He wondered for a second if she had ulterior motives, like getting him to have sex with her. It wouldn’t be the first time a woman had attempted coercion, to which he usually submitted. He allowed himself to consider what it might be like to be with Maggie. She was divorced. He was single. They would be alone all night together.
Immediately, he thought of Ellie, and his worry resurfaced, chasing off the temptation.
“Is she your girlfriend?” Maggie asked, seeming to read his mind. “This Ellie Stuart? She’s been on TV an awful lot.”
Ellie, his girlfriend? He didn’t have girlfriends; he had sex partners. Ellie just happened to be the best one yet. “She’s innocent,” he asserted, sidestepping the question.
“I know that,” Maggie replied. “I knew the first time I saw her face on the news. Same with you.”
“I guess you can read people pretty well,” Sean commented.
Maggie shrugged. “I guess I can,” she agreed.
He couldn’t resist flirting with her just a little. “So, what do you see when you read me?” he asked, meeting her gaze directly.
She sat back, contemplating him. “I see a confident and highly trained warrior who probably knows over a hundred ways to kill the enemy but would never hurt a friend.”
The comment hit a spot in his heart that made him feel especially vulnerable.
“I see a man who probably puts himself on the edge of danger to keep from thinking about something in his past,” she added.
Immediately, he thought of Patrick. The vulnerable feeling grew, along with a sudden, inexplicable urge to cry.
“That’s enough,” he decided gruffly. “Sorry,” he apologized for his harsh tone. “I’ve got a lot on my mind right now.”
“That’s understandable, given the trauma your brain’s been through,” said Maggie matter-of-factly. “I’m going to take a walk on the beach,” she added. “Why don’t you get some rest? You can leave in the morning when your buddies come.” Leaving the dishes in the sink, she departed through the sliding glass doors and disappeared.
Sean crossed to the window to keep an eye on her. The big house had cast its shadow over the beach. As she waded across the sand toward a turbulent-looking ocean, her dark curls whipped in the breeze. He thought of Ellie and quickly redialed Reno’s number. “Were you able to get in touch with Ellie?” he asked.
Reno hesitated and then said quickly, “Sean, Ellie checked out of the hotel room this afternoon.”
The announcement made Sean’s full stomach cramp. His head started to pound again.
“I had to impersonate a police officer to get that information,” Reno added. “I don’t know anything else.”
“Shit,” Sean swore. “Where would she have gone? What about my car? Is it still there?”
“I asked that question. The hotel had it towed.”
Double shit. Where would Ellie have gone, alone in a strange city with no money and no friends to speak of?
“She has my number, Sean,” Reno reassured him. “I’m sure she’ll get in touch with me eventually.”
“Yeah.” If she hadn’t been hauled off by some Centurion on a mission to silence her. After what they’d done to him, he could only assume the worst. “Thanks, Reno,” he rasped, hanging up.
He stood there a moment, staring at the cell phone, planning to call Solomon next. He just needed a second to pull himself together. The possibility that Ellie was in serious, serious trouble unraveled his thoughts, making it hard to think. All he could do was feel. And he hadn’t felt this scared, this helpless, since Patrick started dying.
Chapter Fifteen
Consumed in private thoughts, Skyler didn’t even glance at the individuals ambling up the walkway as she stepped through the shelter door and headed for the gate. It was supper time, when homeless men trickled in, searching for a hot meal. The light-skinned African American man approaching her looked no different. But then he stepped to one side, revealing two women in his wake. As Skyler spared them a curious glance, one of them spoke to her.
“Excuse me,” she said brightly. A gust of wind ruffled her copper-colored hair. “Are you Skyler Dulay?”
“Yes,” said Skyler, taking in her professional attire and her youthful age with curiosity.
“I’m Ophelia Price, a field reporter with a Virginia-based news station.” She held out a hand for Skyler to shake. “And this is my cameraman, Reggie.” The blond woman in sunglasses who hung back at a distance did not get introduced. “Could I ask you a few short questions about the Centurions’ civic charities? I understand your father, Owen Dulay, is responsible for the shelter’s operation.”
“Yes, that’s right,” said Skyler unenthusiastically. She didn’t have the will or the energy to tout her father’s philanthropic endeavors, especially when she knew they were just a farce.
“Owen Dulay is Consul of the Centurions, is he not?”
“Yes, that’s his title,” Skyler said shortly.
“And the Centurions meet here at this shelter once a week; is that right?”
“Yes,” Skyler answered.
“Have you heard the recent allegations made against them?” asked the reporter unexpectedly.
Skyler regarded her more closely. The shrewd look in the young woman’s eyes shook her from her own disturbing questions of how and when to submit her mother’s journal to the FBI. She realized the cameraman had hoisted a box on his shoulder and was filming her answers.
“No, I haven’t,” Skyler admitted, feeling suddenly cornered. “What allegations?”
“That the abduction of Ellie Stuart’s sons was in fact perpetrated by the Centurions. What’s your response to that, Miss Dulay?”
Skyler took a backward step while swiftly trying to deter further questions. “The Centurions are an organization committed to improving the lives of men,” she carefully replied, certain her father would hear of this interview if not watch it firsthand. “Abduction doesn’t fit into their mission.”
“Membership into the upper hierarchy is inherited, is it not?” the reported continued, undaunted.
Skyler sensed her zeroing in on something more specific. “It is,” she admitted.
“But you won’t inherit your father’s position as Consul because you’re a woman,” pointed out the reporter.
“That’s correct,” said Skyler stiffly.
“Does your father have a male heir, Miss Dulay?”
“No,” said Skyler, determined to extricate herself before she said something her father would take umbrage to and make her escape plans more difficult.
“What about Carl Stuart?” suggested the woman. “The father of the three missing boys.”
Carl? Was she out of her mind? “Carl is my father’s chauffeur,” Skyler retorted, tempering her mockery.
“Your father seems tremendously taken with Carl Stuart. Is it possible that he’s chosen Carl to be his heir?”
The walkway under Skyler’s feet seemed to tilt. As she steadied herself, her gaze flew to the woman wearing sunglasses on this overcast evening, and suddenly she knew exactly who she was.
“Miss Dulay?” prompted the reporter.
“Turn off the camera,” Skyler hissed, taking a step toward Reggie. “Turn it off,” she insisted, “or I’ll reveal who’s with you.” Obviously, they wished to keep Ellie’s identity a secret or they wouldn’t have changed her appearance so drastically.
With a grimace, Ophelia Price signaled for her reporter to quit filming, and Reggie took the camera off his shoulder, clutching it in front of him.
For a long moment, the trio eyed each other warily. Skyler’s heart beat fast and irregularly as she decided what to do about them. Perhaps she could use them to her benefit, to strengthen her own resolve. “Do you have a car?” she asked, glancing around to make sure they weren’t being watched.
“We’re parked on Reynolds Square,” answered the reporter eagerly, “in a Chevy Caprice.”
“Then follow me.” With a nod and a
final glance at Ellie, Skyler headed toward her reserved parking spot on Broughton. Once in her car, she eased into rush-hour traffic and drove automatically toward the Islands Expressway, to the beach where she and Drake had talked.
The suggestion that her father intended to make Carl his heir encased her heart in ice.
Would her father really do that? Leave his legacy to a shiftless, leering loser simply because he had no male heir? He had a daughter who’d done nothing but try to please him, yet all she got in return for her faithfulness was a husband thirty years her senior, another Centurion telling her what to do.
It was time she faced down the fact that her father had little, if any, love for her. Time to take control of her own life, once and for all.
Standing on a lonely strip of beach fifteen minutes later, buffeted by a breeze that promised inclement weather, Skyler compared the two photographs the newswoman had handed her. One was of Carl, the other a computer printout of her father playing football for Baylor.
Lightning sparked far out over the ocean where dark clouds surged over choppy waters. She looked up at the trio awaiting her reaction.
“You’re telling me you think Carl’s my half brother,” Skyler concluded, pushing the words through a tight throat. The thought made her skin crawl.
“Your hesitation is perfectly understandable,” Ophelia Price assured her. “Carl isn’t somebody anyone would want to claim as kin, but the resemblance is undeniable, and my sources tell me that Carl’s mother attended Baylor University at the same time that your father was there.”
Skyler shook her head, wanting desperately to deny it.
“What I think and what I’ve convinced Ellie of,” the reporter continued, “is that your father abducted Carl’s sons—his grandsons—in the hopes that one of them will be a more fitting heir than Carl.” She shrugged, planting the seed gently.
Skyler handed back the photographs. Glancing at Ellie, whose complexion remained waxen despite her makeup, Skyler considered the enormity of the woman’s burden. The capable Navy SEAL who’d championed her was gone, supposedly having fled police on the way to jail. The woman must feel so helpless, so alone—just like she did. “Tell you what I’ll do,” Skyler decided. “If I find any proof to support your theory, I’ll let you know. Tell me where I can reach you.”
“We’re all staying at the East Bay Inn,” said the newswoman, handing her a business card. “But please don’t tell anyone. After what happened to Sean, we’re concerned for Ellie’s welfare.”
“I understand,” Skyler promised. Was her father really capable of making people disappear? Of being so calculatingly ruthless? Yes. The knowledge galvanized her as nothing else had ever done.
“Thank you for your time and willingness to listen, Miss Dulay,” the newswoman offered, looking deep into Skyler’s eyes, seeming to understand that she was as much a victim to her father’s schemes as she was a witness. “We won’t make your statements public,” she reassured her. “And I really do want you to call me for anything, okay?”
With a nod of acknowledgment, Skyler sent Ellie an empathetic nod before slogging across the soft sand, shoes in hand, toward her car.
Dropping onto the cold leather seat, she shut the door and just sat there, watching beachcombers race to their cars as fat raindrops splattered her windshield and distorted her view.
Too stunned to drive, she replayed the reporter’s allegations. If Carl was her father’s son, born out of wedlock, that certainly explained the time and energy her father had expended on Carl, who by anyone else’s standards was beyond improvement. It also gave her father a motive for wanting to abduct Carl’s sons. With grandsons to inherit, his legacy could continue in Centurion fashion for another seventy-five years, at least.
But, dear Lord, he’d ripped three little boys from their mother’s arms just to suit his needs! He might even have pulled far-reaching strings to make a Navy SEAL disappear.
His cruel, blatant manipulations were almost impossible for her to comprehend—almost. Hadn’t she found out at age eighteen just how effortlessly he could manipulate an entire hit-and-run case, making it disappear into thin air? She had paid the price of overwhelming guilt, and that poor man’s family had never known the truth.
It was time to put a stop to her father’s machinations, but a lifetime of fear made her palms sweat, her heart pound. Once she opened her own Pandora’s box, how would she protect her mother from her father’s wrath? How would she protect herself?
Scrutinizing Carl across the table, Skyler watched him lick the last drop of mint sorbet from his spoon. This wasn’t the first night he’d been invited to eat supper with her and her father, but with her suspicions firmly planted, the physical attributes he shared with her father were suddenly all too obvious. They had the same angular jaw, the same long, bony fingers.
“Are you finished?”
She swung a guilty gaze at her father and realized he was speaking to Carl, who wiped a drop of sorbet off his chin with the back of his hand and nodded. He pushed back his chair, looking ill at ease in a collared shirt that once belonged to his employer.
“Where are you going?” Skyler inquired as both men stood. It was pouring rain outside. Thunder rumbled ominously. Lightning cast an eerie greenish glow behind the dark clouds.
Her father sent her a quelling glare. “To a meeting,” he answered shortly.
But not a Centurion’s meeting, she noted, for it wasn’t Wednesday. Could he be taking Carl to visit his sons? Was that why Carl was dressed for some special occasion?
Averting her gaze, she stuck a spoon in her own sorbet and pretended disinterest.
They left her to finish her dessert alone. Over the drumming rain, she listened for the telltale rumble of the garage doors opening and closing, signaling their departure. The grandfather clock in her father’s study chimed eight times as she rose cautiously to her feet. She could hear the servants conversing in the kitchen where they shared their meals, even Drake, who ate with them.
With no one to waylay her, Skyler slipped across the marble foyer and entered her father’s study. She stood a moment with her back to the closed door, allowing her eyes to adjust to the gloom.
Violet shadows quilted the cherry woodwork. Where in this lair of shelves and files and locked drawers might she find tangible evidence of Carl’s parentage?
Slipping into the desk chair, she imagined briefly how it felt to be master of an empire—how intoxicating, how corrosive to the human soul. Carefully, she slid the top drawer open, feeling past the bills and sundry papers for the box that held the key she’d seen her father put away—the key that accessed his files.
Finding it, she clutched the key in her damp palm as she crossed to the standing file cabinet. She inserted the key into the lock, releasing all four drawers with a click. Pulling open the first one, she sought the files beginning with C, for Carl.
Lightning lit up the room for a scant second, allowing her to see that there were only investment reports for Construction Contractors, a company her father owned, filed under C.
Opening the second drawer, she fingered the tabs until she came to S, this time for Stuart. A file marked Spenser and Weis Attorneys at Law was the last folder filed under S. Sliding a hand behind it, she felt an envelope and withdrew it. But with no more lightning forthcoming, she moved to the nearest window to catch the glow from the lit water fountain.
D. Stuart, Manachie, Mississippi, read the return address. The letter had been sent to her father.
Withdrawing scented stationery, Skyler angled it to read the faint scrawl, her heart scarcely beating.
Dearest Owen,
I know you never expected to hear from me again, but life deals unexpected cards, as I’ve grown to realize. When you spurned me twenty-eight years ago, you never knew I was carrying your child, a son, whom I named Carl, after my father. Since you’d chosen your path, I felt it my right to keep my secret. I also determined not to tell Carl who his father was, only that he w
as conceived in love, though in the end, you married another. Now, as I find myself losing a battle with breast cancer, I wonder if I was wrong never to tell Carl what a great man you’ve become. He is a son I take little pride in acknowledging, a lazy and dissolute man who shirks his obligations—exactly the opposite of yourself. I think it ironic that you are, perhaps, the only soul on earth who can redeem him. That is why I’ve decided to inform you of his existence. Whether you choose to act on that knowledge or not is up to you. I’ve made peace with my past. It’s only right to allow you to do the same, in your way.
Sincerely,
Darlene Stuart
Skyler released the breath she was holding, trembling at her discovery. The proof had been here all along, like a malignant cancer, just waiting in those files to be discovered. If ever she needed a sign that she was about to do the right thing, this was it!
Folding the letter with shaking hands, she slipped the envelope into the pocket of her denim skirt. She was about to leave her father’s office when a shadow moved through the line of light shining under the door. The door handle jiggled.
With a gasp, Skyler ducked behind a settee, fearing she had just been caught. The door opened and closed, quickly and quietly, and the lights remained extinguished. She sensed she was no longer alone, but who would stand still and silent like that?
A chill swept over her. But then she detected soft footfalls as the intruder crossed the room to the file cabinet. Too late, she remembered she had left it ajar. With a faint click, a beam of light shot across the floor, tracking toward her. She cringed, certain of discovery.
But then the beam changed direction. At the whisper of a file drawer opening, she dared to peek around the arm of the settee. To her disbelief, she recognized Drake. He stood holding a penlight between his teeth and a wandlike object that emitted a blue glow in his right hand. As she watched him, he drew the wand across the contents of the file in his left hand.
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