Phoenix Falling (43 page)

How could he survive the agony saturating his mind? He thought of asking Rainey for another tranquilizer, then rejected the idea. The earlier one had knocked him out but hadn't relieved the pain. No more drugs. Having an addict mother had taught him the danger of seeking peace in a pill.

He tossed and turned, his anguish increasing as his mind spun from horror to horror. Sweating despite the cool night air, he gave up trying to sleep and rose. After yanking on clothes, he found a flashlight in the kitchen and went outside in search of fresh air and oblivion.

The emptiness of the night was as vast as the emptiness within.

Alone, alone, all, all alone;

Alone on a wide wide sea;

And never a saint took pity on

My soul in agony.

But the Ancient Mariner had killed an albatross, and his ordeal had been punishment for unnecessary cruelty. What had little James Mackenzie done to bring such suffering on his innocent head?

When his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw there was enough moonlight to make the flashlight unnecessary as long as he stayed out of the shadows. By luck, he found the path that started behind the farm buildings and led up into the hills.

He began to climb. The cool mountain night was sharp with the scent of pines and aspens and things he couldn't identify. Just above the ranch buildings was a shallow, saucer-shaped meadow surrounded by pines and carpeted with pale wildflowers that fluttered in the moonlight. Too agitated to admire the subtle loveliness of the sight, he continued upward.

Fragments of plays and poetry buzzed through his mind. Some were relevant to his situation, others less obvious. Living with Professor Trevor Scott-Wallace for more than six years had been an advanced course in British literature.

Full fathom five thy father lies;

Of his bones are coral made:

Those are pearls that were his eyes;

Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange.

But he hadn't a clue who his father was—what nation owned him, whether he was living or dead, whether he had any idea that he'd made a son with a beautiful girl too young to understand what she'd been doing.

As a boy, he'd liked to imagine his father as a Highland lad who lay with Maggie among the heather, then joined a regiment and went off to see the world, as Scottish youths had done for centuries. Even today, the regiments sent recruiting units marching into Scottish towns with pipes and banners flying to capture the imagination of bored young men who yearned for adventure. Maybe Maggie's lover had gone off promising to return for her, then died overseas in one of the nasty little skirmishes that regularly flared up around the world.

Of course, Kenzie's father might have been a drunken clerk who'd paid Maggie five quid to spread her legs. Or an incestuous relative who'd molested her and sent her fleeing in terror from the only home she'd known. There was no way to know. He prayed that she'd found some pleasure in his begetting. She'd had little enough joy in her life.

Break, break, break,

On thy cold gray stones, O Sea!

And I would that my tongue could utter

The thoughts that arise in me.

Tennyson had known grief, too.

At the top of the hill he halted, panting from the steep climb. What the devil should he do about Rainey? He'd bought this retreat partly to have a home with no memories of her, yet now she slept under his roof.

He was desperately alone, and she was the only person he could bear to have near. But she wanted to give their marriage another chance, and that was more impossible than ever. He was so knotted up sexually that he wasn't sure they could ever again share the glorious, healing passion that had been the bedrock of their relationship.

Seven long, celibate years had passed between his sexual servitude as a child and his first relationship as a mature male. Those years had let him see himself as a different person. In fact, he'd felt like a nervous virgin with his first lover, an actress fifteen years his senior who had taught a workshop at RADA. Her unselfconscious sensuality had helped him make the transition to an adult sexual identity.

But now he could no longer separate Jamie from Kenzie. The merest hint of a sexual thought about Rainey caused his stomach to clench as images of degradation rose and obscured her.

Agonized, he looked down over his valley. He was high enough to see the glint of moonlight on the small alpine lake, and the A-frame contours of the Gradys' new home beside it. The house was dark, since sensible people were asleep at this hour.

Physically drained but no more at peace than when he came outside, he started back down the path. Tomorrow he'd have to tell Seth Cowan that he would not do the thriller he was slated to start shooting in Australia in two months. He hadn't signed the contract yet so they couldn't sue, but Seth would still go through the roof. Better to leave a message early, on Seth's voice mail, so he wouldn't have to discuss his decision.

What the devil would he do with the rest of his life? To be an actor was to bare parts of oneself, and he felt too raw, too exposed, to ever act again. Most people dreamed of what they'd do if they ever had the time, but his only desire at the moment was to become a hermit and never interact with the world again. But how did hermits fill the empty hours?

Between one step and the next, he found the perfect angle that turned the almost circular lake into a moon-silvered mirror. His mind flashed to the labyrinth at Morchard House. It was strange how walking that winding path had relaxed him. He supposed it was because physical motion used up restless energy, allowing the mind to be still.

He tried not to think of the passion he and Rainey had shared beside the labyrinth. That was another issue, one he couldn't deal with. But the labyrinth itself called to him.

Why not build one here? The work would keep him busy for a few weeks, and when it was done, walking the mystical path might calm his wounded soul.

A jangling sound heralded the appearance of a dog. It was Hambone, the Gradys' friendly mutt, tongue lolling. Kenzie rubbed the dog's head and ears, grateful for a companion whose needs were so easily satisfied. As he resumed his descent of the hill, Hambone trotted amiably by his side.

He'd get a dog of his own. A hermit needed a dog.

Chapter 34

Yawning, Val made her way down the narrow staircase of the bed-and-breakfast where she and Laurie, her travel partner, had spent the night. She'd seen enough of Ireland to realize that yes, indeed, the Emerald Isle was green, and the musical accents made her want to whimper with pleasure. Laurie was sleeping late, but Val was up early and raring to start acting like a tourist.

"And how are you this fine mornin', Miss Covington?" Mrs. O'Brien, the landlady, asked cheerfully as Val entered the breakfast parlor. "Will you be having a wee pot of tea with your breakfast?"

"That would be heavenly." Mrs. O'Brien returned to her kitchen to fix Val's breakfast and brew the tea. Alone in the breakfast parlor, Val picked up the newspapers set on the sideboard and settled down to read.

Most of the headlines were routine, until she found the London tabloid underneath the sober Dublin paper. A huge picture of Kenzie and Rainey dominated the front page of the
Inquirer
with the headline, "Kenzie Scott: A Gay Blade?"

Dismayed, she skimmed the first paragraphs of the story, then returned to the photo to study it more carefully. Kenzie looked frozen with shock, as well he might. Rainey radiated surprise and fury.

So Nigel Stone had hit the grand crescendo he'd been building toward for weeks. Val's lawyer instinct made her want to dive into the fray. She'd become rather fond of Kenzie, and it went without saying that this kind of scandal would hurt Rainey deeply.

With professional objectivity, she considered whether Stone might be telling the truth when he claimed that Kenzie was gay. Nope, she still didn't believe it. She was good at picking up male vibes.

What about bisexuality? Possible, but that didn't feel right, either. She hadn't sensed any interest on Kenzie's part when he was around men, even though the movie crew had included a couple of good-looking gay guys. She'd stake her right to practice law that Kenzie was exactly what he seemed: an unconflicted heterosexual male.

The next page detailed Stone's evidence. He had a birth certificate for one James Mackenzie, allegedly Kenzie's real name. That meant nothing in itself, unless he could prove in some other way that Kenzie Scott and James Mackenzie were the same person.

Nigel also claimed to have spoken to men who swore they'd paid to have sex with Jamie Mackenzie. Again, that meant nothing unless they were willing to go on the record under their own names. Which they probably wouldn't, since few men would want to admit publicly that they'd solicited sex with a minor.

She swore when she read the next paragraph. Stone claimed to have a child pornography video that Kenzie had made. A carefully cropped image showed a desolate-looking child. She scrutinized the blurry photo. There was a general resemblance to Kenzie, but the features weren't quite right. It was like the best of the photos sent in by readers responding to the
Inquirer
's call for information. Close but no cigar. If this was Nigel's best evidence, he was on thin ice.

Mrs. O'Brien returned with a tray that held a pot of steaming tea and a plate piled with bacon, sausages, eggs, and a grilled tomato. Val's appetite had diminished sharply, but she managed to eat about half the food. She was going to need her strength.

When she finished her meal, she retreated to her room and dug out her cell phone. It wasn't yet midnight in California, so who should she call first? Emmy Herman would be the most tactful choice, and she'd probably know exactly what was going on, but pregnant women needed their rest. She'd have to call Rainey directly.

Though Rainey should be home by now, the call to her private home phone was picked up by an answering machine referring people to her office number. Val left a message, then tried the Gordons. She'd become friendly with Naomi and Marcus during filming since she'd been the major liaison to the producers.

Naomi Gordon picked up the phone. "Hello."

"Naomi, this is Val Covington. I'm in Ireland, and I just saw the
Inquirer
. What's going on, and what can I do to help?"

"Val, I'm so glad to hear from you. Hang on a second and I'll get Marcus on another extension."

A minute later Marcus said tersely, "Glad you checked in, Val. Maybe you'll be able to think of something we've missed."

"All I've seen is Stone's article, which naturally tells it his way. Can you fill me in on what really happened?"

"Nigel Stone jumped Kenzie with this about six steps outside the church where Charles Winfield's memorial service was held," Naomi said acidly. "The British tabloid reporters really are worse than the Americans."

"That
bastard
. Then what?"

Marcus picked up the story. "Rainey and Kenzie got away ASAP without making any comments. She was still shaking when she called us and the publicists to let us know what happened. We're doing our best to kill the story before it turns into a major media feeding frenzy."

"I wish I understood the British establishment better," Val said with frustration. "I'm good at digging out facts, and in the States I'm sure I could find some useful defensive ammunition, but I wouldn't know where to start in London."

"We can hire good researchers," Naomi said. "What should they look for?"

Val considered. "For starters, I'd check out dear Nigel's career in Australia. He worked there for years. See if he was ever accused of fabricating stories or evidence, or if he was ever sued for libel. Even if he won a suit, several incidents like that would really undermine his credibility."

"Good idea. I hadn't thought of investigating his Australian past, but I've got contacts in Sydney," Marcus said. "I'll get right on it."