No One Left to Tell (35 page)

"I thought I knew you . . . and myself. Guess I was wrong on both counts." He spoke in such a hushed tone that she nearly didn't hear him over the storm. Yet even through the low timbre of his voice, she heard the wounded child. That child had been burned into her memory, branded forever by the condemnation of her actions. She raised a hand to touch his shoulder, but stopped short.

"Tell me what you know, Christian. Please."

Rain pelted the window, blowing sideways with erratic winds. Her concentration waned as the blustering storm elevated her uneasiness. It was after five when Raven glanced to the clock on the bullpen wall. She had expected to hear from Christian by now. Playing over their last conversations in her head, she wondered what had happened at work that would keep him so late. Didn't he have enough on his plate without the added stress? And with his employer being Fiona Dun-hill, the woman who'd kept such damaging secrets from her own son, her anxiety mounted.

"What's up with you, Christian?" she muttered.

"Hey, Mackenzie." The desk sergeant poked his head through the doorway. "I got a message to deliver. From Father Antonio." He handed her a note.

"Why didn't you just direct the call back to me?" Her eyes were drawn to the pink slip of paper. "Did he want me to call him back?" She glanced up.

"No. He just wanted to leave the message." The officer slouched against the door frame. "Seemed in a hurry."

"How did he know I was here?" It seemed odd that the priest only left his message, not waiting to speak to her directly. She narrowed her eyes at the note, finding it hard to decipher the message. But the sergeant elaborated.

"Oh, he asked about you and I told him you were here. Then he asked if he could just leave a message."

The man shrugged. "He wants you to meet him at the rectory in a half hour, by the side parking lot. Says he may have a witness for the Blair case."

"Oh, yeah? Well, what do ya know? What's this about flashing something? I can't read your writing, Sarge."

The man chuckled. "Yeah, well, I can think of a couple things a man would like you to flash, Mackenzie. But this man is a priest, for cryin' out loud. Show some respect."

She rolled her eyes, then arched an eyebrow, waiting for him to answer.

"The note says that when you pull up, flash your lights and he'll join you. Guess he wants you to drive somewhere. With rush-hour traffic, you might want to leave now," he added.

"Yeah, thanks. Good idea."

She suddenly remembered what Christian had told her.
Promise me you won't deviate from the plan.

A trip to St. Sebastian's definitely constituted a departure from their game plan. But surely he would understand. She was only meeting a priest at a church rectory. How dangerous could that be? A loud crack of thunder nearly jolted her from her seat. Both she and the sergeant looked out the window, catching a violent flash of light streaking across the sky.

"Rush hour is gonna be a bear. My workload's gonna triple." He scowled. "You better get going. Drive safe."

"Yeah, later, Sarge. I gotta see a priest."

"I've always thought that'd be a good thing for you, Mackenzie. God works in mysterious ways."

"So I've heard." She shook her head and grinned at the man.

After grabbing her coat, she put a hand on her Glock in its holster, an old habit when she was on the move. She glanced at her cell phone, checking the battery. It had plenty of juice. The plan could still work. He'd call her and she'd answer the phone.

What could be simpler?

Christian wondered the same thing. What did he know . . . exactly? Good question, Fie—and a clever stall tactic. So much was supposition on his part. Only she knew all the answers.

Lightning streaked across the night sky, hurling its wrath into the void. And with it, his anxiety multiplied. Yet Christian persisted in this verbal joust with Fiona. The vaguer his responses, the more he might get her to admit. It was a gamble. But she was an intelligent woman, smart enough to outwit his lame attempt at a subtle interrogation. And the pained expression on her face made him feel heartless.

"Let's just say that I'm gonna have mixed feelings when it comes to celebrating Mother's Day." He wanted to bite back his cynicism, but it swept through his words like an infection. He couldn't look at her any longer. Even with everything she'd done, she was still his mother. Nothing justified his cruelty to her, not without first hearing her side of it.

"Oh, God. You don't know how many times I wanted to tell you the truth, especially after—"

"There's a lot I don't know, Mother dearest."

He walked toward the glass door to the hangar waiting room, his eyes boring through the darkness beyond the lights of the small parking lot. Pulling back his coat, he jammed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. He caught her in the reflection of the glass. A shimmer of tears influenced the lines of her face. She looked older than her years.

But there was still so much he needed to know. He couldn't spare her. Not now. With her propensity to disappear, he had to know the truth before it was too late. He let his mind delve into the depths of his pain.

"And you just watched me go through that hell and didn't say a word. How could you? Why?"

Quietly, when she thought he hadn't noticed, Fiona clutched at her stomach as if she were nauseated. He knew the feeling. Slowly, she regained her composure and joined him at the door. She stood by his side and stared into the heavy rain.

"I know you're not going to believe this, but I did it for your own good."

Closing his eyes, he tilted his head back, not sure he wanted to hear her crafty dodges.

"You owe me an explanation." Glaring forward, he kept his tone even. "Let's start with something simple. Who were the Delacortes? If I was your son, how did I end up being raised by them?"

Flashes of his family's faces blew through his mind, like a reel of film played out of context, remembrances he thought he'd buried. Memories long forgotten suddenly sprang from the darkness. Strange images mirrored in the glass of the waiting room.

Glimpses of a happier life. Loving smiles. Laughter. Childish games with his precocious younger sister. Replaced by the screams he knew well—and all that blood.

Then, just as suddenly, the throng of memories faded. Yet one image remained. Bathed in light, shadow man now had a face, a memory he would keep.

"John Delacorte." Fiona spoke the man's name as if she read his mind.

"Yes." His trance slowly cleared with the sound of his own voice. Christian gazed at Fiona. Odd, she had a smile on her face.

"I met him when I was pregnant with you, Christian. Back in those days, there was such a stigma to an out-of-wedlock pregnancy. My family made excuses for me, sent me away."

Pulling her coat around her, Fiona folded her arms. She stepped to the chairs across the room and collapsed into one.

Her voice sounded very far away. "He was a ground-skeeper at the facility, Serenity Clinic in upstate New York—very private, very discreet. John and I became friends. He was such a compassionate young man."

She patted the seat next to her. Defeat showed on her face. He couldn't refuse her. Moving the chair from the wall, he squared off, facing her knee to knee.

"I couldn't give you up, especially not after seeing your eyes. Green, like mine." She smiled. Tears pooled, then drained down her cheek. "I was betrothed to Charles Dunhill. A very dangerous man. If he knew—" It took her a moment to continue. "I paid John to adopt you. Once I got married, I had access to more funds. It got easier to support you, to keep you hidden. I subsidized John and his growing family for years. He was such a good man."

"But you gave me up. Why? And why keep me hidden? Were you that. . . ashamed?"

"God, no. I loved you, so much." A sob caught in her throat. She clutched at his hand. The unexpected touch made him flinch, but she held firm. It was her way. "It broke my heart when I wasn't there to see your first steps, to hear you call someone else Mother." With a frail hand, she wiped tears from her face. "It was the best I could do, Christian."

He narrowed his eyes. She still hadn't answered his question. Why did she keep him hidden? She caught his look of skepticism.

"Besides, John loved you like a son. After the years went by, I saw how much it meant for you to be a part of his family. He couldn't have loved you more if you were his own. I saw that, too."

Her diversion worked, for an instant. Christian swallowed hard, choking back the emotion.

"What?" She squeezed his hand, encouraging him. "Say it."

The connection he felt for Fiona now reminded him of the many conversations they had when he was a kid, so messed up. She had a gift. She could draw things from him that he didn't know were inside.

"Lately, I've been having that same recurring nightmare. The one I had when I was a kid. But this time, I remembered more of it." His eyes found hers. "My father . . . John saved my life. He died because of me. They
all
did."

"No, Christian. If anyone takes the blame, it should be me. I was too weak to deny my family and stand up to Charles. Don't do this to yourself."

"It wasn't the police that killed the Delacortes, was it? Why did you lie about that?" His accusation came from nowhere. But he saw by her reaction that he'd stumbled onto the truth.

She refused to answer. Fiona's jaw dropped, her eyes wide with his abruptness.

He yanked his hand from hers and stared in disbelief. "Damn it! You owe me the truth. Don't hold back now."

She wasn't going to answer him, but he couldn't let it go. Standing, he thrust the chair out from under him and stalked toward the door. "Those men were after me. I remembered that too. Who killed the Delacortes, Fiona?"

"I just can't—" She pleaded for his mercy with her eyes and in the pitiable quiver of her voice. "Saying it aloud . . . the truth is so ugly. I'm not ready for it. Not yet. Please. Can we go home? I need to go home."

She looked lost. He had come so close to hearing it all. But her refusal now was like waving a red flag in front of a bull. Fiona had to know the ramifications of her actions. Surely, if she knew, she would tell him everything. It was the only way.

"Charles Dunhill, the Delacortes, Mickey Blair . . . how many have to die for you to tell the truth? After you fled the country, one of the detectives on the case was gunned down on his front lawn, in front of his family. The ICU is gonna be his home for a while. The police believe it's the same man that killed Mickey."

The shock on her face was undeniable. But he couldn't stop.

"And Detective Raven Mackenzie is under my protection, because the same bastard is stalking her."

"I didn't know. You have to believe me, if I had known—"

"If you'd have known, would you have come back at all?" His words were brutal. They found voice through his pain and his betrayed trust. He glared, unwilling to mask his anger. "What are you not telling me, Fiona? Who is my biological father? And did you have anything to do with the death of your own husband?"

As he gazed out the window, he heard the creak of a chair as she stood. In the reflection of the glass, he saw her walk toward him. Christian felt her presence by his side. Any other time in his life, the act would have given him comfort. But now, he knew pain would follow. He was about to learn the truth. Only the rhythm of the rain filled the emptiness until—

"My husband, Charles, killed the Delacortes. He made it look like a police raid gone bad, but it was all him." She cried, her arms clutched around her waist. Her shoulders shook with every sob. "I despised him for what he did."

"But why did he—? What did they do to deserve that?"

"He wanted you, Christian. He was after my son." Her eyes glazed over. She was in another world. "We were so careful, John and I. But Charles must have found out. I never discovered how." She turned and reached for his arm. "By the grace of God you survived. Maybe John had more to do with that. I don't know. But I had to do it. Don't you see? Charles wouldn't have stopped trying to find you ... to kill you. You were only a boy—"

She collapsed in his arms. He held her, supporting her weight until he walked her to a chair.

"I had to do it. I had no choice," she muttered, staring out the window as if he weren't there. "I hired Mickey to kill my husband. It was the only way to keep you safe. Charles was such a jealous and vengeful man. And with his money, he had a long reach."

He gripped her hand as he knelt in front of her. The pieces to the puzzle had fallen into place. Only one question remained.

"Who's my father, Fie?"

Her eyes widened. She clenched her jaw. Suddenly, her cooperation ceased. Christian saw it in her face. She would keep her secret. And despite his complete devastation over her betrayal, he still loved her enough—to let her go.

"You have a choice, Fie. You can get back on that plane. I won't tell them where you are. Bury yourself deeper this time." He lightly touched his fingers to the back of her hand, not taking his eyes from her. "Or you can stay, help me sort this out. But I'm not sure it's in your best interest to do that. Whatever you decide, I'll try to understand."

He wanted to take her in his arms and protect her from her demons, as she had done for him all those years ago. But whatever would have happened, he'd never know. The harsh sound of his cell phone called for attention. In denial, he waited for the second ring to answer it.

"Yeah."

"She's on the move." The gruff voice of Bill Edwards yanked him from his misery. He stood and left Fiona sitting in the chair, confused by the look of concern on his face.

"You have the coordinates?" He listened intently and shut his eyes tight, trying to regain his focus. "I'm heading out now. Get someone over here to take Fiona anywhere she wants to go. When I get on the road, I'll call you again, to feed me the information. Don't lose my SUV, Bill."

He ended the call, his heart racing. Raven was on the move, even after promising she'd stay put.

"What's going on, Christian? Is it the case?"