by Lisa Jackson
“That’s where you’re wrong. Of course I found out about you, but I didn’t let on. Your mother and I were over, anyway, and we were both married, and at least one of us was happy.”
Kacey felt her jaw tighten. Gerald Johnson had a pretty high opinion of himself.
He lifted one shoulder. “I thought it was best if I pretended I didn’t think you were mine. I had a family, a wife, a company to run.”
“And Mom?”
“She got what she always wanted out of the deal. A child.” Gerald’s gaze held hers. “It worked out.”
“Did it?” Her stomach soured as she thought of all the lies that were her life. “What about my dad?” she said. “The one who raised me?”
Gerald’s lips flattened a little, and some of his equanimity seeped away. “What? Are you coming to me now because he’s gone? You’re looking for a new father figure? Or, maybe it isn’t even that altruistic. Perhaps you’re looking for something else?”
“I don’t know what you’re getting at,” she said, though she did, and it was pissing her off.
“Look around.” He gestured grandly.
“Get this straight, Mr. Johnson. I don’t want anything from you but the truth. People are dying, and I think you have the answer.”
“Dying? Good Lord, you’re as melodramatic as your mother.”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t alter the facts.” She stood up, unable to sit in front of him like a sycophant.
Deep furrows cleft his brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Let’s start with Shelly Bonaventure.”
“Who? The ... actress? What about her?”
“You don’t know her?”
“Of course I don’t. Why would I? The only reason I know about her is that my daughter Clarissa reads those tabloids and the like.”
“She was born in Helena.”
“All right.”
She felt herself falter inside a little. Could she be mistaken? He seemed genuinely at a loss. “Did you know Jocelyn Wallis?”
“Jocelyn who? I have no idea what you’re talking about!” Then something sparked. “Wait a minute. I read something about a woman who died recently. She fell while jogging?”
“Or was pushed. I don’t know the details,” Kacey admitted. “Only that her death is being investigated, maybe caused by foul play.”
“What does this have to do with me?”
“It’s because of the resemblance. See . . .” She pulled the pictures of the two women she’d mentioned from her briefcase and slid them across the desk, faceup. “These two, and Elle Alexander, who was a patient of mine.” She found Elle’s photo and slid it across as well. “I guess Mom didn’t mention this when she called?”
“She said that you were on some mission, but I was busy, didn’t pay attention to her ramblings.”
“Maybe you should have.”
“I assumed she meant you were looking for me to come out and claim you.”
“That’s not it at all.”
“I don’t know these women. Never met any of them.”
“I think they could be related to me.”
“What? These women?” He looked down at the photos again. “Through me?” He let out a short bark of a laugh, as if he expected some dark, macabre punch line. His skin reddened. “Is this some kind of shakedown?”
But there was something he wasn’t saying. She saw it in his eyes, a lie he was trying to disguise. There was more here; she just wasn’t sure what.
“Are you trying to punish me?” he demanded.
“Punish you.”
“For not acknowledging you like I did with Robert.” He said it as if it was a cold, hard fact, one they both understood.
Kacey blinked. “Who’s Robert?”
“You know.”
“I don’t.”
They stared at each other, and he seemed to be sizing her up again before he clarified, “My son? Robert Lindley? That’s what this is really about, right?”
A chill, as cold as the bottom of the sea, settled at the base of her spine. What the devil was he talking about?
When she didn’t respond, he prodded, “Janet’s boy.”
“I’m sorry. Who’s Janet?”
His lips twisted a bit. “You didn’t do all of your homework, did you? Robert’s a few years older than you, and I . . . claimed him, once Janet and her husband split up.”
How had she missed this?
“He works for the company, too, like the others. He’s in research and development. Great technical mind.”
So there was another half sibling in the mix. Her life as an only child seemed suddenly distant.
“When your mother called, I thought you wanted in, to be a part of the family, get whatever it is you think is your fair share of the company.”
Kacey snapped back. “Trust me, I’m not here about your company. I’m here for these women,” she said, motioning toward the pictures on his desk. “What you’re telling me is that you’re not their father. You’re not related to any of them.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he responded emphatically, but a guarded look had slipped across his face, a trace of quickly hidden deceit. Though he stared at her as if she’d gone stark raving mad, there was something more, something darker in his gaze. “I don’t know what you think you know.”
Though he readily claimed a son and now her as his children, he wouldn’t associate himself with the women who’d been killed. As if he didn’t believe he was related to them.
Had she been mistaken? He didn’t have any brothers; she’d checked. And his only other sibling had been a sister who had died in her twenties, so if not him . . . then ... ?
She glanced to the medical diplomas on his wall, noticed that he’d graduated forty years earlier.
And then, like a ton of bricks, it hit her, the elusive notion that had been nagging at her since last night’s nightmare: he didn’t know about these women, because he didn’t realize he might have fathered them.
What had JC, her husband, bragged about to her years before?
“I should have been a sperm donor, like those other med students. I could have made a fortune. Women are looking for men like me. I could still do it. I’ve got the pedigree, the intellect, the IQ . . . and athleticism and looks to boot.”
Kacey heard his voice in her head as if he were speaking to her now. And Gerald Johnson, nearing seventy, was a strong, strapping man. . . .
“I’m not related to these women,” he insisted, but she could hear the faintest trace of uncertainty in his voice.
“You weren’t a sperm donor around thirty-five or forty years ago, maybe when you were in medical school?”
“That’s ridiculous! Just because these women slightly resemble each other—”
“Not just slightly,” she interrupted. “And not just each other. This one”—with one finger she pushed the picture of Jocelyn Wallis closer to him—“looks enough like me that when she was brought into the ER, several of my associates thought something had happened to me. Look at them!” She slid the other pictures closer to him. “I’ve seen pictures of your family. There is an incredible, uncanny resemblance.”
A muscle worked in his jaw as he stared at one picture, then the next. He even went so far as to pull a pair of reading glasses from his pocket to study the images. Finally, as if disgusted, he tossed the glasses onto his desk. His lips were pulled into a serious knot. “So why are you here, Acacia? To confirm that I could have fathered these women because of something I did in my youth?”
“So, you were a sperm donor.”
“You are fabricating some kind of conspiracy theory that someone is killing people—women—who resemble each other and who might have been conceived through artificial insemination? And you’re looking at me as the sperm donor?” He was incredulous.
“Someone tried to kill me,” Kacey said. “A long time ago. Not rape me. Not rob me, but kill me. I thought it was a random act until just r
ecently,” she admitted. “Now, I’m not so sure. Just yesterday I found out my house is bugged. With listening devices and who knows what else? Meanwhile, women who look like me are having accidents. Deadly accidents that, at second look, aren’t really accidents at all. Both Shelly Bonaventure and Jocelyn Wallis have connections to Helena. I figure that if I go there, I’ll find a fertility clinic where they were all conceived, and probably there are records for Elle as well. She was just born somewhere else.” She leaned across the desk. “How many more will I find, Gerald? Five? Ten? A hundred? Five—”
“This is crazy,” he snapped. The color in his face rose and turned his cheeks livid red. “There’s no serial killer who’s intent on killing children conceived at a certain clinic!”
“Only those fathered by you,” she said with renewed certainty.
“That’s even crazier.”
She didn’t have an answer for him, but she was convinced she was on the right track. Yet she had to hear it from him. “What’s the name of this clinic?” she asked. “I’m going to find out, one way or another. You may as well just save me some time, before whoever is behind this kills me.”
“You weren’t conceived by artificial insemination. Trust me on this.”
“Doesn’t make me safe.
“When I compare my DNA to any of these women,” she said, fanning her hand over the pictures, “I’m going to bet that the test results will prove we’re related on the paternal side and—”
“Enough!” It was his turn to stand. Nearly six-one, he had half a foot on her, allowing him to look down his strong, straight nose into her eyes. “I was a sperm donor in my youth. Yes. But I have no proof that any of these victims were my progeny. I think your theory is outlandish. More than that, it’s slanderous. I met you today because I thought it was high time I acknowledged you, but I clearly was mistaken.”
“Don’t you even care to find out about these women?”
“No. I do not. Now, if you’re done with your mad accusations, I have work to do. Important work. Not only does this plant employ a lot of people in the area, but our products, many of which I developed myself, save lives.”
“And you could save a few more if you helped me locate other women whom you might have fathered.”
He was already reaching for the phone. “I think we’re done here.”
“I’m going to the police.”
The back of his neck tightened, but he controlled himself. “They’ll laugh you out of the room. You’d better be careful what you say, Acacia, or you may find yourself institutionalized.” His smile was cold. “There is a history of mental illness in the family.”
A sharp rap was followed by one of the double doors being pushed open by a tall woman, made even taller by her three-inch heels. With high cheekbones, and a nose reminiscent of the man seated across the desk, she swept inside as if she owned the place. “Sorry to interrupt you, Dad, but we had an appointment. Oh! I didn’t know you had someone in here. Roxie’s left for the day.” She rained a smile on Kacey.
Gerald stood. “You’re not interrupting anything, Clarrie. In fact, it’s probably a good thing you showed up. I’d like you to meet your sister. Clarissa, this is Acacia. Acacia, my daughter Clarissa.”
What the hell had he gotten himself into? Trace wondered as he once again checked on Eli, who was curled on the couch, sleeping, Sarge next to him, the huge cone still in place around the dog’s head.
Trace had left the police station knowing that the two cops—Pescoli and Alvarez—had been disappointed that they couldn’t nail him for Jocelyn’s death and Leanna’s disappearance. But that was not what was worrying him now.
No, it was Kacey and how she was involved in this mess.
Obviously, she wasn’t safe in her own home, dog or no dog, no matter if she did have her grandfather’s shotgun. Someone had gotten inside, planted microphones, and listened in.... Why? And what, if anything, did it have to do with the other women’s deaths?
It just smelled bad.
“So, what about some mac and cheese?” he asked his son. Eli was supposed to drink tons of fluids, but the untouched soda, Gatorade, apple juice, and vitamin-water bottles on the table near the couch were testament to the fact that it still hurt his throat to swallow.
“Not hungry.”
“Well, you’ve got to eat, and you’ve got to drink, a lot.” Trace cracked open the bottle of reddish vitamin water and held it in front of his boy’s nose. “Remember you promised the nurse when you left the hospital. I just don’t want to see you have to go back.”
“No way!” Eli said with a frown. His voice was hoarse and he still coughed, but he got the message and took the bottle from his father’s hands, managing a couple sips from the bottle.
There was homework piling up, compliments of e-mail from Eli’s teacher, but Trace figured he’d fight that battle later. First, he wanted his boy healthy. Last night had been scary for all of them.
Now that he had his son home, his mind was working overtime with worries for Kacey, a woman he barely knew but was already fantasizing about.
Eli picked at the macaroni and cheese, drank part of his juice and Gatorade, and generally vegged out in front of the television, which was tuned to his favorite kids’ channel. He slept a lot, but each time Trace took his temperature, it had gone down a little bit more and now was hovering near one hundred degrees.
Now, if there were just some way to make sure Kacey was safe, he’d feel a whole lot better. He tried her cell phone, but it went straight to voice mail, so he hung up without leaving a message.
Relax, he told himself. She’s at work.
He just couldn’t quite shake his misgivings. He didn’t know what to believe, but the hidden microphones were real. There was no escaping that.
All the wind had been stripped from Clarissa’s sails. She stared first at her father, then let her gaze move to Kacey.
“Are you serious?” she demanded, her eyes narrowing a bit.
“What do you think?” For some reason Gerald seemed a little amused, as if he liked pulling one over on his firstborn.
“Dad, really . . .”
“She’s Maribelle’s daughter.” Gerald stated the fact as if his affair with Kacey’s mother were a known fact.
“The nurse who worked for you? I remember her. . . .” This time when Clarissa rained her gaze on Kacey, it was more than a passing, dismissive glance. As if she were mentally ticking off the genetic similarities, her expression slowly changed from shock and confusion to revulsion.
“Oh, God, Dad, tell me this is some kind of sick, twisted joke,” she said, crossing the expanse of carpet to her father’s desk, keeping her gaze focused on Kacey.
“No joke. Acacia’s my daughter. As much as you are.”
“But . . . no . . . Jesus, does Mom know?”
“Suspects, I’d guess.”
“You don’t know?”
It was never discussed.”
“For the love of God. First Robert and now ... now you?” Turning, she faced Kacey. “What’re you doing here?”
“Looking for answers,” Kacey said and added, “Nice to meet you.”
Clarissa’s eyebrows shot upward. “Excuse me if I forgot my manners. I’ve kinda had a shock here.” To her father, “What’s the matter with you? How many more of these are there?”
Gerald inhaled through his teeth.
“Oh, no . . .” Clarissa’s gaze fell to the desk, to the pictures that were still lying faceup on the polished mahogany. Her eyebrows slammed together as she picked up the head shot of Shelly Bonaventure. “Isn’t this that actress from that vampire series that ran a few years ago? The one Lance was so into?”
“What’s Blood Got to Do With It,” Kacey verified as Gerald quickly swept up the rest of the pictures. But he was too late. The damage was done.
“And one was of that woman who fell while jogging,” Clarissa said, her face drawn. “Who was the third one, Dad?”
“Elle Alexander,
a patient of mine,” Kacey responded. “Had two kids.”
“These women all died recently, didn’t they?” Her blue eyes clouded. “What’s going on here?” she asked her father, then once again turned to Kacey. “And why are you here?”
Gerald let out a long, low sigh. “We should probably have a family meeting.” He was pale, and for the first time since she’d walked into his office, Kacey thought Gerald Johnson appeared his age, the crow’s-feet near his eyes deepening, the knuckles of his hands looking larger.
All an illusion, she reminded herself.
“Judd’s here today,” he was saying. “And Robert, right?”
“I’m not sure,” Clarissa demurred. “I just got back from meeting with the accountants, but Robert was in the lab this morning.... Both Cameron and Colt are out. Cam was in Spokane, in a meeting with a distributor there, and Colt . . .” She glanced at her watch. “He should have landed by now. He was in Seattle earlier, talking to the head of cardiology at the medical school.”
Kacey’s heart nearly stopped when she thought of the city where she’d been attacked and the hospital where she’d learned her practice, the place where JC held a position in the cardiology department. How ironic that the man who had spawned her had been a heart surgeon as well.
Just a coincidence, right? Seattle was a big city.
Still, a ripple of unease swept through her.
Clarissa never missed a beat. “As for Thane, who knows?” She glanced out the window and added, “Who ever knows?”
“Tell everyone you can to meet in the boardroom. Leave a message for Colt on his cell, tell him to get here when he lands, and see if Cam can link up through Skype.”
“And Thane?”
“Call him, too. See if he can make it or Skype in.”
“Thane doesn’t Skype,” Clarissa reminded, and Kacey had the distinct impression that this brother, third in the birth order and the second-born legitimate son, didn’t play by the old man’s rules. The rogue or black sheep. Except he hadn’t strayed too far away from the old man’s company. “What about Mom?”
“Let’s keep her out of this for now.” Gerald thought for a second, then said, “Let me handle her my way.”
