by J. R. Ward
And later, much later . . . that was the image that would come back to him, both her hands gripping Lizzie's, her whole body locked in a strained rope of devotion and prayer, her belief in her God and Savior so strong, Lane could have sworn that yes, she was capable of calling a miracle right down from heaven.
He glanced over at the Rembrandt. The fact that Jesus Christ seemed to be staring at his momma felt right. "Guess you're staying in the family," he murmured to the painting.
The cheer that erupted was loud as it echoed around, and Lenghe was a total gentleman about it all, coming over not for a handshake, but for a hard embrace. And then Lane was vaguely conscious of Mack and Jeff rushing to him and shaking him until his teeth rattled, and Lizzie jumping up and down, and even Gin and Amelia getting into the buzz.
Lenghe was obviously a little shaken. Then again, when you suddenly owed someone over fifty million dollars? Your world went a little wonky.
Lane knew that one firsthand.
"You know," Lenghe said as Lane came back over, "if I hadn't seen it myself . . ."
"Me, too."
"And you know something, you're a good boy. You're a fighter and you're gonna make it. You're going to do just fine, son."
As Lenghe smiled up at him with such honest regard, Lane didn't really know how to handle it.
"Get some champagne," the Grain God announced to the crowd. "You Bradfords have something to celebrate!"
As another round of cheering let out, the man shook his head. "I, on the other hand, need to go make a really tough phone call. Man, I'm going to be sleeping on the couch for . . . months after this."
Lane laughed, and then Lizzie was in his arms, and they were kissing.
"I'm calling Monteverdi right now," Lane said. "Then we're going to have some champagne."
She leaned her body in to his. "And then . . . ?"
"I'm going to start feeling really, really tired--and I'm going to have to go to bed," he said as he kissed her deep. "With the love of my life."
"I can't wait," she whispered against his mouth.
FIFTY-TWO
The next morning, Lane took John Lenghe back to the airport in the Porsche before breakfast. As he slowed down at the checkin and waved at the guard, Lenghe looked over.
"You know, that was a helluva game."
Lane hit the gas again and took them past the concierge building. "It was. It truly was."
"I still can't believe it. Well, that's the way Lady Luck went, and there's no arguing with it."
Slowing down again, Lane proceeded through the open gate in the chain link fence and then idled over to Lenghe's jet, which was gassed up and waiting. "Frankly, I'm still not over it. I didn't sleep at all afterward."
"Me, neither, just for a different reason." Lenghe laughed. "But at least the wife is still speaking to me. She ain't pleased, but she loves me more than she should."
Lane stopped the sports car a couple of yards from the set of metal stairs that extended out of the jet like a shiny tongue. "She really going to make you sleep on the sofa?"
"Nah." Lenghe got out and reached for his small suitcase in the nonexistent backseat. "Truth is, her feet get cold and she needs me around so she has something to warm them against."
Lane engaged the emergency brake and got out, too. As Lenghe came around to the front grille, Lane said, "I'm never going to forget this."
Lenghe clapped a meaty hand on Lane's shoulder. "I meant what I said last night, son. You're going to do well. I'm not saying it's not going to be a struggle, but you're going to right your ship. I'm proud of you."
Lane closed his eyes. "Do you have any idea . . ." He cleared his throat and laughed awkwardly. "You know, I would have loved to have had my father say that to me just once."
Lenghe laughed, but his version of the sound was natural and relaxed. "Why do you think I'm bothering to tell you? Just because he didn't speak the words doesn't mean they aren't true."
With a final clap on Lane's shoulder, Lenghe turned away. "I'll see you soon, son. You can always call me--"
"Wait," Lane called out. "I have something for you. You know, to remind you of the game."
Lenghe pivoted back around with a laugh. "If it's those four aces for framing? You can keep 'em."
Lane smiled and ducked back under the dash on the driver's side. "No, those puppies are mine."
As the Porsche's hood popped, Lane went over, lifted the panel and exposed a brown-wrapped square that was about three feet long and two and a half feet wide. The thing had barely fit inside.
With a grunt, he lifted the package out. "Here."
John put down his case. "What is this--"
But the man knew the minute the painting changed hands.
Before Lenghe could say anything, Lane put his palm out. "Take it home to your wife. Let her hang it wherever she wants, and every time you look at it, remember . . . you're a father figure to a guy who's wanted one all his life, okay? And before you remind me that you lost, let's just look at it like you bought your wife a great present for a very fair price--and you and I got to play one helluva game of cards."
Lenghe held the thing for the longest time. Then he cleared his throat. "Well. Now."
"The documentation's in there. On the back side of the painting. Not the front."
Lenghe cleared his throat again and looked off into the distance. After a moment, he said, "Did your father tell you?"
"About what? And before you answer, he and I didn't talk about much."
"My, ah . . . my wife and I never could have children, you know." More with the throat clearing. "So. There you go."
Guess it was kind of perfect, Lane decided. A man who had no sons being a father to a guy with no parents.
Without conscious thought, Lane went in for the clinch, holding those strong shoulders.
When he stepped back, John Lenghe's face was florid with emotion, so red it was like he'd gotten a sunburn mowing those acres of his.
"You're going to come out West and stay with us in Kansas," John announced. "With that nice girl of yours. The wife's gonna wanna thank you in person, and she does that stuff with food. So come hungry."
"You got it."
With a final handshake, the Grain God tucked his Rembrandt under one arm and picked up his suitcase with his free hand. Then he walked up the stairs and disappeared into his plane.
Lane leaned back against the Porsche and saw through the oval windows as the guy sat down and put his cell phone to his ear.
And then, with a final wave and a big fat smile that suggested "the wife" was over the moon, the jet was taxiing out . . . and taking off.
Just as the early sunlight winked off its fuselage, and Lane started thinking about his father's impending funeral that afternoon, his phone rang. He answered without looking. "Hello?"
"Lane, it's Mitch Ramsey. Get out to the Red & Black. They're going to arrest your brother for the murder. Hurry--hurry!"
*
Lizzie was heading back down to the kitchen with her work clothes on as she heard the purr of Lane's Porsche disappear down the hill. What a night. What a miracle.
And what a nice thing Lane had decided to do.
She had found the roll of brown paper and had helped him carefully remove the painting from the wall and get it covered safely. Then they'd had the fun of seeing whether or not it fit in the Porsche's extremely limited truck space under the front hood. In the end, though, just as with the card game, luck had been on their side--and she could only imagine how pleased the man was going to be to bring the masterpiece home to his wife.
God, she wanted to meet Mrs. Lenghe at some point, she really did. Dollars to doughnuts, as the saying went, the woman was going to be as down to earth and kind as that billionaire was.
And now, it was time to get back to work.
The plan for the morning, after she ate whatever ambrosia Miss Aurora was serving, was for her to go for a check-the-grounds tour and try to find something to mow: Making neat on a John Deere outside
in the fresh air just seemed like her idea of heaven.
After all, the interment of William Baldwine was scheduled for that afternoon, and watching Lane put his father to rest was not going to be easy.
Pushing her way into the kitchen, she said, "Miss Aurora, what's cooking--"
Except the woman wasn't at the stove. And there was no coffee brewing. No fruit out. No sweet smell of cinnamon bread.
"Miss Aurora?"
Lizzie went in further, checking the mudroom and the pantry. Even poking her head out the back door to see if the red Mercedes Lane had given the woman was still there--and it was.
It had been a late night, true, and their out-of-town guest had also left early, but there were still people in the house to feed, and even if the woman had worked the Fourth of July until one a.m., she was always on breakfast--besides, it was pushing eight a.m.
That was almost the middle of the day for the woman.
Going over to Miss Aurora's private quarters, Lizzie knocked. "You in there, Miss Aurora?"
When there was no answer, fear curled a fist in her gut.
Knocking louder, she said, "Miss Aurora . . . ? Miss Aurora, if you don't answer, I'm coming in."
Lizzie gave every opportunity for there to be a reply, and when none came, she turned the knob and pushed. "Hello?"
Taking a couple of steps inside, she saw nothing out of place. Nothing that was--
"Miss Aurora!"
Running into the bedroom, she crouched down by the woman, who was sprawled on the floor as if she had fainted.
"Miss Aurora!"
FIFTY-THREE
Lane made it to the Red & Black in record time, and as he skidded to a halt next to the three police cars parked in front of the caretaker's cottage, dust and gravel kicked up all over the place.
He didn't know whether or not he turned off the engine. And he didn't care.
Taking the shallow steps on a oner, he burst in on a tableau that was a never-forget: Three uniformed police officers were standing with their backs against the wall of trophies while Deputy Ramsey loomed in the opposite corner, looking like he wanted to hit someone.
And in the center of the room, Detective Merrimack was standing over Edward, who was sitting in that chair.
"--for the murder of William Baldwine. Anything you say can and will be used against you--"
"Edward!" Lane rushed forward, but Ramsey caught him and held him back. "Edward, what the hell is going on!"
Even though he knew. Goddamn it, he knew.
"You can stop with the Miranda rights," Edward said impatiently. "I did it. I killed him. Take me down, book me, and don't bother getting me a defense attorney. I'm pleading guilty right now."
Annnnnnd that was how you turned the volume of the entire universe down: Lane literally went deaf as Merrimack said something further, and Edward replied, and there was more conversation--
A blond woman entered the cottage in the same way Lane had, in a panic.
But unlike him, no one had to drag her back. She stopped on her own and, after she got a gander at everyone, she crossed her arms over her chest and kept silent.
"Edward . . ." Lane was not consciously aware of speaking. "Edward, no."
"I'll tell you how I did it," his brother said as he looked over. "So you can have your peace about this. But after I'm finished speaking . . . Lane, you don't come to see me down there. You keep going about your life. You marry that good woman of yours. You take care of the family. You do not look back."
Merrimack opened his mouth, and Edward turned on the guy. "And you just shut up, okay. Get your pad out. Take notes. Or wait for me to do this again a hundred times down at the station, I don't care. But he deserves to hear the story."
Edward refocused on Lane. "I acted alone. They're going to try to say I had help. I didn't. You know what Father did to me. You know that he had me kidnapped and tortured." Edward indicated his body. "These scars . . . this pain . . . it's all because of him. He arranged for it all and then didn't pay the ransom so he'd look like the victim. I have hated him all my life . . . and then this happened and . . . let's just say I had a lot of time to think about ways to kill him as I lay in agony, unable to sleep or eat, because I'm ruined."
"Edward," Lane whispered.
"I snapped the night I killed him. I went to our house to confront him because I just couldn't take it anymore. I parked in the back and waited for him to come out of the business center from his having worked late as usual. I didn't think I was going to murder him at the time, but then, just as I was getting out of the truck, he lurched, fell down to the ground, and rolled over onto his back like something was wrong." Edward's face assumed a faraway expression. "I approached him and stood over him. I know the signs of a stroke, the symptoms, and he was having one. He was wincing and motioning to his head . . . and then his left side didn't seem to work, his arm and leg flopping as if he couldn't move them."
"The autopsy did show evidence of a stroke," the detective broke in. "Because of the brain tumor."
Edward nodded. "I watched him suffer. I don't have a cell phone, and I thought about going into the house and calling nine-one-one, but you know what? I decided not to. It was funny . . . the way he contorted up like he did?" Edward curled one of his hands into a claw. "It was like what I do. When I'm really hurting and the pain meds haven't kicked in yet . . . it felt good to see him like that. Fair. Right. And I can't tell you when exactly I came to the decision that I really was going to kill him--I guess when it became apparent he wasn't going to die right then and there."
Edward shrugged. "Anyway, I went over to the Red & Black truck I'd driven in--it's the one that's parked behind Barn B right now. The keys are in it, and I figure you boys in blue are going to want to take the thing with you. So . . . yes, I went over and backed the truck up. There's a winch attached to the outside of the cab. There was some rope, and I hog-tied him, attached the hook, and dragged him into the bed because I knew I wasn't going to be strong enough to lift him myself. Then I drove down to the shores of the Ohio. That was the hard part. I got him out of the truck, but pulling him along the ground? I hurt my ankle badly--to the point where a couple of days later, she"--Edward pointed to the blonde--"had to call Dr. Qalbi out to see about it."
Lane frowned as the blonde seemed to recoil, but then he refocused on his brother.
"But wait," Lane interjected. "He fell off the bridge."
"No," Merrimack said. "He didn't. Or at least, there is no footage indicating whether he did or he didn't. The security cameras that were supposed to be operational weren't on that night--part of a number of glitches the city has had since the thing newly opened. So we have no footage--and given the poor condition of the body, extended time in the river would account for the extent of the damage to the extremities and torso."
Edward nodded. "So I got him over to the edge of the water. We'd had so much rain, the current was strong. I found a big stick and started to push him in . . . but then I went back to the truck, got a hunting knife, and cut off his finger. I wanted the ring. He screamed when I did it, so he was clearly alive, but he could barely move so he couldn't fight me. Then one last shove with the stick and he was gone. I threw the knife in after him, kept hold of the finger, and drove back. I buried it underneath my mother's bedroom window because he had treated her with disrespect their entire marriage--he'd had at least one child out of wedlock that we know about, and he fucked your soon-to-be-ex-wife and got her pregnant! I just . . . so yes, I did that thing in the ivy bed, and then came back here. I live alone, so no one knew I'd even been gone, and no one knew I'd waited for him, either."
"But then the finger was found," Merrimack said.
"That was when I knew I had to do something. I came to the visitation hours and snuck away to the business center. I went to the security room, signed into the system, erased the footage from that night, and waited to see if you guys would figure it out."
"And we did." Merrimack looked around at the oth
er officers and nodded. "We got you."
"So take me down and let's get this over with."
There was a lull, and Lane couldn't believe it, but he thought he heard his phone ringing out in the car--no, wait, it was in his pocket. He silenced the thing without looking at it.
"Come on," Edward said impatiently. "Let's go."
All at once, the officers got organized and Edward rose to his feet. Merrimack insisted on handcuffs, which was ridiculous, and then Edward was being led out the door.
But he stopped in front of Lane. "Let this be, Lane. Don't fight this. You know what he was like. He got what he deserved, and I don't regret it in the slightest. You need to take care of Gin, Amelia, Miss Aurora, and Mother, do you hear me? Don't let me down."
"Why did you have to do it?" Lane said hoarsely. "You didn't have--"
"I take care of my own. I always have. You know that about me. My life's over, you know that as well. I've got nothing left, and he was the one who took it all away. I love you, little brother. I always have and I always will."
And then they were leading Edward down the shallow steps, across the grass, over to one of the squad cars. He was helped into the rear, his balance bad with his hands behind his back, and Merrimack got behind the wheel and started the engine.
In the wake of the departure, Lane just stood there, staring at the dust that rose up in their wake.
As his phone began to ring again, he looked over at the blond woman. "What did you say your name was?"
Even though she hadn't spoken.
"Shelby Landis. I'm one of the hands here."
"Nice to meet you. I'm his brother Lane. I think I saw you here before?"
"Yes. You did."
He looked over at Ramsey. "What do we do now?"
The tall man ran a hand down his face. "That was a helluva confession, and it fits. The whole damn thing . . . makes sense. And all things considered? I think your brother's going to jail for the rest of his life."
Lane looked back out the open door.
When his phone started ringing a third time, he took it out and almost threw the fucking thing on the ground.
But then he saw who it was. "Lizzie, listen, I--"
The unmistakable sound of sirens was not all that muffled, and Lizzie had to speak up. "Miss Aurora's being taken to University Hospital downtown. I found her collapsed and barely breathing next to her bed about fifteen minutes ago. Oh, God, Lane, I don't think she's going to make it. You have to come to the ER. I'm in the ambulance with her now--where are you?"
