Dark Sky (10 page)

Wendy leaped off the bed and snatched the cracker tin from Juliet and held it tight, sobbing.

Joshua looked as if he, too, wanted to put his fist through the wall.

“Wendy has something to add to her statement,” Juliet said.

“She told me.” Suddenly, his eyes shone with tears, but his voice didn't crack—nothing else about him showed that he was about to lose it. “She'll talk to whomever she needs to. Then she wants to help clean up before we leave.”

“That's not necessary—”

“She knows that.”

Wendy lifted her eyes to her aunt. “You can come back to Vermont with us.”

But it was Joshua who shook his head. “Juliet's got a job to do.”

H
e couldn't eat, he couldn't sleep.

As he picked out clothes in his walk-in closet, Ham kept catching his reflection in the full-length mirrors and wincing. Even before his kidnapping, he'd looked emaciated. He was skinny as hell. A string bean. A spaghetti noodle.
Unnaturally
thin, his mother had told him time and again.

Since his ordeal, his ribs poked out, and his skin color reminded him of a dead trout.

“Bobby Tatro's in custody. You can rest easy now.”

Mia O'Farrell had delivered the news herself, reaching Ham on his private line at his parents' home in west Texas. She said she'd had nothing to do with Tatro's arrest and had no details. Before Ham could ask about Ethan, she'd ended the call.

A bolder person wouldn't have let her hang up, or at least would have tried to call her back.

Ham might be brilliant, but he wasn't bold.

He turned away from the mirrors and walked out into his bedroom suite with his clothes in his arms, wearing just boxer shorts, his knobby knees and bony feet all that kept his legs from looking like stilts. And the insect bites, still healing.

The diet those jackasses in Colombia had fed him was just enough to keep him alive. Unripened plantains, canned beans, pork fat. He didn't know how he'd survived nearly three weeks.

Thank God they hadn't tortured him. The threat was always there, hovering over him like an executioner's ax. Money—that was what they said they wanted. But Ham wasn't convinced. Snippets of conversation, whispers in Spanish and English, demeanors, stances, weapons. Things just didn't add up.

Then, Major Brooker arrived on the scene.

Ethan, the son Ham's parents had never had.

Ham pushed back his sense of failure and resentment and gratitude, an unholy mix of contradictory emotions, and pulled on a pair of Land's End jeans and a threadbare rugby shirt. He'd bypassed his wardrobe of expensive pieces from Neiman Marcus. Because of his ordeal, his parents wouldn't comment about his sub-par attire this time. He was their genius son who didn't care about money. They'd never understand him.

Why should they? He didn't understand himself.

He slipped into his twenty-dollar moccasin sneakers. His hair was long, straight and stringy, another bone of contention. He'd never make a very good Carhill. Although Ethan was an army officer, not a capitalist, he was a West Point graduate. He'd fought terrorists. He'd captured bad guys.

Ham had gotten himself shoved into a jeep at gunpoint.

His parents didn't know he'd provided information to the government that had saved lives—not that they'd be impressed. They'd call him a do-gooder. They'd tell him that kind of work should be left to others. Risking his life on a daring adventure was one thing. He'd come across as devil-may-care and manly. But his work for Mia O'Farrell they'd consider an unnecessary risk—not just of his life, but of the family name, their privacy, their stability, their fortune.

Suddenly he felt claustrophobic, although his bedroom suite was three times bigger than Tatro's hut. It'd had no running water, no electricity. They'd used generators. And the bathroom facilities consisted of an out-house swarming with insects.

Five years ago, Ham's parents had moved out of their house on their thousand acres in west Texas, razed it, then built their current monstrosity. It had a turret and towers, an art gallery, a media room with stadium seating and a popcorn-maker. Everything was very expensive and not all that tasteful.

If not for Carhill money, Ham knew he could never have afforded to spend the past two years in South America. His parents had expected him to stay in safe, rich enclaves, but he'd had his own agenda—his own dreams. Unfortunately those dreams had landed him in Tatro's hands, and now he was getting the big “I told you so.” Not in as many words, because his parents didn't really know all the details. But he understood the subtext of what they were saying.

No more of this shit or he was out of the will.

They didn't know about Mia O'Farrell.

Ham walked down the massive curving stairs to the main level of the ostentatious house. If it glittered and sparkled and dripped—and cost a lot—his mother liked it. His father trusted her taste completely, which, in Ham's estimation, was a mistake.

His mother emerged from behind a Greek-looking statue. Ham had no idea if it was real or a quality fake. He felt that way about his mother sometimes. Faye Carhill, wife, hostess and benefactor. What about her was real, what was fake? Ham wasn't sure anymore.

She had on a pale pink knit suit with diamond studs in her ears. She was ash-blond, slim and agile from her private Pilates and yoga classes. Although she wouldn't admit it, Ham got his thinness from her side of the family. His height came from his father's side. The two traits didn't fit that well together, and the result was their awkward son. Ham didn't know where his IQ came from. Probably a genetic quirk.

“Luke and Dorrie Brooker are joining us for dinner tonight,” she said.

Ethan's older brother and wife. Ham tried to look nonchalant. “Just them?”

“Yes, Luke's folks are in Denver.”

“What about Ethan?”

His mother winced. Although she'd have claimed him as her own in a heartbeat, she liked to pretend that Ethan made her nervous, especially since Char's death and his brush with international killers—and, even worse, international headlines. If the Carhills feared anything, it was notoriety—getting sucked into the public eye in ways they couldn't control, becoming part of a media feeding frenzy.

“He won't be here. I don't even know where he is these days.”

The Brookers were multigenerational Texas ranchers with a working ranch up the road. They weren't as rich as the Carhills, but few were.

Although he was still uncertain how much his parents had surmised about his ordeal, Ham knew they didn't want to talk about it. For them, it was over. He'd told them he'd run into some trouble in Colombia on a side trip to check out emerald mines. Whatever else they knew or had gleaned on their own, they at least pretended his explanation satisfied them. Beyond asking him about his health, there'd been no questions.

“Are you all right?” His mother touched a cool hand to his cheek. “I worry about you.”

“You shouldn't.”

“Your father's in the library if you want to see him.”

“I thought I'd take a walk.”

“It's hot out—”

“The heat won't bother me.”

She looked pained, as if she didn't know what to say. For both his parents, Ham was an unfulfilled promise, someone they didn't quite know how to include. Explain.
Accept.

“No,” she said finally, “I suppose it wouldn't.”

Pretending not to hear her, Ham detoured past the library, avoiding his father, and went out the back door, onto a terraced patio they seldom used. He walked to the edge of the kidney-shaped pool, its perfect, clear water shimmering blue under the late afternoon sun.

What had Bobby Tatro wanted in New York?

Why go to Juliet Longstreet's apartment? Ham knew all about her and Ethan from their earlier exploits. She was a marshal. What did Tatro consider worth the risk that she'd catch him?

Had he acted on his own?

The last was Ham's central question. In the days since his release, as he regained his health and grew stronger, less fearful, he found it more and more difficult to believe that Bobby Tatro had thought up, planned and executed Ham's kidnapping all on his own. That its only purpose was financial gain.

The emeralds.

Ham stared down into the shimmering water, wondering what his mother would do if he peeled off all his clothes and jumped naked into the pool. Maybe that was what his parents did when no one else was around—went skinny-dipping. He smiled at the thought. But it didn't do anything for the overwhelming guilt and embarrassment that had gripped him since Ethan had burst into his hut and rescued him. Ethan didn't deserve to get sucked into the mess that was Ham's life.

Now, home safe, everything felt wrong to him.

To his father, winning was everything. Johnson Carhill would do whatever he had to do to limit the effect of his son's ordeal on him, his wife, their reputation and their money. Correction; damage control wouldn't be enough. He'd want to come out ahead.

And as Ham well knew, the repercussions wouldn't matter. Only getting his way.

 

The five-hour trip from Juliet's apartment on the Upper West Side to Vermont was too long for Wendy to go without eating, but she refused to touch even the rice cakes Joshua had brought with him that morning. They were organic
and
vegan, but she said she wasn't hungry. That much he understood. He wasn't hungry, either.

It was dark when they arrived back at Longstreet Landscaping, the house lit, Spaceshot drumming up just enough energy to waddle out to greet them. One of Wendy's goals during her stay with her grandparents was to help their overweight dog slim down.

But she didn't move to get out of the truck, the tin with Teddy's ashes cradled in both arms as she stared out her window at the wooden trailer of pumpkins.

Joshua turned off the engine. “Wendy?”

“I'm remembering his knife,” she said in a barely audible whisper, her voice calm, almost toneless. “There was blood on it.”

“Wendy…honey, I'm sorry.”

“The blood was still wet. It—it was Juan's blood. I'd just talked to him.”

Joshua tightened his fingers around his truck keys, hating that his daughter now had such an image in her mind, hating his inability to erase it. “I can hook you up with someone to talk to about what you experienced.”

She shot him a look. “Does that mean
you
don't want to talk to me?”

“I'll listen to you anytime, Wendy. I just mean that there are doctors who can help someone who's experienced a trauma—”

“I didn't experience a trauma.” She whipped back around to her window, her shoulders stiff. “Juan did. He's the one who's dead.”

“I'm sorry—”

“Why should you be sorry? You didn't kill him. If I'd only said something about the man in the diner. He knew my name. It was weird—I
knew
it was weird. If I'd only told Juliet—if I'd warned Juan someone might be spying on him—”

“It might not have changed a thing.”

“That's what she said.”

Wendy pushed open her door and jumped out, running for the house.

Joshua couldn't remember ever feeling so exhausted and damn helpless. He followed her up the driveway. His legs ached. He patted Spaceshot on the head. “You don't have any answers, either, do you, old boy?”

But he could hear how haunted he sounded. His daughter's wide-eyed trip to New York to see her aunt—her little act of rebellion, filled with optimism and possibilities—had changed her life forever.

At least the Longstreets, all of them, would understand that much. They'd seen their share of violence, accidents, traumas—they'd all had that moment of abrupt change, of lost innocence.

After a crisis, his mother liked to make chicken and dumplings, but when Joshua entered the warm kitchen, he saw that she'd dished up a plate of pasta primavera.

But Wendy had run into the half bath to throw up.

“It's vegan,” she said, setting the plate on the table.

“It's not you.”

She took a deep breath and nodded with an understanding she didn't want, had never wanted. People said Anne Longstreet could take anything. But she'd only asked for a simple life, cooking and knitting, growing things in her garden.

Joshua had called her on their way back to Vermont and told her they'd be back in time for supper. His family knew that Wendy had skipped off to New York and Joshua had gone to fetch her. Unless they'd had the news on, they wouldn't know about Bobby Tatro. In recent months, Juliet's life had become more complicated—and dangerous—than ever. Now it had affected the most sensitive and sheltered of the Longstreet grandchildren.

“Joshua?” His mother's eyes narrowed on him. “What is it? What's happened?”

Another car pulled into the driveway. Paul, the town cop. He'd probably know about Tatro by now. He'd have called Joshua's brothers and told their father, and they'd all be at the house soon, wanting details, providing support, hashing out anything any of them needed to do. Not just for Wendy. For Juliet, too. Except she wouldn't want their help. She never had because their help was always laced with criticism.

Joshua pointed to a chair. “Have a seat, Ma. We can wait for the others—”

“We're not waiting. Tell me now. Why is Wendy throwing up? Why are you as white as a sheet?”

He knew he couldn't keep silent and told her. She listened without interruption, Paul standing in the doorway, Jeff and Sam following him inside, then Will. And, finally, Will, Sr., the family patriarch, his limp more pronounced tonight.

Joshua had seen people overcome tragedy and violence in his own family.

He'd just wanted his daughter to be exempt, at least for a while longer.

 

Juliet called an Upper West Side pet store that specialized in rescuing unwanted animals and had them come for her surviving fish. They sent a sanctimonious college student who seemed to think she'd kicked the hell out of her fish tanks in some kind of rage. She didn't enlighten him, just let him scoop the survivors into plastic containers and bags. She gave him all her food and supplies and added a tip to the rescue fee.

Her apartment felt empty without the gurgle of the tanks and the rhythmic motion—even the variety of colors—of her fish. She didn't really know how she'd come to have so many. Freda hadn't seemed to mind.

The place smelled of fish water, Pine-Sol, wet wood and sweat. Bobby Tatro's body odor lingered. Juliet opened the living room windows to let in some air.