Dead for the Money

by Peg Herring

  The snap of elastic signaled his imminent return to the cabin. As soon as she heard his feet on the steps, Brodie lowered herself into the water and let go of the ladder. The lake was cold, but she’d expected that. Worse was the darkness, the feeling of being in unknown territory without a clear idea of what to do next. She felt the urge to return to the safety of the boat but forced herself to resist.

  Directly before her was the boat. Behind it, the island was a dark spot against the sky. The crazy voice kicked in. “Swim!” it said. “Swim!”

  Like I’ve got another choice! she would have answered if it wasn’t her own head talking. They say you aren’t crazy if you talk to yourself. You’re only crazy if you answer.

  Leaning back in the water, Brodie pulled herself away from the boat, watching and listening for a reaction on board. It wasn’t long in coming. She heard the bird watcher swear as he came back up on deck, ran fore and aft several times, and finally called out to her. “Brodie? Brodie, honey, you have to come back. There’s no place for you to go.”

  A powerful flashlight came on, pointed in the opposite direction, toward the land. The beam moved across the water, rising and falling as the man tried to gauge how far away she had gotten. He was on the port side. Soon he would move starboard. Where could she hide?

  “Brodie. That island? There’s no one there. It’s a little hunk of nothing.” She guessed he was telling the truth. The island was merely a lump in the lake. It had provided protection from the storm, but it was unpopulated, overgrown and, if others she’d seen were any indication, swampy. “You might as well come back to the boat. Where can you go?”

  The light moved toward her. She ducked underwater, but fear shortened her breath and she was only able to stay under for a few seconds. When she came up, she could not silence her gasp for air. The light turned toward her. Pinned in its beam, she found a new sense of determination. She would not climb meekly back into this guy’s boat and sail off to Canada!

  Grabbing a huge breath of air, she dived and swam straight forward, under the boat. Using reeds and other vegetation as a guide, she swam toward the island. When she emerged on the other side of the boat, she could hear him moving around above her, trying to see where she had gone. As quietly as possible, she waded toward the shore, hoping to disappear into the trees before he saw her again. Once there, she would hide in the trees until he gave up looking for her. Maybe she could swim to one of the other islands, one with more places to hide.

  Cher’s muffled voice echoed off the water, her tone questioning. “She took off,” the man called back. Brodie could not hear Cher’s response, but the tone was definitely accusing. “I thought she was asleep.” His voice carried easily across the water. “I will. It won’t take long.”

  “Brodie,” he called again. “Listen, honey, I’m doing this for you.” There was a pause, and when she did not answer, he added, “Brodie, I’m your dad.”

  That stopped her, being about as unexpected as anything he might have said. The guy was nuts, maybe worse than she was herself. If he was her father, why hadn’t he knocked on the front door of Gramps’ house and said so? If he was not her father, then why did he think he was, and what did he have planned for her?

  The shore loomed before her, a black spot in the graying darkness. She dragged herself through the mucky shallows, feeling the rotting vegetation sliding beneath her shoes. At the waterline there was a lip she had to climb, and she reached for nearby plants to pull herself up. One foot found solid purchase, and she reached farther in to get a better handhold. Either the plants she grasped were not firmly embedded or her grip was too far from the roots. They came out of the earth as she transferred her full weight to them. Brodie fell back into the lake with a splash.

  That was not the end of it. Scrabbling desperately, she made it over the lip on the second try, but the noise alerted her captors. Cher came on deck with a second flashlight, which she focused on Brodie. “Keep it on her!” the man called, jumping into the water and wading ashore.

  Throwing herself into the underbrush in a frantic attempt to hide, Brodie ignored the scratches inflicted by sharp branches as she burrowed as far down as possible. She crouched in the darkness, trying to make herself smaller, struggling to quiet her breathing, and hoping her pursuer would pass by. She dared not look up, dared not move. It was hardly any time at all before his voice came from above her.

  “Come out of there before I drag you out.”

  Would he kill her now? Something told her he would not. Whatever he planned required that she remain alive. It did not lessen her fears one iota, because he could hurt her in a hundred ways without killing her. Resigned, she stood, facing him as defiantly as she could manage. “Let’s go.” He sounded more frustrated than angry.

  They boarded the boat again, and Brodie descended, dripping, to the cabin with her tormenters right behind her. “Okay,” the man said, securing the padlock. “I thought our talk could wait till later, but I guess not.” He seated himself on the bunk Cher had occupied, indicating that Brodie should sit on her own bunk. She did, feeling her wet shorts spread their moisture onto the sleeping bag. Cher leaned against the countertop, arms folded in disapproval.

  “You want to know what’s going on,” he began.

  Brodie had already figured out that he did not need the encouragement of a verbal response. She met his gaze expectantly, and he went on. “I am your dad. You probably don’t believe that, but I can prove it.” He shifted his feet, kicking her without realizing it. Brodie pulled her feet back till they were up against the wooden bin under the bench.

  “Your mother was Jeannie Brooks. She was a real—” He glanced at Cher. “She was pretty. I knew you were her kid as soon as I saw you. You look just like her, wild hair and all.” He seemed to drift into the past. “We had some good times, Jeannie and me.”

  Cher shifted impatiently, and he pulled himself back to the present, leaning toward Brodie. “You gotta believe this. I did not know you existed. Mom said Gramps had taken in another kid, but I guess he never told her why. I’ll say one thing for the old man. He knew how to keep his mouth shut. I don’t think he even told Ma that I stole this boat. Didn’t tell the police, either.”

  Brodie was beginning to comprehend, although the explanation was, so far, anything but clear. Her possible father chuckled, rubbing his bare chest absently. “My mother tells me all the time, ‘Leland, you’re every bit as close to him in blood as Bud is. You should get consideration when it comes time to divide things up.’ But Uncle Will didn’t see it that way.”

  Brodie sat stunned, looking at the bird watcher/ kidnapper/sailor. This man was the guy Bud jokingly called Saint Leland, Arlis’ wayward son. And he claimed to be her father.

  Leland leaned back, resting his arm along the bench and crossing one hairy leg over the other. “Now that you’re here, I guess I’ll get consideration, after all.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  SEAMUS STARTED as soon as Bud awoke, repeating, “Boat. Boat.” He whispered, since hosts were likely to regard a whisper as their own thoughts, whereas a fully voiced message seemed alien and frightening. He wished Mildred had taken that piece of information more to heart. She was probably scaring the kid to death with her “encouragement.”

  Bud showered and changed into fresh clothes, having slept in the ones from yesterday. He’d rested uneasily, partly due to the conversation Mildred and Seamus held inside his head. He felt awful, tortured by thoughts of what might be happening to Brodie. Is she dead? Has she been harmed? Molested? Abandoned somewhere in a dark basement or even a shallow grave? The horrors heard over a lifetime passed through his mind, children who suffered terrible deaths. I’m sorry, Gramps, Seamus heard in Bud’s thoughts. Not only was I not there when you needed me, but while I wasn’t paying attention, Brodie got grabbed by some lunatic.

  He examined the cut on his head in the mirror. It didn’t look bad, but he had a fierce headache, which Seamus shared with him. Before leaving his ro
om, Bud took a couple of the pills the doctor had given him, swallowing them with effort and hoping there would be coffee downstairs to speed them on their way.

  Seamus felt a little guilty, knowing his presence made it harder for his host to recuperate from his injury. However, he was also able to be a little optimistic, knowing the girl was alive. He had to get Bud to remember what he’d seen from the ridge yesterday. “Boat.”

  Bud shook his head in response to the word that seemed to buzz inside it like a fly. “Boat?” he finally said aloud to the mirror. “What boat?” With a shrug, he started downstairs.

  Scarlet stood inside the dining room doorway, her eyes even darker than they had been the night before. She stared without interest at a breakfast table laden with food. Shelley apparently counted on the police continuing their search today and intended that no one should go away hungry. What was there could have fed the 101st Airborne Division.

  None of it interested Bud. He poured two cups of coffee and handed one to Scarlet, who sipped it absently before starting as if they’d never left off yesterday’s conversation. “Brodie would not go off to Chicago with a man she doesn’t know.”

  After considering the situation for most of the night, Bud was inclined to agree. Brodie was standoffish with everyone, including him. More and more, he doubted she would leave home with a stranger, no matter what story the guy told her.

  “Boat,” his mind prompted, and he shook his head slightly, hoping the pills would kick in soon.

  “Maybe the man had something that convinced her he really was her dad.” Scarlet was at the window again, as if hoping Brodie might walk up the drive.

  “Yeah.” He stopped. Kid or not, Brodie was not stupid. “No. I think she would have brought whatever proof he offered to you.”

  “If we knew who her father was, it might help.” Scarlet turned away from the window to look at him. “Do you think Mr. Dunbar left that information somewhere?”

  “We can look through his things and see. I haven’t—” Bud cleared his throat. “I haven’t done much in there yet.

  “It might be important.” Her hands fluttered as she added, “It will give us something to do while we wait for word from the police.”

  Bud led the way to the office, where the copy of his grandfather’s will he’d been given lay folded on the desktop. Together they perused the document, Bud tracing the sections with a finger and Scarlet following along.

  “Small bequests to Shelley and Briggs, nothing to kill for, even if you could imagine them harming Gramps. You get the car you’ve been driving, and Arnold gets his. Brodie’s money is in trust until she’s eighteen, with me as trustee. Some bequests to charity. The rest comes to me.” He shook his head. “That’s why Reiner suspects that I—” He stopped, unable to finish the sentence. “Money seems like a motive, but I would never hurt Gramps.”

  “I know that, Bud.” Scarlet put a hand on his arm. “Even when I tried to convince myself that you liked breaking the hearts of innocent Irish girls, I knew you loved your grandfather.”

  There was a pause, an insignificant moment in time’s eons. To Seamus, however, it felt as if centuries passed. There are crimes to solve, you two!

  Bud finally got back to the subject at hand. “Someone, possibly Brodie’s father but not necessarily, hears that Gramps died and she inherits a lot of money. This person contacts Brodie and arranges to meet her, where he either convinces her to go with him or abducts her.”

  “If that’s the case, he must either be her father or have convincing evidence that he is. Even if he got Brodie to accept him, he’d have to get legal custody to access her money.”

  “Right. I’m not sure what the courts would do about trusteeship if an immediate family member showed up to contest my right to it.”

  “So is it possible this person really is Brodie’s father?”

  Bud turned back to the will for a few seconds. “Here’s something.” He read aloud. “‘If Brodie Dunbar should, upon her majority, want to know the events that led to her adoption into this family, she may at that time be given a video recording kept in my safe. I do not recommend such a course but leave it to Brodie’s judgment. Whatever she decides, she must understand that I love her as much as if she were my own.’”

  Bud looked in the direction of a small safe in a corner behind the desk. Then, opening a desk drawer, he rummaged until he found a slip of paper with the combination to the safe, and after only two unsuccessful attempts, opened it. From its depths he took a stack of items: a coin collection book, envelopes marked with identifiers such as “Deed to House” and “Life Insurance,” and a vinyl sleeve marked “Brodie” that held a DVD.

  The office was almost devoid of machinery. A self-proclaimed technophobe, Gramps had been unable to fathom why others spent so much time “facing screens instead of people.”

  “The next task is to find a DVD player where we can have a little privacy.”

  Blushing a little, Scarlet said, “There’s one in my room.”

  “Great,” he replied, and headed up the stairs, assuming that she would follow.

  Scarlet’s room was actually a small suite: a sitting room with an open doorway that looked in on a mauve-and-cream bedroom. The whole place had a feel of neatness, although there were signs of the resident’s recent preoccupation: the slightly crooked bedspread and a pair of mud-caked pants hung over a chair to dry. Seamus noted the scent of apples, shampoo or body wash or whatever women used to make themselves smell like fruit.

  “Maybe you should watch it alone,” Scarlet offered.

  Bud looked surprised. “I need all the help I can get if we’re going to find Brodie ali—so we can get her back safely.”

  Nodding agreement, Scarlet put the DVD into the player and started it.

  Seamus felt the momentary shock that went through Bud at the sight of his grandfather sitting at his desk, apparently alive and well, on the mid-sized TV screen. The William Dunbar they saw was ten years younger, a vital, older man. Tears stung Bud’s eyes. Gramps before the strokes, before the dementia, before he was a pitiful old man.

  “Brodie, my dear,” Dunbar began, “I am making this video for you with the help of a clever young man from the local cable company. It is in three segments. The first part, this one, is basic information that I feel you need to know. The second explains how you came to be adopted, should you want to hear it. Since you undoubtedly remember some of your early years, it might help you cope with the dreams” —his expression hardened briefly— “the nightmares you still have on occasion. When you are ready, it is here.”

  Dunbar looked slightly uncomfortable as he continued. “The third part was problematic for me. It is my final interview with your mother, Jeannie Brooks. I do not believe that you should watch it; in fact, I advise against it. Still, I will not pretend to understand what you might want or need to know in the future. Instead of two loving parents, you had only an old man who very possibly did things all wrong. However, I have always encouraged informed decisions, and therefore I will not withhold information you might require to make decisions later in life. I don’t know if it will help or hurt to see your mother and understand why I took you from her. I leave it to you.”

  There followed a brief recitation of biological facts: Brodie’s birth weight, blood type, the hospital and county where her birth was registered, and genetic factors she might need to know. Dunbar read from a sheet before him, commenting in the way of older people who feel compelled to give warnings that will go unheeded by their listeners. He noted that Jeannie’s feet caused her trouble. “You should always wear good, supportive shoes,” he directed, looking up at the camera to emphasize his point.

  “I’ve tried for months to get Brodie to wear something besides flip-flops,” Scarlet murmured.

  “Good luck with that,” Bud replied sarcastically. They both seemed to recall at the same time that they might never see Brodie again, for they quickly returned their attention to the screen.

 
The first segment ended with Gramps telling Brodie, “You have a generally healthy family in terms of bodily constitution. You were slightly malnourished when you came to me, but you recovered quickly and show no signs of permanent disability or physical harm.”

  Bud glanced at Scarlet when the screen went blank for a few seconds. “Part one was designed to give her information many adopted people don’t have. ‘Will I get Parkinson’s? Should I watch for aneurisms?’ That sort of thing.”

  “The next part might be what we need,” Scarlet said. They watched the blank screen for a few seconds, anxious to hear the story of how Brodie had come to the Dunbar home.

  There was a muted beep as screen lit again, and Dunbar reappeared. “Here is what happened in 2001.” He folded his hands on the desk and spoke directly to the camera. “I received a phone call from a woman who said a relative of mine was living in poverty in Muskegon. She was the child’s mother, and she claimed she needed $3000 to pay her bills and get back on her feet.

  “Not being born yesterday, I did some checking through a private investigator. There was indeed a woman named Jeannie Brooks living in North Muskegon in what the investigator called a rat-hole. She had a three-year-old daughter. The woman told my investigator that the child’s father was Leland Voorhies, my nephew. Leland had left the country a few months before your birth, and Jeannie did not think he knew he had a child. She had no way to reach him, so she contacted me, hoping I would be willing to help.

  “Armed with that information, I went to see Ms. Brooks. What I found was beyond my imagination. You, Brodie, were pitiful, afraid of everything and everyone. Feeling that you could not thrive in that atmosphere, I took you home with me that same day. Once you were safe, I tried to get your mother to change her lifestyle, offering whatever help she needed to do so. When it was obvious that she would not, I began negotiations to adopt you.”