“I’m just at three months,” Ashley said, patting her abdomen, which showed just the touch of a curvature.
“You’d better get to an OB,” Sandra said for the hundredth time. “Prenatal care is very important. Mine was very good. All you have to do is make the call.”
Right, and pay the bill. Ashley had planned to put off seeing a doctor for a few more months. Of course, she was a doctor herself, but that was in another life, a life where she had medical insurance. But Sandra was right. With the spotting, she’d have to make an appointment soon.
Sandra had the radio on in the kitchen and was humming along with the music. “I like that song,” Ashley said, to change the subject.
“Monica Monroe,” Sandra said. “Voice of an angel. And what a life story. Did you read how she was adopted? Her biological father was some filthy rich guy. Paid the mother megabucks not to have an abortion. It was all in the news a couple of months ago. Did you know she married that TV sports guy?”
“No, I didn’t know,” Ashley lied. Wherever this conversation was going, she needed to steer it away from the Parnells.
“Her biological family has had a string of trouble. Can’t remember the name. One of the brothers is a senator or governor or something back east. Anyway, one woman was killed in a car crash and another had some bizarre heart disease, and one was killed on September eleven. Read it in People magazine at the dentist.”
Ashley made a mental note to get that magazine as Sandra hummed along with Monica.
“By the way, some guy rang the doorbell today,” Sandra said as she stirred the box of Hamburger Helper into the ground meat. “Asking about you.”
“What?” Almost dropping the wooden salad bowl, Ashley braced herself against the countertop. “L-looking for me?”
“Yeah, a smooth talking guy, in his forties, I’d guess. Short, stocky, wiry brown hair. Said he knew I had a new nanny. I asked him what business it was of his, and he asked me if I had checked your references.” Sandra was staring at her now.
“Sit down, Marcy. You look so pale. What is it?”
“Did you find out who this m-man was?” Ashley was shaking, gasping for air. “Who sent him?”
“No. He didn’t introduce himself. Matter of fact he never mentioned you by name. Just kept calling you ‘the new nanny.’”
“Did you give him my name?”
“No. I asked him again what business this was of his.”
“‘Woman like you, alone, should be more careful about who you trust your children to,’ was all he said. It shook me up for a minute. Then I figured that he was just a neighborhood busybody. What do you think?”
Ashley leaned back against the cabinets. “I don’t know. Maybe somebody in my family,” was all she could think of to say. I have to get out of here was screaming in her head as she forced herself to finish setting the table.
“Marcy, you haven’t told me much about yourself.” Sandra wrinkled her brow in worry. “I didn’t want to probe. You’ve been the perfect nanny to the boys. I’m just so appreciative. But if there’s going to be trouble, I can’t risk the safety of my boys. They’re all I have.”
Ashley stood frozen to the tile floor. How had Conrad found her? And where could she hide from him?
“I’m sorry,” she said to Sandra. “I don’t mean to cause you trouble.”
Sandra came to Ashley and started to put her arm around her shoulder, but Ashley pulled back.
“I’m not feeling well,” she said, massaging her forehead. “A migraine. I just need to lie down.”
She had made that one mistake. Otherwise, she’d been so careful. She had a platinum American Express, a Visa, a Saks card, and a First Union Bank card. She had her passport and driver’s license. But she had never used any of these for any reason. She still had her cell phone, but hadn’t dared to keep it charged lest she be tempted. The only mistake she had made, and it was a stupid one, was to make one call from the road to Sandra’s gallery. Last week, she had taken the boys to the pediatrician’s office because Bart had an ear infection. On the way home the transmission in the Taurus went out. They were not far from a strip mall, so she took the boys in hand and trudged to a pay phone. Bart was moaning about the pain in his ear and Justin was crying. On impulse, she’d reached into her purse, pulled out her ATT calling card, and called Sandra at the gallery. That was probably how Conrad located her.
She waited until she was sure that Sandra and the kids were asleep. She’d packed her few belongings, and at one a.m. she crept into the kitchen, heading for the refrigerator. She selected a carton of milk, an entire packet of cheese slices, a leftover chicken breast, and several apples and oranges. She moved to the cupboards and as quietly as possible removed cans of tuna, packets of drinks, Pop-Tarts, two muffins, and a loaf of white bread. She stuffed them all in a plastic kitchen bag, remembered that she’d need a can opener, and lifted one out of the silverware drawer. She decided to leave the note in that drawer. It read:
Sandra, I am sorry. I have never taken anything in my life. I promise I will repay you as soon as I can. I loved working for you. Please say good-bye to the boys. I will miss them.
Thank you. Marcy.
It was the same drawer where Sandra left the grocery money. With relief, Ashley found that Sandra had replenished the funds for the next week, $220. Mentally she added up her money. $220 here; the $120 that Julie’s aunt handed to her; $30 from her original amount; and nearly $450 from her weekly wages. That came to $850. And Sandra’s credit card was in the drawer, too. She would take it, and use it for gasoline, but only for tonight.
Getting the car out of the garage without waking Sandra would be risky. But that risk paled compared to the chance that Conrad, or whomever he had hired, might be watching the house. In the dark, she searched up and down the street. She saw no cars lurking out there, so she carried her two bags—one canvas, with her clothes, the other plastic, with her food—into the car. Then gingerly, Ashley pressed the garage door opener. Holding her breath, she started the Taurus and backed it out onto the street. Heart pounding, she jerked it into drive and took off toward the Interstate. She was too scared to look back.
She would drive as far away as one tank of fuel would take her. First, she had to get out of Santa Fe, but to where? Colorado to the north? Texas, if she headed due south? Oklahoma to the east? Arizona to the west? As the Taurus sped forward, she still hadn’t decided. Her focus was fixed on the rearview mirror. At one fifteen in the morning she met few cars as she zigzagged her way to I-25, disturbed by the occasional set of headlights appearing, then disappearing behind her. But should she take the Interstate north or south? She figured she’d have about four hours, five at the most, before the cops caught her. Less if Sandra woke up early, found her car and money missing, and called the police. But her gallery didn’t open until one on Sundays, and since there was no school Bart would sleep ’til noon if you let him. Still, the little one would be up at seven, toddling around until he woke up an adult. Realistically, she told herself, Sandra would call the cops around seven thirty or so. By then, she’d need to abandon the car.
Before pulling onto I-25, Ashley stopped at a 24-hour gas convenience station. Using Sandra’s Visa card, she gassed up, purchased trail mix, beef jerky, assorted breakfast bars, packets of cheese, boxes of that sterilized milk, and a New Mexico map. It was one thirty a.m.
Returning to the car, she flipped on the overhead light and unfolded the map when a sheriff cruiser pulled up beside her. She jerked off the light and stuffed the map under the seat. The lone officer got out of his car and glanced suspiciously at the Taurus. Giving Ashley the briefest of nods, he headed into the store. She breathed a huge sigh. She had her Ashley Parnell driver’s license, but would she have shown it?
She drove slowly, fighting the urge to get as far away from the sheriff as fast as possible. When she reached the first Interstate entrance, she took it. No more debate. She found herself retracing her path of the trip to Albuquerque on I
-25 South the day before, passing the Santa Fe County Municipal Airport and through native American reservations. She kept scrupulously to the speed limit, resisting the urge to stare into the rearview mirror. If only she could drive into Albuquerque, find Ruthie, and hide out with her, but she knew she could never do that now. She drove past Las Cruces, New Mexico, and started to come up with a plan. She’d drive as far as El Paso, Texas, a city she judged would be big enough to have an airport and a bus and a train terminal.
Crossing the New Mexico–Texas state line at five thirty a.m., Ashley strained to locate a sign pointing out a bus or train station. Her stomach had started to rumble and she felt dangerously faint. Other than the three pieces of cheese she’d snatched at Sandra’s and a glass of milk, she hadn’t eaten since the previous morning’s breakfast. Once she got to the airport, she’d be okay. But suddenly she questioned her plan. Since September eleven, IDs were being checked and double-checked at airports. So when she saw a sign for a bus depot, she headed for it. She parked the Taurus in the long-term parking lot, and headed to the lone cab keeping vigil at the terminal’s entrance.
“Train station.” She’d tossed her bags into the backseat and climbed in.
“’Lil lady, you’re up early in the mornin’,” the bulky driver drawled. “Change your mind?”
“What?” she asked.
“You show up at the bus depot and wantin’ to go to the train. Now what’s that all about?”
“Somebody dropped me off at the wrong place,” she said. “The jerk.”
“A Yankee lady,” the driver said turning around to get a better look. “Figures.”
Ashley said nothing during the rest of the ride. The driver stopped his commentary, and flipped from one radio station to another. When he dropped her off at the train station, she paid him ten of her precious dollars, gathered up her motley bags, and approached the terminal. She planned to take the first train heading somewhere. Later, she’d consider the possibility that the man who showed up at Sandra’s might not have been from Conrad, but from her family. The thought of her family, especially Rory, tore at her resolve. But she couldn’t take the chance of calling her family. She had to stick to her plan. She could not allow Conrad to force himself back into her life with his powerful mind control, probably enhanced by drugs. He wanted her inheritance, she was sure of that now. After that she’d be of no use to him. She’d have to stay missing until the money was disbursed. Even if it meant letting Rory down, perhaps killing her. She’d risk anything for Rory, except her child. Her unborn baby had to be protected from Conrad.
Departures were posted on the board in the center of the terminal. The Sunset Limited would depart for Orlando, with multiple stops in between, in thirty-five minutes. As Ashley stood trembling in the ticket line, she saw that the train made a stop in New Orleans. She’d been there with her parents when she was a teenager and had loved the offbeat characters, the unique culture, the fabulous food. Once in New Orleans, she knew she could blend in with the tourists until she figured out her next move. For now she’d purchase a ticket to Beaumont, Texas, which was half way to New Orleans. With any luck she’d manage to stay on the train all the way to New Orleans. Once she got there, if she felt safe enough, she’d rethink her approach to Rory. She’d be in the second trimester of her pregnancy, a safer stage for a donor procedure.
Still thinking about Rory, Ashley boarded the train. As she searched out a seat, she became aware of the kneading sensation in her abdomen.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Dan had not expected such opulence as he stepped for the first time into the family’s Learjet. As he and Preston settled into plush seats, he felt the strongest urge to smoke since he’d quit cold turkey right after the previous Easter. The cabin felt manly, like cigars and whisky. Dad and Frank must have entertained plenty of political cronies in the skies.
“Mind if I smoke?” Preston asked, pulling out a pack of Marlboros. “Now you know why I leaned on the senator to get the plane. You don’t wanta be anywhere near me if I don’t get my fix.”
Dan didn’t object even though he was moving into a holier-than-thou attitude toward smokers. When Preston held out the pack toward him, he shook his head to decline. He did want one, but instead he reached inside his jacket pocket for the Nicorette gum he kept on hand for emergencies. Chan had given him some of that nicotine nasal spray for the tough urges, but it made his eyes burn and tear so badly he’d used it only once.
He must have drifted off to sleep right after the steward served a full-course meal. The plane had already landed when Preston’s big hand squeezed his shoulder. “Time to rock and roll, sleeping beauty.”
Dan jerked his arm back, for a moment wide-eyed and confused.
“Sorry if I scared you.” Preston’s deep baritone sounded reassuring. “Hey, anybody ever say how much you and your brother look like Bobby Kennedy?”
“That’s what people say,” Dan said, rubbing his eyes. “Remarks like that used to piss off Dad. He was so Republican that the notion of his sons looking like the Kennedys irritated him. As for me, I don’t like the Kennedy dynasty any better or worse than the Bush dynasty.”
“Read something about your brother takin’ on old man Teddy in the Senate. Forget the issue.”
Dan stood to retrieve his jacket and the small duffel bag that Gina had packed. “Yeah, maybe. Me, I’m not political. Hell, I don’t even have a voter’s registration card.”
The year before, right after Florida’s insane presidential election, he’d made the mistake of mentioning this to his father. Dan thought he’d have a stroke right there. The old man was dying of pancreatic cancer. He didn’t need that kind of blatant disrespect. Paul and Frank were personal friends of the Bush family, staunch supporters of both George W. and Jeb in Florida. Dad was too far down cancer’s path after last November’s elections, but Frank was beside himself with politics as the Florida debacle tilted back and forth between George W. and Al Gore.
The air was still cool when they deplaned. “I love the West,” said Preston as they headed for the private terminal. “Wouldn’t mind living out here. Get a ranch, a few horses, peaceful. How about you?”
“I have a ranch of sorts in Florida,” Dan said.
“Horses?” Preston asked as he adjusted what Dan guessed was a lapel microphone. “My kids would love horses.”
“No horses. No livestock. Just palm trees. I call it a plantation. Sounds better than a farm.”
“Cool, man. When I retire, I wanna go west. Maybe New Mexico. Maybe Arizona. Not as far as California.”
“Me, I’m never leaving the Sunshine State.”
“Let’s grab coffee and some breakfast and review the plan,” Preston said as they climbed into their rented Land Cruiser. He sounded in charge. Good, Dan thought, because he didn’t know what the hell they were supposed to do now. They found an isolated table in a diner not far from the airport. The sky was becoming pinkish in the east and Dan pulled off his watch to set it to Mountain time.
“As I see it, Ashley ran away to escape Welton and he’s hell-bent on finding her,” Preston said, dialing his booming voice down. “Gotta be the money. He marries her. Then what?”
“He gets it,” Dan said.
“Yes. But is he satisfied with that?”
“What?” Dan looked perplexed.
“Call me paranoid. Call me clairvoyant. But people like Welton are psychopaths. Their sense of ego and entitlement has no bounds. They have no conscience. In this case, I wouldn’t put it past him to try to annihilate the entire panel of Parnell siblings. After all, he believes he deserves their money. He’s entitled to it. And nobody is going to screw him out of it.”
“You’re kidding. Right?” Dan stared at Jack Preston, a forkful of scrambled eggs poised midair. “You’re saying he intends to kill us all?”
Preston took a second before answering. “First, let’s consider his father. From what we know, they had a disastrous relationship. Started out okay. But
something went wrong, and Conrad was sent to military school. There he had a few scrapes, like stealing money, bullying, but nothing that got him thrown out. But that two-bit trouble must have pissed the old man off and he effectively downgrades his son. He supported him but in a second-rate way. Conrad goes to Ohio State, brother Stanley gets Princeton.”
“What about the brother?” Dan asked, familiar with the over-achieving brother scenario.
“Five years younger. A plastic surgeon. Owns one of those fancy cosmetic centers. Married, two sons, a player in Cincinnati social circles.”
“Both physicians,” Dan commented.
“Yes, and Conrad, Sr., too, an orthopedic surgeon.” Preston continued. “Eventually, our boy gets into the University of Cincinnati Medical School on a scholarship and does a psychiatric residency there.”
“And his concentration is hypnosis?”
“It is. But let me tell you about a suspicious incident that happened in Cincinnati. Picture this: Conrad, Jr.’s a resident when Conrad, Sr. shows up in the ER complaining of chest pain. With a diagnosis of a mild heart attack, he gets sent to the coronary care unit with his son. Elevator stalls. Finally opens. Picture this: our boy’s pumping away on a dead dad.”
Preston took a slug of coffee and resumed. “As for the will, our boy’s totally cut out. Everything goes to Brother Stanley. An annuity for their mother, which reverts to Stanley at her death.”
“Rather harsh.” Dan was reminded of his own father’s strange last will and testament.
“Then I learn there are rumors of a paternity issue. Remember, this was pre-DNA.” Preston paused as the waitress freshened their coffee.
“I dug up an attorney who said Conrad’s mother had made inquiries about challenging her husband’s will on our boy’s behalf, but nothing came of it. Several months later, she overdoses on sleeping pills. From that point on, Welton’s been estranged from his brother. Couple years later, brother Stanley’s wife, Lenore, is killed in a hit-and-run.” Preston stopped long enough for a gulp of coffee. “Same year Lenore dies, our boy marries a nineteen-year-old heiress.” Preston went on to explain the tragic story of Crissy Moore. “Nobody’s gonna tell me that’s coincidence. But proof? Nada.”
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