“Are there any of those special guests still alive?”
“At last count, only two,” Sanders replied.
“How long has it been since Byrne contacted us?”
“More than two years. At that time, he had tracked down Sternberg.”
“Then you’re right, there are two of York’s associates who are still alive. Otherwise, Byrne would have been in touch.”
Griffin went to the portable bar, picked up a bottle of The Macallan, the twenty-five-year-old Scotch whisky his favorite, and poured the amber-red liquor into two glasses, filling each halfway. He held out a glass to Sanders.
“Of the six frequent visitors to Amara, only Bouchard and Mayorga haven’t been found and eliminated,” Griffin said. “Here’s to Byrne finishing his life’s mission sooner rather than later.”
When Griffin saluted Sanders with his glass, Sanders returned the gesture. Each took a hefty sip of the full, smooth whisky that drank like a fine brandy. The combination of smokiness and oakiness gave the aged single malt its unique flavor.
Griffin sat in one of the two large leather chairs flanking the fireplace and continued drinking. Sanders sat across from him, the two men silent for several minutes.
“Is it possible that either Bouchard or Mayorga could be passing himself off as Malcolm York?”
Sanders nodded. “Perhaps, but would either put himself in the line of fire, knowing that Byrne is hunting for him?”
“If I remember correctly, Bouchard was an arrogant son of bitch. He’s the type who would think he could outsmart Byrne while taunting us.”
“And I always thought Moyorga was stupid. Stupid enough to think neither we nor Byrne could find him.”
“We need to find Byrne.”
“He can’t be found, unless he wants to be.”
“Get word out to the proper channels and see what happens.”
“Yes, of course.” Cradling the glass of whisky in the open palm of his right hand, Sanders circled the edge with his left index finger. “There is one possibility that we haven’t discussed,” Sanders said.
Griffin nodded. “Are you referring to Harlan Benecroft?”
“I am.”
“I thought we agreed years ago that the man is harmless. He was terrified of York. He had as much reason to want York dead as we did.”
“He may have feared York and steered clear of you when you were collecting York’s fortune for Yvette, but he was York’s cousin and in his own pathetic way was as mentally unstable as York.”
“Benecroft doesn’t have the balls to pass himself off as Malcolm York.”
“Luke is on his way to London,” Sanders said. “Why not have him check on Benecroft, if for no other reason than to exclude him?”
“You find Byrne. Have Richter get in touch with his Interpol contacts and while he’s doing that, call in some favors with the CIA and MI6. I’ll get in touch with Luke.” Griffin downed the remainder of his Scotch. “Will it ever end? Will we ever be free of York?”
“The evil that men do lives after them,” Sanders paraphrased Shakespeare. “The good is often interred with their bones.”
“There was no good in York. He was evil personified.”
Chapter 24
“I have a lead on Anthony Linden,” Luke Sentell told Griffin Powell. “Someone who knows someone who can verify that Linden is alive, and this person may possibly be able to give us a description of the man.”
“If only they could tell us exactly where Linden is right now.”
“Have Dr. Meng or one of her underlings look into her crystal ball and see if they can locate him,” Luke said sarcastically.
Even though Luke had seen Dr. Meng and Meredith Sinclair work their woo-woo magic, he still wasn’t a true believer. Not the way Griff and Sanders were. He didn’t quite trust anything beyond his five senses, definitely nothing in the sixth sense realm.
“You must be a little psychic yourself to have mentioned Yvette and her protégés just now.”
Uh-oh. Luke got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “Why do you say that?”
“Because I’m sending Meredith Sinclair to you on my private jet first thing in the morning,” Griffin told Luke. “One of our agents will accompany her. You know Saxon Chappelle. Once they arrive, he’ll turn her over to you for safe keeping.”
“Damn, Griff, you know how I despise babysitting Ms. Sinclair. Once was enough for me. She’s more trouble than she’s worth. If you want her in Europe doing her magic act, then why not leave Chappelle here to look after her?”
“Meredith works best without distractions, which means the fewer people involved the better. You know that one-on-one is the best situation for her. And for whatever reason, her senses seemed to be fine tuned whenever you’re nearby. It’s as if you boost wherever signals are coming through to her. Apparently you’re some sort of conduit.”
“I’ve been called a lot of things in my life, but never a conduit.”
“Hell, you know what I mean. Meredith’s psychic gifts are all over the place most of the time, despite all the work that Yvette has done with her. But add you into the equation and she suddenly becomes focused and working on all cylinders.”
“Yeah, lucky me. Have you ever thought maybe she’s afraid of me and that’s what fine tunes her sixth sense? At least when she’s around me, she acts like she thinks I’m the devil himself. Maybe Dr. Meng should try a little tough love with her prize student.”
“That’s between Yvette and Meredith. She’ll be in London by late tomorrow. I’m expecting you to work with her, regardless of your personal animosity. And it goes without saying that I know you’ll take good care of her.”
“I won’t coddle her,” Luke said. “Damn it, Griff, you know what happens, how after one of her so-called psychic episodes, she’s a basket case.”
“Handle her the best way you can. I don’t know how much she can help us, but at this point, I’m willing to try anything and that includes using an emotionally fragile psychic if there’s even a slim chance she can help us find our imposter and put a stop to these murders.”
“You’re the boss,” Luke said reluctantly.
“Humph.” Griff snorted. “I may pay your salary, but we both know I’m not your boss. You may follow orders, but you always do things your own way. And that’s not a criticism. It’s one of the reasons I hired you. I like a man who can think for himself.”
Luke had great respect for Griff. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t be working for the man. And he believed in what Griff stood for and in the way he tried to help others. There weren’t very many true champions of the people left in the world. Griffin Powell was one of them. It sure as hell didn’t matter to Luke that the Powell Agency cut corners and circumvented the law on occasion to accomplish their goals—to do what was right.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance that Dr. Meng could come with—”
“No,” Griff said. “It’s too dangerous for Yvette to leave Griffin’s Rest right now.”
“I work best alone. You know that. Babysitting Ms. Sinclair is going to slow me down.”
“That could be, but it’s also possible that she’ll be able to help you, maybe steer you in the right direction in your search for the pseudo York. But before she arrives in London tomorrow, I need for you to check on Harlan Benecroft. Let’s make sure he’s still contained, that he’s still non-lethal.”
“That pompous ass? You can’t possibly believe that Benecroft is posing as York, can you?”
“He certainly wouldn’t be on my Top Ten list, but we need to rule him out completely.”
“Better to be safe than sorry, huh?”
“Yeah, something like that.”
“Sure, I’ll check on him, but I have a feeling that it will probably be a waste of my time. I’ll put in a few calls first thing in the morning and get back to you as soon as I know anything.”
“While you’ve got your ear to the ground, there are two other names you should listen for, discreetly of course—Mayorga and Bouchard.”
“All right.”
Luke didn’t ask for more information. If Griff thought he needed to know more, he would tell him.
Sanders had spoken privately to Brendan Richter. As a former Interpol agent, Richter understood the necessity for discretion. Ciro Mayorga had been on Interpol’s Most Wanted list for a number of years, but he had escaped capture just as he had eluded Raphael Byrne’s swift and sure form of judgment. But sooner or later, Rafe would find him. Mayorga’s crimes ranged from drug trafficking to money laundering. The warrant for his arrest had been issued in Spain ten years ago. Yves Bouchard had also managed to stay under the radar, steering clear of national and international law enforcement agencies that knew but could not prove his involvement in human trafficking. When Rafe Byrne eventually caught up with Bouchard, his execution would be immediate, no arrest, no trial, and no sentencing required.
Sanders had known Rafe as a beautiful, slender, wide-eyed boy of seventeen when Malcolm York had first brought him to Amara. He had been certain that the angelic teenager would not survive a week. And he wouldn’t have, if Griffin Powell had not taken the boy under his wing and done his best to protect him.
The day they had killed York and fought their way through several of the ten guards he kept on duty around the clock, they had freed the four captives who were still alive, but they had been unable to find Rafe. The men they had freed had joined them in annihilating their sadistic overseers. Eventually, they had found Rafe in one of the dark dungeon cells, chained, beaten beyond recognition and starved to the point of emaciation.
Of the five men who had left Amara with them, two had committed suicide less than a year later. One had died in a car accident in Barcelona and another in a skiing accident in Aspen more than ten years ago. Only one was still alive.
Raphael Byrne.
Weeks following their escape from Amara and after Rafe had undergone several surgeries to repair his battered face, they had visited Rafe in the London hospital where he was recovering. There had been no resemblance, physically, mentally and emotionally, between the seventeen-year-old boy York had brought to Amara and the twenty-year-old man who had made a solemn vow to them that day. In a deadly calm voice, he had sworn he would hunt down and kill all six men who had visited York during the three years Rafe had been on Amara. The six men—Tanaka, Di Santis, Klausner, Sternberg, Mayorga, and Bouchard—who had hunted him by day, as if he were a wild animal, and had amused themselves with him at night, each in their own way.
Maleah was beginning to like Derek Lawrence.
And liking him wouldn’t be a problem if she didn’t also find him terribly attractive. She’d been able to handle the unwanted physical attraction between them as long as she had disliked him. But now, everything between them had changed, at least for her. And to make matters worse, she felt certain that he was dealing with the same problem. He had shared a part of himself with her today, a part she suspected he seldom shared with others, just as he had told her about his youthful exploits as a solider of fortune. Why had he exposed himself to her that way? Why had he given her more than just a glimpse of the real Derek, someone as flawed and imperfect as she was, someone with battle scars from a miserable childhood, someone who, like she, was all too human?
After they had shared lunch on their return to Vidalia earlier today, she had escaped as quickly as possible. She had needed to get away from Derek and work through her unsettled feelings before facing him again. Her excuse for begging off a work session had been only a half-lie. She’d told him that she wanted to call Jack and Cathy and then take an afternoon nap. She seldom if ever took an afternoon nap unless she was sick or had been up half the night. She hadn’t taken a nap, but she had called her sister-in-law.
“Seth is enjoying summer vacation,” Cathy had said. “He’s working part-time as a lifeguard at the community center pool and he has half a dozen girls chasing after him.”
“Like father like son.”
Cathy had laughed. “Oh, believe me, he’s more like Jack than I ever realized.”
“So how is my little niece?”
“You and Jack. You’re both so sure the baby is a girl.”
“She is. Just wait until you get that next ultrasound. I’m positive you’ll find out the baby is a girl.”
Hearing Cathy’s voice, so cheerful and positive and seemingly unafraid, had gone a long way in reassuring Maleah. But she still couldn’t completely shake her fear that the copycat might choose a member of her family as his next victim.
It was only a matter of time until he killed again.
After a thirty-minute conversation with Cathy, she had flipped on the television, zipped through the channels, and turned it off three minutes later.
Now, she had to find something to do. But if she went over the copycat killer files one more time, she would scream her head off. She had practically memorized everything they had on record about Jerome Browning, as well as information about Wyman Scudder, Cindy Di Blasi, and the real Albert Durham.
If only they had some information about the fake Durham. But at this point, the man was a complete mystery, except for Derek’s preliminary profile. However, having so little info to work with made Derek’s job more difficult.
Pacing the floor, wishing she really could take a long nap, she nearly jumped out of her skin when her phone rang.
Please don’t let it be Derek. I can’t deal with him right now. I need to put just a little time and space between us, between the realization that I like him—like him a lot—and seeing him again.
When she noted the caller ID, she sighed with relief. “Hello, Nic.”
“Hey, are you okay? You sound odd.”
“I’m fine. I was lost in thought and the phone ringing startled me.”
“How are you? Really?”
“You want the truth?’
“Always,” Nic told her.
“I’m thinking seriously about selling my soul to the devil in the hopes he’ll give me some information that will help us find the Copycat Carver. And as if making that decision isn’t enough to deal with in one day, I’ve just discovered that I genuinely like Derek Lawrence and . . .” She wasn’t sure she could admit, even to her best friend, how she really felt about Derek.
“And what?”
“And I’ve got the hots for the guy.” She could tell Nic anything, couldn’t she? They were best friends. Nic would understand.
Nic laughed.
“Do not laugh at me. This isn’t funny.”
“I already knew,” Nic said.
“Knew what? That I’d do whatever it takes to get information out of Jerome Browning or that I had the hots for Derek?”
“Both actually, but I was referring to your having a thing for Derek. You do know that he’s got it bad for you, too, don’t you?”
“Having feelings for Derek complicates my life and I don’t like it. So, before you say another word, I’m telling you right now that I refuse to become another notch on his bedpost.”
“You’d never be that, just as I wasn’t for Griff,” Nic said. “You and Derek remind me so much of Griff and me in the early stages of our relationship.”
“Bite your tongue.”
“Want my advice?”
“I have a feeling you’re going to give it to me whether or not I want it.”
“Have sex with him.”
Maleah growled through her clenched teeth.
“And don’t sell your soul to the devil for info from Browning,” Nic told her.
“Derek said the same thing.”
“Then listen to the man. Not only is he smart, but I suspect he has your best interests at heart.”
“Save your breath. I’m going back to the prison tomorrow to see Browning again. It may be my last visit, but I have to try one more time.”
“If I thought you’d listen to me, I’d try to talk you out of your decision, but I know you too well to even try. No one can talk me out of doing something once I’ve made up my mind. You and I are both as stubborn as mules.” Nic paused for a moment and then said, “Griff is sending Meredith Sinclair to London tomorrow in the hopes she can help Luke.”
“I bet Luke’s thrilled. Is Yvette going with Meredith?”
“No, Griff believes it’s too dangerous for Yvette to leave Griffin’s Rest.”