by Nora Roberts
“Charlton.” It was the sharp edge to her voice that prevented him from hanging up. “According to Wight this was not a little tiff. The other boy—he’s been taken to the hospital.”
“Ridiculous.” But Hayden was no longer looking at his speech. “It sounds to me like a few cuts and bruises are being blown out of proportion.”
“Charlton.” Claire felt her stomach flutter. “They’re saying Jerald tried to strangle him.”
Twenty minutes later Hayden was sitting, ramrod straight, in Dean Wight’s office. In the chair beside him, Jerald sat with his eyes downcast and his mouth set. His white linen shirt was creased and smudged, but he’d taken the time to straighten his tie. The scratches on his face had been joined by darkening bruises. The knuckles of both hands were swollen.
A look at him had affirmed Hayden’s opinion that the incident had been nothing more than a rough-and-tumble. Jerald would be called to task, certainly. A lecture, a reduction of privileges for a time. Still, Hayden was already working out his position should the matter leak to the press.
“I hope we can clear this matter up shortly.”
Wight nearly sighed. He was two years away from retirement and his pension. In his twenty years at St. James’s he’d taught, lectured, and disciplined the sons of the rich and the privileged. Many of his former students had gone on to become public figures in their own right. If he understood one solid fact about those who sent their offspring to him, it was that they didn’t care for criticism.
“I know your schedule must be hectic, Senator Hayden. I wouldn’t have requested this meeting unless I felt it was for the best.”
“I’m aware you know your job, Dean Wight. Otherwise Jerald wouldn’t be here. However, I’m forced to say that this entire scenario is being blown out of proportion. Naturally, I will not condone my son participating in fisticuffs.” This was said directly to the top of Jerald’s head. “And I can assure you this matter will be taken up at home, and dealt with.”
Wight adjusted his glasses. It was a gesture both Hayden and Jerald recognized as the product of nervousness. Hayden sat patiently while Jerald gloated. “I appreciate that, Senator. However, as dean, I have a responsibility to St. James’s, and to the student body. I have no choice but to suspend Jerald.”
Hayden’s mouth firmed. Jerald saw it out of the corner of his eye. Now that fat-faced dean was in for it, he thought.
“I find that rather extreme. I went to a preparatory school myself. Skirmishes were frowned on, certainly, but they didn’t result in suspension.”
“This was hardly a skirmish, Senator.” He’d seen the look in Jerald’s eyes when he’d had his hands around young Lithgow’s throat. It had frightened him, frightened him badly. Even now, studying the boy’s downcast face, he felt uneasy. Randolf Lithgow had suffered severe facial injuries. When Mr. Burns had attempted to break up the fight, Jerald had attacked him with a ferocity that had sent the older man to the ground. He had then tried to choke the nearly unconscious Lithgow until several members of the student body managed to restrain him.
Wight coughed into his hands. He knew the power and wealth of the man he was speaking with. In all probability, Hayden would be the next president. To have had the son of a president graduate from St. James’s would be a tremendous coup. It was that, and only that, that prevented Wight from expelling Jerald.
“In the four years Jerald has been with us, we have never had a problem of any kind in his conduct or his studies.”
Naturally, Hayden had expected no less. “In that case, it appears Jerald must have been extremely provoked.”
“Perhaps.” Wight coughed into his hand again. “Though the severity of the attack can’t be condoned, we are willing to hear Jerald’s side of the story before we take disciplinary action. I assure you, Senator, we do not suspend students out of hand.”
“Well then?”
“Jerald has refused to explain.”
Hayden bit off a sigh. He was paying several thousand dollars a year to have Jerald seen to properly, and this man didn’t have the capability to draw an explanation out of a high school senior. “If you’d give us a few moments alone, Dean Wight?”
“Of course.” He rose, only too glad to distance himself from the silent, cool-eyed stare of the senator’s son.
“Dean—” Hayden’s authoritative voice stopped him at the door. “I’m sure I can rely on your discretion in this matter.”
Wight was very aware of the generous contributions the Haydens had made to St. James’s over the last four years. He was also aware of how easily a candidate’s personal life could destroy his political one. “School problems remain in the school, Senator.”
Hayden rose as soon as Wight left the room. It was an automatic gesture, even an ingrained one. Standing simply emphasized his authority. “All right, Jerald. I’m ready to hear your explanation.”
Jerald, his hands resting lightly on his thighs as he’d been taught, looked up at his father. He saw more than a tall, vigorously handsome man. He saw a king, with blood on his sword and justice on his shoulders. “Why didn’t you tell him to fuck off?” Jerald asked mildly.
Hayden stared. If his son had risen and slapped his face he would have been no less shocked. “I beg your pardon?”
“It’s none of his business what we do,” Jerald continued in the same reasonable tone. “He’s only a fat little weasel who sits behind a desk and pretends to be important. He doesn’t know anything about the way things really are. He’s insignificant.”
Jerald’s tone was so polite, his smile so genuine, that Hayden found himself staring again. “Dean Wight is the head of this institution and, as long as you’re enrolled in St. James’s, deserves your respect.”
As long as he was enrolled. One more month. If his father wanted to wait a few weeks before fixing Wight’s ass, Jerald could be patient. “Yes, sir.”
Relieved, Hayden nodded. The boy was obviously quite upset, perhaps even suffering from a touch of shock. Hayden hated to press him, but answers were necessary. “Tell me about your run-in with Lithgow.”
“He was bugging me.”
“Apparently.” Hayden felt on more solid ground here. Young boys had an excess of energy and often took it out on each other. “I take it he initiated the incident?”
“He kept riding me. He was an idiot.” Impatient, Jerald started to squirm, then caught himself. Control. His father demanded control. “I warned him to get off my back; it was only fair to warn him.” Jerald smiled at his father. For a reason he couldn’t name, Hayden felt his blood chill. “He said if I didn’t have a date for the Graduation Ball he had a cousin with a clubfoot. I wanted to kill him right then; I wanted to smash his pretty face in.”
Hayden wanted to believe it was a young boy’s anger, a young boy’s words, but he couldn’t. Not quite. “Jerald, raising your fists isn’t always the answer. We have a system, we have to work within it.”
“We run the system!” Jerald flung his head up. His eyes. Even his father saw that his eyes were wild, rabid. Then the shutters came down again. Hayden could convince himself, had to convince himself he’d imagined it. “I told him, I told him I didn’t want to go to any prissy school dance to drink punch and cop a few feels. He laughed. He shouldn’t have laughed at me. He said maybe I didn’t like girls.” On a low chuckle, Jerald wiped the spittle from his lips. “And I knew I was going to kill him. I told him I didn’t like girls. I liked women. Real women. Then I hit him so that blood spurted out of his nose all over his pretty face. And I kept hitting him.” Jerald continued to smile as his father’s face whitened. “I didn’t blame him for being jealous, but he shouldn’t have laughed at me. You’d have been proud of the way I punished him for laughing.”
“Jerald …”
“I could have killed them all,” Jerald continued. “I could have, but I didn’t. It wouldn’t have been worth it, would it?”
For one trembling moment, Hayden thought he was in the room with a stranger.
But it was his son, his well-bred, well-educated son. The excitement, Hayden assured himself. It was only the strain of the afternoon. “Jerald, I don’t condone losing your temper, but it happens to all of us. I also understand that when we’re provoked we say things, do things that are uncharacteristic.”
Jerald’s lips curved almost sweetly. He loved his father’s rich orator’s voice. “Yes, sir.”
“Wight said you tried to strangle the other boy.”
“Did I?” Jerald’s eyes were blank for a moment, then cleared with his shrug. “Well, that’s the best way.”
Hayden discovered he was sweating; his armpits were dripping. Was he afraid? That was ridiculous, he was the boy’s father. He had no reason to be afraid. Sweat ran in a jagged line down his back. “I’ll take you home.” Just a small breakdown, Hayden told himself as he led Jerald from the room. The boy had been working too hard. He just needed to rest.
Grace sighed when the phone rang. She’d been able to work for the first time that day. Really work. For hours she’d enveloped herself in her own imagination and had produced something that had pleased her.
She’d harbored a deep, secret fear that she wouldn’t be able to write again. Not about murders and victims. But it had come back, rough at first, then with the old flow. The story, the act of writing, the world she created had nothing to do with Kathleen and everything to do with her. Another hour, maybe two, and she’d have enough to send to New York and ease her editor’s nervous twitch. But the phone rang and brought her back to reality. And reality had everything to do with Kathleen.
Grace answered, then noted the number. After drawing out a cigarette, she dialed. “Collect call, from Desiree.” She waited until the call had been accepted and the operator clicked off. “Hello, Mike, what can I do for you?”
A hell of a way to spend the evening, she thought some minutes later. Ed was downstairs playing gin with Ben and she was pretending she was a peasant to Sir Michael’s black knight.
Harmless. Most of the men who called were just that. They were lonely, looking for companionship. They were cautious and looking for safe, electronic sex. They were tense, pressured by family and profession, and had decided a phone call was cheaper than paying for a prostitute or a psychiatrist. That was the simple way to look at it.
But Grace knew, better than most, that it wasn’t really that simple.
The newspaper reproduction of the police artist’s sketch was on her nightstand. How many times had she studied it? How many times had she looked at it and tried to see … something? Murderers, rapists should look different from other men in society. Yet they looked the same—normal, unmarked. That was so frightening. You could pass them on the street, stand with them in an elevator, shake their hands at a cocktail party and never know.
Would she know him when she heard him? His voice would be as normal, and as harmless, as Sir Michael’s. Yet somehow she thought she would know. She held the sketch in her hand and studied it. The voice would fit, and she’d put it together with the sketch of his face.
Outside, Ben crossed the street to an unmarked van. Ed had already taken him for twelve-fifty at gin, and he thought it was time to check on Billings. He pulled open the side door. Billings glanced up, then saluted.
“Amazing stuff.” Billings cackled to himself. “Yes, sir, it’s capital A amazing. Want to listen in?”
“You’re a sick man, Billings.”
Billings only grinned and cracked a peanut. “The lady gives great phone, old buddy. I have to thank you for letting me make her acquaintance. I’m tempted to give her a ring myself.”
“Why don’t you do that? I’d love to see Ed rip off your arms and stuff them up your nose.” But it was precisely to avoid that possibility that Ben had come out to do the checking. “You doing anything with the taxpayers’ money in here besides jerking off?”
“Don’t get hyper, Paris. Remember, you came to me.” He swallowed the peanut. “Oh yeah, she’s really got this one going. He’s about to—” Billings broke off. “Hold it.” With one hand pressed against his headphones he began to fiddle with dials on the equipment lined up in front of him. “Sounds like somebody wants a free ride.”
Ben moved forward until he was leaning over Billings’s shoulder. “Have you got him?”
“Maybe, just maybe. A little click, a little surge. Watch the needle. Yeah, yeah, he’s on there.” Billings flipped switches and cackled. “Got ourself a ménage à trois.”
“Can you trace it?”
“Does the pope wear a beanie? Shit, he’s clever. A clever sonofabitch. Got himself a scrambler. Goddamn.”
“What?”
“She hung up. I guess the guy’s three minutes were up.”
“Did you trace it, Billings?”
“I need more than thirty seconds, for Christ’s sake. We’ll wait and see if he comes back.” Billings dug into the peanuts again. “You know, Paris, if this guy’s doing what you think he’s doing, he’s not stupid. No, baby, he’s sharp, real sharp. Chances are he’s got himself some top of the line equipment and he knows how to use it. He’s going to cover his trail.”
“Are you telling me you’re not going to be able to nail him?”
“No, I’m telling you he’s good. Real good. But I’m better. There’s the phone.”
Jerald couldn’t believe it. His palms were sweating. It was a miracle, and he’d made it happen. He’d never stopped thinking about her, wanting her. Now she’d come back, just for him. Desiree was back. And she was waiting for him.
Giddy, he put his headphones on again and tuned back in.
That voice. Desiree’s voice. Just hearing it made him edgy, sweaty, desperate. She was the only one who could really do it for him. Take him to the brink. The power was in her just the way it was in him. Closing his eyes, he let it flow over him. He let it take him up and over. She was back. She’d come back for him because he was the best.
God, it was all coming together. He’d been right to drop the mask and show those pussies at school what he was made of. Desiree was back. She wanted him, wanted him inside her, wanted him to give her that ultimate thrill.
He could almost feel her under him, bucking and screaming, begging him to do it. She’d come back to show him he not only had the power over life, but the power over death. He’d brought her back. When he went to her this time, it would be even better. The best.
The others had only been a test. He understood that now. The others had only happened to show him how much he and Desiree belonged together. Now she was talking to him, promising herself to him, eternally.
He’d have to go to her, but not tonight. He had to prepare first.
“He pulled off.” Billings swore and punched buttons. “The little bastard pulled off. Come on back, come back, I’ve almost got you.”
“Give me what you’ve got, Billings.”
Still swearing, Billings pulled out a map. Keeping his headphones in place, he drew four lines, connecting them into a rectangle over six blocks. “He’s in there. Until I get him back that’s the best I can do. Jesus, no wonder he pulled out, this other guy’s bawling like a baby.”
“Just keep at it.” Ben tucked the map into his pocket and jumped out of the van. It wasn’t enough, but it was more than they’d had an hour before. He knocked on the front door, then strode in when Ed opened it. “We’ve got it down to a quadrant of about six square blocks.” After glancing upstairs, Ben walked into the living room to spread the map on the coffee table.
Keeping on the edge of the couch, Ed leaned over it. “Upscale neighborhood.”
“Yeah. Tess’s grandfather lives here.” Ben tapped a forefinger on the map just outside the quadrant. “And Congressman Morgan’s Washington address is here.” His finger moved inside the red lines.
“Maybe it wasn’t just a coincidence that Morgan’s credit card was used for the flowers,” Ed murmured. “Maybe our boy knows him, or his kids.”
“Morgan’s son’s the right age.” Ben pick
ed up a watered-down glass of Pepsi.
“His alibi’s solid, and the description’s off.”
“Yeah, but I wonder what he’d have to say if we had him take a good hard look at the sketch.”
“That school the Morgan kid goes to. St James’s, right?”
“Prep school. Upper-crust and conservative.”
Ed remembered the haircut in the sketch. He took out his notebook as he rose. “I’ll call.”
Ben paced to the window. Through it he could see the van. Inside, Billings was gnawing peanuts and maybe, just maybe, narrowing down the possibilities. There wasn’t much time. He could feel it. Something was going to break, and soon. If things didn’t go right, Grace was going to be squeezed from both sides.
He glanced over his shoulder at Ed talking on the phone. He knew how it felt, how frustrating, how just plain scary it was to have the woman you loved in the middle of something you couldn’t control. You tried to be a cop, a good one, but holding on to your objectivity was like trying to cling to a wet rope. You kept losing your grip.
“Morgan’s mother died this morning,” Ed said as he hung up. “The family’ll be out of town for a couple of days.” In Ben’s eyes Ed saw what he felt in his gut. They didn’t have a couple of days. “I want to pull her off.”
“I know.”
“Goddamn it, she’s got no business exposing herself this way. She doesn’t even belong here. She should be back in her penthouse in New York. The longer she stays—”
“The harder it’s going to be to watch her leave,” Ben finished. “Maybe she isn’t going to leave, Ed.”
A man didn’t evade his partner. “I love her enough that it would be easier to know she was there, safe, than here with me.”
Ben sat on the arm of the couch and pulled out a cigarette. The eighteenth of the day. Damn Ed for getting him into the habit of counting. “You know one thing I’ve always admired about you—besides your arm-wrestling skills, that is—you’re a hell of a judge of character, Ed. You usually put your finger on a person after ten minutes. So I figure you already know Grace isn’t going to budge.”