Thicker Than Water (11 page)

“What?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She sighed as she came through the living room, yanking her backpack from the sofa and slinging it over one shoulder.

He opened the door for her, stood there. “There's something,” he said. “I can see there's something bothering you.” Then he shrugged. “If I can help…”

“You can't. You and Mom are rivals.”

“So?”

“So…” She narrowed her eyes on him. They were perceptive eyes, intelligent ones. “So if you found out she was in trouble—really serious trouble—what would you do? Help her out—or write an exposé about it?”

He studied her face for a moment. Her eyes were full of
turmoil, and it hit him where he lived. He liked the kid, he realized. No matter who her mother was.

“Didn't your mom tell you on the phone?” he asked.

“Tell me what?”

“They hired me over at WSNY. I'm her new coanchor.”

Dawn just blinked at him. “You're kidding me.”

“Nope.”

“I'll bet she's…overjoyed.”

He smiled at the sarcasm in her voice and the insight behind it. “Practically had kittens in delight.”

Dawn smiled, and he thought it was genuine this time. “I can imagine.” But the smile died too soon. “So does that mean you two are friends now?”

“I wouldn't go that far.” He shrugged. “Doesn't matter, though. I wouldn't stab her in the back.” He waited, watching Dawn struggle with a decision. “Come on, Dawn. If your mom is in some kind of trouble, maybe I can help.”

Dawn faced him squarely, licked her lips. “Maybe,” she said. “If she trusts you with me, that's saying a lot.”

“Is it?”

“Oh yeah. The old man next door, Rodney White, lived there four years before she stopped being suspicious of him, and he must be in his seventies.”

“You're saying she's a little overprotective?”

“A little? I was twenty minutes late one night and she was dialing 9-1-1 when I walked in.”

He lifted his brows. Then he tipped his head to one side. Jones had trusted him to come fetch her daughter. Dawn was right; it did tell him something. Julie Jones didn't hate him quite as much as she pretended. “So what's this terrible trouble you think she's in?” he asked.

Dawn shrugged and walked out the door. He followed, closing and locking it behind her. “I'm not sure yet,” she said, and the serious, worried tone and look had returned. He hated seeing a sixteen-year-old bearing troubles that looked to be beyond adult-size. And he couldn't even ease her mind by telling her that he thought her mom was just fine, because he didn't. He'd been picking up the same feelings—that Julie Jones was in some kind of trouble.

Damn. He felt for the kid. So he did the unthinkable.

He took his keys from his pocket, tossed them to her. “You up for a driving lesson on a real car?”

Her eyes widened, shifting from him to the Porsche in the driveway. “You're kidding me!”

“What, you don't think you can handle it?”

Her smile widened. “You just watch me.” She opened the driver's door, slung her backpack in and got behind the wheel.

He'd succeeded in distracting her from whatever had been worrying her—for now, at least. He just wondered, when she started the car and revved the engine, if he was going to live to regret it.

When she backed out of the driveway without even grinding the gears and came to an only slightly jerky stop before pulling out into the road, he nodded in approval. “Your mom must be a pretty good teacher.”

She released a bark that might have been laughter. “No way. I take driver's ed. My mother's the worst driver in the history of the world, Sean. Don't ever let her behind the wheel of this car, okay? Trust me on this.”

He nodded. “Thanks for the tip.”

“Thanks for letting me drive.” She slid the car into First, eased it into motion and relaxed back in the seat.

She was a gorgeous little thing, a fledgling woman testing out her fragile wings. Jones had done all right with her. And that, he figured, was a point in her favor. You couldn't hate a woman who could raise a kid like Dawn. Not entirely, anyway.

* * *

“I tried to do this more privately,” the voice on the phone whispered. It was a female voice, and obviously disguised. “But I kept getting your voice mail, or your daughter at home. And you had your cell phone turned off.”

Julie held the phone to her ear. “Who is this?”

“It doesn't matter. You don't need to know that. All you need to know is—he's alive, Jewel. He's alive, and he knows.”

Shivering down deep in her soul, Julie told herself those words couldn't mean what every cell in her body feared they meant. It couldn't be—it couldn't be
that.

She looked up, searching for words, and saw Allan Westcott standing there, staring at her from beneath deeply bent brows, an extension phone pressed to his ear. He gestured with his free hand, a circular motion, telling Julie to say something, to keep the conversation going.

She cleared her throat. “Who's alive?” she asked. God, she could barely speak.

“You know. The Reverend. Mordecai Young.”

His eyes shooting wider, Westcott scribbled on a sheet of paper and shoved it at Julie. Swallowing hard, she read the words he'd written, looked at him, shook her head.

Her boss glared at her, thumping an insistent forefinger on the sheet.

Licking her lips, Julie shook her head. “And you wanted to tell me this privately. Not here at the station, where others might be listening in?”

“Yes. But it's more important that you know.”

She prayed whoever it was got the message even as she saw her boss's angry frown. He was shaking the paper at her now. Swallowing hard, she read the words aloud. “What do you mean when you say, ‘He knows'?
What
does he know?”

“It's a sunny day, isn't it? So sunny.” The phone call ended with an abrupt click.

Julie moved the receiver slowly away from her ear, but she was shaking all the way to her toes. “She hung up,” she said. She put the telephone back into its cradle.

The news director clapped his hands together once, then rubbed them rapidly. “Jesus, this is incredible. Mordecai Young? Alive? Jesus.” He dashed into the hall, shouted into the newsroom, “Did we get the number?”

“It was blocked,” someone called. “We got nothing.”

Julie's shaking intensified. Sunny, the caller had said. That was what Dawn had been called for the first few weeks of her life. Sunny. Oh, God, it couldn't be true! Mordecai Young. Alive. And he knew—he knew about…Dawn.

“She called you ‘Jule,'” Allan said. “What do you make of that?”

She shrugged. “People call me all sorts of things. Jule, Jules…”

“You think it's someone you know?”

She thought of Sirona, of Tessa—the only two people alive who might think of her as Jewel. Had it been one of them? Her boss nudged her. She said, “I'm in everyone's living room five nights a week, Allan. Everyone feels like they know me.”

“Jones, you have to get on this,” Westcott said.

She lifted her head, met his eyes only briefly, shook her head. “There's nothing to get on. It was probably just a crank.”

“What was probably a crank?” Sean's gravelly voice preceded him into Julie's office.

Julie surged to her feet, opened her mouth to ask about Dawn, and then saw her. She came in right behind Sean. “Sean let me drive his car, Mom. Man, we have
got
to get a Porsche.”

Julie was around the desk, clutching her daughter to her chest in an embrace so fierce and involuntary she couldn't have prevented it if she'd wanted to. She held Dawn hard, one hand on her slender back and the other stroking her butter-blond hair, which was just as smooth as satin. She smelled the green-apple shampoo Dawn preferred and felt tears burn in her eyes.

And then she realized that both Westcott and MacKenzie were staring, and she forced herself to let go.

Dawn stared up into her mother's eyes, her own worried. “Mom, what is it? What's wrong?”

She tried to find words. Failed. She tried not to let the fear show in her eyes, but she was afraid she failed at that, as well.

“Hey, you know your mom, kiddo,” MacKenzie said. “A teeny bit overprotective, right? The thought of you driving a car that'll do one-eighty in fourth gear is probably more than she can stand.” He winked at the two of them. “Don't worry, Jones, I didn't let her go over forty-five, and I had one hand ready to grab the wheel the entire time.”

Julie met his eyes and knew he was covering for her. Why? What was he up to? She looked at Dawn again, knew her daughter wasn't fooled at all. She was too perceptive, and they were too close, for her to be fooled that easily.

“You have homework?” she managed to say.

“Yeah. Tons.” Dawn reached out to smooth a strand of
hair off her mother's forehead, as if she were the parent. “Tough day, huh?'

“Yeah. Better now, though.” She managed to smile, and Dawn smiled back.

“Don't worry, Mom. Everything's gonna be okay.” Julie frowned a little, wondering what Dawn meant by that, but Dawn rushed on. “So whose office do I get to commandeer? I'm gonna need a computer, modem, phone, TV and plenty of junk food.”

“Tell you what, kiddo,” MacKenzie said. “They have an office all set up for me, but I've barely even been inside it.”

“You got an office?” Julie asked, then glanced at her boss. “He got an office?” Allan opened his mouth to answer, but Julie held up a hand. “It doesn't matter. I don't care.”

Sean frowned, puzzled, maybe, by her not objecting or arguing.

“Why don't you check out my new digs, Dawn?” he asked. “Let me know what it lacks so you can tell me what to ask for.”

She nodded. “Thanks, Sean.”

“It's the one that used to be my office, before we put the new newsroom in, Dawn,” Westcott told her. “You remember where it is, just down the hall on the right?” She nodded. “Help yourself to snacks from the green room on your way, hon.”

“Will do. Thanks, Mr. Westcott.” She hitched her backpack up a little higher, then leaned up and kissed her mother on the cheek before leaving them.

Julie watched her go, breathing a sigh of relief, telling herself Dawn was safe here. No one could get in without a magnetic keycard, there were cameras monitoring every entrance, and even if someone were to come looking for her, Allan
Westcott's old office would be the last place they would expect to find her.

“We've got a breaking story here, MacKenzie. You ever hear of Mordecai Young?”

Sean had been studying Julie's face—a little too closely, in her opinion—but he looked away fast when Allan said the name. “The so-called
Reverend
Young?”

“That's the one.”

Julie sank into her chair again. She was shaken, and fighting to get herself under control. This was not the first time she'd had this nightmare. It was, however, the first time it had been real.

She didn't want to listen to Allan Westcott recap the story, but she couldn't seem to help herself. Nor to stop the visions—the memories—from unfolding in her mind as he spoke.

“Mordecai Young was a self-proclaimed minister, leader of a group he called the Young Believers who lived on a hundred-acre compound down in Chenango County,” Westcott said. “Most of his followers were young and female, though there were a dozen or so young men with him, as well. Word was the place was lousy with illegal weapons and drugs. He was apparently growing huge crops of marijuana and opium, partly in greenhouses. When the feds went in to raid the place, all hell broke loose. The entire place burned to the ground. Young and his followers died rather than surrender.”

Julie remembered. The smoke, the heat, the bodies. She remembered her best friend, Lizzie, with her golden-blond hair and her bright green eyes pressing her newborn daughter into Julie's arms as her life seeped onto the floor.

Take her, Jewel. She's yours now.

Julie swallowed back the tears that were trying so hard to spill over.

Westcott, oblivious to the turmoil going on inside Julie, rushed on. “That anonymous caller of Julie's was a woman claiming that Mordecai Young is still alive.”

“You're shitting me.” MacKenzie slid his penetrating gaze to Julie, then frowned deeply and kept his eyes on her, probing, even when she looked away. “What else did she say?” he asked.

Julie shook her head, unable to meet his eyes. “Nothing that made any sense. Something about the weather. It was probably a crank call. God knows we get enough of them.”