Son of the Enemy

by Ana Barrons

  “John,” Hannah called from the porch. She held out a flashlight. “Use this.”

  He ran up the steps and took it from her, but the squawking had stopped. She rubbed her hands briskly up and down her arms. Scared, he thought. And for good reason. “Is something…dead out there?”

  He nudged her. “Go back inside. I’ll join you in a minute.” He aimed the beam of light toward the trees, hoping to spot some large movement he could track, but the animals had calmed down. Was the timing of that disruption truly coincidental? Or had there been a two-legged predator in the woods watching them? He retrieved his gun from the tail bag and tried following Hannah’s thin path through the trees, pushing his way through low bushes, shining the light at the ground, but found nothing. Ten minutes later, he let out a deep breath and made his way back to the cottage, locking up his gun before he climbed the steps.

  Hannah let him inside, but her body language made it clear the mood had been broken and her defenses were back in full force. Resigned, he checked all her locks, peered into her closets and declared her safe, then kissed her on the forehead and left.

  An hour later he slammed the door to his apartment, threw his helmet on a chair and grabbed a beer out of the fridge. He glugged down half of it and began to pace.

  His control was slipping and he didn’t know how to stop it.

  On his way past the TV, he grabbed the remote and clicked on CNN. Tanks were crawling through some Middle Eastern town, but he couldn’t focus on the reporter’s words. He finished the beer, crushed the can in his hand and grabbed another. The CNN reporter droned on, but John’s thoughts crowded everything else out.

  Working undercover, playing a role, had never been this hard, even when he knew the woman was up to her ass in guilt. Maybe that was the problem. Hannah was a victim, and had been all her life. A victim of her mother’s killer and her father’s neglect. Now she was a victim of John Emerson Daly, the son of the man she believed had murdered her mother and shattered her world.

  The son of her worst enemy.

  He fingered the phone in his pocket. Maybe this time he would ask the question. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. He finished his beer and opened another. He paced the room, fingering the phone in his pocket. It was a simple question with a simple yes-or-no answer. He wiped the sweat off his lip with his sleeve. All he had to do was pull out the phone, punch in the numbers he knew by heart, and ask the question. Nine minutes to six. If he didn’t do it soon, the call wouldn’t go through.

  One more beer ought to do it.

  At four minutes to six he took his phone out and discovered his palms were sweating. He punched in the numbers and took deep breaths while it rang. The same man answered, with his distinctive New England accent, and John said the name in a voice hoarse with anxiety. Less than a minute later, the deep, familiar voice came on the line.

  Ask!

  His breathing accelerated.

  Ask and get on with your life.

  He opened his mouth to speak…and closed it. Just like he had a couple dozen other times over the past several years.

  “I’m here, son,” the voice said as John pressed End Call.

  Edna’s snoring woke her up. She gazed around the small living room, disoriented as always. The clock on the mantle said it was eight thirty in the evening. She pushed herself out of the La-Z-Boy chair, clicking the footrest shut with her ankles, and went to the back door. Maybe that good-for-nothing son of hers had left her something nice for once. Some flowers, maybe. She opened the door and shook her head.

  Another critter with its throat ripped out.

  She bent down and picked it up by the tail, swung it into the trash can, then went back into the kitchen to wash her bloody hands. “Can’t put up with much more of this,” she called over her shoulder as she spurted yellow dish detergent on her hands and rubbed them together under the tap. “I thought we were done with punishment, but I guess we’re not. It’s of your own making.”

  She dried her hands thoroughly, then went into the bedroom. It was her burden to bear, as his mother, to take his evil from him. She would shut her eyes tight, that’s what she’d do, just like she did when his father gave his evil to her, may he rot in hell.

  “Get on in here, you evil boy,” she called out. “It’s punishment time.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Larissa buzzed the office at two fifteen on Thursday afternoon to say Mrs. Santini had arrived for her appointment. Hannah groaned. She’d barely slept the past couple nights—since the night John had stayed with her. As though that one taste of sleeping in his arms had spoiled her for all the other nights he wouldn’t be there.

  She’d nearly taken him to bed after he’d gotten her so unbelievably turned on out on her porch. What a mistake that would have been. As it was, she spent way too much time thinking about him, fantasizing about what it would be like to make love with him. If only the fantasies stopped there. But they went from lovemaking to living together to getting married and having babies.

  She had to keep John Emerson out of her bed.

  She rubbed her hands over her face and yawned. If she didn’t get at least eight hours tonight—no, make that ten—she’d be delusional soon. She stood and stretched as far as her muscles would go in a desperate attempt to wake up. It wouldn’t do to keel over while the woman was talking about her child.

  Mrs. Santini turned out to be an attractive redhead with a very short haircut and a compact body that told Hannah she spent a lot of time working out. Hannah offered coffee but she declined, and they settled into comfortable chairs to talk.

  “I understand your son, Jason, is fourteen,” Hannah said to kick things off. Once she started the ball rolling, most parents couldn’t stop talking about their kids. Her challenge this afternoon would be to stay focused and listen.

  “Well, that is what I told your secretary,” the woman said. She reached into her bag and pulled out a wallet. “I’m actually here on another matter, Ms. Duncan.” She held up a badge and credentials identifying her as Special Agent Rita Santini, Federal Bureau of Investigation.

  Hannah sat back in her chair, stunned. “Is this about Christian Smythe?” She was afraid to even mention Ty’s name.

  “Indirectly. It’s very important that this conversation remain confidential, Hannah. May I call you Hannah?”

  Hannah nodded slowly, her mind spinning in a million directions. “What do you mean, indirectly?”

  “Well, I’m here to talk about a friend of yours. Thornton Bradshaw III.”

  “Thornton?” Her mind flashed to the posters in front of the courthouse where Judge Palmieri’s trial was underway. They had accused Thornton of being a drug dealer, an idea she rejected totally. “What did he do, not pay his taxes or something?”

  The agent shook her head, her expression almost apologetic. “The FBI has been investigating Mr. Bradshaw’s activities for quite a while, Hannah.” She pulled a manila file folder out of her bag, set it on her lap and folded her hands on top of it. “You’ve heard of organized crime.”

  Hannah stared at her. Maybe she was already delusional. “Thornton is somehow involved in organized crime? Is that what you’re suggesting?”

  “He’s under investigation for certain activities that fall under that category, yes.”

  Hannah shook her head. “No. I don’t believe that. Some of his friends, maybe. Does this have something to do with Judge Palmieri?”

  The agent leaned forward in her chair. “I’m not at liberty to discuss that particular case. But you’re right to think that some of Mr. Bradshaw’s associates are known organized-crime figures.” She glanced at the folder on her lap. “Before we go any further, I’ll need you to sign a confidentiality agreement. And then just hear me out. Will you do that?”

  Hannah signed the agreement, more out of curiosity than any desire to help the FBI go after Thornton. She was actually surprised at how protective she felt toward him. Granted, those men in the black suits who followed him everywhe
re had been making her uncomfortable lately. They struck her as out-and-out thugs. But damn it, Thornton was no criminal. He couldn’t be. Could he?

  “Why did you come to me?” Hannah asked. “I don’t know the first thing about Thornton’s associates or any crimes they’ve supposedly committed.” She sensed the agent was weighing her responses very carefully to see if she was lying—which annoyed Hannah even more.

  Rita Santini crossed one leg over the other. “You and Mr. Bradshaw had dinner at the home of Judge Emil Cervantes on August 27. Twelve days later he was murdered.”

  Hannah gripped the arms of her chair. “Thornton was very upset about that. We both were. He came by school that day to tell me in person because he knew how much I had enjoyed the judge and his wife.” Thornton had been very sweet to her that afternoon, but beneath it she’d sensed a simmering anger. “He tried not to show it but he was angry that it had happened, that the judge had been… Well, it was almost like he’d been assassinated, wasn’t it?”

  The agent’s eyes betrayed a tiny glimmer of surprise at that. “The FBI has reason to suspect that Mr. Bradshaw had advance knowledge that someone was planning a hit on Judge Cervantes.”

  Hannah felt the blood leave her face and was thankful she was sitting down. Her mouth was suddenly dry. “Are you saying that he’s some kind of murderer? Thornton?” She nearly said, “My Thornton?”

  “No, I’m saying that he’s under suspicion for complicity in Judge Cervantes’s murder.”

  Hannah squeezed her eyes shut. “He’s a good man. Do you have any idea what he’s done for this school?” She met the agent’s gaze. “Do you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “And he loves his son. Granted, he’s not the best father in the world but he’s a hell of a lot better than mine was, and I know that in his heart he loves that boy.”

  “I’m sure he does,” Rita Santini said gently.

  “So how could he be a murderer?”

  Heavy footsteps were followed by a quick rap on the door, and John stuck his head in. “Oh, sorry.” He nodded at the agent and for just a second, his eyes widened. “I didn’t realize she was— Jesus, Hannah, are you okay?”

  She held up her palm to keep him from coming any closer. “I’m fine, John. I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

  He frowned, obviously unsatisfied with her answer, and cast a suspicious glance at the agent. “Don’t leave without talking to me.” He backed out, closing the door behind him.

  When he was gone, Hannah turned to the agent. “Why are you telling me all this?”

  “We were hoping you would agree to help us.” The woman’s cheeks were flushed, and Hannah wondered why. “Especially in light of what happened to Christian Smythe.”

  At the mention of Christian, Hannah’s gut tightened. “His doctors think he’ll recover fully over time. Is there… Has anything changed?”

  “They’re cautiously optimistic, true, but he had a close call, as you know.” She tilted her head to one side, revealing plain gold hoops in her ears. “We believe Mr. Bradshaw’s son, Ty, supplied the drugs that sent Christian to the hospital.”

  Hannah straightened and made a T with her hands. “Time-out. Let’s leave Ty out of this, okay. He’s a kid, for heaven’s sake. How do you know—?”

  “We believe he bought the drugs from an employee on the Bradshaw estate.”

  Hannah frowned, puzzled. “You’re saying Thornton knew one of his employees was selling drugs to his son?”

  “I’m saying that Mr. Bradshaw knows the man is a convicted drug dealer because he hired a top attorney to defend him and paid his legal bills. The man got off with a suspended sentence.”

  Silence descended in the room. Outside a group of kids were throwing a Frisbee around, and their shouts and laughter drifted up to Hannah’s office. She rubbed her eyes and tried to make her mind work. Why would Thornton employ a convicted drug dealer who would have access to his vulnerable teenage son?

  “Would Mr. Bradshaw turn you away if you showed up at his door unexpectedly?” Agent Santini asked.

  The question startled Hannah, but she didn’t hesitate to answer. “No, of course not. Why?”

  “All we’re asking you to do is show up at his home on a particular evening and spend a few minutes with him, then leave.”

  “What would be the point of that?”

  The agent drummed her fingers on the file folder. “I think it’s time I spelled it out for you.”

  Forty-five minutes later, Hannah said goodbye to Agent Rita Santini and told her she would call if she changed her mind, but that she shouldn’t hold her breath. Then she leaned back against the door, slid down to the floor and wrapped her arms around her knees. With a deep, groaning sigh, she lowered her head and closed her eyes.

  “Hey, Ty!”

  Ty snagged his sweatshirt out of his locker and pulled it over his head without answering. Richard Harrington either wanted to buy some dope or borrow some money, and Ty wasn’t about to provide either.

  “How’s the hero today?” Richard asked.

  “Eat me.” Ty swung his backpack over his shoulder and slammed the locker shut. “What the fuck do you want?”

  Richard had the balls to look shocked. “Jeez, Ty, I was just kidding.”

  Ty brushed past him. He was sick of people busting his cajones about this hero thing. Fucking sheriff had to say it on TV—while he was standing next to his father, for Christ’s sake. So naturally everybody figured his father had set it up. And Philip fucking Kellerman refused to have his picture taken—which was probably just as well because he’d break the fucking camera—so nobody at school believed the witness actually existed. What a great fucking reputation he had.

  “Dude!” Richard said from behind him. He grabbed Ty’s arm and lowered his voice. “Can you score me some weed? Or sell me some from your stash?”

  Ty whirled on him. “There is no fucking stash, and I’m not your local fucking dealer, okay? So go ask somebody else.”

  “Hey, fuck you too, Ty. Maybe I’ll go ask your old man if he can get—”

  Ty grabbed him by the front of his jacket and got in his face. “Yeah, why don’t you just do that, dickhead? Go ask my father to score you some dope. I want to be there when you do so I can watch him kick your ugly ass.”

  Richard shoved at Ty’s chest until he let go. “What the hell’s your problem, man? I don’t give a rat’s ass whether you saved Christian or not. It was his choice to snort all that shit. If the sheriff says you’re a hero then you’re a fucking hero, okay?”

  Ty pushed the door open so hard it banged against the brick wall. He took the steps two at a time and hunched his shoulders forward as he walked to the circle where his driver usually waited for him. He glanced up. Shit! Philip was leaning against one of the older black Mercedes, arms crossed over his chest, that weird little smile on his lips.

  Philip had somehow convinced Ty’s dad to hire him as a groundskeeper, give him a salary advance and let him live on the estate until he found a place of his own. So he’d moved into the bedroom in the pool house, which had a little galley kitchen for fixing lunches. Ty had spent the night out there with Christian a few times. A guy could live there very comfortably for a long time, a thought that gave him no comfort.

  “Hello there,” Philip said as Ty approached. “I’m here to pick you up.”

  “Where’s Sal? He usually comes.”

  “He was busy and I offered to do it.”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t need a ride today, so I guess you wasted a trip.”

  “I’d like you to come with me anyway, Ty,” Philip said. “We need to talk.”

  Ty swallowed hard. The last thing he wanted to do was be alone in a car with Philip the fucking freak. “About what?”

  “Oh, I think you know,” Philip said.

  Chapter Twelve

  When John came looking for Hannah at four thirty, he found a note with his name on it taped to her office door.

  Gone home to s
leep for at least sixteen hours. See you tomorrow.

  The last word was underlined. He crumpled the note in his fist and jammed it into his jacket pocket, then headed out on foot across the soccer field. She was mistaken if she thought he was going to stay away from her now.

  Seeing Rita Santini sitting in Hannah’s office this afternoon had been a huge shock. She had to be there because of Bradshaw. There was no other reason he could imagine why the FBI would be talking to Hannah. Jesus. Just what he needed.

  No doubt Santini had already checked with headquarters to see why John was hanging around Hannah Duncan. Until he figured out a plausible excuse for being at the Grange School, he was leaving his cell phone off. He had to come up with something fast—before the bureau starting looking closely at John’s searches in their internal computer system. More important, he had to cement his relationship with Hannah before the FBI got its greedy hands on her. Damn it, what did they want from her?

  He climbed the steps to Hannah’s cottage and paused before knocking. If she was asleep he didn’t want to wake her, not that way. Better to get inside another way and then wake her up slowly. He tried the knob, expecting it to be locked, and was surprised that it turned.

  He also didn’t expect to find her standing in the middle of the living room, staring at him, her face pale, her expression a mix of fear and bewilderment. Something dangled from her hand, a chain of some sort. He approached her slowly and laid his hands on her shoulders. She didn’t move.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. In answer she glanced down at the chain and back up at him, as though she suddenly realized she’d been bitten by a poisonous insect. His protective instincts flipped into high gear. “What is it?”

  “I found this when I got home.” She held up a delicate silver chain with a pendant hanging from it. He took it from her.

  “Looks like an opal.”