Dead By Nightfall (23 page)
Authors: Beverly Barton
Suzette nodded. “Yes, I know. So what happens now?”
“You go back to being Kimberly Safford,” Griff told her.
“What do you think he’ll do to me when he finds out that I’m alive?” she asked. “He probably thinks I’m dead now.”
“I doubt York will do anything to you. You’ve served your purpose.”
“You don’t think he’ll come after me?”
“He’d have no reason to do that,” Griff assured her.
Finally, Suzette looked squarely at Griff. “What are you going to do—turn me over to the police?”
“No, of course not.” Yvette answered her question before giving Griff a chance to respond. “You’re as much a victim of York’s cruelty as we are.”
“You’re wrong,” Griff said. “Suzette ... or rather Kimberly, isn’t a child. She knew what she did was wrong, that York was paying her to lie to us. She’s no innocent.”
“He’s right,” she told Yvette. “I’m no innocent young girl who didn’t know any better. I was desperate and stupid and yes, I loved all the clothes and the car and money and I even loved attending the Benenden School. My God, I was rubbing elbows with girls from some of the best families in England.”
“You can’t turn her over to the police,” Yvette said.
“I can, but I won’t, if she’ll help us.”
“I’ll do anything you ask,” Suzette said.
“I’m not going to turn you over to the police, but I am going to turn you over to Mr. Mitchum, the head of the Powell Agency here in London. He’ll question you far more thoroughly than I have and when you’ve helped us as much as possible, he’ll arrange passage for you to wherever you want to go. He’ll even provide you with another new identity, if that’s what you want.”
“Yes.” She gasped the word. “Thank you.”
A repetitive rapping on the suite door paused their conversation.
“I’m expecting Mitchum,” Griff told them as he got up and walked toward the door.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a lanky, strutting gait, Thorndike Mitchum entered the suite. At six-four, he stood eye-to-eye with Griff. Immaculately dressed in a single-breasted, gray bespoke suit, his wavy brown hair neatly styled, he looked every inch the successful businessman he was.
“Everything all right here?” Mitchum asked as he glanced at Suzette. “No problems?”
“No problems,” Griff said. “Did you bring the photos?”
“They’re here in my briefcase.” Mitchum held up the slender black leather case.
“What photos?” Yvette asked.
“Want me to handle this?” Mitchum asked.
“Go right ahead,” Griff told him.
“What’s going on?” Suzette jumped to her feet.
“Calm down,” Griff said. “We just want you to take a look at some photographs of several different men and tell us if you can identify one of them as Malcolm York.”
“Oh.” Suzette’s face went chalk white.
“Once you’ve looked at the photographs, you’ll leave with Mr. Mitchum and he’ll take care of everything for you.”
Mitchum set his briefcase on the coffee table, opened it, and removed a thin folder. He closed the briefcase, set it under the table, and opened the folder. Yvette stood and guided Suzette closer to the coffee table. Griff joined them as Mitchum spread out eight photographs.
“Take your time, miss,” Mitchum said. “Look at each of these men and tell us if one of them is the man you know as Malcolm York.”
Griff’s gaze traveled over the photos. He recognized all of the men. Recent photos of Harlan Benecroft, Damar Sanders, Griff’s attorney, Camden Hendrix, and Thomas Landry, a British business associate Griff had known for years. The photo of Yves Bouchard had to be at least fifteen years old, the one Interpol had posted on their Most Wanted site. The final three photos were of dead men: Ciro Mayorga, Ellis Benecroft, and the real Malcolm York.
Suzette looked at each photograph, doing as Mitchum had requested and taking her time.
“That’s him. That’s the man I call Papa. That’s Mr. York.”
She reached out, picked up the photograph, and handed it to Mitchum. A gasp caught in Yvette’s throat. Griff’s gut tightened.
The photo Suzette had identified as the pseudo-York had been taken twenty years ago. The man in the photograph was the real Malcolm York.
Chapter 23
Nicole had been confined to her room ever since their arrival. And once again, she had no idea where she was, what country or what continent for that matter. Other than the young girl who had delivered food three times yesterday and breakfast this morning, Nic had seen no one. If Malcolm York was in residence or if his guest, Bouchard, or henchman Linden, were still around, they hadn’t paid her a visit. It wasn’t that she wanted to see any of them, but she suspected York was playing with her, keeping her in solitary confinement for a reason. It was the not knowing that fueled her imagination, creating several frightening scenarios of what might lie ahead for her. She had tried talking to the servant girl, but the wide-eyed child had refused to interact with Nic, avoiding eye contact, as she hurried in and out as quickly as possible.
Asking questions had proven futile, but she had kept trying. She had asked where she was, asked the girl’s name, and inquired about York and Linden and about Jonas MacColl.
Was Jonas dead or alive? He had taken a bullet for her.
Please, God, let him be alive.
Instinct told Nic that she would soon be seeing York.
Yesterday, she had received the packet of photos with her morning meal. No doubt her initial reaction had been exactly what York had wanted. She had taken the photos at face value, seeing what York had wanted her to see—Yvette and Griff with their daughter. But just because the girl bore a vague resemblance to both Yvette and Griff did not mean she was their child, or even that she was Yvette’s child. And if Griff had escorted Yvette to the Benenden School to meet this girl, it didn’t mean that finding Nicole was not his top priority. Despite the secrets and lies that had stood between them, eating away like acid at the fragile material of their marriage, Nic knew that Griff loved her. Having had more than twenty-four hours to think, she now suspected that York had somehow orchestrated the entire thing. Exactly how he had accomplished that, she didn’t know.
Included with the breakfast delivery this morning had been a rectangular box, which the servant girl had placed on the foot of Nic’s bed. She had stared at the box for several minutes after the girl left before she had removed the lid and looked inside at the contents. After removing each item and spreading them out on the bed, she had laughed.
But she wasn’t laughing now. As the morning had worn on, she had eaten, bathed, dressed in the same baggy men’s slacks and shirt she’d been given on the first stop during their escape from the
Isis,
and had spent hours studying the articles of clothing lying ominously across the green and gold striped comforter.
Isis,
and had spent hours studying the articles of clothing lying ominously across the green and gold striped comforter.
Why would York have sent her such an outlandish costume? There was no other way to describe the items. And where had he gotten the costume? The only explanation was that it had already been here in this house or at a nearby location. Who had it belonged to in the past? She seriously doubted that it had been custom made for her. The knee-high silver boots, decorated with what resembled iridescent scales, looked a couple of sizes too small, as did the sheer undergarment that resembled an unadorned silvery green teddy. The lightweight metallic silver vest, covered with iridescent scales shimmering green, gray, and beige, resembled a knight’s breastplate. The last item puzzled Nic more so than any of the others. A diaphanous cape shaped like wings.
With nothing to do but wonder and worry and draw conclusions, Nic finally forced herself to stop inventing theories about Griff’s trip to England, about the photos of him with Yvette and Suzette, about why York had sent her the ridiculous costume, and about what York had in store for her next.
She hated feeling helpless, hated being at York’s mercy.
So, what was she going to do to pass the time? She didn’t have a book to read, no TV to watch, no music to listen to, no knitting needles and yarn, not even a pad and pencil so she could draw or scribble. Taking a walk was out of the question. But exercise wasn’t.
What about yoga?
She could start out with some basic stretches and deep breathing exercises. Meditating would keep her sane. Mind over matter.
Nic had very little control over anything in her life at present. But whatever happened, she could control her reactions. York would choose the games and make the rules. There was nothing she could do about that. Whether she won or lost a specific game, she couldn’t let him defeat her.
Nic shoved back a couple of chairs to clear an area on the hand-woven rug so that she would have enough room for her exercises. She stood with her feet together, her hands at her sides, and looked forward. She lifted her toes, fanned them apart, and then came back down on the floor. Following the procedure for the “Mountain/Tadasana” pose, she soon found herself absorbed in the process. Breathe. Relax. Don’t tense. She felt her breath rising up from the floor, moving through her legs and torso and into her head. After reversing the process and repeating it several times, she went on to the next step and raised her arms over her head, lowered them, and then exhaled.
As she became totally absorbed in the routine, she moved fluidly from one pose to another. Tension drained slowly away, restoring her mental and emotional balance, refreshing her body and soul. Time slipped away, became irrelevant, so that when she ended with the “Corpse/Savasana” pose, she felt removed from the reality of her situation.
Nic lay on her back, her feet slightly apart, her arms at her sides, with her palms up. After closing her eyes, she inhaled slowly and deeply as her body sank into the surface beneath her.
Before she achieved the ultimate state of pure relaxation, the bedroom door opened and Malcolm York breezed into the room. Nic rose to a sitting position on the floor and looked up at the smiling intruder. She feared the man’s smiles far more than his frowns.
“You’re quite lovely when you’re flushed and your body is damp with perspiration,” he told her as his gaze traveled the length of her body.
Whenever he surveyed her in such a blatantly sexual way, she felt violated, as if he had run his hands over her naked body. “Good day to you, too.”
She pushed herself up from the floor and faced him defiantly.
York chuckled. “You never disappoint me, Nicole. I admire your fighting spirit. You’re going to need that strong will to survive more than ever quite soon.”
“Am I supposed to ask what you mean by that statement?”
“I’ve already given you a clue.” He glanced back over his shoulder at the bed. “I see you received my little gift.”
“Is that what the ridiculous costume is—a gift?”
“You think it’s a costume?”
“Isn’t it? The least you could have done was made sure the items were in my size.”
“The items I sent you once belonged to one of my favorite champions. She served me well for more than a year. Your indomitable fighting spirit reminds me of hers.”
Nic had to admit that he had now piqued her curiosity. She had no idea what he was talking about, but she sensed whoever this champion had been and whatever she had done to deserve the title, the woman was now dead.
York stared at Nic, like a cat that had cornered a mouse and was waiting for it to make a move before pouncing on it. “Nothing else to say? No questions?”
Nic shook her head.
“Aren’t you curious?”
Maintaining the sense of peace she had acquired during her yoga exercises, Nic simply stared at him.
“I’ve ordered a uniform to be special made just for you, Nicole. It should be ready for your first performance in a few weeks. In the meantime, I’ve arranged for you to begin work with a trainer.”
A trainer? Just what did he intend to train her to do?
“I caught that hint of curiosity in your eyes,” York told her. “If you want to know more, all you have to do is ask.”
Hell would freeze over first. “I think I’ll wait and let you surprise me.”
His face hardened, obviously angered by her attitude. And then, he did an about-face and laughed out loud.
Griff and Yvette arrived at Griffin’s Rest late Monday afternoon. Sanders had picked them up in the limo, giving the three of them time alone to talk on the drive from the airport. Griff had spoken at length to Sanders the day before, condensing the events of Saturday night in Hyde Park and Suzette York’s confessions in the early-morning hours following her near-death experience. And Sanders had given Griff a full report on the investigation into Nic’s disappearance. Today’s private conversation had focused on how the past and the present had collided, placing Nicole in the hands of a monster, and putting everyone the three of them loved in harm’s way.
“I have decided to tell Barbara Jean about Elora,” Sanders had told them in his usual succinct manner.
“It’s past time she knew. If I had told Nic the truth and explained everything to her instead of hiding behind half-truths, she would be here with me now.”
At the time, when he had asked Nic to marry him, he had convinced himself that it was best for both of them if she never knew more than he had already told her about his years on Amara. In retrospect, he knew that he hadn’t told Nic because he had doubted her ability to understand and forgive. He had been selfish, keeping the whole truth from her because he was afraid to lose her. Not sharing everything with his wife had been the worst mistake Griff had ever made, one that both he and Nic were dearly paying for now.
Yvette, Sanders, and Griff had made a pact when they escaped from Amara, agreeing that before one of them would share any information about the years they had spent as York’s captives, they would ask permission of the other two. That pact of silence, along with their shared experiences in hell, had bound them together irrevocably. The humiliating truths of surviving at any cost combined with the painful memories of humiliation and degradation and unforgivable barbarous acts united the three of them and excluded everyone else, even the women that Griff and Sanders loved.
When they drove past the entry gates at Griffin’s Rest, Yvette asked that they take her to her home.
“You should stay with us,” Griff said. “You shouldn’t be alone.”
“I will hardly be alone in a house filled with students.”
“Come to dinner tonight,” Sanders told her. “Barbara Jean will be disappointed if you are not there.”
“I dare say that she will be the only one.”
“If you are referring to Maleah—” Sanders said.
“I sense Maleah’s dislike and distrust whenever I am near her. And I’m sure that Nicole’s brother would prefer not to see me while he is here.”
“If Charles David blames anyone for what’s happened to Nic, he blames me. As well he should,” Griff said.
Sanders dropped Griff off first at his request before driving Yvette home. This was where Griff wanted to be, where he needed to be, not halfway around the world chasing ghosts from his and Yvette’s past.
And what will you do if York sends you off on another wild-goose chase?
Griff stood on the porch and gazed out at the land surrounding his house, acres and acres of woods and winding dirt pathways and shoreline along Douglas Lake. Home. Seclusion. Sanctuary. Safety.
Where are you, Nic? Are you safe? Are you well?
He could not bear the thought of Nic in pain, of her being raped or tortured or hunted like a wild animal, of her being subjected to any of the horrors that the captives on Amara had endured.
“Welcome home,” Barbara Jean said.
Griff had been so engrossed in his thoughts—in the waking nightmare about Nic—he hadn’t heard the front door open.
Facing the attractive redhead confined to her wheelchair, he said, “Thank you,” and then leaned down to kiss her cheek. “It’s good to be home.”
She grabbed his hand. “A lot of people care about you and Nic and they all want to help you.”
“I know.”
Backing up her wheelchair so that Griff could enter the foyer, Barbara Jean said, “Maleah and Derek are in the office. They’ll join us for dinner this evening. Charles David went out for a walk half an hour ago. He’s been taking a lot of long walks since he got here. Ben and Meredith are back from Shelter Island. She sensed that Nicole had been there, but wasn’t able to figure out where she is now. Ben’s in the office filing a report.”
“I had hoped Meredith would be able to sense something while she was on the island about where they had taken Nic,” Griff said. “I know she tried, that she did her best.”
“Cam Hendrix has called every day,” Barbara Jean told him. “And so have Lindsay and Judd. They all want to do something—anything—to help.”
“There’s nothing they can do.” Neither his longtime buddy and lawyer nor two of his dearest friends could help him.
“They can do what the rest of us are doing. They can pray. And they can keep on sending out positive thoughts and believing that you’re going to find Nic and bring her home.”
“I hope you’re right about that,” a voice from behind them said.
Griff spotted the lone figure, wearing jeans and a polo shirt, standing at the back of the foyer, apparently just having come in from the patio. Charles David, his wife’s younger brother was tall, dark-haired, dark-eyed, and bore an almost twinlike resemblance to his sister.
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