The White Lily

by Susanne Matthews

  He frowned. Whoever had lived here was long gone, and they’d obviously left in a hurry. The only thing that could’ve scared Eloise into leaving Boston like this was their uncle. If she’d been forced to go with him, Jacob thought he might know where to look, but if she had gone off somewhere on her own, how would he ever find her again? The Williamsons might know where she was, but from the evidence here, it didn’t look as if they wanted anyone to find them either.

  Retracing his steps, Jacob approached the cab driver in conversation with a young man in his twenties who’d obviously been walking the dog sitting quietly beside him.

  “This guy says they haven’t been here in a couple of months,” the driver said, indicating the man.

  “Can you tell me about them?” Jacob asked, reaching out to pet the animal.

  “Can’t tell you much. A couple in their mid-forties, maybe closer to fifty. Kept to themselves. They had a girl living with them.”

  “Can you describe the girl?”

  “Hell, yes. She was as nice as they come and had this huge tattoo on the left side of her face—it was like half an eagle. I’ve got tats myself”—he indicated his biceps—“but hers was an incredible piece of artistry. It covered a scar from a childhood accident.”

  “Thank you,” Jacob said. He’d come to the right place, but he was too late. “You’ve been most helpful.”

  “Anytime. If you see the girl, tell her Dex said hi.”

  Jacob nodded. “I will.” He turned to the driver. “I’m ready to go.”

  The cabby got behind the wheel. “You look a little down in the mouth, buddy. Didn’t find what you were looking for?”

  “No,” Jacob answered, fighting to keep the disappointment out of his voice, “but I’m on the right track.”

  “Do you want to go back to the hotel?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Maybe Eloise had simply changed her mind about coming to Australia, took the extra money he’d given her, and headed somewhere with the Williamsons. But why the rush? It wouldn’t have taken long to empty the coffeepot, pack up the food. No, Duncan was behind this. He’d bet his fortune on it. Tonight he’d get some sleep, and tomorrow he’d figure out where to start looking.

  Chapter Two

  Jacob got out of yet another cab and stood in front of One Schroeder Plaza. Boston police headquarters was an impressive modern glass and cement structure, and he hoped he’d find the answers he needed here. He pushed his hair off his forehead and crossed the stone sidewalk to the doors.

  It was warmer today than it had been yesterday. He should’ve remembered early September in Boston could be a lot like early March in Darwin. Even at ten in the morning, the humidity was overpowering. He’d removed his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. While he’d like to lose the tie, he wanted to look polished. Over the years, he’d learned a man in a suit commanded more respect than a man in jeans and a t-shirt. He needed to find his sister sooner rather than later.

  After spending a good portion of the night going over all of the messages he’d had from the detective, the only thing that made sense was that his uncle had found Eloise and the Williamsons and forced them all back to New Mexico. If he had, it would be damn hard for Jacob to get her out of there without help from the authorities. Even then, he’d have to prove she hadn’t gone with their uncle willingly.

  The uniformed officer on duty at the information desk smiled at him.

  “Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?”

  “G’day. It’s going to be a hot one out there. I’m not sure I’m in the right place. I want to file a missing person’s report.”

  “Usually that’s done at one of the local precincts, but I’ll see if I can get someone to help you. Actually, what I can do is look up the name and see if we have anything in our database. Who’s presumed missing?”

  “Eloise Colchester. She’s twenty-four,” he said. Their last name should’ve been Lucius, but his uncle had adopted them after his father had died, and they carried their aunt’s name, as did her natural children. Jacob had changed his to Andrews after he’d escaped. There’d been nothing he’d wanted from the commune, and as much as it had pained him to leave his twin and his brothers and sisters behind, there was no way he could’ve survived under that monster’s rules any longer.

  The police officer typed in the name, stared at his computer screen, and frowned. Jacob’s anxiety level rose.

  “And you are?”

  “Jacob Andrews. I’m a friend.”

  The officer stood, his face a bland mask, but Jacob sensed his excitement. Whatever had come up on that computer screen wasn’t going to make this easier. It was possible Eloise had fled Boston because she was running not only from their uncle but from the police.

  “Will you have a seat over there? I’ll call upstairs and get someone to come down to speak to you.”

  Reluctantly, he crossed to the row of chairs, two of which were occupied by men who had to be lawyers, their thousand-dollar suits a dead giveaway, and sat in the chair closest to the wall. Since Eloise’s name showed up in the computer check, the chances were there was more at play here. The last time Jacob had spoken to her, he’d sensed she’d been upset, although she’d denied it.

  From what little she’d said, he gathered that a number of the members of New Horizon commune were in the area and, quite simply, had lost their minds, believing their delusional uncle’s bullshit about being God’s prophet and having a mission to save the world. He knew exactly who Duncan Lucius was ... a sadistic bully who used God and fear to control people to do his bidding. Jacob remembered the way that bastard had tried to take over even before his grandfather had died, but then the fever had come, killing his father and several other cult members. His uncle had survived and claimed to have spoken with God. At fifteen, there wasn’t much Jacob could do to stop him, but he’d tried, and in the end, he’d almost gotten himself killed.

  “Mr. Andrews?” A tall man with very short, dark red hair stood in front of him, interrupting his thoughts. The man’s shoulder holster was empty, but Jacob would bet there was a weapon strapped to his ankle. He wore dress pants, a pearl-gray shirt, and a black and gray striped tie.

  Jacob stood and slipped on his jacket. The man examined him closely, and Jacob wasn’t sure whether he was going to slap handcuffs on him or offer to shake his hand.

  “Detective Rob Halliday. You look familiar,” he said, suspicion heavy in his voice.

  Jacob smiled. “Jacob, please. I’ve just arrived from Australia, so unless you’ve been down under, it’s unlikely we’ve met.”

  The detective nodded. “I understand you’re looking for Eloise Colchester. Can I ask why?”

  “Eloise and I go way back. She was scheduled to leave Logan for Sydney nine weeks ago. When she wasn’t aboard the flight I’d booked, I tried to contact her, but she hasn’t answered my calls or my e-mails. I phoned the numbers I was given but got a ‘number no longer in service’ message. I’m worried about her. I think she may be in trouble.”

  “A ticket to Australia’s a pretty big expense for a friend. What would it set you back? A couple of grand?”

  “Not that it’s any of your business, Detective, but I’m a wealthy man. The cost of the ticket was irrelevant. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her. Now, can you please tell me what’s going on?” He was getting annoyed and fighting to keep calm. Losing his temper wouldn’t help.

  “Why don’t we go upstairs and talk where it’s more private?”

  What had Eloise gotten herself into? Australia might’ve started as a penal colony, but he’d have a hell of a time bringing a convicted felon into the country, and how would he even get her there? The State Department would’ve pulled her passport.

  Jacob nodded and followed the detective to the elevator, that sense of doom heavy in his gut. The man pressed number four, and the doors closed.

  “I can’t place your accent,” he asked. “Where did you say you were from?”


  Jacob chuckled. Nosy sod, isn’t he?

  “I didn’t. I was born in the United States. I left the country eighteen years ago. After spending a couple of years in Canada, I moved to Australia, and I’ve been there ever since. I spend the winters near Darwin and the summers near Melbourne. The Aussie accent grows on you after a while.”

  “What do you do?”

  Jacob couldn’t decide if the man was giving him the third degree or just making conversation. There was no point in being rude since he was going to have to ask for his help locating Eloise if she wasn’t already in this building. He’d spent enough time in police stations to know the cells were probably downstairs, not up.

  “A little of this and that. Primarily, I’m a fruit farmer. You’ve probably eaten melons I’ve grown. My wine is becoming quite popular over here, too.”

  “I’ve had Australian wine. It’s not bad. As far as melons go, my wife eats fruit as if it’s going out of style and melon of any kind is a favorite.”

  The elevator doors slid open, and Jacob stepped back, bumping into the detective who’d moved behind him. Standing in front of the door were four men, one of whom could probably give any professional wrestler a run for his money—all of them with Glocks pointed directly at Jacob’s chest.

  “Bloody hell ...”

  “Charade’s over, you bastard,” said Detective Halliday, grabbing his arm from behind, snapping a handcuff on his wrist, and pulling his other arm behind his back to cuff it, too. Once he was restrained, the men put their guns down, but the wrestler came forward, grabbed him by the head, and pinched Jacob’s nose, forcing him to open his mouth if he wanted to breathe.

  Had the members of the Boston Police Department gone crazy?

  A uniformed officer grabbed his jaw, pulling it open so wide it hurt, and examined his teeth.

  “He’s clean. Good dental work, by the way, not like the rest of them.”

  The man released his jaw at the same time the wrestler released his nose and head. Jacob drew a deep, shaky breath and gulped air, no longer worried only about Eloise but concerned for his own safety. Either all these detectives were insane, which was unlikely, or his sister had stumbled into a hell of a mess.

  “Have you all gone mad? What’s going on here? I don’t know what you think I’ve done or who you think I am,” although since Eloise had mentioned Jimmy, they might be mistaking him for his twin brother, “but I can assure you I’ve only been in the United States since yesterday afternoon.”

  “Sure, Mr. Andrews,” Detective Halliday said, stressing the name as if it left a bad taste in his mouth. “Or perhaps I should say Colchester? Which one of the Chosen are you? Or maybe I should call you Prophet? Great disguise. That accent’s almost believable. You had me going with the farmer line. Pretty funny. You’re just ballsy enough to walk in like this and think we’d be too stupid to realize who you are. Take him into room three, empty his pockets, take off his shoes and belt, and for Christ’s sake, don’t take your eyes off him for a second. I don’t want another dead body on our hands.”

  Jacob jerked his arm loose from the man holding him.

  “Dead body? Where is my sister, Detective?”

  “Eloise Colchester is your sister?” the detective snarled. “That’s rich. If she’s your sister, you sick son of a bitch, you know damn well where she is. She’s on a slab in the morgue where your fixer put her after he slit her throat and that of at least four others.”

  “No! God, no,” Jacob cried out in anguish, dropping to his knees, breaking the other man’s hold on his arm. He was too late. His baby sister was dead, and it was his fault. “When? How?’

  “Cut the theatrics. I’m not buying the act, but to refresh your memory, you had her executed nine weeks ago, the day we stormed your little horse farm and rescued the women you had there.”

  Jacob straightened, shook off the officer’s attempt to grab his arm again, and stared into the detective’s eyes, taken aback by the hatred there.

  “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about, Detective. You’ve obviously got the wrong man. What women? What horse farm? You’ve got kangaroos loose in the top paddock.”

  “Drop the phony accent and shut up before I lose my temper and beat the crap out of you.” The detective turned to the two uniformed officers. “Get him out of my sight and tie him down. If he gives you any trouble, shoot the son of a bitch. You’ll be doing the world a favor.”

  Jacob didn’t doubt for a minute the officers would do exactly what they’d been told. Since discretion was the better part of valor, he quit arguing and went peacefully with the men assigned to watch him. They undid one handcuff so he could remove his jacket, belt, and tie, and once he’d finished, the officer holstered the gun he’d been holding while his partner secured Jacob’s hands to the table in front of him and his feet to the floor. He collapsed into the hard, metal chair.

  This certainly hadn’t turned out the way he’d expected it to. Eloise was dead. He should’ve come for her in June as soon as the PI had found her. The pain of losing the last part of all he held dear crushed Jacob, and he put his head down on the table and wept. Let his jailors think what they wanted. At the moment, he didn’t care.

  • • •

  “Well, this is going to be damn awkward for somebody,” Lilith said, entering the observation room off interrogation room three. She looked through the two-way glass at the prisoner whose head rested on his arms on the table. A steel-gray suit jacket hung over the back of the chair beside him. His black shirt pulled tightly across his muscular shoulders.

  Poor guy. Hell of a welcome.

  She turned to Trevor. Neither he nor Rob were going to be happy about this. In the week since she’d arrived, she’d grown to respect both men and their skills, but they were way off base here. So far, working as a field agent was no different from her job at Quantico, and while she’d logged hours in front of the computer screen, she was feeling more at ease than she had in years. The only thing still making her life miserable were the nightmares.

  “His story checks out, Trevor,” she said, placing the folder on the table in front of him. “According to the State Department, he’s exactly who he says he is. Jacob Andrews, born on the Havasupai Reservation in Arizona, an Australian millionaire and owner and operator of two of the country’s most lucrative fruit farms. The Australian prime minister himself took my call. Jacob and his grandfather arrived there sixteen years ago, got themselves a twenty-dollar miner’s right and a mining tenement for some unallocated Crown land in the Northern Territories, hit it big—diamonds and gold—and used the money from their mines to buy the fruit farms. He renounced his American citizenship and became an Australian citizen twelve years ago.”

  “Shit,” Rob said. “I feel like a complete ass. We bushwhacked him, but damn it, he looks just like Jimmy after he cleaned himself up. How is that even possible? What the hell’s going on here?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Appearances can be deceiving. I guess it’s like my gut feeling that we’re missing something in the Richardson case. Using that new software program I installed, Savannah Richardson is a dead ringer for Faith Volt, one of the children you recovered when you rescued Faye, but that’s not possible. Faith Volt is on vacation down south somewhere with her grandparents. According to the neighbors, they aren’t due back for at least another week. You’re trying too hard. I know you’re worried about your wife, but you overreacted.”

  “Rob’s not the only one, Lilith,” said Trevor. “When Tom and I saw the face on the monitor, we jumped to the same conclusion. It was like seeing a ghost. If you’d been part of the case back then, you’d have been screaming for his head, too. How the hell were we supposed to know he wasn’t one of the Chosen or the Prophet himself? The man could be James Colchester’s clone. And don’t forget, he came looking for Eloise.”

  “Be realistic,” Lilith said, warming to the argument. “I’ll admit he could be one of the Colchester brothers,
although the only picture I’ve seen of James has him looking like a battlefield extra in Apocalypse Now, but Jacob isn’t old enough to be the Prophet. Plus, he doesn’t look anything like the man in that picture on the whiteboard with ‘prophet’ written under it.”

  “Maybe he ages really well,” Rob mumbled. “Besides, how do we even know the man in that photograph is the Prophet? We only have Garett Pierce’s word for it, and we all know what a stellar human being he turned out to be. He lied about the man’s name, saying he was Duncan Julius, the mayor of Slocum, but when we ran that name though NBCI, it came up empty.”

  “What did Faye say about the Prophet?”

  “Not much. She never saw the man’s face, but she did hear him speak.”

  “I’ve read through that file from cover to cover, and I don’t remember anything about Australian accents.”

  “Damn it, Munroe,” Rob said, frustration heavy in his voice. “Cut us some slack. Thanks to Pierce, we’ve been chasing our tails on this case for months. You’re the one who said the Prophet would probably try to recover the bodies so he could give them whatever he considered as a proper send off and burial. This guy’s the first person to come looking for any of them. And as far as the accent goes, lots of people are really good at faking them. It could be part of his disguise—hiding in plain sight and all that bullshit.”

  “Look, I can understand how this case is personal for you both. You trusted Pierce and he betrayed you, and then of course, Faye’s your wife, Rob. You love her—hell, she’s having your baby, but you need to take a step back. From personal experience, I know this kind of anger and obsession can be detrimental. It’ll consume and destroy you. You have to stay focused.

  “This task force has a lot to commend it, and you need to remember your accomplishments. You stopped James Colchester, rescued the kidnapped women and children from the New Horizon cult, and filled a whole section of the Nashua Street Jail. At the same time, you uncovered a deep mole inside the FBI, a man who’d fooled his superiors and fellow agents for years.”