by Jeremy Pack
"On the ferry?" he asked skeptically. "You want to go on the ferry?"
Frank looked at Jason quizzically.
"Well, I'd rather not have to swim."
"It will cost you, my friend," the cabbie warned.
Jason shrugged. "Whatever," he said.
Chapter 18
GEORGE'S cottage was a postcard-perfect plantation-style home situated on the northwestern point of the island. The parcel was heavily forested, and barely visible through a break in the dense foliage, down near the water's edge, a boathouse hovered on stilts over the gently lapping waves.
The house had been George and his late wife Lucy's private retreat during their marriage. In order to ensure it remained a safe haven for them, George had registered ownership to a property holding company--- he was careful that way. Chris knew this because George often advised Michael he should be equally diligent.
Growing up, Chris had spent several summers at the house with his parents and George and Lucy. It still looked exactly as he remembered it.
It reminded him of simpler, happier times. Those were halcyon days when summers lasted forever and he hadn't a care in the world. The cottage represented safety, security, and warm memories.
When the car stopped and he deposited Brianna on the front lawn, he was instantly at peace, as if the events of the past several days had been nothing more than a horrible dream that had faded in the light of morning.
He closed his eyes and sighed deeply as the sun bathed him in its cheerful glow. The weather was spectacular, clear and calm---it had the makings of a perfect midsummer day.
"You must be exhausted," George said softly, patting him on the back. "Let's get you settled in."
He led the way up to the front porch and, once inside, upstairs to a sweetly appointed guest bedroom. The walls were painted a cheerful buttery yellow, with lace curtains on the windows and white linens on the four-poster bed. He knew from experience how comfortable this particular bed was, and his body ached to sink into the soft mattress.
He lifted Brianna onto it, and she immediately burrowed into the down comforter, yawning mightily. Though she had slept during the long drive from Las Vegas and again on the Cessna, it had not been a restful sleep, and he knew she was just as tired as he was.
He thanked George profusely and turned to tend to his daughter.
"Chris, why don't you give me the diamond? I'll lock it up in the safe," George urged softly before leaving the room.
Chris had almost forgotten about it. Withdrawing the heavy lump of stone from his jacket pocket, he handed it over. He was glad to be rid of the thing.
George clutched the velvet bag and left the room, closing the door as he went.
He stood in the hallway outside, fondling the diamond in his left hand. The weight of it was satisfying, exciting... galvanizing. His eyes hardened as he realized what he must now do.
In his way, he did love Chris. He had not been lying when he had told Jason Kingsley he regarded him as a son. It broke his heart to have to kill him, but there was no other way.
What he had lied about, however, was the nature of the argument he'd had with David James. He'd had practice with that particular tale, so the story came easily to his lips. They hadn't argued about Chris at all---his name had never entered the conversation. Instead, the fight had been about the diamond.
He thought back to that night long ago. David had just received the results of the laboratory tests and had called George over to discuss the legal aspects of how best to manage the unexpected windfall. He wasn't interested in the enormous fortune the gemstone represented. He and Marie had jointly decided to sell it, in its raw form, to a museum for a tenth its actual value. The bulk of the proceeds would be donated to the church, and the remainder would be put into a trust for Chris.
George had been outraged at the plan. Though he had sold his interest in the mine to David several years prior, he had been the one to broker the deal for its initial purchase. He had brought David in, being unable to afford the investment on his own. He reasoned it was only proper he should have a stake in the diamond too.
David had been stunned when George had suggested it. Further, when George explained he could never consent to the manner in which they intended to liquidate it and their plans for how to disburse the proceeds, David had flown into a mad rage.
In the heated exchange that followed, a lifetime of friendship was snuffed out in a flickering instant. David had called him a greedy, money-hungry swindler, and that had nearly broken his heart. "I've sorely misjudged you, George MacQuery. Your obsession with wealth has consumed you and turned you into a monster. You're not the man I thought you were, and it sickens me. Get out of my house," David had raged at him.
After all these years, it still stung. Poor, simple, misguided David.
It wasn't about money. Money was just a means to an end. No, George MacQuery thought, it wasn't about money at all. It was about stature, power, security---those were the true benefits of wealth.
George had grown up in poverty. The hardship and helplessness of his youth had taught him nothing except that men who had money had power, and men who didn't had none. Though he'd achieved some measure of affluence with his legal practice, it was not enough. Not even close.
True, his standing and the security he'd achieved were a world apart from the hardships of his youth, but the diamond represented a whole new level of influence---one he had dreamed about all his life.
As much as he loved Chris, the sentiment just wasn't equal to the opportunity to fulfill that lifelong ambition, to realize his most cherished dream. It was a costly trade, but one he was willing to make.
Soon Watson would arrive with Brunner in tow and he could put his final plans in motion. By the end of the day, the Heart of the Jungle would be his at long, long last.
As he turned the key in the lock, effectively imprisoning Chris and Brianna, he sighed heavily. He deeply regretted what was soon to come, but there was just no other way. The best he could do, in honor of the paternal affection he felt for Chris, was to offer him a peaceful exit.
CHRIS lay comfortably on his side on the soft bed, curled around his sleeping child. He twined his fingers through her soft red curls and smiled tenderly. His heart was overflowing with the sight of her. She'd grown and changed so much in the past ten months. Gazing at her, a bittersweet sense of longing for the lost time stabbed into his chest. How much he had missed.
The baby chubbiness had begun to give way, and he could see in her maturing features signs of the child she was becoming. She looked so much like Jeannie. Her eyes, wide spaced, were rimmed with long, thick lashes, and when she smiled, deep dimples appeared upon her cheeks.
Her mouth worked as she slept, and he traced a finger gently over her face, grinning in delight as it caused the corners of her lips to turn up.
It still worked, he thought, recalling the long hours he'd sat in the rocking chair caressing her in just this way to summon that heart-melting smile.
His eyes grew heavy as the happy memories and a strong sense of peace overcame him. As he drifted off to sleep, his last waking thoughts were of Jason Kingsley.
The man evoked powerful feelings. He could not deny it, but there was a terrible price to pay for such strong emotion. The past year had been horrific, and he just couldn't face the burden of so great a risk again.
Whatever had begun between them could not be allowed to flower and bear fruit. He had endured too much pain, too much hardship, and all that he had left he must keep in reserve for his daughter.
Despite his ebullience, despite the miracle of his reunion with Brianna, despite the perils he had overcome, when sleep finally took him, it was not an untroubled slumber. His heart was heavy with regret and loss. If not for the awful timing, what might have been with Jason Kingsley... might have been wonderful.
AS THEY sat in the cab waiting in the long, sinuous line for the ferry, Frank conversed in hushed, urgent tones with the Seattle field office
.
When he finally disconnected, he turned to Jason. "They have an address.
It took some digging---the property is registered to a holding company in his late wife's name---but he's there, all right. It's off of Harbor View Drive on the west side of the island."
They had been waiting for the arrival of the ferry for more than an hour, and Jason was practically climbing out of his skin, the urgency and helplessness growing with each passing moment. "It's a thirty-minute ride," he said morosely. "What if we're already too late?"
Frank squeezed his hand reassuringly and continued. "The field office is working as fast as they can. Pulling together resources takes time, kid. I don't know what you're so antsy about anyway. We're going in strictly to provide intel." He gave Jason a warning look. "You're not on the payroll anymore---may I remind you---so it's damn lucky you still have friends in the bureau here. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn't be allowed anywhere near the operation. The rule book is out the window only because I gave them my solemn word I'd keep you in line." He shook his head and took a deep breath before continuing. "Now, the team coordinated a drive-by with the authorities in Langley---it's the closest town of any size to the residence---and they've got a plainclothes keeping a bead on it. Five minutes ago, some muscle with an eye patch arrived on the scene," Frank said, noticing a fleeting look of recognition appear on Jason's face. "Know him?" he asked.
"We had a moment," Jason said vaguely.
"He was accompanied by a man matching Brunner's description. They said it didn't look like he was tagging along willingly."
"Damn," Jason swore. "I was right. Brunner was trying to make an end-run."
"Chris seems to have escaped him somehow. Once he was free, he contacted MacQuery and they all ended up back here. Very likely, he's going to arrange Chris's death and make it look like Brunner was involved. That buys us a little time. The officer keeping an eye on the house said it doesn't look like MacQuery believes he's in any kind of danger. He sent the other security guard away shortly after the muscle and Brunner arrived. If he expected trouble, he wouldn't be hunkering down."
Jason said soberly, "Now that he has Brunner, though, the clock is ticking. He won't drag this out. He has the diamond, he has Chris, and he has the fall guy. He's holding all the pieces."
"Like I said, the Seattle office is assembling a task force as quickly as they can," Frank soothed. He pulled up Google Maps and zeroed in on the satellite image of George's Whidbey residence. "As soon as we're on the scene, we'll take up a position here." He indicated a forested area behind the house. "We'll keep the team apprised of the developing situation. Once they're on site, they'll establish a perimeter, cover every exit, and they'll move in. Strike fast before he has a chance to react."
"And if something goes down before they get there?"
"Then our friends from Langley will move in to apprehend, and we'll stay the hell out of their way," Frank said warningly. "They're trained professionals. That'll have to be good enough."
Just as he had been so many times since this all began, Jason was frustrated by his inability to take direct action. As much respect as he had for law enforcement, he hated the idea of placing his faith in people he didn't know. He had an intense personal stake in the outcome of this crisis, and the lack of control brought him close to panic.
If Chris were harmed, he would never forgive himself. His own carelessness had sparked this fire. He felt like it was his responsibility to stamp it out.
His concern wasn't solely the result of a guilty conscience or a sense of personal obligation, though. He was in love with Chris James.
Forget that it was crazy, that he had known him for a handful of days, or that the sentiment was not likely returned.
The passion they'd shared had proven to him beyond any reasonable doubt that this was the person he'd spent his whole life searching for. Even though he'd never thought himself capable of that kind of attachment, here he was, up to his eyebrows in it.
Frank had been studying him as the series of emotions played across his face. Jason, like his father, was given to being mastered by his emotions. Frank didn't need to be clairvoyant to know exactly what he was thinking.
"Well I'll be a son of a bitch," he said. "You're in love with him. Curt said you were smitten, but that wasn't the half of it."
Jason didn't even try to deny it.
Frank was thoughtful, serious. "Watching you, I keep thinking what I would feel if it were Ann in this situation. What I'd do." He fixed Jason with a meaningful stare. "I have to be honest, kid, that scares the shit right out of me...." He paused, hesitant to give voice to his growing concern. "You have to pull it together. I know that's hard. Hell, I'd have a hard time myself, and I've been doing this a lot longer than you."
Frank was ever more sober as he continued. "You start thinking with your heart and not your head, it's both our asses in the sling."
Jason prickled, suddenly realizing where this might be headed.
"Forget it, Frank. You're not cutting me out," he warned. His voice was hard, his tone resolute. He wasn't asking for permission.
Frank shook his head. "Now hold on just a damn minute. All I'm saying is I need you, not some lovesick fool with a score to settle."
Frank was right. Emotional distraction had caused him to fuck up once before. He'd paid the price for that awful mistake for years afterward. He could not afford to be careless again---especially not this time.
He took several deep breaths, trying to bring his roiling emotions under control.
"Good, that's good," Frank said, sensing the shift in his demeanor.
Once he was sure Jason was back under control, he grinned. "Cutting you out," he muttered. "Christ. Someone tried to keep me away if Ann were in danger, I'd kill the son of a bitch with my bare hands. I'm old, kid, but I'm not senile. I'm not going to let you in on the action, but I won't keep you from being there when it goes down."
Jason smiled despite himself. Frank's depth of understanding could still surprise him, though it shouldn't have. For all Frank's bravado, Jason knew he was a man of deep compassion with a good heart.
"You still licensed to carry?" Frank asked.
Jason opened his blazer and showed Frank the Browning 9mm strapped to his body.
"Let me see that," Frank said, reaching for the gun. "That a Browning?"
"Yeah," Jason replied, handing the weapon to Frank. "Dad's Mark I. I've had it since I graduated."
Frank looked it over, carefully checking the mechanisms and the overall condition of the weapon. "You take good care of this," he said, impressed.
"It's a good piece," Jason said. "I could probably get something more modern, but I have a bond with this one."
Frank smiled and tucked the gun into his own jacket. "Happens," he empathized. "I'll hold onto it for you, just in case you get any bright ideas about using it." Jason frowned but didn't protest. Something in Frank's expression told him the other man would brook no argument.
Finally traffic began to move. Sometime during their conversation, the ferry had arrived.
SHORTLY after George had secured Chris and Brianna in the second-floor guest room, Watson arrived with Brunner in tow. Their chartered flight had landed at the Whidbey municipal airport, and Watson had brought Brunner directly to George's residence.
Though Watson had been in his employ for several years, he'd never met the man face to face until now.
Watson, for his part, remained coolly professional as he herded Brunner into the study and shoved him roughly into a chair. If he was surprised or perturbed at meeting his mysterious and secretive employer, his composed indifference belied none of it.
Noticing the eye patch, George asked, "What happened to your eye?"
Watson regarded him silently and growled, "Your friend Kingsley." There was a hint of murder in his tone.
"I'm sorry for that," George said smoothly. "I'll give you a bonus when this is all over. And," he added, "your shot at Kingsley. He's
got the FBI all riled up, and if we don't take him out of the picture, before long he'll have them poking around in my affairs." He paused, fixing Brunner with a pointed, meaningful look. "Despite how this is going to play out."
Brunner's eye twitched nervously, and he was unable to meet George's gaze.
George walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He jumped. "You look like shit, Johan," he said with something more akin to glee than concern.
Brunner didn't respond. He just continued to stare nervously at his lap. He had the air of a prisoner strapped into the electric chair.
Whatever he might have said in response would be all wrong, so he remained silent. George knew that Brunner was at least smart enough to avoid further provoking his ire---particularly with Watson breathing down his neck.
George kept his hand on Brunner's shoulder for a while longer, enjoying the effect his touch evoked. He could feel Brunner's growing anxiety, and he liked it very much. This is true power. He grinned. This is what it is all about.
Finally, he removed his hand, walked confidently around the desk, and took a seat in his high-backed leather chair.
He reclined casually and stared at Brunner for a time before speaking. "You have been a thorn in my side for far too long." George pulled a quill pen out of a holder on his desk and ran the feather through his fingers. "But then, I knew you were a liability going in," he said. He slammed his fist on the desk suddenly, and Brunner jumped. "Look at me when I am speaking to you," he commanded.
Brunner raised his downturned eyes and stared at George warily.
"Your connection to Michael, your connection to certain resources, these were absolutely necessary." He paused meaningfully. "Your connections, yes, but also your long criminal history. You see, in the end, all of this carefully orchestrated tragedy, this whole outrageous plot surrounding Christian James, was to be your doing. Why do you think it was so elaborate? Hmm?"
Brunner didn't respond.
George chuckled. "The scale, the complexity, the sheer magnitude---hallmarks of your style. I've been playing you like a fiddle all along." Brunner's eyes hardened as George continued. "Michael Blake could never have concocted so elaborate a scheme on his own. The police would have been utterly suspicious, and that may have led them to me. On the other hand, if you were involved, naturally their focus would shift in your direction. With just a small nudge, some carefully arranged pointers, it would suddenly come clear that you had been the orchestrator of the whole affair. I could have played the victim, willingly accepted my role as Brianna's guardian, and you would have rotted in a prison. It would have been perfect but for your breathtaking stupidity."
