“I’m serious,” the curly-haired man said. “You’re that guy—”
“Yeah? What guy?” Jack asked, humored by the attention he was drawing.
“The guy that was on the news.” He pointed at the TV above the bar. “You shot some dude and ran away.”
Not the kind of attention Jack wanted.
Curly Hair went on and on, “I just saw the follow-up.” He pointed to the TV again. “They said it was self-defense and the guy you killed was an escaped convict. You’re a hero!”
“Have another drink and I’ll look like Channing Tatum,” Jack teased Curly Hair.
“You kind of do look like Channing Tatum,” Sean said, amused.
Jack grabbed Sean’s arm, “We really do have to get going.”
Jack hadn’t been out in public with Sean much, at least not socially. In Silicon Valley, Sean is a public person who likes to be private, and since Jack had been in the closet, he avoided socializing in places like this, or using apps like Grindr—which signaled other gays that you were in the same area for potential meet-ups—for fear of being found out.
Jack knew he had been a self-loathing closeted gay man, and just then, as he passed by the Carpe Diem clientele, he decided that he wouldn’t be a self-loathing out-of-the-closet gay man. He wanted to be proud of who he was.
Jack’s first love was Barry, and it ended badly: in death did they part. Brooke had told Jack that he wouldn’t be able to have a healthy relationship until he stopped blaming himself, until he truly believed that Barry didn’t kill himself because of him. She also told Jack that happiness stems from faith.
And perspective.
They got back into the Lamborghini and Jack said, “True acceptance is thinking less about yourself and more about the self.”
Sean laughed. “What?”
“Nothing. Did you get the bartender’s number?”
“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m taken.”
Jack grinned. “Good answer.” He decided then to have faith in Sean, just like he had decided to have faith in his brother, just like he had told his brother to have faith in Brooke.
And Jack and Sean headed for church.
CHAPTER 37
They drove up the narrow, snaking road leading up to St. Francis.
The sanctuary doors were open and it was empty, lit only by dimmed candelabras. Father Oliver came through the back entrance, intending to lock the doors for the day.
“Looks like we caught you just in time,” Jack said as they headed toward the priest. “We just have a few questions.”
Father Oliver frowned as Jack came into the light, thinking that he was Ethan. “I already told you everything,” he said. “I haven’t heard from her since you were last here, and I don’t know where she is—”
“That was my brother that you spoke with,” Jack explained. “Ethan Stone. I’m Jack. Jack Stone.”
The priest took a long look, and then nodded. “Your brother told me he was a twin.”
“And this is my…friend, Sean.”
“We think Brooke is in trouble,” Sean said, “and you might be able to help—”
“Stella,” Jack said. “You probably know her as Stella Godeaux.”
Father Oliver locked the sanctuary doors and said, “Come with me.”
They followed him down the long hallway, just as Ethan had.
Jack broke the silence midway. “We know that her family, the Godeaux family, were members here for many years, and that they were big donors.”
“Your library and preschool are named after them,” Sean added.
“They were our only donors,” Father Oliver mumbled, without elaborating.
They entered his study. Father Oliver took a seat behind his cluttered desk and looked up at a painting on the wall of Jacob’s ladder ascending to heaven. “Last Sunday, when your brother was here, I gave a sermon about the most famous twin rivalry of all. Did your brother mention it?”
Jack shook his head.
“I spoke of Jacob wrestling with the Angel of God when Esau showed forgiveness in spite of their conflict. Your brother’s biggest fear was that you had run off with his girlfriend. He seemed relieved when I told him that was not the case—”
“It was a ridiculous assumption, just a mistake,” Jack said.
“There are no mistakes,” Father Oliver said with a clip, his heavy Parisian accent making everything sound more dramatic. “You and your brother need to communicate better. Twins have challenges others do not.”
“My brother and I don’t have a twin rivalry and I’m not into Bible metaphors,” Jack said. “We just want to make sure that Brooke…Stella, is safe.”
Sean nudged Jack before he could say something more insulting. “No disrespect,” Sean said, “but we just need to find out what you know about her. We’re concerned. The FBI is looking for her. They think she did something horrible. And it doesn’t seem like the woman we know her to be.”
Father Oliver’s head dipped, seemingly conflicted, and before he could speak, Sean pointed at a painting on the adjacent wall and blurted, “Is that Brooke as a young girl?”
It was a family portrait: mother, father, older son, younger son, and daughter—little Stella and the Godeaux clan, no doubt—all positioned under a large oak with a vineyard and stately château in the background.
Jack recognized the landscape from the paintings Brooke couldn’t stop recreating in their Santa Monica bungalow.
Father Oliver smiled. “I just put it up today.”
Jack asked, “Why today?”
“Because I just received it.”
Jack turned to the priest. “Brooke was here today?”
“No. It came by FedEx,” Father Oliver said. “Yesterday, actually.”
“A gift to thank you for officiating her wedding?” Sean asked.
“Or for hiding her?” Jack said.
Father Oliver didn’t like the accusation. “She wanted me to care for the portrait. It had been in their home for many years and had sentimental value…” He looked at Jack hard and said, “I just realized that your brother had a beard, just like Esau, the hairy one, and you’re smooth, like Jacob.”
Jack scoffed, “Just because he wears a beard doesn’t make him more hairy.”
“Don’t be so literal, son, or you’ll keep missing the point. Faith grounds us when things go awry—quand les choses vont mal—and things always go awry, don’t they?
“Wait a second…” Sean said, stepping closer to the portrait. “She has two brothers—”
“She had two brothers.” Father Oliver said sullenly. “They lost their firstborn son, probably not long after that portrait was painted. His name was Arthur The Second, named after his father. The boy was ten. The twins were only seven.”
“Twins?!” Sean and Jack blurted at the same time.
“That’s what I was getting at,” the priest said, “Stella and her brother Clinton are also twins. As Arthur used to say, ‘Twins courent dans notre famille,’ Twins run in the family, ‘C’est la vie!’”
Jack stepped closer to the painting and saw that Clinton and Stella had the same face. “Identical twins,” he muttered. “How could she have hidden that from us?”
“Unfortunately, Stella and Clinton were like water and oil,” Father Oliver said with a somber gaze, “just like Jacob and Esau. ‘Body and spirit are twins; God only knows which is which.’”
Sean put his hand on Jack’s shoulder before he could offend the priest. “How did he die?” Sean asked. “Arthur The Second…the older brother. What happened? Please tell us.”
“There was an accident…” Father Oliver looked reflective as he stared out his window at the incredible panorama. “It happened when they were here that summer. That’s the Godeaux family property down there.”
“You mean that mansio
n?” Jack asked.
“I mean all of it,” Father Oliver told them. “From those mountains to those streams, including that mansion, the vineyards, the horse ranch. All of it.”
Jack and Sean looked at each other. That much land in Napa was worth a fortune.
“What kind of accident?” Sean asked. “What happened?”
“The two boys were playing on the roof,” Father Oliver explained. “Arthur fell to his death. Clinton said that his older brother had jumped off like Superman.” Father Oliver looked conflicted.
“Do you think it may have been suicide?” Jack asked.
“I don’t, no,” Father Oliver said. “Arthur was a wonderful boy, a truly spirited child. But we only had Clinton’s story to go on.”
Jack and Sean exchanged a look.
“You think Clinton pushed him,” Jack said. “Don’t you?”
“That’s what his father believed, until his dying day. Clinton was a troubled boy, and the family was never the same after…Arthur and Beatrice’s marriage was never the same.” Father Oliver wiped a tear. “Beatrice died of lung cancer, shortly after, and Arthur died of heart failure…a broken heart.”
“Arthur died of cyanide poisoning,” Jack said. “The FBI thinks that Brooke—sorry, Stella—killed her father, and that’s why she’s running.”
Father Oliver snapped, “Is that what you think?”
“No,” Jack said. “We’re here because we don’t.”
“Did Stella have any animosity toward her father?” Sean asked.
“Not at all,” Father Oliver said. “They were very close. Stella was his pride and joy. He groomed her in business.”
“It just doesn’t make sense then,” Sean said.
“But she’s running,” Jack reminded him. “And Ethan said that he saw a security video showing her injecting some kind of syringe into her father’s IV—”
“She couldn’t tell me why she was running,” Father Oliver said, “but she assured me that her actions were justified, and promised me a full confession when it’s all over.”
“She promised you a confession?” Jack sputtered. “Then she’s basically admitting that she’s guilty!”
“Not all confessions reveal wrongdoing,” the priest said defensively. “There are many reasons people wish to keep things hidden.”
“Like lies or murder—?”
“Like love,” the priest said. “I choose to trust her before I make unfounded assumptions. I suggest that you do the same.”
CHAPTER 38
Outdoor spotlights streamed upon the stately baroque-style château. It was truly magnificent and Jack could easily see why it possessed Brooke and her paintings.
As they approached the towering wrought-iron double gates, Sean mused, “Do you have any idea what a property like this in prime Napa Valley goes for?”
“Enough to make a super unicorn jealous?” Jack teased.
“Maybe even enough to make a greedy sociopath deadly,” Sean said. “Do you know anything about English primogeniture laws?”
“I’ve streamed every season of The Tudors and Downton Abbey,” Jack admitted. “I know their inheritance laws favor the firstborn child.”
“Right. It’s all about birth order. If the eldest dies before they transfer their property from one generation to the next, it goes to the second child. Clinton and Stella were twins, they would have to split the estate, right?”
“I suppose, why?”
“There’s a lot at stake here,” Sean said, as Jack peered through the iron gates at the massive property. “This place is enormous.”
“I’m going inside.” Jack walked over to a bronze lion pillar and peered over.
“I’m sure there’s an alarm,” Sean warned. “A place like this would have dogs and armed guards.”
Jack hoisted himself up. “I don’t hear any dogs. I don’t see anything either. I’m going in. If you want to wait in the car, I totally understand.”
Sean watched Jack hop over and land on the grassy knoll. There was about an acre leading up to the home, but it was dark.
“I know I’m going to regret this,” Sean said as he reluctantly joined Jack on the other side.
“Just look at this place,” Jack said.
The traditional English gardens were glorious, rich in immaculate topiary forms, with splendid herbaceous borders and thick rosebushes, which lined the pathways leading around the grounds, a lovely maze peppered with ancient marble statues and fountains.
“It’s spectacular,” Sean agreed. “Imagine what it costs to keep this place up.”
“Probably quite a bit,” a husky voice answered from the driveway. The iron gates opened easily and two frumpy older men in ruffled tweed suits came through. “I always prefer to walk through the front door than scale a wall,” Detective Ramsey said. “It’s much easier and less likely someone will shoot you.”
Detective Johnson pulled out his badge. “Big Sur Police Department. What are you doing here?”
“We might ask you the same thing,” Jack said. “What are Big Sur cops doing all the way up in Napa?”
Ramsey walked closer to Jack. “This is the twin brother, the one that shaves.” He turned back to his partner. “This is our killer.”
Jack took a few steps back. “The FBI cleared me. Call them—”
“It was already on the news,” Sean told them, assuming Curly Hair in Carpe Diem bar was right.
Johnson put his hand up to his ear as if he were making a call. “Hello FBI, is it true? Did you decide that it was self-defense? No trial? Can we bring them in for breaking and entering then? Great, thank you so much for letting us do our job.”
“What are you doing here?” Ramsey asked again. “This is private property—”
Just as Jack was about to answer, a gun fired.
Detective Johnson’s head cocked. Blood splattered. His knees buckled. He went down.
And out.
Sean tried to scream but nothing came out.
“Get down!” Jack ordered.
Sean tried but his legs wouldn’t move.
Ramsey pulled his gun and took cover behind a tree.
Jack grabbed Sean’s arm and pulled him behind the nearest cluster of bushes, just as another shot rang out.
Jack put his finger to his lips and they waited. It was quiet, but Jack heard a pounding sound. His head throbbed and he felt disoriented. At first he thought it was from seeing another man die. But then he felt a sharp pain in his shoulder. When he looked up at Sean’s face, he knew he’d been hit. Sean grabbed Jack’s good arm and propped him up against a marble garden statue. Jack looked up and smiled. “An angel cherub is staring at me. Not a good sign.”
“Don’t make jokes now,” Sean said as he searched the yard.
“Am I dying?”
“It just grazed you,” Sean assured him as he examined his wound. “You’re going to be fine.”
“You look like George Clooney on ER,” Jack teased. “You should have gone to medical school.”
“No money in the doctor game,” Sean said as he peeked around the cherub. “There are two guys behind that fountain in the garden. They look like skinheads, covered in tattoos.”
Jack pulled himself up and took a look. “Those are the guys that jumped me, from the van. The one with the shaved head was the driver, they called him Ace. The other one is Dale.”
They heard Ramsey shout from behind the tree: “This is the police. Come out with your hands up—”
Ace and Dale fired.
Ramsey responded like a trapped animal. He burst out with a guttural cry and fired back.
Ace was hit square in the chest and fell face-first. He twitched like he was being electrocuted, then exhaled his last breath.
“He got the driver,” Sean whispered.
“Good ridda
nce,” Jack whispered back.
Dale didn’t go to help his fallen comrade. He did an about-face and slid back behind the garden like he was caught trying to steal
a base.
“My gun is aimed at you,” Ramsey announced. “Come out, hands up, or I’ll spray you with bullets.”
Dale didn’t like either option so he tried the same Kamikaze-style warrior cry and charged at Ramsey, firing haphazardly, wildly.
Ramsey squeezed his trigger in rapid succession.
These were front row seats Jack never wanted.
Bullets discharged and pummeled both men; Ramsey tumbled; Dale flailed. It seemed to take forever, like it was slow motion, until they both collapsed, and then everything went still.
Dead quiet.
Sean couldn’t speak. Jack didn’t want to. Then they both noticed something near the entryway.
The front door was ajar.
“Maybe she’s inside,” Jack suggested.
Sean found his voice. “Unless it’s her brother.”
“Let’s find out.”
“You’re hurt,” Sean reminded him.
“Details,” Jack said, heading inside.
—
Ethan had been waiting inside the sprawling labyrinth for nearly an hour earlier, hopeful that Brooke would eventually come. When he heard the gunshots, he prayed that she hadn’t. He peered out the window in the servants’ quarters, just off the kitchen, and searched the massive lawn. He couldn’t see anything, or anyone, so he moved through the kitchen pass-through where he had a view of the front door. He felt relieved when he saw Jack and Sean come through, and just as he was about to call out to them, there was a loud thumping noise from around the corner. Someone else was inside. Ethan tucked behind the kitchen door.
Jack and Sean scrambled into the first room on the left—a study with high bookshelves and large paintings of kings and queens who seemed to be watching.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” Sean whispered.
“It might have come from upstairs,” Jack said, noticing that the foyer ended with a grand winding staircase leading up to a second and third floor.
“God knows how many rooms are in this place,” Sean said as if it were an inconvenience. He noticed that Jack’s hand was on his wound and he was losing blood. “Let’s get out of here,” Sean said. “Put your arm around my shoulder and we’ll make a run for the door—”
The Second Son Page 21