Doused with shock and disbelief, he skimmed the letter, desperate for news of Silas.
You do not know me, sir, but I know of you through Candy, who was once my stepsister. Her father and my mother were married in the early nineties. Candy came through Mantachie two years ago, on her way to Vegas. She left Silas behind, promising to collect him later, only she never did. Last month I got word that she’d died in a car crash a few months before. She’d lived her life like that—going too fast, wanting too much. I’d just as soon keep Silas with me—God knows I love him like my own. Truth is I can’t afford to keep him any more than I have a right to. He’s your boy, not mine. Please come and fetch him within a week if possible, as I have to move from this address.
Respectfully,
Ellie Jean Stuart
“Son of a bitch,” Solomon breathed, examining the second page, a death certificate. Candace was definitely dead. He waited to see how that news would impact him and felt nothing. His love for her had perished long ago.
Silas!
He dove back into the letter, reading it carefully this time, searching for inferences. The message seemed sincere, suggesting that the author was a woman of common sense and moral consciousness, which was more than could be said of Candace.
Excitement started singing through his veins.
Silas was alive! His son, alive! His search was over.
He stood up so swiftly that the room went briefly black. He staggered through his door past Veronica, the secretary, who all but cowered as he thundered on the CO’s closed door. “He—he’s in a meeting,” she hedged, wary of Solomon on a good day.
Solomon could not have cared less. Hearing the call to enter, he shoved the door open and marched inside. “Sir, I need to request emergency leave effective immediately,” he stated, even as he came to belated attention before both men present, Commander Montgomery and Admiral Johansen, who appeared less than impressed by his abrupt entrance.
Joe Montgomery sat back in his chair and just looked at him, his thoughts inscrutable behind a face that was badly scarred yet still managed to be appealing to the opposite sex. “What’s going on?” he asked.
“I’ve found my son,” said Solomon, marveling at the words coming out of his own mouth. “He’s in Mantachie, Mississippi. I need to go get him.” He held up Ellie Stuart’s letter.
The CO glanced at the admiral, then looked back at Solomon, and said, simply, “Take a week.”
Solomon had never disliked Joe Montgomery. They were very different entities who, when paired, made a brutally effective team. But in that brief second that their eyes met and something warm and friendly flickered in the CO’s face, Solomon felt a sudden connection.
“Thank you, sir!”
“Dismissed,” the CO growled.
“Yes, sir!” with a hundred-and-eighty degree swivel, he marched briskly towards the door and left the room. The grin of unadulterated joy that split his face as he headed for the door had Veronica staring at him like he’d grown two heads.
On the west side of Atlanta, Georgia, Solomon forced himself to stop driving, to find a cheap motel, and to sleep.
He was beset with disturbing dreams in which he found Silas mentally and emotionally crippled; found Silas gone when he got there. At dawn, Solomon got up, showered, and shaved, wanting to look presentable. He grabbed breakfast at a diner and drove eight more hours to Mantachie, Mississippi.
The place wasn’t even marked on a map. He’d had to stop twice to ask for directions. At last, with the afternoon sun baking the cab of his Chevy Silverado, he arrived at 909 Hickory Road. One of the nines had fallen off the leaning mailbox.
He turned down a dry, dirt road, one that was sparsely forested, with a low-lying swamp off to the right. It was little wonder no private detective had ever been able to find Silas. The boy had been dumped out here in the middle of nowhere. Anger whipped through him, but with Candace dead, he had nowhere to direct his ire.
The dirt road climbed a brief hill, and there at the top stood a blue mobile home. Half its underpinning was missing, the siding was rusted, one window had been boarded up, and the saddest-looking Impala sedan was parked out front.
Solomon scarcely took in the setting. His attention had been captured by the three boys playing under an immense hickory tree—two with light hair, one with dark. As he slowed his truck, the medium-sized boy shoved the dark-haired boy off his feet and wrested a toy from his hands. Pale gray eyes flashed on the smaller boy’s face. Silas! thought Solomon, braking abruptly.
He watched with bemusement as his son rolled quick-as-a-cat to his feet and plowed his head into the blond boy’s belly, wresting the toy car back again.
That’s my boy, Solomon marveled, even as the three dust-covered children looked up at him and stilled, cautiously suspicious.
The door of the mobile home flew open and out stepped a young woman with an infant in her arms. Solomon turned his engine off and eased out into the sultry heat to greet her. His first impression of Ellie Stuart as she made her way toward him was that she was amazingly young to be the mother of this brood.
Worn but clean clothing hugged a body that was lean and strong, outlining full breasts that the little baby grasped possessively. Her hair was a light ginger brown, tied into a single braid down her back.
She stopped by the bumper of his truck to take stock of him. “Great day, but you look just like Silas!” she exclaimed in an alto voice that came out in slow, syrupy syllables.
Solomon nodded, not sure how to greet this woman. After all, she’d kept Silas from him for years, since Candy had dropped him off.
“Ellie Stuart,” she said, stepping up to offer him a work-roughened hand.
“Solomon,” he replied, seeing nothing but honesty in the woman’s gray-blue eyes.
She nodded. “Silas,” she called, “come and meet your papa, now.”
Solomon turned toward the approaching trio of dust-covered boys. His mouth felt desert-dry in this wilting heat. Fear and uncertainty made his heart pound. How could the boy standing waist high be the same cherubic baby he’d held in his arms? Yet the silvery eyes, so like his own, were unmistakably the same, as was the line of his mouth, the height of his brow.
Father and son stared at each other from a distance of ten feet.
“Lord have mercy, boys,” Ellie muttered, walking briskly up to them and slapping the dust off their clothing. “You’d never know you all had a bath this morning. Now get into the house and scrub that dirt off your faces.”
All three boys turned obediently toward the house, but the littlest, Silas, ran ahead of them, slamming the door shut.
Ellie sighed. “I told him you were coming to fetch him sooner or later. I think he hoped I was lying.”
“Why’d you keep him from me all these years?” he demanded, letting his frustration show.
Instead of cowering, Ellie lifted her chin at him. “Candace told me things about you—things I hope aren’t true,” she added with a searching look.
Solomon glowered. “They’re not,” he retorted. “That boy was my life,” he added hoarsely.
The suspicion in her eyes faded. She gave a nod of understanding and resignation. “Silas has been with us since he was four. He’s been one of us,” she added, her own voice husky, her eyes suspiciously bright.
Solomon sensed her deep sorrow at the impending separation, but she turned toward the house, keeping her emotions under tight rein. “Come on in,” she called.
He followed her leggy stride, admiring her outward spirit.
The interior of the mobile home was scarcely cooler than the temperature outside. Not a single light was shining. He guessed right away that the power had been turned off.
As bedraggled inside as it was outside, the trailer was nearly Spartan in terms of furniture but surprisingly tidy considering the number of boys living in it.
“Silas?” Ellie called. “Christopher, Caleb, go find him,” she instructed. “Then all of you wash up.”
She put the baby in a windup swing and reached in the cupboard for a glass. “All I can offer you is water,” she said, matter-of-factly.
Solomon wasn’t fooled. He’d already guessed that the silent refrigerator probably stood empty. “Please,” he said, nodding at the glass.
She filled it at the sink, then handed it to him.
He drained it in three swallows. “Did she tell you why she left me?” he swallowed his pride to ask.
Ellie gave him a good once-over. “What she told me doesn’t really matter, considering it was her problem, not yours. Like I said in my letter, she was never content with what she had. Don’t blame yourself for that,” she added frankly. “Silas, on the other hand, never complains. He must’ve gotten that from you,” she added.
He found her candidness refreshing. She deserved better than this. “Sounded in your letter like you’d fallen on some hard times,” he fished, inviting her to unburden herself.
Her smoky eyes reflected cynicism. “My husband ran off,” she admitted, “with a cocktail waitress from Turley’s Show Bar. Decided being a daddy wasn’t what he wanted, after all.”
Despite the careless toss of her head, he detected disillusionment so deep and so wide that he found himself reaching for his wallet.
Her eyes went from questioning to indignant as he cracked it open and pulled out a hundred-dollar bill. “I don’t want your money!” she exclaimed, backing up. “Boys! You’d better be washing up.”
“Silas won’t come out from under the bed, Mama,” said the oldest son, who sidled into the doorway, his gaze fastening on the money.
“I’ll get him out,” she said, pushing past Solomon to head down the hallway. “Watch the baby,” she said to Christopher.
Solomon trailed after her. Silas was his responsibility now. He found Ellie in the center of an impossibly small bedroom, down on her hands and knees. “Silas, I told you this was going to happen. It’s a good thing, trust me. Your papa’s going to take good care of you. Come on out now, or else.”
Solomon didn’t know what “or else” entailed but it was bad enough to prompt Silas to wriggle out from his hiding place. He crawled into Ellie’s embrace and hid his face in her neck. “Hush, baby. It’s okay,” she said, her voice trembling audibly. Solomon thought of Jordan Bliss. A weight immediately pressured his chest. Jesus, not again.
“Listen,” he said, loath to separate another child from his caretaker, “I’m going to write you a check.”
As she shot him an outraged look, he added, “It’s up to you whether you cash it or not, but it’s got my home address written on it. That way you can find me if you want to visit Silas.” Stepping over to a dresser, he scribbled out a sum ample enough to see Ellie and her brood through the next few months, at least.
By the time he turned back, Ellie had pulled clothing out of a second dresser and was stuffing it into a paper bag. She took the check without looking at it and stuck it in the pocket of her shorts. “This is all he’s got,” she said, handing Solomon the bag. “Okay, Silas. Give me a hug and get on out of here.” Her terse tone camouflaged the fact that she was close to tears.
As the boy wrapped his thin arms about her shoulders and trembled, Solomon tore his gaze from the heartache etched on Ellie’s brow. “Come on, son,” he urged in his gentlest voice. He held out a hand to him.
Silas looked at the hand. Eyes filled with trepidation, he nonetheless found the courage to put his little hand into the bigger one.
The instant their palms touched, Solomon’s knees went weak. A ferocious tide of love roared through him, so fiercely that he had to fight from crushing his son’s fingers. He wanted to speak reassuring words, but with his throat clogged with emotion, all he could do was to blink back tears and nod at Ellie as he herded Silas toward the door.
The formal dining room in the nineteenth-century farmhouse was used strictly on holidays and special occasions. It surprised Jordan to find that Jillian had not only dusted the mahogany sideboard, she’d also dressed the table in a lace tablecloth, topping it with heirloom china and crystal glassware. The essence of cooked apples wafted from the kitchen, betraying the fact that Jillian had also baked their mother’s recipe for apple pie. And all of this was to celebrate Jordan’s safe return?
Even Graham and Agatha thumped down the stairs wearing their finest. Bemused and a little curious, Jordan was told that Special Agent Valentino was en route and would she please stir the rice so that Jillian could race upstairs to dress?
“Of course,” said Jordan, glancing wryly at her own, casual sundress. “I didn’t know this was going to be a special occasion.”
Valentino’s knock came just as Jillian descended the stairs in a pretty pink dress. At the sudden brightening of her countenance, Jordan had a thought: Maybe this was more than just a thank-you.
She watched as Jillian introduced her children—Graham, who grudgingly accepted Rafe’s handshake, and six-year-old Agatha, who caught the agent off guard by hugging him effusively. He looked over at Jordan and smiled. “You look much better,” he told her kindly.
“Thank you,” she murmured, knowing full well that she looked like hell.
“Would you like a tour of the house?” Jillian asked.
“Sure,” said Rafael.
They made their way up the stairs, with Agatha right on their heels. As Graham threw himself down on the sofa to sulk, Jordan returned to the kitchen, one ear cocked to her sister’s narrative and the agent’s kind replies.
They spoke like old friends, Jordan mused, not just acquaintances. Friends who found themselves on unfamiliar ground.
Her speculations continued as she watched their exchange over dinner. Jillian had outdone herself dishing up a savory entrée of duck à l’orange, served with rice pilaf and steamed vegetables. Rafe ate with deep appreciation and impeccable manners.
“Graham would like to know how you got the Navy SEALs to rescue Jordan,” Jillian asked, pulling her uncommunicative son into the conversation.
Rafe touched his napkin to his lips. “Well, my colleague, Hannah Lindstrom, is married to a SEAL officer,” he explained to the teen, who briefly met his gaze. “Hannah made inquiries and, as luck would have it, six members of Team Twelve were in Caracas, anyway, training the Elite Guard.”
Graham grunted and stabbed his fork into his meat.
Jillian tried again. “You mean our military trains their military?”
“Just their elite warriors,” he replied. “We want to see this Moderate government succeed. Training their best is one way to keep the Populists from wresting control again.”
At the reminder of the unstable political situation, Jordan’s appetite fled.
“What are the chances that they might?” Jillian asked, shooting her sister a troubled look.
Rafael shrugged his shoulders. “The Moderates were elected by the barest of margins,” he admitted, “and the poor, who support the Populists, probably didn’t even vote, which means there may be more support for the rebels than the Moderates can combat.”
Jordan didn’t want to hear that. She placed her fork beside her plate. How was she supposed to eat and casually discuss the fate of Venezuela when Miguel and the others relied on Father Benedict for every crumb to enter their mouths, for shelter from harm? She’d heard nothing from the priest in the past week, didn’t even know if Miguel was alive.
Unaware of Jordan’s plummeting emotions, Rafe added, “They also have Cuba and Iran furnishing them with weapons and Colombian cartels financing their resurgence. It’s a tenuous situation.”
Jordan pushed her chair back. “I’ll go warm up the pie for dessert,” she volunteered, avoiding Jillian’s concerned glance.
When she returned to the table, conversation had turned to the details of Jordan’s rescue. “Jordan, Rafael says the SEALs who saved you are stationed in Virginia Beach.”
“Are they?” Jordan replied, unsettled to think that Solomon McGuire lived just a stone’s throw away. What
would he think to know she read his poem every night, perversely comforted by the intuitive knowledge that he’d lost a child himself, once.
“You should write them a thank-you note,” Jillian suggested, unaware of Jordan’s agitation. “Rafael could give it to his partner to pass along.”
Jordan didn’t answer. If she wrote to Senior Chief McGuire, she wouldn’t know what to say to him. His poem was a comfort, yes, but nothing changed the fact that he’d wrenched Miguel away from her—possibly forever.
“Can I be excused?” Graham demanded unexpectedly.
All three adults looked at him, startled by his angry tone.
“You’ve hardly eaten anything, honey,” Jillian pointed out.
“That’s because you guys are boring me to death,” he retorted, rudely. “I want to hang out with Cameron.”
Cameron was the boy next door—if you could call him that when the nearest house was half a mile away.
“Rinse your plate, then, and put it in the dishwasher,” Jillian replied, looking disappointed. “I guess you won’t be getting any pie,” she added, on a firmer note, something Jordan knew that Gary would’ve said.
Jordan understood the boy’s discomfort. Having a strange man in their home, a man who seemed to know his mother on an intimate level, must seem like a betrayal to his father’s memory.
Graham wordlessly shoved back his chair and disappeared.
Jillian flinched and drew a sudden breath.
“Jillie?” Jordan called with concern. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m fine.” Her sister forced a smile. “It was just a pang. Let’s have a toast,” she added, reaching for her glass of water.
Jordan and Rafael obliged. Agatha joined in eagerly.
“To the FBI and all its wonderful agents. God bless them all, especially Rafael.”
“To Rafael,” Jordan echoed, watching the subtle glow return to her sister’s face. The agent, on the other hand, appeared self-conscious of praise—or was it more than that? His black-as-night eyes seemed to harbor painful memories.
Don't Let Go Page 5
