The Waterfall (12 page)

She bit her lip at the rush of heat she felt, remembering last night's searing kiss. Well, that was over. The man couldn't even stand up tonight.

She headed upstairs. Madison and J.T. had the twin bed in the guest room made up with one of Daisy's ubiquitous quilts. It was a small room with simple furnishings and a dormer window overlooking the front yard.

“How's Sebastian?” Madison asked.

“He'll be fine. He really took a nasty fall.” She pulled out a painted yellow chair at Daisy's old pedal-operated sewing machine and sat down. Her legs were twitchy from exertion and nerves. “Madison, when you were up in the woods this afternoon…did you see anyone?”

Madison shook her head. “No.”

Lucy went very still, her parental instincts telling her that her daughter was hiding something. “Are you sure?”

“Of course, I'm sure.”

“Not even the summer people?”

“I saw the optometrist in his car.” A Boston optometrist owned one of the vacation homes on the dirt road up on the ridge. “I thought you meant while I was out walking—”

“I did.” J.T. jumped up from the bed. “Me and Georgie saw a truck turn around in the driveway.”

Lucy stayed focused on her daughter. “If you remember seeing anyone else, let me know.”

Madison nodded. No argument. No sarcasm. No impatience with her mother for interrogating her. This struck Lucy as suspicious. Either she looked more done in than she realized and Madison was giving her a break—or her daughter wasn't telling the truth.

“Listen a minute,” Lucy said, “both of you. I've got a lot on my mind, and I need you both to cooperate. Sebastian got hurt in a landslide up at the falls. I don't want you two going out in the woods alone until further notice.”

“Mom, I'm fifteen—”

“That's the way it is, Madison.”

Lucy debated telling them about the strange incidents, but she knew it would frighten them. This was her burden, not theirs. She needed to tell them enough to keep them safe, not paralyze them with fear.

J.T. gave her a hug. “Do you like Sebastian?”

“I don't know. I haven't thought about it. He got hurt, and I'm trying to help out.” She patted her son's back; he was sweaty from volleyball, but still, at twelve, a little boy. “I guess he's okay.”

“Is he doing his Clint Eastwood act?” Madison asked.

“I don't think it was an act. Anyway, he's not wearing his cowboy hat and boots.”

J.T. untangled himself from her. “Can I see him?”

“In the morning.” Lucy got to her feet. “Now, I think showers are in order. I'll go first. Find a good book to read. Relax. Okay?”

She hugged and kissed them both, then, in spite of her own fatigue, went back downstairs to check on Sebastian. “Are you asleep?” she whispered from the door.

“No.”

“Is there anything I can get you?”

She could feel his eyes on her. He was half sitting up, his face lost in the shifting shadows of the encroaching night. The fan whirred. “Your instincts were right. Something's going on around here.” He fell back against his pillow. “You should call Plato.”

“What can he do that you can't? I told you, I don't want to call in the cavalry if I don't have to.”

“Plato isn't rusty. I am. He still carries a weapon.” He paused, and his voice lowered. “I don't.”

“Sebastian, if we're to the point you're worried about having to
shoot
someone, I'll call the police. I won't hesitate.”

“I'm through with violence, Lucy.”

She stared at him. “What?”

“Last year I had to shoot a man I once considered a friend. I intended to kill him—I thought I had.”

“Jesus,” Lucy breathed.

“I turned Redwing Associates over to Plato and quit the business.” His gaze seemed to bore into her. “I came out of retirement for you, but I won't kill again.”

Lucy straightened, trying to shake off a sudden sense of gloom. “Good heavens, Madison's right. You
are
like Clint Eastwood in
Unforgiven.
”

She thought she saw a small smile, but with the fading light, she couldn't be sure. “I was never a drunk.”

“Rest. We'll talk in the morning. I don't want you to kill anyone. Although,” she added with a smile, “you could wing the bastard.”

 

Jack Swift typed in the information on the card Mowery had given him at lunch. It was late, quiet in his second-floor study. Only the brass lamp on his desk was lit. With Sidney attending a function at the Kennedy Center, he was alone.

He waited for the images to download. His computer was old and slow, but he was from a generation that didn't “upgrade” until something stopped working, whether it was a toaster or a damn computer. He thought he was doing well having one in his house at all.

The images slowly appeared on his screen. He braced himself. He expected illicit, pornographic pictures of his dead son and another woman.

Lucy.

Jack sat up straight, pain shooting through his chest. “Dear God,” he whispered.

She was standing in front of the barn at her house in Vermont. She wore shorts and a T-shirt; flowers bloomed in a nearby garden. The picture had been taken recently.

The next pictures formed. Madison. J.T. His grandchildren together with their mother. All could have been taken last week.

“Bastard,” Jack said, clutching his chest.
“Bastard.”

At the bottom of the screen, in big, black, easy-to-read letters were the words “The lovely family of United States Senator Jack Swift.”

The pictures were Mowery's way of proving he could reach Jack's family. Of proving he
had
reached them.

Jack shut off the computer. He waited a few seconds for the pain in his chest to subside. If he dropped dead of a heart attack, would Mowery stop? Would he go after Lucy and the kids, anyway, out of frustration and vengeance?

He couldn't call the Capitol Police. It was too late now for official channels. For doing what he should have done in the first place.

Calming himself, Jack reached for his Rolodex. He flipped to a card, dialed the number scrawled on it. His instructions had been to call anytime, day or night.

“Redwing Associates.”

“Yes,” he said in his best senatorial voice. “This is Jack Swift. I'd like to speak to Sebastian Redwing.”

B
arbara was sick with fear and disgust.

Sebastian Redwing hadn't seen her. She was
sure
of it. But if he hadn't lost his balance—if he hadn't gone into the falls—he would have come after her. As it was, she'd had to pelt additional rocks at him to get him into the water.

A close call. Too close.

Thank God for her instincts. They'd warned her someone was nearby, and she'd ducked off the path and spotted him at the falls. Otherwise, she'd have bumped into him. She'd have had to scramble for an explanation.

He was still thrashing about in the water when she'd heard Lucy, the children and their low-life friends at the bottom of the falls. Barbara had crouched in the brush and ferns, itching and sweating as she'd waited, motionless, before finally creeping back up to the dirt road.

A very close call, indeed.

Now, pacing on the deck of the house she'd rented for the senator, she couldn't believe the risks she'd taken. She was calculating and intelligent, not one to succumb to impulse. If her friends and colleagues in Washington learned of this obsession of hers, these risky escapades, they would be shocked. They wouldn't understand.
She
didn't understand. She imagined what a bulimic girl must feel like, eating away at dinner, then throwing up in secret—the satisfaction, the disgust, the inability to stop herself.

Except she didn't have a disorder, Barbara thought. She could stop herself, if only she would.

She leaned against the deck rail, listening to the brook, the cool early-morning breeze gusting in the woods. Such a peaceful, beautiful spot. She'd chosen well. Jack would enjoy his time here, even if he should be seeing to his constituents in Rhode Island.

What if you'd killed Sebastian Redwing?

Once she'd spotted him lurking in the woods, she'd known Lucy had contacted him on her trip to Wyoming. Lucy had gone crying to him about the few little things that had happened to her over the previous week. Barbara hated whiners. And Sebastian was Colin's friend, not Lucy's. Lucy had no right.

Now Barbara had to worry Darren would find out. “God
damn
you, Lucy.”

Well, Sebastian Redwing had survived. Lucy had helped him down to her house. Barbara had seen them as she'd hid in the woods like a madwoman.

Would Madison tell her mother—and Sebastian—about their visit yesterday?

It didn't matter. No one would make the connection between Sebastian's accident at the falls and Barbara's presence in Vermont. She breathed deeply, reminding herself she was the only one who knew—who could even imagine—she could do such a thing. To everyone else, she was the competent, professional, longtime personal assistant to a United States senator.

She sighed, feeling better, calmer. Sebastian Redwing was here in Vermont, and maybe she should tell Darren—but she wouldn't.

 

Sebastian awoke to a pounding head and the sounds of J.T. and his buddy playing
Star Wars
outside his window. He moaned, not moving, not even opening his eyes. “I hate kids.”

The boys were throwing things—his guess, green tomatoes—and pretending they were bombs exploding on impact, with appropriate sound effects. Sebastian remembered playing similar games with his grandmother's green tomatoes.

“Boys!” Lucy yelled, probably from the back steps. “Those are my tomatoes!”

Explanations followed. They were the knobby tomatoes. They'd fallen off the vine. It was good to weed out the weaker tomatoes so the strong could get big and ripen.

Lucy wasn't buying. “Stay
out
of the tomatoes. Why don't you go pick blackberries? I'll make a cobbler.”

“What's a cobbler?” J.T. asked. Apparently his mother didn't make too many cobblers.

She threatened to put them to work in the barn sorting mail. They grabbed cans from the recycling bin and vanished. Welcome silence followed.

Sebastian carefully rolled out of bed. It had been a hellish night. The pain and humiliation of falling into the water. Thoughts of kissing Lucy. And memories. So damn many memories. At fourteen, in shock from his parents' sudden deaths, he'd never wanted to leave here.

He reeled, reaching out for a bedpost to steady himself.

“Mom! Sebastian's dying!”

Two boys' faces popped into the window screen facing the backyard. The little bastards were spying on him. He banged on the screen as if they were a couple of pesky moths, and they gasped and cleared out.

Lucy burst in. Her mistake. He was hanging on to the bedpost in his shorts. “Oh,” she said, grinding to a halt in the doorway. “I thought—J.T. said—”

He grinned. It was a damned nasty thing to do, but he felt like it. “Be glad I still have my shorts on. Those kids need to learn some manners.”

“They know their manners. They just don't always employ them.” She had a portable phone in one hand. “I should have remembered to pull the shades.”

“Should have thought of it myself.”

“You're all right?”

“A pot of coffee and a bottle of aspirin would help.”

She nodded and retreated, shutting the door behind her. Sebastian sank onto the bed. He wasn't up to catching bad guys today. He was sore as hell with a mood to match.

He reached for his pants on the footboard, and realized instantly they'd been washed. His shirt was folded next to them. Lucy had managed to sneak in and out of his room at least twice—once to get his clothes, again to return them freshly laundered. He hadn't known. This did not improve his mood.

He got dressed and found his way to the bathroom. Except for fresh paint and towels in bright, vibrant colors, it hadn't changed since Daisy's day. A look in the mirror told him why J.T. and his friend thought he was dying—and why they'd run off when he'd growled at them. Dried blood, raw scrapes, purple and yellow bruises.

And he needed a shave, but the only razor around was pink. He decided to wait.

He staggered out to the kitchen, where Lucy was at her laptop at the table. She had on a white top and shorts—simple, sexy. She barely looked up at him. “Coffee's made.”

“Thank you.” He moved slowly to the counter. “You stole my pants in the middle of the night.”

“Actually, it was only about nine o'clock. You were dead to the world.”

“What if bad guys had stormed the house?”

“I could dial 9-1-1 as easily as you could.”

She kept the mugs in the same place Daisy had. He dragged one out and poured his coffee. “I hate going after bad guys in my shorts. I like having my pants. It's one of my rules.” He leaned against the counter with his coffee. “Lucy Blacker, are you laughing at me?”

“Me? No way.” She tapped a few keys. “Anyway, since you've renounced violence, you wouldn't have gone after the bad guys even if you were up to it.”

The coffee was hot and strong, and made him feel almost human again. He took note of Lucy's bare arms and legs, their smooth muscles. She was strong and fit. No wonder she'd been able to help him down from the falls.

“The best thing to do in a dangerous situation,” he said, “is to get out of it. Having a gun can give you a false sense of security. And just because I've renounced killing,” he added, “doesn't mean I can't still catch bad guys.”

She licked her lips. “Have you renounced all violence or just deadly force?”

“I don't carry a gun. I don't own any firearms. When I did, I only fired my weapon when I believed deadly force was the only option.” He sipped more of his coffee. “You don't shoot to wound someone. You shoot to kill.”

“Uck,” she said.

“Yes. It's too often too easy to see shooting as your only option when you're armed to the teeth.”

“But would you hit someone?”

He smiled, which made his face ache. “As in spanking or beating the shit out of someone?”

She flushed slightly, whether out of annoyance or embarrassment, he couldn't tell. Probably annoyance. He didn't think Lucy embarrassed easily. She looked at him. “What would you have done if you'd caught whoever knocked you into the falls yesterday?”

“I don't deal in hypotheticals.” He dropped onto a chair across from her. “I've done enough killing. That's my only point.”

She nodded. “I understand.”

“No, you don't, which is good. Can you point me to breakfast?”

“I can even fix you breakfast.”

“You pulled me off the rocks and washed my clothes. That's enough.”

She got up and opened the refrigerator. “I don't need you collapsing on my kitchen floor. A cheddar cheese omelette okay?”

“It would be wonderful. Thank you.”

The kitchen quickly filled with the smell of eggs, butter, Vermont cheddar cheese and toast. Sebastian remembered countless sunny summer mornings here in his grandmother's kitchen. In Wyoming during the past year, while he gambled, rode his horses, walked with his dogs, bided time in his hammock and otherwise did nothing, he'd found himself haunted by his childhood in Vermont. Images, memories, smells, the hopes and dreams of the introspective boy he'd been. He'd assumed it was because of Lucy, knowing she was here. But maybe not.

He refilled his mug and reached for the bottle of Extra-strength Tylenol.

Lucy turned a lightly browned omelette onto a plate. “Why didn't you go to the funeral?” she asked quietly.

At first he thought she was talking about Daisy, but he pulled himself out of his own depths and realized she meant Colin. “I was in Bogotá. A kidnapping case.”

“You didn't call, write, send a flower—”

“Would it have made you feel better if I had?”

She buttered the toast, not looking at him. “No. That's not the point.”

He knew it wasn't.

She placed his food in front of him and walked out of the kitchen, leaving him to his breakfast. And her laptop. Sebastian slid it over with one finger and poked around her hard drive while he ate. Lucy Blacker Swift was a very busy lady, he decided. Her adventure travel company was an attractive mix of active sports, education and relaxation. He called up a draft of her new brochure. Autumn inn-to-inn canoe trips ranging from a long weekend to ten days. Sea kayaking on the coast of Maine. A nature and history hike in Newfoundland. And on it went. Each trip was described with the kind of rich detail that made Sebastian realize he hadn't been that many places just for fun. Tracking down kidnappers in Colombia wasn't the same as enjoying its fascinating culture and scenery.

Madison plopped onto the chair across from him. “Are you spying on my mother?”

No good-morning. No polite enquiry into the state of his health. He eyed her over the laptop's screen. “I'm checking my e-mail.”

“No, you're not. The modem's not hooked up.”

“Okay. I'm spying on your mother.”

She gave him a direct, no-nonsense look. “Why?”

The kid was a pain. “You're fifteen. Why don't you have a job?”

“I do have a job. I work for Mom's company.”

“That's not a job. That's working for your mother.”

She made a face. Probably if he weren't so bloodied and bruised and dangerous-looking, she'd have told him what was what. The kid had spirit. He shut down Lucy's money file and a financial spreadsheet he'd pulled up. Taking a look at her new brochure was easier to explain. He'd have to talk to her about password protection.

“I figure you can drive me out to my motel,” he said. “I need to pick up a few things if I'm going to be laid up here.”

“Me?”

“Yeah, you. You drive, right?”

“I have my learner's permit. I can't drive without an adult—”

“I'm an adult.”

Her mouth snapped shut.

“Go ask your mother while I finish my breakfast.”

The girl seemed taken aback. “Are you serious?”

He sighed. “Don't I look serious? I fell off a flipping cliff last night. I'm not in the mood to joke around.”

She mumbled something about asking her mother, and fled. If nothing else, Sebastian figured he'd given her a good excuse to make her retreat. He'd always made kids nervous. He didn't know why.

Madison returned in a few minutes, breathless. “Mom said absolutely not.”

“How come?”

She shrugged. She was a pretty kid, looked a lot like her father.

Sebastian grinned at her. “You mean you didn't put up a fight? I thought all fifteen-year-olds snapped up every opportunity to drive.”

“I have things to do,” she said quickly, and disappeared.