White Diamonds (Capitol Chronicles Book 2)

by Shirley Hailstock

  Henri was thorough, but Sandra Rutledge was a little spitfire. She would surely come out swinging. Turning around, he ran down the two steps and headed for the door.

  "Henri!" he called, stopping the butler just as he inserted me key in the lock. "Be careful. She'll fight you all the way."

  "Yes, sir," Henri smiled. It was more a leer than a grin. He turned the key. The lock gave with a click and he opened the trunk. Looking up at Lance, he said, "It's empty."

  Lance couldn't believe his ears. He rushed to where the butler stood, shoving him away. He reached inside, pushing aside the disheveled rug, tire iron, and jack. His breath came in ragged gasps. He breathed hard in the clean air. His heart knocked against his rib cage and instantly gave him a headache. Henri had to be wrong. His eyes had to be wrong. She couldn't have escaped. It was impossible. Then he saw the wires; a red one and a black one. They had almost sunk into the recesses of the metal bracket that led them into the trunk lock. His shoulders dropped in defeat.

  The urge to order Henri to get the other car and begin a search was strong, but unpractical. This part of the Maryland countryside was wooded and undeveloped. Finding her would be pure luck in the daytime. In the dark, it would be a wasted effort.

  Lance calmed himself. He still had the upper hand. His heartbeat returned to normal. Losing her was a small setback, but he wasn't beat. He still had a trump card. And this one only he knew about.

  ***

  "Have you seen her?" Wyatt was at a near shout when Suzanne Rutledge opened the door.

  "Don't tell me she's lost." Sandra's sister was in a bad mood. Wyatt had never seen her in any other kind of mood. Tonight he didn't care. His own mood was bad and getting worse by the minute.

  "Has she called?"

  "No," Suzanne said.

  Wyatt came inside and Suzanne closed the door. Sam was waiting downstairs in the garage. Wyatt didn't want to have the stones on him in case Jordon was there.

  Jordon was there. Both he and Suzanne were dressed, as if they were going out or had just come in. Wyatt couldn't decide which one.

  "You," he sneered at Jordon. "Have you done something to get her kidnapped?"

  "What are you talking about?" Suzanne asked.

  "I saw you tonight."

  Wyatt was angry. He paced the room like a big cat who wanted to get out of a cage. He felt like an animal. Sandra was missing, had been missing since she went into Lance Desque's house, and he had no inkling where to look for her.

  "Sit down, Wyatt," Jordon offered. "I'll get you a drink." He was playing host again. Wyatt didn't trust him. There was something he was hiding, and Wyatt wanted to know if it had to do with Sandra.

  "I don't want a drink and I don't want to sit down. I want to know what you and Clarence Christopher have to talk about?"

  "Who's Clarence Christopher?" Suzanne asked.

  Jordon stared at her. He didn't say a word. He poured a drink and took a long swallow. The stillness in the room could be touched, cut.

  "Claren—"

  "Clarence Christopher is the director of the FBI," Jordon interrupted the senator.

  "You know the director of the FBI?" Suzanne asked incredulously.

  "We're old friends."

  "Old enough for you to report that Sandra had been here; that I had been here and that you knew where we were, that we had the stones and—"

  "Stop." He put his hands up. "My business with the FBI has nothing to do with you."

  "You don't expect me to believe that?" Wyatt accused. "Sandra is missing."

  "Well, I had nothing to do with it," Jordon shouted.

  "Then what were you doing with him?" Wyatt returned the shout.

  "I had . . . other business." He lowered his voice, taking another drink.

  "Jordon," Suzanne called. "Did you turn her in?"

  He shook his head. "Annie, I could never hurt anyone you loved."

  "Then what were you doing there?"

  "Can I talk to her alone?" He stared at Wyatt.

  "No," Wyatt said. "Not until you tell me what you told the FBI."

  "Go on, Jordon," Suzanne said. "Whatever you have to say, I'm sure he can hear it."

  Jordon shrugged and poured brandy into a small snifter. He recognized Suzanne's mood. She was scared. With both drinks in his hands, he walked around the bar and handed Suzanne one of the glasses. "Sit down?" he asked, the word. “please" implied in his tone.

  Suzanne took a seat on the sofa and Wyatt leaned against the windowsill.

  "You told me Senator Rutledge was your biological father."

  Suzanne recoiled. "You didn't tell that to the FBI?"

  "Only in the strictest confidence. Clarence Christopher can be trusted."

  "The FBI? You think the FBI can be trusted? Jordon, I told you that in a moment of weakness. I never gave you permission to tell anyone else. You should have asked me before repeating it."

  "Let me finish," Jordon said.

  She flashed him a hostile look but remained quiet.

  "I love you, Annie. I've always loved you. This week I got the impression that you might love me, too." He glanced up at her, then back at the glass he held in his hand. "I know you remember the days when you were poor. You think sooner or later someone is going to pull the rug from under your world and plunge you back into that life of poverty. You have so much hate bottled up inside you, Suzanne, I wanted to relieve it. You can't live with that kind of hate and you can't love freely with it."

  "Jordon, it's not your business."

  "You're right, technically, but I'm in love with you and that makes it my business." He stared directly at her. Wyatt felt as if he were intruding on a confession. "I want to marry you, but I want you whole, not the half person who dissolves into tears whenever you see or hear from your parents."

  Both of them went quiet. Wyatt didn't know if he was hearing a true confession or if Jordon had just concocted this story and was making it up as he went along.

  "Go on," he prompted.

  Jordon glared at him, but continued. "I asked Clarence Christopher to find out your true parentage."

  "I told you my true parentage."

  "I know," he said. "I wanted all the details. I wanted to give you the real facts of your life before he adopted you. If I found out exactly what you'd told me, I'd keep the knowledge to myself."

  "And if you didn't?"

  "I'd decide then what I should do."

  "Well, Jordon?" Suzanne lifted her head. If Wyatt hadn't been watching he wouldn't have believed the transformation in her. She went from insecure weakling to a stately queen before his eyes. "What did you find?"

  Jordon put his glass on the table and stood up. He went to a case sitting by the door. Opening it, Wyatt saw cameras and lenses, each stored in a compartment Jordon pulled the foam backing from the top and extracted a manila folder. He brought it back and handed it to Suzanne.

  She took it. "Before you open it," Jordon cautioned, "prepare yourself. Bradford Rutledge is not your biological father."

  Wyatt was impatient. He needed to know what had happened to Sandra. He wasn't here to learn whether Brad Rutledge had adopted his own daughter. He didn't even know if it was true and didn't care. He only cared about finding Sandra.

  Suzanne opened the folder. Inside were three sheets of paper. They were typewritten, double spaced, and included three photographs. One was of her mother. She was smiling, sitting on an old tire swing that hung in the backyard. Suzanne smiled at the memory of that long ago day. She was in the second photo. Her hair was in braids, three long ones that draped over the side of her face and down her back. She wore her church dress, her only dress. Her mother had made it. Back then all her clothes were handmade. If she bought a handmade dress today it would cost thousands of dollars! She remembered the red dress she'd loved so much. The last picture was that of a man she'd never. . .no, not never, she'd seen him once, twice.

  She could almost remember the sound. It was an organ grinder with a monkey. He'd come
that day. Suzanne closed her eyes, trying to remember, trying to place herself back to time, into the memory of this man. Yes, she thought. He'd come. He wore a light-colored hat with a brown band. His suit had been pressed and his shoes shined like sunlight on water. Her mother had been happy to see him. He'd taken them out. . .to the circus. That was it. She remembered. She was only seven years old. She'd never seen a circus.

  She sat between them. He talked to her, telling her everything about the rings she could see below. He bought her cotton candy and popcorn. Each time she looked at him, his mouth smiled but his eyes had hurt in them. She wondered how a person could do two things at one time.

  It couldn't be her mother making him sad. He held her hand and put his arm around her waist when they walked. With his other hand he held on to her. Then he was gone . . . until the train.

  She frowned. Where was the train? There were no trams where they lived. But she could see him. He was at the window. She had to look up a long way to see him. He was old. He waved his big hat. It was black with a white band. He waved it and waved it until all she could see was the waving of the hat. The train disappeared but the waving hat hung in her memory.

  "Who is he?" Suzanne opened her eyes. Jordon blurred before her and she realized she had tears in her eyes. She blinked them away.

  "His name is Curtis Pittman."

  The name meant nothing to Suzanne, but it made Wyatt Randolph stand up straight. She stared at him, then back to Jordon.

  "He was a young lawyer in Atlanta. He had a wife and four children and was making a meteoric rise in politics. He'd been elected to the state legislature with little opposition. People thought he was headed all the way to the White House. Then at thirty he suffered a heart attack while campaigning. Two years later, he was found dead on a train heading to Atlanta."

  "A train?" Suzanne choked. Had that been her memory of him? The big black hat; the old man.

  Suzanne sank back against the cushions. "If this man was my father," she stared at the picture, "why does my birth certificate have my da— someone else’s name on it?"

  "Your father and Brad Rutledge were best friends," Jordon answered. "Likewise, your father was a friend of your mother's. He introduced your parents and frequently visited her after Pittman left. He was unmarried and not interested in politics at the time. She couldn't put your real father's name on your birth certificate for fear his wife or his political enemies would discover it. So she used his friend's name."

  Suzanne and Wyatt stared at Jordon.

  "How do you know this?"

  "Curtis Pittman left a diary. He has a sister, Janey Goodman, still living in Atlanta. She told the agent the story."

  Wyatt left his place by the window and came toward them.

  "You have this diary?" he asked.

  "Curtis Pittman's sister has it. She's willing to give it to you. In fact, the agent says she wants to see you."

  "What does it say about me?"

  "It mentions you by name; says that you were his child but because of his political career and family he couldn't acknowledge you. He tells about your mother, using Bradford Rut-ledge’ name as the father instead of his."

  Tears gathered in Suzanne's eyes, but she fought them. She'd been sorely wrong and her father had never said anything. He'd protected his friend's memory because of her and her volatile nature. He probably thought she'd accost the Pittmans, demanding to be recognized. She thought about her anger and realized he might have been right.

  "Janey Goodman told the agent that your father was furious when he found out, years later, what your mother had done. You must have been four then," Jordon went on. "There was nothing that could be done about it If he had the records changed it would surely be picked up by some reporter or news service and two men's careers would be at stake. The best course of action was to let it lay."

  "Then when my real father died and I was adopted, all records of my birth were sealed," Suzanne concluded. "Then there was no way Brad Rutledge’s political opponents could find out that on paper he had an illegitimate daughter."

  Jordon left his seat to come and sit next to her. He put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. "According to the report, that is not the way things happened, Annie."

  She shook her head and laid it against him.

  "I feel so guilty," she said.

  "When you've had time to let all this sink in, I think you should visit Mrs. Goodman. She's your aunt. She can tell you everything you want to know."

  Suzanne thought of the man who had given her a home and loved her as a daughter. "He was a wonderful father," she said aloud. "Both of them were wonderful parents." Suzanne remembered the terrible things she'd said to them, how badly she'd treated Sandra. How Sandra kept coming back, refusing to give up even when Suzanne told her she hated her. God, she was a fool. Where was Sandra? Where was her father? She had to talk to him, tell him how wrong she had been.

  Wyatt felt like a fifth wheel. He was also a little guilt-ridden. He'd been so wrapped up in his own problems he'd forgotten there were other people with their own difficulties. He was glad Suzanne had found what she needed. He knew her superior attitude was only a defense, but he'd seen her do things for her sister that even she didn't understand. They were mired in the love they had for each other, steeped in the common background they shared.

  He only hoped Sandra was all right and that the two sisters would have the opportunity to reconcile. Wyatt didn't want to interrupt the moment between the two people on the sofa. Clearly they were no longer aware of his presence. He'd found out what he needed to know.

  "Wyatt?" Suzanne called his name as he headed for the door. "Do you know where she is?"

  "No." He shook his head. "She went into Lance Desque's house last night. Fifteen minutes later I broke the door down. No one was there. I've been searching for her all night."

  Suzanne got up and went to him. "She's all right, Wyatt. I know it."

  "I hope so," Wyatt said without conviction.

  Suzanne reached up and took his face in her hands. Gently, she kissed him on the cheek. "You'll find her."

  He hoped so. He knew how much he loved her. His heart was heavy in his chest, and each time he thought of her he remembered something she'd said or done. He remembered her hair coming loose when she pulled it out of the ponytail and combed her fingers through it, the funny way she laughed, the way her eyes looked when she smiled, even the serious way she bit her lip and the skin around her finger.

  She'd been the best thing that had ever happened to him and he needed her back. Anger flared at Lance Desque. If anything happened to her he'd pay for it.

  A knock at the door had the three of them turning toward it.

  "It's probably Sam Parker. I left him in the car downstairs," Wyatt explained.

  Crossing to the suite door, he checked the peephole. On a single breath, his lungs were drained. His heart burst against his chest. He grabbed the knob with strength enough to pulverize metal. Yanking it open, he saw her.

  "Sandra!" he cried.

  ***

  For three seconds no one moved. Then Suzanne and Jordon rushed to the door.

  "Wyatt," she moaned, weaving back and forth like a drunk.

  She was cold and wet. Her feet were bare, bleeding, and nearly blue with cold. There were scratches and dried blood on her face, her clothes were torn, and her hair looked as if

  it had barbed-wire knots in it.

  Wyatt didn't think she could walk. Taking a step through the door, he scooped her up and carried her inside.

  "The bedroom," Suzanne pointed as she went toward it and opened the door. Suzanne rushed forward and pulled the cover down. Wyatt deposited her on the sheet as if she were a precious heirloom. To him she was. She was the woman he wanted to marry, the one who gave him reason to live and breathe to fight for his beliefs.

  He held her to him, smoothing her hair back and whispering her name. Suzanne called to him, but he ignored her. He needed to be near Sandra,
needed to know that she was real and that she was all right. He never wanted to let her go.

  "Wyatt, she needs help. Let me get to her."

  Wyatt shook his head. He kissed Sandra's cheek.

  "Call a doctor," Suzanne said behind him.

  "No!" Sandra cried for the first time. Wyatt loosened his grip. "I'm all right."

  "You're not all right," Suzanne contradicted. "Look at your face . . . and your feet." Blood stained the white sheets. Sandra eased them under the cover.

  "Please," she pleaded. "No doctor."

  "There’ a first aid kit in the bathroom," Jordon said. "I'll get it."

  He came back with a bowl of water and the kit.

  "Wyatt, move." This time it was an order. "We've got to get her cleaned up enough to see what she needs."

  Annie paid no attention to her evening clothes. She administered to her sister as if she'd been practicing nursing for years. When she finished, Sandra had one bandage on her forehead. The bruises on her face stood out like dark-purple smudges. Her feet were the worst. The skin on her soles had been rubbed off in spots deep enough to bleed. Her heels had cuts on them and her ankles were bruised and swollen.

  Jordon managed to get Wyatt out of the room long enough for Suzanne to help her bathe and get into a nightgown.

  "Here, take this." She handed her a glass of water and a single white pill.

  "What is it?"

  "A pain pill. You probably hurt in all kinds of places." Sandra swallowed the pill. "It will also help you sleep." Suzanne pulled the covers up to her sister's chin.

  Wyatt knocked on the door and returned. Concern and love vied for dominance in his eyes.

  "She'll survive," Suzanne announced. "A few days in bed and she'll be as good as new."

  "I don't have time for that," Sandra said. “We have to activate Project Eagle before tomorrow night."

  Sandra reached for Wyatt. He took her hands and sat down on the bed. Sandra yawned. "Wyatt, I don't know where he was taking me." She told him about her attempted escape through the living-room window and Lance forcing her in the trunk. He smiled at her ingenious method of getting out. "I climbed a big tree to find out if I could see any lights in the distance. That's the way I walked. When I got to a road, I tried to hitch a ride, but no one picked me up. I can’t blame them; look at how I looked." Gingerly, she touched the bandage on her forehead. Her head ached, but it was beginning to feel better. Her eyes were getting heavy, though. She yawned again and closed her eyes.