by Elle James
Murray jumped and held up his hands protectively in front of his face. “I don’t know,” he said. “They just say do it. See where she go, what she do. See who come see.” Murray’s English was becoming almost impossible to understand. “They say, if I get a chance, go inside and get computers, flash drives, everything I see that’s like computers.”
Tristan wanted to slap the man and tell him to snap out of it. He needed Murray to calm down. He needed him to think rationally and talk calmly if he was going to find out anything about the people who wanted him dead so badly.
Tristan straightened, took another deep breath and drank a big swallow of the cold water Sandy had finally set in front of him. After the anger that was burning in him had decreased to a flicker, he spoke to Murray again. “What did they tell you about Sandy or me?”
Murray spread his hands. “Nothing. Just say do what they tell me or they kill Patrick.”
“Give me your phone.”
“No. Can’t. Can’t. They kill me I don’t bring back picture—” Murray suddenly turned frightfully pale. He looked as though he might pass out.
“Picture?” Tristan repeated. “What picture?”
The fisherman’s head started shaking back and forth again. He moaned. “Didn’t mean to say that,” he wailed. “So sorry, Mr. DuChaud. So sorry. Shame, shame on me.” Murray’s entire body seemed to deflate. He hung his head and his voice sounded broken. “I tell them about you. No choice. They have my son.” He spread his hands, then clasped them in front of his chest.
“Tell me what you told them,” Tristan said, working to keep his voice even.
“I say I see you. Say maybe it Tristan DuChaud. Maybe not. But pretty sure. They give camera. Take picture. Get proof. No more spy on Mrs. DuChaud. Watch to get picture, or they kill Patrick. They kill him.”
Get proof. So whoever ordered him dead had learned from Cho that he was still alive and they sent him back here to get proof. He’d be happy, more than happy, to oblige. “It’s okay, Murray. You did good. I’ll be glad to give them what they want.”
Boudreau shot him a look. “What you got in that head of yours, boy?”
Tristan ignored him for the moment. He clasped Murray’s shoulder and squeezed. “Murray, will you do what I tell you? If you will, I’ll do my best to save your son. I can’t promise you that I’ll be successful, but I can promise that I’ll give it my all. My wife is pregnant. I’m going to have a son—” His throat closed up. He swallowed hard. “A son of my own. So I can understand a little of what you’re going through.”
Murray studied Tristan a long time. Then he straightened. The frightened little man who wouldn’t look him in the eye, who’d tried to run, whose perfect English had deteriorated to the point that he was almost not understandable, had transformed again.
This time, the man who straightened was a father, still scared and worried, but ready to stand up to anyone for his child’s sake. “I’ll do anything to save my boy.”
Tristan stared at him. Nothing Murray had said so far had affected him as much as watching him gather strength and determination in the face of terror over his son’s safety. But all the courage the man was able to gather was not enough to erase the desperation in his eyes—the overwhelming fear for his son’s life.
And seeing that, Tristan knew exactly how he felt. When he’d first fallen off the oil rig, he’d been convinced he was going to die. He’d thought about Sandy and their baby. In those moments, he’d known he would never see his wife again or ever get a chance to meet his child.
Was that a part of his hell, he’d wondered? The agony of being separated from Sandy and their child? Then he’d thought of the utter emptiness and desolation his life would become if something happened to her, and he had decided yes. That would be the worst hell imaginable.
An understanding took seed and grew inside him. That’s how it had been for Sandy, when she’d found out he was dead. A small inkling of why she had been and still was so angry with him—not for staying away, but for not letting her know.
But she wasn’t just angry. He remembered the look on her face, in her eyes, when she’d discovered him in the house. She’d been talking to the baby. Even when she recognized him, her hands had wrapped protectively around her tummy. She was keeping her baby safe—even from him.
There had not been one tiny shred of happiness in her eyes. She hadn’t been glad to see him.
Had she started to get over him? The thought hit his heart like a physical blow. He felt the anger building again. Anger at himself, yes, but also anger at her. She’d begun to let go. She’d begun to move on. She had begun to make a family out of herself and her unborn child. The pain in his heart nearly doubled him over.
“Tristan?” Boudreau said. “The phone?”
Tristan blinked. Boudreau had called his name more than once. With difficulty, he brought his thoughts back to the problem at hand, finding out who had threatened Murray. He looked at the fisherman then at Boudreau. His Cajun friend held out his hand. He was holding a cell phone.
“What’s this?” Tristan asked.
Murray glanced at Boudreau.
Boudreau’s brows raised. “Where you been the past few seconds?” he asked.
Tristan sent Boudreau an irritated look, then turned to Murray. “The kidnappers gave this to you?”
He nodded. “To take picture with. They say it better than my phone.”
“What can you tell me about them?”
Murray was close to panicking again. “Big men. Maybe American, maybe not. I don’t know. I press record button on my phone last time they called.”
“You recorded them?” Tristan perked up. A recording. “Good for you.” Maybe something on there would reveal who had ordered his death and had masterminded the smuggling operation. “Play it.” He held the phone out to Murray.
“Not that phone.” Murray pulled a phone from his pocket. “That phone for picture. I recorded them on my phone, the one they call me on.”
“Fine. Just play the recording.”
“I don’t know how. Patrick handles these electronic devices. All I did, I saw the record button and hit it. I haven’t tried to listen.” Murray was calming down again and his English was getting better.
Tristan took Murray’s phone and looked at it for a moment, pressed a couple of buttons to access internal settings and help, then pressed a few more. He heard Murray’s voice, pleading with someone.
“—but the storm was too bad.”
“The storm was too bad for you to perform a simple task to save your son’s life? I guess that’s it, then. Hey, get the kid ready. Say goodbye to your boy, Mr. Cho.”
“No, wait!”
Cho’s voice coming through the phone’s speaker was agonized and broken. Tristan saw a reflection of that pain and fear etched in Murray’s face.
“For what, Murray? Till pigs fly? Because it looks like that’s how long it’s going to take you to finish your task. Well, we don’t have that long. Hey, Farrell? Where’s the kid? There he is. Settle back and listen, Murray. You’re going to get an earful of what happens when you don’t do what you’re told.”
In the background a young male voice cried out in pain once, twice. It was sudden, awful pain, from the sound of his agonized cries.
Murray moaned as his voice on the phone choked out another plea. “No. Please. Let me talk to him. I swear, I can do it.”
“We don’t have time for this, Mr. Cho. If you can do it, why haven’t you done it already?”
“Dad! Da-a-ad.” The boy went into a coughing fit. “Come—get me. Please! I’m scared.”
“Patrick!”
Tristan gritted his teeth. The love and fear were so evident in their voices. He glanced at Sandy, who was looking down and rubbing her hand across the side of her belly. She looked like a Madonna, her goodnes
s shining like a halo. And he knew what he had to do.
He wanted to watch their baby grow up. He wanted to feel that much love for his son, but not through a cloud of fear. He swore to himself that he would not allow Murray’s son—or his own—to end up as a casualty of this mess.
“Patrick! Be brave.” Through the phone, Murray sucked in a deep breath. “Don’t hurt my boy. I’ve got something else. Information you will want, but first you have to let Patrick go.”
The man’s laughter echoed through the phone line. “You’re ordering us? That is not how it works. You’re a little confused. We give the orders. You follow them. Hey, here’s a bargain for you. You tell me what you’ve got, and if it’s good enough, maybe we’ll let your son live. That’s a sale you can’t afford to miss.”
Murray put his hand over his mouth and tried to stifle a sob. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, looking up at Tristan. “I had to. He’s my son.”
Through the phone’s speaker, Tristan heard Murray take a deep breath. “It was so dark, except for lightning.” In his fear, Murray’s smooth English was breaking down. “I get close as I could, but when lightning finally light up long time, I see Mrs. DuChaud, and a man.”
“A visitor?” the man said.
“No, no,” Murray replied. “It was dark, but lightning was bright. I think it was Tristan DuChaud.”
“What? Are you serious? Because if you think you can fool us into letting your kid go—”
“No. I see what I see. Maybe it’s him. Maybe not. But I know Mr. DuChaud. The man look like him. A lot.”
“Could have been a relative. Stop wasting our time.”
“A relative? You mean like cousin or brother? No, no. You don’t get it. Here’s the rest of the story. Mrs. DuChaud and him got very close. Closer than cousin. They were kissing—not like relatives.”
“Kissing? I’ll be a sonofabitch,” the kidnapper said, then muttered under his breath.
Tristan couldn’t understand him. He paused and backed up the recording, then played it again.
“—not like relatives.”
“I’ll be a sonofabitch.”
Tristan held his breath, but he still couldn’t quite make out the kidnapper’s muttered words. “Do you know what he said right there?”
Murray shrugged. “‘Got to get proof. Lee will want proof.’”
“Lee? He said Lee?” Excitement coursed through Tristan’s blood. Vernon Lee was the owner and CEO of Lee Drilling, the multibillion-dollar corporation that owned a lot of a whole lot of things, including several thousand oil rigs around the world and a large number of land drilling operations. Murray shrugged, and Tristan grabbed his shoulder. “He said Lee? Are you sure?”
Murray shrank away from Tristan’s hand. “He said it in English. I’m pretty sure.”
Lee will want proof. His suspicion had been right all along. He’d known from the start that the man on the satellite phone giving orders to the captain had to be high enough in Lee Drilling, the company that owned the Pleiades Seagull, to expect the captain to obey him without argument.
Whether that official was Lee himself, Tristan hadn’t known—until now. Now he had some corroboration that who’d ordered Sandy watched and Murray’s son kidnapped was the same man who had ordered his death on the Pleiades Seagull.
The popular media classified Lee as practically a recluse who fiercely and expensively protected his privacy.
The implications of exposing the multibillionaire were stunning. Even a rumor suggesting that he had masterminded the smuggling of automatic handguns into the United States with the idea of arming criminals and kids with the lethal weapons could destroy him and decimate his multibillion-dollar corporation.
Tristan started the recording back up.
“—want you to do now. You get back over there. Get me proof that the man you saw is Tristan DuChaud. A photo or video. And you’d better not be seen. My boss is smart and thorough and he’s got all the money in the world. He’ll know a fake within seconds. And trust me, Cho, anything suspicious happens and your kid’s dead. Just get me that photo.”
“I’ll get you the photo. Then what?” Murray’s voice was toneless. “What about my son?”
“Well, Mr. Cho, you turned out to have something that just might be useful. If you improve how you follow directions and you bring us proof that the man you saw is DuChaud, maybe you can save your son.” The man hung up.
Tristan stared at the phone for a moment, reviewing the information he’d just gained. If Murray was right and the man had said Lee, and if things went perfectly, Tristan just might be able to bring an end to the nightmare of the past two months.
* * *
SANDY FELT COMPLETELY at loose ends while Boudreau and Tristan were deciding what to do about Murray, so she decided to cook, if there was enough gas for the portable stove, that was. She checked the can and found that it was over half-full.
She found a couple of cans of chicken stock in the cabinet, along with a small can of cooked chicken. She put the broth and the chicken in a pan. While it was simmering on one burner of the portable stove, she made a roux out of flour and oil on the second burner, then added the South Louisiana holy trinity of cooking—onion, peppers and celery—to it.
Once the vegetables were cooked perfectly, she added them and some sliced andouille sausage from the freezer, a few herbs and some cayenne pepper to the pot. Finally, a can of boiled okra and a can of tomatoes went into the mix.
Tristan came in about the time the pot began simmering. He took a deep breath. “Mmm, gumbo,” he said, smiling at her. “When will it be ready?”
Sandy set her mouth and shook her head. “There’s not enough for everybody,” she said.
“That’s okay. Boudreau and Murray have gone to his cabin. I’m headed up there in a few minutes.”
“You’re going to Boudreau’s? Again? Why? He can handle Murray without your help.” She sighed. “You are unbelievable.”
He frowned. “What? What did I do?”
“What did you do?” She tossed the metal spoon she was holding into the sink, where it clattered against the porcelain. “Are you saying you don’t know? You dismissed me with a wave of your hand. You essentially told me to shut up. Then you ignored me. Not to mention you almost killed yourself running after him. Boudreau could have caught him in half the time. And I saw Boudreau’s face. He was as worried about you as I was. And you—” She barely stopped for breath.
“I don’t know. You’re not the same person you were the last time I saw you.” She threw down the dishrag she’d tossed over her shoulder while she was cooking. “I’m not sure I know you anymore and I’m not sure I like this new person very much.”
Tristan listened to Sandy tick off all the things she was upset about. He’d known she was boiling mad, but he was expecting to be chastised for running, not for failing to take care of himself. Then when he’d smelled the gumbo, he’d had the fleeting fantasy that she wouldn’t harangue him at all, that she’d be too worried about him to be angry.
But no such luck. She’d never cut him any slack and she wasn’t now. And he knew she was right.
He wasn’t the man he had been. He knew that. He had wanted to fully recuperate before he saw her, hoping that she wouldn’t notice any difference in him.
But that had been a forlorn hope. She would never have missed the scar on the left side of his head, where the roughneck’s bullet had barely missed blowing his brains out, or his deformed right calf, which had only half the muscles it ought to have.
But in his heart, Tristan knew those weren’t the things that made him so different.
He’d stared death in the face. He knew what it felt like to be ripped away from everyone and everything he loved. He’d been through the strange and horrible experience of waking up to find himself still alive, in
a body that was not the body he remembered, not the body that could do all the things that had been second nature to him.
This body couldn’t walk, could barely hold itself upright, it was so weak and clumsy. His whole life, he had defined himself in terms of what he could do. He’d been the best at everything—the best swimmer, the best runner, the best wide receiver. He’d not made the best grades in school, but he’d never had to study to get by.
Then, when his father had been killed on an oil rig and he’d had to give up veterinary school and go to work on the rigs to support his mom and sister and Sandy, his brand-new wife, it had been a huge blow, because it was the first time he’d ever been forced to do something he hadn’t wanted to.
From that moment, it had seemed his life had evolved into a dull routine of things he’d never wanted to do.
“Tristan?” Sandy touched his arm.
“What?” he said automatically, then realized he’d been staring into space. He looked at his wife with her T-shirt stretched over her small baby bump and spattered with gumbo and her hair drooping into her eyes.
He’d never seen her when she didn’t look adorable and this was no exception. Even spattered with grease and gumbo, with her face bright pink from the heat of the gas stove, she was pretty and cute and glowing. His gaze returned to her tummy. He stepped closer and spread his hand over the rounded shape of their child, growing inside her.
“You’re so beautiful,” he said.
She lifted her face to his and kissed him. “And you look awful. You need to eat and rest.”
“I’ll eat later. I have to get to Boudreau’s. They’re going to take a photo of me that proves I’m alive. Where’s today’s newspaper?”
Her face set into the stony expression that told him she disapproved of what he was doing. “Still outside, I’m sure. Tristan, I can take your picture.”
He shook his head. “Don’t wait on me to eat. It’s probably going to take all day to get that picture and get it to the kidnappers. I’ll eat some of Boudreau’s roast pig.”
“Why don’t you take the gumbo to Boudreau’s, if you don’t want—”