In the Heart of the Wind Book 1 in the WindTorn Trilogy (36 page)

“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.”

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.