Twisted Shadows (25 page)

Sam felt deep in her heart that her absence wasn't forced.

But it was so unlike her.

And who was the friend? Her mother's friends were all businesswomen who would no more know how to hide someone than Sarsy would.

How much did she really know about her mother? Sam had begun to realize how much she didn't know. Her mother had married a man she barely knew, then fled from him, making what had to be an agonizing choice.

Yet nothing in her life had indicated anything but normality. Yes, she had been protective. But every other part of Sam's life had seemed normal. Her mother had laughed and smiled and had seemed fulfilled.

How could she have been fulfilled when she'd left a son behind?

Sam still didn't understand that. Could never understand that.

Call the police
. But they were still unaware of the Carrolls' connection to an infamous family. Did she have the right to make this decision?

Bigamy
. An ugly word. But if everything she'd been told was correct, her mother's second marriage had been bigamy.

Feeling more alone than she ever had in her life, Sam checked the house once more, turning out all the lights except those in the kitchen.

Then she sat down at the kitchen table. It was the large oak table they'd had when she was a child, when they lived in a larger home on the edge of the town. Her mother's kitchen had always been a welcoming place filled with good smells.

But now that she thought about it, the kitchen had always been empty except for the three of them. She'd had few friends because her mother kept her close and never invited other children there. It wasn't until she had gone to college that her mother had widened her range of friends, almost as if …

As if she no longer had anything to worry about.

A sickness settled in her stomach. How much fear had her mother known? How much heartbreak?

Could she really open the whole pail of snakes for the entire town of Steamboat Springs to see?

But she would do it in a second if she thought that was what her mother wanted, or if she thought it would save her mother's life.

Her mother left for reasons of her own, reasons she couldn't explain. The note made it clear that she expected Sam to respect her wishes … to trust her.

Oddly, in spite of everything, Sam did trust her.

What had happened in the last few hours to make her mother flee? Had it been Sam's mention of the FBI on the phone? Her mother seemed to have taken it in stride. Had she had second thoughts? Had she considered the implications for herself and Sam, for the gallery, and decided to delay any meeting with law enforcement officers as long as possible?

She could believe that. Exposure could be terribly damaging to all of them—and the gallery—particularly if her mother had committed bigamy. She doubted whether her mother could be prosecuted—it must be far outside the statute of limitations—but the bad publicity could be deadly.

She wouldn't have left Sam alone to deal with it.

Sam was at a complete loss as to whether to take the note to the police. But then she would have to tell the complete story, for no law enforcement officer would start a search on the basis of that note.

And if there was foul play involved, would she put her mother in more danger if she approached the local police? The FBI?

She had to trust someone. She thought about Nick, recalled his disdain for the woman who had given him birth, and turned to the only other alternative.

Nathan McLean
.

Despite her brother's accusations, McLean had helped her three times. Maybe he had ulterior motives, but he also knew the Merritta family. She thought he was wrong about Nick, but he knew other members of the family far better than she.

She dug in her pocket for a number she had thought she would never call. Praying she wasn't making a terrible mistake, she punched in the number.

What in the hell did she want?

The question haunted Nate as he drove through the mountains to Steamboat Springs. When he'd left the FBI offices after finally winning a week of leave, he'd turned off his cell phone. He didn't want Barker finding him. It was only a matter of time before Barker would learn about the shooting in front of Nick Merritt's home.

He hadn't even bothered to check messages until he arrived in Denver and rented a car. Then he scanned the numbers.

Gray's number. Two numbers he knew came from the Bureau. Then a number he recognized. He'd obtained it from the search he'd conducted just hours ago. It belonged to Samantha Carroll's mother. He had memorized both her mother's number and Samantha's. He called the number displayed and got an answering machine. He hung up.

Then he called Gray. “What's up?”

“Barker's livid,” Gray said.

“Did he say why?”

“Nope. He called me in to find out where you were. I said you went fishing. Didn't say exactly where. You didn't say, did you?”

“Nope. I keep my private fishing hole secret.”

“Good. I wouldn't want to lie to the boss.”

“You haven't,” he reassured Gray. Then he asked, “No one's called you, have they?”

“Who do you mean?”

“There's a number on my cell phone. It's Patsy Carroll's home phone number. When I returned the call, I got an answering machine. I thought she might have called the office.”

“Not that I know of, but if I didn't answer your phone, it might have gone to Barker.”

Nate swore.

“Well, keep me posted,” Gray said, “and I'll keep Barker off your trail.”

“Done.”

He switched off the call, debating whether or not to keep the phone on. Barker wouldn't give up. He was like a bulldog, and if Nate answered the phone, Barker could trace the location. He turned it off. He could always say he lost the damn thing.

His heart pounded harder. What if the call
was
from Samantha Carroll rather than her mother? Only a handful of people had his private cell number. She was one of them.

He tried to shift his thoughts to the hours ahead as he drove through the mountains. He was told it was a three-hour drive. It seemed a hundred.

He'd been stunned when he discovered Samantha Carroll had left Merritt's home. So, apparently, had Merritt.

By unspoken consent—and, Nate thought, their own personal reasons—neither of them had mentioned Samantha to the police. Nate had told the beat police that he'd witnessed the drive-by shooting after arriving to interview Nick Merritt. He and Merritt were at the door when a car sped by, and both of them hit the deck.

Nate knew he could be suspended. He'd disobeyed a direct order. But he might be able to justify this one last visit to Nick, saying he was merely wrapping up a few details from the previous night's accident.

He wasn't ready to lose his job or take a suspension. Not as long as there were killers sniffing around Samantha Carroll. He might not be “official,” but he could still ask for professional courtesy from local police departments.

Truthfully, he thought she was safer anywhere but Boston.

He'd not broached the offer of protection with his boss, because she'd already made it clear she would refuse it. This last shooting episode might have changed things … if she'd stuck around long enough for him to find out. He also suspected that Samantha might be in even more danger if she came to the attention of his superiors. Perhaps because some of his own informants had been killed when their names drifted up the ladder.

That he'd been so abruptly taken off the case needled his suspicions even more. He'd been assigned to the organized crime unit for years. He'd been moderately successful. There was no reason, at least none he could see, that would justify his removal.

Perhaps it had been that suspicion that had raised hackles along his spine, and he'd decided to drive out to Merritt's house and keep an eye on it. He had not expected the drive-by shooting. For a moment he had to decide whether to follow the car or to give her assistance.

It wasn't much of a conflict, not when he saw her under Merritt, blood pouring from her arm.

But then she had disappeared, and it hadn't taken him long to figure out she was returning to Denver. He didn't blame her after what had happened yesterday.

He wouldn't trust anyone, either, if he were she.

There should have been something he could have done to convince her she was in way over her head. Now she was probably as suspicious of him as she was of the family. Perhaps he should have better explained the Bureau's suspicions concerning Nick Merritt. But that's all they were. Suspicions.

Now the only hope he had was to reach Patsy Carroll and get her to cooperate. As Paul Merritta's wife, she would know things. If she had stayed alive this long, then she must have a kind of insurance that included evidence.

Perhaps she would help him if she thought her daughter was in danger.

The only thing he
did
know was that the unexpected appearance of Samantha Carroll had changed the dynamics of the family as much as the death of Paul Merritta had. He wondered whether it had even brought about the don's murder. The forensics people still hadn't finished the testing yet.

All those questions had bombarded him these past twenty-four hours, along with the strong feeling that Samantha Carroll was on a collision course with disaster.

Her image hadn't left him. If she had been anyone else, he might have given a thought to asking her out. Her seemingly sincere, though misguided, defense of Nick Merritt oddly appealed to him. So had her understated looks. Her hairstyle was easy, her makeup just enough, and her clothes simple but stylish. He liked her confident manner, the way her eyebrows furrowed when she was thinking. He admired her loyalty and tenacity, though he thought it misplaced.

Quite simply, it had been difficult—impossible—to keep that reaction in check. He'd had no business kissing her. He wasn't even sure where it came from. But he still felt it. Still tasted her in his memory.

He would have to rein in his libido. He had been after the Merritta family for far too long to fail now. Gray had called it an obsession, but Nate knew that even his partner had been infected with the need to prosecute the one family in Boston that had been nearly untouchable.

Nothing would get in Nate's way.
Nothing
. Not even a dark-haired woman who stirred something he thought had died with his wife five years ago.

Reaching Steamboat Springs, he stopped at the city's tourist office to locate the address he had. He also asked for directions to Western Wonders, the Carrolls' gallery. He could have gone to the police department, but he didn't want to do that. Not yet. If he turned to the local police, he might lose his best bargaining tool: privacy. Probably he would lose his job as well.

If he had been there for any other reason, he would have taken pleasure in the area. The drive from Denver had been scenic, and the town, nestled in a green valley, was picturesque. He knew that Olympic-caliber skiers practiced here.

He turned his thoughts back to the supposedly long-dead Mrs. Merritta.

Had her daughter told her what had happened in Boston? That Samantha had been nearly killed? Or that Patsy Carroll was now a widow twice over? The odd thing was that he'd discovered precious little about the man she had called her husband; his history began about the time the two moved to Steamboat Springs more than thirty years ago.

A coincidence?

The whole scenario stank like a week-old fish.

He risked trying to call Patsy Carroll's number again.

Still the machine answered.

Something must have happened.

He had both addresses. The mother's and Samantha's. According to the map, they were fairly close together. He'd meant to try the mother first, since he'd expected Samantha not to be very cooperative. Now he changed his mind.

He looked at the map again, then made several turns and drove up in front of a house made of logs. Roses climbed up the posts of the front porch. The house looked natural in its setting. And inviting.

He'd barely pulled up when the door opened and Samantha stepped out, her lips starting to form an anxious smile. It faded when she saw him. Disappointment stabbed through him at that emotional retreat even as his heart suddenly lurched at the sight of her. She wore jeans and a T-shirt and looked younger in casual clothes. Her arm was bandaged. But she was as appealing to him as she had been in Boston, perhaps even more so.

As he walked up the drive, he saw that her face was drawn, her eyes tired. Some of the joy of life he'd seen there before was gone.

“Miss Carroll?”

She leaned against the doorjamb.

“Mr. McLean,” she acknowledged in a voice heavy with disappointment.

“You were expecting someone else?”

She didn't say anything. Neither did she invite him in. She stood there, stiff and unyielding.

“You called?” he tried, wondering now whether she really had been the one who called.

She nodded.

So it had been her
. “The number was on my cell phone. I recognized it as belonging to your mother.” His voice softened.

“My mother's?” she asked, suspicion in her voice.

“It wasn't difficult to find,” he said. “I had both numbers—yours and your mother's.”

He wanted to touch her. To soothe away the agony he saw in her face. He had to will himself not to reach out and take her in his arms. “Is something wrong?” he asked gently.

“Yes,” she admitted in a broken voice.

“What?”

“My mother's disappeared.”

The words, though, didn't half convey the agony he saw on her face. Nor, he knew, the frustration he suddenly felt.

Almost without thinking, he held his arms open, and she walked straight into them.

nineteen

She walked into his arms.

She needed their warmth. She'd been so cold since she'd discovered her mother's absence.