Deadlock

by Catherine Coulter

  They heard a laugh, then the front door closed.

  “Good parting shot, sweetheart. Sorry about Beck. He’s been a pain in the ass ever since he lost his mother. The shrinks couldn’t cure him of it. Did I tell you he let on that he’s condo hunting? Keep your fingers crossed.” He toyed with his mashed potatoes. “Sorry I wasn’t home for you when you got back from seeing your grandmother. I wanted to call you, find out what happened, but I didn’t have a chance. I trust Agent Hammersmith stayed with you?”

  “He left not ten minutes before you arrived. Turns out he had a date, too, so I insisted. I think it might have been Kit, but I didn’t ask. And yes, Beck was here, and I locked the front door.”

  “We’re finally alone. Tell me what happened.”

  “I know you were busy. I tried to call you, too, but your gatekeeper told me you were in an important meeting with the speaker and couldn’t be disturbed unless someone died. Then I couldn’t very well talk about it while Beck was here.” She drew a deep breath. “Here it is. Rich, my grandfather wasn’t my grandfather, he was my father. That means Gemma isn’t my grandmother, and hallelujah to that.”

  He stared at her over the rim of his wineglass. “What? Who told you that? And you believe it? I don’t understand, Rebekah. You found all this out today?”

  “Believe it or not, Gemma told me. And she was happy to tell me.”

  He set down his wineglass. “She told you in front of the two FBI agents?”

  Rebekah gave him a blazing smile. “I think she told me because I stopped being a wimp. I didn’t fold my tent when she ordered all of us to leave her office. I faced her down, Rich, and that’s when she said it. She took pleasure in telling me. Probably believed I’d fall apart. Imagine, Caitlin isn’t my mother; she’s my half sister. Of course, Gemma knew all along. Only the three of them knew and never said a word to anyone.” She paused a moment, then sighed. “I only wish Grandfather had been the one to tell me.” Saying the words aloud sent a torrent of jangled memories through her. It was as if she’d been living someone else’s life in those memories, and now she had her own life, but she wasn’t sure what that life was. She felt like a phantom, hovering over herself, a different self now she hardly knew.

  Rich’s voice snapped her back. “You’re all right with this? Really?”

  “Oh yes. Well, there is a lot to think about. Rich, he was my father, not my grandfather, and he never told me.”

  Rich said, “Here I thought I knew your grandfather—your father. He probably would have told you, but he didn’t have the chance to, sweetheart. The strokes, the coma.”

  “He had enough years to tell me before the series of strokes.”

  She’d spoken sharply, anger beneath her words.

  He gentled his voice. “You were too young to understand. He would have told you when you’d gotten older, you know that.”

  He was right, of course. She had to try to get it together, get over her anger at her father’s charade. Rebekah tried for a smile and was vaguely surprised when a real one appeared. “You’re right, I shouldn’t be angry at him. He did his best by me. But what’s wonderful about all this is none of that vicious old witch’s blood flows in my veins. I’m free of her now, no more wondering why she always seemed to hate me, no more feeling guilty because I wondered what I’d done wrong.

  “But Rich, how do I reconcile having a father who wouldn’t claim me as his own child?” She shook her head. “I’m getting angry at him again. I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t need to be sorry, Rebekah. This is a tremendous shock to you. It is to me, too. Did Gemma tell you who your real mother is?”

  “No, I still don’t know. Don’t get me wrong, I had a wonderful mother. Caitlin loved me always. I never doubted it. What she did, when she was still so young, it was a sacrifice for me. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her to suddenly be her sister’s mother, to raise me all those years as her child without ever telling me. I thought about calling her in Spain right away, but I wanted to get my head together before I spoke with her. It’s late there now, but I’ll call her in the morning.” Rebekah sighed. “We have a great deal to talk about, honestly now, for the first time as who we really are—sisters.”

  “I think it would be best if we kept this between us, not even tell my sons, particularly not my sons. Can you imagine what would happen if the media got hold of it? Beck might post it on Twitter, and even if Tucker kept his mouth shut, Celeste would trumpet it to the world.”

  “I hadn’t thought that far ahead. You’re right, of course.”

  “You haven’t eaten much,” Rich said, eyeing her plate. “And no wonder. Tell you what, if you’re through, let’s take our coffee in the living room. We can talk it all out.”

  She rose as Rich walked to her. He looked down at her a moment, then pulled her close and kissed her hair. “We’ll figure our way through all this, don’t worry. I want to know everything that happened today with Gemma. I only hope the new girlfriend doesn’t boot Beck out early.”

  The living room draperies were closed against the night, the room warm and cozy. Rich built up the fire and walked back to sit beside her on the sofa. He kissed her, lightly ran his fingers down her smooth cheek. “I thought about you all afternoon, wishing I could call you.” He studied her face. “Tell me what else Gemma had to say. Did she admit to anything?”

  Rebekah couldn’t settle. She stood, walked to the fireplace, stared down at the flames a moment, turned back, and told Rich everything. “And Agent Savich called me, told me Duvall really doesn’t want to go down for this, wants to tell him who hired him, but he doesn’t know. It was all done over the phone and in cash. Man, woman? He didn’t know, only that it was a scratchy, low voice. He wanted Savich to cut him a break for his honesty. So as it stands now, there isn’t enough proof Gemma was involved, and she, of course, knows it.”

  Rich rose, took her hands, lightly stroked her fingers. “You know, Rebekah, I feel I’ve been of very little help to you so far. I’ve been busy, I know, but it’s more than that. You’ve been shutting me out. I want to be a bigger part of helping you find your way through all this.”

  She felt a wave of guilt. “I never meant to shut you out, Rich. Everything’s happened so fast. Zoltan, the attempted kidnapping, the showdown with Gemma, and you said you’d be comfortable leaving things to the FBI. And it’s true, you have been busy.”

  He shook his head. “No, don’t let me off the hook. I should have been beside you more through all of this. I sure didn’t help when I came home to find you and Agent Hammersmith alone in the bedroom reading your grandfather’s letters. That threw me, something I’m not proud of. I’m still embarrassed about the way I acted. But, Rebekah, you never even mentioned you had letters from your grandfather, and we’ve talked about him quite a bit. I knew him, too, not in the same way you did, of course, but still, in a way, he was part of what brought us together at first. I guess you could say he was our common root. I know how very important he was to you, so please, don’t cut me out any longer. Let me help. Talk to me about your father.”

  She looked into the eyes of the man she’d fallen in love with, her husband of six months now, her life partner. She said slowly, “I never intended to cut you out, Rich. But you see, there were things my father asked me to keep secret, and I kept those secrets for over twenty years.” She smiled up at him. “It seems silly not to tell you all about it now, about the poem. I already told it to Agent Savich.” She didn’t add in Agent Sherlock or Kit. He wouldn’t understand.

  “Poem? What poem?”

  “A poem my father had me memorize when I was young, made me swear never to tell anyone else. It’s part of the Big Take story I told you about after those men attacked me, the one Zoltan wanted me to talk about, the story she thought was real.” She looked at him and said in a flat, singsong voice:

  Don’t let them know it’s hidden inside

  The key to what I wish to hide

  It’s in my
head, already there

  And no one else will guess or care

  Remember these words when at last I sleep

  And the Big Take will be yours to keep.

  His hands tightened around hers. “In his head? The key is what he wants to hide? But it doesn’t really say much of anything. Do you know what it means, Rebekah?”

  “Nope. I haven’t got a clue, and believe me, I’ve thought and thought about what that ridiculous poem could possibly mean. So it never really mattered that I didn’t tell Zoltan or that Gemma never heard it.”

  He pulled away from her and began to pace. He paused, turned back, fanned his hands. “The poem says you know everything you need to find the Big Take even though the poem itself doesn’t seem to be of any help at all.”

  “I told you, Rich, even if I knew where Father hid the Big Take, I wouldn’t want it. I have no intention of becoming a criminal, no intention of letting the world find out what Grandfather—Father—and Nate may have done.”

  He searched her face a moment. “I tell you, Rebekah, this whole situation keeps escalating. There have been shootings now, violence, and I want to help put a stop to it, to protect you. And to be honest, protect myself. If the press were to get a whiff of what’s happened already, my career could be in danger. I’m happy you trusted me and told me the poem. I wish you’d told me about it sooner, but I understand. It’s a pity you don’t know what it means. Maybe we can figure it out in time, and you’ll change your mind about that money. Is there anything else important you’ve kept from me?”

  Change her mind? She knew she shouldn’t say the words, but they marched right out of her mouth. “After all that’s happened, it’s your career you’re worried about, Rich? And finding the Big Take?”

  He stopped cold, searched her face. He said slowly, “Why would you ask me that? Shouldn’t my career concern you as well, Rebekah? I mean, we live in this fishbowl together. As for the Big Take, you can do with it as you wish if we find it.”

  The doorbell rang.

  He gave her a long look. “Stay here, Rebekah. I’ll see who that is. And then you and I need to get this straightened out.”

  60

  It was a professional messenger service with a package, asking for a signature.

  When Rich returned to the living room, he handed Rebekah a heavy square box. He said, “It’s addressed to you, from your father’s lawyer, Mr. James Pearson at Pearson, Schultz and Meyers here in Washington. I signed for it.”

  Rebekah felt her heart pounding as she carried the box back into the living room and set it on an antique marquetry table. Rich handed her scissors, and she cut away the tape and opened the box, her hands unsteady. Taped on top of a thick bubble-wrapped package was a sealed envelope with REBEKAH written in black ink. Her breath caught at the sight of her father’s distinctive sloping handwriting. She stood there a moment, holding the letter, wondering if her world was about to change.

  Rich said, his voice gentle, “Do you want me to open the letter, Rebekah?”

  “No, no, I will.” She got it together and slowly opened the envelope to find six handwritten pages. Her heart pounded slow, deep strokes. The letter was dated four years before the strokes had plunged her father into a sixteen-year coma. She’d have been eight years old.

  She stepped away, holding the letter close, and read:

  My dearest Rebekah:

  As I write this letter, you are still my delightful girl, my Pumpkin. Since you are reading my letter, I’ve been dead for one month, and I hope you are at least twenty-one. Perhaps you are married, with children of your own. I hope you’re happy, that your husband is, or will be, faithful and kind. Ah, isn’t that what all of us wish for when we marry? I would have preferred to tell you this myself when you grew up, but it appears I never got the chance.

  There are so many things you don’t know, things you wouldn’t have understood as a child. Let me begin with the most important, the truth of who I really am to you. Perhaps Gemma or Caitlin has already told you, though they promised me they wouldn’t, and it wasn’t in Gemma’s interests that you know. In any case, it’s time you did know, directly from me. My darling girl, I am not your grandfather as you were raised to believe. I am your father. I met a young woman in Washington in the late eighties, and we had an affair. When she discovered she was pregnant, she told me she simply couldn’t keep you, couldn’t accommodate a baby in her life. I wanted you very much, so I paid her to carry you to term and sign adoption papers to give you over to me. No, she didn’t extort me. She had a very sick mother she cared for and staggering medical bills, so she agreed. You will want to know your birth mother’s maiden name was Constance Riley. If you wish to find her, I can tell you she moved back to England, to Birmingham.

  I was in public life, as you know, and I couldn’t let it be known I had adopted my own child, born out of wedlock. I didn’t want Gemma to be your mother, and I knew she would refuse in any case. So Caitlin and I decided she would be your mother and I would be your grandfather. I was certainly old enough. To be honest, Caitlin was hesitant, but once she saw you and held you as I had, she wanted you. Never doubt that, dearest.

  Forgive me for the deception, but at the time I didn’t feel I had a choice. Giving you over to Caitlin was the best way forward for all of us. It kept you close to me, and my love for you only blossomed as the years passed. It wasn’t the same for Gemma, of course. She was against my plan, but I gave her no choice. If she wanted to keep running Clarkson United, she had to agree and accept being your grandmother. Our estrangement was complete from that point on.

  Now let me tell you what happened in 1995. It has long since ceased to matter to most anyone, except maybe poor Miranda Elderby, but understanding it will soon matter a great deal to you. You see, for two years before Nate met and married Miranda, he and Gemma were lovers. Yes, I knew all about it but said nothing to either Gemma or Nate. Perhaps it’s my own conceit, but I believed Gemma took Nate as her lover to punish me for my own betrayal. To be honest, I didn’t care. As I said, she and I shared a business partnership by that time, nothing more. And Nate? I’d loved Nate since we were boys, loved him more than I’d ever loved Gemma, truth be told, and I would have forgiven him much more, and he me, I suspect. Fact is, when I found out he was sleeping with Gemma, I felt sorry for him because I knew he had to feel immense guilt, even though he knew the only thing tying Gemma and me together was the business. And yes, Nate knew of my affair with Constance Riley and about you.

  Nate broke off his affair with Gemma when he married Miranda, a lovely young woman you would have liked very much. He fell in love, you see, for the first time in his life, and I understood, maybe I was even a bit jealous.

  Then Nate’s luck ran out. I remember I warned him not to take on a particular client being tried for murder, told him it could end badly if he lost because of his client’s criminal family, but he didn’t listen. He lost the case because the evidence was too overwhelming. The family blamed him, of course. It did end badly for him, but not in the way any of us could have imagined.

  His client’s family didn’t murder Nate, Rebekah. Gemma murdered him that long-ago afternoon on Dawg Creek. I’m quite sure of it. It’s true he’d been drinking, what with everything happening, and he told me he was going there to face off with Gemma, to tell her he was leaving the country with Miranda. Yes, he asked me for his share of a great deal of money due to him so he and Miranda could settle outside the country in lifelong comfort. I will tell you about that money in a moment, Rebekah.

  Poor Nate didn’t realize how vindictive Gemma could be, how quickly she could morph from pleasant and smiling to uncontrolled rage. I don’t think she intended to murder Nate. I believe she went out to his boat hoping to convince him to come back to her, and when he told her he didn’t want her, that he was leaving the country with Miranda, she lost it and killed him. As I said, I wasn’t there, but I know that’s what happened. You see, she came to me demanding Nate’s share of the mon
ey, said she deserved it. He’d let our theft slip to her, but thank heaven he hadn’t told her where we were hiding it. I told her I knew what she’d done, that she’d killed him, and she threatened to tell the world about how Nate and I had stolen the money. So, we were deadlocked. I agreed because I knew the consequences of my telling the truth would have been staggering. I’ve since regretted that decision. Gemma deserved to be punished, and Miranda deserved the truth. But I kept silent, and Gemma did as well. You need to know all this now so you will understand what I’ve done and what I plan to do.

  It’s time for you to claim your inheritance. Yes, I left you a sizable trust fund, but this is more, unbelievably more. Ninety million dollars in bearer bonds, bonds you can take to any bank for payment. Nate and I hid the bonds because we couldn’t afford to draw attention and agreed to wait until we were sure no one would come looking for the money or asking questions.

  I’ve arranged to leave it all to you. Only you will know how to find the bonds, if you think and remember. I have but one request: Gemma must never see a cent of it.

  Where the money is from is the last secret I will tell you. As you know, I was in Congress in the early nineties when we were trying to steer our way through the madness of Saddam Hussein’s reign in Iraq after Desert Storm. I served on the House Intelligence Committee when our government was involved in clandestine efforts to topple Saddam or at least sow trouble for him. We were sending black-ops funds, off the books, to support Shia clerics and warlords militarily in the south of Iraq. It was a gravely immoral act because they didn’t have a chance. I knew that money would only lead to yet more chaos, more unnecessary slaughter. But I couldn’t change enough minds, couldn’t stop it. It was Nate who suggested we might be able to divert some of those funds by leveraging my position on the committee and my contacts in Iraq. He arranged to pay off a key Iraqi conduit to confirm to our government that he’d received all the funds, rather than only a part. All went as planned, apparently business as usual in that vicious sectarian war. I’m only sorry we couldn’t divert more of it.