Son of the Enemy

by Ana Barrons

  “They had the letters Sharon and I had written to each other,” his father said. “And there was their case, wrapped in a rubber band, nice and neat. The lover who can’t have her decides no one else can, either. Simple, tidy—and wrong. They had it all wrong.”

  “What did he do?” John asked. “The stalker. Did he show up at the college or her house or what?”

  “He left a few things at the college, but never confronted her. He started out by leaving flowers outside her door, at home. It made her husband upset. He accused her of having a lover. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  A chill ran down John’s spine. It couldn’t be. There couldn’t be a connection. “What kind of flowers?”

  “Roses. We thought he was some kind of gardener working for the college, although it was never clear where he came from. He was just sort of…there.”

  “Roses. Anything else?”

  “Scarves, knick-knacks, books of poems. Romantic stuff.”

  “Jewelry?”

  “That was the first gift, actually, a ring. He handed it to her one day, and she took it not to hurt his feelings. That’s how she was.”

  John’s pulse pounded in his ears. “What kind of ring?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Think, Dad. Was it plain or did it have a stone?” He waited.

  “A stone,” his father said finally. “I don’t know what kind. I was never good at—”

  “What color?”

  “Uh…whitish. A light color. Damn, it’s on the tip of my tongue. I want to say oval.”

  “Opal?”

  “Yes, that’s it. It was an opal ring.”

  John couldn’t speak. It could be a coincidence. What were the chances that the same man who stalked Sharon Duncan was stalking her daughter? Jesus Christ. If it were, Hannah was in more danger than he’d imagined.

  “You’ll never find him,” his father said. “He could be anywhere. And even if you did find him, what could you prove now?”

  “What if someone could identify him as the killer?”

  “There was only one witness. I think about her often. Little Hannah. Oh, she was a beautiful little girl. Sharon loved her so much.”

  Little Hannah. The woman John had just spent the night making love to. God Almighty, how could he ever explain that to his father? “Her testimony sent you to prison,” he said. Hannah’s words came back to him.

  I don’t remember the trial… How could I know what happened? I wasn’t there.

  “She was six years old.” His father’s voice was soft and sad. So endlessly sad. “She’d just lost her mother in the most violent, devastating way. They said she was under the bed when he came in and—” He paused, pulling himself together. It had to be killing him to talk about this. “She didn’t know who the man was. How could she?”

  “So the prosecution led her?”

  “Hannah was under the care of a court-appointed psychologist throughout the trial. I have always believed that Dr. Naguchi created memories for her that matched what the prosecution wanted.”

  John filed the psychologist’s name in his brain. “If that’s true, then the real memories are still in there somewhere.”

  “No,” his father said quickly. “Please. Hannah’s been through enough. Leave her alone. Please, John, leave Hannah in peace.”

  It’s too late. “She’s a grown woman. Don’t you think she’d want to know who really killed her mother? Or would you have her go to her grave thinking it was you?”

  His father sighed. “I would love to know what kind of life Hannah has made for herself. Her father was a neurosurgeon, but he understood nothing of what goes on inside a person’s mind. Or heart. Nothing.”

  “Hannah runs a private school. Her father sent her there to boarding school when she was fourteen and hasn’t seen her since.”

  “That bastard. That miserable, cold bastard. Sharon used to worry about what would happen to Hannah if…anything ever happened to her.” He cleared his throat. “Being with the FBI, do you know anything else about her?”

  I know that she’s beautiful and intelligent and compassionate. I know what it feels like to be inside her, and I’m scared to death no one else will ever make me feel like that.

  “Not really. But she seems to be a well-adjusted, functioning adult, so…”

  “Is she married?”

  “Uh, no, she’s single. No kids, no dogs.” Christ.

  “I wonder…” His father hesitated. “I wonder if she looks like her mother. As a child, she was like a little Sharon clone.”

  And she still is. Suddenly it occurred to him. “You still love her. Sharon. I bet you talk about her a lot, don’t you?”

  His father let out a quiet groan that said it all. “We had so little time together. Fourteen months. That’s all. But my memories… Well, they’ve kept me company all these years. Memories of Sharon and memories of you. If I die tomorrow I’ll go a happier man, John, because I’ve had a chance to talk to you and tell you how much I love you.” He cleared his throat but it didn’t help. “If only I’d been able to tell her, one last time. I don’t know if you can understand love like that, but someday, I hope you find someone.”

  John didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t answer. The doe and fawn had fled from the lawn, and he heard the faint sounds of traffic in the distance. “I have to go,” he said. “I’ll call you again soon.”

  “I would rather have died than hurt you the way I did. I know I hurt your mother, and I regret that. But it was you I loved more than my life. I still do.”

  John wanted to say it back to him, but he couldn’t get the words out. “I’ll call you, Dad.”

  “Just one more thing, John. Sharon loved Hannah as much as I love you. How that child made it through that time… God help her. For Sharon’s sake, I don’t want you to do anything to hurt her. You can understand that, can’t you?”

  “I’ll be careful.”

  “Oh, and there’s something else I forgot to mention it. He called her by a different name.”

  John froze. For long moments he said nothing, fearing what his father would say. He swallowed. “He—you mean the stalker? What name?”

  “Belle.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  John waited all weekend for Hannah to tell him about the visit from Rita Santini, but she said nothing. Neither Santini nor anyone else from the bureau had left messages on his cell phone, which he found disturbing. It was possible Santini hadn’t recognized him, but not likely. They’d been in the same class in the academy, and neither of them had changed that much.

  The sheriff’s department said they were “working on” the break-in at Hannah’s cottage and the possibility that someone was stalking her, but John wasn’t holding his breath. If he could make the connection between Sharon Duncan’s stalking and murder and what was happening to Hannah, maybe they could bring the FBI into it. But in order to do that, he had to bring Hannah to Marblehead, back to the house she had lived in until the day her mother was murdered. That was the likeliest place for the memories of that awful day to return.

  He had to make her remember.

  It was nearly four o’clock on Monday when John spotted Ty heading toward the parking lot, head down, hands in his pockets. Ever since the media had called him a “hero”, Ty had retreated into himself. John couldn’t blame him—the kids at school weren’t buying it and made no bones about it. Christian was making progress but it was slow, and he had no memory of the event. He was facing months of treatment and would be unlikely to graduate on time.

  John intercepted Ty crossing the lawn and laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder, but Ty wouldn’t look at him. “How’s it going?”

  Ty shrugged. “Fine.”

  “Uh-huh. Just fine. That’s why you haven’t smiled or made eye contact with anyone since last week.” That won him a guilty glance. “I’m on your side, and I’m here if you want to talk, okay?”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Things okay at home?�
��

  Ty snorted. “Sure. My dad likes having a hero for a son. Who wouldn’t?”

  John nodded. “But you don’t feel like a hero, you feel like a phony.” Ty glanced up again and then looked away. “That’s a real uncomfortable feeling. I felt like that a lot at your age, and it made me uncontrollably angry at times.”

  That got Ty’s attention. “What do you mean, uncontrollably angry? What did you do?”

  “Picked fights with kids who were bigger and meaner than me so I’d be sure to get the shit kicked out of me and I wouldn’t feel bad about kicking the shit out of them.” John could see a glimmer of interest in Ty’s eyes. He smiled. “Not too smart, huh?”

  “What pissed you off that much? I mean, that’s, like, pretty extreme.”

  “That’s a story I’ve never told anybody,” John said. “Not yet, at least.”

  “Will you tell me?”

  “Mmm…maybe, at some point. I don’t know you well enough yet. Maybe you’re a gossip.”

  “I’m definitely not a gossip,” Ty said. “No fucking way.”

  “Glad to hear it.”

  “I don’t tell anybody anything. I keep secrets all the time. All the time.” He looked down. “I gotta go. My driver’s here.”

  John glanced over at the black Mercedes with the glass tinted so dark it was impossible to see who was inside. He pulled a pen out of his pocket and wrote his cell phone number on Ty’s hand, the one place he figured the boy wouldn’t lose it. “There. When you’re ready to talk, day or night, you know how to reach me.” He heard relief in the boy’s sigh.

  “Yeah,” Ty said. “Thanks.”

  “Is that man you were talking to her boyfriend?” Philip asked when Ty closed the car door.

  Ty had slid into the backseat, of course, since he didn’t want to risk the guy touching him, or even brushing against him. The guy made him sick. What Ty had agreed to do for him to stay out of juvie made him even sicker.

  “Why are you here again today?” Ty asked.

  “Is he?”

  “What do you care who he is? Can we please just go?”

  “Is he her boyfriend?”

  “No, he’s not, okay? I told you, she likes my dad. Or at least he likes her, and if he knew you were messing with her…” The threat was in his tone.

  “He’s around her all the time,” Philip said with a whining note in his voice that made him sound even more bizarre than usual. As it was, he had a high, singsong voice that made Ty’s skin crawl, kind of like nails on a chalkboard, but worse. “Tell me all about her day. Start at the beginning, the first time you saw her and everything she did after that.”

  Ty slumped in the seat and shut his eyes. He had to figure out a way to get rid of this guy. Christ, his father would fucking kill him if he knew he was telling Philip about Hannah’s day. “You’re not going to hurt her, right?”

  Philip clicked his tongue. “What do you think I am?”

  You don’t want to know. “Why don’t you just go talk to her yourself?”

  “I just want to know about her life. And surprise her with little gifts from time to time.”

  “Most people would call spying on a person and leaving them presents ‘stalking’, in case you haven’t heard that word before.” Moron. No, he was the moron, for agreeing to this stupid deal. How bad could juvie be, really?

  “They could charge you as an adult,” Philip said, as though he had read Ty’s mind. “I don’t think you’d last very long in prison with all those murderers and child molesters. And rapists.” They’d stopped at a light, and he turned his pearly blue eyes on Ty. They didn’t even look human anymore. Why couldn’t anyone else see what a psycho this guy was? “They rape good-looking young boys like you in prison, you know.”

  A cold sweat broke out along Ty’s spine. It was like Philip knew all his fears and held them up like a noose whenever he got pissy with him—which was most of the time. “When are you going to move out of the pool house?” he asked, and immediately regretted it, because Philip flashed him the big smile, the one that showed his gums on top, all pink and wet like his lips.

  “It won’t be long now,” Philip said.

  Ty was anything but reassured.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hannah hung up the phone on her desk and dropped her head into her hands. Rita Santini had been delighted to hear that she’d changed her mind, of course. She’d asked Hannah what had brought about her change of heart, and all she could say was “Thornton knew the guy was a drug dealer.” Rita didn’t need any further explanation. After all Hannah’s warnings about how vulnerable Ty was and how certain she was that he’d been using drugs, and after a fifteen-year-old had come close to death… Well, Thornton deserved whatever he got.

  Still, Thornton was doing a lot of kids a lot of good by saving the Grange School, and she couldn’t just dismiss that. Without his money, the school would fall into disrepair and the population would continue to shrink until they were forced out of business. She refused to believe he was an evil person, regardless of what his clients did. Maybe when the FBI listened in on the meeting, they would find out Thornton was innocent, and she would have done him a service by planting a bug on him. She knew it wasn’t likely, but she had to hold on to that possibility or she wasn’t sure she would be able to go through with it.

  Rita had told her not to discuss the investigation with anyone, not even a close friend or a family member.

  A family member—right.

  If she had told John, he would have tried to talk her out of it. Well, she was committed now, and there would be no going back. Rita said she’d contact her as soon as she knew when the meeting was going to take place, and had warned Hannah that she might not have much lead time. Hannah had agreed not to go out of town and to keep her cell phone charged and handy at all times of the day and night.

  She would have to call Arthur, of course. There was no guarantee the funding for the new buildings would continue if Thornton was indicted or convicted. By helping the FBI, she could effectively be dooming the school. But she knew Arthur and Bebe would support her one hundred percent.

  Do what you think is right, Arthur would say. Don’t worry about the money. People are what counts.

  It made her smile to think about him, with his thick glasses and slight build, balding and rumpled and not the least bit concerned about any of it. He was one of a kind.

  It was ironic, really. She’d been thinking about breaking it off with Thornton even before John came into her life. Now she wasn’t just breaking it off—she was setting him up to go to prison.

  Pretty extreme way to end a relationship.

  And then there was Ty.

  She groaned and rubbed her knuckle between her brows. Where would he go? Back to a mother who had no interest in raising a troubled teenage boy she couldn’t relate to? Would he live with his grandparents? No, Ty would end up in a boarding school somewhere—just like she had. But she had been lucky—Arthur and Bebe had taken her in and become her surrogate parents. Where would Ty find a set of loving parents? Most likely he wouldn’t. But it could have been Ty in that hospital bed. Ty who had nearly died.

  By helping to send his father to prison, she would be setting up Ty for a great deal more pain in his life—but she might also be helping to save him.

  The hand on her shoulder startled her. She raised her head quickly and found herself gazing into a face caked with makeup, tinted glasses covering the expression in the older woman’s eyes. “Edna. What are you doing in here?”

  Edna twisted her hands together. “I’m so sorry, Miss Duncan. I didn’t mean to scare you. You just looked so unhappy sitting there, and I wanted to…to comfort you.”

  Hannah felt a sudden chill and rubbed her upper arms, noticing for the first time that it was nearly dark outside. “It’s okay. I’m fine. Go ahead and empty the baskets.” But Edna’s attention was riveted on the contents of the basket closest to the desk. “What’s the matter?”

  The w
oman reached down slowly and lifted a bouquet of blood-red roses from the wastebasket. “Another bouquet, thrown away?” Her tone was incredulous.

  Hannah felt a surge of irritation, but reminded herself the woman meant no harm. “Please feel free to take them home. I’m…allergic to roses.”

  “Why, that’s very kind. Thank you.” Edna tilted her head to one side. “You’re a very good person, Miss Duncan. It shows on a person’s face, you know.”

  “Um, well, thank you. I try to be a good person.”

  Edna pulled out a dust rag and ran it over the credenza and the tops of the file cabinets—at least the couple of inches that weren’t covered with papers and books. “My boy.” She shook her head. “I wish I could say the same about him, but one look at that face and you can see the devil’s hand.”

  Hannah sat, stunned, staring at the woman. How could a mother speak about her own child that way?

  “I can see it in the faces of some of these children as well,” Edna went on, apparently oblivious to Hannah’s expression. “All that acne? That’s just evil erupting from their pores.”

  Hannah swallowed, thoroughly discomfited by that statement. “They’re all good, loveable kids. You can’t judge a person’s goodness by how they look.” Or who they look like.

  Edna crossed the room and dumped the wastebasket by the fireplace into a large black plastic bag. “The truly virtuous are truly beautiful.” She looked up at Hannah. “Like you, Miss Duncan. My son isn’t fit to be in the same room with you.”

  “I don’t believe that for a moment.”

  Edna stared at her. “Oh, but you don’t know him. He’s evil, through and through.”

  That was it. Hannah stood. “I’ll be locking up now, Edna, so you can skip the vacuuming for tonight.”

  “Oh. All right, then.” She picked up the roses, put them to her nose and closed her eyes for a moment. “Lovely,” she said softly. “Perfectly lovely.”