Dark Hearts (10 page)

He was suddenly conscious of holding Lainey too tight as she shifted in her sleep. He eased his grasp, and then kissed the curls at the top of her head before pulling the covers up around them. The rain on the roof was like the feet of a thousand running children. He closed his eyes, and when he woke it was morning. The house was warm. The aroma of brewing coffee was in the air, along with the smell of bacon.

He dressed quickly and followed the scents all the way to the source, then kissed the back of Lainey's neck as he entered the kitchen.

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

The deep voice in Lainey's ear sent a shiver all the way up her spine. She'd gone down the hall twice since she'd been up just to reassure herself that last night had not been a dream. Seeing Sam Jakes in her bed each time had given her heart a sweet jolt.

“Good morning,” she said. “I didn't wake you. I was hoping you didn't have early plans.”

“My early plans are you,” he said, and snitched a piece of bacon from the plate and popped it in his mouth. “What can I help you do?” he asked.

“Umm, put butter and jelly on the table, and then make some toast?”

“I can do that,” he said, and then picked up another piece of bacon, but instead of putting it in his mouth, he lifted it to hers. “Open wide, pretty girl.”

She grinned and took a big bite. “Trying to fatten me up, aren't you?”

“Just helping you follow doctor's orders,” he said, and then headed for the refrigerator.

A few minutes later they sat down to eat. Lainey was reaching for the butter to put on her toast when Sam paused and looked at her from across the table. Like Lainey, he was still pinching himself that this was even happening. And the sad part of it was, she'd been right. If his mother hadn't been murdered, he would never have come home. He would have settled for less.

Lainey saw the expression on his face and laid down her fork. “Are you okay?”

He blinked. “What? Oh, yes, baby, I'm fine. I was just thinking of how easy it is to be derailed by life. Last week you were with me only in dreams, and now here we are. I shared a bed with you last night and a meal with you this morning, and as shattered as we are about my mother's murder, I haven't been this happy since before 9/11.”

For a moment Lainey had been afraid he was regretting last night, and now she breathed an easy sigh of relief.

“If it helps, I know how much Betsy wanted us back together. She told me so more than once.”

Sam reached across the table to hold her hand.

“My only reservation is scaring you or making you afraid of me,” he said.

She shook her head in denial.

“I love you. You love me. We'll figure it out as we go, Sam.”

“Deal,” he said and gave her hand a quick squeeze.

* * *

Greg Standish was contemplating calling in sick. It wouldn't be a lie. He was literally sick to his stomach from the stack of bills before him. But he was the president of the bank, and unless he was dead or dying it was his job to be present, so he pushed the bills aside and went back to his room to get ready for work.

He had showered and was shaving when he heard the bedroom door open, and then the sound of footsteps moving across the carpet. Expecting someone to call out, he was surprised when everything stayed quiet. On impulse, he opened the door just a crack to see who was in the room and saw Carly going through his wallet.

He threw his razor in the sink and came out of the bathroom, shouting, “What the fuck do you think you're doing, young lady?”

Carly jumped like a scalded cat and began shrieking, “Daddy, Daddy! I just need to—”

“You didn't ask!” he shouted. “You were stealing from me! How many other times has this happened? Huh?”

“Well, Mama does and—”

“Oh, my God! Like that's supposed to make it right?” he roared.

She covered her face and cried louder. She was still wailing when Gloria came rushing into the room. She took one look at Greg half-naked, with only a bath towel wrapped around his waist, and her daughter backed against a wall screaming her head off, and added her own shriek to the mess.

“Gregory! What is the meaning of this? What did you do to Carly?”

He froze.

Carly was still screaming, and his wife was about to accuse him of some immoral act. He could see it in her eyes.

He pointed at his daughter. “Shut the hell up!”

She sucked in the last shriek, and then hiccupped on a sob.

“Don't talk to our daughter like that!” Gloria screamed.

Greg pointed at her next.

“And you shut the hell up, too! I've about had it with the both of you. I am trying to get ready for work and find my daughter in
our
bedroom going through my wallet like the sneak thief she is!”

Gloria's indignation sputtered like a quickly doused fire, but her husband was just getting started.

“And do you know what her excuse was? Mama does it! Do you, Gloria! Do you steal from me, too? Have you no shame?”

Gloria's face reddened. “Carly, go to your room!” she snapped.

“Oh, hell no!” Greg said. “She's not going anywhere, and neither are you.” He pointed to the foot of the bed. “Sit, the both of you, and listen, because I'm not going to say this but once.”

Gloria grabbed her daughter and shoved her down on the bed, and then plopped down beside her, muttering something to the effect that it was all Carly's fault.

“So talk,” Gloria said.

Greg grabbed a towel from the bathroom and wiped the shaving cream from his face, and then tossed the towel on the floor at their feet, well aware it would tick his wife off that it was there.

“Here's the scoop,” he said. “We're broke! I earned it. You spent it. It's gone. I cannot earn enough to cover your debts if you never spent another penny for the rest of this year. You are both selfish, wasteful and unappreciative, and part of that is my fault for letting it go this long.”

Carly's mouth had dropped open when she heard the word
broke
, and it had yet to shut.

Gloria had a hand at her breast, as if ready to feign illness, and Greg saw it.

“If you die, you'll be buried in a pauper's grave, so I'd advise you to get over it.”

Gloria gasped, and then started to weep.

“Cry all you want. It's not going to change the facts. This house is going on the market today. We will be renting, and you better pray to God I don't get fired. Every credit card is being canceled today, so don't try to use them, because you're going to be very embarrassed when they're rejected.”

“No, no,” Gloria wailed. “How will I face my friends?”

Carly added to the racket. “You can't, Daddy! I need a dress for the Harvest Ball!”

Greg just stared at them.

“
You're
worried about your friends,” he told his wife, then said to his daughter, “and you are actually sitting there telling me you need a new dress, when I've just explained that we're broke—as in ‘can't buy food' broke! I'm done. Both of you...get out! If you so much as open your mouth and argue with me again, I'm stopping off at the lawyer's office on the way to work and filing for divorce. It would be an utter relief to be rid of the both of you.”

“You'll have to pay me alimony!” Gloria shrieked.

“And child support!” Carly wailed.

“With what?” he shouted. “Get a job! Both of you! Now leave!”

Carly flew out of the room, but Gloria stood, still unwilling to yield the floor.

“Why are you still here?” Greg drawled, and then dropped the towel. “Or is it this? I'm willing to be late to work if you're up for a quickie.”

“Cover yourself,” she yelled, and stomped out the door, slamming it shut behind her.

“That's what I thought,” he muttered, then picked up his wallet and took it with him into the bathroom to finish shaving.

It was a hard thing to accept after all the work he'd gone to in an effort to realize his dream of being mayor, but that dream clearly wasn't going to come true.

Nine

M
arcus Silver was waiting on a conference call and had wandered into the library of the family mansion to study the portraits of his paternal ancestors. It was something he did when he felt unsettled, a way of connecting with his past and strengthening him to handle what needed to be done.

His four times great-grandfather, Jarrod Silver, who had emigrated from England, had been a big, strapping man with a square jaw and a steady gaze. The dog at his side was a mastiff. Marcus knew its name had been Zeus from reading family history.

The portrait of Geoffrey Silver, his three times great-grandfather was hanging next to Jarrod's. The artist had captured the intent and determination in Geoffrey's wide face and high forehead, considered a sign of high intelligence in those times. The dog at his feet was a large bloodhound named Thunder that, according to family history, had been used to track down runaway slaves.

He shoved his hands into his pockets as he gazed intently at the next portrait. Aaron Silver, his two times great-grandfather, was displayed as grandly as the others, but he had a severe underbite, which left him with a less than commanding appearance. Marcus smiled. This grandfather had invested heavily in railroads, which had contributed greatly to the family coffers, proving looks were no predictor of success or failure. The dog in the portrait with him was a cocker spaniel, a beautiful dog but without the macho cachet of the first two.

He turned to the opposite wall, where the portrait of his great-grandfather, Delacroix Silver, was hanging. Delacroix had lost a good deal of the Silver fortune during the stock market crash early in the last century. But instead of bemoaning his losses, he'd soon replenished the family coffers by turning a blind eye to the law, buying and selling illegal whiskey and then delivering it to the speakeasies in the bigger cities of Chicago and New York. By the time prohibition had ended, the Silver fortune was healthy once more. The English pug in Delacroix's lap looked as defiant as its master.

A quick flash of tears blurred Marcus's vision as he moved to the portraits of his grandfather, Montgomery Silver, and his black Lab, Striker, then to his father, Thomas John Silver, and his English setter, a dog named Royal. Marcus remembered many happy hours playing with old Royal when he was a boy.

Marcus knew it wasn't manly to be enamored of one's own appearance, but seeing his portrait hanging next to his father's gave him a huge sense of pride. He came from good blood. The dog in his portrait was a German shepherd named Hunter. They never replaced him after he died. He and T.J. weren't all that keen on pets.

Thomas John's favorite byword had been “blood will out.” Marcus wondered if, by the time T.J. reached his age, his impressive bloodline would hold him steady, and if his portrait would be hanging among the others. It was going to be up to T.J. to carry on. Marcus had sacrificed so much and done what had to be done to keep their heritage secure. He hoped T.J. was up to the task of safeguarding it for the future.

* * *

Fresh from his night with Lainey and the goodbye kiss they'd shared, Sam walked with the stride of a man who'd shed a great burden. He moved across the hospital lobby toward the elevator, anxious to see if there was any change in Trina's condition. When he saw the elevator doors beginning to shut he grabbed them, then strode in, nodding to the other man in the elevator, who was holding a small potted plant.

“How's it going?” he said and pressed the button for the third floor.

“Oh, I'm fine,” the killer said. “Are you going to see Trina?”

“Yes,” Sam said as the door opened to the second floor.

“Then, give her my best,” the killer said, and headed down the hall carrying the potted plant before him like a shield.

“Will do,” Sam said, and then promptly forgot all about it.

He got off on the third floor and walked swiftly toward ICU.

Clarice Powell was on duty when Sam stopped to sign in.

“Good morning, Clarice. Has the doctor already made rounds?”

“Yes, he was in early.” She pulled the chart. “No changes noted, but she's stable, no fever, which means no infection, which means she's healing.”

Satisfied, Sam went inside and headed straight to Trina's room. Cain Embry was still on duty when Sam walked up.

“Morning, Cain.”

“Good morning, Sam.”

“Everything okay here?” Sam asked.

“Yes.”

“Good,” Sam said and entered Trina's room. He leaned down and kissed the side of her cheek, and then spoke softly close to her ear.

“Hey, little sister, it's Sam. You're safe and you're healing. I love you, baby.”

Then he sat down in a chair beside her bed, laid his hand on her arm and started talking. When he'd been hospitalized for so long, there were things that had worn on his nerves, and one of them was the strident tone of people's voices. Regardless of whether Trina could hear him or not, he was intent on keeping the tone of his voice soft and even.

After reminiscing about some of her childhood mishaps, and how he and Trey used to sneak her extra cookies when she was little, he shifted to holiday memories.

“Do you remember the last Christmas that Dad was with us? You wanted an air rifle, and Mom wanted you to have a Barbie playhouse. They had the biggest argument I ever heard them have, and it was over your present. It got so intense Trey and I were afraid they'd forget about buying us anything, but you were oblivious to the undercurrents. Dad took you out to the mountain to target practice, and Mom began teaching you how to cook. By the time Christmas came, Mom and Dad had made up and you got a puppy. That was Boomer. He was a good old dog, wasn't he?”

He watched her face intently for any sign of movement but saw nothing, so he told himself to be satisfied just to be with her. He noticed her lips looked dry and got up to put some glycerin on them. He was washing his hands when he got a text from Trey that ended the visit. He stopped by her bed to tell her he was leaving.

“Trina, honey, I have to go now, but I'll be back. Love you.”

He left ICU and met Lee getting off the elevator.

“Hi,” Sam said. “I'm going to the precinct. She's stable. No change.”

“Thanks,” Lee said. “I took my lunch hour early so I could spend it with her. See you later.”

Sam drove straight to the precinct, and then hurried down the hall to Trey's office.

“What's going on?” he asked.

“I have a social security number on Donny Collins. I was about to start running his name through the computer to see if he popped up anywhere, but I have a prisoner who's being transferred, and the US Marshal just arrived. You probably know more about running traces than I do. Are you willing?” Trey asked.

“Absolutely,” Sam said. “Should I use your computer?”

“Yes. I left you the log-in info,” Trey said. “Work your magic, brother. I need to know this guy's status ASAP. The minifridge has cold pop, and there are snacks in my desk drawer. Sorry I can't offer a better lunch.”

“I'm good,” Sam said. “I had a big breakfast with Lainey.”

Trey's eyes widened, and then he smiled.

“I'll be damned. Well, I'm happy to hear that. Text if you need me.”

As soon as Trey left, Sam shed his coat, rolled up his sleeves, sat down at the computer and got to work.

* * *

The killer was on a mission.

All the old roadblocks had disappeared with the death of Betsy Jakes. Now he had a new one, but he was working on correcting his one mistake. There was a man he knew who used to work for Colquitt Mining in Kentucky until he retired and came back home to West Virginia. His name was Moses Ledbetter, and he was a demon with explosives. After a brief phone call on a throwaway phone, an amount of money was agreed upon and delivery was due in three days.

Yesterday he'd taken a late lunch and gone to the local library to see what he could find on the hospital layout. He'd logged on to a library computer to see what was available, and when he found a site with the original blueprints and a story on the date they broke ground, he was elated.

He began studying the layout, even taking a few pictures with his phone. After he returned home for the evening he studied the pictures some more, taking note of stairwells, air shafts and the hospital lab, and where they were in relation to ICU.

Satisfied that he had the important locations fixed firmly in his mind, he'd headed for the hospital that morning to see if the layout was the same or if, over the years, remodeling had changed it. He'd bought a potted plant to use as cover, so it would seem as if he was on the second floor to visit a patient, when in actuality he was checking out what was directly under ICU.

It was a fluke that he'd ridden up in the elevator with Sam Jakes. He had to admit, the man made him nervous. He was so big and, from what he'd heard, very unpredictable. He didn't want to have to go head-to-head with the man in a fight. He would lose hands-down. So he kept walking the hall, needing this to be over, but so far all he'd seen were patient rooms, which weren't what he wanted.

He was headed down the west hall when he saw a man he recognized from church walking the halls in his hospital gown and pushing a pole holding his IV.

“There you are, Mr. Berry! They mentioned your name on the prayer list at church. Looks as if you're doing well now, up and walking about.”

Sherman Berry smiled. “Why, I am doing better, thanks, but I wouldn't wish hemorrhoid surgery on my worst enemy.”

The killer chuckled. “Ouch! I'm glad to see you're doing well. If you'll tell me which room you're in, I'll just set this plant on a table and be on my way.”

“Are those for me?” Sherman asked.

“They sure are.”

“That's wonderful! I appreciate the thought. I'm just down the hall in 224. Bed A. I have a roommate, but they have him out running tests,” Sherman said.

“It's great to see you up and about,” the killer said, and strolled on down the hall as if he owned it.

He left the plant in the room, and then continued down the corridor in the other direction, but he found nothing suited for what he needed. He paused, trying to picture the blueprints again, and decided to go down one floor and see what was below him.

The force of the bomb he'd bought would take down an entire building. He just wanted to cover his bases and be sure that the force of the blast was directly under ICU. The damned woman had already survived a bullet in the chest. He needed to be sure her luck finally ran out.

Instead of going back up the hall to the elevator, he backtracked a couple of doors to the stairwell and went one floor down, then stepped out of the stairwell to look around.

It was the door right in front of him that caught his eye. He crossed the hall, went inside the chapel and walked down the aisle to the altar. He looked up, imagining the location of the ICU, and smiled. This was the perfect place from which to send a few more souls winging their way to heaven. He left the hospital in haste, anxious to get back to what he'd been doing. Time was running short.

* * *

The first trace Sam ran on Donny Collins was the work history associated with his social security number, and he was a little shocked by what came up. Sometimes an answer came easy, but not often. This was one of those times that it had, and it felt good to be helping find their mother's killer.

He sent Trey a quick text.

No work history on D. Collins after May 1980

Then, just to be thorough, he ran the same number through military records, then checked for legal name changes and still came up empty. Gut instinct told him that the body his mother dreamed about seeing at the bottom of some mine shaft was Donny Collins. The puzzle was why it had happened and who'd done it.

The phone rang and he answered without thinking. “Chief Jakes' office.”

“This is Sheriff Osmond. Is the chief there?”

“Hello, Sheriff. This is Sam Jakes, Trey's older brother. I'm here helping with the case. He's here but away from the phone for a bit. Can I give him a message?”

“Well, hello, Sam. I'm sorry about your mother. She was a fine lady. You said you're helping with the case?”

“Yes, I own Ranger Investigations out of Atlanta.”

“The reason I called was to let Trey know I got clearance to begin searching the old Colquitt Mining site west of Mystic tomorrow.”

Sam's pulse kicked. “Am I allowed to be there?”

“It's fine with me,” the sheriff said.

“I'll give him the message. Thanks for letting us know,” Sam said.

“Then, I guess I'll see you tomorrow,” Sheriff Osmond said and disconnected.

Sam jotted down the message and left it on Trey's desk, then he went back to the computer to check a few more sites to see if Donny Collins popped up.

Another twenty minutes passed. He sent a text to Lainey reminding her of their dinner date that night and saying he would pick her up at six thirty. A few moments later he got a text back with nothing but a heart emoticon on the screen, which made him smile. Yeah, he loved her, too.

Sam was still at the desk when Trey returned. Sam handed him the note from Sheriff Osmond.

Trey scanned the note with interest. “Osmond is going to the mine tomorrow?”

Sam nodded. “He said I could go, too.”

“Good. I'll make arrangements before I leave here tonight,” Trey said, then glanced at the computer screen. “So you've found nothing else anywhere?”

“His social security number hasn't been active since May of 1980. There are thousands of Donald Ray Collinses in the US, but none that match the one we're looking for. I even checked the registry for legal name changes on the off chance that he would have changed his name for some reason. There's nothing, Trey. It's as if he dropped off the face of the earth.”

“Or down a mine shaft,” Trey said.