Dead By Nightfall (16 page)
Authors: Beverly Barton
“I know.”
Yvette slid into the backseat. Sanders closed the door, rounded the hood of the car, and got behind the wheel.
“Do you think there is even the slightest chance this young girl could be my daughter?” she asked, but before he answered she knew his response would not be what she wanted to hear.
“I do not.”
“But if she is?”
“You want her to be your daughter,” Sanders said. “She is not. You hope that Griffin is the father of your child, but he may not be. Someday if you do find your daughter or son, will you be able to accept a child that may have been fathered by one of York’s friends?”
Sanders did not mince words. He did not spare feelings.
In all these years, they had never discussed the circumstances under which her baby had been conceived. But Sanders had always known that the child’s paternity was uncertain.
When she had discovered she was pregnant, she had considered two options—a self-induced abortion or suicide—but had decided she could do neither.
“Only one of Malcolm’s friends could have fathered my child—Yves Bouchard.”
“You are certain?”
“Yes. Within the time frame when I conceived, I was with only four men. You may recall Bouchard being York’s only guest for several weeks. During that time, I was with him once.”
Then and now, she had refused to accept the possibility that Yves Bouchard, the brutal fiend who had enjoyed inflicting pain on the boys and young men he raped, could be the father of her child. Although his tastes in sexual partners had not included women, he had occasionally accommodated York’s request to watch while he included Yvette in a threesome.
“Yvette?”
“Yes?”
“I believe that someday you will find your child,” Sanders said as they drove up to the main house where Griff waited.
“Thank you.” Yvette knew that Sanders was thinking of another lost child, one that was buried in his mother’s arms, far away, on the island of Amara.
Sanders had no hope of ever seeing his child again.
Griff slid into the backseat beside Yvette. If he would allow her to touch him, she would gladly accept some of his pain again, but he kept a safe distance from her. He did not want her to know his thoughts or sense his feelings. And he did not want her to share his pain.
There had been a time when she had loved Griffin Powell for his kindness, his tenderness, his protectiveness. The part of her capable of caring deeply for another human being still cared for Griffin. He and Sanders were as much a part of her as her arms and legs, as essential to her existence as her heart and lungs. Was it any wonder that she wished for Griffin to be the father of her child?
But there had been two other men other than Bouchard and Griffin.
She vaguely remembered Lunt Anderson, the Swedish cross-country skier who had survived on Amara for less than two months. A sandy-haired, blue-eyed, fun-loving boy of twenty-three who’d been killed on his second hunt. When she had held him in her arms after they had sex, he had trembled like a frightened boy and she had sensed his terror. Poor Lunt. Could he have been the father of her child?
But what if the father is not Griffin or Lunt or even Bouchard?
What if it is the other one?
Chapter 16
The
Isis
had docked sometime in the night, hours after two guards had invaded Nic’s cabin, shackled Jonas, and taken him away. She had lain awake for a while, her thoughts reaching backward in time to those first few halcyon months after she and Griff first married. Honeymoon happiness. Days filled with great sex and love beyond measure. And the promise of happily-ever-after. She longed to return to that time in her life, to lie in Griff’s arms and know that nothing bad could ever touch them. They had been golden then.
Isis
had docked sometime in the night, hours after two guards had invaded Nic’s cabin, shackled Jonas, and taken him away. She had lain awake for a while, her thoughts reaching backward in time to those first few halcyon months after she and Griff first married. Honeymoon happiness. Days filled with great sex and love beyond measure. And the promise of happily-ever-after. She longed to return to that time in her life, to lie in Griff’s arms and know that nothing bad could ever touch them. They had been golden then.
As she drifted off to sleep, relaxed by sweet memories, her mind conjured up a final image, her last thought before sleep overtook her. Jonas MacColl.
In the light of a new day, Nic cupped a handful of cold water from the sink and splashed it into her face. As rivulets dripped from her chin and trailed down her neck before disappearing between her breasts, she stared at herself in the mirror. Thirty-six years old. Married, but presently separated. Not bad-looking. Three months pregnant. And the unwilling captive of an insane man obsessed with punishing her husband. Yep, that about summed up who Nicole Baxter Powell was, at least who she was this morning.
But who would she be a week from now, a month from now—a year from now?
Don’t look so far ahead. It’s counterproductive. Take one day at a time. Concentrate all your efforts on surviving today.
Malcolm York had a plan, one that included Griffin and her in starring roles. Punishment, retribution, revenge. Apparently, his plan included physical and psychological torture. But was killing her part of the plan? Possibly. After all, what better punishment for Griff than to kill his wife?
You’re thinking ahead again. Stop it! Griff is going to find you before York becomes bored with tormenting you. All you have to do is stay alive until Griff rescues you. That’s your only job—keeping you and your baby alive.
Without warning the cabin door flew open and Anthony Linden swooped in and called to her. Bracing herself for a confrontation, she walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom where Linden stood, hands on his hips and a surly expression on his face. With his bald head, compact muscular body, and cocky attitude, he looked like a sinister version of Mr. Clean.
Nic laughed.
My God, woman, you must be crazy to be able to laugh at a time like this.
He scrutinized her appearance. “Get dressed and make yourself presentable. Mr. York wants you topside in thirty minutes to meet a guest who is coming aboard this morning.”
Nic wasn’t laughing now. Her stomach knotted. York was bringing a guest aboard, someone he wanted her to meet. Any way you looked at it, it meant bad news for her.
“I’ll be back for you in twenty minutes.” Linden practically snapped his heels together before turning to leave.
“I’ll be ready,” Nic said, doing her level best to sound positively chipper.
Remember, don’t think too far ahead. You have no control over what may happen. Don’t waste your energy projecting your fears into a future scenario. Your only power is in controlling the way you react. Survival is the name of this game. It is your one and only goal.
On their arrival at Heathrow, Griff and Yvette had been met by the limousine provided by Thorndike Mitchum and chauffeured by one of the UK Powell Agency employees. Griff suspected that Yvette had gotten no more sleep than he had on their ten-hour flight from Tennessee to London. His thoughts had been with Nic as they were his every waking moment. No doubt, Yvette had thought of little else except meeting Suzette York. It was highly unlikely that this young girl was Yvette’s daughter. But if by some miracle it turned out that she was, then Griff would have to face the possibility that he was her father. As long as the child had remained missing, possibly dead, the issue of paternity had been unimportant.
Was it so wrong of him to hope Suzette was not Yvette’s child, and if she was that he was not the father?
He could not allow anything or anyone to take precedence over Nic. Finding her. Saving her. Bringing her home where she belonged.
As the limo zipped along M25, heading south toward Junction 5, Griff rested his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes. Why had the phony York sent him on this journey? How did meeting Suzette York play a part in the man’s plans for revenge?
He’s playing a game, a psychological game, messing with my mind. And he’s doing the same with Nic.
But how could Griff win the game when he didn’t know the rules and didn’t have a clue as to the real identity of his opponent? One thing for sure, the son of a bitch was not Malcolm York. He could call himself Beelzebub, but that didn’t make him the devil.
One day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time. One slow careful step at a time, staying sane, keeping the faith. He would find a way to rescue Nic.
Play the game. Learn the rules as you go along. Anticipate York’s next move, if possible.
Who the man was was far less important than why he was seeking vengeance. Or perhaps the answer to each was one and the same. If he knew the man’s true identity, he could figure out what his motives were.
“How much farther?” Yvette asked.
Snapped out of his musings by her question, Griff opened his eyes and glanced at his traveling companion. “I’m not sure. It’s about forty miles or so from Heathrow to Kent.” Griff leaned forward and asked their driver, “Where are we and how close are we to Biddenden?”
“We will be turning onto A21 quite soon,” the chauffeur replied. “From there, it is approximately twenty-five miles before we arrive at The West House in Biddenden.”
“I had hoped we were closer.” Yvette sighed.
“We’ll be there soon enough,” Griff told her. “Our lunch reservations are for one o’clock.”
“Please tell me that she will be there.”
“Yes, of course she’ll be there.”
“Something could go wrong. Plans could change. York may have changed his mind or—”
“York won’t change his mind. Everything has been arranged,” Griff assured her. “A car will pick up Suzette York at the school and deliver her to the restaurant at precisely one. Mitchum went through whatever channels necessary to expedite matters. Apparently most of the students are still away on their summer holiday, but Suzette has returned to the school per her guardian’s request and the headmistress made arrangements for the girl. It seems her guardian prefers the Benenden School counselor accompany Suzette when she meets us today.”
Yvette glanced at Griff, a melancholy smile tilting her lips. “Poor Griff. You’re here under duress. A part of you must hate me—”
“I could never hate you.”
“If not for me, for my child, for the letter York sent, Nic never would have left you. She would be at Griffin’s Rest now.”
“None of this is your fault,” Griff told her. “It’s my fault for not being completely honest with Nic from the very beginning. As for your child ... She or he is the most innocent of all.”
“If Suzette York is my daughter—”
“She isn’t.”
“But if she is, even if I know in my heart the moment I see her, we will still need a DNA test to prove her paternity.”
“Mitchum has a private lab on standby, waiting for a DNA sample from the girl,” Griff said. “We will want a DNA test regardless of your gut response to Suzette York. Even if you believe she is your daughter, we need irrefutable proof.”
Close to two o’clock that morning, Barbara Jean had persuaded Sanders to go to bed. “Even you are not invincible,” she had told him. “You need rest just as we mortals do.”
Despite being one of those lesser mortals, Maleah had fallen into the same trap that had ensnared Sanders—the need to work around the clock in the quest to locate Nic. Lucky for her, she had Derek to watch over her, just as Sanders had BJ.
“Here’s my plan,” Derek had told her. “We split the night shift so we can both get six hours of rest. Ten till four is the first shift, and then four till ten is the second shift. Okay with you?”
She had requested the second shift and Derek had reluctantly agreed. So here she was, five thirty Thursday morning, manning the office, swigging down her third cup of coffee and making arrangements for Ben Corbett and Meredith Sinclair to fly to Belize today. Luke Sentell, who usually accompanied Meredith on any Powell Agency related business, was unavailable. He was in London. By personally contacting certain old acquaintances, Luke would do his part to get word out that Griff Powell wanted to see Rafe Byrne.
Luke had flown first class, leaving the Powell jet available for Griff. Purchasing more airplanes for the agency had been shoved on the back burner. But after a brief discussion with Sanders, he had approved Maleah’s request that the Powell Agency follow through with Griff’s plan to purchase a couple more small used jets. What better time than the present? The seventeen-passenger, 2000 model Astra SPX was being flown in from Atlanta this morning and would be in the air again by noon, off to Belize. The seven-passenger, 2002 Cessna Citation Excel would be delivered from San Diego tomorrow.
Maleah’s skepticism didn’t stop her from hoping beyond hope that when she visited Shelter Island, Meredith would be able to use her psychic talents to discover something—anything—that might help them locate Nic. Yeah, sure, the odds were not in their favor. The only info Meredith had gathered on her trip to the Gatlinburg cabin was the fact that Nic was pregnant. Apparently Nic’s pregnancy had overshadowed any of her other thoughts this past Sunday. And the “connect with Nic via her hairbrush” session with Meredith and Yvette hadn’t been any more successful. But just because Meredith hadn’t sensed anything about Nic’s abduction didn’t mean that while on Shelter Island she wouldn’t have a sterling silver moment of clairvoyance. Maleah was willing to try anything and certainly wouldn’t rule out using the supernatural. Hell, if she thought visiting a witch doctor would help them find Nic, she’d jump right on it.
Sensing another person’s presence in the room, Maleah knew she wasn’t alone even before Sanders spoke to her. The guy moved like a phantom, silently maneuvering around the house without being heard and often without being seen.
“Barbara Jean said to tell you that she and Inez will have breakfast ready in about thirty minutes.” Sanders approached her desk.
“Okay. Thanks.”
His gaze traveled from her computer screen to the telephone on her desk to the nearly empty cup of coffee she held. “Any updates?”
“The Astra arrives this morning. I’m assigning it for Ben and Meredith’s use for as long as they need it. If she gathers any info on Shelter Island, they will pursue it wherever it leads. And the Cessna is coming in from California tomorrow. I think we should send Rett to Amara to take a look around, make sure nothing is going on there that we don’t know about.”
“It would seem you have everything under control.”
Maleah never felt completely at ease around Sanders. There was something about the man, something unnerving. He was too quiet, too reserved, too disciplined. Except for the bond that existed between him and Griff and between the two of them and Dr. Meng, and the occasional tender glance he gave BJ, Maleah would swear the man had no feelings. During the time she had known him, she had seldom seen him express any human emotion.
“When do you expect to hear from Griff?” Maleah asked, breaking the lingering silence.
“I would imagine he will contact me after he and Yvette have seen the girl.”
“Do you think she’s—?”
“No.”
Just a one-word response, succinct and to the point. No discussion. No reason why he believed as he did.
The telephone on Maleah’s desk rang. Startled by the unexpected ringing, she jerked at the sound. Without hesitation, she lifted the receiver.
“Perdue,” she said.
“Ms. Perdue, this is Jeffries at Powell headquarters. We’ve just come into possession of some information that we believe could be of vital importance.”
Maleah’s heartbeat did a nervous
rat-a-tat-tat.
“And that information is?”
rat-a-tat-tat.
“And that information is?”
“We’ve been digging into Kroy Enterprises, but it’s like swimming in quicksand,” Jeffries told her. “Just when you think you’ve located a reliable source, you discover it’s just one more fake lead. Kroy is a riddle inside a puzzle inside an enigma. Dummy corporations. Hidden assets.”
“You were able to find out, with very little effort, that Kroy Enterprises owned the jet that took off from McGhee Tyson Sunday morning and that they own Shelter Island,” Maleah said. “But we believe that was because someone wanted us to know.”
“Well, I can’t say whether or not that same someone did or did not want us to find out that there is a hundred-foot-long yacht, a Lloyd’s Classification 100-A-1, registered to an M.L. Oclam. But I can tell you that he made it damn difficult to find a link between Oclam and Kroy. We’ve been searching for anything owned by Kroy, so the yacht almost slipped by us.”
“Who is it?” Sanders asked.
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