by Anne Mather
"You can't give me orders," he snarled. "I'm still not too old to beat the shit outta you. Just ask anyone around here. They know old Fletch still has what it takes."
Jacob gave him a pitying look. "Sit down," he said again. "You've just wasted twenty dollars' worth of fine malt whisky. How about if I call the sheriff to sort this out?"
"Wouldn't do you no good," retorted Fletch, but his defiance was less convincing. He knew the new sheriff, Ellis Hutchinson, wouldn't hesitate to throw him in jail. Since Andy Peyton died, things in Blackwater Fork had gone from bad to worse.
Jacob was waiting, and with a feeling of frustration, Fletch subsided into his seat again. He should have dealt with Wolfe when he was younger, he thought bitterly. These days, his threats were hollow things at best.
His spirits lifted a little when Jacob signalled Casey to bring another bottle, and after his glass was full again, he looked squarely at the other man. "What's all this about?" he demanded. "Why are you asking all these questions about Jake?"
"You'll find out." Jacob cradled his own glass between his hands. "So you don't think he envies his brother at all?"
Fletch scowled. "Jake? Envy that ponce?" He grimaced. "If you asked me if Nathan envied Jake, I might agree with you. He was pretty desperate to see him a couple weeks ago."
Jacob stared at him. "Nathan came to see Jake?" he echoed. "When?"
"I've just told you. A couple weeks ago," replied Fletch carelessly. "Made me call him from the house. Said he didn't want to go to Jake's office."
Jacob looked disturbed. "So what did he want? Did he tell you?"
Fletch gave the other man a scornful look. "Oh, sure. He'd do that, wouldn't he?" He sneered. "Nathan wouldn't piss on me if I was on fire."
Jacob ignored the provocation, and then asked shortly, "So did he speak to Jake? How long did he stay?"
"I don't know how long he stayed, do I?" Fletch was resentful. "He arranged to meet Jake in town, and I ain't set eyes on either of them since."
Jacob's face turned even paler. "You don't think—"
"What?" Fletch stared at him. "What don't I think?" Then, as if realising what Jacob might be insinuating, his face turned red. "You ain't suggesting Jake's gotten rid of his brother, so's he can take his place, are you?" His eyes darkened angrily. "Now see here…"
He started to get up out of his seat again, his swaying bulk threatening to overturn the table, but this time Jacob's hand placed squarely between his sagging pectorals drove him back onto the bench. "I'm not suggesting anything," he said with a warning note of caution. "But I'd like to know why Jake was on that flight."
"Flight?" Fletch blinked. "What flight?"
"The one that crashed on take-off in New York," replied Jacob heavily. "Christ, don't you read the papers? A jumbo ploughed into the runway at JFK."
Fletch quivered. "Jake's—dead?" A sour wave of bile filled his throat. "God—why didn't you say so?" Tears pricked his eyes. "Oh, Lord, I loved that boy!"
"No." Jacob was impatient now. "Jake's alive. Didn't I just say so? And he's supposed to have lost his memory in the crash. But the reservation must have been made in Nathan's name because that's what they're calling him. Do you hear what I'm saying? But I went to see him in the hospital, and it was Jake!"
9
"D'you wanna refill?"
He started, his thoughts far away from the dingy diner where he had come to try and sort out what he was going to do. Hunching his shoulders, he had the uneasy suspicion that the woman was staring at him, but he guessed she was only impatient because he hadn't given her a tip.
Besides, no one knew he was here, and even if they did, he wasn't doing anything wrong. Well, not yet, he amended broodingly. He was just sitting here, nursing a half-empty cup of cold coffee, and wondering what in hell he should do next.
He'd been so clear in his mind at the beginning. Getting his brother to help him had seemed an inspiration. He'd always resented the fact that despite the differences in their backgrounds, the other man had made more of a success of his life than he had. And it shouldn't be true, for Christ's sake. He had had all the advantages. Why did everything he attempted go so wrong?
This time, he'd been sure that nothing could stop him. With his brother on board the plane to England, all he'd intended to do was phone the Heathrow authorities and warn them that a certain passenger from New York was carrying drugs. A small amount, true, but enough to put his brother away for a little while.
But before he'd had time to make the call, he'd heard about the accident on the car radio. God, he remembered the elation he'd felt when he'd heard that news. For a full twenty-four hours he'd been convinced his troubles were over. What had the chances been of his brother surviving?
But like every other time in his goddamned life, he'd drawn a loser. The initial reports of a total disaster had been revised, and by the time he'd reached here, the rescue services were being praised for their bravery in saving so many. A call—anonymously, of course—to the hospital had confirmed his fears. His brother was one of the "lucky" survivors, and instead of that putting him out of danger, it had created problems he hadn't even thought of before the crash.
He grimaced. He'd even considered going to the hospital and finishing the job himself. What would it take to make a man who was already suffering from shock and concussion to stop breathing? But he had been heading for the border with Canada by that time, and in any case, he knew he didn't have the guts to do it. He could tell himself that even with a disguise someone might recognise him, but the truth was, he was too scared to kill his brother in cold blood.
He scowled, and the waitress, imagining the scowl was for her, gave him a surly look. "Hey, you've been nursing that cuppa coffee for over an hour," she exclaimed defensively. "Can I help it if the boss thinks you oughta vacate the table. This is a diner, not a waiting room."
He hid the scowl behind a rueful grimace. He had enough problems without creating more. The woman was only doing her job. She wasn't to know what he was thinking, thank God!
"I'm sorry," he said. "I wasn't listening. I've not been sleeping well lately." Wasn't that the truth? "I guess I must have dozed off."
The waitress seemed mollified by his apology. He guessed apologies weren't thick on the ground around here. "You live local?" she asked, pouring the coffee and gesturing at the neon lights beyond the grubby windows. He thanked her and fumbled for a convincing response.
He could hardly tell her he'd only been in town a couple of days. That this small town, on the U.S. side of the Canadian border had never been intended to be his destination. It reminded him too much of Prescott in any case. All small-town folk were the same: they wanted to know far too much about you for your own good.
"Just passing through," he offered at last, stirring some more sugar into his cup. It was the only thing that made the stuff palatable, though he had to admit it filled a corner. At present, he was finding it difficult to swallow any food.
"You going north?" she asked, propping a hand on her hip and evidently deciding she had time to chat. And why not? The diner was virtually empty. No one could accuse him of stopping a would-be customer from finding a seat.
"Maybe," he responded, regretting the impulse that had made him open up to her in the first place. "I—as a matter of fact—I'm looking for work. My last job folded and my girlfriend threw me out."
That was good, he complimented himself. Enough information to satisfy her curiosity and just a bit of pathos to gain her sympathy. Hell, if he'd been in the mood, he guessed he could have persuaded her to take him home with her. But getting involved with another woman was not in the cards right now.
Besides, he thought, giving the woman a critical glance, he could do better than this. Okay, his relationship with Lisa had been going nowhere, but at least she still had her looks. His lips curled. It was the only thing she had to offer, and she was going to find out soon enough it wasn't enough.
"I could ask Eddie if he needs someone," the
waitress offered, indicating the pock-marked proprietor, who was scowling at them from behind the bar. "He knows most people in town. If he doesn't have anything himself, he might know someone who does."
"I don't think so."
He tried to sound regretful, but he could tell by her expression that she knew she was being given the brush-off. "Suit yourself," she said, and tossing her head, she sashayed back to the bar. Bending forward, she exchanged a few words with the burly proprietor, and when they both turned and looked in his direction, he decided it was time to call it a day.
Tossing a couple of dollar bills onto the table, he picked up his bag and hurried out into the parking lot. It was getting dark, the overcast sky bringing a premature twilight in its wake. It was time he got back to his hotel. He had no desire to be mugged on top of everything else.
He climbed into the rental car, stowing the bag beside him, but he didn't immediately start the engine. He was in no hurry to get back to the dump where he was staying. That was why he'd been spending time in the diner—because the room he was occupying was such a wreck. He'd never stayed in such a fleapit, but it was cheap and convenient, even if he had slept on the only armchair rather than climb between those grubby sheets.
He sighed. If only he knew what was going on in New York. Okay, his brother was in the hospital, but what had he told them about himself? What might he have told Carl Walker's henchmen, for God's sake? Had the other guy sent someone over to check out he was really there?
Yet why should he? he argued, trying to convince himself. The crash had been public enough, and no one could doubt that the plane had gone up in smoke. And all the baggage with it, he reminded himself grimly. Whatever happened, Carl must believe the cocaine had been destroyed.
He licked lips that had suddenly dried. He couldn't dismiss the thought that Carl was too clever to let him get away with it. What if he'd already been to see his brother and found out from him that he had been going to double-cross him? He caught his breath. What if they were waiting for him when he tried to cross the border? God, it might be simpler to go back and face the music.
And face going to prison, he amended bitterly. Whatever happened, Matthew Webster would demand his pound of flesh. Even if Carl was mollified by getting his property back—which he doubted—there was still the problem of the South American contract. He could expect no help from Carl. He'd tried to defraud the man, and Carl Walker didn't forgive that sort of thing. If he got away with his life, he'd consider himself lucky. A life sentence was probably more than he deserved.
So, was he committed to going on with this? He shook his head. What alternatives did he have? If only he knew what his brother was saying. There was only one person who might help him find out.
10
They left for Fairings on Friday afternoon.
Caitlin was driving—her own hatchback, not the flashy Cosworth that Nathan had left parked in the underground garage. She'd half expected him to object when she drove the Corrado out into the watery autumn sunshine, but of course he didn't know what he usually drove.
Besides, they were hardly speaking to one another. Since he'd arrived back at the flat on Wednesday afternoon, their relationship seemed to have gone from bad to worse. But Caitlin had been nearly out of her mind with worry, and it didn't help when Nathan behaved as if nothing was wrong.
When he hadn't returned by three o'clock, she'd even considered contacting her father again and asking him if he thought she should call the police. After all, Nathan was missing. And he probably shouldn't have been allowed to go out on his own in the first place.
But the knowledge that her father would blame her for Nathan's disappearance had prevented her from asking for his help. And, in the event, her husband had arrived back, apparently none the worse for wear. He'd merely offered an excuse about forgetting the time, and his assertion that he remembered the city was little compensation in the circumstances.
Consequently, she hadn't been entirely able to prevent her anger at his thoughtlessness from showing, and their stilted exchange had swiftly deteriorated into an uneasy silence. She'd justified her anxiety by the fact that Nathan was still on medication, and as far as she knew, he'd had nothing to eat all day.
She couldn't help it if he had been disappointed when she'd dashed his hopes about the army. It wasn't her fault that he'd got it wrong. For heaven's sake, if he didn't want to hear the truth, he shouldn't ask her. It was no use telling him lies just to make him feel good.
An uneasy supper had followed. Mrs Spriggs had prepared a chicken casserole before she left, and Caitlin had served it with pasta. But Nathan had only picked at his food, despite her careful admonitions, and he'd eventually admitted he'd bought a burger with a ten-pound note he'd found in his jacket pocket.
The news had infuriated Caitlin. The knowledge that while she had been frantic with worry, he'd been sitting in some fast-food restaurant, stuffing himself with cholesterol, brought a resentful lump to her throat. Though why had she expected anything different? she wondered, digging her fork with some fury into her food. Nathan had never considered her feelings. Ever. Losing his memory was unlikely to alter that.
He left her alone after supper. He made some remark about needing the bathroom, and Caitlin spent another fretful couple of hours waiting for him to come back. When he didn't return, and despite her better judgment, she felt obliged to go and check on him, she discovered he was fast asleep on his bed, still fully clothed.
Exhaustion had evidently got the better of him, and she'd stood there for some time, wondering if she ought to try and take off his clothes. But the fear that he might awake while she was doing it made her cautious. Although she couldn't deny the unwilling tug of compassion he aroused in her, she had no desire for him to get the wrong idea.
She contented herself with removing his shoes and throwing a blanket over him. At least she could be sure he wouldn't take a chill. He didn't stir; he seemed to be sleeping like a baby. And in spite of everything that had gone before, she was relieved.
On Thursday morning, Caitlin received a phone call from a neurologist whom her father had apparently asked to take over Nathan's treatment. He wanted to arrange an appointment for her husband at his clinic, and although her father had said nothing about it to her, Caitlin made a provisional booking for the following week.
But she resented the fact that once again her father should have chosen to interfere in her life. All right, so Henrik Neilson was a friend of his, and the man had contacted her himself instead of leaving his secretary to do it; nevertheless, it was an intrusion. Her father had no right to try and run their lives. Besides, Nathan had his own doctor. And as he apparently didn't need any further treatment, what did Neilson hope to do?
Nathan himself hadn't been around when she took the call. It was still fairly early, and so far as she knew, he was still in bed. She got something of a shock, therefore, when she heard someone coming into the flat. It was too early for Mrs Spriggs, and the sight of her husband in a dark blue jogging outfit brought an unwelcome awareness to her bones. His dark hair was damp and sweaty, and he exuded a distinctive aroma of cool air, heated skin and raw masculinity. A cocktail she was not as capable of dismissing as she should, she thought tensely.
In consequence, her voice was sharp as she challenged him. "Where have you been?" she demanded, forgetting that the night before she had determined not to get involved in what he did. He obviously didn't need her concern, and she could do without the hassle. If he chose to take risks with his health, it was nothing to do with her.
"Running," he replied after a moment, and she guessed he'd been tempted to mock her words. "Do I need your permission to leave the apartment? I borrowed your keys and locked the door. You'd left them lying on the table."
Caitlin didn't trust herself to answer him. Right now, he seemed too aggressive to provoke. But she couldn't help wondering when he'd decided to take up physical exercise. Was that why she'd thought he'd lost some weight?
He said nothing about her entering his room the night before, and neither did she. Instead, he went to take a shower, and Caitlin went into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. She was glad now that she'd chosen to dress before leaving her room. She didn't know why, but she suddenly felt vulnerable when Nathan was around.
It was over breakfast that she mentioned Henrik Neil-son's phone call. She had been reluctant to do so, but in the event, Nathan seemed undisturbed. "I guess your old man doesn't trust me, either," he remarked, helping himself to another cup of coffee. "What's the old guy afraid of? Does he think I might make off with his hard-earned loot?"
"Of course not." Caitlin didn't like remarks like that, even if they were justified. "Dr Harper himself said you should check in with a doctor."
"He said he'd send all my medical records to my own doctor," Nathan corrected her drily. "He didn't say anything about needing a specialist on my case." He shrugged. "Hey—if that's what your old man wants, then so be it. If anyone can do anything to help me, then I'm game."
Caitlin pressed her lips together. "My father is very-protective."
"Yeah. Right." Nathan regarded her with a studied gaze. "Did he tell you not to go to bed with me until he'd checked me out?"
"No." Caitlin was horrified, and she looked it. "I— think—we just need—"
"Some more time," finished Nathan sardonically. "Yeah, I've heard that one before. I just wish you'd tell me what's going on."
There was no answer to that, and Caitlin made an excuse of going to refill the coffeepot to leave the table. The trouble was, she was having difficulty in dealing with the present situation herself. Despite all that she knew of him, she was attracted to him. She was afraid of herself, afraid it would be fatally easy to succumb.
The morning had passed fairly uneventfully, with Mrs Spriggs providing a welcome buffer between them. It wasn't .until Caitlin's father rang in the early afternoon that she remembered she hadn't given Nathan his message, and by then, her husband was resting on his bed.
