Wild Hawk (5 page)

And nearly dropped it.

It felt . . . odd. For an instant it had felt as if he’d touched a person, some living being, instead of an inanimate object. As if he’d just shaken hands with someone he knew and trusted, few though they were in the world. He dismissed that nonsense immediately, but the feel of the book as it lay in his hand wasn’t quite so easily ignored.

It was . . . warm. Well, not exactly warm. It wasn’t really any warmer to the touch than the temperature of the room, but somehow, holding it,
he
felt warmer. And he couldn’t define the strange sense of peace that seemed to have overtaken him. Peace was a state he’d had little experience with in his life, inwardly or otherwise. He’d always thought it overrated, the first step toward complacency, to be followed rapidly by failure through softness.

But he couldn’t deny this sensation was alluring, this gentle easing of tension and strain, this feeling that perhaps he wasn’t as alone as he sometimes felt—

“Damn,” he muttered. “Where the hell did all that come from?”

He almost slammed the book back down atop the dresser; only the realization that to do so would give too much reality to his unexpected and inexplicable reaction stopped him. He was just tired, that’s all. It was exhaustion that was making him feel so strange, nothing more.

Determinedly he switched the book to his left hand and opened the cover with his right.

The pages were, as he’d thought, of an unusually heavyweight paper, with almost a parchment feel to them, paper made heavier and stiffer by the gilt of the edges. The inside of the cover was lined with an even heavier paper that also made up the first page, a paper marbled with an unusual design in shades of blue that blended with the color of the cover. A design that seemed to change as he looked at it, to flow and fluctuate, until he almost thought he was seeing something more than a random design, thought he was seeing images there, shadowy figures of people, seeming to move as he looked. He felt an odd light-headedness, shook his head sharply, and the pattern settled down into a merely intriguing flow of lines and ripples.

“You,” he pronounced to the empty room, “have got to get some sleep.”

He flipped the heavy inner page over and found a blank sheet of the heavy, gilt-edged paper. He turned it as well, looking for the title page. Or what should have been the title page. Instead he found a picture of a couple, dressed in costumes of some kind, clothing that made him think of misty forests, castles, and high stone walls, for a reason he couldn’t fathom. The man had long, dark hair and a strong face marked with a thin but very visible scar that ran from his right temple down to his jaw; the woman had even longer, but lighter hair, a wealth of it, and eyes that he instinctively knew, despite the fact that the picture was in black and white, were blue. Vivid blue.

It made no sense to him that he knew that. He stared at the picture, only now realizing that what he’d at first thought to be an old photograph was instead a drawing, a drawing so finely done and so incredibly detailed that it seemed impossible that it had been done by human hands.

A computer, he thought suddenly. That must be it. It was some kind of computer-enhanced image, taking an old drawing and augmenting the image until it looked almost like a photograph. It was effective, he had to admit, especially bound as it was in this ornate, antique-looking book.

But that still didn’t explain why he was so certain the woman’s eyes were blue, when the image before him was not in color. He stared at her, barely noticing the petite size of her next to the man, who appeared to be at least a foot taller than she, with shoulders to match his height, and a look in his eyes that didn’t bode well for whoever had given him that scar on his face. He vaguely noticed as well the length and sheen of the woman’s hair—red, perhaps?—and the shape of the slender body beneath the vaguely familiar layers of some kind of flowing gown, but he couldn’t look away from her eyes. Wide and bright beneath arched brows, they were fringed with thick, soft lashes, and looked strangely familiar. It was like looking at a picture of something seen so often it didn’t register anymore.

Then it hit him. It was like looking into a mirror. And seeing his own eyes look back at him.

He nearly slammed the book shut. He needed to get out of here. To get away from this place; it was playing tricks on his mind. He had never in his life been given to the idiot flights of fancy he’d been experiencing since he’d arrived here. The tangible evidence of his senses, purified in the exacting filter of his brain, had been all he’d ever trusted, all he would ever trust. He had survived when many hadn’t because of it; it had gotten him where he was; he wasn’t about to change now.

It’s a picture, West. A damned picture, that’s all. What the hell is wrong with you?

He set his jaw as he moved his fingers, aware even as he did so that it shouldn’t take this much determination to simply turn a page in a book. In his haste, he instead turned several pages at once.

He felt better as soon as the picture was hidden. But his forehead creased as he looked at the page he’d wound up on. It took a split second for him to realize what the intricate network of lines and blurred names and dates, printed at odd angles, were. He turned the book sideways and the names came into focus, confirming his guess. It was a family tree.

The Hawk family tree.

Fury welled up in him. He slapped the book shut with a sharp, jerky motion. He flung it across the room fiercely, feeling a grim satisfaction as it hit the far wall with a heavy thud and fell to the floor.

He should have known. He should have known the old man wouldn’t be able to resist one last jab, one more twist of the knife in the back of the son he’d never known, never acknowledged. He didn’t know how his father had pulled it off, didn’t have to know; he knew all he needed to know. Aaron Hawk had sent his final message.

These are the real Hawks. You’re not one, you never were, and you never will be.

“You made a mistake, old man,” Jason muttered, the words coming out loud in spite of himself. “You thought I wanted to be a Hawk, when I’d slit my own throat before I’d let anyone hang that name on me.”

He stood motionless, looking at the book on the floor for a long, silent moment, fighting the rage that he hated himself for feeling.

Admitting that you’re angry would give him far too much power over you, wouldn’t it?

Kendall Chase’s words echoed in his mind, taunting him with their truth. The man was dead, so his son’s anger couldn’t reach him now. Not that it would have, even had Hawk still been alive; he’d meant nothing to his father. Less than nothing.

And he’d be damned if he’d spend another night in this town that the Hawks owned. He whirled around and began to move with swift purpose. He’d be out of here and back home before morning.

KENDALL SAW THE brightly lit windows and neon sign first, then spotted George Alton’s small white truck backed into a space in the parking lot of the convenience store across the street from the Sunridge Motel. When Alton had called her with the information on where Jason West was staying—a simple matter of calling in some favors owed him by the few motel owners in town, favors earned by his discretion in his years on the small local police force—she had gotten here as soon as she could, but there had been some necessary delays.

“Is he still here?” she asked as she pulled into the space beside him, thankful that the man had arranged his car so they would be facing opposite directions, enabling them to talk without having to step out into the chilly night air. A cop thing, she supposed.

Alton nodded. “Room nine.”

Kendall breathed a sigh of relief; she’d been afraid she would miss him, but she’d had to pack up the things in her room at the house that were indispensable to her; she didn’t trust Alice not to toss them out or lock them up now that she’d so gleefully given Kendall her walking papers. And she’d had to stop by Aaron’s office at Hawk Manufacturing and gather some essential items from there; it was only a matter of time, she knew, before Alice realized some key things were not in Aaron’s big mahogany desk in his study at home. Then she’d go looking, and the office was the first place she’d think of. Especially since she no doubt now had Aaron’s keys.

“Leaving town yourself?” Alton asked, eyeing the boxes and luggage piled in the back seat.

“Not yet,” she said. “But I think it’s only fair to tell you, Mr. Alton, I no longer work for Hawk Industries.”

Alton merely lifted a shoulder negligently. “Hawk Industries didn’t hire me. Aaron Hawk did. And he made it clear from the beginning that this was purely personal, and had nothing to do with the business. And,” he added, “ ‘Mr. Alton’ is my father.”

“All right.” She smiled. “George.”

It seemed Aaron had, as always, chosen well. She remembered when she first realized that half the reason Aaron was so rough on the people who worked for him was to see which ones would stand up to him and which ones wouldn’t. The ones who did were the ones who rose up the ranks; the others were either intimidated into quitting or remained in their low-profile positions, praying not to draw the attention of the big boss. George Alton didn’t seem the type to be intimidated by much of anything, despite his easygoing demeanor.

And while he had a demeanor that was anything but easygoing, neither did Jason West. She turned her head to look across the street at the motel. She could see the racy gray coupe parked in front of a room with the lights on. A room separated from the next obviously occupied one by several dark and apparently vacant rooms in between. She wondered if it was by chance or Jason West’s choice.

“I found out from my airport source that he came in on a flight from San Jose,” Alton said, “connecting from Seattle.”

Kendall looked back at him. “So he does still live there?”

Alton shrugged. “Can’t be sure yet, but it’s a good possibility.”

“We had several Jason Wests on the list from that area, didn’t we?”

Alton nodded. “I called an old buddy of mine who has an agency in Tacoma, after I found out they were living up there when his mother was killed. I emailed him the list, and what little we knew about the kid. Now that we’ve got more to go on, we’ll find out who he is and where he’s been.” He grimaced. “Too bad we didn’t get through the list before Aaron died.”

Kendall didn’t think her expression changed, but Alton gave her a kindly look of sympathy.

“You have someplace to go?” The man gestured at her baggage. “I know you were living up at the house, so you’re not just out of a job, you’re out of a roof, too.”

Kendall smiled, touched by the man’s concern. “I’ll be fine.” Her smile turned wry. “If all else fails,” she added, pointing across the street, “it seems they have plenty of rooms.”

Alton frowned. “That might be all right for a while, but not long-term. If it’s money, with Aaron dying—”

“Really, I’ll be fine, Mr. . . . George. Aaron paid me very well, and his investment counselors have given me some good advice over the last ten years.”

It was true; if she was careful, she could live nicely for years on what she had. After that there was the trust fund, if she needed it. But unemployed idleness was not a goal she aspired to. She needed to work. She had to work. She’d find something, somewhere. Someplace without an Alice Hawk to deal with.

At the ugly reminder, she pondered telling Alton the whole story, of the codicil and the threat of a criminal frame that was hanging over her head. It seemed wise to have someone else know, but she wasn’t certain she should make that decision alone. Jason was involved in this as well, although he didn’t know it yet. He had a right to decide what should be done. She would wait, she thought, for now.

Besides, she had other things to attend to first. Like living up to the trust Aaron had placed in her. She looked over at the motel again.

“You want me to stick around while you talk to him?” Alton asked.

She glanced back at him. “I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Alton didn’t look very happy. “I heard he got kind of ugly at the funeral.”

Kendall sighed. No uglier than the widow, she thought. “Can you blame him?” she asked aloud.

Alton shrugged. “I suppose not. But that doesn’t mean you should try and deal with him on your own.”

Kendall, again touched by the man’s concern, considered his words. “He’s very angry. And bitter. He hated Aaron, and he had every right to. But I don’t think he’s violent.”

“If you’re wrong, you could be sorry. In a way, you still represent Aaron Hawk, and he might decide to take it out on you.”

“That’s just a chance I’ll have to take.” She turned her gaze back across the street.

The lights in room nine went out.

Seconds later, the door opened, and she saw a tall man in a dark coat step out, carrying a small black leather bag. She couldn’t see his face from here, but she knew it was Jason West; she recognized the easy grace of his stride.

“I’d better go if I’m going to catch him,” she said hastily.

Alton only nodded. But Kendall had a feeling that, despite her assurances, the man wouldn’t move a foot from his present position until he was certain she hadn’t been wrong. Until he was sure the man who had apparently inherited his father’s temperament wasn’t prone to violence after all.