Son of the Enemy (13 page)

Hannah gripped the arms of her chair. “Thornton was very upset about that. We both were. He came by school that day to tell me in person because he knew how much I had enjoyed the judge and his wife.” Thornton had been very sweet to her that afternoon, but beneath it she’d sensed a simmering anger. “He tried not to show it but he was angry that it had happened, that the judge had been… Well, it was almost like he’d been assassinated, wasn’t it?”

The agent’s eyes betrayed a tiny glimmer of surprise at that. “The FBI has reason to suspect that Mr. Bradshaw had advance knowledge that someone was planning a hit on Judge Cervantes.”

Hannah felt the blood leave her face and was thankful she was sitting down. Her mouth was suddenly dry. “Are you saying that he’s some kind of murderer? Thornton?” She nearly said, “
My
Thornton?”

“No, I’m saying that he’s under suspicion for complicity in Judge Cervantes’s murder.”

Hannah squeezed her eyes shut. “He’s a good man. Do you have any idea what he’s done for this school?” She met the agent’s gaze. “Do you?”

“Yes, I do.”

“And he loves his son. Granted, he’s not the best father in the world but he’s a hell of a lot better than mine was, and I know that in his heart he loves that boy.”

“I’m sure he does,” Rita Santini said gently.

“So how could he be a murderer?”

Heavy footsteps were followed by a quick rap on the door, and John stuck his head in. “Oh, sorry.” He nodded at the agent and for just a second, his eyes widened. “I didn’t realize she was—
Jesus
, Hannah, are you okay?”

She held up her palm to keep him from coming any closer. “I’m fine, John. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

He frowned, obviously unsatisfied with her answer, and cast a suspicious glance at the agent. “Don’t leave without talking to me.” He backed out, closing the door behind him.

When he was gone, Hannah turned to the agent. “Why are you telling me all this?”

“We were hoping you would agree to help us.” The woman’s cheeks were flushed, and Hannah wondered why. “Especially in light of what happened to Christian Smythe.”

At the mention of Christian, Hannah’s gut tightened. “His doctors think he’ll recover fully over time. Is there… Has anything changed?”

“They’re cautiously optimistic, true, but he had a close call, as you know.” She tilted her head to one side, revealing plain gold hoops in her ears. “We believe Mr. Bradshaw’s son, Ty, supplied the drugs that sent Christian to the hospital.”

Hannah straightened and made a T with her hands. “Time-out. Let’s leave Ty out of this, okay. He’s a kid, for heaven’s sake. How do you know—?”

“We believe he bought the drugs from an employee on the Bradshaw estate.”

Hannah frowned, puzzled. “You’re saying Thornton
knew
one of his employees was selling drugs to his son?”

“I’m saying that Mr. Bradshaw knows the man is a convicted drug dealer because he hired a top attorney to defend him and paid his legal bills. The man got off with a suspended sentence.”

Silence descended in the room. Outside a group of kids were throwing a Frisbee around, and their shouts and laughter drifted up to Hannah’s office. She rubbed her eyes and tried to make her mind work. Why would Thornton employ a convicted drug dealer who would have access to his vulnerable teenage son?

“Would Mr. Bradshaw turn you away if you showed up at his door unexpectedly?” Agent Santini asked.

The question startled Hannah, but she didn’t hesitate to answer. “No, of course not. Why?”

“All we’re asking you to do is show up at his home on a particular evening and spend a few minutes with him, then leave.”

“What would be the point of that?”

The agent drummed her fingers on the file folder. “I think it’s time I spelled it out for you.”

Forty-five minutes later, Hannah said goodbye to Agent Rita Santini and told her she would call if she changed her mind, but that she shouldn’t hold her breath. Then she leaned back against the door, slid down to the floor and wrapped her arms around her knees. With a deep, groaning sigh, she lowered her head and closed her eyes.

“Hey, Ty!”

Ty snagged his sweatshirt out of his locker and pulled it over his head without answering. Richard Harrington either wanted to buy some dope or borrow some money, and Ty wasn’t about to provide either.

“How’s the hero today?” Richard asked.

“Eat me.” Ty swung his backpack over his shoulder and slammed the locker shut. “What the fuck do you want?”

Richard had the balls to look shocked. “Jeez, Ty, I was just kidding.”

Ty brushed past him. He was sick of people busting his
cajones
about this hero thing. Fucking sheriff had to say it on TV—while he was standing next to his father, for Christ’s sake. So naturally everybody figured his father had set it up. And Philip fucking Kellerman refused to have his picture taken—which was probably just as well because he’d break the fucking camera—so nobody at school believed the witness actually existed. What a great fucking reputation he had.

“Dude!” Richard said from behind him. He grabbed Ty’s arm and lowered his voice. “Can you score me some weed? Or sell me some from your stash?”

Ty whirled on him. “There is no fucking stash, and I’m not your local fucking dealer, okay? So go ask somebody else.”

“Hey, fuck you too, Ty. Maybe I’ll go ask your old man if he can get—”

Ty grabbed him by the front of his jacket and got in his face. “Yeah, why don’t you just do that, dickhead? Go ask my father to score you some dope. I want to be there when you do so I can watch him kick your ugly ass.”

Richard shoved at Ty’s chest until he let go. “What the hell’s your problem, man? I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you saved Christian or not. It was his choice to snort all that shit. If the sheriff says you’re a hero then you’re a fucking hero, okay?”

Ty pushed the door open so hard it banged against the brick wall. He took the steps two at a time and hunched his shoulders forward as he walked to the circle where his driver usually waited for him. He glanced up.
Shit!
Philip was leaning against one of the older black Mercedes, arms crossed over his chest, that weird little smile on his lips.

Philip had somehow convinced Ty’s dad to hire him as a groundskeeper, give him a salary advance and let him live on the estate until he found a place of his own. So he’d moved into the bedroom in the pool house, which had a little galley kitchen for fixing lunches. Ty had spent the night out there with Christian a few times. A guy could live there very comfortably for a long time, a thought that gave him no comfort.

“Hello there,” Philip said as Ty approached. “I’m here to pick you up.”

“Where’s Sal? He usually comes.”

“He was busy and I offered to do it.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t need a ride today, so I guess you wasted a trip.”

“I’d like you to come with me anyway, Ty,” Philip said. “We need to talk.”

Ty swallowed hard. The last thing he wanted to do was be alone in a car with Philip the fucking freak. “About what?”

“Oh, I think you know,” Philip said.

Chapter Twelve

When John came looking for Hannah at four thirty, he found a note with his name on it taped to her office door.

Gone home to sleep for at least sixteen hours
.
See you tomorrow
.

The last word was underlined. He crumpled the note in his fist and jammed it into his jacket pocket, then headed out on foot across the soccer field. She was mistaken if she thought he was going to stay away from her now.

Seeing Rita Santini sitting in Hannah’s office this afternoon had been a huge shock. She had to be there because of Bradshaw. There was no other reason he could imagine why the FBI would be talking to Hannah.
Jesus.
Just what he needed.

No doubt Santini had already checked with headquarters to see why John was hanging around Hannah Duncan. Until he figured out a plausible excuse for being at the Grange School, he was leaving his cell phone off. He had to come up with something fast—before the bureau starting looking closely at John’s searches in their internal computer system. More important, he had to cement his relationship with Hannah before the FBI got its greedy hands on her. Damn it, what did they want from her?

He climbed the steps to Hannah’s cottage and paused before knocking. If she was asleep he didn’t want to wake her, not that way. Better to get inside another way and then wake her up slowly. He tried the knob, expecting it to be locked, and was surprised that it turned.

He also didn’t expect to find her standing in the middle of the living room, staring at him, her face pale, her expression a mix of fear and bewilderment. Something dangled from her hand, a chain of some sort. He approached her slowly and laid his hands on her shoulders. She didn’t move.

“Are you okay?” he asked. In answer she glanced down at the chain and back up at him, as though she suddenly realized she’d been bitten by a poisonous insect. His protective instincts flipped into high gear. “What is it?”

“I found this when I got home.” She held up a delicate silver chain with a pendant hanging from it. He took it from her.

“Looks like an opal.”

“Yes.” She turned her hand over and frowned at her opal ring. “Just like this one.”

“Where did you find this?”

She swallowed. “On my bed.”

This was bad. “Show me,” he said, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

She stopped at the foot of the bed, hugging herself. A small, square envelope was propped against her pillow, with a name written on it. John moved closer to make sure he’d read it correctly.
Belle.
What the hell?

“The necklace was in the middle of the bed,” she said. “The chain was laid out like…a heart. I picked it up, and then I heard footsteps on the porch.” She raised frightened eyes to him. “I was hoping it was you.”

He stroked a soothing hand over her hair. “Do you have a couple pairs of tweezers?” She nodded. “Go get them and bring them to me.”

She went into the bathroom and returned in seconds with the tweezers. John plucked the envelope off the bed and turned it over to see if it was sealed. It wasn’t. He held the envelope over the bed and used the other tweezers to very carefully pull out the card. It was white with a picture of a seagull, and below was written a message in blue ink.

A necklace to match the ring that binds you to me, my lovely Belle. Very soon, now.

It was signed, simply,
B
.

John laid them both on the bed and stepped back. “We need to call the police.”

“Someone thinks I’m a woman named Belle.” She was even paler than when he’d first come in. “I don’t know anyone by that name.”

“None of the students, or their mothers? Former teachers?”

She shook her head slowly. “I’ll have to ask Arthur. Oh God, I don’t want to alarm him. He doesn’t need to be worrying about me.”

John pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. “You would be more concerned about Arthur than yourself. Just let me hold you for a minute and then we’ll call the cops.” Her arms came around his waist and she held on tight.

He rubbed his cheek over the top of her head, inhaling the lilac smell of her hair. If he didn’t make love to her soon, he was going to flip out. And it wasn’t just that he needed sex.

He wanted Hannah. Period. And that was a very bad sign.

“I guess I should call them now.” She pulled away. “I want to get it over with so I can get some sleep before I fall down.”

“You won’t be staying here alone. I can bunk on the couch if you want. If he decides to come back, he’ll have me to deal with.”

She looked up at him. “I’d feel a whole lot safer if you stayed, but it doesn’t seem fair.”

“I’m offering. No, make that insisting.”

He stood beside her when she called the sheriff’s office, and when she hung up he pulled her into his arms and captured her mouth in a kiss so deep, so hungry, he was half-afraid he was scaring her. But she clung to him, tangling her tongue with his, digging her fingers into his back, as caught up in the passion of the moment as he was. She was the first to pull back from their embrace.

“Oh God,” she said on a long, shuddering sigh.

The sound of a vehicle on the dirt road had her finger combing her hair, trying to look like she hadn’t just had the breath kissed out of her. Her cheeks were flushed, her lips swollen and red. He turned away from her so he could concentrate on making his erection go down rather than on how desperately he wanted to be inside her. The trusting look on her face when she took his hand made his chest go tight.

If he had a shred of honor left in him, he would tell her to run for the hills, tell her that if she made the mistake of believing in him she would most certainly be hurt. And that he would leave her to bleed because he’d been bleeding so long he didn’t see any other way.

Chapter Thirteen

It was the thought of losing her that hounded John throughout that long evening and night, while the sheriff’s deputies—incompetents, in his mind—took Hannah’s statement and made forensic errors in their evidence collection. While he fixed her tea and an omelet and ate it himself because she was too tired to eat. While he drew her a bath and ordered her out of it forty-five minutes later after he had to nearly break down the bathroom door before she woke up and assured him she hadn’t drowned. And while he sat on the couch with her head on his lap, stroking her hair and gazing into the fire, telling himself what he was feeling for this woman couldn’t possibly be real.

It was after midnight when she went to bed, and he returned to the living room. He dropped onto the couch, exhausted and too wound up to sleep.

“John?”

He raised his head and realized he must have dozed off. She was standing by the hearth, in a tank top and plaid sleep shorts that hung off her hips. His mouth went dry at the sight of her, his chest aching.

Could he really use this beautiful, precious woman so ruthlessly?

She came toward him and he sat up straighter. He could see the lines of worry on her face. When she was standing directly in front of him, she lifted one soft hand to his face. He grabbed it with both of his and kissed her palm. Her frown deepened.