Son of the Enemy

by Ana Barrons

  She struck a match and torched the newspaper. I’ll be fine, she told herself. It calmed her to kneel on the hearth and watch the flames spread and catch, first the tiny bits of kindling, then the logs, while she sipped her wine. This was her ritual in the dark months when she jumped at shadows and woke up sobbing in the night.

  And felt eyes on her. Watching her.

  Her fingertips traced the outline of the card in her pocket, sending a chill skittering down her spine. She wrapped her hand around the cast-iron poker and stood. Fear, like an obsessed lover, gripped her throat and hissed softly in her ear, You can never leave me behind.

  A couple of deep breaths later, she crossed the hall and flipped the wall switch in her bedroom. The lamp on her nightstand flooded the room with warm yellow light, the sight of her unmade bed reminding her of all the sleep she hadn’t been getting lately. Last night something, some sound, had woken her, and she hadn’t gotten back to sleep until just before her alarm went off, at which point she’d drifted off again and barely made it to school on time. Other nights it was bad dreams that woke her, or the irrational sense that someone was in the room with her.

  Those nights were the worst.

  Those were the nights she lay still under the covers, too scared to move, or even to breathe, until she was convinced the creaking floorboards were just the old cottage settling. Then she would reach over and flip on the lamp. But in that moment between reaching for the lamp and when light flooded the room, she experienced a terror so deep, so primal, she was unable to think. The tune of an old nursery rhyme played in her head, over and over.

  London Bridge is falling down…falling down…falling down…

  Now, armed with a half-empty glass of wine and a fireplace poker, she checked under her bed, in the closet and the attached bathroom, then went next door to her office, flipped on the light and breathed a sigh of relief. Everything was as she’d left it that morning. She mentally added another day to the long list of days when no one had come into her house to kill her—and called herself an idiot for putting herself through this absurd exercise every time she walked into the house after dark.

  She opened the top drawer of her desk, slipped the card out of her pocket and placed it inside. It was signed simply B, like the others. At first she’d assumed the roses were from Thornton. B for Bradshaw. But they hadn’t been, and the notes… She closed the drawer and rubbed her arms. Not important. Someone’s idea of a joke. She went back into the living room and stood by the fire to recite her affirmations.

  “I am not my mother,” she began, poking at the logs, sending up sparks. “No one wants to kill me. I am strong and independent and safe. I will not give in to my irrational fears. I do not need a man to protect me.” Afterward, as always, the last affirmation—the one she didn’t tell the shrinks about, not even Geoffrey, even after they were lovers—rose unbidden from that dark, secret place inside her, that black, black hole filled with terrifying, blurry images and words she couldn’t remember.

  “I will never trust a man who says he loves me.”

  Chapter Two

  John thundered into the gravel lot and parked his Harley Davidson facing the side windows of Grange Hall. From this angle someone could easily see it from a window. This baby was his pride and joy, and he wasn’t interested in some budding delinquent taking off on it.

  Took one to know one.

  He yanked off his helmet and ran a hand through his hair. The roar of the bike had attracted a lot of attention from the kids hanging out on the benches and picnic tables scattered around the perimeter of the large central lawn. The day was mild and sunny, the light snow that had fallen on Friday night all but gone. He smiled and held up a hand in greeting. A few kids did the same. Then a couple of boys strolled over to where he was taking his time cleaning his aviator sunglasses on his shirt.

  “Morning,” he said.

  “Cool bike,” one boy said. He had wheat-colored hair cut short, a mild case of acne and pants so big he’d pulled them up twice on the walk over. “Looks new.”

  “I’ve had it about six months,” John said.

  “Happy with it?”

  “No, it sucks,” the second boy said. “You doofus. What do you think?” This one, a taller kid with a backward baseball hat and a torn Nirvana tee shirt, turned to John. “I bet riding that thing’s better than sex, right?”

  John chuckled. “I wouldn’t go that far.” The boys grinned and moved closer. John figured them to be around fourteen.

  “Care if I sit on it?” Big Pants asked.

  “Help yourself.”

  “Sweet.” The kid had to pull his pants way up so he could lift his leg over the seat. He grabbed the handlebar grips, leaned forward so his nose was an inch from the gas tank and made gunning sounds.

  Nirvana Boy poked his leg. “My turn.”

  “No way, man, I just got on.”

  John’s eyes were drawn to a slim figure in corduroys and a thick gray turtleneck crossing the lawn at a brisk pace. Hannah could have passed for one of the kids, if not for the straightness of her spine and the confident stride. A shiver ran through him at the sight of her.

  “That’s Hannah,” Big Pants said, and John realized he’d been staring at her.

  “Hannah’s cool,” Nirvana Boy said. He shoved at Big Pants. “Get off, douche bag.”

  Big Pants climbed off. “Tell him the truth, Peter. You think she’s hot.”

  “Fuck you. Like you don’t?”

  “Keep an eye on her for me,” John said, nodding toward the Harley. He slipped his sunglasses into his jacket pocket and followed Hannah across the lawn into a tiny clapboard house painted lime green. He trailed her through a bright red door, up a flight of purple stairs and into a small room crammed with easels, canvases and shelves of paints, jars and rags.

  Hannah was crouched beside a boy with long dreadlocks who was curled up, apparently asleep, in the corner. A very thin woman with light brown skin and large silver hoop earrings was on her knees beside her.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Both women turned to him, and Hannah’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh…John,” she said, as though she’d forgotten he was coming. “Hello. Um…why don’t you go ahead and wait in my office? Larissa, could you—?”

  He squatted beside them. “Is he okay?”

  Hannah sighed heavily. “I’m sure he’ll be fine.”

  John grabbed the boy’s wrist and felt for a pulse. It was slow and even. “Is he on any medication that makes him sleepy?”

  Her expression had set into a worried frown. “If you count self-medication, yeah. Let’s try pulling him up. If that doesn’t work, we’ll call an ambulance.”

  “That ought to make his daddy real happy,” Larissa said.

  “I’ll do it,” John said. He tugged on the boy’s arm.

  The second his head lifted off the floor, the boy began to come around. When he realized someone was pulling him up, he yanked his arm away and sat with his back to the wall.

  Larissa stood. “He’s all yours, Hannah.” She turned arresting turquoise eyes to John and held his gaze for a couple of seconds, then gave him a coy smile on her way out the door.

  “Why are you so tired, Christian?” Hannah asked the boy.

  He shrugged. “Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

  “Uh-huh. What did you take this morning? And don’t tell me nothing, because you’re stoned out of your mind.”

  Christian’s remaining brain cells must have suddenly registered that there was someone else in the room besides him and Hannah. He turned to John. “You a cop?”

  “No.” John had to admire the kid’s instincts. “But I’d be happy to call one.”

  Hannah shot him a look and turned back to Christian. “He’s writing a book about the school.”

  “Oh, shit. If my father reads about this he’ll kill me. I’ll never get into college and it’ll fuck up my life.”

  “I think you’re doing a pretty good job of that
all by yourself,” Hannah said. “I’m going to have to get your parents in for another conference.”

  Christian snorted. “Go ahead. My dad’ll just yell at you like he did last time.”

  John bit his tongue hard. Hannah tried to hide her frustration, but it was there in her eyes. “Go to class,” she said. “We’ll talk later. Have you eaten anything today?”

  Christian shook his head. Hannah reached into her pocket and pulled out some coins. “Get some trail mix from the vending machine. No candy.”

  “Thanks, Hannah.”

  When Christian left, John found he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “That kid is a master manipulator. He knows exactly which of your buttons to press to get what he wants.”

  Those golden eyes flashed, but she kept her tone even. “You’re here as an observer, John, not an amateur psychologist.”

  “I’ve had training in psychology.”

  “Well, Christian has his own psychologist. And I don’t need one at the moment.”

  “I was a lot like him when I was a kid,” John said. “Strong willed and arrogant. I used to charm the assistant principal into letting me off the hook every time I got in trouble. What I really needed was a kick in the ass.”

  “Well, we don’t kick ass around here. That’s what they do in military school. We’re more about mutual respect and understanding. Be sure to include that in your book.”

  She started to brush by him and he caught her by the arm, knowing it was a bold move, but wanting to get her used to his touch. Her eyes widened slightly, but she didn’t pull away.

  “Arthur warned me that you’re a lot tougher than you look,” he said, holding her amber gaze. “He was right.”

  “Did he also tell you that I’m bossy, suspicious and fiercely protective of my kids?”

  John gave her a slow smile. “I’m bossy, too, and tenacious. I go after what I want and don’t give up without a fight.”

  “Just be careful what you wish for,” she said.

  Twenty minutes later, John strode into Hannah’s office carrying a Starbucks bag and set it down on her desk. The smile he flashed her said loud and clear, I want to jump your bones. He grabbed a wooden chair from the corner and moved it close to her desk. She scooted hers back.

  Given how gorgeous he was, his pride probably demanded he score with every woman he met. Well, she’d learned a long time ago that sleeping around didn’t get her what she wanted, and she wasn’t going down that road again.

  “I don’t have much time this morning,” she said.

  “No problem. I figured I’d have to catch you at odd moments.” He opened the Starbucks bag, releasing a heavenly aroma of coffee and baked goods, and held out a cup to her.

  “I’ve already had some, thanks. Too much caffeine makes me shake.”

  “This one’s decaf. I got it just in case.”

  She accepted the cup, feeling manipulated. She refused the muffin and the biscotti even though she was starved, and set the coffee off to the side of her desk. John dumped cream and sugar into his and bit into a gigantic blueberry muffin before he noticed she was tapping her fingers on her blotter. He finished off the muffin with the speed of an adolescent and settled into the wooden chair.

  “Arthur told me you dropped everything in Santa Fe and came back east to take over the school without being asked twice. What were you doing out there?”

  “Teaching and working with kids from the pueblo.”

  “That must be where you got this jewelry.” He reached toward her turquoise necklace, but she leaned back before he could touch it. “It suits you.”

  She twisted the bangles on her wrist. “Is my jewelry relevant to the book?”

  “Everything about you is relevant,” he said. “The way you dress, the books you read, how you spend your time out of school. The way you move. I’ll definitely describe that. Did you study ballet?”

  She glanced up at the clock, fiddling with her necklace. “Are you going to ask me anything about the school this morning, because if not—”

  “How serious are you and Thornton Bradshaw?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s not exactly a secret that you spend time with him,” he said. “There was a photo of the two of you in The Washington Post. The caption said—”

  “I know what the caption said.” And it pissed her off every time she thought about it. “I believe it described me as one more in a long string of women in his life.”

  John leaned forward. “A long string of beauties, actually. Since there aren’t many women out there as beautiful as you, I’d say he was a damn lucky guy.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Can we stick to the book? About the school?”

  “So, are you actually serious about him?”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear,” she said.

  “About your relationship, or about some of Bradshaw’s business associates?”

  “Both.”

  “So you’re not an item?”

  “We’re friends.” That much was true. That she had also been Thornton’s lover was no one’s business. Especially John Emerson’s.

  “Is there someone else in your life?”

  This time she leaned forward and folded her arms on her desk. Their gazes locked. “It’s not going to work, you know.”

  He gave her a slow, sexy grin. Damn him. “It’s not?”

  “No. So you may as well get over it and move on. Maybe we could talk about Arthur. You know, the guy who persuaded me to let you in here?”

  He propped an ankle on his knee, making himself comfortable. “Okay, fine. What words come to mind when you think of your former boss and mentor?”

  “That’s easy. Wise. Funny. Generous. Compassionate. That’s a big one.”

  “Tell me about his compassion,” John said. “Toward you, specifically, when you were a student here.”

  She stared at him. How did he always manage to bring it back around to her? “He and Bebe, that’s his wife, saved my life, if you must know the truth.” Now why had she gone and told him that?

  “You lived with them instead of with other students. Why is that?”

  She fiddled with a paperclip. “I had a hard time adjusting to being away from home. Living in a cottage with five other girls didn’t work for me.”

  “What happened? Did you get in trouble?”

  “No, I was…depressed.”

  “The headmaster took you in because you were depressed? Back then the school was for troubled kids. Why’d they take you and not some other depressed kid?”

  “You don’t mince words, do you?”

  He shrugged. “No point. So what happened?”

  She glanced up at the clock. “Oh, will you look at that? I’m out of time. We’ll have to finish this another—”

  “Have dinner with me tonight,” he said. “Or dessert. I’m easy.”

  She straightened a pile of papers. “Can’t.”

  “Or won’t? You don’t have to be afraid of me, Hannah.”

  Yeah, right. “Larissa’s been working here longer than I have. I’m sure she would go to dinner with you and talk about whatever you like.”

  “Larissa’s not my type.”

  She began stacking files, refusing to do more than glance at him. “There’s a pretty blonde sub helping out in the library today.”

  “I’m not attracted to blondes.”

  “Everybody’s attracted to blondes.”

  “I prefer long dark hair with golden eyes, personally.”

  “I really do have to get some work done, so—”

  “Tell me about the Grange when it was a boarding school. How would you compare the students then to the students now? This is your chance to dispel any lingering sense that the school is still for troubled kids. Arthur’s hoping the book will jumpstart your enrollment, which I understand isn’t great at the moment.”

  She sighed. He was right, of course. “What do you want to know?”

  “Anything that would make the rea
der feel like they’re getting a glimpse into the soul of this place. Starting with you.”

  “Oh, the readers wouldn’t like what they saw in my soul.”

  If he really were an author, John thought when he left her office, interviewing Hannah Duncan would make him reconsider his career.

  He crossed the foyer and headed outside to the lawn. Even though classes had started, stragglers were making their way from the parking lot with cups of coffee and large Cokes in their hands. He waved at a couple of kids and got a friendly nod or wave in return. How strange to be around so many teenagers.

  Hannah had insisted he take the Starbucks bag when he left, so he parked himself on a wooden bench and bit into a chocolate biscotti. God almighty, but she was a tough nut to crack. Granted, they hadn’t gotten off on the best foot this morning thanks to his impulsive need to jump in and “fix” things. She had maintained a civil tone throughout the interview, but the barriers went up every time he ventured into personal territory.

  Sex was the best way he knew to get close to a woman quickly. Four weeks was hardly enough time to develop a friendship—nor was it enough time to lose his soul, as his father had lost his to Sharon Duncan. Sam Daly’s love for Hannah’s mother had been strong enough to eclipse everything and everyone else in his life.

  John swallowed. Could he really make love to a woman who looked so much like…her?

  I’ve never believed your father was guilty, John.

  That was the first line John had read when he opened the letter two months ago. He had immediately glanced at the signature, but it was signed, Regretful. The letter had gone on to say that Sam Daly had been railroaded into a conviction by an ambitious prosecutor and a wealthy, humiliated husband.

  I suspected we tampered with a key piece of evidence, but I didn’t speak up.

  That revelation had blown John’s mind.

  It had been a simple, open-and-shut case, handled by the local police up in Marblehead, Massachusetts. They found the letters his father had written to Sharon, begging her to leave her husband, and Sharon’s letter, written two days before she was killed, breaking off their affair. His father had admitted to being in the Duncan house within the time frame the medical examiner established for her murder, but claimed he left after a short, painful conversation and drove around for an hour before going home. In other words, he had no alibi.