Twist of Fate (7 page)

“You really should turn everything over to a qualified professional in the field, Hannah. Her papers and notes should be available to experts. They're academic treasures.”

Unspoken, of course, was the implication that Hannah Jessett was no expert and was probably incapable of appreciating an academic treasure if it rose up on its hind legs and bit her.
I'm being petty and childish and mean-spirited
, Hannah admonished herself silently. Just the same, she decided it would be a cold day in hell before she turned her aunt's papers over to Victoria or Drake Armitage.

“I'm not sure yet what I'll find or what I'll do with her records,” Hannah demurred.

Vicky glanced at her. “Your aunt's name was a household word in my home all the time I was growing up. My father had the greatest interest in her work. In fact, I believe he collaborated with her for a while on one project. Nothing ever came of it, unfortunately.”

“Hey, are the drinks ready? I'm dying of thirst out here,” Drake called.

“We're on our way.” Vicky picked up the tray of chilled mineral water, ice, and glasses and started toward the balcony. “You know, Hannah, I think I'll massage that leg of yours for a few minutes. I've been studying the shiatzu technique and I've worked out a way of combining it with traditional pressure-point massage. It will really loosen up those tight ligaments.”

Hannah protested politely as she levered herself down onto a lounge chair and stretched her feet out in front of her. “That's quite all right, Vicky. I'm already getting massage therapy at the clinic twice a week and I don't think…”

But Vicky was already leaning down, her hands closing around the injured knee just below the cuff of Hannah's safari-style walking shorts.

Hannah thought she was going to faint from the pain. For several seconds she couldn't even speak. The woman was every bit as strong as she looked. It was rather frightening. Even the professional masseuse at the clinic didn't have that kind of strength.

“Vicky, no! Please, that's enough. Leave me alone.” She pushed at the other woman's hand, no longer worrying about being polite. “Stop it!”

Chagrined, Vicky straightened. “I'm sorry, did I hurt you?”

Hannah took several deep breaths. “It's all right. I know you meant well.”

“Vicky's really into physical therapy,” Drake explained half apologetically.

“Yes, I can see that.” Hannah stifled a sudden, acute longing for a shot of tequila or a painkiller instead of the mineral water.

Life was a constant learning experience. A smart woman tried to pick up lessons along the way and apply them. Today was a case in point, Hannah told herself. This was the last time she would invite passing fitness fanatics in for a drink.

H
IS ATTENTION
was focused on a deck of cards. Unfortunately, it wasn't the deck of cards being dealt in front of him. The mistake cost Gideon five hundred dollars in the blink of an eye.

Las Vegas was not working a hell of a lot better the second time around.

“C'est la guerre,”
he said easily to the dealer, who smiled back with well-feigned commiseration. “I'll try again later.” He kept his disgust to himself as he swung around to slip through the milling crowds.

Endless rows of elaborate chandeliers that might have been designed for a Hollywood movie set cast their flattering light on everything from Bermuda shorts to tuxedoes. The continuous metallic clang of slot machines provided a background noise that somehow complemented the intensity around the card tables. It was nearly midnight and the casino was in full swing.

Gideon had arrived on the seven-fifteen flight from Tucson and had checked into the same towering hotel on the Strip where he always stayed. Then he had dressed in the dark evening jacket and slacks and the crisp white shirt he always wore at night in Vegas. Habit. The word was still haunting him, just as the memory of Hannah's deck of cards haunted him.

It was time to give the tables a break. Deprived of his normal concentration, his luck had become far too erratic tonight. Something else was missing, too. The small shot of adrenaline he usually got when he put money on the line didn't seem to be taking hold this evening. He could only hope that Hannah Jessett hadn't ruined Vegas for him. Gideon headed for the bar that overlooked the gambling floor. Maybe another kind of mood elevator would prove more helpful.

The twelve-year-old Scotch produced by a pretty woman wearing a very small, sequined tutu did something, but fifteen minutes later Gideon wasn't certain exactly what had been accomplished. The ambivalence was new. He didn't like it.

Vegas had always been the flip side of his daily life, the alternative version of the war he waged in the business world. It was supposed to offer more of an element of unpredictability as Hannah had guessed, but somehow the yearly visits had become as predictable as the results of a corporate raid. She had been right. It wasn't that he always won here; it was that he always came away with the same fleeting sense of excitement from the action.

Almost always. Tonight he wasn't even getting that much out of it, and the knowledge was beginning to eat at him. It was more than just the gambling that wasn't working right lately, it was his whole life. For the first time in a long while he wondered what would have happened if he'd taken a different path nine years ago.

There had been other things in his life then. The cartography had been important. There was a woman who had been important. There had been a sense of adventure about the future, a feeling that he was making progress. Tonight he could see only a flat, endless road stretching before him; his business and his yearly visits to Las Vegas were the only destinations. Neither seemed able to draw any spark of enthusiasm or optimism from him this evening.

A little guidance counseling was a dangerous thing, Gideon decided.

He took his time with the Scotch, seeking the sensual pleasure he knew he should be getting from twelve-year old liquor. But it seemed as elusive as the card-playing adrenaline. He wondered how much of a lesson Hannah Jessett had really learned from him. Gideon was contemplating that in great detail when he finally decided that the nagging feeling of being watched could no longer be ignored. Idly he leaned back in his chair and let his eyes sweep the crowd in the bar.

When he saw Hugh Ballantine lounging on a stool no more than fifteen feet away, Gideon acknowledged that there were some serious drawbacks to being a creature of habit. Ballantine's familiar blue eyes met his and the younger man smiled. The smile was vaguely familiar, too. So was the red hair. Hugh Ballantine was the reincarnation of his father.

Gideon lifted his glass half an inch in response and waited. Slowly, as though there were all the time in the world, Ballantine came down off the stool and started forward. He was very cool, very controlled, an element of caution in his riveting blue gaze. Gideon recognized the manner. He hadn't forgotten the feel of discovering the sense of power brought on by the first big hunt. A wise man respected that power and was wary of it. A fool rushed headlong into the euphoric fog and ended up at the bottom of a cliff. Ballantine was not a fool.

Gideon spoke first, deciding to spare Hugh the necessity of finding a brilliant opening line. Finding those lines was a strain at times when you were thirty years old.

“An acquaintance of mine warned me that I was becoming a creature of habit. You've just proven her point. Does everyone in the whole world know when I head for Vegas?”

Ballantine shrugged and sat down on the other side of the small, round table. “Anyone who wants to know. You come here a couple of times each summer. It wasn't hard to find out which hotel you favor, either.”

“You find my lifestyle so fascinating?”

Hugh leaned his elbows on the table, his drink planted squarely in front of him. He smiled again. Gideon studied the feral expression and thought about how frequently he, himself, used it. It could be extremely intimidating to a potential victim. No one found it comfortable to look at a grinning shark, not even another shark.

“I find everything you think, say, or do fascinating, Mr. Cage. I'm sure you know the feeling.”

“Admiration from the younger generation is always gratifying.” Gideon tried some more of the Scotch. “Are you going to start following me around like a lost puppy?”

Ballantine shook his head. “I'm here tonight only because I wanted to talk to you for a few minutes. Alone. I would like you to know what I'm doing.”

It was Gideon's turn to smile. “You don't have to spell it out,” he said gently. “I know exactly what you're doing. Do you think you can pull it off?”

The brilliant blue eyes flared for an instant the way a predator's gaze flickers before the final leap. “I'm more interested in finding out if you think I can do it.”

Gideon gave him a considering glance. “It depends.”

“On what?” Ballantine was genuinely curious. A smart younger shark was always willing to learn.

“On how badly you want to win,” Gideon said.

“I want to win, Cage. I want it very badly.” Absolute conviction underlined every word. “I'm going to crush you.”

“Practice the melodrama while you shave, not in front of the opposition.”

Ballantine regarded him with interest. “That's a tip?”

“I took a guidance counselor to dinner a couple of weeks ago. She was fond of handing out tips. Thought I'd try it myself. It makes for light, casual conversation, don't you think? Especially when you know the other person probably won't act on it.”

“You underestimate me, Gideon. I'm more than happy to learn from you. In fact, I want to pull this off in a style that will bring back some memories for you. I'd like you to be aware of all the subtle similarities between what's going to happen this year and what happened nine years ago.”

“I'm sure your father would be proud,” Gideon murmured.

“Yes.” Ballantine waited for a heartbeat. “Too bad he isn't around to appreciate the final results.”

Gideon read the fierce accusation in the other man's face and sighed. “Believe it or not, I'm sorry he isn't around, too.”

“The hell you are.”

“I didn't kill him, Hugh.”

“You killed him. As surely as if you'd slit his throat.” Ballantine stood up.

Gideon watched him. “Would you believe me if I told you that I'm beginning to think he's had his revenge?”

“Bullshit.”

Gideon smiled thinly and swirled the Scotch in his glass. “Somehow I thought you'd see it that way.”

Ballantine stared down at the table, following the movement of the amber liquid in the glass for a few seconds as if mildly fascinated by it. “I just wanted you to know. I wanted to tell you in person.”

“It wasn't necessary.”

Ballantine nodded abruptly. “I can see that now. You already know what I'm doing and why.”

“You're Cyrus Ballantine's son,” Gideon said. “I knew him better than I've ever known any other man. Therefore I know you. That's your biggest single disadvantage, Hugh.”

“Because you think you'll be able to predict my actions? No, Cage. It may well turn out to be my ace in the hole. I'm not just a copy of my father, but if you believe I am then you'll make some interesting mistakes.” He turned and disappeared into the crowd.

Gideon sat for a long time at the table. He finished the Scotch and ordered another. Halfway through the third one he decided to make a phone call.

Steve Decker was half asleep when he came on the line. Gideon almost envied him for a moment. Decker's wife, a warm, happy woman who was utterly devoted to her husband, was probably waiting impatiently in bed. She would undoubtedly have a few choice words to say about her husband's boss, who thought he could call at any hour of the day or night. Angie Decker was very protective of her spouse. It might be interesting, Gideon thought, to have a woman feel that protective about him.

“I'm sorry to get you out of bed, Steve, but I wasn't sure when I'd be able to call in the morning and I didn't want anyone trying to leave a message for me here at the hotel tomorrow. You know how Mary Ann panics if she can't find me when she wants me.”

Steve's agile brain leaped to the most important question. “Where are you going?”

“I thought I'd go on up to Washington.”

“Washington! But that Maryland project is under control. Why on earth do you want to go there?”

“State of, not D.C.”

“Seattle? You're heading for Seattle? But why?”

“Thought I'd tie up a few loose ends with Accelerated Design.”

Decker sounded utterly bewildered. “But, Gideon, there are no loose ends. There never are any loose ends!”

“I'm not so sure,” Gideon said, trying to sound appropriately shrewd and businesslike.

“Well, I am. I put through the last of the paperwork yesterday. Gideon, you're supposed to be in Vegas for a week. You always go to Vegas for a week at this time of year!”

“Does it strike you, Steve, that I have become somewhat predictable?”

“Good God! Is that what this is all about? Are you worried about becoming predictable?” Decker's tone carried the profound shock of a man who values above all the comforts of a predictable life.

Maybe he'd value them, too, Gideon thought, if he were getting the comforts. All he seemed to have acquired from predictability was a sense of weariness. He almost wished he could relive the rush of emotion that he knew Ballantine was feeling tonight. “Steve, I really don't want to talk about this tonight. I just wanted someone to know that I'd left Vegas so no one would get overly excited tomorrow when he or she couldn't reach me. I'll check in with you in a day or two. In the meantime, hold the fort for me.”

“But, Gideon…”

“There's one more thing, Steve.”

“What's that?” Decker asked warily.

“I need the address of Nick Jessett's sister. The woman with the cane.”

There was a long silence. “You need it tonight?”

“I'm afraid so,” Gideon said apologetically. Angie was going to be furious.

Decker let out his breath in an unheard oath. “I'll have it for you in an hour.”

“Thanks, Steve.” As politely as he could, Gideon hung up in his assistant's ear. Then he started dialing airlines.

Back in Tucson, Angie Decker sat up in bed, frowning. “That was Cage?”

Decker finished replacing the receiver and nodded. He yawned as he ran a hand through his thinning hair. “That was Cage.”

“Is something wrong?” Angie was willing to hold her fire until she determined whether or not the phone call had been generated out of a real emergency.

“Not unless you consider Gideon Cage going crazy as something wrong,” Steve said thoughtfully.

To his surprise Angie didn't explode. “Actually,” she said calmly, “it's a rather interesting idea.”

 

H
ANNAH WAS STRUGGLING
with the cane, her tote, an umbrella, and a bag of groceries as she approached her front door the next morning. A familiar morning drizzle had made the walk to the grocery store more of an event than usual. The cane tended to slip a bit on wet surfaces, and it had been impossible to keep the umbrella properly positioned while she carried the bag. In the end she had abandoned the rain protection in favor of concentrating on her footing. As a result her hair was damp and turning frizzy.

She was debating about the wisdom of trying for the mail on top of everything else, when she stepped into the apartment building entranceway and saw Gideon Cage lounging on the bottom step. He got to his feet at once.