Another turn and she was on a main road. She saw a cab and hailed it.
She would take the first train to Washington, then take a plane from there. Thank God she had a credit card with a photo on it.
She would go to the cabin, and both she and her mother would disappear for a few days. She would hear the whole story, then together they could decide what to do.
It was nearly two in the morning when Sam reached Steamboat Springs in the car she’d rented at the Denver Airport. Thank God, she had a gold card, which expedited the procedure, and she didn’t need a driver’s license. There had been no commuter flights until the next day.
She was dead tired, and her arm burned like the furies, though she’d had the taxi drop her at a small emergency care office in Boston before she’d gone to the train station. Her arm had required ten stitches, but it had stopped bleeding.
She’d had precious little sleep during the past few days, and her eyes wanted to close despite the wide but winding interstate with its sharp turns and shoulders that plunged hundreds of feet down.
She continued to glance in the rearview mirror window to see whether or not someone was following her. She hadn’t relaxed since she’d first sat in the driver’s seat of the rental car, though she usually enjoyed driving.
She’d planned to drive up to the cabin, but she desperately needed some fresh clothes and sleep and she didn’t know if she could last that long. Better to stop at home, get a change of clothes, then stay at a hotel tonight. She didn't want to stay in her own house. Not after those shots last night and this afternoon.
Yet, Boston was the dangerous place. Not Steamboat Springs. Still, she meant to take a few precautions. She was aware now.
She circled her neighborhood twice before parking several streets away and moving stealthily through the shadows and trees to the back of her house.
She hesitated. Suddenly she wasn’t sure she wanted to go inside. She kept remembering what had happened there just a few days ago. But, dammit, she wasn’t going through the rest of her life in hiding.
She would purchase a gun in the morning before going to the cabin. Her father—David Carroll—had taught her how to shoot when she was sixteen. She’d practiced occasionally since then, but her pistol had been stolen from her car in Washington. She’d never bought a new one. Why supply criminals?
Another reason she’d never replaced it was her mother’s dislike of guns and her disapproval when David Carroll had insisted their daughter learn. Now that aversion took on new dimensions. Had she hated guns because of the Merritta family’s fondness for them?
Sam found the extra key she kept beneath a stone and unlocked the back door. She hesitated, letting her eyes get used to the darkness. She took off her shoes so she wouldn’t make any sound, then padded to her room and quickly packed a suitcase. She wanted a cup of coffee, but she didn’t want to stay here that long.
Her answering machine light blinked. She went over to it. The readout indicated eight messages. The first six were all business oriented. The seventh was from her mother. “Now that Paul is dead, I don’t think there’s any reason to stay at the cabin. Call me at home when you get here, sweetie. We need to talk.”
Sam’s thumb slipped off the play button. Why hadn’t she told her mother about the shootings? Because she hadn’t wanted to worry her. She had thought her mother would stay at the cabin. Now…
She quickly dialed her mother’s house. No answer. She should have been there. Her mother did not wander at night, particularly when she expected to see Sam. Fear rippled down her spine.
Sam grabbed her extra set of keys from a drawer and ran back to her own car, fumbling the key into the ignition. Her mother’s house was just a few moments away.
Be there. Be all right, she prayed.
The house was dark, the driveway empty. She used her key to open the door, wishing she had that gun.
The house was neat as always. No sign of her mother, or of an intruder. Nothing was out of place.
As she had at her own house, she moved through her mother’s condominium carefully. She paused occasionally to listen for a sound. Any sound.
No one downstairs. She went up to her mother’s bedroom. The bed was made. The bathroom looked unused. Not a drop of water in the sink or bath.
She went to the kitchen and froze. A note was attached to the fridge by a magnet. Sam read it slowly, measuring every word.
Dear Samantha…
I’m sorry to leave when you planned to return home, but once I arrived, 1 noticed that someone had been in the house. I didn't think I should stay here and I was afraid to go back to our place. I also need time before I talk to the FBI. Time to put things in order. I contacted a friend who found a safe place for me to go. He’ll be looking out for you, too. I couldn’t reach Terri, but I know she can take care of the gallery while I’m gone and until you return.
I hope you found what you needed to find.
Don’t worry about me. I’ll be back in a few days.
In the meantime, you have my lasting love.
Mom
It didn’t make sense. She used her mother’s phone to call her mother’s cell phone and received an “out of service” message. The fingers of fear became a fist in her heart.
“Meow.” The low keening preceded the feel of fin rubbing against her.
Sam leaned down and picked up the cat, examining her. Her mother would never have left without Sarsy, not without knowing she was all right, not without being absolutely sure that there would be someone to care for her. Or maybe she knew Sam would be home.
Sam checked the water dish. Full. So was the food dish. There was enough for several days.
One question answered.
But it was still unlike her mother.
Call the police.
And tell them what?
Would she betray her mother by doing so? She read the note again. It was in her mother’s handwriting. She was sure of that. No waver. No hint that anything was wrong. If she had been forced, wouldn’t her mother have left a clue? Called her Sam, for instance, rather than Samantha. Her mother never used her nickname. That was something no one would know.
Sam felt deep in her heart that her absence wasn’t forced.
But it was so unlike her.
And who was the friend? Her mother’s friends were all businesswomen who would no more know how to hide someone than Sarsy would.
How much did she really know about her mother? Sam had begun to realize how much she didn’t know. Her mother had married a man she barely knew, then fled from him, making what had to be an agonizing choice.
Yet nothing in her life had indicated anything but normality. Yes, she had been protective. But every other part of Sam’s life had seemed normal. Her mother had laughed and smiled and had seemed fulfilled.
How could she have been fulfilled when she’d left a son behind?
Sam still didn’t understand that. Could never understand that.
Call the police. But they were still unaware of the Carrolls’ connection to an infamous family. Did she have the right to make this decision?
Bigamy. An ugly word. But if everything she’d been told was correct, her mother’s second marriage had been bigamy.
Feeling more alone than she ever had in her life, Sam checked the house once more, turning out all the lights except those in the kitchen.
Then she sat down at the kitchen table. It was the large oak table they’d had when she was a child, when they lived in a larger home on the edge of the town. Her mother’s kitchen had always been a welcoming place filled with good smells.
But now that she thought about it, the kitchen had always been empty except for the three of them. She’d had few friends because her mother kept her close and never invited other children there. It wasn’t until she had gone to college that her mother had widened her range of friends, almost as if…
As if she no longer had anything to worry about.
A sickness settled in her
stomach. How much fear had her mother known? How much heartbreak?
Could she really open the whole pail of snakes for the entire town of Steamboat Springs to see?
But she would do it in a second if she thought that was what her mother wanted, or if she thought it would save her mother’s life.
Her mother left for reasons of her own, reasons she couldn’t explain. The note made it clear that she expected Sam to respect her wishes… to trust her.
Oddly, in spite of everything, Sam did trust her.
What had happened in the last few hours to make her mother flee? Had it been Sam’s mention of the FBI on the phone? Her mother seemed to have taken it in stride. Had she had second thoughts? Had she considered the implications for herself and Sam, for the gallery, and decided to delay any meeting with law enforcement officers as long as possible?
She could believe that. Exposure could be terribly damaging to all of them—and the gallery—particularly if her mother had committed bigamy. She doubted whether her mother could be prosecuted—it must be far outside the statute of limitations—but the bad publicity could be deadly.
She wouldn’t have left Sam alone to deal with it.
Sam was at a complete loss as to whether to take the note to the police. But then she would have to tell the complete story, for no law enforcement officer would start a search on the basis of that note.
And if there was foul play involved, would she put her mother in more danger if she approached the local police? The FBI?
She had to trust someone. She thought about Nick, re called his disdain for the woman who had given him birth, and turned to the only other alternative.
Nathan McLean.
Despite her brother’s accusations, McLean had helped her three times. Maybe he had ulterior motives, but he also knew the Merritta family. She thought he was wrong about Nick, but he knew other members of the family far better than she.
She dug in her pocket for a number she had thought she would never call. Praying she wasn’t making a terrible mistake, she punched in the number.
What in the hell did she want?
The question haunted Nate as he drove through the mountains to Steamboat Springs. When he’d left the FBI offices after finally winning a week of leave, he’d turned off his cell phone. He didn’t want Barker finding him. It was only a matter of time before Barker would learn about the shooting in front of Nick Merritt’s home.
He hadn’t even bothered to check messages until he arrived in Denver and rented a car. Then he scanned the numbers.
Gray’s number. Two numbers he knew came from the Bureau. Then a number he recognized. He’d obtained it from the search he’d conducted just hours ago. It belonged to Samantha Carroll’s mother. He had memorized both her mother’s number and Samantha’s. He called the number displayed and got an answering machine. He hung up.
Then he called Gray. “What’s up?”
“Barker’s livid,” Gray said.
“Did he say why?”
“Nope. He called me in to find out where you were. I said you went fishing. Didn’t say exactly where. You didn’t say, did you?”
“Nope. I keep my private fishing hole secret.”
“Good. I wouldn’t want to lie to the boss.”
“You haven’t,” he reassured Gray. Then he asked, “No one’s called you, have they?”
“Who do you mean?”
“There’s a number on my cell phone. It’s Patsy Carroll’s home phone number. When I returned the call, I got an answering machine. I thought she might have called the office.”
“Not that I know of, but if I didn’t answer your phone, it might have gone to Barker.”
Nate swore.
“Well, keep me posted,” Gray said, “and I’ll keep Barker off your trail.”
“Done.”
He switched off the call, debating whether or not to keep the phone on. Barker wouldn’t give up. He was like a bulldog, and if Nate answered the phone, Barker could trace the location. He turned it off. He could always say he lost the damn thing.
His heart pounded harder. What if the call was from Samantha Carroll rather than her mother? Only a handful of people had his private cell number. She was one of them.
He tried to shift his thoughts to the hours ahead as he drove through the mountains. He was told it was a three-hour drive. It seemed a hundred.
He’d been stunned when he discovered Samantha Carroll had left Merritt’s home. So, apparently, had Merritt.
By unspoken consent—and, Nate thought, their own personal reasons—neither of them had mentioned Samantha to the police. Nate had told the beat police that he’d witnessed the drive-by shooting after arriving to interview Nick Merritt. He and Merritt were at the door when a car sped by, and both of them hit the deck.
Nate knew he could be suspended. He’d disobeyed a direct order. But he might be able to justify this one last visit to Nick, saying he was merely wrapping up a few details from the previous night’s accident.
He wasn’t ready to lose his job or take a suspension. Not as long as there were killers sniffing around Samantha Carroll. He might not be “official,” but he could still ask for professional courtesy from local police departments.
Truthfully, he thought she was safer anywhere but Boston.
He’d not broached the offer of protection with his boss, because she’d already made it clear she would refuse it. This last shooting episode might have changed things… if she’d stuck around long enough for him to find out. He also suspected that Samantha might be in even more danger if she came to the attention of his superiors. Perhaps because some of his own informants had been killed when their names drifted up the ladder.
That he’d been so abruptly taken off the case needled his suspicions even more. He’d been assigned to the organized crime unit for years. He’d been moderately successful. There was no reason, at least none he could see, that would justify his removal.
Perhaps it had been that suspicion that had raised hackles along his spine, and he’d decided to drive out to Merritt’s house and keep an eye on it. He had not expected the drive-by shooting. For a moment he had to decide whether to follow the car or to give her assistance.
It wasn’t much of a conflict, not when he saw her under Merritt, blood pouring from her arm.
But then she had disappeared, and it hadn’t taken him long to figure out she was returning to Denver. He didn’t blame her after what had happened yesterday.
He wouldn’t trust anyone, either, if he were she.
There should have been something he could have done to convince her she was in way over her head. Now she was probably as suspicious of him as she was of the family. Perhaps he should have better explained the Bureau’s suspicions concerning Nick Merritt. But that’s all they were. Suspicions.
Now the only hope he had was to reach Patsy Carroll and get her to cooperate. As Paul Merritta’s wife, she would know things. If she had stayed alive this long, then she must have a kind of insurance that included evidence.
Perhaps she would help him if she thought her daughter was in danger.
The only thing he did know was that the unexpected appearance of Samantha Carroll had changed the dynamics of the family as much as the death of Paul Merritta had. He wondered whether it had even brought about the don’s murder. The forensics people still hadn’t finished the testing yet.
All those questions had bombarded him these past twenty-four hours, along with the strong feeling that Samantha Carroll was on a collision course with disaster.
Her image hadn’t left him. If she had been anyone else, he might have given a thought to asking her out. Her seemingly sincere, though misguided, defense of Nick Merritt oddly appealed to him. So had her understated looks. Her hairstyle was easy, her makeup just enough, and her clothes simple but stylish. He liked her confident manner, the way her eyebrows furrowed when she was thinking. He admired her loyalty and tenacity, though he thought it misplaced.
Quite si
mply, it had been difficult—impossible—to keep that reaction in check. He’d had no business kissing her. He wasn’t even sure where it came from. But he still felt it. Still tasted her in his memory.
He would have to rein in his libido. He had been after the Merritta family for far too long to fail now. Gray had called it an obsession, but Nate knew that even his partner had been infected with the need to prosecute the one family in Boston that had been nearly untouchable.
Nothing would get in Nate’s way. Nothing. Not even a dark-haired woman who stirred something he thought had died with his wife five years ago.
Reaching Steamboat Springs, he stopped at the city’s tourist office to locate the address he had. He also asked for directions to Western Wonders, the Carrolls’ gallery. He could have gone to the police department, but he didn’t want to do that. Not yet. If he turned to the local police, he might lose his best bargaining tool: privacy. Probably he would lose his job as well.
If he had been there for any other reason, he would have taken pleasure in the area. The drive from Denver had been scenic, and the town, nestled in a green valley, was picturesque. He knew that Olympic-caliber skiers practiced here.
He turned his thoughts back to the supposedly long- dead Mrs. Merritta.
Had her daughter told her what had happened in Boston? That Samantha had been nearly killed? Or that Patsy Carroll was now a widow twice over? The odd thing was that he’d discovered precious little about the man she had called her husband; his history began about the time the two moved to Steamboat Springs more than thirty years ago.
A coincidence?
The whole scenario stank like a week-old fish.
He risked trying to call Patsy Carroll’s number again.
Still the machine answered.
Something must have happened.
He had both addresses. The mother’s and Samantha’s. According to the map, they were fairly close together. He’d meant to try the mother first, since he’d expected Samantha not to be very cooperative. Now he changed his mind.
He looked at the map again, then made several turns and drove up in front of a house made of logs. Roses climbed up the posts of the front porch. The house looked natural in its setting. And inviting.
Twisted Shadows Page 19
