Chapter 29
Charlie stared after them, narrowing his eyes in thought. Something was off. Something Fiona had said. He turned to Brandon. “She said Delaney killed six people that day, right?”
Brandon raised his eyebrows. “That’s right. She did. But only five died. Who else was supposed to be on the plane?” He strode to Whitley, grabbing him by the elbow and whirling him toward him. He stepped back in surprise. “Are you crying?” He turned to Charlie, his expression thunderstruck. “He’s crying.”
Charlie stared at the man, disgusted at the tears streaking down the face, at the mucus running freely with the blood, tracing a pink stream down his nose and into his mouth. “What the hell? He’s no help.” He turned to the monitors. “Claire, are you still out at Delaney.com?”
“I am.”
“What’s the status on Fortney?”
“He never came back. He ran out, and that’s the last I saw of him.”
Kevin broke in. “If he has a police scanner in his vehicle, which is likely, given his position as head of security, he might have checked in on Whitley’s location after Claire frightened him. He knows we’re onto him. That’ll be the last any of us will see of him.”
“Have you found a Thorpe at Delaney.com?”
“Yes,” Kevin replied. “The CFO. Chief Financial Officer.”
“Claire, can you go back in and ask to see him?”
“I’m on my way, Charlie.”
“What are you thinking?” Brandon asked.
“I’m thinking he won’t be in.”
“But Fiona said he was supposed to be in place to respond to questions. Those are the instructions he received from Reinhardt.”
“If you were Whitley Delaney’s sole heir, you knew he was going to die, and you had a choice between transferring his assets to your bank account or the bank account of a hate-group, what would you do?”
Comprehension rose in Brandon’s face. “He never went in. He’s not going to field any questions. He’s in his house, counting his dollars, maybe rearranging his furniture and calling his broker.”
“I’m putting his photo on the monitor,” Kevin said.
Charlie studied the photo. “He looks familiar. We spoke to him after the explosion.”
Claire’s voice came on. “Thorpe didn’t come in today.”
Whitley slumped to the floor, sitting and leaning forward while rocking back and forth and moaning.
“Brandon, stay with him. I’ve got to get to the house.”
“What’s up?”
“Someone was supposed to be on the plane. That someone got off at the last minute. If I don’t miss my guess, that someone, this Thorpe, is now settling into an enjoyment of his spoils.” Charlie strode toward the door.
“What do I do with him?” Brandon gestured toward Whitley.
“Whatever you want.”
“I want waterboarding.”
Whitley shrieked, halting Charlie in his tracks. He turned back, watching the man flop on the floor, curling into a fetal position. “I’m sorry, Mommy. I didn’t mean to look up the girl’s skirt. I fell off the merry-go-round. It wasn’t on purpose. Please don’t push me under again, Mommy.”
Charlie and Brandon exchanged a glance, and Brandon said, “Grant didn’t know which buttons to push. This is beyond gaslight. The poor loser’s gone over the edge.”
“And Grant and Fiona are walking into the true lion’s den right now. Kevin, find out what alarm company Delaney uses and override the system. Call the police. Tell them to meet me at Delaney’s house but to run silent.” He raced out the door.
* * *
“All I’m saying is I don’t need you to fight my battles,” Fiona informed the windshield while pulling the car around the back. They’d been arguing about this since they’d left the auto repair shop, and, thick as ever, Grant didn’t seem to understand that, by punching her brother, he’d in fact insulted her ability to either defend herself or rise above adversity. She hadn’t fought her way back from mental depression to have some wannabe protector step in and take care of her. Stopping the car by the French doors, she turned off the ignition and shifted to face him, taken aback by the anger in his face. She hadn’t seen Grant this angry since the day he’d stood in front of her car and demanded she take him with her.
“And I keep telling you I didn’t punch Whitley for you! I punched him for myself. I was, I am, the injured party. While I watched your family videos, I was filled with a sense of what might have been, had he not changed you. I saw a young girl full of laughter and love, trust and caring. I saw who you were before he changed your life with a few cruel sentences, teaching you not to laugh, love, trust, or care. It’s not my fault I fell in love with you, but it’s Whitley’s fault you can’t return my feelings, and for the rest of my life, I’ll always wonder what might have been, if he’d been as sane as you. So, don’t be angry at me for defending your honor, because I didn’t. I punched the man who took from me everything I’ve ever wanted.”
She could do nothing but stare at him, flummoxed. Was that how he saw her: bitter and unable to love? Of course he did. She’d given him no hope of a future between the two of them because there could be no future. Maintaining her protective armor was the only way she’d ever survive this life left to her by her brother. She could take no more chances. Keeping her voice even, her tone gentle, she said, “I told you from the beginning how it would be, Grant. Never my bed. And you promised. And that’s how it has to be.”
He shook his head wearily, his blue eyes tired and sad, an ancient miner informed he’d squandered his life chasing a vein of fool’s gold. “After all of this, you still believe my efforts have been part of some scheme to get into your bed?”
Fiona looked away, unable to face him. She didn’t want to see the hurt or anger on his face. “I told you how it would be. I didn’t lie. You’re the one who’s been deluding yourself there can ever be more. Once this is over and done with, we’ll go our separate ways. You’ll find a woman who is willing to give both heart and soul. The two of you will have babies and grow ugly flowers together.” She told herself she wouldn’t mind, but the pain she felt in the general region of her heart at the thought made her realize she lied.
“You’ll never relax your vigilance. Because of what happened on a March day three years ago, you’re content to grow old alone, so long as you never take a chance on being hurt again.” His voice was low and tired.
She couldn’t look at him. “Let’s get those devices for Charlie.” Stepping from the car, she walked to the keypad, keying in the code and entering the house of her birth and now the house of her death, at least, the death of the old Fiona, the one Grant wanted her to be.
He followed her inside, closing the door behind them. “All right.”
Leading the way through the office door and into the hall, she responded without looking back. “All right what?”
“All right, I’m done stalking. I tried. I’ll always know I tried.” His tone of voice seemed both sorrowful and sincere.
Fiona stopped in the center of the hallway and slowly turned to look at him. The pain in his eyes was reflected in the band she felt tightening around her heart, and she knew she wanted him to stalk her, to follow her, to learn more about her. Grant wasn’t a stalker. He never had been. He was a man in love who’d done everything in his power to meet her, to win her over, a man who, told he didn’t stand a chance, was prepared to walk away. “That’s all you have to say?”
He glanced away. “That’s all you want to hear.” When he looked back at her, he wore a crooked grin, a grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Let’s finish this. I have a novel to revise and a life to live and some ugly flowers to weed and water.”
And she had some crying she needed to do, all alone. Because she loved him, but it could never be. Because the thought of trusting him frightened her more than the thought of living without him. “Fine,” she stated, her heart breaking a little while she opened the door t
o Whitley’s bedroom and stepped inside, stopping so quickly Grant walked into her, bumping her from behind. Her eyes went from the rumpled bed to the framed photos stacked in the corner, facing the wall, to the woman standing in the center of the room, bent over while she zipped up blue jeans beneath a man’s long-sleeved shirt doing little to conceal the nakedness beneath.
She stared at Fiona as she straightened, her eyes hardening while she surveyed her from top to bottom. “You’re trespassing.”
This woman was Whitley’s new bride. Fiona recalled her first impression of the woman as sweet and pretty, but this woman looked nothing like that, not with her hair tousled, her face flushed, and her blue eyes glittering like sapphires. It took Fiona a second to gather her wits. Hadn’t the friend said Whitley’s wife would be staying at a hotel?
Grant moved to stand beside her. “Mrs. Whitley Delaney?”
“Who wants to know, so’s I can tell the police when I call them to come get your asses?”
With typical aplomb, Grant made the introductions. “Mrs. Whitley Delaney, I’d like you to meet your sister-in-law, Fiona Delaney.”
Fiona was startled by the way the woman’s color drained from her face, leaving it white and porous. Beneath the powder or foundation the woman caked on her face, Fiona could see the pitted scarring of old acne breakouts. Whoever Whitley had married, not only was she coarse and vulgar, but she was also less than pleased to learn she had a living sister-in-law. Fiona remembered Grant once saying Whitley’s bride may be every bit as sick as he. Hadn’t he also suggested she might be a neo-Nazi?
A suspicion began to rise, assuming definition. Could this woman have been in on the scheme to kill her husband so the NSO could inherit Delaney.com? She reached behind her back, her hand seeking the pistol she hadn’t worn today, not wanting it to weigh her down while she ran from Whitley. Dropping her hand uselessly at her side, she froze when the chifferobe swung open. Someone stood within its shadows. A man.
“Fiona,” the shadow said, moving into the light. “So you are alive.”
Chapter 30
Fiona felt like she’d been gut-punched. She gaped at her father’s Vice President of Fulfillment, and then her gaze dropped to the gun he was pointing at her. She raised her eyes back to his face. “Clark? You’re Whitley’s friend? But you were on the plane.”
“I might say the same of you.”
“How? How did you do it?”
“Get out of the plane ride to death? A manufactured emergency in the Saint Paul warehouse. Whitley called your father, told him of a missed shipment and delayed orders. I, loyal employee that I am, volunteered to remain and catch a commercial flight once I’d dealt with the issue. Your father was grateful. Your turn. No, let me guess. The McDermott woman took your place. I should have noticed. When you rejoined us, you seemed unusually subdued and refused to look at anyone. Whitley has been right all along. You were alive. Not for long, though. That’s twice I’ve tried. The third time’s the charm.”
Confused, Fiona stared at him, frowning. “Twice?” A horrible thought occurred, and she widened her eyes. “My mother? You killed my mother?”
He smiled. “No, technically, a semi killed your mother when her steering locked and she drove into it. You were supposed to be in the car with her. Every time I looked at you after that, I remembered, and I had to look away to hide my anger. You weren’t supposed to be alive. Now, here you are, still alive. It’s déjà vu all over again.”
“Why kill my mother?”
“She was pregnant. You didn’t know? How could you not have known? She was three months along with a boy. I didn’t need another brown mutt standing between me and this.” He jerked his chin to indicate the room. “I’d worked hard for Delaney.com. At that time, I’d put in eleven years of listening to a boy whine about his mother, confess to repulsive feelings for his little sister, and vow hatred for his father. Eleven years. I wasn’t about to lose it all to a half-Indian brat. I earned it. Delaney.com was mine.”
Fiona ignored him. Her mother had been pregnant. She hadn’t even noticed. What kind of a daughter didn’t know her own mother was pregnant? She’d been nine then. She should have known.
“You mean the NSO’s,” Grant stated, his voice disgusted.
“No. If I’d meant the NSO, I would’ve said the NSO.”
“We overheard you speaking with Reinhardt.”
“You were in the basement?”
“We were in the basement.”
“I must have been pretty convincing. Yes, Reinhardt and your brother believe my devotion lies with a warped group with an irrational ideology.” He frowned. “It did, at one time. However, I outgrew the NSO philosophy. I saw the flaw. Shortly after we blew up N1Delaney, a documentary came out, Welcome to Leech, about some clown who planned a takeover of some town in Wyoming. A pitiful specimen of supposed Aryan supremacy.”
He laughed, genuinely amused, before continuing. “He was a member of the NSM, the National Socialist Movement, which explains much, the whole lot of them being a bunch of clowns. Anyway, he agreed to have his DNA tested to prove his Aryan heritage. Turned out he was over a tenth African. It made me think. What’s to stop the Zeitgeist City Council from mandating DNA testing on all citizens and exiling or executing those with inferior ancestry? And who’s to say we don’t all have a black or brown or yellow or red ancestor lurking in our genetic closet? I rethought my politics and focused on my future, seeing the money. Once your brother made out his will in my favor, I guess the last shreds of political ideology faded away. Zeitgeist is all good and well, but a nice home, a profitable company, and a fat bank account is better.”
“And me, baby,” Whitley’s wife said in a little-girl voice.
He didn’t look her way, and when he spoke, his tone was one of indifference. “And you, baby. Wendy, I take it you’ve met your sister-in-law?”
“I’ve met her. I don’t like her. I don’t like the way she’s looking down her brown nose at me. She don’t have any right to look at me like that, her being a greaser and all.”
“Indian,” Grant corrected her.
“Whatever. I don’t care if she’s Pocahontas herself. She shouldn’t be looking at me like that. She’s the one who should be looked down on.”
Fiona struggled for words. “She was in on it with you?” she asked Clark. “All the time?”
“Not all the time. Only after he saw you in Sioux Falls. It was you, wasn’t it?” He didn’t wait for a response. “He became increasingly unstable after that, and I decided to hedge my bets by arranging a marriage for him. There was no telling when he might snap and no assurances he wouldn’t change his will. In fact, he might have already done so without my knowledge. When I saw Wendy’s photo on the NSO website, I was intrigued by how much she resembles Whitley’s mother. He’s got some mother fixation, and it took next to nothing to make her over in the mother’s image. An altered hairdo, attention to makeup, and a new wardrobe based on those photos he adores, and he came around.”
“Not for long,” Wendy snapped. “After the wedding, there weren’t no honeymoon, that’s for sure. Your brother’s a whack-job. Hit me when I made a play for him. Sick bastard! I earned my pay with him.” She turned to Thorpe. “Take care of her, Clarkie.”
Fiona saw the look of distaste cross his face at her use of the term of endearment. Wendy, yet another fine example of a member of a superior race, wouldn’t last longer than the reading of a will leaving everything to Clark Thorpe.
“Of course, Wendy. And this time, I won’t miss. It won’t be an accident, but that doesn’t matter. As it happens, I’ve discovered the perfect hiding place for your corpse. Corpses,” he added, his eyes going to Grant. He gestured toward the spiral staircase behind him, and for the first time, Fiona noticed the baby monitor in his other hand.
He followed the direction of her gaze. “Yes, I found it on the floor upstairs, right below the window. Whitley called me last night, raving about a secret staircase behind the chifferobe.
I got him calmed down, but this morning I decided to take a look. Damned if he wasn’t right. I experimented with this receiver and figured out it works for the office, giving a person plenty of time to hide when unexpected visitors arrive.”
He addressed Whitley’s wife. “You should get changed, dear. You’re now a widow, and when the authorities arrive, you’ll want to be dressed more sedately. Put on the pantsuit I hung inside the bathroom door.”
“Okay, baby.” She jumped up and, after treating Fiona to a glare, flounced through the study door.
“Before you shoot us, there’s something you should know, Clark.” Fiona forced a smile. “She’s not a widow. The bomb exploded harmlessly in a containment chamber. We have Whitley, and he’s alive and well.”
“As well as can be expected, given that he’s a sick bastard,” Grant corrected her.
Clark’s face stiffened and then reddened. “You’re wrong. We heard sirens a while back.”
“Of course you did,” Fiona said, her voice soothing. “Police tend to run with sirens when they race to defuse a bomb. It might even be protocol.”
“I think it is,” Grant stated. “It’d be silly not to. Stopping along the way to pick up dry cleaning would be poor form.”
“You’re lying.”
“Nope.”
He froze, raising the receiver to his ear. This far away, Fiona had to strain to hear, but she could make out what sounded like whispers. Someone was in the office.
Clark dropped the receiver. “Bitch. I should have taken you out at birth. It’s not too late.” Before she could react, he raised the gun, pointing it at her and firing.
Grant slammed into her, knocking her to the side and then falling to the floor. At the sound of a second shot, she whirled toward Clark, noting the splotch of blood on his chest and watching him drop to the floor. Spinning her face toward the door, she saw a tall, African American, uniformed police officer. “Are you all right, ma’am?”
“Yes.” She turned to Grant, and her heart plummeted at the sight of a dark blemish on his hunter-green polo, the same shirt he’d worn the day he’d heard back from his friend in Denver and driven over to warn her. She dropped to her knees beside him, bending over him, tears filling her eyes and racing down her cheeks while she pressed her hands over the spreading stain. His eyelids fluttered, and she raised her face to the officer. “He’s alive! We need an ambulance!” Her voice caught on a sob.
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