Changing Tides

by Veronica Mixon

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  “Where’s my son?”

  “He’s not here.” Cedar considered me as if I were the runt of the litter and he was figuring the quickest way to pawn me off.

  I glared back. “I’m not leaving. If Owen’s not here, where is he?”

  Sighing, he swept his hand toward the foyer. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  “Show me what?” I stepped inside his house and searched for signs of my son. Two six-foot antique marble urns and a Persian rug were the only furnishings in the small foyer.

  Cedar stepped toward the hall, looked back. “Well, do you want to see your boy or not?” he snapped, his tone reminding me who was in charge.

  I followed him down a marble tiled hall. Resigned to play along long enough to find out where he’d hidden Owen.

  A hallway of antique mirrors allowed a quick view of the rooms as we passed. Wingback chairs, a camelback sofa. A pedestal dining table, with twin cherry servers. Nothing out of place. Nothing to give the impression an eight-year-old was in residence.

  We entered a bedroom-office combination. Wall-to-wall shelving held an impressive collection of leather-bound books and a horde of mantel clocks.

  Cedar walked to a king four-poster bed and put a paisley tie inside a Bric’s carry-on.

  I stayed by the door, kept my back to the wall, and scanned the room. “Where’s my family?” A six-inch chair rail pressed the butt of my gun against my spine.

  Mom’s jade box sat across the room on a small Moroccan game table. My mind careened back to the day of the break-in. Mom had called Cedar and asked him to come. But why? If she was behind the kidnapping sham, why would she and Cedar need to fake a robbery? The pieces didn’t fit together.

  Cedar walked to an overly ornate Romanesque marble fireplace and flipped a switch. Flame stitch paneling opened to reveal a flat screen television. He tapped a key on his laptop and my son’s beaming face claimed center stage on the television screen.

  Verifying Cedar was behind Owen’s abduction circled in my head like a search plane looking for a reason for the unbelievable.

  Cedar tapped again, and the camera zoom receded.

  My thoughts swam three strokes ahead of my logic. In the background, behind Owen…the painting on the wall, the drapes, the chair. All familiar. Owen was inside Mom’s bedroom. Relief cannonballed my heart. Owen was ten miles away. I turned for the door, but Cedar had moved to block my exit.

  “Not so fast.” He pushed me against the wall. “I’ll take your gun now.”

  I looked down, verified the nudge to my ribs came from a pistol. A pistol Cedar held with his finger on the trigger. I glanced up. His smile of triumph spawned an emotion so foreign it frightened me. He’d callously used Owen for money, and I wanted Cedar dead.

  “Your son’s expecting you today. Play your cards right, and you won’t disappoint him.”

  My mind twisted into an angry hard knot. Until I had Owen in my arms and I knew he was safe, no way this back-stabber was getting my gun.

  “You want to make your boy an orphan?” He pushed the barrel deeper into my ribs. “Raise your hands,” he said. “And turn around.”

  I looked into Cedar’s stone-cold eyes and realized he was capable of following through with his threat. Then I saw my son’s pleading face. Owen’s eyes brimmed with tears, asking if I was going to leave him, too. Go to live with the angels like Daddy. Cedar was right. I wouldn’t take the chance, even a remote one, of making Owen an orphan. I lifted my shirttail and faced the wall.

  He pulled the Glock from my waistband, walked me farther into the room, and threw my gun on the bed.

  I’d subconsciously set aside the most obvious of sequences. If Cedar were callous enough to orchestrate the abduction of my son to steal Granddad’s thirty million, nothing would keep him from his prize. Not me, not Owen, and most likely, not even Mom. I’d never considered Cedar would hold me at gunpoint. Bringing my gun inside had been more prop than weapon.

  I had to keep him engaged until Nathan arrived. Encouraging a blowhard to brag shouldn’t be hard. “Clever idea to hide Owen at Mom’s house.”

  “Roslyn didn’t want your boy upset.” A nervous energy poured out of him. His eyes were too bright, his body movements too strained, as if his brain had to remind his hands and feet and mouth to move.

  A slow panic skittered across my chest, like spiders running under my skin. I coerced my mind to still. Inhaled a calming breath. Owen was safe. He was with Mom. In a familiar environment. But a warning voice in my head screamed, it’s not that simple. “I was in agony thinking Owen and Mom were kidnapped.”

  He shrugged as if my pain was an insignificant detail. “Couldn’t be helped. Nathan’s crosshairs moved off you and onto me.” His faux-genteel tone caused my blood to heat to boiling. “When Roslyn and Owen disappeared, Nathan was skeptical it was a kidnapping. But I know how a behavioral analyst thinks. The visceral tells a person can’t fake. And I knew once Nathan read your body language, he’d reach the conclusion your panic was real. Which bought me the time I needed.”

  His cocky explanation cooled my anger. Overconfident people were easy to manipulate. Stroke their ego—they’d brag for hours, explain every minute detail of their ingenious plan, and gloat over their superior intelligence. I nodded, as if impressed. “But I’m surprised you talked Mom into drugging Uncle Stanley.”

  “Roslyn agreed to drug the marshals when I claimed one of them was the Cabral snitch, and Owen’s life was in danger. Stanley drinking the coffee wasn’t planned.”

  “Was the snitch guarding Owen and Mom?”

  Cedar laughed a deep belly chuckle. Slid a photograph from under Mom’s box, and held up the picture of Owen and me on the island, the same shot that accompanied the first threatening email. “There is no snitch. I authored that theory. Even had Nathan and Erica buying in.”

  “Then who took that picture?”

  “Cabral boys love their drones.”

  My stomach contracted into one single flame. I hadn’t seen a drone that day, but with the airboat whizzing around a drone wouldn’t have stood out.

  “Stanley drinking the coffee shook up your mother.” Cedar’s eyes turned as dark as molten lava. “But Roslyn will do a lot to protect her secrets.”

  I couldn’t tell if he admired or resented Mom. “How’d you keep her from calling me?”

  “The hurricane worked in my favor. Cell towers down. I cut her landline and switched off her power.”

  But the storm was over, and Mom wouldn’t keep me in a state of despair, unless—

  “You have guards posted at her house?”

  “Of course.” He pressed his lips together as if to say no more, then lifted a shoulder. “One stationed at every door.”

  The panic spiders scampered across my heart. “Does Skinny Norwich know Owen and Mom are at her house?” On the run after killing Joseph, Mom’s well-guarded house would be the perfect hideout.

  “Skinny’s on a rampage to avenge his brother.” Cedar veered to the bed but kept the Smith and Wesson pointed squarely at my chest. “Got the local Cabral boys scurrying like roaches hunting for cover. I need to get on the road before Skinny decides to show up here.”

  My mind stalled, backtracked. “Skinny’s blaming you for his brother’s death?”

  “Skinny’s an equal opportunity revenger. He’s blaming everyone.”

  My brain argued with my heart. Should I try and overpower Cedar? What if it backfired? Better to wait for Nathan. “Where are you headed?”

  He opened a drawer and removed a stack of pressed and folded shirts and laid them neatly in the suitcase, then checked his gold Rolex. “I think we should toast to our final goodbye. And my good fortune.ˮ

  He opened a chest-high travel trunk repurposed into a bar and poured two drinks, neat, from a bottle of Glenlivet. He dropped a pill in one, swirled it around, then put the doctored glass down by my hand. He raised his drink. “To our long-standing friendship.” He ch
ugged his scotch.

  I barely glanced at my drink. “Think I’ll pass. So you sent the email threats.” I nodded. “I get that. Slowed down Nathan and Erica’s investigation. Kept everyone off balance, and allowed you time to put your affairs in order.”

  Cedar sipped his drink and didn’t comment.

  “And if I ran to California you’d have the cover to escape. When I disappeared with Owen and Mom, Nathan would assume you’d left with us. What changed your plan?”

  “You.” He pointed the nine-millimeter at my chest. His body swayed, he overcompensated, jerked, and stumbled forward. He straightened, walked to my side, and steered me three steps to the Moroccan game table. He pulled out one of the chairs. “Sit.” He pushed the doctored glass into my hand. “Drink.”

  His breath reeked of alcohol. I hesitated over the chair, then stared at the semi-automatic, and lowered my butt into the seat. I placed the tumbler back on the table with a shaky hand.

  “Erica was gunning for your indictment. If I’d left town and she’d managed to throw you in jail, I wouldn’t be around to ride to your rescue. My absence would’ve caught Nathan’s attention quicker than flies on a sugar tit.” Cedar picked up his glass, shook the ice, walked back to the bar, and poured another two fingers. “I couldn’t have Nathan ordering a manhunt until I had time to square things in Montevideo.” He puffed his chest and looked down his nose in the style of a taunting schoolyard bully. “But two hours ago, the last obstacle keeping me from the grand prize…” He flicked his fingers in the air. “Poof. Vanished.” He laughed too hard and too long. He carried his drink to the game table and sat in the other chair.

  Cedar was drunk.

  Drunk and holding a nine-millimeter, aimed at me.

  He took a sip of scotch. “Won’t take the Feds long to trace the shell companies back to me. My assistant will roll faster than a flopping mackerel. Roslyn and Owen’s disappearance refocused Nathan’s attention back on you.” He glanced at my glass. “Drink your scotch, girl.” His voice steeled. Cedar would be a mean drunk.

  I picked up the glass. “What’s in here?”

  “It’s harmless, knock you out for a while. Give you a headache.”

  I tapped the rim with my fingernail. “I’ll drink if you call your guards. Tell them to release Owen and Mom.”

  “I’m pressed for time.” A smirk played on his lips. “Got a tight schedule.”

  My shirt clung like a wetsuit. I rubbed a damp palm over my thigh. Where was Nathan? “Did Joseph kill Cal?”

  Cedar’s smirk vanished as if I’d slapped it off his face. “He panicked and was convinced Erica was out to get him.”

  I struggled to catch up. “Calvin or Joseph?”

  “Joseph doesn’t panic. He kills.” Cedar’s cold declaration was a jolting reminder I didn’t read people as well as I once believed. “So Joseph killed Calvin?”

  Cedar sipped his drink. His edgy disposition had slipped into false courage, the kind found inside a bottle. “Monday morning, Cal came banging on my door wired and jittery. It was an accident.”

  “Accident?”

  He looked at his watch, stood, and walked to his bed. He shut the suitcase with his free hand, but kept his gaze and gun on me. “Calvin assumed I’d double-crossed him, and no amount of convincing got through his thick skull. Gun just went off.”

  “You shot Cal?” I pushed out of my seat. Raw anger, the burning, seething, roiling kind, crept up my neck. “You stuffed Calvin in the trunk of Ben’s car? For me to find?”

  Cedar circled the bed. “Get back.”

  I stood my ground.

  “I’m done messing with you.” He waved the semi-automatic in my face. “Drink, or I’ll pour that scotch down your throat.”

  I backed up to my chair. “Tell me what happened to Cal, and I’ll drink.”

  Cedar’s jaw set. I could almost hear his teeth grinding. “Joseph’s son overdosed. He had Skinny dump him in river to keep the cops from getting involved. But the kid washed ashore and the Feds found him. Calvin was convinced the DEA had started following him, and for some reason, he concluded I’d sicced Erica Sanchez on him. He was half-crazy, not making any sense.” Cedar waved the nine-millimeter in the air. “I had to use my gun to get his attention, and then your investigator knocked on the door. Calvin jumped me.”

  “What happened to Ben?”

  “Calvin barreled in that morning, and I didn’t lock the door. Your man walked right in.”

  The floor dipped and waved like a roller coaster ride. “You shot Ben?”

  “No other choice. He saw Calvin bleeding on the floor.”

  The ride picked up speed, then dropped fifty feet. “Ben’s dead?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  My knees turned to mush. I slid into the chair. “What’d you do with Ben’s body?”

  “Root cellar. Mama’s deep freezer’s been empty for years.”

  I choked back bile. Held up my hand to stave off details. Owen. Just think of Owen. Keep the psychopath talking, and jump him at the first opportunity—my only plan.

  Cedar glanced through the window. “Finish your scotch. I need to leave.”

  “Joseph’s dead.”

  “Smartest move Skinny’s ever made.” Cedar heaved his suitcase off his bed.

  I searched my brain for anything to keep him talking. “How much of my grandfather’s money are you planning to steal?”

  He looked up, smiled. I knew he wanted to brag, could see it in his eyes. “I’ve transferred every last cent to an account in the Grand Caymans, then routed the funds to three separate accounts in Hong Kong, and from there—well, that’s my business. Drink.”

  “Call your guards and tell them to release Owen and Mom, and I’ll sign whatever papers you need.”

  “Once I’m out of the country, I’ll release your boy.” He lifted his gun and looked down the barrel. “Guards won’t make a move without orders from me, and Cabral men are loyal. But I don’t need your signature. The bank accepted your power of attorney.”

  “What power of attorney?”

  He shrugged. “Forged.” He pointed at my scotch, made a drinking gesture. “Bottoms up.”

  He’d already owned killing Calvin and Ben, no reason to think he’d stop now. I sipped, but I had to stay awake long enough to warn Nathan about the guards.

  “You’re going to have to chug it.” He thrust the nine-millimeter toward the glass, and then back to me. “I’d rather not shoot you, but don’t push me.”

  I didn’t move.

  He aimed at my thigh.

  I took another sip, held the liquid in my mouth. It tasted like rich single malt, made to sip, not chug. The liquid mixed with my saliva and grew, then trickled down my throat.

  “Drink it all,” he said.

  I coughed, sipped.

  Cedar appeared satisfied.

  “How’d you find out about the Montevideo money?” I asked.

  “Private codicil to the will stated there was an offshore account and explained how to access the money. But it made no sense. Noah insisted you’d understand the anagram. I couldn’t make heads or tails of the jumbled mess.”

  Granddad had loved his anagrams.

  I sat forward. If I was going to jump him before he left, time to get it over. It wouldn’t get any easier if I waited.

  “You try anything, and I’ll shoot you. You’ll never see your son’s face again.”

  I shifted back in my chair.

  “I figured Noah’s hidden account had to be in the millions,” Cedar said. “After his stroke, I nosed around Roslyn’s and found a receipt from Montevideo in his wallet.” He leaned against his desk, as if we were two friends having an after-dinner drink. “I found a connected guy in Uruguay and he started hunting. Took two years to grease enough palms to run down the account.” He threw a key onto the table beside Mom’s box. “You can take that back to your mama. I don’t need the insurance.”

  I fit the key into the lock and opened the lid. The je
welry was inside. “Surprised you aren’t selling the diamonds.” I slouched lower in the chair, my energy slowly slipping away.

  “Too risky. The diamond quality’s too rare.”

  “The diamonds were your insurance?”

  His hazel eyes filled with a merriment impossible to ignore. “The letters, not the diamonds.” His tongue clucked in disapproval, disappointed in my inability to grasp his grand design. “In case I needed you to get my hands on the money. But you might want to read them. Learn your true heritage.”

  My eyelids were as heavy as stones. “Nathan and the Cabral nephews will hunt you down.” My words slurred. My vision blurred.

  “I’m not stealing from a Cabral. Well, technically I am, but not from the nephews.”

  Cedar’s image wavered. I blinked. Tried to focus.

  He pushed my shoulder forward. “Get on the floor.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  I oscillated between consciousness and sleep. Incessant ringing, ringing, ringing. A doorbell. No deeper. Bong, bong, bong. A clock. I needed to move. But, why?

  Dueling hammers played inside my head. My brain swam in sludge. I opened an eyelid. A brilliant, painful white light seared my pupil and drilled to the back of my skull.

  I rolled sideways. Rested my cheek against a slick, cold surface. Floor. Table leg. Chair. Windows. Dark blinds. Cedar’s bedroom.

  I clutched the edge of a chair and pulled to my knees. The room spun like a merry-go-round gone wrong. I gripped the game table and waited for the sensation to ease. Owen’s laughing blue eyes and face-splitting grin splashed across the television screen on the wall.

  Snatches of my conversation with Cedar filtered through my consciousness. Three guards. One at every door. A tidal wave of terror drenched my body, propelling a blind fury that cleared the last of my confusion.

  I had to get to Owen.

  The room turned a steady pirouette. I braced against the headboard, then bumped from the bed to the desk and out of the bedroom. Using the wall for support, I moved down the hall like a drunk on a binge and zigzagged my way into the foyer. My fingers battled with the front door’s deadbolt. The lock clicked. I pushed the handle, pitched myself over the threshold, and wrapped my arms around a porch column. I gaped at four flat tires on Susie’s truck.