She wondered if Bill had been arrested last night, if they’d found a way to make it stick so that he wouldn’t be able to simply talk his way out of jail.
As the warm wind whipped through her hair, she pulled her feet up onto the top step of the porch. The sky was gray, but a faint pink hue crept up over the trees across the street. Maybe what happened today would wash away the sorrow and pain from the past.
Her eyes strayed up the street, where the paperboy should soon appear. She wished he would hurry.
At the end of the street she spotted a jogger dressed in black running shorts and a white tank top. She started to stand up and go inside, for she didn’t trust strangers, especially not on this isolated street where no one ever came unless they were invited. And then she saw that the man was Jake.
He waved as he reached the halfway point on the block, then slowed his jog and walked the rest of the way, cooling down. When he reached the driveway, he picked up the towel he’d left on the trunk of his car, threw it around his neck, and came toward her.
“You’re up awfully early,” he said, his breath still coming hard. He bent down to pet Dodger, who wagged his tail stub and slobbered all over him.
“So are you. I was just waiting for the paperboy. I didn’t know you jogged.”
“Yeah, for about the last month or so. I’m trying to get in shape for my medical.”
“Your what?”
“My medical. I have to get a medical release to get my pilot’s license back. This afternoon is the moment of truth.”
“Well, that shouldn’t be a problem, should it?”
“No, ordinarily it wouldn’t.” He sat down on the steps next to her and rubbed the sweat from his face. “But this false eye could play against me, so I’m trying to overcompensate with the rest. If I can prove I’m more fit than most people, they might overlook the eye.”
Beth narrowed her eyes and stared at him. “I didn’t know you had a false eye, Jake. Which one?”
He chuckled. “If you can’t tell, I’m not going to.”
“Your eyes look just alike. And they move together. I didn’t know false eyes could do that.”
“They look just like ordinary eyes, but that’s not what the licensing board cares about. They want to make sure that I can see like I’m supposed to. Half of my peripheral vision is gone now, so I can’t fly for the commercial airline I used to fly for. They have pretty high standards. But if I can get my license back, I could buy a small plane and start a chartering service or something.”
“That’s great, Jake. They’ll give it to you, won’t they?”
“I think so. I’m just a little nervous. A lot is riding on this.”
Thankful for the diversion, she asked, “Like what?”
He smiled and looked off in the direction from which he had just jogged. “Like . . . my relationship with Lynda.”
“I thought that was pretty solid.”
“It is. But I’d like for it to move forward. Have a little more permanency. I never thought I’d say this, but I don’t want Lynda to just be my lady. I want her to be my wife.”
Beth grinned. “Does she know this?”
“I’m sure she suspects it. But I haven’t said it, straight out.
Not when I have so little to offer her.”
“Lynda doesn’t need much.”
“No, but she deserves everything.” He sat down next to her on the steps. “I’ve been out of work and living on savings and odd jobs since the accident. I want to have an income, and be contributing something, before I ask her to marry me.”
“That’s admirable,” Beth said. “I hope somebody will care about me like that one day.”
“You’re still young. No hurry.”
“Yeah,” she said. “And there’s a lot of unfinished business I have to take care of before then.” Her eyes strayed back to the end of the street. Still no paperboy.
“Unfinished business?”
“Yeah. This article is just part of it.”
“Well, it should be here soon. But come to think of it, I usually see the paperboy when I’m jogging, and I didn’t see him today.
He must be running late. Tell you what. I’ll go shower, then if it still hasn’t come, I’ll go pick up one at the closest newsstand. I’m anxious to see it, too.” He got up and threw the towel back around his neck.
She smiled and watched him head back around the house and into the garage apartment. She wondered if Lynda had any idea how blessed she was to have a man like that in love with her.
After watching for the paperboy for a few more minutes, she decided not to wait any longer. She went back into the house and got her purse. Lynda was coming up the hall in her robe. “Beth, where are you going so early?”
“To try to find a newspaper,” she said. “The paperboy is late.
I’m just really anxious to see the article. There’s a truck stop near my house that is always one of the earliest to get a paper. I’ll go there and see if I can get one. I’ll call you from home. Thanks for letting me stay here last night, okay? And tell Jimmy I’ll be back to see him this afternoon.”
“Okay. He’ll be fine.”
“Oh, and tell Jake that I’m sorry I couldn’t wait.”
Beth carried Dodger out to her car as that sense of uneasiness crept over her again. After she’d left Lynda’s isolated street, she scanned the driveways for the rolled-up newspapers that always came with the morning. She saw none. She grabbed her car phone and dialed the number of the newspaper, planning to ask someone in circulation if there had been some delay in getting the papers out that morning.
A discordant tone came on instead of the ring, and an operator’s recorded voice said that the number was temporarily out of order.
She cut the phone off, frowning, and wove her way through the neighborhood, neat little houses all lined up with no newspapers in the driveways.
Something is wrong.
She dialed the number of the police station and told the sergeant who answered the phone who she was. “I’m checking to see if Bill Brandon was arrested last night. Larry Millsaps and Tony Danks were on the case.”
The sergeant checked his records, then came back to the phone. “No, I don’t show an arrest made last night for a Brandon.”
She closed her eyes. “All right, thanks.”
She almost ran a red light, then slammed on her brakes and rubbed her forehead, trying to ease a rapidly escalating headache. What was going on? The telephone at the newspaper out of order, the arrest never carried out—She whipped a quick U-turn at the intersection and headed back in the direction of the newspaper office.
It took her a few minutes to get to the street on which the St. Clair News was housed. And then she saw why the phone was out of order. The building was in shambles, half of it burned to the ground, and the other half, though still standing, only a monument of crumbling brick and slanted beams, with smoke-scalded ceilings and walls, and computer equipment and file cabinets smashed where the building had collapsed on one side.
She sat stunned, staring through her windshield at the smoldering ashes.
She hadn’t realized anyone was coming toward her until a police officer knocked on her window.
“Ma’am, you’ll have to move your car.”
She rolled the window down. “I work here,” she said. “What happened?”
“There was a fire last night,” he said, as if that wasn’t obvious. “No, I mean, how did it start?”
“We suspect arson, but we’re still investigating. Now, if you don’t mind moving your car—”
“But the paper! The paper got out this morning, didn’t it? The paper will still be delivered!”
“I don’t think there’s going to be an edition today, ma’am.
Most of the machinery is toast.”
She sat back hard on her seat and covered her mouth. The article wasn’t coming out. Not today. A sense of injustice crashed over her. Familiar injustice. Predictable injustice.
r /> “When did this happen? Did anyone see who started it?”
“No, no one saw anything. Two men who were right in the area where the fire was the most concentrated were killed.”
“Killed? Oh, no! Who?”
He checked his clipboard, then asked her, “Are you asking as a member of the press, or a friend?”
“A friend!” she shouted. “Who died?”
“Off the record until we notify next of kin . . . Hank Morland and Stu Singer.”
She didn’t know them well, but she did know them, and now she closed her eyes and hugged herself as if she might split right down the middle and fall apart. Had her article caused someone’s death? Did she have to bear that guilt now, too? She slammed her car into park, cut off the engine, and climbed out. “I need to get in touch with Larry Millsaps or Tony Danks. I need to talk to them now. Get me their home numbers, please!”
“I can’t do that, ma’am. But if you have some information about who might have started this fire, you can tell me.”
“Of course I know who started the fire!” she shouted. “It was Bill Brandon! You’ve got to tell them! Please, get in touch with them for me.”
He didn’t seem anxious to call in such an emotional revelation from a woman who seemed unstable, but he went to his squad car and asked the dispatcher for their home numbers.
Beth was with him when the answer was radioed back, and she bolted out of the squad car.
“Ma’am? Where are you going?”
“To call them,” she said. “From my car phone.”
He came to stand beside the open door as she punched out Tony’s number.
He answered quickly. “Tony? This is Beth Wright.”
“Yeah, Beth.” His voice was gritty, as if she had awakened him. “I tried to call you last night, but you weren’t home.”
“What happened?” she demanded. “Why didn’t you arrest him?”
“We couldn’t get a warrant. Judge Wyatt was really hard-nosed about it. He said we didn’t have enough evidence to arrest him.”
“Not enough evidence? Are you kidding?” She looked at the building, still smoldering, and cried, “Did you show him my article?”
“I did. But he doesn’t have a lot of faith in journalism. He’s going to have to see more. We plan to make it our business to get him more so we can get Bill Brandon today. We’re stuck with his decision because he’s the presiding judge in St. Clair. There’s no one higher up to go to.”
“Well, if you’re looking for evidence that Bill Brandon is too dangerous to be running loose, I’ve got it right in front of me.”
“What do you mean, Beth?”
“I mean that the newspaper article is not going to come out today, Tony, because there’s not going to be a newspaper today, because Bill Brandon burned the blasted place down last night. He killed two people in the process!”
“What?”
She was about to cry, and she fought it, hating herself for it. “He did it, Tony. You know he did. Somebody told him about the article—he’s got lots of connections. So he took care of it.”
“You’re sure it was him?”
“He didn’t sign his name, if that’s what you want. He probably didn’t even get within fifty feet of the building himself. He probably used his kids to do it, like he does everything. Think of that, Tony—such a dangerous thing, and the kids are so young . . .”
His pause told her she was getting too emotional, giving herself away, so she tried to rein in her emotions. “Look, you’ve got to arrest him before he does anything else. He stopped the presses last night, kept the article from coming out today. Now he has to get to the source of that article, and that, we both know, is me.”
“You’re right,” he said. “Beth, stay there. Larry and I will be there in twenty minutes. Maybe we can find something to prove definitively that Bill Brandon or his kids were behind this. Something we can show Judge Wyatt.”
“All right,” she said. She glanced at the police officer’s name tag. Lt. J.T. Mills. “Tell your friend Lt. Mills, so he’ll let me stay.”
“Okay. Hand him the phone.”
She did, then got out of her car and took a few steps toward the building. Flashes came back to her, flashes of those late-night planning sessions with Bill and the rest of his kids, memorizing of blueprints, the endless drilling on which way they were to turn when they broke in, what they were to take, how they were to escape. She remembered the feel of her heightened senses as he’d let them out of his dark van, the urgency and adrenaline rush as they’d climbed into windows or cut glass out to unlock back doors, the smothering fear as they’d stolen through dark hallways . . .
Bill had never asked her to start a fire or take someone’s life. But he was getting desperate now, and his crimes were more catastrophic. What guilt those children would live with! She hoped they didn’t know they had killed someone last night.
She heard the officer close her car door and come toward her. “You can stay, ma’am, but please stay back. Danks and Millsaps will be here soon.”
She nodded her head. Leaning against her car, she watched the smoke softly swirling above the rubble, like prayers that would never find their way to heaven.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
The television news woke Jimmy. He sat up in bed and looked around, trying to figure out where he was. Oh, yeah. Lynda Barrett’s house. Today was the day that Beth’s article would come out, and Bill would be arrested, and he’d see Lisa again.
He quickly got dressed, then walked barefoot into the den. Lynda and Jake were glued to the television, and neither of them saw him.
“. . . suspected arson. The building went up in flames at approximately one A.M. Fire crews were on the scene within five minutes of the alarm going off, but it was too late to save the millions of dollars worth of equipment . . . or the lives of the two men who were trapped in the flames . . .”
“What building is that?” Jimmy asked, startling them. They both turned around.
“Good morning, Jimmy,” Lynda said. “Did you sleep well?”
“Sure, but what building is that?”
“It’s the building for the St. Clair News.”
“The newspaper building,” Jimmy said, staring at the footage of the building engulfed in flames. He felt as if a fist had just whopped him in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.
Bill’s fist. His face reddened, and he tightened his lips to keep them from trembling with the emotion gripping him. “So he did it.”
“Who?” Lynda asked.
“Bill. I told you he’d never let it come out.” He knew his expression belied his matter-of-fact tone, but he couldn’t seem to control it.
Lynda stepped toward him, but he backed away.
“I told you he’d never let Lisa out, either. They’re never gonna hang anything on him. He’s just gonna keep doing what he does, and now I’ve blown it and I can’t go back, and Lisa’s trapped there—”
“Jimmy, we don’t know for sure that he was behind this. Even if he was—”
“I know for sure,” he cut in. “I know!”
He ran out of the room, back to the bedroom where he had slept last night, and slammed the door. He sat down on the bed, trying to think. Somehow, he had to reach Lisa.
He went to the phone extension that sat on his bed table and put his trembling hand on it, wondering if he should risk calling her again. Then he wondered if he could risk not calling her.
Lisa wasn’t safe.
He picked up the phone, punched in the number of Cottage B at the St. Clair Children’s Home, and waited, holding his breath.
In Cottage B, Stella stood like a sentry over the children, making sure they all finished every last bite of their cereal. Some of the children woke up more easily than others, but all were awakened at the same time. Those who’d gone out with Bill last night, and had come in smelling of gasoline fumes, could barely hold their heads up, but they could have no one sleeping because that Nick fello
w might pop in for an inspection again, and it wouldn’t do to have children sleeping in the daylight. To keep up appearances, everyone had to be out of bed at the same time. It was good for them. It would make them tough.
The telephone rang, and Stella picked it up. “Hello?”
Click.
Annoyed, she hung it back up just in time to see Lisa’s little head bobbing toward her cereal bowl, as though she might fall asleep right in the milk. “Lisa!” she shouted, startling the child.
“Get a grip, would ya?”
The child propped her chin and tried to make her eyes stay open.
F rustrated, Jimmy admitted to himself that he’d never get to talk to Lisa—at least, not by phone. He closed his eyes and tried to think of a way to communicate with her. He wished she had a computer, that he could e-mail her as easily as he did the friends he corresponded with across the country on one of the computers that had been donated to the children’s home. Bill had always encouraged Jimmy’s interest in computers—after all, he’d been able to use the boy’s knowledge on a number of occasions. That was why Jimmy’d been chosen to break into Beth’s house; Bill had needed someone who could find Beth’s files on SCCH.
No, Lisa didn’t have access to the home’s computers—but others did. Was there someone he could trust?
Brad. He was Jimmy’s best friend, and there was nothing Brad liked more than keeping a secret. It made him feel important. That was why he seemed to thrive on the jobs Bill sent him to do. They were all secrets, and Brad went on all his missions like a miniature spy sent out into the night to risk his life to save his country.
Yes, Brad would keep Jimmy’s secret. As loyal as Brad was to Bill, he’d been beaten enough to harbor the same smoldering hatred for him that Jimmy had.
Jimmy found Lynda in the kitchen. “Lynda, do you care if I play on your computer?”
She grinned. “Well, I don’t mind, Jimmy, but I don’t have any games on there.”
“Do you have access to the Internet?”
Lynda couldn’t help chuckling. “Yes, as a matter of fact. My modem is hooked to a second phone line, so you can use it all you want. You can probably find some good games on the network I subscribe to.”