by Lisa Jackson
Blue eyes glared up at him. Silent eyes. Accusing eyes. His father never spoke a word to his firstborn, but OH2 had heard that he could talk, make his wants known to the staff. Good enough.
“How’re you feeling?” he asked, knowing there would be no answer. The old man had been in this facility for over a year, ever since the accident had left him without use of his arms and legs because of a “bruised” spinal cord; the doctors hoped that it would heal.
Not a chance, OH2 knew. Though the cord hadn’t been severed, it had been damaged in the unfortunate skiing accident. There were new treatments on the horizon, of course, but they were experimental or, as OH2 thought, iffy at best. The man in the bed was far too compromised. No, this expansive room, with its own gym and private physical therapist, separate nutritionist and personal trainer, wasn’t enough to get him to walk again. So he was stuck here in what was essentially a studio apartment, complete with small kitchen, living area, recliner, and small leather sofa. It wasn’t so bad, with its view of an interior garden filled with blooming cacti and hardy grasses, succulents, and even a Joshua tree. But it was a gilded cage and one he would never leave.
It was too bad the old coot hadn’t died during that unfortunate fall, because his life was probably a torture to him. Well, what goes around, comes around, Old Man.
His father’s very own advice echoed through his mind: As ye sow, so shall ye reap.
Well reap away, you pathetic excuse of a man.
He even smiled to himself at the thought while the man in the bed lay still. Who would’ve thought he’d be reduced to this? Oliver Hedges had once been a titan of industry, the tech industry. But not from any knowledge nor skills of his own, really; he was just an engineer who had gotten lucky enough to pick winners when it came to investing and who had eventually owned 51 percent of a start-up company, supplying the much-needed initial capital for a venture now worth hundreds of millions.
Once awarded Entrepreneur of the Year, he’d been the man who had played rounds of golf with pros and movie stars and politicians, even once getting in eighteen with the Vice President. Heralded as a humanitarian, to boot, because of his donations to a variety of charities, Oliver Hedges was also a lying bastard who had planned to make certain his eldest was disinherited.
So, now, dear old dad was just getting his due. God had found a way to punish the old miser.
“Marilee sends her love.”
At the mention of his second wife, his father’s eyes seemed to flash with a newfound anger. Marilee, thirty-two years younger than her husband, had divorced him soon after his accident and, in a turnabout’s-fair-play move, married his oldest son. It was destiny, of course. OH2 had introduced them when he’d been dating Marilee McIver himself. But the old man had decided to woo her away while OH2 was in his final year at Stanford.
It was a powerful feeling watching the old man suffer in this gilded cage, even while he was attended to by a bevy of private nurses and aides, all of whom knew how to keep their mouths shut.
God, he looked bad.
A thin corpse of a man who had probably given up his will to live.
And yet . . . did one of his fingers move a bit, or was that a trick of light? Afternoon sunlight streamed through the garden and the Joshua tree before slanting past the half-closed blinds that decorated the bed in shadows that reminded OH2 of prison stripes, those he’d seen in old black-and-white movies. Surely, it was his imagination, but, wait . . . there it was again. Just a slight movement on the crisp white sheet.
Startled, head snapping a bit, he met the old man’s gaze once more. Oh, Jesus. Was his father actually smiling? His lips hadn’t moved in his freshly shaved face, but there was a distinct twinkle in his blue eyes, a malicious spark that indicated he wasn’t done yet.
Or was it Junior’s imagination? His guilt? He began to sweat in his sharp suit, despite the fact that the temperature and humidity in the room were climate-controlled to a perfect seventy-one degrees.
He studied the old man. No more movement. Good.
Shaken, he decided to end this charade of a family visit. After clearing his throat, he said, “Take care, Dad,” without an ounce of warmth.
To his surprise, the old man made a gurgling sound, and his gaze moved from OH2 to the doorway where a nurse, a tall woman he’d never seen before, appeared. Her name tag read SHAWNA. On quiet footsteps, she was at his father’s bedside in an instant, and OH2 took his leave. He’d made the dutiful, obligatory visit and gained a sense of renewed power from it. He knew the old man watched his back as he strode out of the room, something his father would never be able to do again, but OH2 was still worried. He glanced over his shoulder, and for a second, he thought he saw his father raise a hand to wave, but that was impossible, and when he blinked, the hand lay where it had been, where it was supposed to be, on the edge of the bed’s coverlet.
He was losing it.
He tugged at the knot of his tie, which was suddenly far too tight, but with each step on the carpet, he reminded himself that his father was basically a quadriplegic. He needn’t worry. Everything was fine.
Striding down the bright hallway with its windowed view of the garden, a desert landscape, he felt the urgency to do something. For once, he didn’t know what. He skirted a woman bent over a walker and breezed past, barely giving her a glance, though she said, “Hello.” He didn’t have time for any of this. Past the main desk, he made his way to the entry doors and punched in a private code so that the doors to this expensive prison would unlock and he could step out and breathe again. As the glass slid away, allowing him to exit, he slipped on a pair of sunglasses and stepped into the brutal Nevada heat.
His mood was as sour as it had been when he’d driven into the lot of Fair Haven. If he’d thought the visit to his father would restore his sense of power, he’d been mistaken. With a shake of his head, he forced himself to forget the old man for the moment. He had a more important item on his agenda. His latest “project,” that of securing his own heir, had turned into his own personal hell, at least according to the phone call he’d taken just before driving here to his prearranged, weekly visit. Crossing the landscaped parking lot to his Mercedes, he unlocked the car, slid into the sunbaked interior, and pounded a fist on the steering wheel.
“Son of a bitch,” he said under his breath in frustration.
Maybe the problems with securing the boy child were all of his own making. He had the girl, and that should be good enough. These days, gender didn’t matter as much.
To the world maybe.
But not to him.
He wanted a son, damn it. One that was as close biologically to himself as possible. Was that so hard? When one was available?
For the right price.
He rammed his key into the ignition and twisted. His sports car roared to life, and he backed out so quickly he almost hit the rear end of a ridiculously long pickup that was parked in the short row behind him. He missed that immense bed by inches, which was just good enough.
Jamming the gearshift into drive and stepping on the accelerator, he wondered if he’d trusted the wrong person, made a bad decision, but second-guessing wouldn’t help now. They needed to rethink the project. He cracked his window until the air-conditioning kicked in, and at the end of the long, fenced lane of the facility, he headed toward the heart of the city.
Within twenty minutes, he was back at the condo but still tense, his penthouse with its incredible view seeming somehow lacking this afternoon. Yanking off his tie, he glowered through the windows. How could everything have gone so wrong? A second botched attempt to get his son—his son. He swore loudly, then punched the air, wishing he could hit something or, more precisely, someone.
Unwelcome, an image of his father flitted through his brain, and in his mind’s eye, he saw the old man as he’d been in the hospital bed, but somehow tossing off the bedclothes and rising, like Lazarus, fully dressed in an expensive power suit, white shirt, and bold tie.
“S
top it,” he muttered, just as the door to his study clicked open, and he recognized a familiar but uninvited face.
“You botched it!” he accused, grateful for someone other than himself to blame.
“Complications,” was the unacceptable explanation.
“You should have prepared for any event, any ‘complication,’ any glitch. Instead,” he said evenly, trying to hang onto his cool, “you came back empty-handed.”
“It won’t happen again.”
“Of course it won’t.” OH2 wanted to explode. “Because there won’t be another chance.” He was furious, his words clipped. How could something as simple as a baby kidnapping go so wrong?
“I’ll handle it.” The voice was calm and assured as the visitor crossed to the bar to pour a drink.
So damned arrogant.
A glance over the shoulder. “You?”
OH2 hesitated, then thought, what the hell? It had been one lousy couple of days. “Oh, fuck. Fine. Sure.” A drink might help. Something had to. This . . . this failure would never do. Never. He heard ice cubes clinking and the gentle glug as alcohol was poured.
The visitor turned and offered him a short glass.
OH2 snatched it quickly, and as his guest hoisted a glass, he didn’t bother with his own silent toast, just took a long swallow of the cool, calming scotch. It slid down his throat easily, the smoky scent of the alcohol seeping into his nostrils. For a second, he closed his eyes and mind to the madness that had become his life. Yeah, a drink definitely helped calm his tense muscles and tight nerves, but it wouldn’t solve the problem. “We have to do something.” Opening his eyes, he found his guest staring out the window to the panorama of city, sky, and desert.
“I know. I got it.”
“Really? Because it doesn’t seem like you ‘got’ anything.” Another cool swallow. “We shouldn’t be in this position.”
“Just a minor setback.”
“Major,” OH2 corrected. “A major setback.” He downed the remains of his drink, filled his mouth with ice, and, cracking a small cube, made his way past the visitor to the bar, where he picked up the uncapped bottle and poured himself another three fingers. Carefully he sipped, slowing the alcohol train down a notch. He needed to think, to plot, to . . .
He blinked.
Felt suddenly dizzy.
Shaking his head to clear it only made things worse.
What the hell?
The world seemed to spin, turn upside down. His knees buckled, and he dropped the remains of his drink, ice cubes skittering across the carpet. His fingers scraped the edge of the bar, but he couldn’t catch himself and fell back against his desk, sending papers and his phone flying.
He collapsed onto the carpet. His head hit. Hard.
Thud!
Pain burst behind his eyes.
Blinking, he still didn’t understand. As the desk, bookcases, and wide windows spun around him, he scrambled to get to his feet, but he couldn’t make his limbs move, couldn’t even get his knees under him. Nausea boiled in his stomach.
In a lightning bolt of clarity, he remembered he wasn’t alone.
“For . . . for God’s sake . . . Help me . . . ,” he ordered, his voice a rasp. He was sweating and writhing, trying not to vomit, unable to focus. His heart had begun to beat a wild, frantic tattoo, so fast that he thought it might explode.
That was the first inkling of his problem—that he’d been drugged. The drink he’d gulped so thirstily had been spiked.
With what? Oh, Jesus.
Eyes starting to blur, he saw the phone receiver that had toppled to the floor. He stretched his fingers and reached for it, then watched helplessly as it was kicked away by the polished toe of a boot.
“Not today,” his visitor said without emotion, then added, “Well, not any day.”
I’m going to die . . . this . . . this maniac is killing me!
His body started to convulse and, rolling onto his back, unable to control his muscles, he witnessed the slow stretch of a smile curve his assassin’s lips.
CHAPTER 10
Remmi’s trip was cut short.
The damned Toyota’s temperature gauge was hovering in the red zone, and Adam had woken up screaming. Dead tired, nerves shot, she was less than a hundred miles from Las Vegas when she spied the gold-colored Star Vista Motel sign mounted high enough to glow over the right side of the freeway. She took the next exit and, nervous as anything, pulled into the pock-marked asphalt and gravel lot that butted up to a single-story, L-shaped stucco building.
After locking Adam in the car and armed with the bills she silently prayed were legit, she hurried to the covered area, pushed a button near the locked glass door, and waited, perusing the offered services posted on the glowing reader board under the gold sign: cable TV, pool, and telephone services, along with 24-hour manager on duty, all as if they were five-star amenities.
She wondered about that as the minutes ticked by, and she hit the button another couple of times before a short man with a ring of graying hair around a bald pate and horn-rimmed glasses appeared from a door behind the desk. Frowning, he switched on brighter lights, fluorescent bars that came on one by one and cast the area under the portico in a watery, unearthly glow. He squinted at her for a few seconds, before seeming to feel satisfied that she wasn’t there to rob the place or murder him. He unlocked the door, let it slide open, but blocked Remmi’s entrance.
“Yeah?” he said gruffly. “Help you?”
“I’d like a room. For tonight.”
He eyed her speculatively, glanced over her shoulder at the near-empty parking lot behind her, his gaze settling on the crappy old Toyota. “You with your folks?” Skepticism colored his words.
“Just my son.”
Bushy eyebrows ticked up, arching over the rims of his glasses. “You have a kid?”
“That’s right.” Setting her jaw, she stared at him, silently daring him to deny her.
“You’re pretty young to have a kid.”
“So I’ve been told.” She was shaking inside but held her ground.
“I bet.”
“Do you have a room?” she persisted. “Your sign says ‘vacancy.’”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen,” she lied quickly.
He looked like he didn’t believe her. “Got ID?”
Uh-oh.
“You need it if I pay cash?” She nearly shivered under his steady stare and thought all was lost when she heard Adam wailing from inside the car. “And I’ve got credit cards. Visa. Mastercard. Whatever. My baby needs a warm place to stay. The room has to be clean.”
“Oh, you don’t have to worry about that—” he said, then trailed off as she waited impatiently.
What if he wouldn’t let her book a place for the night? What would she do about the car? The baby? “Look, if you don’t have a vacancy,” she bluffed, “I’ll head farther down the road to—”
“No need for that,” he cut in. The man’s greed was overcoming his concerns. He looked hardly able to turn down the rent. He held the door open a little wider. “Okay. Fine. Come in and register. Quick.” Then, as she passed, “I don’t want any trouble.”
“I—we won’t be any.”
“I mean it. You gotta keep that kid quiet. There are other paying guests.”
Not many, Remmi thought, by the looks of the empty lot.
Whether he believed her age or not, he took her cash as she registered as Didi Storm, hoping that this guy hadn’t seen her mother’s act. The credit cards were all issued to Didi, so she saw no other recourse but to use the name. Though she worried he would hold each bill to the light, he didn’t, just stuffed them into the register and handed her a key to room 116. “Right down the porch,” he said. “Ice machine is around the corner. Soda and snacks, too.”
“Thanks.” Snagging the key, she couldn’t get out of the tiny lobby, with its worn, stained carpet and smells of old cigarettes and stale coffee, fast enough. She drove to the parking s
lot in front of the door, then hauled Adam, his diaper bag, and her small suitcase into the room, a bare-bones space with one sagging bed, a dresser on which a TV covered the mirror, and two nightstands. A coffeepot and the smallest microwave Remmi had ever seen vied for space on the counter with the sink, which was just outside the small room holding a toilet and tub shower. Not the Ritz, by any means, but clean enough and safe enough for one night.
As advertised, the room did come with a phone, complete with instructions about how to dial “out” and even connect to long distance. She wasted no time, but double-checked the Toyota’s trunk to make certain it was locked and that none of her mother’s costumes and valuables would be stolen; then she bolted the door to the room, drew the chain, and checked to make certain the windows were latched before pulling Adam from his carrier.
“Sorry, buddy,” she said as she changed his diaper, then made a bottle of formula with water she’d gotten from the tap and heated in the microwave. It was far from ideal, but it would have to do, and as she cradled her brother in her arms, watching bubbles form in the bottle as he drank, she worried about the coming days.
After a few hours’ sleep, she would go through the changing and feeding routine for her brother again, then drive straight to San Francisco or the area around the city and find a room for rent, then get a mobile phone for sure and leave messages for Didi. And then what? Get a job? Who would care for Adam? The money she’d taken from Didi wouldn’t last forever.
You’re a smart girl; you can figure this out. Right?
“Book smart, no common sense,” her mother had teased, but that wasn’t true, Remmi knew.
And what if Didi never called or connected with her? What then? Tears sprang to her eyes, and she paced the short distance between the bathroom and the door, holding the baby until he nodded off and she laid him on the bed. She didn’t bother with pajamas, just turned out the light and stared at the ceiling in the semi-dark. Light from a few security lamps outside seeped through the thin blinds, and the traffic noise from the freeway was audible.