Brandon's Bride

by Alicia Scott

"I know, sweetheart. I know." It had been a long time since Victoria had been hugged by her father, but he took her in his big burly arms as if she was a little girl and he could make the boo-boo go away. She rested her head against his shoulder.

  She said, "I love him."

  "I'll have Deputy James follow him."

  "What if he never comes back?"

  "He cares about you, too, Vic. Even if he can't admit to it yet."

  But it was hard to believe that as she stood on the porch and watched Brandon Ferringer drive away. He didn't look back. He didn't say goodbye. She saw his lips moving in the rearview mirror, and she swore she heard him speak.

  "Time to deal. Time to deal."

  * * *

  Brandon didn't think anymore. He didn't feel. He didn't listen to the rapid pounding of his heart or the low buzzing filling his ears. He drove, his hands tight on the wheel. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he was aware of the police car that caught up with him and dropped two car lengths back.

  The sheriff didn't matter. The deputy didn't matter. This wasn't about professionals anymore. Everything was personal now. Maximillian the Chameleon's oldest son had had enough.

  He yanked his car to the side of the road at the top of Bud's hill. He grabbed the 1955 Tillamook yearbook. And he grabbed Ashley Jacobs's locket.

  The Dobermans started snarling the moment he approached the gate. One foaming, high-strung beast flung himself at the wrought-iron bars. Brandon kept his eyes on the security camera. He raised the yearbook and dangled the locket.

  "Open up!" he yelled.

  The dogs started to bay.

  "I'm not going away, Bud Irving. You can fire your rifle, you can turn loose your dogs, but I'm going to stand here until bloody hell freezes over. I'm Maximillian Ferringer's son, and I want answers."

  The gate didn't open. The security cameras didn't turn away. The dogs kept snarling, growling low in their throats and chomping at the bars. Behind Brandon, Deputy James climbed out of his car and unsnapped his holster.

  "This isn't about you," Brandon said without turning around.

  "All the same…"

  The gate abruptly creaked open. The dogs shut up, backing up and appearing startled. They ran from side to side, never crossing in front of the gate, whimpering with confusion. One took a halfhearted lunge forward, then yelped and recoiled sharply. They slunk back.

  Electric collars and underground wires, Brandon realized. Crazy Bud Irving had blocked off a narrow path leading to his house.

  Brandon followed it.

  The roofline was just visible from the gate. Rolls of barbed wire rimmed the gutters and kept anyone from making a roof assault. As he grew closer, Brandon could see that the yard had been gutted—all trees and shrubs removed until a fifty-foot bald perimeter surrounded the house while huge, three-hundred-watt searchlights were poised to banish all shadows and obliterate all secrets. No demons would be creeping up on Bud Irving in the middle of the night.

  In the middle of the barbed wire, metal lights and rotating cameras, the house sat huddled on its foundation, a single-story, run-down rancher, clearly out of its league. The shutters hung crookedly. Shingles were loose on the roof. Bud might care about his security system, but he'd left the house alone, and it was worse for the wear.

  Brandon knocked on the front door. When no one answered, he twisted the knob and walked in.

  Bud Irving greeted him in the entry with a shotgun pointed at his chest.

  "I hate you," Bud Irving said.

  "I don't care," Brandon said and shut the door behind him.

  * * *

  "Tell me about her. Tell me about that night." Brandon paced in front of Bud Irving, dangling the locket. The older man's eyes followed it almost fanatically, his tongue wetting his lips.

  Bud Irving didn't resemble his dashing high school portrait anymore. Tillamook's star running back had become a hunch-shouldered old man whose fears had twisted his features. Yellow-gray hair covered his scalp in clumps, obviously in need of a wash and comb. His shirt was stained, the red flannel frayed at the cuffs and buttoned incorrectly. His jeans hung on his bony frame and his feet were bare.

  The whole room had the musty, rank odor of a cellar that hadn't been aired in a long, long time. The ceiling was cracked. The hardwood floor was stained. The few pieces of Salvation Army furniture were covered in inches of dust.

  Brandon ignored all of it. He kept his gaze on Bud's trembling form and watched the man's finger caress the trigger of the rifle.

  "I could shoot you." Bud stared harder at the picture. "She wouldn't like it, though. She never liked violence. Guns scared her. They never understood that, but I did. Too much violence. My baby, my baby, my baby."

  "What happened that night?"

  "I can't tell you. I swore, and I keep my word. I was never big, never smart like them, but I was loyal. You tell Al that, see what he says."

  "Do you know where Al is?"

  "Gone, I think. Kaboom, but they never found his body so you can't be sure. Tough son of a bitch. You gotta watch out. I check the cameras every night. No Al, no Al. Thank God, no Al."

  "Did you leave the house today? Did you shoot the man trying to kill me?"

  "Trying to kill you?" Bud recoiled sharply and his face turned ashen. "They're back, they're back! I knew they would come back. It never ends. I resigned. I kept my word and never went back, but no one cares. They always remember what you did. So many ghosts in the closet. So many ghosts. You can hear them whispering at night and the searchlights can't find them. Nope, they slide right on through."

  Brandon hunkered down. "Bud, is my father dead?"

  "Never found the body," Bud whispered. "Never found the body."

  "Is Coleton Smith Maximillian?"

  "Who is Coleton Smith?"

  Brandon closed his eyes. This wasn't going to be easy. He held the locket closer, swung the picture in front of Bud's rheumy blue eyes.

  "Tell me, Bud. I need to know."

  Bud shook his head.

  "I am his son. I have the right! Why was my father carrying Ashley Jacobs's picture?"

  Bud's face crumpled. He held out his hand for the locket, and his fingers were trembling.

  "Please," he whimpered in a quavering voice, "please. Give me back my wife."

  And then Brandon began to understand.

  * * *

  First Brandon traded the locket in exchange for the loaded rifle, which Brandon set on the floor. Unarmed, the man seemed to shrink into himself. He clutched the locket against his chest, rocked back and forth and expelled the happenings of that night in fits.

  Ashley had been pursued by Bud, Al and Max that summer. She was sweet, beautiful and easy to talk to. She didn't flirt, didn't play games like other girls did. Ashley was sheltered, almost a complete innocent. You looked at her and you wanted to take care of her. You wanted to be her hero because she was the kind of delicate, sweet woman who made you feel like a man.

  They were all smitten, though none of them had the requisite fortune. They were, however, young and handsome and much more fun than the stuffy suitable men clambering for her attention. They also made lots of cash in their line of work and they didn't mind spending it. In the summer of 1959, they knew how to have fun.

  Max led the chase, as he'd led in everything all their lives. The star quarterback and class president was always the one who got the prom queen, while Bud and Al settled for the prom queen's two friends.

  But not this time. Al wanted Ashley. Smaller, rough around the edges, he was tough and sometimes mean. His father had used him as a punching bag a lot, and Al had inherited his temper. But in a good mood, he came up with the best ideas and he could be counted on in a scrape. If Max couldn't talk their way out it, Al could blast their way out with a pugilist's skill.

  And then there was Bud, quick, small, quiet Bud, who was always tagging along for the ride. He caught Max's perfect tosses and plodded to the end of the field while Al made the strategic blocks.
They were showmen and he was the audience.

  Except in Ashley Jacobs's eyes. She saw a quiet man. She saw a sensitive man. She saw a man who would never hurt her the way her father did.

  And gradually, over the course of that summer, she came to tell Bud all the things she never told anyone else about what went on in John Jacobs's big fancy mansion at night. She danced with Max. She laughed with Al. She gave her heart and plotted her escape with Bud.

  August fifteenth. Such a night. You could hear the crickets, and it was warm and balmy. Not too hot, like it could get in August. Not too dry. A perfect night. She came to their cabin on a social call, perfectly on the up-and-up. For the last month, she'd been arriving wearing one set of clothes beneath another. She would take off the inner garment and leave it behind with the bits of jewelry and cash she'd spirited out. Finally, she was ready.

  When she showed up August fifteenth, Bud had all their things packed. They would drive to Idaho, then head into Canada. There, they would start over under new names. Bud had already gotten them the new ID. Her father would never be able to find them.

  They had no illusions about what would happen if he did.

  Bud had accounted for everything—except Al.

  Al had returned early that night. He'd been playing poker at the lodge, losing heavily and drinking even more. He spotted Bud, Ashley and the suitcase and became immediately belligerent. Bud could tell simply by the look in his eye that Al was in one of those moods.

  Slowly but surely, Bud edged Ashley toward the door. Ashley loved him, Al kept crying. She was just using Bud. No one could love Bud. Bud wasn't much of a man.

  It was gonna get ugly.

  Bud got Ashley into the car. She curled up in the back seat, trembling. Right before he shut the door, Bud looked at her face. She was terrified. His sweet Ashley, whom he'd sworn to protect, was scared to death.

  Bud found his strength. All his life he'd played second fiddle. Not tonight. Bud quietly took off his jacket and prepared to fight.

  Just then, Max arrived.

  It took him just a moment to apprise the situation, but then Max had always been the bright one. His jaw was set. He looked at Ashley hunched in the back seat, he looked at the packed bag, and he looked hurt. Generally, it was hard to tell what Max thought about a woman, he'd had so many. But maybe he had thought Ashley was special. Maybe he'd thought she was the one. Who knew?

  Max turned to Al and quietly told him to stand down. Ashley had made her choice, and they should respect it.

  Al, however, turned on Max with fury. He charged his best friend and they went down in the dirt. Bud sprang forward, then heard Ashley's cry.

  "Come on," she whispered frantically. "Please come on."

  Bud looked at his wrestling friends and he looked at his soon-to-be wife. He made his decision. As he drove away, he saw Max and Al rise out of the dirt.

  They were standing, and each of them had a gun.

  "But they didn't shoot each other," Brandon interrupted. "They both lived after that night."

  Bud nodded against the locket. "Yes, but Al didn't give up. He went a little crazy after that night, you know. And I should know." For a moment, his lips curved.

  "We made it to Canada, Ashley and I. I quit the business. We settled in with our new identities. I didn't tell anyone but Max where we were. He was the only one—our parents, our friends, everyone else we let go. That's hard, people don't know how hard that is. So hard. But we had to keep Ashley safe. Max came by. Good friend Max, all we had left. He told us about Al. Crazy Al. Turncoat Al. Who would've known? I swear we were careful."

  Bud became earnest. "It wasn't a great life, but Ashley understood. I gave up the business for her and she liked that, she did. Max and Al, they never understood that. Ashley didn't want money or diamonds or pearls. She needed to feel safe, my sweet baby. She needed someone to hold her and keep her together. Poor, sweet, scared, baby. I love you."

  His voice warbled. "She loved me, too. She did. Oh, Lord."

  "What happened?" Brandon asked gently.

  "Ashley disappeared," Bud whispered. "My baby disappeared," and his lower lip began to tremble.

  "Ten years, not such a bad life, I swear not such a bad life, and I never let my guard down. Never, never, never. We heard stories of Al and John Jacobs. Mr. Jacobs had money, but Al had contacts, Al had skills. I know those skills, I helped him develop them, I didn't forget, I swear I didn't forget. I'd promised I would protect her. I promised, I promised, I promised."

  "I know," Brandon said, "I'm sure you did. I'm sure Ashley knows that you did your best."

  Bud Irving was rocking back and forth rapidly. He chewed on his thumbnail.

  "I let him get her."

  "Who, Bud? Who?"

  "Al liked to hide bodies," Bud whispered. "That was his signature. He thought it gave him style. He didn't just pop people, he orchestrated it, you know."

  "What?"

  "Found her car parked on the side of the road, August fifteenth, 1969. She was going to the beauty parlor to have her hair done for our anniversary dinner. No signs of a struggle, they say. I bet she begged. I bet she pleaded. My poor baby, my poor baby."

  "Oh, my God," Brandon said.

  "They never found a trace. Gone, poof. Ten years was all we had, and she deserved so much better. She was just starting to walk around without trench coats and sunglasses. Starting to feel strong enough to do things alone. I told her I would protect her from her father, and then I let my best friend kill her. I failed. I failed. I failed…"

  Bud began to cry silently. The love of his life had disappeared, and he'd returned to Beaverville, the place where he had found her, the place where maybe she'd return. But he knew in his heart she was dead—Al got her, and Al never left things undone. Bud lived out his days alone and terrified, and every year John Jacobs showed up with his picture and lanterns and prayers. The hypocritical bastard pretended he loved and missed Ashley, too, while Bud called upon her spirit to keep him from killing the man.

  John Jacobs would never learn where his daughter had gone on August fifteenth, 1959. Bud had kept his word. The promise was the only thing of his wife's he had left.

  Brandon took his hand. "Did you kill Al?" he asked gently. "Is that why Al Simmons disappeared the next year?"

  Bud shook his hand. "I couldn't. I quit the business. I promised Ashley no more. Max did it, I think. It was overdue. You gotta kill the rabid dog. Everyone knows, you gotta kill the rabid dog."

  "My father killed Al? Did he tell you this?"

  "I never saw Max again. Didn't even come to the funeral. But maybe he couldn't. The business was like that. Orders came first. By then, he probably had his."

  "Orders to do what?"

  "Orders to kill Al, of course. He'd gone Commie."

  "Bud, what was it you guys did?"

  Bud looked at him blankly. "We were fix-it men, of course. We killed people."

  * * *

  When Brandon emerged from the house, the sun was gone. Bud turned on the searchlights, and the light was too bright, burning Brandon's eyes. He staggered down the narrow path, the Dobermans growling and snarling at his heels, and headed for his car.

  Deputy James was still at the side of the road. Brandon didn't look at him, didn't speak to him. He got into his car and drove.

  His father was an assassin. His father may have killed his best friend.

  Kaboom, Bud Irving whispered in his mind.

  The truth was too raw and bitter to be borne. His father had been some kind of government agent. He'd followed orders. He'd done as he was told. He'd been working for the good guys, but doing the kinds of things that even after all these years no one wanted exposed.

  It made so much sense. The job he never spoke about. The vague travel itineraries. The need to always have cash.

  The phone call C.J. had received six months ago. You're almost as good as your father. You're just a little too straight.

  Brandon Ferringer, you just lear
ned your father didn't leave you all those times to make money—he was killing people. Your father was a spook. How does that make you feel?

  Brandon drove faster. Beaverville whizzed by and the pine trees rose dark and thick along the road. His eyes were burning. He didn't know why. It was so long ago. Why should he care about what happened so long ago?

  Except Julia died just four years ago, shot down after asking questions about Max. And then there was the fire in Victoria's stables, the car that had aimed for them both. The man who had pulled out a gun and the person who'd shot him.

  So much violence. Julia. Victoria. Julia. Victoria.

  He pulled to the side of the road savagely. He was out the door while it was still rolling to a stop.

  And then he was running. Thundering through the black, inky woods, tree limbs whipping at his face and snatching his skin. He ran hard through the darkness, the pine needles soft, the lava rocks tricky.

  He finally burst into a clearing. The moon was full and waxy overhead. An owl hooted mournfully.

  Brandon fell to his knees. In the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fifty-foot pine trees and a midnight sky, he raised his head and he screamed.

  "Damn you, Max! Damn Max Ferringer!"

  * * *

  Victoria woke with a jolt. She sat abruptly and froze. He stood at the foot of her bed, swathed in shadows.

  "I walked here," he said hoarsely. "I wasn't followed."

  "Brandon, what's wrong?"

  He remained perfectly still. She could see the tension tightening his shoulders, the arms pulled against his torso, the hands balled into fists. Brandon Ferringer was walking the edge of some razor-sharp precipice, and at any moment, he could tumble over.

  She threw back the sheets. She swung her bare legs over the edge of the mattress and approached.

  His eyes glittered in the darkness. She could feel his gaze raking her exposed white limbs and her tangled blond hair.

  "It's all right," she whispered. "It's all right now."

  She placed her hands on his shoulders gently and settled her body against him. He was rock hard, and the rage that emanated from him startled her.

  "My father was an assassin."

  She kneaded his arms, trying to soothe him.