Her stomach was turning. Was Rockford involved with Slergetti? And if Slergetti had been involved with Charley Morse and the real estate deals, with the missing Burdetts, with Peter’s death . . .
She hadn’t realized that the tears were running down her face until they ran off her chin, making drops on the shiny desktop. Was she such a bad judge of character? Could she have been so wrong about Rockford? She thought of his hands caressing her, encouraging her, delighting her, only hours before. She thought of those same hands automatically pushing the buttons on the phone, connecting him to a mobster . . . an arsonist. . . a killer.
It seemed impossible. But she had seen it herself. She had redialed the number. She had heard Slergetti’s voice. She dried her tears, pushing away the feelings of loneliness and devastation that cut through her. It was going to be up to her to find out the truth. . . and to save the Burdetts if it wasn’t already too late. She would trust no one in the process.
She left the office with a heavy heart, pulling the door shut tightly behind her. The lock clicked. She walked quickly to her car, mindful of the darkness of the empty street. She felt as if eyes were boring into her back, but even after glancing around, she saw no one. She pulled the Miata from the curb and headed home, her mind racing about the events of the day.
Chapter Nineteen
Rockford’s mind was on automatic pilot as he drove the car at close to reckless speed. He crossed the river from Pennsylvania into New Jersey, moving rapidly northward toward New York. He was going home. He was going to see his father, while the rage was burning in his mind, while his heart was cold as stone.
Rockford had always looked up to his father. Rockford Farquahar Harrison II, the great and busy undisputed legal leader in the very competitive Manhattan arena. As a boy, he had also often longed for him, yearned for his attention, his time.
The elder Harrison had seen that his offspring had had everything that anyone could dream that they should—the best home, the best clothes, the best schools, the best staff. He was a man in control of a lot of money, and he shared with and provided for his family with pride and distinction. Except for his time. He hoarded his time for things he considered to be relevant and important priorities. He considered political events important. His legal duties were vital. His social contacts were kept strong.
But he hadn’t found things like fishing, or sharing, or spending time with his young son or daughter to be worthy of a place on his To Do list. Yet, they had worshiped him from afar.
His mother was a dynamic, social woman. She ran the exclusive estate like a well-oiled machine. She sat on the board of many charities, raised funds for the needy, and made sure that her children’s lives were comfortable and successful.
But Rockford had the strong suspicion that she had learned early on in her well-heeled marriage that love and easy companionship wouldn’t be by-products of the union. He knew that his mother adored his father, and suspected that she would have been much happier with less materialism and more companionship. But she had adapted to the arrangement, and life had gone on.
Rockford had learned that the way to momentarily capture his father’s attention was to succeed—to succeed in prep school, to excel in sports, to receive honors at college. He had done what was expected of him. He had finished his legal training, had passed the bar with flying colors, and had joined the firm as his father’s son. Winning cases had been the next logical step in his quest to please his dad. He had also done that well. Until Peter. Until there was no Peter.
When he had lost his best friend, he had realized the void in his life. Peter had been his anchor, his confidant, his encourager, his conscience. His death had changed his life.
George had decided early on that she was not going to beg for emotional crumbs from the Harrison empire. She had left home, entered the convent, and pursued college in a habit. Always her own person, but never judging him for his choice to join his father’s rat race, for a while he had seen her only at holidays when the family got together.
When he had moved away with George to Ryerstown, he had also moved away from the feeling that he had to perform to please his father. But he had never stopped loving his father. He had never stopped looking up to him. He had never once doubted, despite Peter’s protests, his father’s insistence that he personally handle the Slergetti case, and, as usual, win.
His father had seemed distraught at Peter’s death, apologetic about the case after the fact. Except for his disappointment when Rockford had insisted on leaving the family firm, he had seemed comparatively caring and concerned.
Though he hadn’t orchestrated the move to Pennsylvania, Rockford’s father had accepted Georgina’s meddling with the hopes of seeing his son come through his depression and lethargy.
And he had come through. He wasn’t depressed and lethargic anymore. But he was enraged. He felt duped. He felt violated. Was his father involved with Marco Slergetti? Was the law firm intertwined with organized crime? Why had his revered father been calling Porter on his private line, a line also used by Marco Slergetti?
To feel that he had been set up to defend a vicious killer was bad enough. . . to have that fact backfire and cause Peter’s death was too much to bear. But he would get answers tonight. He would challenge the father he had always looked up to and he would find out what part he had played, even inadvertently, in his best friend’s death.
Because he wasn’t going to risk tragedy a second time. Not with Willow. He was going to play out the scene until the last line tonight. He was going to bring Marco Slergetti to justice, even if he had to bring his father down in the process. There was danger in the air. He could feel it. And he wasn’t going to let Willow Blake be burned by its flames, not while he had a breath left in his body.
By the time he had maneuvered the traffic and the belt-ways around the city, and had arrived at the familiar stone and wrought-iron gates that marked the entryway to the family estate, it was almost midnight. He punched in a code to open the electronic gate, took a deep breath, and drove the car down the long quiet drive.
It was a familiar ride, and yet it was new. He was a different person since the day he had left with Georgina. Maybe, he thought, finally he was a man.
He rounded the gracefully bended driveway, ready for the sight of the Harrison mansion to come into view. He expected to see its tasteful brass lampposts glowing, its windows lit with their welcoming golden haze.
The sight surprised him, though. Flashing, garish lights lit up the driveway in front of the main door. A large white vehicle was pulled up to the front door. In the steady flashes of light, Rockford read the side of the vehicle: AMBULANCE.
He leapt from his car, and tore across the front lawn, bounding up the entry steps, and almost colliding with the emergency technicians who were laboring to maneuver the stretcher bearing their patient. It was his father.
Chapter Twenty
Rockford could recognize him behind the oxygen mask. He could see that he was unconscious. There was an IV tube already inserted in his arm, a bag of clear fluid held high by an accompanying technician as they rushed through the door.
“Coming through . . . out of the way!” They passed him and slid the stretcher into the waiting ambulance without a second’s delay.
“Wait! That’s my father. What happened?” He grabbed the blue-overalled arm of a technician who was following the stretcher, carrying an extra oxygen tank. The man turned to him, compassion in his eyes, but clearly determined in his priorities.
“Sir, every second counts. Your father has had a major stroke. He’ll be at Valley Memorial. His doctor has been alerted. Go help your mother, and follow us there. Now.”
With a flash, the door of the ambulance slammed shut in front of his face, and the vehicle screeched into the night, lights flashing and sirens wailing.
It took a second for Rockford to orient himself. He was powerless. He had felt this way when Peter had died. It had amazed him then, and it amazed him now. Human b
eings liked to pretend that they had a semblance of control over their environment, power over their world.
But no one had power over death, not even his seemingly omnipotent father. Was he dying? Acid burned in his stomach, and his head was banging like a jackhammer.
He leaped up the steps of the mansion that he had once called home, and went to find his mother.
She was sitting on an antique mahogany chair that sat in an alcove in the upstairs. Right beside the chair was a matching table, with a bouquet of flowers bursting with color. Funny, he thought, as the strangest little things registered on his mind, he had never seen anyone sit in that chair before. It had rested in its place of honor for all the years he could remember, decorating the upstairs hall.
His mother sat looking straight ahead, not moving at all. Her short, graying hair was perfectly coiffed, as usual. Her matronly dress was impeccable and classic. She could have been posing for a portrait as she sat in the quaint alcove, hands folded on her lap. But her eyes told the story. When he looked into her eyes, his throat constricted. Tears were flowing freely, literally pouring down her cheeks, as she stared straight ahead. He had never seen his mother cry, he realized. The sight almost broke his heart.
“Mother . . . Mom?” He dropped to his knees in front of her and pulled her forward so she rested her head on his shoulder. He could feel her welcome the embrace. She had always been so strong, so sure, so confident. But she looked beaten. He knew the feeling.
“Oh, Rockford, I’m so glad you’re here.” He held her gently, a million memories crowding his mind.
“Oh, Mom, I’m so sorry. What happened?”
She sniffed. “They think it’s a stroke. He was on the phone. Something had upset him a lot, I think. He just fell over, dropping the phone. It was horrible.”
His mind was racing, still not forgetting his original reasons for returning home. “Who was he talking to, Mom? Do you know?”
She shook her head.
“I just picked up the phone and called 911 and the ambulance came. I didn’t know what to do. . . .”
“You did fine, Mom . . .just take it easy now.”
She had dialed the phone, so there was no chance of automatically redialing the person his father had been talking to. But he was going to find out. Did that phone call cause the stroke? Would there be long-distance records? Mentally, he started making plans.
“Come on now, Mother. We need to get to the hospital.”
He led her down the wide stairway, where Thomas, the longtime butler, stood wringing his hands in the entryway. For the first time since Rockford could remember, the stately and proper gentleman was lost for gracious words.
He put an arm around the black-suited shoulders. “I’ll call you, Thomas, when we know something. I know this is hard. Can you hold things together here? It’s important for Mother.”
The elderly man straightened his shoulders. “Of course, sir. . . for Mrs. Harrison. I shall be on my toes.” Being given the responsibility had restored his usual demeanor.
Rockford looked at him gratefully, and added, “I’m not sure what happened here, Thomas.” He glanced quickly back up the stairs toward his father’s private office and the telephone.
“I shall be the model of discretion, sir,” the man said quietly under his breath, as he offered a sweater for Rockford’s mother. “And I shall take specific note of phone calls.”
Rockford grabbed the sweater for his mother, and helped her down the porch steps and into his car at the curb, giving an appreciative nod to Thomas for his insight.
Then they sped to the hospital, not knowing what they would find.
There are times when the senses can dredge up pleasant memories that bring happiness and good feelings in a person. There are also, unfortunately, times when precisely the opposite is true.
When Rockford stepped into the hospital, he was literally assailed by horrible, paralyzing memories of Peter’s death. The lights were bright, giving the emergency area a white, garish glow. Loudspeaker voices droned in the background, paging doctors, making announcements. That particular hospital smell filled his nostrils, making him nauseated.
Valley Memorial was, by anyone’s standards, an upscale, desirable hospital. It was spotless, well staffed, and architecturally pleasing. It didn’t matter. To Rockford, it signified death, and loss and disaster. But he took a deep breath, pushing the barrage of memories away, and led his mother to the desk.
They were directed to a small waiting room, where they sat together, with Rockford holding his mother’s hand. It was a while before a green-suited doctor appeared.
“He’s alive, but unconscious. Apparently it was a stroke. It will take some time before we know the extent of the damage suffered. We are getting him stabilized and moving him to a private room. Then you may see him. I wish I had more definitive news for you both, but it just takes time.”
Rockford nodded, and the doctor departed.
“He’s alive,” his mother whispered. “At least he’s alive. There’s still hope.”
Rockford nodded again, horrified at the feelings and memories washing over him form Peter’s death. “Sorry, Mr. Rockford, but your friend is dead.’’ He had known it, of course, had known it the second it had occurred in the restaurant, but having it stated was a reality that had hit him long and hard. And his father? Alive and fighting.
Please, he prayed silently. Let him live . . . and don’t let him be involved in any way with Marco Slergetti and Peter’s death.
Then he sat quietly next to his mother on the waiting-room couch. Trying to ignore the hospital sounds and smells, he tried thinking of the most invigorating and exciting and positive person he knew . . . Willow Blake.
“Can’t put it off any longer. One of us must make the call.”
Rockford heard his mother’s words, and knew precisely what call she was discussing.
“I’ll do it, Mother.” She smiled gratefully, as he moved to the phone.
George answered the phone on the first ring. “All right, wise guy, what is going on? Why are you calling in the middle of the night?’’
He took a deep breath and told her what had happened. He left out the fact that his father had been on the phone when he had the stroke.
“Oh, no,” George exclaimed. “I’ll be right there. Gee, I don’t believe it. He’s usually such a bull.” Her voice caught. “Hug Mother. Tell her I’ll be right there. And Rockford . . . is Willow with you?’’
“Willow? No, I. . . uh, left her at her cottage earlier this evening. Why?”
“It’s strange. She had left a message here, sounding upset and frantic. I tried to call her back, but I can’t find her. She’s not at her place, and the car is gone. I was hoping maybe she was with you. . . . I’ll be there soon.” She hung up.
Rockford felt his heart sink like a stone. Where was Willow?
The doctor reappeared suddenly, motioning them to follow. “He’s stirring. We’re hoping maybe he’ll regain consciousness soon.” They followed him down the long bright hallway, momentarily quiet, the only sound the tapping of their feet on the shiny linoleum floor.
They entered the ward, and were ushered into the private room. Rockford Harrison II was dwarfed in the bed, IVs implanted in his arm, oxygen mask in place, in a gray cotton hospital gown. Overhead, monitors blinked and beeped.
His father looked anonymous, vulnerable, helpless, surrounded by the white hospital bedding. Rockford swallowed hard as he looked at him.
Emotion welled up in him as he stood with his arm around his mother, watching his father’s life signs recorded on the monitors. This was the strong man who had raised and guided him. They had not seen eye-to-eye on many issues. But never, he thought intensely, looking at the figure laying in the bed, could he have actually been involved with someone like Marco Slergetti.
There was a rustling sound as Rockford Harrison II moved his head back and forth suddenly on the pillow.
“I think he’s coming to,” gasped
his mother, holding tight to Rockford’s arm. “Oh, please, let him be coming to. . . .”
A monitor beeped loudly, and the doctor reappeared in the room. “So he’s moving a bit? That’s good. Let’s see what we have here. He bent over the bedside. Mr. Rockford . . . Mr. Rockford. This is Dr. Donovan.”
“Ohhh. . .” A soft moan escaped the sick man’s lips. His eyes opened for a moment, and met those of his son, standing directly beside the bed. Recognition lit in them. “Ahh. . . getti. . . getti.”
The eyes closed, and the patient stilled again.
“Well, that’s a start,” said the red-haired doctor with a sign. “Like I said, these things take time.”
“I guess we should go and get some rest, and then meet George,” his mother was thinking aloud.
“Good idea, Mother.” He led her back to the lounge and the comfortable couch. She curled up in the protection of his arm, cried a few tears, and then fell asleep.
Rockford sat still, staring at the clock as the seconds ticked by, feeling like a trapped animal, but determined to keep his head.
Where was Willow? The sentence echoed like a mantra in his head. Where was Willow? He thought of her warmness, her spunk, her determination. What had she done when he had left her? Was she okay?
Because he was definitely not. He had heard the muffled word his father had been trying to say in his moment of lucidness. He had looked right into those intelligent eyes, and had known that he was being given an important message.
“Slergetti.” His father had been trying to say “Slergetti.”
Fear rushed through his veins. His father had, in some way, been involved with the mobster. The mobster was nearby. And Willow was missing. He prayed with every tick of the hospital clock.
Chapter Twenty-one
Willow had returned to her cottage, but hadn’t been able to sleep. Feelings in turmoil, she paced the small living room back and forth, trying to expunge the thoughts of Rockford Harrison from her mind. It didn’t work.
Whisper a Warning Page 13