Blood Ties (25 page)

"You're not forgotten, darling. No, indeed."

The year since she'd passed seemed an eternity.
Even continuing his work as a pastor had been more
difficult without her beside him. Grace had always
contributed to his sermons, told him when he was
straying from his subject or growing too wordy. Losing
her, when she was still so young, so vibrant, made him
question God's purposes. If only Grace were here. She
could advise him on how to deal with this rash young
archaeologist and with Martha. Grace never failed to
know the right thing to do.

Sometimes he wondered if he could go on living
here without her. But this was his home, the only
home he'd ever known, except for the years when
he'd attended seminary on the mainland. He couldn't
imagine living anywhere else; yet he couldn't deny
how lonely he was.

The parsonage was too large for one person. When
he'd been a child, there had been his mother and father, his maiden Aunt Dorothy, and his father's
brother, Poor Chester, who'd been kicked by a mule and
never talked-or left the house except to go to
church-and hated having his hair cut or his beard
shaved. Poor Uncle Chester didn't like children or
cats, and he would pinch you hard enough to leave a
blood blister if you got too close, but even Poor Uncle
Chester's presence had helped to fill the big rooms
and long hallways of the house.

By the time Poor Uncle Chester and Aunt Dorothy
had passed on to their heavenly reward, Matthew's
younger brother Daniel had been born. Daniel had always been a disappointment as a brother-a rascal,
not the proper sort for a pastor's son. Their mother
had complained that he was a trial and said that
Daniel must be a changeling, left on their doorstep by
forest brownies.

Mother had been a staunch Methodist, but she'd
been born a Swift in Dames Quarter on the Eastern
Shore and had had a superstitious streak. When
Matthew was small, he'd seen her set a bowl of milk for
the brownies on the back porch every evening. She
said that if you forgot the brownies, they would cause
mischief-sour the milk, let flies get into the butter, or
snap the clothesline so that a week's washing fell onto
the ground and had to be done over again. Every
morning, Matthew remembered running to check and
finding that the milk bowl had been licked clean.

Father had shouted, "Don't be ridiculous! Stray cats
drink the milk!" He called Mother wasteful and said
she set a bad example for the congregation. Father
had spent hours building elaborate traps to catch the
cats, but he never succeeded. Mother never argued,
smiled her secret smile, bought a new hat whenever he scolded her, and continued to leave milk out for
brownies as long as she lived.

Matthew had often wondered why, if Mother had
been so diligent in catering to them, the brownies had
left Daniel anyway. The house had been more orderly
without a noisy, dirty baby who grew into a rowdy boy.
He and Daniel had never been close, and Daniel
didn't visit much anymore. Obviously, Daniel didn't
appreciate him either.

"Grace ... Grace." He tried to imagine the shower
running, imagine seeing her shadowy figure behind
the curtain, but tonight, even his little mind games
failed him. How he missed her! At times, his life
seemed empty, and nothing, not even saving Tawes,
seemed worthwhile.

So many regrets gnawed at him, keeping him from
sleep. Old memories ... old sorrows ... but losing
Grace was his deepest wound. She'd been sick for a
long time. If they'd gotten the right help for her
sooner, things might have turned out different. But
that was all water under the bridge, as the cynics said.

Matthew wondered if perhaps he should consider
remarrying. Finding someone to replace his Grace
wouldn't be easy. She had been the perfect pastor's
wife, always willing to shoulder a share of his responsibilities, always beyond reproach ... except for the
lapses in judgment that her terrible illness had caused
in her last year. He'd even considered Martha, despite
the fact that she was no spring chicken, but that was
before she revealed her true nature. If she couldn't
give him the proper respect due a pastor, she was obviously not the woman for him.

Matthew climbed out of bed and found his glasses.
After sliding his feet into his slippers, he went to the
dresser. Grace's dresser. Snapshots of her were
grouped on the top-Grace in her wedding gown, Grace outside the Lincoln Memorial in Washington,
and various photos of her through the years. His
mother's antique Victorian mirror reflected the glitter
of the heavy silver frames. It comforted him to see
Grace's sweet face, but it saddened him as well.

Nothing had been changed in the house since her
passing. Grace had known where the old furniture
and the decorative pieces were best displayed, and he
wouldn't attempt to question her good judgment. Regardless of her illness, he'd chosen well when he'd
picked Grace to be his wife.

"I wish you could tell me what to do," he said. "I
can't let this go on, can I? Something drastic has to be
done. They have to realize who they're dealing with."

Maybe his idea of contacting Tess Quinn was a good
one. Maybe that's what Grace would have wanted him
to do. He took off his pajamas, dressed in khakis, a
plaid shirt, and his athletic shoes and made his way
downstairs. He could hardly go out in his nightclothes. As Grace would have said, he had his position
as a member of the clergy to uphold. He'd just dash
over to the church and see if he could find those photos. He knew where they should be-in the album on
the shelf over the boxes of arrowheads, pottery shards,
and other pieces he and the archaeology society had
discovered over the years.

When he opened the front door, he found it was still
raining, so he exchanged his shoes for boots and took
the large umbrella. The rain was warm, but there was
no sense in taking chances with his health. He'd always been sensitive to getting wet, and Better safe than
sorry as his dear, departed Grace would have said.

Water dripped off the trees and beat against his
face as Matthew hurried through the cemetery to the
back of the church. Any other time, he would have
stopped at his wife's gravesite to pay his respects, but not tonight. He'd bring flowers tomorrow when the
weather cleared, he promised himself. He'd been neglectful lately about the flowers, and that set a bad example. Too many people didn't give the departed
proper respect.

The steps leading down to the office door were slippery with leaves and water. Matthew braced himself
against the brick wall as he fumbled with the doorknob. The church office was never locked. Neither was
the sanctuary. In the years since Reverend Thomas had
established the first log chapel here, no one had ever
given the pastor reason to lock out the parishioners.
Not like the mainland. No, sir. All the more reason to
stop the invasion by realtors. No telling what kind of
people might be attracted by new development.

Matthew found the light switch just inside the door
and turned on the light. He held his umbrella out,
shaking off the excess water, and closing it before he
brought it into the office. Superstition said that open
umbrellas indoors were bad luck. Not that Matthew
was superstitious, but it just made sense. Why chance
putting someone's eye out?

He crossed the room and went to the wall that
housed his collection of Indian artifacts. Large volumes filled the shelf over the bins and boxes. Matthew
scanned the notebooks for his photo album with the 8
x 10 shots of the gold torque and bronze cloak pin.

Where was it? The album always stood here, between the book containing pictures of church picnics
and the one with photos of the congregation. Matthew
stiffened. "It can't be. Where ..." Frantically he began
to pull down the binders. "Red ... red..." he mumbled. The album cover with the Irish treasures was the
only red one. "No!" he protested.

His precious album, his only proof of the finds, was
gone.

"Hold it right there." Will leveled the barrel of his
shotgun on the small of the stranger's back. "Move
one muscle and I'll send you to hell."

The man froze.

"Drop the rifle." The phragmites rustled as the
weapon slid into the muddy foliage. "Good. Now get
your hands up where I can see them and turn around,
slow like."

"If it's money you want, I've got a wallet in my back
pocket."

"What do you think this is? A robbery? I'm no thief."
In the rain and black of night, Will couldn't get a look
at the man, but the way he'd crashed through the
marsh, it hadn't been hard for the dogs to track him
from Bailey's farm to the edge of the Indian burial
ground. "State your business."

"Who are you?"

The man had an accent Will hadn't heard before.
He steadied the butt of the shotgun on his hip, unsnapped a small flashlight from his belt, and shone it
into the intruder's face.

The man blinked and threw a hand in front of his
eyes. He was small, with graying hair pulled back at the
nape of his neck. His eyes had an almost Oriental tilt
to them, and his olive complexion was acne-scarred.
He wore expensive boots, but no slicker. The rain had
soaked clear through to his skin. What mattered most
was that he fit the description Daniel had given him of
the CIA's hired killer, Lucas.

"I said, don't move," Will reminded him. "I'll shoot
you dead. I swear to God I will. I'll bury you so deep in
this swamp, the buzzards won't even find you."

"Who are you?"

Nervy for a man with a twelve-gauge burning a hole
in his belly, Will thought, but he respected that. Daniel had said Lucas was someone to be reckoned
with. "You first. You're trespassing on my island."

Blue growled, and Raven's hackles went up. Honey,
the female retriever, didn't stir a hair and didn't take
her eyes off the mainlander.

"Who's there?" a familiar voice shouted.

"Buck? That you?" Will answered. "I'm maybe thirty
feet off the trail, and I've got company. Caught a
stranger sneaking up on your camp."

"I'm here to protect-" the man began, but Will cut
him off.

"Shut up." He quieted the dogs with a hiss. "I
wouldn't try anything crazy if I were you. The big
Chesapeake is mean, but the bitch will rip your throat
out before you go three feet."

"Will!"

"I'm all right. Want me to bring him out or are you
coming in?" Will heard Buck say something that he
couldn't make out, and then the phragmites snapped
and rustled.

"Stay there! I'm coming in."

The male Chesapeake growled. "Easy, Raven," Will
soothed.

"I don't know who you think I am, but-"

"Shh," Will said. "You'll get your chance." Rain trickled down the back of his cap and dripped under his
collar. Damn, but he was getting too old to play games
in the marsh at night. He was glad it was summer.

The man stood waiting, eyes squinting against the
light.

Blue shifted uneasily and whined. Will didn't look
down at the dogs, but he knew Raven was baring his
teeth and his muscles were tensed to leap if he gave
the command. "Easy, boys, it's just Buck."

The phragmites parted, and Buck, pistol in hand,
appeared at Raven's side. "I'll take it from here, Will."

Blue gave a short bark and peered anxiously into
the grass. When the dog started to move, Will hissed at
him again. "Down!" Then to Buck, Will said, "Careful,
he had a rifle. It's lying in the grass right over there."
He thrust his chin to the left. "I think this might be the
hired killer who broke into Bailey's house and threatened her."

"You've got the wrong man. I haven't done anything
wrong."

Buck glanced at him. "Just take it easy. I'm a police
officer. You're not in any danger unless you bring it
on yourself. Are you carrying any weapons or drug
paraphernalia?"

"I don't use drugs," the man replied. "And I've got a
knife in my waist sheath."

"Check his boots," Will suggested. He carried a little
knife in his own boot, a habit he'd gotten from his
daddy and his before him.

"Nothing else but the hunting knife."

Buck scoffed. "I hope you're not going to tell me
you're deer hunting."

The man didn't answer.

"Your name wouldn't be Lucas, would it?" Will
asked as Buck frisked the intruder. Raven whined
again, and Will signaled him to lie still.

"No, it's not. It's Vernon."

"Good," Buck said. "I hope for your sake that you're
telling the truth." He stepped back with the knife,
picked up the rifle, and unloaded it. Waving toward
the path he'd just forged through the phragmites, he
said, "I want you to walk out to the road, easy like."

"Am I under arrest?"

"Not yet, you're not. Do you have any ID on you?"

"Yes, I do. A driver's license, credit cards."

Will kept the shotgun on him. "Do as he says. Remernber, these dogs are quicker than you are." Fol lowed closely by Blue and the two anxious Chesapeakes, the three men moved out through the reeds.
Suddenly Will heard a deep baying from the trail that
could only be a fourth dog.