by Jule McBride
Dylan hazarded a quick glance at Alice—and his heart ached, the way it did every time he looked at her. She was seated next to him, so close that he’d barely need to move his hand to hold hers. Perched on the edge of her chair, she looked heartbreakingly willing to help, even though she’d made clear their personal relationship was over.
Or at least on hold.
On hold. Dylan had to think that’s all it was. Her eyes caught his. She understood his dilemma, but had no idea what he should say to Santiago. He finally settled on the truth.
“I truly have no recollection of being in L.A.”
Santiago raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Santiago squinted. “But what about the ticket that was found with your belongings?”
“I...” Dylan glanced at Alice again. If only she knew how much strength and comfort he was drawing from her presence. “I’d never seen that bag.”
“Never?” Santiago clarified.
Dylan shook his head. “I had a bag. An army duffel. But the trucker I hitched into Rock Canyon with drove off with it.” Dylan shrugged. “I’d thrown it behind the front seat, and when we reached Rock Canyon, we planned to part ways. At the gas station in town, I hopped out to go to the john, meaning to come back for the duffel. But when I got there, the guy had already driven off. Apparently he thought I’d already taken my gear.”
Santiago’s eyes sparked with interest. “What did he look like? What kind of truck?”
Dylan thought back. “The truck had a red Peterbilt cab, and the guy said he was hauling canned goods. He was a big guy. Heavy with black hair and a beard. He looked kind of like Jerry Garcia.”
Santiago squinted. “From the Grateful Dead?”
“The Grateful Dead?” echoed Alice.
Dylan nodded. “The band,” he clarified.
“Oh,” Alice said. “Right.”
Under other circumstances, Dylan might have smiled. Alice wouldn’t recognize the name immediately because her taste ran to country music. Suddenly, he was remembering other little things about her. How she hated her hair in her eyes, which was why she clipped it back. How her favorite smells were saddle leather and lilacs.
“‘The man had Michigan plates,” Dylan continued, “and he said his wife’s name was Ursula.”
Santiago quit scribbling. “We’ll find him.” He narrowed his eyes. “But if what you’re saying is true, then how do you account for the fact that you were identified as carrying that bag into a motel in Rock Canyon?”
Dylan spoke honestly. “I can’t”
Santiago’s lips pursed. “If you don’t, I’ll probably be arresting you by tomorrow.”
“I didn’t kill my father.”
“No, it doesn’t look that way. There’s no evidence. But the lack of tax records... Well, I can’t make you tell me more, I guess.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“At least tell me what you were doing in Rock Canyon.”
Dylan managed a shrug. “Just taking a vacation.”
Santiago’s assessing eyes shifted curiously between Alice and Dylan. Santiago seemingly sensed everything—that Stuart was really Dylan Nolan, and that he and Alice had been married. It wouldn’t even take a detective, Dylan decided, to feel the world of tension that lay between him and Alice.
Santiago frowned. “Unfortunately the man who handles the estate’s security is out of town. While we’ve watched tapes from the cameras we’ve found, the estate is large and the security system elaborate. We’re hoping we’ll find more hidden cameras and tapes that might show us something.” He glanced between Dylan and Alice again. “Meantime, I guess you’ll want to head out to the estate. Like I said, Ben Rose is waiting. We’ve let him get some of your father’s private papers. And he wants to talk to you.”
Dylan said, “About?”
“The will, Mr. Devlyn.” Santiago’s eyes suddenly looked thoroughly unkind. “When it comes to that,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll be willing to talk.”
What the man really meant, Dylan knew, was that the millions he’d just inherited was a good motive for murder.
Chapter Eleven
Alice was watching him carefully. “Do you remember this place? You said when you were watching TV, you did.”
Dylan nodded. His voice was low. “Like I said, I thought it was from a dream.” Or a nightmare. “I wasn’t sure it was real.”
Alice sighed grimly. “It doesn’t get any more real than this.”
“That’s for sure.”
Cops were everywhere. Dylan and Alice had been directed down a long red-carpeted hallway toward Lang Devlyn’s office, but they’d paused in front of a window overlooking the lake. Outside, the landscaped grounds seemed innocuous enough—if not for the uniformed officers and plainclothes detectives, the yards of yellow cordoning tape. Inside, blood was still visible on the black-and-white marble floor of the foyer. Just seconds ago, a policeman had nodded toward the floor, then pressed a business card into Dylan’s hand.
“You’ll need a cleaning service,” he’d said. “This one specializes in crime scenes. Another twenty-four hours and you can call.”
Dylan guessed he’d have to. After all, this estate with its vast acreage, mansion and memories was now his. Innocuous, he thought now, his eyes roving over the scene. Hardly. The window, only inches from his eyes, was so squeaky-clean that the glass seemed nonexistent, and through it, he took in the dense thickets of trees and far-off stone wall, the interior side of which was planted with oleander. Closer, a light California breeze washed over the lake’s dark surface, rearranging sunlight on the water, causing shimmers and ripples. His eyes settled on the swing set facing the lake; propelled by the breeze, two swings dangled, swaying.
Suddenly, Dylan imagined the breeze against his cheeks. He was swinging again, staring down at the grass, then flying high into the air.
You get everything.
Do not
Do, too.
He remembered the words, probably heard years ago. Was the speaker the brother he’d never known he’d had? And if so, where was that brother now? Why had Dylan’s mother fled Lang Devlyn’s house—this house—and left her other child behind? What kind of mother would do that? She wouldn’t Dylan thought. No matter what, my mother would never do that.
“C’mon.” Alice’s voice gentled. “We’d better get back there. Ben Rose is waiting.”
Dylan nodded, but he still didn’t move. “I feel that if I just stand here long enough, I’ll remember...”
What?
He didn’t even know. All he knew was that he could feel Alice’s vital warmth a half foot away, and that warmth was keeping the prickly chill at his neck from crawling down his spine. He felt her move closer, and surprisingly, her hand, small and soft and smooth, slipped into his. Grateful, he curled his fingers around hers. After another second, hers tightened, making him wonder if she had any inkling how much he needed her right now. He wished she didn’t know his true identity because she’d be safer that way, but her quiet, female strength was keeping him anchored.
Gentle jolts of awareness coursed up his arm from the touch of her fingertips. His voice was gravelly. “Thanks, Al.” Al. It was the first time he’d called her that in a long time.
As if she’d suddenly remembered her anger at him, her softly spoken words carried a trace of stiffness he wished would vanish. She said, “For?”
“For just being here.”
As if realizing she’d come a fraction too close, she let her hand slip from his again, but he didn’t mind. She’d reached out. That alone told him she hadn’t really closed the door on their relationship. She cared for him; she’d never stopped. There was hope she’d forgive him for leaving. He knew she would if she truly understood the danger they were in.
“C’mon,” she said again.
Turning from the window, he glimpsed the foyer’s marble floor and his gaze trailed where blood smeared across the black-and-white
marble squares. There was something strangely unreal about the red swaths. The big washy strokes could have been painted by a life-size paintbrush. Lord—Dylan suddenly felt vaguely queasy—was that really blood?
My father’s blood.
With a quick shudder, he turned away. “Well,” he said, as he and Alice began walking down the hallway again, “I guess we’d better see what Ben Rose has to say.”
AT FIRST rr WASN’T MUCH, just a rambling list of Lang Devlyn’s considerable assets, to which Dylan and Alice listened uncomfortably from two overstuffed chairs while Ben Rose talked. The man was in his sixties, nattily dressed in a linen suit that was the same snowy white as his full head of bushy hair. While he explained things, he brushed back his hair with a harried hand and rested his considerable bulk against the corner of a dark-wood desk that had elaborately clawed feet.
Dylan tried to listen, but his mind strayed. Everything in the room tugged at him—from the heavy brocade curtains, to the chandelier, to the shelves of collector’s books about movies and music. Each item was jogging elusive memories that always remained just out of reach. Besides that, the place was too opulent for Dylan’s comfort.
His eyes met Alice’s. She, too, was accustomed to simpler, more rustic surroundings. While the main house at the Eastman ranch was large, it was homey, with a big, airy kitchen, ruffled curtains and the sweet scents of baking. Chairs tended to be well cushioned but more functional than the brocade seats Dylan and Alice now occupied, and the ranch’s front entry, while clean, was apt to be strewn with riding gear—saddles and bridles, dusty gloves and mud-caked boots.
A far cry from this place. Dylan glanced toward the foyer of the Devlyn estate again. With a glance, Alice said she shared his thoughts.
“Mr. Devlyn, will you be moving these accounts?”
“We’ll leave them as they are for the time being,” Dylan said. At least until I figure out what’s going on here.
“Well, if you decide you want any cash transferred...”
Dylan didn’t hear the rest. His gut had clenched again, balling up like a fist as his eyes settled on a letter opener. It was on the desk, just inches from Ben Rose’s blousy white pant leg. Staring at it, Dylan suddenly remembered running through this very room, his footsteps pounding.
“Stop or I’ll kill you.”
Was that his brother’s voice? Someone else’s? Dylan didn’t know, only that he’d whirled toward it, his heart jabbering frantically just as the letter opener came down in a silver flashing arc.
“I’m gonna tell,” Dylan had cried.
“Crybaby, crybaby,” came the mocking voice. “I’m gonna tell.”
Shutting his eyes, Dylan wondered how old he’d been, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember. Still, when he opened his eyes, he found himself remembering other things. Or maybe not really remembering...just knowing. He knew where the kitchen was in this house, for instance, and that cookies used to be kept in the bread box. He knew that the clothes closets were cedar-lined, and that at Christmastime, he would sing, reading the words to carols from a book while someone played the piano. His father maybe?
Read?
Lord, had he been able to read when he’d lived in this house? Lived, he thought. Yes, now he was sure he had lived here. Exactly how old had he been when his mother fled? What memories had he repressed? Blocked out? If he could read, he’d have to have been at least five or six when he left...
Stop or I’ll kill you.
He could still hear that voice. Had someone really been trying to kill him? Is that why he couldn’t remember more? A shot of adrenaline went through him, and he was still fighting the urge to get up and pace the room when something in Ben Rose’s voice brought him back to the present. The lawyer was now speaking in hushed tones, almost conspiratorially, and his piercing blue eyes were scrutinizing the study’s empty doorway, as if he were making sure no police officers were listening. “The police are asking me and your father’s accountant about these financial dealings,” he was saying. “They’ve noticed that large amounts of cash have been siphoned off. But because your father’s a public figure, and because he wanted matters concerning your brother kept private, we haven’t answered any questions yet. The large sums used for your brother will need to be explained to the police...somehow. But we need to know from you, uh, what exactly you want to say. How you want us to proceed.”
Realizing his eyes had settled on Alice’s, Dylan tore them away. “You know my brother?”
There was a long pause. “No. Of course not. Not really. In fact, I’ve only recently traced where he is. Arrangements for his care have always been handled by a third party, in the interest of keeping the whole affair quiet.” There was another uncomfortable pause. “As you can understand, Stuart, your father never wanted the public to know he existed. Which is why records have been kept untraceable.”
Dylan’s heart hammered. What was wrong with his brother? Why had he been hidden away? His concern was mirrored in Alice’s gaze.
“Please go on, Mr. Rose,” she prompted.
Ben’s eyes settled kindly on Dylan’s. “I know this must be difficult for you, and I very much doubt you’d want to see him. But he’s currently in a place called the Highland Home.” Reaching, Ben fished through a file. “The address is right here. The place isn’t far away. You’ll find it in the Hollywood Hills.” Handing the address to Dylan, Ben continued, “In case you want to check it out yourself. The facility’s exclusive and expensive. I mean, absolute top dollar. It’s really up to you whether or not to continue with the same level of care. You might want to find something less costly.”
Dylan was staring blankly down at the paper. “The Highland Home,” he murmured.
Alice cleared her throat awkwardly. “Mr. Rose,” she said, “would you mind telling us why he’s there?”
During another long pause, Dylan glanced up, into Ben Rose’s quizzical eyes. “Yes,” Dylan echoed. “Why?”
“Surely,” Ben returned slowly after a stunned moment, “while only myself and two other of your father’s associates were ever told of this, you—of all people—must know.”
Dylan’s chest felt tight. “Know what?”
Ben Rose looked vaguely stupefied. “That your brother was committed after trying to kill you.”
“You SAY you’re Stuart Devlyn?” The head psychiatrist and director of the Highland Home, Dr. Clark, froze in misstep. For a long moment, his fearful owlish brown eyes flitted around a ground-floor room that, because of its antiques, fireplace and tastefully framed line drawings, looked more like a sitting room in a private residence than an office. “But you...you can’t be.”
“He is.” Alice stepped forward and grasped the man’s dangling hand, shaking it.
The contact seemed to bring Dr. Clark back to his senses. He blinked, then he ran a flat palm down the front of a chocolate brown double-breasted suit jacket, as if making sure he was presentable. He was thin, wiry and bookish, with a high forehead and receding hairline that made him look smarter than average.
“Stuart Devlyn?” he repeated. “Really?”
Dylan fished a copy of the facsimile that identified his fingerprints from a jeans pocket. “I realize not many people know about my brother’s confinement, Dr. Clark,” he said. “But you can talk to me. I really am Stuart Devlyn.”
“Please,” Dr. Clark said shakily, “take a seat.”
The psychiatrist seated himself in an armchair, held the paper between trembling fingers and perused it, while Dylan sat down next to Alice on a silk-upholstered settee. Glancing over, he could tell she was as excited as he; her skin was flushed, and the pulse beat was visible in her pale neck. On the way over in the rental car, she’d talked nonstop, just the way she used to, which touched his heart. Not that she’d let him get any physically closer to her, though he’d tried.
Now Dylan just wished all her questions weren’t so grim. Unfortunately, Ben Rose had been unable to tell them more about Niles Devlyn
, although Ben did confirm that Nancy Devlyn had fled the Devlyn estate twenty-one years ago.
“She raised you under another name?” the lawyer had asked.
“Yes.” Dylan had conceded that much, since Ben clearly wasn’t going to talk to the police before Dylan had a chance to speak with Dr. Clark about his brother.
“Your father had P.I.’s looking for you for years,” Ben had also said, and the information nearly did Dylan in. Had his father really missed him? Wanted to know him? Dammit, why had his mother run away and deprived him of a father?
Oh, c’mon, he thought now. You remember, don’t you, Dylan?
Now, sitting in Dr. Clark’s office, he felt suddenly breathless. He could feel the panic coming back, the sense of suffocation, the fear as cold water seeped through his clothes. Twisting, he tried to get free of the hand that held him in the murky depths of the lake. Lungs burning, he kicked at the water. Muffled splashes sounded.
And then everything went black...
Dylan drew a deep breath. Coming back to the present, he felt his eyes follow Alice’s, which had skated toward a window. The Highland Home was definitely pricey. Wrought-iron gates linked stone walls that surrounded extensive, well-tended grounds. Fancy lawn furniture was artfully arranged around a well-stocked goldfish pond. Farther away were badminton nets, tennis courts and a pool.
The place could have been a resort for the rich and famous. But something gnawed at Dylan—maybe at anyone’ who visited—and after closer inspection, other things became apparent: close-circuit televisions, cameras in the trees, cleverly concealed mesh over the windows, that there were bars inside some of the vehicles. Faint, unsavory smells glided along the baseboards, too, as if something frightening lurked under the floor. Yes, closer inspection reminded visitors that this was a resort—but only for the dangerously insane. Alice’s gaze returned to Dylan’s and they exchanged a worried glance.
“Remarkable,” Dr. Clark murmured, still staring at the facsimile.
“Yes?” Dylan prompted.
Dr. Clark gazed into his eyes. “Well, your face, Mr. Devlyn, I just wasn’t expecting...”
