No answer. She dialed Reynard’s cell phone, and she heard his voice, his breath heaving in thick gasps. “Where are you?” she demanded. “Are you and the others all right?”
“Bit of a close call,” Reynard panted. “The wind blew a burning branch to the edge of Lake Dingo. Fire sprang up and threatened to ring the whole lake. We beat most of it out, almost got it. Gotta go, love.”
“Wait! Where at Lake Dingo?”
“Near that big boulder shaped like an arrowhead. Gotta go, love. Stay safe.”
She ran to her room and jerked two blankets off the closet shelf. Then she set off, fast as she could toward the lake.
At the edge of Hunter River, she could see a hellish and sickening conflagration. Most of the fire trucks were there, and some men had come staggering back, choking from smoke, their faces sooty and their clothes blackened.
She tried to run toward the lake, but a policeman seized her by the arm. “Who are you? What do you want?”
Breathless, her throat burning from the smoke, she told him her name and that she wanted to make sure her uncle, Reynard Lafayette, was all right, that a fire had broken out at the lake’s edge.
Roughly, he told her to go back; the site could be highly dangerous, she wasn’t needed and would only create more confusion. She jerked free and headed again toward the lake. The policeman shouted he’d arrest her, but then someone on the lawn screamed for help, and he turned and lumbered off in the opposite direction.
She ran until she saw a tall figure looming out of the smoke. He took Marie’s arm far more gently than the policeman had. Behind him she could see small tongues of flame flickering through the haze. It took her a moment to recognize Andrew. He was so dirtied by smoke, his shirt ripped half-open, his hair wildly tumbled and hanging in his eyes.
He leaned closer to her. “You shouldn’t be here. It’s dangerous.”
“I had to know if you and Rennie were safe,” she said, and the scene was so surreal, so close to violent destruction that she felt the two of them stood in the pit of hell itself.
“He’s safe, but he strained his ribs,” Andrew said, pulling her closer. “He won’t stop fighting the fire, though.”
“Still fighting?” she cried, tears welling in her eyes and spilling down her cheeks. “Do I need to get him to an ambulance?”
“I don’t think you could. He’s a stubborn old coot—and fearless. You need to get back. This is still a hot spot. Get to a safer place. We called. There’s a pumper truck coming as soon as they can spare one.”
She looked and saw Rennie, hunched with pain, beating at the fire with a wet horse blanket. The big man named Winkler fought beside him, his face red from firelight and black from smoke. Two other men helped, but she didn’t recognize them.
She couldn’t go back. She shook her head, squinting her eyes against the sting of smoke. “No. I’ll help you fight it. I brought blankets I can wet. I’ll work with you.”
“Marie…” Andrew said, trying to caution her.
“I’m not going,” she told him, “so get to work. If Reynard can do it, so can I.”
“Good lord,” he said and reluctantly released her.
The next twenty minutes seemed like a marathon, soaking a blanket, slapping it against the smoldering grass with all her might, then soaking it again, and then again. At last the pumper truck came down the slope, and Marie, exhausted and aching, stared numbly at it.
Reynard sat down on the wet ashes, hugging himself, his face blackened by smoke, holes burned into his shirt and jeans. Marie stared at him. She didn’t know he had such raw courage, and it made her want to cry harder.
“Rennie?” she said, her voice quavering. “Are you all right?” She started to move toward him. He waved her away. “A stitch in my side is all. I’ll be fine. Just leave me be for a minute to get my breath.”
Marie’s knees started to go weak, partly from relief that it was ending, partly from dizzying fatigue. She’d been going on sheer adrenaline, but the adrenaline was gone now. Completely. She felt faint and swayed slightly. She gave a broken little sob.
Andrew stepped to her side and took her into his arms. “It’s going to be fine, Marie. And Rennie’s going to be fine. Don’t cry. Please don’t.”
She pulled back slightly, staring up at him. “And you? Are you all right?”
In the flickering gloom, she saw his expression change. “Yes. Don’t worry. But you need to go back. This is no place for you. Be careful, for God’s sake. I wish I could take you back, but—”
“But they’ll still need you here,” she said tightly. “Oh, be careful…” Her voice broke.
“Don’t cry, Marie,” he said, his voice low. “I’ll watch out for Rennie.”
Suddenly he bent and kissed her, almost desperately, holding her tightly, his hands exploring the planes of her back, his lips pressing hungrily against hers. She didn’t resist. She couldn’t. She kissed him back with the same wild need.
Amid so much ruin, she needed something that promised life, a rebirth, a rising out of the ashes. Perhaps he felt the same primal urge. They tried to lose themselves in each other, to transcend the danger and the loss. For a long moment she felt they couldn’t stop, to stop would be a surrender to the darkness.
But at last she broke the kiss, and they both drew back, staring at each other with something like incomprehension. She felt dizzy and unreal. “Be careful,” she said. “Please.”
“You, too.”
Her heart pounding, she started toward the house. She cast one last glance back at Andrew. Against the dying glare of embers and the murk of smoke, he stood very straight, watching after her, a dark silhouette like a man standing on the brink of hell.
When she made her way back to the lawn, the fire along the river seemed under control. She limped to her room and took a twenty-minute shower, using up a whole bar of soap. She was too tired and confused to think straight.
Reynard was hurt again. She’d never seen so many flames, fires burning so widely and wildly. And Andrew had kissed her.
That part seemed dreamlike, impossible to her. The kiss was different from before. She didn’t understand. But she felt different. As if something within her had changed.
Changed forever.
Chapter Eleven
It was shortly before midnight.
In Scone, Feeney sat alone in his tatty little rented apartment, his headquarters for this operation. He’d told the apartment manager that he was a designer of computer games, tired of living in the city. Electronic devices crammed the apartment, and he had a crate of mobile phones. He used them and disposed of them like tissues.
Feeney was a rather nondescript man of middle height, middle age. His hair was brownish, his eyes were grayish, and the only noticeable things about him were his extraordinary pallor and his rasping, ragged voice.
But he noticed things about other people. He noticed all sorts of details. And he had an almost infallible eye for people who were corrupt or corruptible. He put this talent to excellent use.
Tonight he relaxed by watching a telly program about a little old English lady who solved fiendishly complicated murders. He loved this program because it was so utterly, perfectly, flawlessly stupid.
He half wanted the old English lady to adopt him and half wanted to put a bullet in her forehead.
He reached for his glass of absinthe. The liquor was one of his few cosmopolitan indulgences. He made it the old-fashioned way, and even had an antique slotted spoon to sift the sugar into the emerald drink and change its color to a swirly yellowish green.
He liked absinthe’s reputation—the most beautiful and degenerating drink in the world. The favorite tipple of the wicked. It was known as “the green goddess” and “the green fairy,” and it was rumored to drive those who loved it mad.
This, of course, was rubbish. Sugared, in the old-fashioned way, it was both bitter and sweet to Feeney’s jaded tongue; it numbed his ever-aching throat, and soothed his pinched stomach.
Absinthe gave some people a mere alcoholic fuzzy buzz. But Feeney was one of the lucky ones. A few sips and he felt his mind being lifted into an intense clarity, certainty and elevation of thought. This could last as long as twenty or thirty minutes at a time and made him feel nearly invulnerable.
He liked it, and he liked to do it several times after a hard day.
Today had been a hard day. He’d had to arrange—perfectly—two hits in Sydney, a pair of double-dealing loan sharks who’d gotten cute with the Granger gang. The Grangers didn’t like being stiffed. That’s why they’d thrown in on the murder of Sam Whittleson, who’d run up big debts but hadn’t paid them.
Shame on Sam for being so dangerously, so foolishly in hock. Still, it had made him the perfect sacrificial lamb for the other business, the business with Jacko. His death satisfied both parties.
But Lord, the complexity of setting such things up just so.
Feeney took his first sip of the green goddess, and was savoring its anesthetic effect on his throat, when his cell phone rang. He swore and answered it. He recognized the voice: one of his people in Hunter Valley. This particular foot soldier was not bright, which was unfortunate, but he was brutal, which was always helpful.
“Feeney,” Chalk said, “Preston’s got a woman. I saw him snogging her like he’d take her in front of me and everybody else.”
“Did you get a picture?” Feeney asked, already knowing the answer.
“Hell, no. You know how stupid that question is?”
Do you know how stupid that answer is? Feeney thought, piqued. One word from me and tomorrow morning you could be shark kibble.
“But,” Chalk said, pride in his voice, “there’s others that saw. He was all over her. And I know who she is.”
So do I, you Neanderthal. I’ve known for days. I’m already working on it. That’s why I’m where I am, and you’re where you are. But he pretended. “And this woman is…?”
“Some sort of cook at Fairchild Acres. A looker. A little bit of a thing. I seen her around before. Marie Lafayette.”
Feeney restrained himself from yawning. He knew what Jacko wanted to do to her, and Feeney’d already started doing it, long-distance. His business was to help Jacko.
In turn, Jacko’s business would help Feeney’s people. But Jacko was far from subtle. He was furious at Andrew Preston and wanted something truly horrifying to engulf Preston.
What Jacko wanted, Jacko got.
“Marie Lafayette,” Feeney repeated, as if just familiarizing himself with the name. “Tell me. You say she’s young, good-looking, little?”
“Absolutely. A nice piece of spunk.”
“I see. But could you hurt her if you had to? Really hurt her?”
The other man didn’t hesitate, for in this business, loyalty was all. “Do it in a minute,” he said. “Wouldn’t think twice about it.”
Wouldn’t think. That was a given. Feeney said. “Consider yourself on call.”
“You let the people higher up know I’m the one found this out?” the other man asked, almost pathetically eager. “Found out who she is?”
“Of course,” lied Feeney. “I need to ring off now. Get this news out.”
He hung up without saying goodbye.
It was past midnight now. He threw his cell phone into the nearby wastebasket. He reached for his absinthe and let it cool and numb his throat. Clear and sharpen his thoughts.
Marie slept uneasily and rose late, still feeling dazed.
The others in the kitchen were up and agog over the latest news.
Mrs. Lipton cried, “Marie! Last night Sergeant Hastings found evidence that clears Miss Louisa! Imagine that! Dylan Hastings helped her. She had him in for a brandy.”
Marie blinked in astonishment. “He did? She did?”
The older woman nodded. “He’s found a clue that might help prove Miss Fairchild innocent. The case could be solved—and he’d be reinstated—so there’s cause for celebration all around.”
Marie stared at her, stunned, unable to take in this sudden change. And since she couldn’t get her mind around it, she asked what had dominated her thoughts since she’d awakened. “Some of Tyler Preston’s men came from Lochlain last night to help. Did Miss give them any recognition?”
Mrs. Lipton’s smile faded. “She had Helena and I feed them all breakfast. She told me she’d thank them later—and give them a reward—and Tyler, too. She was exhausted, poor creature. Keeping to her room this morning. She’s grateful, but after so much destruction last night, so much excitement…well, she needs some peace.” She cocked a brow wryly. “After all she’s been through, I’m sure she’ll be in a state. She’s gone through both good and bad, and we’ll have a bumpy ride for a while.”
Marie nodded, knowing that the old woman could be as quicksilvery as mercury itself. But she remembered Megan’s mysterious words: “It’s just hard to keep Louisa happy period. But she’s had a difficult life. More difficult than I’d ever imagined. She has demons to fight. Awesome demons.”
How did Megan know this? Had she had discovered something, some key to Louisa’s character? And if so, what?
The next morning, Reynard appeared at the kitchen door with eggs. He looked a bit scruffy, not fully recovered from fighting the bushfire. Still, he had a knowing twinkle in his eyes, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
“Here,” he said, handing her the basket of eggs. “Two dozen fresh ones. The hens were off their laying right after the fire. But they’re back at work, making fresh cackleberries.”
His spirits seemed high, even though he limped worse than before, and his voice was still hoarse from smoke. Marie knew he was in pain and also knew if she asked him, he’d deny it like crazy.
Mrs. Lipton beamed at him and said, “I’m so glad to see you up and around again.”
“They taped my ribs again, even better than before. Quite comfy, in fact. Too many snootfuls of smoke, though. I haven’t wanted a ciggie for two days.”
Mrs. Lipton smiled. “Do sit down and have tea. Yesterday I made fresh brandy snaps—I must have sensed you’d show up.”
“Well, then sit down with me, the both of you. For I come bearing more than eggs. I bring good news.”
Mrs. Lipton set the teapot and cups on the smallest kitchen table. She opened the tin of brandy snaps and sat down. Marie sat, too, looking at Reynard with curiosity. “Well—” Mrs. Lipton nodded “—news? What sort?”
He put an elbow on the table, seeming pleased with himself. “Lochlain got a call from the police station about an hour ago. They have Sandy Sanford in custody. He was supposed to have left the morning before the fire.”
“Sandy Sanford?” Marie asked. “The carpenter from Sam’s place?”
“I heard that boy left because his mother was ill,” Mrs. Lipton said.
Reynard shrugged. “That was his story. But the night of the bushfire, Dylan Hastings found Sanford’s ditched ute—and the missing security CD-ROM. It shows that Sanford shot Sam Whittleson and started the fires. The last thing on the CD is him reaching up to snatch the disk out of the camera.”
“Sandy Sanford did it all?” Marie asked. “So Louisa really is cleared?”
“Completely. The state police caught Sanford early this morning. Got him at Tweed Heads, going north into Queensland.”
“God in heaven,” breathed Mrs. Lipton. “Did he confess?”
“Indeed,” said Reynard. “As soon as he heard about the disk, he admitted it. But he won’t say why. Shut up tight as a clam. Afraid to talk, I’ll wager.”
Marie jumped up so fast she almost spilled her tea. She grabbed Reynard and threw her arms around his neck. “Rennie, I love you! This is the best news we could get! I’ve got to tell Louisa immediately. The nightmare’s really over.”
She dashed out the door and up the stairs. She nearly collided with Bindy, who was in the upstairs hall, coming out of Megan’s room.
“Marie,” she said, looking a
bit guilty, “I’ve got something to confess—”
“Not right now, Bindy,” Marie said with a grin. “I’ve got big news for Louisa.”
“What?” Bindy asked apprehensively.
“Go to the kitchen. Rennie’ll tell you. Oh, this is fantastic.”
Bindy descended the stairs with seeming reluctance, and Marie pounded on Louisa’s door like a madwoman. Louisa’s voice was sharp with irritation. “What? What? Can’t a body have a moment’s rest? Come in before you smash down the door!”
Marie barged in, mindless of decorum. “Miss! Rennie just came from Lochlain. They’ve caught the arsonist. Sandy Sanford— Sam’s carpenter. Somehow he lured Sam to Lochlain and shot him. They told him about the security disk, and he confessed.”
Louisa’s hand flew to her heart. She sat at her small desk and stared at Marie in shock.
Marie could barely contain herself. “You’re cleared! They can never hold this over you again. The police finally have the real killer.”
To her amazement, Louisa burst into tears. She buried her face in her hands. “Oh, my God,” she kept saying. “Oh, my God.”
She wept so violently that Marie, without thinking, went to her, bent and took the old woman in her arms. Louisa laid her cheek against Marie’s shoulder and sobbed like a child.
Marie felt pity and relief for her.
“There, there,” she said, holding Louisa more tightly. “It’s over. It’s really over, and you’re safe, and Fairchild Acres is safe, and you’ve got your good name back.”
At last Louisa stopped crying. She pushed Marie away and reached for a tissue to wipe her eyes and dab at her nose. “I’m sorry for his display. It’s not like me. Now I do need to be alone. To think. To sort things out. Come back in an hour.”
“Yes, Miss. Of course.” Marie turned and left the suite, stunned by Louisa’s show of emotion. She made her way downstairs, and when she entered the kitchen, she felt as if she walked into an unreal world, a strange, dreamlike loop incoherently repeating itself.
The Secret Heiress Page 15