Rebecca York (27 page)

"Okay, we'll talk about Jordan Walker later. Did you get any useful information out of Hamilton?"

Jim was glad to be back on comfortable ground. "The old bastard sucked Walker into the investigation by offering to cooperate on an authorized biography. And your hunch was right. He arranged for Jordan Walker and Lindsay Fleming to meet at Conroy's house. He claimed it was because she works for Daniel Bridgewater—which would give Walker access to information about Maple Creek."

"What do you think?" MacArthur demanded. "Was that the only reason?"

Jim waited a beat before answering. "If you want my gut feeling, I'd say there was more to it."

"What? Did he know something about Walker and Fleming?"

Do you? Jim wondered, picking up on the way his boss kept coming back to the couple. But he didn't ask about it. If MacArthur wanted to give him information, he would.

"You're a skilled interrogator. You couldn't get anything else out of him?"

"I showed him what I could do to him. And he had the balls to tell me he wasn't going to stand up to torture. I decided he was right. He was too old and sick to take what I was prepared to dish out."

"You let him set the rules?"

"Sometimes you have to go with the flow. I think he wanted me to kill him."

"That's fucking weird."

"We know he was in physical pain—and mental pain, over his son's death. He said he wanted to know what happened to Todd before he died. I told him we'd killed Todd and made it look like an accident."

"What?" MacArthur sounded totally incredulous. "You gave him information?"

"Not much. Nothing he was going to tell anybody else, and it turned out to be the best way to get him to talk."

"Yeah. Okay. Did he know how Todd pulled that trick at Maple Creek?"

"He said he didn't."

"And you believed him."

"Yeah. I did."

MacArthur continued to ask questions, digging for information that Jim couldn't give him. Finally the director sighed. "Okay. He was a loose cannon. At least he's out of the way. But that phone call from Walker may trigger a police investigation."

"How the hell would Walker know Hamilton was in danger?" Jim asked, interested in hearing the answer.

"Maybe he has superhero powers," MacArthur suggested.

The observation hung in the air, and all at once Jim was thinking again about the naked woman who had seen him with the old man. No, not a woman. A ghost, from the looks of her.

He felt goose bumps rise on his skin.

MacArthur was speaking again. "Did he know anything about Saxon and Willow Trinity?"

"I don't think so."

They talked for a few more minutes. Finally Jim asked, "Do you want me to head back there and help with the search for Mark Greenwood?"

"No. I may want you in Darien, Connecticut."

"You think that's where Walker is going?"

"Yeah."

* * *

LIVING without a credit card was a damn nuisance, Jordan thought as he sat in bed in their latest motel room— this one a bargain special. It was amazing how fast cash evaporated when you couldn't rely on plastic. More than that, the mere act of paying cash at a motel created a certain amount of suspicion.

He'd gone with the subtle suggestion that he and Lindsay were meeting for a tryst. But he was glad she hadn't been standing beside him at the counter when he'd made the reference to her "husband."

While she slept, he sat propped against the pillows, going through the papers he'd gotten from Hamilton.

One file contained a list of other children besides Todd who had been conceived by Dr. Remington's techniques.

Some of the names were blacked out with heavy marker. Holding the sheet up to the light, he tried to read the redacted information, but because it was a photocopy, he couldn't do it.

Were Willow and Saxon Trinity among the unreadable names? Why had the old man scratched them out? Were they children who had died? Or was it a privacy issue?

Feeling Lindsay stir beside him, he tensed. When he saw her lids flutter open, he steeled himself for what was coming next.

Before he could move out of reach, she grabbed his hand. He didn't even try to block her. She was going to have to find out about Hamilton. And if it didn't happen now, she'd only get his computer and go to one of the news Web sites.

Still, when he felt her silent scream, it was like a physical stab of pain.

He's dead.

I'm sorry. The condolence sounded hollow as it echoed in his mind.

Like Sid.

No!

Two men dead, because of us.

He tossed the papers on the floor and slid down in the bed, reaching for her and folding her into his arms. He felt a sob take her. Just one sob, and he knew she was struggling to hold back a flood.

You've got it backward, sweetheart. Two more men are dead because of Todd Hamilton. He set this whole thing in motion by attacking a secure government installation. Then his father tried to find out what really happened. That sealed his doom. Sid got involved because he tried to help his cousin—who was a guard at the place.

He tightened his hold on her. We have to put together the whole puzzle—so they don't get us, too.

She had recovered enough of her equilibrium to ask, By they—you mean the Crandall Consortium.

Yes. But I want to find out about Todd. We have to start with him.

Why?

You don't feel it...? He dragged in a breath. You don't feel something gnawing at you? Something just out of reach?

She didn't bother to lie to him because their minds were working together now.

Yes, she answered, even as she began to focus on what they needed to do.

"You have a list of people who worked for Dr. Remington."

"Yes."

"We should start making calls."

"It's early yet. First we're going to have breakfast."

I'm not hungry.

You need to eat. You haven't had a decent meal in days.

You think we can get a decent meal around here?

There's a pancake place down the road.

He was pleased to see a stack of blueberry pancakes leap into her mind.

He let her take a shower first, thinking about joining her as he listened to the water run. But he knew she wouldn't welcome sex while she was still grieving over Hamilton. Well, not grieving exactly. She hadn't even known the man. But she'd been in his bedroom very close to the end of his life.

It was frightening. Her voice came into his mind, and he knew that she had been following his thoughts.

The question is—why just me?

Apparently we can't choose how this psychic thing works.

You're better than I am at projecting your consciousness to remote places.

A talent I wish I didn 't have.

But it got us important information. He was sorry immediately that he'd said it, because the pain of watching the Crandall operative interrogate Hamilton came swooping down on her—and him.

Sorry.

Yeah.

He came into the bathroom, wrapped her in a towel, and tenderly dried her off.

You don't have to coddle me.

I'm not coddling. I'm . . .

Being considerate. Thank you.

He held her for a few moments longer. Better?

Yes.

He knew it was only partly true. But he knew she had to come to terms with Hamilton's death on her own.

While he was in the shower, his mind started working on their problems again.

But maybe we can choose what talents we want to focus on, he said as he stepped out and started drying off. When we 're not fighting for our lives.

He heard her silent wince from the bedroom and wished he hadn't put it in those terms. Too bad it was impossible to guard his thoughts about their dangerous situation.

Lathering his face, he asked, The man who was interrogating Hamilton. What can you tell me about him ?

She paused to think. It was dark. But from what I could see, he was in his late twenties or early thirties.

The scary part was how he went about what he was doing. He knew he had the power of life and death over Hamilton. It was just a matter of what happened first.

He could have hurt him.

He was being pragmatic—not merciful. Let's hope he doesn't have the chance to be pragmatic with us.

He wanted to tell her to focus on what they could do for themselves, but he had never been good with other people's feelings. Now he was trying to soothe Lindsay while he couldn't offer her any real reassurances.

Just as he finished shaving, she came up behind him and laid her head on his shoulder. "Did you ever read a Hemingway story called 'The Short Happy Life of Frances Macomber against'?"

"Yeah. In a lit course in college."

"That's where I read it, too."

They both thought about the story—about a man on an African safari who had lived like a milquetoast all his life. Then his world opened up when he found out he had more courage than he'd thought.

Unfortunately, his wife didn't like the transformation and shot him in a "hunting accident" before he could enjoy his newfound confidence.

Jordan turned and took Lindsay in his arms, cradling her body against his. "That's not going to happen to us!"

"You don't know it for sure."

"Together, we're stronger than they are."

He felt her nod, but he sensed her doubts as well. And he couldn't lie to himself. They were in a hell of a fix.

* * *

BRIDGEWATER arrived in Orlando on the first flight of the morning. In a routine that had become familiar, he took the monorail to the main terminal, rented a car, and exited onto Route 528.

The rush-hour traffic slowed him, but he was at the Trinity mansion before eleven.

He hadn't bothered to call ahead, because he knew that Willow would be as eager to see him as he was to see her. But there was some trouble at the gate.

That asshole who worked for them, Michael his name was, wouldn't let him through until he conferred with his bosses.

Finally the gates swung open, and he roared up the drive, then had to cool his heels again when the jerk left him in a small reception room.

He was too restless to sit. Instead he paced the Oriental rug, waiting for Willow.

When she came through the door, it was obvious that she'd been sleeping in. She was wearing a silky green robe, her hair was tousled, and he could see creases on her cheek from where she'd been lying on her pillow.

The sight was endearing. He knew that was how she would look when they woke up in the morning together, and he felt a rush of love for her.

He wanted to cross the room and take her in his arms. But once again, she was joined at the hip to her damn brother.

Daniel felt a surge of jealousy. It subsided when she hurried forward and took his arm.

"Dan, this is so unexpected."

"I came as soon as I could arrange it. I have some important information for you." He held up the manila envelope like an offering to a pagan goddess.

"What have you brought me?"

When her hand played with the back of his neck, he felt himself go instantly hard.

"I had my computer geek break into the files of the Crandall Consortium. I know what was going on at Maple Creek."

She beamed. "Wonderful."

"And I have the director's notes on the investigation. Remember I told you about Lindsay Fleming, the woman on my staff who asked about the matter?"

She nodded.

"Apparently, she's hooked up with an investigative reporter named Jordan Walker."

He saw Willow's eyes sharpen. "What do you mean— hooked up?"

"Well, see, first Walker started poking into the case. Then Lindsay joined him. But nobody knows where they've gone."

"Wouldn't she have to inform the office of her whereabouts?" Saxon interjected.

"She should," he muttered. "But she just disappeared. Nobody's heard from her for a couple of days. I wonder if she's all right," he said, then dismissed the thought immediately. Lindsay wasn't important.

Only Willow could hold his attention. She was standing very still now, gripping her brother's hand.

"Let's go upstairs," she said.

His heart leaped as she led him up the curved staircase, then down a hall and into a bedroom. Not her bedroom. A guest room. He knew that right away, because the bed was still made. But he didn't care.

He just wanted to be with her. When Saxon followed them into the room, he turned and glared at the creep. Then Willow pushed him down on the bed, and he forgot about the brother.

She pressed her hand over his cock, the way he wanted. But when he tried to unbuckle his pants, she stayed his hand.

"No, Daniel. You need to sleep now, while we read the papers you brought us."

He felt the brother slipping off the loafers that marred the bedspread.

But his focus was on Willow. She was still speaking in that beautiful voice of hers. "Thank you, Daniel.

Thank you so much for being loyal to me. I'll get back to you as soon as I absorb the material. You sleep now. Just sleep," she murmured as she stroked his forehead.

He tried to stay awake—to stay with her. Because he wanted so much to remain connected. He wanted to be everything to her. Lover. Husband. Father. Brother.

No, he wanted the damn brother out of the picture. He wanted to take Saxon's place in her life.

But he couldn't fight the soothing effect of her voice and her touch. Against his will, his eyes closed, and he slept as she'd told him to do.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

AFTER A QUICK breakfast Jordan drove to a service station with a couple of pay phones, and they started on the list Hamilton had given him, with Lindsay posing as his assistant.

Some of the people they were calling had died. Some had moved. But after fifteen minutes Jordan got a positive response—from a woman named Frederica Vanderlin.

When the conversation was over, he hung up slowly, fighting a tight feeling in his chest.

"What's wrong?" Lindsay asked.

"She knew exactly who I was. It was like she was waiting forme to call."

"Maybe the source of all psychic power is Darien, Connecticut," she answered, then went pale. "Could it be a trap?"