In the Heart of the Wind Book 1 in the WindTorn Trilogy (37 page)

“What’s going to happen when you die, Papa?” Bridie had asked. “What the hell are we going to do with James then?”

She had paced the living room of the Miami mansion, her fingers tapping against her side. It was obvious to her father she was desperate for a cigarette, aching for one, but dared not light up in his presence. She didn’t know he knew about her filthy, dangerous habit.

“We’ll move him to the sanitarium in Coral Gables,” Liam had explained. “They’ll keep him sedated and in a state of complete control. I’ll leave provisions for that in my will.”

His Bridget, his little girl, the child he had loved most, adored almost to the point of worship, had turned on him eyes flaring, mouth ugly and twisted. He had hardly recognized the vicious woman who looked back at him. She had lost the beauty that had always made him so proud, so happy. The face she showed him was the one he somehow understood came from her soul and it had shocked him as much as her words.

“Why not just kill him, Papa?” she’d asked, coming to her father’s chair, kneeling beside him. She’d taken his hand in hers, patted it soothingly. Her eyes had been alight with sheer evil. “He’s no good to anyone. Drew and I can’t stand the sight of him. Why waste money keeping him alive? No one but Paddy will even bother to go see him. I certainly won’t!”

Liam had stared at his daughter, seeing her for the first time and realizing the monster she had become. Oh, he had known she had been responsible for Kristen’s death. Maybe not the actual murder itself, but of at least planning and arranging the details. He had approved of that. Kristen Marie Connors was a tramp of the first order; an embarrassing little baggage certainly not worthy of carrying the Tremayne name. The only good thing the bitch had done was give birth to a marginally interesting child—Melissa, James’ daughter. But to know his daughter was capable of suggesting her own brother be murdered shocked Tremayne to his core. He had said as much.

“I don’t see why,” Bridget had snapped. “You don’t have any more feelings for the son-of-a-bitch than Drew and I.”

“He’s my son,” Liam had shot back. “Flesh of my flesh and blood of my blood! If I wouldn’t let Griffin Connors kill him, do you really think I’d let you?”

“What good is he?” his daughter had shouted. “Just tell me that? What good has he
ever
been to this family except to be your punching bag?” Her eyes had narrowed and her venom had spat forth like an erupting pustule. “Or your plaything in bed!”

Liam had come up out of his chair, his hand going to his daughter’s cheek. The loud crack of his palm on her flesh was like the split of lightning. The blow staggered Bridget Casey and she had stumbled backward, eyes flaring wide, hand to her injury, her mouth an ‘O’ of surprise.

“Don’t you ever,” Liam had gasped,
“
ever
speak in such a manner to me again, Bridget!” He had lurched over to her, his hand lifted again, wanting to slap her once more to knock both the defiance and her forbidden knowledge from her. “I am your father.”

Bridget had nodded, her fear more than evident in her pale face. She’d murmured as apology, backing away from his upraised hand, her own out in an effort to keep him at bay.

“I’m...I’m sorry, Papa,” she’d told him. “I don’t know why I—”

“James is your brother,” Liam said, ignoring her, skipping over why he had just hit his beloved child. “He is
my
son. As long as he lives, he’ll be taken care of.”

“Yes, Papa,” she had agreed, her head wobbling in acceptance of what he was saying.

Liam’s eyes had narrowed to thin slits. “And he
will
live as long as the Lord has plans for him to, Bridget. No one will shortchange him on that account. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Papa, perfectly clear.”

Long after his daughter left, Liam Tremayne had stood rooted to the spot, his dirty secret out in the open, his control slipping, his mind replaying Bridget’s words over and over and over again.

“Only the once,” Liam admitted to the empty room. “It was only the once.”

But that wasn’t true and he knew it. As much as he had tried to block out of his mind what he had done to his son, it now came back to him in flashes and leaps of scenes that made him sink to the floor and bury his face in his hands. It made him nauseous. It made him sick.

“I couldn’t help myself,” he cried. “He made me do it to him. He
made
me!”

That was not true and he knew that as well. As much as he had tried to pretend it was James’ fault, that it was his son who had seduced him, who had forced him to come into the child’s room late at night, it now came back to him in a rush of pleading and begging and hysterical cries of pain that made Liam collapse to the floor in a sobbing heap. It made him remember. It made him vulnerable.

“It was your fault,” Liam had been saying over and over again when his wife had found him prostrate on the floor, spittle flowing from his mouth. “It was all your fault!”

In the ambulance on the way to Dade General, the words had tumbled out in a litany of accusation.

“Whose fault, dear?” James’ mother had asked. “Who are you talking about?”

Now, sitting glowering at the rain and waiting for the orderlies to come to take him to the ambulance to carry him home, Liam had finally made up his mind about what to do with James.

No one could know. No one. No one must suspect what terrible secrets lay hidden in the damaged soul of James Gabriel Tremayne. No one must ever wonder about the relationship between father and son or whisper about it behind the family’s back. No one must ever learn of the awful things that had happened in the house in Savannah. It had been a game Liam had always won. For anyone to find out now, would be a loss of devastating honor to the family. A loss Liam would never allow.

Bridget had been right.

What good was James anyway?

Edna Mae sank
into the chair Bruce Lassiter offered her and folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes were wary as the psychiatrist seated himself behind his desk and a hesitant smile touched his full lips.

“I’m so glad you understood the urgency, Mrs. Boudreaux.” He glanced around the room, put his finger to his lips and pointed at the intercom.

Edna Mae frowned, not understanding what he meant, but then the knowledge someone might have bugged the man’s office made her eyes flare with worry.

“You understand, of course,” Lassiter continued, “that a man in my position can’t afford to form personal attachments to his patients. It would be highly unprofessional and counter-productive to the treatment of that patient. But sometimes, as in the case of your son, we find a patient whose plight touches us to the marrow of our being and reminds us that we’re only human.”

“David has certainly had his share of problems, Dr. Lassiter,” Edna Mae acknowledged, wondering about the man’s words.

“He’s a good boy, Mrs. Boudreaux. One who has not been dealt with fairly in this life.”

“I agree.” The old woman’s eyes were boring into Lassiter’s, studying him, judging him.

“As a physician, I have a moral obligation to do everything I can to see that my patients are returned to a normal, healthy, productive life away from the dangers into which they’ve fallen.” He leaned forward. “I want to do what I think is best for your son.”

Edna Mae knew he wasn’t speaking of Kyle, but of Gabe. “But not here.”

Lassiter leaned back, spread his hands. His face was grave. “Unfortunately not, I’m afraid. David is proving to be more of a challenge than I’m equipped to handle.”

Edna Mae could see the man’s dilemma. He was pleading with her to understand, to help him do what he knew might cause him a great deal of trouble. Could possibly even cause serious repercussions that might endanger his own life. But his sincerity and his need to help was emblazoned on his face. An astute judge of character, Edna Mae knew Bruce Lassiter was on their side.

“I’ve made arrangements to transfer David this afternoon around six, if that is all right with you,” she said. “I’ll go back to the hotel and collect my things, then bring the limo for my son. Or I could hire an ambulance if you think his condition warrants it.”

“I have another patient being transferred tonight as well.” Lassiter clenched his hands on the desk. “They’ll be coming for him in an ambulance. A much better way to transport patients, I believe.”

Edna Mae nodded. “Do you think David would be more manageable if I hired an ambulance to transfer him back to Georgia?”

“Yes, I do. The patient I am dismissing later this evening is going to be sedated.” Lassiter’s eyes narrowed. “Heavily sedated and that might not be a bad idea for David as well. Such a precaution is almost certain to be easier on the attendants.”

Edna Mae drew in a long breath. The doctor was telling her Gabe would be unconscious—easier to transport him.

Lassiter stood and walked around the desk. He held out his hand to her. “I wish I could be of more help, Mrs. Boudreaux, but I’ve done everything I feel I can for the patient and it’s now up to others to care for him.”

Edna Mae stood and took the doctor’s hand. “I appreciate your concern and all you’ve done for my son, Dr. Lassiter. I am sure, if he could, he’d thank you himself.”

Lassiter shook his head. “His complete recovery would be the best thank you I could ever receive, dear lady.” He covered Edna Mae’s hand with his own. “God speed you back to your home, Mrs. Boudreaux, and be with you on your journey there. My prayers will be with you.”

Edna Mae fused her gaze with his. “As mine will be with you, Dr. Lassiter.”

Jamie turned the
corner, heading for the day room, hoping to see Kyle there, wanting to somehow warn him, to tell him not to interfere, to leave, to go away and not bring the fury of Liam Tremayne down on the heads of the people Jamie had grown to love and who were risking their lives to free him. Jimmy’s words had chilled him, had cut so deeply into his soul, he was bleeding. To be the cause of anyone getting hurt would be the death of him.

But as he came around the corner, Beecher stepped in front of him with Harrison, the other black orderly at his side, and Gina Jeffers, one of the nurses bringing up the rear, syringe in hand.

“Get back to your room, Sinclair,” Beecher ordered, reaching out to take Jamie’s arm.

Jamie looked past the trio, craning his neck, striving to see Kyle, but the day room was empty, no one about. His eyes flew to the nurse.

“Where is everyone?” he asked. Her frown, a part of the woman’s overall makeup, deepened and she clicked her tongue in annoyance.

“Get him in bed, Mr. Beecher,” she ordered. “I have other patients to see to before supper.”

“Where is everyone?” he asked again, flinching, trying to jerk away as Beecher gripped his arm. “Why are you giving me the shot so early?”

“If you don’t turn your ass around and start back to your room, I’m going to put you in restraints,” Beecher warned, pulling on Jamie’s arm in an attempt to turn him in the opposite direction.

“No,” Jamie told him, jerking against the hold on him. His hand snapped around as Harrison stepped forward and grabbed his other arm. “What are you doing?” He pulled against them. “Let go!”

“Will you get him in bed?” the nurse snapped. She stepped around the men, pushed open Jamie’s door, moving back quickly as they hustled him into the room, his feet dragging, his body twisting frantically against them.

“Damn it, let go of me!” He tried to stomp on Harrison’s foot, instinctively realizing something was wrong. Terribly wrong. “Let go!”

“Shut him up,” Gina Jeffers yelled.

They half-picked him up, flung him onto the bed, pushed him face down into the pillow, and held him there. He jackknifed his legs, pushing against the mattress, striving with all his strength to free himself, but the two men were larger, stronger, and had no mind-numbing drugs flowing through their systems that would cause weakness. Even as the needle jammed into his shoulder, the strong, thick liquid causing instant pain, he fought them. Their hands were like steel bands on his arms. Beecher’s elbow was pressing against his neck, digging into his spine. Jeffers’ uniform was all he could see from the corner of his eye, the white nylon glowing in the harsh light cast from the lamp over his bed.

“When he calms down, strap him to the bed and turn out the light. They’ll be here for him around ten. I’m to give him another shot at nine.”

The drug was invading him, raping him of his will, brutalizing his resistance, but he had heard the nurse’s words, their meaning sinking into him as fast as the drug was plunging him down into darkness.

“No,” he mumbled, his tongue thick, his mouth dry, his words coming from a long, long way away. “Please. No.”

Somehow his father had found out about Kyle. About Edna. About Delbert. And how many others? How many of his friends were in trouble now because of him? For trying to help him?

“God,” he thought he said, but wasn’t sure.

It didn’t matter what happened to him. They could bind him in a straightjacket and leave him that way the rest of his life as long as Kyle and Edna Mae and the others were safe. They could pump him full of drugs, lock him in a padded cell, and throw away the key as long as his friends were spared Liam Tremayne’s swift vengeance.