Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's Son\The Brother's Wife\The Long-Lost Heir (35 page)

Hope pulled the picture out of the drawer and gasped, almost dropping the frame. It was a black-
and-
white newspaper clipping of her leaving the cemetery after Andrew’s funeral. Several of the local newspapers had run the photo along with a story about Andrew’s tragic death and a recapping of the Kingsley family’s rise and fall in politics.

Her hands shaking, Hope stared down at her image. Beneath the wide-
brimmed black hat, her face looked pale and drawn, very solemn, but there was something in her eyes, an emotion the casual observer would undoubtedly mistake for grief. The grief was there, of course, but Hope could discern what others could not. The emotion darkening her eyes was guilt. Guilt that she had sent Andrew storming out of the house the night he’d been killed.

“I’ll see you both dead first,”
he’d told her before he left.

“I’d rather
be
dead than stay married to you!”
she’d screamed.

“Careful what you wish for, Hope.”

She could understand why Michael, who had admitted a newspaper photograph of Andrew after his death was what had brought him to the Kingsleys in the first place, had clipped her picture from the paper. Everything concerning the Kingsleys would have been of concern to him then, but why had he framed it? Why had this particular photo with the caption, Kingsley’s Grieving Widow Leaves Cemetery, made him want to preserve the image behind glass and hide it away?

A dark chill descended over Hope as she stared at the photo. And then, faintly, a sound from outside came to her, sending the chill even deeper. Footsteps in the hallway, coming this way. Slowing as they approached Michael’s door.

He’d come back.

Shoving the photo back inside the drawer and easing it closed, Hope glanced around the room, then frantically darted for the closet, staring through the levered doors as her heart pounded inside her. From her vantage, she could see the door to the bedroom open and Michael enter. Without hesitation, he walked toward the bed and was momentarily out of Hope’s view. She held her breath. If he was getting ready for bed, he would probably head for the closet. Hardly daring to breathe, Hope glanced around, wondering where she could possibly hide.

But just as she was about to move toward the back of the closet, risking a sound, Michael crossed the room again, and she saw that he was putting his wallet in his pocket. He must have forgotten it when he went out earlier. Hope prayed he would leave again, giving her a chance to escape.

As he moved toward the door, she almost exhaled a long breath of relief. Then his steps slowed and he turned toward the bureau. Hope’s heart dropped to her stomach and her palms began to sweat. Had she left one of the drawers open? Had he detected some sign of her search?

She heard one of the drawers open and close, and then Michael walked back into her view, carrying something in his right hand. He sat down on the bed and lifted it in front of him, and only then did Hope realize he held the framed newspaper clipping she’d been looking at only moments earlier.

He stared at the picture of her for a long moment, his expression dark and unfathomable. Then slowly he lifted the frame to his lips and kissed Hope’s image.

* * *

J
AKE OPENED HIS EYES
and groaned. The sound came out muffled. A foul-
tasting rag had been tied around his mouth, and a jackhammer pounded inside his head. Where the hell was he?

When he tried to lift himself onto his elbows to look around, he realized he couldn’t move. Not an inch. He was paralyzed.

Fighting back the panic, Jake tried to analyze the situation rationally. He was lying on his side with his hands tied behind him and his feet bound at the ankles. That was why he couldn’t move. The paralysis was only temporary.

Somewhat reassured, he gazed around as best he could. The room was in semidarkness, but he could make out a high, beamed ceiling, a concrete floor, and high racks of barrels and crates and various types of machinery. He was in some sort of warehouse, bound and gagged and waiting for what? His execution? Not if he had anything to say about it.

Tentatively, he tried to wiggle his wrists. Even so slight a movement seemed to tighten the rope. It cut into his skin, and Jake had to resist the urge to struggle, to pull and tear at the rope with every ounce of strength left in him. He knew such an effort would be useless. Whoever had bound him had done a good job of it. Jake would have to be patient, use finesse instead of muscle to loosen the rope.

He worked for what seemed like hours, sweat pouring from his brow, his arms throbbing, the skin beneath the rope raw and burning. The pain inside his head was still almost blinding. Again and again he had to fight back a wave of nausea before he could continue. He had no idea how much time had passed when he finally began to feel the ropes give a little. The hope that rose inside him faded quickly, however, when he heard footsteps approaching him in the darkness.

He lay on his side, eyes closed, and feigned unconsciousness. The footsteps quieted and he could sense someone looming over him. A voice somewhere to his left said, “Is he still out?”

Jake lay perfectly still but his mind raced. He’d heard that voice before. Recently. But…where?

The person standing directly over him said, “Can’t tell for sure.” Jake recognized that voice, too. It was Benny. “He could be faking it.”

“Find out for sure.”

Instinctively, Jake braced himself for what was about to come, but even so, when Benny’s shoe connected with his ribs, it took all Jake’s willpower not to groan. Benny kicked him again, and this time Jake couldn’t help but flinch. He hoped neither of them noticed. It was fairly dark in the corner of the warehouse where he lay. As soon as the two thugs moved away, frantically he began to work at the ropes again. He could feel them loosening. Just another knot or maybe two, and he would be free. But did he have that much time?

“He’s still out. Guess you hit him pretty hard, Mr.—”

“Don’t use my name,” the first man interrupted. “How many times do you have to be told that?”

“Sorry.”

“You should be sorry. It was a simple matter, what you were told to do. Go to the apartment and get that tape, but you and Carol screwed it up royally.”

“Hey, it wasn’t our fault. How were we supposed to know some P.I. from Memphis would come sniffing around the place?” Benny mumbled sulkily. “That was all supposed to be taken care of. If you want to blame someone, maybe you should blame
him
for leaving the tape in the apartment to begin with.”

Another knot came free. A trickle of sweat rolled down Jake’s face.

“You and Carol were supposed to go in behind him and make sure the place was clean. If the boss hadn’t noticed the tape was missing, it would have sat in that apartment indefinitely, until who knows who might have stumbled on it. The whole operation could have blown up in our faces, and all because you two idiots forgot to check the VCR. Now we don’t know if McClain saw the tape or not, but we can’t afford to take the chance. So get rid of him.”

“How—”

“Just do it,” the man in charge ordered as he started walking away. “Clean up your mess before the boss decides both you and Carol are expendable.”

The footsteps faded away, and in a moment, Jake heard a car engine start up, then what sounded like the rumble of an overhead garage door being lifted and lowered again. And then all was silent.

The last knot fell away from Jake’s wrists. He wondered how long it would take for the circulation to be restored.

Benny muttered an oath. Intent on taking his irritation out on Jake, he placed another well-
aimed kick to Jake’s ribs, but this time Jake was ready for him. His hands shot out and he grabbed Benny’s leg.

Caught by surprise, Benny lost his balance and fell backward, his skull crashing against the concrete floor. The moment he fell, Jake jerked the gag from his mouth and untied the rope around his ankles.

But Benny was only dazed. After only a few seconds, he struggled to his feet, shaking his head as if to clear the exploding stars behind his eyes. He reached around and drew a gun from the back of his belt, but Jake didn’t give him time to aim. Kicking the rope aside, he lunged forward, grabbing Benny around the middle and the gun flew from his hand. Jake dragged him back to the floor, where Jake clearly had the advantage. Kicking a semiconscious man was a lot different from fighting an ex-
cop who still kept in shape at the gym. There had been months on end when the only control Jake had over his life was his daily workouts, and he used his muscle now, used every ounce of his strength to pummel his opponent into submission.

Which didn’t take much. Benny’s glasses were cracked and resting crookedly across his bleeding nose. Jake retrieved the gun from the floor, then grabbed a fistful of Benny’s T-
shirt and drew him up, aiming the gun at his face.

Benny’s heavy breathing sounded almost like sobs. “I give, man. Uncle. Don’t kill me.”

“Then start talking,” Jake said, tightening his finger on the trigger. “Who do you work for?”

“Someone in Memphis,” Benny whimpered. “I don’t have a name. I swear. The whole organization is hush-
hush, real cloak-
and-
dagger-
type stuff. We’re only told as much as we need to know.”

“What organization?” Jake demanded.

“The Grayson Commission. I connected with them on the Net. It’s a political group, very underground. Very into power—”

An explosion somewhere inside the building rattled the windows and rocked the barrels and crates of machinery stacked on the shelves overhead.

Benny’s eyes widened in terror. “Jesus. Oh, man. He’s wired this place to blow. We have to get out of here!”

No sooner had he said the words than another explosion collapsed some of the shelving in the warehouse, and the barrels and machinery started crashing to the floor all around them. Benny screamed as a wooden crate toppled over them. By the time Jake had pulled himself loose from the splintered wood, Benny was scrambling through the debris.

Jake took off after him, but the roof was caving in now, and the whole warehouse became a giant booby trap. Pallets of equipment stored on upper shelves turned into deadly weapons as they crashed to the floor. Fallen barrels were oozing chemicals, and even a tiny spark might cause the whole place to go up. The fire at the point of the explosions was already starting to spread. Jake had only seconds to find his way out of the warehouse.

In the dim light, amid the chaos, a figure darted through the rubble in front of him. “Freeze!” Jake shouted and took aim, but Benny kept running. Quick as lightning, he shoved open a side door and slid through. Jake raced after him, but by the time he reached the door, Benny had slammed it shut and locked it from the outside.

Jake glanced around, smelling the toxic fumes, feeling the heat from the spreading flames. Shielding his face as best he could, he pointed the gun at the lock and emptied the chamber, hoping the action wouldn’t trigger another explosion. But the door swung open and Jake dashed through.

His would-
be killer was nowhere to be seen.

Jake spent all day Monday showing Eldridge’s photograph to any of his neighbors, acquaintances or business associates who could be located. But the interviews generated more questions than answers. El
dridge, it seemed, was something of a loner. None of his neighbors knew him very well, and he had no close friends that Jake was able to turn up. He’d only lived at the Casa del Sol apartments for five months; before that he’d spent a year in a similar group of apartments a few blocks over on Hillcroft.

According to Jake’s source at the DMV, Eldridge had changed apartments frequently in the last few years, but that in itself was not all that suspicious. Unlike their Northern counterparts, Southern apartment dwellers were always being lured from their current address by a newer, larger, cheaper apartment down the street. Before Jake had bought his house in Memphis, he’d moved five times in as many years and never once changed his zip code.

The strange thing about Eldridge, though, was people’s reaction to his photograph. The few who recognized him did so immediately, but then, without exception, qualified their response with “But I remember him being taller.” Or thinner, shorter, heavi
er. With darker hair, longer hair, less or more hair. Some even remembered him wearing a mustache.

For the three years Eldridge had been with Richard Crane and Associates, he’d worked almost exclusively from his home, keeping in touch with his office and his clients via phone and E-
mail. His supervisor at the brokerage firm had not seen Eldridge in person for several months, but this was not unusual, he assured Jake. Many of their associates were home-
based.

On Tuesday morning, Jake drove back to the Casa del Sol apartments, only to find that Eldridge’s place had been stripped. Everything was gone, and two uniformed maids were in the process of cleaning, getting the apartment ready for the next tenant.

Jake crossed the parking lot to the leasing office where a bored brunette informed him that Michael El
dridge had phoned her at home late the night before and arranged to have funds wired to the property management’s account to settle his lease. By the time she’d arrived for work that morning, the moving van had been waiting to clear out his apartment.

“Did he leave a forwarding address?” Jake asked.

The woman hesitated.

“I’m an old friend of his,” he lied. “I think I know where he might have gone. It’s a Memphis address, right? He has family there.”

The woman pulled a piece of paper from her desk and handed it to Jake. He glanced down. It was the address of the Kingsley mansion.

Jake spent the rest of the day tracking down the foster family Eldridge had been living with at the time of his arrest. With the help of his friend who worked in Juvenile at Houston PD, he finally located the couple, an elderly husband and wife named Donovan. They lived in Cypress, a wooded suburb of Houston, on a street that had once been little more than a country lane but was now surrounded by subdivisions, convenience stores and strip malls.