Lethal Affair

by Jean Thomas

  That feeling remained with her when moments later Karl parked the sedan in front of the galleried mansion. The three men conducted Brenna up the wide steps and into the house.

  “Wait,” Karl told her.

  He went off into the shadowy gloom toward the rear of the house, presumably to announce her arrival. The other two stayed with her in the enormous entrance hall that lacked nothing in elegance.

  Originally, this room must have impressed visitors with its sweeping grand staircase and finely detailed woodwork. Now it had a tarnished look and a smell of slow decay. Did Marcus want the mansion like this, both inside and out, in order to maintain a look of desertion that would help to hide what was going on here?

  Karl returned to report, “He’ll see us now.”

  They escorted Brenna down a long, wide corridor to a closed door. Karl opened it without knocking, ushering her into a spacious, high-ceilinged room. The collection of moldering books on its shelves indicated it was the library.

  A massive, antique desk dominated the room. She wasn’t surprised by the presence of the silver-haired, handsome man seated behind it. Hadn’t Casey informed her he’d learned Marcus Bradley was the current owner of the plantation? And that it was the site of suspicious activities?

  Marcus was reading what looked like a report. Or pretending to, at least. Brenna knew he was aware of her standing there, but he took his time about looking up. When he did, he ignored her, directing his attention to Karl with a brusque “McBride?”

  “Dead. Ion wounded him with one of the rifles. McBride sailed over the side of a cliff into the sea and never surfaced.”

  “And the water sample?”

  “Went to the bottom with McBride.”

  “You’re certain of that?”

  “We thoroughly searched both her and their boat. Not a trace of it. It was with McBride all right.”

  Brenna knew there was no need for Marcus to ask these questions in front of her. He could have done that before she was brought into the room, or even late yesterday when his three goons had returned with her to Georgetown. Probably had done it then. He wouldn’t have wanted to wait to learn the outcome of their pursuit.

  All this now was a performance calculated to give him the satisfaction of seeing her angry over her capture or, better still, grieving for Casey. She didn’t give him that pleasure. She stood there without any overt emotion.

  Finished with his questions, Marcus addressed Lew. “Take the truck and go back to port. There’s another shipment coming in. I’ll expect you to deliver it here tonight. Karl, Ion, you can leave me now with my guest. Stick close. I’ll call you when I need you.”

  When they were alone, with the door shut, Marcus finally looked at her directly with those ice-blue eyes. He didn’t stand or invite her to be seated. He just kept looking at her as a grandfather clock in the corner ticked off the seconds.

  There was a time not long ago when, in the end, Brenna would have looked away from that steady, disturbing gaze. Now she just continued to silently meet it.

  When he spoke at last, it was in that low, suave voice familiar to her, except this time there was a note of mocking sorrow in it.

  “Do I need to tell you, Brenna, how deeply disappointed I am? I had plans for you and your future. Plans for us.”

  “Us?” She shook her head in disbelief. “I’m not sure what that means, but I never could have been serious about you. Not even before I learned what you are.”

  His gaze narrowed. “And just what is it you think I am?”

  “Not think. Know. You’re the lowest form of human being, Marcus Bradley. Playing benefactor by providing that village up the road with a reliable supply of clean drinking water. But it wasn’t so pure, was it? You had something introduced into the well. Something that robbed those people of their God-given right to reproduce. Or are you going to deny that?”

  “Deny it? I’m proud of what I’ve achieved. The world’s population is out of control, especially in poverty-stricken regions whose people can least afford to bring more babies into their villages where health is a serious issue. Those places need to have their populations reduced. My method is a humane one, which is why, along with others I’ve banded with, we propose to offer more wells here in the West Indies, Africa, South America.”

  The man is a raving maniac, Brenna thought. He actually believes he has the right to play God. “Reduce? Don’t you mean eliminate? Because that’s what it sounds like to me.”

  “It’s a matter of survival,” he insisted.

  “No, it isn’t. I’ll tell you what it is, Marcus. It’s you and your racist friends wanting to wipe out people you think have the wrong color of skin. There’s nothing humane about introducing that evil formula of yours into their drinking water.”

  Enraged, he came to his feet, slapping his hands on the desk as he leaned toward her. “It was my every intention to make you one of the world’s most famous painters. I could have done it, too, Brenna.”

  She believed him. Why not, when it was a billionaire’s influence responsible for her refusals to listen to either Will or Casey when they had tried to warn her about Marcus Bradley? She’d wanted the success Marcus could offer her. That had been then, but now...

  “I can make my own fame, Marcus. I don’t need you to do it for me. As a matter of fact, I’m thoroughly ashamed of myself for ever producing any paintings for you.”

  He was actually shaking with anger. She had never seen him like this before, never known him to be capable of losing his composure. “You’ll regret those words,” he promised her. “I’ll make you regret them before I’m through with you.”

  She had no answer for him. He didn’t deserve one.

  The last of his self-control deserted him when, lifting his head, he shouted, “Karl, Ion, get in here!”

  They must have been waiting just outside. Flinging the door back, they practically tumbled into the room at the same time.

  “Take her upstairs,” Marcus ordered them. “Lock her in the secure bedroom. You know the one. What are you staring at me for? Do it!”

  * * *

  Even before he opened his eyes, Casey was aware of the strong odor of fish. It seemed to permeate everything around him.

  Well, at least his nostrils were working. Yeah, and his sense of touch, too. He could feel himself lying on something that seemed like a narrow bunk. How about his sight?

  He tested that by cautiously letting his eyes drift open. What he saw was clear enough but confusing. Two men stood at the side of the bunk, gazing down at him solemnly. One was young, the other older. Both were black.

  That much he could tell, but nothing else. The light in here was very poor. Wherever here was. Maybe a cabin on some kind of boat. This seemed right since he could feel himself being slowly rocked on what must be easy swells.

  Were they talking to him? In this gloom, he couldn’t make out whether either of their mouths was moving. If they were speaking, all that was registering was silence.

  He tried to speak. “You two picked me up off that floating tree, didn’t you?” Curiously, he could hear himself just fine.

  Neither of his rescuers answered him. Maybe they didn’t understand English. He tried again. “You saved my life. There aren’t thanks enough for something like that.” Still no reaction.

  Casey lifted his arm, prepared to shake their hands in a demonstration of gratitude. Whoa, big mistake. He’d forgotten the wound. His movement had been too sharp and sudden.

  His face must have registered his soreness. The elder of the two men put out his own hand, not with the intention of shaking Casey’s hand but to gently press his arm back down on the bunk.

  “What you tryin’ to do, mon, make dat ting go bleeding again after we cleaned an’ wrapped it up?”

  “You do speak English.”

  “Sure, we speak English. What you tink?”

  “That I owe you all around,” Casey said humbly, conscious then of the dressing on his arm. “So, just who
am I thanking here?”

  His savior poked himself in his chest. “Dey call me Big Jimmy back in Georgetown. And dis here is my boy, Little Jimmy.”

  The two of them didn’t exactly fit their names since the son was bigger than the father.

  “I’m Casey McBride. This is your boat?”

  “Sure. Fishing trawler,” he said proudly. “You lucky to be on such a fine boat.”

  Georgetown, Casey thought. That meant they were from St. Sebastian. Brenna would have been taken there to be confronted by Marcus Bradley. Bradley wouldn’t be pleased by her escape with a man who had sworn to get a sample of water from the well he had funded to a safe lab in the U.S.

  The billionaire hadn’t hesitated to have Zena King killed. Would he order the same for Brenna? He had to get to her. He had to prevent Bradley and his thugs from harming her in any way.

  “How long have I been here?” he asked Big Jimmy, making an effort to stay calm.

  “We collected you from the sea around dis time yesterday afternoon.”

  A whole day! He had lost a whole day on this boat! Arm or no arm, he couldn’t waste another minute!

  It was when he eased himself to a sitting position in the bunk that Casey realized he was naked except for his boxers.

  “My clothes. Where are my clothes?”

  “We hung ’em up ta dry.”

  “Can I have them now, please?”

  It was Little Jimmy who fetched them from out on deck. The garments stank from fish when they were brought to Casey, but he ignored that. As he dressed, taking care of the injured arm, he realized the trawler’s engine was silent.

  “How soon are you going back to port?” he questioned Big Jimmy.

  “Us? We don’ leave until after we lift dis next net we got to lay down. If dis catch is good, den we go.”

  Casey tried to convince him how urgent it was that he return immediately to St. Sebastian, but Big Jimmy obstinately refused to listen. Casey couldn’t blame them. Their livelihoods, and that of their families, depended on the fish they caught. And until the trawler’s ice chests were full...

  They had removed Casey’s wallet from his pants and safely placed it on a shelf above the bunk. It contained all of the money he hadn’t spent in Georgetown, and what remained was considerable. It should have remained dry in the zippered wallet. Casey offered to pay them whatever they asked to get him back to St. Sebastian without further delay.

  The proud Big Jimmy turned him down. He and his son earned what money they needed by catching fish. And that was that.

  Casey went up on deck with them when they returned to work. The engine was fired back to life, the current net laid down, the trawler on its slow way again.

  Neither of the Jimmies asked him to explain how he’d ended up in an unconscious state with a gunshot wound, clinging to an uprooted, dead tree. Apparently, in their world a man was entitled to his privacy, whatever it involved.

  Casey wanted to help them in their operation, both as a way to thank them and to hasten the work. But they wouldn’t have it, pleading a risk to his arm. He suspected it wasn’t that as much as, without a knowledge of what was needed, they felt he would be more of a hindrance than a help.

  He was left to himself, trying not to get in their way as he paced the deck, frantic now to reach St. Sebastian and find Brenna. He told himself it wasn’t too late, that she was still alive and he would do whatever he had to to save her.

  Casey wouldn’t let himself believe anything else. How could he when Brenna was so vital to him? When he so desperately needed her in his life?

  All right, so she had sent him away two years ago, strongly, firmly resisting the possibility of any permanent future for them together. The danger of his work terrified her, and as long as he was an active FBI agent...

  But they were different people now, a little older, a litter wiser. Weren’t they? Sure, they were. And given the chance, Casey was convinced this time around he could change her mind.

  He just had to. It wasn’t a matter either of having fallen in love with her all over again. The truth was, he’d never fallen out of love with her. Which was why he was going so crazy thinking about her.

  Hold on, sweetheart, until I can get to you, he silently begged. Hold on for me, please.

  * * *

  Brenna sat on the edge of the four-poster bed, casting her gaze around the room. It was spacious, high-ceilinged and its detailed woodwork as finely crafted as the rest of the mansion.

  There was even a connecting bathroom, possibly created out of a dressing room some decades ago, because a house of this age wouldn’t have had indoor plumbing. Not originally.

  From what she had glimpsed elsewhere in the place, this bedroom had suffered the same wear and neglect as the other rooms. Holes in the Persian rugs, cracks in the walls, flaking paint and peeling wallpaper.

  Any visitors to the house, willing to overlook these flaws, however, couldn’t help admiring the luxuries built into it. The same level of luxury the villa back in Georgetown boasted of. With a prominent difference. Brenna couldn’t remember having noticed any bars on the windows of its rooms.

  This bedroom had them, as well as the bathroom window, making it her prison. At least until Marcus decided what her punishment was going to be. Maybe this waiting was deliberate, part of what she was meant to suffer.

  If he believed that’s what he was achieving with her, he was wrong. She had more than enough to be despondent over. Casey.

  Was this devastation what her mother had experienced when she’d lost the man she loved? If so, Brenna knew only too well what her mom must have endured. She had never fully understood that before now.

  What was she doing? Casey wouldn’t want her to sit here like this grieving over him. He’d want her to make some effort to escape.

  Now that was a challenge. A second-story bedroom, bars at all its windows and the only way out a locked, very solid door.

  * * *

  The flight attendant strolled down the aisle, checking the passengers to make certain their seat belts were fastened for the aircraft’s imminent landing.

  Will Coleman was among those passengers. In his case, an anxious one. Not because he had any problem with flying. Being a sports writer traveling with the teams made him a seasoned flier. His anxiety was not for himself but for his sister.

  Having heard nothing back in Chicago for several days from either Brenna or Casey McBride, Will had worked himself into a state of concern. He’d been unable to contact them on their cells. Nor could any authority he reached on St. Sebastian provide him with a satisfactory answer. It left him wondering if Marcus Bradley was responsible for those evasions.

  Convinced by then something bad was happening down there on the island and that he needed to be there, Will told his editor at the paper he had a family emergency and caught a flight out of O’Hare that would connect him with St. Sebastian.

  He managed to be one of the first off the plane when, after taxiing to the gate, it released its passengers. He didn’t want to chance missing out on a rental car.

  It was midafternoon when he drove into Georgetown. Before leaving home, Brenna had provided him with the address of Bradley’s seaside villa, where she would be staying in the guesthouse. The rental’s GPS directed him there.

  It looks like the kind of place a billionaire would own, Will thought, surveying the villa when he got out of the car. It also looked deserted.

  He didn’t bother going to the villa’s front door. He went instead to a matching, much smaller structure that couldn’t be anything but the guesthouse.

  The tropic sun was hot on his back as he waited after knocking. When no one came to the door, he went around to the side and peered through a window. He could see Brenna’s easel in the corner of what appeared to be a sitting room. Her other painting gear was nearby, including her camera.

  She can’t be out on location then, he told himself. So where is she?

  Hopefully, there was someone at the villa
who could tell him that. He turned his steps in that direction.

  There was a bell at the front entrance. He rang it and waited. This time someone answered the door. From the way she was dressed, she was either a maid or the housekeeper. Hispanic, he guessed.

  “I’m trying to find Brenna Coleman,” Will told her. “Is she around?”

  The woman hesitated, as if she might have been instructed not to impart information without prior permission.

  “I’m her brother, Will Coleman.”

  That was enough for her to yield a reluctant “I have not seen the miss lately, sir. She spends the days away from us painting.”

  “She’s not out painting today. Her gear is still in the guesthouse.”

  The servant looked startled, as if wondering how he could know that. Will didn’t enlighten her, asking instead, “How about Mr. Bradley? Is he at home?”

  She shook her head. “He is at the place of the construction every day. It’s to be a fine resort, you understand.” Her round face brightened. “Maybe the young miss is there with him.”

  “How do I find this construction site?”

  She provided him with directions, seemingly relieved to be rid of him when he thanked her and turned away. His questions had apparently made the chubby lady nervous.

  Why? Will wondered. Was she withholding something or simply uncomfortable with strangers at the door?

  He was concerned by Brenna’s absence when he climbed behind the wheel of the rental and drove away from the villa. But he had no reason yet to be seriously worried.

  The planned resort was located on the shore, a few miles beyond the airport. Will found it easily enough—an ambitious, sprawling project with work crews crawling all over it. There was no sign of either Bradley or Brenna.

  He spoke to the superintendent in charge of the construction. The man, a blunt American from Texas, had never met Brenna. He didn’t know the current whereabouts of Marcus Bradley. The billionaire hadn’t been near the site for several days.