by J. R. Ward
"Not mine at any rate. Tell me, is your plane still here?"
"Not for long. It's refueling. Why?" When Lane just looked out at the runways, his friend cursed. "No. No, no, no, you did not drag me down here south of the Mason-Dixon just to cry wolf and want to go back to Manhattan. Seriously, Lane."
For a moment, Lane stood with one foot on each side of the divide: Stay, just to screw his father to the wall on multiple levels; leave, because he was sick and tired of the bullshit.
Guess he and Lizzie had something in common after all.
They both wanted away from him.
"Lane?"
"Let's go," he said, tipping the redcap and picking up his old roommate's two leather suitcases. "When was the last time you were at Easterly?"
"Derby, a million years ago."
"Nothing has changed."
Outside, he popped the hood of the Porsche and put the luggage in; then he and Jeff were off, speeding around the airport, shooting out onto the highway.
"So, am I going to meet this woman of yours, Baldwine?"
"Probably not. She's quitting."
"Well, that de-escalated quickly. I'm very sorry."
"Don't pretend you haven't seen the news."
"Yeah, it's everywhere. I think you are personally responsible for resurrecting the printed newspaper. Congratulations."
Lane cursed and sped around a semi. "Not an award I was looking for, I assure you."
"Wait, quitting? You mean she works for your family? Is this a Sabrina thing, old man?"
"Lizzie's the head horticulturist at the estate. Or was."
"Not just the gardener, huh. Makes sense. You hate stupid women."
Lane glanced over. "No offense, but can we talk about something else? Like maybe how my family is losing all its money? I need to be cheered up."
Jeff shook his head. "You, my friend, lead one hell of a life."
"You want to trade? Because right now, I'm looking for a way out of all of it."
FORTY-SIX
That night, Lizzie arrived home to no tree in her front yard.
Getting out of her farm truck, she looked around. The Yaris was still where it had been crunched, the mangled little car with its busted-out windows and its soaked and leaf-riddled interior looking like something out of a video game. But the limb was gone, nothing but fresh, sweet-smelling sawdust sprinkling the ground in its place.
Don't you dare, Lane, she thought.
Don't you fricking dare try to take care of me now.
She glanced up high and saw that the ragged wound from where the tree had split had been cut with care and sealed up so that it would heal and the magnificent maple would survive the damage.
"Damn you."
At least he'd left the car where it was. If he'd taken that, too, she would have had to contact him to find out where to reclaim the body, so to speak.
She should have known better than to assume it was over between them.
Marching up to her front porch, she talked at him the entire way--
Lizzie stopped with her foot on the first step. On her screen door, a note had been taped to the wooden frame.
Great. Now what. Some kind of, Now that cooler heads prevail, blah, blah, blah.
He was a sick man.
And she was doing the right thing leaving. As much as it was going to kill her to go, she had to get away from him, from Easterly, from this bizarre stretch of her life that could be described only as a bad dream.
Forcing herself into gear, she went up and tore the paper off the door. She wanted to throw the thing out, but some sick, pick-at-the-wound impulse made that impossible. Opening the note up, she--
Howdy, neigbor. Cows out n all over yur yard. Ruined beds out back. No good with flowers so took care of yur tree. The wife made you a pie. Left on yur counter.
--Buella 'n Ross
Exhaling, she felt a wave of exhaustion wash over her, and instead of continuing into the house, she went across and sat down on her porch swing. Kicking the floorboards with her foot, she listened to the crickets and the creak of the steel chains that were bolted into the ceiling above her head. She felt the soft, warm breeze on her face and watched the waning sunlight thicken into a peach wash that created long shadows across the good earth.
She needed to plant her porch pots--
No, she really didn't.
Hey, at least she had good dessert tonight--Buella made pie that was out of this world. Maybe it would be peach. Or . . . blueberry.
Lizzie found herself wiping her eyes and staring at the tears on her fingertips.
It was a horrible thing to have to save herself by leaving all this--rather like, she supposed, having to cut off a diseased limb.
She'd been doing so well, she thought.
And then Lane just had to come back down here and ruin everything.
*
"That's as much as Edward took out of there," Lane said as he paced around the guest room Jeff had been given.
It was the best of the suites, looking out over the back garden and the river, and it also had a desk big enough to qualify as a kitchen counter. In fact, back a million years ago, the set of rooms had been his grandfather's private quarters, and after the man's death, nothing had been touched except for regular cleanings.
Jeff's comment when he'd walked in had been stereotypically dry. Something about whether the Civil War had been commanded out of the space.
Predictably, though, the second the guy had accessed the financial data, the smartass qualifiers had dried up and the man had become all business.
"Anyway, it's almost time for dinner." Lane looked at his watch. "We dress here. Well, everyone except for me. So your suit should be fine."
"Bring me something up here," Jeff muttered as he yanked off his tie, his eyes never leaving his computer screen. "And I need some legal pads and pens."
"You mean you don't want to see me and my father glare at each other across the souffle?" Yeah, 'cuz Lane was really looking forward to that himself. "You could also meet my sister's fabulous new fiance. The guy's about as charming as cancer."
When Jeff didn't respond, Lane walked across and peered over the guy's shoulder. "Tell me that makes sense to you."
"Not yet, but it will."
Right man for the job, Lane thought when he finally left.
Out in the hall, he found himself staring at his mother's door. Maybe Edward was right. Maybe if everything went poof! his mother wouldn't notice: All those drugs kept her cocooned and safe in her delirium--something that, for the first time, he was coming to understand.
On that note, how about some bourbon.
Heading for the front stairs, he decided he was going to skip dinner himself. He still wanted to punch the hell out of his father, but with Jeff in the house, he had, hopefully, a much better way of taking the man down.
And then he was going to follow Lizzie's lead and get good and gone with all this.
It was just too much here, too Byzantine, too polluted.
Maybe he would go back to New York. Or perhaps it was time to cast a wider net. Take off to somewhere overseas--
Lane stopped halfway down the grand staircase.
Mitch Ramsey and two CMP officers were standing in the grand foyer below, their hats off, their faces like something out of a textbook on criminal justice: no expressions. At all.
Shit, Lane thought as he closed his eyes.
Guess Samuel T. had been able to work the old boys' network only so far.
"I'll go get my wallet," Lane called out. "And I'll call my lawyer--"
Mitch looked up just as Mr. Harris came bustling in from the dining room.
"Oh, Mr. Baldwine," the butler said. "These gentlemen are here to see you."
"I figured. I'll just grab my--"
Mitch spoke up. "Can we talk somewhere privately?"
Lane frowned. "I want my lawyer present."
When Mitch just shook his head, Lane glanced at the other officers. Neither of the
m were meeting him in the eye.
Lane descended down to ground level and indicated with his hand. "The parlor."
As the four of them proceeded into the elegant room, Mr. Harris closed the double doors into the foyer--and by tacit understanding, nothing was said until the man came around to the other side of the room and closed those panels as well.
Lane crossed his arms over his chest. "What's up, Mitch. You looking for a trifecta? Gin, then me--and now how about my father--"
"It is with profound regret that I inform you that--"
A cold shot of fear rocked through his body. "Not Edward, oh, God, please not Edward--"
"--a body was found in the river about two hours ago. We have reason to believe it is that of your father."
The exhale that left Lane's lungs was slow and strangely even. "What . . ." He cleared his throat. "Where was it found?"
"On the far side of the falls. We need you to come down and identify the body. Next of kin is preferred, but I never put a wife through that if I can avoid it."
By way of answering, Lane went over to the bar cart and poured himself a measure of Family Reserve. After tossing it back, he nodded to Mitch and the other two members of law enforcement.
"Give me a moment. I'll be right back."
As he passed by Mitch, the man reached out and grabbed his shoulder. "I'm very sorry, Lane."
Lane frowned. "You know, I can't say that I am."
FORTY-SEVEN
Lane told no one where he was going or why.
When he came back down from his rooms, he had his cell phone with him and his wallet, and he was careful to stay out of eyesight of the people who were eating and conversing quietly in the dining room.
No, he wasn't telling anyone anything. Not until it was certain.
Getting into the back of Mitch's sheriff's SUV, he closed himself in and stared out the front windshield.
When the guy was behind the wheel, Lane said, "Does anyone know?"
"We've kept it quiet so far. The body washed up into a boathouse slip about a quarter mile from the falls. The people who called it in are good folk. They were shaken up and don't want a lot of media attention or reporters on their property. It's not going to hold forever, though."
The ride down to the morgue was a bizarre one, time slowing to a crawl, everything too bright, too clear, too loud. And once they were inside the dull, utilitarian building, all that got worse until he felt like he was tripping, the surreal quality like something out of a Jerry Garcia cartoon.
The only thing he could do, the only thing he was tracking, was following Mitch wherever the guy went--and before long, Lane found himself in a private waiting room that was about the size of a pantry.
In the center of the wall ahead of him was a curtain that was pulled into place over what he assumed was a large glass window. Next to the setup was a door.
"No," Lane said to Mitch. "I want to see him face-to-face."
There was an awkward moment. "Listen, Lane, the body's in bad shape. It went over the falls and might have even tangled with a barge. It'll be easier--"
"Not interested in easy." Lane narrowed his eyes on the deputy. "I want in there."
Mitch cursed. "Give me a minute."
As the sheriff disappeared through the door, Lane was glad the guy hadn't fought him any harder than that--because he didn't want to admit to the guy that the reason he needed to get up close and personal in this situation was that he had to be sure his father was really dead.
Which was stupid.
Like all these cops would waste their time making this shit up?
Mitch came back and held the door open. "Come on in."
Walking into the tiled space was something Lane was going to remember for the rest of his life. And Jesus, it was just like the movies: In the center of the room, on a stainless-steel rolling table, was a body bag.
Absurdly, he noted that it was the exact same type as the one Rosalinda had been put into.
Off to the side of the gurney, a woman in a white coat stood with her gloved hands clasped in front of her. "If you're ready, sir?"
"Yes. Please."
She reached up and clasped the zipper. Pulling downward about two feet, she spread the opening wide.
Lane leaned in, but the smell of water and rot made him recoil.
He hadn't expected his father's eyes to be open.
"That's him," Lane choked out.
"I'm sorry for your loss," the coroner said as she started to rezip the bag.
When she'd finished the job, he supposed they wanted him to leave, but he just stood there staring down at the body bag.
All kinds of images coughed their way into his thoughts, a jumble of things from the past and the present.
No more future, though, he thought. There was going to be nothing further with the man after this point.
God, of all the ways he'd envisioned things ending between them . . . this quiet moment, in this cold medical room, with Mitch Ramsey on one side of him and a total stranger on the other, was so not it.
"What now?" he heard himself ask.
Mitch cleared this throat. "Unofficially, and do not hold me to this, we're pretty sure it was a suicide. Given everything that has been . . . well, you know."
"Yes. Clearly." And law enforcement wasn't even aware of the missing money.
What a fucking coward, Lane thought at his father. Creating this huge mess and then opting out by throwing yourself off a bridge.
Asshole.
"We'd like your consent to do an autopsy," Mitch said. "Just to rule out foul play. But again, that's not what's on our minds."
"Of course." Lane glanced over at the deputy. "Listen, I need some time before this gets out in the press. I have to tell my mother, my brothers, my sister. I don't even know how to get in touch with Maxwell, but I do not want him hearing about this on the six-o'clock news. Or worse, TMZ."
"Law enforcement is committed to working with you and your family."
"I'll be as quick as I can."
"That would make it easier on everyone here."
A clipboard came out of nowhere, and he signed a variety of things. As he gave the pen back to the coroner, he thought, Shit, they were going to have to plan a funeral.
Although, to be honest, the very last thing he had any interest in was honoring his father in any fashion.
*
"I'm not hungry."
As Edward sat in his chair in his cottage, he was fully aware that he sounded like a four-year-old refusing dinner--but he didn't care.
The fact that the smells coming out of that galley kitchen were making his mouth water was beside the point.
Shelby, however, had selective hearing. "Here you go."
She put the bowl of stew on the table next to his bottle of . . . what was he drinking now? Oh, tequila. Well, wasn't that going to go swimmingly with the beef gravy.
"Eat," she commanded--in a tone that suggested he either did the job himself or she was going to puree the stuff and force feed it to him through a straw.
"You know, you can leave anytime you like," he muttered.
For godsakes, the woman had been in his house all day long, cleaning, doing laundry, cooking. He'd pointed out to her a couple of times that she had been hired to take care of the horses, not the owner, but again . . . her hearing was very spotty.
Damn, that's good, he thought as he took a mouthful.
"I want to make an appointment for you with your doctor."
The sound of a car driving up was a welcome intrusion. Especially as he struggled to remember what day it was--and hoped it was somehow Friday once again: He rather liked the idea of her seeing a prostitute come to service him. Hell, she could watch if she cared to, not that it was much of a show--
For a split second, he recalled the feel of Sutton straddling him, moving up and down, looking into his eyes.
A sharp pain through his chest made him eat faster just to get rid of the sensation.
The
knocking was loud.
"Would you mind doing the honors?" he said to Shelby. "If it's a woman, invite her in. If it isn't, tell them to get the hell off my property--and use the word 'hell,' will you? We both know it's in your vocabulary."
The glare she shot him probably would have blown him off his feet if he hadn't been sitting down already.
But she did go to the door.
Opening it up, she said, "Oh. My."
"Who is it," Edward muttered. "Your fairy godmother?"
Except, no. It was Lane.
As his brother came into the cottage, Edward started shaking his head. "Whatever it is, you've gotta go somewhere else with it. I told you, I'm not going to help you anymore--"
"May we speak in private."
Not a question.
Edward rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter what you say."
"This is family business."
"Isn't it always." When Lane didn't budge, Edward cursed. "Whatever it is, you can say it in front of her."
If anything, hopefully Shelby's presence in the little room would speed things along.
Lane glanced at the woman. Looked back. "Father's dead."
As Shelby gasped, Edward slowly lowered his spoon back to the bowl. Then he said in a rough voice, "Shelby, will you please excuse my brother and me for a moment? Thank you kindly."
Funny how the manners came back out of him in times of crisis.
After Shelby scuttled out the door, Edward wiped his mouth on his paper napkin. "When?"
"Sometime last night, they think. He threw himself off the bridge, most likely. The body washed up on the other side of the falls."
Edward sat back in his chair.
He intended to say something. He really did.
He just . . . couldn't remember what it was.
Lane evidently felt the same way, because his youngest brother went to the only other chair in the room and sat down. "I told Mother before I came out here. I don't think . . . she has no idea what I said to her. She's not tracking at all. Also told Gin. Her reaction was just what yours is."
"Are they sure," Edward asked, "that it's him."
For some reason, that seemed vitally important. Although how could a mistake of this magnitude be made?
"I was the one who identified the body."
Edward closed his eyes. And for a brief moment, that pilot light of his flickered on again. "That shouldn't have been you. I should have done that."
"It was fine. I didn't . . ." Lane took a deep breath. "I don't seem to be having any reaction to it at all. I'm sure you heard about yesterday."
