himself up and dove for Jamie's legs, holding them down as Doc began to prepare a syringe. "Make them go away! Make them leave me alone!" "He's hallucinating," Dick said quietly as his wife put her hand on his shoulder. "Please, don't do this to me! Oh, God! Leave me alone! Stop doing this to me!" **** Kyle's face was chalky in the glow of the coach's dash lights. He was looking back through the coach, the hair on the back of his neck standing up as he listened to the howls of pain and madness coming from
his friend's throat. Even when there was no longer anything but the strangled sobs and hopeless whimpers coming from his friend, Kyle couldn't make himself go to the back. Very slowly, as the last sounds died away, he faced forward, his eyes on the dark highway. He was vaguely aware of the Virginia state road sign they passed. He faintly heard Del speaking to him, but he shook his head. **** Doc smoothed the wet hair back from Jamie's forehead and looked down into the wide, staring eyes. A trill of worry ran down the old man's spine and he let out a wavering breath. "He's withdrawing from more than the drugs," Doc said. "Is he going to be all right?" Ellen asked. Dick shook his head. "We don't know yet, El. He's been through so damned much." "He'll be all right once we get him up to Janice's," Jenny said. "She'll take good care of him." **** But as he listened to the quiet exchange in the rear of the coach, Kyle Vittetoe wasn't sure anyone would ever be able to help his friend again. ____________________ *Chapter 45* "Dr. Casey?" the heavily-accented Cajun voice asked. Bridie sat in her office chair. She was bone-tired and forgot to flip on her phone scrambler. "This is she." "I decided I'll take de order you placed, but I ain't found all de ingredients as yet. How much spice you want in dis ting?" A flash of annoyance shot through Bridget's mind. "If you're asking how many of those interfering shitkickers I want eliminated, I want them all," she snapped. "They've made my family look like fools and that will not be tolerated!" There was a momentary silence, then the voice at the other end of the line lowered. "How you gonna s'plain all them many deductions, Dr. Casey? Ain't you really just wantin' to get back your investment?" The voice turned hard. "I guarantee I get back de investment or you don't pay dis boy." "We don't want him back, you backwoods ninny," she yelled. "We want him dead!" The man's voice went deep and ugly. "Dat can be arranged, Dr. Casey. All I'm sayin' is it'll be harder to do dat if I got to clean up de other mess." The Cajun twang turned sly. "You want dem folk what interfered punish, I can do dat by wiping away dat investment for you. Ain't dat better dan dat what you want?" Bridget thought about it for a moment. "Maybe you're right." She brought one elegant nail to her teeth and tapped the white enamel. "Yes, perhaps it would serve a better purpose. Let them know just how powerful this family is." "I tink dat would be best," came the amused answer. "Dey won't interfere no more, I guarantee." "Do whatever you want," she snapped. "Just don't bother me with the details." She hung up and leaned back in her chair. A vicious smile twisted her lips. The Cajun would find James and eliminate him. It might well turn out to be a good day after all. **** The Badger slowly hung up the receiver. His dark cinnamon eyes were hot with hate and his thick lips were pulled taut over his grinding teeth. With his hand still on the receiver, he turned to look at Thais Whitney.
"Take care of it," he ordered. Thais grinned. "Consider it done." The big man quietly exited the office. Getting up from his chair, The Badger walked to the console and poured himself a tall glass of iced water. He drank half of the liquid before throwing the tumbler as hard as he could against the far wall. He didn't even blink as the crystal shattered and cascaded to the thick pile carpeting. "Bitch," he spat. "Dirty, filthy, goddamned bitch!" "You knowed dere ain't never been no love lost 'tween her and de boy, Badger," The Badger's partner drawled. The Badger spun around, his face sat in a mighty scowl of pure fury. "She ordered his death! Her own brother! What kind of woman is she?" He threw out his hand. "What kind of doctor?" His partner shrugged. "What you wanna go gettin' you all worked up for, Badger?" He leaned down and turned off the tape recorder that had been grinding away on The Badger's desk. "We got her contractin' for de boy's killin'. We go get a court order and we go over dere and pick up dat boy she hire. Unless he don't talk, we go pick her up, too." "He'll talk," The Badger snarled as he flung himself down in his chair. "Giles Fontaine'll talk or I'll pull out his tongue myself!" **** Agent Mark Sadler stared up at the Florida-based FBI agent with disdain. He'd been dealing with this particular bastard all along. He hadn't liked him the first time he'd spoken to the cracker on the phone, and didn't like him any better in person. He let his eyes travel down the unkempt, creased brown suit, the scuffed shoes, the grease-splattered tie, and wondered how on earth the Bureau could overlook this man's appearance. "We've got it on good authority," the man said in a condescending and high-pitched voice that was irritating the hell out of Mark, "that several Iowa citizens were involved in abducting James Tremayne from the clinic in Louisiana." "So?" Mark snapped. Obviously the Florida agent hadn't expected such outright antagonism because his eyes widened, then his mouth turned hard. "So," he spat back, "Mr. Tremayne was admitted by his family to the clinic. He - " Sadler stood, put his hands on the top of his cluttered desk and leaned toward the man. "Gabe James was kidnapped from Iowa, taken to Louisiana against his will by hired thugs who threatened one of our citizens and nearly ran over a second. Any way you look at it, Agent Bartow, that's kidnapping, and as far as I know, still a federal crime!" The Florida man's jaw clenched. "His family had a court order for him to be committed to - " "A court order good only in Georgia," Sadler shot back. "There was never any extradition order signed in this state, or Louisiana either!" A feral gleam entered the Southern man's eyes. "So what you're telling me is you and your department will not cooperate in trying to locate Mr. Tremayne. Is that it?" Sadler's lips pulled back in a warning smile. "In a nutshell, Agent Bartow." He straightened up and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring down his nose at the red-faced federal agent. "And you can get your skinny, white-trash ass back to Florida and tell your boss, Liam Tremayne, it'll take the entire Florida Army National Guard and Reserve to come up here and try to take Gabe James back. By this time tomorrow morning, the whole sordid mess that happened to him will be plastered all over every newspaper in this country." "You're making a big mistake," Bartow warned his Iowa counterpart. "A big, dangerous mistake, Sadler." Sadler's smile tightened. "No, Liam Tremayne made the mistake of thinking he could snatch one of our citizens and get away with it." "James Tremayne is his son," Bartow shouted. "He has every right to - " "Gabe isn't a child, Bartow," Sadler interrupted. "The only hold Liam Tremayne ever had on him is
now broken." Arnold Bartow's lips twisted in a vicious smirk. "Don't count on it, Sadler. You don't know Mr. Tremayne. It isn't wise to underestimate him or what he can do." "Just like it wasn't wise to underestimate us plow boys either." "Don't think this is over," Bartow warned. He started to say something else, but the phone rang. "Special Agent Sadler," he barked into the receiver. "Our cargo reached its destination and the shipment is intact," Virgil Kramer said. "That's good to hear," Sadler said, looking up into the flushed face of his adversary. "I've got a Florida federal agent with me right now. Can I call you back?" On the other end of the line, Virgil laughed. "Give 'em hell, Mark." "I intend to." **** Patrick Tremayne scrubbed at his hands, his nails, and ran his soapy forearms under the thick flow of water as he began to prepare himself mentally for the long surgical procedure he was about to undertake. Holding up his arms, he backed his way into the operating room and waited for his nurse to gown him. As she pushed the heavy, green, cotton surgeon's gown over his arms, he fixed his eyes on the woman lying on the operating table. "Is she under?" he asked his anesthesiologist through the muffled obstruction of the mask being tied over his face. "Under and dreaming of twenty-two-year-old lovers," the man said and laughed. Patrick walked to the operating table and looked at his patient. He shook his head and turned to his surgical assistant. "How many face lifts have we done on her?" The nurse smiled above her mask. "This will be the fourth." A snort of disgust came from Patrick's nose. "Vanity, vanity," he quoted. "All is vanity." He asked for his scalpel. "Excuse me, Dr. Tremayne?" Patrick frowned, turned, annoyed, as one of his nurses poked her head in through the operating room's door. "Yes?" he snapped. "You just received a call from your brother. He - " "I don't give a damn what Andrew wants. He can go screw himself for all I care!" He turned his back on her. "Oh, it wasn't that brother, Dr. Tremayne," the woman hastened to say and took a step back as the renowned plastic surgeon spun around and stared at her. "Jamie?" he gasped, and at the woman's wary nod, he took another step toward her. "What did he say?" Patrick asked, his voice low and husky. "Just that he's all right and for you not to worry." A cold stab of fear went down Patrick's spine. "Did he…" He had to swallow the lump that had formed in his throat. "Did he say where he was?" "He just told me who he was and gave me that message." True fear made Patrick shiver. "Did he call on the regular office line?" Oh, God, I hope not, he thought with a miserable sinking feeling. That line was not secure. "Yes, sir, he did." The woman stepped out of the room. Patrick handed the scalpel to his assistant. His hands were trembling and he knew he wouldn't be able to even start work on the soap opera actress whose face looked up at him from the table. He shook his head, trying to clear it of the warning bell going off inside. "Dr. Tremayne, are you all right?" his anesthesiologist asked. He nodded. "Just give me a minute." He looked about at the masked faces. "My brother's been missing three days now, and I've been worried sick about him."
Patrick Tremayne's surgical assistant made a mental note to call Miami. Mr. Tremayne should know what his son's reaction to the call had been. And the call would have to be traced. **** "Thank you so much for your help," Edna Mae told the young man. She handed him a twenty dollar bill. "Any time, lady," the young man said and grinned. "You want me to call anybody else?" "That should do it," she answered. She closed her purse and stuck it under her arm. "Have a safe trip now." "You, too!" As the old lady walked away, Bertie Klein looked down once more at the twenty she'd given him for making a telephone call for her. She'd told him what to say, dialed the number, and handed him the receiver. "Just a little joke on some friends of mine," she'd explained, but although Bernie had been born at night, it wasn't last night. He knew a con when he heard one. "What the hell?" he thought as he stuffed the twenty into his jeans. Everybody had something coming to them. He picked up his duffel bag, pursed his lips into a happy whistle, and headed outside into the warm Miami sunshine. ____________________ *Chapter 46* "The damned call came from right here in Miami," Liam shouted at his eldest son. "Here, Drew! Right here at the airport!" "I'm on it, Papa," the lawyer whined into the phone. "I've got men headed there right now." He didn't dare tell his father that his own secretary had received a call from Jamie as well. That one from Atlanta's airport. "You incompetent, bumbling little prick," Liam bellowed. "You aren't smart enough to wipe your ass after you shit!" He slammed the phone down with such force one of the table legs on the desk cracked along its delicate curve. "What you need me to do, boss?" Danny O. asked as his employer flopped down into the winged back chair. "Find him," Liam gasped. His lungs were on fire, the morphine already wearing off. He reached for the syringe and ampule in his top drawer. His hands shook so violently he dropped the syringe. "Let me, boss," Danny O. told him and took the ampule from Liam's grip. "Just lean back and I'll fix you up." Liam groaned as he eased back. He closed his eyes, wishing with all his being that he could wrap his hands around James' neck and squeeze until there was no longer any life left in the son he hated. Danny O. wrapped the tourniquet around his employer's arm and asked him to make a fist. He probed at the slippery veins until he found one that looked as though it would bear one more injection. Quickly, he slid the needle into the vein and released the constriction around Liam's upper arm. "You've been a faithful employee, Danny," Liam whispered as the morphine began to spread into his shoulder. "A good, faithful friend." He opened his eyes and looked into Danny's. "I haven't forgotten you in my will." Danny shook his head. "You shouldn't have done that, boss." "I wanted to." He put his hand on Danny O.'s arm. "You've been more of a son to me than any of the rest of them." "You've been like a father to me and Johnny. We appreciate it, boss."
Liam nodded, wondering if Johnny was enjoying his stay in Dublin. He closed his eyes, picturing the beautiful land of his ancestors. He could see the cool green hills, the lush forests, the rolling sea and purple heather. "I want to be buried there," he mumbled as he settled his wasted bulk into the chair. "There in Killarney." "I know, boss. We'll see to it." "I want bagpipes and drums at my funeral." He slipped into a light doze. "And the Tremayne colors all about." **** Danny O. listened until the old man's rumblings died away, then gently spread a plaid blanket over Liam's legs and chest. He walked to the window and drew the curtains shut, turned out the little stained-glass lamp and left quietly. "Is he sleeping, Danny?" Danny O. smiled at the frail, little, old lady who stood in the corridor. "Yes, ma'am. I had to give him another shot." Liam's wife nodded, her face grave. "He has to take more and more of that horrible stuff in order to make it through another day." She turned her worried eyes up to the middle-aged man. "He won't live to see spring, Danny." "No, ma'am. I don't think so, either." He gently took the old woman's arm and led her toward the stairs. He stopped when she did. "Find him for me, Danny," she begged, her eyes pleading. "Before any of the rest of them do." Danny O. nodded. "I'll do my best, ma'am." He could see tears in her faded eyes and it raked at his heart. He put his hand over hers and patted the thin, cool flesh. "Don't you worry, now." "They'll kill him, Danny," she sobbed. "They'll kill my boy if we don't stop them." "I won't let that happen, Miss Margaret," he promised. "I swear on my Mama's grave, I won't let them kill Jamie." After he had helped the old lady to her room, Danny stood at the balcony overlooking the vast expanse of the great room and stared out through the sweep of glass to the bay beyond. Helping the boss lock Jamie up in that clinic had been one thing - something Danny O.'s conscience would allow. For in that clinic, Jamie was safe from the pain and abuse his father had dished out as a matter of course when he'd been living at home. _But killing the boy?_ Danny O. shook his head. His eyes narrowed. Killing Jamie Tremayne was out of the question. He'd help see to that. **** "Dr. Casey?" Bridget looked up from the report she had been dictating. "Yes?" "Your brother just called from the airport. He said to tell you he was fine and for you not to worry about him." Bridget's brows drew together. "My brother? Which one? Andrew or Patrick?" "Neither. James." **** "Who were you calling?" Kip Buchannan's father asked as the young man hung up the telephone. Kip fished in his pocket and withdrew a twenty dollar bill. "Some old lady gave me this on the plane down here when she heard me telling the stewardess I was coming to Savannah. She just asked me to
make a call for her when I got here, that's all." "What kind of call?" Kip shrugged. "Just wanted me to call…" **** Hank Jesup handed over a twenty dollar bill to the pizza delivery boy. His mouth was already watering because he could smell the musky odor of the mushrooms and pepperoni. "Keep the change," he said magnanimously. What the heck? he thought as he shut the motel room door behind the kid. That twenty was the easiest bill he'd made in a while and all he'd had to do was make a call from the airport in Orlando. ____________________ *Chapter 47* Ellen looked at her brother's stony profile and could see the muscle jumping in his left cheek. His eyes were staring straight ahead through the wide windshield of the bus, totally oblivious to the slapping motion of the wipers as the huge blades swept away the thick fall of snow. His hands were clenched into fists on his lap and his body was so rigid it was painful to look at. She covered his left fist with her hand and smiled as he flinched and turned his attention to her. "Are you all right?" she asked softly. Kyle shook his head, then returned his gaze to the front of the bus. She saw his eyes narrow in pain, then close. Her hand tightened on his. "He's in good hands, Kyle. Doc will be staying with him until he gets settled in. Dr. Cean seemed like a nice lady. I think she'll be able to help Gabe." "Jamie," Kyle corrected, opening his eyes. "His name is Jamie." Ellen sighed and removed her hand, laying it in her lap. "What's bothering you, Kyle?" Her brother shrugged. "Oh, nothing important." She watched his mouth purse into an angry line, then drew her brows together in concern when Kyle turned his head to look at her. "I just lost my best friend, that's all." Ellen heard the hopelessness, as well as the anger, in Kyle's voice. There was a bleakness in his eyes she had never seen before. "Why do you say that? Gabe… Jamie is going to be just fine." "Yeah?" Kyle snapped. "And just where did you get your degree in psychiatry, Ellen?" His lips twisted in a sneer. "The man I knew is gone. The man that's left is a stranger!" "He's been through a lot, Kyle," Ellen said quietly. "It's going to take time for him to come out of this. To get over the drug addiction and to step back into the mainstream of what his life was like before. He's -" "He never said one word to me the entire trip," Kyle snarled. "Not one word, Ellen! He didn't look at me. Hell, he didn't even acknowledge it when I told him goodbye at the bus station." Tears came into Kyle's eyes. "He just stared at me like I wasn't even there." "He hadn't spoken since we were in North Carolina, Kyle. Not since he had those hallucinations. Doc tried to explain to you it was the drugs causing him not to respond. My God, Kyle, the man had enough drugs in his system that it almost killed him! You know that." "All I know is the friend I loved is gone." A fat tear rolled down Kyle's cheek and he viciously swatted it away with his trembling fingers. "The man we left in Watertown is mentally unstable. You could see it in his eyes." Another tear slid from Kyle's left eye. "What am I going to tell Annie? Huh? What the hell am I going to tell Annie?" Ellen watched as her brother's shoulders began to shake. She twisted in her seat and drew him into her arms, cradling his head against her shoulder as the sobs shook his tall frame. "Let it out, baby," she said. "Just let it all out."
Kyle held onto his sister, clutching at her as though he were a drowning man. The months of planning, the days of nearly constant travel, the weariness, the fear of being caught, the fear of Jamie's family discovering where Annie was in hiding, all combined to break down Kyle's last vestiges of reserved strength. He latched onto Ellen and held on for dear life. At the moment, it was all he could do. **** Dr. Janice Cean motioned her husband and Doc out of the room, then sat beside her patient and took his hand in hers. Although he hadn't uttered one word since they had led him into the sunny room, she knew he was keenly aware of everything going on around him. "Let me tell you something about myself, Jamie," she said in motherly sincerity. "Doc and I were stationed in Vietnam together back in the '60s. I was head nurse at the MASH unit where he was assigned. We worked together almost every day for eighteen months." She smoothed the back of her patient's hand. "We saw some things, did some things, that no one should ever have to see or do." She looked away. "It's a difficult thing to amputate an eighteen-year-old boy's legs. Harder yet to watch one die." She mentally shook herself and lowered her eyes to his. She was pleased to see he was watching her. She smiled. "Doc's a good man, isn't he?" She hadn't expected an answer to her question and wasn't surprised when she didn't receive one. "He'll do anything he can for a friend. I know that firsthand because when I got back to the States, I didn't seem to fit into any of the hospitals where I worked. I went from one to another, angry that all the experience, all the expertise I had gained was being wasted. "I knew how to suture and close an abdominal wound. I could operate with the best of them near the end of my tour. I had to make life and death decisions, delegate responsibilities, do things the nurses stateside were never allowed to do and weren't trained to do. When I got back here, when my job became no more than a glorified handholder, I felt I was nobody. I felt I was being tolerated by the surgeons. Can you understand?" His eyes flickered. "I don't think I would've stayed in the medical field if Doc hadn't looked me up one day. Hadn't gone out of his way to come to Adam's Center to see me. When he found out just how miserable I was, he bullied me into going to medical school, and even paid for some of it with his own money." She smiled. "I have him to thank for that shingle on the front door. Without him, I'd probably have stuck a gun in my mouth and pulled the trigger." The dark eyes that had been looking at her slid slowly away. "I know what it's like to feel worthless, Jamie. I know what it feels like to think your whole life is slipping away. I've been there. I've felt the pain. I've felt the loneliness." She lifted his hand and threaded her fingers through his. "I know what it means to feel like you're lost in a storm, unable to make your way back without help." She squeezed his hands. "But I had Doc, just like you've got Doc, and I owe him one. For a long time, I've been waiting to pay him back and now I have the chance. Her patient turned his eyes back to her. "You can stay here as long as you like. For as long as you feel you need to. I'm not going to ask anything of you. I'm not going to make demands on you. I'm just going to let you heal at your own pace. And when you feel you can handle it, no matter how long it takes until you do feel you can handle it, we'll bring Annie to you." His eyes snapped shut and he turned his head away from her. She knew she'd found the problem. "Don't worry about her, Jamie. She's being protected." He snatched his hand out of hers and turned to his side, his back to her. Dr. Cean let her hand fall to her lap. "You have people who love you, Jamie. People who were not content to sit by and watch you being hurt." "People who are going to suffer for helping me!" The harsh words had come so unexpectedly, so forcefully, Janice Cean jumped. She watched her
patient's shoulders tremble and knew he was crying. "I see," she said quietly, and flinched as he flung himself over and glared at her with red-rimmed, tear-filled eyes. "Do you?" he shouted. His face was twisted in an ugly mask of hate. "I believe so," she answered in a soft voice. "You're afraid something will happen to the people who helped you. You think your family will go after them and - " "I don't think so, lady! I know they will!" "So what are you going to do about it." She saw his eyes flare. "What do you mean - me?" His teeth pulled back over his lips. "What the hell can I do about it?" His breathing became ragged and shallow. "They should've left me there. They shouldn't have interfered. Now they're in danger because they did." He viciously shook his head. "I'm not worth it! I'm not worth them losing their lives over helping me." "They think you are." "They don't know Liam Tremayne!" He pushed himself up in the bed, his back rigid against the headboard, his knees drawn up to his chest. "They don't know what that son-of-a-bitch is capable of doing!" "But you do." His eyes narrowed in pain. "I know all too well what he can do." "Then stop him. See to it he never does something like this to anyone else, ever again." He stared at her with astonishment. "How?" "By going to the press. By telling them your side of the story. By letting the public see what they've done. Let people know just what kind of man your father is." "I can't." His voice had become a fearful whisper. "Why not?" She watched him staring at her with true terror stamped on his tear-streaked face. "What are you afraid of, Jamie?" Her heart ached at the look in his eyes. "He can't hurt you. We won't let him." She looked on as all the anger in him dissolved to be replaced with a hopelessness she had seen many times in the young faces of soldiers who knew their lives were ending. She reached out to him, but he moved out of her reach. "Leave me alone," he whispered. His voice broke and his next word was so pathetic it ripped at her soul. "Please?" "All right." She got up, turned away from the bed, but stopped and looked back at him, not surprised to see his wounded eyes on her. "Things are going to work out for you, Jamie. We're going to see to that." He watched her until the door closed behind her, then he slid down in the bed, folded himself into a fetal position and stared unseeingly at the door, never blinking, never looking away. ____________________ *Chapter 48* "Hi, Virgil," Annie James said in an excited voice. "Have you heard from him?" Virgil laughed. "Doc called to tell me he and Carol are leaving for home this morning. He said to tell you everything's just fine and our boy is coming along real good." He stamped his feet in the telephone booth, shivered, then sneezed. "How's your cold?" she asked. "A hell of a sight better than Urban's." His eyes lit with malicious humor. "That brother of mine's got walking pneumonia! Serves him right since he caught more fish than me." Annie's voice lowered. "Is he really all right, Virgil, or are they just telling me that to keep me from worrying?" Virgil could hear the concern in her voice. "They say he's entirely off the drugs, and he's talking about you coming out in a few weeks. Doc says that's good news because up until this week, he hadn't been
responding like Doc thought he should." "But he's okay?" she pressed. "He's not sick or anything?" "He's doing good, Annie. Doc wouldn't have said so if he wasn't. He wouldn't be coming home neither. You know Doc. He'd stay there until summertime if he thought Gabe needed him." Annie chewed on her lower lip and her silence brought her name from Virgil. She shook herself. "Have you talked to Kyle?" she asked. "Not lately. He's been working on a case and he's been so involved in that since he got back I haven't seen much of him except to pass his house and see him getting in his cruiser. Why?" "Nora got a call from Jake this morning." She heard Virgil begin to sputter and cut him off. "He was calling from Grinnell, Virgil. Don't worry. He just wanted to tell her things were doing okay at the house and he missed her." "He should've asked me before he called," Virgil grumbled. "How can I protect you two women if - " "Jake said he spoke to Kyle yesterday and Kyle didn't seem like himself. He said Kyle was acting very funny." "It's that case he's on, probably," Virgil tried to reassure her. "If something was wrong, I'd know it." Virgil Kramer was at a loss for words. How could he explain Kyle's strange behavior to Annie? How could he tell her what Ellen had told him just the night before about Kyle's moodiness and sullen silences? It would only worry the girl and make her wonder just what had caused this abrupt change in her old friend. It was bound to make her think things were not as rosy as everyone was trying to color them. "They're more'n likely giving him a hard time at the headquarters over his long absence, Annie. You know how bureaucratic government agencies can be. You know he's probably as worried about Gabe as we are, and with all that on him, the man's just trying to keep the bastards off his back by diving into this case. If anything was wrong, don't you think Ellen would've told me? You just hang in there, kid, and before you know it, we'll be shipping you off to wherever that old man of yours is hiding out." Virgil said. As she hung up, Annie had the strangest feeling the only place she was going to be going was back to her home in Rock Creek. Alone. **** James Gabriel Tremayne slid out of his chair at the breakfast table and embraced Doc Remington, then turned to kiss the older man's wife on the cheek. "You'll be careful?" he asked. Doc nodded. "You'll take care of yourself?" Jamie shrugged. "As best I can." Doc looked into the bleak, despondent eyes of his young friend, but didn't press the issue. Janice and her husband, Bryant, would take good care of Jamie. "You won't try driving all night in that thing, will you?" Bryant asked Doc. "Not to worry," Carol said and laughed. "Once we get down to Memphis and deliver the coach back to Ron and Emmie Lou, I intend to make sure we spend the weekend there, maybe rent a car and go to the Opry over in Nashville before we fly home. I think we deserve a little vacation, don't you?" "I do," Jamie answered. "Just get back home safely. That's all I want." "Jamie - " Doc began, but the young man stopped him. "You'd better get going before the snow hits. I don't want to worry about you on the road." Doc knew Jamie didn't want to say goodbye to him anymore than he had been willing to say goodbye to the others, especially Kyle, because he sensed the word meant something far more painful to Jamie than the man would admit. "I'll call in every now and then to see how you're doing," Doc said. He grinned. "Make sure you're behaving." Jamie nodded. He swept his eyes to Carol. "Take care of the old man, will you?" Carol smiled. "I'll try."
Jamie gripped the older man's hand in a firm handshake. "Thank you, Doc." "Any time, son." He squeezed Jamie's hand then let it go. "See you, huh?" Jamie smiled, but the smile never reached his eyes. "Let's go, dear," Carol advised, as if sensing the leave taking was becoming painful for both men. From the big bay window in Janice Cean's dining room, Jamie watched until the oversized motor coach disappeared from view. He was alone in the room, Janice and Bryant having felt his need for solitude. As he watched the first few graceful snowflakes drift lazily down to the lawn, Jamie felt more alone than he ever had. **** "We picked up that Giles Fontaine," Thais told The Badger. "You damned sure took your time finding the bastard. It's been two weeks since I told you to get him." Thais sniffed, leveled his gaze with the black man's, then cocked his head to one side. "He never left the state, Badger. No harm done." "Have you got anything out of him yet?" The Badger snapped, ignoring the offended look in Thais's eyes. "Nope." Thais folded his arms over his chest. "You gonna question him?" The black man shoved back his chair. "What do you think?" He skirted the desk and plowed past Thais. The door to his office slammed against the wall with enough force to rattle the picture of Martin Luther King on the wall. "I wouldn't wanna be dat Fontaine right 'bout now," The Badger's partner remarked to Thais. "Badger gonna burn him a new 'un." Thais sighed. It was going to be a long, long afternoon. **** Liam Tremayne watched his daughter pouring a snifter of brandy and his eyes narrowed into thin slits of distaste. "Don't you think it's a little early in the day for that, Bridie?" he asked. He saw her stiffen, then watched as she lifted the glass and drained the amber liquid. His lips pursed. Bridget set down the snifter before she turned to face her father. "We know he couldn't be in Savannah and Atlanta and here all at the same time. Those calls came within minutes of one another." Her eyes turned fierce with pique. "If you ask me, those calls were made by those friends of his." "Possibly." He put his hand to his chest and pressed, feeling the monster inside him gobbling away huge sections of his flesh. His eyes watered and he moved to the desk drawer where the morphine was. She saw her father's hunger as he stared down at the desk drawer and knew the cancer was causing him intense pain, but she knew the old man was too proud - and too careful - to let her see how bad he was really doing. Pouring herself another brandy, she took the snifter to the sofa and sat down, curling her long legs under her as she looked across the room at her father. "Tell me, Papa," she began, her eyes steady on him. "What are you going to do about Andrew?" She lifted the snifter to her lips and took a sip as her father's eyes swung to hers. "In regard to what, Bridget?" She lowered the snifter to her silk-clad thigh. "We both know he's botched this whole thing with James, Papa. With the manpower he has at his disposal, he's no closer to finding James than he was the night the little bastard disappeared." She cocked one brow. "Is that the way you want your business run when you're gone?" Liam's eyes narrowed. "And you think you could do better?" She took a slow sip, lowered the snifter, then smiled, her lips wet and slick with the fiery brew. "I know I could."
"Tell me," Liam said, pushing himself painfully from his chair. "Has your Cajun contact been able to find Annie James, Bridie?" Bridget's eyes widened and her mouth dropped open. "How did you…?" Liam waved an annoyed hand. "I know everything you do." He picked up the crystal pitcher of mineral water on his console and poured himself a generous amount. Walking back to his chair, he gently lowered himself to the winged comfort of his seat. He fished in his Japanese silk robe for the pain pills he kept in the pocket. "Don't think for one moment you do anything that isn't reported directly to me, Bridget." He flipped open the pill container and shook out two demerol tablets, popped them into his mouth and tipped up his glass. "I didn't think you'd care about what happened to that slut in Iowa, Papa," Bridget defended, although she licked at her suddenly-dry lips. "I don't, but I've given orders to my men that, when they find her, they're to bring her to me. That's the best way I know to get James to come to us." He leaned back in his chair and stared at his daughter. "If you were as smart as you think you are, you'd have realized that. That little bitch is our ace in the hole." Bridget swallowed, mentally kicking herself for not having thought of such a ploy, but her naturally aggressive nature and rampant ambition, made her lift her chin and look back at her father with what she hoped was nonchalance. "What if he's decided to cut his losses?" she asked, not daring to bring the snifter to her lips. She was aware that her hand was shaking. "Maybe he won't care what happens to her." An ugly snort burst from Liam's lips. "And maybe one day, there'll be a woman on the board of the Tremayne Group, but it won't be you." Bridget's face paled and her eyebrows drew together in concern. "But why not?" she whined. "I could run the business far better than Andrew, Papa! He's proven just how incompetent he can be. He doesn't have the balls to - " "And physically, neither do you," her father snapped. His face twisted into a sneer of disdain. "This is a man's business, Bridget. A man's business. Women have no place here. The Giafagliones and Swartzes and McGregors of this business would eat you alive and grab up everything it's taken me a lifetime to build. Do you really think I'd let you - a woman - ruin the family?" She could see the anger in her father's eyes, but she could also see the glazing being caused by whatever drug he'd taken. She knew he was in great pain and could see the effort it was taking for him not to pull open the drawer and take out the morphine numbness. Arguing with him would avail her nothing and only serve to irritate him more. She knew when to back down. "All right, Papa," she said in a gentle voice. She unfolded herself from the sofa and stood, smoothing the wrinkles on the skirt of her dress. "I can see your point." "See it, but don't give a damn about it," her father grumbled. He fused his eyes with hers. "You'll not be given a chance to run the Tremayne Group, girl. You'd best get that through your head right now." Bridget forced a smile. "Whatever you say, Papa." She went over to him, bent down and kissed his wrinkled cheek. "I'll do whatever you think best." "I know you will." It wasn't until she was in her private jet that the anger fully overtook Bridget Casey. Her words were deadly. "I'll see Andrew in his grave before I let him win." ____________________ *Chapter 49* Janice looked up as Jamie came in to say goodnight to her and Bryant. "Are you feeling better?" At his nod, she cocked her head to one side. "No more upset tummy?" "No, Mommy," he answered. His eyes blazed with the first humor she'd seen since he'd been there. "You want me to tuck you in?" she played along, grinning.
Jamie laughed, the first laugh in a long, long time. "I think I'm big enough to get in my jammies without any help." "Got a fresh mouth on him, don't he?" Bryant Cean commented as he looked up from the crossword puzzle he was working on. "Might need to ground him or take away his TV privileges for a few weeks." "Aw, come on, Dad," Jamie whined. "Not my TV privileges!" "Get your ass to bed," Bryant grumbled, but his eyes shone. "Can I have a drink of water?" "Get," Bryant growled. "See you in the morning," Janice said. Jamie smiled at her. "Yeah." Bryant watched him until the door to the guest room closed quietly. He looked at his wife. "He's better, isn't he?" Janice let out a long breath. "Yes. Yes, he is." **** Doc was out of breath by the time he snatched up the phone. He'd been out shoveling the accumulated snow of several days from his walkways when he'd heard it ringing. Carol had gone down to the supermarket to restock their nearly empty larder so wasn't available to rush to the phone. "Hello?" he gasped, fumbling with the receiver in his thickly-gloved hands. "Doc, it's Janice." Something in his old friend's tone sent immediate alarm through Doc Remington. "What's wrong?" There was a slight pause and then Janice sighed heavily across the miles. "He's gone, Doc. He left sometime during the night." ____________________ *Chapter 50* He'd only had to stand along the roadside for less than fifteen minutes before he caught the first ride. The trucker - gregarious, cheerful, full of stories to tell - was glad for the company. By the time they reached Elmira, N.Y., Jamie knew most all there was to know about Clark Higgins. He knew the name of Clark's children, his wife, even his favorite hunting dog down in Fayetteville, N.C. He knew how much the trucker had paid for the rig he drove and how much of a bargain the trailer had been. He even knew how much the mud flaps on the rear tires had set Clark back. Jamie found he didn't need to do much more than nod and smile at his companion and grunt in agreement now and then to keep Higgins happy. There were no questions asked he had to lie to answer. There were no sidelong glances when Jamie grew restless during the long, tireless explanations Clark seemed to thrive on giving. Only once during the late-night trip had Clark asked anything personal of Jamie and that was to ask his preference of soft drinks at the gas station. "Not much of a talker are you, son?" Clark asked early the next morning as the semi lurched onto the Pennsylvania Turnpike. "Not much to say," Jamie answered and Clark started in on one of his hunting stories. He fell asleep listening to the recounting of how good old Belle had treed the biggest possum ever bagged in Cumberland County. When he woke, they were just crossing the tip of West Virginia. "Did you have a good nap there, son?" Clark inquired as he downshifted the big rig. "I guess so," Jamie answered, rubbing his eyes. He sat up and looked about, saw a sign that he was a hundred miles from Richmond. Clark was going all the way to Fayetteville, another three hundred miles. He glanced at the driver. "How soon before you'll be stopping, Clark?" Clark's laugh was a belly-bellow of mirth. "Hell, son. You slept through my last stop. You gotta take a pee?" Jamie smiled. "I'm more hungry than anything else."
"Why didn't you say so?" Clark jerked his thumb behind him. "There's some sandwiches in the cooler back there. Help yourself." The bread was going hard, the meat a bit slick, but Jamie's stomach didn't protest. He ate two of the greasy bologna sandwiches, a small bag of chips, and drank a root beer, but when he offered to pay Clark for the food, the trucker only shook his head. "I don't reckon you got all that much on you, do you, son?" Jamie's face turned warm. None of the thirty some-odd dollars in his pocket belonged to him. It was money he'd taken from Janice Cean's purse. He'd left a note promising to pay her back, but the theft bothered his conscience more than he would have thought possible. "Don't worry about it," Clark said in a soft voice, mistaking Jamie's silence for embarrassment. "We all need a helping hand now and again." He didn't know how to answer the trucker. What was there to say? So he turned his face to the window and stared blindly out at the passing West Virginia countryside. In Richmond, he helped Clark offload some of the crates of apples the man was bringing down from New York. The odor of the Rome Beauties that permeated the trailer was clean and homey smelling and it vividly reminded Jamie of the hot apple cider Annie always brewed when it was cold. "You wanna grab some lunch before we head back out?" Clark asked. "I'm buying." "There's no need to…" he tried to protest, but the older man only shook his head. "Humor me, all right, son?" Clark threw a companionable arm around Jamie's shoulder. "I'm thinking you got a long way to go and a short shrift to pay your way there." He squeezed Jamie to him. "Don't look a gift horse in the mouth unless he's choking up hundred dollar bills." By seven that evening, the big rig pulled up in front of Clark's house just outside Fayetteville. The trucker invited Jamie to stay for supper, but the younger man declined. "I've got to get moving, Clark," he said, stretching out his hand. "But I really appreciate all you've done for me." For a long moment, Clark Higgins stared intently at Jamie. "Whatever it is, son, you can deal with it with the Lord's help." He covered Jamie's hand with his own. "All you really gotta do is ask." "I'll keep that in mind." **** Jamie hunched down behind the white sports car. There were only three vehicles left in the parking garage and he knew the one closest to the sports car belonged to the man he was waiting for. The garage was cold; the wind howling through the concrete buttresses. The floor smelled of spent gasoline and oil slicks, and the pungent odor of carbon monoxide. He had a headache; he was tired and hungry and slightly chilled. Bryant Cean's parka was warm, but it had been lightly snowing in Atlanta when Jamie arrived and his walk down Peachtree to the high rise where Andrew kept his office had made the parka damp. There was a knot of fear in his gut and every time he heard a sound he could not identify, his groin tightened almost sexually in the tight confines of his jeans. "Come on, Drew," he said, his eyes narrowing as he looked at his watch. He'd been hiding in the garage most of the afternoon, waiting and watching for his brother to come out. Hoping the bastard would be alone. The elevator doors across from him pinged and he jumped. His heart slammed in his chest once, twice, and then he managed to make himself move to peer around the bumper of the car. As the doors opened, he held his breath, but the wrong two people came out - a sexy young woman and a slightly overweight, middle-aged man. The man headed toward the sports car. "Drive safe, Leanne," he said as his shoe heels echoed on the concrete flooring. He carried an expensive-looking briefcase in his left hand, his keys in the other. "You, too, Mr. Carstairs," the young woman called. "See you on Monday."
Jamie fell back behind a concrete stanchion, blending in with the darker shadows into which the overhead halogen lights could not reach. He watched as the car door closed, then winced as the starter grinding in the engine sent a piercing shock through his head, making the headache worse. To make it even more agonizing, the driver of the car revved the engine a few times before backing out of the parking slot. With every burst of sound, Jamie flinched, finally covering his ears with his hands. As the car finally rolled slowly behind the young woman's vehicle, Jamie eased down his hands. "Where the hell are you, Andrew?" he growled. He had a clear view of the vehicle sitting in front of the red-lettered name plaque belonging to Andrew R. Tremayne, Esq. He was about to stand up to stretch when the elevator doors shut and began their upward climb. **** Andrew glanced at his watch and frowned. He was going to be late, unfashionably late, for his wife's dinner party. He hadn't wanted to attend, had argued with her all week over the necessity of them having to entertain whatever new artist had signed in at her sister's gallery that week. "It's good publicity for you, darling," his wife had finally cooed at him. "Just in case." Andrew hadn't been the one to tell his wife about James escaping the clinic in Louisiana. His sister had let that cat out of the bag. The betrayal didn't set well with Andrew and he intended to see Bridget pay dearly for getting his shrewish wife involved. As the double steel doors opened, the air inside the parking garage hit the lawyer like a burst of arctic wind. He shivered, pursed his lips in annoyance, and began to fish in his pocket for his keys. Not finding them in his right pocket, he transferred his briefcase to that hand and searched his left pocket, grunting as his fingers closed around the key ring. He neither glanced to his right nor left as he strolled purposefully to his car. Fitting his key into the door, he thought he heard a slight scuffling sound, but he paid scant attention. It didn't take him long to shut the door behind him and thrust the key into the ignition. He tested the gear shift, put his feet on the brake and accelerator, and turned the key. Nothing happened. He tried again. Nothing. With a fierce scowl, Andrew tried once, twice more to crank his car, but there was nothing - no sound, no grinding at all. "Son of a bitch," he spat, slamming his free hand on the steering wheel. "Shit!" He popped the hood release, and opened his door. He heard nothing but the dull thud that sent him spiraling into blackness. **** Kyle shook his head. "He hasn't called me." He looked Virgil in the eye. "Did you really think he would?" Virgil's eyes narrowed. "I thought he might." He wondered about the look in Vittetoe's eye. "He ain't let nobody else hear from him either. Annie's worried sick." "I would imagine so." "What's the matter with you, Kyle?" Virgil finally asked. "You act like you got a bur up your ass." Kyle reached into the engine of his car and pulled up the oil dipstick. He wiped it on a rag in his hand, then poked the stick back into the engine. "If Jamie wants us to know where he is, Virgil," he said in a toneless voice, "I reckon he'll call somebody he wants to talk to." He drew the oil stick out again. Satisfied with the level, he replaced it and stepped back. "But I don't suppose it'll be me he'll call." "Why the hell not?" He slammed the hood and wiped his hands on the oil rag. "I've got work to do, Virgil." He swung his
eyes to the older man. "Don't you?" Virgil opened his mouth to speak, thought better of it, spun on his heel and stalked to his car. Ellen had already told him how things were with Kyle lately, and Gabe's disappearance had only made Kyle's behavior even more odd. "You don't think he'll try to go back to Louisiana, do you?" Edna Mae had asked Virgil that morning. "To protect us?" "Lord, I hope not," Virgil had answered. But it had been eight days and not one word on Gabe's whereabouts. Virgil was beginning to have a feeling he didn't like. He was beginning to think none of them would ever see Gabe James again. **** Andrew woke up with the headache from hell throbbing through his temples. He was aware of motion - bumping and something causing him to lurch upward. He opened his eyes, but saw only darkness, felt only cold and stale air assaulting his nostrils. He put up his hand, encountered cold metal and quickly withdrew it. Realization hit him like a brick squarely between the eyes and he howled in fury and began pounding on the metal above his head, kicking out at the metal beyond his feet. **** Jamie heard the sound coming from the trunk and smiled. He looked at the odometer and calculated he wasn't far from his destination. He flipped on the CD player, slid in the disk, and leaned back comfortably in the seat as the war-like strains of Wagner came blaring at him from the speakers. **** Andrew bellowed with rage as the music throbbed from the panel behind him. He tried kicking as hard as he could at the trunk's lock, but the latch held. A deep rut in the road caused his head to bounce painfully against the trunk's floor and his teeth clicked together. He tasted blood and knew a fury so vile it made his heart ache. "I'm going to see you in hell for this, whoever you are," he yelled. "You messed with the wrong man this time!" Another bump brought a grunt of surprised pain from him and he felt the car stopping. He listened, heard the door slam and braced himself, ready to lash out at whoever opened the trunk. When no one did, he stopped breathing, striving hard to make out what might be happening. When the voice came, shivers of dread crawled up Andrew's spine. "How you doing in there, Drew? Are you comfortable?" "James," he breathed, feeling the dread give way to primal rage. His eyes narrowed and his hands clenched into fists. "Get me out of here, you bastard!" He kicked at the trunk lock. "Can't do it," his brother told him. "I'm afraid you're going to have to stay where you are." "Papa will have your balls for this! Open this trunk now!" His last word was cut off as the floor of the trunk lurched and tipped downward. "What the…?" "You know, Drew, you and Bridget tried your best to hide me in that clinic in Metarie. I know you were only doing what Papa wanted you to, but you know me - I'm one for holding a grudge." The car lurched once more and the trunk tilted further. Andrew slid forward, his head and neck pressing against the trunk's lid. For the first time, he became aware of the movement around him, the sound, and his eyes bulged in his head. He opened his mouth, but no sound came. "You tried to bury me alive in that place, Drew. You never wanted me to leave." There was a long pause, then chilling laughter. "I'm going to show you what it feels like to be buried alive!" There was a sucking sound all around him, now. A wet sound. The car was tilting further downward.
A vile odor, like rotting vegetation and mud assailed Andrew's nostrils and he knew in a heartbeat of pure primal terror exactly where he was. "No," he whispered, his voice a tiny squeak of sound. "Please, God, no." **** Jamie stepped back from the quicksand bog, walked to an old cypress tree and sat down, his back to the damp bark. He listened to the sound of his brother's fists and feet against the trunk, grinned at the screams that began soon after the tail lights and bumper of the car sank beneath the pebbly surface of the quagmire, the mud oozing at the trunk. He tilted the bottle of beer to his lips and drank. "Help!" Jamie shook his head. There wasn't anyone within thirty miles and he certainly had no intention of helping. "Help me! Please, James! Please, James!" He held the bottle of cold beer up in toast as the trunk of the expensive German car became totally submerged. Even if he had wanted to help his brother, it was too late now. "_J… A… M… E… S!!_" "Have a safe trip, Drew. Don't get bogged down worrying about where you'll end up." With a final lunge, the entire bulk of the car disappeared. **** "You're more woman than I can handle, Bridie," Dr. Allen Fedler told his mistress. Slanting his lips across the flesh of her mouth, he kissed her a deep, penetrating goodbye, then put her firmly from him. "I've got to go. Rachel will be pacing the floor by now." Dr. Fedler, one of Savannah's leading orthopedic surgeons, climbed out of the antique sleigh bed and reached for his undershorts. Bridget Tremayne Casey stretched luxuriously on the mint-green satin sheets and watched her lover of nine years dress. Her hooded eyes ran up his slim flanks, over the taut belly with its thick pelt of crisp black hair, to the heavily muscled chest, enjoying the rippling muscles as he drew on his shirt. She laughed playfully. Fedler turned and cocked a brow at her. "You find me amusing, Doctor?" Bridget shook her head. "Jewish men aren't supposed to be muscular, Al." "Oh?" he asked, his brow lifting further beneath the thick black curls of his forehead. "And just how are Jewish men supposed to look?" She shrugged. "Pale and thin and esthetic." She stretched her arms over her heads until the coral tips of her breasts lifted as high as they could on her chest. She saw his eyes go hungrily to her and she smiled. "And without such devastating libidos." Allen laughed. "Catholic men do not hold the monopoly on lust, dear woman." He stepped into his trousers, stuffed in his shirt and pulled up his zipper. "Nor are all of them brawny stevedores and strapping firemen." He reached for his suit coat. "Lock the door behind you when you leave, darling," she said, growing bored with the conversation. She turned over and tucked her pillow beneath her head. "You're not going home?" he asked as he slid his feet into his loafers. She had closed her eyes. "He's not expecting me for hours yet." A brief thought of her husband crossed her mind and she mentally shrugged it away. "Well, just be sure and lock your car doors before you pull out of the garage," he admonished. "We're too far out in the country for you to be careless." Bridget opened one eye and peeked at him from the sweep of her titian hair. "Do you worry about me,
Al?" He nodded, serious now. "Yes, Bridie, I do." He leaned over the bed and kissed her cheek, patted her naked hip and straightened. "Wednesday?" She nodded, her eyes closed again. She listened as he let himself out of the cabin's kitchen door and into the garage, heard the double stall door on the opener begin to rise with a rumble as the screw mechanism turned. In a moment, she heard his sports car roar to life and smiled at the elegant whine that was the engine engaging in reverse. The garage door started down as the sports car backed out of the long driveway, then settled with a hollow clank as the door met the concrete slab of the garage. Bridie turned over on her belly and sighed as the smooth coolness of the sheets kissed her nude body. What woke her she would never know, but her eyes came open with a snap and she flipped onto her back, fear and alarm prying her eyes wide open as she stared up into the face of James Gabriel Tremayne. Her mouth dropped open. "What… what are you doing here?" she managed to ask as she became totally aware of her nudity. Hastily grabbing the sheet, she jerked it over her. Jamie smiled down at her. He sat on the edge of the bed and his smile widened as Bridget moved quickly away from him. "Now you aren't afraid of me are you, Bridie? Me? Little James?" He clucked his tongue. "Your slow-witted baby brother?" "Get out of here," she snarled, some of her courage coming back to her. She lifted her hand and pointed at the door. "Now!" "I don't think so, Bridie." The smile on his face slowly faded. "At least not until I do what I came to do." A horrible sensation of impending doom flitted through Bridie's head. The look on her hated brother's face wasn't quite sane. There was something in his eyes she had never seen before, but it was something she'd seen many times in some of her patients who were borderline psychotic. She edged further away from him on the bed. Staring into those dark eyes, eyes that somehow looked far more lethal than they should have, she decided to use her medical expertise to try to reason with him, but she never got the chance. His soft, deadly voice stopped her cold. "I'm going to kill you, Bridie," he said in a conversational tone. She stared at him. "You're insane." His smile returned to his firm lips, but not to the cold, cold eyes that regarded her with intense lethality. His voice was a mere sigh. "I'm what you made me, Bridget." She lunged, trying to get off the bed and away from him, to put distance between them, but the moment her feet hit the floor, she found her long hair in his firm grip. He jerked her back. She yelped and screamed with the agony as he yanked her around. Her hands came up, her fingers curled into vicious claws as she struck for his face. With a grunt of satisfaction she saw his left cheek open up with the twin furrows from her second and third fingers. She had only a moment's gratification before his right hand came over his left shoulder to deliver a brutal backhanded blow.**He hit her with enough force to snap her head around and loosen two of her front teeth. She tasted thick, hot, coppery blood flooding down her throat and knew he'd broken her nose as well. His blow stunned her, made her see stars and before she could attack him again, he dragged her hands over her head wrapping the silken belt of her robe around her wrists. He straddled her hips as she bucked, trying to free herself from his hold, her feet drumming against the mattress, but despite her yells and venomous threats, he managed to thrust the end of the belt through one of the intricate swirls on the bed's headboard and secured it. "You bastard," she screamed before she drew a mouthful of blood and spittle and spat into his face. His reaction made her blood run cold. For an instant, the dark flames glowing in his eyes flared red-hot as he rose on his knees and fished in the back pocket of his jeans. When he drew out a capped syringe and stuck the cap between his teeth, Bridget knew there would be no escaping the retribution.
"What's the matter, Bridie?" he taunted as he pulled the cap off with his teeth. His eyes left hers and went to the tip of the needle. A small spurt of liquid shot from the top before his eyes slowly lowered to hers. "Don't you like needles?" Her eyes were glued on the syringe. Her mouth had gone dry; her heart still in her chest. She had ceased to breathe, ceased to move, lying as still as death beneath him as he settled his heavy flanks on her hips once more. "What's in that?" she forced herself to say. He looked at the syringe. "This?" His smile was venomous as his gaze moved back to her. "Just a little something to make you feel good, Bridie." "What's in it?" She found her throat closing with fear. His smile froze and he leaned toward her, her spittle sliding forgotten down his bloody cheek. He looked into her eyes, and for one brief moment, Bridget Tremayne Casey knew she was looking into the face of the devil. "Fiorinal," he whispered. "Two hundred milligrams." "No," she said on a long gust of breath. "Yes," he answered, grinning. "No." Her voice was more forceful as she jerked her gaze from the needle to his face. "James, no. You can't. I'm allergic to fiorinal. You don't know what it does to - " "Oh, but I do." His eyes turned merry. "You were, what - fifteen? - when you started having those bad headaches? I remember Mama took you to the emergency room and they gave you fiorinal. I remember it, Bridie." The merriment left his eyes. "And I remember what it did to you." "James, please," she implored. "You can't do this." "Yes, I can," he said reasonably as he began to lower the needle. "James, no," she shouted, struggling against the bonds. She bucked and twisted beneath him, but the moment the needle jammed into the flesh on the underside of her left arm, she knew the damage had already been done and she went perfectly still, the tears in her eyes overflowing, her lips pulled back over snarling teeth. "You son of a bitch!" "Brother of one anyway," he answered. Swinging his left leg from over her hips, he moved off the bed in one quick, lithe movement. "Shit!" Bridget bellowed, trying to free her arms. She knew in her professional mind the drug hadn't had enough time to get into her system, but already she thought she could feel the intense itching the drug had caused her so many years before. Jamie folded his arms over his chest and watched as tiny red bumps began to pop out all over Bridget's body. Her shrieks of rage and whimpers of torment seemed to please him as she squirmed. "I think the PDR in your office said it takes butalbital - that is the generic name for fiorinal, isn't it? - a short time to reach its maximum apparent benefit," he said in a mild, amused voice. "I'm… going… to… kill… you," she hissed, panting from the crawling, insidious agony spreading over her defenseless body. "Not a chance." Her snorts of anger soon gave way to true whimpers of torment, then screams of frustration and anguish as the drug invaded every nerve pathway. Her violent twisting made the entire bed tremble. She thrust up her pelvis, drove it down into the mattress, tried turning to either side, jerking so hard against the constriction of the belt around her wrists, tiny droplets of blood began to bubble on her flesh. "What's it feel like to be helpless and at the mercy of whatever poison someone injects into you, Bridie?" he asked, cocking his head to one side. "Are you enjoying it as much as I did?" "Go… to… hell," she panted as her eyes bore into his. She was on fire with the torture the drug was inflicting and could barely see her tormenter through her swollen, puffy eyelids. "Eventually," he said conversationally. "But I won't be alone, now will I? My whole family will be there. We'll have a real bang-up reunion." Bridget's agony made her foam at the mouth. Her head throbbed with pain and she felt the lassitude stealing over her. As the itching intensified, she threw back her head and howled in anguish.
Jamie sighed, the amusement dying quickly from his face. He turned from her and walked toward the kitchen. When he calmly reentered the bedroom, even as she struggled, she caught sight of another syringe. "Go ahead, you worthless prick," she yelled and could hear the slurring in her speech the overdose of fiorinal had caused. "Kill me and get it over with." He looked down at her. "Don't you want me to stop the itching, Bridie?" he asked in a compassionate voice. He held up the syringe. "This isn't poison. It's just a little something to make the itching stop." Confused thoughts ran rampant through Bridget's mind, but staring into the gentle face of her brother, she thought he might be through torturing her; might be finished with his vengeance. She'd never thought for one moment that he would kill her. He didn't have the guts. He had wanted to exact the same kind of torment on her that she had given him, and now he had, he was going to help her. "Give it to me," she ordered in as strong and commanding a voice as she could. He smiled and gently thrust the needle into her arm. Stepping back from the bed, he picked up the first syringe and carried it with him into the kitchen. Bridget could feel the almost immediate benefit of whatever he had given her. The itching was dying away; the intense agony leaving her in slow waves. The puffiness remained at her lips and eyelids but the torment was subsiding and she was able to lie still with only an occasional tremor. She turned her head as he came back into the room. "What did you give me?' she asked as a pleasant numbness began to spread languidly over her. "The same thing you ordered given to me - thorazine." He was looking around the bedroom, and for the first time, Bridget really noticed what he was wearing. His dark hair was entirely covered in a watch cap, his jeans and pullover sweater were black, and he was wearing gloves. "How you feeling?" he asked as his gaze came back to her. "Better. No thanks to you." He grinned. "Feeling a little woozy, are we?" "Untie me, James," she demanded, pulling weakly on her bonds. "Now. This instant." His grin widened. "Just as soon as I know you can't fight me." Panic seized her once more. She tried to kick him as he stood at the foot of the bed, but she couldn't seem to move. Her muscles were weak and would not obey her. She knew she wouldn't be able to fight, to escape, once he untied her wrists. With a sinking feeling, she realized she was entirely at his mercy. Jamie pointed his finger at her. "Now you wait right here. Okay?" "Bastard," she mumbled as her eyes followed him out of the room. She heard the kitchen door open. He was gone for only a minute or two, but to Bridget, it felt like an hour. His face was carefully blank as he began to untie her wrists. She felt his eyes crawling over her naked body and inwardly cringed, hating the feel of a man's eyes on her for the first time in her life. "It's really rather a waste," he remarked as he lowered her hands to her side and began to wrap her in the sheet. "You're not half bad, Bridie." She felt herself slipping over the edge of consciousness as she felt the stupor of the thorazine claiming her. Even as he tucked the satin sheet carefully around her then lifted her, she couldn't quite seem to say anything. He carried her into the kitchen and out into the chilly garage. "W… h… e… r… e?" "Where am I taking you?" he asked as he stepped to the back of her car. "Oh, just a little place I found." Out of the corner of her eye, Bridget saw the opened car trunk. She groaned, really all she found she could do as he gently laid her inside. "James…" "Give it a rest, Bridie," he said, his voice no longer warm or friendly. She became aware of the thick tarpaulin beneath her. She could smell it and the roughness beneath her cheek making her feel sick to her stomach as she turned her head away from her brother. She looked back at him as he picked up her right hand. He was bending over her, nail file in hand.
"What… are… you… doing?" "Well," he said in a matter-of-fact voice, "just in case they find your body, I don't want my skin to be beneath your fingernails." Very carefully he was running the file's point beneath her fingernails, then wiping the file on his pants. He worked slowly, diligently, until he was satisfied there was nothing beneath her nails to incriminate him. "Very… thorough… James." "I know." He straightened up, then disappeared from her line of vision. A moment later he was back with the satin sheets wadded up beneath his arm. He laid the sheets and the belt from her robe on her belly and reached for the lid to the trunk. He stared down into her eyes. "You know something, Bridie? I used to love you." He turned his head to one side. "When I was a kid." The trunk lid came down, shutting off the light and the face of a man intent on death. **** Patrick listened to his father's angry snarl as the old man berated him over the phone. Between the gasps for breath, he could hear the pain in Liam's voice - and the fear. "We don't know that anything's happened to Drew, Papa," he finally said as his father paused long enough to draw in deep, harsh breaths. "You know how he is. It's the weekend and he's probably spending it with one of his mistresses." "He didn't go home last night, Patrick," the old man wheezed. "There was a party he knew he had to attend and he never made it. Something's happened to him and I know it!" Patrick couldn't have cared less. In fact, he wished something had happened to his eldest brother, but he was careful not to let his feelings enter his voice. "Please don't get yourself worked up, Papa. I'm sure everything's all right." "And what about Bridget?" his father gasped. "If something's happened to Drew, Bridie could be next." "Why would you think that, Papa?" Patrick asked in a reasonable tone. "You're letting your imagination run away with you." "I'm sending bodyguards to protect all of you," Liam told him, ignoring his son's placid words. "I won't have the little bastard coming after you, too." "Who, Papa? Who are you afraid of?" "James!" Liam shouted into the phone and then began to cough violently. His wracking bursts of phlegmatic breathing was painful to hear. "We don't even know where Jamie is, Papa. And at any rate, he wouldn't harm - " "The man's insane!" _And who made him that way?_ Patrick shook his head as his father began a litany of things his younger brother was capable of doing. He didn't bother to interrupt. It would be useless. Once his father had worked himself up into such a state, all you could do was listen to him, agree with him, then pretend the conversation had never taken place. "He's out there, Patrick," Liam finally said in a whimper. "He's out there and killing off my heirs one at a time." Patrick sighed. "I don't believe that, Papa. Jamie isn't capable of killing anyone." "You just wait," his father prophesied. "He got Drew and he'll get Bridie if we don't stop him. Then he'll come after you." No, Patrick thought. He'll come after you. **** Bridget flinched as the trunk lid opened. It was dark outside but she could make out the ghostly
silhouettes of thick oak branches overhead. She groaned as Jamie's arms slid under her, lifting her from the confines of the trunk. She grunted as he shifted her weight further up his body and began to walk with her. "He'll… hurt… you… for… this… Jamie." "Be quiet, Bridget." She could smell earth - rich and fertile, musky and damp. She tried to turn her head, but she couldn't. Her eyes lifted to her brother's face, but all she could see was the underside of his chin. "Did… you… kill… Drew?" she asked, then grunted as the ground seemed to disappear from under her and she jostled heavily in his arms. Around her, she saw thick black walls and wondered for an instant where she was. "I did to him what he did to me," he said. He began to lower her. "What I'm going to do to you." Cold, hardness and a thick smell of dirt invaded her senses and her eyes went wide. She stared up at him as he stood over her, hands on his hips. Through the skyglow around his head, she could just see his dark outline, but she thought she could see the evil gleaming in his eyes. "Where… am… I?" she forced through her trembling lips. He didn't answer, but turned his back to her and pulled himself up one pitch-black wall. His feet dug into the wall and then he was over it, his belly on the top, followed by his left leg swinging over the edge. It wasn't until the dirt began to cascade softly down the wall that Bridget Tremayne Casey knew where she was. Her mouth opened in a scream of primitive horror and echoed hollowly toward the silent, dark heavens. **** He went back to the trunk, carefully gathered up the tarpaulin that had covered the trunk's interior and walked back to the place where he had left his sister. Her screams were mindless now, vibrating over the swamp like a siren. He dropped the folded tarp into the hole in which she lay and reached for the shovel. The first shovel full of dirt landed in his sister's gaping mouth and the screaming choked off, sputtering into silence as she gagged and tried to spit away the damp earth. "Being buried alive is a little like how I felt in that clinic, Bridie," he said as he dropped another load of dirt into the opened grave. "You're helpless, vulnerable, completely at the mercy of people like Beecher." He scooped up another shovel full and paused, looking down at the woman who was frantically trying to dislodge the heavy dirt from her mouth. He threw the dirt into the hole. "You feel like you're suffocating. You know?" He tossed in another load. "You feel like your life's over. "At first," he said as he continued to scoop up the fertile earth and throw it into the hole, "you think you'll go mad being confined like that. They have you strapped down like an animal, unable to move. All you can do is feel what they do to you." He threw another load onto his sister's face, no longer able to see her. "Sometimes… No, most of the time, they hurt you. Sticking needles in you. Giving you poisons that make you itch and burn all over." He stopped, leaned on the shovel handle and stared into the grave. "After awhile, you wish you could die. That they'd just kill you and get it over with." He resumed his shoveling. **** She could no longer hear him. The weight of the dirt was cutting off her air supply. She could taste it in her mouth, feel it on her face, hear each consecutive shovel full raining down on her. She couldn't move, she couldn't scream, and at last, she couldn't breath. Beneath the weight of the dirt, Bridget Tremayne Casey stared wide-eyed in death, her mouth open in a silent scream, the thick soil trickling into her oral cavity. ****
The last shovel full of dirt went into the hole and Jamie straightened up, turned the shovel over and began to pat the mound of earth as level as he could. There was still dirt left in a small mound behind him, but he would toss it around the clearing, ridding himself of any telltale marking. Once he was through, he'd sprinkle leaves and debris over the freshly-dug grave and no one would ever know it was there. He patted the mound once more, then leaned on the handle. "That ought to do it, Bridget," he said in a bright voice. He smiled. "Nighty-night." He turned his back on the grave and started to scoop up another shovel full of dirt to disperse it around the floor of the clearing. But he turned back, a thought making him chuckle softly. His eyes went to the place in the grave he knew his sister's face would be. "Don't let the bed bugs bite." **** He drove back to the little cabin where he'd tracked his sister and left her car in the garage. He went over the cabin with the careful, detached and professional eye of a cop until he was sure there was no trace of his presence. Then he began the two-mile walk to the old car he had stolen in Atlanta the day before. Once inside, he stripped off the clothing and gloves and stuffed them into a plastic garbage bag along with Bridie's medical bag and the two used syringes. The garbage bag would be deposited in the first trash dumpster he came to in Orlando. ____________________ *Chapter 51* Edna Mae Menke gazed out at the rolling surf as it smashed gently into the restraining wall of her dock. The bright globe of the early morning sun was piercingly bright and it almost made her eyes ache to look at the water. She'd been sitting in her den staring out into the Gulf since three that morning and she was tired, more tired than she cared to admit. And more afraid. The call had come in sometime around midnight. As all such late night calls do, it had scared the old woman making her heart slam against her ribcage as she rolled over and snatched up the receiver. And as all such calls do, it had brought with it an immediate awakening of the senses and the quick flow of adrenaline as the soul feared the worst. "Hello?" she'd croaked. "Are you still relying on the kindness of strangers, pretty lady?" came the soft, gentle voice. For one frozen moment, Edna Mae knew a terror so great, so encompassing, she couldn't move, couldn't speak, couldn't even breathe. "Don't worry," the gentle voice said again. "I'm not calling from anywhere they can trace me." "Gabe?" she managed to whisper. "Jamie," he corrected. Her eyes closed and a hitching sob came into her throat. "Are you all right?" "Fair to middlin'," he said and chuckled. "How are you?" Her fear, then her relief, dissolved into anger, and her voice grew stronger, more determined. "Do you have any idea how terrified I was when I found out you had left New York?" "I'm sorry. I had to leave." "Where are you?" "Safe." "Are you coming back?" She had to know. Annie needed to know. "When it's all over." "When what's over?" she demanded. "What are you doing?" "Taking care of business, Edna Mae," he told her, and when she started to speak, he cut her off. "Tell
her I love her, Edna." The line went dead. Sitting there, tears welling in her eyes, Edna Mae glanced down at the _Miami Herald_ headline from the day before. She flinched and looked away, turning her attention once more to the gleaming water beyond her condo's window; but the words in the headline scrolled over her line of vision. "Wealthy Atlanta Lawyer Missing; Sister, Too." ____________________ *Chapter 52* Patrick wasn't surprised when he looked up to see his brother smiling at him. He hadn't heard a sound, hadn't sensed anything, but had simply known Jamie was in the room with him. He sat back in his chair and made a temple of his fingers. "Am I next?" he asked in a calm voice. "You know better." Jamie crossed the office and sat in the chair across from Patrick's desk. As he settled his wiry frame into the chair, he leaned back his head and closed his eyes. "You don't look well," Patrick commented. "I'm not." Paddy's eyes narrowed and he scooted back his chair, stood and walked to his brother. He put his hand on Jamie's forehead and frowned. "You're burning up," he said. His physician's eyes scanned his brother's face, saw the sweat, the flush, and he reached for Jamie's wrist. He didn't glance up as Jamie's eyes came open, but instead raised his wrist and began taking his brother's pulse. "I'm all right," Jamie said. "No, you're not." Jamie sighed and closed his eyes again. His head was hurting, his throat was a fiery, raw cavern of pain, and he was aching all over. "You've caught a damned cold," Patrick diagnosed. He went to his medical bag and took out a thermometer, shook it and made his brother put it under his tongue. "I'm going to give you some penicillin." "Don't want it," Jamie muttered around the glass tube. "Humor me," his brother said grimly. He prepared an injection and walked back, smiling at the worry in his brother's eyes. He cocked his head to one side. "Do you trust me, little brother?" Jamie took the thermometer from his mouth. His eyes fused with Patrick's. "If I didn't, I wouldn't be here, Paddy." "Then get up and pull down your pants." "Can't you give it to me in my arm?" Jamie eyed the needle with distaste. "Not unless you want your whole arm aching and useless." Jamie sighed, knowing the penicillin would help him, but loath to feel any more needles jabbed into his flesh. Wearily, he pushed himself up, swaying for a moment, feeling Patrick's hand steadying him. "I guess I got it bad," he mumbled as his hands went to the zipper of his jeans. He pushed the jeans over his hips and leaned over Patrick's desk. The cool swab of alcohol made him flinch. "I haven't even given you the shot yet," Patrick told him in an amused voice. "Just get it over with, will you?" The prick of the needle followed by the flow of the thick, burning liquid into his hip made Jamie grit his teeth. "You're such a baby," Patrick said and laughed. Jamie pulled up his jeans, zipped them, then sat down gingerly in his chair, wincing. He glanced up at Patrick and saw his brother's smile had gone. "You killed them, didn't you?"
Jamie looked at him for a long moment, then leaned his head back on the chair, and closed his eyes. "Are you going after Papa?" "You know the answer to that already, Patrick." "He's dying, Jamie. He'll be gone soon and…" Jamie's eyes opened and he lifted his head. His voice was deadly quiet. "Soon isn't soon enough for me. Until Liam Tremayne is in his grave, the people I love won't be safe." He poked his finger into his chest. "I won't be safe, Paddy." Patrick pushed aside some papers on his desk and sat down. He folded his arms over his chest. "He's got an order out to find Annie James." "He won't." Patrick's brow lifted. "How can you be so sure?" "She's safe." Jamie's eyes narrowed. "I know that for a fact." "He also has a contract out on Kyle Vittetoe." "Kyle can take care of himself." "I don't know how you managed to get Drew and Bridie, Jamie, but you have to know it isn't going to be easy getting to Papa." Jamie smiled. "With your help it will be." Patrick didn't look away from his brother's intense gaze. "And how am I supposed to do that?" The smile on Jamie's face widened. "I've got a plan." **** "Hi, Mama," Patrick greeted his mother. "How's Papa today?" Margaret sensed something in her son's voice that she couldn't quite identify. "He's not doing as well as he did yesterday, Paddy. Is something wrong?" "No," Patrick was quick to say. "I've just got a surprise for you. I thought I'd bring it down there this weekend, if it's all right with you." His mother's eyes narrowed. "What kind of surprise?" "Now it wouldn't be a true surprise if I told you, would it?" "What are you up to, Patrick?" Margaret asked, her mother's instinct nudging her. "Is it all right if I come down this weekend?" Something told Margaret to say no. There was an odd inflection, almost of fear, in her son's normally smooth voice. His words, usually slow and carefully modulated, were rushed and excited and too nonchalant. "Mama?" "Yes, Patrick," she finally said. "We'll look forward to seeing you." As she hung up, Margaret wondered if she hadn't opened a Pandora's Box. **** "Danny?" Patrick called to the man at the top of the stone steps. "Can you help them carry this inside?" Danny O'Callahan frowned as he came down the mansion's steps. "What the hell have you got, Paddy?" he inquired as he saw two of his guards struggling to pull something out of the back of the rented station wagon. "Where's Mama?" Patrick asked, stepping out of Danny O.'s way as the man walked to the back of the wagon. "Lying down." He looked at Patrick. "Your dad had a real bad night last night." Patrick schooled his face into the correct semblance of concern. "How bad?" "Nobody slept last night," Danny said. "How is he this morning?" Patrick was careful with his facial expression. "He had us carry him to the solarium. The heat in there is good for him, he says."
"I wish there was more we could do for him," Patrick said, glancing at the ground as he felt a concerned son would. He shrugged helplessly. "I feel so inadequate." He almost flinched as Danny O.'s hand came affectionately down on his shoulder. "I wish there was, too, Paddy," the older man said quietly. He turned his attention to the guards. "What's in the trunk?" Patrick willed his face into a wide, boyish grin. "Isn't it exquisite?" He stepped to the antique trunk and ran his hand lovingly, adoringly, over the rich oak exterior. "It came from Ireland. Seventeenth century." He laughed. "I paid a bloody fortune for it, but it's worth every cent." He draped his arm around Danny O.'s shoulder. "Think Mama will like it?" Danny O. nodded slowly. "I know she will." He touched the gleaming, mellow wood. "Look at that brass. You can fair see yourself in it." "The damned thing weighs a ton, doesn't it, guys?" Patrick said and laughed. "That it does, Dr. Tremayne," one of the guards grumbled. He was beginning to stagger under the weight. "Here," Danny O. said. "Let me give you guys a hand with it." He looked over his shoulder as he took one of the double brass end handles and the heavy wooden trunk brought down his arms. "What the hell you got in here, Paddy? A corpse?" Patrick laughed, but his eyes darted carefully away from Danny O.'s. "You're going to like it even less when I tell you where I want it put!" "If you tell me we've got to take this blasted thing up to the first floor…" Danny O. began. "Then I won't tell you." Patrick chuckled. "But that's where it's going." **** Margaret turned over as she heard the gentle tapping on her door. "Yes?" Patrick stuck his head in and smiled. "Ready for your surprise?" She didn't like the look in her son's eyes any more than she had liked the tone in his voice two days earlier. She nodded reluctantly and sat up, adjusting the folds of her silk robe around her legs. As Danny O. and two of her husband's guards stepped respectfully into the room, her eyes flared and settled in surprise on the heavy, ornate old trunk they carried. Her eyes moved to Patrick's. "What in the world?" "Put it over there by the window, guys," Patrick ordered as he walked to his mother. He helped her from the bed. "Come see what I found for you, Mama." Margaret knew the antique trunk had to have set her child back quite a large sum, but the glowing oak wood, gleaming brass hardware and intricate pattern of brass studs adorning the trunk made her whisper with pleasure. "Oh, Paddy, it's lovely!" She rubbed her hand over the smooth surface. "It's absolutely lovely." She looked at the beautifully cast lock, then up at her son. "Let me see the inside." Patrick's eyes flickered for just a moment before he smiled brightly and fished in his pocket for the key. The smile began to waver as he rummaged in one pocket then the other. Finally, a sheepish grin on his face, he shrugged. "You don't have the key?" his mother asked, her brows raised. "I can pick the lock," Danny O. offered. "You most certainly will not," Margaret snapped. "You'll scratch it!" She looked at Patrick. "You do have a key for it, don't you?" "Oh, yes, ma'am! I must've left it at home." At his mother's look of dismay, he was quick to reassure her. "But I'll call Mary Marlene and have her bring it when she comes tonight." Margaret looked longingly at the truck and sighed. "Oh, all right." Patrick put his arm around his Margaret's shoulders. "How 'bout joining me for a cup of tea?" As Margaret looked into her son's veiled eyes, she still didn't like what she saw there. Something was up, she knew, but as with all her children except her youngest, she'd never know until they were ready to
tell her. "How much did that trunk cost, Paddy?" she asked as he led her from the bedroom and into the hall behind the others. "Not even a fraction of what my mother's worth," he answered gallantly and chuckled at his mother's unladylike snort. They had gone only a few feet when Patrick stopped. Margaret looked up at him. "What's the matter?" Patrick blushed. "I've got to use the restroom. Can I use yours?" "Don't you miss the bowl," his mother cautioned. "Not me," Patrick assured her. He kissed her cheek and turned toward the bedroom. "I won't be long." Margaret smiled as he hurried into her bedroom. Of all her children, Patrick was always the one who waited until the very last moment to relieve himself before they went anywhere. Several minutes later, Patrick returned to the hallway. "All set," he said and smiled. **** Liam Tremayne glared across the dining table at his son. "Not one word out of you, Patrick! Not one more word." "Liam." Margaret's soft voice cautioned her husband to moderate his temper. Liam's mouth snapped shut and he flounced back in his chair. "I just wish you'd listen to reason, Papa," Patrick tried again. "Whose reason?" Liam growled. "Not mine!" "We're only thinking of you, dear," his wife told him. "Even your son agrees you should be in the hospital where they can care for you." "I will die in my own bed, in my own house! We will discuss this no more." Patrick saw his mother's eyes close in weariness. He placed his hand over hers. The meal had been arduous, the head of the family barking orders at the servants, sending away perfectly cooked food, finding fault with everything. There had been precious little peace at the table and even less appetite. Watching his father's face, Patrick could see the strain. Andrew's and Bridget's disappearances were weighing heavily on the old man. He had, despite his wife's ardent objections, laid the blame for their vanishing directly at Jamie's doorstep. The argument between husband and wife - she steadfastly refusing to admit her youngest child could possibly have anything to do with her other children's disappearances; he adamantly convicting his son despite the fact the young man hadn't been seen anywhere near Atlanta or Savannah. "He's murdered them," Liam mumbled as he drank from his tumbler of mineral water. "The son-of-a-bitch has murdered my kids." "Liam, please," his wife begged. "Two weeks, Margaret," he snapped. "Your children have been missing for two weeks. Don't you give a damn about what's happened to them or do you just care about that prissy little bastard you insisted on having despite my orders?" Margaret's lips pursed and she carefully avoided looking at her middle son. She picked up her napkin and blotted her lips. "I think I'll retire to the guest room this evening," she announced. "Good idea," Liam agreed hatefully. Patrick saw the tears flow into his mother's eyes and would have spoken, but she lifted her hand, sadly shaking her head. As she put her hands on the arms of her chair, he stood up, went to her and gently pulled back the chair. "Tell Mary Marlene I'll see her in the morning," she said, smiling as her son bent down to kiss her
cheek. "I can't imagine why she's so late," he apologized, although he knew damned well she wasn't due until the morning. "Good night, son," she said, patting his hand. Liam looked up as his wife walked out, then his eyes slid to his son. "It'll be a relief to her when I'm gone." _A relief to us all_, Patrick thought as he resumed his seat, but he put just the right amount of censure into his voice when he spoke. "You know that's not so, Papa." He lifted his wine glass and looked over its rim at his father. "She loves you." Liam waved an annoyed hand. He turned his head and caught Danny O.'s eye. "Tell that useless bitch of an upstairs maid I want my bath drawn." "So early?" Patrick asked. He looked at his watch. "It's only eight. I didn't think you went to bed until ten." "I'll go to bed any damned time I want! This is my house and don't you ever forget that, you sniveling, ass-kissing, little bastard." A muscle in Patrick's jaw ground, but he kept his mouth shut. He lowered his eyes to the table. "You think you're going to be the one to run the Tremayne Group now, don't you?" Liam sneered. When Patrick glanced up in surprise, he smiled hatefully. "That's what you're thinking, isn't it, Patrick?" Patrick shook his head. "The thought hadn't even crossed my mind. It has always been understood that Andrew would - " "Andrew's dead," his father shouted, his fist coming down on the table with enough force to rattle the china. "Andrew is dead and so is Bridget!" "Papa, you don't know - " "I do!" The chair in which the old man had been sitting crashed backwards as he came to his feet. His eyes glowed feverishly and became slits of piercing fire. "But let me tell you something, Patrick Tremayne," he cooed in a hard, malevolent hiss. "It'll be a cold day in hell before I allow you or that cowardly brother of yours to run this company." "Brother?" Patrick echoed, confused. "Aye, brother," Liam snarled. "Oh, don't think I don't know it was you helped him get away." A tremor of fear shook Patrick to his foundation as he stared into his father's irrational eyes. "Oh, aye. Aye, I knew it." The harsh voice became a croon of warning. "And don't think for one moment I'm going to let you get away with it, Patrick." "I don't know what you're talk - " "Yes you do." The old man staggered down the length of the table until he was standing at Patrick's side. He locked his angry gaze with his son's and let all the venom he could muster drip from his next words. "I'm going to crush him, Patrick." He held up his hand and slowly closed his fingers into a tight fist. "I'm going to snuff the life from him. But before I do, I'm going to have that precious wife of his brought before him and I'm going to make him watch while I have every man I can find screw her until she dies screaming out her hatred for him! Then I'm going to kill him slowly and painfully. Myself!" "Papa, you don't mean that." The old man's eyes flared. "Don't I, Patrick? Just see if I don't!" Patrick sat perfectly still as his father made his way painfully up to the chair lift that would carry him to the first floor. He listened as the motor engaged and the lift whirred, the chair begin to rise. He could hear Danny O'Callahan's robust voice speaking to his employer, then the burst of annoyance which meant Liam wanted to be alone in his bath. Patrick wiped his hands on his napkin, got up, and walked into the entrance hall. Danny O. sighed heavily as he came down the stairs. "He's getting worse and worse. I told him he shouldn't be alone while he's in the tub, but he wouldn't listen." Patrick shook his head. "It's not your fault, Danny." He glanced up the stairs. "Has Mama gone to bed?"
"Every night right at eight," Danny O. confirmed. "I think more to get away from your father than because she's sleepy." Patrick nodded. "I don't blame her, do you?" Danny O. shrugged. "What would you say to a few games of rummy?" Patrick asked, poking Danny O.'s arm. "Think you can take me?" His answer was an offended snort from his father's right-hand man. **** The bath water was just hot enough, soapy and bubbling, smelling of lemons. The plastic cushion behind his back and neck was comfortable and Liam thought he could fall asleep right where he was. His eyes were closed, his lips twitching with pleasure at the delightful smell of the bubble bath. He moved his toes like a child in the water and lifted one leg to probe his left big toe at the spigot. The gold nozzle was cold to the touch and he smiled, lowering his leg. He sighed, content, and began to hum to the music on the radio. In every house he and Margaret had ever lived, they'd had a radio by the tub. When they'd been younger, the music from the easy-listening stations had always accompanied their lovemaking in the tub. The more lively strains adding more forceful rhythms had sent water cascading over the tub's sides. As they had grown older, the music was a gentle companion, lulling them into a blissful, peaceful relaxation. It spoke to them of calm and tranquility and quiescence. It soothed the raging pain in Liam's chest and seemed to dull the ache in Margaret's joints. It had become a faithful friend doling out to the couple the sustenance they required in the privacy of their baths. Of late, the soft music had become an anesthetic numbing Liam's sense of impending death. "Hello, Papa." Liam's eyes flew open. He turned his head, prepared to vent his rage on Patrick for having invaded the sanctity of his bath, but the face that looked down at him from beneath the black wool watch cap was the one he feared most in the world. "James," he sighed. He shivered in the water, feeling vulnerable. He looked hard at the young man and saw no gun, no knife, no garrote. He lifted his gaze to his son's and saw only mild amusement glowing in the dark eyes. "Why don't you scream out for one of your bullies, Papa?" he asked in a soft voice. "Think they can get here in time?" Liam's mouth twisted into a feral sneer. "Do you think I'm afraid of you?" His eyes raked over his son. "Well, I'm not!" Jamie shrugged. "I don't care if you are or not. It doesn't matter any more." Liam felt his son's stare like a heavy weight. He could see death in the boy's eyes; knew he was going to try to kill him. The faint fear he would succeed crossed the old man's mind, but he dismissed it. At best, James Gabriel Tremayne was an ineffectual, worthless… The thought of Andrew and Bridget invaded Liam's mind and his breathing stopped. He looked deeply into his son's eyes. "They're dead, Papa," Jamie said as though he had read his father's mind. "Dead and buried." The old man saw the truth of those words in the spark that lit his son's dark gaze. He shuddered, truly afraid of another man for the first time in his life. "You won't kill me," Liam said, but his tone was one more of hope than bravura. Jamie smiled as he squatted beside his father's tub. He was at eye level with the old man now, and he could see something in those fading green eyes he had never expected to see - fear. He turned his head to one side and regarded his father with surprise. "What makes you so sure I won't, Papa? Don't you think I have good cause?" Liam's eyes turned stormy, but he found he could not look away from James' steady probe. "All I have to do is call out and Danny O. will - "
"Danny O.'s in the game room with Paddy by now." He shook his head. "If Paddy did what I told him to, they've got the CD player on and the music is loud enough to drown out any sounds from up here." He raised his hand to keep his father from speaking. "And the maids and the other guards are all in the kitchen having their supper. By the time they make it up the stairs, you'll be dead and I'll be gone." A shaft of betrayal ran the length of Liam Tremayne's black heart. "You've enlisted your brother's help in killing your own father?" "Just as you enlisted Drew's and Bridget's in killing me." It was at that moment, the moment that his son stood up and looked down at him without a trace of pity or compassion, love or even like, that Liam Tremayne knew he was going to die. All the color drained from his face when he saw Jamie's eyes go to the radio, run down the plug to the wall socket and back to him. "You won't," Liam breathed, sweat breaking out on his face. "You can't." "Yes, I can. And with the greatest of pleasures." Jamie reached for the radio and Liam moved, huddling in the corner of the tub, afraid to try to get out, afraid to call out, sure his son would not go through with what he was threatening. "But why?" he asked, stalling for time, hoping someone would come to check on him, praying they would. Jamie paused with his hand on the radio. "Why, Papa? Just stop and think about it and you'll know." Liam's words to Dr. Bruce Lassiter came back at him in a burst of guilt. _"What about electroshock therapy? I hear it's effective."_ _"You want him to feel it?" Lassiter had asked._ _"Yes," he had answered without hesitation._ Liam's eyes slowly left the radio and returned to his son. "It hurt, Papa. It hurt worse than anything you ever did to me when I was a boy." His eyes welled with tears. "All I ever wanted was for you to love me." His voice broke. "To want me as your son as much as you wanted Drew and Paddy." Liam saw a silver tear sliding down his son's cheek and watched as Jamie shook his head in denial. "But you never wanted me. You never loved me. All you ever wanted to do was hurt me." His hand gripped the radio. "Why, Papa? What did I ever do to make you hate me like you do?" Liam raised his chin. "You were born." Jamie's body tensed. His breathing stilled as he stared into the unforgiving, hateful eyes of his father. He looked at the sneer on the old man's lips, the look of utter loathing and contempt on the wrinkled face, and he sniffed, sucking up the weakness he was showing, swallowing the need to have his father ever reach out to him with anything other than hate, drying the tears of his vulnerability. "Do it and get it over with," his father commanded, "so I can be rid of the sight of you!" Jamie pushed the radio into the tub. **** Margaret wondered at the sudden dimming of the light on her bedside table. It flickered a few times then resumed its normal brightness. She had been sitting up in bed reading a novel she could neither make head nor tails of and wasn't interested in. Faintly she'd been hearing the strains of a Dorsey tune coming from the bathroom on the other side of the wall, but as she listened now, there was only silence. She laid the book beside her and cocked her ear. There was no sound in the bathroom. None at all. A small worry nudged her and she threw back the covers and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Slipping into her satin mules, she picked up her silk robe and belted it around her. As she reached the door, she heard footsteps in the hall. Jamie heard the door open behind him, turned, half-expecting to see his father stumbling after him, his finger rigid in death pointed accusingly at him. But what he saw was his mother's face - older, sadder, more filled with pain and all the years she had lived with his father - staring at him in stunned surprise. Margaret knew without any doubt whatsoever who this young man was. His face was a carbon copy
of Liam's at the same age - handsome, filled with determination, just a bit rakish and arrogant. On her youngest son, the face seemed even harder than it had when Liam was in his thirties. For what seemed to him an eternity he stared into her face, memorizing every line, every wrinkle, every fold of flesh. Neither of them spoke. Neither moved. He saw her eyes shift to the closed bedroom door out of which he had come and saw the instant realization forming in her eyes at what she knew he'd done. As her eyes moved slowly back to him, he became aware of his ragged breathing, the ache in his heart, the guilt, the fear in her eyes, and he turned away, tears perilously close to forming in his own. "Jamie?" she called to him, putting out her hand to her youngest son, the child she had cherished above the others. He stopped, though he did not turn around. He closed his eyes for a second, no more, then headed for the stairs. "Son?" He forced himself to walk away from the one person in the world who could have given him the absolution he needed. The one person he knew would understand above all the rest. When she did not call out to him again, he kept moving, taking the stairs two at a time, his breath coming in gasping inhalations. Danny O'Callahan met him at the foot of the stairs. Both men stopped, looking at one another with wary, cautious eyes until Danny O. looked to the top of the stairs and saw Margaret Tremayne standing there, her hands clutched at her waist. "Let him go, Danny," she sobbed. Danny O.'s eyes shifted back to Jamie's. The two men stared at one another and something passed between them that no one, not Margaret at the top of the stairs or Patrick in the middle of the entrance hall, could read. Mother and son saw both men nod then Jamie passed Danny O. on the stairs and headed for the front door. "Jamie…" Patrick began, but Jamie ignored him as he reached for the door handle. "You'd better stop him, Paddy, or he'll never make it out of this compound alive," Danny O. warned. Patrick didn't hesitate. He rushed to the door even as Jamie opened it. "Get the hell back in here," he snarled, jerking Jamie around to face him. He grabbed Jamie's arms and locked his gaze with his younger brother's. "Every man out there is looking for you." "I don't care." "But we do," his mother called from the stairs. She turned her eyes to Danny O'Callahan. "I don't want that trunk up in my room, Danny. Would you and my son please bring it down. Patrick is going to take it back to wherever he got it and get a refund." "Mama…" Patrick began, but his mother's chin was lifted in the air, her eyes burning. "Do as you're told, Patrick!" Danny O. was already up the stairs. After taking one look at Jamie's face and seeing the resignation written there, Patrick bounded up the stairs, unable to look his mother in the eye as he passed. Jamie slowly lifted his eyes to his mother. He felt her eyes on him like a gentle touch, then she was gone, turning her back to him as though he were not there. He could hear her footsteps on the balcony as she headed for her room, away from the son who had made her a widow. ____________________ *Chapter 53* Cheech Giafaglione listened with polite attention to the man on the other end of the phone. He had been expecting the call ever since the morning news of Liam Tremayne's death had been broadcast on CNN. Now, as he sat writing down the figures the man on the phone was giving him, he nodded. "I don't believe that's unreasonable under the circumstances, Patrick. Would you be wanting this figure in cash or commodities?" "Cash, I believe," Patrick told the Italian mobster. "My mother will be selling her home in Miami and moving to Orlando. Until that time, she'll be needing the money to help settle her affairs. There's also my
niece, Jamie's daughter, to consider. There's the expense for the boarding school she attends now, and later there'll be college expenses. You've put three daughters through college. You know how it can be." "I understand perfectly," Cheech said. "Please convey my condolences to your mother on the loss of her husband and tell her she has nothing to worry about. The merger between our two consortia will make her a very wealthy woman." "Thank you, Don Carmine. Oh, and there is one more thing." "Yes?" "It concerns Daniel O'Callahan. He was one of my father's most - " "I'm aware of who Danny O. is, Patrick." "Danny would like to stay on with the operation in Miami as would his brother Johnny, but I'm not so sure Johnny would work out." Cheech's right brow rose. "What makes you say that?" "He's very upset about my father's passing. He has some misguided notion my brother, James, killed our father and he intends to try to find him." "Have you heard from your brother, Patrick?" "No, but I'm hoping he can get on with his life, Don Carmine. I think he's been through more than his share of problems." Cheech Giafaglione tapped his pencil on the pad. "Do you happen to know where Johnny O. is at this moment, Patrick?" "In Miami. At the mansion." "Well, I think someone should have a talk with Johnny O., don't you? Try to change his mind about such silly notions as he's got." "And if he won't change his mind?" Cheech Giafaglione laughed. "I've got a way with people, Patrick." ____________________ *Chapter 54* Annie James squinted her eyes through the windshield, reaching out to wipe away the fog. The wipers were slapping as hard as they could at the heavy rain lashing against the glass, but the sudden early summer storm made it nearly impossible to see the road. Even with her headlights slashing into the darkened night ahead of the car, cutting a swath through the steady silver-shot curtain of rain, she could see little beyond the front of the car. She'd already passed three cars abandoned on Highway 6, and another on the Rock Creek turnoff. It wasn't a good night to be driving. She was heading home to her house in Rock Creek. She'd spent the night before in her home for the first time in a long time. She'd spent nearly four months in the apartment in Des Moines and would have been forced to stay longer had the call not come from Patrick Tremayne to Virgil Kramer. "You know my father's dead?" the famous plastic surgeon had asked. "I heard," Annie was told Virgil had snarled into the phone. "And the authorities believe there's been foul play with my sister and brother. There's no trace of their whereabouts." "Ain't that a shame?" it was reported Virgil had said and laughed. "And, of course, I have no idea where Jamie is." There had been a slight pause. "But there's no reason to believe anything's happened to him." "There better not be!" "The police in Miami believe all this has something to do with the takeover of our family business by the Giafaglione mob in New Jersey." "Is that a fact?" "Yes, it is. So I suppose things should return to normal very quickly now." Annie cranked up the defroster so she could see through the windshield. She passed the Ahrens' farm, saw no lights, and wondered briefly if the storm had knocked out the electricity at Rock Creek. When
she passed the Koontz place and saw no lights again, she sighed. "Hope you like candlelight, Kibby," she mumbled to her dog. The dog yipped in agreement and stood up, pressing her little nose to the foggy window of the passenger seat. Up ahead in the flare of her headlights, Annie thought she saw something on the road. She clicked on her brights, but the steady slanting stream of pulsing water against the windshield blinded her and she turned them down, frowning as she leaned forward the better to see. As she drew nearer, she could see it was a person - a man - walking with his hands thrust into his pockets, shoulders hunched against the wind. Annie caught just a glimpse of his white, blurred face through the rain-splashed windshield as he looked back over his shoulder at her. She jumped as Kibby started barking, her bushy little tail wagging like crazy. "Damn it, Kib," she snapped. "Stop that!" But the Pomeranian continued to bark, yipping with excitement as her owner swung the car into the far left lane and passed the man. As soon as she had, Kibby bolted over the seat and jumped against the back windshield, whining as though she had lost her best friend. "Cut it out," Annie shouted, her guilt at having to leave someone walking out on such a vile night pricking at her conscience. "He'll be all right." The little dog let out a low howl then jumped back over the seat and nuzzled her head under Annie's arm to get her attention. "I'm not going to pick him up, Kibby!" "_Don't you _ever_ pick up hitchhikers_," her mother had warned her time and time again. And so had Gabe and Kyle and every other man she'd ever known. "_It ain't safe for a woman to pick up no stranger_," Jake had cautioned. But she hated to leave someone stranded on the dark road in the pouring rain and Kibby's whining, lost little grunts of disappointment didn't help her feel any better. There were no lights on her street when she turned. All the houses were dark, still, black blotches in the rain, but the faint glimmer of candles could be seen in a few windows. It was hard even to see her own driveway, but the wash of her headlights along the crossbuck fence guided her safely between the two deep ditches to either side of the drive. Without even thinking, she put her hand up to her visor for the remote garage door opener. Kibby barked in admonishment. "You're right," Annie said, feeling foolish. She looked at her pet. "How'd you like to get out and open the door for me?" Kibby sneezed. "I didn't think so." Annie sighed. She turned off the engine and wondered if she should stay in the car until the rain slackened. She thought about it for as long as it took for her bladder to remind her it was there. She looked at her dog. "I suppose you want me to carry you, huh?" Kibby sneezed again. "Right," Annie grumbled. Gathering up her purse, she swung the strap over her shoulder, palmed her keys, and scooped up the little dog, covering her head with her raincoat. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door and swung her legs into the pouring rain. Once inside, Kibby followed Annie from the living room to the kitchen to the bedroom as she lit candles and two of the hurricane lamps she kept for emergencies. She followed Annie into the bathroom, waited patiently, then into the guest bedroom. The little Pom jumped up on the bed and watched her mistress undress, towel dry her hair, and slip on a flannel nightgown. Her dark little eyes followed Annie's every movement. "What's with you tonight, Kibby?" Annie asked, sensing the little dog's odd behavior. "You've never been afraid of the dark before." She pulled on her spare robe, one she kept for company. "Afraid the boogey man's gonna get you?" Kibby sniffed as if in disdain at the question, then jumped from the bed to pad into the living room. When Annie walked through the living room, she saw the little dog sitting at the front door, staring up at the handle.
"Oh, no, you don't," Annie told her. "You can go out in the garage if you have to pee." Kibby looked around at her, then returned her silent gaze to the door handle. "I said no, Kibby." Annie continued on through the living room, knowing if the dog really had to go, she'd follow her into the kitchen to the garage door. But Kibby remained at the front door. "Idiot," Annie murmured as she brought the hurricane lamp to the counter beside the refrigerator. Opening the door, she took out a package of individually wrapped cheese and a package of pastrami. Slathering mustard and ketchup on two slices of wheat bread, she put on four slices of meat, unwrapped two slices of the cheese, four vigorous shakes of Louisiana hot sauce, two kosher dill sandwich slices, and another extra squeeze of ketchup. With a can of cola in one hand and sandwich in the other, she went into the living room and curled up on the sofa. Kibby was still sitting at the front door, her nose against the wood. "Will you get away from the damn door? I told you, you're not going out!" The little Pomeranian sniffed at the door's bottom and turned her silky face to Annie. Kibby yipped. "You can go in the garage if you have to pee." Kibby's tail began to wag furiously and she stood with her fuzzy little feet against the door and yipped again. "No, I said!" Kibby whined, then barked, and her tail thumped against the door as she began to turn around and around in circles. "What in the world is wrong with you?" There were footsteps on the stoop. "Is there someone out there?" Annie asked, her amusement at the little dog's antics fading into a light concern. She got up from the sofa, more than aware whoever was on the stoop hadn't rung the bell. She stood at the door a moment, thinking maybe she'd been hearing things and there was no one on the stoop. Then the doorbell rang. Kibby's tail flicked harder. "Is it Jake?" she asked the little dog. "Is that who it is?" She flipped on the stoop's light, then clucked her tongue in pique as she realized the action was futile. Kibby yipped excitedly. "All right!" Annie laughed, reaching out to twist the knob on the deadbolt. She pulled open the door and frowned at the glaze of fog on the storm door. She could see someone standing on the stoop huddled against the rain, and reached automatically for the latch. She started to unlock it, but just as she did, a crack of lightning rent the air, and in the flare, she realized the man standing on her stoop was a stranger. Her hand stilled. "May I help you?" she asked through the storm door. Through the increasing flashes of light in the heavens, she could see his face was shining with rain, his hair plastered to his head. His eyes were burning, filled with uncertainty. His entire body was trembling, quaking with cold, and as she watched, he took one hand out of his pocket and ran it under his dripping nose, but his eyes never left hers. She knew without a doubt this was the man she had passed on her way home. "Who're you looking for?" she asked, concerned now because the man was looking at her through the glass with such a keen intensity it frightened her. He placed his palm against the glass, and at that moment, the moment she stepped away from the door and away from the threat she now perceived, he called her name. "Annie?" She didn't recognize the voice and she shook her head. She was about to close the door on him, to shut him and the danger he presented away, when the lights all over the street came on along with the stoop's overhead light. She could see him clearly and thought he looked familiar. His lips were blue, trembling, and his cheeks were twin spots of feverish color. There was such keen misery in his dark eyes it cut her to the quick. "Who are you?" she asked, heart suddenly thudding in her chest.
"It's me, baby doll." He turned his head to one side, pleading with her, his deep voice as guileless as a child's. Annie James' world spun to a screeching halt and her knees threatened to buckle beneath her. She was aware of the little dog at her feet whining and scratching with excitement at the door. She glanced down and understood that although the face and voice of the man standing on the stoop had been altered, Kibby recognized him. Knew him. Had somehow known it was him on the road as they passed. Had somehow caught his scent, that part of him that could never be changed or altered. "May I come in?" he asked, his voice quivering. Annie stared at him, her eyes searching his face. "Please?" The word was a sigh of hope. She unlocked the storm door, stepped back, and had to push Kibby out of the way as he came in. She saw his lips split into a wide grin as the little Pomeranian jumped straight up into his arms. "Hey, there, Kib," he whispered as he lowered his face to the little dog's. A groan of hurt pushed from Annie's lips when he buried his face in the dog's silky red fur. Kibby's tongue came out to lick at his wet cheek. "How you doing, Fuzz Face?" he asked the dog, smiling as the little tongue lathered his face. Annie saw his eyes come slowly to hers. Felt the love and hurt and fear of rejection coming from him in waves. He'd made no move toward her. He only stood in the doorway, clutching their dog to his chest, his hand, shaking with emotion, stroking her fur. He was waiting for her to make the first move. If she wanted to. If not, she sensed he was just as prepared to walk back out into the rain, out of her life, forever. She opened her arms. James Gabriel Tremayne put down the dog, hesitated only a moment before going to his wife, the only woman he had ever really loved, and taking her gently in his arms. "Are you sure?" he whispered as her arms closed around him. "Yes." His hands came to her head. He threaded his fingers through her damp hair. He looked deeply into her eyes. "I'm not the same man who left here, Annie. That man doesn't exist." His eyes narrowed with pain. "He never did." Annie took his left hand in hers, turned his palm to her lips and kissed it. Her eyes were smoldering with love and the months of need that had been building inside her. She smiled. "Welcome home, Jamie." ____________________ Compo* CHARLOTTE 'CHARLEE' Boyett-Compo is the author of over 30 award-winning speculative fiction novels. Married for 37 years to her high school sweetheart, Tom, she is the mother of two grown sons and the grandmother of two. She is owned and operated by five demanding felines for whom she must have a day job in order to buy catnip and cat litter. Her hobbies include reading, writing, and staying as far away from arithmetic as space will allow. ____________________ Visit www.hardshell.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors. This file was created with BookDesigner program
[email protected] 11/12/2005
