Forget Me Not: A Novel (Crossroads Crisis Center) (13 page)

“I need things too.”

“Forget you. You had the boy. You support him. It’s that simple.”

“If we’re dead, he won’t get a dime.” Harry’s eyes glittered. “You thought about that?”

“It’s my motivation for staying alive.” Edward braked for a traffic light. The van beside them had its radio cranked up. Its thump reverberated through Edward’s entire body.

“More motivated than Johnson? Because he’s loaded for bear.”

“Equally motivated with Johnson.” It was in the genes and undeniable.

“Yeah, well, here’s hoping you’re smarter, because he won’t go down easy.”

That, too, was in the genes. “I’m smarter. Bank on it.”

“I am, man.” Harry raked his lip with his teeth. “But that jerk totally creeps me out.”

Johnson was creepy, but the real danger was Chessman. He was ruthless with serious connections.
NINA
. It creeped Edward out. Bombing a shopping mall full of kids? And not for money but a stupid cause—and it didn’t change a thing. Nut jobs. A man couldn’t predict what nut jobs would do. NINA hated family, but they acted a lot like grandparents. Mess with a grandkid and a grandparent would go to the ends of the earth and do anything to make sure you regretted it the rest of your life.

Harry tapped a fist on the door panel. “Johnson always knows everything.”

“Not everything.” On that, Edward had to disagree. On several fronts, in fact, Edward knew more, and it wasn’t for Johnson’s lack of trying to find out. Edward had just been better and faster at it.

Satisfied with his own cunning, maybe even a dash proud at messing with Chessman’s and Johnson’s heads, Edward popped the clutch,
pumped the gas to take off, then shifted into second. They thought they were so smart, so much better than he was. But he’d show them smart. They’d hear about this and not know what was going on.

“If Johnson knew everything,” Edward told Harry, “he wouldn’t have permitted his New Orleans recruiter to hire Benjamin Brandt.”

Benjamin Brandt?

His cell phone at his ear, Paul rushed into the house through the kitchen entrance and breezed by the chef, standing at the center island slicing a tomato. “Where is he?”

“Office,” the chef responded, not missing a beat in his work. Light glinted on the blade of the razor-sharp knife.

Paul walked on, out of earshot, clipping his shoulder on the door frame. Pain shot down his arm. Stifling a curse, he muttered into his cell phone. “You’re sure it’s him?”

“No idea,” his recruiter said. “I didn’t check him out.”

Surprise rippled through Paul. “Why not?”

“He said you sent him. Since you’re keeping this under wraps, I figured you had to have sent him or he wouldn’t know about me.”

“Take no action.” Paul needed to think. “I’ll get back to you.” He hung up the phone, then stuffed it into his pocket, rushing through the house to Mr. Chessman’s office.

It was empty.

Returning to the hallway, he spotted Lucille, the head housekeeper. If it were physically possible, the woman looked as if she’d lost even more weight.
Anorexia?
“Mr. Chessman?”

“South lawn veranda, Mr. Johnson.”

Paul mumbled his thanks and made his way through the house to the veranda. Before stepping outside, he straightened his tie and observed the area to be sure Mr. Chessman was alone.

He sat in the shade at a table, a tall, chilled glass of something clear and bubbly in front of him. A lemon wedge floated in it. Kicked back and comfortable, Gregory stared out beyond the manicured lawn and into the hedge maze, as if he lacked a care in the world. It was a serene, innocent image he’d perfected. One that he paid Paul well to make sure he could project.

Unfortunately, it was also one that signaled diabolical events were being spun in the man’s mind.

Paul had dealt with the scum of the earth most of his life. He’d even been raised by one. But he wanted better—more than mean drunks and greed and nut jobs. Then he’d heard about Chessman. What a good man he was, and he had the thing Paul most wanted: respect.

Paul had turned over a new leaf as an average American, and soon thereafter, he’d heard Chessman was looking for an assistant. For the first time in his life, fate stepped in to help him. He’d gotten the job with Chessman. Finally, Paul would have the life he’d always wanted.

And he had—until the business with Susan Brandt and her boy had come up. After that, Chessman walked a straight line, at least so far as Paul officially knew, and he dared to hope that maybe there was still a chance. But even wearing blinders hadn’t been enough.

Then Chessman went nuts and choked that crazy woman to death in her studio. Paul had made that go away. Even the coroner hadn’t figured out the truth. But that was the final blow on the death of a dream. The good life was gone forever. Paul had even blamed himself. Chessman had been such a good man. Paul had contaminated him. Not intentionally.
He just couldn’t outrun it. Bad to the bone was in his genes, and it infected everyone around him.

And then his boss had taken him deeper into his confidence, and Paul learned that even the worst scum he had dealt with had been rank amateurs compared to Gregory Chessman.

Paul shoved a hand into his pocket, curled it into a fist.
Too little, too late
. Dying was his only way out, being indispensable his only hope for life. Some people just weren’t worthy of a normal life, and he was one of them. But at least he’d learned young what to do to feel better.

Take control
.

Resigned to that being the best he could hope for, he walked outside. “Sir?”

Chessman turned to look at him. “Well?”

“I had to abort the mission, sir.” Paul permitted a small amount of irritation to show in his voice. “When I arrived, someone else had already struck.” Cops and firemen had flooded Crossroads Crisis Center.

Chessman wasn’t pleased—his jaw tightened and his expression sobered—but he wasn’t jumping to conclusions.

Encouraged by his restraint, Paul added, “Apparently the problem has a new wrinkle.”

His boss straightened in his seat, folded his hands atop the table, then rolled his gaze up at Paul and waited for an explanation.

“Two men in a red Jag bombed the Crossroads Crisis Center.”

“Is she dead?”

“No sir. She was there, but it’s statistically impossible that killing her was the bomber’s intent—minimal explosives, minor damage restricted to a small area, no injuries. But according to my source, she has memory challenges.”

“Real or manufactured ones to protect her?”

“Purportedly very real.”

Chessman delved into thought and his gaze lost focus. “Brought here from New Orleans, beaten, drugged, and now an intentional near-miss attack?” He looked at Paul. “Someone fired a warning shot over her bow.”

Paul nodded. “Yes.”

Disgust filled Chessman’s face. “Edward and Harry?”

“Probable, sir, but I can’t yet verify it.”

“Well.” Gregory paused. “As wrinkles go, this one isn’t too bad. If it is them, let them kill her—or be blamed for it.”

Vintage Chessman response
. “I’m afraid that isn’t the wrinkle, sir. It’s in the extra help brought in for the search.”

He sipped from his chilled glass. The lemon wedge bobbed behind moisture droplets clinging to the outside of the glass. “The people your recruiter hired in New Orleans?”

“Yes sir.” Paul’s chest went tight. “One of the hirelings claims he’s Benjamin Brandt.”

“Benjamin Brandt?” Mr. Chessman slapped a hand onto the table. “Impossible.”

“It is possible, sir.”

“It’s not Brandt. Edward posing as Brandt, maybe, but not Brandt.” Chessman’s eyes twinkled with delight. “Edward’s launched a preemptive strike.”

The left side of Paul’s face twitched. He resisted the urge to stroke it into stopping. “You’d be pleased if he’s undermined us?”

“Very.” Gregory laughed. “You slide in behind them, kill her, Edward and Harry get arrested for it, and they go to jail.”

Where they could claim being hired to kill the subject? What was he thinking? Sacrificing Paul? Or did he have bigger fish to fry? Maybe both. “What about Benjamin Brandt? What if he really is—?”

“Brandt is not your recruit’s hireling.”

Paul frowned and made no pretense of hiding it. “Brandt has doggedly searched for his family’s murderers.”

“And he’s failed to find a thing.” Chessman waved off the possibility.

“I don’t think he’s above infiltrating to get information, sir. In fact, I believe strongly he would do anything—”

“He’s a Christian, Paul.”

“He was a Christian, sir. He’s not anymore.”

“Interesting.” Chessman seemed to process that new information. “But say he has hired on. I’m sure your recruiter only told him he needed help to locate a missing woman and that he feared foul play was involved. Where’s the link between Susan’s case and the subject’s? There’s nothing there for Brandt to follow.”

“There is, sir. Odds are against Brandt making that connection, but it isn’t statistically impossible. Edward could have planted clues.”

“Edward isn’t that stupid.” Chessman grunted. “And without him, nothing connects the two cases that would lead Brandt to your recruiter to find the subject.”

Typically, Chessman was quick. But this time, he was being block-headed or naive. “Unfortunately, we don’t know that for a fact either.”

“We know we’ve revealed nothing that connects the subject to Brandt’s wife, don’t we?”

“Our concern is in what Edward’s revealed.” Brandt becoming part of the equation at this close range was a bad sign of something being dangerously wrong. “Edward is out to save Edward. He could have revealed anything, or done anything, including drawing Brandt a map to your front door.”

“He wouldn’t dare.” Mr. Chessman stood, though he looked less sure of himself now than he had before. “No. No, it’s Edward passing himself
off as Brandt. Alone, he might risk doing more, but saddled with Harry, there’s no way.”

“He could disassociate from Harry.”

“Never happen.” Chessman rubbed his lower lip.

“Are you willing to bet your life on that, sir? Because, sensible or not, I’m not willing to bet mine.”

Chessman slid his hands off the table and studied Paul. “If Edward and Harry act against the subject, that’s good news for us.”

“A fact of which Edward is well aware. We wouldn’t be wise to underestimate him. It didn’t work out well for us last time.”

That reminder knocked the self-assurance right off Chessman’s face. He sighed. “So what do you think Edward is doing?”

“I don’t know that he’s done anything yet, or that he plans any action. But neither do I know that Brandt hasn’t infiltrated. He could have caught wind of something and acted on it.”

“From where?”

“Edward.” Paul sent Gregory a level look. He could be annoyed at his raising that possibility again, but Chessman needed to give it due consideration. Paul understood how the man’s mind worked—his own worked in the same way, only wiser and better. But in Edward’s convoluted way, tapping Brandt on the shoulder made sense. “Maybe Edward knows you’ll sacrifice him to save yourself.”

“Of course he knows that.”

“Then statistically speaking, Edward is going to do what any man in that position would do.”

“What’s that?”

“Kiss loyalty good-bye.” Paul put a warning bite in his tone he wanted Chessman to hear. “And sacrifice you first.”

Gregory dismissed Paul’s warning—he had squashed others just like Edward—and thought through the possibility. Would Edward be so stupid as to get Benjamin Brandt involved? Would Brandt so stupidly get involved?

Either or both might, especially with their knowing nothing about NINA. Edward, to save his neck. Ben, to find the truth. He’d been obsessed with finding his family’s killers from the start, following all leads—even those deemed impossible—and there was that two-month stint in seclusion with his docs. Very little was known about that, but the village grapevine had been hot with speculation.

Peggy Crane had denied the rumors, no doubt out of loyalty to Ben and to Susan. Yet Melanie Ross, being young and guileless, had been far less discreet. Ben apparently had spent two months in total seclusion with an army of psychiatrists and crisis counselors—Dr. Harvey Talbot among them. Supposedly they were doing extensive research on incidental shootings. With Talbot gone, Lisa Harper had been hired to fill in at the crisis center.