Birthright

by Nora Roberts

  “It wasn’t as usual to wait this long forty, fifty years ago. And six years plus, that’s a chunk. Lana, do you have the data on his adoption practice before Boston handy?”

  “I can look it up. I brought all my file disks. Can I use your computer, Jake?”

  “Go ahead. I’m adding on the dates of your mother’s miscarriages, the stillbirth. Be interesting, wouldn’t it, to have a look at the first Mrs. Carlyle’s medical records?”

  “Mmm. You can’t be sure, yet, that’s Dory’s real date of birth.”

  “Bound to be close enough. She’s about your age, Cal. Makes her around twenty years younger than Richard Carlyle. According to my math, Carlyle would’ve been over sixty when she was born.”

  “Sexagenarian sperm’s been known to get lucky,” Callie commented. “How old’s Dorothy?”

  “Late forties, I guess,” Doug said from behind her.

  “Well into her fifties,” Lana corrected without looking around. “But very well put together.”

  Jake nodded, continued to calculate. “Maybe ten years older than Carlyle junior.”

  Doug watched them work. It was similar to watching them cook breakfast, he thought. The moves, the rhythm. “I’m not following this.”

  “Lana?” Callie studied the segments, the lines, the grid Jake was creating. “Got anything?”

  “I’m getting it. The first adoption petition I found was filed in ’forty-six. Two that year.”

  “Two years after the marriage,” Callie murmured. “Long enough. He’d been in practice, what, six years before he developed an interest in adoptions?” She stepped back, studied the entire chart, watched the pattern and connections form.

  “It’s a big leap,” she said to Jake.

  “A logical hypothesis based on available data.”

  “What is?” Doug stepped up to the chart, trying to find what they could see that he couldn’t.

  “Richard Carlyle was the first infant stolen by Marcus Carlyle. But not for profit. Because he wanted a son.”

  Doug shoved his glasses farther up his nose. “You get that from this?”

  “Just take a look at it,” Callie insisted. “He shifts the focus of his practice two years after his marriage, six years after he began his career. What if he and his wife were having problems conceiving? He develops a personal interest in adoption, researches it, gets to know all the ins and outs of the procedure.”

  “Then why not just adopt?” Lana put in.

  “You have to speculate on his pattern.” Jake picked up the coffeepot, shook the dregs, looked hopefully at Callie.

  “Not now.”

  He shrugged, set it down again. “He likes being in charge, calling the shots. His known history of infidelity indicates a man who uses sex, and who sees his prowess as part of his identity.”

  “Not being able to conceive a child would damage his ego.” Doug nodded. “It’s all right for the next guy, that’s just great. But he’s not going to let it be known he may be shooting blanks. But then how—”

  “Wait.” Callie held up a hand. “One layer at a time. He’s not going to publicize an adoption. It doesn’t suit his self-image. But he wants a child, and he’d be the type who’d want a son. A girl isn’t going to do. He’d want to know exactly who and where that child came from. He wouldn’t tolerate the rules they had back then of sealing records on birth parents. And he’s looking around. Look at all these people who have children. Two, three, four kids. Much less worthy than he. Less financially secure, less important. Less.”

  “It fits.” Lana swiveled her chair around. “With what we know about him, it fits his profile.”

  “He’s been representing adoptive parents for years now. He knows the routine, he knows doctors, other lawyers, agencies. He socializes with them. People create their own tribes within tribes,” Jake continued. “They form circles with like minds, or with those who bring a knowledge or skill to the group. Using this system, he finds birth parents who may fit his criteria. He takes his time. Then with or without a private arrangement with those birth parents, he takes his son. I’ll bet my Waylon Jennings CD collection there’ll be no adoption petition or decree on Richard Carlyle filed in the courts, but that fake ones exist somewhere.”

  “Shortly after, he relocates to Houston. New city, new practice, new social group.”

  “And because it worked, because he got what he wanted the way he wanted, he saw it as a means to . . . What did Dorothy call it?” Doug asked Lana.

  “His mission, his profitable hobby.”

  “He saw it as his way to meet the needs of other worthy, childless couples. His way.” Doug nodded. “And to profit from it. That’s, ah, fetched.”

  “Fetched?” Callie repeated.

  “Not so much far-fetched. But pretty fetched.”

  “Cute. Fetched or not, it’s a reasonable supposition. Then you add that somewhere along the line Richard found out. It caused a rift between father and son. Marcus treated his mother shabbily, and perhaps because she didn’t give him a son the more traditional way, this increased or caused his infidelities.”

  “They didn’t divorce until he was twenty.” Jake tapped his fingers on the time line. “The year Dory was born.”

  “The marriage suited Carlyle. But now his son’s grown. And, possibly, it was during this time Richard discovered the truth. The family’s fractured. The marriage is over.”

  “And Carlyle’s had an illegitimate child with his secretary. That’d be a slap in the face for mother and son.” Now Doug picked up the coffeepot, set it down again. “It’s an interesting theory, but I don’t see how it helps locate Dory.”

  “There’s another layer.” Callie turned to the time line again. It all seemed so clear to her now. Just brush that last bit of dirt away and everything was right there. “Look at the dates again. The move from Boston to Seattle. About as far away as you can manage. Why? Because your secretary, who you’ve been intimate with, who knows your personal business, your criminal activities, who’s been part of both for years, has just told you she’s pregnant. But not with your child. With your son’s.”

  “Dorothy Spencer and Richard Carlyle?” Lana leaped up, hurried over to stand at the chart.

  “A young, impressionable boy—maybe one who’s just discovered he’s not who he thought he was. He’s shaken,” Callie surmised. “He’s vulnerable. And he’s angry. The older, attractive woman. If he knows his father’s been with her, it only adds to the pull. ‘I’ll show that bastard.’ Dorothy’s late twenties now, staring at thirty. She’s been working for—and sleeping with—Carlyle for a long time. Given him her first youth. Maybe he made promises, but even if he didn’t she’d be tired of being the other woman. The cliché. And getting nothing out of it. Here’s the son. Young, fresh. Another hook into Carlyle.”

  “If we assume she was sleeping with him since she was eighteen, nineteen,” Lana put in, “and there were no previous pregnancies, it might be Carlyle was sterile.”

  “Or they were very careful, and very lucky,” Jake said. “More logical to believe it was the younger Carlyle who impregnated her, than the older. He’s sixty and, according to known data and current supposition, had never before conceived a child.”

  “Carlyle wasn’t protecting his estranged, dying father,” Callie concluded. “He was protecting his daughter.”

  “The question was, where would she go?” Jake drew a circle around Richard Carlyle’s name on the chart. “To Daddy.”

  “You run this theory by the cops, they’re going to think you’re crazy or brilliant.” Doug blew out a breath. “But if they’re open to it, and they toss it at Dorothy, she might slip.”

  “Let me put it together. On paper.” Lana pushed up her sleeves. “Make it as objective and detailed as possible.” This time she picked up the coffeepot. “But I could use some caffeine.”

  “Jeez. Okay, okay, I’ll make it.” In disgust, Callie grabbed the pot. She strode out, then slowed as she wound her way through
the living room. She recognized the heroic snores that could only be Digger’s. The lump in the recliner had to be Matt.

  She knew the lovebirds had taken a room upstairs, and Leo had stayed over and taken another.

  Though she agreed with Jake’s rundown of her team, she detoured upstairs, poked in each room to count heads. Satisfied, she went down to the kitchen, measured out coffee.

  “Everybody here?” Jake asked from behind her. “I figured you’d look—and if you didn’t, I would.”

  “All present and accounted for.” She dashed salt into the coffee, then poured in the water, set the machine to brew. “If we’re right, this has been going on for three generations. Whether or not Richard Carlyle took an active part, he knew. There’s something even more hideous about that. Passing down this, well, evil, from father to son to daughter.”

  “A powerful patriarch using his influence, the strength of his personality, family loyalties. It was the structure the preceding generations grew up in. Their base.”

  “And if Richard discovered he was in the same position as I am? Worse, much worse, because his parents, or at least his father, knew. Knew and orchestrated. How could he be a part of perpetuating it, of covering it up, of profiting from it?”

  He crossed to her, traced his fingers gently over her bruised cheekbone. “You know as well as I do that environment and heredity help structure an individual. Nature and nurture. He made his choices and they took him down a different path from any you could’ve taken. Your genes, your upbringing, your own sense of self wouldn’t have allowed it.”

  “Would I have protected my father anyway? The father I knew and loved? If I’d discovered he was a monster, would I have protected him?”

  “I know the answer. Do you?”

  She sighed, reached for fresh mugs. “Yes. I wouldn’t have been able to. It would have ripped me into pieces, but I couldn’t have.”

  “You found what you were digging for, Cal.”

  “Yeah. Now it’s exposed, in the air. And I have to put it on display. I don’t have a choice.”

  “No.” He took her shoulders, drew her back, kissed the top of her head. “You wouldn’t.”

  She turned as the phone rang. “Jesus, it’s two in the morning. Who the hell’s calling? Dunbrook.”

  “Hello, Callie.”

  “Hello, Dory.” Callie grabbed a pencil, scrawled on the wall by the phone. Call the cops. Trace the call. “How’s the nose?”

  “It hurts like a bitch. And believe me, you’re going to pay for that.”

  “Come on over. We can go another round.”

  “We’ll go another round, I promise. But you’re going to have to come to me.”

  “When and where?”

  “You think you’re so smart, so cool, so clever. I’ve been running rings around you for weeks. I still am. I’ve got your mother, Callie.”

  The blood stopped pumping through her veins, iced over. “I don’t believe you.”

  There was a laugh, full of horrible humor. “Yes, you do. Don’t you wonder which mother? Don’t you want to find out?”

  “What do you want?”

  “How much are you willing to pay?”

  “Tell me what you want and I’ll get it.”

  “I want my mother!” Her voice spiked. The wild rage in it curdled Callie’s stomach. “Are you going to get her for me, you bitch? You ruined her life, and I’m going to ruin yours.”

  “They’re only questioning her.” As she began to shake, Callie gripped the counter. “They might have let her go by now.”

  “Liar! Another lie about my mother and I’ll use this knife I’m holding on yours.”

  “Don’t hurt her.” Terror clawed icy fingers down her spine. “Don’t hurt her, Dory.” She reached for Jake’s hand, squeezed hard. “Tell me what you want me to do and I’ll do it.”

  “Call the police, and she’s dead. Understand? Call the police, and you’ll have killed her.”

  “Yes. No police. This is between you and me. I understand that. Can I talk to her? Let me talk to her, please.”

  “ ‘Let me talk to her, please,’ ” Dory mimicked. “You’re talking to me! I’m running the show now, Dr. Bitch. I’m in charge.”

  “Yes, you’re in charge.” Callie fought to keep her voice steady.

  “And you’ll talk to me. We’ll talk about payment, about what you’re going to have to do. Just you and me. You come alone or I’ll kill her. I’ll kill her without a second thought. You know I will.”

  “I’ll be alone. Where?”

  “Simon’s Hole. You’ve got ten minutes or I start cutting her. Ten minutes, and the clock just started ticking. Better hurry.”

  “Cell phone,” Jake said the minute she hung up. “They’re going to try to triangulate.”

  “No time. She’s got my mother. Jesus, ten minutes.” She was bolting for the front door.

  “Hold it. Goddamn it, you can’t go running out without thinking.”

  “She gave me ten minutes to get to the pond. I can barely make it now. She’s got my mother. She’s going to kill her if I don’t come. Now and alone. For God’s sake, I don’t even know which one she’s got.”

  He held on a moment longer, then pulled the knife from his boot. “Take this. I’ll be right behind you.”

  “You can’t. She’ll—”

  “You have to trust me.” He took her arms again. “There’s no room, no time for anything else. You have to trust me. I’m trusting you.”

  She stared into his eyes and made the leap. “Hurry,” she said, and ran.

  Sweat trickled down her back as she pushed the Rover to dangerous speeds on narrow, winding roads. Every time her tires screamed on pavement, she bore down harder. Every time she looked down at the luminous dial of her watch, her heart skipped.

  It could be a lie, it could be a trap. Still she drove faster than sanity allowed, concentrating on her own headlights as they sliced through the dark.

  She made it in nine minutes.

  She saw nothing in the field, in the water, in the trees. It didn’t stop her from bolting out of the car, swinging over the fence.

  “Dory! I’m here. I’m alone. Don’t hurt her.”

  She walked toward the water, toward the trees with fear skating up and down her spine. “It’s between you and me, remember. You and me. You can let her go. I’m here.”

  She saw a light flash, spun toward it. “I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

  “Stop right there. You made good time. But you could’ve called the cops on the way.”

  “I didn’t. For God’s sake, she’s my mother. I won’t risk her just to punish you.”

  “You’ve already punished me. And for what? To prove how smart you are? Not so smart now, are you?”

  “It was my life.” She moved forward on legs gone weak and trembly. “I just wanted to know how it happened to me. Wouldn’t you, Dory?”

  “Stay where you are. Keep your hands where I can see them. Marcus Carlyle was a great man. A visionary. And he was smart. Smarter than you’ll ever be. Even dead he’s better than you.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Her eyes were adjusted now. She saw Dory, her face ugly with bruises and hate. And sensed something—someone else—just at the edge of her vision. “Tell me what you want me to do.”

  “Suffer. Stay where you are.” Dory stepped back, into the shadows. Seconds later a form rolled forward, halfway to the edge of the pond.

  Callie saw a glint of blond hair, a hint of pale skin, and started to spring forward.

  “I’ll kill her. You stay back or I’ll kill her.” She held up a gun. “Look at this! I said I had a knife, didn’t I? I seem to be mistaken. This looks like a gun. In fact, it looks like the same gun I used to nearly put a hole in your very sexy ex-husband. I could have, you know.”

  She shone the light so Callie was forced to shield her eyes from the glare. “It would’ve been easy. I’d already killed Dolan. That was sort of an accident. I’d i
ntended to knock him out. An impulse thing when I saw him sneaking around—just as I was sneaking around.”

  She laughed, poked the bound-and-gagged form with her foot. Callie thought she heard a soft moan, and prayed.

  “But I hit him harder than I meant to. Seemed the best thing was to dump him in Simon’s Hole. I hoped you’d get blamed for it, but that didn’t work out.”

  I’ll be right behind you, Jake had said, she remembered. Trust him. She had to stay calm and trust.

  “You burned down Lana’s office.”