Then You Hide (22 page)

“Tell me,” he said.

For the first time in forever, she wanted to.

“Remember how you told me your defining moment was when your parents gave you a gun and a Bible? Well, I was a little older when mine took place.”

He waited.

“I was almost ten,” she continued. “Living in New York with my dad, who, when he was around, doted on me. And my mother, who made it fairly clear, although she was subtle about it, that she didn’t love me. Then the unimaginable happened.” She closed her eyes, remembering the joy on Mary Louise Porter’s face, the absolute glow of victory over nature, the beam of her ultimate success. “She got pregnant.”

He moved closer, surprised. “So you do have a sibling.”

“No.” She wetted her lips. “No. I got sick. When she was about four months pregnant, I picked up something at school, one of those violent, fevery things. My mother, my
adoptive
mother, got it.”

Guilt coiled through her, as it always did when she thought about this.

“She lost the baby. I had no idea that the fever caused her to miscarry. I just thought the baby died, and I was brokenhearted because I wanted a sister to love more than anything.

“I heard her one night, one of her awful, endless crying jags. During all those horrible nights, all I wanted to do was make her feel better. Hug her, tell her it would be okay. But every time I did, she shoved me away.” She cursed the crack in her voice.

Wade just listened, no expression, but completely there. Somehow that was far more comforting than if he’d patted her hand and told her it was crazy to take the blame, as others had done the few times she’d shared this story.

“I got out of bed to go to her one night, because I was convinced that I could make my mother feel better. I wanted to take away all the tears, even though it seemed to get worse when I was around. I was standing outside her bedroom door, listening to her wail to my father. And she said, ‘If I hadn’t nursed some baby you bought on the street, I’d have my
real
daughter.’”

“
That’s
how you found out you were adopted?”

Vanessa shook her head. “I knew when I was young. My mother took every opportunity to remind me that we didn’t share ‘real’ blood. But those words did me in. She would have had a real daughter if not for me. A girl who would have lived if not for me.”

He threaded his fingers through hers. “Don’t let that be a defining moment, Vanessa. That’s a bad, bad memory.”

“It defined me. I killed that baby—a child who would have been a sister and a ‘real’ daughter for my mother. I just wanted to stay out of my mother’s sight, then. Out of everyone’s sight. That’s when I started wearing these…” She touched the frames of her glasses. “And letting my hair cover my face.”

“You were hiding.”

“I just kind of stayed to myself until my parents finally divorced, about six years later. It was my dad’s idea to try to find my birth mother. I think he hoped it would bring me out of my shell.” She let out a bitter laugh. “It had just the opposite effect, though. Finding out that she’d shot a woman in cold blood in an alley in Charleston didn’t exactly build my confidence. I hid even more.”

“What changed? You sure seem confident to me.”

She finally smiled. “I just learned my way around the world, and with my father as a role model, I entered finance and investing and excelled. I made a lot of money and a few friends. But when my dad was killed, the only family member who ever really hugged me…well, I just…” She sighed. She’d given up on the concept of family. “I’ve buried myself in work, doing deals.”

“How is this keeping you from your birth mother and two sisters?”

“You’d never understand—you and your mama and your sisters. You would never understand what it’s like to feel you don’t
deserve
that connection.”

“You feel like you don’t deserve love?”

She picked up the glass and gave him a tight smile. “This is getting deep, Billy Wade.” She blinked against the unwelcome moisture in her eyes.

“I know the feeling.” He looked down. “When you’ve done what I’ve done, you fight that same battle.”

“Oh! Hi!” The cheery young voice was so close Vanessa jumped, yanked from intimate to intrusion so abruptly it hurt.

“Remember me from Papaya’s? Sarah?” The brunette bared snow-white teeth at Wade. “Did you find your friend?”

Vanessa put her napkin on the table, not surprised to see her hands trembling as she pushed her chair back. “Will you excuse me for a second?”

Wade gave her a wary look, ignoring the woman next to them. “Not headed for the bathroom window, are you?” he asked softly.

“No,” she assured him. “I’ll be right back.”

She sped out to the ladies’ room off the deserted entry lobby, trying to get behind a closed door before her tears spilled over.

In the empty bathroom, she whipped open a stall door for privacy and pressed her face against the cool metal. The outside door opened, but she didn’t hear any heels on the floor or anyone enter another stall.

Had Wade followed her in there to see if she was okay?

Taking a few deep breaths, she dried her eyes and slid the latch open, ready to face him.

Gideon Bones leaned against the bathroom door, pointing a gun directly at her heart. “Hello again, Ms. Porter.”

A little blood drained from her head, but she stared right back. “What do you want?”

“Your company. On a little trip. Let’s go.”

She shook her head. “I’m not leaving.”

He lifted the pistol, which was smaller than the one Wade carried but certainly as deadly. “Yes, you are. You are going to do exactly as I say. We’ll walk out of here side-by-side, like lovers slipping away.”

She didn’t move, considering her options. She could scream, fight, hide behind the stall door…

“As we leave, Ms. Porter, this gun will be aimed at your heart. You will follow me.” He jerked the gun, indicating the door. “Go.”

She did, opening the door, hesitating to look toward the restaurant. Their outdoor table was far away; Wade would never see her. How long could she stall?

The cold gun and the hot hand that held it snaked right up the back of her shirt, stopping to jab under her shoulder blade. “Move, or you’re dead.”

He had her out the front door in seconds, and Vanessa almost danced with joy when she saw that the tram car was at the bottom of the cliff. They’d have to wait ten minutes for it to come back up, and by then, Wade would come looking for her.

But the big man pushed her past the tram’s loading deck toward the thick trees. She faked a stumble to buy some time, but Bones just yanked her to her feet.

Behind her, she heard the voices and laughter of people leaving the restaurant. Had they seen her being kidnapped? Would they hear her if she cried out? Would that be her last sound?

What would Wade think when she didn’t come back? He’d come after her. Of course he would. Unless…he assumed she’d run away again.

Gideon jabbed the gun, and she followed the silent order, propelled by fear and the force of his body. He muscled her deep into the trees, her breath straining with the effort, burning with the need to scream. In seconds, they were out of earshot of the restaurant and deep into the rain forest.

The ground was still muddy from the rain, reminding her of her trek that morning with Wade.

But this time, she was in the hands of a brute, and the gun he carried wasn’t going to protect her. It was meant to kill her.

She slid on mud, and he yanked her up with a forceful pull, thrusting her through the pitch blackness, the only sounds her strangled gasps and her sandals sloshing in the mud. The jungle smelled earthy and wet, mixed with the lingering cigar smoke that clung to her captor.

After they’d walked for a good ten minutes, she heard the thumping of helicopter rotor blades. The trees cleared, and a wide open area appeared in the moonlight. She saw the same helicopter she’d seen near Clive’s hut. But not, she decided, the one from the beach.

Gideon shoved her forward, both of them automatically ducking under the whirring blades.

“No!” she hollered, using every ounce of strength to wrest her arm from his grip. He didn’t want to kill her, or he already would have, in the woods. He needed her for some reason. “I’m not going! Shoot me—I don’t care!”

She tried to stomp his foot, twisting to fight him, determined as hell not to get into that helicopter with him.

Unbelievably, he released her arm. She whipped around, falling to her knees with the force of her own momentum. Mud squished between her fingers as she struggled to right herself, ready to run, just as the door popped open.

“Don’t hurt her!”

Nearly inaudible over the blades and the blood rushing in her head, the words barely registered as she pushed herself up and started to run.

“Vanessa!”

She froze. Turned. And stared. The lights inside the cockpit backlit a tall, thin silhouette she knew so well.

“Get your ass in here, woman!”

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or scream. So she just covered her mouth and whispered, “Clive.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

IT WAS MIDNIGHT
by the time Jack reached WestchesterCounty, and he still had a good forty-minute drive into the hills above the Hudson River to get to Lucy’s estate.

Not that he was worried about arriving so late in the evening. Protecting the wealthiest and most powerful people in the world was a ‘round-the-clock business, and the Bullet Catchers boss was always accessible. Someone would be there to let him into Lucy’s lair; it was just too bad the lackey wouldn’t hand him a tumbler of scotch when he got there.

With this news, he needed some.

After he’d agreeed to accept her resources, the transformation in his ability to find information, people, and documents that could help locate Eileen’s third daughter had been instant and remarkable. As an investigator, he could dig up crap with the best of them. And even before he had Lucy’s stellar research and investigation team helping him out, he’d done quite a lot on his own.

But things had sped up with her impressive resources at his disposal. The price? Lucy had the right to know everything. And once he told her what he’d learned, he’d be verifying what she already suspected: something huge was at work in this case.

He can do anything
.

Someone very, very powerful had put Eileen Stafford in jail and was willing to do just about anything to keep her there. Including killing innocent people. And nothing would stop Lucy from wanting total and complete involvement.

Maybe it was time he gave that to her.

He rang the buzzer at the massive wrought-iron gate, and it was instantly answered by the Bullet Catcher on duty.

“This is Donovan Rush. How can we help you?”

“It’s Jack Culver. Tell Lucy I need to see her, and yes, it’s an emergency that involves one of her men, one of their principals, and an open case.”

While he waited, he imagined some stud named Donovan calling up to the master suite to wake her. Although company folklore said Lucy Sharpe never slept, Jack knew better.

He’d seen her sleep. In his arms, troubled, restless, fitful…scared, even.

And wasn’t that the real reason he’d gotten the guillotine? Not a misfired bullet that hit Dan Gallagher; Bullet Catchers made mistakes. But his real mistake was seeing Lucy’s vulnerabilities—not friendly fire.

“Come on in, Mr. Culver.”

The gates opened, and soft lights instantly appeared along the quarter-mile-long curve that led to the main house.

Just before he parked, he glanced in the mirror. Day-old beard, too many months of thick black hair over his collar. At least his eyes were clear. It had been six months since they’d been booze-induced red. Six long, dry, miserable months.

As he walked up the stone steps to the front door, it was opened by a towering young man with dark green eyes and a mixed-race complexion. Jack resisted the urge to whistle the rock song “The Bullet Catcher’s Apprentice” as Donovan greeted him and offered to take him up to Lucy’s library.

“I know the way,” Jack said. The new kid mustn’t know all the history and dirt yet. He probably didn’t realize that Jack was once an insider.

“I’ll take you anyway,” Donovan said, wearing that “Don’t mess with me” Bullet Catchers mask they’d all perfected.

Lucy leaned against her desk, as calm and cool and, damn, beautiful as if it were one in the afternoon, not one in the morning. Her hair was clipped back, and she wore something soft and clingy and black, like yoga clothes. The only skin that showed was her hands and feet, with the ubiquitous red nails. How could bare feet be that sexy?

She didn’t look the least bit sleepy. Maybe she’d been awake. Maybe she’d been working. Maybe…Dan Gallagher was down the hall in the master suite waiting for her to come back to bed.

Something very dark rolled in Jack’s gut.

“What is it?” she asked directly.

He crossed the Oriental carpet and sat in the chair facing her desk. “I found her.”

She beamed, and even without a speck of makeup, her skin glowed with the smile that came from her heart.

“That’s wonderful news, Jack.” She dropped into the chair next to him, reaching out her hands. “Who is she? Where is she? Did you tell her about Eileen?”

He shook his head. “Once I ran through some of your databases, I found a child named Christine Whitaker who had originally been on that list, then removed. She’d been adopted by a Whitaker family of Virginia Beach, but they evidently died in a car accident, leaving her a ward of the state. She was sent to the foster-care system, then formally adopted by a family in Roanoke by the name of Carpenter, and the paperwork lists her only as Kristen Carpenter. Up until two months ago, she lived in Washington, D.C.”

“What happened two months ago?”

“She was hit crossing a street, and killed. They never found the driver or the car. It was a hit-and-run with no witnesses.” At Lucy’s expression of horror and disappointment, he nodded. “I feel the same way. It sucks.”

“It does. And you don’t think it was an accident, do you?”

“No, I do not.”

“This is going to be quite upsetting for Miranda. And Vanessa, I suppose,” Lucy said.

“Not to mention Eileen,” Jack said. “Listen, Vanessa and Miranda have to be absolutely vigilant. Whoever this is could very well be tracking our progress.”

“Someone who cares if she gets that bone marrow?” Lucy asked.

“Someone who cares if she finally comes clean. Someone who’d be happy to see her die before that transplant takes place. Once she knows two of her daughters are safe, she might talk.”

“Possibly,” Lucy agreed.

“That’s not all,” Jack said. “Thanks to your research team, I was also able to review the records of visitors to Eileen Stafford’s cell over the years. Other than Miranda, Fletch, and me, there have only been three.”

“In thirty years?”

“Shocking, isn’t it? First, Rebecca Aubry, many years ago. Then there was a second one a few months ago, but the name was conveniently wiped from the record—since, apparently, someone can, and will, do anything where Eileen Stafford is involved.”

“And the third visitor?”

“Howard Porter.”

“Vanessa’s father,” Lucy surmised. “She told Wade he’d gone to see her mother once.”

“Did she tell him that Howard was shot in a 7-Eleven in Baltimore on his way back from visiting Eileen?”

Lucy processed that. “You don’t think that was a random shooting.”

“As I said, I think someone wants to be sure Eileen Stafford stays very quiet until she dies. And anyone getting close to finding out her secrets is in danger.”

She reached for the phone. “I need to tell Wade immediately.”

“While you have him, ask him if he’s seen that tattoo yet.”

“Moot point,” Lucy said as she picked up the phone. “She had it lasered off.”

“But has he seen the scar?”

Her look was sharp. “Why?”

“I’m curious if it’s the same as Miranda’s.”

She pressed a speed dial but kept her dark, tilted eyes on him. “Why?” she asked again.

“I guess I’ve just been involved in the case too long. Details haunt me.”

Her smile was slow and sly. “Have you seen the medical examiner’s report for the third sister who was killed? What did her tattoo look like?”

“It wasn’t on the report.”

“Maybe I can get it. I know some people in Washington.”

He almost smiled at the understatement. She knew the president, the speaker of the House, the directors of the CIA, the FBI, and the NSA, and a few members of the Supreme Court. She knew people—yeah.

She held up her finger and spoke into the phone. “Wade, I have to talk to you.” She waited, and her expression changed as she looked across the desk and held Jack’s gaze. “Are you sure?” She covered the receiver and looked at Jack. “She’s gone.”

Shit
.

Lucy listened, wrote a note, and shook her head. “If anyone can find her, Wade, you can. And you’d better, because Jack thinks…” She paused, looking at Jack. Like they were in this together. “She could be in danger. And when you do, I would like a precise description of the scar where her tattoo was.” She listened to his response, still holding Jack’s gaze. “Because we think it could be an important clue to solving a crime.”

Of course, she’d figured that out. That’s what he liked best about Lucy: she was smart, she was fast, and she took shit from no one.

Especially him.

While she told Wade about the third sister and Vanessa’s father, Jack got up, unable to sit for one more minute. He walked to the wall to admire an oil painting signed by Lemuel Maynard Wiles that probably earned Sotheby’s or Christie’s a cool twenty-five grand. The Bullet Catchers business was
very
good.

“I’m not sure that Vanessa will be arriving in Columbia to meet her birth mother and sister tomorrow,” Lucy said as she hung up. “But I do trust Wade to find her. Still, that gives us some time to look into Kristen Carpenter’s death more closely. And Howard Porter’s,” she added as her mental wheels whirred.

Jack said nothing.

“And, of course, the woman Eileen Stafford is accused of killing,” she added.

“Of course.”

“Donovan can put you in the guest house, Jack.” She waved him off, as if inviting him to spend the night in the four-thousand-square-foot annex where only Bullet Catchers were welcome wasn’t a complete sea change of attitude.

“I’m just suggesting you get some sleep,” she said at his surprised look. “Honestly, you look like hell, and I already told Donovan you’d be staying.”

She stood and rounded her desk, and he took one more glance at her red-tipped toes. Barefoot, instead of wearing one of about six thousand pairs of dead-sexy stilettos, she was a reasonable five-foot-eleven, giving him a chance to look down at her for a change.

He did, liking the feeling and the barely there scent of something spicy in her hair.

“Sorry I had to wake you, Luce,” he said, his gaze sliding up her body as she headed out the door.

She lifted a shoulder just as she disappeared around the corner. “I wasn’t really sleeping.”

As he trotted down the massive curved steps he glanced behind him to a part of the house where no Bullet Catcher had ever been. Her bedroom. At least, he thought no Bullet Catcher had ever been there.

Donovan waited at the bottom. “I’ll unlock the guest house for you. Although someone is staying tonight, one of the downstairs bedrooms is free.”

“Fine.”

He’d be a fool not to use the power and might of the Bullet Catchers on this case. He’d be a proud, stubborn, idiotic fool. So he’d use Lucy, and she’d use him.

Just as they did once before.

He followed Donovan to the guest house, turning once to see if there were any lights on in the wing where Lucy lived and slept.

It was dark. So she’d either gone to bed…or stood in one of those darkened windows watching him.

“Come on!” Clive hopped out of the helicopter and ran to her, reaching out. “We have to hurry, Vanessa!”

Completely confused about what was going on, unable to process the shock of seeing Clive, and with the adrenaline dump of terror after running through a jungle with a gun in her back, she remained frozen.

“Vanessa.” He took her arm gently. “We can’t stay here. I came all the way here to get you, to protect you, but we can’t stay here. Get into the helicopter, and let’s go!”

“With him?” She pointed to where Bones had disappeared into the cockpit. “You want me to get into a helicopter with the man who just kidnapped me in a restaurant at gunpoint?”

“He only did that because I can’t be seen anywhere, and he knew you wouldn’t believe him if he told you he was with me. He’s taking us somewhere safe—this island is crawling with police and media now. He’s on my side, believe me.”

“Why do you
have
a side?” She shook her head as he led her to the open door. “Why didn’t you just call me?”

“I have, whenever I thought I had a secure line, but your phone isn’t working.”

“Clive.” She held back, taking his hands in hers. “Please. I need more to go on before I leave here.”

“What do you need? Don’t tell me you believe that shit that I killed Charlie French?” His face contorted. “I know why she was killed, but I don’t know who did it. Except that it wasn’t me. Don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you,” she yelled back, staying low. “It’s just that…someone…wants me…”

“That guy you’re with? Pretty sucky time to fall in love, Vanessa.”

How did he know she was with a guy? “I’m not in love. I made a deal.” She couldn’t begin to explain it now. “I just can’t run away. And if you’re innocent, you shouldn’t, either.”

“This goes way past innocent. Someone wants me seriously dead, and until he’s caught, I’m lying low, and so are you.”

“Who?” She stayed rooted to her spot, searching his face for an answer that made sense, an answer that didn’t make him a killer.

“Whoever killed Charlie.” He pulled at her. “And whoever killed Russell. I swear to God, if you don’t get into that helicopter and come with me, you could be next. I’m trying to keep that from happening!” His words had enough force to get her to climb into the tiny two-seat cockpit of the helicopter.

Bones’s enormous girth took up almost the entire space, his stomach nearly touching the controls, and the chopper looked old and worn.

“Just sit on my lap!” Clive yelled over the roar of the blades, pulling her on top of him and yanking a seat belt over both of them. “Go, Bonesy! Fly!”

Her stomach dropped as fast as the ground below as they shot straight up, the lights of the restaurant and the hotel visible as they cleared the tops of the trees.

She leaned over far enough to see the tram, moving toward the bottom of the hillside now. Was Wade on it, looking for her? Had he checked the bathroom? Their suite? Had he just assumed she’d run again, unable to face her birth family?

“Can I make a call from up here?” she asked Clive over the engine and rotor noise.

He shook his head. “Calls aren’t safe. We can be traced.”

“By who?” she demanded, frustration boiling up. “What the hell is going on, Clive? Who
is
this guy? Why are we going with him? Why don’t you just go to the police if you’re not guilty?”