Legacy (Capitol Chronicles Book 5)

by Shirley Hailstock

  "Why don't you ask someone to get it? After all the years you've lived here, haven't you learned how to have servants serve you?"

  "The servants work a full day, Mother. At this hour they are afforded time to themselves."

  She could see Alva Redford would never stand for this kind of treatment. Erika knew she should make the suggestion again, but sat down, putting her shoes back on and refusing to do so.

  Alva sat on the facing sofa, stretching her arm along the back and studying her long, blood-red fingernails in a decidedly feline manner. "I see nothing much has changed here." She lifted her gaze to the life-size portrait of Carlton's wife, Loretta, which hung above the dying fire in the fireplace. She pointed to the far wall. "I'll bet you if I opened that chest over there, there will be a collection of Faberge eggs and some precious stones inside."

  Erika was obviously surprised at her mother's knowledge of the house. Except for one incident, when Alva had stormed into the house demanding her daughter be returned to her, Erika couldn't remember her ever being here.

  "This isn't my first visit," she said, as if she could read Erika's thoughts. "I've been here many times. I can even tell you the color of the wallpaper in your bedroom."

  "That won't be necessary," Erika said. "You can tell me what you want, and then we can end our visit the way they always ends."

  "Erika—" She stopped. For the merest second Erika thought her name sounded strange coming from her mother's lips, as if the woman hadn't said it in so long she'd forgotten the sound of it. "Erika, I only wanted to make sure you were all right."

  Erika stared her straight in the eye, looking for any hint of insincerity and finding none. She's a good actress, Erika thought. Who is she playing today, and why?

  "After all," she went on, "Carlton died more than a month ago. All the people surrounding you must be gone. I wanted to see if you needed my help."

  Erika stood up and turned away. The thought of her mother offering help was so ludicrous that she nearly laughed out loud. She turned back, her arms folded across her. "Mother, thank you for your concern. You've done your duty. I am not lonely, alone, or in need of your help."

  "Erika, don't sound so angry. We are related, and family is the most important thing in the world."

  She'd heard Carlton say that. It was the reason he insisted she visit her mother at times. Erika remembered the visits, the arguments over how she looked, what she wore, how she combed her hair, or made up her face. In Alva Redford's eyes, her daughter was a sore disappointment.

  "I think I'll have that coffee now," Alva said.

  "Mother, you didn't come here for coffee." Erika raised her hands to prevent her mother's protests. "And you aren't here to inquire about my state of health."

  Alva rose from the sofa as if she were Cleopatra about to deal with a disloyal subject. "Why, dear, am I here, then?"

  "You're here about the money." Erika was rewarded with a small gasp from her mother. "I know about the checks Carlton has been paying you. Just what service did you provide that afforded you that kind of payment?"

  "Don't be disgusting!"

  "I'm not, Mother. My mind and my conscience are clean. Can you say the same thing about yours?"

  "Why, you inconsiderate little wretch! You're just like your father, stubborn and—"

  "Leave Daddy out of this. You can't go on blaming him for everything that's happened in your life. And you can't blame me, either."

  "Forget your father."

  "I'll never forget him, but you certainly have. You probably drove him to killing himself."

  Erika knew she'd gone too far. Her mother's hand was suddenly in the air, and the slap that swiped across her cheek stung like an entire hive of bumblebees.

  "Hey, what's going on in here?" Michael stood in the huge archway. Both women started as he spoke, and turned toward him. Neither of them answered. Michael walked into the room. Erika blinked, trying not to let the tears her mother always drew from her spill over.

  "Michael," Erika found her voice. It was tight and formal, but she got the words out. "I'd like you to meet my mother, Mrs. Alva St. James Redford."

  Michael turned to the older woman and nodded. Alva smiled as if she were sizing up a new conquest. Erika's stomach wrenched and she swallowed the bile in her throat.

  "Mother, this is Carlton's grandson, Michael Lawrence."

  Alva laughed, a throaty sound. The laughter escalated and went on and on while the two other occupants of the room looked on.

  "You. . .you," she said, hesitating, using her fingertips to wipe tears from the corner of her eyes. "You must have been a real surprise to Carlton. . .and Erika." She stopped and pointed toward Erika as the smile on her mouth wore away. "A grandson. Wait until the reporters find out about this one. They are going to have a field day."

  Erika had a sudden mental picture of her mother being interviewed by the Philadelphia Inquirer.

  "Mother, I warn you." Erika spoke through clenched teeth.

  "Darling, daughters should never warn their mothers. It's not done." She sauntered toward the door, where her coat lay on the chair, but stopped in front of Michael. She looked up into his eyes for a long moment. Then she went to the chair and pulled on her coat. With an exaggerated flourish she turned back to Michael, delivering her parting shot with the best Gloria Swanson imitation Erika had ever seen. "Erika told me she wasn't alone. . .or lonely."

  Chapter 5

  This time Michael didn't think about what he was doing. His legs took him across the room and he turned Erika into his arms. She resisted only a moment before giving in to his comfort, but she didn't cry. Her arms went around his waist and she buried her face in his shoulder, but no sobs came from her. She needed to hold onto someone. Michael understood that. How many nights had he awakened in a cold sweat and wanted someone to hold him?

  He didn't say anything, and didn't expect her to do anything more than cling. After a while he walked her to the sofa and sat down, keeping her cradled against him. She was soft and smelled of a sweet perfume. He swallowed at the sensations she aroused in him.

  "Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.

  She shook her head against his shoulder. Michael cradled her closer and she settled against him. Invariably his thoughts went to Abby, and the time he'd comforted her in almost the same way. Turning his head, he brushed his mouth against Erika's hair. He didn't like to see her hurt, and her mother had hurt her. When he'd walked into the room he knew the only thing keeping Erika from breaking down was sheer will. He thought she was holding something back. With her mother throwing daggers at her, Erika inherently felt something for her. In her eyes had been a raw plea for love. Michael had seen it before—once, in Abby's eyes. But it hadn't been for him.

  Michael looked down at her. She breathed easily and he knew she'd fallen asleep. Tension and stress had gotten the better of her. He thought of her sleeping at the cabin, her face clean of any makeup and wearing a pair of slacks and a sweater. Here, she was a queen, always on duty. Michael pulled his arm free and slid away from her. Easily he let her fall backward until she was stretched out on the sofa. He turned the lights off in the downstairs rooms and checked the doors. Coming back, he lifted her into his arms and started for the stairs.

  "What are you doing?" Erika jerked awake when his foot touched the first step.

  "Shhh," he said and continued up the stairs. She was thin in his arms, light and warm. He enjoyed holding her, smelling her perfume and soap. She rested her head on his shoulder. He forced himself not to put his head on top of hers. At her door he let her slide her feet to the floor. "Are you all right?"

  She nodded.

  "Good night," he said, then lifted her chin and kissed her lightly on the mouth. Before either of them could respond further he broke contact, turned, and walked toward his own wing.

  She called to him. "Michael." Her voice was low, quiet and seductive. It surrounded him, stopping his retreat. He didn't want to stop. He knew if he turned back
her eyes would be dewy and inviting. Why had he let himself kiss her? Why did she stir feelings in him that to date he'd been able to control?

  "Michael." Her voice cracked as she said his name. He turned to look at her.

  "Thank you," she said. "I mean, thanks for coming." Michael shrugged and turned again.

  That night the dream came again, stealing into his subconscious and robbing him of the ability to rest. Michael ran, panting, following Abby and Frank up the hill, toward the building. His lungs burned as they tried to contract and expand. A fiery pain swelled in his chest until he was sure his lungs would burst. Yet he kept going. He had no choice. He had to get to Frank, get the gun, and keep him from—.

  Michael bolted upright, his teeth clenched, his muscles tight, hands balled into fists. Sweat poured down his face and over his chest. The room seemed hot and stuffy. For a moment he was disoriented, wondering where he was and where Abby had disappeared to. Then he let his breath go and sagged against the pillows. He hoped he hadn't screamed out in his subconscious rage. Pushing the covers aside he left the bed, which looked as if it had been an unwilling participant in a prizefight. Going to the window, he opened it. Leaning against the frame, he sucked in the cold September air, letting it cool his fevered body.

  Taking a chair when his breathing returned to normal, he wondered when the dreams would end. Tonight after leaving Erika he would have welcomed dreams of her, but Abby and Frank had invaded his dream state and devastated his ability to relax. When this happened at the cabin he'd do something physically exhausting—chop wood, row the boat, or climb the mountain. There was a full gym here. He could go there and work out. Then he remembered the pool. Dressing in a pair of trunks and hooking a towel around his neck, he headed for a swim. He felt better already. This would be a pleasure. In college he'd been on the swim team, and never tired of the sport. With a pool inside he could swim in any weather and at any time of the day or night. Tonight he intended to exhaust himself until he could do nothing other than sleep.

  The water glowed blue and inviting under the lights of the Greek style bathhouse. Michael entered the room, smelling the chlorine and feeling the eighty degree heat, and stopped. Erika cut through the water with sure, easy strokes. She swam as effortlessly as a water nymph, at one with her environment. Michael wondered if she'd had a bad dream, too. She reached the end of the Olympic-size pool, ducked under the water, and pushed off toward the end closest to where he stood. Her reversal had all the skill and elegance of a choreographed dance. She raised her head out of the water to breathe at regular intervals, but she didn't see him, not until his shadow fell across her and she stopped, finding him directly in front of her.

  "Couldn't you sleep?" he asked. The argument he'd interrupted between Erika and her mother came back to him. It pushed his own sleeping problems to the back of his mind.

  She angled herself out of the water, wiping her face and smoothing her hair back. Michael noticed how big her eyes looked and how her nearly naked body curved. She wore a royal blue, one-piece suit that had him wishing he'd worn a robe.

  "Whenever my mother and I fight, it ruins my sleep. I thought I'd come here and exercise for a while."

  "Do these fights occur often?"

  She picked up a towel and began drying her face and arms. Michael couldn't stop his gaze from following the towel as she stroked it against her skin. "She and I usually try not to cross paths, but it is a small planet."

  Michael smiled. He knew a fighter when he saw one. When she'd arrived at Highland Hills he knew she'd be a worthy adversary. She'd come to the cabin to take him on, when no one else had been able to make him budge. Tonight he'd seen her in action. Yet the emotional drain took its toll on her subconscious. He wondered at the methods they each chose to solve their problems.

  He wanted to ask her more questions, but decided against it. He'd told himself he wouldn't get involved with her or anyone else. And he was sticking to that rule, despite what his body told him. Despite the fact that when her mother left he'd kissed her and he wanted to kiss her again. Right now.

  "How's the water?" he asked, glancing over his shoulder and dragging his attention away from the fact that she looked beautiful soaking wet. He hoped the water was cold. He needed it to be cold now.

  "I'll race you to the deep end," she said.

  ***

  Frank panted, breathing through his mouth. He never thought it would be this easy, and during daylight, too. He knew he'd escape during Smiley's shift. He'd planned it, studied Smiley's routine until he could follow it as well as Smiley could. Then the unthinkable happened. The gate was open— not wide open, just a little ajar, not even noticeably open. It was visitors' day. Outsiders, the normals, crowded about the place. Frank never had visitors. He usually spent these days sequestered in his room. The day staff didn't bother him on these days.

  Leaving would be no problem. He already had clothes. They were hidden in a tree at the north end of the compound. He'd collected them a piece at a time and taken them to the tree. He knew he'd need them when he was finally free. And today was freedom day.

  Frank waited. The nurse at the station stacked folders on the counter. He nearly smiled at what he knew was about to happen. His heartbeat accelerated, and he consciously willed it to return to normal. He'd practiced his escape, knew every detail of it. All he had to do was remain calm and his plan would work. Finally, as Frank expected, the folders reached critical height and tumbled over. The nurse cursed, then stooped to retrieve the mess she'd made. At that point, Frank eased through the door. Carefully he pulled it closed, listening for the slight click as it locked, while his gaze remained on the white-clad nurse. She was trying to make order out of the chaos when he turned and walked down the hallway, taking the first turn to keep out of her view. He knew the way to the yard. Frank reached it without incident. Outside, he appeared to be one of the patients returning to his weekly visitor. Frank walked easily, smiling at people he'd never seen before.

  He kept his gait short and easy. He didn't want anyone to notice him. Following his usual route, he kept going until he reached the clump of shade trees in the distance. He stopped, taking a moment to look back and see if anyone was looking at him. All was calm. This is just too easy, he thought. He wondered how long it would be before someone noticed he was missing. Visitors came and went all afternoon. Lunch ended before the visitors arrived. It could be dinnertime before they thought to check on him. By then it would be dark and he would be miles away from here.

  Frank checked the ground. He saw no footprints. The ground varied between pine needles and packed earth. The warm, dry air of the past few weeks acted as an unwilling accomplice to his escape. Frank found the tree where he'd hidden the clothes, and climbed. From inside a hollow knot he pulled a green plastic bag. Refusing to take the time to change now, he forged ahead. The trees became denser and darker until he reached the wall.

  Twenty feet high, made of solid, tan brick, it looked as impenetrable as the locked door. Frank knew there was no such thing as a locked door. If you wanted to get through it bad enough, all you had to do was find the key. He looked up, his gaze stretching from tree branch to tree branch. Out here maintenance wasn't performed with as rigid a regimen as it was near the front gate. No sentry held duty here. The guards were more nurses than wardens, and the height and breadth of the wall was a deterrent in itself.

  Frank had stood in harder places than this. Often he stepped aside when dividing the men and boys, and he rarely came upon a problem without a solution. Frank moved back several yards and exchanged his hospital greens for jeans, a sweatshirt, jacket, and sneakers. He looked like any other visitor now. No one would notice him. Putting the hospital clothes inside the bag, Frank hooked it onto his belt loop and climbed the first tree.

  He went as high as the branches would hold him. Then, using moves that could kill him if he fell, he jumped to the next tree and the next, and one more. Finally, he was one tree from the wall; six yards from freedom. Wi
th his arms spread out like a tightrope walker, Frank balanced himself; step by step he moved along the branch until he could reach the next tree. He grabbed the branches. They were coarse against his hands and swiped at his face like scratchy fingers. Holding his breath, he pumped the branch and swung his weight to the last tree. He prayed this would hold him and he wouldn't die from a twenty foot fall over the side of the wall.

  Frank crouched for the final trial. Crawling backward along the dark wood, he moved with care. The branch dipped under his weight. Frank held his breath. For the space of a lifetime it dipped downward. Frank squeezed his eyes closed, expecting to hear the snap of wood and know his life would end in seconds as he fell to his death only a few feet from freedom. Finally it stopped. Frank hung over the side, his hand slipping along the leafy branches, his feet fighting for footholds along the smooth wall.

  Finally he stopped. His heart beat so fast he thought it would surely stop soon. Frank closed his eyes and waited a moment. Then he looked down. Vertigo attacked him as the ground bobbed back and forth before settling in place. Frank took a breath. His hands slipped again. The skin on the inside of his right hand tore, and blood dripped into his face as he looked up at it. It was time, he thought. Taking one more deep breath he let go of the branch and fell the remaining feet to the ground. The impact bent his knees and he landed in a sitting position. The branch snapped back into position. It waved for a second, then settled into place as if no human had ever hung from it.

  Frank looked up and down the road that followed the outside wall for any sign of trouble. He saw nothing. The other side of a narrow strip of blacktop held another clump of trees. Frank went into them and waited. If luck was with him, he'd hop a ride on the first truck or van that came up this road.