Aidan nodded agreement.
"I'll keep abreast of the developments in the case and keep tabs on what happens to the child." Ellison shook his head. "Damn shame she was there. She didn't see you kill him, did she?"
"No, I was just on my way out of the room when she walked in."
"We should have sent backup with you," Ellison said. "Someone to watch the house while you were inside. But we thought our information was reliable and we were sure Shaw would be all alone. One man in and out quickly was less of a risk." Ellison breathed deeply, his washboard-lean belly tightening when he inhaled. "We'll never make that mistake again."
"Sir?" Aidan squared his shoulders and stared point-blank into his superior's cool gray eyes.
"Yes, what is it, Colbert?"
"About the child. . .I'd like to be kept apprised of everything concerning her."
"That's not a good idea," Ellison said. "Regardless of how you feel, there can be no personal contact between you and Caroline McGuire."
"I was thinking of impersonal contact, sir. I believe I have a right to care what happens to the little girl."
"You're in the wrong business if you allow yourself to get sentimental over Preston Shaw's stepdaughter," Gavin Robbins said. "A professional assassin cannot afford the luxury of caring about his victim's family."
"Robbins, I'd like to speak to Colbert alone," Ellison said.
Aidan didn't glance at Gavin, but could sense the man's displeasure as he strode from the office. "If there is anything I can do to help the child. . .any way I can. . . All I ask is that I be informed, that I receive frequent updates on her condition."
Ellison rounded his desk, walked over to Aidan and clamped his large hand down on Aidan's shoulder. "I understand what you're feeling. A man's first assignment is never easy. And unfortunately, with your first assignment things didn't go exactly as planned. In time, you won't be as disturbed by mishaps that occur."
"I'm sure you're right. But that doesn't change the facts in this case. Will you or won't you agree to forward all information on the child to me in London?''
Ellison tightened his grip on Aidan's shoulder. "It's against my better judgment. . .but, yes, I'll see that you learn everything there is to know about Caroline McGuire. However, I must warn you that you can never contact her personally or reveal in any way who you are or—"
"Do you think I'd ever want her to know me, to find out that I'm the man who killed her stepfather?"
"You were only doing your job. Preston Shaw had to be eliminated. He had become a very dangerous man."
"But that little girl doesn't know the facts. She isn't aware of what kind of man Preston Shaw really was. She'll spend the rest of her life believing he was good. And the man who killed him—'' Aidan broke off, shook his head and cast his gaze to the floor. He couldn't bear verbalizing his thoughts, couldn't face the truth of how Caroline must feel about her stepfather's executioner. With Preston Shaw's blood fresh on his hands and the memory of the frightened expression on the child's face vivid in his mind, he was having difficulty convincing himself he was one of the good guys.
Chapter 1
David Wolfe tucked the file folder under his arm and picked up the mug of steaming black coffee from the kitchen counter, then opened the door and walked out onto the wraparound porch surrounding his log cabin. The drive from Atlanta had been well worth the hours behind the wheel. Even after all these years, nothing felt as right as coming home to the east Tennessee mountains where he'd been born, where generations of his mother's family had lived and died. The Scottish-Irish settlers had claimed these hills as their own, bringing with them their folklore, superstitions and Celtic music. The proud Cherokees to whom this land had belonged long before the first Pilgrim set foot on Plymouth Rock, except for a few who had hidden away, had been transported via the Trail of Tears to Oklahoma in the early part of the nineteenth century. His half-breed mother's ancestors had been among those few who had escaped and found refuge deep within the Smoky Mountains of Tennessee and North Carolina.
David eased into the large wooden rocking chair, which was constructed of small logs arid matched the porch swing and the other chair to his right. Leaning to the side, he placed his mug on the porch floor, then took the thick file folder from under his arm, opened it and spread it across his lap. The face of a child stared up at him. A picture of Caroline McGuire at age twelve, a school photograph taken several months before her stepfather's death. A plump little girl with short, cropped black hair, her bangs hanging in her eyes. A pair of unforgettable blue-violet eyes. Eyes that had haunted him for fifteen years. Hurriedly, he flipped through the folder. Picture after picture came into view, interspersed among data compiled on an unloved and unwanted child whose own mother had tossed her aside, as if she'd been nothing more than an outdated dress.
David knew as much about Caroline McGuire as anyone on earth did. From the size shoe she wore to her favorite brand and shade of lipstick. For the past five years, she had used an expensive label with a seductive name—Passion Pink. And although she enjoyed going barefoot as much as possible, when she purchased shoes, she bought a size 7B. She collected clocks and had an assortment in her St. Michaels, Maryland, home, as well as her Talbot Street photography studio. She had purchased everything from a cheap resin lighthouse clock to an antique mahogany grandfather clock she had acquired at an estate sale.
She didn't smoke. Had never done drugs. And seldom drank. When she did consume liquor, her drink of choice was a strawberry daiquiri, a concoction as sweet as she was. Although she had numerous friends and had dated a variety of men since her first date at seventeen, she had never been married. Lived alone. And at twenty-seven, was possibly still a virgin.
David flipped through the hefty dossier, removed the information and picture Ellison had faxed him at his apartment in Atlanta first thing this morning., just as David had been heading out the door for his long weekend at the cabin. He dropped the thick folder onto the seat of the other rocking chair, then reached down and picked up his coffee. After taking several swigs of the strong brew, he looked at the picture of Caroline at her mother's funeral a week ago. The snapshot, taken at a distance by one of Ellison's flunkies, showed a somber young woman in a dark suit. Surrounding her were her first cousin, Lyle Jennings, her assistant Roz Turner, her stepbrother Fletcher Shaw, and her old friend Brooke Harper, who was Fletcher's girlfriend.
When David swiped his fingers across the picture, down Caroline's cheek, an odd sensation tingled in his fingertips, as if he had actually touched her skin.
He had sent flowers to the funeral, of course, and signed the card simply David. He would liked to have been there, to have offered her sympathy and comfort, but of course that hadn't been possible. Any personal contact between them was forbidden.
David couldn't help wondering how Caroline felt about losing her mother, a woman who had shipped her off to her aunt Dixie's in Mississippi less than a month after Preston Shaw's death, and for all intents and purposes had deserted her. From what he knew of Caroline, her kind heart probably wept for the woman who had given birth to her. But how did one ever come to terms with the feelings of anger, hurt and resentment one felt for a parent? God knew he had never been able to accomplish that seemingly impossible feat. But Caroline was a better person than he, so maybe for her it was possible.
He reread the hand-scribbled note from Ellison.
Caroline has inherited the house on Sheffield Street from her mother. I cannot imagine that she'll ever want to go back there. Perhaps she will simply turn the place over to a Realtor. I understand that during the years Lenore leased the house, it fell into disrepair. Gavin assures me that Caroline is holding up well. I did tell you that he is dating her, didn't I? They met at a charity auction in Baltimore a few months ago. He's quite taken with her. But then, who wouldn't be? Your Caroline has grown up to be quite a beauty.
Fifteen years ago Ellison Penn had cautioned Aidan Colbert not
to become emotionally involved with Caroline's plight, and yet Ellison had taken a keen interest in the well-being of Preston Shaw's step-daughter. David had always suspected that Ellison shared some of the guilt that had plagued Aidan for nearly thirteen years—until Aidan's "death" in an explosion while on a Peacekeepers assignment in the Middle East more than two years ago.
Aidan Colbert had kept his distance, observing Caroline's life through pictures and reports, helping her financially over the years, yet known to her only as her phantom benefactor, David, a name he had chosen because it had a special meaning to him alone. David Wolfe had been Aidan's maternal great-grandfather, a man who had been much revered by his family.
When Aidan Colbert had died, David Wolfe had risen like a phoenix from the ashes of the bomb explosion that had officially ended Aidan's existence. Then, with Ellison Penn's assistance, he had begun a new life, with a surgically reconstructed face and a fake identity.
I did tell you that he is dating her, didn 't I? It was as if David could hear Ellison's voice speaking the taunting words. Ironic that Gavin Robbins, who had once asked Aidan Colbert why he hadn't eliminated Preston Shaw's stepdaughter, was now dating her. David didn't like the idea of Robbins being involved with Caroline. She deserved better. Robbins, still a gung-ho agent, had been promoted only this past year to second in command, directly under Ellison, whom David prayed never retired. He couldn't imagine someone like Gavin taking over the reins of Peacekeepers International, which was a front for an organization of highly trained men and women who worked as contract agents for the U.S. government and its allies. These handpicked agents lived seemingly normal lives. Their families and friends knew them to be employees of Peacekeepers, experts who worked to secure peace throughout the world, as nongovernment negotiators who fostered humanitarian deeds worldwide. But in truth the job that these men and women performed was to protect the cause of freedom and eliminate any problem that might arise that couldn't be handled through ordinary channels. And a small squad of agents were trained as assassins, prepared to kill on command, when no other alternative existed. Aidan Colbert had been a member of that select few. And so had Gavin Robbins.
David tossed aside the faxed note and picture, letting them sail down and settle on top of the file folder. He rocked back and forth, slowing occasionally to sip his coffee. He would call Ellison tonight. Thank him for the update. And suggest that his old mentor find a way to persuade Robbins to end his relationship with Caroline. He had hoped nothing would come of their dating, had thought she would see through that phony gentleman facade Robbins projected and dump the bastard. He couldn't allow Caroline to waste her life on a man unworthy of her. Out there somewhere was a man he could trust with Caroline's heart and her life. Caroline deserved only the best. And that sure as hell wasn't Gavin Robbins.
Caroline held the key in her hand but could not bring herself to unlock the front door. She had purposely never returned to the house on Sheffield Street and had avoided this area of town whenever she'd come to Baltimore. She wouldn't be here now if Fletcher and Lyle hadn't agreed to accompany her. Of course, she could have simply turned the house over to a Realtor without seeing the place herself. But she felt that this was the final step in putting the past behind her—now and forever. Sometimes she would go days without thinking about that night, but then a memory would flash through her mind and it would all come back to her. Thankfully, with each passing year, the memories faded, became less vivid, and she had long since recovered from the emotional breakdown she had suffered after Preston's death.
You can do this, she told herself. Preston is dead. Your mother is dead. And for all you know the intruder who murdered Preston might be dead, too. None of them are inside this house waiting for your return. Only memories await you, and even the most horrific memory cannot harm you.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Lyle Jennings asked. "I can handle this for you. Or—" he glanced at the other man "—Fletcher can deal with it."
"No." Caroline reached out and squeezed Lyle's hand. Dear, kind Lyle, who was like a brother to her. Lyle's mother had raised the two of them together in her modest Iuka, Mississippi, home. A loving disci-plinearian and fine Christian woman, Dixie Jennings had taken in her brother's child and treated her as if she were her own. "I need to do this myself. But I want to thank you and Fletcher—" she smiled up at her stepbrother ''—for coming with me. I don't think I could do this without y'all."
"To be honest, this is something I need to do, too," Fletcher said. "I haven't been back inside the old house since the day of the funeral. I remember going into the study that day. The house was filled with people, of course, and Lenore was center stage as the grieving widow." When he stole a quick, apologetic glance at Caroline, she smiled reassuringly, letting him know she, too, had understood her mother's penchant for theatrics. "I slipped away into the study. I wanted to see where it had happened."
"Oh, Fletch, I never knew you'd done that." Caroline patted her stepbrother's arm. "How awful for you."
"Yeah, it was. The servants had tried to clean the floor, but the blood had stained the old wood and I could see the spot where Father had bled after he'd been shot in the head."
Caroline had not talked about that night to anyone in a long time. Not since she had completed years of therapy with the psychiatrist in Memphis. Her aunt Dixie had driven her across the state of Mississippi every other week to visit the doctor, an expensive therapist who specialized in traumatized children. To this day she didn't know how much those sessions had cost. Far more than her aunt could afford. If it had not been for David, she wouldn't have gotten the help she had so desperately needed. David, her mysterious benefactor. David, a man who had known her stepfather, had contacted her aunt through his lawyer to offer financial assistance for Caroline McGuire.
"No use putting this off any longer." Caroline inserted the key in the lock, turned it until she heard a distinct click, then twisted the doorknob and opened the front door. She breathed deeply, inhaling to fill her lungs fully before exhaling slowly.
Taking a small, tentative step, she crossed the threshold into the foyer. A sour, musty smell assailed her senses. The stench of an old house, closed up and unused for many years. The only light came from the sunshine pouring in through the open front door.
"I understand no one has lived here for the past four years," Fletcher said, as he moved inside and came to a halt near Caroline. "So, there's no electricity. I suppose we'll have to open up the blinds if we want to take a good look at the place."
Caroline didn't budge. Lyle entered, put his arm around her shoulders and hugged her to his side. "Would you like for Fletch and me to open the blinds to let in some light and raise a few windows to air out the place a bit?"
"Just open the blinds," Caroline said. "Enough so that we can see our way around in here."
"Will you be all right here by yourself while we do that?" Fletcher asked.
Caroline nodded. Yes, she'd be fine—if she didn't go any farther into the house. If she didn't go into the study.
Fletcher and Lyle disappeared, one taking the rooms to the left of the wide foyer, the other the rooms to the right. Caroline forced herself to move. Although the floor badly needed refinishing, wallpaper was peeling off the walls and the white painted woodwork was stained and yellowed, the empty foyer still retained a hint of its former beauty. She could remember the first time she had walked into the house. She'd been seven years old. Shy. Awkward. And uncertain whether or not her new stepfather would like her.
Preston Shaw, tall, slender and elegant in a Cary Grant sort of way, had come out of his study when Caroline arrived with her nanny. She had looked up at the big man, into his handsome, smiling face and sparkling blue eyes and breathed a sigh of relief.
"Well, hello, Miss Caroline," he'd said. "Aren't you a pretty little thing. You'll probably grow up to be every bit as lovely as your mother."
Before that day, no one had ever tol
d her she was pretty. With those few words, Preston had won her heart—and her loyalty—forever. And during the next five years, she had grown to love her stepfather more dearly than anyone on earth. He had been her champion, her defender and her friend. When her mother had been cruel, he had been doubly kind. When her mother had rejected her, he had lavished her with attention. And when he had died, she had lost the only father she had ever known.
Tears pooled in Caroline's eyes. No, you mustn't cry, she told herself. You have already shed enough tears to last a lifetime. Preston wouldn't want you to cry.
"You have such a lovely smile, my dear little Caroline," Preston had told her. "You should use it more often."
A fragile smile quavered on her lips. She blinked away the unshed tears and wandered out of the foyer and up the hallway. Face the worst first. Get it over with. Now! The door to the study stood wide open. Lyle had already opened the blinds and afternoon light poured through the slats, laying stripes of alternating sunshine and shadows across the dirty wooden floor. Since the room was bare of furniture, it appeared even larger than she remembered. A vast empty space.
But suddenly Caroline visualized the way the room had once looked—the way it had looked fifteen years ago. Warm. Inviting. Richly decorated with the best money could buy. In her mind's eye she could see her stepfather. Laughing. Talking. Joking. A personable man, well-liked by everyone.
The images inside her head darkened, fading from joy to sorrow. Preston's body sprawled on the floor. The world globe and its stand toppled. A pool of blood. Fresh. Bright red. And the hooded eyes of a large bearded man standing in the shadows, his hand gripping the weapon that had murdered Preston. Their gazes had locked for a split second. Paralyzing fear. Numbing realization that she was going to die. Shock when he had left the house without harming her. But why had he not killed her, too?
Sweet Caroline's Keeper Page 2
