Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's SonThe Brother's WifeThe Long-Lost Heir

by Amanda Stevens

  “I brought you out here because you asked me to,” Jake told her. “And now that I have, tell me something, Hope. Did you get what you came for?”

  She folded her arms around her middle, huddling inside her pink sweater. “I’m not sure. I guess I thought if I saw the place, experienced it for myself, I’d somehow know….”

  “Know what?”

  She turned to him. He couldn’t see her expression in the dark, but he could hear the desperation in her voice. Or was it fear? “Did you see him that night, Jake?”

  It took him a moment to get her meaning. Then, “You mean Andrew? You mean…afterward?” When she nodded, he said, “I told you, the ambulance had already taken him away when I got here.”

  “I know, but what about at the hospital? Or the morgue?” The last word was said in almost a whisper.

  Jake stared down at her in confusion. “What’s going on here, Hope?”

  “Nothing,” she replied, but her tone was far from convincing. “I just want to know if you saw him.”

  Jake shook his head, still puzzled by the question. “No. I didn’t see him. His death was ruled accidental by the coroner, and at any rate, I had no jurisdiction here. There was no reason for them to let me see him.”

  She gazed up at the sky, her profile an enigma in the hazy light from the moon. “I didn’t see him, either. Did you know that? I was legally the next of kin, but they wouldn’t let me see him, and Iris agreed. She had Victor Northrup identify the body. The doctor at the hospital and then later the Shepherd police all delicately informed me that it would be too traumatic for me to see Andrew’s body. The crash had—done things to him, they said.”

  “That’s entirely possible,” Jake said. “However, there wasn’t that much blood at the scene.”

  His response seemed to send another shiver scuttling through Hope. He saw her shudder and clutch her arms more tightly around her middle. Jake touched his hand to her arm and she jumped.

  “Hope,” he said. “What’s going on? Why all these morbid questions?”

  She shook her head. “It’s crazy,” she whispered. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try me.” He placed his hands on her arms and turned her to face him. Mist swirled around them, wrapping them in a cocoon of damp softness. But far from being a comfort, it seemed to heighten the strangeness of the night.

  Somewhere in the distance, a dog howled and the hair on the back of Jake’s neck prickled with awareness. Damn, he thought. The place was getting to him. He had the strongest notion that if he looked over his shoulder, he might see Andrew walking out of the woods toward them.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get out of here.”

  “Wait,” Hope said. “Just give me a minute more. I need to—”

  Her words were cut off by a motion from Jake. He lifted his finger to his lips, commanding silence. Maybe it was his imagination, but he thought he heard something in the woods.

  Beside him, Hope stiffened in fear. Her gaze followed his, to the patch of darkness just off to their right. Silently, Jake drew his gun. He gestured for Hope to stay put as he moved in front of her and started walking toward the shadows.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Out of the corner of her eye, Hope saw something move in the darkness beside her. She had only the briefest impression of tallness, of broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist and lean hips, as the man rushed out of the shadows toward her. Before she could utter a sound, his arm came around her neck and he aimed a gun at her temple.

  Hope gasped, her heart thundering in her ears. As if from a distance, she heard a voice she didn’t recognize yell, “Drop it!” to Jake. Relief flooded over her, and then in the next instant, Hope thought what an idiot she was. A man held a gun to her head, and her strongest emotion was one of relief, because he was a stranger. Because he wasn’t Andrew.

  She saw Jake edge slowly toward them in the darkness. The arm around her throat tightened. She could feel the cool metal of the gun barrel against her skin. “I said, drop it.”

  Jake hesitated for just a split second, then tossed his gun to the ground.

  “Now kick it over here,” the man ordered.

  Again Jake complied. The man released Hope and gave her a shove with the gun. “Pick it up.”

  She bent to retrieve the gun. The moment she had it in her hand, Hope had the urge to turn and fire, but she knew the man would shoot her dead before she ever got off the first shot, let alone aimed in the darkness.

  She straightened and handed him the weapon. He took it and slipped it into his pocket, then with the barrel of his own gun, motioned Jake over. When Jake stood beside Hope, the man moved around behind them. “Start walking,” he ordered. “Toward the highway.”

  They headed through the meadow of brambles toward the road. Jake asked cautiously, “What’s the crime?”

  “Trespassing. You got a problem with that, take it up with Mr. Pratt.”

  “Pratt?” Jake glanced over his shoulder. His movements were very slow and deliberate, Hope noticed. He wasn’t taking any chances, probably because of her. “What’s he got to do with this?”

  “This is his property,” the man told them.

  “Since when?”

  “Since this morning. Now get moving.”

  Jake took Hope’s elbow and they scrambled up the embankment together. When they reached the road, the man took Hope’s arm and drew her away from Jake. Walking toward Jake’s truck, the man told Jake to drive.

  His hand on her arm made Hope cringe. It was all she could do not to struggle. She watched Jake crawl behind the wheel, then, after a nudge of the gun, she climbed into the back and the man got in beside her.

  Jake started the engine, and in the light from the dash, she saw their captor for the first time. As she’d thought, he was tall and muscular, and had dark blond hair and a thick mustache. He was dressed in a black double-breasted suit with a black shirt underneath. Obviously he hadn’t been dressed to go tramping about in the woods, so he must have followed them from the bar.

  He was handsome in a slick kind of way, but the look he gave Hope made her nervous. Made her feel as though she needed to wash her hands.

  Over his shoulder Jake asked, “Which way?”

  “Straight ahead, then make a right. I’ll tell you when.”

  Jake pulled onto the road. “You must be new.” His gaze met Hope’s in the rearview mirror. “I thought I knew all of Pratt’s thugs, but I don’t remember you.”

  “Shut up,” the man said. “And keep driving.”

  They all fell silent. Hope’s gaze met Jake’s in the mirror again, and he nodded ever so slightly, as if trying to reassure her. A few miles up the road, the man tapped on the window with the gun barrel. “Turn here.”

  Jake swung off the road onto what seemed hardly more than a dirt trail through the woods. They bumped over potholes and metal cattle guards for another mile or so until suddenly they hit pavement. Jake pulled the truck to a stop at a metal gate set into a ten-foot-high brick wall. The man beside Hope removed a small transmitter from his pocket, touched a button, and the metal gates slid apart. Jake drove through.

  All along the winding drive, Hope noticed tiny red lights glowing intermittently from the trees. Surveillance cameras, she guessed, and then, as they neared the house, the woods thinned and she saw guards with automatic weapons and Doberman pinschers on leashes patrolling the property. Simon Pratt was taking no chances, either.

  Jake drew up in front of the house, a huge Tudor-style mansion that reminded Hope of the Kingsley estate, and killed the engine. “What now?”

  “Get out,” the man said. He opened the door and slid out, then motioned for Hope to do the same. She went to stand beside Jake and he took her hand, gently squeezing her fingers in encouragement. He would get them out of this mess, he silently communicated. Somehow.

  They walked up the steps to the front door, and once inside the massive foyer, the man behind them relinquished Jake’s gu
n to the guard at the door. “Search them,” he commanded.

  The guard frisked Jake roughly, searching for hidden weapons. When he started to do the same to Hope, Jake shoved him away. Instantly two other guards were on the scene. They both grabbed Jake and held him while Hope was subjected to a search.

  Her face flaming, Hope closed her eyes as the man’s hands moved over her. Then it was done, and she and Jake were led down a long corridor to a set of polished mahogany doors with gold handles. The man with the gun touched another button on his transmitter, and one of the doors swung silently inward.

  Jake and Hope stepped inside the room. It was a library, again not unlike the one at the Kingsley mansion. Floor-to-ceiling windows adorned one wall while bookshelves occupied the two end walls. Deep leather chairs were artfully arranged around a marble fireplace, and the hardwood floor was softened by huge Oriental rugs. A flamboyant Matisse hung over the mantel, looking incongruous in the otherwise-somber room.

  A man in a maroon silk robe sat behind a massive carved desk near the windows. He looked to be in his late sixties, with dark gray hair and bags under his eyes that showed, as Edward Kingsley’s did, the man’s partiality to drink. But where Edward had grown soft and prone to mental lapses, this man looked tough and alert and very, very dangerous.

  “Well, well, well,” he said in a deep, Southern drawl. “Detective McClain, isn’t it? Or should I say, former Detective McClain? I hear you’ve hit on some hard times, Jake.”

  “I’ve seen better,” Jake agreed.

  “And you must be Mrs. Kingsley,” the man said to Hope. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper several times in the past. Eleanor Beaucamp’s column, I believe. I’m Simon Pratt,” he said with a slight bow. “And this is my associate, Jonas Thorpe.” He nodded toward the man who had brought them in.

  In the brighter light of the library, Thorpe looked older than Hope had originally guessed—probably somewhere in his early fifties. His superb physical condition had made him seem younger in the darkness, but now she could see the deep lines around his eyes and mouth, the broad, flat, boxer’s nose, and the lack of emotion in his eyes. She shuddered as his cold gaze fell upon her.

  “I don’t believe you two have met,” Pratt said to Jake. “Jonas came to me a few months ago by way of Houston. He’s quickly making himself indispensable in my organization. Isn’t that right, Jonas?”

  Jonas’s gaze never left Hope’s. “I do what I can.”

  “And you do it very well,” Pratt added. “Very efficiently.” He lifted the top from a burled walnut humidor and removed a long, fat cigar. Holding it to his nose, he closed his eyes and inhaled. “Take Mrs. Kingsley to the solarium, Jonas. Entertain her for a while. I’d like a word with my old friend here.”

  Jonas’s eyes darkened on Hope. “My pleasure.”

  Jake made a move in protest, but the gun in Jonas’s hand flashed again. “Don’t try it,” Pratt advised. “Jonas, here, would like nothing better than to put a bullet between your eyes. He has a very itchy trigger-finger, I’m told.”

  “It’s all right,” Hope said softly to Jake. The thought of Jake getting shot made her feel sick. She stepped away from him and followed Jonas out of the room.

  When the door closed behind them, Jake turned back to Pratt. From the window behind Pratt’s desk, he could see one of the guards making his rounds with a Doberman. The dog looked huge in the darkness.

  “You don’t need to worry about Mrs. Kingsley.” Pratt eyed him with dark, knowing eyes. “Jonas won’t make a move without my say-so. He’s very reliable.”

  “You’d better pray he is,” Jake said tightly. “If he lays one finger on her, you’re both dead men.”

  Pratt smiled. “And they say chivalry is dead.”

  Jake looked at him in disgust. “What the hell is this show of muscle all about, anyway? Why’d you have us brought here?”

  “You were trespassing on my property,” Pratt replied. “Consider yourself lucky. Jonas usually shoots first and asks questions later.”

  “That itchy trigger-finger again,” Jake said.

  Pratt chuckled. “Precisely.” He clipped off the end of his cigar, then took his time lighting up. The aromatic smell of exotic tobacco filled the room. Cuban, Jake noted. Pratt probably had a direct line to Castro.

  “It’s curious you felt the need to purchase the land where Andrew Kingsley cracked up his car,” Jake commented.

  “We Southerners are sentimental that way.”

  Jake’s eyes narrowed on Pratt. “If I didn’t know better, I might think you were trying to conceal something.”

  “After five months?” Pratt’s tone sounded incredulous, his drawl even more exaggerated. “The cops have been all over that place. If there was anything to find, I’m sure they would have found it by now. Or don’t you have faith in your fellow lawmen?”

  “Not the ones on your payroll,” Jake said.

  Pratt laughed again, exhaling a thick cloud of smoke. “I see you’re still trying to connect me to Andrew Kingsley’s untimely demise. You’ve been watching too many bad movies, Jake. You’d better find yourself another job before that imagination of yours does something to your sanity.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Jake returned. “I like having time on my hands. Gives me plenty of opportunity to find out all kinds of interesting things. For instance, I learned not too long ago that you own controlling interest in several of the new casinos down in Mississippi—one of the few legit businesses you’re involved in. Word has it Kingsley was in to you for nearly half a mil. That’s a lot of money, even for a Kingsley.”

  “And you think, what?” Pratt questioned. “That I had him `iced’ because he reneged on his loan? You have been watching too many movies. I’ve always thought that practice made damned poor business sense, killing a man who owes you money. How do you ever recoup?”

  “I also learned,” Jake said, “that in the last few months before he died, Andrew made a lot of runs south of the border in the Kingsley jet, not to mention a trip or two abroad. To Ireland, to be exact, and to the Middle East. Trouble spots seemed to attract him.”

  “Maybe the man liked to live dangerously,” Pratt replied with a shrug. “Like you, Jake.” His tone was pleasant enough, but his eyes were deadly serious.

  “You think you keep a low profile, living out here in no man’s land, but the drug smuggling, the gunrunning, the money laundering, and all the other nasty little activities you’ve got your filthy hands into are no secret. My theory is this. Kingsley was in to you for a lot of money. When he couldn’t come up with the dough, you made him a deal, one he couldn’t refuse. He became your own personal courier. The Kingsleys are renowned all over the world. Their jet would be the last place the feds and nervous little customs agents would search for contraband.”

  “Interesting theory.” Pratt studied the glowing tip of his cigar. “Only one thing wrong with it. Why would I get rid of such a profitable arrangement? Why would I kill Andrew Kingsley?”

  “Maybe because he balked,” Jake said. “Or maybe you decided he knew too much. He’d outlived his usefulness.”

  Through the smoke, Pratt’s gaze on Jake deepened. “Do you remember what I told you two years ago when you came to arrest me for murder? Play with fire and you’re going to get burned. Do you remember that, Jake?”

  “I remember.”

  “And here you are. A washed-up ex-cop living with his aging father. How does it feel to have lost everything? Your job, home, money. Respect.”

  Jake met Pratt’s gaze through the smoke. “Are you saying you got me fired?”

  Pratt smiled. “Iris Kingsley isn’t the only one with pull in this town. Though she is quite formidable, I’ll admit. If I were you, I wouldn’t want to cross her again. No telling what she might do if she knew you were still messing around in her dead grandson’s business. Not to mention with her dead grandson’s wife.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “You know me better than tha
t. I don’t make threats, I make promises.” Pratt touched a button beneath his desk and the door to the library swung open. A moment later, Hope and Jonas Thorpe walked back through. “We’re all finished in here,” Pratt said. “Show Jake and Mrs. Kingsley out, will you, Jonas?”

  Thorpe led them down the hallway, into the foyer. “Do I get my gun back?” Jake asked.

  The guard handed Thorpe the weapon. With a smooth, practiced motion, he removed the clip, then gave the gun to Jake.

  “Thanks a lot,” Jake said, shoving the gun under his belt.

  Thorpe opened the front door and stepped outside with them. “Your truck is just down the road a ways,” he said. “Mr. Pratt thought you might enjoy a nice walk this evening. Careful of the dogs, though.” Then he turned and disappeared back inside the house.

  Hope turned to Jake. “What was that all about?”

  “I’m not sure. But I think we may be getting a little too close for Pratt’s comfort.”

  “Close to what?”

  “I haven’t figured that out yet,” he admitted. “Come on. Let’s get going.”

  The road wound through the woods, and the thick canopy of leaves overhead blocked the moonlight. The darkness was almost complete. In the distance, one of the dogs bayed at the moon, and Jake sensed rather than saw Hope shiver beside him. His own nerves were on edge, as well. The blinking red lights in the trees followed their progress down the road, but those weren’t the “eyes” Jake was most concerned about. Something slunk in the woods nearby.

  Hoped stopped. “Listen.”

  “What is it?”

  “The barking,” she said. “It’s louder.”

  She was right. The distant barking suddenly wasn’t so distant. It was behind them and in the woods, and gaining all the time. Jake’s heart tripped inside him. The dogs were loose.

  He grabbed Hope’s hand. “Run,” he said, taking off at a sprint and pulling Hope with him.

  The barking grew steadily louder. Jake could hear the sound of the dogs’ paws pounding against the road behind them and tearing through the underbrush. They seemed to be coming from every direction.