by Kay Hooper
Kelly rose from her chair, the clipping still in her hand, and went to gaze out the window. The desert scenery was still unfamiliar, but already she was feeling the urge to move on. She had stayed here too long, months now. Her awareness of her surroundings was growing more intense, the urge to look over her shoulder stronger with every passing day.
It certainly was time to move on.
The phone rang, and Kelly crossed the living room of her tiny apartment and sat down on the couch to answer it. “Hello?”
“Miss Russell?”
“Yes?”
“Miss Russell, my name is Cyrus Fortune.” His voice was soft and deep, and even over the phone the force of a strong yet curiously gentle personality was evident. “Your employers at ITC gave me this number; I hope you don’t mind my calling you at home?”
“I don’t mind. What can I do for you, Mr. Fortune?”
“Well, I’d like to offer you a job, Miss Russell. I understand that you enjoy traveling to different parts of the country to accept temporary assignments.”
“Something like that,” she murmured.
“I’m setting up a new company near Portland, Oregon, and I need a computer system designed. Are you interested?”
Oregon.
“Yes,” she answered without giving herself time to think how odd the coincidence was. “My work at ITC is finished; I’m ready for…for a new challenge.”
“Excellent. May I come to your office tomorrow morning and talk to you about it?”
“Of course. Would ten o’clock suit you?”
“Fine. I’ll see you then, Miss Russell.”
“Good-bye, Mr. Fortune.”
She cradled the phone slowly and sat gazing at the clipping she held. Oregon. What a strange twist…Still, she would be moving even farther away from Mitch, not toward him, because he was, no doubt, in Baltimore. But it was better that way, she told herself. Because ten years was a very long time, too long to rekindle a flame snuffed out in pain and grief. She wasn’t the girl John Mitchell had loved. And he hardly could be the man she had adored from childhood, not after what had happened to him.
Still, it hurt her to think of him waking all alone and facing so many shocks. The loss of years from his life. The loss of his eye. Keith’s death in the accident. And the death of his father. Mitch and his father hadn’t been on speaking terms for years before the accident, but the death of a parent is always a blow. The irony was that although Mitch had lost a great deal while he slept, he had gained the one thing he’d never wanted: the wealth of his family.
Kelly knew about that only because Hugh Mitchell had specifically requested that she be present at the reading of his will. Though he had never spoken to her in life, he had, after death, in a strange way acknowledged her place in his son’s heart. Or, at least, so she had supposed. Because without explanation, and through careful arrangements making certain it hadn’t cost her a penny in inheritance taxes, Hugh Mitchell had left her a house and property.
In Oregon.
She had speculated with a little bitterness whether he had specifically chosen that property to be her inheritance because it was across the country. Even though his son had been three years into the coma then, and not likely to recover according to the doctors, she had to wonder if Hugh Mitchell had still considered her a threat.
Kelly’s first impulse had been to ignore the bequest, but she knew Mitch had spent time there as a boy and she’d been unable to cut that fragile tie to him. But neither had she been able to contemplate living there herself. Finally, she’d arranged with a realty company to rent the place and use the income for taxes and upkeep, and her family’s lawyer kept an eye on the accounts. She had never gone to see the property, and though her lawyer had several times told her it was a valuable inheritance, she had refused to listen to appraisals or any other details.
Now it looked as though she would have the chance to see the place for the first time. She felt a little uneasy about that. She had avoided any place with ties for several years now, and it occurred to her that she might well be tempting fate by breaking her own rule. But what would be the harm? She’d stayed so firmly away from the Northwest that no one could possibly guess she would go there now, after all these years.
Still, it was something to think about. Kelly was on the point of rising when another thought occurred to her, this one definitely disturbing.
The clipping. Who had sent it to her? How could anyone in Tucson know of the connection between her and John Mitchell? And if the article had been sent from outside Tucson, then who had known just where to find her?
She stared at the bit of newsprint, conscious that her heart was thudding with the uneven rhythm she hated. The ache inside her was fear, and regret, and bitterness.
“Mitch…” she whispered to the silent room. “I should have waited for you.”
—
“Well, Mr. Boyd?”
In his long career as a private investigator Evan Boyd had heard that terse question often. Clients tended to ask it when an investigation bogged down, and their voices grew more strained and harsh with every repetition.
But not this client. His voice had never altered, even though it had been nearly a year since he had first asked the question. A lot of control in this one, Boyd had decided. And, even more, the kind of relentless determination that few men could boast. It had served John Mitchell well.
“I have a lead,” Boyd replied, but allowed his own misgivings to filter through his voice.
Mitch looked at him, and even though the investigator was no longer unnerved by that burning dark eye, he could feel the increasing force behind it. “A lead you don’t trust?”
Boyd nodded, the perceptive response not surprising him since he had come to know this client. “It didn’t come through the regular channels. Since she has a degree in computer science, I was checking into all the high-tech firms. If you remember, I warned you it could take a long time.”
“I remember.”
“Well, it should have taken a long time. But this morning I received a newsletter. The kind of thing some companies send out to their clients or employees once or twice a year. I can’t explain how I got it, and the company—ITC, in Tucson—hasn’t a clue either. They don’t know me from Adam. And I wouldn’t have known them; they weren’t even on my list. ITC isn’t strictly a high-tech firm. They’re a small company, and they make toys, the garden-variety kind. Stuffed animals and dolls.”
Mitch waited silently, his broad-shouldered, athletic body still and apparently relaxed behind the big desk. Boyd thought fleetingly of the man he had first met, a much thinner man who had been immersed in physical therapy in that private hospital; his driven determination to regain his strength and leave that place had, Boyd knew, worn out three therapists and astonished a number of doctors.
Curiously enough, the coma had left few signs of age on John Mitchell; he actually looked younger now than he had when Boyd had first met him. The wings of silver at his temples had appeared only during the past year, and the black eye patch lent his lean, hard face a look of danger that was intensified by his invariable stillness.
“In the newsletter,” the investigator went on, “was a small article about the company’s new computer design program. They had hired a programmer on a temporary basis to set up the system. The programmer was Kelly Russell.”
“Did you check it out?” For the first time there was a hint of strain in the deep, even voice.
“By phone, yeah. She was working there until three days ago. ITC says she’s accepted another project, but they weren’t willing to part with any of the details. I need to go out there and pick up the trail.”
“You don’t trust the information?”
“I don’t like the way I got that newsletter out of the blue. Maybe it was just a fluke, but I don’t trust flukes. Like I told you, I think she’s running from something or someone, and I can’t find out what. She seems to use her own name once she’s settled in a plac
e, but uses a false name to travel; that’s what made it so hard to find her. And that’s why it’s so important that I go to Tucson and find out everything I can before the trail gets cold.”
Mitch rose from the desk and stepped over to the window, gazing out at the city of Baltimore. Without turning, he said in a low voice, “You’ve gotten this close once before. Months ago, in Chicago. And lost her.”
Boyd knew what he was being asked. And it wasn’t only his professional pride at stake here, but a purely personal interest he had developed in this man and his search. In an equally quiet voice, he said, “I don’t mean to lose her this time, Mr. Mitchell. I have contacts in Tucson; I’ll pick up her trail.”
There was a short silence, and then Mitch said, “Go. Report back the moment you find out anything. Call me any hour, day or night.”
Boyd rose from his chair, then hesitated and drew the newsletter from the inside pocket of his coat. “I’ll leave this with you,” he said, leaning over to place it on the neat blotter. “There’s a photo.” Then he turned and left the silent office, knowing that John Mitchell would prefer to be alone.
The streets of Baltimore were busy. Mitch stood gazing out for a few moments, then turned and slowly went back to his desk. His desk. That still felt strange to him. He had made no changes in his father’s office, and the executive board had made no change even though this room had gone unoccupied for years.
The old bastard had had the final word after all.
Hugh Mitchell’s will had been a curious document. Dated just a few months before his death, it had clearly been written in the unshakable belief that his only son would survive to control the family holdings—no matter how long it took. The company had been set up meticulously, temporary control granted to the executive board and a group of trustees composed of accountants, lawyers, and financial advisers who had been required to work within a set of clear and unbreakable rules.
The result of all the care and forethought had been that Mitch had been able to step into his inheritance so smoothly it had caused hardly a ripple.
The bequest to Kelly had been a surprise, and since his father had left behind no remarks on the subject, Mitch couldn’t guess what the intent had been, though he doubted it had been a positive one. At any rate, that promising lead had fizzled out quickly when it dead-ended with Kelly’s lawyer; the man claimed he’d had no direct contact with her in years, and had no idea where she was. The realty company in charge of the property in Oregon had been just as useless.
Mitch sat down behind the desk, his gaze fixed on the folded newsletter lying on the blotter. His initial problems with depth perception due to the lost eye were virtually past now, and months of hard work had repaired the other results of his coma. He’d had literally to relearn many things, but there had been no brain damage to slow his progress, and at least he had the satisfaction of knowing that he was actually in better shape physically now than he had been ten years earlier.
Emotionally was something else.
He had discovered that the small shocks were, curiously enough, the ones that stayed with him. During the months of physical therapy at the hospital, Mitch had pored over magazines and newspapers in an effort to catch up with the world. The number of events he’d slept through was mind-boggling; some were minor, some major, and all of them made the world different.
Cars looked subtly different. Computers were everywhere, it seemed, as were satellite dishes and video stores. There were space shuttles now, making routine flights. Mount St. Helens had erupted. John Lennon was dead. There was a woman on the Supreme Court, and one had finally made it into space; England had a new princess and two new princes; a president had been elected, had survived an assassination attempt, and had served two terms. Baby boomers had come of age, and were making their presence felt in a number of ways. There had been a devastatingly long famine in Ethiopia, an earthquake in Mexico City, a tragic shuttle explosion, and terrorist insanity. The Statue of Liberty had gotten a face-lift, AIDS had become a terrifying epidemic, a Soviet leader named Gorbachev was charming the West, and they’d found the Titanic.
Mitch had had more than a year to begin absorbing the changes, but he still felt disoriented sometimes, out of step. It was one of the reasons he’d followed his father’s wishes and taken his place in the company. At least he felt a sense of roots here, a sense of belonging, though he hadn’t wanted any part of the company or his family’s wealth.
What he wanted, more than anything, was to find Kelly. He didn’t know what would happen then. He had loved her since she was fourteen years old, had planned his entire future around her, and now— And now. While he had slept she had lived through the days, and weeks, and years. He’d been told that she had lost her brother, her parents, and had given up on him.
He watched his hands reach out and slowly unfold the newsletter, then turn the pages until he saw her picture. An unposed shot, he thought, Kelly looking up from a computer keyboard as if she’d been startled. Her hair was shorter than he remembered, her face finer-featured, with adolescence well behind her. And there was something haunted in her eyes.
Why didn’t you wait for me? He knew it was unreasonable, but the question echoed painfully in his mind, even though some part of him understood what her reasons must have been. She had been so young, and forced to bear so many shocks and griefs piled one on top of the other. It was natural, he told himself, that she turn to someone else eventually. She had been briefly married; Boyd had found that out quickly. Married five years after his accident, and divorced less than two years later.
Mitch didn’t know—or want to know—about her ex-husband. The marriage had been registered in Texas, but if they had lived together there, Boyd hadn’t been able to discover where. Since divorcing her husband, Kelly had been constantly on the move, living nowhere more than a few months at a time.
Was Boyd right? Was she running from something or someone? Or had Kelly simply lost so much that she was rootless, drifting through life? He didn’t know, couldn’t know, because he remembered only an eighteen-year-old girl; he was very much afraid the woman of twenty-eight would be a stranger to him.
The only thing Mitch was certain of was that he had to find her, had to see her and talk to her. She was all that was left of the future he had planned, the only link with the years that had been stolen from him. His mind told him she’d be different, changed by the life she had lived without him, but he had no emotional sense of those years passing, and his heart couldn’t accept that she wouldn’t still be the Kelly he had loved.
He had to find out. He didn’t think he could bear it if he lost her too.
Two days later Boyd called, the satisfaction in his voice still mixed with a thread of doubt. “I finally got somewhere,” he reported. “Her next-door neighbors in the apartment building are an old couple, very talkative. According to them, she’s moved somewhere near Portland, Oregon.”
“Find her,” Mitch ordered, holding his voice steady with an effort. “Don’t approach her at all, just find out where she is. Then call me.”
“You’ve got it.”
—
The house was more than a surprise. She didn’t know quite what she had expected, but certainly not this huge, beautiful old house perched near the edge of a high cliff overlooking the Pacific. It was more than seventy years old, the realtor had told her, puzzled by her lack of knowledge, and they’d had no trouble renting it for weeks or months at a time during the past seven years.
Kelly could see why. The house was built of weathered stone, the style vaguely reminiscent of an English manor, with well-kept grounds and a spectacular view of the ocean. It had been built during an era when wealthy families had lived in luxury—and the Mitchells had been very wealthy. This “vacation retreat” was not a mansion by the standards of its day, but it was a large house on very valuable property and worth a fortune.
Before Kelly had inherited it, the house had been closed up and virtually abandoned for more tha
n a decade. A year before his death, however, Hugh Mitchell had thrown an army of workmen into renovating and restoring it—apparently with the intention of leaving the property to Kelly.
The realtor, who had, as it turned out, been a very responsible and thoughtful caretaker, had presented her with an inventory of the contents of the house as well as a yearly appraisal from the insurance company. He had also hired a landscaping service to take care of the gardening, a cleaning service to take care of housekeeping, installed a very good security system, and had been selective about whom he rented the place to.
Kelly certainly had nothing to complain about there. She’d told her lawyer that she wanted no income from the property, and that if there had been a profit from the rentals, it should be put back into the property. According to the realtor’s itemized accounting, her wishes had been followed scrupulously.
But she didn’t understand why Hugh Mitchell had left her the property at all. And the way he had, restoring the house and grounds, repairing or replacing all the furnishings, leaving the place ready to be occupied. It was as if he had fully expected her to live there, and that just didn’t make sense. She had spent her few days wandering around the house and grounds, increasingly bothered by the situation.
Even the master bedroom had been decorated with a woman in mind.
Kelly was in the conservatory at the back of the house, gazing at white wicker furniture and lush green plants, when the doorbell sounded distantly. Since she was expecting the delivery, via her new boss, of a computer system, she wasn’t surprised by the alien sound. She made her way back through the house, struck again by the quiet elegance of gleaming wood floors and antiques and beautiful old rugs.
She opened the heavy paneled oak door, expecting to see a delivery man with clipboard in hand and an inquiring look. And even though the newspaper article had at least prepared her for the possibility, she could feel the color drain from her face.