Kingsley Baby Trilogy: The Hero's SonThe Brother's WifeThe Long-Lost Heir

by Amanda Stevens

  Denver didn’t seem as surprised by the question as Valerie was. He removed the pipe from his mouth and set it aside, then turned back to Brant. “I suspect you have a reason for asking that question.”

  Brant nodded. “I recently took a look at the case file. There were no pictures of Adam Kingsley’s body at the time of recovery, nor were there any autopsy photos. And the autopsy report was missing, as well.”

  Denver released a long breath. He looked neither at Brant nor at Valerie, but stared out at the rain-splattered lake. “The autopsy was rushed,” he said. “The boy’s body was found at around seven o’clock in the evening. The medical examiner performed the autopsy that same night.”

  “Was the family called in to make an identification?” Brant asked.

  Denver shook his head. “Not that I was aware of. The body was badly decomposed. Physical evidence found on the body and in the grave were used to make the identification. The boy was dressed in the same pajamas Adam Kingsley had been wearing the night he was kidnapped. There was also a blanket that the boy always slept with in the grave with him. Given the location of the grave, just two miles away from the Kingsley estate, and the stage of decomposition, it was a foregone conclusion the body was that of Adam Kingsley.”

  “But what about the autopsy?” Brant asked. “Surely an attempt was made to match fingerprints, blood type and so forth.”

  “To my knowledge,” Denver said slowly, “the autopsy was used to determine cause of death.”

  Brant looked at him incredulously. “You’ve got to be kidding. There was never a positive identification made of the body buried in Adam Kingsley’s grave?”

  The significance of the conversation had been lost on Valerie until that moment. Her mind had been busy assimilating the previous information Denver had given them, but now Brant’s last question jolted her with shock. She gazed up at Brant in horror. “Are you saying the wrong body may be in that grave?”

  “I’m saying it’s highly irregular to use clothing as a positive means of identification. It’s not only irregular, it’s downright negligent.”

  “You have to remember how powerful the Kingsleys were back then,” Denver said. “Both the local police department and the FBI were coming under heavy fire from the family to release the body as quickly as possible. They were satisfied that Adam had been found.”

  “But still,” Valerie insisted, “wouldn’t they want to know for sure? If there was a possibility that Adam was still alive, wouldn’t they want to know? Wouldn’t they want to do everything in their power to find him?”

  “Which brings us to another question,” Brant said quietly. “If the body recovered wasn’t Adam Kingsley’s, then someone went to an awful lot of trouble to make it seem as though it was. Why?”

  “I can think of one reason,” Denver said. “Though it’s purely speculation. After the ransom was paid and the boy still wasn’t returned to his family, we all pretty much figured he was dead. We’d seen too many cases like it before. All that remained was finding the body. Without it, a lot of questions went unanswered. The case wasn’t as cut-and-dried as the police would have wanted it to be. But once the body was discovered, Brown’s fate was sealed. Public outrage was such that there wasn’t a jury in the country who would have dared bring back anything other than a guilty verdict.”

  “So Cletus Brown was sent to prison and the case was closed,” Valerie said. Anger bubbled inside her, but she knew that she had to remain calm. She couldn’t give herself away now. They were getting too close.

  “I wonder how difficult it would be to get a court order to exhume Adam Kingsley’s body,” Brant mused.

  “Damned near impossible, would be my guess,” Denver told them. “First, you’d have to get permission from the family, and given their objections to the autopsy thirty-one years ago, I doubt Iris or Edward would be willing to cooperate now. Which means you’d have to find a judge willing to stick his neck out to sign the order. It won’t happen.”

  “Maybe not,” Brant admitted grimly. “But we can at least try.”

  * * *

  THANKFULLY, THEY MADE it back to the main highway before the serious rain began to fall. And fall it did, in heavy sheets that all but obliterated visibility. Although she had complete confidence in her own abilities, Valerie was glad that Brant was driving. It gave her an opportunity to think about all they’d just learned rather than having to concentrate on the road.

  But her thoughts matched the weather. They were in such turmoil, Valerie found it difficult to make much sense of anything. She stared out the window and tried to imagine what the Kingsleys would say when told the body they’d buried thirty-one years ago might not be Adam’s.

  “Damn,” Brant muttered, drawing Valerie’s attention. He was leaning forward, his expression intense as he gazed out the windshield. “I can’t see two feet in front of us.”

  “Maybe we should pull over,” Valerie said.

  “And where do you suggest we do that? Have you noticed the scenery lately?”

  As a matter of fact she hadn’t, but Valerie glanced out now, realizing they were on a section of highway that was bordered on the right by a sheer limestone cliff and on the left by a steep embankment that fell away from a narrow, crumbling shoulder.

  To make matters worse, the road snaked around the mountain in sharp turns that were breathtaking in normal weather, but in the rain, were nothing short of hair-raising.

  “Maybe you should slow down,” she said nervously.

  “I’m barely crawling as it is.” He glanced in his rearview mirror, and his expression grew even more tense. “What does that idiot think he’s doing?”

  Valerie craned her neck so she could look out the back window. The vehicle itself was barely visible through the rain, but she could see the headlights closing in on them at a rapid pace. The driver was literally flying down the slippery mountainside.

  “My God,” she whispered. “He must have lost control of his car.”

  “I don’t think so.” Brant’s mouth tightened in grim determination as his foot came down heavily on the Explorer’s accelerator. The powerful V-8 engine responded instantly. The car shot forward, skidding on the wet pavement and drawing a gasp from Valerie.

  She whirled back around to face forward, fear tightening in her stomach. “What are you doing?”

  “Making sure he doesn’t catch us.” Brant’s gaze shot from the road in front of them to the rearview mirror.

  Valerie turned again, shocked to find the vehicle already upon them. It was a truck of some kind, judging by the height of the headlights above the road. The beams loomed over the Explorer, like twin beacons of destruction.

  “He’s going to ram us,” she gasped.

  No sooner had the words left her mouth than the Explorer jolted forward after being bumped by the truck behind them. Brant swore under his breath, gripping the steering wheel as the tires skidded on the wet pavement.

  “He must be crazy! He’ll kill us!” Valerie cried, trying to see through the sheets of rain ahead. Somewhere in front of them was another curve, a bad one, but she couldn’t remember exactly where. She hoped Brant could.

  “Hold on,” he warned, glancing in the rearview mirror. The truck rammed them again, and the Explorer began to slide toward the edge of the embankment. “Damn,” he muttered, fighting for control. Valerie felt the small bump as their tires connected with the narrow shoulder.

  Then, miraculously, the Explorer gained purchase just in the nick of time, and Brant steered them around the curve at a breathtaking speed.

  Valerie glanced behind them. They seemed to have gained some time on the turn. The truck’s headlights were not yet visible. She whirled back around, feeling a tiny measure of relief. Then she heard Brant curse again, more viciously this time, as he began to apply the brakes.

  Two large boulders, loosened by the downpour, had tumbled down the side of the mountain, coming to rest in the highway—one directly in front of them and the other on
e in the next lane. Smaller rocks and debris were scattered over both lanes, and as they approached the two boulders, Brant steered a precarious path between them.

  Behind them, the truck came tearing around the curve, so quickly he must not have had time to see the boulders. Over the sound of the rain and the Explorer’s powerful engine, Valerie heard the scream of brakes on wet pavement, then the horrific sound of metal crashing into rock. She turned just in time to see the truck careening wildly toward the embankment. Within seconds it disappeared completely over the edge.

  “My God,” she whispered, shaken by what she had witnessed and by the close call they’d just had.

  Brant eased the Explorer to a crawl, and pulled to the side of the road where the shoulder widened slightly. He handed Valerie his cell phone. “Call 911, or the local sheriff’s department, the state police—whoever you can find. I’m going back to have a look.”

  Valerie grabbed his arm. “But he tried to kill us. What if he’s still alive?”

  “I’ll be ready for him,” Brant said grimly, checking the clip in his gun. “You wait here.”

  Her hands trembling, Valerie dialed the phone, but after the call was completed, she found it impossible to wait inside the car. Brant might need help. She pulled a flashlight out of the glove box, then got out of the car, shivering in the rain as she made her way back up the road, to the place where the truck had gone down the embankment.

  The force of the collision had sent one of the boulders flying over the edge, and through the rain, Valerie could just make out the path of broken tree limbs and flattened grass where either the truck or the rock or both had gone sailing down into the wet darkness.

  She trained her flashlight down the hillside and started downward, slipping and sliding until she finally pinned the mangled truck in her beam. The door hung open on the driver’s side, and as she shifted the flashlight, she saw Brant kneeling over something in the wet grass.

  She ran toward him. A man lay on his back on the ground, and in an instant, Valerie knew he was dead. Something inside her revolted, and she looked quickly away, trying not to be sick.

  Brant rose and took the flashlight from her. She felt his hand on her arm. “You okay?”

  She turned to look up at him. The rain had darkened his hair to almost black, and rivers of moisture ran down his face. She trembled uncontrollably. “Do you have any idea who he is?”

  “I’m afraid so. His name is Remy Devereaux.”

  Valerie chanced another look at the body. The man was tall and thin, and his face, beneath the caked blood and dirt, looked sharp and angular, rather like that of a ferret’s. She shuddered again and looked away.

  “Did you know him?”

  Brant shook his head. “He used to be a snitch for the department, but I never used him. By the time I came out of the academy, he’d moved on.”

  “But your father used him, didn’t he?” Valerie asked. “That’s how you recognized him.”

  Brant nodded. “A lot of cops used him. He didn’t care who he sold out, and he could be bought for a pretty cheap price.”

  “Even for murder?”

  “Evidently,” Brant said grimly.

  He trained the flashlight beam on Remy Devereaux’s body, and almost reluctantly, Valerie’s gaze followed. She took a step forward, frowning. Now that her initial shock was over, a disturbing thought occurred to her. There was something familiar about him. Something that touched a memory.

  “I’ve seen him before,” she said.

  Brant glanced at her sharply. “Where?”

  “The other night. In New Orleans. As I was going back to Naomi’s shop to get my purse, I saw a man on the street walking toward me. I didn’t see his face very well. It was dark and he wore a hat pulled down low, but…” She stared at the body. “I think it might have been him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell the police about this man?” Brant demanded.

  “I forgot about him. After finding Naomi’s body, seeing you with blood on your hands…” Her words trailed off as she glanced up at him. The whole scene took on an almost-surreal atmosphere for Valerie. Two people had been killed because of her investigation. Her life had been threatened, and now Brant’s life had been put on the line. The dead man, Remy Devereaux, had been trying to force them off the road. He’d been trying to kill them both. That meant that whoever had hired him was willing to sacrifice Brant in order to keep the truth from coming out.

  Could Brant’s own father be so cold-blooded?

  Valerie thought about the man who had stormed his way into her home all those years ago. A man who had ruthlessly terrorized her family and sent her father to prison.

  Yes, she thought. That man would be capable of almost anything.

  She looked up at Brant’s stoic profile and wondered if he was thinking the same thing.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  TWILIGHT HAD FALLEN by the time the local sheriff had finished taking their statements. Rather than slackening, the rain worsened, and with the coming darkness, made travel all the more perilous.

  The sheriff warned them there had been reports of other rock and mud slides along the mountain road, and they would be wise to find themselves rooms in town and hole up for the night. By morning, the rain would surely have stopped, and the highway department could get the roads cleared.

  Thinking about the close call they’d had earlier, Valerie had to agree. “But what about you?” she asked Brant. “Do you have to get back tonight?”

  “No, I have tomorrow off, too. I think the sheriff’s right. We’d be better off to wait until morning to start home.”

  The dispatcher at city hall scribbled down a list of bed-and-breakfasts in town and wished them luck. Evidently they were going to need it, Valerie thought, because the first three places they called on the list were full. On the fourth try, however, they got lucky. The Other Side of Paradise Inn could accommodate Brant and Valerie for the night.

  It wasn’t until after they’d located the inn and were signing the register that Valerie realized there was only one room available.

  This is too much, she thought. Like something from a bad movie.

  “You’re sure you don’t have two rooms?” she asked anxiously.

  The owner of the inn, a slender, dark-haired woman named Emily, glanced at her curiously. “I’m afraid not. There’s a big craft show this weekend and most of the rooms in town have been booked for weeks. You’re lucky I had a last-minute cancellation. But the room has a sofa,” she added tactfully. “It’s quite comfortable.”

  “We’ll take it,” Brant said, signing the register.

  Emily showed them to a quaint, cozy room on the second floor, at the end of a long hallway. The decor was decidedly old-fashioned, with a four-poster bed and lace canopy, braided rugs and a rocking chair set near a stone fireplace. Lace-curtained French doors opened onto a small balcony, and a carved wooden door led into a bathroom, complete with a claw-footed bathtub and a pedestal sink.

  The sofa Emily had mentioned was also close to the fireplace, and its deep cotton-covered cushions did indeed look quite comfortable, the perfect spot to snuggle up in front of a warm fire.

  “The bathroom has plenty of towels,” she said. “I’m sure you’re anxious to get out of those wet things and have a hot shower. I’ll bring you up a couple of bathrobes. Then we can wash and dry your clothes, and they’ll be as good as new in a couple of hours.” She turned to leave, then thought of something else. “Oh, and I’d probably better warn you that our power is famous for going out in rainstorms. You’ll find plenty of candles and matches in the room if you need them.”

  Then she closed the door behind her, and Brant and Valerie were left alone. An awkwardness settled over the room. For a moment, neither of them said anything. Brant walked around, locating the candles and matches, and Valerie stood at the French doors, peering out into the rainy darkness.

  “You want the bathroom first?” he finally asked.

  “No, you go ahead
,” Valerie said. “I’ll probably take longer. I’d like to try out that bathtub.”

  It seemed almost unbearably intimate to be talking about such things with Brant. But it wasn’t as if they were talking about taking a bath together, Valerie reminded herself, although, come to think of it, the claw-footed tub had seemed big enough to accommodate two people. She’d even noticed candles strategically placed on the porcelain ledge above it. For ambience? she wondered. Or for convenience, in case the power went out suddenly?

  There was a time when the latter would have seemed more likely to her, but now Valerie was having a hard time getting a picture out of her head—an image of her and Brant together in that bathtub, with candlelight dancing over bare skin. “Valerie?”

  She turned at the sound of her name. Brant stood in the bathroom doorway, gazing at her quizzically. Obviously he’d said something to her, but she had no idea what.

  “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

  His gaze intensified on her. “I asked if you were okay. You seemed as if you were a million miles away just then.”

  She smiled nervously. “Actually, I wasn’t. I was just thinking how good a hot bath is going to feel.”

  “I’ll be quick, then,” he said, and closed the door between them.

  In a moment, Valerie heard the sound of the shower running, and to block out the visions dancing in her head, she decided to get out of the room and explore the inn. As she headed down the staircase, she met Emily coming back up.

  “I was just bringing you up the bathrobes. The dark blue one belongs to my husband. It should fit your…friend quite nicely.” She handed the velour robes to Valerie, along with a plastic bag filled with toiletries, including toothpaste and toothbrushes. “If you’ll just leave your wet things in the hallway, I’ll be along later to collect them.”

  “This is very good of you,” Valerie said. “I’m sure most of your guests don’t come in looking like drowned rats.”

  “You might be surprised who walks in my front door,” Emily said with a smile. “If you need anything else, just let me know.”