by Sharon Sala
It didn’t take long.
When the door swung inward, an odd odor hit him square in the face, making the hair stand up on the back of his neck. It was what death smelled like, and it occurred to him that there could be actual bodies in there as well as documentation of his father’s many misdeeds. The thought was disgusting enough to give him pause, but it didn’t take him long to get past it. He felt along the inside of the wall until he found a light switch and turned it on. There were no bodies, but even so, the sight was enough to stop him cold. Shelves lined three walls from top to bottom. There were boxes on the shelves, all of them labeled and numbered. A quick search revealed a second set of books for each of the businesses Ike owned, along with what appeared to be info on the men he’d put in charge—info that could be used to blackmail them, if the need arose. There were at least a half-dozen black garbage bags scattered about, but they weren’t labeled. Curious, he opened the one with the least dust on it and looked inside.
Almost instantly, he recognized his father’s clothing. The Gucci shoes he’d bought in Italy when they’d been on vacation last year, and one of his favorite Calvin Klein suits—the kind he favored for daily office wear.
Upon closer inspection, he realized the suit and shoes had dark, blotchy stains all over them. He rubbed one spot between his fingers, then looked. A dry, powdery substance the color of rust had rubbed off on his skin.
“What the hell?”
Then he suddenly dropped the garments back in the bag and tied it up as he realized what it was. Blood, undoubtedly belonging to someone other than his father, and no doubt the source of the stench that had greeted him. He wondered if—given that he’d opened what seemed to be the most recent bag—he’d just discovered his mother’s blood. At that point, his last vestige of regret for what he was doing disappeared.
He began gathering up the bags and carrying them out into the basement. He paused for a moment and looked around, trying to figure out how he would be able to get them out of the house undetected. Then his gaze fell on his luggage, stored off to one side. The two largest bags were wheeled. He opened them, packed the bag he’d checked inside one suitcase, along with as many sets of the cooked books as he could carry, and then packed the other bag with other potentially useful items. The last thing he saw were a couple of handguns lying on a top shelf. No telling who his father had killed with those. He stuffed them inside the last suitcase, too, and then turned out the light, closed the secret door and exited the storage room, making sure that light was off, as well. Now all he had to do was get the two suitcases up the steps and out the door.
He dragged the first one upstairs, then ran back down for the second and pulled it up, as well. Once he had them both in hand, it was simple to wheel them through the kitchen, out into the foyer and then outside, so he could heave them into the trunk of his car.
Beatrice was nowhere in sight when he drove away, which suited him fine. She would tell Ike that he’d been there to get some of his things, and Ike would no doubt assume he’d taken some of his fitness equipment. Ike would see that the suitcases were gone and check out the gym where Adam had spent a lot of his time. Ike never used it, so Adam was banking on the theory that he wouldn’t know what had been taken and what had been left behind. It should never occur to him to check his secret room, because Adam wasn’t supposed to know it existed.
He drove back up to the lodge, taking care to make sure he hadn’t been followed, and then went inside. He would have to wait for morning to finish what he’d started, but he was trusting in God to keep him safe, at least long enough to avenge his mother’s murder.
Seventeen
Adam couldn’t sleep. He kept seeing the gaping gash in his mother’s neck and wondering if she’d tried to scream when it happened. Physically, it would have been impossible, but she wouldn’t have known that. She would have opened her mouth—maybe to beg for mercy or at least to scream for help—only there wouldn’t have been any sound, just the arterial spray that sent the life gushing from her.
He sat up in bed and scrubbed his hands over his face, trying to rub away the thoughts in his head. His belly growled, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten in hours. Too sick at heart to sleep, he threw back the covers and went to the kitchen.
It was so quiet up here. No sirens, no traffic, just acres of space and a beautiful panorama of the San Gabriel Mountains.
He poked around in the fridge before he took out a jar of jelly and a loaf of bread. He’d purchased a few basics earlier, and now he opted for a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich. Simple, filling and easy to prepare, not to mention it exhausted the extent of Adam’s culinary skills.
He took his sandwich outside onto the patio and watched the sunrise while he ate. A small ground squirrel popped out of the brush surrounding the lodge and scampered up onto the far end of the patio, then sat watching Adam eat. The intensity of the little creature’s gaze made Adam smile.
“You hungry, too, little guy?”
The squirrel didn’t answer, but it did take a step closer, then sat up on its hind legs and stared.
Adam tore off a bit of the crust and tossed it across the space between them. The squirrel made a dive for the bread, then took off into the brush with his prize between his teeth.
“Survival of the fittest, even out here,” Adam muttered, then swallowed the last of his sandwich and went back inside to dress.
A couple of hours later he was the first one in line at Garcia Storage Rental when it opened. A short while later, after a large amount of cash had changed hands, he had rented a small storage unit under the name Arnold Benedict without showing any identification. For what he’d paid him, the owner wasn’t asking questions, nor did he recognize the irony of the name under which Adam had signed. The original Benedict Arnold had died of old age in London after betraying his country. Adam only hoped he could look forward to a similarly long life after turning traitor to the Mob. However, he wouldn’t even live to see his next birthday if he didn’t have a good exit strategy in place once he ratted on his father and his cronies.
Now that he had the evidence to back up his testimony, along with several bags of clothing that should reveal some interesting DNA, he felt confident that he was on the right track.
Once this was over, if he survived it, his next move was simple. It would involve a different lifestyle—a different identity. One where men didn’t covet money but prayed to be absolved of greed, and where God was the first name on the residents’ lips. His mother had always wanted a priest in the family.
Ike woke up alone in the hotel, but there was a smile on his face. He’d been in need of a good fuck, and last night he’d gotten one. He’d sent the escort home just before 3:00 a.m., then rolled over in bed and slept like a baby.
It was a new day, and he felt like a new man. If Moe’s info was good, his troubles were almost over. Suddenly he couldn’t wait to get home and log on to his computer to see what kind of info Moe had sent.
He dressed quickly, opting not to shower or shave, and was out of the hotel without so much as a cup of coffee. When he drove onto his estate, the guard at the gate waved as he drove past. The sun was shining through the branches of the trees along the driveway. It felt like a heavenly spotlight leading him home, and he took it as a sign from God that all was well.
He left the car in the drive, entered through the main entrance and went straight up to his room to shower and change.
To his relief, all signs of the vandalism in his bedroom had been removed. A new and pristine white coverlet was on his oversize bed, and the bloody rug had been cleaned. He stripped as he went, tossed his clothes on a chair and paused in the bathroom to look at himself.
He looked good for a man in his fifties. He wasn’t overweight, but he had bulk in his shoulders and arms—a sign of strength, he thought. His face showed very few signs of aging, and since he sported the bald look, there was no gray hair to show his years. He patted his chest in satisfaction and then got in th
e shower.
By the time he had shaved and dressed in fresh clothes, nearly a half hour had passed. He met his housekeeper in the foyer as he was coming down the stairs.
“Good morning, Beatrice. Tell Cook I want a three-egg omelet with cheese, buttered toast and hash browns, and a pot of black coffee. I’ll be in my office. You can serve it in there.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and hurried off to deliver the order as Ike moved through the house to his office.
Once inside, he closed the door and logged on to the computer, then did a quick search of his email accounts for Moe Cavanaugh’s information. It was there, just as he’d promised.
Ike scanned the message, impressed—as always—by Moe’s thoroughness, and then swiveled around from his computer to his desk and reached for his Rolodex. There were no names on the cards, only letters from the Greek alphabet that represented a code Pappas had created years earlier.
He made a call. The phone rang twice before the call was answered.
“Bose Aviation, Kelly speaking.”
“Kelly, this is Ike Pappas. I have a job for you.”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Pappas. What do you need?”
“I need a location verified and some photos taken, specifically of any people you might see around the house. Only one flyover. Don’t want to alarm anyone, you understand. And I need this stuff by the end of the day. Can you do that?”
“Sure, Mr. Pappas. Just give me the coordinates.”
“It’s in Kentucky.”
There was a momentary pause, and then he heard Kelly clear his throat. “That will up the cost considerably, Mr. Pappas. I hope you understand, but what with the cost of fuel and—”
“I don’t care what it costs. Just do it.”
“Yes, sir. We’ll leave as soon as I fuel up.”
“Who’s we? I don’t want anyone else involved.”
“I’ll have to use my chopper and fly a little lower to get the photos you want, and I’ll need a photographer for that.”
“Oh, yeah, right. Whatever. Just remember, whoever you get doesn’t know who hired you, or who the pictures are for. Got it?”
“Yes, sir. Definitely, sir.”
“I’ll be waiting.” He disconnected just as there was a knock at the door. “Come in.”
It was Beatrice, with his breakfast.
“That smells wonderful,” he said, as she sat the tray on a table near the window and then stopped to pour his coffee.
“Thank you, Mr. Ike. I’ll tell Cook.” She started to leave, and then stopped. “Mr. Adam came by right after you left last night.”
Ike frowned. He hated that he’d missed an opportunity to talk to his son. “Did he say anything? Leave a message for me?”
“No, sir. He said he was just stopping by to pick up some of his things from the basement. He wasn’t here long.”
Ike frowned. “Thank you. Close the door when you leave.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, and made a quick exit.
Ike’s appetite had been somewhat stifled by the news, but as soon as he took the first bite, it returned. The cheesy omelet was cooked just to his taste, the buttered toast was a crisp accompaniment to the creamy eggs and the hash browns were perfection. He soon forgot about his disgruntled son as he continued to make plans to remove what his father used to call “the splinter in his eye,” which was how Dimitri Pappas had referred to someone who got in his way.
As soon as he’d eaten his fill and Beatrice had carried away the tray, he was back at his desk pulling up another code and making another call to a mercenary by the name of Silas. Ike couldn’t afford to send any of his own people for this job. There could be no trace of a connection between him and the hell he was about to rain down on the woman who held his life in her hands.
The call was answered on the first ring. Silas’s voice was deep and raspy, a condition related to a fire that had almost taken his life years earlier.
“Silas, this is Ike Pappas. I have a job for you.”
The thunderstorm from the night before had washed everything clean on Rebel Ridge. For the first time since they’d come to the old mountain house, Ryal had left Beth alone long enough to go check on Quinn. When he hadn’t come in for breakfast, or at noon, Ryal got worried. When he still hadn’t arrived by late in the afternoon, Ryal made a plate of food as an excuse to go talk to him.
Beth opted to stay behind, and Ryal was okay with that. She would be safe for the short time he was gone, and there were no other roads leading to the house other than the one Quinn was watching, so no one could get to her without coming by them first.
Beth was feeling like a champion because she was finally able to do a few simple chores without damaging her healing hands. It felt good to have her hands in the warm, soapy water as she washed the dishes, and it was nice to be useful again.
But there were only so many dishes to wash, and Ryal had already swept the floors. The beds were made, and there was nothing left to do but kill time. Back home, she would have been working, but this mess was getting in the way of her job as well as Ryal’s. For safety’s sake, since her hands had been in soapy water, she got Aunt Tildy’s ointment and went outside to doctor her palms while she sat on the porch swing and watched the squirrels and the birds put on their daily show.
It wasn’t the first time she’d marveled at what a treasure trove of subjects she would have here as models. She was also aware that she could do her job just as well long-distance as she had in L.A. Once she got set up with Skype for the occasional one-on-one meeting with a client and had email available, she would be good to go.
Ryal hadn’t actually said, “Will you marry me?” but he’d made his intentions clear in every other way she could imagine, and she felt certain the time would come—and soon—when he would speak the actual words. If it hadn’t been for the mess she was in, she would be absolutely giddy.
Once she’d finished doctoring her hands, she laid the jar aside and began to swing. She didn’t know what it was about the repetitive rhythm that was so soothing to her, but she loved it almost as much as she loved the solitude and beauty of this place.
She’d been sitting and swinging for at least fifteen minutes when she saw something moving in the grass about twenty yards from the house. She couldn’t tell what it was from the porch, but she was curious, and got up and walked to the top of the steps for a better look.
The grass kept moving, back and forth, back and forth. She thought about going out to look but knew there was a good possibility she could walk up on a big snake, so she decided to stay put.
As she watched, she became aware of another sound separate from the constant swishing grass, a sound she hadn’t heard since she’d been this far up Rebel Ridge—the sound of a helicopter. She looked up just as it topped the mountain and dipped down toward where she was standing. She shaded her eyes for a better look as the chopper kept coming in her direction, memories flooding back. Watching planes passing over the mountain had always been a favorite childhood pastime. She almost waved as it passed over, just like she’d always done as a child.
Once it passed, she looked toward the meadow again. Whatever had been out there was long gone…maybe scared away by the noise.
She started to go back to the porch swing when she heard yet another engine, but this time she recognized it as Ryal’s pickup truck. Grateful that he was coming back, she waited for him on the back porch. It wasn’t until he was closer that she realized how fast he was driving.
Her heart skipped a beat. What if something had happened to Quinn?
When the truck came around the corner of the house and slid to a stop beneath the trees, she went out to meet him.
“What’s wrong? Is Quinn all right?”
His eyes were wide with fright as he grabbed her by the arms.
“That chopper. Were you outside when it went over?”
“Yes, but what—”
“Did they see you?”
“Probably. I was standing on the
edge of the—” All of a sudden she felt sick. “Oh, God! I didn’t think. I didn’t expect—”
There wasn’t anything he could say that would change what had happened. He pulled her up against his chest and just held her.
Beth was shaking so hard she felt weak. “What did I do? Do you think it was them? Do you think they’ve found me?”
“I don’t know, Bethie. It’s just strange that it came over the back of the mountain, flew directly too damned low over the house and then, once it passed, took a sharp right and flew out of sight.”
“Was Quinn there? Did he see the chopper? What did he say about it?”
“He was there. He believes it was searching and that we have less then twenty-four hours before they return with firepower.”
“By air? Are you saying they’ll come by air?”
“He doesn’t think so. He thinks they’ll need a positive identification of your body to make sure you’ve been eliminated as a threat before they quit. That will mean coming up the mountain, either on foot or by vehicle. Either way, he says there will certainly be more than one.”
Beth suddenly felt light-headed, and leaned over and grabbed her knees to keep from passing out.
Ryal scooped her up into his arms and carried her into the house to the bedroom they shared, and then laid her on the bed.
He started to get up to get a wet cloth for her face when she grabbed him by the hand.
“You need to get me out of here before someone gets hurt. I won’t bring a fight to this mountain. I never should have come. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
A muscle jerked at the side of Ryal’s jaw—the only sign of his emotional state.
“You’re not going anywhere, Beth. You didn’t bring anything to Rebel Ridge but yourself. Whatever comes after you is a threat to all of us, not just you, and we protect our own.”
“Oh, my God. Oh, my God.” She rolled over onto her side and began to weep.
It was just before 9:00 p.m. when Ike’s doorbell rang. He was on the phone with an associate in the Virgin Islands when he heard the chime. He heard Beatrice’s footsteps going down the hallway toward the door, then the mumbled undertones of an unfamiliar voice before the door went shut.