Maggie's Man

by Alicia Scott

  It was the last gambit he had. "I want to meet," he repeated. "No guns, no outsiders. Just you and me."

  "I've got nothing to say—"

  "Yes, you do. We're going to talk about Dad, Abraham. Dad. Because it may have taken me a bit, but I finally know everything."

  Maggie left C.J. in the small lobby and walked to her room on shaking legs. The thought of sinking down into the black void of sleep was suddenly so appealing she could barely get her key into the lock.

  She'd just finally slipped it in when she heard the footsteps behind.

  "I'm fine, C.J.," she said reflexively and half turned to throw her overprotective brother a reassuring glance.

  And for one moment, she thought the man was Cain and her gaze had already begun to melt.

  But he wasn't Cain. Her gaze picked up too many discrepancies. His face was too dark and weather-beaten. His blue eyes were not calm, but glowed with a bone-deep purpose that made her shake. He was outfitted for the hunt, and in less than five seconds she realized that made her the prey.

  Abraham. He had to be Abraham.

  "The hostage woman," he murmured. "The police told me your hair was on fire."

  He took one step forward and with a rapid move she couldn't even follow, he grabbed her arm and twisted it cruelly behind her back.

  "We got an appointment," he said simply in her ear, and slapped his other hand over her mouth before she could scream. "No noise and maybe I'll let you live. Don't know yet."

  He dragged her effortlessly down the hall and held her too tightly to even struggle.

  C.J.'s feet popped off the coffee table in the motel lobby and hit the floor with a dull thud. "What the hell?"

  His gaze peered out into the dark, dense rainfall and the two figures moving toward an old pickup truck. Visibility was shot, but there was no mistaking that red hair.

  "Damn!"

  He was up out of the chair and already pulling out his gun while the lobby receptionist gasped and dove for cover. Brandon picked that minute to walk down the hallway from his room, saving C.J. the inconvenience of having to break down his door.

  "Move," C.J. commanded and Brandon didn't blink. He recognized the grim edge of his brother's voice and he moved.

  "Cain?" Brandon yelled above the rainfall as they bolted from the lobby toward C.J.'s rental car. Both of their gazes had picked up the blue truck that was already pulling out of the parking lot.

  "Who else?"

  C.J. hopped into the car, gunned the engine and barely gave Brandon time to close his door. One second later and they were peeling off in pursuit, the rain hammering against their vehicle.

  "I'm going to kill him," C.J. promised simply.

  "Me first," Brandon murmured.

  "You never used to be so bloodthirsty, Brandon."

  Brandon didn't reply.

  The world was spinning. Sometimes it righted itself enough for him to pinpoint the brown carpet and gold bedspread of a truly hideous motel room. But mostly the world spun and Cain was beginning to realize that his venture was truly just a pipe dream. He was going to pass out cold and that would be the end of it.

  He struggled for lucidity, forcing himself to sit up in the threadbare wingback chair. He couldn't feel his left leg anymore. No more pain, just a curious numbness and pinpricks of coldness he figured were bad signs.

  He'd made it here, though. He had the room registered in Ham's name so his brother would be sure to find it. He even had Joel handcuffed in the bathroom, serving as a living tape recorder of the events about to unfold since Cain didn't have the time or money for electronic devices. No doubt the junior officer was digging through the complimentary toiletry items with his toes, searching for tools to pick the handcuff lock while inventing new ways of killing Cain once he was free.

  At least the pieces were assembled on the board. Cain had made it that far.

  It had been two hours since he'd contacted Ham by radio. Ham had said he would need that long to get to the chosen hotel. Cain didn't know where his brother was at the time of the call to confirm that one way or the other. The two-hour delay had been painful, though, putting him at a further disadvantage. He was growing weaker and weaker. If Ham didn't get here soon, the end would be very anticlimactic. Ham breaking down the door, Cain already passed out cold.

  Fight the pain. Dammit, Cain, fight it!

  He placed his gun in the bedside drawer, not completely out of reach, but not conspicuous. He'd told Ham to come unarmed but didn't believe for a minute that that would be the case. Still, Cain wanted to avoid a standoff or shootout as long as possible. In his opinion, a hail of bullets was definitely a worst-case scenario. Whether he died or Ham died, the effect would be the same—the truth would never be told. Cain needed the truth.

  But what about Ham's point of view on the subject? Cain had always done a poor job of anticipating Ham's actions. Did his older brother hate him enough to kill him? As a child, Cain had never understood why Ham seemed to resent him. After all, Ham had been the oldest son and their father's favorite. Of course, the Old Testament didn't put much stock in oldest sons, and in fact seemed to favor younger siblings. Thus Abel was chosen above Cain, Jacob over Esau, Joseph above his brothers.

  But even if Ham was worried about Cain someday usurping his place, surely when Cain left the state that would have quieted such fears. Instead, Ham had come after him. Ham had hunted him down even though Cain had not spoken to him in five years. And when Ham had appeared, he'd known so much about Cain's life.

  That should have been Cain's first clue.

  He heard footsteps in the hallway. With a deep breath, he fought back the darkness once more and dimly managed to grasp a last hold on reality. Just a little bit longer. Just a little bit longer.

  Sharp rapping on the door.

  He sat up and dug his teeth into his lower lip as the pain lanced through him sharply. "It's open," he called out, his fingers squeezing the armrests for support. "Come in."

  The door opened slowly. Cain was already holding himself stiffly, gritting his teeth through the swirling madness and preparing himself for Ham's lean, lanky form.

  He wasn't ready at all for a pale, stumbling woman with glowing red hair.

  "No," he whispered hoarsely. "Oh no."

  Maggie stumbled into the room, her face drawn and frightened, her shoulders slumped. His first thought was to pretend ignorance. To dismiss Maggie out of hand as nothing more than a pawn he'd already discarded, as if he couldn't care less what happened to her.

  But he took one look at her and knew Ham would never believe him. Already her face was transforming. She had simply to see him and suddenly she blossomed. Her spine stiffened, her shoulders straightened. She rose in the dimly lit room and her face took on the glowing radiance of a woman in love. This was his Maggie, the fighter, the rebel. She was probably thinking she'd dance the lambada in a black lace scarf to rescue him.

  God, did he love her.

  She did not touch him. She was not close enough to reach him. But from across the room her gaze caressed him tenderly, brushing his cheek, his lips, his throat. And his breath left him and his composure left him and he knew he must be gazing at her as intently as she stared at him, for suddenly Ham looked shocked, uncomfortable and then for a brief moment almost ashamed.

  Ham recovered first, pushing her forward with sudden savagery so that she stumbled once more, falling to her knees against the bed.

  Logic fled from Cain's mind. He roared to his feet, the pain blanching his face, the sweat streaking down his fevered brow. He didn't notice anymore. He didn't care anymore. He had to protect Maggie. He had to protect her from Ham.

  "Don't," Ham said quietly and suddenly he had a rifle pointed at Maggie. She froze, still leaning against the bed, her gaze going from Ham to Cain to Ham again. Her face was expressionless and still, waiting but not beaten.

  The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch.

  "Cain?" she questioned quietly.

  "I
t's okay," he said, more instinctively than honestly. Belatedly he steadied himself with two hands planted on the TV beside him. His leg wouldn't support his weight and he couldn't afford for Ham to see the weakness.

  "You shouldn't have brought her," he told Ham stiffly. "I said this was between you and me, yet once again you turn to the woman. Why can't you face just me, Abraham? Why can't you just stand up to me?"

  Abraham's face darkened, a clear sign the barb had struck home. "A good soldier exploits weakness. You got a lotta weakness, Cain. Always did."

  "Let her go."

  "You're wastin' your breath," Ham said flatly.

  Cain swayed dangerously, feeling rage, then an icy coldness that scared him even more, for it carried him dangerously close to the brink of unconsciousness. He had to keep talking, keep functioning and reclaim control. "It's over now, Ham," he forced himself to say. His lips didn't feel like his own. He stood at the end of a very long tunnel, seeing his lips move, hearing himself talk and unable to connect the two. After another shaky moment he squared his shoulders. "I know Dad planned everything." And after a ponderous moment, "I even know we're only half brothers."

  He'd caught Ham off guard and the rifle momentarily wavered. Then the other man checked himself and leveled the weapon once more. "What're you talking about?"

  "The truth," Cain ground out. "After all these years I'm finally talking about the truth. Mom's trip to Boise all those years ago. The trip to the 'city' she spoke of with such wistfulness only when Zechariah wasn't in the room. The fact Zech always hated me too much just as Mom loved me too much. And my name. He named me Cain not because of my shame, didn't he, but because of Mom's? Because she'd met someone else who had loved her and borne his child."

  Ham's eyes grew dark. "Love her? She was in the city for only two weeks. It wasn't love, brother. She was a whore, a sinful woman, and if Daddy hadn't gone and saved her, she would have drowned in her sin."

  "Dragged her back kicking and screaming," Cain filled in. And he could see his mother again, staring outside the window at the rainfall with such longing. As if the house was her prison. As if she would never be free. He'd always known that she was sad, but then he'd never been happy in that cabin either so he hadn't questioned it. Not until Maggie started asking him questions about his family, not until she started talking about her half siblings, did Cain suddenly begin to understand. Zechariah had known the truth of Cain's parentage. Abraham had known the truth. Only Cain had been ignorant, leaving his mother isolated with her shame. Sometimes, a man could be very blind.

  "Zechariah planned everything, didn't he?" Cain continued, relentlessly. He was very conscious of Maggie's trusting gaze on his face. "I was the devil's pawn in his eyes and he'd named me so. Then I did everything he feared. I went to civilization, embraced society, made friends. Heaven help me, I paid taxes."

  "You betrayed the mov—"

  "I lived my life! I left behind your hatred, your fanaticism. I realized being a man isn't about hate and it isn't about war. It's not about pulling a trigger and it sure as hell isn't about slaughtering women. It's knowing who you are, Abraham. It's standing for your convictions even when no one else believes you. It's giving something of yourself to the people around you."

  "You are a traitor!"

  "No. No, I am not. It's not your call anyway. God is judge and jury—look it up sometime, Ham. Only you and Zechariah can be so arrogant as to decide life and death of an innocent woman and then say it's justice."

  Ham's face darkened to a mottled shade, then just as abruptly smoothed over. "No," he said tightly. "I won't tell you that easy. You got a tape recorder, right? You want me to 'fess it all, so you can wrap it up nice and neat and give it to some atheist judge." He shook his head stubbornly. "Nope. No way. I'm no computer programmer like you, but I'm not stupid. You won't get me that easy."

  "I'm not trying to get you," Cain said just as calmly. "I'm going to get Zechariah."

  For the first time, Ham appeared uncertain. "What?"

  "I know you didn't act alone. I'm sure the phone records will show numerous calls between my apartment and Zech's cell phone. I'm sure the police will find at least one person willing to state that he heard Zechariah tell someone it was okay to kill the girl, even just—"

  "I'll deny everything," Ham interrupted harshly. "You can't prove it."

  "But I can," Cain countered quietly. "Because I can say I was the one on the other end of the phone. I was the one he commanded to kill Kathy." He looked at his brother levelly. "You set me up for the crime, Ham. You're the one who convinced the jury I was guilty. So now I'll play the guilty party. And I'll tell them all about my accessory, my father who masterminded the hate crime. No more crimes of passion, no more second-degree murder. When I'm done, it'll be a hate crime, a premeditated hate crime—a federal offense. They'll lock Zechariah so deep into the concrete, Pine-Sol is the closest he'll ever get to fresh air.

  "And it'll be forever, Ham. Last of your father's days, sitting in a six-by-eight maximum-security cell, allowed out for only one hour a day and then he can shower or lift weights. That's it. He'll listen to the rain and never feel it on his face. He'll see the sun and never have it warm his skin. He'll dream of the mountains night after night after night, and awake in a cold, gray tomb without even a phone call for comfort. I know, Ham. I know all about it because I was there, and I'll tell you now, he'll never make it.

  "You got Kathy. But I've figured out the perfect way to murder Zechariah. I got it from you."

  "You son of a bitch." Ham's voice was so low it was guttural and the look that filled his face was pure, animalistic rage. He tilted the rifle toward Cain's chest. Cain didn't mind.

  "You can't," he said. "You can't kill Cain, remember?"

  The rifle began to shake. The hatred and confusion warred in Ham's face, a volatile mix.

  "It's your own fault," Cain whispered relentlessly. "You've never been able to stand on your own, Abraham. You never fought your own wars. You're just Daddy's lapdog doing whatever he asks. Ignore Cain, torture Cain. Kill his woman. You've never had an original thought in your head. You're just a slave, a thirty-three-year-old white-boy slave doing whatever you're told."

  "I'm gonna kill you," Ham said.

  "Then do it!" Cain exploded. He leaned forward, his arms trembling with the strain, but he was too far gone now, too filled with adrenaline to notice. "Come on, Ham, stand up and shoot that rifle, don't just hold it. But you can't, can you? You can't take me on, you can't stand up to someone as big as you or as strong as you. You're not a man, you know nothing about how to be a man. You're Zechariah's shadow, Zechariah's passive, unquestioning lapdog."

  "It's not like that!"

  "Like hell it's not. You're nothing!"

  "I am not nothing!" Ham screamed. "I did it! Damn you, damn you. I don't need Zechariah to act. You think I need Zechariah to act? I don't need Zechariah. I killed her and it was me, my idea, my plan. You ain't the only clever boy in the family, you miserable SOB. I got brains too, dammit. And I fixed you, dammit, I fixed you better than you've ever been fixed, and it was all me and my idea and my hand that held your knife and slit her throat. And you want to know what, Cain? It wasn't even hard. It was really damn easy."

  "You son of a bitch," Cain whispered softly. "You are insane."

  And he stopped thinking, he stopped feeling. He just saw Kathy, poor trusting Kathy, who died because of Cain's ignorance. And he saw Maggie, beautiful, trusting Maggie, crouched on the floor waiting for him to save her.

  Ham tilted the rifle toward Maggie and smiled.

  Cain staggered forward, the pain ripped up his leg, savage and agonizing.

  Maggie opened her mouth to scream.

  And the world was spinning and the darkness clutched him. There was pain and blood, numbness and cold rage.

  Ham settled the rifle comfortably against his shoulder and took aim.

  And Cain lunged between them with his last burst of strength, his arm catching
Maggie's shoulder, flattening her to the floor as his leg gave out and his body fell heavily on top of her. Down they went to the carpet, his arms curling around her, his fevered frame preparing for the bullet.

  "Don't move." C.J.'s voice was cool, calm and collected as he pressed his Beretta against Ham's forehead. The other man twisted reflexively and C.J. didn't wait. He knew the stance of a professional when he saw it. Two swift chops of his left arm, and the rifle tumbled from Ham's suddenly nerveless hands.

  Brandon swooped to pick it up. "Maggie," he called immediately. "Are you all right?"

  There was a two-second delay, then he heard her muffled voice. She sounded as if she was crying. Immediately he was at her side. "Maggie, Maggie, what's wrong?"

  But then he saw the other man, the man whose port-wine stain marked him as Cain. Brandon touched his shoulder. The limp body rolled lifelessly aside, the face dangerously pale.

  Maggie looked up at Brandon, her expression tearing him in half as the tears streaked down her face.

  "I think he's dead," she whispered. "Brandon, I think he's dead!"

  Epilogue

  « ^

  The man moved slowly.

  Strong, sinewy forearms were exposed by the rolled-up sleeves of his work shirt, tendons clenching as he wrapped call used hands around the saw and began the smooth, relentless motion. Sweat trickled down from his forehead, staining sun-bronzed cheeks and dampening his blond hair. He didn't stop to wipe it away and slowly the trickle built to stain his blue chambray shirt.

  He didn't mind the sweat. He didn't mind the burn of his muscles as he moved the saw. He didn't mind the warm August day, or the bright sunlight that made his eyes squint.

  Sometimes he did stop, but when he did it was just to inhale a huge gulp of the fresh, pine-scented air, hold it in his lungs like a fine perfume, then exhale it slowly as if he was still learning how to breathe.