by Meryl Sawyer
What a concept.
Not that he believed in all that Freudian crap, but it was possible his subconscious was speaking to him. He’d never known much about his mother except she had turned her back on him, walking away and leaving a helpless baby in the care of a career military man.
Not that his father had done anything wrong. Vincent Parker had tried his best, but a mother’s love was different. Aw, hell. Maybe it wasn’t. What did he know? Still, he’d missed … something.
And he wanted that elusive “something” for his children.
Children? The concept frightened him in a way that nothing in his antiterrorism experience ever had. Until this very moment, he’d never given much consideration to being a father.
Danger and adventure had given him such a rush that he’d never stopped to think about a normal life. Now, he seemed—strangely enough—ready to accept the responsibilities of being a father.
He couldn’t imagine any woman except Jennifer as the mother of his children. This revelation disturbed him because it altered his concept of his life and the future. He’d lived for the adrenaline high that danger brought.
A stable life with a woman he loved was a new idea, but it wasn’t difficult for him to accept it. He’d been redefining himself since the incident in Libya had damn near killed him. He wanted to settle down, he realized with a certain degree of amazement.
When had that happened? When had he stopped living for the thrill of danger?
He crossed his arms behind his head and critically examined the situation. It was clear to him that Jennifer had been hurt when he hadn’t found her despite the fact that he’d been going through hell himself.
The wound was much deeper than seemed reasonable to him. His sixth sense kicked in, telling him it was more than just the end of their relationship that was bothering Jennifer. Her unwillingness to talk about it indicated a dark, subterranean undercurrent, shaped by events in a past he knew nothing about.
“Okay, buddy,” he whispered to himself. “Where do we go from here?”
Waiting seemed to be his only option. For damn sure, he couldn’t make her talk until she was ready.
Mentally reviewing their conversations, searching for a clue to Jennifer’s problem, he drifted off to sleep. A boisterous laugh awakened him, and he levered himself up on one elbow. More masculine laughter followed by a fit of giggles. Apparently the gang had returned from the party and were soused.
He waited for Thelma Mae to come thundering out of her room to reprimand them, but the laughter faded as doors opened and banged shut, and people returned to their rooms.
Kyle stripped down to his underwear, then carefully stowed his dirty clothes in the hamper. Some habits die hard, he thought. He had automatically gotten ready for bed without turning on the light. SEALs regularly practiced in the dark because they needed eyes of a cat for night maneuvers.
“Those days are over,” he said out loud and flicked on the bathroom light.
He reached for his toothbrush, then squeezed a liberal amount of toothpaste on it. He took a close look at the label: Tartar Control Crest. Christ! He was already becoming an average Joe. Next thing he knew, he’d be flossing every night.
He brushed his teeth, then turned off the light. Crossing the room barefoot, a slight creak caught his attention. Jennifer’s door. He’d lain awake enough nights already, listening for her to come home.
He went to bed and told himself not to wonder where she was going at this hour of the night. What time was it anyway? His Breitling glowed in the dark, and a quick check told him it was after midnight. He’d slept for several hours.
Had Jennifer been able to sleep, or was something still bothering her? His curiosity got the best of him, and he rose. She often went for a late night swim. From the shadows on his balcony, he looked out at the beach.
The moon was hidden by a dark cloud with wispy trailers. He spotted a woman at the beach, but there wasn’t enough light to be certain it was Jennifer. Who else could it be?
He forced himself to go back to bed. There wasn’t any point in trying to get Jennifer to talk until she was ready. He lay down and picked up the sound of voices. It was faint, but from their tones, he knew it was an argument. The noise stopped as suddenly as it had begun.
Unable to fall asleep, Kyle continued to listen. The only sound was the whirring hum of the ceiling fan overhead. He waited and waited with all the patience he’d learned on SEAL missions—not moving just listening—hyper-alert for any unusual sound.
He wanted to know Jennifer was safe in her own bed, not wandering alone on the beach in the middle of the night. Another creaking sound made him sit up in bed. It was a different sound than Jennifer’s door, and it was farther away.
He lay down and told himself to get some rest. It had been too many nights with too little sleep. He dozed, half listening for Jennifer’s door.
He sat bolt upright and looked around his room. It was still dark but the faint rosy-gray light of another dawn in Key West was appearing on the horizon. A noise had awakened him, but he couldn’t identify the sound.
It was a dim echo in his brain like a half-remembered dream. He wasn’t sure that he hadn’t imagined it. The sound could have been part of a dream.
Pinpricks of sweat peppered the back of his neck, and he was slightly breathless, the way he often was when he dreamed about nearly dying in Libya. Aw, hell. That’s what had made him wake up so suddenly.
He hadn’t been troubled by those nightmares for months, he thought as he crossed the room and walked out onto the balcony to cool off. Telling Jennifer about Libya had brought back memories he would do better to forget.
He leaned against the railing and gazed out at the dark sea. Off to the side of the lawn, something caught his eye. A woman had collapsed on the lawn.
“Jennifer?”
No, not Jennifer. Relief hit him like a blow to the gut.
It was Thelma Mae, and she was crying.
That was what had awakened him, he decided as he hurried into the room and pulled on a clean pair of khaki shorts. Not bothering with a shirt or shoes, he rushed downstairs. The lawn beneath his feet was moist with dew, and there was a heaviness in the air, signaling an oncoming shower.
“What’s wrong?” Kyle asked, dropping down beside the older woman.
“My boy! My boy!” she cried, the words garbled by tears and frantic gulping for air. “My son’s been killed!”
Chapter 27
Kyle touched Thelma Mae’s shoulder. Upon seeing him, her soft sobs became keening wails. From inside Thunder Island, lights popped on, and people rushed to the windows calling out, “What’s wrong?”
Kyle gently shook Thelma Mae’s shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”
Thelma Mae’s sobs only escalated with each question. Now she was hysterical, doubled over on the grass and pounding the ground with her fists as she cried. Jesus! This had to be damn serious. Thelma Mae, the epitome of cool and control, had fractured into a thousand pieces.
“What’s going on?”
Tyler had appeared, asking the question. Beside him stood Plotzy and Raven, anxious expressions on their faces. Kyle looked at them, shrugging his shoulders. Other guests ran out of the house, heading their way in various states of dress, but he didn’t see Jennifer.
Kyle told Thelma Mae, “We can’t help you unless we know what’s going on.”
Thelma Mae threw her head back, gasping for air, but she made no attempt to answer the question. Instead, she seemed to be asking heaven, “Why? Why? Why?”
Lisa and Chuck rushed up. “What’s going on?”
Kyle shook his head. “I’m not sure. An accident, I think. She said something about her son being killed.”
“Impossible! She doesn’t have any children. Do you, Thelma Mae?”
Kyle noticed Plotzy had said this from a safe distance. Thelma Mae was now pulling up chunks of grass and hurling them toward the beach as she sobbed.
Raven ventured up to
Kyle’s side, saying, “Thelma Mae, do you have a child?”
“M-m-my boy, Ch-chad.”
“Chad Roberts?”
Lisa’s voice was indignant, almost outraged. Kyle had to admit this was a stretch. No two people seemed less likely to be related than blond, blue-eyed Chad and dark-eyed Thelma Mae with her gloss black hair.
“She’s lost it,” Lisa said in a low voice to her brother. “Sometimes people go like that. They just snap.”
“No,” Kyle said, “something’s happened.”
He looked around at the small group, most of them in night clothes, hair tousled. There were a couple of new faces, tourists he didn’t know who must have arrived just that evening. The regulars were all there except for Jennifer and Chad.
He asked, “Has anybody seen Chad?”
The instant he uttered the name, Thelma Mae wailed even louder. She’d stopped throwing grass now and was clawing at the dirt with her bare fingers. Raven tried to pull her upright, but the older woman shoved her away.
“Let’s call a doctor,” suggested Tyler.
“Right-o. I’ll call Dr. Martens.”
“Plotzy, you dummy. Dr. Martens are shoes,” Chuck said.
“Let’s call an ambulance,” Tyler said.
“Tell them it’s a psycho case,” Lisa said. “They may want to bring a straight jacket.”
“Oh, no,” cried Raven. “She needs a doctor. That’s all.”
Kyle wasn’t so certain. He had zero experience with grief-stricken women, but this seemed to be much too intense to be normal. It might be some type of psychotic episode.
Raven touched Thelma Mae’s shoulder. “If we can’t help you, we’re going to have to call an ambulance to take you to the hospital.”
Thelma Mae’s sobs became quieter, and she stopped clawing the ground. Tears were still coursing down her cheeks, but she managed to speak.
“Ch-ch-chad … my baby.” Thelma Mae stood up and walked toward the water.
“See, I told you she was ready for the funny farm,” Lisa said. “Chad would have told me if Thelma Mae was his mother.”
“Right-o. She never mentioned it to me, and we’ve been friends for years.”
“What’s Thelma Mae doing?” Raven asked.
She was standing in the water, the foaming surf covering her shoes. Her arms were outstretched as if she were reaching for someone.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Lisa protested with a disgusted huff. “Let’s call nine-one-one.”
As much as he resented Lisa’s callous attitude, he thought she might be right. They needed professional help.
“Tyler, watch Thelma Mae. Don’t let her do anything foolish,” Kyle said, taking charge.
“Like what?” Plotzy asked.
“Like hurt someone or herself, you idiot,” Lisa said.
“Lisa, you call nine-one-one,” Kyle said. “Chuck, come with me. We’ll check Chad’s room and see if he can help.”
“What’s Chad’s room number?” Chuck asked his sister.
Lisa shrugged. “I don’t know. He always comes to my room.”
Kyle asked, “Does anyone know which room is Chad’s?”
“We could ask Thelma Mae,” suggested Plotzy.
“Sure, Plotzy.” Lisa rolled her eyes. “Great idea.”
“Chad’s staying in the widow’s waiting room.”
Kyle recognized Jennifer’s voice as she walked up to them. Even in the hazy light, he could see she’d been crying. “Jen, what’s wrong?”
“Why are you crying?” asked Lisa.
“Did Chad make you cry?” Plotzy wanted to know.
Jennifer didn’t answer. Her eyes were on Kyle as if she expected something from him. He rushed over to her and put his arm around her, pulling her close to his side. She leaned against him in a way that signaled she needed him.
“I’m all right,” she said, her voice ragged from crying. “I was just thinking about my mother … and things.”
“Did something happen to your mother?” Raven asked.
“She died years ago,” Kyle told everyone.
“Have you seen Chad?” Chuck asked as if Jennifer’s tears weren’t important.
Kyle hugged her closer, asking, “You okay?”
She looked up at him, her eyes misty. “I’m fine now.” She turned toward Chuck. “I haven’t seen Chad since sunset at Mallory Dock, but I know his room is up there.” She pointed to the widow’s waiting room behind the widow’s walk on top of Thunder Island.
“There’s nothing up there,” insisted Plotzy. “It’s a false room. Thelma Mae told me all about it.”
Lisa flounced over to Jennifer. “Chad’s staying up there? I don’t think so. He would have told me.”
“It’s a secret room,” Jennifer said, ignoring the jealousy in Lisa’s voice. To Kyle, she said, “Come on. I’ll show you.”
They started toward the house, the group following, and Kyle looked over his shoulder at Thelma Mae. She was still standing in the surf, deep sobs racking her body as she silently cried. Tyler was with her, talking to her, but they were too far away to hear what he was saying.
Jennifer led them inside and up the stairs to the second floor landing where a watercolor of the Donkey Milk House hung on the high-gloss paneling. The owner of the meticulously restored mansion was a friend of Trevor’s, and Kyle had attended a party there. He’d admired the painting each time he’d walked by, but he hadn’t paid much attention to the slightly larger grove in the paneling near the watercolor.
Jennifer put the palm of her hand next to the painting and pressed. The paneling popped open, revealing a very narrow staircase. At the top of the dark stairs, light seeped out from under a door.
“I’ll be damned. There is a room up there,” Chuck said.
“Chad’s room?” Lisa asked Jennifer, and she nodded.
“Why would Thelma Mae lie about the room?” Raven asked.
What else was she hiding? Kyle wondered.
“If the light’s on in that room, why didn’t we see it from the beach?” Raven wanted to know.
“Good question,” Chuck said as he winked at her.
“You’re pretty smart for a fan dancer,” Lisa added.
“There’s special paint on the windows.” Jennifer looked up at him as she talked. Her eyes were still puffy and red, but her voice no longer sounded teary. “Even if the lights are on, you can’t see them from outside.”
“Are we going to stand here talking this to death, or is someone going to see if Chad is up there?” asked Tyler.
“I thought you were with Thelma Mae,” Kyle said.
“Plotzy took over. He knows her better.”
“Great, just great.” Kyle stepped forward, disgusted. Plotzy was worth next to nothing in situations like this. “I’ll check on Chad. Everyone else stay here.”
“Why?” Lisa asked.
“In case it’s a crime scene.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little dramatic?” Chuck asked.
“I sure as hell hope so.” But inside he had a hinkie feeling about this. Thelma Mae had flipped out. There had to be a reason why.
Near the top of the dark stairs, almost hidden in the shadows, he spotted something on the floor. He bent down to pick it up, then stopped, reminding himself of crime scene protocol. He looked closer. It was a small, white cocktail napkin with TI in one corner. A Thunder Island cocktail napkin.
He kept going, calling out, “Chad, Chad,” as he approached the door. No answer. He knocked, then waited.
“Is he there?” yelled Chuck from the bottom of the stairs.
“I don’t know.” Kyle tried the doorknob and found it was unlocked. He swung it open. “Chad?”
His SEAL training kicked in and he quickly scanned the room to see what he was up against.
A broken glass on the floor.
Droplets of blood.
A double bed that no one had slept in. A cell phone on the nightstand. A Tiffany style lamp. A pair of cut
off shorts thrown or dropped on the highly polished wood floor.
Barefoot, he stepped into the small room and craned his neck to look into the adjacent bathroom. No one was in there. He took another step, taking care to avoid stepping on broken glass and saw flesh.
The heel of a bare foot was partially concealed by the dust ruffle on the bed. Aw, shit! Kyle inched forward, his height giving him an advantage. He could see over the bed at this angle, when most people couldn’t have.
Chad Roberts was sprawled across the floor on the far side of the bed, a knife in his chest.
Kyle backed out of the room, trying to put his feet exactly where they’d been to preserve the crime scene. Jesus! No wonder Thelma Mae had gone bonkers.
Jennifer could tell by the way Kyle carefully descended the stairs that something was terribly wrong. The others were asking questions, but she didn’t add to the confusion.
“Call the police,” Kyle said as he neared the group. “Chad’s been murdered.”
“Is he dead?” Plotzy had appeared on the stairs behind them.
“No, he’s still alive.” Chuck’s voice dripped sarcasm.
Lisa had collapsed against her brother, her fist shoved against her mouth to stifle a scream of disbelief. Jennifer tried to feel something but couldn’t. She’d been out on the beach, reliving the past, and thinking about her future. She’d cried so hard and so long as she had finally exorcised the demons who had possessed her emotionally all this time.
She had nothing left to give.
Of course, she didn’t want Chad to die, but the gut-wrenching emotion Lisa was experiencing or the quiet tears Raven was shedding, didn’t seem right for her.
“We were going to be married,” Lisa said as the tears began to fall.
Jennifer caught Raven’s eye. The brunette was standing beside Chuck, tears tumbling down her cheeks, but Chuck had his arm around his sister. Raven shook her head just enough to ruffle her long hair and let Jennifer know she understood. Chad had conned yet another woman.
Kyle took charge, closing the concealed panel and telling the group, “Let’s all wait downstairs for the police.”
“Police?” Plotzy questioned, wide-eyed. “We’re one street beyond Old Town’s boundary. Call the sheriff. We’re in his, his”—Plotzy turned to Tyler—“his what?”