Blood Kin (29 page)

His companion abruptly descended the front steps and strode past her without replying to her “Good evening.”

Forest came to the edge of the porch. “What a coincidence,” Forest said. “I was just going to call you. Come in, please. I was about to have some tea.”

“No, thanks. I need to talk to you. It's”—she glanced over her shoulder to make certain they were alone—“urgent and confidential.”

Some of her agitation must have been evident in her voice, because his normal cheerfulness vanished and he appeared concerned. “Is something wrong?” he asked as he ushered her inside. “Something I can help with? If it's the bequest, I'm afraid we've hit another snag. I'm embarrassed to say that the delay may drag on for weeks. You might want to think of going home to Delaware and returning when—”

“No, I don't want to go home.” She shook her head. “Why does everyone seem to want me to leave Tawes? I'm sorry.” She let out an exasperated sigh. “At least, I don't think I want to go.” She sank into a chair near Forest's desk.

“Wait. You need something stronger than Earl Grey. A glass of merlot?”

She nodded. “Yes. That sounds good.”

“I have some nice roast beef and onion rolls. Would you care to share my—”

“No, thank you. I couldn't eat anything.” She couldn't remember having lunch, but she wasn't hungry. “The wine would be wonderful, though.”

“Certainly. I hate to drink alone.” He went to a cupboard built into the wall beside the fireplace and removed a bottle and two crystal glasses. “There's nothing wrong at Emma's, I hope? Daniel hasn't taken a header off the roof?”

She fixed him with an accusing gaze. “You mean Emery's roof?”

Forest inclined his head slightly, a courtly gesture that would have been accepted gentlemanly behavior when the house was built two hundred years earlier. “Ah, so you've ferreted out another of our small secrets.”

“I just found out what everyone else seems to know about my hostess.”

“You really didn't guess, did you?” he said kindly. “Please don't be offended. I didn't mean it as a criticism. We've grown accustomed to Emma's ways. It didn't occur to us that you might feel deceived. And no one could tell you without violating Emma's privacy.”

She sipped the merlot. It was dry but rich and fruity. She liked it.

“Now, what's really troubling you? It certainly isn't Emma.” The attorney sat on the corner of the desk with the dogs sprawled contentedly at his feet.

“Daniel Catlin and I . . .” She stopped, uncertain as to what to say. What were they exactly? Dating? Lovers?
Instead she blurted, “Is there any chance that Matthew is my natural father?”

“Good God, who told you that?”

“Is it possible?”

The color drained from Forest's face.

“Tell me!” she insisted.

“All right.” He nodded. “There were rumors that Beth and Matthew were—”

“Sleeping together?”

“No.” Closing his eyes, Forest rubbed his temple. “I never thought that you and Daniel . . .” He swallowed. “It's possible, yes. I used to see Beth and Matthew . . . coming out of choir practice laughing and whispering, but . . .”

“But what? Was Matthew her boyfriend, or was she the kind of girl who—”

“No. It's not what you're insinuating. She was shy, sweet, the kind of girl any father would want for a daughter. That's why the pregnancy came as such a shock to everyone. There were other young ladies on the island that . . . Well, your mother wasn't one of them. Matthew's father was the pastor here then, and he was strict, every bit as strict as Will Tawes. The Catlins had plans for Matthew, and they didn't include his becoming serious with a local island girl his freshman year of college.” His mouth tightened. “Or any other year, for that matter. They wanted more for him.”

“Matthew was already attending college then?”

Forest nodded. He rose and refilled his wineglass, then offered her more. “Would you like—”

“No, just answers, Mr. McCready. Just the answers no one seems to want to give me.”

“I hadn't seriously considered that the father might be Matthew. In his own way, he was just as shy as she
was. Never had a serious girlfriend until he and Grace . . . No, it couldn't be Matthew. He was a good-looking boy, but he was terrified of disappointing his parents. I can't imagine him involved in premarital sex, certainly not with Will Tawes's niece.”

“If not Matthew Catlin, then who? You don't believe that Uncle Will did—”

“Not for a minute. He loved that girl as if she were his own. He'd have cut his own throat before he'd have done anything to hurt her. There's been plenty of scandal on the island, but not by the Tawes men. And I don't believe he beat Beth the night that you were born. Or any other night. Will was a hard man—is a hard man—but he's never used his fists on a woman. I would never have defended him if I believed that.”

She rose.“Thank you. I appreciate your honesty. I still intend to ask Matthew. If there's the slightest chance . . .”

“I understand.”

“There didn't seem to be anyone at the parsonage when I came by, but perhaps now . . .”

“You're upset, Bailey. I'd be happy to come with you, if you'd like.”

“No, thank you. I'll be fine. I need to do this alone.” She set the wineglass down on a coaster. “If I do decide to leave the island, I'll let you know. But unless Matthew confirms my worst fears, I have every intention of remaining here, at least until summer school is out.”

He followed her to the door. “I'm so sorry about the additional delays with the will. I feel as though I've let you down. You must think me a terrible example of my profession.”

“No, not at all,” she said. “You've been very kind.”

“I feel like the worst kind of host. At least let me walk you back to Emma's.”

“No.” She forced a smile. “It's not as though I'm going to get lost. All I have to do is follow the street back to the house.”

Head throbbing, hurting from a half dozen blows, Emma pushed herself up on her hands and knees and spit dirt and blood from her mouth. A tooth felt loose, and something wet and sticky trickled down her chin as she staggered to her feet. The sound of Will's curses coming from the house drove her back toward the dock. She swayed on her feet as she found the edge of the wooden walkway. She could see the boat, but the distance seemed more like miles than yards.

One eye was fast swelling shut, and she thought her cheekbone and at least two ribs must be cracked. Faster, she had to move faster. Once she reached the boat, she jerked loose the mooring lines with stiff hands and climbed in. Scrambling across the deck, ignoring the pain of bone grating against bone, she frantically turned the key. The engine clicked once and roared to life as a cursing Will burst from the house, gun in hand.

Emma put the boat in reverse, shot backward, and then cried out in fear as the engine stalled. Will came across the yard, jamming a shell into his shotgun as he ran. The moon was rising over the water, making its surface nearly as bright as day. Another minute and she would be as dead as Creed and Joe Marshall.

Emma shoved the throttle into neutral and prayed harder than she'd ever prayed before. The engine caught, sputtered, and throbbed to life. She threw the throttle forward and the boat leaped ahead in a cloud of spray. Will's shotgun blasted from the dock, but the
skiff was already moving away at a good twenty-five knots, and the pellets rained around her head and pinged against the transom like hail.

Emma headed out into the bay. Her hands were shaking so hard that she could hardly feel the wheel, and she ached from belly to temple. Cautiously she tested the loose tooth with her tongue. She'd be lucky if her jaw wasn't broken.

No, she reasoned, as her heartbeat slowed to somewhere near normal. She'd be lucky if Will didn't follow her out onto the bay and kill her. She should have felt better now that the truth was out after so long, but she felt only empty dread. Maybe it would have been better if she'd just waited for Will to get the gun from the house and finish her off.

When she was a good mile out, Emma slowed the boat and switched on her running lights. She knew the bay waters like she knew her own house . . . the channels, the tides, and where the sandbars were exposed or covered just enough to be dangerous. But when the engine noise changed to a shrill whine and then cut off, she realized that her panicked flight had caused her to run straight into a line of crab pots. Rope had tangled around the propeller, disabling it and bringing the boat to a halt as surely as if she were anchored to a concrete wall.

“Damn it! Damn it.” She groaned. She needed medical attention, but if she couldn't free the propeller or repair it, she'd be here until the first commercial boat or sport fisherman came along in the morning. She wondered if she was in any shape to strip and dive down to check out the damage firsthand. If there was net or line she could cut loose, maybe the engine
would run well enough to get to Smith or even the Eastern Shore. Hell, the way she felt, she'd probably drown and save Will the trouble of shooting her.

For perhaps fifteen minutes she sat there, not knowing what to do. Her head was pounding, and the pain in her side was sharp enough to draw tears with every breath. She wondered which was worse; waiting all night in agony or forcing herself into the water to try to set things right. A cloud of bloodsucking mosquitoes forced her decision. She pulled off her shoes just as she became aware of the sound of another boat engine.

“No,” Emma stammered. “No, Will, don't. Please.” The boat was coming fast, and she was trapped like a duck in a barrel. “Sweet Jesus.”

A single shot rang out. Emma gasped as pain knifed through her. She clutched at her belly and toppled backward over the side. The warm bay waters closed over her head, and she felt herself sinking down and down into peaceful oblivion.

Hours later, in the blackness before the first faint fingers of dawn, Daniel Catlin grasped the edge of the swim platform on the stern of a thirty-six-foot Bayliner and heaved himself up out of the Chesapeake. Once he was on the boat, it was a small matter to climb over the transom and cross the deck to the louvered hatch. It was locked from the inside, but it took only a few seconds for him to overcome that barrier. He pushed open the hatch and stepped in, guided though the cabin darkness by a small night-light and the sound of Lucas's snoring.

The galley smelled of wine, onions, and liverwurst.

The door to the head stood ajar. Daniel moved past that to the sleeping area in the bow and slipped a
knife from the sheath at his waist. He leaned close to Lucas, pressed the blade against his throat, and whispered in his ear, “Careless agents don't live to collect their pensions.”

“You're crazy, Catlin. You can't get away with—”

“Shh.” He pressed harder so that the point penetrated slightly. “If I'm not sane, it wouldn't do to push me over the edge, would it? A slip of the knife and you'd bleed to death before I could summon the EMTs.”

“Your prints are all over this boat.”

“Are they? Are you certain? I'm wearing gloves. And a wet suit.”

“Why?”

“That's what I wanted to ask you, Lucas. Why do the powers that be want me dead?” It was hot inside the suit, and Daniel didn't feel good about this.

“You aren't dead,” Lucas rasped. “I warned you. A professional courtesy.”

“A courtesy that almost killed an innocent woman.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

He arched Lucas's head back farther. “Keep it up. My patience is fast running out. What's this about?”

“You know as well as I do.”

“I wasn't blackmailing Marshall.”

“Who else . . . on that shithole of an island would know about . . . the senator's windfall?” Lucas swore softly. “Let me go! You've made your . . . point.”

“Drug money, Lucas. Say it. Senator Joe Marshall, the golden boy—heir to the White House—made his fortune off the international drug trade.”

“That's what . . . makes people nervous.” Lucas's harsh voice echoed through the cabin. “You say . . . what's best . . . left unsaid.”

“I didn't kill Marshall, and I don't know who did.”

“You blamed him . . . for the bomb.”

“Shouldn't I?”

“Zahir's work—not Marshall's.”

“Was it? I was the target.” A narrow ribbon of blood trickled down Lucas's neck.

“You think . . . too much.”

“And you don't?” Daniel asked.

“Nope. I follow orders.”

“And you can sleep at night.”

“Like a baby.”

“I couldn't. Not anymore.”

“You shouldn't have left. Inside . . . you were . . . one of us. Outside . . .” Lucas trailed off.

“I'm a liability.”

“A big one.”

“And Bailey Elliott? Is she a liability?”

“Maybe.”

Daniel steeled himself. “I can see this may take longer than I thought.” He released Lucas's hair and slammed a knotted fist into the base of the agent's skull. Lucas collapsed like a ruptured pig's bladder. “Sweet dreams,” Daniel murmured.

Bailey had returned home from Forest's to find the house empty and dark, and so far as she knew, neither Emma nor Daniel had returned in the hours before dawn. Her own sleep was erratic, disturbed by periods of wakefulness and by nightmares. Sometime after two, when exhaustion finally claimed her, she dreamed that a ghost dressed like a Civil War soldier was standing at the foot of her bed whistling a nursery tune. She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out. And when she tried to move, she found herself paralyzed. She woke at half past nine on Sunday morning with the nursery tune running over and over in her mind.