Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!
She abruptly stood from her Queen Anne bed and stalked angrily to the window allowing her an uninterrupted view of the vast snow-covered countryside. She couldn’t close her eyes to Tom’s death. It’d been too coincidental and too convenient. What had Jason said? There is no me and Tom. Tom had tried to warn her about Jason and now Detective Inspector Mahon was doing the same thing.
Your husband is not the man you think he is…I just believe in knowing all the facts.
This time she would listen.
Jess drew in a tight breath. She would like nothing more than to believe what she and Jason shared last night had been real. But from the moment they’d met he’d blindsided her emotions. Whatever she’d felt or assumed last night was her problem.
And yet Jason hadn’t lied about everything. He hadn’t lied about Sean and he hadn’t lied about John Thomas. But he’d been limited with the truth nonetheless, and that worried her. Detective Inspector Mahon had succeeded in prickling her journalistic instincts about her husband.
Are you so in love, Mrs. McCormack, that you can’t see the danger you’re in, can’t see the danger you’ve put your son in?
Jess looked down into the garden as the sound of Jake’s laughter floated up to her window. She smiled at the sight of his pink flushed cheeks. The only part of him visible from beneath the coat, gloves, hat and scarf he wore. Her mother came into view, throwing a small snowball. It missed its squealing target and she ran, laughingly, after Jake. Jess’ smile faded. She wished she could join them, but—
She looked down at her watch. The taxi would be arriving soon.
She calmed her nerves as she turned to collect her travel bag and headed down the back stairs to the kitchen. She opened the kitchen door and strolled across the garden to her mother who was now lying in the snow making snow angels with Jake.
“I’m going on an assignment, Mum,” she said.
Her mother stopped moving her arms and gazed up at Jess. “Now?”
Jess lied. “There’s a new art gallery opening in Paris and I’m going to check it out. It’s a new article I’m working on, you know, for one of my magazines.”
Her mother scrambled to her feet, as did Jake.
“An assignment? But Jess you only got married two days ago. What about your honeymoon? Does Jason know you’re leaving?”
Jess shrugged. “He’ll understand.”
“Will he? It’s not like you need the money.”
“Everything you see belongs to Jason, Mum. Not me.”
“But you’re his wife.”
Jess gave a wry laugh. “Trust me. That piece of paper doesn’t change a single thing between us.”
“I can’t believe—”
A car horn tooted loudly on the far side of the house, cutting off her mother’s objection.
“That’s the taxi. I have to go.”
Jess bent down to Jake and pulled him into a fierce hug. “I’m sorry I can’t take you to school tomorrow, but you’ll be safe with Nana, okay?”
Her son nodded. “And Jason.”
Jess smiled faintly. “Yes—and Jason. I need you to be good for me,” she said. “And do what Nana says. I love you, Jake.”
“I love you, Mum.”
She whispered in his ear and planted a small kiss on his cheek. “I’ll be back as soon as I can for you both.”
Jess stood and wiped the tear trailing down her cheek. If she could believe anything Jason said it would be that the McCormacks depended on anonymity. That was what she counted on to keep Jake and her mother safe until she found the leverage to negotiate her life back. She raced from the garden back to the kitchen, grabbed her travel bag and rushed out the front door to the waiting taxi knowing she’d probably made herself a moving target.
* * * *
The number of right-wing British National Party members standing for election this year was as unprecedented as their electoral support. There was still two months before the General Election and there was already speculation of a huge political upset—an unparalleled victory for the BNP not seen since its inception.
Alexander McCormack clenched his fist. He’d counted on the frustrations, prejudices and gullibility of the majority of the white working-class electorate to achieve his goal. Propaganda and well-publicized racial incidences had done the rest.
In the years since the last General Election he’d spent increasing the racial tension in major left-wing constituencies. The intimidation had been subtle at first, becoming increasingly more violent. He’d brought in gangs of youths from outside London to disrupt and disturb any tenuous peace that may have existed between ethnic minorities and their white neighbors. The victims had been carefully chosen too—white, elderly, working-class. Many had been assaulted and robbed. One or two had been stabbed, but the press coverage…
Alexander laughed inwardly. He couldn’t have planned the publicity better if he’d tried. And the beauty of it all was the victims had been intimidated enough or bribed to swear their attackers had been black or Asian. This had provoked a predictable response from the white communities, which had lead to an overwhelming increase of support for his right-wing Party. The political climate in England was such that the tide was finally turning in his favor.
Sean’s curiosity, however, had jeopardized his carefully laid plans. But Sean’s curiosity had also cost Sean his life and a similar fate awaited Jason if he dared interfere. Alexander glared at his son. He, and the Cartel, had invested large sums of money for this moment. Omnipotent power across Europe was at stake and he wasn’t about to let Jason’s filthy whore undo all that had been achieved in these last twenty years.
“Did you honestly think you could use Jessica Thomas to get to me and I wouldn’t find out?” he said. “I know why you married her, Jason. I’m not a fool, but your plan will never work without her co-operation and to have her co-operation you’ll have to tell her the truth. Can you do that, Jason? Can you tell your wife the truth? Can you tell her who and what you are?”
Alexander relaxed his stance. “We are very much alike, you and I,” he attested slowly.
“I’m nothing like you,” Jason shot back.
Alexander was unperturbed by his son’s vehemence. There’d never been much love between them and even less since his mother died.
“Yes, you are. Jessica Thomas is, and always has been, a pawn in my game. But now she’s become a pawn in yours.” He continued smoothly. “We both know a pawn is expendable—or did you, in your arrogant assumption, truly think to be able to use her and protect her?”
He indicated the two men on either side of him. Silent, proficient men who’d killed and would kill again should he order them to do so. Their guns were aimed as steadfast and sure at his son’s chest as Jason’s gun was aimed at his.
They’d agreed to meet early that morning at the abandoned motorway service station. There’d be no witnesses if things got ugly.
“I’ve come too far to be stopped by the likes of her, Jason. I’m warning you. Don’t get in my way.”
“Or what?” Jason queried. He raised a scathing brow. “You’ll kill me too?”
Alexander pressed his lips into a thin line. That damned black bitch! She’d turned his son against him. But Jason had made his choice. So be it.
“You never did understand the significance, did you?” Alexander retorted. “Neither you nor my father. The property at High Rock is McCormack land and any McCormack worth his salt would be proud to say it. But you were never my son, were you, Jason, as my father was never his father’s son? You were always your mother’s little boy,” he spat. “And like my father, you’re weak. I despised Sean Wright for who he was, but I respected him for being what you could never be. Strong. Sean knew about blood and honor—”
“Sean was expendable. Only he didn’t realize it until it was too late.”
“Neither you nor your grandfather appreciated what it meant to be born a McCormack. But as long as I live the McCo
rmack fortune will never again belong to a Thomas, never again to descendants of slaves. Do you understand?”
“Jessica is my wife,” Jason elaborated slowly. “A McCormack.”
Alexander glared at his son warningly. “Are you so naïve to think that makes one bit of difference to me? At some point an opportunity will arise that will lend itself to the occasion, and you, Jason, won’t be able to save your precious little wife.”
“Then, you’d better pray to God you do kill me first,” Jason said.
Alexander stared at his son, and then motioned to the two men beside him to lower their weapons.
“So be it, Jason,” he said.
Chapter Eight
Nassau, New Providence
Wednesday, March 10
Jess sat by the window of the small air-conditioned café shielded from the glare of the midday sun as she watched the world go by. Some on foot, some in cars and some in horse-drawn surreys. An endless stream of tourists from the cruise ships past her window, wandering in and out the upscale duty-free shops and high-end department stores amid the clamor of traffic and local vendors. It was busy and colorful and noisy.
She ran her fingers through the short-haired wig she wore and looked down at her watch. She’d agreed to meet Mr. Boone at one o’clock and it was already nearing half past.
Two days earlier she’d stepped off the plane, walked into Mr. Boone’s office and hired him to find John Thomas. She’d no idea whether or not the man was a good private investigator—or even if John Thomas was alive—but his was the first name she’d come across in the telephone directory.
The waiting had been long and frustrating, but this morning Mr. Boone had finally returned her telephone calls. He’d been convinced he’d found a lead. A lead, he’d said. Not John Thomas, but a lead. Jess sighed. Something was better than nothing.
The bell above the café door chimed and she turned to see Mr. Boone enter. She removed her sunglasses making herself noticeable, and consciously fingered the thin scarf wrapped about her neck concealing Jason’s love-bites.
Mr. Boone exchanged a few words with the bartender before continuing toward her table. He was a thin man, so he slid effortlessly into the cramped space opposite her.
“You didn’t give me much to go on,” he said with little preamble. “Luckily, Andros is a small island and you can always find someone who knows someone else’s business, for a price of course. The Thomas estate at High Rock has been deserted for more than twenty years. It’s old and dilapidated, but the surrounding property must be worth a penny or two. It’s strange no one’s laid claim to it in all these years. Anyway, I found an old lady who told me about the family who’d once lived there—”
Mr. Boone interrupted his discourse as the bartender approached carrying a tray with a tall, cool glass of something perched on it. He set the beverage on the table in front of Mr. Boone and reached for Jess’ empty glass. She declined the barman’s inquiry for a refill. He sauntered back to his bar and Mr. Boone took a long, slow drink. Jess clasped her hands tightly together in an attempt to conceal her impatience.
Mr. Boone, seemingly satiated, set the glass down between them and focused once more on Jess.
“The house belonged to Elizabeth Roberts,” he said as if there’d been no interruption in his narrative. “Although she’d become a Thomas through her first marriage to Paul Thomas. She lived there until her death twenty years ago. There were two children, a son, John Thomas, and a stepdaughter, Carolyn Roberts. Her husband’s daughter from a previous marriage.
After Elizabeth died the stepdaughter moved from Andros to Lyford Cay. It’s a private residential enclave located on the western tip of New Providence. Here’s her telephone number and address. And directions should you need them.”
He pushed a folded piece of paper across the table toward Jess.
“I couldn’t find out anything about John Thomas. The old lady doesn’t remember him being around all that much. She did say she saw him for the last time some thirty years ago. He’d brought a woman with him who was heavily pregnant at the time. Her name was Norma, but other than that the old lady couldn’t tell me much more.”
Jess looked down at the address in her hand. At least she had a place to start. She reached for her bag and took out a thick, padded envelope.
“Fifteen hundred dollars, wasn’t it?” she said.
Mr. Boone nodded and accepted the package. He didn’t count it.
Jess put on her sunglasses and stood abruptly. “Thank you, Mr. Boone.”
“Wait.”
His footsteps pursued her into the warm sunshine.
“There’s more about the child. Don’t you want to know about John Thomas’ child?”
“There’s no need, Mr. Boone,” Jess said. “I already know all there is to know about Jessica Thomas.”
She returned to her room at the Hotel Baja Mar and gazed out the window overlooking Nassau Harbor. She clasped her hands tightly to her stomach and took deep breaths. She’d had two whole days to prepare for a confrontation with John Thomas, but she’d not considered a need to meet the woman whose selfish act twenty years earlier had brought her to this point.
After an hour wrestling with her thoughts, Jess dialed the number Mr. Boone had given her. The voice on the other end of the line sounded cautious and then more than a little irritated after she introduced herself. The suggestion that they meet to discuss the Thomas estate was curtly brushed aside as was Jess’ invitation for Carolyn to accompany her to the property the following morning.
“And if you’ve any sense you won’t go back there either,” Carolyn snapped.
“Please, don’t hang up! I didn’t come to cause any trouble or apportion blame or anything like that. I just need to ask you about the deed. Things have happened…People have died. Carolyn?”
“Who?”
The question was barely above a whisper that Jess almost didn’t hear it.
“My father…stepfather,” she corrected. “My brother. My ex-husband. I need your help. Please.”
Jess fought back her tears and listened with bated breath to the faint breathing on the other end of the line. “Please, Carolyn. I’m taking the seven-thirty flight to Andros tomorrow morning. I hope you’ll change your mi—”
The line went dead.
Jess lowered the phone from her ear and looked wistfully down at it. What had she gotten herself into?
* * * *
Carolyn paced the light and airy room of her beachfront home. She wrung her hands and bit down hard upon her lip. She’d sold the title deed to the Thomas estate a lifetime ago, and if Alexander McCormack had any sense he would’ve destroyed the two hundred year old document that gave a slave control of the old plantation.
As long as she could remember there’d been talk of a Thomas-McCormack feud that extended as far back as the eighteenth century. The McCormacks had long been incensed that they’d lost the estate through the folly and misplaced sense of honor of an ancestor. They’d been trying to reclaim the estate ever since with little success.
But the days of the land as a thriving sisal plantation had been long gone. Demand for rope waned with the demise of sailing ships, and the estate floundered. There’d been little investment and interest for new crops and all that was left had been unproductive and decayed. Carolyn released a heavy sigh.
She’d been subjected to abject poverty for most of her young adult life when all her stepmother had to do was listen to her father. Her father had vociferously advocated selling the property back to the McCormacks, but Elizabeth had been equally vocal in her refusal to do so.
There’d never been a day that they hadn’t fought about the land. Even the terrible night Elizabeth killed Henry Roberts had been preceded by an argument about selling the impoverished estate. Elizabeth had been a Thomas purely by virtue of marriage, and yet she’d killed her husband just to hold on to a piece of worthless Thomas land.
Carolyn stopped pacing and turned to stare out the lar
ge window commanding breathtaking ocean views. Still, her father’s death had turned out to be a blessing in disguise, and one that had made her a great deal of money.
After Elizabeth had been sentenced for her husband’s murder she’d become ill and returned home to die. Carolyn had looked after her stepmother for five years before Elizabeth’s feverish mumblings drew her attention to the floorboards in the bedroom and the old tin concealed beneath them. In the tin she’d found a leather pouch. And in the pouch the original title deed written by George McCormack almost two hundred years earlier bequeathing the plantation at High Rock to a slave named Ben Thomas.
She’d known exactly what to do then. She wasn’t a Thomas and she’d owed none of them any loyalty. They’d owed her. She’d contacted Alexander McCormack and offered him the chance to reclaim his heritage.
Carolyn shuddered as she remembered their first meeting.
Alexander had been in his fifties, handsome and exuding an air of power only reserved for those with a great deal of money and friends in all the right places. However, his barely concealed desire for the old estate had outweighed any obvious contempt for her. But, even then, Carolyn had been shrewd enough to know people like her meant nothing in his world.
She’d had something he wanted which had made her an invaluable asset. She’d not spoken to Alexander McCormack since, but with Jessica snooping around and asking questions it would only be a matter of time before he discovered her mistake.
Alexander had drawn up papers denoting a legal transition of the Thomas property from John Thomas to himself. Carolyn had been familiar enough with John’s signature and forging it hadn’t been a problem. By the time Elizabeth was dead and buried the transaction had been completed. Her stepbrother had unwittingly agreed to a sale he knew nothing about and she’d become a wealthy woman.
Blood of His Fathers (Sinners and Saints) Page 10
