The Heart of the Jungle

Copyright

Published by Dreamspinner Press 382 NE 191st Street #88329 Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The Heart of the Jungle Copyright © 2012 by Jeremy Pack Cover Art by Catt Ford All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/ ISBN: 978-1-61372-462-0 Printed in the United States of America First Edition April 2012 eBook edition available eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-463-7

There are dreams in this text; words written from the heart about things only imagined at the time they were committed to paper. To my Jason, and to Elise, who made them come true. The reality is far more beautiful than I could ever have known. With all my love…

Prologue

FATE was one twisted bitch, and for some reason, on the night of October fifth, Christian James found himself at the tip-top of her shitlist. Fall was just getting underway in earnest on the night she reached down from on high, gathered up everything she had ever given to him that mattered, and took it all away. Thick, sodden clouds, heavy with the promise of rain, were rolling in off the ocean like an army marching home from war. Their arrival heralded an early start to the long months of damp and gloomy Seattle winter that lay ahead, and Chris was in a hurry to get home. Because of the dense blanket obscuring the setting sun, night had come a little earlier than usual, and he hated driving in the dark. It made him edgy. He still saw halos around light sources from the LASIK surgery Michael had insisted he have six months before. Glasses, it seemed, were bookish and outmoded. It was time to get with the present. Forget the fact that he had never really needed to impress anyone— Michael did, and that was good enough. As the speedometer needle climbed past thirty, Chris sent an anxious glance in the direction of the rearview mirror. The road was clear, so he kept on speeding. He didn’t need to look at the dashboard clock to know that he was going to be late again. An offensive speck of lint on the pristine leatherette disappeared with a flick of his finger. How had he missed that this morning? It was a good thing he’d noticed it before Michael did.

The lint reminded him of their earlier phone conversation, and he bristled with defiance. “Look, I have important work to do,” Michael had said. “I know, but Jack made a last-minute edit to my copy, and I have to rewrite a couple of paragraphs. The proofs have to be to the printer by tomorrow morning.” “You make it sound like you’re writing constitutional amendments. For crying out loud, Chris, it’s a fucking restaurant review.” No matter how many times he heard it, it always stung. He brushed it off as he always had, telling himself Michael was probably just tired. He’d often been tired lately. Besides, in comparison to the work Michael did, his column did seem less important. Michael’s brusque tone announced that he had been wrangling with an unruly two-year-old, and as was often the case, he was quick to remind Chris that Brianna wasn’t his responsibility. They had an agreement. It was Chris’s obligation to take care of everything where she was concerned. He was the one who had signed the adoption papers; therefore, he was the one who bore the burden of her care. Chris didn’t view it as a burden the way Michael did. To him, every moment spent in the company of that precious little girl, with her beautiful smiles and mop of curly red hair, was a blissful joy unlike any he had ever known. “I’ll only be an hour late, two hours tops. How is she doing?” “She’s cranky. Keeps asking for you.” “Give her some grape juice. There’s a bottle—” “I’m not giving her grape juice. She’ll just make a mess.” “She’s two, Michael. Toddlers make messes.” He sighed. “Why don’t you run next door and see if Harvey will keep an eye on her? She loves him.” “I’m not taking her to Harvey. He’ll feed her sugar and she’ll be up screaming all night. I have court tomorrow, and I need my rest.” “I’ll be home by five at the latest.” “I liked you better when you didn’t have a kid.” That was a new low, even for Michael. It even had the faint

undertone of a veiled threat, like maybe five years had been enough and he was thinking of unburdening himself. “I’m sorry.” He hadn’t known what else to say. “Just be home by five. I mean it.” Chris’s fingers dug into the steering wheel as he replayed the conversation in his mind. Maybe he was late sometimes. Maybe he didn’t always remember to straighten the towels or pick up Brianna’s toys. Maybe he wasn’t the best at keeping up with the thousands of rules Michael kept making up as they went along. Maybe it was time for a change. The defiance returned. He checked his short chestnut hair in the rearview mirror and messed it up. Sure, messy hair was a petty barb, but Michael was certain to have a remark about it, and maybe, just maybe, this time it would finally push him enough to fight back. He stopped at an intersection and counted to three, careful to check both directions, though he could clearly see there was no opposing traffic. “One one-thousand, two one-thousand….” Messy hair was one thing, but a traffic violation was something else entirely. If he’d learned anything about living with an attorney, it was that you always, always followed the rules—especially those that had the justice system behind them. Deviation from a standard or statute was worse than unacceptable; it was blasphemy of the highest order. He checked the clock again. No doubt about it. He was definitely going to be late. Michael was going to kill him. Flashing lights rose over the hill behind him. Oh, great. Lovely. He was going to get a speeding ticket. At least he didn’t have to worry about the messy hair sparking a tirade. Michael would absolutely have a mouthful to say about a moving violation. Cautiously, yet with due haste, he crossed the intersection and pulled over to the side of the road, waiting impatiently for the cruiser to slide in behind him. He was surprised when the police vehicle approached the stop sign at full speed and blew past him in a fury of pulsing red and screaming sirens. A second raced by right on the tail of the first. Now that was

something you didn’t see every day—especially in this neighborhood. Because of the police activity, he curbed his urge to speed when he got back underway and kept the needle just under twenty-five. As he rounded a curve and started to ascend another rise, he spied the flashing lights on the next block—his block. What were the police doing on his street? He turned right onto Crestmont, dutifully signaling his intent one hundred feet before the intersection. The pulsing lights drew closer, and he could just make out the thin wail of a siren. Pedestrians clogged the sidewalk and spilled over into the road. He stopped and waited for them to cross. Couldn’t these people see that it was going to rain? They shouldn’t be out. Yet out they were, and in force. Mrs. Johnson passed in front of him, her forlorn-looking poodle Mitzy cradled under one arm. Mr. Jacobs, in his robe and slippers, followed close behind. At the sight of them, Chris felt the first faint stirrings of alarm. It was the way they looked at him as he passed. Something was definitely not right. Once the road was clear, he accelerated to ten miles per hour and crawled past Mrs. Abernathy. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Hers widened, and a trembling hand rose to her throat. Her face was geishagirl white. If he had been alarmed before, it was nothing compared to the icy shaft of fear he felt now. From the look on the old woman’s face, he knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that whatever horror had happened, he owned it. In the next instant, a scene out of his worst nightmare rose up before him. His heart dropped sickeningly as he came around the final turn. There was his house, awash in alternating flashes of amber, blue, and red, tied up in yellow crime scene tape and surrounded by a throng of curious onlookers. He jammed the shifting lever into park, heedless of the fact that the car was still in the middle of the thoroughfare. He leapt out and dashed across the road. Ignoring the yellow boundary, he hurried across the damp lawn toward the house, nearly losing his footing in his haste.

He didn’t even make it halfway. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” A brick wall in a Seattle Police Department uniform barred his way forward. He tried to shove around the man who stood between him and the house. He had to get to his daughter. “Get out of my way.” Beefy hands clamped down on his shoulders and held him fast. He tried to jerk away, but he might as well have been attempting to defy gravity. The strong grip held him firmly in place. “This is a crime scene.” “My daughter is in there, damn you.” The restraints relaxed just enough for him to escape. He got no more than two steps before his legs were swept from beneath him. His head hit the ground and he saw stars. Since when had a concrete pad been poured under the lawn? Senselessly, he groped his way forward, spitting dirt. He was getting to that house. He had to get to Brianna. What if she was scared or hurt? No. Oh, please, no. Please let her be okay. “I told you, this is a crime scene. You're not going in there.” ”Let me go,” he shouted. ”If you don’t calm down, I’ll be forced to restrain you,” the officer said, struggling to maintain his grip on Chris. The warning fell on deaf ears. Suddenly, he became a lot more familiar with the grass. He struggled to draw breath as a heavy weight constricted his chest. One arm was wrenched behind him, his hand shoved painfully into the small of his back. The cold kiss of a steel cuff latching onto his wrist was sharp everywhere except the scar—he hadn’t had any feeling there since the run-in with the razor blade seven years ago. His free hand whipped out and clawed at the wet turf. He couldn’t breathe. “Are you deaf or something?” “Can’t… breathe.” The weight lifted.

He could not form a coherent thought, so consumed was he with the need to get to Brianna. He struggled to his knees, pulling for all he was worth against the handcuff that kept him from his destination. The front door was open. A burst of light from a camera flash illuminated a grisly scene within the foyer. Blood was everywhere. He might have screamed. Later, he wouldn’t remember for sure. The world went white as the full horror of the scene overcame him. His last conscious thought as he fell into oblivion was of Brianna’s smiling face the last time he’d seen her.

Chapter 1

THE two men walking into the ugly brick police station in downtown Seattle made an odd pair. One was the picture of virility—sixty-four years old, a shade over six feet of tennis-court litheness and shining silver hair all wrapped up in an expensive Italian suit. The other, half the age of his striking companion, seemed the older of the two. He was casually attired in blue denim, and the fraying cuffs of his black sweater were stretched out and pulled over his hands all the way to the base of his fingers. There was still a hint of boy-next-door handsome in Christian James, but it was getting harder and harder to see. After nearly a year marked by sleepless nights and aching loneliness, the soft curves and robust glow of youthful vigor had been siphoned away and overlaid by a patina of grief. The threadbare afterimage that remained was worn and faded, not unlike a pair of jeans that had seen hard use. He pulled up short before the glass doors, catching a glimpse of himself in the dirty panes. Remarkable green eyes, once vivid and sparkling, were dull and sunken into dark hollows. High cheekbones pressed sharply against the taut flesh of his face, and full lips that had once been given to easy smiles were turned down in the perpetual frown he had worn since that dreadful October night. He smoothed his windblown brown hair, took a deep breath, and swallowed hard, pressing trembling fists tightly against his thighs. “I don’t know if I can do this, George,” he said. His voice was barely more than a hoarse whisper.

The older man placed a hand on his shoulder. “We both knew this day was coming, little dove.” The nickname was one his mother had given him, and it brought a sad smile to his lips. She’d often told the tale of how a dove had perched outside her window as she labored to give birth to him. George’s use of the endearment brought him some small measure of comfort and soothed his aching heart. He blinked rapidly to dispel the tears that welled in his eyes. He focused on the warm, reassuring weight of the hand on his shoulder. Over the years, George had been more than his attorney—he was a dear friend. Through all of Chris’s blackest nights, he had been a faithful star, the single light that kept the void at bay. In this dark hour, when the threat of hopelessness seemed closer than ever, he clung fiercely to that bit of brightness. “It just seems so final.” “They’re gone. By now it’s a certainty. It’s been nearly a year, Chris. You must accept it. Perhaps now you can start trying to move forward and put this all behind you.” “I can’t. I just can’t.” “Have you contacted the counselor I referred you to?” Chris shook his head and smiled wryly. He held out his wrists, exposing the old scars. “I’ve seen my share of head doctors, George.” “It’s just—” “I know. You’re worried I’ll have a relapse. Don’t. I’m a different person than I used to be,” he lied. He lowered his arms, tugging the sleeves of his sweater back over his hands to hide the scars. “Even a normal person would have trouble getting through this without….” George frowned as he realized what he’d said. Chris looked away in a vain attempt to hide the hurt in his eyes. “It’s okay. I know what you meant.” George sighed. “Let’s get this over with. You know how much I love our visits with that pompous bastard Callahan.”

CALLAHAN’S wet lips brought to mind a pair of writhing slugs as they worked over the slimy stub of an unlit cigar. It was a feat of mouth dexterity that the ferociously ugly man’s speech was unaffected. “Here’s where we’re at.” He splayed the papers in the manila file out as though examining them. “Ten months ago, we get a call from a concerned neighbor. He’s seen some suspicious activity and thinks someone should take a look. A patrol arrives and finds the front door wide open. Inside, it’s a slaughterhouse. There are no bodies but enough blood to virtually guarantee whoever bled it didn’t walk away. With me so far?” Chris was white and trembling. His stomach lurched as the cloying stench of slobbered tobacco slapped him in the face for the tenth time. Callahan’s barely restrained grin indicated he was enjoying Chris’s discomfort. Even George, the very picture of human composure, seemed unsettled by the recitation. “Good. Now, in the intervening months, we’ve worked this thing up, down, and sideways. Forensic analysis of the blood at the crime scene positively identified it as belonging to Michael Blake. Minor spatter on the walls was ID’d as the girl’s. Seems like we’ve got a pair of homicides, but we’ve still got no bodies. We’ve got no murder weapon, no stray prints, no suspects, no motive… no nothing.” George took a deep breath. “Get on with it. You’re suspending investigation. You're closing the case.” “This thing is nothing but a waste of resources and taxpayer dollars. Not to mention it’s demoralizing to my guys, who’ve been busting their humps for nothing. Hell, there’s no solid proof a murder was even committed.” George’s eyes narrowed. “By your own admission, the amount of blood at the scene is irrefutable evidence of a homicide.” “True, but it’s hard to prove without a body.” Chris leaned forward in his chair. “Do you really think they could still be alive?” “I don’t think anything,” Callahan backpedaled. “All I’m trying to

say is that everywhere we turn, it’s a dead end.” He eyed Chris with meaning. “Even if I could nail down a suspect, I’d have a hell of a time getting him convicted without a single corpse—” “As my client has learned from your numerous attempts to incriminate him,” George said. “Speaking of which, you’d think the two of you would be glad to get rid of me.” Callahan took the cigar out of his mouth, leaned on his elbows, and jabbed it in Chris’s direction. “I’m still not convinced your client is innocent, but without evidence, I don’t have a leg to stand on.” Chris could finally take no more. “You heartless bastard. These people were my family.” “Please.” Callahan’s voice was thick with venom. He leaned back in his chair. His lips curled in disgust. “Spare me the histrionics. I’ve seen this routine before from better actors than you.” “Watch it,” George cautioned. “You’ve already established that you don’t have enough evidence to prove my client is guilty. This treatment is bordering on harassment. I won’t hesitate to file a formal complaint.” The cigar returned to its former place between the livery lips and the detective purpled in rage. He leaned further into his chair and squinted his eyes several times, obviously trying to work up a smart retort. He finally said, “The decision has been made. Case closed. Effective immediately. Now get the hell out of my sight and pray to God I never lay eyes on you again.” Chris was incoherent as they fled the office. George MacQuery was not the kind of person one casually dismissed, and he could feel the man’s resentment pouring off of him in a black wave as he trailed dumbly behind. As they reached the lobby, Chris stumbled. The realization of what had just happened overcame him, and the shock was like a physical blow. It was over. There would be no more staring at the phone for hours, hoping the police would call with some news.

Brianna and Michael were dead—or if not, they were surely lost to him forever. He’d just been officially orphaned by the justice system and, like so many other orphans, his withering hope had finally died. Where did that leave him? “Chris, are you okay?” The only thing keeping him on his feet was George’s strong grip. He tried to speak but could not form words. The room was spinning. He held his breath in an attempt to keep from vomiting. “Could someone call an ambulance?” Activity in the lobby came to a screeching halt, and all eyes turned on them. The weight of the curious stares was too much. Chris’s universe narrowed to a pinprick of light and winked out as he lost consciousness.

JASON KINGSLEY flashed perfect white teeth at the young female desk sergeant and winked. He’d had plenty of practice putting his sexy smile and mysterious hazel eyes to good use over the years. They never failed him. This time was proving to be no exception. She looked away, trying to affect disinterest, though the pink that rose in her cheeks gave her away completely. “The last thing I want to do is get you into trouble, but I think this guy would be happy to get his keys back. I tried to flag him down, but he didn’t see me. Just a name. That’s all I need. I’ll look it up in the phone book.” “It’s nice of you to want to return the keys, Mr. Kingsley, but I’m really not—” Their attention was drawn to a flurry of activity to the right. George MacQuery, a prominent attorney and an old acquaintance, was kneeling on the floor next to the inert form of a younger man. Jason vaguely recalled seeing them enter the precinct shortly after he had arrived, although he hadn’t had a good look at George’s companion. His unconscious awareness of his surroundings, his ability to remember little

details was a carry-over from the good old days in the FBI. It was a habit he’d never quite been able to break. On the upside, it did serve him well in his present occupation. The female desk sergeant stood and craned to see past the crowd that had gathered. Jason followed her gaze. “Looks like you’ve got some action today, huh?” “Poor guy. Such a shame.” “What’s his story?” His interest was piqued. “It’s Chris James,” she said, as if he should know. He shrugged in response. “Don’t you watch TV?” He grimaced. “Never touch the stuff—kills brain cells.” “The murders were big news, what with the two of them being so famous. He writes a column for that lifestyle magazine, The Sounder, and his partner, the one who was killed, was some big shot attorney.” Jason cocked his head to the side, trying to recall if he’d heard anything about it. “What was his name?” “Chris James.” “No, the attorney.” “Michael… something or other. I can’t remember.” “Not Michael Blake?” “Yeah, that was his name.” Jason’s jaw clenched. How had he not heard about this? Michael Blake. Jesus. He watched in rapt attention as a team of paramedics arrived on the scene and loaded Chris onto a stretcher. “You said Blake was murdered?” “As far as anyone knows. They never found the bodies.” “Bodies? Who was the other one?” “His daughter.” There was a stricken look on the young woman’s face. “God, she was just a baby.”

“Blake had a daughter?” She sighed. “Don’t you even read the paper? It was his daughter,” she explained, pointing toward Chris. A niggling memory insinuated itself into his brain—a disconnected piece of a puzzle that he’d never been able to find a place for. Even though that particular case had been solved long ago, the mystery remained. He turned and focused intent eyes upon the young woman. “You said they never found the bodies?” “Just a lot of blood.” “Any suspects?” “Chris James was under suspicion for a while. They couldn’t ever come up with enough evidence to pursue it, though.” She rolled her eyes. “Idiots. All you need to do is look at him to see there’s no way he could have done it. Some things you can’t fake, you know. His grief is real.” “Any idea of a motive?” “None. As far as anyone could tell, the attorney was squeaky clean. No enemies.” Jason snorted. “Okay. If you say so.” “You knew him?” “Not really, no.” His brow furrowed. “I have to go.” “What about your license plate trace?” He glanced at the set of keys dangling from his finger. He’d found them in the back of his desk drawer. They were probably an old set to Bradley’s apartment. He was suddenly a lot less interested in the cheating spouse gig he was currently working. Infidelity paid the bills, true, but there was no challenge or joy to be found in the investigation of it. This new development made it seem like a petty triviality. “Jackson Murray,” she said with a shy, hopeful smile. “Huh?” he asked, peering through the window at the paramedics loading the young man into the ambulance. “Your guy,” she said, pointing to the keys. “Jackson Murray.” The

blush returned to her cheeks as she anticipated what kind of reward she might expect for the risk she had just taken on his behalf. He glanced absently at the keys, then tossed them on the desk. “Here you go. Why don’t you give him a call and tell him that his girlfriend’s husband isn’t too happy about that zipper problem of his.” He didn’t have time to see the bewildered look on her face change to fury at having been taken. He was out the door before she had time to figure it out.

Chapter 2

CHRIS hated hospitals. The smell alone was enough to make you sick if you weren’t already. He had regained consciousness halfway into the trip, and by the time they reached the towering medical center, the paramedics had decided he was out of immediate danger. Nevertheless, they informed him, procedure dictated that patients arriving in an ambulance had to see a doctor before being discharged. So there he sat. George had followed in his own car and, upon seeing that Chris was coherent, departed promptly for his office with a promise to stop by later to check on him. As luck would have it, the emergency room was jam-packed. As he waited endlessly for his five minutes with the attending physician, he passed the time watching the infirm multitudes come and go through the sliding glass doors. His eye lingered on a tattered copy of Golfer’s World magazine sitting on the tabletop in front of him. It wasn’t the periodical’s content that was of interest to him; the magazine just seemed… lonely. It reminded him of all the times he got picked last for the dodgeball team. Sure, the athletic kids were harder to hit, but he wanted to play too. Just as he resolved to pick it up, the chronic cougher sitting next to him dove in and snatched it from the table. With a snort, he flipped through the ragged pages as if they contained the secrets of the universe. Chris was almost amused. It was hard to believe the lung-

challenged man had any interest in the sport of golf. With those bronchial issues, a walk across the room was probably an ordeal, to say nothing of chasing a little white ball across acres of pristine turf. He was coming to realize that the caste system of the emergency room lobby clearly defined status by the quality of the publication one was able to obtain—and a crappy magazine certainly put you higher in the pecking order than no magazine at all. Finally, his name was called, and he followed a petite nurse down a short corridor, through a pair of swinging doors, and into a closet-sized examination room. With all the fury of a tropical depression, the nurse plugged a thermometer into his mouth, hustled him onto a scale, and inflated a blood pressure cuff around his arm, dutifully recording her findings on a chart that she miraculously held onto for the duration. The speed of this perfunctory examination was in stark contrast to the geologic pace with which patients were rotated into and out of the lobby. Her duties complete, she excused herself and indicated that the doctor would be with him shortly. As he waited, he perused the magazine rack on the wall. Here in the inner sanctum, there was no competition for prime reading material, and he was glad for the distraction. The silence, the aloneness, was almost unbearable. True, he’d become accustomed to solitude over the past year, but it was much less tolerable in this cold, antiseptic environment. At least at home, as long as he forced down memories of the blood on the front porch and in the foyer, familiarity kept despair at arm’s length. There was a rap on the door that preceded the physician’s entry. Dr. Resnick was a handsome, energetic young man with dark hair and olive skin. He had a wide, bright smile that put Chris somewhat at ease, despite the fact that he’d developed a distrust of doctors over the years. “Lost consciousness at the police station,” he remarked as he read through the chart. “Vitals are… okay, although I’m a little concerned about your weight. You could stand to gain a few pounds.” “You guys always tell me that,” Chris replied. “I get it from my Jewish mother. Like her, I have a solemn duty to point out everything that’s wrong with you, ask you a bunch of deeply personal questions, and cluck my tongue when I don’t like what I hear.

When I’m sure you feel really, really worthless, I’ll tell you I only have your best interests at heart.” Chris managed a small smile. “I’ll try to remember that when we get to the ‘deeply personal’ part.” “Any idea why you would have lost consciousness?” “Stress, maybe?” Chris offered. “Good guess. You’ve got some dark circles under your eyes. I’d bet you’re having some sleep troubles as well.” “The odds on that one are better than the lottery.” “Blood pressure’s a bit high for someone your age—also a nasty side effect of stress.” “Next you’re going to ask if I’m seeing a psychologist.” There was challenge in his tone. Resnick pointed with his pen. “I couldn’t help but notice the scars on your wrists.” Chris looked away and didn’t respond immediately. After a somewhat lengthy and uncomfortable silence, he said, “That was a long time ago.” “So are you seeing someone?” “No,” he said firmly. “Any reason why not?” “I spent a year in an institution after the… after this.” Chris gestured toward the scar on his left wrist. “I’ve seen enough shrinks to figure out they can’t tell me anything I don’t already know.” “You’re sure about that? All of these symptoms are indicators of clinical depression.” “I don’t have a chemical imbalance.” Resnick smiled and leaned against the counter. “Interesting assessment, Dr. James. Want to tell me what your diagnosis is?” “Shitty luck?” “Cute,” Resnick replied. He sighed deeply, set his chart on the

counter, and crossed his arms. His face softened, and he put on a sincere expression. “I’m a doctor. It isn’t just my job to make people feel better, it’s the reason I live… my purpose.” There was a depth of feeling in Resnick’s words, a look of kindness on his face that struck a chord in Chris. “There. I’ve revealed something intensely personal. Now you.” “Trust me, there’s nothing you can do.” “I’m not going to pass judgment. I’m trying to help.” “It’s not like that. I don’t have anything to hide,” Chris said. “I just know you can’t help. And it’s not easy to talk about.” “Give me a chance. You might be surprised.” He sure was persistent, Chris thought. Obviously there would be no escaping Resnick until he talked, so he resigned himself to just get it over with. “About a year ago, I lost my daughter and my partner. They were probably murdered, although I don’t think anybody’s really sure about that—they never found the bodies.” He paused, looking at his lap, the wall, the magazine he’d been reading, anywhere but Resnick. “They even tried to pin it on me for a while,” he said. He glanced quickly at the impassive face of the doctor. “Today, the police cold-cased the file. Any hope I had for justice, for finding out the truth, is locked up in some filing cabinet downtown, and now I have to spend the rest of my life dealing with it.” Resnick’s eyes reflected genuine sympathy. Chris’s story may have shocked him, outraged him, intrigued him, but his expression displayed only concern. “In all that time, following the murders, during the investigation, you haven’t seen a psychologist? You haven’t joined a support group?” Chris shook his head. “Had a lot of advice, a lot of offers, but I’m not much of a team player. I’m better at dealing with things on my own.” Resnick nodded slowly, thinking. “Let me be frank. You’re obviously not better at dealing with things on your own. You’re not sleeping well, you’re undernourished, you’re edgy, adversarial—you’re putting your body through the wringer, and it’s paying the price. The human machine is a miraculous and highly resilient piece of bioengineering, but it can only take so much before it starts to break down. You got a taste of that today, and it’s not going to get better unless

you deal with the root cause.” “I know I have issues, but I don’t agree that a support group or a psychologist can help me. Remember, I’ve been there. I know what it’s like.” “I respectfully disagree.” He leaned forward and focused imploring eyes on Chris’s face. “I don’t know what led you to your suicide attempt. Presumably the variables here are different. You’ve suffered a terrible, painful trauma—one I can scarcely imagine going through myself. You need grief guidance. You need the support of others to help mitigate the toll it’s taking on you. Don’t you have any family?” Chris stood abruptly. There was a limit to the amount of probing he would tolerate. “I appreciate the advice. I really do.” Resnick frowned, realizing he had been defeated. “But you’re not going to take it.” There was no attempt to mask the obvious disappointment on the earnest doctor’s face. Chris struggled into his sweater. “Am I going to die?” “I guarantee it. But it’s probably not imminent.” “Then may I leave?” Doctor Resnick scratched out a prescription and handed it to him. “Here’s something to help you sleep. Do your body a favor and at least try to get a good night’s rest.” Chris took the sheet of paper. “Thank you for your time,” he said and turned to leave. “Those pills aren’t going to solve your problem. They’re a temporary fix at best.” He did not look back. As he passed into the hallway, he tossed the prescription into the trash. “No worries,” he said. “I wasn’t going to take them anyway.”

CHRIS was oblivious to the beauty of the late-afternoon sun that splashed like burnished gold upon the hardwood floors. He sat perfectly still on his leather sofa, staring over the mug of long-cold tea and the

bottle of sleeping pills he’d placed beside it. The barbiturates were poised directly in his field of view so that he could contemplate carefully what he was about to do. The prescription had been Michael’s. After Chris had brought Brianna home from the hospital, his all-nighters in service to the needs of an infant had kept Michael awake. Michael had gotten the pills to help him sleep so he would always be sharp in the courtroom. Chris’s visit to Dr. Resnick had given him the idea, if not the means. His conscience wouldn’t allow him to burden an innocent bystander with the responsibility he would doubtless feel if, by some odd circumstance, he learned of Chris’s death. He really did care. His admission in the examination room hadn’t been a canned speech designed to coax Chris out of his shell. He’d honestly wanted to help. Well, at least tossing the prescription into the trash would absolve Dr. Resnick of any false sense of culpability for what was to come. Chris clenched his jaw and stood. He was going to do it. It was almost time. He just needed to take one last walk through his house— partly to ensure that it was in order, but also because he wanted to immerse himself in happier times. Before the murders, this had been his sanctuary—a happy place, filled with Brianna’s laughter and the security of hearth and home. However flawed his relationship with Michael had been, they had once been a family. He needed to remind himself that the damaged goods he was about to throw away had not always been so. At least this time, he wouldn’t be so afraid. He’d touched that other world once before and had been terrified. It hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected, though. The body had mechanisms for easing the transition. Once death was inevitable, the will to live quickly subsided. In the end, greeting death was not so different from slowly drifting off into a deep, relaxing sleep. Some people who had come back from the brink claimed to see a bright light or a long tunnel. They were surrounded by loved ones and a deep sense of peace and happiness. He had experienced none of those things. Just a slow, consuming drowsiness, and then… nothing. There hadn’t even been a sense of time having passed when he’d awakened in the hospital two days later.

That, he realized, was what he wanted now, more than anything—the release of oblivion. If his daughter was lost to him, nothingness was preferable to the lifetime of anguish and unanswered questions that lay ahead. He couldn’t face that pain and loneliness. Who would really care, anyway? George might shed a tear or two, but he had his practice, his own worries. Chris’s death would be a minor affair in the scheme of his life. Yes, it was better this way, he convinced himself. The world really wouldn’t be impacted by the loss of another head case. He was just another drain on the planet’s precious resources. Bullshit. He was taking the coward’s way out. He knew it. All these excuses were just the twigs he was using to build his house of straw. Whatever. He’d never claimed to possess any kind of remarkable courage. Aside from that, it was his life, and it was his decision what he did with it. He traveled down the hallway and paused outside of Michael’s office. Everything was still in its place. Even the last file folder that had been on the desk’s surface was just where he’d left it. The last jacket he’d worn was draped over the back of the chair. It wasn’t sentiment that had caused Chris to leave it this way; he’d just never had the strength to clear it out. Besides, seeing it the way it was when Michael had been around added to the feeling of familiarity. Over the past year, that was about the only thing that had kept him from doing what he planned to do today. When there had still been some hope that they might return or some answers would be forthcoming, he’d held on. Now, that was impossible, and there just wasn’t any more reason to stick around. He continued down the hallway and stopped in his bedroom. The bed was carefully made. Michael’s reading glasses still sat beneath the lamp on the end table. He knew that in the closet, Michael’s clothes still hung in orderly, color-coordinated rows. He had been careful to keep the shirts rotated and ironed on a weekly basis. On the surface, maybe it looked like a sign of dementia, but he didn’t see it that way. He saw it as an act of defiance against the cruelty that fate had visited upon him. Maybe it was true that Michael was dead and that he was ironing for a ghost. Maybe it was a little deranged. Screw it. It was his psychosis, damn it, and who cared what anyone else thought about it? He turned slowly to the door at his back. Just across the hall from

his bedroom, Brianna’s room awaited. This door, unlike the rest, was tightly closed. He’d saved this for last. He hadn’t crossed the threshold since that horrible October night. The last people to have entered those hallowed walls were the police, and they assured him that they’d disturbed nothing. There had been no evidence, so everything had been left in its place. He took a deep breath. Daily reminders of Michael’s existence were one thing, but seeing Brianna’s empty bed, or her favorite toys, or her neatly folded clothes on the shelves of the changing table, would have been too much. He had stood outside the room with his hand on the closed door three times over the past ten months. He’d stood there gasping for breath, willing himself to turn the knob. Each time, he’d collapsed on the floor, sobbing and crying out “why?” to the heavens. Each time, the door had remained closed. He braced himself and turned the knob. The doorbell rang. He jumped and stumbled backward, startled. He wasn’t expecting anyone. Who could it—? George. Of course. He’d promised he’d stop by to check on him. The pills on the coffee table. He had to put them away. His heart racing, he dashed down the hallway and skidded to a halt in the living room. His eyes darted to the door and back to the pills. He snatched up the bottle, rushed into the bathroom, and returned the drugs to the medicine cabinet. By the time he reached the front door, he was panting. He mentally berated himself for the stupidity of his panic. Oh well. The evidence of his intentions was safely hidden away just in case. He opened the door just as the doorbell rang for a second time. “George, I….” It wasn’t George standing on the front porch. Backlit by the sanguine glow of the setting sun, a startlingly

handsome face stared back at him. The full lips parted in a smile of greeting, flashing bright teeth. There was a sprinkling of stubble upon the sharp jaw, and as he looked up into the man’s darkly lashed hazel eyes, he was stunned into speechlessness. Those eyes bored into him with an almost physical force. He just stood there, gaping, disoriented by the effect of that enigmatic stare. It was electric—like something out of a sappy Hollywood love story. Why could he not tear himself away? Say something? Do something? This discomposure was starkly out of character, particularly given his presence of mind only moments before. In the tense silence, while he struggled to regain his faculty, while words—a sudden impossibility—refused to coalesce, a strange, thrumming vertigo threatened. He held his breath. What’s happening to me? “Are you… okay?” The stranger stepped quickly across the threshold and reached out a hand to steady him. Chris couldn’t do anything but stare. Heat rose into his cheeks and burned the tops of his ears. It felt like one of those alien critters from the movies was wriggling its way through his innards. Not again. He swayed on his feet. Before he knew what was happening, the man was at his side. A strong arm draped loosely across his shoulders, and a hand pressed against his chest. The intimacy of the touch unbalanced him more. The fire in his cheeks blazed red-hot. “Let’s get you to the couch.” He allowed himself to be guided, dumbfounded and unable to muster the slightest resistance. As he moved, he became aware of the warm, spicy scent of the stranger’s skin. That and the reassuring pressure of his gentle touch nearly sent him over the edge. It was a small miracle he could focus on the mechanics of walking. He sat on the couch, and only when the other man stepped back and appraised him anxiously did he finally begin to gather his wits. He dared not stare too long. The stranger’s brows knitted in concern. “I saw what happened at the station earlier today—looks like you’re still a little unsteady on your feet.” The man pointed toward a chair opposite the sofa.

“Mind if I sit?” “Who are you?” Chris finally found some semblance of a voice, but it was barely audible. It was the best he could manage. This loss of control was absurd. He’d never experienced anything like it. “Of course, how rude of me. Jason Kingsley. I’d offer to shake your hand, except….” There was a twinkle in the other’s eyes that said he knew exactly what kind of effect he was having on Chris. “Well, I’m a little worried about what might happen. A simple smile nearly dropped you.” The twinkle resolved into a self-satisfied grin. There was a hint of smug assurance behind it that raised the heat in Chris’s cheeks into a full-fledged conflagration. He was completely transparent to this man. Oh, how he wished the sofa would turn into a deep black pit and swallow him whole. “What do you want?” he croaked. “Can I sit?” The prickling flared into anger. Jason Kingsley had some nerve. “No.” “Now you’re being rude.” “What do you want?” “To help. I have some information you might be interested to hear.” “I doubt it.” His outrage finally gave him something to work with. Contempt cleared his head. Egotism always irked him, and this man was positively dripping with it. The conceit had worked its way under his skin and dulled the edge of the instant and insistent attraction. He might be handsome, but Jason Kingsley was obviously full of himself. Kingsley sighed and crossed his arms over his chest. “I had a feeling you weren’t going to make this easy on me.” “Then save yourself the trouble. Leave.” “You know, I don’t think I like you very much.” Despite his growing disdain, for some reason Chris felt a flash of shame, and that caught him off guard. Why the hell should he care what

Jason Kingsley thought? He had known him for a span of heartbeats and, under normal circumstances, wouldn’t have allowed the relationship to progress that far. Even through the fog of schoolboy befuddlement, he could tell that Jason Kingsley was the worst kind of jerk. He knew the type. So why could he not control the rapid staccato of his heart? Why did his breath continue to catch in his throat when his eyes took in that bewitching face? Why did there still linger a pleasurable warmth across his shoulders and upon his chest where the man’s hands had touched him only moments ago? He shook his head to clear it. It had to be stress. This was the breakdown Dr. Resnick had promised him was coming. Great, just great. Of all the times to lose it. Kingsley hadn’t moved. He just stood there by the chair, staring down at Chris. His smug grin had faded, and he looked annoyed. “Well?” Chris wanted to scream at him, wanted to be furious, but all he could summon was a defeated sigh. “Please, just leave. I’ve had a difficult day.” Kingsley was silent, and his expression softened. With something akin to compassion, he said, “You’ve had a difficult year, actually.” “Please—” “Give me five minutes. If you don’t agree that I can help you, I’ll leave and you’ll never have to see me again.” “I can’t deal with this right now—” Ignoring his protests, Kingsley rushed ahead. “I understand the police have suspended investigation on your case.” “I mean it. Please leave.” He started to rise from his seat to show Kingsley to the door. “I know that must seem very final to you, like there’s no reason to have hope anymore, like you’ve been let down by the system.” The truth in Kingsley’s words brought him up short, and he dropped back onto the sofa. Chris hung his head. He couldn’t deny it. Without fully understanding what compelled him to speak, he said, “My

attorney, George, thinks this is a positive development. He thinks it’s going to help me move on. Maybe if they had found something. Anything.” “In defense of law enforcement, they’re usually admirably competent—far more competent than one would expect, considering that the odds are almost always stacked against them. Unfortunately for you, our friend Callahan doesn’t fit into the category I’ve just described.” “He’s despicable,” Chris agreed. “You have to admit, it would have been much easier to trump up some motive, slap you with a murder charge, and forego a long drawnout investigation.” As if sensing he’d gotten his foot in the door, Kingsley sat down in the chair. He leaned back and rested his arms on the overstuffed sides of the seat. “I had nothing to do with it,” Chris said, searching the other man’s expression for any sign of disbelief. Kingsley raised his hands in defense. “You don’t have to convince me.” “You have no idea what it’s like to lose everything and then be accused of murder on top of it.” Chris stopped short. Why was he babbling like this? Why did he feel the need to pour his heart out to this conceited bastard? Who had invited himself to sit down, by the way, when Chris had clearly told him to leave several times? This was all too much. Anxiety and emotion were spiraling out of his control. Wild eyes sought out and found the entrance to the bathroom. He needed Kingsley to leave. Why had he answered the door? If he’d just ignored it, by now he’d be swallowing pills and well on his way to release from the unending nightmare his life had become. Kingsley said, “People are sick. Trust me. I’ve seen it all.” “But why them? What did they do to deserve this?” Kingsley’s brows drew together, and he tilted his head to one side. “You’ve got to be kidding me. You have no idea who Michael Blake really was, do you?” Chris stiffened. “What kind of question is that? We lived together for five years. I think if anyone knew him, it would be me.”

“No, I mean, I assumed you knew. I had no idea you didn’t know.” There was a look of bewilderment on the stranger’s face. “Didn’t know what?” “No wonder you’re so messed up.” Chris’s confusion was growing by the second. “What the hell are you talking about?” “Chris, Michael was slime. He was into some heavy stuff.” Kingsley made a slashing gesture with his hand across his forehead. “Up to his eyebrows.” “What?” It came out as squeak. “Drugs,” he said. “I can’t believe you didn’t know.” Chris gasped. His head reeled as the picture slowly came into focus. The strange inconsistencies he’d discovered during the police investigation leapt out at him. The bank accounts had been nearly empty. Of course, the police had tried to pin that on him as a motive for the murders, but there were records of Michael’s multiple withdrawals so that tactic had failed. And there were the mood swings—Michael had always been a little moody, but in the months leading up to the murders, it seemed like he was set off more easily than usual. He worked later than he ever had in the past, and the frequency of his business trips had increased. He’d told all of these things to the police during the investigation, but George had an explanation. He confirmed that Michael’s caseload had been unusually heavy and even supported the extra time and frequent trips with expense reports and billable hours statements. Could George have been lying? Could he have fabricated all of the evidence he’d given to the police? No, Chris thought, that was impossible. He refused to believe it. If Michael did have a drug problem and George knew about it, he would have said something. Surely he would have said something. As Chris mulled over the implications of what he’d just learned, he began to tremble. His stomach lurched. This had to be some kind of a cruel joke. He eyed Kingsley with suspicion.

Kingsley said, “I’m really sorry. I never would have guessed that you didn’t know. I mean, someone must have said something. MacQuery should have told you, at least.” “He would have.” Chris was surprised to hear doubt in his own voice. “If he knew, he would have told me. He would have told the police.” “But… but MacQuery did know. I’m the one who told him. I owed him a favor. If Michael’s problems ever got out, think of what it would have done to his firm’s reputation.” “He would have told me,” Chris responded. His voice was raised, and a stubborn set to his jaw broadcast his refusal to believe that he had been hoodwinked by the two people he trusted most in the world. “I’m telling you, all of this is true.” Chris shook his head. “George could never lie to me. I’d have known if he was.” Kingsley grunted in exasperation. “Why don’t you just pay him a visit and ask him?” This was too much, too fast. He couldn’t imagine George withholding this kind of information from him, from the police. Still, Michael’s behavior, the unexplained changes in his routines, the inconsistencies uncovered during the investigation—these all seemed to be answered by the disturbing revelation that he had secretly become addicted to drugs. Chris couldn’t process it fast enough. He needed time and space to think. “Your five minutes are up. Leave,” he said quite forcefully, shocked at the strength of the barked command. Kingsley’s mouth compressed into a tight line. He stood abruptly and walked toward the front door. Before he left, he turned back and focused on Chris. His eyes were hard. “You know what I think? I think you’re afraid of the truth. You don’t really want answers. You just want to hold onto the lie because it’s safe.” Chris came to his feet and gestured toward the door. “I told you to get out.”

“You’re a coward.” These words bit deeply—perhaps because he knew them to be true. The stinging barb staggered him back a step. His mouth clamped tightly closed. Through gritted teeth, he said, “And you’re an insufferable jerk.” Emboldened by anger, he took a determined step in Kingsley’s direction. “You come in here flashing your pretty smile and making eyes at me, start spouting garbage about my dead partner, and expect me to swoon and fall at your feet. Maybe that works on some people, Jason Kingsley, but not me. I don’t know why you decided to come over here and start rubbing salt in my wounds, but I’ve had enough.” He pointed toward the door again. “Get the hell out of my house, and don’t ever come back.” His hands were balled into fists, and his whole body was shaking. Adrenaline surged through his veins. He fought an urge to both scream and cry at the same time. This was too much, too much. Kingsley stared at him for one moment longer and then stormed out the door. For a long time after Kingsley left, Chris just stood there, fuming. His heart was pounding, his ears were ringing, and he was sure he was going to throw up. He was too livid, too confused to do anything but smolder. Finally, as the anger drained away, it was replaced by a torrent of emotion that had been building since his collapse in the police station. It ripped through the crack in his resolve, and the flood escaped his control. He sat on the couch, wrapped his arms around his body, and, wracked with miserable sobs, he keened his grief to the uncaring world. As though in sympathy with the tears he cried, a heavy rain began to fall outside. As the storm raged, day passed into night. The pent-up anguish leeched away his remaining strength. He fell into a deep, exhausted slumber. Perhaps because of the release, his sleep was free, for the first time in as long as he could remember, from troubled dreams.

Chapter 3

CHRIS awoke on the couch to the sounds of morning from the world outside. Blinking bleary eyes against the bright sunlight, he rose and looked out the window. As though in apology for the inundation of the night before, the morning sky had cleared, and a cheerful sun painted the world in a panorama of watercolor brilliance. As he came fully awake, he remembered his introduction to Jason Kingsley, and the fury and confusion rushed back in a torrent. He quickly squelched those emotions before they overcame him. Now that he had released some of the pressure, he was much more in control of his feelings. His eyes wandered to a sheaf of documents lying on the coffee table. Kingsley must have left them. Another reminder. He stomped over and snatched them off the glass. After compressing the pages into a tight ball, he tossed them into the trash, wishing he could just forget the whole episode. For all he knew, Kingsley was some sort of crackpot out to make a buck off of his misery—but much of what he said had resonated. As though in defiance of the doubts swirling in his mind, he shoved the wadded papers deeper into the trash bin and walked away. As he passed the bathroom, he paused and stared at the door. For some reason, his conviction had disappeared. He couldn’t take those pills. Not right now, anyway. He’d lost his nerve. He turned away and wandered back into the living room. Could his whole life with Michael have been a lie? What if the things Kingsley had

revealed were true? Were there answers to be had after all? And if there were, what was he going to do about it? The police weren’t going to help him. He couldn’t go crawling back to Jason Kingsley, not after the way he’d treated him. He slipped into his running shoes and walked out into the crisp morning air. The world smelled fresh and young. Warbling birdsong provided a cheerful symphony to accompany him on his morning jog, and the familiarity of it, the simple joy in the melodic trilling, lifted his spirits slightly. His regular route took him down a residential street that meandered through the neighborhood and along the edge of a bluff. Tufts of sunny yellow Scotch broom dotted the sloping hillside. As he settled into the routine of placing one foot in front of the other, clearing his mind of the turmoil became easier. Focusing only on maintaining a steady pace and measured, even breathing, he allowed the tumult to subside. He gave himself over to the beauty of the world that he had been blind to for so long. Once upon a time, the carefully tended neighborhood, with its perfectly groomed yards and the broad reach of Puget Sound sparkling in the sun, had the power to hold him spellbound on mornings such as this. Those were freer, happier times. Now, as then, he was comforted and renewed. Tiny finches frolicked in a courting dance through the air over a dew-dappled lawn, and the smile that came to his lips as he watched them surprised him. He hadn’t smiled automatically in so long that the unfamiliar expression was disconcerting. It felt good, though, so he went with it. Despite everything, though doubts and more unanswered questions tugged at the edges of his consciousness, he felt oddly hopeful. Why? Where was it coming from? Was it because of the release of the night before or something else? Brianna and Michael were still missing and very likely dead; the police had still closed the investigation. He had nothing to look forward to. So what had prompted this change of mood? Was it Kingsley? A woman clad in a floral-print robe stood on her front porch with a steaming mug of coffee. He didn’t know her name, although he had passed her a hundred times during this morning ritual. Today, she waved

at him. He waved back absently and continued along. The road turned a corner and snaked down the hillside toward the waterfront. He followed the curve. The heady rush of endorphins added their own magic to his strangely upbeat outlook. When he reached the wharf, he stopped at a small coffee shop and stood with his head down, breathing heavily. He knew the downhill jog was much easier than the return, and before the murders, he’d always taken a break before the arduous uphill climb. Lately, he had rarely indulged in that guilty pleasure. He realized as he stood before the entrance to Pearl’s that he’d sorely missed it. A tinkling bell announced his entry into the quaint coffee shop, and the earthy aroma of freshly brewed coffee made his mouth water in anticipation. The proprietress greeted him affectionately as he approached the counter. She was eccentric, a rotund little woman with rosy cheeks and a mass of silver hair piled atop her head in a haphazard bun. She was clad in a loose khaki dress with a tribal print. About her neck hung a crude necklace constructed of bits of shell and feathers. “Mercy alive. Just look at you. I haven’t seen you in weeks.” She wormed her bulk around the counter and pulled him into a crushing hug. “Timing is perfect, kiddo. I just took some muffins out of the oven.” She smiled broadly, her eyes sweeping over him. “I think I’ll just have the regular this morning, Pearl,” he replied, returning her smile with warmth. Her joy faded. “Nonsense. You’re too thin.” She reached out, gently tweaked his cheek, and followed up with a motherly pat. She leaned in and whispered, “Skinny people are bad for business. You have to look well-fed or my customers might think I’ve gone all granola on them.” He smiled and shook his head. “Not today, Pearl. I have a long run back up the hill.” Sighing in resignation, she shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Fine, you’ll take one for the road. All the butter and sugar is virtually guaranteed to counteract the effects of that healthy lifestyle you lead.” She turned away with a chuckle and began preparing his drink. “Half a cup of no-lead, coming right up. I never have to brew this stuff,” she

complained as she rummaged through bags of coffee beans. “Now where’d I put that bag of decaf?” Finally, she found what she was looking for, and in moments, she had a stout brew pouring into a cup. She filled it halfway, then topped it off with cold filtered water from a refrigerator. “I don’t know how you can drink this. And watered down to boot. It’s heresy, I tell you.” “I’m just not a sipper,” Chris explained, placing several crisp bills on the counter and grabbing a newspaper from the magazine rack. “I like my coffee lukewarm.” He smiled, as he always did, at the picture frame hanging in a conspicuous place above the newspaper display. It contained a clipping of the article he’d written about Pearl’s. “Sipping is the secret to happiness, you know. You kids these days don’t take time to savor the moment. It’s why the world is falling apart.” “You should pitch that to Folgers,” he returned. “Don’t get fresh with me, young man,” she bossed affectionately. Wiping the counter with a clean white towel, she continued with her mock scolding. “Decaf.” She shook her head and pointed at him with the dripping rag. “Pearl of wisdom: If some scientist hasn’t decided it’s deadly, you just shouldn’t consume it. It isn’t natural.” She tossed the towel into a concealed bin and sighed mightily. “Decaf is worse for you than regular coffee,” Chris offered, trying to placate her. “It’s full of chemicals.” “And that’s not natural either.” Chris smiled but did not laugh. He felt good—better than he had in a long time—but not quite able to force a chuckle yet. Noticing the look in his eyes, Pearl leaned over the counter toward him. “Blues still got a hold on you?” Chris smiled softly. “Actually, I’m feeling pretty normal today.” Pearl’s eyes narrowed, as though she doubted the honesty of his response. “Your aura is bright green, doll. Here, give me your hand.” She reached out for him, and he patiently allowed her to examine his palm. “Hmm…,” she murmured, sliding her pudgy little fingers over his skin. She narrowed her eyes and peered at the lines in his palm as though from a great distance. “Oh my,” she intoned, releasing her hold.

“That bad?” he asked. “You need a good hand lotion, kid, something with vitamin E in it. Your skin is a mess.” “And I thought you were going to tell me my future.” “I see cracked and bleeding knuckles in your future if you don’t moisturize.” She leaned closer and appraised him frankly, her momentary humor evaporating. “You want to tell me about your visitor? Brought you some bad news, did he?” For just an instant, he was taken aback. Had Pearl developed some mysterious fortunetelling talent? He quickly realized that the truth was probably far less esoteric. He gave her an ironic smile. “You almost had me that time. Let me guess, Harvey was… pruning his rosebushes again.” She chuckled and winked. “He was in here half an hour ago on his way to the ferry.” She lowered her voice. “Said he heard shouting and saw ‘some guy storm out of there like his ass was on fire’.” Chris smirked. Harvey’s complete disregard for his privacy would probably have been a nuisance if the old man hadn’t been so kind to him in the past. Brianna had adored him, and besides, he had such a colorful way of describing things you couldn’t help but be charmed by him. He frowned as the memory of his encounter with Jason Kingsley resurfaced. “Just some crackpot spouting crap about Michael.” “What did he say?” Pearl asked, a single tattooed eyebrow climbing her forehead. Chris had become accustomed to her probing questions over the years. She wasn’t a busybody and didn’t tolerate gossip, but she lavished motherly concern on her regular customers, and Chris knew that he was, by far, her favorite. He stared out the window in silence, and she placed a warm hand over his on the countertop to draw his attention back to the conversation. “Strong and silent does nothing for me, kid. You might as well give it up, because you know I’ll gnaw on it like a dog with a bone until you do.” Sighing, he said, “He claims that Michael was….” The words came harder than he expected. “He said Michael had a… drug problem.”

Her lips turned down in a thoughtful pout as she considered the statement. Chris knew that Pearl had never much liked Michael; something about him made her uneasy. She had hinted as much many times over the years. “Why would he say that?” she asked cautiously. Chris shrugged and took a drink of the coffee. “Maybe he’s a con artist. Maybe he’s some kind of sicko that gets his jollies from other people’s pain.” “What if he was telling the truth? Think there’s any way you can confirm it?” “Michael was not a drug addict, Pearl. Don’t you think I would have known?” His denial lacked conviction. He didn’t even fool himself. “I’m just saying… this thing obviously has you at odds with your gut. If you ask around, at least you’ll be able to put your doubts to rest.” “And what gives you the impression that I have doubts?” Pearl gave him a skeptical look. “Well, suit yourself. I’m not one to meddle.” The portly little woman shrugged and patted Chris on the back. “Besides,” she continued sagely, “you of all people would certainly have seen the signs. Long absences, missed appointments, mood swings— those kinds of things.” He pursed his lips, realizing he was being manipulated. Still, he was reminded about all of those late nights when he couldn’t reach Michael at the office; all of the cold, uneaten dinners that he’d scraped into the garbage disposal; the once-lucrative investments and the empty bank accounts. “I’ll think about it,” he said, though his promise lacked conviction. Pearl seemed as if she wanted to say something more. She apparently thought better of it and just returned to her station behind the counter. “I’m always here if you need me.” “I know.” Chris smiled tenderly at her and turned to leave. He had no spirit for the jog home. Instead, he walked the meandering mile back up the hill, once more oblivious to the beauty of the summer day. His mind was in turmoil, the doubts and indecision like heavy weights upon his back. What if everything Jason Kingsley had said was true? What if Michael did have a drug habit? How had he missed it? Could he really

have been so blind? There was only one person who could tell him. Although he was hesitant to pursue it, he knew he couldn’t live with the idea of not knowing for sure. He had spent enough time dealing with unanswered questions. It was time to start seeking the truth.

CHRIS glanced at his watch and walked through the glass doors of a downtown high-rise. His hard-soled shoes made clicking noises on the polished marble floor, and he shuffled slightly to dampen the noise. He was ten minutes early, though George MacQuery had assured him that his afternoon was clear, so it wasn’t likely that he would have to wait long. As he stood in the elevator on his way to the twenty-seventh floor, Chris recalled that it was George who had first introduced him to Michael. At the time, Michael had been a promising young associate fresh from a career with the DA’s office, ready to take on defense. In his first two years with the firm, he established himself as a rising star, making partner in record time. His strategy in the courtroom was nothing short of brilliant, and his handsome, winning face had charmed more than one jury. He was ruthless when he had to be, but never overtly. George would often say, “Michael will rip their throats out, but he’ll do it with a smile.” George had introduced them at a cocktail party. Michael was immediately smitten and wasted no time in letting Chris know it. Even though he’d flatly rejected the advances, Michael would not relent. He was not the kind of person who liked to lose. He saw himself in a contest of wills and knew it was only a matter of time before Chris gave in. He tried every angle until Chris finally agreed to go out with him. Their courtship was a happy time for Chris—he’d just landed a job at The Sounder, and for the first time in his life, he was on his feet and moving in a positive direction. In Michael, he had found someone with great passion who could, with a simple turn of phrase or flash of a smile, make the world bow at his feet. He was sexy and exciting but gentle when he had to be—at least

in the beginning. Looking back, Chris realized that their relationship had been more good than bad, but they had never shared the quiet closeness of other couples they knew. Michael moved too quickly, was too dogged in pursuing his ambition. He thrived on control, and love would have meant giving in completely to an emotion. That had been impossible for both of them, each for their own reasons. So instead of love, they found some measure of security in being together, and that had been enough to keep them bound for five years. It probably would have continued to carry them if Michael hadn’t been murdered. The elevator announced his arrival, and Chris stepped into the opulently appointed office space. Leslie, the firm’s receptionist, greeted him with a bright smile. “Chris,” she said, coming to her feet. “How have you been?” “As well as can be expected,” Chris answered truthfully. “I have an appointment with George.” “I know. I’ll let him know you’re here.” Leslie indicated he should take a seat and dialed George’s line. Shortly after Chris sat down, George came around the corner. After a warm hug of welcome, George led him into his office and closed the door, then motioned him to a leather sofa and offered him a drink. Chris accepted a bottle of water and admired a new painting George had procured. “How are you feeling?” Chris regarded him seriously for a moment and took a sip of his water. He wasn’t sure how to broach the subject, and quite before he realized what he was going to say, the words tumbled from his lips. “Did Michael do drugs?” George was caught off guard, but he quickly regained his footing. He stood and turned toward the window. His sudden reticence was all the answer Chris needed. It was true. Chris struggled to hold the instant flare of shock in check. He was not going to let George escape the question. Instead, he steeled himself and waited for a response. Finally, when the protracted silence became

unbearable, he spoke. “Why didn’t you tell me?” George turned toward him, his eyes troubled. Realization that he could not evade the subject any longer was clear in his timid expression. “A lot of reasons.” His voice was touched with remorse. “Mostly because I care a great deal for you. I never wanted this to hurt you.” “Didn’t you think I’d find out eventually?” “I thought I could convince him to kick the habit before that happened.” “How long have you known?” “Two years. I found out shortly after he won the Brunner Investments case.” There was admission in the older man’s voice—and something that sounded suspiciously like relief. Chris stared at the bottled water he clutched in white-knuckled hands. He didn’t want to hear any more, but he had to know. “How?” “How did I find out?” George turned away from the window, sat back down in his chair, and splayed his hands on his desk. “Why are you asking these questions all of a sudden?” Chris met his eyes briefly, trying to decide how much he should say, and then said, “George, just tell me.” “I thought he’d been discreet. He was good at covering his tracks. But I suppose he had to slip up eventually.” “You kept evidence from me—from the police. Don’t you realize that this could have everything to do with their—” He broke off, still unable to say the word without a struggle. “With their murders? I had a right to know about this, damn it.” “Chris, you had enough to deal with, and I made the decision to spare you further grief. I was only trying to help.” He shook his head. He was beginning to feel a rising anger born of betrayal. “I trusted you, George. You’re the only person in my life I thought I could trust.” “Now listen here,” George scolded him. “I’ve known you since you were in diapers. If there is anyone in the world you can trust, if there is anyone in the world who has your best interests at heart, I am that person.

I did everything I could to shelter you from these ugly things because, more than anything, you needed time to heal.” “But if I’d known—” “What difference would it have made? Michael and Brianna would still be gone, and you would have been even more brutalized at a time when you were barely holding on. I’m only sorry you found out at all.” “How could I have been so blind? How could he have hidden this from me so well? How could you?” George joined Chris on the sofa and pulled him into a tender hug. “Sometimes love blinds us to the faults of those we care about, little dove. Sometimes we don’t see a thing that’s right in front of us because we don’t want to see.” Chris pulled out of George’s arms and stared at the wall. He was numb. When he recovered his voice, he made an admission he’d only ever made to himself. “But I didn’t love him, George, at least not in the way you think I did.” George seemed confused. “You shared your lives for five years,” he protested. “You were raising Brianna together.” “I was raising Brianna. You know as well as I do that Michael didn’t want anything to do with her.” “He loved that child dearly.” “He tolerated her,” Chris corrected. “You know, I can’t remember a time he ever expressed any real interest in her. I don’t think he ever wanted to be a parent.” George was silent for a moment. “I suppose it would seem that way,” he said cautiously. “Michael was ambitious. He was driven by his career, but he and I spoke often of how he regretted not being more… available to look after her.” Chris couldn’t imagine Michael saying such things, but it was pointless to argue. Instead, he turned back to the topic at hand. He looked directly into George’s eyes. “It’s time to stop dodging the question, George. Tell me how you found out about his drug habit.” “Do you really want to know?” Hesitation was evident in the man’s posture, and his blue eyes were liquid pools of distress.

“I… well, the secret’s out now, isn’t it?” Chris heard conviction in his voice that surprised him. Where was this strength coming from? George stood up and walked over to his desk. He sat on the polished mahogany surface, and his eyes clouded with memory. Before he spoke again, he plucked a fountain pen from a marble base and rolled the pen between his fingers. “This won’t be easy for you to hear,” he warned. “What’s easy? If I survived the past year, I think I can manage this.” George was briefly contemplative. Then, placing the pen back in its base, he spoke. “All right, then, here it is. After the Brunner Investment case concluded, Michael began spending a significant amount of time away from work. His other clients suffered from his absences. We got complaints about missed appointments, shoddy documentation. When an old acquaintance of mine showed up and told me Michael was illicitly involved with Johan Brunner, I had him followed. I can’t afford to have a partner not pulling his weight. It turned out he was spending time with Brunner. A lot of time.” George paused. There was a look on his face that hinted there had been more to the relationship between Michael and Brunner than just drugs. Although he couldn’t seem to bring himself to speak the words, his distaste for the affair was evident. He stood and paced, his eyes far away as he continued. “Johan Brunner escaped a fraud indictment only because Michael was a brilliant attorney. He’s scum, though, guilty as hell. He has connections all over the place. Drugs, black market, you name it. It’s the drugs that Michael got mixed up in.” Chris swallowed hard, stunned by this admission. “Why would you allow Michael to take Brunner’s case if you knew he was guilty of these terrible things? Isn’t that the same as condoning his crimes?” He was suddenly questioning George’s character, and that frightened him. Had his admiration for this man been misguided all along? Were all people so duplicitous? “I didn’t know,” George said quickly. “Not then.” As if to clarify, he added, “I don’t follow individual cases that closely anymore. My partners and associates do all of the legwork. I just keep the machine

greased. It was only when the situation with Michael came to light that I found out what kind of scum Brunner really was. By then, it was too late to do anything about it.” “George,” Chris said, leaning forward and fixing the man with a serious stare, “if all of this is true, then why did you tell the police you could account for Michael’s extended absences, that his caseload was increased in the months leading up to the murders?” “Because those things were all true. I doubled his caseload. I buried him in work to keep him occupied.” “Well, why didn’t you tell them about his affair with Brunner?” George made a sound of dissent. “Please, don’t try to deny it. Michael was sleeping with Brunner. I could tell by the look on your face. This was more than just the two of them being drug buddies. I can deal with that. What I can’t understand is why you would cover it up when it could have made all the difference.” “Listen to me. It’s a dead end. I know because I… took care of that situation a full year before the tragedy with Michael and Brianna occurred.” “Took care of it? How?” George became evasive. He seemed unable to look Chris in the eye. “Let’s just say I did some things that would not have been looked upon with favor by the police.” “You didn’t kill him? George, tell me you didn’t kill him.” “Honestly, what kind of person do you think I am?” There was stunned outrage in his tone. “Of course not. But I did ensure he wouldn’t be hanging around while I was trying to rehabilitate my star attorney.” Chris was growing increasingly uneasy with the turn this conversation had taken. These revelations were completely at odds with what he thought he knew about George MacQuery. Everything he admired about him seemed to have been a sham. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You kept secrets from me, withheld vital information from the police, potentially derailed their entire investigation—” “Vital information? Chris, have you listened to a single word I’ve said? There is no way Brunner was involved. He had no contact with Michael after I ran him out of Seattle. He wouldn’t have dared to show

his face in this city again.” Chris gritted his teeth. His trust in George had just suffered a terrible blow. He no longer knew what to believe. “Chris, everything I have done, I have done for you, and for everyone else who would have suffered harm as a result of this entire scandal with Brunner. There are good men and women who, with hard work and spilled tears, made this practice what it is. What of them—and you? Can you honestly say that you would have been able to cope while that fool Callahan was trying to pin the murders on you?” Tears stood out in George’s eyes, and he did not bother to hide them. “Damn it, Christian, you are like a son to me. I love you. It nearly killed me when I almost lost you the last time. I was not going to suffer it again.” “George, you know I have to go to the police now. I have to tell them what I know.” George shook his head sadly. He moved away from Chris and stood up from the couch. He walked back to his desk and leaned against it. “That will accomplish nothing. Callahan will have you thrown out on your ear.” “But—” “But nothing,” George snapped, cutting him off. “Listen, I’ve been gentle with you up until now because of your delicate condition— because of what happened before. Maybe I’ve been too soft, too cautious in the things I say to you. It’s time for you to face reality, young man. You’re obsessed with this thing. You’re chasing shadows and grabbing onto any loose thread you can find. It’s unhealthy, and I’m afraid it’s going to kill you.” George folded his arms across his chest authoritatively. “I had hoped when they closed the case you would begin to accept that Michael and Brianna are gone, but I can see now that it’s only served to set you back further.” He leveled a stern gaze at Chris. “I want you to contact Dr. Liu the minute you get home. I want you in counseling immediately. You’re in a downward spiral, Christian, and you desperately need help.” Chris squared his jaw and glared back defiantly. “We’ve had this discussion before.” George’s expression softened. “Yes, I’m well aware of your

opinion on the matter, but the alternative is unthinkable,” he said. Chris wished it was as easy as George made it seem. He wished a shrink could take all that was wrong with his life and make it right again. He wished his heart could be so easily unbroken. It couldn’t though. Everything that mattered had been stolen from him. Even his unshakable trust in George had suffered a blow. “I trusted you,” Chris whispered. “All my life, I’ve looked up to you. You became what you are honestly and with hard work, in spite of where you started. After my parents rejected me, after they died, after the—” He choked up, unable to speak for a moment. His eyes drifted to the scars on his wrists, and he traced a finger over the rough flesh. “After I tried to kill myself, your love was the only thing that pulled me back.” George returned to the sofa and sat beside Chris. He reached out and took his hand. When Chris looked up into his ice-blue eyes, he could see tears standing out sharply in them. When George spoke, his voice broke with emotion. “I am still that person, little dove. I was trying to protect you. You have to believe me.” Chris looked away. George seemed so sincere. He wanted to believe he was mistaken, that George’s actions hadn’t been motivated by self-interest, but he was too hurt by the betrayal to make that leap. His eyes turned back to George’s and his heart hardened. “No,” Chris refused flatly, “I don’t believe you. You were protecting yourself and your firm. It had nothing to do with protecting me.” George was stricken by this sharp repudiation. After a brief moment of reflection, he said, “I understand that you feel betrayed. I would too. Would it surprise you to know that I agree? It’s been a heavy burden I’ve carried for a long time. There were many times I wanted to tell you, but I could never bring myself to risk it. It eats me alive to watch you suffering.” Chris laughed mirthlessly. “You lied to me because you love me? You really expect me to believe that?” George’s eyes were sad. “That’s exactly what I expect. It’s the truth.” Chris pulled his hand out of George’s and clenched his jaw. He couldn’t stay in this office one minute longer. He stood abruptly and

marched toward the door. Before leaving, he turned back and said coldly, “I don’t know what the truth is anymore, George.” George rose and tried to speak again, but Chris ignored him. He opened the door and fled into the hallway. His heart was broken. As he hurried toward the elevator, he couldn’t bring himself to turn back, not even for a brief look at the man he regarded as a father. He wanted to understand. He wanted to believe George, but he just couldn’t. “Chris, please, don’t leave like this,” George begged, following him. Chris stepped into the elevator and jabbed his finger into a button. As the doors closed, he looked up and met George’s gaze. He didn’t attempt to hide his anguish. He let the full measure show. In that one instant, everything in his heart was revealed. Even George, the one person he thought he could count on, had let him down. The impact of that sorrow rendered George speechless. For some reason, the terrified look on the older man’s face reminded Chris of what he’d nearly done the day before. He knew exactly what George was thinking. Good, let him stew on it. He should have told me the truth.

Chapter 4

JASON had been in a black mood the whole day. It was the kind of mood that made Lisa walk softly and keep her head down. She’d been working for Jason for two years, which was more than long enough to know when she should stay out of his way. She had no idea what had prompted this latest fit of foul temper, and she was sure he would never tell her, but she couldn’t help being curious. Usually it took a lot to push him to this point. Usually it took something called Bradley, but she thought that problem had been solved long ago. He had arrived at work before she had, which was rare, and he glanced at the clock menacingly when she bustled through the door ten minutes late. Without a word, she’d settled at her desk and busied herself returning phone calls and sorting through the morning’s mail, heaving a sigh of relief when he sequestered himself in his office and closed the door. It was his signal that he was not to be bothered under any circumstances. Late in the afternoon, she looked up in dismay as a chime on the door sounded and a gaunt young man stepped through. She appraised him with interest. This one was definitely a looker, she thought. He was exactly Jason’s type, if you could judge by his previous relationship. He seemed frail, though, like he hadn’t seen sun or good food in a long time. “Can I help you?” she asked, sneaking a glance at Jason’s calendar. She didn’t remember making an appointment. “I’m here to see Jason Kingsley,” he said, walking toward her.

Her eyes darted toward the barred office door and quickly back to the young man. “Mr. Kingsley isn’t in right now, but if you’d like to leave your name—” “It’s important.” “I told you, he isn’t in,” she said more firmly. He glowered at her. Then, without a word, he headed purposefully for the closed office door. “Wait,” Lisa called, clambering to her feet and spilling a coffee mug of pens and pencils in the process. Before she could extricate herself from the chair, the interloper had reached the door and tried the knob. It was locked. He rapped on the wood firmly, and Jason’s muffled voice called out, “Go away.” “Mr. Kingsley, it’s Chris James. We spoke yesterday. I need to talk to you.” Lisa grabbed his arm and tried to pull him away. “Now you’ve done it,” she said anxiously. “He’s going to kill me.” He brushed her hand away and offered her a reassuring grin that brought her up absolutely short. The change in his face was profound. With one small smile, a magical transformation occurred upon the pale, drawn features. Some mysterious reconfiguration swept aside the sallow façade and revealed the handsome, youthful beauty that was hidden just beneath. She was completely flummoxed. Who was this Chris James fellow? He said he’d spoken to Jason the day before, and it made her burn to know whether this visit was professional or personal. It sure seemed as if the grouchy spells had been worse since the breakup with Bradley a couple of months ago, and a smile like the one she’d just seen… well, that might be just the thing. Maybe her own life would get a little easier if the effect it had on her also worked on her boss. The door opened and Jason stood on the threshold, regarding Chris dourly. “What? Do you think I didn’t get enough abuse yesterday?” he growled. Lisa eyed Jason surreptitiously. He looks like hell. Lisa took in the shadow of two days’ growth on his chin and the puffy circles beneath his eyes. She stepped back, preparing for trouble.

“Let me guess, you’re here to apologize for being such an ass?” She knew that tone. She took another step backward. Chris looked up with pleading, sincere eyes. “Actually, that’s exactly why I’m here. Do you have a few minutes?” Clearly, this response—and the vulnerable, contrite manner in which it was delivered—weren’t at all what Jason was expecting. For a long while, he just stood there, speechless. Lisa was impressed. Now that’s a trick I’d like to learn. Seeming to recover his senses, Jason motioned her away. “It’s okay.” She backed toward her desk, still unsure. Something ugly had happened between these two yesterday, something that had caused Jason a sleepless night—and the way he’d just softened at a kind word from the stranger…. Interesting development. She took her seat. Interesting indeed. She’d have to keep an eye on this situation.

“COME on in,” Jason said, stepping aside. Chris was surprised at the orderliness of the workspace. The desk was clear of clutter, and the bookshelves were carefully arranged. A rack containing potted plants stood in front of the window, and a comfortablelooking sofa sat against the wall. The tidiness of the office was a sharp contradiction to the image of Jason Kingsley that had formed in his mind based on their meeting the day before. “Why the change of heart?” Jason asked without preamble. “After your tantrum last night, I never expected to see you again.” He motioned toward a chair. “I’ve been to see George MacQuery,” Chris said as they seated themselves on opposite sides of Jason’s desk. “Ahh,” Jason murmured softly. “He backed up the things I told you, then.” It wasn’t a question. Jason was obviously well aware of MacQuery’s knowledge of Michael’s indiscretion.

“And then some. He told me things I never would have believed a year ago.” Chris slumped into the chair and stared into his lap. He felt like an empty husk. “I trusted him,” he said softly. He looked up at Jason imploringly. Jason said, “Don’t be too hard on him. MacQuery is a good man. I’m sure he meant well.” “I don’t need to be sheltered. I’m not a child, Mr. Kingsley.” Chris was still trying to come to grips with the betrayal. He wasn’t quite ready to forgive—not yet. “Let’s cut it out with the Mr. Kingsley stuff. Gives me the creeps. Call me Jason, please.” Chris smiled contritely. “Sorry.” Jason sat forward in his chair and placed his elbows on the desk. “I probably blurted out a little too much yesterday. I’ve never been mistaken for someone with tact.” “You’d make a lousy psychiatrist,” Chris agreed. “But forget about it. I know now, and I’m dealing with it.” “Actually, you do seem better today. More together or something.” “I want the truth. Seems like everyone’s given up except me. Except you.” Chris leveled his eyes on Jason. “So if you have information, I’m ready to hear it.” “How much do you already know about Michael’s involvement with Johan Brunner?” Chris related what he’d learned from his visit with George. Surprisingly, the words came more easily now that he’d had some time to think about it. The shame and guilt he’d initially felt were gone. He was much more at ease with Jason too. There was no judgment, no malice, no recrimination on the other man’s face, just quiet interest. Even the egotism didn’t seem as pronounced, and Chris wondered if he’d imagined it. When he’d finished, Jason leaned back and regarded him thoughtfully. “You weren’t ever in love with Blake, were you?” Chris was surprised. He’d only just realized it himself earlier in the day on his way to visit George. How was he so transparent to this man? Although his initial instinct was to deny it, he didn’t. Instead, he shook

his head. “I loved him in my own way, I suppose, but you’re right. I was never in love with him.” Chris shook his head. “Michael wasn’t the kind of person who would have appreciated the difference.” “You’re taking the news about Michael’s affair with Brunner a lot better than I expected you would.” Chris frowned. “Well, it’s not an easy pill to choke down, but then, I guess it really doesn’t surprise me. I don’t think Michael loved me either. We were comfortable, and that was good enough.” He flashed his wrists at Jason as proof of his damaged view of the universe. “I’m not terribly idealistic. I don’t believe in fairy tales like true love or happily ever after, so it’s not like there was a dream to be shattered.” Jason looked thoughtful and then said, “Sorry, all of this must seem immaterial. I’m just trying to get a better idea of the nature of your relationship. It could be pertinent.” Chris nodded in understanding. “So, the information….” Jason stood up and rummaged through a filing cabinet drawer. “There’s something you should listen to. I think you’ll find it interesting.” He produced a handheld tape recorder, which he placed on the desktop. He inserted a cassette and pressed a button. A tinny recording of a woman’s voice issued from the speaker. She spoke in heavily accented English, but her words were clear enough. “I started cleaning up the living room. It was a mess. Mr. Johan, he must have a party the night before. Dios mio. Bottles everywhere and needles. Then I hear Mr. Johan yelling. He is very angry. I hear him say, ‘You are going to do this, you owe me.’ I don’t want to hear any more, but I can’t help it. “Mr. Michael asks what are they going to do with her, and Mr. Johan says, ‘Don’t worry about the brat, I’ll take care of it.’ Mr. Michael is worried, I can tell. He says, ‘You’re not going to hurt her, Johan.’ Mr. Johan laughs and says, ‘Of course not. She has to be kept safe. I told you, we need her to get to the Heart of the Jungle.’ “I can’t listen anymore. I don’t want to know what they are talking about. If Mr. Johan knows I am listening, I don’t know what he will do to me. I leave and I tell my daughter Carmenita, ‘I don’t want to go back to that place. Mr. Johan… he pays good money… but he scares me.’”

“They were talking about Brianna,” Chris whispered, his entire body tensed and trembling. “They had to be talking about her.” He stared at Jason with wide eyes. “What’s this Heart of the Jungle they were talking about? Why would they need Brianna to get there?” “I was hoping you could tell me.” Chris shook his head. “I have no idea. It doesn’t make any sense.” Jason frowned and pressed a button on the tape player. “Up until I learned about what happened to Michael at the police station, I never knew what they were talking about. I had no idea Michael had a child or a partner. He was peripheral to another investigation, and honestly, I didn’t have any reason to dig in further. This was always just a strange, disconnected piece for me. “You see, some time ago, I was on Brunner’s tail. I’d been hired to recover a stolen statue for a socialite by the name of Hathaway—you’ve probably heard of her; she’s a bit of an eccentric.” In fact, Chris had heard of Eugenia Hathaway. Her parties were regularly covered in The Sounder, and it seemed like she had at least ten fundraising galas every year for one cause or another. “Turned out Brunner sold the piece on the black market, but that’s not the important thing here. What is important is that I discovered Michael’s involvement with Brunner during that investigation. I’m the one who tipped off MacQuery. I owed him a favor.” Jason’s eyes clouded for a moment with something that looked suspiciously like a painful memory. The moment passed, though, and he continued. “I thought it might be a good idea for him to rein in his thoroughbred before his whole firm was dragged through the mud. I may have started this whole thing—although at the time, I had no idea that you existed, just that Michael was messing around with Brunner and putting George’s reputation in danger.” Jason picked up the tape recorder and waved it in Chris’s direction. “This interview with the maid—the bit about the child and getting to the Heart of the Jungle—it just never made any sense, so I dismissed it. I guess it sat in the back of my mind and festered, though. I never did like a loose end. “I’d completely forgotten about it until I learned of the connection between you, Michael, and your daughter in the police station. That’s

when I knew I had something.” “Did you take this to the police?” Chris leaned forward, his entire body tensed like a spring. “First of all, I’m not exactly cozy with the SPD. I’ve, uh, stepped on a few toes down there in the past, Callahan’s in particular. So, no, I haven’t gone to them. Yet.” “But you have to.” Chris leapt to his feet and leaned over the desk. “This could change everything.” “Slow down. We can’t go to the police right now. This isn’t enough. Chris, you have to understand something about law enforcement: They only act on solid evidence. This?” He gestured with the tape recorder. “This is hearsay…. They won’t do anything with it. They can’t.” “But—” Chris was burning with frustration. He paced in front of the desk, his mind whirling with this new information. He stopped and looked down at Jason. “They have to. This proves Brunner was involved.” “I’ll admit it’s compelling, but it’s not enough. What I think is that Brunner and Michael were planning something, and I’m guessing your daughter was central to those plans. I think we can assume that one of two things happened: Michael and Brunner staged the whole thing and took off with her, or something went terribly wrong. Either way, if we can find out, we might just get some answers.” Chris was overcome. “You really think she could still be alive?” Jason didn’t respond immediately. The caution on his face said he didn’t want to give Chris false hope. “I don’t know. It’s possible. Morales remembered Brunner saying she had to be kept safe, that they needed her to get to the Heart of the Jungle.” “That’s why we have to take it to Callahan. Jason, he never had a solid lead before. This is a solid lead.” “Chris, this is a tape-recorded interview with an illegal immigrant who would never consent to talk to the authorities for fear of being deported. Morales will go into deep hiding if I even suggest it.” This sobered him. Jason gestured toward the chair and he dropped back into it. His head was reeling. He felt helpless and hopeful at the

same time. “If we can’t take this to the police, then I don’t understand how it helps me.” “It gives us a place to start. Something to work with. What we have to do now is chase a ten-month-cold trail. We find out what Brunner and Michael were up to, and from there, maybe we can figure out where this Heart of the Jungle is. Once we’ve gathered enough evidence, then we’ll take it to someone. Probably the FBI. Since this involves a child, it’s firmly within the purview of the Crimes Against Children Unit. I… know some people there that I trust much more than I trust Callahan.” For the first time since that awful night, Chris dared to feel a glimmer of hope—real hope. He regarded Jason with gratitude. “I don’t understand why you would want to do this for me,” he said. “I have a soft spot for anything involving children,” Jason replied, the painful memory crossing his face again. “And as I told you, I can’t stand a loose end. That probably has something to do with the way I pounced on you yesterday. I’m sorry about that. I can be a little aggressive when something’s captured my interest. Apart from that, I guess I feel somewhat responsible. If I hadn’t butted in, maybe the situation with Brunner and Michael would have worked itself out without MacQuery jumping in and throwing his weight around. They may have cooked up this whole scheme just to get out of the picture. Maybe they were planning to hold your daughter hostage to blackmail MacQuery and get him off their backs.” “If that’s true, then why haven’t they done it already? George said Brunner was out of the picture. He said he got rid of him a long time ago.” “I honestly don’t know. That’s one of the things we need to find out.” “How long do you think this will take?” “Could be a couple of days or a couple of months. Chris, it could be never. It just depends on how well Brunner covered his tracks.” Chris nodded, keying in on the note of caution in Jason’s tone. Though he was hopeful for the first time since the murders, he knew he had to keep his burgeoning optimism in check. “When do we start?” “Did you look at the papers I left at your house?”

“Actually, I threw them away,” Chris admitted sheepishly. Jason smiled. “Don’t worry about it. I have copies here.” He turned and pulled a folder from a drawer at his side and opened it on the desk. It contained police reports, photos, sketches, and notepaper scribbled with notes. “Let’s start with what I know about Brunner,” he began, drawing on the vast knowledge he’d accumulated about this topic during his previous investigation. “Brunner Investments, prior to its dissolution, was a front company for his less-than-legal business dealings. When I was trying to track down Eugenia Hathaway’s statue, I did a lot of digging, I was able to determine that the investors were unwittingly involved in drug trafficking, money laundering, terrorist organizations, the black market… baby brokering.” Chris gasped. “You can’t be serious.” “I’m afraid I am.” “You don’t think he would have sold my daughter?” “As much as the thought sickens me, I can’t ignore the connection. Anyway, it’s another possibility.” “But to who?” He shook his head. “Lots of mysteries here.” He moved on, sliding a page torn from a magazine toward Chris. The clipping contained a photograph of Brunner hoisting a beer aloft with one hand. His other arm was draped around Michael’s shoulder. Both men were gazing into the camera languidly. “This clipping is from a magazine called The Dish. It’s a monthly gay publication from West Hollywood where Brunner owns—owned—a flat. It was taken about a month before the incident.” “George told me they didn’t have any contact after he chased Brunner out of Seattle,” Chris said, disbelieving. “He said almost a full year before the murders.” “He probably had no idea,” Jason said, then returned the clipping to the folder. “Brunner is more slippery than you can imagine.” He passed a black-and-white photograph of a cheerful-looking Hispanic woman to Chris. “This is Rosalita Morales. She’s the woman you heard

in the recording. She was employed by Brunner as a maid for about four months, specifically from August through November of last year, right around the time this was all going down. I spoke to her yesterday to follow up on what she said in the recording. She was positive she’d accurately relayed the conversation. She said she still has nightmares about it. She also said that Michael stayed with Brunner frequently and that she recalls seeing him in early November, just after Halloween. Right before Brunner liquidated the flat in West Hollywood and disappeared.” “But that’s—” “After the supposed murders. I know. That’s why I think there’s a good possibility this was all staged and that he and your daughter are still alive. She wasn’t sure about the date, though, so don’t get too excited yet.” Chris clenched his fists in his lap and swallowed hard. The further Jason went along, the more likely it seemed his daughter was still alive. If some woman had seen Michael after he was purportedly murdered, then Brianna had to be alive too. “Brunner has since dropped off the face of the earth. Nobody’s heard from him for the past nine months—just as George said. I checked with every connection I can think of. His bank accounts are closed and emptied, and his name doesn’t come up in any of the databases I have access to. It’s like he’s dead.” Chris’s elation diminished slightly. “Do you think he is?” “Doubtful,” Jason said. “He’s got all kinds of connections. More than likely, he’s changed his identity and gone underground.” “Where do you think he is?” “Morales said they needed Brianna to get to the Heart of the Jungle. That’s important. Are you sure Michael never said anything about it?” Chris wracked his brain, struggling to recall. Coming up empty, he shook his head. “I don’t know. Michael wasn’t the outdoorsy type. I can’t imagine him traipsing through a jungle. He hated walking through the park.” Jason’s forehead furrowed and he gnawed at his lip. “Damn.” He heaved a sigh. “Well, we’ll keep working on it. I have a meeting with

one of his former associates who may be able to shed some light on it. Man by the name of Cross. He owns a pub called Lafferty’s on the Pier.” “I know Jeff Cross,” Chris said. “I wrote up Lafferty’s a long time ago.” “I know. Your review is probably the only reason Lafferty’s was able to stay afloat after the Brunner Investments scandal—something else I looked into.” “I know they tried to pin a lot of that on him, but I’m sure he didn’t have anything to do with it. In fact, Michael and I had a fight about it during Brunner’s trial. I tried to tell him that Jeff Cross was a decent man, that he couldn’t have been the criminal mastermind they were trying to make him out to be.” Jason grinned. “I bet Michael loved that.” “Actually, now that I think about it, he did get really worked up over it. At the time, I just chalked it up to courtroom stress. He told me to keep my mouth shut and that I was naïve and didn’t know what I was talking about.” Jason shook his head and frowned in distaste. “Michael knew Cross was innocent all along, but Brunner was a paying client. In more ways than one. In any case, I’m counting on Cross’s grudge against Brunner and his soft spot for you to get some information out of him that he’d be… hesitant to talk about with the police.” “Are you sure that Cross was really mixed up in all this?” Chris was skeptical. He was having a difficult time picturing the affable restaurateur as a hardened criminal. Jason chuckled softly. “Michael was right about one thing, Chris: you are a little naïve. Some bad guys are actually pretty nice.” Chris blushed in response to the mild ribbing. “It’s just… well, Jeff Cross is a family man. He has twin daughters a couple of years older than Brianna, and he seems so… normal. Now you’re telling me he’s some kind of crook.” “No, I’m telling you he’s no Pollyanna. None of the Brunner Investments partners were clean. Cross used to be an information broker. He passed messages back and forth. Kept the principals out of contact with each other if they were under surveillance. He knows everyone

there is to know in Brunner’s network. If Brunner went underground, I need to find out who was most likely to have helped him, and Cross will probably have some idea of who that is.” “If he does, do you really think he’ll tell us?” “Are you hungry?” Jason asked suddenly, glancing at the clock on the wall. Chris looked at him blankly and then followed his gaze. It was 5:10. “But we just started.” “I know a great Japanese restaurant not far from here.” “Jason—” “The place is called Hiroko’s, and they have fantastic sushi. How do you feel about sushi?” Chris’s mouth gaped. “You’re not really asking me to eat raw fish seconds after convincing me that my daughter could be alive?” Jason took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair, steepling his hands beneath his chin. “I’m sorry. I know you’re anxious. I have this issue with sensitivity. I promise you, we’re going to get answers. We’re not going to get them tonight, though.” He held Chris’s gaze for a moment longer, allowing the words to sink in. “Now, are you hungry or not?” It took some time for Chris to regain his wits. He stared at Jason, fighting down the urge to scream. The patient, understanding expression on the other man’s face helped him to squelch his anxiety. When he had mastered his feelings, he nodded in response. “Settled.” Jason climbed to his feet and deposited his files back into the filing cabinet. “Tell you what.” He grabbed his jacket off an antiquated coat stand. “Since I’m a compromising kind of guy, we’ll make this a working dinner.” Chris sighed in relief. As he stood, he smiled mischievously at Jason and said, “And since I am a compromising kind of guy, you can buy.”

Chapter 5

HIROKO’S was a short distance from Jason’s office. The early evening was warm and pleasant, and they walked together in companionable silence. The restaurant was set back from the street, and the walkway was lined with Japanese lanterns. The sun was setting, and the delicate glowing lights flickered cheerfully in the long shadows. The delicious aroma of Asian cooking met them at the dainty red gate, and they could hear the sound of a koto playing a haunting melody within. The interior was dimly lit and quiet, the clientele low-key and pleasant. Tinkling laughter could occasionally be heard. There was a traditional dining area in the center of the small space, with tatami rooms along the two side walls. The rice paper screens that shielded these intimate little booths were aglow with candlelight that painted the silhouettes of their occupants in charcoal gray. Moments after Jason and Chris walked in, a birdlike woman hurried across the restaurant toward them. She demurely touched Jason on the arm and smiled at him through half-lidded eyes. The woman rattled off a quiet, melodic greeting in Japanese. “Kom ba wa, Hiroko-san,” “Okagesamade genki desu.”

Jason

replied

comfortably.

She smiled shyly. “I haven’t seen you for such a long time.” Her command of English was perfect, touched by only a slight accent. “Would you like a booth? There is one open.” She motioned toward a tatami room near the back that was currently unoccupied.

After they had settled on the pillows arrayed on the floor around the low table, she served them an aromatic tea and excused herself with a promise to return soon. Jason smiled fondly as she departed. “I adore her. She owns the place,” he said, sipping his tea. “She’s remarkable.” Chris smiled in agreement, looking around the private space they occupied. “You speak Japanese?” he asked absently. “Not much more than simple greetings. ‘Good evening.’ ‘are you well,’ stuff like that. Oh, and I can order a beer with the best of ’em.” “Well, you sounded like an expert to me.” Jason chuckled, traced the rim of his stoneware teacup, and spoke in a soft voice touched with tenderness. “In her youth, Hiroko’s family was detained in the internment camps. Her parents died while they were quarantined, and she was left to raise her baby brother, Keisuke, alone. Hiroko made a living as a seamstress and saved every penny she could to put Keisuke through college.” Chris held his own mug of tea in both hands and sipped it cautiously. He raised an eyebrow. The flavor was nutty and surprisingly complex. Jason’s eyes softened as he continued Hiroko’s tale. “Her brother is now one of the country’s top neurosurgeons. This restaurant was a gift to Hiroko. It was her dream to someday be a successful businesswoman, and since she’d been responsible for helping him become a doctor, he made her dream come true in return.” Chris was surprised at how much Jason knew about Hiroko, and he couldn’t help but be impressed by the story of her life. “How do you know so much about her?” he asked with genuine curiosity. “The FBI,” Jason answered, refilling their teacups. “The FBI? Don’t tell me you did a background check on the poor woman before you came in here to eat?” “No.” Jason’s amused expression dimmed, and his face became somber and distant as he settled the teapot back onto the table. “Once upon a time… I was a legitimate investigator.” He spoke as though the

admission were something to be ashamed of. He worked a jaw muscle and shrugged. “I picked up a couple of habits—late nights, for one.” “And?” “I have a knack for getting people to talk to me.” “You never said anything about working for the FBI before.” Chris couldn’t imagine why he seemed so put off about his past. Remembering the painful memories that seemed to have surfaced during their earlier conversation, he wondered if there was some bad history associated with his former occupation. Jason’s expression was guarded when he spoke again. “I spent seven years in the force,” he said slowly. “In fact, I was a special investigator in the CACU—Crimes Against Children Unit.” “So what happened?” Chris asked, leaning in with interest. Jason looked away. “I wasn’t cut out for it.” There was a brittle edge to his voice that hadn’t been there before. Chris pulled back, completely stunned by the change in Jason’s demeanor. He’d obviously crossed into dangerous territory. He was instantly apologetic. God knew he understood the inclination to avoid intensely personal revelations. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.” Jason’s expression softened as he realized how inappropriate his sudden defensiveness had been. “It’s okay, it’s just….” He seemed to struggle with how to articulate his thoughts. “Just bad memories.” Chris reached out and lightly touched his hand. “I have a few of those myself,” he said. Their eyes met and held. The casual touch was nothing more than one human reaching out to comfort another, yet something indefinable passed from fingertip to flesh in the brief moment of contact. There was a compelling chemistry at work, something that could be felt but not readily described. It was intriguing, if a little alarming. The sound of the sliding partition broke the connection, and they became immediately self-conscious. Chris stared fixedly into his tea, as though trying to divine his future in the murky depths. Jason focused his attention on Hiroko, though he seemed to be having some difficulty concentrating on her presence.

Hiroko was sensitive enough to notice that she had interrupted a private moment, and she took their orders quickly and rushed away, her eyes begging forgiveness for the intrusion. Jason watched her go and turned his gaze back to Chris. When their eyes met again, the mood had shifted. “I’ve been wracking my brain,” Chris said. “Oh? Over what?” “Michael. I can’t think of any reason he would want to fake his death. He could have left at any time.” “That’s the big mystery.” “I’ve been working this over in my mind since I heard the tape in your office, and I might have a suggestion.” Jason raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Let’s hear it.” “What if….” Chris had to swallow hard. The idea was so horrific to him that he had trouble articulating it. “What if they wanted me to kill myself? I have a history.” His eyes unconsciously sought out his wrists. “Make things bad enough, push the right buttons… doesn’t really get much worse than this, does it?” “Do you have any idea why he would have wanted that?” “Maybe to get me out of the way so they could blackmail George?” “Interesting theory,” Jason said, nodding slowly. “I’m not a rich man. I don’t have any assets of significance. They wouldn’t have anything to gain by handing a ransom demand to me. Besides, Michael would have known I would take it straight to the police. George, on the other hand… if he had something to lose, his firm’s reputation, for example, and I wasn’t in the picture, well, that would probably compel him to pay whatever they asked for.” “You sure you haven’t done this before?” Chris shook his head and frowned. “I don’t know. It doesn’t explain why I needed to kill myself. This guy Brunner, if he’s the criminal you say he is… seems like there are easier ways to off me than waiting around for me to do it myself. The more I think about it… it just seems too elaborate. There has to be something else, something we’re

missing.” “You underestimate yourself. For someone who doesn’t claim to know much about Brunner, your theory is as good as anything I could come up with,” Jason said. “He’s known for particularly elaborate schemes.” “How much money would they have made from selling her?” Chris tried, thinking of another angle. His voice trembled at the thought of it. Jason considered. “A couple hundred thousand, maybe.” “That’s all?” “Obviously that theory is out. I like the ransom demand of MacQuery better. Sounds more like Brunner’s style. George could afford to drop a couple million without batting an eye.” “I only met Brunner once or twice,” Chris mused. “I didn’t really like him. He seemed like a snob. Made me feel like a bumpkin.” “He’s probably one of the most conniving criminals I’ve ever met. He’s crafty. He’s power hungry and well-connected. That makes him dangerous.” “Brianna was the only thing that really mattered to me.” Chris tried to blink back the tears that brimmed in his eyes. He was unwilling to make such a show of weakness again. “If she’s alive, I promise you we’ll get her back. We’ll make Brunner and Michael answer for what they’ve done.” Chris blinked rapidly. The embarrassing tears would not relent. In response, Jason reached out. He placed his hand atop Chris’s. Chris looked into his eyes and then quickly looked away. Something in Jason’s stare alarmed him. Maybe he was just imagining it. But no, when he looked back, the intensity remained. Jason’s gaze had taken on a new magnetism. The scrutiny was similar to but more genuine than the affected flirtation Chris had endured during their first meeting. Although it had been a very long time since anyone had looked at him in just that way, Chris knew instantly what it meant—at least subconsciously. His hands trembled, and butterflies arose in his stomach. His body was automatically responding to the mysterious transformation of posture and expression that had come over Jason. Although he willed

his hand to move, it seemed to be melted directly into Jason’s warm flesh. Heat flared in his cheeks. He was certain they had become flushed. Summoning all of the strength of will he had, he averted his eyes and pulled his hand away, though he was positive it was the most difficult thing he’d ever had to do. Confused and utterly betrayed by the treachery of his automatic responses to Jason’s charisma, he couldn’t force himself to look back for several minutes. How could this be happening? As much as his body might want to act upon the strange ideas that were forming in his mind, he could never follow those impulses. This vague desire was unsettling and entirely inappropriate. “I have to be honest with you,” Jason said. “I really hope I’m not leading you astray. I really don’t have much evidence, but I believe that Michael and your daughter are alive. I trust Rosalita Morales. She wouldn’t have lied to me. I’m sure their disappearance is some kind of scheme Brunner concocted. I can feel it in my gut.” He shook his head. “I won’t blame you if you want me to back off, but I’m in too deep now to let go.” There was a purposeful double meaning in what he was saying. Chris’s response to his bold flirtation had not gone unnoticed. Jason seemed determined to act on the attraction between them that remained unacknowledged. “I just hope there isn’t more heartache in this for you.” It was only with supreme effort that Chris was able to meet Jason’s eyes. He could read the subtext of what the other man was saying clearly upon his face. As preposterous as it seemed, Jason Kingsley was genuinely interested in him, wanted more than a professional relationship. Chris said firmly, “I won’t let myself be hurt again. It’s been too long since I’ve been in the driver’s seat of my own life. It’s time I got back behind the wheel.” Jason nodded, understanding the challenge he had just been issued, but the look in his eyes said he was undeterred. “I wonder where our food is.” As if on cue, the screen slid open and Hiroko whispered through in a swirl of silk and delicate footsteps. She quickly laid the table with a delectable assortment of sushi, tempura, and yakisoba and smiled graciously when they thanked her. As they started eating, she excused herself quickly and slid the screen closed.

AS HE walked along the sidewalk in front of his apartment complex, Jason replayed the dinner with Chris in his mind. He remembered the kindness in Chris’s emerald eyes, the grief, and the quiet strength. He replayed the scene at Chris’s house where he’d called him a coward, and colored in shame. How wrong he’d been. Chris James was anything but a coward. He’d somehow endured all of the monstrous things visited upon him, and though he had nearly been destroyed, he’d held on. If you looked just beneath the surface, there was grit there. Chris was tenderness with a rock-solid core. There had been a moment when he could almost have brought himself to speak of the guilt and torment that had tattooed blackness onto his own soul, of the sorrow he himself had borne. What was it that made him want to reveal those carefully kept secrets? Chris was a perfect stranger… and yet there was something between them that Jason was at odds to define. There was a gibbous moon in the evening sky, and a soft breeze, laden with the tangy scent of the sea, blew in from the west. He stopped at the stairwell and breathed deeply, relishing the moment. A shrill voice floated out of the shadows, interrupting his reverie. “Well, it’s about time.” Jason jumped. Bradley. He gritted his teeth, struggling to regain his composure before turning to face the interloper. “What are you doing here?” he asked cautiously, hoping to avoid a scene. Bradley peeked out of the deep shadows at the base of the steps, brushing at his backside. He walked casually into a pool of streetlamp light and ran a slender hand through unruly blond hair. He fixed Jason with a pouting, petulant look. “Oh, love the getup,” he said, reaching out and straightening Jason’s jacket collar. Jason resisted the urge to flinch away and stood stock still, waiting for the unwanted ministrations to run their course. He stepped back when it became apparent that Bradley would expend no effort to diminish the

physical distance between them. Bradley wrinkled his nose and sniffed pertly, “Oh delish, you smell like grease and raw fish.” “I just came from Hiroko’s,” Jason said. Bradley was being purposefully provocative. So much for avoiding a scene. He’s here for a fight. “I don’t get why you like that dump.” Frustration mounted and he fought to control it. “Come on, Bradley. Are we really going to do this again?” Bradley’s lips formed into an intense pout. “Do what again?” “It’s over. Enough is enough.” Bradley’s cheeks flushed. “It’s over when I say it’s over. You might think you can just write off three years, JayKay”—Jason cringed involuntarily at the sound of the nickname he hated with his very soul— “but you’re wrong if you think I’m going to make it easy for you.” He shoved fisted hands against his hips. Jason took a deep breath and said, “I’m sorry you’re hurting, but you really have to move on.” Bradley sneered and rolled his eyes. “Don’t patronize me.” Although he was trying very hard to avoid a confrontation, he was seized by a sharp flash of anger. How many times was Bradley going to rub their breakup in his face? How many pounds of flesh did he intend to take? Keeping his tone carefully neutral, Jason said, “I’ve apologized a hundred times in a hundred ways. Believe me, Bradley, I beat myself up over what I did to you far worse than you ever could. This scene is getting tired. It’s pointless.” Bradley was silent. Jason could see his shoulders trembling. It was apparent he was fighting for control of his emotions, though stoicism had never been one of his better skills. “You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you? My side of the bed is barely cold and you’re out playing house with some little skank.” He wasn’t, of course, but there was no point arguing. He shrugged. “What if I am?” “I knew it,” Bradley said, as if uncovering some dark secret.

“Our relationship has been over for months,” Jason said. “Why should it matter to you?” “Let me guess, you’re shagging one of your clients again? So predictable.” Although he didn’t want to fight, Jason’s anger was rising to the point that it would soon become inevitable. His hands curled into fists. “It’s time for you to go.” He reached out, grasped the smaller man’s shoulder, and pointed him toward the parking lot. Bradley jerked out of his grip. He latched onto the collar of Jason’s jacket. “I’m not some cheap tramp you can just toss out into the street,” he said. “I have feelings.” Jason wrenched away and glared. “What do you think you’re going to accomplish with this?” He took a step, closing the distance between them. “Do you think I’m suddenly going to change my mind and want you back?” Bradley gave him a scornful look. “Please,” he said. “What makes you think I want you back?” The lie was blatantly obvious. Bradley had always been given to flights of melodrama. This was just another expression of his need for constant attention. Good, bad, it didn’t really matter as long as he got it. Recognizing Bradley’s tantrum for what it was dulled the edge of Jason’s ire. Looking into Bradley’s eyes now, he felt only pity. “Go home, Bradley,” he said. “Get help. Get a life. I don’t care. Just leave me alone.” For a moment, Bradley didn’t say anything. Jason could tell by the look on his face that he was trying to think of a way to keep the fight going. Finally, in a small, wounded voice, Bradley asked, “That’s it?” “It’s all I’ve got,” Jason said, bringing his hands up in a gesture of defeat. That was the cold, hard truth. He’d run out of attention. He’d run out of remorse. If Bradley needed a fix, he’d have to find it somewhere else from now on. Bradley nodded slowly. “You get back what you give times seven. Good and bad.”

“I’ve paid that price many times over,” Jason said. “You know that better than anyone.” The reminder of Jason’s troubled past seemed to catch Bradley off guard. Jason saw a blush of shame rise to his cheeks, and Bradley looked away. He seemed suddenly incapable of meeting Jason’s eyes. “Your past is no excuse for how you treated me. Stop using it as a crutch.” “I wish I could,” Jason admitted, surprising himself. Bradley stared back at him for a long time. “And you think I need help?” He snorted and rolled his eyes. “Goodbye, Jason,” Bradley said, and then turned and walked away. As Jason watched him go, he breathed a sigh of relief. Goodbye, Bradley. Maybe this time it would stick.

Chapter 6

LAFFERTY’S was typical of the Seattle waterfront: a millish-looking wooden structure set far out onto the end of Pier 61. The weathered, boxy building atop tarred and barnacle-crusted posts perched precariously over the greasy, oil-slicked waters of Puget Sound. Gulls wheeled lazily overhead, searching for scraps, and the sound of a ferry’s foghorn blasted through the drizzly afternoon. Chris followed Jason along the wooden pier toward the entrance. Despite Jason’s optimism and the high value he placed on Jeffrey Cross’s esteem, Chris remained skeptical. He was still trying to reconcile himself to the fact that, after nearly a year of dead air, there was finally a glimmer of hope. A soaring heart always fears the fall, he thought. Once inside, they were taken immediately to a table in a secluded corner of the establishment with a good view of the water. Chris stared out at the sound in contemplation while they waited for Cross to make his entrance. They didn’t have to wait long. Jeffrey Cross had been looking forward to the meeting, and he was prompt. He was a short, rotund man with cherubic features and thinning blond hair. He was clad simply in a pair of khaki chinos and a blue chambray shirt. As he approached, he was preceded by the almost overpowering fragrance of his cologne. He smiled warmly as he settled in an empty chair and shook Chris’s hand. “Christian,” he said in a surprisingly rich baritone. “I’ve been

dying to shake the hand of the man who saved Lafferty’s.” Chris smiled and blushed. “I’m sure you’re giving me far too much credit. As I recall, your gumbo is extraordinary.” Cross laughed a deep, hearty laugh. “Modest. I love that about you. That and your discerning palate.” Jason sat back and watched with admiration. Whatever misgivings Chris might have had about this meeting, he seemed to have put them aside. His casual familiarity was obviously charming the pants right off of Jeffrey Cross. Before that moment, he’d harbored some reservations about bringing him along, but seeing Cross’s beaming smile, he put aside his doubts. After several minutes of small talk and two rounds of hastily gulped drinks, it was clear that their host was becoming more malleable. Drink had lent a rosy glow to his cheeks and the patches of balding pate just visible beneath his wispy blond hair. Jason decided it was time to get what they had come for. “Chris and I are investigating the disappearance of his daughter and Michael Blake.” Cross sobered and nodded thoughtfully. “You mentioned something like that on the phone. Although I’m not sure how you think I can help.” His blond eyebrows pinched together. “I can tell you I wasn’t sorry to see that son of a bitch gone—sorry, Chris. You know he tried to crucify me in the courtroom.” Cross flicked his eyes in Chris’s direction sheepishly. “He may have had his redeeming qualities, but he spent none of them on me, I can assure you.” Chris nodded in understanding and sipped his drink. Jason watched the interchange with satisfaction and steeled himself to deliver the next blow. He took a deep breath, leveled his gaze at Cross, and said, “I have evidence that Brunner was involved in his disappearance.” Cross’s entire demeanor changed instantly. The mention of the hated name was enough to send him into a blind rage. “Brunner,” he sputtered. “That conniving, ruthless piece of shit.” He pushed himself away from the table, looking as though filth had been thrown at him. Jason suppressed a small smile of victory. He had been counting on the fact that Cross still nursed a grudge, and his hunch had just panned

out better than he’d expected. “Seems like the kind of thing that sicko would do,” Cross said, his anger mellowing to a slow rolling boil. “I don’t know where he is, if that’s what you think. Believe me, if I did, I’d serve his head to you on a silver platter.” Jason fixed his eyes firmly on Cross’s. “What do you know about the Heart of the Jungle?” he asked. “Which jungle?” Cross asked. “I’m not sure. Michael and Brunner mentioned something about getting to the Heart of the Jungle, and I thought you might have some idea what they meant.” Cross considered for a few minutes and then shrugged. “Lots of jungles in South America where Brunner had some drug contacts,” he offered. “Maybe they were talking about that.” Jason shook his head. “No, they were very specific. They said they needed Chris’s daughter to get to the Heart of the Jungle.” Cross looked over at Chris with sympathy in his eyes. He shook his head. “If it’s some kind of code, it isn’t one I’ve ever heard of. I’m sorry.” Jason searched his expression for some sign he was holding back, but could find none. Apparently, he was telling the truth. It was time to switch tactics. Time for manipulation. He traced his finger along the tabletop, keeping his eyes on Cross. This next part was the delicate bit. To get Cross to give up the kind of information they were looking for, they were going to have to get him to confess to dealing with some unsavory people and that he’d perjured himself in the courtroom. Jason looked over at Chris, and his eyes filled with sorrow. “I can’t imagine what it’s like to lose a child. Neither one of us can guess at the kind of hell Chris must have been through. Not knowing.” Cross followed Jason’s speech, and he too turned sympathetic eyes on Chris. Jason knew exactly which buttons to push, and he wielded that skill now as he played Cross like a well-tuned instrument. “You have two young daughters, don’t you?” Jason asked, setting

the hook firmly. Cross gasped. Jason could almost follow the direction of his thoughts as he watched the expressions play across Cross’s face. Chris had shared with him that Jacqueline and Miranda, Cross’s two daughters, were the center of his universe. He loved them more than life itself. It only took a small nudge for him to imagine losing them and knowing that Brunner had something to do with it. Even as Jason watched, he could see the hatred intensify. Seizing the ripeness of the moment, Jason ceased his tabletop tracery and fixed Cross with an iron gaze. “I believe you when you say you don’t know where Brunner is, but that’s not what I’m here for. I know how much you hate him, and I can’t say I blame you.” Cross seemed to realize what kind of snare Jason had set for him, and he fidgeted restlessly. He knew an unspoken question was being asked, and he was caught between the lies he’d already told and the realization that he might finally have the ability to stick it to Brunner. There were long minutes of tense, expectant silence as Cross grappled with indecision. He finally surrendered. He cleared his throat and signaled to the waiter for another drink. “Better make it a scotch, double and straight up, Danny.” After Danny delivered the drink, Cross downed it in one great gulp. He slammed the tumbler onto the table, took a deep breath, and dabbed perspiration from his brow before speaking. “You realize I’m about to stick my neck out?” Jason nodded. “I understand why you would feel that way.” He paused, thinking of a way to ease the man’s mind. “But Chris and me… we’re not the cops. Whatever you tell us stays with us.” Chris stared at Jeff Cross intently, his body rigid, every fiber tuned into what was about to be said. Jason couldn’t begin to decipher how he was feeling, but he could read uneasiness on his features. He winked reassuringly as if to say don’t worry, everything is going to be fine. Cross swiped again at the perspiration he couldn’t seem to control, and as Jason watched, he worked his index finger under the collar of his shirt and pulled it away from his neck. He cleared his throat, stared at the empty scotch glass, and finally, sensing that there was no escape,

focused on Jason. “You think Brunner kidnapped the girl? Maybe needed to offload her?” Jason didn’t respond. He was doing his best to hold Cross’s gaze, but he was torn between watching the man for duplicity and keeping an eye on Chris’s reaction. “I’d be willing to bet,” Cross continued, toying with his glass, “you’re looking for a woman named Hopkins.” His face turned a deeper shade of red. “She runs an escort service in Vegas. Even though prostitution isn’t completely illicit there, Hopkins has good reasons for not wanting anyone peeking under her skirts. She specializes in the hardto-please cases—powerful men who get off on stuff that isn’t exactly pretty.” Jason asked, “What does that mean?” “Power, domination, danger. These men have everything money can buy, and they like to hurt, control… sometimes worse.” Jason was starting to get the picture. He’d heard of such a trade, and the thought sickened him. “She lets these girls die?” “Not that she’d admit to. Wouldn’t be easy to find merchandise if word got out, now would it? But she does have a tendency to… overlook it when her clients get carried away.” Jason could see the revulsion and horror on Chris’s face. Living his quiet, law-abiding lifestyle, Chris apparently wasn’t aware of some of the more contemptible acts of which men were capable. Jason had been hardened to it from his time in the FBI, but he could remember what it was like to be mortified to discover all the varieties of evil that existed outside of cheap horror flicks. Having admitted to something he kept carefully concealed, Cross seemed to be feeling the pressure. Jason knew he would give up some secrets, but he had a limit. He could sense Cross was toeing the line in the shifty roaming of his eyes. He was holding something back, though, something that was causing him a great deal of discomfort. Jason had seen this evasive expression a hundred times or more. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he accused. Cross nodded and took a deep breath. “I don’t want to alarm you, but if Hopkins is involved, there’s another possibility you should prepare

yourself for. She’s brokered baby deals before, but she’s done other things too… worse things. Not all of her clients get their kicks from slapping some poor hooker around. Some of them—” Jason sucked in his breath and held up his hand, imploring Cross to be silent. He hadn’t considered the possibility that Hopkins had kept Brianna for herself as a plaything for her sick clientele. “I think I’ve heard enough.” Cross’s mouth clamped shut, and the glass tumbler rattled against the table in time with his trembling hand. “I pray to God that’s not what happened,” he said in a weak voice. “Not even eternal damnation is good enough punishment for that.” “What’s he talking about?” Chris asked. Jason shook his head in reply. It was best not to give voice to what Cross was insinuating. Better if they didn’t even consider it. It would most certainly be too much for Chris to take. “I think Chris and I have taken enough of your time,” Jason said, coming to his feet, anxious to get away. “Hopkins, you said her name was?” “She has a penthouse on Paradise over her nightclub. I don’t know how the hell you plan on getting close to her, but her bookie is named Gunther, and he’s usually hanging around the bar. He’s got a jagged scar on his face, on the left side.” Chris broke in. “Somebody had better explain this to me. I’m not a complete idiot. There’s something you’re not telling me.” Cross stood and fixed Chris with a soft, compassionate stare. “I’m sorry this had to happen to you. I really hope your daughter is okay.” Chris glared. “You know this woman. What’s your opinion?” “I never said I know that monster,” Cross protested. “I know of her, that’s all.” Jason reached his hand across the table and touched Chris reassuringly. “Cross only deals in information, Chris. He just keeps facts. He’s not guilty.” “Fine. But you don’t just let this kind of stuff go. If this woman is as evil as you say she is and you didn’t do anything to try to stop her, in

my book that’s guilty enough.” Time to go. Jason stood abruptly. Chris was losing his cool. Jeffrey Cross’s mouth gaped open. His eyes widened, and his face paled visibly. Jason drug Chris out of his seat and herded him toward the door. They’d gotten what they had come for, and things were heading rapidly south. Chris’s last comment had been spoken loudly enough that the few patrons scattered about their vicinity started to cast curious glances in their direction. “I want to know what you think she did with my daughter,” Chris said, jerking himself out of Jason’s steel grip. “Come on,” Jason said, reestablishing his hold on Chris’s arm. “And you”—Chris jerked away and glared—“stop grabbing me. This is my child we’re talking about here. I want answers, goddamn it.” “Now is not the time.” Chris broke away and marched up to Cross. He poked a finger sharply into the man’s chest. “What the hell do you think she did with my daughter?” He was riding the edge of hysteria. He was trembling, his face awash in the sanguine tones of unrestrained rage. Michael wasn’t there, Brunner wasn’t there, the Hopkins woman wasn’t there, but Jason and Cross were. They served as proxies for the real players, living people he could shower with blame and recrimination. Jason knew he viewed this as his moment of reckoning. Someone was going to pay. Recognizing the danger, he moved to intervene. “Listen to me,” Jason shouted, grabbing Chris’s arm again and pulling him around. He stared directly into his eyes. “Nobody knows. We don’t even know she was involved. Pull it together.” Cross was smiling apologetically to his patrons, anxious to get Chris and Jason out the door. He had the frantic look of a gazelle that had been tagged for dinner by a pride of savannah lions. Chris stared daggers at Cross around the blocking bulk of Jason’s body. “If this woman has harmed my daughter in any way, I’ll hold you to account. You knew all about the horrible things she’s done, and you did nothing. You could have stopped her.” Jason pulled him forcefully

toward the exit as the tirade continued. “Think about my daughter when you close your eyes at night, damn you. Think about her!” Chris was still shouting as the door closed behind them, and they came to a stop on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant. When Jason was sure Chris had regained enough composure not to rush back in and continue the harassment, he loosened his grip. “That could have had a happier ending,” he scolded. Chris wrenched fully out of Jason’s grasp and glared. “It’s a shitty thing that’s happened to you, but you have to realize that blaming Cross isn’t going to accomplish anything. Save it for Brunner, and for Michael.” Chris took several deep breaths. Now that his passion had cooled, he had the good grace to blush in shame. “You’re right.” He shook his head as though trying to clear it after a hard blow. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lost it like that.” Jason smiled softly in understanding. “Cross is a jerk. He’s probably got it coming.” He motioned toward the end of the pier. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” With one last glance toward the restaurant, Chris followed.

“WATSON here,” the giant, swarthy man said into his cell phone. “We’ve got a problem.” He stood in the afternoon shadow of the restaurant, leaning casually against an oiled post, watching as Chris and Jason walked away. “Elaborate” was the reply. “I’ve been following your birdie, and he’s just flown out of Lafferty’s on the pier.” There was a moment of silence. “Continue.” The tone was carefully neutral. He’d never met his employer face to face, and he really didn’t care to. The money kept coming, and that was good enough for him.

“I didn’t hear that much of the conversation, but Cross must have spilled something. He may have pointed a finger in your direction.” Once more, there was silence. “This is unfortunate. Opinion?” “Cross knows too much. Best if we shut him up.” “Agreed.” “And your birdie?” “Needs another nudge—we’ve waited long enough.” The man’s eyes tracked toward his retreating quarry. “His new friend, maybe?” “Perhaps.” There was a pause. “Yes, that might be just the thing. Be creative. Surprise me. The more… spectacular, the more of an impression it will make.” “Understood.” He snapped the phone closed and pocketed it. He’d become accustomed to these brief, enigmatic conversations, but they still unnerved him. Nonetheless, he wasn’t being paid to be chummy. From the same pocket where he’d deposited the phone, he withdrew a pack of Camel cigarettes, lit one, and drew on it deeply. So much for catching the ball game tonight. He had work to do.

Chapter 7

“I’M going with you.” Chris’s jaw was set as he stared at Jason across the counter in his kitchen. “Chris, for the tenth time, it’s just not a good idea. What if Brunner is keeping an eye on your movements?” “So what?” He stood and paced in nervous agitation. “Let him know I’m coming for him, let him squirm.” “That’s exactly what we don’t want.” “Damn it.” Chris slammed his fist onto the granite countertop. “Why not?” Jason sighed. “What if he has your daughter? Do you really want to make him nervous?” This drew Chris up short. He paused in his pacing and looked at Jason through wide eyes. “What do you think he’d do?” “A wild animal is much more dangerous when it’s cornered.” “You don’t think he’d hurt her?” “It’s possible. More likely, he’ll run. Right now, as far as he knows, you are still in the dark. Best if we keep it that way for as long as possible. All of this will be much easier if Brunner doesn’t get spooked.” Chris leaned against the counter for support. His legs felt like water, and his stomach churned. What if Brunner already has a tail on me? What if our visit to Cross was noticed? What if he already knows we’re onto him?

As if Jason could read his mind, he said soothingly, “Wouldn’t make sense to keep tabs on you 24/7. He’s probably doing check-ins from time to time. Watching for an obit… if your theory is right.” Chris pinched the bridge of his nose, took a deep breath, and closed his eyes. How could he just sit here and do nothing? After ten agonizing months, the pieces might be starting to fall into place, and Jason expected him to just twiddle his thumbs and wait for the outcome? He couldn’t do it. “Are we agreed?” He opened his eyes. “Do I have a choice?” He already knew the answer from the stubborn set to Jason’s jaw. He looked at his hands on the countertop in frustration. “I just don’t know if I can stand the waiting.” Jason reached out and tilted his chin upward. “You’ve done nothing but wait for the past ten months. Isn’t it just a little bit easier for you, knowing that this time you might actually get some answers?” A single tear traced a course down Chris’s cheek. Jason’s eyes filled with compassionate tenderness as he said, “I promise you, I will do everything I can to make this right for you.” Chris mustered a wan, grateful smile. Without quite realizing what was happening, he found himself wrapped tightly in Jason’s arms, pressed close to his lithe, powerful body. As they came together, the planes and angles of their forms aligned as if they had been made to fit one another. Though he was shocked by this wanton surrender, his body was responding to a much deeper need. Intimacy, the touch of another human being—these were comforts he’d not been afforded for a very long time. Strangely, this moment transcended any closeness he’d ever known. He knew he should rail against it and put down this raw emotion. He knew, but once ensnared, he could not find the will to break free. As Jason’s presence gathered around him like a summer rain, Christian James gave in fully to the agony he’d endured not only since his world had fallen apart, but all the wrongs that had come before. He let go of all the unfulfilled needs he’d ever known and clung fiercely to the surcease of intimate touch.

As much as he could take, Jason gave measure for measure. As tightly as he dared to cling, Jason held that much more tightly. The rapid staccatos of their hearts were the only sounds in the universe that mattered. They were separate and apart from the world they inhabited. They were caught up in a moment they both needed and they both feared. Time had no meaning, but Chris finally summoned the courage to move away. Though the emptiness between them drew at him like a singularity, he resisted the pull. He’d been far too careless. Jason could not be an anchor for him, nor he for Jason. Not with so much uncertainty ahead. A deeper part of him realized that he had been irrevocably changed. Some core of him, long drained, had been filled, if only for a moment. Now that he’d tasted that rich draught, the thirst would never be so easily slaked again. He stepped back, ashamed and unsure, afraid to meet Jason’s gaze for fear of what he might see there and how he might yet again relent. I can’t do this. There’s no place for this in my life. He knew these things, and yet…. “I should go,” Jason said, his voice strained. Chris flicked his eyes upward only for an instant, but that brief glance was enough to see that his torment was a shared one. “You’ll keep in touch?” “I promise. You’ll know what I know as soon as I know it.” Chris held onto the counter for support, still looking anywhere but directly at Jason. “Chris—” “I can’t.” He cut Jason off before the words could be spoken. “Not yet.” He still couldn’t bear to look. “Not now. Maybe never.” He caught a glimpse of a clenched jaw and knew it expressed a deep disappointment. “I understand.” It was a lie. They both knew it, but it was a lie best accepted for the time being. Without another word, Jason turned and left. His gait was stiff, and Chris knew he was fighting for control with each step he took.

Perhaps there would be a time for this, but not now. His life was a spider’s web in a hurricane, a tattered tapestry that Pearl would say was “held together with scotch tape and a prayer.” Maybe someday, when the storm had passed, he would be able to reassemble those parts of his heart that weren’t damaged and learn to feel something with the fragments, but that time wasn’t now. Right now, he needed answers. When he’d gotten those answers, and only then, would he be able to entertain the possibility.

JASON slipped out of his car and wandered through the shadowed parking lot, not really paying attention to where he was going. His mind was in torment, his body still burning from the touch of Chris against him. He took his time, meandering along, absently avoiding puddles of oil-black rainwater that pooled in dips and hollows. How in the hell was this possible? He didn’t fall in love, damn it. Yet that was exactly what had happened. No use denying it now. He’d never wanted for intimate company, but he’d never allowed himself to get emotionally attached, either. Love was a triviality, and a dangerous one at that. It was something that other people did—people who didn’t have so much baggage weighing them down. He’d been careful in his choice of companions, allowing entanglements that could only ever be superficial. Before, he’d blamed it on his career and his need for discretion. After that, it was bitterness and guilt over the disaster that had led to his resignation from the FBI. Whatever it was, there had always been something holding him back. Poor Bradley, Jason mused, didn’t realize he had been doomed from the start. He’d been chosen because love could never result. Love formed out of mutual respect, equality, and an interest in the thoughts and feelings of the other person. He couldn’t imagine having any of that with Bradley, with anyone, really. There was safety in physical attraction and danger in anything more. When it came right down to it, he didn’t believe he was even

capable of that kind of sentiment, especially considering that he had never encountered someone who could touch him in that way. Somehow there was always something missing, always some obstacle in the way. Then there was Hiroko’s… and Chris. Then there was the night that a sad smile and haunted green eyes had reached out to him, grabbed hold, and had not let him go. He considered himself far too pragmatic for romance, even though he didn’t deny its existence. It just wasn’t his thing—or it hadn’t been until he’d come across Christian James. Everything about Chris—the air of melancholy, the quiet strength, and the gentle wisdom in his emerald eyes—spoke directly to Jason’s soul. He shook his head, struggling to come to terms with these wholly unfamiliar feelings, trying to recall each of his past relationships, searching for some commonality. He had no basis for comparison. It was almost as if his heart had been waiting all along for this one person. He was walking on shaky ground, feeling lost and cheated. The universe had brought Christian James into his world in such a state. Jason felt like a starving man at a feast that remained elusively out of reach. Irony, it seemed, had the upper hand. There were impossible obstacles, just as there had always been in the past, so what was different about Chris that made him want to ignore every one of them? Why was it that the idea of accepting the impossibility made him feel lonely and sad? Why did he want so badly to grab on to something that made him feel so hopelessly lost? He realized he’d arrived at his door with no memory of having traversed the parking lot and climbing the stairs. He fondled his keys, still lost in thought. As he entered his apartment, his inner torment was instantly forgotten. Some deep instinct screamed at him that something was not right. He didn’t know what set off the alarms in his head, but it was very real, very immediate. The almost preternatural knowing was another of those carry-overs from dangerous fieldwork. It had served him well too many times to discount its warning now. He’d come to trust it, even to rely upon it. He stood stock-still against the door and closed it softly behind him.

Moving with experienced stealth, he snaked his hand up the wall toward the light switch and listened, trying to detect the slightest sound or hint of movement. He heard nothing except the rapid beating of his heart. Nonetheless, the longer he stood with his back to the door, the more intense the sense of wrongness became until he thought he would explode from the building tension. His fingers made contact with the switch. In the instant before he could flip it upward, the attack came. A solid mass slammed into him and flung him onto the floor. He wrestled with the brute, deftly fending off blows that rained down from above. His dodges were guided by sound and the tracery of air on his cheek as his attacker sought contact. Whoever it was, he was the embodiment of fury, a relentless, ruthless force of nature. The invader struck out again and again, frustration lending force to the blows. Jason shoved out with his knees, connecting with a yielding midsection. The satisfying explosion of air from the man’s lungs was followed by a strained wheeze of pain, and he was just able to wrench himself free. He rolled onto his stomach and clawed his way toward the wall. Before his attacker had a chance to recover, he leapt to his feet and kicked out, searching for the body he knew was close. His foot connected with soft flesh, but in the next instant, strong hands wrapped around his ankle and dragged him down. As he hit the floor, his head cracked against the ceramic tile, and vertigo rushed up to meet him. Frantically, he gulped air and blinked his eyes to keep the blackness at bay. The hulking man leapt atop him once more. Beefy hands wrapped anaconda-like about his neck, choking off his air. He was struck violently and stars exploded across his vision. Death was close—closer than it had ever been in his life. A mere hairsbreadth separated him from unconsciousness when the steel hands released their grip and the black menace that sat astride him laughed. The wicked sound of it sent chills down his spine. “You’ve been poking your fingers in places they don’t belong,” the

disembodied voice said. “I guess I’ll have to take them off one at a time.” “Who the hell are you?” he gasped with the precious little air he’d been able to draw into his lungs. Again came the evil chuckle. He tried to speak, but was silenced by a blinding white pain inside his skull as he was backhanded again. The black silhouette hovering over him spread like an oil slick, and he felt himself slipping into oblivion. Through his stupor, he heard the unmistakable snick of a switchblade opening and knew he had to do something now, before it was too late. It was survival instinct that led his fingers to his pocket and the keys within. He scrabbled to free them and thrust upward. He was rewarded by the sickening give of soft flesh and a scream of human agony as the impromptu weapon plunged deep into his attacker’s eye. A hot spurt of blood and gelatinous fluid splashed over his hand. The heavy weight rolled off of him. The damage he’d inflicted had bought him a chance to escape, and he took it. He rolled away and dashed through the door. As his feet hit the pavement, the ground near his shoes exploded. Chunks of hot asphalt bit deeply into his flesh. He didn’t stop, didn’t look back. Instead, he dove for cover behind a low hedge and commando-crawled across the wet grass toward the relative safety of the sidewalk and the busy street. He took off in a fast sprint. As he fled into the night, he heard an ominous warning called after him. “This isn’t over.”

JASON pressed himself against the side of a brick building, safely hidden in the shadows of a darkened alley. He panted and rubbed his offended skull, probing the well-developed egg that was hatching into one hell of a headache. Groaning, he choked and spat blood. The abused muscles in his neck protested with each movement. His mind worked through the scenario. Whoever had violated his home had been well funded. The silencer and the clinical violence were

testament to that. This was a professional, not some cheap thug. Brunner had apparently come into some resources since their last encounter. This seemed an unusually bold move for Brunner. Maybe his style had changed. Maybe it wasn’t Brunner he was dealing with at all. He didn’t know anymore. If his quarry was getting antsy, though, the clock was ticking. If it was Brunner, Jason knew firsthand how slippery he could be. It wouldn’t be long before he melted into the shadows, becoming impossible to reach. There was no time for anything but action. The dire warning This isn’t over resurfaced in his consciousness. Chris. If he was in danger, Chris might be too. Now that they had sounded the battle cry, time was working against them. In the aftermath of the assault, he realized the rules had changed. Under the circumstances, it was far too dangerous for Chris to be left unguarded. A storm could be headed directly for him, and he’d have no idea what was coming or any means to defend against it. Jason glanced at his watch again. It was a twenty-minute drive to Chris’s house, but he couldn’t risk going back to his own car. Even as his gut clenched with the fearful realization that Chris might already be dead, he punched numbers into his mobile phone. Each ring brought him closer to dread. Finally, Chris picked up. “Chris, listen to me. Get out of the house,” he commanded without preamble. “Jason?” “Grab your keys and get in the car. Go now.” “You’re scaring me.” “Good. You should be scared. Damn it, Chris, don’t waste time. Move.” There were sounds of action on the other end of the line. He heard keys rattling, a door opening and closing, running footsteps, a car engine roaring to life. “Where am I going?” “Head toward Safeco Field. And keep your eye out for a tail.”

The connection cut out. Shit. He stabbed his finger into the Redial button. After several rings, Chris’s voicemail picked up. The five-alarm headache was making him nauseous. Steeling himself against the pain, he crept out of the shadows and ran down First Avenue in the direction of the sports stadium. As he hurried along, he continued to dial Chris’s number. Finally, after the fifth attempt, Chris picked up again. “Are you on your way?” “Yes. You’d better tell me what’s going on.” “Something happened. Hurry.” “What happened? Jason, talk to me.” “I’ll explain on the way to the airport.” “The airport?” “We’re getting the hell out of here.” “But I thought—” “I had a visitor. He made me rethink my position.” “Oh no. Where are you? Are you hurt? I’m calling the police. Jason, this is—” “I’m fine. We’re not calling the police.” “If you’ve been attacked—” “Chris, we’ve set off some kind of shitstorm. If we don’t move now, we might never have the chance again.” “But the police—” “Will tie us up in so much procedure and red tape that Brunner will be long gone before the ink is dry on the paperwork. Where are you?” “I just got off of the freeway. I’m heading down Fourth Avenue.” Jason continued to run, his eyes watchful. “Anyone tailing you?” “How the hell should I know? I write restaurant reviews, for crying out loud.”

“Make a note of the cars behind you and take some right-hand turns. Circle around. If any of them follow your movements, let me know.” “I can’t do this.” “You can do this. Whatever is happening is bad, worse than I thought. Someone doesn’t want us to find out what happened to Michael and your daughter. If we weren’t on the right track, I wouldn’t merit the special attention I got tonight. Are you making those turns?” “Just a second. I don’t think… wait. Oh no. A black Cadillac just came around the corner. What do I do?” “You’re going to have to lose him.” “What? How?” Jason loped onto Jackson Street and traveled east toward Second Avenue. “I’m headed your way. Hang tight. Just keep driving toward the stadium. There’s a Mariners game getting out in a few minutes.” “I’m on Fourth again. He’s still back there—a couple of cars away.” Chris’s voice was strained. “Stop panicking. Breathe.” “This cloak and dagger stuff is freaking me out.” “Just relax. Stay in traffic and don’t let him get right behind you. Keep your cool. If he senses that you know he’s tailing, he might do something stupid.” “Where are you?” “Coming up on Second now. Chris, I need you to listen carefully. There’s a big intersection where Fourth and Second merge. I need you to get to the head of the line by the time you reach that intersection? Got it?” “I’ll try.” “If the light is green when you get there, stop until it turns red.” “But that’ll hold up traffic.” “Forget driving school, Chris, just pay attention. The light has to be red for what I’m planning.”

Jason could see the intersection coming up. He was almost there. Ignoring his growing fatigue, he quickened his pace and reached his destination a moment later. He peered up the street. Traffic was stopped two lights back. Somewhere in that sea of cars was Chris. When the distant light turned green, the traffic began to move again. The light changed just as the oncoming traffic arrived at the intersection. One motorist sped through. Jason scanned the cars. Chris wasn’t among them. Again, the lights cycled. This time, he could clearly see Chris’s late-model sedan in the front of the queue. “I can see you now,” he said. “I see you too. What are you waiting for? Get in.” “No. Not until we lose your tail. It isn’t safe.” Chris’s car rolled to a stop as the light turned red. It was now or never. “Okay, Chris. Punch it.” “Run the light?” There was a note of dismay in his voice. “Chris, what are you waiting for? There’s cross traffic. Go now.” Chris shot out into the intersection seconds ahead of the oncoming cars. He made it through as honking horns bleated out in reproach. “Okay, I just broke the law… on purpose. That’s lovely. Now what? Should I find a pedestrian to run down?” “Get to Safeco Field.” “Where do I go once I get there?” “The game just let out. Trust me. I’ll have plenty of time to find you.” “What about the guy following me? This light won’t stay red forever.” “Got it covered.” Jason uprooted a trash can and carried it into a shadowed alley. As the light turned green, he tossed it out into the sea of cars and watched as it hit the hood of an Acura SUV. The driver swerved amid a squeal of

brakes and plowed into the car next to him, which careened left. The two cars effectively jammed all three lanes. As the shouting started, he hurried away through the narrow alley and emerged into a crush of pedestrians on the next block. He took off running again, heading south toward the stadium. As he’d hoped, the roadways were jammed. Things were starting to look up. He shoved his way through the crowds, moving as quickly as he could, scanning the ocean of outbound traffic from Safeco Field until he finally spotted Chris’s car. A few moments of careful weaving through the maze of bumpers brought him alongside. He rapped on the driver’s window. Chris shifted the car into park and clambered into the passenger seat as Jason opened the door and climbed in. “If you think I’m ever doing anything like that again, you’ve got another thing coming,” Chris said. “You’re doing the James Bond stuff from now on.” “Deal.” “Is it always like this with you around?” “Not always. Sometimes it’s worse. You okay?” “I’ve never been this scared before,” Chris admitted. “But I think I’ll live.” Jason smiled reassuringly. “We’ll be keeping a low profile from now on. I won’t underestimate Brunner’s resources again.” “I thought you said he was just a petty crook.” “He is—or he was. It would appear he’s gotten a little more connected since he dropped off the face of the earth.” “Or he isn’t behind this at all,” Chris said with a note of panic, adding to his earlier suspicion. The muscle in Jason’s jaw clenched. He certainly hoped that was not the case—an enemy you knew, no matter how cunning, was certainly better than one you didn’t. If it wasn’t Brunner, they could be playing by all the wrong rules.

No time to think about that now. All they could do was move forward under the current course of action. He dialed his telephone and waited nervously for Bradley to pick up. “Hello?” The voice was groggy. “I need your help.” “JayKay? That you?” “I don’t have time to talk, Bradley, I’m in trouble.” “Is this some kind of joke?” “Look, I know things got ugly between us last night, but this is a matter of life and death.” “You’re serious, aren’t you?” “If they find me, they’ll kill me.” “I should hang up this phone. Why should I care whether you live or die?” “I’ve never asked you for anything before. I need you now.” Bradley was silent for a moment. “How does it feel?” “Are you going to help me or not?” There was an audible sigh on the other end of the line. “What do you need?” “Two tickets to Vegas, any flight leaving here within the next couple of hours. I’m en route to the airport right now.” “Let me guess, one for you and another for your new fling.” “Can you do it or not?” “This better not be some kind of fucking tête-à-tête.” There was a sudden flurry of keyboard tapping in the background. “Lucky for you, I have a connection to the Sabre system at home. Here we are. I can get you two seats on an Alaska Airlines flight leaving in an hour and a half.” “That’ll work.” “How are you going to pay for this?”

“You are.” “Now I know you’re joking.” “Bradley, they may have a trace on my credit cards. I can’t risk using them. I’ll make sure Lisa compensates you first thing tomorrow.” “You owe me big-time for this,” he said, tapping away. “Give me his information so I can book the reservation.” Jason relayed Chris’s personal data to Bradley and flashed a thumbs-up sign when the booking was complete. “I hope you’re close to the airport. You know how the security lines can get. If you miss this flight, you’re stuck until tomorrow.” “I’ll make it.” Jason took a deep breath. “This doesn’t change anything. About us, I mean.” “I’m over it. I had to try, right?” There was a hint of vulnerability and resignation in Bradley’s voice. “Listen, just….” “What?” “Take care of yourself, okay? I hate your guts, but they’re too pretty to get messed up.” “You too.” Jason disconnected and glanced furtively at Chris, who was staring out the window into the distance. If he had any curiosity about the conversation, he wasn’t letting it show. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, far away. “Next stop, Vegas,” Jason said, drawing Chris from his reverie. “I hope.”

Chapter 8

THE security lines at Seattle-Tacoma International Airport were blessedly sparse. It seemed like very few travelers were interested in flying on a Wednesday night at ten o’clock, which suited Jason and Chris just fine. When they arrived at the departure gate, boarding was just beginning, and before they knew it, they were seated on the plane. Only after they were underway and the lights of the city were far below and behind did Jason allow himself to relax. There might be someone waiting for them on the other end in Las Vegas, but for right now, thirty thousand feet of empty air stood as an impassable barrier keeping them from harm. He shifted to face Chris, who was staring out the window at the thick blanket of clouds that obscured the ground below. “Still okay?” he asked. Chris turned his eyes away from the oval window. “You’re awfully quiet,” Jason probed. “It’s just a lot has happened in such a short span of time. I guess I’m a little shaken up,” Chris replied. “It doesn’t seem real. It’s like something that’s happening to someone else. I’m not equipped to deal with this kind of stuff. High action for me is missing a copy deadline and having to deal with my editor.” “It gets easier. You get used to it after a while.” Chris took a deep breath and leaned back in his seat. “I don’t think

I want to. But if it means getting some answers, maybe getting my daughter back, it’s a small price to pay.” Jason sensed that Chris needed a distraction to take his mind off the harrowing experience. He knew that on top of the horrors Chris had faced over the past year, the sudden scrape with danger was probably overwhelming. Though withdrawn, he seemed composed. Jason wondered if he would have been so steady if this were all happening to him. “Tell me about your daughter,” he urged, compelled by more than the diversion. “Brianna?” Chris’s face softened as his thoughts turned to his little girl. “What do you want to know?” “Start at the beginning. I’m curious how someone like you has a baby.” “Someone like me?” Chris asked in mock offense. He chuckled. “Certainly not the old-fashioned way,” he said. “I actually just got lucky.” “How so?” He flashed his wrists in Jason’s direction. “This. It’s a long story.” He self-consciously pulled his hands back and settled them into his lap. “The alternative is thumbing through this shitty catalog full of overpriced garbage nobody needs.” Chris smiled and shrugged, then pursed his lips thoughtfully, his eyes staring off into the distance. “While I was institutionalized, I got close to this woman named Jeannie. She had a lot of issues—worse than mine. Misery loves company, you know. We’d both tried to kill ourselves. Suicide makes for some twisted small talk, let me tell you. It was pretty messed up. “Anyway, we bonded. We helped each other through affirmation exercises. We were discharged around the same time and promised to stay in touch.” “And did you?” “For a while. Then she stopped calling. I think I got one or two Christmas cards. She dropped off the face of the earth. Then, one day she

showed up on my doorstep. She was very pregnant and very scared. The life she left behind when she went in caught back up to her, only she got mixed up with some pretty horrible people this time. “Brianna was born about a month later. Jeannie put my name on the birth certificate and walked out of the hospital, leaving me with a baby. Me, of all people. You must think that’s pretty strange. I mean, I don’t exactly seem like daddy material.” “Actually, I wasn’t thinking that at all. I know plenty of people who have kids that don’t fit the picture. You’re not one of them.” “Well, I’m no June Cleaver, that’s for sure.” He was silent for a moment. “I’m not the person I used to be, though. Oh, I have my issues, but being broken isn’t one of them—at least not until—” His voice cracked, and he blinked back tears. Chris took a deep breath, fighting for control. “I was always a whole person for Brianna, you know. Somehow I pulled it together for her.” “Must have been a real shock. Did you ever picture yourself having kids?” “In fact, it was one of my most cherished dreams. Biological, or something, I don’t know… I was hardwired for it. It seemed impossible, though. Before Brianna came along, I thought that because of who I was, because of the choices I’d made, it was a dream I’d never realize. That, and my parents dying, is what nearly did me in. It just didn’t seem like there was any reason to go on. My family was gone, and I’d probably never have one of my own. What was the point?” “You turned it around.” “Only because I had help. George visited me twice, sometimes three times a week. It was his encouragement that pulled me through more than anything.” “George MacQuery has been a good friend to you, hasn’t he?” “More than you could ever know. My parents were devout Catholics, and we lived in a small town—Snohomish is sort of a bastion for conservative sensibilities. After they found out about who I was, they cut off all contact. George became my father’s stand-in. He’s been so good to me. Without him, I don’t think I would have pulled through, even with therapy. Losing your parents is tough but something that you

know is going to happen one day. Losing mine the way I did was much more difficult.” “How did they die?” “It was an accident,” Chris said sadly. “There were some mechanical issues with their car. It was just one of those freak things. It was weird because Dad was always very diligent about maintenance. Anyway, they went over a cliff on Stevens Pass. The roads were icy, and… he must have lost control. They were never really able to piece it all together.” “You don’t think it was foul play, do you?” Chris’s eyes widened in shock. “No, I don’t think so. My father wasn’t anyone important. He was a history professor. My mom was a housewife. Who would have wanted to kill them? And for what? They were simple people and didn’t have much of anything—what little they did have, they gave to charity. After the estate was liquidated, I was just able to pay off their debts and make sure they had a nice funeral. All I really have left of them are some letters my dad wrote to me. I’ve never been able to bring myself to read them.” Jason leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. “Were there any legal complications after Jeannie left?” “A few. George took care of everything. It’s all a blur, really. Thing is, I imagined a million ways that I might one day have children, but never in my wildest dreams did I think it would play out the way it did.” He paused, closing his eyes as if remembering. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and filled with wonder. “You know something, though? When I took Brianna in my arms the first time….” He choked up again and swallowed hard. Tears returned to his eyes, and he continued, “When she wrapped her tiny, perfect hand around my finger… all of the sudden, I became a whole person. The emptiness was all filled up. I knew that I was holding onto something extraordinary.” The tears overflowed and dripped onto his cheeks. This time, he allowed them to come. “She was a part of me. Forget the fact that I didn’t make her. I knew she belonged to me anyway. It’s something you can’t put into words—something that’s as deep as your soul, like you finally know what it is you were put here to do. It’s strange, I know….”

Jason reached out and brushed away a tear. There was an unaccustomed pressure in his own eyes as he became caught up in the intensity of Chris’s feeling. “I don’t think it’s strange at all.” “After she was… taken from me, I didn’t know how to make it from one day to the next. I was utterly destroyed. I’m really not sure what’s kept me going all this time. Hope, I guess. George called it denial, but a part of me has always known she’s still out there somewhere and that this was all just some terrible mistake.” “If she is alive, we’ll get her back.” Chris lingered on the earnest promise, his eyes filled with gratitude. “I… I believe you.” They remained fixed on each other as Jason’s heart ached for Chris’s loss. Chris’s cheeks were damp from weeping, and his eyes shone brilliant emerald from the wash of his tears. Jason was awestruck. There was great depth and sorrow in those eyes, but great strength too. God, I wish I could hold him. I wish I could just take it all away. As if sensing the direction of Jason’s thoughts, Chris changed the subject. “Who were you talking to in the car? It sounded serious.” Jason waved his hand dismissively. “Bradley. There isn’t much to say, really.” He half smiled. “I didn’t think you were paying attention.” “I was trying not to.” “We used to be a couple. I guess you’d call it that.” “But it’s over?” “A long time ago, at least from my perspective. He’s having a more difficult time letting go.” “What went wrong?” Jason was hesitant. He could have given a hundred reasons that weren’t really the truth, but he couldn’t bring himself to dissemble to Chris. “It’s complicated.” “If you don’t want to talk about it—” Jason shook his head. “Under the circumstances, I suppose I owe you an explanation.” “You don’t owe me anything.”

Jason looked away. Why did it seem so difficult to admit his shortcomings to Chris? Why did he care so much about what he would think? “Our relationship was a farce from the beginning. This might be surprising, but I’m not the easiest person to get close to.” Chris chuckled. “Let me guess: the sensitivity issue?” Jason smiled. “The thing is, I never had strong feelings for him, and when his needs started to seem like a burden, I acted out. It was strange how it happened. One day I tolerated him, and the next, I couldn’t stand the sight of him. He really must have been confused.” His jaw muscle twitched. “I still feel guilty about it, but what can I do? I strung him along up until then because I wanted companionship or something, and that was a rotten thing. I think the dishonesty is what I’m most ashamed of. You thought you had issues.” “Did you explain all of this to him?” “A hundred times.” “And he refused to accept it?” Jason nodded. “Then it’s his problem to work out. If you told him the truth and he won’t take a hint, there’s not much more you can do, right?” “I wasn’t entirely honest,” Jason said hesitantly. “What do you mean?” He opened his mouth to speak but struggled with words. Once again, he was afraid of what Chris might think. “I tried and tried to push him away, hoping he’d just walk out, but he wouldn’t give up. So I did something completely dishonest. Despicable, really.” “It couldn’t be as bad as all that.” “I had an affair,” Jason said. “And I told him that I was in love with the other person.” Jason stole a glance at Chris’s face. He could see no recrimination in his expression. After a moment, Chris touched his hand and smiled softly, reassuringly. “It’s not like you chopped him up and put him in the freezer. You were trying to get out. It’s not so uncommon.” Jason turned to face Chris. He tucked a fisted hand between his

cheek and the seat and pulled up one leg. “You make it sound like it was no big deal.” Chris chuckled softly. “Don’t get me wrong. I believe in fidelity— old-fashioned sensibilities, you know. It is a big deal. But that doesn’t mean I don’t understand why you did it.” He looked away shyly, as if recalling some shame of his own. “I’ve been there too. I was getting tired of Michael’s rules and nitpicking, near the end. I kept doing things I knew would annoy him. I think I was hoping he’d pick a fight with me that would end our relationship. You do all kinds of unthinkable things when you’re feeling trapped.” “Why didn’t you just leave?” “I could ask you the same question.” He considered briefly and then said, “I was probably afraid. I had Brianna to think about, and even though he wasn’t much of a parent, he was a safety net.” Jason’s jaw muscle contracted as his thoughts turned inward. “I don’t know if I’m capable of real love. I’ve had plenty of relationships, but never anything meaningful. My mother is at wits’ end over it.” Chris’s brows drew together and he looked off into the distance. “Love’s a pretty elusive thing. I don’t know if it really exists—at least not the fairy tale version you see in the movies or read about in books. I cared for Michael, but there were never any fireworks.” “Maybe,” Jason said. “Maybe not. I think it’s out there—just… it’s out there for other people. You have to be lucky, or worthy, or… something else that I’m not. Maybe you and I are just good at avoiding it.” “Really?” Chris raised an eyebrow. “We’re afraid to be consumed, afraid of rejection, afraid of getting burned—all the usual reasons. Deep down we’re just a couple of chickens.” He made a clucking noise. Chris laughed. “I’m having a hard time believing the insensitive Jason Kingsley could have just spoken those words.” “No teasing, I’m pouring my heart out here.” Chris looked down, and his cheeks colored. “I’m sorry. I really am.” He looked back up, his eyes twinkling with humor. He squeezed

Jason’s hand in encouragement. “So you think that the reason we—you and I—have had such a hard time falling in love isn’t that love is a sham, but that we’ve been avoiding it? Interesting.” “That’s where I am, anyway. Maybe you too. I don’t know. I think we’re more alike than you realize.” Chris was quiet for a moment as he thought it through. “Maybe you’re right. Although, I just don’t think I have those needs. I’ve always been pretty independent.” “That’s what I’ve always told myself too. That I can manage without it,” Jason agreed. “But don’t you think there’s something missing? Something more?” Chris pulled his hand away. He visibly stiffened. “Oh, there is. If you ever have kids, you’ll understand.” He was sidestepping, and they both knew it. “It’s not the same,” Jason argued. Chris looked away. “It’s enough for me.” Jason’s hand closed back over his, drawing his attention. Chris turned back slowly. His eyes were wary. Jason asked, “Are you sure?” Instead of answering, Chris changed the subject again. “How’s your head?” He extracted his hand and reached out to touch the tender spot on Jason’s scalp. Jason winced but allowed the examination. Chris said, “Feels like the swelling is going down.” “The headache is mostly gone too, unless I turn my head too quickly.” “Don’t turn your head, then.” They laughed. Strange, Jason thought as he watched Chris lean back into the seat, how these intimate little moments seemed so natural, though they were only slightly more than perfect strangers. “Thank you,” Chris said softly. Jason turned and smiled. “For what?”

“For giving me hope. Real hope.” “Thank me when you’re not in danger anymore. You should really try to get some rest.” Chris yawned. “You’re probably right,” he mumbled. “I am pretty strung out.” Jason leaned back and squeezed his eyes tightly closed. He was on a freight train, careening down the tracks with no way to stop it or get off. The more time he spent with Chris, the stronger his feelings grew. Soon, he knew, he would no longer be able to contain them, and he would plunge right over the edge of a cliff. He couldn’t let that happen. Not now, not so soon, not until this was finished. Chris needed him to be focused on the task of keeping them alive. Maybe there would be a time when he could disclose how he felt without holding back, but it wasn’t now. The results could be disastrous. Chris was like a frightened bird. If Jason moved too quickly, the possibility of any kind of a future would take wing and fly forever out of his reach. The few tender moments they’d shared gave him hope that there was such a possibility, if only he nurtured it and acted with caution. Gritting his teeth, he leaned back in his seat and tried to relax. Restfulness proved elusive, however. Chris’s nearness seemed to burn into his side with the heat of the sun. Finally, after a monumental struggle, he dozed off.

“GOOD evening, ladies and gentlemen. On behalf of the flight crew, we’d like to welcome you to Las Vegas.” Jason awoke, and Chris smiled at him as he blinked his eyes to clear his vision. “Did you have a good nap?” Chris asked. “I must have been really tired.” “So now that we’re here—”

“We’re going to need a hotel.” Jason glanced at his watch and grimaced. It was well after midnight. “I’ve got to come up with some cash.” “I’ll call George,” Chris said, fumbling for his cell phone. Jason reached out a hand and stopped him. “No.” “Why not?” “I think it’s best if nobody knows where we are—at least for the time being.” Chris’s eyebrows knitted together in consternation. “Don’t you think that’s a little paranoid?” “Try tangling with a two hundred pound gorilla with a switchblade and see how cozy you feel.” “But George—” “Could be in danger too. We don’t know how far these guys are willing to go, Chris. It’s safer for everyone if we just fly under the radar for a while.” He nodded. “So what are we going to do?” “In the morning I’ll have Lisa make some transfers into a special account I keep for just this kind of thing. It will look like regular vendor payments.” “You’ve done this before?” Jason smiled. “Sometimes, when you’re tracking shady characters, especially the kind I’m used to dealing with, you have to be careful. I lost a job that way once.” They stood and moved toward the front of the plane with the rest of the passengers. Jason glanced around nervously, and Chris could sense the tension pouring off him in waves. “Something wrong?” “Just keep your eyes open. We might be on dangerous ground.” “You don’t think Brunner is here, do you?”

Jason shrugged. “Vegas is a long way from any jungle, but it seems like a logical place to hole up. You can get your hands on just about anything in Vegas. Fake identification, money, drugs… it’s all here for the taking. You just need to know who to talk to. They don’t call it Sin City for nothing.” They entered the terminal and looked around. The only people seemed to be those being disgorged from their plane, and Jason visibly relaxed. “This is a secured area, so I think we’re safe.” To the left, Chris saw a bank of blinking, beeping slots. The machines attracted a few of the offloading passengers who settled themselves and began feverishly feeding them coins. As they continued down the concourse, Chris asked, “If we can’t call George or use our credit cards, what are we going to do about a hotel?” “It just so happens that I have a connection who works for the Venetian. He should be able to get us lodging and be discreet about it.”

LAS VEGAS was always vibrant and pulsing with life. Even on the other side of midnight, the Strip was jammed with traffic. Their taxi driver opted for a back-road route to the Venetian, which brought them to the hotel within minutes. Chris had never been to Las Vegas and was impressed by the spectacle that surrounded him. Even this late at night, the casino was crowded and roiling. As they entered, he gaped at the beautiful marble tiling and ornate detail to be seen in every corner. He could almost picture himself walking the streets of Venice. Jason scanned the reception desk and frowned. “He works the night shift, but I don’t see him.” “This isn’t another one of your old flings, is it?” Chris asked as Jason headed toward a courtesy phone. “You don’t have some kind of travel industry fetish, do you?” “No, Curt’s father, Frank, was my dad’s partner in the FBI—Frank still works with the CACU here in Las Vegas.”

“Ah,” Chris intoned. “I’m counting on his help once we track your daughter down.” Jason picked up the phone and spoke to the operator for a few seconds. He smiled and hung up. “We’re in luck. Curt is here. They’re going to page him and have him meet us.” As they waited, Chris took his time exploring the lobby with his eyes. He was fascinated by the sheer scale of it. Everything seemed huge and exaggerated. Off to his right, he could see the entrance to the shopping arcade and stared in wonder as a gondola floated down a manmade river, its occupants being serenaded by an operatic tenor as they drifted along. “Here he comes,” Jason said suddenly, drawing Chris’s attention. Chris looked in the direction Jason had indicated and saw a fit, energetic young man approaching. His handsome face was alight with a wide, delighted grin. “Jason. I wish I had known you were coming. I would have taken some time off,” he greeted warmly, patting Jason on the back and furiously pumping his hand up and down. “I’m really glad you didn’t,” Jason said, returning the infectious grin. “This is a business trip, I’m afraid. It’s great to see you, Curt. How is Frank?” Curt shook his head, his mop of black curls bouncing as he chuckled. “Same dad. Cranky, mean… old. But you know the type. You’ve got one of those too. Your folks were here just a couple of weeks ago, by the way.” Jason’s smile faded slightly at the mention of his parents, and Curt did not miss the subtle clue that this was a touchy subject. “So where are you staying?” Jason leaned in conspiratorially. “Actually, I was hoping you could help me out with that. Somewhere between Seattle and here, I managed to lose my wallet. Unfortunately, I can’t do anything about securing some cash until tomorrow. I thought you could get us a room for the night and settle up with me in the morning.” Curt grinned. “Bradley watching your credit cards again?”

Jason chuckled in response. “How do you do that?” “That was a pathetic story. Full of holes. A trained agent would never lose his wallet.” Curt patted his back. “Besides, you should have seen his face.” He gestured toward Chris. “When you started spouting crap, I thought I was going to have to dive in for a rescue to keep his jaw from hitting the floor.” Chris blushed, realizing that his shock had been so apparent. He’d have to work on his poker face. Chris noticed Curt’s eyes lingering on his face. He felt like he was being sized up. The frank appraisal made him want to cower behind Jason. “No wonder Bradley’s on your ass. I’d sure like a dose of your luck in finding traveling companions.” Chris’s cheeks burned, and he looked quickly down at the floor. As if sensing his discomfort, Jason moved protectively closer. “Chris is a client,” he explained. “And Bradley is the least of our worries.” “I’m clearly in the wrong line of work,” Curt said, extending his hand in Chris’s direction. “Don’t worry about me. I’m harmless. Mouthy, but harmless. Curt Marcus, by the way.” The handshake Chris offered was perfunctory. He disengaged as quickly as possible, and focused his attention back on the floor. “Chris James,” he muttered. “It’s a pleasure,” Curt said. Chris could still feel Curt’s eyes upon him, and he shuffled backward a step. Curt seemed to sense that he’d crossed a line. He cleared his throat and said, “Well, let’s get you two checked in.” It took only a few moments for the young man to secure a room for them. As he handed the key to Jason, he smiled and winked at Chris. “It’s separate beds.” “Thanks, Curt. I owe you one,” Jason said, imposing himself between Chris and Curt’s bold innuendos. Once inside the elevator, Chris took a deep breath, and the tension left his shoulders. “Sorry about Curt,” Jason apologized. “He has this thing with subtlety.”

“Yeah. He has none.” “We grew up together,” Jason explained. “He’s a little forward, but he’s a good guy.” “Were you two ever…?” “No,” Jason said with a laugh. “I prefer discretion, and Curt would have needed to scream it from the rooftops. Besides, he’s always felt like a pain in the neck younger brother. I guess I can’t really blame him for being so bold, though.” Chris blushed and stared at the floor. “I felt like a piece of meat.” Jason laughed again. “You really aren’t used to this, are you?” Chris shook his head, wishing that the elevator would get them to their floor already. Finally, a chime announced their arrival on the tenth floor, and the doors parted. Chris stepped quickly into the hallway, feeling the need to escape the uncomfortable turn the conversation had taken. A quick glance in Jason’s direction reminded him that there was a dangerous attraction brewing between them, and he wasn’t yet willing to face it head-on. They had no trouble finding their room, and Chris was relieved that Curt had been honest when he assured them their lodgings had separate beds. He glanced at the digital clock and groaned. It was nearly two in the morning. “It’s way past my bedtime,” he said, sitting down on the bed. His eyes felt like they had sand in them, and he was starting to develop a headache. “You’ll have lots of time to rest tomorrow. I’m going to poke around and see what I can find out about Sylvia Hopkins. And you”— Jason flopped onto his own bed, placed his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes—“you have to stay in the room.” “Wait a minute—” “No arguments,” Jason said, rolling onto his side and looking at Chris seriously. “We’re playing in Brunner’s sandbox now. He has connections in this city. If he gets tipped off that you’re here, that would be very bad.”

“You’re the one who had a run-in with the knife,” Chris countered. “You’re in just as much danger as I am.” “I am a trained professional. I know how to take care of myself in situations like that.” Chris opened his mouth to speak, and Jason raised a hand, cutting off any further argument. “You’re in strung-out shape. You need the downtime.” “You think I’m going to be able to rest knowing that you’re out there with your neck exposed?” “Chris, this isn’t a game. These people play for keeps. I’d much rather you were back home in Seattle, but I need you here where I can look out for you. You’re just going to have to trust me. You’re going to have to stay put.” Chris wanted to argue, but he just didn’t have the strength for it. There was no denying Jason’s logic, anyway. Instead of pressing the point, he stood and walked into the bathroom. He’s right. What the hell would I do if someone attacked me? He had never been in a lifethreatening situation before. It didn’t make him feel any better about having to sequester himself in the hotel room, though. What was he going to do while Jason was out roaming around? Sit here and worry? He flipped on the shower and stripped. Damn him. Chris stepped into the shower. He let the hot water pour over him. Why couldn’t Jason Kingsley have remained the conceited jerk he’d met just a few days ago? Why did he have to turn out to be so complex, so compelling? Why did he have to have sexy eyes that made Chris feel like a foolish teenager again? And why was he struggling to control the urge to abandon all of his good sense where Jason Kingsley was concerned? He allowed the water to run over his face, and he gritted his teeth against the turmoil. Why couldn’t his life ever be made up of simple choices? After he had been in the hot shower for a long while, exhaustion overwhelmed him. He switched the water off and stepped out. The hot water had eased his travel-weary muscles, if not the persistent frustration and confusion that danced dizzy pirouettes through his troubled mind.

He toweled off, slipped back into his underwear and T-shirt, and turned off the bathroom light. As he rounded the corner into the room, he stopped short. Jason had removed his clothes and was asleep atop the covers. In the scant light filtering in through the heavy draperies, Chris could see every plane and angle that composed his lithe frame. His body was as perfectly made as his bewitchingly handsome face. His broad chest dipped into a flat, defined stomach, and his legs were firm and muscular. Strong arms held tightly to the spare pillow. For a few seconds Chris stared, transfixed. His heart skipped in his chest. He knew exactly what it was like to be pressed against that hard form, to be cradled in those strong arms. There was some indefinable quality about Jason that spoke directly to the deepest part of him. The feelings he aroused were wholly unfamiliar. Michael had never affected him in this way. Jason stirred, and Chris tore his eyes away, casting them demurely aside. He hurried into his own bed, pulled the covers up to his chin, and turned toward the wall. In the silence of the room, he was certain he could hear the pounding of his own pulse. It was a very long time before he was able to go to sleep, and when he did, it was restless and fevered, his dreaming mind carrying him to places he would never otherwise go.

Chapter 9

JASON awoke shortly after seven o’clock and rolled out of the bed. He wasn’t the kind of person to lounge once he’d awakened. When he was up, he was up. He smiled softly at Chris. With the covers pulled up to his chin and his face awash in the morning sun, he looked so peaceful, so content. Without the air of melancholy draped about him like a shroud, he seemed almost angelic as he slumbered. Jason showered quickly and noticed, with some relief, that his morning ablutions had not awakened Chris. With a last glance to assure himself that everything was as it should be, he slipped into the hallway and made his way back to the lobby. Once outside the hotel, he took out his cell phone and dialed the office. Lisa answered on the third ring. “Jason, where are you? It’s all over the news.” Jason stepped onto the sidewalk and headed north along Las Vegas Boulevard. “What’s all over the news?” “Jeffrey Cross. He’s dead.” Jason stopped in his tracks and gaped. “What?” His stomach lurched. “Cross is dead?” “And they think you did it. I have a couple of detectives headed over here as we speak.” “But I didn’t,” he protested.

“Come on, I know that. Several witnesses reported that you and Christian James had a confrontation with him at Lafferty’s yesterday. His employees said he left shortly afterward, acting like he was scared.” “Chris was a little upset and caused a scene,” Jason admitted. “And he’s missing too. They sent someone to question him, and it looks like he left in a hurry. They think it’s all very suspicious, especially considering what happened with his partner and his daughter.” “Damn Callahan. He’s probably strutting around telling everyone how he knew Chris was a killer all along.” Jason scanned the street, searching for danger in the milling crowds. “This is not good.” “Where are you?” “Las Vegas. I was attacked in my apartment last night—” “Are you all right?” “I’m fine. The guy who came after me is in much worse shape, I can assure you.” “You don’t think Chris James killed Jeffrey Cross, do you?” “Impossible. He’s with me.” “What do you want me to tell the police?” Jason thought about it. “You can’t lie to them. They’ll eventually get a warrant and check the phone records.” He moved out of the flow of foot traffic and huddled against a wall. “Damn it. I wish I had known. This situation is just going from bad to worse.” “I’ll tell them that you called but didn’t say where you were.” “Good. That’s good. Give them my files on Chris James, but get rid of the notes from our interview with Cross. It wouldn’t take much to figure out where we went, and I don’t want them alerting the Las Vegas police just yet. They’ll find that out as soon as they check airline passenger manifests, but they won’t think of that for a while.” Nothing he could do about the record of their trip, now. Shit. A ticking clock. Just what I needed. “Listen, Lis, I need you to do something else for me,” he said. “Name it.” “Wire ten thousand into the Big Sky Partners account.”

“You want me to make some fake invoices to back it up like last time?” “I love you.” “Gross,” she replied. “The funds will be there in a few—” She stopped talking abruptly. “Gotta go, Mom,” she said. “Take care of yourself, okay?” Jason understood the message. “You too, Lis.” He disconnected. He stood with his back to the wall for several minutes. Cross was dead. He couldn’t believe it. Brunner’s boldness seemed to know no bounds. So much for subtle complexity. Brunner’s style had definitely changed. He used to be a con artist, given to grand and elaborate schemes, but he had also been sly. This was far more brazen than Jason would ever have expected from him. There were very, very high stakes here. What the hell was so special about Chris? What the hell did Brunner want from him? Where or what was the Heart of the Jungle? Obviously, Chris was never supposed to have found out what had happened to Michael and his daughter. It seemed ever more certain that they were still alive. Something big was going down. Something big enough to cause splash damage to anyone who got too close to Chris. One innocent bystander had already died. He couldn’t risk allowing that to happen again. We have to act fast. He moved back onto the sidewalk and continued purposefully along the Strip. He was anxious to have a look at the nightclub Sylvia Hopkins owned and determine whether it would be possible to use stealth to infiltrate her penthouse. After several minutes of hard walking, he turned right and made his way east along the connecting block. This early in the day, it was relatively quiet off the Strip. Paradise was particularly sedate. Interspersed among the convenience stores and smaller casinos, there were a few modern condominium complexes, one or two restaurants, and several nightclubs. This part of Las Vegas was likely to be abustle once the sun went down, but in the light of day, it seemed impossible that the hammering heart of the city throbbed only one block to the west.

Jason walked slowly along and located the building he was looking for. In garish red letters, the sign outside of the nightclub announced he had arrived at “Sylvia’s.” He leaned back and looked up. There were no signs of life in the blackened windows on the top floor. The curtains were tightly drawn. More than likely, Sylvia Hopkins slept during the day and managed the affairs of her business at night. He glanced left and right to make sure he was alone on the street. Satisfied that he was, he slipped into the alleyway and walked around the building, inspecting the structure for some alternative means of entry. Aside from an entrance to the office suites on the south side and an emergency exit on the west, the only way in or out was the front door. After his circuit of the building was complete, he wandered into the office lobby and checked the directory posted on the wall. There were several businesses in residence, but none of them seemed noteworthy. He checked the elevator and, as he had feared, it did not go to the penthouse. There must be another one in the nightclub. He headed back onto the street and returned to the alley where he’d started. Peering up at the top floor again, he sighed in resignation. The one route to Sylvia Hopkins seemed to be through her bookie, Gunther— directly through the front door. Jason leaned against the wall, thinking. He’d have to pose as a potential customer. He looked down at his travel-wrinkled clothing and frowned. This getup would never do. Jeff Cross had said that Hopkins catered to a wealthy, powerful clientele—and he certainly didn’t look the part. Mentally ticking off a list of things he’d need, he walked away. High overhead, the velvet drapes that had been parted slightly dropped closed.

CHRIS had walked at least a hundred miles pacing between the window and the bed. He’d watched every minute tick by on the bedside alarm clock since he’d awoken that morning, and as the day wore on, he became increasingly agitated. All manner of horrors plagued his mind. What if Jason had been hurt? What if he never returned?

Shortly after three o’clock, the door opened. Jason strode into the room, his arms laden with an unruly assortment of shopping bags. Chris glanced at the parcels, and his breath exploded in fury. “I’ve been climbing the walls in this hotel room all day, and you’ve been out shopping?” Jason dropped the bags on the bed and sat down. “Now hold on—” “I’ve been insane with worry. You didn’t wake me or leave a note or anything.” He’d been wound like a guitar string, and the sudden release of tension at seeing Jason alive and safe overwhelmed him. “Hopkins is holed up in a tower. No way in but through the front door,” Jason said, sidestepping Chris’s tirade. “You’ve been there?” “That’s why I had to go shopping. If I’m going to pose as a client, I need to look the part.” “Well….” Chris’s fury melted. “You could have called,” he stammered lamely. Jason grinned. “Sorry, dear. I completely lost track of time. Next time, I’ll remember to check in.” Chris gave him a disbelieving look, but the teasing softened his ire. He massaged at his temples. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have launched into you like that. I’m just a wreck.” “Here,” Jason said, tossing a bag at him. “I think these are your size. Just a guess, but I thought you’d want some clean clothes.” Chris pulled a pair of jeans and a T-shirt out of the bag and examined the labels. “Pretty close. The pants are a little big. I lost some weight over the past year.” “Speaking of which, you probably haven’t eaten anything today.” Chris shook his head. “Sorry, dear,” he mocked. “I was a little preoccupied. Could you have eaten anything?” “I can always eat,” Jason replied smartly and picked up the telephone. Twenty minutes later, a room service attendant delivered a cart loaded with sandwiches and bottled water. Jason tipped him and arrayed the spread on the small round table against one wall.

As they sat together eating, Jason asked, “I’m curious. How did you meet Michael?” Chris swallowed. “A party. George’s party, actually. I hated him at first. I thought he was an egotistical snob, and I didn’t want anything to do with him.” “This is a recurring theme with you,” Jason replied ironically, grinning in satisfaction as a sheepish smile blossomed on Chris’s face. “But I know what you mean. Sounds about like Michael Blake.” “He was so persistent. He got my phone number from George and kept calling and calling. I considered a restraining order. Finally, though, it was easier to just give in and go out with him.” Chris smiled at the memory of his early days with Michael. “He was charming—arrogant, as I suspected, but a great conversationalist. He took me to a seafood place on the waterfront for our first date. You know, one of those dives near the industrial area where you can’t completely escape the smell of diesel fumes and rotting fish? We had clams right out of a bucket—and beer.” “I am having a hard time picturing Michael Blake eating anything from a bucket.” Chris laughed. “Not many people know that side of him. Michael trots out the Armani for the public, but in private, he’s only a little pretentious. He has a softer side. He doesn’t let it show very often, but it’s there.” “Do you realize this is the first time you’ve spoken of him in the present tense?” This caught Chris slightly off guard. He hadn’t noticed the shift in his attitude until Jason pointed it out. It made no sense—he didn’t have a shred of evidence to support it, but Jason seemed so certain that, somewhere along the way, he had managed to convince Chris too. “As incredible as it would have seemed to me a day ago, I guess I’ve started to believe he’s not dead.” “How do you think you’re going to react when we catch up to him?” Jason’s tone was less concerned than curious. Chris stood and walked away from the table, the sandwich forgotten, along with his appetite. “I haven’t gotten that far. I honestly

don’t know. For his sake, he’d better be in police custody, or I’m as likely to kill him as anything.” The idea that Michael had staged his death, that he’d run off with Brianna, was so unspeakably horrible, Chris couldn’t wrap his brain around it. How could Michael do this? He of all people knew how much Chris loved Brianna. He swallowed against the sour taste in the back of his throat as he mulled over what Michael had done to him. “That’s good. That anger. Hold onto it. It’ll help you get through this. It’ll keep you centered.” Chris turned away from the window and toward Jason. His hands were clenched into fists, and his body was so rigid it was trembling. “Anger is an understatement. I’m seriously pissed off.” Jason tried but couldn’t completely hide the smile that formed on his lips. Apparently, the idea of Chris throttling Michael was funny. Chris’s stiff limbs relaxed, and he fought a smile of his own. He had to admit, it did seem a little preposterous. It was only with great effort that Chris ever raised his voice—forget about fists. To cover his smile, Chris gave Jason a sardonic look. “Give me a break, Kingsley. I know I’ve been a little weepy the last couple of days, but I’m not a wilting lily all the time. I have a touch of Irish in my pedigree, and I can have a good tantrum if I put my mind to it.” Jason could no longer contain his mirth, and he broke out in a hearty laugh. “I know,” he chuckled. “I’ve been climbing the walls all day and you’ve been out shopping?” he parroted. “I almost lost bladder control.” Chris rolled his eyes. “Jerk,” he said. He snatched a pillow off the bed and threw it. Jason caught it in midair. “Now who’s teasing?” He returned to his seat. Tears squeezed out of Jason’s eyes as he looked over at Chris. It truly wasn’t that funny, but for some reason, he couldn’t hold back the laughter once it had been released. Chris finally gave in to chuckles of his own, and soon they were roaring, their mirth feeding off itself. After several moments, they sat together, spent. Jason reached out and took both of Chris’s hands. “I know you’re a client, Chris, and this is all supposed to be professional, but I want you to know that I really do care.”

“I feel the same way,” Chris replied before he could stop himself or contemplate what the admission might mean. “It’s like I’ve always known you. I’ve opened up to you more in a few days than I ever opened up to Michael in the five years we lived together.” Somewhere in the middle of the speech, the initial innocent intent of his admission dissolved. The feel of Jason’s hands became a powerful force pressing against the wall he’d put up between them. “Does this scare you?” Jason asked. Chris bit his lip. “A little,” he admitted. Then, in response to a skeptical look from Jason, he said, “Okay, a lot. But where you’re concerned, sheer terror is all part of the package, I guess.” As they stared at each other, they drifted together. There was a look of deep longing in Jason’s eyes that drew Chris irresistibly closer. He could almost feel the hunger in Jason’s lips. He was shocked to find his own lips eager to be claimed. An instant before they came together, some deep instinct of selfpreservation overcame him, and Chris turned away abruptly. He stood and shook his head sadly as he looked down at Jason. Unable to speak, he walked to the window. He stared out in silence, his heart pounding and his hands shaking. An uncomfortable silence hung suspended in the gulf between them. After a long while, Chris finally spoke in a tremulous voice. “I was being honest, Jason. I really do care.” “No, you don’t have to explain, Chris. I shouldn’t have—” “Let me finish.” He turned and their eyes met. “I don’t understand the effect you have on me. I don’t understand my reaction to it. The only thing I am sure of is that it’s all wrong. I’m just not in a position to—” “Look, let’s just forget it,” Jason said coldly, obviously stinging from the rejection but trying hard not to let it show. Chris turned back toward the window. He took several deep breaths. He wasn’t sure he could forget it. He wasn’t sure at all.

Chapter 10

DARKNESS never really holds sway over the night in Las Vegas. The city is perpetually bright with every color and variety of light imaginable. From the sky-sweeping lasers of Caesar’s Palace to the 40 billion candlepower beam shooting upward from the Luxor pyramid, Las Vegas truly is the city of stars. As the digital alarm clock announced the arrival of ten o’clock, Jason emerged from the bathroom. His dark, typically unruly hair had been greased back, and he was freshly shaven. Clothed in an expensive suit and tie, dripping with gold, and sporting a pair of designer sunglasses, he was the very picture of affluence. His perfectly chiseled features lent him the air of the Hollywood elite. He was stunning, and Chris had to tear his eyes away. God, he was sexy. “You look… nice,” he stammered. His stomach fluttered under the onslaught of a legion of butterflies. “Nice?” Jason asked. “I look nice?” he pouted. “I was going for dangerous, sexy, dashing, debonair.” Chris rolled his eyes. “Pick an adjective and I’ll agree, just don’t get a complex.” “All of the above, then,” Jason ribbed. “Why am I not surprised?” Jason chuckled and glanced at the door. “Gotta go, babe. My madam awaits.”

The forced smirk on Chris’s face faded as the tenor of the moment changed. Realization of the peril Jason was walking into resurfaced, and his brow furrowed. “Please be careful.” Jason’s humor evaporated as well. “Try not to worry. I’ve done this kind of thing before.” “I know, but—” “I can handle Hopkins.” “Are you sure about that?” “You worry too much.” Jason walked over to him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. I promise.” He squeezed lightly. Quickly, before Chris could resist, Jason pulled him close and stole a tender, innocent kiss. Chris tried to speak, but Jason placed his finger to his lips to silence him. He smiled and winked. “Back in an hour.” Grinning at the effect he had on Chris and obviously liking it very much, he turned on his heel and left the hotel room without a backward look.

THE busy Las Vegas strip was a sea of people. Jason threaded his way through the crowd, amused at the appraising stares he kept getting as he walked along in his expensive suit and sunglasses. He looked like “somebody,” and he knew it. He strutted confidently, getting more into the part as he went. Soon after starting out, he turned the corner onto a side street and approached Sylvia’s on Paradise. He could hear the thrumming of dance music and was assaulted rudely by it when he threw open the door and strode inside. The club was packed to overflowing. Through the dense fog that lingered in the darkened interior, he could just make out a mass of writhing bodies on the dance floor, their movements shuttered by staccato pulses of strobe light. He snaked his way through the crowd, scanning for the scarred

bookie known as Gunther, and finally spotted him standing statue-like at the far end of the room. The brick wall of a man was poured into a pinstriped suit that seemed barely able to contain his impressive bulk. An earpiece was clipped to his ear, and a cigar dangled from his lips. His skin was pocked with craters left behind by a chronic case of acne, and on the left side of his face, a wicked scar traced a tortured river from the corner of his mouth straight up to his bald pate. Just as Cross had described him. He was a solid mass of muscle. This was someone you wouldn’t want to tangle with. In fact, the crowd kept well away, his mere presence erecting an invisible five-foot barrier around him. As Jason studied him, a drunken man, jostled by the crowd, stumbled into the brute. The expression on Gunther’s face did not change as he gripped the scrawny interloper by the arm and shoved him roughly back into the fray. Cuddly. He composed himself and headed directly for Gunther, strutting with all of the vanity of someone with money enough to fear nothing. The bookie’s eyes flicked over him as he approached, but he did not speak. Jason stopped and appraised him with a disdainfully raised eyebrow. “You Gunther?” he asked. Gunther blinked, took a drag on the cigar, and blew the smoke in Jason’s face. Jason sneered but made no move to wave the acrid fumes away. He reached into his back pocket, withdrew several crisp hundreddollar bills, and dangled them enticingly in front of Gunther. “I’m here to see Hopkins.” Gunther took the proffered bills and tucked them into his jacket, then resumed his statue impression. After a few moments, it became clear that he had no intention of summoning his employer. Jason’s ire rose. He only had one shot at this, and he wasn’t sure how he was going to get to the elusive woman if not through this man. “Look, are you going to call her, or do I need to take my business somewhere else?” he asked. Gunther blinked but did not speak. Damn it. This was not working. He tried very hard to appear disinterested, even though his plan was falling apart. Realizing he’d been defeated, Jason shrugged and turned on his heel. He was going to have to

think of another way. As he headed back toward the door, he noticed that his escape route was now flanked by two thugs clad in the same kind of suit as Gunther. They watched his approach with interest. He squared his chin and continued toward the exit. Just as he arrived at the door, the two men stepped forward to meet him. They said not a word but barred his way. With his chin, left thug pointed back the way he had come, indicating that Jason should turn around. Right thug worked a jaw muscle. Jason glanced over his shoulder. Next to Gunther, a petite woman now stood. She was clad in a black silk dress. Her coiffed blonde mane shimmered over her shoulders, and she held a long black cigarette holder to her lips. She had the ageless, plastic look of a woman well past her prime but rich enough for a damn good cosmetic surgeon. Standing there with her flawless ivory skin, dripping with jewels and seductively posed, she looked like a 1930s-era gangster movie dame. She was the picture of absurdity, but so absolutely right for Las Vegas. Everything here was artificial, garish, a parody of something real or imagined. In a world made of smoke and mirrors, she fit right in. Jason approached, and she extended a gloved hand in his direction. He took it and brushed his lips against the satin-cloaked fingers. “This way, Mister…?” She raised an inquisitive eyebrow and tilted her head to the side. “Franklin,” he offered. “Charles Franklin the Third.” Her small smile was predatory as she looked him over, no doubt imagining any number of things she herself could do with him. He followed her through a set of double doors and into an elevator. The walls of the car were smoked glass with mahogany paneling. The carpeting was a deep amber pile. They rode to the penthouse in silence. Sylvia Hopkins made no effort to mask her lascivious scrutiny as they stood next to each other in the elevator, and Jason wondered if he measured up. The doors parted, and Hopkins led him into a luxuriously appointed suite of rooms. Italian marble floors gleamed in the wash of expertly

placed and tuned lighting. Expensive artwork hung on the walls, and enormous banks of windows afforded a sweeping view of the city. She led him into an elegantly furnished office and perched languorously on the edge of a highly polished desk. “Something to drink, Mr. Kingsley?” she purred. It was a feat of composure that he did not react at her use of his real name. “I’m sorry, what did you call me?” “Let’s drop the charade, Jason. May I call you Jason? I know who you really are.” He stared at her in mute silence. If she knew he was here, Brunner probably did too, and God knew what that meant for Chris’s daughter. “There must be some mistake,” he tried, knowing before the words were out of his mouth that the ploy would be unsuccessful. Glittering black eyes regarded him with cold disdain. “You arrived yesterday, Alaska Airlines flight seventeen, departing Seattle-Tacoma International Airport at 10:57. You checked into the Venetian upon arrival, courtesy of your longtime friend Curtis Marcus. You shopped at the Forum shops from approximately eleven thirty until two forty-five and spent a grand total of six thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven dollars. Purchases included the suit you are currently wearing; a pair of Lucky Brand jeans sized twenty-nine waist, thirty length, no doubt for Christian James, with whom you are traveling; one solid-colored, lightblue T-shirt—a good choice of color for him, by the way—several pieces of rather well-made costume jewelry; and a ‘What Happens In Vegas’ baseball cap, presumably for your receptionist. Should I continue?” “You’re obviously well-informed,” Jason said, shaking his head ruefully. “I don’t like surprises, Jason. Not in the least.” “So what are you going to do, have me roughed up? Killed?” She laughed. “Please, that’s utterly barbaric. I might operate on the fringe, but I’m not a common thug.” “Brunner knows I’m here?” “Brunner?” she asked, raising an eyebrow in feigned innocence.

“All I want to know is how much of a head start he has. I’ll leave quietly, and we’ll both go back to our normal lives.” She rose from the desk and threw open the doors to a concealed bar. Turning to face him, she said, “How about that drink? Glenlivet, is it? Neat?” Jason glared. He hadn’t expected to be found out so quickly. “Have it your way, then.” She closed the cabinet doors and returned to her perch on the desk. Her eyes never left him as she crossed her ankles delicately and lit a cigarette. “I have no loyalty to Brunner. He cheated me out of a very lucrative deal recently. I’m not a woman you can fuck over—at least not without permission—if you hadn’t already noticed.” She inhaled and shifted position, pointing the cigarette in his direction. “In fact, if he hadn’t crossed me, you and I would not be having this conversation right now.” Jason relaxed slightly. “But if I told you where to find him, and he found out about it, that could put me in a somewhat… precarious position. You understand the dilemma?” “I promise to keep you completely out of it.” She smiled mirthlessly. “I imagine you would, indeed. I can tell that you’re a man of your word. An honest man. In my line of work, I don’t meet many like you. Absolutely idealistic and incorruptible. It’s another reason I allowed you through. I had to see it firsthand. What girl wouldn’t love to discover that unicorns really do exist, after all?” “What if you just tell me about Brianna James?” The seductive smile evaporated. “I’m afraid that’s out of the question.” “Is she alive?” Sylvia Hopkins had a damn good poker face. Jason couldn’t tell one way or another. “Has she been harmed in any way?” “It’s important to you. Not just because it is a case. You actually care.” These were not questions, though the tone was one of mild

surprise. She took another drag on her cigarette. “What if I told you she’s alive and safe? That she is living in the lap of luxury and doesn’t have a single care? What if I told you that the family she is with is very, very dangerous? That you’d be well out of your league if you started poking around in their affairs?” He shook his head. “I may no longer be a federal agent, but that doesn’t absolve me of an obligation to return her to her rightful home.” “Her paperwork is ironclad. No matter how carefully you make your case, they’ll prevail. There are hospital staff who can testify to the painful birth, housekeeping staff who can recount every moment of her short life up to this point, tutors and nannies and neighbors who have all watched her grow from infant to toddler. Of course, next you’ll argue that a genetic test would prove it conclusively, but you’d be stunned to discover that her parents are a perfect genetic match when the lab results are returned. Every base is covered.” The lengths to which she had gone stunned him. Securing all of that history wasn’t easy or cheap. “You wouldn’t go to this much expense for a normal baby deal. What is so special about her?” Sylvia Hopkins pursed her lips. “I don’t know, and I didn’t ask. I was given a series of instructions, and I carried them out.” She rose from the chair and walked up to him, traced a finger over his jaw. “She’s not dead, but you might as well consider her so. Tell your client whatever story you want, but take my advice and convince him she is.” She snaked her gloved fingers into his hair, stood on tiptoe, and whispered in his ear, “It’s safer for you. Safer for him. Safer for her.” Jason stood stock-still. This woman was a viper. If he made a wrong move, she’d strike. Warm lips closed about his ear lobe. He suppressed an urge to shrink away from the unwelcome assault. She smelled of expensive perfume and cigarette smoke. It was cloying. She pulled away, her brows knitting together. Her eyes lingered on his face and narrowed. “You really are queer, aren’t you?” He didn’t respond, but he didn’t need to. He could see on her face that she already knew. “Bloody hell.” She laughed and flopped into a high-backed velvet

chair, the seductress façade falling away like a shed skin. “Well, that just shoots my night to shit.” “I’m not giving up on this.” “Piece of advice: forget about the kid. She’s untouchable.” “But Brunner—” “Is far more connected than he used to be. You have no idea what kind of hornet’s nest you’re poking.” She drew deeply on her cigarette and looked away. “You can leave.” Jason stood perfectly still, glaring at her. Her whole demeanor aroused a deep and fiery loathing. As she continued to shun him, the loathing turned to fury, and he could no longer contain himself. He stomped over to the chair and hauled her roughly to her feet. The cigarette fell from her hand and rolled away on the marble tiling. Something akin to fear arose on her face as she looked up at him. “You’re hurting me,” she said. His iron grip around her arm tightened, and she whimpered. He pulled her in closer. His face was inches from hers, and he fixed her with a malevolent stare. “So help me God, when I find out what this is all about, you’ll pay for your part in it.” “You can’t touch me,” she protested. The look on her face said she wasn’t quite sure. “You tell me where Brianna James is and I’ll give you enough time to run before I drop my file in the bureau chief’s lap.” Tears stood out in her eyes. She would likely have bruises on her arm from his strong fingers digging into her tender flesh. She forced a fake, overly confident laugh. “You really think I’d tell you and let you leave here in one piece? I have interests to protect. Right now, you don’t know enough to be a threat, but if that changed… well, you’d never make it out of here alive.” “If I don’t walk out onto the street in fifteen minutes, completely unharmed, the FBI will be on this place before you have time to ride the elevator to the ground floor.” “You’re bluffing. You haven’t been anywhere near the FBI. I’ve had you watched from the minute you stepped off the plane.”

“Curt and I have a code we use to pass messages. You’re so wellinformed, why don’t you check his phone records? You’ll find he’s been in touch with his father since we spoke.” It was a fair guess that Curt had called Frank the second they parted company. The affected smugness evaporated on Hopkins’s face, and she didn’t even bother to hide her rising anxiety. “Why don’t we wait it out together and see? Either way, I walk away without a scratch.” She reeled back with her free hand to slap him, and he caught her midswing. “Damn you,” she screamed. “Why don’t you have a seat?” He shoved her into the chair and towered over her menacingly. He raised his arm and glanced purposefully at his watch. “Clock’s ticking.” “You don’t have any idea what you’re dealing with, Kingsley.” He smiled. “You’re wrong. But it’s not me you should worry about. You’re facing a list of federal indictments so long they’ll need an archaeologist to cart your ass out of the pen at the end of your term. Cross made sure of that.” Now she looked truly frightened. Her eyes widened, and he could see her gloved hands trembling. “Cross is dead,” she whispered. “Doesn’t matter. I have what I need.” “Brunner has an enormous investment riding on this. His backer is dangerous, much more dangerous than any federal agency.” “Just point me in the right direction. I’ll lay down a trail so it looks like I got the information from another source. Tell me where Brunner is.” Her eyes were wild and darted from his face to the elevator. “He’s at the Bellagio, goddamn it.” Jason gaped. “He’s here? In Las Vegas?” Hopkins nodded. “You’re sure?” She nodded again, her dismay increasing. He could see her working through plans for a hasty escape. “Yes, I’m sure. He’s in a suite at the Bellagio.” “And the girl?”

“I can’t,” she moaned and brought a fresh cigarette to her lips. She lit it with a trembling hand. “They’ll know I put you onto them. If I tell you, I’m a dead woman.” “The name.” Her face was white, and her expression was grim. Sylvia Hopkins wasn’t faking it. She was terrified. He glanced at his watch again. Right on schedule, his cell phone rang in his pocket. He withdrew it and thumbed on the speakerphone. “Kingsley.” “It’s Lisa.” “Send the files.” “You got it.” “No!” Hopkins leapt out of the chair and clawed at the phone. “Mariano. The Mariano family has her. It’s a temporary arrangement. Brunner called in a favor they owe to someone. I don’t know who, and I don’t know the details.” “Cancel that file, Lis, but keep your finger on the button. I’m going to need an escape clause.” There was silence on the other end of the phone. “Standing by,” she finally said. Jason turned to Hopkins. “She’s here in Las Vegas too?” The woman stared back at him. Her lips trembled, and her eyes darted around the room. Who were these people, the Marianos, who could make someone like Sylvia Hopkins so afraid? To Lisa, he said, “Stay on the line with me until this is over.” “You got it.” “Anything sounds funny, hit send. Frank will know what to do.” Sylvia Hopkins was a very different woman than the one who had ridden the elevator to the top floor. “Give me a day. I just need a day to get the hell out of here. Twenty-four hours before you make a move.” Jason winked at her. “I’m a generous guy with a very busy schedule. I’ll give you two.” “Now get the fuck out of my penthouse and pray to God I don’t change my mind.”

“You hear that, Lis?” “Every word.” “You know what to do if anything happens to me.” Jason smiled benevolently at the trembling woman. He had to give her credit—she was holding it together pretty well considering that, for all she knew, her life and her freedom were both in jeopardy. “I know you’ve got connections—people who can get you some papers. I wouldn’t waste any time getting in touch with them. No matter how good they might be, you won’t be making a border crossing two days from now unless you plan on swimming the Rio Grande.” She spit at him. “Time for me to be going.” He turned, strode slowly to the elevator, and rode it to the ground floor. Somewhere along the way, he lost the connection to Lisa, but it was no matter. She didn’t have any files to send, anyway. He’d anticipated that there might be some kind of scene with Hopkins and that unless he had an insurance policy, his life could be in danger. He’d prearranged the whole thing before going in. Lisa had agreed, reluctantly, to go along. As Jason stepped off the elevator, Gunther was waiting for him. The big man did not make a move to detain him, though he watched him with deadly eyes. Jason strode past, made his way to the door, and walked out onto the street unmolested. By the time he was headed back to the Strip, his phone was ringing frantically. “You asshole,” Lisa screamed when he finally answered. “Don’t ever do that shit to me again. I hate this job.” “Aww, you were worried about me. That’s so sweet.” “You’re such a dickhead. I should have let that bitch eat you for dinner, you know. I’d be better off without this stress. You’re going to give me old lady hair.” “You did great, kiddo.” “I need a vacation.”

“Not until this one is done. I still need you on the ground on that end.” “I need a drink.” “Listen, one more thing I need you to do for me. Do a search on the name Mariano. Get me addresses of likely candidates.” “I need a raise.” “Don’t push it.” He disconnected. He looked over his shoulder several times as he walked back to the hotel. His step was light. He had been right. He’d been battling a nagging worry that he’d run into a dead end with Hopkins and that he and Chris would have to start all over. Even worse, he’d feared that Brianna and Michael would turn out to actually be dead. After all he’d done to convince Chris otherwise, having to share that bit of news would be unthinkable. He was grateful he would be spared that fate. The brass ring was in sight. All he had to do now was make his move on Brunner and Michael, locate the Mariano family, get a couple of pictures of Brianna, and let the federal authorities do the rest. Something still nagged at the back of his mind, though, something that would not be put down. There were shadow figures at work here, and he had no clue as to who or why. Someone was funding Brunner, maybe several someones. What did Chris have that they wanted? Why did Brunner and Michael think a child could get them to the Heart of the Jungle? What jungle? Where? So much of this still didn’t make sense. If Hopkins could be believed, there were dangerous people playing this deadly game. Brunner had risen infinitely in stature since his days of pilfering statues and organizing illicit deals. The stakes were much higher than he originally thought. Time was running out. He was quickly getting in over his head. Even if Hopkins quietly disappeared, the countdown had begun the moment they stepped on that plane and fled Seattle. She’d known they were coming. Someone was watching his every move. He thought about the terror on Hopkins’s face as he headed back to his hotel. Whatever was going down was bad. Very, very bad.

Chapter 11

CHRIS had spent the evening hunched against the headboard. With nothing to do but think, he imagined any number of horrible deaths for Jason in the lonely hours that seemed to stretch out to infinity. Shortly after midnight, he heard the clicking of the lock announcing Jason’s return. He flew from the bed. Against all propriety, he rushed across the room and threw himself into Jason’s arms. “Oh,” he breathed, “thank God you’re all right.” Jason seemed taken aback by the uncharacteristic abandon, but his body didn’t. He automatically enfolded Chris in a deep embrace. When Chris looked up at him, Jason’s expression was one of surprise. When the outpouring of relief had run its course, Chris pulled back and took a long, lingering look, reassuring himself that all of Jason’s limbs were firmly in place and that he was truly safe and whole. Only when he had completed his examination did he finally dare to draw a deep breath. “Wow, I guess you were worried,” Jason said with a grin. “You were walking into a death trap. What else would I be?” “Can I go out and come back in? Will you do it again?” Chris groaned, and then his expression turned serious. “Did you find anything out?” “Are you hungry?” “What the hell is it with you and food?” Chris stared at Jason in openmouthed amazement. “You should be the size of a blimp, as much

as you worry about eating.” Jason strolled over to the phone and picked it up, ignoring him. “Because I’m starved. Want a cheeseburger?” “If you dial room service, I swear I’ll break your fingers.” “You’re cute when you’re feisty.” Jason dialed the telephone and grinned over at him in devilish delight. “You’re cute all the time, but particularly when the Irish comes out.” Chris glared. If he really could have made good on the fingerbreaking promise, he would have. “I hate you.” Jason ordered two cheeseburgers, french fries, and Budweisers, then disconnected. He doffed his jacket, draped it over the chair, and unbuttoned his shirt. “What are you doing?” Chris asked, ire deepening his voice. “I can’t eat a cheeseburger in this. I’m returning it. I’m a private detective, for Christ’s sake. I can’t very well afford to keep a sevenhundred-dollar shirt.” What the hell kind of game was Jason playing with him? Why was he acting like this? “Are you going to tell me what you found out from Hopkins, or am I going to have to beat it out of you?” Jason paused in his unbuttoning and made sexy eyes in Chris’s direction. “I’ll take the beating option, if you don’t mind.” This was intolerable. Jason was, as he had originally surmised, an insufferable, self-centered jerk. That was the only explanation for this callous teasing. He had to know Chris was tied in knots with anxiety. How could he have thought that Jason’s insensitivity was just a show? How could he have imagined he was developing feelings for this coldhearted creep? Tears of helpless frustration welled in his eyes. The tears seemed to snap Jason out of his teasing mood. His smile evaporated instantly. “I’m sorry, Chris,” he said, moving toward him. “I guess I can be a real asshole.” Chris sniffed and turned away. “Finally, the right adjective.” “I really am hungry,” he said meekly, pretending to be cute. “And I’m really tired of this roller coaster you keep me on, Kingsley. I can’t handle the stress. I’m strung out as it is.”

“I know,” Jason said apologetically. He walked over to Chris, turned him around gently, and cupped a hand under his chin. He raised his face and looked deeply into his eyes. “She’s alive. She’s safe. She’s here.” It took a moment for the words to register. When they did, the impact took Chris’s breath away. He choked out a sob and buried his face in Jason’s chest, weeping uncontrollably. He clung fiercely, his whole being aching to be reunited with his daughter. He’d always known she was still alive. Somehow, he had been certain of it all along. He cried until there were no more tears. Even then, he couldn’t pull away. The smell of Jason’s skin, the supple feel of it against his cheek, the firmness of his body, the comfort of being wrapped up in him, these were the lifelines keeping him from spiraling into the void. He realized guiltily that he kept seeking out opportunities to be sheltered in this embrace—it was becoming a compulsion. Finally, a knock at the door announced the arrival of the cheeseburgers, and Chris tried to pull away. “Don’t answer it,” Jason said in a low, husky voice. He looked up and saw torment and passion in the other man’s eyes. He could feel the evidence of it pressing against his body. “I….” He couldn’t speak, but instead, when the knock sounded a second time, he propelled himself backward and away before Jason had time to respond. After the delivery had been transacted and the room was awash in the scent of burgers and fries, Jason tried to stammer an apology for his tumescence, but Chris waved it off. He didn’t want to acknowledge it; he was too overcome by embarrassment. “Eat,” he said, to put an end to the discussion. “And tell me everything.” Jason took up a handful of fries and ate them, chewing thoughtfully. He seemed to be struggling with how to begin. “Hopkins brokered some kind of deal with a family named Mariano. They owed someone a favor and agreed to take Brianna in. She said it was a temporary arrangement.” “Temporary for how long? And why?” “She didn’t know. Said she was carrying out instructions.” “And Brunner?”

Jason swallowed another mouthful of food. “He’s got a suite at the Bellagio.” “Do you think Michael is with him?” “Count on it.” “I don’t believe it. They’re really alive. They’re really here. You were right.” “Are you going to eat that?” Jason asked, pointing to Chris’s burger. Chris rolled his eyes and gave him a disbelieving look. “You really should, you know. Keep up your strength. You don’t eat enough.” “Enough with the food already.” Chris picked at the bun, forcing himself to chew the dry bread and swallow. “What’s our next step?” “First, I need to get a digital camera. I’m going to get photos of Brianna. Lisa’s working on the Mariano lead, trying to get me some addresses. I also need to get proof that Michael is alive and with Brunner. They’re the only ones who know what’s behind all of this. There are apparently big backers involved in Brunner’s scheme, and if we don’t find out who they are and what they want from you—stop this thing at the source—putting Brunner away won’t be the end of it. Once we have all that, we’ll take it right to the FBI and let them go to work.” “Why me? I still don’t get it.” “I don’t know, but these people are dangerous, Chris. The look on that woman’s face when she talked about it…. She said she was more afraid of them than the authorities. I don’t think she was faking it.” “Why do we need photos, then? Why not just get the CAU— whatever it was—involved now? Go in with support in the first place?” Jason shook his head. “There’s another… complication.” “What now?” “Jeffrey Cross is dead. Murdered. They think we had something to do with it.” Chris’s heart skipped a beat, and he felt a sudden wave of nausea. His breath exploded in a stunned gasp. “Oh no,” he whispered. “No.”

“So you see, we need proof now more than ever. We need Michael and Brunner to talk. Besides, these people, the Marianos, have legitimate documents, witnesses. We have to move very carefully.” “I can’t believe Jeff is dead,” Chris said, still horrified by the news. They’d just spoken to him the day before. It seemed unreal that he had been killed. “Some very bad stuff is going down. I have no idea what, but I can tell you the authorities will send us back to Seattle as prime suspects in a homicide investigation unless we go in with something substantial. We have to move very quickly and very carefully.” Chris nodded. He was still reeling and overcome. Would these horrors ever end? “Okay,” he agreed, clenching his fists and trying to bring the violent tremors under control. “So I take the pictures, the authorities get Brunner and Michael to talk, and we move with the CACU team on the Marianos to recover Brianna. It has to go down just like that or she’ll slip right through our hands. You have to trust me.” He looked into Jason’s eyes and set his jaw. “I’m coming with you this time. I need to see her. I need to be there when you nail Michael’s ass to the wall. I promise I won’t interfere. I won’t do anything stupid. I just… I need to be there.” Jason looked as if he might protest, but after contemplating the resolve on Chris’s face, seemed to think better of it. “I’ll need your help to identify Brianna, anyway.” A renewed sense of hope surged to life within Chris. After all this time, he was finally going to have his life back. Brianna was alive, she was here, and she’d be home with him soon. He would have wept with joy if he had any tears left to cry. He favored Jason with a look that bespoke deep and boundless gratitude. “I don’t know where you came from, Jason Kingsley, but I can never repay you for this. Never.” Jason smiled softly, tenderly. “You don’t need to repay me, Chris. I told you, I have a soft spot for anything to do with children.” Chris noticed the fleeting look of pain again. This time, he didn’t fight down his curiosity. “Because of your time in the FBI?”

Jason nodded slowly and looked away. Chris drew him back with a gentle touch. When their eyes met again, he asked, “Why is it that whenever the subject comes up, you shut down?” “I told you before. Bad memories.” “Was it a case you were working on? What happened? Please tell me.” Jason tried to protest, but before he could stop himself, the story came tumbling out. He faltered at first, and then, as if frantic to get it all out before he lost the nerve, he let it pour forth like a flood. “I was working a case. A serial. Sick, detestable scum by the name of Don Gerry. He was… a predator. Violent. So evil you can’t imagine. Careful. We knew it was him, but it seemed like every time we got close, he’d slip away. Crime scenes were always scoured clean. I hate prime-time television. Damn shows teach perps how to cover their tracks. “Anyway, up to that point, I had a promising career in the unit. I had already nailed a couple of high-profile cases and had a reputation for getting the job done.” He drummed his fingers on the tabletop as he spoke. “I was following in my father’s footsteps, so they expected great things from me. Everyone’s confidence in me… well, I guess it made an impact. I was just as confident in myself. Too confident. “Guys like Gerry always mess up, and I was there when he did.” Chris was transfixed. The sacrifice Jason was making in telling the story was not lost on him. He could see the anguish, could feel it in Jason’s every word. “About a year into the investigation, we got a call that a little girl named Jessica Andrews had been murdered. Since the scene looked like it matched Gerry’s MO, my partner and I were sent in. We did an initial sweep—found nothing—not even fiber evidence. Typical of Gerry. We checked the body and found about what we’d expected. She was beaten to death and badly abused.” Jason stopped, his face adopted a haunted, tormented expression. The shadowy apparitions of his memory had momentarily overwhelmed him, and Chris could see him struggling with the images in his mind. He wondered if he would ever have been able to sleep again after having seen something so horrific. Suddenly conscious of Jason’s struggle, he reached out. “This is

too hard for you. I shouldn’t have imposed. I don’t expect you to—” “No, I have to get this out.” He took a deep breath. “We decided to do another sweep, hoping we’d missed something, anything. We almost gave up, but Clint, my partner, lost it. He was kind of a rookie and just wasn’t hardened to crime scenes yet. He got sick. “There was a used condom in the commode,” Jason said. “When Clint lifted the lid, he saw it. Gerry must have tried to flush it, but the house had bad plumbing. Clint had the good sense to puke on the floor, but it turned out to be a wasted effort.” Jason gritted his teeth, remembering what had followed. “What happened?” “I fucked up,” Jason said, too ashamed to meet Chris’s eyes. “What do you mean?” “I didn’t seal the evidence bag properly,” he blurted. Chris drew in his breath sharply. He had some idea of what was coming. “The guys in forensics positively ID’d the sample. It was him, all right. He’d done it, and we had the proof—right there in our hands. Only we couldn’t use it.” “But you got him anyway? Tell me you got him.” Jason shook his head. His voice was filled with bitterness when he spoke again. “That sample was our only real evidence. We had nothing else to make a case with. We had to let him go. He’s still out there, probably up to his old tricks.” Chris swallowed hard, utterly sickened by the fact that such evil roamed the streets. “He went free on a technicality? You had proof that he did it, but you couldn’t tell anyone? That’s preposterous. It’s… it’s—” “My fault. I was cocky, sloppy, too goddamn caught up in my moment of glory to check the boxes the way I should have.” Jason ran a trembling hand through his hair, and there were tears of remorse in his eyes. “I let that little girl down, and all the rest of them. After that, I just couldn’t do it anymore. They were counting on me—all those kids that Gerry preyed upon—and I betrayed their trust.” Jason closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose between two fingers. “So I left. They censured me, of course, but I didn’t really care. They should have

drummed me out. Instead, I quit.” He stared at the table for a long while, drained, seemingly afraid of the reproach he might see if he dared to look Chris in the eye. “If anyone betrayed their trust, Jason,” Chris said with passion, “it was the messed-up system.” Perhaps because of the conviction in Chris’s tone, Jason finally found the courage to look up. “So now you know. I probably should have told you in the first place—before I offered to help you.” Chris took hold of Jason’s hand and held it fiercely. “I trust you more than ever. Whether you believe it or not, you can’t crucify yourself for the rest of your life over a stupid mistake.” He gave Jason’s hand a small squeeze. “You have to get past the guilt. I know that’s easier said than done. God knows I have my own demons.” He looked away for a moment, trying to mask dark memories of his own. “You were doing good work for the world. You can’t blame yourself for a totally screwedup system of justice that lets the worst kind of killer free on a technicality. Yeah, you missed a step—but which is more important? An unchecked box, or the fact that all the other times it was checked, you were saving lives and making the world a safer place? If you ask me, the system is to blame anyway. Not you.” Jason smiled weakly. “I dream about it all the time. I’ve flogged myself repeatedly for that moment of carelessness. In the end, it doesn’t bring any of them back.” Chris stared directly into his eyes. “No, it doesn’t. But that’s not the point. The point is saving the next child, and the next. You have the power to do that. Look what you’ve done for me.” “I wish it were that easy, but I don’t have that kind of confidence in myself. Not anymore.” “Well, you should. I do. Jason, you are a brilliant investigator. You’re smart, brave, much more capable than you realize. When everyone else let me down… you gave me hope. Look how far you’ve brought me in just a handful of days.” His intent was to put Jason at ease, to soften the pain he carried. He didn’t realize until after he’d spoken how intensely he believed what he’d just said. He’d known Jason for such a short time, but he’d seen directly into the man’s soul tonight. He realized that he truly did care—more than he’d like to admit.

The arrogance and thoughtlessness were affectations. There were unbelievable depths to this man. At his core, Jason was the most compelling, most sensitive, most compassionate person he’d ever known. Chris released Jason’s hand and rose from his seat. He walked to the window and looked out over the city, caught up in so many emotions they threatened to overwhelm. Somewhere out there in that sea of lights, his baby girl was asleep. His little peanut whom he loved with his very soul was a heartbeat away from him. He placed his fingertips on the window and breathed her name. He didn’t attempt to move away when Jason came up behind him. Strong arms wrapped around him. He could feel the beating of Jason’s heart against his back. He breathed in the spicy scent of his skin. The embrace was meant to offer comfort, or perhaps to receive it. Whatever the purpose, Chris was grateful. After a time, though, the innocence gave way to something more. The thudding of Jason’s heart grew in intensity. There was a rising heat in his flesh. Jason’s ardor from earlier, having been stifled and put aside, now returned in full force. Chris could feel it straining through the thin fabric that separated them. Though every shred of good sense was railing at him to pull away and to put a stop to this, he couldn’t. He wanted it just as badly. He needed it as he had never needed anything in his life. He allowed himself to be turned around, and he leaned his head against Jason’s shoulder. He reveled anew in the softness of Jason’s skin. His lips brushed over Jason’s collarbone, and his own hunger arose. His breath came quickly, and he pressed himself closer to Jason’s body. Jason’s fingers traced along his neck, raising gooseflesh and shivers. Chris sighed and gave in to the pleasurable sensations. Jason cupped a hand beneath his chin and tilted his face upward. Chris surrendered completely to the passionate kiss that followed. He made no move to stop it, but instead committed himself body and soul to the moment. He was so lost in need that he was on the bed, covered by Jason’s body, before his mind could rally one last attempt at resistance. He was quickly losing himself to the intensity of the experience. Strong hands pressed him into the mattress, and he yielded to the

hard lips that sought out his earlobe, his chin, his neck, the hollow at the base of his throat. He did not protest when his shirt was lifted and painful yet pleasurable suction aroused first one and then the other nipple. And then lower, teeth and tongue teased the taut muscles of his stomach. He writhed and clenched with each nip of his sensitive flesh. He was alight with fire, rising and falling in crests of pleasure and torment and confusion and desire. He rose up and pulled Jason close to his body, kissing him deeply. He was now a willing participant, the animal part of himself having taken full control of his body. They circled, first one taking the lead, then the other, exploring, tasting, giving, and taking. Clothing fell away and flesh molded to flesh. It was as if their bodies had been made to be entwined. Their limbs locked together in perfect union. Heart to heart, they pulsed to the same rhythm, their cries of joy rising to a crescendo. This was the way it was always meant to be. Finally, although it seemed Chris had been consumed by an eternity of fire, it was done. They lay together, spent, still wrapped in the hot embrace of damp flesh, and Chris fell asleep.

SUNLIGHT spilling through the carelessly opened curtains awoke Chris. He snuggled in closer to Jason, not fully awake. He breathed in the comforting scent of the man he’d loved with an abandon and fury he’d never known, just the night before. A vague stirring and a heady feeling of euphoria roused him. As he came more fully awake, a dawning realization of what had transpired between them snapped him completely back to reality. In the next instant, he jerked away and clumsily disentangled himself from Jason’s body. He rolled out of the bed and rushed blindly to the bathroom, pursued by a groggy, “Chris?” He closed the door and locked it. He slid down the wall and came to rest on the cool tile. He cradled his head in his hands. What have we done? What have I done? How could I have let this happen? There was a knock at the door. “Chris? Are you okay?”

He controlled his breathing, trying to put down the tremor he knew would be obvious in his voice. “I’m fine. I’ll be out in a minute,” he said. There was a long silence on the other side of the door. “You’re upset about what happened.” Chris pinched his eyes closed and shook his head. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life in the bathroom. He was going to have to face Jason again sometime. He stood, wrapped a towel around himself, and opened the door. Jason looked at him imploringly. Chris was surprised to see shame on his face. What did Jason have to be ashamed about? Chris was the one who didn’t put a stop to it. He brushed by and fumbled with his clothes, dressing hastily. Jason came up behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder. Chris shrugged it away. “So you’re just going to give me the cold shoulder now? You got what you wanted and now I’m history?” Chris spun around and glared at him. “That’s not true.” “Then what’s your problem? Why the sudden change of heart?” “Because it’s wrong. Can’t you see that? Don’t you understand it should never have happened?” “Why, Chris? Why?” “I… I led you on. Led you to believe I was ready for something more, but I’m not. I can’t offer you something I don’t have to give. We—I did something incredibly stupid.” He pulled on his pants and hastily struggled into his socks. “Stupid? You think it was stupid? I didn’t hear you complaining about it last night,” Jason railed. His face was stricken. Chris turned his eyes to the floor. How could he have treated Jason’s heart so carelessly? After all the man had done for him, how could he have been so thoughtless? Jason turned away and marched to the window. He didn’t speak for several minutes. When he turned back to Chris, his eyes were hard. “I know what this is all about. I was right about you. You’re nothing but a coward.”

There was a flash of pain in Chris’s heart. Jason’s words cut deep, but the wound was yet to be opened. “No wonder you tried to kill yourself. I’d cut my wrists too, if I were as pathetic as you are.” Chris gasped at the deep and intense shock of those words. The blood drained from his face, and he thought he might be sick. He staggered back a step, and his mouth worked as if to speak. Nothing came out but a tortured moan. Jason was instantly contrite. “Oh God, Chris, I’m sorry,” he tried, but it was too late. The wall had sprung up between them, looming and impenetrable. Chris was in his shoes and out the door before Jason could utter another word. After Chris left, Jason deflated. What had he done? He hadn’t meant to say those things, but he was hurting badly from the sudden rejection and the unexpected pain it caused him. He’d thought that something had begun, something wonderful. He dropped onto the bed and wrapped his arms around himself. He had just ruined any chance of that. Chris would never look at him the same again. The things he’d said were unforgivably cruel. Hasn’t he had enough pain? Hasn’t the world shit on him enough? Did he really deserve you adding to it? Maybe he’s better off without you, anyway. You’re an asshole right to the core, Jason Kingsley. You deserve to be alone. He sat there mentally berating himself. All the remembered guilt and frustration he’d felt over Bradley came welling up—all the guilt and frustration over his failure in the FBI. For the first time since Don Gerry went free because of his stupid mistake, tears of remorse slid down his cheeks. Now, as then, he let them come. He didn’t try to fight them. He brought one away with his fingertip, staring at it, realizing that if anyone was as worthy of this tear as all those children he’d failed, Chris was. It was the best and only apology he was certain he would ever be allowed to make.

CHRIS was too mortified to cry as he stormed down the hallway and into the elevator. As the car descended, the shock turned to wrath. By the time he was on the ground floor he was positively livid. How could he? He stormed into the lobby. This is ending here and now, goddamn it. I don’t need him. He marched to the front desk and tried to compose himself. A petite Hispanic woman looked up at him and smiled. “Could you tell me if Curt Marcus is working?” he asked. She typed on her keyboard. “Yes. Shall I page him for you, sir?” “Please do. It’s important that I speak to him right away.” She picked up the phone and dialed a number. “He should be here soon,” she assured him, placing the handset back into its cradle. It took less than five minutes for Curt to arrive. “Good morning,” Curt greeted, looking around for Jason. “Jason’s not here. I wonder if you could do me a favor.” “For you, hot stuff, anything.” Chris tried to force a smile, but he was still seething, so he wasn’t sure how successful he was. “Do you know anyone who works at the Bellagio? Someone who could get you a room number of one of their guests? I just found out a very good friend of mine is staying there, and I’d like to pay him a visit.” Curt thought for a moment. “Yeah, I know a bellman that works there. Had a fling with him last summer. I’ll give him a ring.” “I owe you one.” “How about you let me buy you dinner?” Chris shook his head. “I won’t be here very much longer.” “Oh, are you and Jason…?” “No, nothing like that. I’m a client. That’s all.” Curt smiled. “I’ll make that call. What’s your friend’s name?”

“Michael. Michael Blake. But”—Chris held up a hand to stop Curt, who was already walking away—“he might just be a guest of someone else. I don’t know for sure.” “What does he look like? Maybe a description will help.” “Five eleven, about one eighty. Dark-brown hair, usually well dressed. He has a scar on his chin from a motorcycle accident. It’s very distinctive. It looks like a lightning bolt.” Curt smiled and winked. “Got it.” He walked over to the desk and placed a call. Within minutes, he was back with a slip of paper. “Room 3615. It’s a suite. Apparently he’s registered with someone going by the name John Smith. We get a lot of those here in Vegas. Jake, the bellman, remembered the guy though, so we got lucky. According to Jake, your Michael is hotness, but a total dick. He stiffed him a tip and treated him like garbage.” Chris took the slip of paper and pocketed it. “That sounds like Michael.” Chris forced another smile. “Thank you again. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your help.” Curt gave him a hopeful smile. “You’re sure about that dinner?” “I plan to be on a plane back to Seattle by the end of the day.” “What about Jason? Is he leaving too?” “I don’t know. If you see him, I’d appreciate you keeping this between us, though.” “There is something going on with you two.” Chris shook his head and patted his pocket. “Not a thing. I promise.” He shook Curt’s hand and headed for the door. He was going to finish this once and for all. Even though it was early morning, when Chris exited the hotel, he felt like he was walking into a blast furnace. Steeling himself against the heat, he turned and stormed toward the Bellagio with righteous wrath fueling his steps.

THE MAN wearing an eye patch flicked his Camel cigarette into the gutter as he watched Chris James depart the Venetian. He pulled out his phone and dialed. “Watson here,” he said once the call was answered. “Your little game is coming apart, Brunner. The birdie just flew out of the Venetian. Looks like he’s pissed off. He’s probably on his way to pay you a visit.” “Damn it,” Brunner swore. “How could this have happened?” “You were warned.”

Chapter 12

THE BELLAGIO was every bit as extravagant and overdone as the Venetian, so Chris experienced a sense of déjà vu as he strolled into the lobby. Under other circumstances, he might have liked to linger on the overwhelming detail, but he was positively driven by adrenaline and fierce anger. He bypassed the casino and followed the signs to the elevators that would take him to the guest rooms. Noticing the security guard posted on duty outside the hallway, he paused to consider. How was he going to get past him? The trick, he thought, would be to act casually and walk right on through as if he knew what he was doing. As he approached, the security guard looked in his direction. “Room key?” Chris flashed the back side of his Venetian keycard and kept on walking. The ploy obviously worked, since the security guard made no move to detain him. He pressed the call button and, once the elevator arrived, he stepped inside. As the car ascended to the thirty-sixth floor, he felt a momentary sense of unreality. What the hell was he doing? He remembered Jason’s scornful tone when he’d called him a coward, and his faltering resolve was renewed.

“I’ll show you coward, you conceited son of a bitch,” he said aloud. The elevator doors parted, and he stepped into the hallway on the thirty-sixth floor. Looking right and left, he located the numbered placards on the wall and determined that he needed to head left. He counted off the rooms, and when he found the one he was looking for, he gave no thought to his actions. He raised his fist and pounded on the door. He stepped out of view of the peephole, his stomach churning in fear. Don’t think. He took a deep breath. Just do. He didn’t want Brunner and Michael to know who was crashing their party. There was a muffled noise from inside the room, and a groggy voice he recognized all too well issued forth. “Can’t you see the ‘do not disturb’ sign? Go away.” Hearing Michael’s voice intensified his anger. Forgotten was his fear. Resentment and outrage consumed him, detonating in his chest like a thermonuclear blast. He pounded on the door again, this time much harder, and shouted, “Open this fucking door or I’ll break it down.” There was a rattling of a chain, and the knob turned. The door opened a crack, and Chris launched himself into it, flinging Michael backward and sending him sprawling onto the floor. Blazing hatred took complete control as he laid eyes on Michael Blake for the first time in nearly a year. This was the man who had taken his daughter away. This was the man who had put him through ten months of unrelenting hell. He could see his own murderous intent reflected in the terror on Michael’s face. His hands clenched into fists as he stomped toward the prostrate and wasted form of his former partner. “You weren’t dead before, Michael, but you can bet your ass when I’m through with you, you’ll wish you had been.” Michael scampered backward as Chris came on, teeth bared like a predatory animal. He was blinded by wrath as he advanced. “Chris?” Michael’s eyes were glazed and wild with fear. Chris could tell he was high. The man’s panic fueled his confidence. Michael had always been the one in control. He had always had the upper hand. The tables were turned now.

“Where is she?” “Brianna?” “Damn you, Michael, why did you do this to me?” He kicked out, landing a solid blow. The wind was torn from Michael’s lips in a wheezing gasp. Michael moaned and reached up to him, wincing in pain. His eyes were glassy saucers in a gaunt face. He was an empty husk of the man he had been when Chris had last seen him. “Chris, please, I wanted out. He wouldn’t let me.” Michael was whimpering, trembling uncontrollably. Chris kicked him again, this time in the face. A trail of bloody snot ran out of his nose. “Please,” he begged. “You’re going to need a body bag if you don’t start talking.” Chris swept a desk lamp off the end table and smashed it against the bed frame. Wickedly sharp daggers of broken ceramic would make it a fine weapon. He brandished it before himself, hungry to drive it right through Michael’s neck. He had never been so crazed with bloodlust, so overcome with fury. Michael stared transfixed, his terror cresting like breakers on a tortured sea. “I don’t know. I’m so confused,” he sobbed. Chris might have felt sorry for him, but he was too far gone. “Answer me. Where is she? Where is my daughter? Answer me.” He swung the lamp. Michael raised his arms to protect himself, and the sharp ceramic sliced a red line across the tender skin. Blood pooled and flowed. Michael squealed in pain. The cut was deep. Not deep enough to kill, but enough to prove he meant business. “I don’t know, I don’t know.” Tears and bloody mucus streamed down Michael’s face as he cradled his profusely bleeding arm. Chris had no pity for him, no remorse for the damage he’d done. The sight of blood made him want more—to hurt as badly as he had been hurt. Now unleashed, Chris could no longer contain the murderous animal straining for vengeance. He was so caught up that he didn’t hear the door open, didn’t hear the snick of the safety being released on a firearm, but the hard steel barrel of the weapon against his scalp brought him up short.

“Make another move and I’ll pull the trigger.” The tone was snide, familiar, touched with the faintest hint of an Eastern European accent. Johan Brunner. Chris froze, afraid to draw a breath. He allowed the broken lamp to drop to his side. Fear drowned out the raging fury, and suddenly, with grim regret, he realized what kind of a predicament he’d placed himself in. This was what Jason had warned him about. He’d prematurely launched the endgame—without any kind of a plan or fallback—and now he was completely on his own. Foolishly, he had rushed headlong into danger without any regard for stealth or means of escape. He was not going to walk away from this encounter unscathed. “Put the lamp down and sit on the bed,” Brunner commanded, thumping him hard on the back of the head with the barrel of the gun. Chris moved to comply. As Chris sat down, Brunner turned his attention to Michael. “For Christ’s sake, shut up. You sicken me.” “I’m sorry, Jo, I’m sorry,” he sobbed. As Chris sat cowering on the bed, he stared at Brunner. In stark contrast to Michael’s transformation, Johan Brunner looked every bit the man he remembered—and the memories weren’t fond ones. He was handsome in his own way, chiseled features, dark, kohl-lined eyes. He was rakish, but the soul that inhabited his well-made body made him hideous to look upon. It was this ugliness of character that Chris recalled most vividly. As he stared at the leveled weapon and the sneer on Brunner’s face, time slowed to a crawl. Every detail of the moment burned into his brain. Chris shuddered as Brunner’s black eyes raked over him. “I must admit, I didn’t expect you had this kind of fire in you,” Brunner said. “It’s becoming, if… inconvenient.” Chris kept his mouth shut. “I’m afraid you’ve created quite a dilemma for me. This was not how it was supposed to be.” Chris forced down his fear. “How was it supposed to be? I was

supposed to kill myself?” Though he tried to control it, he could hear a tremor in his voice. Brunner raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Smart fellow.” “Why? What could that possibly accomplish?” “Now, don’t play the coy one with me, little man. You know very well what this is all about. I want the Heart of the Jungle, and you’re going to give it to me.” “What the hell are you talking about? What jungle?” Brunner chuckled, but there was no mirth in the laughter. “You’re quite the little actor. Just full of surprises.” Brunner wasn’t making any sense. “I swear,” Chris implored, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I only want my daughter. Whatever it is you want or think I have, I swear, you can have it.” “Enough.” Brunner waved the firearm menacingly. “If you had just killed yourself like you were supposed to, I’d be a very wealthy man right now, but you’ve had to make this whole thing most vexing. I’ve been forced to live in hotel rooms for the past nine months with this.” He gestured at Michael, his lips curling in disgust. “I should be in Rio or on the Riviera soaking up the sun and living the high life right now, not fetching amphetamines for this… this waste of skin.” Chris glanced at Michael, who continued to sob on the floor. “Please,” Chris begged, frustration and fear touching his voice with a note of panic, “please just tell me what this is about. I swear—” “Shut the fuck up,” Brunner snapped. His eyes narrowed. There was a fierce, predatory gleam in them. “I said I’m done with games. Now keep your mouth shut while I try to figure out what to do.” For several moments, as Michael sobbed distractingly on the floor, Brunner was silent. Chris could tell he was rapidly calculating, making some kind of plan, and whatever it was, he was sure he wasn’t going to like it. Finally, with another hate-filled glare at Michael, he gestured to Chris. “You. On your feet. You’re coming with me.” “Where are we going?” Chris asked.

“Away from here,” he said, with an angry glance in Michael’s direction. “Somewhere I can think this through without all of the incessant sniveling.” Michael whimpered. “What about my stuff?” Brunner turned toward him and spat again. “I’m done being your errand boy. You can shrivel up and die for all I care. I don’t need you anymore.” He turned back to Chris. “You’re going to walk calmly out of here with me. You make one wrong move, you attempt to alert anyone to your situation, and I will make a telephone call to the people who have your daughter.” He stepped toward Chris and stared directly into his eyes. “And then, she will die. Understood?” The blood in Chris’s veins turned to ice. He swallowed hard and nodded. What else could he do but go along? “I thought that would ensure your cooperation.” Brunner waved the gun toward the doorway. “Stay one step ahead of me. Do exactly what I say, and everything will be just fine.” As Chris rose from the bed to comply, he watched Brunner conceal the weapon in his jacket. Though hidden from casual view, he knew it was still aimed at him. The fabric that covered it made it no less deadly. Chris stood and preceded Brunner into the hallway. His mind was spinning, formulating and discarding plans for escape as he marched toward the elevator. With every step, he was supremely conscious of the gun pointed at his back. They stepped into the elevator. “So far, you’re doing well,” Brunner said. Chris grunted in response. He was still trying to figure out a way out of this mess and coming up empty. He had no experience with hostage situations and could think of no recourse but to blindly follow commands. If Brunner was to be believed, it wasn’t only his life on the line. Brianna’s was also in jeopardy. If only there were some way to let Jason know what he had done, what had happened. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Why had he let his temper get the better of him? Why had he rushed blindly into this mess? Not only had Jason

warned him that he needed to keep a low profile, but he’d specifically said that recklessness could put Brianna’s life in danger. Now, because of his carelessness, he’d jeopardized everything. He shook his head. Great time to grow a pair, Chris. The elevator arrived at the ground floor, and Brunner placed an arm around his shoulder, affecting casual acquaintance. The position was meant to emphasize the hard lump of the weapon against his side, a constant reminder that he was a prisoner. If he didn’t cooperate, there would be serious consequences. With firm but surreptitious pressure, Brunner steered him toward an exit. They walked into the parking garage and soon located Brunner’s vehicle, a nondescript black Mercedes sedan. There were thousands like it in Las Vegas, so even if Chris could somehow alert Jason, it wasn’t likely he’d be able to mount an effective rescue. Brunner shoved him into the back of the car and climbed into the driver’s seat. They pulled out and headed west toward I-15. Once on the freeway, Brunner drove north out of the city. Chris sweltered in the back seat as Las Vegas dwindled behind them. It was so hot outside, even on its highest setting the air conditioning couldn’t keep up. They ascended into the foothills. He wasn’t sure where Brunner was taking him, but his prospects for surviving the trip were becoming grimmer with each passing mile. After what seemed like a lifetime, they turned into the Valley of Fire State Park, and Brunner negotiated the gravel road until he’d found a quiet location well off the main thoroughfare. He parked the car and instructed Chris to get out. Chris obeyed and walked ahead of Brunner into the desert wilderness, sweating profusely in the relentless sun. Clouds were gathering on the far horizon, and he wished the brewing storm would hurry up. After they had walked some distance, Brunner instructed him to sit on a rock. “I find the emptiness of the desert to be a balm. Wouldn’t you agree?” Brunner asked. Chris shook his head and mopped perspiration from his forehead. “I can’t say it’s doing much for me,” he replied honestly.

Brunner laughed. “Well, you are at a bit of a disadvantage.” He paced back and forth. The shifty roaming of his eyes and the expression on his face indicated he was working over details, plotting his next course of action. Probably figuring out how best to dispose of my body. Chris’s gut lurched sickeningly. Facing death on one’s own terms was a vastly different experience than facing it at the hands of a madman. Would a gunshot to the head be painful? How long would the pain last? Were these his final moments? Why now, when he had everything to live for again, was his life about to be taken away? Was this some kind of cruel punishment for the times he’d nearly thrown it away? Was this the cost of a squandered gift of existence? “Don’t look so morose. I’m not going to kill you,” Brunner announced suddenly. Chris’s eyes widened in surprise. “In fact, I’m going to give you exactly what you want. We’re going to recover your daughter.” “What?” Chris asked, unable to believe what he was hearing. “Don’t think this is an act of beneficence on my part. She’s nothing more than collateral. I won’t hesitate to kill both of you if you don’t cooperate fully.” Chris nodded, his eyes filling with tears. “Yes, of course.” “You play along and I might let you go free once it’s all over.” It all seemed too good to believe. There was some kind of catch. There had to be. The insincerity in Brunner’s tone warned him to be wary. It wasn’t likely he’d keep up his end of the bargain once he got what he wanted—whatever that was. Still, for the chance to see Brianna again, to hold her… that was worth a thousand painful deaths. “Have I made myself at all unclear?” Brunner asked. The ominous sound of rolling thunder in the distance spiced the unspoken threat with menace. “No. I understand.” “Good. Then let’s go get your daughter.”

Chapter 13

JASON slumped on the bed with his head hung. He knew he should go after Chris, but he couldn’t bring himself to get to his feet. They were going to have to look each other in the eye, to converse like adults, at some point. At least, he thought, until this thing was over. After a while, when Chris did not return, he started to get anxious. Where had he gone? It probably wasn’t safe for him to be out walking around unguarded. What if Brunner saw him? Glancing at the clock, he realized that more than an hour had passed since Chris had stormed out. He headed to the lobby to search. The casino was unusually crowded. Outside, the thermometer had climbed well into the red, so it seemed the tourists had sought refuge indoors. Although he scanned every face, of Chris, there was no sign. “Looking for your boyfriend? You two have a lover’s quarrel?” “Curt,” Jason said, spinning around. “Have you seen him?” There was an edge of dread in Jason’s voice that Curt seemed to recognize at once. “I knew it. I could tell from his face you had some kind of falling out.” “So you’ve seen him?” “A little over an hour ago. Said he wanted to pay a friend a surprise visit. I got a room number for him.” The seed of disquiet burst into full bloom. “Did he say who the

friend was?” “Michael Blake. He’s at the Bellagio in room 3615. Ex-boyfriend?” “Worse,” Jason moaned, mentally berating himself for having waited so long to give chase. He knew Chris had been out of his mind when he’d rushed out of the room. If only he’d tried to stop him. “Curt, if by some miracle he shows up back here, call me right away.” He was already headed toward the door, Curt only a step behind. “This is sounding serious. It really is a case, isn’t it?” “Serious isn’t the word for it,” Jason said, sprinting for the exit.

THE mad flight to the Bellagio was a blur. A building thunderstorm thickened the normally dry desert air and made the heat seem oppressive and heavy. The claustrophobic panic it inspired added to his rising anxiety. By the time he reached his destination, he was drenched with sweat. The elevator ride seemed interminable. On the thirty-sixth floor, he burst out of the car even before the doors had completely opened. He raced down the hallway and pounded frantically on the door to room 3615. When there was no answer, he braced himself and landed a solid kick, preparing to break it down if he had to. The door rattled in its frame but held. He tried again, and just as he was about to land a third blow, a red-eyed and bloody Michael Blake answered. He was sporting a split lip and the beginnings of a nasty black eye. Jason shoved the door open violently, unbalancing Michael. Jason advanced and grabbed hold of Michael’s neck, squeezing like a vise and cutting off his air. Bodily, he shoved him backward and pressed him into the wall. Choking, his eyes wide and bulging, Michael clawed at Jason’s hand. His swollen face reddened. “Where is he?” Jason demanded. Michael sputtered and gasped as Jason relaxed his grip enough to allow him to speak. “C-Chris?” “No, the fucking Easter Bunny. Where is he?”

“Johan. Johan took him. They’re gone.” “Gone?” Jason’s grip tightened again as his eyes drilled holes in Michael’s face. “Where did they go?” Again, the vise was released. “I… I don’t know,” Michael managed, his voice hoarse. “Does Brunner carry a cell phone?” “Yes, but I don’t know the number. Please, please….” Jason directed a malevolent glare at Michael, his rising anxiety for Chris adding to his murderous ardor. The look carried the promise of death. It was not the first time that day Michael had seen it. Tears squeezed out of his swollen, bloodshot eyes, and he worked frantically to pry Jason’s powerful fingers off of his throat. “You’re going to pay for what you’ve done. I will see to it personally.” Michael’s struggles ceased. His body went limp, and he seemed to deflate. Jason expected bravado, denial, outrage. Instead, he read hopeless resignation in Michael’s expression. He relaxed his grip. “Yeah,” Michael breathed, utterly defeated. “I suppose I am.” Jason was surprised by the sudden transformation. “Why did you do it, Michael?” Michael thought for a moment and finally shrugged. “Money, drugs. Christ, I don’t even remember anymore.” As Jason stood there looking at the wasted, disheveled husk of the man who had once been Michael Blake, he tried, but he could find no remorse, no pity for him, no mercy. He was beyond despicable. Sickened, outraged, he swung his fist and connected solidly with a powerful uppercut. Michael hit the ground, unconscious. “That’s for Chris.” Jason looked around the room, stunned by what he saw. Drug paraphernalia lay discarded on the end table, and empty vials that had once contained any variety of illegal substances littered every surface. He hurried to the telephone, lifted it off the hook, and dialed the FBI field office.

“Frank Marcus, please,” he asked when the line was answered. It took several minutes, but finally Frank answered. “Marcus,” he snapped curtly. “Frank, it’s Jason.” “Jason. How the hell are you, buddy?” “Not so good right now. I need your help,” he said. “Name it.” “I’m working a case for a client, and things have gone really, really wrong. His life and his daughter’s life are in danger, and I’m wanted by Seattle PD.” “Wanted for what?” “Murder.” “You’re shitting me, right?” “God, Frank, how I wish. There’s a warrant out for my arrest.” There was a pause. “You’re putting me in a tough spot here. I don’t have to tell you that.” “I didn’t kill anyone. In fact, I believe the murder is a part of something much bigger. I have proof of that right here.” Frank sighed heavily on the other end of the line. “Kid, you’re as bad as your father. You sure know how to get yourself into trouble.” Jason was surprised. As far as he knew, his father was the straightest lace there ever was. There was a story there, but now wasn’t the time. “I think you better tell me where you are so we can get this all sorted out.” “Bellagio, thirty-sixth floor.” “Sit tight. I’m on my way.” “Bring support. This one’s bad, and we need to move now.” “Understood,” Frank said. “You can finish briefing me when I arrive.”

FRANK MARCUS was a stocky, powerfully built man. His face was grizzled, but there was undeniable kindness in his eyes. The moment he strode into the room with two armed uniformed agents in tow, Jason was relieved. The days of overconfidence were long behind him. Frank clasped his hand, and Jason pulled him into a hug instead. After a moment, Frank pushed him away and, with a discomfited glance back at the agents accompanying him, said, “Shit, son, knock that crap off. What the hell’s got into you?” “You have no idea how happy I am to see you,” Jason replied. “You better tell me what this is all about,” Frank warned. “As I told you, I’m working a case. A little less than a year ago, my client came home to a bloodbath—his two-year-old daughter and domestic partner were apparently murdered. The cops investigated but never found the bodies. Forensics tested the blood and identified it as belonging to Michael Blake, my client’s partner. Based on the amount of blood at the scene, they presumed homicide.” He gestured toward the trussed and unconscious form on the hotel bed. “This is Michael Blake.” “But this man isn’t dead.” “No, he’s alive and… mostly in one piece. I don’t know all the details yet, but there’s some kind of crazy conspiracy underway, and it’s like nothing I’ve ever seen.” “You’re making this up.” “Frank, I assure you, it’s all true. It gets worse.” “How worse?” “The little girl is still alive. She’s been placed in the custody of someone named Mariano—” There was a sharp intake of breath as the name registered with Frank. “Know him?” “Mafia. Big shot. Deep connections in this town. Christ on the cross.” “Mafia?” Jason was stricken. He shook his head in dismay. “If you call Seattle PD and order up the records, you’ll find out that the girl is presumed murdered too. What’s actually happened is that the whole thing was staged. Maybe they used banked blood to make it look like a

murder. Who the hell knows? All I can say for sure is that Brianna James is alive and right here in Las Vegas. She was kidnapped and transported across state lines, which makes it your jurisdiction.” “What else have you got? I can’t move on Mariano without some kind of proof.” “Woman by the name of Sylvia Hopkins—owns a nightclub on Paradise—brokered the deal.” “Hopkins? Interesting. We’ve had a bead on that demented bitch for a while now.” “Yeah, I figured you might. Well, I paid her a visit last night. I recorded our conversation.” He brandished his cellular telephone. “I love this thing. Everything you need to nail her ass to the wall is here.” Frank reached for the phone, and Jason handed it over reluctantly. “Here’s where it gets really bad.” “As compared to the pretty shit you’ve already told me? Goddamn, kid.” “My client has been abducted. He’s in the custody of Johan Brunner. He’s the mastermind of this whole twisted plot. Frank, because Brunner has him, we’re out of time. The girl’s life is in terrible danger. We have to move quickly, before he gets to Mariano and tells him everything is falling apart. According to Hopkins, taking the girl was a favor for someone. We don’t know how strong his loyalty is. If he thinks he’s threatened and he’s as bad as you say he is—” “John,” Frank shouted to one of the agents, “get on the line with HQ. Tell them to expect a recording in their inbox. I need it transcribed and sent over for an emergency warrant, stat.” The agent immediately began punching numbers into his mobile phone. Frank rounded on Jason and poked a hard finger into his chest. “Right now, this is all your word. Any holes in this fairy tale you’ve just told me and it’s your ass in the sling.” “Pull the files from SPD, get the guys over here to pick up Michael Blake, make him talk. Do whatever you have to do. If we don’t move now, they’re both dead.” “If it were anyone but you asking me to do this, Jason….”

“I know, Frank.” Frank set up a temporary base of operations in the hotel room. He made several telephone calls in rapid succession, immediately diving headfirst into the myriad details of procedure. Shortly afterward, the paramedics arrived and made certain Michael was stable. Frank compared his face to a file photo he’d received on his mobile phone from SPD and whistled. “I’ll be goddamned,” he remarked as they began to wheel him out under armed escort. “It’s him, all right,” Jason said dourly. Frank placed a hand on the lead EMT’s arm. “What’s his condition?” “Stable. Without lab tests, it’s hard to say. He could be out from a knock to the head, but odds are good he’s amped on something. I’d bet my badge on it.” “Keep him under guard until we question him.” The EMT nodded and continued out the door. Frank took a call, and when he disconnected, he turned to Jason. “We’ve got our warrant. A team is assembling to move on the Mariano residence.” Jason shuddered and dropped onto the bed. Frank got back on the telephone with the Seattle police, and after a brief, urgent conversation, he disconnected and flashed Jason a smile. “SPD just agreed to suspend action on the APB on you and Christian James provided you remain in my custody and agree to cooperate fully with their ongoing investigation.” “I’m far out of my depth as a PI. From here out, this one is yours. I always planned to hand it off once I got something you could work with, anyway.” Frank tossed Jason’s phone back to him. “Does your client carry a mobile phone?” Jason’s fingers were in action before the sentence was completely out of Frank’s mouth. The call went directly to voicemail. He cursed.

“You look like you’re about ready to jump out of your skin, kid. Take ten deep breaths.” “If anything happens to him… it’ll be all my fault.” Frank patted his shoulder. “I saw you go through this when the Don Gerry thing went down. You have got to stop getting yourself in so deep. Shit, you’re just like your father.” “I appreciate the sentiment, Frank, but this is different.” “How is it different?” “I… I dragged him into this. If I hadn’t been so careless, he might not be in this mess right now. I’ve done nothing but put him in danger right from the start.” “Seems to me, based on what you’ve told me, like you made the only decisions you could under the circumstances.” “Frank, I should have known we were walking into trouble.” “Our team will be arriving at the Mariano residence any second now. Don’t worry. This is all going to turn out—” Just then, Frank’s phone rang, and he answered. He spoke briefly with the caller. With a grim look in Jason’s direction, he hung up. “Fuck,” Frank said. “We’re too late.” Jason’s heart dropped, and he swallowed against a sudden wave of nausea. “What’s happened?” He almost didn’t want to hear the answer. From the look on Frank’s face, it was very bad. “Looks like this guy Brunner is a step ahead of us. Two members of the Mariano household staff are dead.” “The girl?” “No sign. Let’s get over there and see how bad it is.” Frank led the way.

DESPITE the dire circumstances, Chris was floating in a cloud of euphoria. In his arms, he cradled Brianna tenderly as tears of joy streamed down his cheeks—tears that hadn’t stopped since Brunner

carried her out of the mansion and deposited her into the car. She had been shy and hesitant at first. Although he could see recognition in her eyes, it was tenuous and vague, as if she was struggling to recall how she knew him. “Baby, it’s me,” he’d said. “It’s Daddy.” Something about the sound of his voice seemed to jog her memory. Her little face lit up with remembrance, and she leapt into his arms. She clung fiercely to him, as if letting go would somehow make his reappearance in her life less real. The only words she had uttered since that moment had been “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.” A small part of him had been terrified that she would have forgotten him completely, but now that she was in his arms, it was clear that his absence had been keenly felt. Unwilling to extricate himself from her grip, he examined her carefully. For all that she had been through over the past ten months, she seemed healthy and whole. Other than the desperation with which she clung to him, even her little spirit seemed to be intact. He smoothed her curly mop of red hair and kissed her on the forehead, shushing her and making soothing noises, his heart soaring at the feel of her tiny body in his arms. He glanced up and happened to notice Brunner’s eyes staring at him in the rearview mirror. He briefly met the man’s gaze and then looked quickly away. He swiped at the tears on his cheeks and took a deep breath. Pull it together. They had been headed north since picking up Brianna and were more than an hour outside of Vegas by now. Scant few vehicles shared the long, straight desert road with them, so Brunner could apparently afford to divert his attention from driving. “She was well cared for,” he remarked. Chris’s only reply was a hateful, malicious glare. “She had everything she needed,” he added. “Except for me,” Chris argued. “Except everything that she’s ever known. I’m her family, you sick son of a bitch.” Brunner rolled his eyes. “You’re as much her family as the people babysitting her were.”

“Do you expect gratitude from me? You ripped my child from her home. These people might have fed her, kept her safe, but they are not me, damn you. I was her entire world.” “Yeah, well, if you’d just offed yourself like you were supposed to, you’d have saved us all some time and trouble—including her.” Anger flared anew. If given half a chance, Chris would kill the slimy bastard in the front seat with his bare hands. He would tear him limb from limb, and still, he wasn’t sure that the bloodlust would be satiated. As he struggled to contain his rage, he vowed to himself that he would watch and wait for a time to strike. When Brunner was vulnerable, he’d mutilate him slowly, painfully. That moment would come, he was sure of it. When his guard was down, when Brianna’s life didn’t hang in the balance—when the opportunity presented itself, he would be ready. Brunner’s eyes returned to the road ahead, and Chris shifted his weight in the seat. His mobile phone pressed uncomfortably into his backside. As he repositioned himself, an idea occurred to him—one he hadn’t had time to contemplate before now. Slowly, carefully, he reached back and worked the phone partially out of his pocket. His hand froze in place when Brunner’s eyes darted to his reflection in the rearview mirror. When Brunner’s attention was diverted again by a particularly sinuous stretch of road, Chris felt for and pressed the On button. Now all he had to do was wait and pray that Jason would try to call. It didn’t take long. Several minutes after turning the phone on, he felt it buzzing in his pocket. His heart raced. Jason. It was a stroke of good fortune that the road continued to wend through a mountain pass. This forced Brunner to keep his attention on driving. Surreptitiously, Chris snaked his hand into his pocket and fumbled for the button that would answer the call. Although he could not be sure whether it actually was Jason on the other end of the line, he prayed fervently that it was. When he was certain the call had been connected, he asked, in as casual a tone as he could muster under the circumstances, “Where are

you taking us?” “Shut up,” Brunner replied. “We’re headed north, aren’t we?” Chris pressed. “What’s north?” “I said shut up,” Brunner instructed. “I’m not in the mood for small talk.” “I sure wish you would tell me what all of this is about. Why me? I write restaurant reviews. I have nothing.” “This game is growing wearisome.” “For the last time, Brunner, I have no idea what it is you think I have. The Heart of the Jungle, you said. I haven’t got a clue where that is.” Brunner chuckled. “You know, this is almost a convincing charade you have going here, but I can understand why you would want to protect it. It is absolutely unique, valuable beyond the dreams of avarice.” Chris was stunned to discover the Heart of the Jungle wasn’t a place at all. “I… I swear to you, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Brunner’s eyes in the rearview mirror were skeptical, but Chris could tell he was beginning to doubt. “I’ll give you whatever it is you want—only, I need to know what that is.” Chris saw Brunner’s eyes drift to Brianna, who was lying asleep in his arms. “I didn’t rescue your daughter out of the goodness of my heart, little man. Consider her welfare. Perhaps that will jog your memory.” This was getting dire. He just couldn’t seem to make Brunner believe him. “I can’t help you if I don’t know what you—” “Enough,” Brunner snapped, cutting him off. “You’re going to hand over that diamond, and provided you don’t cause me any trouble, you and your daughter might just walk away unharmed. I actually don’t like killing. I don’t want to hurt you.” Diamond? The Heart of the Jungle was a diamond? What made Brunner think he had a diamond? He thought about asking for more details, but something made him hold his tongue. His best hope for

escape was to play along for as long as possible, all the while searching for an opening in Brunner’s defenses. He dearly hoped that would happen before he was forced to pony up some diamond he knew nothing about. If Jason was on the other end of the line and listening, maybe it wouldn’t come to that. “I suppose I do owe you for giving my daughter back to me safe and sound,” he said pointedly—a message to Jason that Brianna was with him and in one piece. “Keep that in mind,” Brunner warned. He clung tightly to the little girl and smoothed a damp curl away from her forehead. She slept on in his arms, content and at peace. Her little mouth turned up in a tiny smile of happiness.

IN

THE passenger seat of Frank’s government issue sedan, Jason held

his phone close to his ear. He listened intently—so intently that his hand was shaking. They were alive. They were all right—for the moment. Because of the torrents of rain pouring down, traffic on the strip was snarled. They had been sitting in the same spot for more than twenty minutes. Frank hammered on the horn in reproach as Jason strained to hear and scribbled notes on an envelope he had fished out of the glove compartment. He heard Chris say, “I suppose I do owe you for giving my daughter back to me safe—” before the line went dead. “The Heart of the Jungle isn’t a place,” Jason said, tossing the cell phone. “I’ll be damned.” Frank cast him a sidelong glance, obviously confused. “They’re alive,” Jason told him. “Sounds like they’re on the road. They’re headed north.” Frank kept his eyes on the road. “I’d call in an APB, but we don’t have a clue what kind of vehicle we’re looking for. Smart move of your client to answer the phone like that. It was risky, but smart.” “What’s north?” Jason asked. “Desert, hundreds of miles. They could be headed anywhere.”

Jason worked a muscle in his jaw. “It’s getting late in the day, and they’ll have to stop for the night. Let’s get back to the field office and project possible routes and waypoints. It might help us to put in a call to hotels or motels along the way, fax over some photos and put them on alert.” “That’ll work if they stop,” Frank said, hammering the horn again. “Could be your guy Brunner will just keep on driving.” “He’ll have to stop. Cars need gas. People need food… and sleep.” “True, but they’re traveling through some pretty remote territory. Getting word out is going to be tricky. What’s this Heart of the Jungle thing you were going on about?” “It’s a diamond. Brunner said it was unique and extremely valuable. He thinks Chris has it.” “Hmm,” Frank intoned. “That’s a good piece of intel. I’ll have someone look into it.” “Chris doesn’t seem to know anything about it, but Brunner is expecting him to hand it over. He’s deadly serious.” “You’re positive Chris James doesn’t know anything about this diamond? That he’s not trying to avoid handing it over for some reason?” Jason frowned and considered. He shook his head. Chris wouldn’t have deceived him. He wouldn’t have put the daughter he’d risked everything for in jeopardy by withholding something, no matter how valuable it was. “No way. You don’t know Chris. He would hand over that diamond in a heartbeat to save Brianna.” Traffic started moving, and Frank eased the car forward. He heaved a sigh. “It really must be one hell of a rock. What I want to know is, if even Chris James doesn’t know he has it, how does Brunner? How is he so sure?” Jason thought about this. “Michael. Had to have been Michael. God knows how he found out about it, but he must’ve been the one to tell Brunner.” “This thing is just weird. In all my years as a federal investigator, I’ve never seen the like. This whole complicated conspiracy—the scope

of it… I’m still trying to wrap my head around it. Blake certainly has an interesting story to tell.” “What do we have on him?” “Possession, accomplice to kidnapping, not much else at this point. He was obviously in Las Vegas when Cross was murdered, so we can’t pin that on him—hell, I don’t even know how we’re going to implicate Brunner, since he was here too. Maybe an accessory charge, or conspiracy, but until we figure out how deep this rabbit hole goes, it’s hard to say. Kingsley, you were right when you said this one was big. It’s a doozy.” Jason said, “I think Blake will talk willingly. He seemed… I don’t know… resigned or defeated or something before I put his lights out. I get the sense he wanted out or he wasn’t as willing as it appears on the surface.” “I hope you’re right.” Frank consulted his watch. “I’ll get the team to work on the APB and this Heart of the Jungle thing while you and I head over to Valley Medical Center, check in on Blake, and rattle his chains a little.” Jason smiled gratefully. Chris and Brianna were still in grave peril, but in absence of his ability to take any kind of direct action, Frank’s plan was as good as any. The best he could do now was put his faith in the good men and women of the FBI who were doing everything they could.

Chapter 14

IT

HAD been one of the hottest days of the year in Las Vegas, the

thermometer topping out at 120 degrees. Late in the day, the gathering thunderheads unleashed an intense storm that buffeted the city in high winds, lightning, and torrential rains. Though the rains moderated the temperature, tourists had been subjected to an intense desert heat they had no natural ability to endure. The sharp increase in heatstroke cases and the subsequent storm—which caused continual power interruptions—had turned Valley Medical Center into a complete and utter madhouse. When he had been brought in, Michael Blake was stable, and he had been promptly hurried away and set aside. His condition was not dire, so he was relegated to the bottom of a very long triage list. Because of the chaos in the hospital, when a swarthy man wearing an eye patch slipped through the doors marked “Authorized Personnel Only,” nobody noticed. When he pulled a harried orderly into a utility closet and promptly broke the poor man’s neck, nobody noticed. When he slipped out of the closet, garbed in the dead man’s scrubs and smock, nobody noticed. And when he approached the room where Michael Blake was being held under guard, the police officer stationed in front of the door barely gave him a second glance as he brandished the chart and allowed himself inside. It was a few moments’ work to inject a lethal amount of amphetamine into the IV connected to Michael’s arm. He was gone from the hospital before the flatline on the heart monitor announced that

Michael Blake would never regain consciousness again. Toxicology results would reveal that he died of cardiac arrest resulting from a massive drug overdose—completely unsurprising, given the clear evidence of his long history of drug abuse in the needle tracks on his arm. In the end, Michael Blake was nothing more than another junkie, like so many others, who got careless and killed himself in search of his next high.

THEY crossed the border from Nevada into California sometime around midnight. Chris had dozed, lulled into slumber by the gentle rocking of the car as they journeyed north and then west along minimally traveled Nevada byways. They had stopped several times, only long enough to fill the car with gas or attend to their human needs. During their first stop, Brunner had searched Chris and immediately discovered the cell phone. Cursing himself for his carelessness in not finding it earlier, Brunner had thrown it on the ground and smashed it. Thereafter, he had been watchful to the point of paranoia. Each time they pulled over, though Chris looked for an opportunity to escape, Brunner didn’t let him out of his sight. Since they’d left Reno, the terrain had become increasingly mountainous, tugging back their frenetic pace. They had been driving through Shasta National Forest for some time now, having long since passed the last town. He was jarred rudely awake by the squealing of tires and a shouted curse from Brunner who had apparently been lulled himself. Chris peered out the window into the blackness. The landscape was dark and mysterious, a forested and mountainous expanse completely devoid of civilization. The mile-markers flew past, and a sign appeared out of the gloom. “Weed, 27 miles,” it announced. Sounds like a happening place. The car swerved again. “Brunner,” he shouted, wrenching the man back to consciousness. “You’re going to kill us.” “Shut up,” Brunner snapped. “We need to stop. If you don’t get some sleep you’re going to run us off the road… or worse.”

“Your concern is touching,” Brunner responded sarcastically, “but I’m not stupid. If you think I’m going to stop somewhere and give you an opportunity to escape, you’re sorely mistaken.” Chris bit his lip. He should have known Brunner would be cautious. The man was, after all, a sly criminal who had long experience with treachery. Chris sat back in the seat, frustrated. After some time had passed, he saw Brunner’s head dip again, and he reached out and shook him awake. Brunner jumped and jerked the wheel hard to the right, overcorrecting. The car went into a slide, and he fought with it, struggling to regain control. The front tires bit into the gravel embankment, and the vehicle lurched sickeningly. Brunner slammed on the brakes, and after more fishtailing and sliding, blessedly, they came to a stop. Brianna, awoken by the sudden violence, started wailing. Chris held her tightly, whispering, “Shh, shh, it’s okay, baby, Daddy’s here,” into her ear. Brunner gripped the steering wheel with white knuckled hands, breathing heavily. Brianna made small hiccupping sobs against his chest as Chris glared at Brunner’s reflection in the rearview mirror. “Take your choice. You either stop and sleep, or we die in this car.” The man’s eyes flicked toward Chris’s reflection, and even in the feeble green glow of the dashboard lighting, Chris could read indecision there. He thought quickly. “Use your brain,” he prodded. “I write restaurant reviews for a living and I have a child to worry about. I’m not exactly in a position to go commando on you.” Brunner’s eyes narrowed as he considered. He was still wary, but he realized Chris had a point. He did, after all, have the upper hand. “Apart from that, if I somehow did manage to escape,” Chris continued, “where would I go? We’re in the middle of nowhere.” Brunner seemed to make a decision. “Very well. We will stop at the next town. If, as you say, you truly are unprepared to ‘go commando,’ you will not be harmed. If you so much as twitch in the wrong way, however, it is your child who will pay the price. Understood?”

Chris clutched Brianna fiercely to his chest. He believed Brunner when he said she would suffer if he caught him in an escape attempt. He clenched his jaw. He was faced with a desperate course of action. Eventually, he would be required to produce a diamond he had never even heard of—this Heart of the Jungle that Brunner was so desperate to get his hands on. Despite all that he’d done to try to convince the man he knew nothing about it, Brunner steadfastly disbelieved him. Chris shuddered, imagining any number of horrific things Brunner would do to get him to produce it. Somehow between now and then, he was going to have to risk escape or die in the attempt. The alternative was unthinkable. He kissed Brianna’s soft forehead and held her close. Whatever the price, he would protect this precious little girl. Of the many choices he’d had to make in his life, this was, perhaps, the easiest one of all.

IN FRANK’S spartan office, Jason paced like a caged lion. Michael Blake was dead. Their one hope for answers, the one person who could have blown this thing wide open, was lost to them forever, an apparent victim of a drug overdose. Bullshit. Someone had gotten to him. The officer on duty had been thoroughly questioned and maintained that only medical personnel had come and gone since he’d been stationed outside the room—that is, until word came in that a dead orderly was discovered in a utility closet. The officer stuck by his story but allowed that the hospital was a madhouse when Blake had been admitted. He agreed it was possible one of the doctors had been a fake, since he hadn’t questioned any of them. Frank’s team had been working on uncovering information about the Heart of the Jungle, but had so far come up empty. There was no record of such a gemstone with either the GIA or the Diamond Registry in New York. Calls to museums and universities similarly led to dead ends. Frank stared at Jason from his perch behind the scarred desk. His eyes were troubled. “Walking a path in my threadbare carpet isn’t accomplishing anything, son. Why don’t you sit down?”

Jason stopped midstride and bit his lip. He folded his arms and stared directly into Frank’s eyes. “I can’t handle this. I feel so helpless. It seems like everywhere we turn, we’re running into brick walls.” His voice was raw with emotion and unrestrained anxiety. “You get your patience from your father,” Frank chided gently. “Speaking of which, I hear you haven’t talked to your folks in a couple of months.” His expression carried reprimand. “Angelica said she’s left messages for you, but you don’t return her calls.” Jason sighed deeply and blushed. His mother’s calls had gone unanswered lately. He could have blamed it on an unusually busy schedule, but after the breakup with Bradley, he’d withdrawn, avoiding the inevitable uncomfortable questions that would come up. He and Bradley had spent holidays with his family and Frank’s, and he hadn’t quite been able to bring himself to discuss the details of the split with them. He knew his mother, in particular, would be curious about it. No special closeness had developed between Bradley and his parents, but they’d seemed to like him well enough. Even though his “lifestyle,” as his father so adroitly referred to it, was openly acknowledged, his parents still struggled with acceptance. In the beginning, their disappointment had been more pronounced—after all, they had been counting on a daughter-in-law, a big wedding, grandchildren, and the knowledge that their son would have some permanence and a family of his own when they were gone. Over time, the disappointment had faded, but with each passing year, their worry over his continued lack of relationship stability had grown. Explaining that he’d failed in love yet again would have rubbed salt into those festering wounds, and he just couldn’t bring himself to do it. Frank pointed at the chair. In response to the disapproving scrutiny, he finally sat down and looked at his lap in shame. “A lot has been going on,” he lied feebly. “Don’t give me that crap. I’d knock Curt upside the head if he didn’t keep in touch with us. Sounds to me like you need a knot jerked in your tail, kid.” Jason smiled wanly. It was true. A busy schedule was a lame excuse. He was an only child, and he knew that, no matter what, he was

the focal point of his parents’ universe. He was their legacy, however flawed. Undoubtedly, the long silence had broken their hearts—well, he corrected himself, it had probably broken his mother’s heart, at least. “I broke up with Bradley a few months ago, and I guess I’ve been trying to work through things on my own.” “Bradley,” Frank said thoughtfully. “That the one we met at Thanksgiving last year?” He didn’t wait for Jason to acknowledge the guess. “Curt said he was a pain in your ass. Seemed okay to me, but not exactly who I’d have imagined you with.” As it always did when Frank spoke so casually, Jason was seized by a sense of unreality. The openness, the candor—they were so at odds with the man’s incredibly gruff exterior. Curt had blazed this particular trail, though, and because of that, things that were often taboo in other families were commonplace to Frank. Curt would never have tolerated the avoidance and careful politics that were the rule in Jason’s family. “Bradley was all wrong. I have a knack for making those kinds of connections.” “And this client of yours, there’s something there, isn’t there?” Despite the anxiety, despite the dour mood, Jason laughed. “Curt,” he said, as if uttering an epithet. “Said he’d never seen you quite so smitten with anyone. Whatever the hell that means. The words that kid uses.” Frank’s eyes sparkled as he thought about his son. There was unashamed love and pride reflected there. “This is more than a case for you, though. Even without a gossipy kid in my back pocket, I could see it written all over your face. What’s the story?” There was no way Jason could lie to a seasoned federal investigator. Frank would have instantly seen through any kind of subterfuge. “No story, at least not anymore. I killed any chance I had of that.” Frank leveled a finger at Jason and jabbed it in his direction. “That’s another thing you get from your dad. That temper of yours. Let me guess, you got pissed and started running off at the mouth.” Jason nodded sadly, guiltily. “He would never have run off if I

hadn’t.” Jason leaned back in the chair and looked up at the older man miserably. “Sometimes I can’t control myself.” “You put on a tough front, but you’ve always been too fluffy for your own good. You get too close to things, make it all personal. It’s both a credit to you and a curse.” He smirked. “Don’t I know it? Your dad’s the same way. When we were partners, worst part of the job was mopping up that asshole’s tears.” “Dad? My dad? We’re talking about Max Kingsley, right?” Frank laughed. “The one and only,” he said, his tone softened by some fond nostalgia. “Just like you, he took everything, and I mean everything, to heart. Every success, every failure, every case, no matter how big or small, Max made it personal.” Jason’s lips turned up in a small smile of disbelief. The man he knew was laconic and reserved. Frank’s assessment contradicted a lifetime of personal experience as the son of Max Kingsley. He thought about denying it again, but after a moment, a memory resurfaced that made him reconsider. “When I graduated the academy, we had a father-son talk.” His thoughts were far away as he remembered that night. There had been a look of pride he had never seen in his father’s eyes as he hoisted a beer in honor of his son. “That was the first and only time in my life I can remember having a serious conversation with my dad. I could tell he was proud of me, but he was worried too. He warned me that I would see things, experience things, that could leave deep scars. He told me to keep work at a safe distance—no matter how hard that might be.” Frank pursed his lips thoughtfully. “He knew from experience,” he said. “Damn good agent. The best. You know why, Jason? You know what made him special?” Jason shook his head. “He made it personal. Exactly what he was warning you not to do. Every case, big or small, like I said. But you pay a price for that kind of investment. He retired early. Damn job was killing him. Why do you think he never tried to talk you out of leaving the unit?” “I always thought it was because he was disappointed in me. Ashamed,” Jason responded.

“It was because he was relieved, son. Watching you was like looking in a mirror.” Frank leaned forward on his elbows and answered the skepticism in Jason’s eyes with firm resolve. “The way you beat yourself up over that mistake, the funk that put you in… scared the shit right out of him. Your dad loves you—if you had a kid, you’d understand. Watching your child suffer like that… it’s damn hard. The job took its pound of flesh, kid, and your dad—he knew exactly what that felt like. He kept quiet because he never wanted to see it again. You were making it all too personal, just like he had.” “But it is personal, Frank. Don’t try to tell me it isn’t.” Frank frowned. “I won’t, then. Because you’re right, it is. It’s always personal. Thing that’s different about me is I can put it away when I hang up the badge for the night. Your father never could. It’s a lucky thing he had your mother to look after him. She’s the second-best woman in the whole damn world.” There was a twinkle of humor in his eyes as he spoke. “My Ann,” he said, grinning, “she’s just a little bit better.” He made a pinching gesture with his thumb and forefinger. “But only by a hair.” Jason chuckled. He was comforted by the easy familiarity and warm memories the long-standing joke brought to mind. Frank’s expression turned serious. “We need you back, Jason. There are more freaks out there than ever before. The country needs good men like you on the job. You’re one of the best we had. You owe it to yourself—to all those kids—to get back to doing the good work.” Jason hesitated. Chris had said something similar to him the night before, and it had made him think. Though his instinct was to protest, somehow, time or acceptance or just talking about it had dulled the edge of guilt. All of his reasons for leaving the CACU seemed less significant now than they had in those early days after Gerry had gone free. He wasn’t quite ready to commit yet, though, so he shook his head slowly. “Not something I can think about right now, Frank. Not until I see this one to the end. Not until I face whatever’s coming.” Frank gave him a reassuring wink. “Well, at least give your damn parents a call. They’re worried sick.” Jason’s heart warmed as he realized that, despite everything, he

was loved. He wondered how much worse off he would be if his situation had been similar to Chris’s. His parents were dead, and for many years, Chris had been estranged from his father— His father. “His father,” he cried as a realization struck him—one that he had not considered until just this moment. “His father.” Frank was stunned by the sudden outburst, and his brows drew together. “Now what are you on about?” “Chris,” Jason said. “On the plane… Chris told me his parents were killed in a car accident. Mechanical failure or something.” He rose from the chair, pacing, remembering. He was babbling as he followed his train of thought, the words running together, pouring out of him in staccato succession. “He was estranged from his father. Said he had some letters he’d never read tucked away somewhere—from his father.” Frank too was rising out of his seat now, caught up in Jason’s excitement. “When he told me about the accident, something struck me as odd, but I let it go. Those letters may have been the missing piece all along.” “You think there’s something about the diamond in them?” “Frank, what if Michael Blake found them? What if he’s the one who told Brunner and started this whole thing in motion?” Frank moved toward the door. “Hot damn. Pay dirt. Let’s get the team looking into the elder James. See what turns up.”

WHEN Brunner merged onto Interstate 5 from Highway 89—the winding two-lane road they had traveled across the state of California— Chris breathed a sigh of relief. After what felt like a never-ending trek through raw wilderness, the wide expanse of interstate was a welcome sign of civilization. After a short northward jaunt, they arrived in the city of Weed, California. In the moonlight, off to the south, Chris could see the snowcapped dome of Mount Shasta rising into the blackened firmament. For a moment, he could almost imagine that he was looking at Mount Rainier, so similar was the distinctive shield of the Pacific Rim volcano to the

mountain that was a defining landmark of his Washington home. A lump formed in his throat, and tears threatened. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it, and a rising dread that he might never see it again pulled painfully at his heart. He involuntarily clutched Brianna more tightly, and she stirred in his arms, roused from slumber. Brunner drove slowly through the small town and finally found a roadside motel on the northern outskirts that looked satisfactory to him. He pulled into the parking lot, parked the car, and turned to face Chris. “You’re coming with me. I’m not letting you out of my sight.” Chris thought about protesting, but instead, he nodded in acquiescence. Now was not his moment. Soon, though. Soon. “Don’t think for a second I will hesitate to use my weapon if you make any move to escape. Act naturally and everything will be fine.” Chris closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and took a deep breath. “I already told you. I’m not going to try anything.” Brunner nodded curtly, climbed out of the car, and opened the door for him. Chris stepped out and drew a deep breath of the fragrant mountain air. It was cool and clean, invigorating. After long hours of confinement, this was a tiny pleasure and a happy relief. Without a word, he followed Brunner into the motel. He stood patiently, silently, his eyes upon Brianna as he cradled and rocked her while Brunner transacted with the desk clerk. Fixing his attention on his sleeping daughter helped to keep him centered and calm. Her placid expression, the tiny dimples as her lips curled into a smile at some dreamed happiness, were both a balm and a motive. Since she had come into his life, she had been his purpose. As she slept on, completely oblivious to the gathering storm, his resolve crystallized. Whatever else happened, whatever the cost to himself, she, at least, would be spared the horrible fate Brunner had planned. Dangling the key before him, Brunner snapped him to attention and pointed toward the door. Mutely, Chris followed the man to the parking lot. “That was very good,” Brunner praised him. “Keep cooperating just like this and you may yet walk away with your life.” Chris said nothing, biting back a smart retort. It was important for

Brunner not to question his control. The more he felt in command, the more comfortable he would become. There would be a moment, Chris was sure, when Brunner would be vulnerable, and if the man’s guard were down, seizing it would be easier. The room was garish, decorated in shades of brown, amber, and green. It was, however, clean, a fact for which Chris was grateful. Brunner allowed him and Brianna to use the bathroom and then said, “Put the girl on the bed.” As Brunner secured the door to their room, Chris placed Brianna on the bed and pulled the covers up around her. Her eyes were heavy, and it didn’t take long for her to fall back to sleep. He helped her along by smoothing her hair and whispering soothing words to her. Once she was out, he stood and flexed his arms. They were stiffened and sore from long hours of immobility. Brunner had been standing near the bureau watching him attend to his daughter. When Chris turned his attention away from her, he noticed Brunner removing his belt. He eyed Chris and said, “Come here.” Chris held back, unsure. He met Brunner’s gaze with suspicion. Brunner saw his hesitation and laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself. You’re not my type.” He held forth the belt as if in explanation. “I’m not taking any chances. You say you’re not going to try anything, and this is just a little insurance to hold you to your word.” Gritting his teeth, Chris approached. Brunner held his hands behind his back and strapped them tightly together. “You’re cutting off my circulation,” Chris complained. “Good,” Brunner replied, cinching the belt even more firmly. “I won’t have to worry about it coming loose.” When he was satisfied that Chris was securely bound, he leaned in close from behind. His hands roamed over Chris’s body. Chris tried to ignore the bile rising in his throat at the violation of Brunner’s hands touching him. He’d already endured this examination once before, so he couldn’t imagine what Brunner thought he might find. Brunner leaned forward and breathed into his ear. Chris wrenched away from the offensive invasion and was jerked roughly back. He

gasped as he was pulled tightly into Brunner’s hard, muscled body. “I thought I wasn’t your type,” he said through gritted teeth. “I lied,” Brunner whispered into his ear. Chris’s heart raced. Oh no. Not this. Please, not this. He was sickened by the thought of Brunner’s touch. The man’s breath was hot upon his cheek, and one arm squeezed his chest tightly. “I get off on the S&M stuff, you know.” Brunner nipped Chris’s neck. Chris trembled, and tears stung the corners of his eyes. Trussed and physically inferior, he was powerless to stop whatever Brunner unleashed upon him. “Are you afraid?” Brunner asked. Chris did not respond. He tried to keep himself rigid, to still the trembling that belied his mounting panic, but it was no use. Brunner whipped him around and backhanded him, lust adding force to the blow. Chris’s knees buckled, and he went down. As Chris knelt, his battered face stung painfully. Brunner thrust his groin forward and rubbed against him. “Are you afraid?” he asked again. The big man’s breathing was heavy and labored. His erection pressed deeply into Chris’s cheek. Chris was so revolted by this assault, he was sure he was going to throw up. In spite of his disgust, though, he stubbornly refused to respond. He would not give this monster the satisfaction. Brunner hauled him to his feet. He crushed his lips to Chris’s, biting down hard and drawing blood. Chris gagged as Brunner forced his tongue, snakelike, into his mouth. Impassioned, Brunner entwined his fingers in Chris’s hair. He gave a hard tug, jerking Chris’s head backward. Chris felt him fumble, and a moment later, the barrel of a gun was thrust into the tender flesh beneath his jaw. Brunner cocked the hammer. Chris could no longer contain his fear. He whimpered, overcome, the façade of stoicism crumbling at his feet. Brunner’s offensive desecration of his body was one thing. The threat of a painful death was quite another. Now he could admit he was afraid.

Brunner laughed evilly and shoved the gun more deeply into his flesh. “Are. You. Afraid?” he asked, every word clipped and hard. Chris tried to speak but could not. Instead, he nodded almost imperceptibly. “What was that?” Brunner asked, his lips a hairsbreadth from Chris’s ear. “Y-yes,” Chris finally managed. Brunner gave him a hard shove. Chris stumbled and fell onto the bed with Brianna. As he landed next to her, she was startled awake and began to cry. He wriggled close to her and hovered protectively as Brunner loomed over them with an imperious sneer on his face. Brunner holstered his weapon and said, “If you were contemplating escape, remember what just happened to you. Imagine how much worse it will be if I am truly aroused. That and the belt should keep you from doing anything stupid.” Brunner stared down at him, allowing the words to sink in. When he was satisfied that he had made his point, he knelt down and removed Chris’s shoes, tossed them over to the other side of the room, and pointed toward the pillow. “Sleep,” he commanded, then turned and walked into the bathroom. Chris rolled toward Brianna and shushed her, trying to keep her calm. She wrapped her arms around his neck, and he fought against tears as she clung to him. Trussed as he was, he could not hold her or offer any more comfort than the closeness of his body and gentle words. He trembled and his stomach churned. He felt sick. The belt dug cruelly into his wrists, and he cringed as he tested the bonds. After a time, Brianna’s tears quieted, and snuggling close to Chris, she fell back to sleep. He watched her for a long while. How he had ached to look upon that tousled red hair, that angelic face again. But not like this… never like this. A cold knot of helpless dread formed in the pit of his stomach. Brianna knew nothing of the terrible danger that faced them—danger that seemed far more real now than it had before. How had he ever thought he was any kind of match for Brunner? The man was a veteran criminal, violent, ruthless, and completely without remorse. What was more, he was physically powerful. Chris was outclassed. The repulsive assault had proven as much. He was just not equipped to match

the man’s cunning or sheer bulk. What had he done? Why had he allowed his temper to guide him directly into the arms of danger? He had put both his daughter and himself in dire jeopardy with his recklessness. If only he’d been more rational, he might never have pushed Jason to say the things he’d said—and they’d been true, after all. That was what hurt the most. He was a coward. His feelings for Jason Kingsley terrified him. The yearning that no other save Jason could satisfy, the intense longing and the filling of the emptiness he hadn’t known existed—these needs, so long denied, were dangerous. He’d lost everything more than once, and each time the pain of it had nearly destroyed him. I’m a coward. This time, he thought, looking at Brianna, he wasn’t the only one who would pay the price. What had he done? Oh, what had he done?

Chapter 15

“MACQUERY,” George said on the other end of the line. Frank and Jason had him on speakerphone in Frank’s office. “George, it’s Jason Kingsley,” Jason replied, leaning forward and flashing a look at Frank, who watched in silence. “Kingsley,” George shouted. “What the hell is going on? You and Chris are wanted for murder? Chris is missing. I’ve been worried sick.” “George, he’s in terrible danger,” Jason said. “What? Tell me what’s happened.” “Remember Johan Brunner?” Jason asked. “Brunner,” George breathed into the phone, shock and outrage were evident in his tone. “Johan Brunner.” It was said as a curse. Jason’s eyes narrowed at the venom in George’s voice. “He’s abducted Chris. Brianna too.” “What?” George was incredulous. “Brianna is alive?” Frank raised an eyebrow. If MacQuery had something to do with this, he wasn’t letting on. Or he’s just a damn good actor. “And Michael Blake—or he was, anyway. George, this is all about something called the Heart of the Jungle. Have you ever heard of it?” George was silent for a moment. Jason tensed expectantly, straining to hear any hint of deception in what George had to say. “Can’t say that I have,” he finally responded. George’s bewilderment sure

sounded genuine to Jason. “It’s some kind of diamond—extremely valuable. Brunner thinks that Chris has it.” “That’s preposterous,” George said. “If Christian had such a diamond, I would certainly know about it.” “Is it possible he doesn’t know about it?” “I’ll be damned,” George whispered. “I’ll be damned.” “What is it? What do you know?” Jason asked, surprised by the cautious discovery in George’s voice. “In the seventies, David, Christian’s father, and I jointly purchased a diamond mine in Brazil. We were young and foolish. The mine turned out to be a bust. It made a small profit, but not nearly as much as we were led to believe it would. I sold my shares to David to start my firm.” A note of wonder crept into George’s voice. “David never told me about any extraordinary find—but that mine must have produced after all,” George mused. “Damn.” Jason frowned. He and Frank had already learned about the diamond mine from their investigation into Chris’s father. It seemed unusual that George would volunteer this information if he were actually behind everything. Wouldn’t it be more likely for him to try to conceal it? Jason cast a quizzical look in Frank’s direction, and Frank shrugged. “Why wouldn’t he tell you about it?” Jason asked, trying another angle. They could hear George take a deep breath before speaking. He seemed to hesitate. “We had a… falling-out over his treatment of Christian after he found out about his sexual orientation—David and Marie were devout Catholics, and they rejected him completely. It was a terrible row. I was outraged—I was very fond of Christian. I always wanted children of my own, and over the years, he became something like the son I never had.” George’s voice was soft and remorseful as he continued. “I said some very hard things to David and Marie. I maligned their faith, criticized their parenting, and questioned their moral character. Ultimately, they expelled me from their lives as completely as they

expelled Chris.” This seemed reasonable to Jason, and the regret in the man’s voice sounded genuine. Maybe he was wrong about MacQuery. Maybe he really didn’t have anything to do with this. He knew George, and Jason was reasonably confident he would have been able to tell if he was lying. In truth, Jason was still struggling with his own suspicions. His gut had never failed him in the past, though. “George,” Jason urged, “Chris mentioned some letters from his father that he’d never read. Do you know where they could be? There might be something about the diamond in them. Something Michael may have discovered and shared with Brunner.” George said, “That’s impossible. I have the letters. Christian gave them over to me for safekeeping after his… break. Said he might want to read them someday but didn’t want to hold onto them himself for fear the reminder of his loss, of the estrangement from his father, might be too much for him. I keep them secured in a safe in my office.” “You’re certain Michael couldn’t have gotten his hands on them?” Again, George was silent. “Michael did have the combination to the safe, but the letters are still there. I saw them not more than a week ago.” “George, I’m going to have to ask you to hand over those letters. I’m hopeful there’s something about the Heart of the Jungle in there. Brunner’s got big backers with a lot riding on this thing. He’s left a trail of bodies trying to get his hands on it. If we don’t figure it out—hand the diamond over to him—Chris and Brianna are dead. You, yourself, could be in danger.” “Yes, yes, of course,” George agreed. “Anything you need. I’ll go directly to the office and retrieve them. Where are you?” “I’m working with the FBI field office in Las Vegas. I’ll need you to open them and fax them to us here.” “Right away,” George agreed. “George, the team has agreed to assign a protective unit to you until this is all over, just in case Brunner decides to come after you.” George said, “I’m grateful, of course, but that won’t be necessary. I

have my own security. In my line of work—dealing with powerful men who have much to lose—it’s imperative you look out for yourself in case something goes amiss in the courtroom.” “If you’re sure,” Jason said skeptically. His brows drew together. He would have preferred to have the FBI attached to George. He seemed to be cooperating, but Jason knew that could just be a ruse to throw them off. His compliance could be an attempt to buy some time. “They know me, how I operate, the way my world works. I’d feel safer with them keeping an eye on me. They’ll know what to watch out for.” “Okay, George,” Jason agreed. “The letters—” “I’ll have them to you within the hour,” he said hastily. “And Jason,” he added, “the moment, the second you know something about Chris and Brianna, please, please let me know.” There was no mistaking the anxiety in George’s voice. “I promise,” Jason said and disconnected. Frank fingered his chin thoughtfully. “What do you think?” he asked. Jason considered for a few moments, remembering the conversation, searching for any sign George had been duplicitous. “Hard to say,” he finally responded. “He sure seems willing to cooperate.” Frank nodded. “I guess we’ll know if he follows through on his promise to send the letters.”

CHRIS feigned sleep. It was more difficult than he’d expected to keep his breathing even and measured. Brunner came and went from the room several times, making a series of telephone calls. Though Chris could hear him speaking in hushed tones on the walkway outside the hotel room, he couldn’t make out the details of any of the conversations. His heart raced madly when, after reentering the room for the fourth time, Brunner moved to the side of the bed and stood next to it for a long while. Chris held perfectly still, focusing on keeping his breathing deep and even. Finally, he heard Brunner walk away. The creaking of the

springs on the other bed announced that Brunner intended to sleep. This was his chance. Despite his misgivings, despite the fear Brunner had instilled in him, this was his moment to act. It was now or never. Carefully, cautiously, he worked his wrists within the belt. The leather rubbed at his flesh but did not loosen. Undeterred, he kept at it, pulling for all he was worth, muscles straining against the unyielding bonds. The belt bit into his skin, rubbing it raw. His arms felt like they had been set on fire. He pushed the pain to the back of his mind and continued to tug back and forth, back and forth, making as little noise as possible. When Brunner started to snore, he worked more frantically. With their captor asleep, he could afford to be less cautious. A hot trickle of blood ran over his hands, and still he worked. Did there seem to be just a bit more give in the belt? Did his arms move just a little further apart than they had before? Was he imagining it? It came as almost a surprise when the fleshy part of his hand slipped into the loops of leather about his wrist. He yanked hard, harder than he had yet, and it slipped further. He sucked in his breath, held it, and drew against the force of the bindings with every ounce of strength he could muster. The bones in his left hand compressed painfully, the bottom joint of his thumb slipping free from its socket. He bit back a cry of agony. Beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, and spots swam dizzily before his eyes. Slowly, slowly, centimeter by centimeter, his bloody hand slipped, slipped, slipped…. Suddenly, he was free. His abused hand cleared the thick leather belt. A million tiny needles stabbed into him as circulation returned. He gulped air quietly, flexing his fingers. For several minutes, he lay perfectly still, listening for any indication that his struggles had disturbed his sleeping captor. Brunner’s soft snoring in the other bed continued unabated. With infinite care, he rolled over and stared at the inert form, watching, nervous anticipation building. He would have to strike fast and hard. There was no margin for error. He peered through the deep blackness, searching for something he could use as a weapon. The flimsy

lamp on the bedside table would never do. It was cheap glass, and if he attempted to use it as a bludgeon, more damage would be done to it than to Brunner. His eyes fell upon the telephone. It was practically an antique, made of hard plastic with a thick metal base. It would be unwieldy, but it would work. Slowly, carefully, he reached out, certain the pounding of his heart was audible in the stillness, certain that his cautious movements would awaken Brunner. Finally, his fingers connected with the phone, and he gingerly slid it closer to the edge of the table, wincing at the noise it made as it moved across the laminate surface. He fumbled at the back, releasing the cord that bound it to the wall. Still, Brunner did not stir. Chris held his breath and sat upright, slid his legs over the side of the bed, and pressed his feet firmly into the soft carpeting. Saying a silent prayer, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, gritted his teeth, and dove into action. In a series of swift motions, he yanked the phone off the table, crossed the distance to the other bed, swung, and slammed the base into Brunner’s head with incredible force. There was a satisfying crack as the impromptu weapon connected with the man’s skull. Not hard enough. Brunner rolled out of the bed and hit the floor with a hard thump on the other side. He groaned and struggled to his feet. Even though the room was bathed in darkness, Chris could see the murderous rage on his face. Brunner wavered, stunned nearly senseless. Chris could see him shaking his head to clear the fog of sleep and violence. He was becoming more coherent with each second that passed. Chris didn’t back down, didn’t allow fear to freeze him in his tracks. The phone still clutched in his hand, he scrambled around the bed, crying out as he attacked. Brunner ducked. The phone slammed into the wall with a crack, and Chris was thrown off balance. Brunner made a clumsy grab for him. Chris flung himself backward out of his reach. Brunner staggered along the bed and came at him, fists flying, missing him by only inches. Chris backed into the dresser and stumbled. Brunner caught him then, hitting him in the face

with a powerful jab. White light exploded across his vision as the solidly landed punch jerked his head backward. He fell, somehow managing to maintain his hold on the telephone. He kicked out as he landed on the floor, his foot smashing hard into Brunner’s kneecap. He heard the other man hit the ground and scream in pain. Brunner’s scream awoke Brianna. She wailed in terror. Her cries and Brunner’s agony emboldened Chris. Time seemed to move in slow motion. He rolled, sputtering. Climbing to his feet, he threw himself atop Brunner, swinging the phone madly before him. It impacted once, twice, three times as Brunner tried desperately to fend it off with outstretched arms. After the third blow cracked into his skull, Brunner was still. Chris sprawled on him, wheezing and sobbing from pain and exertion. Brunner still breathed but did not awaken. Brianna’s cries finally broke through his senselessness in the wake of the violent struggle, and he leapt to his feet and hurried to the bed. Frantically, he snatched her up and went for the door. His frenzied flight amplified the child’s alarm, and her wails increased in volume. Seized by an overwhelming need to flee, he was completely incoherent. He had to get away from this place. He had to run as far and as fast as he could before Brunner awoke and came after him. Panic-stricken, he fled blindly into the night. He didn’t know where he was going, certain only that he needed to get far, far away. He ran as he had never run in his life. His eye was swelling shut. Blood ran down his arms. Brianna screamed and clung so fiercely to his neck he could scarcely draw breath. He hit the end of the parking lot at a fast clip and tore down the road, not certain which way to go, but flight instinct driving him resolutely toward the feeble glow in the heart of town to the south. His lungs burned as his legs pumped furiously. Had there been anyone to see, he would have appeared an odd sight: a battered and barefoot young man, a screaming child clutched tightly to him, running staggeringly down the deserted roadway as if being pursued by the devil himself.

Finally, his body could give no more, and he stumbled. Pitching forward, he dropped to his knees, choking for air, overcome by exhaustion. Brianna sobbed senselessly. Her eyes were swollen, and her nose ran liberally. He clung to her, trying to soothe her in between ragged breaths. He looked back over his shoulder with wild eyes. Now that the panic had subsided somewhat, with regret, he realized the many mistakes he had made. If he had been more thoughtful, he might have tied Brunner up, searched for his keys, pounded on neighboring doors, or sought help from the desk clerk. It was too late for any of that now. He could no longer see the motel, but he could not go back. It was too dangerous. If Brunner had regained consciousness, he would be looking for them. Chris was weak and shaky, dizzy. He tried vainly to stand, but his legs were like water. He pressed his free hand into the rough asphalt, struggling to remain upright, holding his terrorized daughter close to keep her calm. “Shh,” he soothed, bouncing Brianna gently. “It’s all right, baby. It’s okay.” He didn’t believe it himself, but the tender words quieted her tears. He scanned the horizon in the direction opposite the motel. The town was still asleep, the faint lights of the city’s center still impossibly far in the distance. He’d never make it—he was completely spent. A pair of headlights arose on the road far behind him. He stiffened and began to tremble. What if it was Brunner? Terrified, he dragged himself off the road. There was nowhere to hide. The car drew closer. He flattened himself to the ground, hovering protectively over his child, trying futilely to conceal himself in the sparse scrub. As the car roared by, he breathed a sigh of relief. It was a battered green station wagon—not the black Mercedes he’d feared it would be. As the taillights faded into the distance, he realized he was missing an opportunity. He leapt up and rushed after it, waving and calling frantically. The driver either didn’t see him or chose to ignore him, because within moments, the car was gone. Sighing, resigned, the momentary rush of intense fear having

imbued him with some unknown reserve of strength, he started out again. After what seemed a lifetime of painful traversal across the rough and uneven blacktop, he finally came upon a darkened service station. He made his way to the glass door and pounded on it, screaming for help, praying that there was someone inside. There was no answer, no movement from within. He turned away. Off to the left, an old payphone caught his eye. “Thank you. Oh, thank you,” he cried, stumbling toward it. His hand reached out and pulled the receiver off the hook. Before bringing it to his ear, he sent out a silent prayer. Please, please let it work. The dial tone was, he thought, probably the sweetest sound he’d ever heard. He jabbed a trembling finger into the “0” button and waited as he connected to the operator. Jason’s number had been recorded in his mobile phone, and though he tried, he could not recall the digits. It was unwise to call the police. Jason had told him they were wanted for murder. Even though he had been warned against contacting him, George was the only other person he could think of to call. He was certain George would know what to do. “I… I need to make… a collect call,” he sobbed when the operator answered, and he gave her George’s number. When George accepted the charges, Chris could hear the profound relief in his voice. “Christian. Are you all right? Where are you? Jason Kingsley called. I’ve been frantic.” “George,” Chris cried, “I’m in Weed, California. I got away. I don’t know what to do.” “You got away from Brunner? How?” “I knocked him out with the telephone in the motel room. He was unconscious when I took off, but when he comes to, he’ll find me, George. He’ll find us and kill us.” Chris’s voice was high with hysteria. Brianna started screaming again in sympathetic resonance. “Calm down, Chris, calm down. I’ll take care of everything. Have you called the police?” “N-no, not yet. I’m wanted for murder,” Chris stammered. “I didn’t

kill anyone, George. I swear.” “Shh, shh, Chris,” George said. “I know you didn’t. We need to get you back here and out of the reach of that madman. Then we’ll figure out what to do.” “George, I don’t know what’s going on.” “I think I do. I’ll explain when I get you back here safely.” Chris sniffled. “How are you going to do that?” He could hear George typing on the other end of the line. “There’s a municipal airport in Weed. I’ll charter a flight to Snohomish and meet you there.” “Snohomish? But why?” “Chris, I want you to stay where you’re at. Do you have your mobile phone?” “No,” Chris said. “Brunner took it away and smashed it.” “Where are you calling me from?” “It’s… it’s a payphone outside of a service station.” “Read me the number in case we get disconnected.” Chris gave him the number. A heady sense of relief washed over him. George’s clinical calmness was soothing. Chris had been sure he’d know what to do. For the first time since Brunner took him from the Bellagio, it seemed as if things might actually be okay. For the first time, he dared to hope that he and Brianna would make it out of this alive. “Chris, I want you to stay on the line with me. If you see anyone, let me know right away.” “I need to call Jason,” Chris said. “I have to let him know I’m okay.” “I’ll call him as soon as you’re on your way,” George promised. “Okay,” Chris agreed. He listened as the other man went to work. George made several telephone calls in rapid succession. First, he located a suitable charter and arranged for a flight with the promise of an outrageous sum of money. Once the flight was secured, he called a taxi company and gave

instructions for Chris to be picked up and transported to the airport. When he came back on the line, he instructed, “Stay with me until the taxi arrives.” “George, why Snohomish? What is this all about? You said you thought you might know.” “It’s your father, Christian. He’s left you a diamond called the Heart of the Jungle. Brunner learned about it from Michael. Remember those letters you gave me to hold onto for you? Your father apparently wrote about the diamond in those. Michael must have purloined them from my safe and told Brunner all about it.” “Dad left me a diamond?” “It’s in a safety deposit box at Snohomish Trust. The box can only be opened by you or your duly appointed legal representative. Your father gave very strict instructions. As soon as I learned about it, I went right over there, thinking I might retrieve it in case we needed to bargain with Brunner, but they will not release it without your signed authorization. Damn small-town banks and their gentlemen’s agreements.” “I didn’t know anything about it, George. If I had, I would have given it to him without a second thought. I don’t care how valuable it is.” “I know, Chris,” George said. “I just… I can’t believe David never told me about it.” “You know how Dad shunned you in the end, all because of me. If he was so ashamed of me, so disappointed, I don’t understand why he would leave me the thing in the first place.” “Chris, I sent your father’s letters to the FBI. I read them. I was desperately worried, and… David was a very good friend whom I loved dearly. He was deeply ashamed, but not of you. He was ashamed of how he’d treated you. He writes of it in the letters. It was his way of saying he was sorry and how much he loved you. I guess that fight I had with him knocked some sense back into him and Marie. They planned to make amends… until the accident took them from us.” Chris was stunned, his heart breaking anew over the loss of his parents. Discovering that they had planned to reach out to him, to atone

for casting him out, that despite their strong convictions, they still loved him, tore open that old wound, and a new freshet of tears spilled out. “I… I can’t believe it,” he stammered. “Nor could I.” George fell silent as Chris mulled over this new revelation. “Chris, is there anything you need?” “I left my wallet in Vegas,” Chris complained. “I don’t have any money or identification. And I need shoes,” he added sheepishly. “I didn’t stop to grab them when I ran off. My feet are killing me.” “You’ll need ID to recover the diamond,” George said. There was a hint of irritation in his voice. “My passport is in a desk drawer at my house. You have a key.” “Good. I’ll go over there before I head to Snohomish,” George promised. “I’ll also grab a pair of shoes to send with Charlie. He can give everything to you when he picks you up in Snohomish.” Just then, a taxi rolled into the parking lot. “The taxi is here.” George’s sigh of relief on the other end of the line was audible. “Go,” he said. “We’ll talk about this further when you’re safely home. I’ll have my security people meet you at Harvey Field.” “George,” Chris said softly before disconnecting, “thank you.” “You’re like a son to me, Christian,” he said tenderly. “I’d do anything to get you back here.” There was a pause. “I’ll see you soon.” Chris hung up the phone and rushed to the taxi. Everything was going to be fine now. It really, truly was.

Chapter 16

THE United Airlines ticket agent was clearly flustered as Jason glared at her over the counter. She worked feverishly, tapping commands into her terminal and looking increasingly alarmed as the moments ticked by and Jason’s impatience rose. “I—I’m sorry,” she stammered. “It’s these thunderstorms. Flights are still grounded. We’re monitoring the National Weather Service, but they’re not expecting conditions to improve any time soon.” “Damn it,” he shouted. “That’s not good enough. You have to do something.” The harried woman jumped at the harsh tone. Her anxiety turned to outrage. She pursed thin lips and leveled a firm glare at him, drawing herself up to her full five-feet-two-inch height and somehow managing to appear authoritative and imposing despite her diminutive stature. “Sir,” she said, “I have had a very difficult night. I’ve been cursed at, screamed at; some woman even threw her ticket in my face. The second the grounding order is lifted, I will get you on the next flight headed anywhere near Seattle, but as I’ve told you and the hundreds of other people trying to get out of this godforsaken city, that’s the best I can do. I don’t have any control over the weather… or the FAA.” Frank had come up behind him. He flashed his badge and an apologetic look at the infuriated ticketing agent. “My apologies, ma’am,” he said kindly. “My partner here is a little on edge. Working a difficult case, you know.”

She stared at Frank for a moment, probably deciding whether or not her continued outrage was warranted, then finally bobbed her head, accepting his apology. “As soon as the weather clears, I’ll get you out of here. Just keep an eye on the board.” Frank pulled Jason away from the counter. “Come on, kid,” he said. “I have an update.” They veered out of the thoroughfare, and Frank clasped his arm reassuringly. “Seems like your hunch about MacQuery was spot-on. Smart move shaking him down like you did—it’ll make him antsy if he’s the one behind all of this. Might make him stumble.” Jason raised an eyebrow. “You found something?” “While you were beating up that poor woman, I had a conversation with a Chelan County detective by the name of Guthrie. He was the investigator assigned to look into the traffic fatality that killed David and Marie James. The car was mangled pretty badly, and even though they eventually had to chalk it up to mechanical failure and close the case, there were aspects of the crash that made it look pretty suspicious.” “Like what?” “Scrapes on the driver’s side door and black paint, for one thing. Looked to him like the car had been sideswiped. Brake lines were cleanly severed—that almost never happens on its own. Chemical analysis was inconclusive for explosives, though, so it’s hard to say. Said he suspected a couple of small well-placed charges but wasn’t able to prove it one way or another.” “That’s interesting, but what’s the connection to MacQuery?” Jason asked. “While they were working over the wreckage, he started looking for a suspect and motive. He thought it was damn suspicious that in the weeks prior to the accident, the attorney of record on all of David James’s legal affairs was changed from George MacQuery to Thomas Brooks. From Brooks, he learned about the diamond mine and that MacQuery and James had some kind of argument. His team wasn’t able to prove that the accident was foul play, and when questioned, MacQuery gave them the same story about the fight he gave us. Ultimately, he had to close the investigation, but he said he always believed MacQuery had something to do with it.”

“So he’s known about the diamond for a long time. Why not grab it while Chris was institutionalized? He was in control of Chris’s affairs then.” “Just a hunch, but if David James knew he wanted that diamond, he would have been very careful about how he passed it along. He knew Chris trusted George, and I’d be willing to bet he told him all about his misgivings in those letters—the same ones Chris handed over for safekeeping after his breakdown.” Jason was pacing, his mind whirling with this new information. “I took a big risk tipping MacQuery off like I did. If he is behind this whole thing and Brunner isn’t up to some kind of double-cross, Chris will rush straight into his arms,” Jason said anxiously. “He trusts him completely.” Frank nodded. “I’ve got surveillance on MacQuery’s residence and his office. He goes anywhere, they’ll be right on his ass.” “Frank, we have to get to Seattle.” Jason’s voice was half an octave higher. “There has to be a way.” Frank shook his head sadly. “I wish there were, son, but you heard what the lady said. We’re not going anywhere until this weather clears.” Just then, a stocky man in a blue captain’s uniform approached them and reached his hand out to Jason. “Captain John Abel,” he said. “Couldn’t help but overhear you’re having some trouble getting out of Vegas.” Jason nodded, cautiously taking the man’s hand. “That’s right.” Abel pumped Jason’s hand. “Special Agent Kingsley, it’s a real honor to meet you. Recognized you when you were talking to the ticket agent. You—” The man’s voice broke with emotion. “You put away the monster that killed my son.” Jason’s mind worked as he tried to recall the particular case. “Cooper Mitchell,” Abel reminded him, “the teacher. He killed my boy Matthew and four other kids.” Jason’s mind drifted back to the investigation. Cooper Mitchell had been a PE teacher who had engaged in inappropriate contact with several of his students. When one of them had threatened to talk, he’d killed the boy. After that, he had begun to systematically hunt down his other

victims to keep them from talking too. Jason had caught him and stopped him—too late for the five he’d already murdered, but not for the rest. There had been sixteen more that had come forward once word got out he’d been apprehended. Cooper Mitchell had been convicted for his crimes and put to death. “I… I know you couldn’t save my boy,” Abel said, his eyes bright with emotion, “and the other four, but you did save all the rest. I always wanted to thank you personally. Nothing will ever bring Matt back, but knowing that monster is dead and buried makes it a little easier to bear.” “I’m very sorry for your loss,” Jason replied. He was embarrassed by the unabashed show of admiration. Awkwardly, he directed Abel toward Frank in an effort to deflect some of the uncomfortable attention. “This is Frank Marcus,” he said as Frank reached out to shake the man’s hand. “My father, Max, was his partner.” “It’s an honor, sir,” Abel said, shaking Frank’s hand firmly. There was a look of deep respect and gratitude in his eyes. “My wife and I have another son, Joshua,” he said to both of them. “After what happened to Matt, we could have lived in fear for Josh for the rest of our lives, but knowing there are good men like you out there, putting these sick sons of bitches behind bars… well, it helps us sleep at night.” Jason blushed. “I’m not—” Frank cut him off. “Jason’s a damn fine agent,” Frank offered. “His father, Max, was a hell of a partner. Jason’s following right in his footsteps.” Frank eyed Jason, who had reddened under the praise. “It’s people like you, Mr. Abel, who remind us why we do the good work. It’s damn hard—even painful sometimes—but kids like yours are the reason we endure it.” This was a surprisingly eloquent speech from Frank, and Jason wondered. Was he being manipulated? Abel cleared his throat, seeming to realize that his raw emotions were making Jason uneasy. “You’re on a case, am I right? I thought I overheard you talking about someone being in danger.” He didn’t wait for confirmation. “I captain a corporate jet. Just flew my employer in on business—from Seattle, in fact. He’s a philanthropist. Good man. When I heard you talking, I gave him a call. He agreed… hell, he insisted I fly

you to Seattle.” Jason raised an eyebrow. “But all flights are grounded.” “All commercial flights are grounded. We don’t have to abide by the same rules as the big carriers. I can file a flight plan and have you in the air within the hour. Might be a little choppy until we get out of the weather, but it would be my honor.” They agreed immediately. As they followed Captain Abel toward the private terminal, Jason thought about Frank’s heartfelt speech. Although he wished he could deny it, Frank was right. He only needed someone like the man who walked proudly ahead of them to remind him. How could he have forgotten what this felt like? The gratitude of people like Abel, who would, without Jason’s hard work, spend the rest of their lives in torment, praying for justice and answers that would never come? When he solved a crime or put a criminal behind bars, it gave them the only comfort that could ever be had, and an opportunity for some kind of closure. In his own time of need, here was one of them giving something back. John Abel had certainly given him some things to think about. If by some miracle the outcome of this current crisis didn’t destroy him, perhaps he’d need to rethink his position. Perhaps where he really did belong was back on the force, doing “the good work,” as Frank had put it. Time would tell.

BRUNNER sat on the bed, trembling and slightly disoriented, holding a blood-soaked rag to the knot on his forehead. He cowered under the watchful stare of the brute, Watson. He had only ever spoken to the man on the phone, but the voice was unmistakable. He had turned out to be an imposing bruin. The one eye not covered by an eye patch looked cruel, and he fixed Brunner with a cold stare. He had scarcely spoken a word to him since he had dragged him up from unconsciousness, but Brunner could tell he was in dire jeopardy. Watson thumbed the speaker button and held out a cell phone to

him. “Brunner, you’re a dead man,” The voice issuing out of the phone was cold, angry. “Thought you could pull a fast one on me, did you?” “No,” he denied vehemently. “I swear. It’s not my fault your little birdie—your little dove—turned out to be a fucking homing pigeon, MacQuery. He came to me. I was bringing him back, trying to salvage the situation.” “Salvage the situation? Do you realize what kind of a mess you’ve made, you idiot? Because of you, everything is coming apart at the seams. I’ve waited years, Brunner… years looking for a chance to get my hands on the Heart of the Jungle. Years, goddamn you.” “I know,” Brunner sobbed. “I know, but—” “But nothing. You had a very carefully scripted role to play. You and Michael were to remain in hiding until Christian James was dead. Then, and only then, were you to come back to Seattle with Michael Blake and Brianna James so that Michael could be framed for her kidnapping.” “I told you. He came to me,” Brunner protested. “Only because you did not leave the Bellagio immediately as I instructed,” George shouted. “I warned you the minute Kingsley became involved that he’s a very shrewd investigator. You ignored me. You should have disappeared at once and let my man Watson deal with the situation. This mess you’ve made could still have been cleaned up. But no, you think yourself so smart, so superior.” Brunner whimpered, realizing his predicament. It didn’t matter how smoothly he talked, how convincingly he lied, he wasn’t weaseling out of this one. His life of crime—his life, period—was over. “I thought if I forced him to hand over the diamond and brought it to you, you would be grateful. I thought—” “You fool. Chris knows nothing about the diamond. How, precisely, could he be expected to hand it over?” There was a long silence as George allowed this piece of information to sink in. “He was purposely kept in the dark.” “I didn’t know. I assumed—”

“And now I am going to have to kill him myself. Something I very much did not want to do. The risks are just too great.” “I’m sorry…,” he whined. “You are sorry, you pathetic fool. But you’re not nearly as sorry as you’re going to be.” Brunner moaned, his stomach lurching sickeningly as Watson removed a wicked-looking knife from a sheath at his waist. “You’re going to kill me?” he asked, his voice squeaky and strained as the realization of his imminent death dawned. He stared at the gleaming blade in abject horror. “Oh no, Watson is not going to kill you. He’s going to bring you to me. I have one more important task for you. You see, there may be a way you can salvage the situation after all.” “Anything,” Brunner cried. “I’ll do whatever you say.” George laughed on the other end of the line, but there was no humor in the sound of it. Brunner cringed. The hairs on the back of his neck rose. His moment of hope withered. Perhaps he had been too hasty in promising to do anything. From the ugly tenor of George MacQuery’s chuckle, anything was exactly what he was going to have to do.

THE elegantly appointed corporate jet turned out to be a boon. Not only was it lavishly furnished and infinitely more comfortable than a commercial airline, but it was equipped with everything Frank and Jason needed to keep abreast of the operation unfolding on the ground. Frank made liberal use of the satellite telephone to check in on the surveillance on MacQuery’s residence. He contacted the Las Vegas field office and learned that, surprisingly, the letters had been faxed over as requested. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing about the diamond in any of them, nor anything about David James’s suspicions of MacQuery. They were, Frank was told, full of remorse and apology for the way Chris had been treated and nothing more of note. “There are two possibilities here,” Frank said after disconnecting. “Either MacQuery has withheld the letters that were germane, or he’s

telling the truth and Michael Blake is the one who passed them on to Brunner.” “I agree it’s a possibility,” Jason admitted, “but I just don’t think so. Something is seriously fishy about MacQuery, and it’s been bugging me all along. It was only when we learned about the diamond mine that I really started to question his actions.” Jason paused. “Forget the fact that he was so helpful and forthcoming on the telephone, he kept important information from Chris and the police. Chris knew nothing about Michael’s drug habit or his affair with Brunner. It makes no sense that George would cover it up. If he loved Chris as much as he says he does, he wouldn’t want him to stay in a relationship with a cheating drug addict. Aside from that, even if he didn’t want Chris to find out, you’d think he would have at least mentioned it to the police.” “If he was trying to protect his firm’s reputation—” “Yeah, that seems a bit far-fetched. I mean, all he would have to do was say that Michael had been operating on his own and his personal affairs were completely outside of George’s control.” Frank thought for a while. “I agree. Here’s what I think: As I said before, David James went to a lot of trouble to keep MacQuery from getting his hands on the rock. He kept it out of his estate, hidden from the world, didn’t tell anyone about it. He must have expected his life was in danger and made provisions for its safe transfer to Chris if anything happened to him. Somehow, he must have ensured that only Chris would be able to retrieve it.” “Safety deposit box,” Jason said. “That’s how he did it. Has to be.” Frank agreed and continued. “If Chris found out about the diamond, it would also mean that he’d read his father’s warnings about MacQuery in those letters. So MacQuery needed him out of the way—” “And there could be no question about his death because of the previous investigation,” Jason concluded for him, seeing the direction his train of thought was taking him. “There is a jagged edge to this,” Frank said, trying to think around the one snag he couldn’t readily find an answer for. “If Chris James committed suicide and he had no apparent heir, everything he owned would have become property of the state.”

“Yes, that’s why Brianna was being kept safe. Brunner’s maid, Rosalita Morales, said she heard him tell Michael they needed her to get to the Heart of the Jungle.” “But why bring Michael in?” Frank wondered. “I think they intended to make him the fall guy. He was so far gone on drugs it would have been easy to overdose him and have him and Brianna turn up somewhere they would be sure to be found. That way it would look like some sick, elaborate kidnapping plot.” Frank whistled shrilly. “Shee-it,” he exclaimed. “That’s just about crazy enough to be the truth. I feel like it’s twenty years ago and I’m working with your old man.” Frank chuckled. “This is another one for the books.” “In any case, whatever is happening,” Jason said seriously, “it’s all going down in Seattle. One way or another, that’s where everyone will end up eventually.” “Another hour and forty,” John Abel called back to them from the cockpit. He’d apparently been listening to their conversation—the ETA was too “on cue” to have been coincidental. Jason looked out the window anxiously. I hope that’s soon enough.

Chapter 17

SNOHOMISH, Washington, was a quaint, turn-of-the-century hamlet nestled in a river valley to the north of Seattle. From the air, as the Cessna made its final approach into Harvey Field, the tiny municipal airport that served the town, Chris looked down upon an expanse of rolling farmland bisected by the sinuous curve of the Snohomish River. He was home. Only when the wheels touched down on the short runway and the plane taxied to a stop did he dare allow his joy to bubble over. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. They were safe, Brunner somewhere far, far behind them. He knew that the next several days would be trying. He was still wanted for the murder of Jeffrey Cross. He would have to face Jason Kingsley again after the horrible fight they’d had in Las Vegas. He might be required to confront Brunner if the police were able to apprehend him. He would take these challenges one at a time. They all seemed trivial now in light of the fact that his daughter was safely back at his side. Wincing, he gently prodded his bruised and swollen eye and flexed the fingers of his left hand. His injuries could have been much worse, so he considered himself fortunate. “We home?” Brianna asked, yawning and stretching. “Yes, baby, we’re home,” he replied, gathering her up from her seat and nuzzling her neck. She giggled and wrapped her arms around him. “I missed you, Daddy,” she said in her sweet little voice.

Tears blurred his vision and his heart swelled with love. He squeezed her gently, pressing his cheek to hers. “I missed you too, my little angel. Daddy missed you so much.” “I’m hungry,” she said after a moment, squirming to break free of the fierce grip he had on her. “We’ll get you something to eat soon, love,” he promised, standing and working his way toward the exit. They climbed down from the plane, and Chris looked around the small airport. One of George’s security men rushed across the tarmac to greet them. “I’m Charlie,” he said, putting his arm around Chris and leading him away toward a waiting car. Once they were settled in the back seat, Charlie passed Chris a pair of shoes and his passport. “Mr. MacQuery is waiting for you at Snohomish Trust,” Charlie said, as he pulled out of the airport and drove toward the center of the city. They turned right onto First Avenue and continued along the narrow street, passing an odd assortment of antique stores, pubs, and novelty shops. The town looked like something Norman Rockwell would have painted. Despite all that he had endured, Chris’s mood was light. The early morning sun was bright in a blue sky, the charming little town reminded him of happier times, he was safe, Brianna babbled in the seat by his side—life was, for the first time in as long as he could remember, sweet and worth living. Everything really was going to be okay now. As promised, when they pulled up in front of the brick building that housed Snohomish Trust, George was waiting for them. Chris had never been so glad to see him. He leapt from the car and rushed into the older man’s arms, sinking into the warm, familiar embrace. After a moment, he turned and motioned for Brianna. Gingerly, the toddler climbed out of the car and ran to George, who picked her up and swung her in the air, then snuggled her tenderly. “Papa George, I missed you,” she exclaimed as he covered her little face with kisses. “And I missed you too, young lady,” he said, his voice trembling with emotion. After a moment, he shifted her to his hip and turned his attention to Chris. His eyes were troubled as he reached out and gently

brushed his fingers over the bruised and swollen eye. “He really did a number on you, little dove. Are you all right?” Chris swallowed hard, remembering the horrors he had just endured. The worst traumas, he knew, had left no mark on his body, but deep wounds in his soul. He would carry those scars for long years to come. Fighting down the powerful emotions that threatened to reduce him to tears, he nodded. “I’m fine.” “We’ll have a doctor come take a look at you as soon as we get this minor bit of business out of the way,” George assured him. “Don’t worry about it, George. I don’t need a doctor.” He turned and surveyed the bank. “Doesn’t look like they’re open yet.” “The branch manager should be arriving any minute. He’s agreed to special dispensation.” “Did you get in touch with Jason?” Chris asked next. “I did. I assured him I would keep you safe until they locate Brunner. He was worried that I too could be in danger, so I called Charlie in to keep an eye on me. We’ll go to the cottage on Whidbey. Nobody knows about it, so we should be safe there until the FBI and the police apprehend Brunner and sort this all out.” “George,” Chris asked, anxious to be away, “why do we need to get the diamond now? Why not just leave it and deal with it another time?” George was silent for a moment. “Several people have already died, Christian. We believe Brunner was operating alone, but we cannot be sure. If he wasn’t, if by some stroke of bad luck the authorities are unsuccessful in apprehending him, we need to have it on hand. That way, if necessary, we can hand it over. It’s too dangerous for it to be out of our reach. It may be the only thing that can save our lives.” Chris shivered despite the warm morning. “You really think Brunner can evade the police?” “I just don’t know,” George admitted, “and that’s what scares me. I don’t like the idea that he’s not under lock and key. As long as he is free, we have to assume you are still in terrible, terrible danger.” He looked firmly into Chris’s eyes. “Are we agreed, then? Shall we retrieve the Heart of the Jungle?” Chris nodded resolutely. George knew best. The things he’d said

made perfect sense. He knew firsthand how much Brunner coveted that diamond. If he wanted it, for all Chris cared, he could have it. He had Brianna back, and they were both safe and alive. He could finally look toward a bright future. Those were the important things. That was all he wanted. More, in fact, than he ever expected to have just a few days ago. “This thing has caused me enough grief as it is. As soon as this is all over, I’m throwing it in the river. I wish I never heard of the damn thing,” Chris said bitterly. “I hate it.” George’s brows knitted. Then, noticing a harried looking man headed their way, he pointed. “This must be our man.” “You George MacQuery?” he asked as he approached. “You must be Larson,” George said affably, grasping the man’s hand. After the handshake, Larson unlocked the doors to the bank and deactivated the alarm. He led them to the vault, examined Chris’s passport, and produced a printed sheet of paper, which he instructed Chris to sign. “This affidavit affirms that you are retrieving the contents of your safety deposit box of your own free will and under no duress.” Larson eyed first the damage done to Chris’s face and then George suspiciously. “You aren’t under any kind of duress, are you?” he asked. Chris was stunned. “Of course not.” He bristled at the man’s appraisal of his companion. “George is my attorney—but more than that… he’s like a father to me,” he said firmly. Then, as if to emphasize his point, he signed the affidavit in broad, heavy strokes. “There, all signed.” He handed the sheet of paper to Larson, who was looking a little sheepish. “Your father left very specific, explicit instructions. We pride ourselves on honoring our commitments to our clients. You understand?” Chris’s indignation faded slightly, and he smiled in apology. “It’s been a rough couple of days. I’m sorry.” “You should have someone look at that eye. It’s bad,” Larson said gently. Chris smiled. “Thank you. I will.” Larson led them inside the vault and down a row of safety deposit boxes. “Here it is, 629.” He fumbled with a ring of keys and looked at Chris expectantly. “Key?”

George handed Chris a key, which he inserted into the top slot as Larson inserted his into the bottom. This all seemed a bit ceremonious and melodramatic to Chris, but he just played along, eager to have this done with and be safely ensconced in George’s Whidbey cottage. Larson slid the box out of its niche in the wall and departed the vault, leaving Chris, George, and Brianna to open it in privacy. Chris gave George a hesitant look before opening the lid. The older man smiled encouragingly and indicated he should proceed. Slowly, carefully, he slid the lid of the safety deposit box back to reveal a large, opaque, reddish lump of stone within. It sat primly upon a velvet drawstring pouch. For a long while, he stared at it in confusion. This didn’t look like a diamond to him. It looked like… well… it looked like a lump of rock. “This is the Heart of the Jungle?” Chris asked incredulously. “This is the cause of the unrelenting hell I’ve been through? You’ve got to be kidding me.” George was agog. The precious stone was enormous. He knew from the letters describing it that David James had given it over to a series of experts for inspection. Spectrographic and X-ray analysis confirmed it was the most massive red diamond ever discovered—easily overtaking the Moussaieff Red, the record-holder, by more than five times its carat weight. Beneath the opaque chalky cortex, the gemstone was pure and unvarnished. Not a single striation marred its flawless crystalline structure. Properly faceted, it would be worth a staggering sum. He gaped at the stone in undisguised avarice, imagining how it would look without the milky chalk obscuring its cranberry-colored depths. When Chris turned his eyes away from the diamond, George quickly masked his expression. He cleared his throat. “Well, shall we take it and be off?” he asked, pretending nonchalance. Chris shrugged, retrieved the diamond, dropped it into the velvet bag it sat upon, and tugged the drawstring closure tight. As they strode out of the vault, Brianna reminded them petulantly that she was hungry. “We’ll get you something to eat on the ferry to Whidbey, baby,”

Chris promised, tweaking her cheek and favoring her with a kiss. “Are we going on the big boat, Papa George?” she asked, her hunger forgotten. “Yes, darling,” George replied absently. His mind was on the gemstone that was going to make him rich beyond his wildest imaginings. As they made the journey to Whidbey Island, George could barely contain his elation. Until he’d seen it with his own eyes, the Heart of the Jungle had seemed something of a myth to him. After all the years of coveting, plotting, and scheming, dreaming of the fortune it would bring him, it was finally, at long last, within his grasp. Knowing that he was so very close emboldened him. There was one last messy task to perform before the diamond was his. Christian James had to die.

FRANK was livid as he shouted invective into his cell phone. They had landed and bid goodbye and thanks to John Abel moments ago, and he had immediately contacted the Seattle field office to let them know he was on the ground. “What do you mean he’s disappeared?” he shouted, his face red with rage. Jason’s stomach clenched into a tight knot. “You didn’t think to watch the back exit?” Frank asked disbelievingly. He listened for a few moments and finally, with a menacing growl, said, “Find out where he’s gone. I don’t care if you have to hire a fucking psychic. I want his twenty and I want it now.” He jabbed a finger into the phone and cursed. Jason clenched his jaw and took a deep breath before speaking. “What now?” Frank paced. “Slipped out the back. Disappeared.” “He must suspect he’s being surveilled.” Frank chewed at his bottom lip. “Possibly. Maybe he’s always like this.”

Jason eyed him curiously. Frank was holding something back. “What?” “He used a credit card to book a couple of chartered flights out of Weed, California. The team is working on it now, but I’m willing to bet Chris and Brianna James were on one of those planes.” “And Brunner on the other,” Jason breathed, stricken. “Frank, Chris has no idea that George is behind all of this. I told you, he’ll run right into his arms.” “I know, kid. Those credit card transactions happened five hours ago. About the time we were trying to get out of Vegas. They’ve probably already landed.” “His first step will be to secure the diamond. We have to assume he needs Chris for that. So he won’t hurt him until he has his hands on it. Banks don’t usually open until nine.” Jason looked at his watch. “That’s ten minutes from now.” He took off at a run, waving for a taxi as he went. Frank was right on his heels. “Want to tell me where we’re going?” “Chris said he grew up in Snohomish. That’s about thirty miles north. It’s where David James probably banked the diamond.” They climbed into a taxi, and Frank flashed his badge at the driver. “Break every fucking law you know of, but get us to Sno—Sno—” “Snohomish,” Jason offered. “Yeah,” Frank said. “What he said.” The cab peeled out in a squeal of tires, and the diminutive Asian cabbie cast an anxious glance at the two men in the backseat as he sped out of the airport. “Sorry,” he apologized. Frank waved him off and watched Jason intently as he pulled up a list of banks in Snohomish on his mobile phone. “Snohomish Trust,” Jason said, pointing. “That’s the one. Says here it’s the oldest bank in Snohomish. Chris’s father wouldn’t have trusted a brand-name financial institution. He would have wanted to make sure his instructions were followed to the letter.” Frank nodded, sticking out his bottom lip. “Sounds reasonable.” Jason placed a call to the bank, and when the line was answered, he asked for the branch manager.

“This is Harry Larson speaking.” “Mr. Larson, my name is Jason Kingsley. I’m a special investigator with the FBI.” Frank raised an eyebrow, and Jason tried to ignore him. “We have reason to believe that a client of yours by the name of Christian James may arrive at some point this morning in the company of a man named George MacQuery, potentially to retrieve the contents of a safety deposit box.” “Yes,” Larson said. “In fact, they’ve come and gone. Not thirty minutes ago.” Jason cursed. “Damn.” He was silent for a moment. “Mr. Larson, did they say where they were going? Please, it’s very important. Chris James’s life is in jeopardy.” “But he signed an affidavit—” “Please,” Jason cut him off. “Think. Did they say where they were going?” Larsen was silent for a long time. “I… I was busy, not paying attention,” he excused nervously. “I can’t—wait… Whidbey. They said Whidbey. Yes, the little girl was hungry, and Mr. James said she could have something to eat on the ferry to Whidbey.” Jason smiled in triumph. “Whidbey. Thank you, Mr. Larson. Thank you.” He disconnected. Frank was already on the phone with the field office making arrangements for a check on MacQuery’s assets. Specifically, he told them to cross-reference property records on Whidbey Island to see if they could find some kind of a match. “Driver,” Jason said sharply, “skip Snohomish. Get us to Whidbey Island.” “On the ferry?” he asked skeptically. “You want to go on the ferry?” Frank looked at Jason quizzically. “Well, I’d rather not have to swim.” “It will cost you, my friend,” the cabbie warned. Jason shrugged. “Whatever,” he said.

Chapter 18

GEORGE’S cottage was a postcard-perfect plantation-style home situated on the northwestern point of the island. The parcel was heavily forested, and barely visible through a break in the dense foliage, down near the water’s edge, a boathouse hovered on stilts over the gently lapping waves. The house had been George and his late wife Lucy’s private retreat during their marriage. In order to ensure it remained a safe haven for them, George had registered ownership to a property holding company— he was careful that way. Chris knew this because George often advised Michael he should be equally diligent. Growing up, Chris had spent several summers at the house with his parents and George and Lucy. It still looked exactly as he remembered it. It reminded him of simpler, happier times. Those were halcyon days when summers lasted forever and he hadn’t a care in the world. The cottage represented safety, security, and warm memories. When the car stopped and he deposited Brianna on the front lawn, he was instantly at peace, as if the events of the past several days had been nothing more than a horrible dream that had faded in the light of morning. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply as the sun bathed him in its cheerful glow. The weather was spectacular, clear and calm—it had the makings of a perfect midsummer day. “You must be exhausted,” George said softly, patting him on the back. “Let’s get you settled in.”

He led the way up to the front porch and, once inside, upstairs to a sweetly appointed guest bedroom. The walls were painted a cheerful buttery yellow, with lace curtains on the windows and white linens on the four-poster bed. He knew from experience how comfortable this particular bed was, and his body ached to sink into the soft mattress. He lifted Brianna onto it, and she immediately burrowed into the down comforter, yawning mightily. Though she had slept during the long drive from Las Vegas and again on the Cessna, it had not been a restful sleep, and he knew she was just as tired as he was. He thanked George profusely and turned to tend to his daughter. “Chris, why don’t you give me the diamond? I’ll lock it up in the safe,” George urged softly before leaving the room. Chris had almost forgotten about it. Withdrawing the heavy lump of stone from his jacket pocket, he handed it over. He was glad to be rid of the thing. George clutched the velvet bag and left the room, closing the door as he went. He stood in the hallway outside, fondling the diamond in his left hand. The weight of it was satisfying, exciting… galvanizing. His eyes hardened as he realized what he must now do. In his way, he did love Chris. He had not been lying when he had told Jason Kingsley he regarded him as a son. It broke his heart to have to kill him, but there was no other way. What he had lied about, however, was the nature of the argument he’d had with David James. He’d had practice with that particular tale, so the story came easily to his lips. They hadn’t argued about Chris at all—his name had never entered the conversation. Instead, the fight had been about the diamond. He thought back to that night long ago. David had just received the results of the laboratory tests and had called George over to discuss the legal aspects of how best to manage the unexpected windfall. He wasn’t interested in the enormous fortune the gemstone represented. He and Marie had jointly decided to sell it, in its raw form, to a museum for a tenth its actual value. The bulk of the proceeds would be donated to the church, and the remainder would be put into a trust for Chris.

George had been outraged at the plan. Though he had sold his interest in the mine to David several years prior, he had been the one to broker the deal for its initial purchase. He had brought David in, being unable to afford the investment on his own. He reasoned it was only proper he should have a stake in the diamond too. David had been stunned when George had suggested it. Further, when George explained he could never consent to the manner in which they intended to liquidate it and their plans for how to disburse the proceeds, David had flown into a mad rage. In the heated exchange that followed, a lifetime of friendship was snuffed out in a flickering instant. David had called him a greedy, money-hungry swindler, and that had nearly broken his heart. “I’ve sorely misjudged you, George MacQuery. Your obsession with wealth has consumed you and turned you into a monster. You’re not the man I thought you were, and it sickens me. Get out of my house,” David had raged at him. After all these years, it still stung. Poor, simple, misguided David. It wasn’t about money. Money was just a means to an end. No, George MacQuery thought, it wasn’t about money at all. It was about stature, power, security—those were the true benefits of wealth. George had grown up in poverty. The hardship and helplessness of his youth had taught him nothing except that men who had money had power, and men who didn’t had none. Though he’d achieved some measure of affluence with his legal practice, it was not enough. Not even close. True, his standing and the security he’d achieved were a world apart from the hardships of his youth, but the diamond represented a whole new level of influence—one he had dreamed about all his life. As much as he loved Chris, the sentiment just wasn’t equal to the opportunity to fulfill that lifelong ambition, to realize his most cherished dream. It was a costly trade, but one he was willing to make. Soon Watson would arrive with Brunner in tow and he could put his final plans in motion. By the end of the day, the Heart of the Jungle would be his at long, long last. As he turned the key in the lock, effectively imprisoning Chris and Brianna, he sighed heavily. He deeply regretted what was soon to come,

but there was just no other way. The best he could do, in honor of the paternal affection he felt for Chris, was to offer him a peaceful exit.

CHRIS lay comfortably on his side on the soft bed, curled around his sleeping child. He twined his fingers through her soft red curls and smiled tenderly. His heart was overflowing with the sight of her. She’d grown and changed so much in the past ten months. Gazing at her, a bittersweet sense of longing for the lost time stabbed into his chest. How much he had missed. The baby chubbiness had begun to give way, and he could see in her maturing features signs of the child she was becoming. She looked so much like Jeannie. Her eyes, wide spaced, were rimmed with long, thick lashes, and when she smiled, deep dimples appeared upon her cheeks. Her mouth worked as she slept, and he traced a finger gently over her face, grinning in delight as it caused the corners of her lips to turn up. It still worked, he thought, recalling the long hours he’d sat in the rocking chair caressing her in just this way to summon that heart-melting smile. His eyes grew heavy as the happy memories and a strong sense of peace overcame him. As he drifted off to sleep, his last waking thoughts were of Jason Kingsley. The man evoked powerful feelings. He could not deny it, but there was a terrible price to pay for such strong emotion. The past year had been horrific, and he just couldn’t face the burden of so great a risk again. Whatever had begun between them could not be allowed to flower and bear fruit. He had endured too much pain, too much hardship, and all that he had left he must keep in reserve for his daughter. Despite his ebullience, despite the miracle of his reunion with Brianna, despite the perils he had overcome, when sleep finally took him, it was not an untroubled slumber. His heart was heavy with regret and loss. If not for the awful timing, what might have been with Jason Kingsley… might have been wonderful.

AS THEY sat in the cab waiting in the long, sinuous line for the ferry, Frank conversed in hushed, urgent tones with the Seattle field office. When he finally disconnected, he turned to Jason. “They have an address. It took some digging—the property is registered to a holding company in his late wife’s name—but he’s there, all right. It’s off of Harbor View Drive on the west side of the island.” They had been waiting for the arrival of the ferry for more than an hour, and Jason was practically climbing out of his skin, the urgency and helplessness growing with each passing moment. “It’s a thirty-minute ride,” he said morosely. “What if we’re already too late?” Frank squeezed his hand reassuringly and continued. “The field office is working as fast as they can. Pulling together resources takes time, kid. I don’t know what you’re so antsy about anyway. We’re going in strictly to provide intel.” He gave Jason a warning look. “You’re not on the payroll anymore—may I remind you—so it’s damn lucky you still have friends in the bureau here. Under normal circumstances, you wouldn’t be allowed anywhere near the operation. The rule book is out the window only because I gave them my solemn word I’d keep you in line.” He shook his head and took a deep breath before continuing. “Now, the team coordinated a drive-by with the authorities in Langley—it’s the closest town of any size to the residence—and they’ve got a plainclothes keeping a bead on it. Five minutes ago, some muscle with an eye patch arrived on the scene,” Frank said, noticing a fleeting look of recognition appear on Jason’s face. “Know him?” he asked. “We had a moment,” Jason said vaguely. “He was accompanied by a man matching Brunner’s description. They said it didn’t look like he was tagging along willingly.” “Damn,” Jason swore. “I was right. Brunner was trying to make an end-run.” “Chris seems to have escaped him somehow. Once he was free, he contacted MacQuery and they all ended up back here. Very likely, he’s going to arrange Chris’s death and make it look like Brunner was involved. That buys us a little time. The officer keeping an eye on the house said it doesn’t look like MacQuery believes he’s in any kind of danger. He sent the other security guard away shortly after the muscle and Brunner arrived. If he expected trouble, he wouldn’t be hunkering down.”

Jason said soberly, “Now that he has Brunner, though, the clock is ticking. He won’t drag this out. He has the diamond, he has Chris, and he has the fall guy. He’s holding all the pieces.” “Like I said, the Seattle office is assembling a task force as quickly as they can,” Frank soothed. He pulled up Google Maps and zeroed in on the satellite image of George’s Whidbey residence. “As soon as we’re on the scene, we’ll take up a position here.” He indicated a forested area behind the house. “We’ll keep the team apprised of the developing situation. Once they’re on site, they’ll establish a perimeter, cover every exit, and they’ll move in. Strike fast before he has a chance to react.” “And if something goes down before they get there?” “Then our friends from Langley will move in to apprehend, and we’ll stay the hell out of their way,” Frank said warningly. “They’re trained professionals. That’ll have to be good enough.” Just as he had been so many times since this all began, Jason was frustrated by his inability to take direct action. As much respect as he had for law enforcement, he hated the idea of placing his faith in people he didn’t know. He had an intense personal stake in the outcome of this crisis, and the lack of control brought him close to panic. If Chris were harmed, he would never forgive himself. His own carelessness had sparked this fire. He felt like it was his responsibility to stamp it out. His concern wasn’t solely the result of a guilty conscience or a sense of personal obligation, though. He was in love with Chris James. Forget that it was crazy, that he had known him for a handful of days, or that the sentiment was not likely returned. The passion they’d shared had proven to him beyond any reasonable doubt that this was the person he’d spent his whole life searching for. Even though he’d never thought himself capable of that kind of attachment, here he was, up to his eyebrows in it. Frank had been studying him as the series of emotions played across his face. Jason, like his father, was given to being mastered by his emotions. Frank didn’t need to be clairvoyant to know exactly what he was thinking. “Well I’ll be a son of a bitch,” he said. “You’re in love with him.

Curt said you were smitten, but that wasn’t the half of it.” Jason didn’t even try to deny it. Frank was thoughtful, serious. “Watching you, I keep thinking what I would feel if it were Ann in this situation. What I’d do.” He fixed Jason with a meaningful stare. “I have to be honest, kid, that scares the shit right out of me….” He paused, hesitant to give voice to his growing concern. “You have to pull it together. I know that’s hard. Hell, I’d have a hard time myself, and I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you.” Frank was ever more sober as he continued. “You start thinking with your heart and not your head, it’s both our asses in the sling.” Jason prickled, suddenly realizing where this might be headed. “Forget it, Frank. You’re not cutting me out,” he warned. His voice was hard, his tone resolute. He wasn’t asking for permission. Frank shook his head. “Now hold on just a damn minute. All I’m saying is I need you, not some lovesick fool with a score to settle.” Frank was right. Emotional distraction had caused him to fuck up once before. He’d paid the price for that awful mistake for years afterward. He could not afford to be careless again—especially not this time. He took several deep breaths, trying to bring his roiling emotions under control. “Good, that’s good,” Frank said, sensing the shift in his demeanor. Once he was sure Jason was back under control, he grinned. “Cutting you out,” he muttered. “Christ. Someone tried to keep me away if Ann were in danger, I’d kill the son of a bitch with my bare hands. I’m old, kid, but I’m not senile. I’m not going to let you in on the action, but I won’t keep you from being there when it goes down.” Jason smiled despite himself. Frank’s depth of understanding could still surprise him, though it shouldn’t have. For all Frank’s bravado, Jason knew he was a man of deep compassion with a good heart. “You still licensed to carry?” Frank asked. Jason opened his blazer and showed Frank the Browning 9mm strapped to his body.

“Let me see that,” Frank said, reaching for the gun. “That a Browning?” “Yeah,” Jason replied, handing the weapon to Frank. “Dad’s Mark I. I’ve had it since I graduated.” Frank looked it over, carefully checking the mechanisms and the overall condition of the weapon. “You take good care of this,” he said, impressed. “It’s a good piece,” Jason said. “I could probably get something more modern, but I have a bond with this one.” Frank smiled and tucked the gun into his own jacket. “Happens,” he empathized. “I’ll hold onto it for you, just in case you get any bright ideas about using it.” Jason frowned but didn’t protest. Something in Frank’s expression told him the other man would brook no argument. Finally traffic began to move. Sometime during their conversation, the ferry had arrived.

SHORTLY after George had secured Chris and Brianna in the secondfloor guest room, Watson arrived with Brunner in tow. Their chartered flight had landed at the Whidbey municipal airport, and Watson had brought Brunner directly to George’s residence. Though Watson had been in his employ for several years, he’d never met the man face to face until now. Watson, for his part, remained coolly professional as he herded Brunner into the study and shoved him roughly into a chair. If he was surprised or perturbed at meeting his mysterious and secretive employer, his composed indifference belied none of it. Noticing the eye patch, George asked, “What happened to your eye?” Watson regarded him silently and growled, “Your friend Kingsley.” There was a hint of murder in his tone. “I’m sorry for that,” George said smoothly. “I’ll give you a bonus when this is all over. And,” he added, “your shot at Kingsley. He’s got

the FBI all riled up, and if we don’t take him out of the picture, before long he’ll have them poking around in my affairs.” He paused, fixing Brunner with a pointed, meaningful look. “Despite how this is going to play out.” Brunner’s eye twitched nervously, and he was unable to meet George’s gaze. George walked up to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. He jumped. “You look like shit, Johan,” he said with something more akin to glee than concern. Brunner didn’t respond. He just continued to stare nervously at his lap. He had the air of a prisoner strapped into the electric chair. Whatever he might have said in response would be all wrong, so he remained silent. George knew that Brunner was at least smart enough to avoid further provoking his ire—particularly with Watson breathing down his neck. George kept his hand on Brunner’s shoulder for a while longer, enjoying the effect his touch evoked. He could feel Brunner’s growing anxiety, and he liked it very much. This is true power. He grinned. This is what it is all about. Finally, he removed his hand, walked confidently around the desk, and took a seat in his high-backed leather chair. He reclined casually and stared at Brunner for a time before speaking. “You have been a thorn in my side for far too long.” George pulled a quill pen out of a holder on his desk and ran the feather through his fingers. “But then, I knew you were a liability going in,” he said. He slammed his fist on the desk suddenly, and Brunner jumped. “Look at me when I am speaking to you,” he commanded. Brunner raised his downturned eyes and stared at George warily. “Your connection to Michael, your connection to certain resources, these were absolutely necessary.” He paused meaningfully. “Your connections, yes, but also your long criminal history. You see, in the end, all of this carefully orchestrated tragedy, this whole outrageous plot surrounding Christian James, was to be your doing. Why do you think it was so elaborate? Hmm?”

Brunner didn’t respond. George chuckled. “The scale, the complexity, the sheer magnitude—hallmarks of your style. I’ve been playing you like a fiddle all along.” Brunner’s eyes hardened as George continued. “Michael Blake could never have concocted so elaborate a scheme on his own. The police would have been utterly suspicious, and that may have led them to me. On the other hand, if you were involved, naturally their focus would shift in your direction. With just a small nudge, some carefully arranged pointers, it would suddenly come clear that you had been the orchestrator of the whole affair. I could have played the victim, willingly accepted my role as Brianna’s guardian, and you would have rotted in a prison. It would have been perfect but for your breathtaking stupidity.” Brunner’s eyes narrowed. George had drawn him in with promises of freedom and wealth. He’d even made good on the first part of that promise by extricating him from his messy legal affairs. “But you bought the jury and got me out of a fraud indictment,” Brunner said coldly. “Indeed,” George agreed. “I needed you… unencumbered in order to play your part. Unfortunately, it was to be only a temporary reprieve.” Brunner’s anger simmered. As he stared at the smug expression on George’s face, the anger flared into fury. He had underestimated George MacQuery. The man was, it seemed, far more conniving than he had ever suspected. “I would never have gone along.” “The evidence against you would have been irrefutable. Even if you tried to implicate me, my role was carefully obscured. They would never have believed you.” He glared. If not for the one-eyed Sasquatch hovering just behind Brunner, he would have climbed over that desk and mutilated George. He kept himself carefully in check, though. He would not be made the fool again. MacQuery had plans for him. He didn’t know what those plans were yet, but presumably he needed him alive, or he’d be dead already. That gave him a small window of opportunity, one last chance to stick it back to him. Somewhere in this house, he was certain the treacherous man had secreted away the Heart of the Jungle. Somehow, before George’s devious endgame was set in motion, Brunner would find a way to turn the tables.

With crafty, calculating eyes, he stared at MacQuery. He smothered his boiling rage and donned a mask of ersatz fear. Brunner would show George MacQuery what it meant to be sly. This time, he thought, it would be MacQuery who underestimated him. George looked meaningfully at Watson. “I hate to do this to you, Brunner, I really do, but it is necessary. You owe me a debt for your betrayal, and I’m going to exact payment. With interest. Besides, it will make what I have planned for you all the more convincing when your body is eventually examined.” Brunner’s blood turned to ice within his veins as Watson’s powerful hands closed about his arms. “Remember,” George said pointedly, “I need him alive when you’re through with him… but only just.”

CHRIS had been sleeping peacefully when the faint, muffled screaming awoke him. It was unmistakably Brunner. As long as he lived, he would never forget the sound of that hated man’s voice. At first, he thought he was having a nightmare, but as he came fully awake and the screaming continued, he realized he was not dreaming at all. His heart raced. Brunner is here. In this house. George could be in trouble. Frantically, Chris pulled himself upright. He scanned the room and zeroed in on the door. What was he going to do? The sounds of violence were issuing upward through a ventilation grate in the floor. He recalled that when he was younger, he would lie at that very grate and listen to the adults conversing below. The ductwork connected to the lower floor and channeled sound from certain rooms in the house directly into the guest bedroom. In order not to disturb Brianna lest she begin to cry and alert Brunner to his location, he slowly, carefully crawled out of the bed and moved on silent feet to the bedroom door. He tried the knob. It was locked. “No,” he whispered through gritted teeth. He was trapped. The faint sounds of shouting and cursing continued unabated as his

eyes swept the room, searching for some other means of escape. The casement window, he knew, did not open wide enough to afford an exit. Anxiety mounting, he focused on the closet door. The attic. The shouting stopped, and he rushed over to the vent. Dropping to the floor, he pressed his ear to the register and listened intently. He thought he could hear George speaking, but he wasn’t sure. Carefully, he worked his fingers into the grating and pulled it free. Cupping his hands around his ear, he repositioned himself and strained to hear what was being said. “At three fifteen this afternoon,” George was saying, “you, my associate Watson, and Christian James will drive onto the eastbound ferry to Mukilteo at the front of the queue. When the ferry is underway, you will start the engine, press your foot into the accelerator, and drive the car into Puget Sound.” Chris was horrified. His stomach lurched. This had to be some kind of a joke. George would never harm him. Would he? “Passengers will report that within the car, a struggle was underway—ostensibly Chris James, fighting for his freedom. Tragically, he too will be killed in the accident. Meanwhile,” George continued, “I will place a call to 911, victim of a gunshot wound.” His voice became dramatic, delivering the impassioned speech he had rehearsed. “He was a madman. Demanded I hand over the diamond. He shot me. I lost consciousness. Chris! He’s taken Chris. You have to stop him.” George laughed. “So you see, Brunner, you can still be useful after all.” Brunner spoke next, his voice cracking with pain. “You think Watson and Chris are going to go along with this?” “Watson will be equipped with SCUBA gear,” George replied, “so he will be quite unharmed. And Christian,” he continued, “will be heavily sedated. I am not a monster. I love the boy. I owe him a humane, peaceful demise. He will be completely unaware throughout.” Chris choked back bile. He was certain he was going to vomit. George… George, who had been a father to him, who had been his dearest friend, his closest ally. George had been the monster under the bed all along. All this time, George had been the one pulling the puppet strings. The betrayal took his breath away. This was an evil he could never have dreamed of.

Chris could listen no more. He had to get out of this terrible place. He had to take his daughter and get the hell away from here. Now, right now, before they came for him. Heedless of the sudden heartache and the sheer magnitude of this newest horror, he forced down the trauma and climbed onto the bed. Gently, he shook Brianna awake. As her eyes fluttered open, he pressed a finger to her lips to keep her calm. “Baby,” he whispered urgently, “the bad man is back.” Fear arose in her eyes. “Shh, shh. Be still, little one. We have to be very quiet. Quiet as a mouse,” he instructed. When he was certain she understood, he removed his finger from her lips and gathered her into his arms. Quickly, quietly, he tiptoed to the closet and pulled open the door. Inside, up in the ceiling, there was an entrance to the attic. He squeezed Brianna gently. “Remember,” he whispered to her, “quiet as a mouse.” She nodded, her eyes wide and serious. Carefully, he placed her on the floor and pulled the closet door closed. Making as little noise as possible, he stood on tiptoe and opened the hatch to the attic. Once the ladder was extended, he scooped Brianna up and levered himself into the darkened space overhead. Motes of dust swirled lazily through streamers of sunlight spilling in through ventilation openings. He carefully pulled the ladder back up, searched around, and located a nail protruding through one of the rafters. Pulling the frayed rope taut, he looped it around the nail and tied it off. It wouldn’t be proof against a dedicated assault, but it would provide a brief reprieve—perhaps enough. Quickly, he maneuvered from rafter to rafter, making his way toward a slatted grate in a gable at the far end of the attic. When he had been younger, this grate had been loose enough to allow exit. It was a short drop to a flat section of roof just outside. From there, he could make his way around the house and climb down a gnarled black walnut tree that grew close to the eaves. He’d done it many times before, though never with a child borne in his arms. He forced down his self-doubt. There was no other way. If he could somehow make it to the boathouse, he might get away. George kept the keys to the boat inside a jar—or he used to, anyway.

Taking a series of deep breaths, he fought against his uncertainty. At any point, his hastily constructed escape plan could fall apart. He was acting on instinct. Every impulse was tuned to survival. He wasn’t equipped for this kind of action, but he didn’t have a choice. He and Brianna were in terrible danger, and if he didn’t act, didn’t try, they would die. He looked at his daughter. She gazed back at him with wide, trusting eyes, and his will solidified. Resolved, he kicked out the grate.

Chapter 19

BRUNNER slumped in the chair, sobbing and wheezing. His face was damaged almost beyond recognition. Both eyes were swollen nearly closed. Blood drooled out of his ruined mouth and ran in a thick red river down his chin to drip into his lap. The fingers of his left hand were all broken, the digits splayed in haphazard, unnatural positions. George stared at him in satisfaction. Brunner was barely hanging on. “That’s good,” he praised Watson. He’d very much enjoyed watching the treacherous weasel being beaten to a bloody pulp. George was vaguely disappointed that Brunner hadn’t even tried to fight back. It was as though he had realized the futility of struggle and had already resigned himself to his fate. George covered his hand with a handkerchief and withdrew a handgun from the drawer of his desk. This he handed over to Watson, careful not to touch it in any way as he did so. “You know what to do,” he said. If he could have avoided this bit of business, he certainly would have, but wounded, he would prove a much more convincing victim. George gritted his teeth, braced himself against the desk, and nodded at Watson. Watson reached down. He lifted Brunner’s limp hand—the one that was not mangled beyond repair—out of his lap and positioned the gun within his grip. Lifting Brunner’s flaccid arm, he leveled the gun at George. Brunner screamed.

In a sudden onslaught of fists and violence, he exploded from the chair. Watson was pitched backward, and George gaped in surprise. Clever. George watched in hypnotized horror as the barrel of the weapon tracked toward him. Not broken after all. Very clever. He dove out of the way as the gun discharged, the bullet tearing plaster and wood out of the wall inches from where he’d been standing. Watson, only momentarily unbalanced, launched himself into Brunner’s back, and they went down in a snarling, writhing tangle of limbs. The gun flew out of Brunner’s hand and spun lazy, skittering circles across the polished hardwood. George scampered under the desk as the combatants wrestled on the floor, making a terrific racket. Though he had confidence in Watson, for the first time, he was afraid.

JASON was on his feet the instant he heard the unmistakable report of gunfire. Frank tried to stop him, but Jason threw him off. He took off on a dead run toward the house. Frank shouted at him, ordering him to stop, but he kept on running. The support team was still en route, the Langley police were somewhere close by, but time was up. To hell with the rules. The gunshot changed everything. Though his heart was racing and his stomach clenched in fear, Jason forced himself to remain calm and detached. He could hear Frank in pursuit, but the older man couldn’t begin to keep pace. As he closed the distance to the house, he donned his training like a well-worn glove, his every movement practiced and made with confidence. Anxiety filled him, yet his mind crystallized, focused on the path ahead. Every detail sprang into sharp relief. It was as if he had been imbued with preternatural vision and superhuman grace. Adrenaline. He reached the porch and took the steps by twos.

The door was locked, barring the way forward. Frank was still on the lawn, but he would be on him in seconds. Jason braced himself and kicked down the door.

CHRIS yelped when the gunshot rang out directly below where he had been making his way carefully around the eaves. Startled by the deafening crack, Brianna screwed up her face to cry. Chris covered her mouth and whispered soothing words into her ear. Her fear subsided. His increased. Quickly, he scampered across the roof to the overhanging branches of the ancient black walnut, placed his foot firmly upon a stout limb, and inched forward, testing its strength. Satisfied it would hold them, keeping Brianna cradled protectively close, he balanced precariously and moved further out onto the limb. He wobbled uncertainly, nearly losing his balance. Crouching down and holding onto the limb with his free hand to stabilize himself, he pressed on, headed slowly toward the massive trunk. Once he reached it, he swung around and scrambled down through the tangle of limbs. He was cautious with his footing despite the urgent need for haste, supremely aware of the fragile, precious burden he bore. He could hear the sounds of a violent struggle within the house and pounding on the back entrance. He couldn’t guess what was happening, but he couldn’t think beyond reaching the next branch and the next. He had to get to that boat, to get the hell away from this horrible place. He knew with absolute certainty that if he didn’t, he and Brianna would die.

OVER the racket of Brunner and Watson’s struggle, George could just make out sounds of forced entry at the back of his home. That could only mean one thing. The game was up. Somehow, Kingsley had discovered he was behind everything and had rallied the cavalry. Damn. He thought he had detected a faint note of mistrust when he had spoken to him on the phone. He’d thought he’d been convincing enough, but he should have known better.

Heedless of the bloody struggle going on around him, he quickly opened the safe beneath his desk and withdrew the diamond. Pocketing it, he dove out of his hiding place and raced out of the room, leaving Brunner and Watson to fend for themselves. One or the other would prevail, but in the meantime, he needed to get to the boathouse and make a hasty retreat. If he could make it to his office, he could retrieve documents that would allow him to flee the country. Once he’d found a safe haven— Europe, perhaps—he could attend to the diamond. He’d fetch a smaller price on the black market, but maybe he could strike a more lucrative deal with some rich Middle Eastern dictator or another. After he slipped out the front door, he hit the front lawn and made directly for the waiting boathouse, for freedom.

CHRIS threw wide the heavy garage doors that led to the open water. Once the way ahead was clear, he upturned a jar of fasteners and dug through the pile of screws, nuts, and bolts, searching for the key to the boat. It took only a moment to find it, and he breathed a sigh of relief. George hadn’t moved it, after all. He rushed over and transferred Brianna to the deck of the boat, untied the moorings, and leapt in himself. Ever cognizant of safety, he slipped a lifejacket over her head and fastened it securely about her. It was many sizes too large, but, cinching the strap as tightly as he could, he thought it might hold. He dropped to his knees and held onto her arms. Looking directly into her eyes, he said, “Get in the bottom of the boat, baby. Get down on the floor and stay put, okay?” She nodded and scampered underneath the seat, wrapping little arms around the post to which it was mounted. “That’s my girl,” he praised. He gave her a wink, then made his way toward the bow and dropped into the pilot’s seat. Just as he inserted the key into the ignition, he heard pounding on the doors he had barred after allowing himself into the boathouse.

He pumped the throttle and turned the key. The engine cranked but sputtered and did not catch. “Christian,” George screamed at him from outside. “Christian, I know you’re in there.” Panic seized him at the sound of George’s voice, and he pumped the throttle again rapidly. “Come on,” he pleaded as the engine turned and turned but refused to start. It had been sitting too long unused. The doors barring George’s entry gave just then, and he stormed inside in a raging fury. Fixing Chris with a deadly glare, he stomped along the planking and leapt onto the boat. Chris rose from the pilot’s seat and backed toward the glass partition and the open bow. There was nowhere left to run.

JASON pressed his back to the wall near the study and peered cautiously around the corner. He saw Brunner lying in a broken, bloody heap on the floor. Though it appeared he was still alive, he was unconscious and not a threat. Otherwise, the room was clear. He moved into the room cautiously, supremely conscious that he did not have a weapon. Frank came up behind him and grabbed onto his arm in an attempt to pull him back. There was a hard, angry look in his eyes. “Damn it, Kingsley,” he whispered through gritted teeth. “The party’s over,” Jason said, indicating the broken pile of limbs that used to be Johan Brunner. “The fuck do you think you were—” There was a sudden loud “pop,” and a look of stunned surprise came over Frank’s face. He reached up to his chest as a crimson stain spread across his shirt on the right side of his body. His face drained of color, and his eyes rolled upward. “No!” Jason cried as Frank collapsed onto the floor. Jason went down on his knees beside him and fumbled for Frank’s firearm. Before Jason could bring the weapon to bear, Watson rose to his full height from behind the desk. The gun he had just used to shoot Frank

Marcus was aimed steadily at him. His remaining evil eye fixed on Jason’s face and seemed to bore directly into him. “We meet again,” Watson said cruelly, the corners of his ugly mouth turning up in a smile. Jason froze. He remained perfectly, utterly still. From his position on the floor at Frank’s side, he looked up and directly into the eyes of death. “Drop your piece, Kingsley,” Watson said. Jason moved to comply. Slowly, carefully, he placed his gun on the floor and shoved it away, out of his reach. Watson came fully around the desk then, his weapon kept carefully trained between Jason’s eyes. “How does that old saying go?” he asked in a gravelly voice, spitting a mouthful of blood onto the floor— obviously the aftermath of his struggle with Brunner. “An eye for an eye, isn’t it?” Watson motioned for Jason to stand. Jason swallowed hard and rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving his adversary. “We’re going to do this nice… and slow,” Watson promised, reaching down and unsheathing the hunting knife at his waist. He brandished the weapon expertly, slicing through the air with graceful ease as he placed the gun on the surface of the desk. No longer under imminent threat from a bullet between the eyes, Jason adjusted his stance, preparing for hand-to-hand combat. He didn’t have a knife, true, but he had years of expert training that made him just as deadly. Though Watson outsized him by a good fifty pounds, he had fought with this man before and had some sense of his style. It would be a difficult but fair fight. Watson came for him, leading with the blade. They circled and he sliced out, catching Jason in the chest, giving him a taste of the razorsharp steel. The blade cleaved through fabric and flesh. Blood pooled and overflowed. Though the injury burned like a firebrand, Jason’s concentration did not waver. When the next swipe of the knife came, he danced out of its path, and it missed him by a hairsbreadth. He feinted left, jabbing out and connecting solidly with the tender spot beneath Watson’s ribs. He knew it to be vulnerable thanks to the

softening-up he had given it scant days ago. The man grunted in pain. His face contorted, and he countered with the knife, this time drawing a red weal across Jason’s arm. As Watson lunged again, Jason landed a kick to his midsection and sent him careening into the wall. Watson roared and came back spitting. As he charged forward, Jason dove out of the way, driving his fist into the vulnerability once again and ducking under the knife as he went. Enraged, Watson spun, tracking Jason with the blade, cutting out in desperation. His once-graceful strokes were now clumsy, made sloppy by frustration. Jason ducked the knife again and, with a hard punch, knocked it out of Watson’s hand. Now unarmed, the brutish man had only his bulk to rely upon, and he used it to great effect. Before Jason could recover from the punch he’d delivered, Watson lowered his head and charged, pummeling into him like a linebacker. They went flying backward, Jason’s lower back cracking painfully into the sharp edge of the desk. Watson’s fists flew, landing blow after blow. Jason held up his arms to defend himself, but the man was a force of nature. Spots swam before his eyes, and a red stain appeared at the edges of his vision as fists slammed into his face, his upper body, his head. Sensing that he was about to lose this fight, Jason dropped to his knees and delivered a swift punch to Watson’s groin. Hit ’em where it hurts. Watson’s mouth formed an “o” of shocked surprise, and he doubled over in agony. Moaning, he staggered backward. As Watson careened away, Jason dove for the knife. He felt strong hands wrap around his ankle. He flailed as he was hauled backward, but he could not shake the grip. His fingers scrabbled against the hardwood. He stretched out his arm as far as it would go. In the barest instant before he was pulled out of reach, he grabbed onto the hilt of the knife. As Watson yanked him across the floor, he rolled, kicked out with his free leg, and flipped upright, the weapon held before him like a spear. He thrust it forward and drove the blade home. Watson gagged and shrieked, blood pouring out of his mouth as he fell backward. He clutched futilely at the hilt protruding from his chest,

but it was no use. The knife had found its mark. Watson was dead before he hit the floor. Jason dragged himself over to Frank, every muscle protesting as he forced his body to comply. He fumbled for a pulse and sighed in relief when he found it. It was thready and weak, but Frank was still alive. In the stillness, he could hear the faint, distant sound of sirens from outside the house. Finally. Finally.

CHRIS met George’s hateful glare as he climbed into the boat. The man he had once regarded as a father was virtually unrecognizable. His features were contorted into a mask of evil hatred. Chris raised his chin defiantly, prepared to defend himself and his daughter by any means necessary. This man was not the man he loved. He had become a monster. George kept his eyes on Chris. He crouched down and withdrew a club from the storage compartment near one of the passenger seats. He brandished it before himself and stood to his full height. “You have what you want,” Chris said through gritted teeth, eyeing the club George held. “Let us go.” George drew the club through his hand and said, “I don’t think so. I have the diamond, true, but there’s the matter of the authorities.” George glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the house. “You and Brianna will make a fine pair of hostages if they try to stop me.” Chris’s throat constricted. His heart ached. The change that had come over George was horrifying. “Why, George?” he pleaded. “Why?” “You brought this on yourself, Christian,” George said coldly. “You with your foolish hope. I told you many times to give it up, but you just wouldn’t listen.” “I would have given the diamond to you,” Chris said. “All you had to do was ask.” The sincerity, the unrestrained honesty in Chris’s pronouncement seemed to puzzle George. Something like regret flashed in his eyes. For a moment, it seemed he might falter. As quickly as it appeared, though,

he snuffed it out. “You’re just like your father with this sickening idealism,” George said. “It’s easy to say now, when your life is in jeopardy, but under difference circumstances, you’d have been as consumed by avarice as any man.” Clearly, George didn’t understand that there were things in life more valuable than material possessions. He didn’t know what true love was. He’d never had a child of his own. How Chris had misjudged this man. How his admiration had been misplaced. “I would have given it to you,” Chris said, a single tear rolling down his cheek. George wavered again. As if to put down the uncertainty, he cried out and leapt for Chris, swinging the club before him. Chris ducked out of the way and dropped to the deck. Brianna wailed from beneath the seat, and he shouted, “Run, baby!” George made a grab for him and managed to catch his leg as Chris scrambled to get to his daughter. As he was hauled backward, he could see confusion and terror in the little girl’s round eyes. “Run,” he pleaded with her. George hauled him to his feet and backhanded him. He saw stars as white-hot pain exploded across his cheek. George raised the club to swing. They struggled with the weapon, and it fell from George’s hand. Enraged, George growled and flung Chris backward. He flew into the glass partition that separated the main deck from the open bow. His skull impacted forcefully with the metal frame, and blackness rushed up to swallow him.

JASON dropped his head onto Frank’s gently rising and falling chest and allowed himself a moment of respite. As he crouched there, breathing heavily, overcome with weariness, he heard another sound that made his blood run cold. Somewhere outside, the unmistakable sputtering of an outboard motor trying to start could be heard. He leapt to his feet and hit the ground at a dead run. MacQuery was

getting away. Once he was outside, his eyes swept left and right and found the boathouse, just visible through a break in the trees at the edge of the property. He sprinted toward it, his wounds and exhaustion forgotten. In his haste, he had neglected to grab his weapon, but there was no time to go back for it. Seconds later, he crashed through the trees and shoved his way through the heavy swinging doors into the interior of the small wooden structure. His clinical cool was nearly undone at the sight that greeted him. On the boat, Chris was unconscious, draped across the seats in the open bow. He could not see Brianna, but he could hear her screaming. George cast an anxious glance over his shoulder and cranked the motor again. This time it roared to life. The bow of the vessel rose out of the water as it sped away. Jason gave chase. He raced along the dock and leapt into the air, catching the side of the boat. He held on for dear life. George gunned it and steered directly into the chop, trying to throw him off. As they plied the erratic waves and headed for the open sound, Jason held on for all he was worth. Muscles straining, he fought against the bucking vessel. The water dragged at his feet in a desperate attempt to claim him. With every ounce of strength he could muster, he hooked one leg over the side and used it to lever himself up and into the boat. As Jason dropped onto the deck, George rose from his seat behind the wheel and came around toward him. The boat continued ahead on its current course, completely unmanned. Pointed directly into the swells, it was launched into the air with each crest it encountered. The deck lurched violently. In spite of the treacherous footing, George managed to stay upright as he made his way toward Jason. Jason scrambled to his knees and, throwing himself at George, pulled him down onto the deck. They struggled, but the older man was no match for him—even wounded and weakened as he was. Sensing he could not overpower Jason, George wriggled out of his grasp and skittered backward. He flipped over and dove into the open bow. As Jason crawled toward him, George glanced over his shoulder. With an evil sneer, he

heaved Chris over the side. Jason watched in horror as Chris plunged into the water with a splash. As the boat raced away, leaving him behind, Jason saw his head bob once, twice in the wake, then sink beneath the greasy waves. George laughed. “Fight me or save him,” he said, obviously congratulating himself for the clever dilemma he had just created. “He won’t last long in this water.” He obviously expected Jason to leap to Chris’s rescue. His look of surprise was almost comical when, in a flurry of action, Jason launched himself across the deck and caught him by the throat. “I think I’ll do both,” Jason said. He wound up and coldcocked him. George’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he slumped into a heap. As George dropped, Jason threw himself back over the windscreen, latched onto the wheel, and pulled hard on the throttle. Engine roaring, the boat swung around under his control. He scanned the rippling surface of the sound, back along the wake of the boat, searching desperately for some sign of where Chris had gone over. There was no hint, and Jason’s heart sank. He was going to have to guess. When the boat reached the spot he thought was right, he jammed the throttle into reverse to stop the watercraft’s forward momentum and dove over the side. The water was icy cold as he plunged in headfirst and kicked rapidly downward. He could see no sign of Chris in the murky depths. Down and down he swam until he thought his lungs would burst. There. Just ahead. He could vaguely make out Chris’s limp form through the gloom. He reached out, kicking hard to propel himself forward, and clutched a handful of Chris’s hair. Dizziness threatened, and his lungs screamed for oxygen. He rolled and climbed for the surface. His head broke through the choppy waves, and he gulped greedily at the air. Huffing, spitting, he pulled Chris’s head above the water and swam hard for the boat. Once he arrived, he held tightly to the swim step and hauled himself up. Reaching down and hooking his hands beneath Chris’s arms, he dragged his slack form onboard. Chris’s face was ashen, and he was not breathing. “No,” Jason cried, tears springing to his eyes. “He looks dead.”

Brianna scrambled out from beneath the seat, wailing and calling, “Daddy! Daddy!” as she crawled toward them. Jason pinched Chris’s nose closed and clamped his lips over his mouth. With force, he blew air into his lungs several times. Clasping his hands together, he shifted position and began chest compressions. He alternated between breathing and chest compressions. Back and forth, back and forth. His distress increased with each passing second that Chris remained unresponsive. Despite his own exhaustion, he did not relent, fighting desperately for Chris’s life. “Come on, Chris, breathe. Please, breathe,” he begged. The sound of Chris sputtering as he drew in his first tentative breath was the most beautiful thing Jason had ever heard. Weakly, Chris choked out a frothy gout of seawater onto the deck. Sobbing in relief, Jason pulled him to his chest and held him tightly. “That’s it, Chris. Just like that. Keep breathing,” he urged, rocking him gently in his arms. “I’ve got you. Stay with me.” He reached out and drew Brianna into the embrace. As he held them both, his tears and Brianna’s mingled upon the cheeks of the man they both desperately loved. Jason clung fiercely to them, holding on as if his very life depended upon it. “I’ve got you,” he whispered fiercely. “I’ve got you.”

CHRIS sat on a stretcher, cradling his daughter and holding tightly to the warm blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Jason had briefly described what had transpired since they’d been separated, and his head was still reeling from everything that had happened. Off to the side, he could see him conversing with the team of FBI agents. He turned his gaze to a pair of EMTs wheeling Jason’s semiconscious partner, Frank Marcus, toward the waiting ambulance. As they drew close, the wounded man motioned for them to stop. Feebly, he beckoned Chris over. Chris eased himself off his perch, shifted Brianna to his hip, and moved to the side of the litter. He placed his hand upon Frank’s and squeezed gently. Frank coughed and winced. “You gonna be okay?” he asked. Chris shook his head, and a small incredulous laugh escaped him.

“I’m not the one with a hole in my chest,” he responded. “Just a scratch,” Frank said, grimacing. Chris struggled to find words. “What you did for me… what you both did for me,” he whispered, not sure he could control the powerful emotions welling up inside of him. His voice broke, and tears threatened. “I….” “Just doing my job,” Frank said modestly. He glanced over at Jason. “Jason, though… he would have moved heaven and earth to get to you. He’s damn lucky I didn’t tell the agent in charge how this whole thing really went down.” Frank’s mouth formed an angry scowl. He turned his eyes back to Chris and the scowl faded away. “He’s in love with you, you know.” Chris closed his eyes as the tears escaped his control. He couldn’t speak, so he just nodded. “Imagine you need some time to sort this all out,” Frank said. Chris looked at him sadly. He was still unable to find his voice. “He’s a good man. The best. Remember that, won’t you? When the dust settles.” Chris wasn’t sure the dust would ever settle, but he couldn’t say that to Frank. Instead, he met the older man’s serious gaze and held it. “I won’t forget,” Chris promised him. Frank reached out and tweaked Brianna’s cheek. “And how are you, little red?” he asked. “Hungry,” she answered honestly. They both laughed, and a pained expression came over Frank’s face. “Load ’er up, boys.” Frank pointed toward the ambulance. “Best part of being shot,” he called out as he was wheeled away. “Good drugs.” Jason concluded his conversation and came up to Chris. He stood at his side as Frank was loaded into the back of the ambulance. Chris smiled. “He’s quite a character,” he said. “Quite,” Jason agreed with a twinkle in his eye. They were silent as the ambulance doors were closed and it rolled away. Finally, Jason spoke. “They’re just about ready to take your

statement. MacQuery and Brunner will be questioned once their wounds have been treated and they’re stabilized. I’d imagine it’s going to be a long couple of weeks for you.” Chris took a deep breath. It felt like it had been a long couple of weeks already, though only a handful of days had actually passed. His heart still ached from the terrible betrayal. It was still hard to believe that George had been trying to kill him all this time. As long as he lived, he didn’t think he would get over it completely. Jason took his hand and pressed the velvet pouch, heavy with the raw diamond, into his palm. “Here,” he said, closing Chris’s fingers over it. “You’ve earned this.” Chris clenched his fists around the stone, and his jaw tightened. This diamond had been bought with precious blood. In truth, he hated it passionately. “What are you going to do with it?” Jason asked. “I hear it’s pretty valuable.” Chris forced a halfhearted laugh and stared at the pouch in his hand. “I told George I was going to throw it in the river. Maybe that’s what I’ll do.” He looked from the diamond to Jason. “I never want to see it again.” Jason pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I wouldn’t blame you.” He met Chris’s gaze. “Maybe you should think on it first, though. Some things… they’re just too precious to throw away.” His stare was meaningful, filled with an unasked question and all the hopes he still secretly harbored in his heart. Chris returned the stare frankly, knowing what was being asked but unwilling, unable to respond. He could not bring himself to say the words in his heart, to bid this man goodbye, but he had to. He owed him as much. “I… I….” Jason placed a finger to his lips and smiled softly, sadly. Chris didn’t need to say anything more. “I know,” he said. “I know.” His voice was husky with strong emotion. “I understand.” Ashamed, Chris looked away. It nearly tore his heart out to see the anguish and loss on Jason’s face. It echoed the heartache and regret that stabbed painfully into his own soul. Problem was… he just didn’t have

anything left to give. “Ahem….” A uniformed officer came up behind them, and the intrusion broke through the awkward moment. “Mr. James?” he asked hesitantly. “We’re ready to take your statement.” Chris was still for a few seconds, gathering his strength. Then he turned and nodded. “Of course,” he said. As he walked away, he stole one last look over his shoulder. Jason waved sadly, but it wasn’t the gesture of farewell that took his breath away. As long as Chris lived, he would never forget the look of hopeless loss in the other man’s eyes.

Epilogue

THE sunny August afternoon was filled with the delicious fragrance of late-summer blooms and the salty tang of the sea. Chris laughed as Brianna frolicked in the yard with a clumsy chocolate-colored long-haired dachshund puppy she’d creatively named Brownie. He patted the dirt around the dahlia he’d just planted, and his heart swelled at the sounds of her laughter as she rolled in the grass with her sweet, floppy companion. He withdrew another plant from its plastic container and dropped it into the fresh hole he had dug. Ten more to go. He glanced over the herd of flowers waiting for their spot in the rich soil. Before returning to the task, he sat back on his heels and watched Brianna play. As he had often been over the past year, he found himself amazed at the child’s resilience. He still awoke with nightmares from time to time, and even though they were fading, he knew he would always bear the scars of those terrible events. She, on the other hand, seemed not to have been affected at all. Sighing heavily, he turned his attention back to the plants. Just as he was preparing to dig the next hole, he saw movement out of the corner of his eye, and he looked up in surprise. A timid-looking middleaged woman lingered ten paces back. Her expression, shadowed by the wide brim of a straw hat, was hesitant as she stood clutching a purse and

eying him warily. She wore a white crocheted blouse and a cotton skirt that swirled about her legs in the soft afternoon breeze. She was pretty and… somehow familiar. He stood, brushing the dirt from his hands, and greeted her with a wave. “Can I help you?” he asked cordially. She peered at him from beneath the brim of her hat and smiled shyly, then, seeming to decide it would be rude to continue to lurk, approached. “Are you…,” she began. “Are you Chris James?” “Yes,” he said, curious. She seemed to appraise him for a moment. For some strange reason, he felt like she was taking his measure. “I’m… my name is Angelica Kingsley. I’m Jason’s mother.” The words tumbled out as if through the wall of a broken dam. Chris was stunned into speechlessness. He stood rooted to the spot, silent, unsure of what to say. He’d thought so often of Jason over the past year. Though he had known the man for only a handful of days, since they had parted, nearly all of his dreams and secret fantasies were filled with memories of that sexy smile, those mysterious hazel eyes, the long, lithe planes of his body. “I’m sure this must be a surprise,” she said, seeing the color that rose in Chris’s cheeks. “I have to admit, when I ended up in your yard, I was a little surprised myself. I wasn’t sure it was right for me to come.” Chris found his voice. “Of course, you’re welcome. I… that is… I am a little taken aback. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just that….” Her eyes were kind as she looked at him. It was clear from her posture that she was drawn to him. “No need to explain. I know all that happened must have been difficult for you.” Difficult was an understatement, but he just smiled, feeling unsure and out of place. “Jason…,” she said, still hesitant. “It was a rough time for him too.” Chris blushed again. He knew what part he had played in that, and

from the look in her eyes, he suspected Angelica did too. “I’m sorry. I know I hurt him,” he said softly, not sure why he would make such an admission to this woman, who was, after all, a complete stranger. “Please, don’t apologize. He understands. I understand,” she soothed. “Anyone would need time to heal after such an ordeal.” Chris nodded in agreement. “Your daughter is beautiful,” Angelica said, her kindly eyes crinkling at the corners as she watched Brianna playing with Brownie. “Thank you.” He followed her gaze, and he smiled too, overcome with love for the little girl. They stood together in silence for a time, enjoying Brianna’s delight with the puppy’s clumsy antics. Finally, Angelica placed a timid hand upon his shoulder. “Chris,” she said, the hesitation back in full force, “about Jason—” “Is he hurt?” Chris’s heart leapt as he looked into the woman’s hazel eyes—a perfect match for her son’s. “No, no. He’s fine. But, he’s going through a rough time right now, and… I thought… I hoped you might consider being there to support him.” “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” She took a deep, shuddering breath. He could tell she was struggling with this, but she was committed nonetheless. “After everything was resolved with George MacQuery and you, he rejoined the FBI. They put him immediately back on the Don Gerry case.” Chris stiffened. He remembered all too well how Jason had been affected the first time he’d investigated that monster. “They caught him,” Angelica continued. “This time, it looks like they’ve got him, but there’s always a chance.” Just then, Chris knew exactly what kind of anxiety Jason must be going through. “I know it would mean an awful lot to him if… if you were there when they hand down the verdict. He’s in Quantico, Virginia, in federal court.”

“When?” Chris asked, the matter already decided. “In two days.” He thought for a moment and, meeting her eyes, gave her the answer she had come for without saying a word. She nodded, understanding. “Would you like some lemonade?” he asked, hitching his arm through hers as though they were old acquaintances. “Because I spent all morning squeezing lemons, and I’d hate to drink it alone.” She giggled quietly and followed him into the house.

JASON and Frank strode happily down the wide marble stairs fronting the federal courthouse. Reporters thronged them. Jason and Frank didn’t need to say a word. Their victory was clear in the expressions on their faces. Gerry had been convicted. The judge had just sentenced him to die by lethal injection, and he had been hauled from the courtroom, kicking and screaming and wailing. It was a fitting end for that sick, demented monster. A microphone was thrust into Jason’s face, and a reporter shouted, “Mr. Kingsley, how does it feel?” He gazed up into the bright afternoon sun and said, “Like a….” His eyes widened in surprise. Just beyond the crowd, bathed in the golden glow of the waning day, a solitary figure stood quietly, holding firmly to the hand of a little girl with bright red curls. She fidgeted impatiently, clearly anxious to be doing something other than just standing there. Disbelieving, squinting to be sure the vision was not some kind of mirage, he felt tears of joy swelling in his eyes. “Like a dream,” he finished, almost breathlessly. Heedless of the reporters, heedless of the questions pursuing him down the marble stairs, he ran and swept Chris into his arms, laughing and crying all at once. Chris reached up, clasped the back of his head, and drew him close,

tears of his own flowing liberally down his cheeks. Their lips met in a passionate, hungry embrace. When they finally separated, Jason didn’t trust himself to speak as he held Chris at a distance, drinking in the sight of him. How he had longed for this moment. The months and distance had been an agony. “I thought on it,” Chris finally whispered. “I kept it.” His eyes were serious as he said, “Some things are just too precious to throw away.” Jason’s heart soared as the meaning in those words struck him. He had said the same thing to Chris the last time he had seen him. Does he really mean it? “Are you sure?” Chris stared back, his own eyes reflecting the aching emptiness he’d endured for far, far too long. “More than I’ve ever been,” he answered. Frank imposed his bulk between them. “Knock it off, now, none of that fluffy shit.” He made a sound of disgust. “I’m starving, and you two are killing my appetite.” They all laughed as Brianna tugged on Jason’s pant leg. “Hey, I’m hungry too.” Jason swept her into the air and spun her around, eliciting a peal of childish giggles. At a withering look from Chris, who obviously knew what was coming, he chuckled and said, “I’m hungry three.” His smile was radiant, overflowing with love and supreme happiness. Chris groaned. “You people and your food. I swear.” “Can I have ice cream?” Brianna asked hopefully, sensing an opportunity. Frank took her from Jason and started walking away. “I know a place where they serve some ice cream that’ll put hair on your chest, little red,” he promised her as they went. She looked at him solemnly, noticing the tufts of hair peeking out from his unbuttoned shirt collar. “I think you been there a lot,” she replied. “A time or two.”

“I don’t want hair on my chest,” she said seriously, her little nose wrinkling in distaste. Frank chuckled. Jason grabbed Chris’s hand and started dragging him after the retreating pair. “Come on. We’d better keep up, or he’s bound to corrupt your daughter.” Chris flashed a beatific smile at him, and together, laughing, filled with hope and promise, they hurried to catch up.

About the Author

JEREMY PACK is a bundle of contradictions; pragmatic but given to flights of romanticism, liberal mindset with old-fashioned sensibilities, intellectual but often bumbling. Raised in the exotic wilds of southeastern Idaho, he narrowly escaped the potatoes and religious majority intent on a stake-burning and set off for adventure in the wide world—living the high-life in such far-flung ports as Maui, Las Vegas, New York, and the Oregon coast. Jeremy now resides in the beautiful Pacific Northwest with his partner, Jason, and their precocious (but weak-in-the-knees cute) daughter, Elise. He works in the video game industry by day, bows to the demands of his dictator-offspring by night, and spends free time building things, writing things, and fixing things that “don’t work”. You can find him on the web at http://www.jeremy-pack.com.

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