“Where the hell are we?”
Balaton inhaled deeply of the cold island air. “It’s called Jude’s Paradise.”
“What happened to Badger Rock Island? Listen, don’t I have a right to know what the hell’s going on—”
“I must leave you here,” the president of Crockett Industries told him bluntly.
David groaned. “Oh, shit.”
With a small smile, Balaton sadly shook his head. “You should have lied to me, David. You should have told me the jewels were still in Switzerland. I would have made you go with me to Geneva to get them. Perhaps then you would have bought yourself enough time, and you’d have had a chance. But there’s no need to blame yourself. You’ve never known the kind of fear that can drive good men into doing things they’d never have done if only they’d been allowed to live in peace. Be glad, David. You’ve never faced the horror of having to lie. For that, I envy you.”
“So you’re what Barky’s been trying to protect me from. You’re crazy.”
“Not crazy, David,” Balaton said mildly. “Afraid. You see, the jewels never should have left Budapest. I showed them to those two girls, just so that they would believe me. If I had guessed what they were planning…”
David couldn’t make any sense out of what Balaton was saying and didn’t care, instead readying himself. He leaned heavily on the crutch supporting his good leg and eased up the other crutch. When Balaton, lost in his own unhappy memories, turned back toward the dock, David lunged forward and swiped at him with the crutch.
But Balaton was quick. He scooted away from the blow, which missed him entirely, and jumped lightly onto the dock, springing over to the boat with the energy of a man half his age.
Gritting his teeth against the pain, David hobbled as fast as he could after the madman.
“I’m sorry, David.” Balaton hopped into the boat. “Truly I am. But now you’re my only leverage.”
One of his crutches sank into a rotted place on the dock, sticking there, and David lost his balance, falling fast as the other crutch went flying and he twisted around so he wouldn’t land on his cast. There was a terrible creaking and swaying, and he thought the whole dock would come crashing down, but miraculously it held.
Balaton had the boat’s engine started.
“Sarah will figure it out,” David yelled, trying to scramble up. “She’d know what you’re up to.”
“No.” Balaton seemed supremely confident, at least of that. “She won’t. You see, Sarah believes in me. She always has. Goodbye, David.”
“Balaton, trust me—nobody cares what you did thirty years ago.”
“Yes, David, someone does: Bartholomew Wakefield.”
“So I’ll talk to him—”
But Balaton had turned his back, and he eased the boat away from the teetering dock, out into the gray ocean, picking up speed. There was a roar from its engines, and then it was bouncing over the rippling waves. Soon it disappeared. Lying on the dock, aching and utterly shaken, David listened. In the distance, he could still hear the faint sound of the racer’s engine, and the zing-zing-zing as it skidded across the bay.
What bay?
Where the hell am I?
One crutch was hanging halfway over the edge of the dock. He slid forward on his side, reaching for it, but a board gave way beneath his elbow, and as his arms shot up and out to brace him his hand just nicked the tip of the crutch. He watched it topple into the water. A wave slammed it against a rock, and it fell back into the water, and it was slammed again and again and again.
David lay flat on his stomach and searched for the strength and the will to make himself move. He was afraid the dock would cave in...afraid he’d lose the other crutch when he went after it...afraid of the agony that came with every movement.
“Ash,” he cried, his voice carried down between the treacherous boards, into the swirling sea beneath him, lost. The wind was slicing through him; he wondered idly how much exposure to the cold and the damp his leg and battered body would tolerate. “Barky!”
What if Balaton had already brought Ashley out to this Jude’s Paradise and dumped her? She could be hurt, in pain, needing him....
He saw the other crutch. It was lying parallel to the edge of the dock. If it moved just an inch in the other direction, it would be lost. He had to swing his arm down in an arc, to shoulder level, and then maybe stretch a bit to get it. Slowly...move slowly. Wiggling his fingers, forcing the tension in his arm muscles to ease, he edged it downward.
Don’t lunge, jackass!
Then his arm was straight out from his shoulder. Looking down the length of it, he could see the top of the crutch just half a foot from his fingertips. Too far to stretch. With the bulky cast, he couldn’t easily roll onto his other side, which left maintaining his present position and sort of sidling his whole body in that general direction. But he had to distribute his weight carefully as he moved. If he moved too suddenly, or too heavily, the dock, the crutch and he could go crashing into the ocean.
And that, he thought, would be that.
“To hell with it.”
He sidled; he grabbed the crutch; he tucked it under his arm; he got himself to his feet—or more precisely, he thought, with his gallows humor, to his foot. The going would be slow, awkward and painful with just one crutch. But you acted, goddammit.
It wasn’t much, but it was something.
* * *
He had come to him at dawn, the man in black, this traitor, this mad monk. Balaton had wanted to kill him then, but knew he couldn’t. Not yet...he must bide his time, act only when he was assured of success. “In the morning,” the farmer had said, “by the cliffs on the eastern point of the island. I will see you there; I will find you....”
As the boat sliced through the open bay, Andrew Balaton’s heart thumped wildly and he watched his knuckles turn white on the wheel of the boat, but he couldn’t loosen his grip. He could feel the sweat pouring down from his armpits. He stank with fear. But this time he wouldn’t permit his fear to incapacitate him. He would act.
No. I will find you, orült szerzetes.
He could be confident now. There was no reason to worry about the old fears coming back. Why should they? He was the head of one of the world’s largest companies. He was accustomed to taking risks and dealing with the consequences of failure.
But there could be no failure now. Everything was at stake. As before.
It had been an excruciatingly hot day in Texas. He remembered that most vividly. He hadn’t been used to such heat. Although summers in Hungary could be brutal, he’d never experienced a summer like that one, his first in the United States. He met Judith Land out on the deserted trail where she had used to ride as a child. It was at her request. She had called him.
“Please come, Andrew. We can discuss our future. And I’ll bring the jewels. I promise.”
But she hadn’t. They were her trump card.
“I want a divorce, Andrew. Give me my freedom, and you can have the jewels. I’ll even talk to Daddy. He knows you’re a good executive. He’ll keep you on.”
“Do you know why I want the jewels?”
“No. And I don’t care. I just want to be left alone.”
“Judith, I love you. You’re the only woman I’ve ever truly loved. Stay with me. Give me a chance.”
“It won’t work, Andrew. I’m sorry.”
She had been unreasonable, intransigent. She didn’t love him. She never had. That, too, became clear to him. And there was nothing he could do to change her mind. She was in control, and he was lost.
“I know what you are, Andrew.”
“Ah, Judith, but you don’t.”
“Yes: you’re a coward. Deep down, you’re more terrified of me than I am of you.”
“No!”
And yet it was true. They both knew that.
She went pale when she saw the gun. He took some small satisfaction in that. She had backed up toward his horse; it was where he wanted her.
During the tortures, in Hungary, he used to hope— to silently pray as he waited—that the victims would talk or just go ahead and die. He never relished their cries of agony, as so many of the others did. He wasn’t a sadist. He was the one they would send into the cell, after the torture, to talk to the prisoners about their stubborn refusals to admit to their crimes against the state.
“You must confess,” he’d tell them.
“But I am innocent,” they’d sob to him.
“Then why are you here? We don’t arrest innocent people. Confess. It will be easier for you.”
Of course that was a lie. Confessions resulted in more torture, rigged trials, deportations, executions. How could they release a confessed enemy of the state?
But during the tortures, the interrogations, even the regular staff meetings, he would look around him, peer into the eyes of his comrades and wait for them to see his fear. He was always waiting for someone to call his bluff. He believed they all knew how afraid he was inside, beneath the outer shell of nervelessness. When they weren’t looking, he trembled. At night, he’d vomit silently into his shirt, which he washed before morning, thus developing a reputation for manic cleanliness.
And always, always there were the unbidden, unpredictable outbreaks of sweating. It could happen anywhere, anytime, and he’d have to do something, react quickly, so the others wouldn’t notice. He’d grab a prisoner and flog him. He’d drop to the floor and do push-ups—anything to explain away the flood of sweat
After a while, his comrades understood that he was different from them: zealous, tough, superior. They didn’t know he was afraid, and had been since childhood. Whoever carried the biggest stick, whoever had the vilest reputation, whoever would use violence and terror as means to an end—those were the ones with whom he allied himself. If he were their friend, they couldn’t hurt him.
And then he would live in fear that they would discover his weakness.
Stop!
All that was over, Balaton told himself as Badger Rock Island came into view. He had buried that absurd, cowardly creature he’d been. There was no need to worry about him—to be him.
Ah, but who can stop you? Who knows you better than you know yourself?
No. He smiled to himself: the orült szerzetes had been trying to destroy him for decades. And had he ever succeeded? Of course not. And now he himself was strong. Confident. Without fear. Not as in the old days.
Sarah...
He shut his eyes and breathed deeply, calming himself. If he acted quickly, surely, none of this would touch Sarah. It couldn’t. She was his life, and she would never, never know the terror and violence and horror he had known.
33
J. Land Crockett had grown tired of sitting. With his morning tea finished and Roger, after providing no additional information, dismissed, Crockett stood looking out the screens. The fog had abated, but a light drizzle had started to fall; he hoped Ashley’s flight wouldn’t be impeded. He wanted her here, where he could see her, keep her safe and not fail her as he had failed Judith. He should have guessed how desperate she had felt during the last months. Instead he thought she was being selfish and cruel, acting the spoiled brat.
He had amends to make to her.
Balaton should be arriving any moment with David, the twin brother. The son. The grandson. My grandson, the old man thought with a slight shudder.
And the father? Was it Balaton, whom Crockett had liked, nurtured, treated like a son? Or was it the farmer? The madman.
In the beginning, when he’d seen the tiara and choker and studied the impertinent lovely face of Ashley Wakefield, seeing the eyes of his wife, his daughter, comparing the photograph with the portrait—in the beginning, he had wanted only to hate her. She had lived and Judith had died. He wanted to know who she was, wanted answers, but he didn’t want anything to do with this woman who called herself Ashley Wakefield.
But he had changed his mind. An old man, he thought, has that right.
There was a commotion going on behind him. Roger was saying sharply, “Miss Balaton, please be reasonable—”
“No, I want to talk to Crockett.”
She stormed onto the porch, and turning from the screens, Crockett controlled any surprise he might have felt from entering his face. She was wet and windblown, exhausted and very angry. “Sarah Balaton. Well, well. Did you come with your father and David Wakefield?”
Her face went pale, but she made an effort to retain her sense of outrage. “No, of course not. You told them to leave me behind....”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I did no such thing.”
“Aren’t they here?” Her voice was very small.
“No.”
“But they...they left about forty-five minutes before I did. I had to find a boat, and...they should be here by now. What have you done with them?”
Crockett recalled the phone call from David, that Balaton had volunteered to get him. What was his game? Had Bartholomew Wakefield intercepted them? How?
“Well, then where in the name of hell are they now?” he demanded of no one in particular. “Dammit. Roger, notify the Coast Guard at once. I want that boat found.”
Sarah was beginning to hyperventilate. “Daddy...”
“There’s nothing we can do, Sarah,” Crockett snapped, but he regretted his gruffness. The poor girl looked so forlorn. Despite his own impatience and concern, he softened his tone. “We’ll just have to wait. And Roger, bring more tea, with lots of sugar. Sarah’ll be needing something in her system to keep her going.”
* * *
Even in the torture of labor, Judith Land was radiant. Her lightly tanned skin gleamed with perspiration, and her hair was matted and tangled; dark soaked tendrils hung in her face. For fourteen hours, the pains had been coming. Now it was nearly impossible to tell when they began and when they ended.
The man who had agreed to help her laid a fresh white sheet under her, and he softly told her she could begin to push now.
She shook her head. “I can’t.”
“You must, Just let the baby come....”
“I can’t do it!”
Her abdomen was enormous. In the last days, her joints had swelled in the blistering summer heat and humidity, and she had moved about slowly, wishing for an end to this miserable pregnancy. She had no qualms about swearing about her discomfort. Women had babies, she said, because men could never tolerate such prolonged agony.
“Judith...push. Now!”
She reached up behind her and gripped the headboard of the simple oak bed, and, her teeth gritted and her face twisted in pain and exertion, she heaved with all her might. It wasn’t enough. He told her more. “Push,” he said. “Push!”
But she’d had enough. “Go to hell.”
She was utterly drained. For a moment, he let her rest. Her face grew strangely placid. Then her eyes focused on him, and she smiled and whispered, “This one’s for you, monk.”
And her body found the strength to push, to force out the tiny contents of her uterus, and the man she called the monk caught the blue, wet, bloody infant as she spurted out. A girl. She looked healthy, perfect. The placenta came easily. He cut the umbilical cord with a sterile knife and cleaned off the baby, wrapping her in a fresh cotton blanket.
He started to hand the infant to her mother, whose arms were reaching out for her, but suddenly she grabbed her stomach and she howled with pain, swearing viciously.
He gently touched her abdomen, and he felt the hardness, the lump of another tiny person still inside her. He told her, “You’re having twins, Judith.”
“Oh, God—oh, shit!” But in her agony, she smiled.
The baby came quickly, a boy, dark haired and perfect. Holding her infants, smiling, pale and spent, Judith named them Ashley and David.
It was the man who delivered them, the monk, w
ho made the foot and handprints, but it was the actress, a few days later, who thought of the fictitious surname. “Wakefield,” she said. “Ashley and David Wakefield...for now.”
He was relieved that she saw the necessity of such extreme caution.
But her clear vibrant eyes focused on him. “I want my babies to have a good life. If anything happens to me...”
“No, Judith. Let’s not think of such things.”
She smiled. “You’re hardly one to talk, monk. This time, listen to me. If something does happen—and I don’t for a moment believe it will, but for God’s sake, I’m not a child anymore. I have to think of my children. If something happens, I want you to take Ashley and David away from all this. Raise them yourself. Let them lead good, simple, honest lives. I’ll provide for their futures, monk. You just get them into adulthood.”
He didn’t know what she meant. She was always planning and plotting, this beautiful woman of the cinema, this reckless, tireless heiress. “I will see that nothing happens to you,” he told her. “You will be able to raise your children yourself.”
“I know. But just in case.” Her expression grew even more intent. “Promise me.”
She was so tired. To ease her fears, he promised.
“Of course,” she said, smiling, “you’ll have to have a new name.”
“Of course.”
“That way the three of you can sneak away and no one will ever find you. You can be their...their uncle. And your name—” She paused, thinking. “It can be Bartholomew. Bartholomew Wakefield.”
And so it was.
* * *
The man who, for the past thirty years, had been Bartholomew Wakefield, the creation of Judith Land, watched from behind a large hemlock as Andrew Balaton tied his boat to the small dock on the eastern edge of Badger Rock Island. The wind had picked up, and the ocean was choppy and as gray as the sky. For the moment, the rain had stopped.
A wiry, timid figure, Andrew Balaton walked down the dock, and he had a hunted look as he glanced all around him. He had always tried to hide from his own fears, to run away from the terror that was inside him, from who and what he was. So he had come to the West. He had married a famous actress. He had become the head of a giant corporation.
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