Closer Than You Think

by Karen Rose

  ‘She had an emergency at the shelter. I’m used to the Feds now. They’re here because of you, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately.’

  ‘Because you’re in trouble or in danger?’

  ‘Mostly the second one.’ She pointed to the other chair. ‘Can I join you?’

  He gave her a strange look. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’d like to play.’ She moved her shoulders restlessly. ‘I’m too wired to sleep.’

  He frowned, then nodded. ‘Wired,’ he repeated. ‘I thought at first you said “weird”.’

  She grinned at him. The words did look very similar on the lips, she thought. ‘That too.’ She pointed to the game, a multi-player military role-playing game. ‘You on a team?’

  ‘Nah. I just picked these guys up. You want a different game?’

  ‘I like to kill zombies.’

  Greg’s smile was slow, but real. ‘All right.’ He glanced guiltily toward the stairway to the bedrooms. ‘Except I’m supposed to be painting the walls. Not playing.’

  ‘How about I help you paint, then we’ll have more time for play?’

  He shook his head. ‘Deacon won’t want you working on his house.’

  ‘Deacon doesn’t have to know everything. Besides, I’ve got a lot of nervous energy. I’d normally go running, but I can’t leave the house. So let’s go paint a wall.’

  Greg put his controller away, then narrowed his eyes at her. They were like Dani’s, one blue and one brown. Other than that, the boy looked just like Deacon in that old picture. They were like twins, born eighteen years apart. ‘I heard that you are a therapist,’ he said.

  ‘I was. Now I work at a bank.’ She winced inwardly. At least I hope so after all this.

  ‘I don’t want you doing therapy on me. Or asking me any questions about my suspension.’

  ‘Understood and agreed.’ She gestured for him to lead the way. Once in his room, she saw that someone had already started the job. One wall was a peaceful, misty green that complemented the other colors in the house. ‘Who picked the colors?’

  ‘I did. We all picked our own bedroom colors, but Dani picked everything else.’

  ‘I like it,’ Faith said. ‘It’s peaceful without being girlie. Did you paint all this so far?’

  ‘Yeah. I was taking a break for a while downstairs. I’m taller than you. I can paint the top half, you do the bottom. I won’t be able to hear you if I’m not looking at you.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not looking to talk your ear off.’

  ‘That’s what girls always say, but then they want to talk anyway.’

  ‘Not me. After the past day, I think I’m all talked out.’

  Cincinnati, Ohio, Tuesday 4 November, 9.05 P.M.

  Keith put his arm protectively around Jeremy’s shoulders. ‘I told you to let them go,’ he said softly. ‘Don’t let them hurt you anymore.’

  ‘What day are you talking about, Dr O’Bannion?’ Deacon asked.

  ‘That day twenty-three years ago,’ Jeremy answered, as if that explained it all.

  ‘The day your father died?’

  Jeremy looked up, a mild frown furrowing his brow. ‘No. It was a few days later.’

  Deacon felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. ‘The day Faith’s mother died.’

  ‘No, the day before.’ Jeremy swallowed hard. ‘I loved my sister. But she sided with them and not me. It’s the last memory I have of her face.’

  ‘Jeremy,’ Keith said helplessly. ‘Don’t do this to yourself.’

  ‘Do what?’ Bishop murmured. ‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

  ‘Neither did I,’ Jeremy said. ‘I still don’t.’

  ‘They treated him like a . . .’ Keith hissed out a breath through his teeth. ‘Like a pedophile. Just because he’d finally told his father what he was.’

  ‘What your father was?’ Deacon asked, purposely misunderstanding.

  One side of Jeremy’s mouth lifted, as if Deacon’s ploy had been too terribly transparent. ‘No, Agent Novak. What I was. What I am.’

  ‘Homosexual,’ Deacon supplied neutrally. ‘Not an easy topic for Catholic families in those days.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t. It still isn’t for many, but it was much worse then.’ Jeremy drew a deep breath and let it out. ‘It was the day before Maggie died. When my father’s will was read.’

  ‘You were cut out,’ Deacon said.

  ‘Not just me. Everyone. Except my mother, of course, but even she was short-changed.’ His smiled bitterly. ‘My father was not a kind man. He was harsh and very much believed in “spare the rod, spoil the child”.’

  ‘He was physically abusive?’ Bishop asked.

  ‘Physically, emotionally. All of it. When I was small, I used to think it was because we were poor and that he was under such strain. That’s what my mother would say, after all.’

  ‘Poor?’ Deacon asked with a frown. ‘I thought the family had always lived on the estate.’

  ‘We did. There had been plenty of money before we were born, but my parents spent millions on Joy’s treatments.’

  ‘Joy had leukemia,’ Deacon recalled.

  ‘Yes. My parents were desperate to find her a cure, but nothing they tried worked. After she died, there wasn’t enough left for the land and the house and the taxes. It would have been far easier to sell it all, but my father wouldn’t hear of that. It was O’Bannion land, the O’Bannion legacy.’ Jeremy rolled his eyes. ‘More like a curse.’

  ‘How did he save the legacy?’ Deacon asked.

  ‘He sold some other family assets and invested the proceeds well, from what I’m told. I was only five years old when Joy died. And, of course, he wasn’t without skills of his own. He was a genius in advertising. He took a hiatus during Joy’s illness, but after her death, he made a very good living peddling other people’s products. Within ten years, he’d replenished the family coffers. By the time he died, he was considered rich again. Of course it did help,’ Jeremy added caustically, ‘that after Joy died, he never made the mistake of spending any of his money on his children ever again. But that’s all water under the bridge, as my mother used to say. You were asking me about the day I realized I’d lost my family.’

  He’s a bitter man, Deacon thought. ‘The day they read your father’s will.’

  ‘Yes. When he died, my father left everything to the Foundation.’

  Bishop’s dark brows shot up. ‘Everything? Nothing to his family?’

  ‘Not a penny. My mother was left the house and the land, of course. He wasn’t going to boot her ass to the street, after all, and he’d set up a trust for her living expenses until she died. But the rest of us . . . not a penny. I didn’t need it. I was married to Della at the time. But Jordan was most displeased and Maggie was distraught. I think she’d been counting on the money. Rick – Faith’s father – was upset that Maggie was so upset. He had never wanted any of the O’Bannion money. I’d gotten the impression that this was something he and Maggie had argued about before, but they really argued that day and Faith started to cry.’

  Jeremy’s expression grew pained. ‘I’d always liked Faith. She was a bright, funny kid. I only wanted to comfort her, I swear. I put my arm around her and she turned into a little tornado, clawing at me. Next thing I knew, Rick had me by the throat, threatening to cut off my balls if I touched her again. I fought him at first, thinking Maggie would pull him off me, but I saw her huddled against the wall with Faith in her arms. My own sister was looking at me like . . . well, like she believed it. That’s the memory of Maggie that I carry.’

  Deacon had walked into this interview prepared to believe that Jeremy was twisted, even if he wasn’t their killer. He knew that the man could be cleverly turning what had been a vile attempt to touch his own niece into a smokescreen that painted him as the victim.

  The very fact that Deacon was having doubts disturbed him intensely.

  ‘What did you do next, Dr O’Bannion?’ Bishop asked.<
br />
  ‘I was devastated. I knew Rick had never felt comfortable around me, but he’d never actively hated me. Not like he did that day. And Maggie . . . I thought she loved me, but she looked like she wanted me to die. It was Faith who stopped her father from bashing my face in. She ran over and grabbed his arm, begged him not to hurt me. Rick shoved me out the door, told me never to show my face around his daughter again. Maggie didn’t say a word in my defense. That’s when I left that house and never looked back.’

  ‘What about your mother?’ Bishop asked softly.

  Jeremy’s jaw tightened again. ‘She’d already stopped speaking to me.’

  Keith’s hold around Jeremy’s shoulders tightened. ‘Jeremy’s father hadn’t taken his coming out well, shall we say. His mother blamed his father’s heart attack a few weeks later on Jeremy, instead of the fact that the old man ate a fatty diet, smoked like a chimney, and had a trigger temper. The old woman never forgave him, till the day her miserable heart gave out.’

  ‘Yet you still hoped she’d leave the house to you?’ Bishop asked sympathetically.

  Jeremy shrugged. ‘O’Bannions have always owned the homestead. I figured she’d leave it to one of us. She left it to Faith and that was her right. Like I said, I don’t need the money the sale of the property would have brought.’

  ‘You would have sold it?’ Deacon asked.

  ‘I certainly wouldn’t have lived there.’ He shuddered. ‘Drafty old place. Probably has rats.’

  ‘What about O’Bannions always owning the homestead?’ Bishop asked, one brow raised.

  He shrugged. ‘Selling it would have been my final revenge against my parents. I would have sold the place to developers and slept with a smile on my face thinking about them spinning in their side-by-side graves like rotisserie chickens. However, I fail to see what all this family history has to do with Faith’s safety now.’

  ‘Someone doesn’t want her to have the house,’ Deacon said simply. ‘If you don’t want it and Jordan doesn’t want it, who does?’

  ‘Who said Jordan didn’t want it?’ Keith asked belligerently. ‘That bastard needs the cash.’

  ‘Keith, please,’ Jeremy murmured, but there was a glint in his eye, quickly hidden.

  Bishop sat forward, her expression rapt. ‘Jordan needs money? Really? Why?’

  Keith leaned toward Bishop, his tone confidential. ‘His gallery is always in debt. He has to sleep with rich women to keep it going. Usually they’re married rich women.’

  Pink genie gymnasts. ‘And you know this how?’ Deacon asked.

  Keith shrugged. ‘It’s my job to know. I handle Jeremy’s security.’

  Why would a med school professor need security? Deacon looked over his shoulder at Hailey, who’d been hovering in the doorway. ‘What is your job, Hailey?’

  ‘Hailey is my housekeeper,’ Jeremy said. ‘She is not part of your case. Now, if there is nothing else?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, there is. We’d like to talk to your son, Stone. Is he here?’

  Jeremy froze for a split second, then smiled sadly. ‘No. He’s not. I haven’t seen Stone in months. The last I heard, he was covering a riot in Turkey. Or was that Greece, Keith?’

  ‘Definitely Turkey,’ Keith said. He came to his feet. ‘I’ll see you out, Detectives.’

  Turkey, my ass. They were lying for Stone. The agent outside had documented that Stone had left the house at eleven and returned at four fifteen. Why would they think they needed to lie?

  Jeremy also rose. ‘Please give Faith my regards. She was such a pretty little girl. I’m sure she’s grown into a lovely woman.’

  ‘She has,’ Deacon said. ‘I’ll be sure to pass on your good wishes.’ He waited until he was in the parlor doorway before turning back to Jeremy. ‘I have one more question, sir. Why did you tell your father you were gay when you did? You were married, had two sons. By my calculations your ex-wife was pregnant with your daughter. What made you decide to come out to your father then?’

  Jeremy’s lips thinned. ‘I didn’t “decide.” I was outed by my brother, a pre-emptive move on his part. He knew I was about to tell our father that he’d misused Foundation funds. When I tried to tell him that Jordan had done this to obfuscate his own crime, he didn’t care. He threw me out. Said he never wanted to see me again. And he didn’t. The next time I was at the house was the day of his burial. The last time was the day his will was read. My family considered me dead to them long ago. The feeling has been mutual.’

  ‘You could have denied it.’

  Jeremy lifted a shoulder. ‘I was caught off guard. And I’ve never been a very good liar.’

  Which is actually true, Deacon thought. Jeremy had clearly been lying about Stone’s whereabouts – a fact that was underscored when Deacon’s phone buzzed a moment later, the vibration pattern the one he’d assigned to the agent sitting out front. He glanced at the text and hid his surge of adrenaline. Stone O’Bannion headed to guest house.

  ‘We have to attend to this,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your time. Detective Bishop?’

  Bishop had glanced at her own phone and was also nodding her thanks to the two men.

  A scowling Keith opened the door and slammed it closed behind them.

  Deacon walked into the front garden, pretending to talk on his phone while he and Bishop wandered to the far corner of the house. Just in time to see Stone O’Bannion disappearing into the guest house out back. His shoes were muddy, as were the cuffs of his trousers. It hadn’t rained recently. There was no mud anywhere in the area.

  Where have you been, Stone? Digging graves? You fucking sonofabitch.

  ‘I’ll take the left,’ Bishop murmured.

  Deacon nodded grimly. Drawing their weapons, they started after him.

  Eastern Kentucky, Tuesday 4 November, 9.35 P.M.

  It was a sign. An honest-to-God printed sign, the first thing man-made thing Corinne had since they’d made their escape from the cabin from hell. It was tall and brown and too far away to read in the dark.

  She stopped to catch her breath, and Roza sank to her knees, still chanting, ‘I get to kill him. I get to kill him.’

  As if I don’t have enough problems, Corinne thought miserably. She’d allowed the child her hate, because it was the only thing that kept her moving. Corinne figured the bastard deserved it. But she knew what it meant to kill another human being. Even one trying to kill you.

  It hurt you. Changed you. It steals a part of your soul. And Roza had lost so much already. Corinne hated the thought that she’d allowed, even encouraged, that seed of murderous hate to flourish, but if they both died because Roza was rocking away in the woods, it wouldn’t matter. She’d get the girl to safety and allow the therapists to sort it out later.

  ‘Roza, I need your help in reading that sign.’

  ‘You can read,’ Roza grumbled.

  ‘And you can walk. I need your help.’

  Roza pushed to her hands and knees, her head hanging. ‘I can’t walk anymore. I’m tired. My feet hurt.’ Close to a whine, she sounded so perfectly eleven that Corinne smiled.

  ‘So do mine. I know you’re not used to so much walking. But we don’t have a choice.’

  ‘I get to kill him,’ Roza muttered, the words sounding more like a march chant than a threat now. She got up and together they shuffled toward the sign.

  ‘Look!’ Corinne cried, excited. The sign marked a trail.

  ‘It’s a path?’

  Corinne laughed, elation making her giddy. ‘Yes. Go up to the sign and read it.’ She could read it herself at this distance, but she wanted to keep Roza awake and engaged.

  Daniel Boone National Forest. The arrow to the left said, Morehead, 24 mi. The arrow to the right Route 60, 12 mi.

  Morehead is a town, Corinne thought. They’ll have police. Help.

  ‘“Twelve mi”,’ Roza read. ‘What’s “mi”?’

  ‘Miles. That’s twelve miles. You can walk that. I know you can.’ But maybe not tonig
ht.

  Reality was quickly eroding Corinne’s elation. It was dark. And cold. They needed shelter.

  ‘Let’s go a little further. I’m looking for a place where we can sleep for the night.’

  Roza looked up. ‘Promise?’

  ‘I promise.’ Corinne glanced toward the sky. ‘Come on.’

  Roza tugged on Corinne’s shirt, then pointed back into the woods, the way they’d come. ‘What about that house?’

  Corinne squinted in the direction of Roza’s finger and her mouth fell open, amazed. It wasn’t a house, but it was a structure of some kind. The two of them hobbled, but quickly, their energy renewed at the sight of the strange little box built atop four stilts.

  ‘What is it?’ Roza asked. ‘A tree house?’

  ‘No, because it’s not up a tree. It’s a deer blind.’ Corinne looked down to see Roza’s forehead scrunch in puzzlement. ‘Hunters hide here and wait for the deer to come along.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound fair.’

  Corinne wasn’t touching that one with a ten-foot pole. ‘Let’s go up.’

  Roza went first, tugging on the door. ‘It’s locked.’

  ‘I’ve already picked two locks. Let’s make it three.’

  Cincinnati, Ohio, Tuesday 4 November, 9.35 P.M.

  The first wall was done and didn’t look bad at all, Faith thought. She and Greg had found a comfortable working rhythm that required no words. At last she was getting tired. Her brain was finally starting to slow down. When she eventually did sleep, maybe she wouldn’t dream.

  They’d started on the second coat when Faith caught the boy stealing curious glances, his expression saying he wanted to talk. But she kept quiet, swallowing back a smile when he stated that he was going to get some food – and then maybe his hearing aids.

  She was loading her roller with more paint when she heard the doorbell. Her first thought was that Greg wouldn’t have heard it and that Agent Colby would answer it. Her heart nearly stopped when she heard the door open and Greg asking, ‘Yes?’

  She down the stairs to see Greg standing at the open door, talking to a man. ‘Greg, no!’ she shouted, and he wheeled to look at her, startled.