In the Heart of the Wind Book 1 in the WindTorn Trilogy (51 page)

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.

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.”

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!”