by Nora Roberts
“You don’t like it? How’s this?” Anita shifted her aim so the gun was pointed at Tia’s heart.
And seeing the gun aimed at her daughter, Alma began to scream. In an absent gesture, Anita rapped the side of her fist against Alma’s temple. “Shut the fuck up or I’ll shoot both of you for the hell of it.”
“Don’t. Don’t hurt my Tia.”
“You don’t have to hurt anyone. I’ll get them for you.” Moving slowly, Tia eased toward her mother’s dressing table.
“Do you think I’m stupid enough to believe they’re in there?”
“I need the key. Mother keeps the key to the lockbox in here.”
“Tia—”
“Mother.” Tia shook her head. “There’s no use pretending anymore. She knows. They’re not worth dying for.” Tia opened the drawer.
“Hold it, step back.” Gesturing with the gun, Anita moved forward as Tia stood by the open drawer. “If there’s a gun in there, I’m putting a bullet in Alma’s kneecap.”
“Please.” As if staggering, Tia laid a hand on the vanity for balance and palmed a small bottle. “Please don’t. There’s no gun.”
Anita used her free hand to riffle through the drawer. “There’s no key either.”
“It’s in there. Right—”
She slammed the drawer on Anita’s hand, then tossed the contents of the bottle in her face. The gun went off, plowing a hole in the wall an inch from Tia’s head. Through the screams—her mother’s, Anita’s, her own—Tia leaped.
The collision with Anita knocked the breath out of her, but flying on adrenaline, she didn’t notice. But she felt, with a kind of primeval thrill, her own nails rake the flesh of Anita’s wrist.
And she scented blood.
The gun spurted out of Anita’s hand, skidded over the floor. They grappled for it, Anita clawing blindly as the smelling salts Tia had flung at her stung her eyes. A fist glanced off her cheek and made her ears ring. Her knee plowed into Anita’s stomach more by accident than design.
When their hands closed over the gun at the same time, when they rolled over the floor in a fierce, sweaty tangle, Tia did the only thing that came to mind. She got a handful of Anita’s hair and yanked viciously.
She didn’t hear the glass shattering as they rammed into a table. She didn’t hear the shouts from downstairs or the pounding of feet. All she heard was the blood roaring in her own head, the fury and elemental violence of it.
For the first time in her life, she caused someone physical pain, and wanted to cause more.
“You hit my mother.” She gasped it out and, using Anita’s hair as a rope, slammed her head over and over against the floor.
Then someone was pulling her away. Teeth bared, hands fisted, Tia struggled as she stared down, watching Anita’s bloodshot eyes roll back in her head.
Gideon stepped over, picked up the gun, and Malachi turned the still struggling Tia into his arms. “Are you hurt? Jesus, Tia, there’s blood on you.”
“She kicked her ass.” Cleo sniffled her way through a grin. “Can’t you see, she kicked her fat, sorry ass.”
“Tilly.” The adrenaline dumped out of her system and left her limbs feeling like water. Her voice was weak now, her head starting to spin.
“Ma’s with her. She’s ringing an ambulance. Here now, here now, darling, you’re going to sit down. Gideon, help Mrs. Marsh there.”
“I’ll do it. She’s frightened.” Holding on, Tia stayed on her feet. Her knees wanted to buckle, her legs to give, but she took the first step. The second was easier. “Get her out of here, please. Get Anita out of here. I’ll take care of my mother.”
Stepping around the unconscious Anita, Tia hurried over to untie her mother. “You’re not going to be hysterical,” Tia ordered, pressing a kiss to her mother’s bruised face as she dealt with the knots. “You’re going to lie down. I’m going to make you some tea.”
“I thought she would kill you. I thought—”
“She didn’t. I’m perfectly fine, and so are you.”
“Tilly. She’s dead.”
“She’s not. I promise.” Gently, Tia helped Alma to her feet. “An ambulance is coming. Lie down now. Everything’s going to be fine.”
“That horrible woman. I never liked her. My head hurts.”
“I know.” Tia brushed Alma’s hair back from her bruised temple, kissed it. “I’ll get you something for it.”
“Tilly.” Alma gripped Tia’s hand.
“She’s going to be all right.” Tia leaned down, put her arms around her mother. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
“You were very brave. I didn’t know you could be so brave.”
“Neither did I.”
To Tia’s surprise, her mother insisted on going to the hospital with Tilly. And was just as forceful in sending Tia home again.
“She’ll drive the doctors crazy. At least until my father gets there and calms her down.”
“It shows a good heart”—Eileen set a cup of tea in front of Tia—“that she was more concerned with her friend than anything else. A good heart,” she added, touching Tia’s sore cheek, “goes a long way. Drink your tea now, so you’re steady when you talk to those policemen.”
“I will. Thank you.”
She closed her eyes as Eileen left the room, then opened them and looked at Malachi.
“I never thought she could hurt you. I never thought she’d—I should have.”
“It’s no one’s fault but hers.”
“Look at you.” He cupped her face gently. “Bruises on your cheek and scratches as well. I wouldn’t have had it, not for all the money in the world, not for the Fates, not for justice. I wouldn’t have had one mark on you.”
“There are more on her, and I put them there.”
“That you did.” He lifted her to her feet to hold her.
“Smelling salts dead in the eyes. Who but you would think of it?”
“It’s done now, isn’t it? All the way done?”
“It is. All the way done.”
“Then, are you going to marry me?”
“What?” He eased away, slow and careful. “What did you say?”
“I asked if you’re going to marry me or not.”
He let out a short laugh, raked a hand through his hair. “I thought I would, it being agreeable with you. As it happens, I was on the point of deciding on a ring when Cleo rang on Gideon’s mobile.”
“Go back and get it.”
“Now?”
“Tomorrow.” She wrapped her arms around him and sighed. “Tomorrow’s just fine.”
Epilogue
Cobh, Ireland
May 7, 2003
THE Deepwater Quay at water’s edge was unchanged from the time of the Lusitania, the Titanic and the great, grand ships that once plied the waters between America and Europe.
Here, tenders from those ships had come to get mail and passengers from the Dublin train, which often arrived late.
Though the Quay still functioned as a train station, the Cobh Heritage Centre, with its displays and shops, ran through its main terminal.
Recently an addition had been added to serve as a small museum. With security by Burdett. The focal point of that museum were three silver statues known as the Three Fates.
They gleamed behind their protective glass and looked out at the faces—perhaps the lives—of those who came to see, and to study.
They stood, united by their bases, on a marble pedestal, and in the pedestal was a brass plaque.
THE THREE FATES
ON LOAN FROM THE SULLIVAN-BURDETT COLLECTION IN MEMORY OF HENRY W. AND EDITH WYLEY LORRAINE AND STEVEN EDWARD CUNNINGHAM III FELIX AND MARGARET GREENFIELD MICHAEL K. HICKS
“It’s good. It’s good that his name’s on there.” Cleo blinked back tears. “It’s good.”
Gideon draped his arm over her shoulders. “It’s right. We did what we could to make it right.”
“I’m proud of you.” Rebecca hooked her arm thro
ugh Jack’s. “I’m proud to stand here beside you, as your wife. You could have kept them.”
“Nope. I got you. One goddess is enough for any man.”
“A wise and true answer. It’s time we went to the cemetery. Cleo?”
“Yeah.” She laid her fingers on the glass, just under Mikey’s name. “Let’s go.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” Malachi told them. “Button up.” He began doing up the buttons of Tia’s jacket himself. “It’s windy out.”
“You don’t have to fuss. We’re fine.”
“Expectant fathers are allowed to fuss and fret.” He laid a hand on her belly. “Are you sure you want to walk?”
“Yes, it’s good for us. I can’t sit in a bubble for the next six months, Malachi.”
“Listen to her. Not a year ago you were barricaded against every germ known to man.”
“That was then.” She leaned her head on his shoulder. “It’s a tapestry. Threads woven in a life. I like the way my pattern’s changing. I like standing here with you and seeing something we helped do shining in the light.”
“You shine, Tia.”
Content, she laid her hand over his. “We made justice. Anita’s in prison, probably for the rest of her life. The Fates are together, as they were meant to be.”
“And so are we.”
“So are we.”
She held out a hand and felt unreasonably strong when his linked with it. They caught up with the others and walked up the long hill in the May wind.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Birthright
A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 2003 by Nora Roberts
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Electronic edition: March, 2004
For my darling Kayla, the new light in my life. My wishes for you are too many to count, so I’ll just wish you love. Everything magic and everything real, everything that matters springs from that.
And he who gives a child a treat
Makes joy-bells ring in Heaven’s street,
But he who gives a child a home
Builds palaces in Kingdom come,
And she who gives a baby birth
Brings Savior Christ again to Earth.
JOHN MASEFIELD
Know thyself.
INSCRIBED ON THE TEMPLE OF APOLLO AT DELPHI
Contents
Prologue
PART I The Overburden
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
PART II The Dig
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
PART III The Finds
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Epilogue
Prologue
DECEMBER 12, 1974
Douglas Edward Cullen had to pee. Nerves, excitement and the Coke he’d had as part of his reward lunch at McDonald’s for being good while Mama shopped combined to fill his three-year-old bladder to bursting.
He danced, in exquisite torture, from the toe of one of his red Keds to the other.
His heart was pounding so hard he thought if he didn’t yell really loud or run as fast as he could, he might explode.
He loved when stuff exploded on TV.
But Mama had told him he had to be good. If little boys weren’t good Santa would put coal in their stocking instead of toys. He wasn’t sure what coal was, but he knew he wanted toys. So he only yelled and ran in his mind like his daddy had taught him to do when it was really, really important to keep still.
The big snowman beside him grinned and was even fatter than Douglas’s aunt Lucy. He didn’t know what snowmen ate, but this one had to eat a lot.
The bright red nose of Rudolph, his very favorite reindeer, blinked on and off until Douglas’s eyes were dazzled. He tried to entertain himself by counting the red dots that swam in front of his eyes, the way the Count counted on Sesame Street.
One, two, three! Three red dots! Ha ha ha ha ha!
But it made him feel a little bit sick.
The mall was full of noise, the blasts of Christmas music that added to his impatience, the shouts of other children, the crying of babies.
He knew all about crying babies now that he had a little sister. When babies cried you were supposed to pick them up and walk around with them singing songs, or sit with them in the rocking chair and pat them on the back till they burped.
Babies could burp right out loud and nobody made them say scuze me. Because, dummy, babies couldn’t talk!
But Jessica wasn’t crying now. She was sleeping in the stroller and looked like a doll baby in her red dress with the white frilly junk on it.
That’s what Grandma called Jessica. Her little doll baby. But sometimes Jessie cried and cried and her face got all red and scrunched up. Nothing would stop her from crying, not the singing or the walking or the rocking chair.
Douglas didn’t think she looked much like a doll baby then. She looked mean and mad. When that happened, Mama got too tired to play with him. She was never too tired to play with him before Jessica got in her belly.
Sometimes he didn’t like having a little sister who cried and pooped in her pants and made Mama too tired to play.
But most of the time it was okay. He liked to look at her and watch the way she kicked her legs. And when she grabbed his finger, really tight, it made him laugh.
Grandma said he had to protect Jessica because that’s what big brothers do. He’d worried so much about it that he’d snuck in to sleep on the floor beside her crib just in case the monsters who lived in the closet came to eat her in the nighttime.
But he’d woken in his own bed in the morning, so maybe he’d only dreamed he’d gone in to protect her.
They shuffled up in line, and Douglas glanced, a bit uneasily, at the smiling elves who danced around Santa’s workshop. They looked a little bit mean and mad—like Jessica when she was crying really loud.
If Jessica didn’t wake up, she wasn’t going to get to sit on Santa’s lap. It was stupid for Jessie to be all dressed up to sit on Santa’s lap, because she couldn’t say scuze me when she burped, and she couldn’t tell Santa what she wanted for Christmas.
But he could. He was three and a half years old. He was a big boy now. Everyone said so.
Mama crouched down and spoke to him softly. When she asked if he had to pee, he shook his head. She had that tired look on her face and he was af
raid if they went to the bathroom they’d never get back in line and see Santa.
She gave his hand a squeeze, smiled at him and promised it wouldn’t be much longer.
He wanted a Hot Wheels, and a G.I. Joe, and a Fisher-Price garage, and some Matchbox cars and a big yellow bulldozer like the one his friend Mitch got for his birthday.
Jessica was too young to play with real toys. She just got girl stuff like funny dresses and stuffed animals. Girls were pretty dopey, but baby girls were even more dopey.
But he was going to tell Santa about Jessica, so he wouldn’t forget to bring stuff for her when he came down the chimney at their house.
Mama was talking to someone, but he didn’t listen. The grown-up talk didn’t interest him. Especially when the line moved, people shifted, and he saw Santa.
He was big. It seemed to Douglas, on the first ripple of fear, that Santa wasn’t so big in the cartoons or in the pictures in the storybooks.
He was sitting on his throne in front of his workshop. There were lots of elves and reindeer and snowmen. Everything was moving—heads and arms. Big, big smiles.
Santa’s beard was very long. You could hardly see his face. And when he let out a big, booming ho ho ho, the sound of it squeezed Douglas’s bladder like mean fingers.
Lights flashed, a baby wailed, elves grinned.
He was a big boy now, a big boy now. He wasn’t afraid of Santa Claus.
Mama tugged his hand, told him to go ahead. Go sit on Santa’s lap. She was smiling, too.
He took a step forward, then another, on legs that began to shake. And Santa hoisted him up.
Merry Christmas! Have you been a good boy?
Terror struck Douglas’s heart like a hatchet. The elves were closing in, Rudolph’s red nose blinked. The snowman turned his wide, round head and leered.
The big man in the red suit held him tight and stared at him with tiny, tiny eyes.
Screaming, struggling, Douglas tumbled out of Santa’s lap, hit the platform hard. And wet his pants.