Found Wanting

by Joyce Lamb

  Her mother's attitude was just as frustrating as her father's. Both made her feel as though she were a bad child just because she wanted to control her own life.

  In spite of their objections, she had done quite well as a journalist and looked forward to a promising newspaper career. But, according to her parents, success could be measured only in dollars and cents. The size of her paycheck was a pittance compared with the one waiting for her at her father's investment banking firm. In their eyes, she was a failure.

  Over the years, Meg had remained stubborn. She was civil to her parents, spent holidays with them, exchanged mostly pleasant phone calls at least once a month with her mother. She loved them. They were her parents, her family. They were all she had. She'd often wondered what her life would have been like if her father had been broke.

  Of course, she'd never know. Her parents had died in the accident, and she had inherited their money. Every last penny, certificate of deposit, bond, mutual fund and stock. Except her father took one last shot at exerting some control over her life: no money until you're married and have a kid. Take that, you ungrateful brat.

  Dayle joined her at the balcony's railing. "Did it help to move more than a thousand miles away from the memories?" she asked.

  Meg nodded. "A little. I didn't like who I was there."

  "Are you different here?"

  Meg laughed softly. "Not yet. It's only been a month."

  "So there's still time."

  "Yeah." She tipped her glass to capture an ice cube and crushed it between her teeth.

  Dayle turned and braced her elbows on the railing so she could see Meg's face. "Where are you in the search for your biological parents?"

  Meg held up her empty glass. "I need a refill. How about you?"

  "No, thanks."

  Meg went inside to mix herself another drink. "Mother didn't leave me a hell of a lot to go on. Just the letter in the safe-deposit box that said I was adopted from a Fort Myers couple." The alcohol in her system made her feel clumsy, but the shaking had subsided.

  Dayle leaned a shoulder against the door. "Have you turned up anything yet?"

  "I have no idea where I was adopted, in what county or state, so I haven't gotten very far. My parents' lawyer is still trying to track down the paperwork." She swirled the alcohol in her glass. "How about that pizza? There's a place not far up the beach. Want the usual?"

  "Double everything. I might waste away."

  Meg laughed as she picked up the phone to place the order. When she was done, Dayle was holding up an ashtray that she'd found on the balcony. "What the hell is this?"

  Meg chastised herself for not getting rid of it. "What's it look like?"

  "Since when do you smoke?"

  "I tried it briefly."

  "Why?"

  Meg shrugged. "It was something different. I was bored."

  Dayle gave her an incredulous look. "That's really messed up, Meg."

  Taking the ashtray from her, Meg dumped it in the trash in the kitchen. "Don't worry about it, Dayle. I did it for a week and couldn't stand it. It's a filthy habit. Okay?"

  "What other filthy habits have you been trying on for size?"

  "Nothing. It was stupid. Where were we?"

  Dayle paused, her gaze searching Meg's face. Apparently satisfied by what she saw, she said, "We were talking about your mom's letter."

  Meg nodded, remembering that that subject wasn't necessarily attractive either. "Right."

  "What else did she say in it?" Dayle asked.

  "Standard stuff. 'We always thought of you as our own. We wanted to tell you, but we didn't want you to be hurt.' Blah blah blah."

  "They must have had reasons that seemed like good ones at the time, Meg."

  "Guess I'll never know, will I?" She choked up but forced the emotion back. She shouldn't have had so much alcohol so fast. The feelings were so much harder to control when her guard wasn't solid.

  "It's okay to be upset," Dayle said gently.

  Meg dumped the rest of her drink in the sink and rinsed the glass. "They denied me the right to know whether someone else out there belongs to me, Dayle. Now that they're gone, now that no one is left..." She trailed off, swallowed. "I'm alone now. Truly alone."

  "You're not alone," Dayle said.

  Meg looked up and smiled. Dayle was one of her few real friends. She loved Dayle's whole family, seeing in their closeness what she had longed for in her own. Those qualities had drawn her to the Richmonds when she and Dayle had been kids: warmth, caring, laughter. The chaos of their home -- Dayle had four brothers and two sisters -- had been a welcome respite from the silent chill at her own house. The Richmonds had made a fine surrogate family, and Meg sometimes wondered what kind of person she would have become had they not been there for her.

  Dayle said, "I understand your need to make a connection with someone after what happened with your parents. But do you think this hunt for the people who gave you away twenty-eight years ago is the answer? I hope you're not expecting to find an instant family to replace the one that let you down."

  "Hell, I don't know what I'm looking for. An anchor, I guess. A connection of some kind. Distraction maybe. I have to do something besides work and think about how they died before my father and I could resolve our issues."

  "You resolved them as much as possible, Meg. I know it wasn't to your satisfaction, but you did what you could. He wasn't willing to accept your choices, and that's not your fault. You tried to make him understand. He should have been proud of you, and I think he was."

  "Why would he have been?"

  "Why not?" Dayle demanded. "Your life will calm down eventually. Give it time." She blew out a breath. "God, I know how trite that sounds."

  Meg smiled, loving her for being everything she could have asked for in a friend. "Don't worry about it. You're a good listener, and that's exactly what I need. I'm going to change out of these work clothes before I go pick up the pizza." At Dayle's questioning look, she gave a rueful shrug. "Carry-out's cheaper, and it's a short walk."

  Dayle laughed. "Think you'll be so frugal when that trust fund kicks in?"

  "Like it ever will."

  "Optimism, Meg. I'll introduce you sometime."

  In the bedroom, Meg pulled on faded blue jeans, a white tank top, black sweatshirt that she left unzipped and ragged Nikes. On her way to the door, she slipped some money and her keys into a jeans pocket. "Make yourself comfortable. I'll only be a few minutes."

  "Want some company? I'd feel better if we went together," Dayle said. "Considering."

  Meg thought of Mr. Armani. "Okay."

  * * *

  The beach was dark. Clouds hung low overhead, muting the scuffing of their shoes as they walked along the water's edge where the sand was packed and easier to navigate.

  "It's so peaceful," Dayle said. "Listen to the waves."

  For thirty nights, the rhythmic beat of the waves had soothed Meg to sleep. The immensity of the Gulf awed her, making her feel vulnerable and content at once. On a bad day, its vastness had a way of snapping life back into perspective. She'd needed that, depended on it.

  Dayle glanced anxiously over her shoulder.

  "What is it?" Meg asked.

  "I thought I heard something."

  "Probably tourists." She turned and saw the dark outlines of two men about ten yards behind them. They were casual, unhurried. One of them was smoking, and she heard laughter.

  The scrape of shoes on sand-covered rock drew Meg's gaze to a low cobblestone wall that separated the beach from a vacant lot. Another dark outline, also a man, was less casual, somewhat furtive.

  "What the hell?" Dayle said under her breath.

  "They're only tourists," Meg said, but she wasn't as certain as she sounded. In the past month, she had taken many solitary walks along this stretch of beach and had not once felt uneasy. If it had not been for the bizarre encounter at the airport, she wouldn't have thought twice about sharing the beach with strangers tonight.<
br />
  "Just keep walking," she said. "The pizza place isn't that far. There'll be people all over."

  A minute later, Meg glanced back. The men were less than fifty feet away. No longer casual. No longer laughing. The one with the cigarette flicked it away, and she heard the sizzle when it hit the water.

  Fear made her breathing shallow. She and Dayle were pretty much surrounded, with the Gulf to their left, the two behind them and the other one on the wall who seemed to be guarding the quickest route to public places and safety.

  "Dayle."

  "Yeah?"

  "I think we're in trouble."

  "Shit."

  "Our best bet might be to make a run for it."

  "Shit."

  "The pizza place is straight ahead. There's a red neon palm tree on the side of the building."

  "Where are you going?"

  Meg heard the alarm in her friend's voice and glanced at her. She was paper white. "Just telling you in case we get separated."

  "Damn it, Meg."

  "Don't look back. It'll slow you down."

  "Meg --"

  "Go!"

  They broke into a flat run. Behind them, someone swore, and two pairs of heavy feet pounded the sand.

  A grunt sounded from the right, and Meg saw the man from the wall scrambling up from where he had sprawled in the sand. He charged toward her and Dayle like a greyhound after the mechanical rabbit.

  Dayle sprinted ahead of Meg and looked back.

  Meg desperately waved her on. "Go, go, go!"

  A high-rise towered several yards ahead, just beyond the low wall that was no longer being guarded. She was ahead of the third man now, having gained precious yardage when he'd fallen. Veering across the beach toward the wall, she prayed they would follow her and not Dayle and that she would be able to outrun them. The drier sand slowed her down, made the muscles in her calves cramp as the toes of her shoes sought purchase in the shifting granules. She heard Dayle call her name, a frantic warning.

  Shit shit shit.

  She was within feet of the wall, mere steps away, when a hand landed squarely between her shoulder blades and shoved. She had time only to raise her hands to protect her face as she crashed into the cobblestone wall. Pain exploded through her right shoulder -- the point of impact -- and her right knee, which took the rest of the brunt of the fall. She didn't have a chance to roll, play dead or scream before fingers caught in the back of her sweatshirt and tried to jerk her up. She wriggled out of the sleeves, found freedom and tried to scramble away before a hand landed hard on her shoulder and spun her around.

  A scream from the beach -- Dayle! -- choked off.

  Meg tried to fall back from the man who'd grabbed her, saw over his shoulder the third man racing toward them. He had something in his hand. A gun?

  A fist smashed into her jaw, and Meg hit the sand, her head striking the ground with a dull thud. Grit crunched in her teeth as she lay still, stunned.

  Fingers curled into the front of her shirt and hauled her into a sitting position. Battling a wave of dizziness, she tried to focus on the face thrust near her own.

  "Slater's gonna be happy to see you, Margot."

  Meg fought the tide of blackness that welled behind her eyes. And lost.

  * * *

  "Let her go!" Ryan aimed the gun at the guy's leathery face. His hand was shaking and he was out of breath after the mad dash from the wall, where he'd been trying to discreetly follow the two women. He'd noticed the two men behind them, had watched incredulously when they'd made their move. He hadn't thought after that, had just reacted.

  Now, one of the women, the blond one, was slung over the shoulder of the other man, who stood several feet away, silent and wary.

  The woman Ryan was interested in was unconscious, her assailant's fingers still curled into the front of her tank top, her head lolling on her shoulder. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her attacker glared at Ryan. "This isn't any of your business, mister."

  Ryan cocked the gun. "I'm making it my business. Let her go and keep your hands where I can see them."

  The guy released her, letting her fall back into the sand, and raised his hands in a placating gesture. "You don't want to do this, man. Believe me."

  "Too late."

  "My boss is going to be really pissed if you don't back off," the man said. "You don't want this guy pissed at you." He nodded at the woman on the ground. "Ask her."

  Ryan glanced at her, saw her chest rise and fall, then focused on her attacker. "So you're working for someone. You and your friend aren't just out here looking for a little fun."

  "Right. We're on a job." His weathered skin wrinkled as he smirked. "Retrieving the one that got away."

  "Well, I'm not backing off."

  "Maybe we can work something out."

  "Seems to me I'm the one holding the cards here," Ryan said, gesturing with his gun.

  "My friend back there, he's got one of those, too. I'm pretty sure he could get to it faster than you could shoot."

  Ryan looked at the other man, narrowed his eyes in a dare. "Go for it."

  No one moved, and Ryan's lips formed a satisfied smile even as his stomach constricted. "The deal is this: I want to meet with your boss. All I want is answers. He tells me what I want to know, he can have her. If he fails to show, I turn her over to the feds and she can give them the answers they're looking for."

  "You're nuts, man. You don't know what you're dealing with."

  "Then I'm about to find out, aren't I?"