SUSPICION'S GATE

by Justine Davis

  Richard was already shouting as he burst in the door. Then he spotted Travis and whirled on him.

  "What the hell are you doing in here?"

  "Discussing … personnel," Travis said mildly, that emotionless mask that had slipped for a moment when confronted by Nicki carefully back in place.

  "Personnel?" He tugged at his hair. "That's my department, Halloran. You keep your nose out of it." He seemed to remember then what he'd been yelling about when he'd come in, and turned back to his sister. "Why didn't you come when I sent for you? I have to talk to you—"

  "The next time you need to talk to me," Nicki interrupted coolly, "I suggest you pick yourself up and walk over here. If that thirty feet is too much for you, use the phone. Or write a memo. But don't ever send that man in here again."

  "Aw, Carl's okay, you just never have liked him."

  She ignored his suddenly cajoling tone, and his words. "Ever," she repeated. "You do, and he's gone, friend of yours or not."

  Richard's temper flashed again. "Look, Miss High and Mighty, you don't fire anybody around here without my say-so. I run—"

  "Nothing."

  It was only one word, delivered with deadly calm, but it stopped Richard in mid-tirade. He whirled back to Travis, gaping.

  "You seem to forget," Travis went on levelly, "that you don't have a controlling interest in anything here." His gaze flicked to Nicki. "If she wants to fire the … jerk, she's got my vote."

  "I told you I don't need your help!" Nicki put in furiously.

  "Your vote? Your help?" Richard almost screeched. "If she wants it."

  Richard spun awkwardly back to Nicki. "What the hell have you been up to? What's he done? What's he talked you into? I know you want to run this place all by yourself, but would you really throw in with Dad's murderer to do it, you disloyal little—"

  "Knock it off, Richie," Travis warned.

  "Stop it!" Nicki shouted, and she wasn't sure at which one of them. "I don't need you to defend me," she ground out to Travis, then glared at her brother. "And I've had enough of your silly, childish tantrums! Both of you, get out of my office!"

  "But—" Richard began.

  "Now!"

  Cowed by her wrath, Richard shuffled toward the door. Travis let him pass, then followed, only to stop and look back over his shoulder. There was something oddly akin to a salute in his eyes as he glanced at her, and one corner of his mouth quirked upward before he went out and pulled the door quietly shut behind him.

  Nicki sank down into her chair, wrapping her arms around herself. She was so upset that she was shaking a little, angry at Travis for putting her in the position of looking like she was aligning herself with him against her brother, furious with her brother for his vicious accusation, and, above all, frightened at the warm, proud feeling that look in Travis Halloran's eyes had given her.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  « ^ »

  She shouldn't have yelled at Richard like that.

  Nicki sighed and put down the lengthy list of things to do she had finally finished. Whatever his faults, he was her brother, and all she had left of family now.

  What did it matter if he had a blind spot about Carl Weller? They'd been friends for years, and she had to admit Travis had been right; Carl was about the only friend Richard had kept that long. She shouldn't complain if Richard kept him on out of loyalty, even though—

  Loyalty. The word echoed in her mind, soft and intense, as it had sounded when Travis had whispered it. Whispered it in a voice that clawed at her inside, that made her once again get the feeling that he'd somehow been the victim. It was crazy, she insisted silently. She'd given him her loyalty once, all of it, and it had brought her nothing but pain.

  No, she corrected herself, not just pain. It had given her strength, as well. When her school friends had stared in shocked awe when she spoke of Travis's visits, she had responded with all the strength and loyalty of her young heart, as if she alone could convince them he wasn't really the cold, tough guy they thought he was, that what fascinated them so was only a front put on to hide the real person beneath. With the memory of those quiet talks beneath the willow to bolster her, she was unshakable.

  "But Travis Halloran, Nicki!" This had been from Cyndy Alexander who, for reasons Nicki couldn't comprehend, seemed to think Richard was the man of her dreams. "He's nothing but trouble, everyone says so."

  "He is not!"

  "Well, he is gorgeous," Melissa Morton put in, "I wouldn't mind having him come around my house, but my mother would have a fit."

  "My mother likes him," Nicki said staunchly.

  Melissa lifted a brow. "Doesn't she think he's too old? He's nearly seventeen, isn't he?"

  "Too old for what?" Nicki asked, genuinely puzzled. "To be my friend?"

  "Oh, Nicki, grow up," put in Lisa Corliss, Nicki's closest friend and supporter. Except in this. "I mean," she added with a worldliness beyond her fourteen years, "he is gorgeous and sexy, with those go-to-hell eyes, but not for you. He's … experienced. I mean, he's been around, with a lot of girls, and you're just…" She waved a hand vaguely.

  "It's not like that," Nicki protested, embarrassed by Lisa's precocious observations.

  She meant it; she supposed she did have a crush on Travis, as much as a girl just discovering boys could. But the friendship she'd found with him, the fact that he was the only person who really listened to her, the only person who heard her, was so precious she'd kept it hidden, afraid if she let it show he'd go away to avoid being embarrassed by the unwanted romantic fantasizing of a fourteen-year-old. And no matter what her friends thought, she didn't want him to go away, for any reason.

  And if her mother stood up for him, the least she could do was be as strong. She had been proud when, faced with a group of San Remo matrons who sat gaping as the town bad boy sauntered out of the Lockwood library and through the parlor as if he lived there, her mother had calmly introduced him as if he were an honored guest, using the power of her position in the local society to force their acceptance.

  Travis had gone along with it, only the wicked glint in his eyes showing that he knew perfectly well what they were thinking. As coolly as if he'd been dressed in clothes to match their expensive dresses instead of ragged jeans and a torn sweatshirt, he acknowledged the stiff greetings with impeccable politeness.

  But he hadn't been able to resist a broad wink and a grin at Nicki, who sat suffering through the impossibly boring conversations at her mother's orders. And as he went past her chair and out the door, she heard him laugh, just loudly enough to be heard.

  As she sat listening to the horrified exclamations, and her mother's regal dismissal of them, she was more aware than ever of the social gulf between them.

  "Why?" she asked him when she'd been able to break free and meet him beneath the willow. "How can they treat you like that?"

  He shrugged, the casual movement of someone long used to such treatment. "Why do they treat you the way they do?"

  "But that's different. They don't even know you."

  His casualness gave way to a sudden intensity. "Do they know you? Really know you? Or do they just know you're a Lockwood and treat you that way?"

  She stared at him, stunned. It was a concept she hadn't confronted yet in her young life. Wherever she went, the mere mention of the Lockwood name guaranteed her respect. Wherever Travis went, his name—and the reputation that went with it—guaranteed him at the least wariness, more usually distaste or outright dislike. And she wondered if the gulf between them was so wide after all.

  "You're right," she whispered after a moment. "They don't know me. They ask me all these dumb questions, but they don't listen to the answers. They don't really care. They only do it because I'm a Lockwood and they think they have to."

  Travis had looked at her wide eyes, and at the harsh realization in them. She looked away. "Sorry, Nicole," he said gruffly, putting an arm around her shoulders. "I didn't mean to—"

  "No.
" She cut him off. "I should have known." She looked back at him with troubled eyes. "But at least they're nice to me … even if it is just because I'm a Lockwood. But you … they…"

  "Would like me removed from their pretty little world. Yeah, I know." He grinned, as if to show he didn't care, but Nicki saw it was a little crooked, a little off center.

  "Why do you encourage it? Why do you act like … like they're right about you?"

  "I just give them what they expect."

  "But why?"

  "They're gonna believe it anyway."

  "But wh—"

  "Damn—" he said in affectionate exasperation, "don't you ever run out of questions?"

  "How else will I learn? Besides, you're the only one who tells me the truth."

  He opened his mouth and then shut it, not knowing what to say to that.

  "So, why?"

  He sighed. "Nicole, my father runs a bar, a dive that nobody you know would be caught dead in. The city's been trying to get rid of it for years. They want to clean up that part of town, but he won't budge, and it makes them mad. If there's a fight there, my old man's more likely to jump in and join it than break it up. The cops are always out there. It barely breaks even because he drinks up the profits."

  "So? That's your father, not you."

  He chuckled ruefully. "I wish the rest of this town could separate the two. To them I'm as tied to him as you are to the Lockwood name."

  "But that's not fair! Why should you get blamed because your father's a—"

  His jaw tightened when she broke off, and a look came into his eyes that frightened Nicki; he looked so very old, and so very angry. As he looked at her, the anger faded. He ran a hand through his shaggy hair. Then he sighed.

  "A drunk? The town clown? And troublemaker? Who's always starting a fight, or mouthing off about this town trying to break him, and that they'll pay for it?" She saw him try to hide a shudder of distaste. "And then he starts whining. Tries to get them to feel sorry for him…"

  Something in his eyes answered her original question for her. "That's it, isn't it?" she breathed. "You'd rather have them dislike you, rather have them mad at you, than feel sorry for you because of your father. So you go out of your way to make sure of it."

  He shrugged, looking away, but the pain in his eyes before he did made her almost glad he hadn't answered.

  After a while, she asked softly, "What about your mother, Travis? You never talk about her."

  "She's dead."

  "I know, but—"

  "She's been dead for eight years. I barely remember her anymore."

  "Maybe that's … why your father drinks. Because she died."

  He laughed harshly. "I doubt it. They were … quite a pair. He'd get drunk, then beat her up. And then she got drunk herself, to take away the pain. Finally it killed her."

  Nicki stared at him in horror, but it had little to do with the grim words he'd said and everything to do with the realization that had just struck her.

  "That's why you… When you… Those cuts and bruises, and that black eye…"

  He looked away quickly, but not before she caught the expression that flitted over his face.

  "It was your father, wasn't it? All those times when you were hurt, and everybody said you'd just gotten in another fight, it was your father…" She faltered, a sob rising in her throat.

  "Don't." His voice was husky, thick. "Don't cry. Not for me, Nicole."

  "But you let them think you're always in trouble, always fighting, beating people up…"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "But it does!"

  "Damn it, don't feel sorry for me. I can't stand that. Not from you."

  "But if you told them—"

  "Told them what?" he snapped. "That my own father hates my guts? What would that do except tell them they're right? What kind of kid has a father who hates him, except the kind they already think I am?"

  "Stop it!" Nicki scrambled to her knees in front of him, tears staining her cheeks, her eyes wide and filled with pain. "Just stop it!"

  "Nicki—"

  "You're not like that, you're not like they say! But you make sure nobody can see it."

  Travis sighed wearily. "People see what they want to see."

  "What do you expect? Other people won't stop putting you down until you stop putting yourself down."

  He stared at her for a long, silent moment, then reached out a hand to tug at the long, fiery braid of her hair. "Are you sure you're only fourteen?"

  Nicki blushed, but shot back, "Are you sure you're not about a hundred?"

  His mouth quirked sideways. "Sometimes," he muttered under his breath, "you make me feel that way."

  Nicki's brow furrowed. "What?"

  "Nothing. Never mind. And don't worry about me. I'm a survivor."

  A survivor. The word rang in her head now, bringing an end to the chain of memories and bringing back the quandary she'd been mired in. He'd had to be survivor, to get through his life with his father, and she couldn't help the compassion that still tugged at her at the recollection of all the times he'd shrugged off the black eye, or the split lip.

  But that compassion was at war with the knowledge that he had once been a survivor at the cost of her father's life. He had died, if not at Travis's hands then certainly as a direct result of his recklessness. He had—

  A sudden commotion broke in on her thoughts. Shouts, curses, then warnings. Outside. Near the chemical drums. Jumping to her feet, she whirled to look out the window, peering through the pervasive grime of cement dust.

  Men were clustered around the grouping of chemical barrels, one of which had an ominous, spreading pool of liquid beneath it. For a split second she just stared, but when no one seemed to be doing anything, she spun away from the window and headed down the hall toward the dispatch center at a run.

  She glanced around incredulously at the normal look of the busy room; they didn't know.

  "Hit the water switch," she shouted, "the hydrochloric tank is leaking!"

  There was a frozen moment of motionlessness as everyone stared at her, then, as she started toward the switch herself, someone finally moved and did it. Nicki ran to the window that gave a narrow view of the backside of cement plant number one, and to her relief she saw the gush of water flowing into the yard to neutralize the burning acid they used to clean the trucks.

  "What happened?"

  "I don't know," she said grimly, watching the flurry of activity below, "but I intend to find out. Now."

  Only when she turned to go did she realize who had asked the question.

  "What are you doing in here?"

  Travis shrugged. "Trying to learn. Any objections?"

  "You're the boss." Irony laced her voice. "Do what you want."

  Travis looked at her, an odd light in his eyes. "What I want…" he began, then stopped.

  She shrugged and began to walk to the door. He followed.

  "This is quite an operation you have here." He gestured at the big room with the angled glass windows that gave a clear view of nearly all the traffic in and out of the busy yard. "Like a control tower."

  She didn't look at him. "Essentially, that's what it is."

  "Is everything done by computer?"

  "Mostly." She pulled open the outer door and started down the steps. "They track the contents of the bunkers and silos, and the slurry tank. And do the figuring of the weights of rock, sand, cement, and water for the load, depending on the slump."

  "Oh."

  She gave him a sideways look as they reached the bottom of the stairs. "That means how wet—or runny—the concrete is. A one slump is—"

  "Dry. Five is wet. I know."

  Surprised, she raised a brow. "Been asking questions?"

  "All my life."

  Something in his tone made her look at him sharply, but his face was expressionless as they walked around the building. They made their way past the two cement plants, each with its huge bunkers full of raw materials towe
ring overhead, and walked toward the small group of men clustered in the now flooded yard. As they neared the scene, Travis eyed Nicki dubiously.

  "If acid leaked, should you be out here like that?"

  She glanced down at her expensive heels and nylon-clad legs. "These shoes aren't nearly as important as finding out what happened here. Besides, the water will have neutralized the acid anyway."

  He looked at the flood. "Where did it all come from? Pressure hoses?"

  "Better. The slurry tank."

  Travis glanced toward the huge, tall silo that held both fresh water and the water reclaimed from the remnants of loads that were returned to the plant after a job. Nicki noticed that he didn't have to ask what she meant; he had indeed, apparently, been asking questions. Or, she thought suddenly, not sure why, he'd already known. What had he been doing all these years?

  "You just open it?"

  She nodded.

  "Then what?" he asked, looking at the huge pool of water that was now lapping at their feet.

  She gestured toward the lowest corner of the yard, where the water stood the deepest. "There's a pump over there. It pumps it back to the tank."

  Travis raised an eyebrow. "Slick."

  "It works."

  "When somebody remembers to do it?"

  Her head snapped around. "Our people know their jobs."

  "Then why did you have to do it?"

  "That," she said as they skirted the edge of the water and approached the group of men, "I intend to find out."

  "Son of a—" The tall, lanky man broke off as one of the others coughed violently. He looked up to see Nicki, and said quickly, "Sorry, Miss Lockwood."

  "It's all right, Max. What happened?"

  After a brief, suspicious glance at Travis, the bearded man turned his attention back to Nicki. "Damned if I know. The valve's broken clean off."

  "Somebody hit it?"

  "Couldn't be," one of the others chimed in. "I was here after the last truck left, and it was fine."

  "He's right," Max said. "Besides, it's not bent, or anything, like it would be if one of the trucks backed into it. The valve handle's just broken clean off, like somebody hit it with a hammer."