by Rebecca York
“Yeah.”
“We could have been killed. He shot at us!”
“Miscalculation,” Hunter said in a mild voice. “Sorry.”
“You could have told us the plan.”
“You would have behaved differently,” Hunter answered, and Brady knew he was telling the truth.
Grace had also gotten to her feet and was standing beside Brady. Addressing Kevin, she said, “It’s okay. We’re here to help you.”
Kevin turned toward her. “The hell you are! They broke into the house. Why should I trust them?”
“Because the man with you is a clone,” Grace told him. “Like you and me. He’s been a member of the Light Street Detective Agency for years. They trust him. He trusts them. And I do, too.”
Kevin swiveled his head and looked at the man beside him. “You’re a clone?” he said. “Prove it.”
Hunter laughed. “I can’t prove it. The man I’m cloned from died before I was…manufactured at a secret government facility called Maple Creek. You were supposed to be used for spare parts. I was going to the Middle East on a suicide mission. Both of us are lucky that we ended up with Light Street instead.”
Behind Brady, Max Dakota spoke. “We should get out of here while the getting’s good.”
“Do I have to keep a gun on you?” Hunter asked Kevin.
The younger version of Brady’s brother shook his head. “I’ll go quietly.”
It was eerie how much he sounded like John Ridgeway. How much he looked like the man.
Hunter lowered his weapon.
“Let me get a few things from the house,” Kevin said.
Brady hung back, figuring that this wasn’t the time for any brotherly bonding, but Grace walked toward the porch. “Can I help you?” she asked Kevin.
“No. I’ll be right there.” He and Hunter disappeared, and Brady waited tensely for several minutes, until they came out again, both carrying duffel bags.
The contingent that had come with Brady and Grace returned to the car. Hunter and Max escorted Kevin to another vehicle. But they were all heading back to the Randolph compound.
Now that they were on their way back, he felt as if they’d taken care of the easy part. He knew what John Ridgeway was like. And getting Kevin to join them in the plan he’d devised was going to be the tricky part.
LATELY, CHARLES HANCOCK had spent too much time waiting beside the phone. This time, when it rang, he snatched up the receiver.
“Did you get him?”
“He was at the farm in Winchester.”
He didn’t like the way the conversation was starting out with a comment in the past tense. “And?”
“And he’s gone.”
Charles didn’t permit himself a curse, not where an employee could hear.
“Did he leave by car? What?”
“A helicopter landed near the farm while we were on the way there. He could have left in that.”
“He arranged it?”
“Don’t know.”
“Come back here, and we’ll regroup.”
“Yes, sir.”
Charles hung up, wishing he could simply eliminate the men who had failed to bring him Lockwood and Cunningham. And now Kevin Parsons. But he didn’t have that luxury, not yet.
Who would have the resources to whisk Parsons away in a helicopter?
He didn’t know but he was going to find out.
AFTER THE HELICOPTER landed at the Randolph facility, Brady glanced toward Grace. He wanted to spend some quality time with her, but she immediately started talking to Kevin. And when she, Kevin and Hunter walked down the hall to the solarium, he knew that butting in was a bad idea. They all had something in common that he could never share. He was jealous, but he knew that if anyone could get through to Kevin, it was the other clones.
Hoping his features didn’t reflect his mood, Brady went back to the lounge with the other agents.
“Have you made any progress locating the Paladin?” he asked Max.
“We have several candidates in mind,” his friend answered.
“What are your criteria?”
“They have to be ‘connected.’ They have to have an unexpected source of money. They have to live in a secure location.”
“That includes a lot of people.”
“Yeah, but there are other factors. We’re assuming he didn’t hatch this plan strictly to make money. He’s also into affecting public policy. And there’s one more big clue—the e-mails of the people Grace told us about. We should be able to see who they contacted before they had their operations.”
“You can hack into their private e-mails?” Brady asked.
“Yeah. We’ll nail him. Then we have to decide what to do.”
“Why don’t you tell us what you’re planning?” The question came from Kevin.
Brady gave the young man a direct look. “A lot of it depends on you.”
“Oh yeah?”
“See what you think about this idea.”
JOHN RIDGEWAY’S funeral had been an ordeal, Ian Wickers thought as he strode into his den. And things weren’t getting any better. After a long meeting with Patrick and Barbara Frazier, he needed a stiff drink. He poured himself two inches of Scotch, then downed half the liquor in one gulp. Feeling a little more in control of himself, he sat down in his easy chair and reviewed the day’s events.
Lydia Ridgeway had been the model widow, although Ian had known she was seething inside. She’d wanted a show of family unity, and Brady Lockwood had not cooperated.
In fact, Brady had vanished off the face of the earth. But that wasn’t Ian’s problem. Thank God, because he was busy dealing with Patrick and Barbara. He could manage Patrick all right. The man was unsure of himself and wanted guidance.
But Barbara was another matter. Lydia had sat back and let her husband deal with business affairs. Barbara was already showing up at Ridgeway Consortium meetings and putting in her two cents. And some of her comments made it seem as if she’d been planning this agenda for a long time.
He’d like to strangle the woman. Instead he kept a polite smile pasted on his face as he listened to her ideas and told her why they wouldn’t work.
He downed the rest of the Scotch, then looked up as the door to his office opened.
“Mind if I join you?” a man asked.
He almost dropped the glass when he saw who was standing in the doorway.
“John?” he asked.
“You could say that.”
“You…you’re dead. We buried you three days ago.”
“Yeah. Inconvenient, isn’t it? It wasn’t supposed to happen this way.”
As the man moved farther into the room, Ian studied him. This was no actor pretending to be John Ridgeway. This was Ridgeway. He walked like Ridgeway, talked like Ridgeway, had that assessing Ridgeway gleam in his eyes.
Ian felt outrage bubbling up inside himself. He’d just gone through hell, and now it turned out to be a trick.
Standing up, he faced the invader with fire in his own eyes. “You faked your death?” he asked. “But why?”
John tipped his head to the side the way he so often did and gave Ian that half smile he’d perfected. It was obvious he was enjoying this surprise meeting.
“No. It’s more complicated than that. Do you remember I was going to spend a few weeks at my vacation home in Jackson Hole?”
“Yes, right.”
“I was going to have a secret operation.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Like I said, it was a secret. A heart transplant.”
“What? You were going to do that—and not in a hospital?”
“I had to because it was going to be illegal.” He paused a beat to let that sink in, then continued. “Illegal because the organ donor was my clone, raised to provide me with spare parts, if I needed them.”
“Okay. I thought you really were John. But you’ve gone too far, whoever you are. That’s preposterous. I don’t believe it. What kind of tri
ck are you trying to pull?”
“No trick. Only, things aren’t exactly what they seem. I’m not John Ridgeway. I’m his clone. He didn’t get a chance to kill me.”
Ian wavered on his feet as though he’d been socked in the chest. “What?”
“As you pointed out, John is dead. You saw his body, for Lord’s sake. You read the autopsy report. You suspected he was murdered. They did it to save my life.” As he spoke, he pulled out a cloth and began wiping makeup off his face.
Ian watched transfixed as John Ridgeway grew younger.
“A hard act to follow,” another man said from the doorway.
Ian’s gaze shot to the newcomer.
“But I think I’ve almost managed it,” Brady Lockwood said. “I think you’ve been looking for me,” he added as he stepped through the doorway. He was followed by an attractive woman whose appearance also made him goggle.
“Barbara?” he asked, the name coming out as a gasp. “What the hell have you been up to?”
“I don’t know. What has she been up to?”
“You’re…”
“Her clone. Like my friend is Ridgeway’s clone. I go by the name of Grace Cunningham. You’ve been looking for me, too.”
Totally confused, Ian dropped back into his chair as he continued to stare at his visitors.
“I assume Barbara has been giving you a hard time,” the woman named Grace Cunningham said. “Acting like she’s going to personally take over the Ridgeway Consortium.”
“Oh yeah.”
Brady Lockwood stared at Ian with satisfaction. “You suspected there was a conspiracy to kill my brother,” he said. “You were right. Only it’s nothing like what you were thinking.” In a level voice he began to lay out the facts for the Ridgeway chief of staff.
Ian listened transfixed, then flicked his gaze to the woman. Like “John,” she had taken off her makeup. Without it, she also looked younger—and a lot less like Barbara Frazier.
“So now you know about the clone conspiracy,” Brady said. “After Karen Hilliard told them who they were, they banded together to save their lives.”
“It’s hard to believe.”
“I’ve brought you living proof. If you want, we can do DNA testing on…Kevin Parsons. That’s the name his adoptive parents gave him. And on Grace. You’ll see they’re exact replicas of the originals.”
Ian sighed, still trying to wrap his head around the new and disturbing information. “I guess you’re not working an elaborate con on me. What do you want?”
“Your help. The doctor who created the clones is dead but the man who came up with this diabolical organ bank is still alive. He calls himself the Paladin. He doesn’t know which of the clones are involved in the mutual protection society, so he’s going after all of them.”
“Who is he?”
“We’ve been trying to find out, and so far we’ve drawn a blank. We thought we could get his name from e-mails to his clients, but it’s not working out. I’m hoping his name will be in my brother’s records. The trouble is, I’m on Lydia’s enemies list. I can’t get near any of John’s computers.”
“How do I fit in?”
“I want you to get us in to see her.”
“She’ll never agree,” Ian snapped.
“Obviously, you can’t tell her you’re bringing us. Maybe you can call and say you need to discuss her pension from the Ridgeway Consortium.” He laughed. “Yeah, any threat to her income will get her attention.”
“Then what?” Ian asked.
“Tell her that you’ll be arriving incognito so as not to alert the press and that the gatehouse should be prepared to let in a van from Woodley Flowers.”
“A van from a flower shop? You’re kidding?”
“No. That’s how we arrived here, as a matter of fact. Don’t let on that the three of us will be with you. And be careful what you say. Her phone might be tapped.”
“Why?”
“Because the Paladin is looking for us. He might assume I’d try to get to Lydia. Which is another reason to go in with you.”
“I’ll do my best,” Ian said as he picked up the phone and dialed. A while ago he’d been wondering if he’d have to quit the consortium rather than work for Patrick and Barbara Frazier. Now his prospects were looking up.
“LYDIA,” HE SAID, when the widow came on the line. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but some important matters have come to my attention. I’m wondering if we could meet this evening. If you can see me, I’d appreciate it.”
“It’s something we need to discuss right away?” Lydia asked.
“Yes. It’s a confidential matter—concerning your finances.”
“Are they at risk?”
“I’d rather not say over the phone. If anyone’s with you, perhaps you should tell them you want to be alone.”
“Yes. All right.”
Feeling like an agent in a spy novel, he added, “To make sure the press doesn’t get onto this, I’m arriving undercover. Tell your gatehouse I’ll be in a flower delivery truck.”
“This is a joke, right?” Lydia said.
“No. And thank you so much for seeing me, my dear,” he added, signing off as quickly as he could.
After replacing the receiver, he looked up to see that Brady had moved to Grace Cunningham’s side and put his arm around her. Interesting. Brady Lockwood had been in pretty bad shape after his wife and daughter had died. Now it looked as if he and Grace were an item. Well, good for him. He deserved some happiness.
But first he was going to have to survive Lydia’s wrath. She’d mentioned Brady off and on over the past few days, and it had never been with affection. She was angry that he’d disappeared, and his failure to attend his brother’s funeral was the last straw as far as she was concerned.
“LET’S GET IT OVER with,” Brady muttered, pretty sure that the confrontation wasn’t going to be pleasant.
They all got into the flower truck which had no windows but comfortable seats in the back. Max Dakota drove.
As they rode to the Ridgeway house, Brady tried to pretend that his stomach wasn’t tied in knots. Last time he’d been there, he’d almost gotten shot.
But security was a lot different than it had been on his previous visit.
“Flowers for Mrs. Ridgeway,” Max Dakota said, and the man in the guardhouse waved them through.
“Pull around to the back,” Brady said, knowing the backyard was screened by trees and shrubbery.
Max parked in front of the four-car garage.
The maid let them in, eyeing Brady with alarm. Apparently the mistress had given her an earful about him.
“She’s in the den. But she’s not expecting you.”
“She’s not going to shoot me, is she?” Brady quipped.
“I wouldn’t be too sure,” the woman answered.
Lydia was sitting on the couch with a glass of Scotch in her hand. More Scotch, Brady thought as the smell wafted toward him. But it didn’t affect him.
Lydia was wearing a floor-length royal-blue dressing gown, and her usually immaculate hair was mussed as though she’d run her fingers through it. Her husband’s death had hit her hard, for a lot of reasons.
She looked up with a sad smile, prepared for a meeting with Wickers. When she spotted Brady, she stood and glared at him.
“You bastard. You left me alone when I needed you. And now you dare to come here. What do you want?”
“You asked me to find out if your husband was murdered,” he said in an even voice. “That put me in considerable jeopardy. I’ve been running for my life.”
“Or drowning your sorrows in a bottle.”
He wanted to say, “Like you.” But he let that go and said, “I came to give you a report and to ask for your help in seeing that justice is done.”
“Get out of here.”
“We need to talk.”
“So you tricked Ian into bringing you here?”
Up until then, Lydia’s total focus had been on Brady.
Finally, she looked at Grace—then Kevin.
When she saw him she gasped. “How dare you? Get him out of here! John asked you to find his illegitimate son, and you have the nerve to bring him to my house.”
Fury contorted her face, and she ran at Kevin, her fists raised. Brady caught her before she could hit the younger man.
“None of this is his fault. Leave him alone.”
Kevin tipped his head to the side. “Now Lydia,” he said. “You’re getting yourself upset for the wrong reasons. Just settle down, and we can have a reasonable discussion.”
She goggled at him, and Brady understood. He’d spoken to her as if he was John Ridgeway, in the same tone of voice.
“I’m not John’s son,” he said more gently.
“But…”
“You knew John was going to have a secret heart transplant,” he went on. “At your Jackson Hole Ranch.”
She answered with a small nod.
“Where did you think he was going to get a heart?”
When she didn’t respond, he said, “You thought he was going to buy one on the black market.”
She answered with a tight nod.
“Actually, before he was thirty, he bought a special insurance policy. A clone he could use for spare parts. Did you know about that?”
“That’s crazy.”
“I’m that clone. I look like him. I talk like him. I have his DNA.”
She shook her head in disbelief, and Brady was sure she hadn’t been in on the plot. She wasn’t a good enough actress to fake her reaction.
“His name is Kevin Parsons,” Brady supplied. “He didn’t know he was a clone until one of the others warned him. They were determined not to let John sacrifice Kevin, so they worked out a plan to save him.”
“You mean kill John to save…his clone,” she said in a gritty voice.
“They were protecting themselves.”
Grace spoke for the first time. “And they had help from someone who wanted John out of the way,”
Lydia’s head snapped toward her. “Who are you? You look familiar, but I can’t place you.”
“Because I had plastic surgery to disguise my appearance. I’m the clone of Barbara Frazier.”
Lydia studied her. “Yes, I can see that—even with the alterations. Your eyes…”
