In the Heart of the Wind Book 1 in the WindTorn Trilogy (52 page)

“If you tell me we’ve got to take this blasted thing up to the first floor...” Danny O. began.

“Then I won’t tell you.” Patrick chuckled. “But that’s where it’s going.”

Margaret turned
over as she heard the gentle tapping on her door. “Yes?”

Patrick stuck his head in and smiled. “Ready for your surprise?”

She didn’t like the look in her son’s eyes any more than she had liked the tone in his voice two days earlier. She nodded reluctantly and sat up, adjusting the folds of her silk robe around her legs. As Danny O. and two of her husband’s guards stepped respectfully into the room, her eyes flared and settled in surprise on the heavy, ornate old trunk they carried. Her eyes moved to Patrick’s.

“What in the world?”

“Put it over there by the window, guys,” Patrick ordered as he walked to his mother. He helped her from the bed. “Come see what I found for you, Mama.”

Margaret knew the antique trunk had to have set her child back quite a large sum, but the glowing oak wood, gleaming brass hardware and intricate pattern of brass studs adorning the trunk made her whisper with pleasure.

“Oh, Paddy, it’s lovely!” She rubbed her hand over the smooth surface. “It’s absolutely lovely.” She looked at the beautifully cast lock, then up at her son. “Let me see the inside.”

Patrick’s eyes flickered for just a moment before he smiled brightly and fished in his pocket for the key. The smile began to waver as he rummaged in one pocket then the other. Finally, a sheepish grin on his face, he shrugged.

“You don’t have the key?” his mother asked, her brows raised.

“I can pick the lock,” Danny O. offered.

“You most certainly will not,” Margaret snapped. “You’ll scratch it!” She looked at Patrick. “You
do
have a key for it, don’t you?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am! I must’ve left it at home.” At his mother’s look of dismay, he was quick to reassure her. “But I’ll call Mary Marlene and have her bring it when she comes tonight.”

Margaret looked longingly at the truck and sighed. “Oh, all right.”

Patrick put his arm around his Margaret’s shoulders. “How ‘bout joining me for a cup of tea?”

As Margaret looked into her son’s veiled eyes, she still didn’t like what she saw there. Something was up, she knew, but as with all her children except her youngest, she’d never know until they were ready to tell her.

“How much did that trunk cost, Paddy?” she asked as he led her from the bedroom and into the hall behind the others.

“Not even a fraction of what my mother’s worth,” he answered gallantly and chuckled at his mother’s unladylike snort.

They had gone only a few feet when Patrick stopped. Margaret looked up at him. “What’s the matter?”

Patrick blushed. “I’ve got to use the restroom. Can I use yours?”

“Don’t you miss the bowl,” his mother cautioned.

“Not me,” Patrick assured her. He kissed her cheek and turned toward the bedroom. “I won’t be long.”

Margaret smiled as he hurried into her bedroom. Of all her children, Patrick was always the one who waited until the very last moment to relieve himself before they went anywhere.

Several minutes later, Patrick returned to the hallway.

“All set,” he said and smiled.

Liam Tremayne
glared across the dining table at his son. “Not one word out of you, Patrick! Not one more
word.”

“Liam.” Margaret’s soft voice cautioned her husband to moderate his temper.

Liam’s mouth snapped shut and he flounced back in his chair.

“I just wish you’d listen to reason, Papa,” Patrick tried again.

“
Whose
reason?” Liam growled. “Not
mine!”

“We’re only thinking of you, dear,” his wife told him. “Even your son agrees you should be in the hospital where they can care for you.”

“I will die in my own bed, in my own house! We will discuss this no more.”

Patrick saw his mother’s eyes close in weariness. He placed his hand over hers.

The meal had been arduous, the head of the family barking orders at the servants, sending away perfectly cooked food, finding fault with everything. There had been precious little peace at the table and even less appetite.

Watching his father’s face, Patrick could see the strain. Andrew’s and Bridget’s disappearances were weighing heavily on the old man. He had, despite his wife’s ardent objections, laid the blame for their vanishing directly at Jamie’s doorstep. The argument between husband and wife—she steadfastly refusing to admit her youngest child could possibly have anything to do with her other children’s disappearances; he adamantly convicting his son despite the fact the young man hadn’t been seen anywhere near Atlanta or Savannah.

“He’s murdered them,” Liam mumbled as he drank from his tumbler of mineral water. “The son-of-a-bitch has murdered my kids.”

“Liam, please,” his wife begged.

“Two weeks, Margaret,” he snapped. “Your children have been missing for two weeks. Don’t you give a damn about what’s happened to them or do you just care about that prissy little bastard you insisted on having despite my orders?”

Margaret’s lips pursed and she carefully avoided looking at her middle son. She picked up her napkin and blotted her lips.

“I think I’ll retire to the guest room this evening,” she announced.

“Good idea,” Liam agreed hatefully.

Patrick saw the tears flow into his mother’s eyes and would have spoken, but she lifted her hand, sadly shaking her head. As she put her hands on the arms of her chair, he stood up, went to her and gently pulled back the chair.

“Tell Mary Marlene I’ll see her in the morning,” she said, smiling as her son bent down to kiss her cheek.

“I can’t imagine why she’s so late,” he apologized, although he knew damned well she wasn’t due until the morning.

“Good night, son,” she said, patting his hand.

Liam looked up as his wife walked out, then his eyes slid to his son. “It’ll be a relief to her when I’m gone.”

A relief to us all,
Patrick thought as he resumed his seat, but he put just the right amount of censure into his voice when he spoke. “You know that’s not so, Papa.” He lifted his wine glass and looked over its rim at his father. “She loves you.”

Liam waved an annoyed hand. He turned his head and caught Danny O.’s eye. “Tell that useless bitch of an upstairs maid I want my bath drawn.”

“So early?” Patrick asked. He looked at his watch. “It’s only eight. I didn’t think you went to bed until ten.”

“I’ll go to bed any damned time I want! This is my house and don’t you ever forget that, you sniveling, ass-kissing, little bastard.”

A muscle in Patrick’s jaw ground, but he kept his mouth shut. He lowered his eyes to the table.

“You think you’re going to be the one to run the Tremayne Group now, don’t you?” Liam sneered. When Patrick glanced up in surprise, he smiled hatefully. “That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it, Patrick?”

Patrick shook his head. “The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. It has always been understood that Andrew would—”

“Andrew’s dead,” his father shouted, his fist coming down on the table with enough force to rattle the china. “Andrew is dead and so is Bridget!”

“Papa, you don’t know—”

“I do!” The chair in which the old man had been sitting crashed backwards as he came to his feet. His eyes glowed feverishly and became slits of piercing fire. “But let me tell you something, Patrick Tremayne,” he cooed in a hard, malevolent hiss. “It’ll be a cold day in hell before I allow you or that cowardly brother of yours to run this company.”

“Brother?” Patrick echoed, confused.

“Aye, brother,” Liam snarled. “Oh, don’t think I don’t know it was you helped him get away.”

A tremor of fear shook Patrick to his foundation as he stared into his father’s irrational eyes.

“Oh, aye. Aye, I knew it.” The harsh voice became a croon of warning. “And don’t think for one moment I’m going to let you get away with it, Patrick.”

“I don’t know what you’re talk—”

“Yes you do.” The old man staggered down the length of the table until he was standing at Patrick’s side. He locked his angry gaze with his son’s and let all the venom he could muster drip from his next words.

“I’m going to crush him, Patrick.” He held up his hand and slowly closed his fingers into a tight fist. “I’m going to snuff the life from him. But before I do, I’m going to have that precious wife of his brought before him and I’m going to make him watch while I have every man I can find screw her until she dies screaming out her hatred for him! Then I’m going to kill him slowly and painfully.
Myself!”

“Papa, you don’t mean that.”

The old man’s eyes flared. “Don’t I, Patrick? Just see if I don’t!”

Patrick sat perfectly still as his father made his way painfully up to the chair lift that would carry him to the first floor. He listened as the motor engaged and the lift whirred, the chair begin to rise. He could hear Danny O’Callahan’s robust voice speaking to his employer, then the burst of annoyance which meant Liam wanted to be alone in his bath.

Patrick wiped his hands on his napkin, got up, and walked into the entrance hall.

Danny O. sighed heavily as he came down the stairs. “He’s getting worse and worse. I told him he shouldn’t be alone while he’s in the tub, but he wouldn’t listen.”

Patrick shook his head. “It’s not your fault, Danny.” He glanced up the stairs. “Has Mama gone to bed?”

“Every night right at eight,” Danny O. confirmed. “I think more to get away from your father than because she’s sleepy.”

Patrick nodded. “I don’t blame her, do you?”

Danny O. shrugged.

“What would you say to a few games of rummy?” Patrick asked, poking Danny O.’s arm. “Think you can take me?”

His answer was an offended snort from his father’s right-hand man.

The bath water
was just hot enough, soapy and bubbling, smelling of lemons. The plastic cushion behind his back and neck was comfortable and Liam thought he could fall asleep right where he was. His eyes were closed, his lips twitching with pleasure at the delightful smell of the bubble bath. He moved his toes like a child in the water and lifted one leg to probe his left big toe at the spigot. The gold nozzle was cold to the touch and he smiled, lowering his leg. He sighed, content, and began to hum to the music on the radio.

In every house he and Margaret had ever lived, they’d had a radio by the tub. When they’d been younger, the music from the easy-listening stations had always accompanied their lovemaking in the tub. The more lively strains adding more forceful rhythms had sent water cascading over the tub’s sides.

As they had grown older, the music was a gentle companion, lulling them into a blissful, peaceful relaxation. It spoke to them of calm and tranquility and quiescence. It soothed the raging pain in Liam’s chest and seemed to dull the ache in Margaret’s joints. It had become a faithful friend doling out to the couple the sustenance they required in the privacy of their baths. Of late, the soft music had become an anesthetic numbing Liam’s sense of impending death.

“Hello, Papa.”

Liam’s eyes flew open. He turned his head, prepared to vent his rage on Patrick for having invaded the sanctity of his bath, but the face that looked down at him from beneath the black wool watch cap was the one he feared most in the world.

“James,” he sighed. He shivered in the water, feeling vulnerable. He looked hard at the young man and saw no gun, no knife, no garrote. He lifted his gaze to his son’s and saw only mild amusement glowing in the dark eyes.

“Why don’t you scream out for one of your bullies, Papa?” he asked in a soft voice. “Think they can get here in time?”

Liam’s mouth twisted into a feral sneer. “Do you think I’m afraid of you?” His eyes raked over his son. “Well, I’m not!”

Jamie shrugged. “I don’t care if you are or not. It doesn’t matter any more.”

Liam felt his son’s stare like a heavy weight. He could see death in the boy’s eyes; knew he was going to try to kill him. The faint fear he would succeed crossed the old man’s mind, but he dismissed it. At best, James Gabriel Tremayne was an ineffectual, worthless....

The thought of Andrew and Bridget invaded Liam’s mind and his breathing stopped. He looked deeply into his son’s eyes.

“They’re dead, Papa,” Jamie said as though he had read his father’s mind. “Dead and buried.”

The old man saw the truth of those words in the spark that lit his son’s dark gaze. He shuddered, truly afraid of another man for the first time in his life.

“You won’t kill me,” Liam said, but his tone was one more of hope than bravura.

Jamie smiled as he squatted beside his father’s tub. He was at eye level with the old man now, and he could see something in those fading green eyes he had never expected to see—fear. He turned his head to one side and regarded his father with surprise.

“What makes you so sure I won’t, Papa? Don’t you think I have good cause?”