by Lisa Jackson
“Does anyone know where Roy Panaker is?” Neils prompted.
“Not to my knowledge.” Robert was suddenly impatient. “You’ll have to find him, of course. Set the ground rules. I assume it will be necessary to pay him off, but rather than making him rich, it would be better to dig up a little dirt on him, something unscrupulous you can use to bribe him and keep him in line, so that there’s no way he’ll risk exposure if he ever finds out about the boy.”
“He hasn’t been interested yet?”
“Probably has no idea, but I’d like to be reassured that he won’t be a problem.”
Neils nodded, as if everything Robert was saying was commonplace, that bribery and invasion of privacy didn’t matter—which they didn’t—it was just the magnitude of Robert’s request that blew him away.
“When that time comes, if it comes, when you have to talk to Beatrice, let me know. I’ll arrange a meeting, but it’s best that you don’t contact her. There’s no telling what she’ll do. Unfortunately, Mr. VanHorn, my daughter isn’t very stable.”
A secret meeting.
What could it be about? What did Robert Sullivan and Neils VanHorn discuss within the walnut-paneled walls of Louisburg Square?
Royce didn’t have all the details, damn him. The butler was too discreet to press his ear to the door, too afraid of losing his highly prized title of head servant in Robert Sullivan’s household.
The damned hired help. You paid them through the nose, and still they only passed on the bare essentials, information that could be easily soaked in while removing dishes or setting a fire.
But Royce did report that Robert Sullivan had dined at home with a man named Neils VanHorn, a private investigator and not a professional of the stature Robert Sullivan usually hired.
“Let’s just say his overcoat was a tad frayed at the cuffs,” Royce had said. A tattered coat and boots with holes, for God’s sake. Royce had actually spied black spots on the soles when VanHorn had the audacity to prop his feet up on the oxblood leather furniture. Feet up as he’d burned through one of Robert’s Havana cigars.
Something was in the air…power swirling, spinning in a fierce maelstrom.
And Robert was behind it, manipulating and twisting, always the mastermind, always the ruthless patriarch.
Well, he wasn’t going to proceed unchecked.
The old man had to be watched.
Carefully watched.
Robert Sullivan had overstepped his boundaries one too many times.
One more bold step, and he would have to be stopped.
Chapter 5
Daegan O’Rourke propped the phone between his head and shoulder so that he could bang on the splintered window sash to pry the damned thing open. Right now the phone was one of the few things that worked in Eli McIntyre’s old cabin, and if Daegan was going to stay here, he had his work cut out for him just making it livable. Which he would have to do, if he was going to stick around here until he met the Summers kid and figured out if the boy was the one. “Okay, Sandy,” he told his old friend from grade school. “What do you have for me?”
“Your information panned out.” Though he was miles away, back in Boston, Sandy’s gravelly voice sounded close and familiar. “Looks like old Robert has engaged the services of one Neils VanHorn, a two-bit private investigator with a reputation for chasing a buck and bending the ethics of the profession.”
So Bibi was right; Robert was looking to dig up some old dirt.
“VanHorn is not the sort of guy a man like Robert Sullivan usually employs,” Sandy went on. “Makes you wonder what Robert wants VanHorn to do.”
He’s looking for a male heir, Daegan thought. A way to sink his claws into some innocent kid, a total power trip.
“No doubt VanHorn’s been hired for something slimy and underhanded,” Sandy went on, half-joking.
“You got that right,” Daegan said.
Sandy Kavenaugh’s instincts had always been on the money. During a stint in the military, Kavenaugh had done some intelligence work, then, once his hitch was over, had opened his own private detective agency. It was Sandy who’d checked up on Daegan’s mother, Mary Ellen, whom Daegan hadn’t had contact with in years, as well as keeping an eye on the Sullivans, watching each and every one of them, including Bibi. As far as Daegan was concerned, none of them could be trusted.
“Want me to see what I can find out about VanHorn?” Sandy asked.
“See if you can get wind of what he’s doing for Robert Sullivan,” Daegan said as he stared out the window toward the Summers place next door. “And keep your ear to the ground for any mention of an illegitimate heir to the Sullivan fortune. Seems my cousin Bibi had a kid some fifteen years ago, and there’s something brewing about finding the boy now and naming him in the will.”
“Imagine that? Some kid could be a secret millionaire,” Sandy said.
At what price? Daegan thought, brushing away a cobweb as he turned toward the bedroom.
“I’ll see what I can find on the kid and get back to you,” Sandy said.
The kid. As Daegan hung up, he felt his jaw clench at the notion that the kid living in the neighboring ranch could be the one he was looking for…his son.
The idea of having a son was still fresh and uncomfortable, like a new boot that was a little too tight and pinched at the toes. He’d never seen himself as a father; never planned to have any children. And never, never would he have let a kid of his grow up without a strong male influence.
But the worst of it was Jon’s mother. Kate. More intelligent and wary than he’d expected and far more attractive than he’d hoped, there was something about her he found damnably intriguing. Probably because she was forbidden fruit—that was his problem with women. The ones that were off-limits were the most fascinating. His own personal curse. He’d make sure the attraction passed, but wished he knew what to do with her.
In the bedroom he paused and frowned at the stained mattress lying on the floor. Nearby was a half-full bottle of rot-gut whiskey, a carton of cigarettes, and a couple of copies of Playboy magazine. Looked like someone was having himself a party. An ashtray that had the irregular shape and mottled coloring to suggest it had been made in some kind of crafts class was filled with butts—several different brands. Daegan smiled. Yep, the old McIntyre ranch must’ve become the local clubhouse for juvenile delinquents, one of which might well be Jon Summers.
Good. If the kid was trouble, his job would be easier. He walked outside again and a low growl emanated from beneath the dusty floorboards of the porch. Bending on one knee, Daegan peered below into the darkness and found a half-starved dog lying in the shadows. Teeth bared, steady eyes trained on Daegan’s throat, the mutt let out another rumbling warning. “That’s no way to treat the new tenant,” Daegan admonished softly. “Come on out of there.”
The hound didn’t budge, just snarled.
“Great.” That’s when he noticed the metal dishes—mixing bowls tucked into one corner of the porch. One was half-full of water, the other was empty. “Someone taking care of you, boy?”
The dog didn’t respond, just cowered, looking at Daegan with yellow, distrusting eyes.
Standing, Daegan stretched and stared at the barren acres. The only house close by was the Summers place, located on the other side of a stand of pine. Other neighbors could have made it their mission to take care of old McIntyre’s dog, but Daegan had a gut feeling that either Jon Summers or his mother was seeing that the mutt didn’t starve or dehydrate. Just the break he needed. “I think you and I are gonna be good friends.” And what about the boy? Is he gonna be your good friend, too? Or is he going to end up hating you for the rest of his life?
Kate waited impatiently for her sister to answer and glared at the clock. Almost three here, nearly six o’-clock in Boston. Laura would be getting home from work and Kate wanted to talk to her sister in private, before Jon got home from school so he wouldn’t overhear any of the conversation. “Come on, come on,” she said
, pacing by the kitchen window and stretching the phone cord as she walked from one end of the kitchen to the other. Laura, who worked for the state, had access to all kinds of legal documents. Births, deaths, prison records.
Kate had never asked a favor of her sister before. Even though she’d been tempted a hundred times to find out the true identity of Jon’s biological parents, she’d resisted asking Laura to look up the information. Whether she felt she was crossing an ethical barrier or because she was just plain chicken to find out, she didn’t know. But things had changed now that Jon had begun asking questions about his father. She needed to find out the truth in order to protect Jon.
The recorder picked up on the fourth ring. “Hi, you’ve reached Laura and Jeremy. We can’t come to the phone right now, but if you’d leave a message after the beep…” Kate waited impatiently, then asked her sister to call. Now that she’d decided upon a course of action, she was anxious to set it into motion.
Slamming the receiver down, she told herself to remain calm. Nothing had changed. Yet. Kids had bad dreams all the time.
Pouring the final cup of coffee from this morning’s pot, she sat back down at her desk to read the last of twenty-five essays she had to correct for her class in the morning. She rubbed her eyes and was reaching for her reading glasses when she heard the rumble of an engine. Peering through the lace curtains, she expected Jon to appear. Rather than waiting for the bus, he’d probably caught a ride with someone, a kid with a car and hopefully a driver’s license. He was starting to complain that taking the bus was a drag and only for babies.
A beat-up once-green pickup lumbered up the drive and Kate recognized it at once. Daegan O’Rourke, the stranger who had fixed her tire, stretched out of the cab and she felt a warning increase in her pulse. Tall and lean, a cowboy type in faded jeans, dusty blue shirt, and rawhide jacket, O’Rourke made his way to the front porch.
What could he possibly want from her?
She’d thought of him a couple of times since he’d insisted upon helping her—there had been a raw sexual energy about him, a hidden strength of character that made it impossible for him to take no for an answer. She hadn’t wanted his help, but he’d practically shoved it down her throat, and rather than seeming ungrateful, she’d let him change the damned tire. So what was he doing here? Whatever it was he was peddling, she wasn’t interested. Contrary to popular belief, the last complication she needed in her life was a man.
As she watched him climb the steps, his boots ringing on the old planks, she noticed the determined cut of his jaw, the blade-thin mouth, the harsh planes of his face. He looked like a man with a mission and she knew instinctively that somehow it involved her.
Normally she wouldn’t have thought a thing about opening the door to him. Every once in a while someone stopped by to ask for directions or with car trouble, but today, when her nerves were already stretched thin from worries about Jon, she was suspicious, and as he rang the bell, she opened the door but stood on the other side of the screen.
His eyes met hers through the mesh and a quick smile lighted his face. “So you’re my neighbor.” His voice was a deep drawl, his tanned face all blades and angles honed from hours in the elements. Gray eyes studied her without a trace of warmth. “How about that?”
“Neighbor?” she repeated.
Hitching a calloused thumb in the direction of the ranch next door, he said, “I’m renting the McIntyre place.”
Kate felt a little catch in her breath and told herself she was being silly. She had nothing to fear from this man, no reason not to trust him. He’d helped her, for crying out loud, changed her flat tire. She should be grateful that someone was going to live in Eli’s place and keep it up. Empty buildings often attracted a bad element. But she couldn’t shake the sensation that this man was the last person on earth she wanted living next door. He carried with him no air of satisfaction that usually came with ranching. No, this man was restless; a thrum of energy seemed to hide beneath the tanned skin that stretched over the strong angles of his face.
All Jon’s talk had unnerved her, that’s all. Relax, Kate. She opened the screen door.
“How’s the tire?” he asked.
“Back on the car. I must’ve run over a screw somewhere. George, down at the station, found one lodged in the tread, though I can’t imagine where I picked it up.”
“So it could be fixed?”
“Yeah, I guess I lucked out.”
He hesitated, then rubbed his chin. “I guess it’s my turn to ask a favor,” he said, shifting from one leg to the other. “I’m having a little trouble myself. I was wondering if I could use your phone to call the telephone company. They were supposed to send out a guy this morning, but he never showed.”
Some of the tension in her muscles drained. You’re losing it, Kate.
“Sure. I’ll go get it.” She should have just asked him inside, but she was still nervous. Even though he seemed honest enough, she didn’t know him. And there was Jon’s prediction to consider—trouble or danger coming their way. “I’ll just be a minute.” In the kitchen, she picked up the remote, and as she passed by the front closet, she reminded herself that her grandfather’s rifle was tucked in the corner, unloaded, but a weapon nonetheless.
As if she needed one.
Face it, Kate, all Jon’s talk has got you wound tighter than a top and now you’re jumping at shadows. Her heart raced a little and she silently called herself a fool. This wasn’t the city, for God’s sake, and this guy certainly wasn’t an ex-prisoner from somewhere in New England. He spoke with a western twang, dressed as if he’d been born in a pair of rawhide boots, and probably had never seen the eastern shores of the Mississippi.
O’Rourke was propped against the railing, his dark hair showing streaks of red in the afternoon sunlight. “Here you go.” She handed him the receiver and his jaw slid to one side. He was probably amused by her caution. He inched his wallet out of the back pocket of his faded jeans and found a card, then punched out numbers and waited. “Hold,” he mouthed, then hit another number. “I hate these things.” Grumbling under his breath, he kept punching, finally stopped and looked at her with steely eyes guarded by thick black eyebrows. “It would help if they’d just connect me to a real person instead of a machine and tape recording—” His head snapped up. “Hell, yes, I’m here. Look, I’m expecting a man to come and hook up my phone…what? Oh. Daegan O’Rourke and I live…” He turned his back to her and concentrated on the phone call.
She couldn’t help studying his backside—shoulders broad enough to stretch the seams of his jacket, trim waist, narrow hips. His jeans were worn and dusty, his boots needed polish, the heels worn down, the back of his neck tanned from hours in the sun. He was frustrated, raking a hand through his hair as he spoke, but there was nothing sinister about him. Nothing suspicious. Just an angry restless man trying to untangle the red tape surrounding Eli McIntyre’s place.
“Well, if it’s the best you can do, then it’ll be fine,” he said, his voice edged in irritation. “I’ll expect him in a couple hours.” As he faced her again, his gaze caught hers and his lips turned downward in agitation. He handed her the phone.
“Everything okay?”
He made a sound of deprecation in the back of his throat. “Looks like the cavalry’s decided to come to the rescue after all. Thanks.”
“No problem…” She heard the bus. The growl of the huge engine was distinctive, and for the first time in her life, she hoped that Jon had caught a ride from another kid and was cruising around town. She didn’t want him showing up while O’Rourke was still here, though she didn’t really understand why. She wasn’t so lucky. Glancing at the road, she caught a glimpse of the mustard-colored school bus flashing through the thicket of scrub pines at the end of the drive. Gravel crunched as huge tires slowed and the doors whooshed open.
Jon, backpack slung over one shoulder, loped through the play of shadows on the rock driveway as the bus lumbered away. Houndog,
who had spent the better part of the afternoon waiting at the mailbox for Jon, barked wildly, darting through the woods and flushing out pheasants and grasshoppers in his path.
“Hey, Mom, guess what?” Jon called before spying the truck in the drive and the man on the front porch. The smile on his face, a smile she hadn’t seen in days, evaporated when his gaze landed full-force on O’Rourke. “Who’re you?” he asked.
“This is our new neighbor, Daegan O’Rourke. My son, Jon.” Her lungs suddenly constricted painfully.
Daegan offered a hand, but Jon ignored it.
“What’s he doing here?”
“Jon,” Kate said sharply though she knew, he, too, had a million questions, all tied into his nightmares. “Mr. O’Rourke just came by to use the phone. He’s moved into the McIntyre place and his isn’t connected yet.”
Daegan leaned against a post supporting the roof. “And you must be the guy who’s been stopping by and taking care of old Eli’s dog.”
The color faded from Jon’s face and a wary look settled in his eyes.
“Jon?” Kate’s eyebrows inched upward though she shouldn’t have been surprised. Jon had been taking more than his share of long walks lately. He missed the old man—the only grandfather type he’d ever known. “Have you been over there?”
“No harm done,” Daegan cut in, his gaze never leaving her son’s face. “Someone needed to look after the hound.”
“Yeah, old Roscoe wouldn’t leave after the funeral and so I—”
“You didn’t tell me,” Kate said, learning more about her boy each day and wondering how she would ever retrieve the reins of control that continually slid through her fingers.
