At the Edge of the Sun (2 page)

“Don’t you care that our mother is botching her life?”

“So what else is new?” She headed toward one wall of closets and pulled the mirrored door open, staring at the racks of brightly colored clothing with a bored expression. “She’s gotten through fifty-seven years without our help, I think she’d be happy to continue that way.”

“I’m worried about Tim Flynn.”

“Don’t be. The man looks just like Mother’s usual type.”

“You’ve seen him? When?” Kate demanded. “I thought Mother wasn’t letting anyone near him.”

“She didn’t have much choice in the matter. I needed to borrow her emeralds and she forgot to messenger them over,
so I braved those damned attack dogs and went to get them myself. I saw the great Flynn himself out by the pool. He didn’t see me, and Sybil refused to introduce us. Said he’s shy.” Holly snorted with indelicate amusement. “He looked about as shy as a barracuda. Very handsome, of course, but that’s to be expected. Sybil doesn’t mess around with anything less than physical perfection.”

“Don’t you think she’s a little too carried away with this one?” Kate persisted. “I just keep feeling something’s wrong.”

“You’re being paranoid, Kate.” Holly pulled out a shimmering aqua silk dress that mirrored her eyes. “Sybil’s had him for four months now. If she runs true to form it should be just about time for her to dump him. Then you can worry about the next one.”

“I’m still worried about this one, thank you,” she snapped. “You realize Caleb and Chrissie are waiting for us and have been for the last forty-five minutes while you’ve been primping?”

Holly smiled her ravishing smile, and Kate stared at her stonily. Holly Bennett, Sybil Bennett’s third daughter, was, by anyone’s estimate, one of the most beautiful women in the world, and strangers and friends succumbed to her charming smile and astonishing beauty. She was the daughter who most resembled their famous actress mother, with her midnight-black hair and aquamarine eyes. The only one immune to her incredible beauty was her older sister Kate, and even for her it was an uphill battle not to smile back.

“But you know Caleb has a marvelous time with Chrissie,” she said calmly. “Stop frowning, Kate. It adds lines, and you already have enough character on your face.”

“Don’t push your luck, Holly,” she snapped. “Will you put that damned outfit on and get going? I’m starving.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, stepping into the filmy silk. The phone shrilled in the flowery dressing room. “Will you get that?”

With a grimace Kate stomped across the room, yanked the phone off the hook, and snarled into the receiver. “Yes?”

“This is Lieutenant Miller of the L.A.P.D. Is Holly Bennett there?”

Randall woke with a start. It was early afternoon, but the jet lag of almost twenty hours’ flying time had finally taken its toll. He must be getting old, he thought, sitting up and staring down at his rumpled suit with a moue of distaste. Ten years ago jet lag had been an infirmity of lesser mortals. He’d fought it, refusing to give in to the weakness when he’d let himself in to his musty-smelling house at nine this morning, but it had crept up on him, knocking him into a deep, nightmare-ridden sleep on his admittedly comfortable sofa.

He reached up to push his straight black hair away from his face, and felt the stubble of his day-old beard. He needed coffee, he needed a shave and shower and fresh clothes, he needed something to eat. But most of all he needed Maggie Bennett.

He hadn’t even gotten around to airing out the place. He hated the smell of closed-up places—they reminded him of death and wasted lives. First things first, he decided, pulling himself out of the comfortable arms of the sofa. Open windows, to let in the chill December air of Washington, to chase away the cobwebs and gloom. Then take care of his physical needs. And then find Maggie. And this time, God help him—this time he wasn’t going to let her go.

He heard his phone ringing while he was in the shower. He let it ring, in no particular hurry to face the real world again. No one knew he was back, no one except the Agency, and he was never, ever going to do anything for them again. They could ring until hell froze over.

Which might be soon, he thought, stepping from the shower and feeling the icy December wind whip around his flesh. Maybe the house was aired out enough. Washington was due for snow flurries that night, and he was worn out enough to be courting pneumonia if he wasn’t careful. At
this point he couldn’t afford to let anything delay him from getting to Maggie.

Four months should be enough time, he thought, pulling on fresh clothes. Four months to realize she needed him as much as he needed her. Unless she’d used that time to build her defenses up again. Well, he’d torn them down before, he could do it again. And again, and again, until she couldn’t fight him any longer.

Time and again he’d played that final scene over in his memory. “Do you love me?” she’d asked, giving him one last chance. And like a fool he’d answered “No.”

He could have lied. But Maggie was too smart for that—she would have seen through any act he tried to put on. He’d never loved anyone in his life, not the way he understood love. Love was unselfish, caring, generous, open and sunny. The emotions he felt for Maggie were dark and dangerous, not the kind of love she knew, not the kind of love she wanted from him. If, indeed, she wanted his love at all. Right now he wasn’t even sure of that.

The phone began ringing again as he was knotting his black silk tie with automatic dexterity. He stared at it for a moment, hesitating, then shrugged. He didn’t need to hide from anyone. He’d almost look forward to the chance to tell Bud Willis’s successor what he could do with his latest project.

But it wasn’t the CIA, or any other government agency. It was Mike Jackson, head of Third World Causes, Ltd., Maggie Bennett’s boss. And Randall heard his gruff voice with an instant sense of foreboding.

“Where the hell have you been, Carter?” he demanded. “No one had the faintest idea where you were.”

“I’m here.”

“So I notice. Listen, I thought you’d want to know this as soon as possible. It’s about Maggie.”

“What?” The one word held a wealth of meaning, emotions that Randall wouldn’t have even admitted existed a few months ago.

“Not her, precisely. Her damned mother,” Jackson said, and Randall felt his pulse return back to normal and his heartbeat slow its heavy thudding.

“What about her damned mother?”

Maggie settled into the unaccustomed luxury of the first-class seats and fastened her seat belt. Her hands were pale, sweating, with a slight tremor that too much coffee didn’t help. First-class air flight came equipped with lots of free-flowing booze, didn’t it? Maybe she’d drink her way to L.A.

No, she couldn’t afford to do that. She needed all her wits about her when the plane landed. Once again her own needs had to be put on hold. Sybil was dying.

No, maybe it wasn’t that bad. The L.A. police hadn’t known enough of the medical details, and it had taken too long to try to get through to the hospital. But Lieutenant Miller had known more than enough about the criminal background of the case.

Tim Flynn wasn’t a soccer player after all. For once Sybil’s histrionics had been based on fact. Timothy Seamus Flynn was a notorious member of the most virulent faction of the IRA. Along with the numerous bombings, assassinations, and terrorist attacks he’d been responsible for, he had a peculiar sideline. He helped raise money, both for himself and his cause, in a particularly gruesome way: by seducing rich older women, taking their money, and leaving them for dead in their mansions and condominiums.

He’d done it all over the world, and had almost a dozen, more or less, to his credit. Sybil was only the latest in a long line. But she wasn’t dead yet.

Maggie’s damp hands clenched the thickly padded armrest, and she forced herself to release it, taking deep, calming breaths. Intensive care, the lieutenant said. Deep coma, uncertain outcome, they’re doing everything they can. Ominous phrases ringing in her head, bringing forth hopeless images. Why the hell hadn’t she called Sybil back?

But she knew why. For once in her life she’d given in to
her own weaknesses, turned her back on her family, and concentrated on her own miseries. She simply hadn’t wanted to hear Sybil moaning about her miserable love life—a love life that underwent drastic overhauls every five months.

But this was the one time she couldn’t afford to dismiss Sybil’s theatrics. This time Sybil’s very life had depended on her, and Maggie had ignored the cry for help. The knowledge of that would follow her to her grave.

She leaned back in her seat, remembering the brief telephone conversation. Flynn was long gone, Lieutenant Miller said. And he didn’t sound hopeful about catching up with him. Flynn had gotten away too many times, and the damnable thing was that no one had ever seen the man. Not seen him and lived to identify him. They had nothing more than a vague identification and the probable knowledge that he’d headed back for Ireland.

Of course he had Sybil’s jewels. Three and a half decades of high living and rich lovers and husbands had left her with an impressive collection, but they wouldn’t slow Flynn down. The jewels themselves were priceless—their settings could be disposed of with only a minor loss of value and the stones cut up. The police wouldn’t be tracing him through the loot.

How would they be tracing him? No, scratch that, she thought as the huge silver plane lifted into the Long Island night. How was she going to trace him? The L.A. police had given up before even starting, and she knew far too well the restrictions placed on tracking down international criminals. The only way she could face what she was going to find in L.A., the only way she could deal with her guilt at not listening to her mother’s cry for help, was to concentrate on how she was going to find Tim Flynn. She’d spent the last four months planning a bloody revenge for Randall Carter—she could simply switch her target. Once Flynn was taken care of she could turn her attention back to her nemesis.

She’d read somewhere that one killed the thing one loved
best. Well, she didn’t love Randall Carter, and she probably wouldn’t kill him. With any luck Tim Flynn would serve as surrogate. And when she brought him down she could bury Randall Carter with him.

It was a hope, probably a vain one, but the best she could do for now. Turning her face into the blackness of the early December evening, she watched the rain streaking down the thick windows of the 747. And if tears streaked down her face, mirroring the rain, she didn’t even notice.

“The question is, what are we going to do about it?” Maggie’s voice was calm, betraying none of the emotion churning underneath it. She turned away from the window overlooking the hospital parking lot and faced her three sisters, accepting her role with only a trace of regret. She’d hoped to break free of their needs, of everyone’s needs but her own, but now wasn’t the time. Not with Sybil lying so very close to death just three doors down.

“I don’t see what we can do about it,” Kate said. “The doctors are doing everything they can for Mother, the police on three continents are looking for Flynn. What can we do that they can’t?”

“For some reason the police don’t inspire me with confidence,” Maggie said. “What about you, Holly?”

“I think they figure it’s a lost cause,” Holly murmured from her seat by the humming coffee machine. She was still wearing her aqua silk dress, and despite the worry in her turquoise eyes, she looked beautiful enough to stop most doctors and even half the nurses as they bustled on their rounds. “Lieutenant Miller took statements from all of us, but of course we weren’t able to tell him much. And if Sybil survives that brutal beating and her knife wounds, it’ll be weeks before she’s in any shape to be questioned. By that time he’ll be so far gone that there’ll be no chance of ever finding him.”

“Exactly. If he’s going to be found it’s got to be right away. And I don’t think we can count on anyone to do it for
us,” Maggie said, running a ringless hand through her short-cropped hair.

“What do you suggest we do?” Kate demanded. “Pull a Charlie’s Angels routine, I dump the baby and we all head after the murdering bastard? We did it once, in Chicago, but I don’t think our luck is going to hold.”

“No,” Maggie said, squashing down the fresh wave of nausea that swept over her at the antiseptic hospital smell. Ever since she’d stepped inside the huge building she’d had to fight the memories that had swamped her, of another hospital four months ago, another intensive care unit, another human being dying and taking her peace of mind with him. She shook her head, forcing the memories away. “I don’t think this should be a group effort. I’ll do better alone this time. And Sybil will need you here when she comes around.”

“If she comes around,” Jilly said quietly.

Maggie turned to look at her youngest sister. Jillian Bennett Malcolm was only twenty-five and looked years younger, with her large aquamarine eyes, her pale, pretty face, her gentle manner. She was the daughter of the husband Sybil had always referred to as the great love of her life, probably because he’d died in a plane crash before she could tire of him, Maggie thought cynically. Surely a middle-aged British doctor and a flamboyant, much-married Hollywood actress couldn’t have much in common during the long haul. But Sybil had mourned for two years, her only stretch of celibacy as far as Maggie could remember, and Jilly had received more of Sybil’s sporadic maternal devotion than her other three daughters combined. Which still wasn’t much.

If Maggie was the strong one, Kate the practical one, and Holly the pretty one, then Jilly was the sweet one. She lacked her sisters’ sharp tongues, she lacked Kate’s drive and Maggie’s fierce independence. And she lacked Holly’s self-absorption. She’d followed in her father’s medical footsteps, training and working as a nurse-midwife in an impoverished
section of the Northwest, devoting her life to the needy. Her three sisters looked at her with mingled guilt and affection.

“You don’t think she’ll make it?” Kate said finally, breaking the silence.