"Oh, no. Randall ... I'm sorry."
He couldn't look at her. Couldn't look into her clear, dark eyes and see her innocence marred by horror and ugliness. But closer to the truth, he didn't Want her to see the blackness that lay in his own heart. The need for revenge. For murder.
For blood.
Chapter 17
At four A.M., the usually bustling halls of St. Joseph Hospital were hushed with a serenity too precarious to acknowledge. Though she'd never been seriously ill, Addison harbored an irrational dislike of hospitals. It had been in another hospital ten months earlier that she'd been informed of her parents' deaths.
She remembered with perfect clarity the mercurial silence, the buzzing of the overhead fluorescent lights, the smell of isopropyl alcohol and disinfectant, and other unfathomable odors as the on-call physician had relayed the news. She remembered the paging system blaring in the background, the squeak of a nurse's rubber-soled shoes against tile, the cool quiet of the room where she'd slowly lost control.
This was almost as bad.
She couldn't stop thinking about Jack. The terror he must have felt. The helplessness. The pain. She found it inconceivable that anyone could commit such a ruthless act, especially against a man in a wheelchair. She hated the dark side of human nature she'd witnessed in the last week.
She worried about the way Randall was handling it. He'd barely spoken during the endless flights that had taken them from Dayton to Chicago to Denver. Though he tried to conceal it, Addison sensed the fear and the barely controlled rage seething just below the surface. She instinctively knew control was important to him—just as she knew he was clinging to its remnants by a thread. She supposed his need for control was why he'd had such a difficult time dealing with his diagnosis of post-traumatic stress disorder. It only frustrated her more that she couldn't seem to reach him.
Beyond exhaustion, she struggled to keep up as he strode into the surgical intensive care unit. Once through the set of double doors, he made straight for the brightly lit nurses’ station in the center of the ward.
His face looked strained beneath the stark lights, the angles and planes of his features giving him a menacing appearance. A day's growth of black whiskers darkened his jaw. He looked like a man who'd been living on the edge for so long he'd forgotten how to find his way back.
There was a dangerous recklessness in his eyes she'd never seen before. A wildness in his manner that made her wonder just how close he was to snapping. Something frightening and powerful had been unleashed inside him, and she feared for anyone who crossed him.
Neither of the two nurses noticed when they reached the station. Randall put his hands on the counter. "I need to see Jack Talbot," he announced in a voice that dared either of the women to cross him.
A nurse with pretty eye's and short brown hair rose from her stool and smiled tiredly. Her name tag identified her as Susan Morris. A button pinned onto her uniform read: I CAN BE DIFFICULT.
"Are you family?" she asked, coming around the counter.
"He's my brother," Randall's voice was hoarse and hostile.
A quick look told Addison he was quickly nearing the end of his endurance. She wished she could do something to comfort him, but so far her efforts had been rejected.
"How's he doing?" she asked.
The nurse grimaced. "They brought him up from surgery about three hours ago. He's awake and aware. Vitals are stable." She looked at Randall. "His condition is still critical, but you can see him if you want."
They followed her to a room down the hall. Outside the door, she picked up the chart, made a note, and then slipped into the room.
Randall turned to Addison. "Wait here," he said.
Before she could stop herself, she raised her hand and touched the side of his face. A jolt of emotion swept through her when he winced. Such a strong man, she thought. More vulnerable than she'd ever realized and in so much pain.
"Are you all right?" She knew he wouldn't tell her the truth. She knew he wasn't all right. That he wouldn't be all right until this nightmare was over. Looking deeply into his eyes, she wished there was a way she could ease his pain, take away the guilt, but there wasn't. All she could do was be there for him.
Surprising her, he closed his eyes and pressed his cheek into her palm. It was the first offer of comfort he'd accepted. A wan smile touched the comers of his mouth. "Better," he said and walked into the room.
* * *
Randall was sweating when the nurse guided him into the dimly lit room. His eyes were drawn immediately to the single bed, the indefinable heap beneath the white sheets that was his brother. Inwardly, he cursed, both fate and the bastard responsible.
Knowing he couldn't let his emotions get in the way of what lay ahead, he took a deep breath and kept moving. The room was high-tech, even for a hospital, and more closely resembled an operating room, equipped for emergencies, as if that sort of thing happened often in this ward.
Above the bed, two monitors beeped. Lower, an I.V. bag and two larger bags filled with bodily fluids and blood hung like grotesque ornaments. The hiss of the respirator filled the silence with horrible sound.
The sight of Jack hit him like a fist to the stomach. He held his breath, knowing his brother's eyes were on him, knowing he couldn't allow himself to react.
Jack was lying on his back with two small cylindrical pillows cradling his head. A quarter-inch-thick tube ran from the respirator into his mouth. A second, thinner tube protruded from his left nostril.
Feeling a drop of sweat trickle between his shoulder blades, Randall peeled off his parka and draped it over the back of the chair beside the bed. Then he met his brother's gaze. The two men stared at each other for a full minute, weighing reactions, reining in their emotions, giving the other time to do the same. Only Jack would do that for me, Randall thought, struggling to keep the fear and the rage at bay. This wasn't the place for it. He needed to be strong. For Jack. For the woman waiting for him in the hall.
"Hi, big brother." His voice sounded normal as he moved to the side of the bed. "Goddammit,” he whispered as he drew near.
Jack managed a weak thumbs-up.
Randall's chest tightened. "Are you in any pain?"
Jack closed his eyes and shook his head. A thick section of gauze covered one side of his face from temple to chin. Another bandage ran the length of his arm, all the way to his fingers.
As the respirator pumped air into his brother's lungs, Randall watched, wondering how in the hell this could have happened, trying to convince himself it wasn't his fault.
"I should have been there for you," he said.
Jack tried to speak and ended up struggling with the respirator tube. Feeling awkward, knowing that somehow, this was humiliating for him, Randall turned away as the nurse checked the respirator and murmured something about relaxation.
When he turned back, the nurse was gone and Jack's eyes were closed. Randall crossed the room and pulled the ladder-back chair closer to the bed. "Jack?"
His brother's eyes opened and slowly focused on him.
“What the hell happened?"
Jack raised his hand, jiggling the I.V. tubes before letting it fall back to the bed at his side. Even through the pain-killing drugs and the remnants of anesthesia, his eyes took on an intensity that told Randall he had something to tell him.
Randall leaned closer until his face was inches from his brother's. He held his breath against the garlicky odor of anesthesia and the unmistakable stench of singed hair and flesh. "What are you trying to say?"
Jack made a sound that was closer to a groan than an intelligible word.
Suddenly crushed by guilt, overwhelmed by exhaustion and the jagged remnants of his own rage, Randall pulled back and lowered his face into his hands. For the first time in a long time, he felt like crying. Christ, he hadn't even spoken with the doctor, yet here he was questioning a man who was too weak to breathe on his own.
For a moment, the surreal hiss of the
respirator was the only sound. But it was the unmistakable sound of frustration that snapped Randall's head up. Jack raised his hand, flexing his bandaged knuckles. Only when his index finger and thumb came together did Randall realize what he wanted.
Heart pounding, he jumped up and reached for his parka, withdrawing his checkbook and pen. Never taking his eyes from Jack, Randall tore a blank deposit ticket from the book and carried the pen and paper back to his brother.
"Is this what you want?" he asked.
Jack nodded.
Randall put the pen in Jack's right hand, closing his fingers around it. Then he held the back of his checkbook to the paper. "What are you trying to tell me?"
Raising his head slightly, Jack scrawled something on the paper.
Randall looked at the paper. The name scrawled in black ink cut through him like a shotgun blast. Stukins had been right, he thought with disbelief. He stared, his brain refusing to acknowledge the implications or venture to imagine what the repercussions might be.
When he was able, Randall tore his eyes away from the name and looked at Jack. "Addison's father?"
His brother nodded once before closing his eyes and drifting off to a place Randall never wanted to go.
He was gripping his brother's hand when the nurse came in to escort him out. "He needs to rest, Mr. Talbot," she said softly, placing a tray of syringes on a nearby tray.
Barely hearing her for the thoughts rampaging through his beleaguered mind, Randall slipped the deposit ticket into his pocket. "When will the doctor be here?"
"Dr. Gregory usually gets in around six." She slid a needle into one of the I.V. lines. "He should be here in about an hour."
Feeling as though he'd stepped into someone else's nightmare, one that was terrifying and dangerous, Randall left the room, wondering how in the hell he was going to break the news to Addison.
* * *
Addison knew the moment she saw him that the visit had shaken him badly. "How is he?" she asked.
"Sleeping." It was the only answer she got. "Let's go get some coffee. We need to talk."
A stark sense of uneasiness settled over her as they made their way to the hospital cafeteria. He knows something, she thought. Something important. Something terrible.
The cafeteria was a dreary basement room that smelled of vending machine coffee and yesterday's meat loaf. Randall bought two cups of coffee and ushered her to a comer table.
"What did you find out?" she asked when he was seated across from her. "
"Jack told me who your birth father is."
The words struck her with physical force. She met his gaze. Cold wariness poured over her. There was something in his eyes she'd never seen before. Fear, she thought, only darker.
"Who?" She braced for the impending blow.
Randall withdrew the deposit ticket from his pocket and laid it on the table in front of them.
Heart pounding, she lowered her gaze.
Garrison Tate.
Shock spiraled through her. She stared, too stunned to feel anything but disbelief.
Garrison Tate. The name bespoke power and status. He was a political high roller. She'd seen him on television. Handsome. Charming.
A cold-blooded killer.
Her next thought was that Jack had made a mistake. His hacking programs had somehow failed him.
"Garrison Tate." Randall said the name aloud when she didn't speak. "He announced just last month that he would be running for a seat in the U.S. Senate."
"This can't be. There's got to be a mistake." She couldn't tear her eyes away from the scrawling letters. "This is insane. He's a respected politician, for chrissake."
Randall looked over his shoulder in a gesture that sent an icy finger gliding up her back. "Old man Stukins mentioned Yale. We can check to see if Tate went to Yale."
"A crazy old man's ranting doesn't prove anything," Addison snapped back. She refused to believe that such a powerful and respected man would go to such violent lengths to hide his past.
Randall slapped his palm against the table. "Dammit, think about it. Your parents. Agnes Beckett. Jim Bernstein. Jesus, Addison, it fits."
She could only stare at him as the horror seeped into her.
Deep inside, she knew he was right. But the truth was so ugly, she couldn't bring herself to acknowledge it. "I can't believe a respected politician would resort to murder to hide the fact that he has an illegitimate daughter."
"You were conceived through an act of rape. Agnes Beckett was a minor. She was fucking brutalized. You saw the emergency room invoice. God only knows how badly she was hurt, or what else was done to her. That changes everything."
Her stomach clenched. Bile rose in her throat as the reality of his words struck her. She hugged herself against the sudden chill that enveloped her.
"He battered and raped a sixteen-year-old girl," he said harshly. "He bought and paid for McEvoy. He destroyed your birth mother's reputation and the entire, stinking crime was swept under the rug."
Outrage and sadness and an acute sense of injustice sent her heart hammering against her ribs. The pain was so intense, it hurt to draw a breath. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she thought of her birth mother. Sixteen years old. Poor. Uneducated. But with dreams as big as the sky was endless. She would have been dazzled by a handsome young student from Yale. She would have been vulnerable. She would have been without credibility because of her lack of social status.
The perfect victim.
Garrison Tate had forever and irrevocably changed Agnes Beckett's life. In a single, violent act, he had ripped her dreams away and then systematically destroyed her.
Addison choked back a sob. Vaguely, she was aware of Randall reaching for her. Taking her hand. Squeezing.
"I'm sorry," he said.
She lowered her face into her hands. She felt sick inside. Sickened by the fact that she was the product of such a vile act. "God, Randall, it hurts."
"I know, honey. I'm sorry."
"Agnes Beckett didn't deserve that. My parents. Jim. Jack. None of them deserved what happened."
"Neither do you. That's why I'm going to nail that slimy son of a bitch."
She raised her eyes to his. "We need proof. We can't do anything without proof."
Randall scrubbed his hand over his face. "Maybe Bernstein has something in his office we can get our hands on. Whatever Jack was able to come up with was probably burned in the fire. I'll check it out, but it's probably gone."
"What about the newspaper clipping?"
"It's something. It will help. But Stukins will never hold up in court."
"Surely there was some kind of police report—"
"McEvoy said the police records were destroyed. As far as we know that son of a bitch is in Tate's hip pocket."
For the first time Addison felt the full force of the fury burning inside her. So many innocent people senselessly murdered. So many lives destroyed. All so one evil man could get away with his sins.
"We can't let him get away with this," she choked. "I want the bastard to pay."
Randall reached across the table and took her hands in his. "It's going to be a while before the doctor gets here. I need to talk to him. I've got to take care of Jack. In the interim, I'm going to get you checked into a hotel."
"I'm not leaving you. I'm not leaving Jack—"
"You need to sleep." He squeezed her hands. "Neither of us is going to be worth a damn if we don't get some sleep."
She didn't like the idea of separating, but she saw the logic behind it. She wouldn't last much longer without sleep. Neither would he. "You need sleep, too."
"I've got to talk to the doctor first. Then I'm going to check out the office and meet with Van-Dyne. I'll meet you at the hotel in a few hours."
"What are you going to tell Van-Dyne?"
"Everything except that we suspect Tate is involved. We need an ally, and I'll take whoever I can get at this point."
"What if he doesn't believe you?" she asked
. "Let's face it. We're making some wild allegations. The only piece of hard evidence we've got is a twenty-six-year-old newspaper clipping that doesn't name names. Pretty flimsy, considering who we're going up against."
''True, but if I can convince him the attempt on your life and Bernstein's murder are related, I may be able to get him to begin an investigation."
* * *
The drive to the hotel was a twisting, high speed, single-car chase that had Addison clutching the dash and wishing she'd passed on coffee back at the hospital. Randall covered the entire city and half its suburbs at least twice before hauling the Jeep into the parking garage of the Loews Giorgio Hotel just southeast of downtown.
The Perfect Victim Page 23
