Sidney Sheldon's Reckless (12 page)

It was the right decision,
Jeff told himself now, failing to fight back tears.
Nick was happy. He was!

Jeff had told himself he would have time to make things up to his son once the boy was older. When Nick was a grown man, when the time was right, Jeff and Tracy would sit down with him, together, and tell him the truth. As an adult, Nick could make his own choices. Jeff didn't know why, but he'd always felt confident his son would forgive him. That Nick would understand, and that the two of them would have a full and warm relationship, making up for lost time.

But now both Blake and Nick were dead.

There was no more time.

Everything was lost.

The pain was indescribable. Jeff spent the entire flight sobbing. Passengers around him asked to be moved. The regret was like a physical weight, a Mack truck parked on Jeff's chest, snapping each rib one by one before crushing his heart to pulp.

Why did I do it?

Why did I let him go?

I made a terrible, terrible mistake. And now I can never put it right.

It's too late.

By the time the plane landed in Denver, Jeff had no more tears to cry. He wasn't relieved so much as spent, emotionally and physically emptied. On the long drive up into the mountains, he thought about Tracy. If the pain was this bad for him, what must it be like for her? Jeff had lost the idea of a son, the hope for a relationship. Tracy had lost the reality. Nick was the child she'd longed for all her life. The child she believed she would never have. She had carried him and given birth to him and loved him every day of his life with the fierce passion of a lioness protecting her cub. Even her own body must remind her of Nick. For Tracy there could be no escaping the grief, no end to the tears.

With a loss that great,
Jeff thought,
suicide must seem like a pretty rational option. Perhaps the only rational option.

Panic swept through him as he recalled Tracy's strange, empty voice on the line.

“
There was an accident. Blake died at the scene. Nick died the next morning from his injuries. I'm sorry.”

She spoke like she wasn't there. Like she'd already checked out.

Jeff drove faster. When he finally reached the ranch he was hugely relieved to see lights on at the house and two cars parked outside. People were moving around inside, walking past the windows.

Good. Tracy has friends, people who knew she mustn't be left alone.

Jeff wondered briefly how he was going to explain himself to those friends—who should he say he was?—but he soon dismissed the thought. It didn't matter now. He would see Tracy, he would hold her, they would cry together. After that . . .

Jeff couldn't think about after that.

He ran up the steps to the front porch and was about to knock on the door when he realized it was already open.

“Hello?” He stepped inside. Half-packed crates littered the entryway. The table where Jeff had played cards with Nick was upside down, its legs swaddled in bubble wrap. An officious-looking woman with an iPad hanging around her neck on a string was taking paintings down from the walls.

“What's going on?” Jeff demanded. “Who are you?”

“Karen Cody. Prudential Real Estate.” She was about to scowl, until she noticed how attractive the dark-haired man was. His eyes looked tired, and he was graying at the temples, but the firm jaw, sensuous mouth and toned athlete's physique all more than made up for any shortcomings. Karen fluttered her false eyelashes. “May I help you?”

“Where's Tracy?”

“Mrs. Schmidt is on the East Coast right now.” The Realtor chose to ignore Jeff's rude tone.

“Where?”

“I understand she's staying with relatives.”

Jeff thought,
Tracy doesn't have any relatives. Not living anyway.

“Such a tragedy.” Karen shook her head sadly. “Are you a . . . close friend?”

Jeff didn't answer. Instead he ran upstairs, desperately opening and closing doors, as if Tracy might suddenly materialize. At last, despondent, he returned to where the Realtor was standing.

“Did she say when she'd be back?”

Karen Cody gave the handsome man a pitying look.

“I'm afraid she won't be. She's put the house up for sale. That's why we're here.” Karen Cody gestured to the crates around her.

“But . . . wh—what about the funeral?” stammered Jeff.

“There's a memorial for Mr. Carter on Wednesday. I believe Nicholas's remains were already cremated.”

“Already?” Jeff looked stricken.

“His mother wanted things expedited. I understand she scattered the ashes privately. If you wanted to pay your respects, the middle school is holding a vigil on—”

“Did Tracy leave an address?” Jeff interrupted her. He wasn't interested in vigils or memorials. He didn't want to “pay his respects.” He wanted answers. How had Nick died? Tracy said an accident, but
what
accident? What the hell had happened?

“A contact number? Anything?”

“She did not. To be honest with you, I think the poor woman just needed to get away. The sale of the ranch is being handled through Mrs. Schmidt's trustees. Perhaps you could talk to them?”

Jeff's heart sank.

Tracy knew I was coming. She knew I couldn't stay away.

She knew, and she ran.

I scared her off.

The Realtor said, “I can give you a contact for the trustees' office if you'd like one, Mr. . . . what did you say your name was again?”

“I didn't,” Jeff said. “Where's Nick's room?”

Karen Cody bristled. Handsome or not, this man was beginning to irritate her. “At the top of the stairs, first on the right. But you can't just . . .”

Jeff started up there.

“We're in the middle of packing,” Karen called after him. “This really isn't a good time.”

Jeff called back over his shoulder. “Don't touch his things.”

“My instructions come from Mrs. Schmidt,” Karen shouted back. “She made it perfectly clear that . . .”

“I SAID DON'T TOUCH HIS THINGS!” Jeff roared.

The Realtor's eyes widened. Who
was
this guy?

UPSTAIRS JEFF SAT DOWN
on Nick's bed, too exhausted to cry.

Why did Tracy run?

Why wouldn't she see me?

He didn't even know what had happened, not really. A car accident. A head injury. Tiny fragments of fact, with no context, no explanation. An empty room and a cupboard full of clothes. That was all that Tracy had left him.

Jeff was angry.

A dirty t-shirt lay crumpled on the floor. Nick must have dropped it there before the accident.

Two days ago. Two days ago he was alive. How was that even possible?

Jeff picked it up, pressed it to his face and closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of his son. In a day or two, the smell would fade. In a week it would be gone altogether. Then there would be nothing left.

Clutching the shirt, Jeff ran downstairs, passed the Realtor, and out of the front door. He didn't stop till he got to his rental car.

If Tracy had run, it was because she didn't want to be found. Jeff Stevens had spent half of his adult life trying to hunt Tracy Whitney down. He couldn't go through that pain again. Not after this. He wouldn't survive. But he couldn't let his son down either.

He would find out the truth. The whole truth.

He would lay Nick to rest.

Turning the key in the ignition, Jeff drove back to the airport and caught the first flight back to London.

He fell asleep over the Atlantic, with Nick's t-shirt in his arms.

SITTING BOLT UPRIGHT AND
wide awake on another plane, Tracy read the message on her phone for the hundredth time.

“May have information related to your son. Please contact us. G.W.”

Greg Walton had provided a secure number at Langley for Tracy to call.

Tracy hadn't. What could Greg Walton possibly have to tell her about Nick?

How dare the CIA try to toy with her at a time like this? To play on her grief for their own cynical ends?

Boom!
The plane suddenly slammed into turbulence so violently it felt as if they'd hit a wall. Tracy's phone flew out of her hands. All around her drinks were spilling and bags were tumbling out of overhead bins. A number of people screamed as the aircraft dropped suddenly, losing hundreds of feet of altitude in a few seconds.

“Please return to your seats and fasten your seat belts.” Even the Captain sounded agitated. “Cabin crew, take your seats now please.”

Tracy watched the flight attendants exchange frightened glances. The woman beside her, eyes closed and fists clenched, was muttering furiously.

Praying,
Tracy thought, pityingly.
There's no God, you know. Nobody's there.

A profound sense of calm washed over her as the plane jerked and shuddered through the storm. She felt detached and warm. Deeply at peace.

Nothing mattered now.

GREG WALTON WOKE UP
late on Christmas morning.

His partner, Daniel, was away for the holidays this year, taking his elderly mother on a Caribbean cruise. Daniel was Jewish, so he didn't do Christmas anyway. Greg was Presbyterian, and on prior years had made an effort, trimming the tree, attending the carol service at Western Pres on Virginia Avenue, a stone's throw from the White House, and cooking a turkey for the two of them. But truth be told it was mostly out of guilt, or some misplaced sense of tradition. Christmas was for children. There was something weird, something forced and discordant, about two nonbelieving gay men pulling crackers, eating overpriced pecan pie and singing “Hark the Herald Angels Sing,” just because everyone else was doing it.

This year, Greg had their beautiful, historic house in Georgetown to himself. He intended to spend the day on the couch watching trash TV and eating chocolate and trying to put Group 99, Bratislava and Hunter Drexel out of his mind.

Greg was under no illusions. President Havers had put his balls on the line by ordering the raid in Bratislava. If they didn't find Drexel, or Althea or the butcher Alexis Argyros, soon, Havers was going down. And if Havers went down, he would take Greg Walton with him. Nobody cried when the CIA took a hit.
We're the guys everyone loves to hate,
Greg thought bitterly. Then again, he knew what he was getting into. Greg Walton had been a spy all his adult life. And this was what intelligence agencies did—saved all the lives and got none of the glory. Took the fall for politicians and the army, even for stupid-ass, attention-seeking journalists like Hunter Drexel. As for the British, their so-called “staunch allies,” Greg Walton knew he wouldn't see them for dust if Havers failed to turn this around, to pluck some kind of victory from the jaws of defeat.

But as of today, they'd got nothing.

Tracy Whitney had been the Great White Hope. Althea's fascination with Tracy was the one solid lead they had. Tracy had a link to Group 99, an important one, whether she knew it or not. But, despite Greg's threats, Milton Buck had utterly failed to get her to cooperate.
Once again, the FBI does not deliver.
Now, with her son in the morgue, Whitney had gone off grid completely. Greg Walton had been with the agency long enough to know that if Tracy Whitney didn't want to be found, she wouldn't be. He'd texted her directly in desperation. But, as he expected, the radio silence had been deafening.

Merry Christmas to you too.

Greg showered, made himself some eggs, and rearranged the cushions in the formal sitting room. Then he lit a fire and the imported Italian scented candles, the ones he and Daniel had discovered in Venice, that smelled of oranges and cloves and incense and cinnamon, all intermingled in a delicious spice bomb. Finally he put on music, carols from King's College, Cambridge, letting the pure boys' voices soar through the house, as if hosts of angels were singing.

Perfect.

With the scene set, he settled down to his guilty pleasures—a Kurt Wallander DVD and a packet of Reese's Pieces (cheap chocolates were always the best)—when to his intense annoyance, his doorbell rang.

Really? On Christmas Day?

Clicking on his iPad, Greg scanned the images from the twelve CCTV cameras surrounding the property. He and Daniel had discussed it when Greg took the top job at the agency, and they'd decided to decline the offer of a 24/7 physical security presence. Yes, there were always crazies out there. Always risks. But technology could go a long way towards providing protection, without the intrusion of a permanent human presence. The cameras were only one part of a comprehensive system that included a panic room, bulletproof windows and bomb detection software. It wasn't perfect, but it left Greg and Daniel with some semblance of privacy, and the feeling that they lived in a home, not a fortress.

The figure on Greg's iPad screen was no terrorist, however.

A lone, white-haired woman stood forlornly on the stoop. She looked frail, hunched at the shoulders, and was possibly confused. This Greg inferred from the fact that she carried no bag, kept looking around her as if she weren't quite sure what she was doing on his doorstep, and wasn't wearing a coat, let alone gloves or a scarf, which was borderline suicidal in a DC winter.

I'll have to ask her in,
he thought resentfully.
Try to reach her family. Or social services.
Really, people ought to keep a closer eye on their own elderly relatives, especially on Christmas damn Day.

He opened the door. “Hello there. Can I help you?”

“Yes,” the woman said, a tiny handgun emerging miraculously from the inside of her cardigan sleeve. “You can tell me the truth, Mr. Walton. The whole truth. Or I will kill you.”