Blood of His Fathers (Sinners and Saints) Page 13

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you and I both know who that someone is.”

  “It wasn’t Jason—”

  “Your naivety is apt to get you killed, Jess.”

  This time she glared at Drew. “Jason may be many things, but he’s not a murderer.”

  “Then, why did you run from him?”

  She lowered her eyes, hiding the turmoil she was sure must be mirrored in them. She’d hoped to gain time and enough distance to understand all that had happened to her in the space of these two short weeks. To regain some control of her life. To digest the fact her father had been murdered—she couldn’t in all fairness consider Graham Wright as anything other than her father. She wanted justice for him, for her brother, for Tom. Yet most of all she’d wanted to escape the cruelest of jokes fate had played on her heart. It’d tempted her with her desire for Jason only to turn around and punish her for acting on it.

  “I don’t owe you an explanation, Drew.”

  She turned from him, but he caught her arm spinning her back to face him. Her heart raced, her eyes widened and her breath caught in her throat. She braced her hands against his chest.

  “You would protect a killer, your ex-husband’s killer?” he challenged.

  “You don’t know if Jason’s guilty of killing Tom,” she retorted angrily. “I don’t kn-know if he’s guilty.”

  The truth was she didn’t know what to believe.

  “You made me do this. You made me doubt him.”

  “You wouldn’t have doubted him, Jess, if you didn’t already suspect him, would you?”

  She didn’t know if it was a delayed reaction to learning he’d rescued her from a burning house or anger at his accusations or the sinking feeling that he was right, but she felt the tears welling in her eyes. So she closed them trying to conceal her upset, and didn’t pull away when his strong arms went around her shoulders, clasping her to his hard chest. Her arms instinctively circled his waist and she relished the moment of comfort.

  “What’s going on, Jess? Why did you come here alone?”

  “Why did you follow me?”

  “Professional curiosity.”

  His hand brushed down the length of her hair.

  “What would make a woman disguise her appearance and leave England without so much as a forwarding address?”

  “And do you know the answer to that?”

  “No,” he said. “She won’t tell me.”

  “Perhaps because it has nothing to do w-with you.”

  “And perhaps everything to do with her ex-husband’s death.”

  Jess pulled back, opening her eyes into his steady gaze. Could she trust Drew Mahon with the weight on her heart? With a past she’d long forgotten?

  No. Not yet.

  “Do you honestly think I would keep silent about something like that? The father of my son is dead. I want his murderer found.”

  “Still, there’s something you’re not telling me, Jess. I can feel it.”

  She studied his expression, his eyes, his mouth. He reached for her face and brushed a thumb down her cheek, wiping away a tell-tale tear. He leaned closer to her. And when his lips touched hers she didn’t flinch. When his mouth covered hers, her eyes closed in surrender.

  Drew tightened his arm about her waist, molding her body along his. She moved her hands up the hardness of his torso to latch about his neck, rising to her toes and kissing him back. His tongue demanded more and she obliged.

  They finally drew back, opening their eyes. Silence passed between them with only the sound of the sea washing onto the shore.

  His breath tickled her lips. “Tell me it’s over between you and Jason,” he said.

  Jess pulled further back, but Drew wouldn’t let her leave his arms. She hated herself for letting him touch and kiss her, and for enjoying it. And for one brief moment she wished she’d never met Jason. Wished she could take back her heart. Wished she could forget the mind-blowing sex they’d shared. Wished she could give Drew a chance.

  She stepped from his embrace with slightly more determination, shaken by her response in Drew’s arms. No matter the turmoil of her feelings for Jason, it’d been wrong on so many levels. She couldn’t begin to contemplate the fallout should he ever find out.

  “I can’t,” she murmured truthfully.

  Drew released a slow breath, his tension evident. “Do you love him?”

  “He’s my husband, Drew.”

  “That’s not an answer, Jess.”

  “Maybe not.” She fixed her gaze over his shoulder, somewhere in the distance. “But it remains a fact.”

  “Then, why did you kiss me?”

  She focused her gaze slowly on his and chose her words with care. “If it hadn’t been for you I would’ve died in the fire,” she said. “I owe you my life, Drew, and for that I will always be grateful.”

  “Gratitude? I don’t want your gratitude, Jess. Tell me,” he challenged, “When I kissed you, did I feel you tremble in my arms or did I imagine it?”

  She lowered her head feeling her cheeks flush. “That won’t happen again. It can’t happen again.”

  “Because of Jason McCormack?” His voice mocked in its condemnation. “Do you hold him in such high esteem that you would consider his feelings?”

  He stood before her, close, personal and intense.

  “I doubt your husband would extend you the same courtesy. Jason McCormack loves no one,” Drew pressed. “He’s as cold and ruthless as his father and does nothing without a calculable reason.”

  “You’re wrong.” Her voice was restrained as she spoke.

  “No, I’m not,” he countered angrily. “Tom Addison worked for Alexander McCormack,” he practically shouted. “Do you think Jason wasn’t aware of that fact before he married you?”

  She must have looked stunned, or paled or something because Drew’s face sobered with immediate contrition. She felt gutted, empty and numb.

  “I’m sorry,” he murmured. He pushed his fingers through his hair. “That was incredibly stupid and insensitive of me. I shouldn’t have said—”

  Jess shook off the placating hand on her arm. “What do you mean? Tom was working for Alexander McCormack?”

  “Jess—”

  “Tell me, Drew. And, please, don’t lie anymore. Everyone keeps lying to me.”

  He raised his face to the sky and released a heavy sigh. “I shouldn’t be telling you any of this since it’s part of an ongoing investigation,” he said, gazing down at her again. “But I need you to open your eyes to the man you married.”

  He pushed his hand through his hair once more. “Tom Addison was on Alexander McCormack’s payroll for a number of years. Doing odd jobs, from organizing clandestine parties for McCormack’s out of town guests to—”

  “Marrying me,” Jess stated evenly.

  “Trust me, Jessica,” Drew urged. He took her hands in his. “I can help you. Your ex-husband worked for Alexander McCormack and now you’re married to Alexander’s son. Can’t you see why this all seems so suspect to me? It just doesn’t add up. Especially since your husband is the one trying to kill you.”

  Jess tugged her hands free, brushing past him into the beach hut. She sensed him poise to follow her.

  “Leave me alone, Drew.”

  How could she explain something she still needed to find the answers to? Besides, her emotions were in such turmoil she couldn’t trust herself to speak and the last thing she wanted was to find empty comfort in Detective Inspector Drew Mahon’s very capable arms.

  Chapter Ten

  Awareness of morning gently permeated the haze of her sleep. Jess stirred and shielded her eyes from the dazzling sunlight filtering through the window of her hotel room. She glanced at the clock and grimaced. Eight o’clock. She flipped from stomach to back and lay for a moment staring at the wooden ceiling fan softly whirring above her.

  The crash of the sea and the distant sound of laughing voices from those determin
ed to be the first on the beach drifted in on the early breeze.

  She didn’t know how she managed to keep calm after learning of Tom’s connection to Alexander McCormack or how she endured the silent journey back to the mainland with Drew. Every fiber of her being had wanted to scream, yet she’d concealed her anguish until she reached the confines of the hotel. Alone in her room, her defenses down, she’d cried as if her heart would break.

  How they must have all laughed at her gullibility. Tom…Alexander…Jason. Jess briefly closed her eyes. Her body still tingled by the mere thought of Jason’s name, but she couldn’t deny Jason’s involvement any longer in Sean’s death or Tom’s. Her perspective had changed. It had to because no amount of explanation could justify the fact Tom worked for Alexander McCormack or that Jason knew it. He’d merely taken over where Tom had left off, and for what? A worthless, decrepit old house?

  How could she have been so stupid, so foolish to play his game? But there had to be a lot more to the Thomas estate than a dilapidated building and lush vegetation. It was worth killing for, worth manipulating her into a loveless marriage. And worth Alexander McCormack dangling his son as bait. She’d been too flattered to pay attention to her doubts.

  She really ought to thank Jason McCormack. If it hadn’t been for him she wouldn’t have regained lost memories or found out the terrible truth behind her father’s death. Last night she’d been undecided of her next move. Now, she was more determined than ever to see this through. She wanted answers. And Carolyn Roberts was the only person who could provide them. She would get to the bottom of this mess once and for all.

  * * * *

  Drew scrolled the name before his eyes. Bingo! Jessica McCormack didn’t want him involved in her life, that’d been evident from the terse note she’d left at the front desk of her hotel. But this case went far beyond what one woman wanted or didn’t want. His gut was telling him she was hiding something and if she wouldn’t confide in him then he’d just have to find out the truth for himself.

  For the last two hours he’d sat in the Research Room at the Public Records Office’s Department of Archives in the center of town, flipping through Estate Records and Deeds, Indentures and Conveyances Records dating back to the eighteenth century, searching for—he didn’t know what. But his perseverance finally paid off.

  Drew studied the old land chart, intrigued at what he saw. The old house at High Rock and the three hundred and sixty acres surrounding it had belonged to the McCormack family for generations.

  “So, why would you trespass on McCormack land if you’re supposed to be running away from them, Jess?” he murmured.

  At this point, coincidence didn’t necessarily surprise him. But it was a coincidence he didn’t like. He leaned back in the chair, digesting the fact the fire now added to the mystery surrounding Jessica McCormack.

  “I’m afraid we’ve not finished updating these particular records,” a voice said over his shoulder.

  Drew swiveled the soft leather chair to face the curator peering at him over the rim of her glasses.

  “Did you find what you were looking for?”

  “I don’t know,” Drew said. “Something feels…I feel like something’s missing.”

  “Well, if you tell me what you think is missing, maybe I can help.”

  His lip curled in a wry smile. “I don’t know that either.”

  That wasn’t quite true, well, not anymore. It was a long shot, but somehow he’d hoped to find Jess’ name among these papers—something to connect her to the old house at High Rock.

  “You know, a lot of the old records on High Rock have been sealed for a great many years. We’re just getting around to cataloging them. You’re welcome to take a look. They might be of more help.”

  Drew rose to his feet with an appreciative nod. “Thank you.”

  He followed the curator to a locked door at the far end of the room. She opened it and led him down a narrow passageway to a flight of stairs.

  “Here we are,” the woman said, pushing open a door on the second floor. She veered left, entering another room and disappeared down a far aisle. Drew shivered. No one would guess the temperature outside was close to seventy degrees.

  He waited by the door, listening to the woman’s slowing footsteps. After a minute the steps sounded again in his direction.

  “Everything you need to know about the Thomas family,” she said, handing over a cardboard box.

  “Thomas?” Drew queried. “I thought the McCormacks owned the land at High Rock.”

  “They did,” the curator answered. “Up until 1724. That same year the McCormack plantation in Maryland was burned to the ground in a slave revolt. George McCormack owned the plantation at the time. But he committed the ultimate sin of falling in love with one of his slaves, a woman named Harriet Thomas. He willed the property at High Rock to the son born to her, Ben. It’s all in there,” she said, indicating the box. “Just not in the computer, yet. If you need any further help, I suggest you see Zip.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Zip?”

  “He has fished these waters for more than sixty years. If anyone knows more about the High Rock plantation than what’s in that box, he does.”

  She glanced at her watch. “You’ll find him down at St. Georges Wharf around lunchtime mending his nets before he heads out to sea. Just tell him Mrs. Ferguson sent you. He’ll talk to you. But if you would tidy up before you go, I would appreciate it.”

  Drew nodded his gratitude for her help and the curator left him alone, closing the door behind her. He opened the box and pulled out an old newspaper tucked in one corner, noting the publication and the date. The North Star, 1866.

  He spied an article written by a Frederick Thomas and sat down to read it.

  An hour later he was ready to give Mrs. Ferguson’s suggestion a try. Experience had taught him the value of conversation. Even seemingly incoherent ramblings could hold answers to otherwise inexplicable situations. He stood and replaced the documents in the box. At the moment nothing was making any sense and he’d already wasted far too much time here. He had to stretch his legs, get some air and think. Somehow join the dots, although he couldn’t help but feel he was still missing something—a huge part of some elaborate puzzle.

  Drew didn’t like the sea—he never had—and as he neared the wharf and breathed in the repellent scent of raw eggs and the bloody, metallic smell of fresh fish he was reminded of exactly why. He surveyed the scene before him and tried to control his rising nausea.

  Colorful, shabby boats laden with the morning’s catch bobbed alongside the wharf. Fish of every variety of size and color. Conch, their smooth, pink coral shells, glistening in the intense sunlight. Tourists milled around with a mixture of curiosity and awe, watching the fishermen gut and fillet their morning catch with breathtaking swiftness and expert efficiency. Large sea birds vied for the portions of discarded innards thrown their way.

  Drew swallowed deeply and moved toward a blue fishing boat moored at the other end of the wharf. An old man sat with his back to him, mending a net.

  “Zip?”

  The man answered without turning round. “Who wants to know?”

  “My name is Drew Mahon. Mrs. Ferguson at the Public Records Office said you could probably help me. I’m—”

  “You’re English,” the old man stated. He kept his back to Drew.

  “Yes, and I would like your help.”

  “About what?”

  “The Thomas plantation at High Rock. Mrs Ferg—”

  The old man turned and leveled worldly eyes and a seasoned face on Drew. He pointed a dark crooked finger at the length of rope secured about an iron palisade.

  “Get the rope, will you? If you want to talk, come aboard.”

  He disappeared into the boat’s wheelhouse and the engine started. “Are you coming then?” Zip called out.

  The vessel bobbed on the lapping tide. His stomach regretted the decision before he’d even made it, but Drew took a deep
breath and jumped aboard the Sea Conch. The old man chuckled softly, handed him a cup of some strange brew, and maneuvered the vessel out toward the open water.

  * * * *

  “Found your sea legs, yet?” Zip asked a short time later.

  Drew gripped the side of the boat with one hand and nodded to the old man. Whatever Zip gave him to drink was certainly doing the trick. He couldn’t feel his tongue let alone his stomach anymore.

  “Made it myself from sugar cane,” Zip stated proudly. He poured more of the golden liquid into his cup.

  Drew raised his glass in salutation and then took another sip of the potent liquor. Technically he wasn’t on duty, was he?

  “So,” Zip said. He drained his glass. “What do you want to know about High Rock? Are you planning on buying it?”

  “No. How long has it been abandoned like that?”

  Zip gave a nonchalant shrug. “More than twenty years,” he said. “Terrible business, though.”

  Drew’s curiosity pricked. “What business?”

  “Elizabeth Roberts—”

  Zip steadied himself and sauntered to the wheelhouse. The boat’s engine shuddered to a stop and he returned with a broad smile.

  “Here’s a good place to fish,” he said. “I’ve been fishing these waters for more than sixty years. I know the best places.” He pointed a gnarled finger into the distance.

  “See that island over there. That’s Andros. And that’s High Rock.”

  Drew thought it best not to mention he’d already been there.

  Zip walked to the back of the boat and released the twenty-five meter gillnet into the sea. The weighted netting broke the surface and dropped vertically downward into the sea, leaving a line of small yellow buoys floating on the water.

  “What about Elizabeth Roberts?” Drew said. He let go of the side of the boat, and dared the few steps toward Zip. “What happened?”

  Zip shrugged matter-of-factly. “Back in eighty-five she was convicted of killing her husband, Henry Roberts. He was a mean man with a nasty temper. We all knew it, so there wasn’t any surprise. He would’ve killed her if she hadn’t killed him, which she did. Bludgeoned him to death with a Bakelite telephone.