Stephen Frey

by Trust Fund

  “Jesus Christ. What about Duncan?”

  Paul shook his head. “We have nothing on Reggie Duncan. We never figured it would be necessary to have anything on him because we thought he’d never have a chance to win. He was an afterthought until today. He’s black, for Christ’s sake. When we did look we couldn’t find anything. He’s clean.”

  “Who are the ‘influential people’ who helped you and Jimmy Lee?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Tell me!”

  “Jimmy Lee and Teddy handled all of that,” Paul said, his voice low. “Jimmy Lee didn’t want me knowing. I was introduced to a man named Joseph Scully, but he’s my only contact.”

  Scully. The same name Frank Ramsey had mentioned. “Who did Scully represent?”

  “I don’t know. I told you, Dad didn’t want me involved in all of that.”

  Bo moved around the side of the desk so that he was standing beside his older brother. “You’re finished, Paul. It’s over.”

  “Yes,” Paul said softly. In the top drawer of the desk—slightly ajar—he could just make out the pictures of Melissa’s ashen face, and the polished wooden handle of a .38 caliber revolver. “It is over.”

  “You will resign from Warfield Capital’s executive committee effective immediately,” Bo continued, “and you will sign a binding document agreeing to give me complete authority over the fund as well as all business matters related to our family. It will be irrevocable. Catherine will sign the same document. You will make certain that she does. Do you understand?”

  Paul was silent.

  “Paul!”

  “You’ll still have to deal with Ramsey,” Paul observed. “He’s got his share of the Warfield pie. It’s a minuscule piece, but he’ll always be a problem.”

  “I doubt it. Frank Ramsey is gone.”

  Paul looked up. “Gone?”

  “Ramsey called in sick early this morning. When I got to his Fifth Avenue apartment building, Ramsey was leaving, suitcase in hand.” Bo eyed the bottle on the desk. Suddenly he had a strong yearning for alcohol, any alcohol, even sour mash whiskey. He ran the tip of his tongue along his lower lip. “I have alerted the authorities that I want Ramsey apprehended.”

  Paul covertly slid the desk drawer shut, aware that Bo might be able to see inside from where he stood. Then he reached for the bottle and pushed it toward Bo. “Go ahead, little brother.”

  “No.”

  “Come on.” Paul produced a glass from another desk drawer, placed it in front of Bo, then poured whiskey until the glass was half-full. “Don’t you want to celebrate your victory?”

  Bo’s eyes shifted to Paul’s, requesting clarification.

  Paul smiled sadly. “Just a little more than a week ago you were tucked away safely in Montana with no influence on the family at all. I was the alpha son and you were nothing. Now you control Warfield, the family, and me. You are going to permanently remove me from Warfield’s executive committee and I have lost my bid for the nation’s highest office. What I have been living my life for since I was ten years old. You’ve won and I’ve lost.”

  “Let me remind you that only a short time ago you tried to remove me from Warfield’s executive committee.” Bo picked up the glass, brought it to his lips, and inhaled. Saliva flooded his mouth. Like Pavlov’s dog, he thought.

  “Drink, Bo,” Paul said softly. “Have a taste.”

  Bo inhaled the fumes from the glass again.

  “It all goes back to that night, doesn’t it? The night of my thirtieth birthday.”

  “It goes back further than that,” Bo assured Paul.

  “The night Melissa died,” Paul continued.

  “The night you killed Melissa.”

  Paul shook his head. “You killed her, Bo.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  Paul pulled the top drawer open, removed the two photographs of Melissa, and dropped them beside the bottle. “I was passed out that night, Bo. I was so drunk I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t have killed her.”

  Bo snatched the pictures and stared at the image of Melissa’s dead face, then at Paul’s hands wrapped around Melissa’s neck.

  “Why would I have taken pictures of myself killing her?” Paul asked. “You know I wouldn’t have. You know that’s ridiculous.”

  “If you didn’t take them, how did you get them?”

  “They were delivered to Bruce Laird’s office. He brought them to me.”

  “He saw them?”

  “The envelope was still sealed when he gave it to me. There was nothing inside but the pictures. No note, no return address, no nothing,” Paul explained. His eyes narrowed. “Why did you kill her, Bo? So you’d have something to hold over me at that critical point when you really wanted to ruin my life? Did you hate me that much growing up?”

  “Oh, I hated you,” Bo admitted calmly, “but not enough to kill someone.”

  “But now it’s over for me anyway,” Paul rambled on, intoxication overtaking him, “so you killed Melissa for nothing.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Just like you killed Teddy and Tom.”

  Bo put the glass back down on the desk. “You’ve gone insane, Paul. Your world is crumbling around you and you’ve lost your mind.”

  “Why would I take those pictures if I killed Melissa?” Paul asked again. “It doesn’t make any sense. You, Melissa, and I were the only ones at the playhouse that night.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “You always knew that Dad cared more for Teddy and me. You knew it and you hated it, didn’t you?”

  Bo hesitated. “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  “Down deep you’ve always wanted to be the one who ultimately had control of the family. Always wanted to be the one who ended up with everything,” Paul continued. “Even now that you know you’re adopted. Probably even more now.”

  Bo shook his head. “You killed Melissa and you know I had nothing to do with Teddy’s or Tom’s death.”

  “I don’t know anything of the kind,” Paul said, standing up suddenly so that the desk chair fell over behind him, clattering loudly to the floor. He reached into the drawer, grabbed the revolver, and aimed it at Bo, both hands clasping the handle tightly.

  Bo slowly backed off several steps, then froze. “Put that thing down. Somebody might get hurt,” he said, watching the pistol shake in Paul’s hands.

  Paul brought the gun higher, aiming it at Bo’s chest. “That’s the idea.”

  Bo inched forward.

  “Stay where you are!” Paul warned. “I swear to God, Bo, I’ll shoot you.”

  “You don’t have the guts.”

  “I detest you,” Paul hissed, bringing the gun even higher. “I don’t know why they adopted you.”

  Bo gazed down the barrel of the revolver, pointed directly at his face now. “I’m sure you do detest me, but you detest yourself more.”

  For several moments Paul stared at Bo, then his upper lip began to tremble and in one swift motion he brought the barrel to his own right temple. “Damn you, Bo.”

  “No!” Bo shouted, lunging forward as Paul pulled the trigger.

  As she had many times before, Catherine stole through the darkness up the path toward the farmhouse nestled in the rolling hills of Middleburg, Virginia. For many years this had been a place of refuge for her. A place she could come for consolation and compassion. She had fantasized that it would also be the place where she would make love to him for the first time, but it had never been that way when she had visited him after the long train rides. He had always been a perfect gentleman—until the night of the funeral reception.

  She felt her heart rise into her throat as she made it to the back of the house and stole up the creaky wooden steps. From her jeans pocket she retrieved the key. Guided by the dim rays of a tiny flashlight attached to her key ring, she slid the key into the lock. As she did, she shut her eyes and thought about what had happened down by the lake. How her passions had expl
oded after all these years and how she wanted him again so badly.

  Catherine pushed open the door, moved swiftly to the alarm pad on the wall, and entered a code. As the loud beep faded, the back foyer’s overhead light came on and she turned to her left. For a moment she gazed at him. Then she ran to him and threw her arms around him. “Why did you do all of this, Michael? Why did you make me think you were at death’s door?”

  Mendoza caressed her shoulders and nuzzled her sweet-smelling hair. “I had to,” he said softly.

  “You didn’t call me.”

  “I wanted to.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t explain now. You just have to trust me.” He kissed her gently. “How did you find out I was here?”

  “I bribed a nurse at the hospital,” she explained, feeling safe now that she was in his arms. “I love you, Michael.”

  “I love you too,” he said tenderly. “How about a drink?”

  She nodded. “Yes, a glass of wine would be nice.”

  “Come on,” he said, leading her away from the back door.

  As they turned the corner into the living room, two men clad in black uniforms and ski masks appeared before them. Catherine attempted to scream, but one of the assailants was on her instantly, forcing a foul-tasting rag far down her throat. As her ability to struggle drained from her body, she had a fleeting glimpse of Mendoza being pinned to the floor by his attacker, an expression of utter shock on his face.

  CHAPTER 19

  Bo raced down the long driveway toward his mansion, whipping past the tall oak trees which were swaying wildly in the gale. The spring storm had swept up the Atlantic seaboard into the Northeast a few hours ago, but was just now beginning to unleash its full fury on Connecticut, pelting the Explorer with buckets of rain and hail.

  Bo had waited two hours for the police and the paramedics to finish at Jimmy Lee’s place, and it was now almost midnight. The bullet had ripped away part of Paul’s skull, but as far as the paramedics could determine, hadn’t pierced his brain. Bo’s last-second lunge had deflected the gun barrel toward the ceiling, where the slug had lodged after burrowing through Paul’s scalp, creating a momentary bright red halo around his head. Bo’s white shirt was spattered with dark, dried blood.

  Paul had remained conscious after collapsing to the floor. Blood dripping steadily from his head, he lay with his hand clasped tightly in Bo’s. Over and over, he swore on Jimmy Lee’s fresh grave that he hadn’t killed Melissa, even as the paramedics tended his wound. Paul would survive, the paramedics had said, eyeing him nervously as he rambled on about Melissa. The wound was serious but not fatal.

  After the ambulance had pulled away, a detective had asked pointed questions about exactly what had happened in Jimmy Lee’s study. Bo had answered the queries curtly but directly and the detective had reluctantly allowed him to leave.

  A flash of jagged lightning crackled above the mansion as Bo skidded to a halt at the edge of the driveway, jumped from the car, and headed toward the front door through the wind and rain. Protected by the porch roof, he guided his key into the lock. As he pushed the heavy door open, he happened to glance to his right. One foot on the sill, he stared into the darkness. He had an eerie sensation that he had seen the silhouette of someone standing at the corner of the structure. Another bright flash illuminated the grounds, but this time he saw nothing.

  Bo stumbled inside and made certain the front door was secured behind him. He hurried to the basement door, flipped on the lights, and headed downstairs, taking several steps at a time. He raced down a long corridor past several closed doors, finally stopping at the last one on his left. “John!” he shouted, pounding on the door. “Blackburn!”

  “Yes,” came the muffled reply.

  “Open up.”

  “I need to hear the—”

  “Churchill!” Bo interrupted with the agreed-upon code word. The lock clicked and he burst into the room, rushing past Blackburn, who leaned into the hallway and checked both ways before returning his gun to his shoulder holster and relocking the door.

  Meg sat in a chair across the room. Her eyes alit at the sight of Bo at the door.

  “You look terrible,” he teased with a smile.

  “I don’t feel so great either,” she admitted feebly.

  “Is Katie all right?” Bo asked Blackburn.

  “Yes, she’s on a plane back to Montana. I spoke to her just before she boarded. She’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  “I appreciate your friend Allen Taylor escorting her to the airport,” Blackburn added.

  “Not as much as I appreciate you staying here with Meg,” Bo replied.

  Late last night, at Blackburn’s urging, they had moved Meg from the carriage house to the mansion, Bo carrying her to his Explorer as Blackburn, gun drawn, covered them. Meg was still weak from her fall in the parking garage, but Blackburn didn’t want her staying in one place too long. After the episodes at Penn Station and in the garage, it was clear that someone was after Meg, and Blackburn’s law enforcement training told him that they needed to avoid being a stationary target in order to remain one step ahead of the hunter. Bo had agreed.

  Bo knelt down beside Meg. “You seem stronger,” he said, checking the bandage above her eye.

  “I’ll be all right. I’m a pretty tough woman. I may not look like it, but I am.”

  “I know.”

  “I have to admit that right before I hit the wall, I didn’t think I’d be waking up. You know, that terrible feeling you have right before something bad happens when you’re still all right but you know you aren’t going to be in a second and there’s nothing you can do about it.” She slid her hand into his. “The very last thing I thought about was you, Bo,” she said, her voice trembling. “About how I’d never see you again.”

  “It’s all right, sweetheart, I’m here now. John and I will take care of you.” Bo looked over his shoulder at Blackburn, who had turned around and was adjusting his holster, trying to give them the illusion of privacy. “We ought to get her out of here right away,” he said. “To someplace safer. I think she’ll be able to handle a move now.”

  “I agree,” Blackburn said.

  “Is that all right with you, Meg?” Bo asked, turning back toward her. “Do you feel strong enough to move?”

  “Yes,” she said, wiping a tear from her cheek.

  An earsplitting clap of thunder exploded directly above the mansion, causing all three of them to duck down instinctively.

  “Damn!” Bo shouted. “That was close.”

  “Hey, what was that?” Blackburn called out.

  “Thunder, John. Jesus!”

  “No, I heard something else.” Blackburn had already drawn the revolver. “It came from out in the hallway.”

  “Are you crazy? How could you hear anything over that?”

  “It was like a door opening and closing.” Blackburn held up his hand. “There! There it is again.”

  Bo had heard it this time too—it sounded as if someone was systematically searching the rooms along the corridor. He glanced up at a small window, near the ceiling, that opened onto the area below the deck in back of the mansion.

  Blackburn stepped away from the door and aimed his gun at it. “Might be security people,” he muttered, “and it might not.”

  “We aren’t going to stick around and find out,” Bo said, helping Meg to her feet as gently but as quickly as possible. He pushed the chair she’d been sitting in against the wall beneath the window, then jumped up on it and pulled frantically on the window lock. “The damn thing probably hasn’t been opened in years,” he muttered, smacking the lock hard with the base of his palm. Finally, it popped open. He pushed the window up and held his hand out to Meg. “Come on!” he urged, helping her up on the chair beside him. “Hurry, sweetheart.”

  “Outside?” she asked fearfully.

  “That’s the only choice w
e have.”

  With what little strength she had and aided by a boost from Bo, Meg struggled through the narrow opening, then scrambled beneath the deck toward the lawn, her fingers digging into rain-soaked earth as she pulled herself along.

  “Come on, John!” Bo whispered hoarsely over his shoulder, hoisting himself up. He scrambled through the opening, then turned and, on his hands and knees, stuck his head back into the room. Blackburn remained motionless, both hands clasped around the revolver’s handle, barrel pointed at the door. “Come on!” Bo said again.

  “Get out of here!” Blackburn hissed back without taking his eyes from the door. “I’ll be all right.”

  “You won’t be all right. Now is no time to play hero.”

  “Go!”

  Bo glanced over his shoulder. Through the darkness he saw that Meg had paused to wait for him. His eyes raced back to Blackburn, who still stood defiantly in the room, gun pointed at the door. The man had children back in Montana, Bo thought. Two young sons who would not become orphans if he could help it. “Dammit.” He pulled himself back through the window and plunged eight feet to the floor, his cell phone tumbling from his pocket and skittering into a far corner. He regained his feet instantly, ignoring the shooting pain in his shoulder and the burn on his arm. Above the roar of the storm he could hear people in the corridor twisting the doorknob frantically and banging on the door. He raced to Blackburn, grabbed the gun from his hand, and pushed him violently toward the window.

  “Get out of here!” Bo yelled.

  A shotgun blast from the hallway obliterated the knob and half the door, spraying tiny pieces of wood and steel across the room and barely missing Blackburn’s lower legs as he pulled himself through the window.

  The explosion knocked Bo down, but he was up again quickly, unloading the revolver’s chamber at the destroyed door even as he once again used the chair as a springboard and lunged for the window. As he hoisted himself onto the soggy dirt beneath the deck, he felt a screaming pain in his calf, like a swarm of hornets stinging all at once. Pellets must have grazed his leg.