Caith headed to a room he knew was private and off-limits to party goers. His father’s study. On the way there he passed Galen, looking imposing and regal as a Mongol warlord, but didn’t stop to talk. His brother was deep in conversation with their mother and a small group of people Caith didn’t recognize. His mother easily outshone the others, dressed in a flowing white gown with silvery overlay. Gossamer wings, a wig of flowing blond hair, and a crowning circlet of wildflowers made her look the part of the Faerie Queen.
Myth. Magic. Happily ever after.
She’d taught him to believe in such things, to dream of what-ifs and might-have-beens. When he was a child, he’d enjoyed her love of fantasy and make-believe, but life had taught him harder lessons. Crueler lessons. People he cared about could be snatched away, all because of who he was.
A rich man’s son.
Caith slammed the door to the study. Veronica was in love with him. More importantly, she wasn’t afraid to admit it. She deserved someone who could say it in return. Someone whose throat didn’t close up at the thought of uttering the words, who was able to separate love from fear.
Dropping into a chair, he bowed his face into his hands. He wasn’t sure how long he sat, sounds of the party filtering through the walls. Music, laughter, voices. None of it felt real. Halloween had always been a day he associated with death. The one day of the year he wanted to lock himself in a room with a bottle.
He heard the opening click of the door and glanced up in time to see his father enter. For a moment it was like being fourteen again, when his dad had come to him during that first Halloween party.
“I thought I was the only one who hid out in here.”
Caith raised a brow. “You’re hiding? I thought you liked these parties.”
“Your mother likes them.” His father crossed to the antique globe that doubled as a bar and poured a glass of fruit juice. Dressed in the full regalia of a Union general of the Civil War, he looked like a veteran commander. “I’d rather sit out back with a carved pumpkin and watch the stars. Peace. Quiet. Just a candle in the jack-o-lantern, instead of all this hoopla.” He waved a hand to indicate the extravagance taking place on the other side of the door.
Caith frowned. “I don’t understand you. I’m beginning to think I never did.” Beyond the walls of the study, the music stopped abruptly. He’d left Veronica on the dance floor with Merlin and should probably wander back. But how did he face what she’d told him: I love you? How could he answer in return?
Silencing the thought, he paced to the other side of the room and refocused on his father. “That scrap book—”
“Did you bring it back?”
“It’s in my truck.”
His father nodded. “It’s my way of not letting go, Caithelden. Of hanging onto you, even when you shut me out.”
Disgusted, Caith shook his head. He didn’t need this. It was Halloween. Veronica was in love with him and his dad was talking like he wanted to be a father again. He pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the onset of a headache. Through the walls, he could still hear voices, but the laughter had stopped. Coupled with the lack of music, the absence was disturbing. Now that Caith concentrated, the voices sounded off-kilter, jumbled and confused. Tensing, he stared at the door.
“Something’s wrong.”
His father scowled. “What?”
“Something’s happened.” Spurred by alarm, Caith reached for the door. It swung open before he could touch it, spilling a handful of people into the room−all three of his brothers followed closely by Veronica and Balin. Veronica looked shaken, her face a white mask. Balin hovered a foot behind, his skin a sickly shade of gray-green.
“What’s wrong?” Caith drew Veronica aside. “Ronnie, are you all right? Are the boys all right?”
“Your mother and Melanie are with Matt and Noah.” There was a tremor in her voice, barely disguised. “Caith, something terrible has happened.”
“Derry.” He pounced on the omission. “What about Derry?”
Aren gripped his shoulder. “Maybe you should sit down.”
Panic rocketed through Caith. Sheer, stark, gut-twisting panic. In the space of a single heartbeat, he knew. Every fear, every unreasonable terror he’d harbored for seventeen years, crashed over him with bone-shattering force. Rounding violently on Aren, he gripped him by the lapels. “Where the hell is my son?”
“Caith, take it easy.”
“He doesn’t know. None of them do!” Balin’s sudden wail broke over the room like a pent up storm.
“What did you say?” Through the blood pounding in his head, Caith registered his nephew’s stricken face. Balin looked ready to collapse, his skin now bleached like the underbelly of a dead fish. Galen moved beside the boy, wrapping a protective arm around his shoulders.
“Caith, he didn’t mean for this to happen. It was a mistake.”
“What mistake? Where’s Derry?”
“It was my fault. All of it. The lodge, the glue, everything.” Balin was blubbering now, sobbing in earnest as he choked on tears. “No one was supposed to get hurt. I swear it.”
“I don’t give a shit about the lodge. Where’s my kid?”
Balin appeared not to have heard. Shoulders slumping, he folded against the wall. “It was Galina…she wanted the lodge, and Kelly wanted that stupid job. I thought…I thought Kelly loved me. It-it’s why I did all those things she asked.” Choking back tears, he looked beseechingly from his father to Aren and Merlin. “She said we’d be together after Galina got the lodge. It seemed so simple, scaring people. Lance McClure helped, and Kelly dressed up as the woman at the lake.”
Caith didn’t care. None of it mattered. “Derry,” he spat. “Where’s Derry?”
But Balin appeared to be in a zone where events unfolded in a precise order, where clearing his conscience took precedence over everything else. Hitching in a breath, he looked directly at Caith. “Lance killed the dog, and he’s the one who trashed the lobby and messed with the food stores. Galina paid him and that’s all he cared about. I did the tech stuff…the hand in the fireplace, the woman on the third floor, even the sobs and the face at the window. I had copies made from Dad’s keys so we could get in. And I’m the one who put the glue in the drawer at the house and dumped it at the hayride.” His eyes darted to the side, guiltily sweeping the room as he fidgeted from foot to foot. Licking his lips, he ran a hand through his hair and plowed ahead. “I overheard Uncle Merlin tell Dad about how it does weird things to you. I told Kelly and she thought it would be a good way to mess with your head…that if you were bothered enough by what happened to you as a kid, you’d back off and leave things alone. Stone Willow would go belly up. Galina would make another offer and get the lodge. Kelly would get her job with Roth-Deckman. I never meant for anyone to get hurt. I wanted to be with Kelly. I didn’t know she was using me. You gotta believe me, Uncle Caith.”
Caith lunged forward only to be physically restrained by Aren. “You damn well better tell me where my kid is, or I’m gonna take you apart.”
Acting as a buffer, Merlin stepped between them. “Balin, tell him the rest.” Apparently, his nephew had already spilled his guts to everyone else before entering the room.
Balin sniffled, dragging a sleeve under his nose. “The other day when I stopped to pick up a book in the computer room, you were asleep at the desk. I saw what you’d been doing. All those notes on Galicorp and Galina. I figured you were getting close to working it out so I told Kelly. She and Galina…they said we had to come up with something really big. Something to make you forget about the lodge for good. Make you go back to Boston.” Balin bit back a sob. He mopped the sleeve across his face, wiping up tears. “Kelly was my date tonight, the one you saw me with earlier. She told me she just wanted to talk to Derry. I didn’t know she was gonna take him.”
“You bastard.” Furious, Caith broke free. He knocked Balin against the wall, rage and fear shattering the last of his control. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Someone locked an arm around his neck and tried to drag him backward. He thrust his forearm across his nephew’s windpipe pinning him in place, a move he normally reserved for suspects and criminals. “You tell me where my kid is. Tell me before I rip out your throat!”
“Caith!”Aren was yelling at him, Veronica pleading, Galen and Merlin fighting to break his hold on Balin.
It all happened in a blur. A dizzying tangle of sickening impossibilities that left his head reeling, his gut roiling with acid. Someone had taken his son.
“Caithelden, let him go!” His father’s powerful voice cracked over him at the same time Aren and Merlin snapped his hold on Balin. Merlin shoved him roughly backward. Red-faced, he jabbed a finger under Caith’s nose.
“Calm down, damn you. You’re not helping Derry this way.”
Caith paced in an agitated circle, stepped forward, and was immediately shoved back by Merlin. Sirens wailed in the distance, growing louder. Someone had obviously thought to call the police before bringing him the story.
“Where?” he snapped with a hostile glare for Balin. “Where did that witch take my kid?”
Unable to stand any longer, Balin sank into a chair. “I don’t know. I brought him downstairs to talk with her. She sent me to get her a drink and, when I got back, they were gone. I never would have let anything happen to him, Uncle Caith, I swear. Never! I-I just thought she was gonna talk to him, tell him about what happened to you and your friend Trask. I figured she might try to scare him a little so he’d ask you to go back to Boston. I swear I don’t know where she took him. She didn’t even have a car. I picked her up before the party.”
“She’s going to deny she did anything,” Aren said with a careful glance for Caith. “We don’t have a witness who actually saw her take Derry from the house. With all these people, she might be able to convince the police Derry wandered off on his own, or that someone else took him.”
“Let me get my hands on her,” Caith snarled. “I guarantee she’ll tell the truth.” He sent Balin a scathing glare. “She probably didn’t count on her teenage lover spilling his guts about the lodge. I know one thing.” Outside the sirens fell abruptly silent, signaling the police had arrived. “I’m not leaving Derry’s fate to Duke Cameron.”
“Don’t do anything stupid,” his father snapped.
Halfway to the door, Caith glanced over his shoulder. His father’s voice was controlled but his face had grayed, nearly the color of Balin’s. “What does that mean?”
“Exactly what it sounds like. Do you think I don’t know what you’re feeling? Do you think I don’t know what it’s like to have my son ripped away? If you go off half-crazed—”
“Stay out of this,” Caith stabbed a finger in his direction. “You made your choices, and I’m making mine.”
“Wait!” Veronica’s voice trailed him into the hallway. He’d only taken two steps before she caught up with him, grabbing him by the arm and forcing him to stop.
“Where are you going?” There was panic in her voice, fear that he’d never heard before. Looking into her eyes, he realized she loved Derrick, too. Not just with fondness, but a crushing, consuming tenderness that brought tears to her eyes.
“I’m going with you,” she insisted.
“No.”
“Caith, I love him, too.”
“I know that.” He touched her cheek, catching a tear that spilled over her lashes. “I need you to stay here, talk to the police. If Derry gets free, he’ll come back. Or there might be a phone call. I can’t concentrate on him if I’m worried about you. Ask around, see what you can find out. Maybe someone saw something.”
“Caith.”
“Veronica, I have to go.”
She nodded, fighting for composure. “Be careful.”
She gave him a quick kiss, and he sprinted down the back hall, avoiding the crowds who lingered in the party areas. A hush had fallen over the house, voices whispered rather than raised in laughter. Cold air hit Caith the moment he stepped outside, the temperature having dropped considerably since the hours of trick-or-treat. Slipping the gauntlets over his hands, he ducked the police with ease, heading for his Explorer. Two cruisers were parked in the driveway, the bounce of their emergency lights sending red and blue flashes through the darkness.
“Caith, wait up.”
Merlin and Aren jogged up behind him as he reached the Explorer.
“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.
Merlin raised a hand, dangling his keys in the air. “The same thing you are. We’ll cover more area with all three of us looking. Aren can head east, I’ll go west, you go north. When we’re done, we’ll meet on the south side and regroup. Assuming one of us hasn’t already found Derry.” He paused. “Galen would’ve come, too, Caith, but he needs to be with Balin.”
“Yeah.” There was bitterness in his voice, but he crushed the ugly emotion. It had been a long time since someone other than Aren stood beside him.
He looked steadily at Merlin. His brother had cast off his wizard robes and hat, but the false beard and the unnatural white dye in his hair remained.
Halloween. Damn, why did it have to be Halloween?
He swallowed a lump of fear. Just because Trask died on Halloween didn’t mean Derrick would come to harm.
Exhaling, he dragged a hand through his hair. “Thanks. Both of you. I’ll go by the Herald first.”
Aren nodded. Popping the door on the Explorer, he pushed Caith toward the seat. “Get in and start looking. We’re not going to let anything happen to Derry.”
As Aren and Merlin darted away, Caith turned the ignition. With three of them looking there was a chance Derrick would be found. If nothing else, he had the strength of his brothers behind him, something he hadn’t felt in years.
He pulled the vehicle out of the driveway and headed into town, trying to think rationally. Once he might have believed nightmares of this sort only happened to someone else, but experience had taught him differently. From the moment Derrick was born, he’d done everything imaginable to shelter his son from would-be predators. But none of it mattered now. Derrick was in the hands of a kidnaper.
Caith tightened his grip on the steering wheel until the pressure was painful. Worry over his son threatened to drive him insane. What he needed was a clear head. Sucking down a lungful of air, he pulled the Explorer onto the shoulder of the road and tried to rid his mind of distractions.
Don’t hurt him!
Trask’s voice echoed loudly in his memory, resurrecting another Halloween, another kidnapping seventeen years before. Angrily, he shoved it aside. Derrick was not going to end up like Trask. Derrick was not going to die. Not at the hands of some washed up prom queen and her VP boss.
Agitated, he drummed his thumbs on the wheel. Kelly didn’t want to hurt Derrick. Hell, she didn’t even have a car. Balin had brought her to the party. She wouldn’t have run with Derrick on foot, so she must have had someone waiting. Someone with a car who could whisk her and Derrick to a secure haven at a moment’s notice. She didn’t know Balin had spilled his guts or the police would be looking for her. She had counted on his silence. Derrick was simply a diversion to shift Caith’s attention from the lodge and send him back to Boston. By tomorrow, Derrick would probably be released, the scare alone sufficient to send them packing.
So, who would Kelly Rice employ as a driver?
She’d taken care to conceal her appearance with veils, ensuring even Derrick wouldn’t be able to identify her later. Galina Brady would never involve herself in something better handled by subordinates, which left only one person.
Lance McClure.
“Fuck.” Caith slammed his foot on the gas pedal. The truck lurched forward, exploding into the night. Veronica had told him Lance had a welding shop on the south side of town where the old rendering plant used to be. On a wild gamble, he swung the wheel around and headed south.
Slowing a block from the shop, he pulled off the road and parked beneath a willow tree. The area was dark, void of streetlights. Sprinting from the vehicle, he moved quickly through the shadows, approaching from the rear. When he was a child, deer and other wild animals struck by cars had been taken to the building for disposal. Sometimes even farm animals were carted by truck to the plant when their time expired.
He could still remember the smell. A strong odor that sweltered to an unbearable stench in the high heat of summer. Located at the farthest end of town, the building was isolated, several blocks from the nearest homes or businesses. Eventually, the townspeople complained enough that the plant was abandoned. Portions of the building remained boarded up and closed, but a hand-lettered sign with flaking paint hung over the side door: McClure’s Welding.
Caith darted past, intending to go through the rear when something caught his eye. Squatting on the ground, he bent to pick up the tiny object, a bright white marble dropped by the door.
Derrick.
His heart beat faster, accelerating in a mad rush. Pressing his shoulder against the door, he tried the handle, but it wouldn’t budge. Refocusing, he located a window ten feet to the rear that pried easily, allowing him to slip inside.
He found himself in an office, closeted by darkness. Images took shape gradually revealing the bare essentials of one-man operation—a metal desk, two drawer filing cabinet, and a rickety chair. A thin strip of light bled beneath a door, defining the exit. In the cramped room, his breathing was harsh, his heartbeat overly loud. It reminded him of another room, another time.
He swallowed hard, fighting to kill the images. Rather than fade, they crashed over him, propelled by a gut-twisting surge of panic.
Caith squirmed uncomfortably on the cold floor, his back pressed to a moldy block wall. He sent a darting glance to the man seated at a table near the door. For two days he’d watched Farrow assemble small plastic car models, piece by piece. The basement was cramped and dirty, smelling of wet rags and mildew. Light came from two bare bulbs dangling overhead and a small window butted against the ceiling.
Coupled with his own white-knuckle fear and the filthy surroundings, the smell of glue made his stomach churn dangerously. He’d already vomited once, retching up the cold soup and warm sandwich they’d fed him the previous night.
Richter had sworn a blue streak, cuffed him across the face, then made Farrow clean up the mess. The other man grumbled and threatened to beat him, but he’d eventually retreated to his station by the basement door. The blond man, Force, came to the room after that. Caith knew he was the one in contact with his parents and the police. Whenever he came to the room, the other two stopped what they were doing to listen.
“Soon,” Force always promised. “We’ll have the money soon.”
Caith knew the names they used weren’t real names, but he’d seen all three of their faces and that worried him. When his parents paid the ransom, would the kidnappers let him and Trask live?
Worried, he huddled into the thin blanket they’d given him for sleeping. Trask leaned against his shoulder, the two of them pressed closely together as much for comfort as warmth.
“It’s my fault,” Caith whispered. “Because of my dad and his money.”
Trask turned his head. His eyes were wide, sunken into his face with harsh rings of shadow. “Will he pay?”
“Course he will.”
“Will they let me go, too? I’m not worth anything.”
Caith’s stomach clenched. “Don’t say that.” The words came in a fierce hiss. “Don’t even think it. It’s my fault you’re here. I won’t go without you.”
A feeble smile flickered over Trask’s lips. “Like before…when we cut our thumbs?” His voice was thin. “Blood brothers?”
“Brothers,” Caith affirmed. He didn’t need blood mingled between them. Didn’t need make-believe or words. What he felt in his heart was enough. He was responsible, and Trask was his friend. More than a friend.
“Hey. Quit whispering over there.”
Farrow’s sharp command made Caith cringe. Richter had hit him, but Farrow was the one who terrified him. Farrow with his models and glue and threats of violence.
“What are you boys talking about?”
“Nothin’.” Caith squawked the word so quickly, air caught in his throat. At the sound of Farrow’s chair scraping against the floor, he scrunched his eyes closed.
Don’t come over…don’t come over…pleasedon’tcomeover.
“Hey, Farrow,” Richter hailed from across the room. “I’d leave the little punk go, ’less you wanna clean up another mess. He looks ready to piss himself.”
Farrow gave a snuffling snort. “He’ll do more than that if his parents don’t ante up that ransom. Know what I think?”
Caith felt someone loom over him. A sinking sensation swept through him when he realized it had to be Farrow. His stomach twisted inside out, bubbling acid into his throat. He was cold. So cold he was shaking, yet sweat dribbled down the back of his neck.
“I think we need to convince his lordship’s parents we ain’t fucking around.” Caith opened his eyes in time to see Farrow send Richter a broad wink. “I think they need physical convincing, hey?”
Richter chuckled. He was big and raw-boned, and when he laughed, he made a goat-like sound. “What do you have in mind?” He sidled into view from a chair below the window. His lips stretched in a macabre smile as he pulled a knife from a sheath at his belt. “Finger or an eye?”
Caith blanched at the sight of the stout knife with its thick blade. It was the kind the farmer down the road used to butcher deer. With a whimper, he scrunched against the wall.
Farrow folded his arms across his chest. “Those blue eyes are too pretty to cut out. I say we send them a finger. How about it, boy?”
The room reeled. Caith’s stomach pushed into his throat. Farrow reached forward and yanked Caith to his feet, shaking him so violently his teeth clacked together. His head rolled backward and flopped to the side. They were going to cut off his finger, send it to his parents. Trask yelled, pleading with them to stop, but he had no voice of his own. Every nerve in his body had turned to stone. He couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t react.
They’re going to cut off my finger.
Farrow flung him across the room and he crumbled to the floor.
“Don’t!” Trask screamed. “Don’t hurt him!”
Somehow he scrambled to his hands and knees, the uneven texture of the cold floor biting into his palms. A shadow loomed over him. He was going to be sick, spew his guts, and this time Farrow would surely beat him for it.
They’re going to cut off my finger.
Farrow grabbed his collar and hauled him to his feet. His knees buckled. He managed a strangled gasp, half whimper, half protest, before being propelled toward the table. Farrow shoved him into a chair. The stench of model glue engulfed him in a suffocating cloud and he started to gag.
“Don’t hurt him!” Trask screamed again.
Farrow pinned his arm to the table.
“Let him go!”
From the corner of his eye, Caith saw Richter approach with the knife. It was really happening. They were going to cut off his finger, maim him, and send the part to his parents as proof of his abduction. Tears blurred his eyes. Would he faint? How badly would it hurt? He prayed he wouldn’t disgrace himself. He’d hurl in Farrow’s lap to spite him if he could, but didn’t want to wet his pants.
Tears trickled down his cheeks.
Richter was almost to the table. “Which finger?” He flashed the knife for effect. “Eeny. Meeny. Miny. Mo.”
“Don’t!” Suddenly Trask was there, hurling himself at Richter. Trask, a pitiful sack of stick-thin bones going against a man three times his size.
“No!” Caith found his voice.
Trask made a grab for the knife and Richter pivoted unexpectedly. The blade tore through Trask’s stomach, burrowing deep, blundering out his side. It happened fast. So fast that when Trask crumbled in a boneless heap to the floor, Caith could only stare in horror.
Farrow released him, lurching backward. “You stupid shit!” he yelled at Trask. “It was a game. We weren’t really gonna hurt him! We were having fun.”
Caith pushed out of the chair, dropping to his knees at Trask’s side. There was a new smell in the dingy basement. More powerful than the mold clinging to the damp walls and the glue splattered in bird-like droppings on the table. A hideous smell he would never forget.
The smell of blood.
“Help him!” He clamped his hands over the wound, felt something hot and slippery against his palm. Something that told him Trask was dying. “Help him!” He looked desperately at the men standing dumbfounded to the side, but neither moved, neither spoke.
“C-Caith.” Trask grabbed his wrist. “Caith, I’m scared. I-I don’t wanna die.”
“You’re not going to.” But he knew with dread certainty Trask’s life ebbed with each passing second. Hot tears flooded his eyes and spilled down his cheeks. He blinked, trying to focus. “Why’d you do it? Why didn’t you just let them cut off my finger? Trask. Please don’t go away, Trask!”
His friend’s eyes flickered and closed.
“Please.” It was no more than a whimper. The hand on his wrist went slack and tumbled free, thudding against the floor.
“He’s gone, kid,” Richter said behind him.
The world upended.
Blood, glue, shame, and every horrible fear he’d kept locked inside for two days exploded. Whirling, Caith threw himself at Richter. Something tortured and inhuman ripped from his throat, a savage animal wail he didn’t recognize as his own.
“He was my friend. He shouldn’t have even been here, you sick bastard! It’s me you wanted.” He flailed blindly with his fists, striking anything within range, consumed by hatred, ravaged by grief.
Trask was dead.
Only when Richter knocked him senseless did the agony stop.
Breathing raggedly, Caith dropped his forehead against the door. His son was on the other side, a prisoner like he’d been a prisoner. Like Trask had been a prisoner.
Derry, please don’t go away.
He heard muffled voices through the barrier. A man and a woman, the deeper baritone farther removed. Caith cracked the door in time to see Kelly Rice, her face still covered by veils, walk briskly outside. Seconds later, an engine roared to life. Headlights cut through the room, then faded into the distance.
She must have left in McClure’s car. Easing from the office, Caith crept into the main bay, noting it was crisscrossed by a series of catwalks overhead. When the rendering plant was in operation, carcasses must have been hoisted by crank, then lowered into vats for reducing, the entire procedure observed by workers stationed on the open bridges above. The glow from a single fluorescent tube cloaked the bay in weak half-light.
A banged-up car in the corner looked like it was being refitted with a roll cage, likely for use on a dirt track. Bicycle parts, pieces of farm equipment, and smaller projects in various stages of completion were scattered over worktables and on the floor. Cutting torches, oxygen and acetylene cylinders, pressure gauges, regulators, and an assortment of welding tools lined the walls.
Caith’s eyes were drawn to the bottom of a narrow flight of metal steps. A single blue marble winked in the semi-dark. Derrick had left a trail.
He followed the path with his eyes, tracking to the catwalk suspended twenty-five feet above the floor. His heart caught in his throat when he saw Derrick being pushed along the elevated bridge by a man in a black ski mask. Uncontrollable rage rocketed through Caith. He bolted for the steps.
“McClure!”
The man on the metal bridge halted.
“Dad!” Derrick tried to break free, but McClure caught him by the collar, jerking him to a rough halt. With his free hand, he ripped the ski mask from his face and tossed it over the rail.
“You weren’t supposed to know about this, Breckwood.”
“Get your hands off my kid.” Caith raced to the top of the stairs and stepped onto the catwalk. The shop yawned below in a web of dizzying shadow. A single rail created an ineffectual waist-high barrier on each side of the elevated walk. Ignoring the reeling height, Caith focused on McClure.
“Everyone knows. About Kelly and Galicorp, and how Galina paid you to cause problems at the lodge. Give it up, McClure. The cops will be here soon.”
The last part was a lie. Duke Cameron didn’t know and hadn’t made the connection. Not even Balin knew where Derrick was, but the bluff was all he had.
Caith’s gaze flickered to his son. Derrick’s face was bone-white, fear in his eyes. But there was trust, too, the unmistakable trust of a child for his father.
“Let Derrick go.” He took a step forward.
Sneering, McClure tightened his hold on Derrick’s collar and gave a sharp tug. “Stay where you are or I’ll toss him over the side.”
Caith staggered to a halt. He was close enough to see beads of sweat glistening on McClure’s forehead. A sour whiff of alcohol told him the bigger man had been drinking and probably wasn’t thinking rationally. “Let him go. You’re not going to gain anything.”
“Screw that, he’s my ticket out of here. Keep you and the cops off my back.” McClure held Derrick in front of him like a shield. “Anyone tries to take me down, I’ll break his fucking neck.”
“You son of a bitch.” Caith ground his teeth, forcing himself to stay rooted in place. “You hurt my kid, and I’ll—”
“What? You think you can take me? You’re an asswipe, Breckwood.” He gave a short guttural laugh. “Too bad your boy looks like you. Makes me wanna beat the shit outta him for the hell of it.”
“Dad,” Derrick whimpered.
McClure snickered and started walking backward, dragging Derrick with him. A landing loomed behind him, connecting to a second set of steps that descended into the bay below. Caith spied a cutting torch and industrial lighter hooked to a post at the corner of the landing. A long curling hose connected the torch with two small tanks butted against the framework of the platform. If he could get close enough, he could use the tanks as a weapon. One hit and even someone as big as McClure would go down.
“Turning tail and running?” he challenged, inching forward to close the distance between them. “Afraid I’ll kick your ass like I did at the Jade Club? If you hadn’t had that bat in the parking lot, I would have taken you down there, too.”
His jeering had the intended effect. McClure immediately came to a halt, his face puffing with anger. “Like you could.”
Caith grinned tightly, moving even closer. “Try me.”
The goading challenge was all McClure needed. Flinging Derrick onto the platform, he spun around and caught Caith squarely in the chest with the flat of his work boot. Caith reeled backward, stumbling off balance. Air exploded from his lungs as the metal side rail caught him in the small of the back, knocking the wind from him. He nearly plummeted headfirst over the barrier, but hooked his arm at the last minute, preventing a nosedive to the concrete below.
“Derrick, run!” By the time Caith regained his footing, McClure had snatched the cutting torch and striker from the post. From the corner of his eye, Caith saw Derrick pause at the top of the landing, clearly torn by fear and concern for his father. “Derry, run. Get the hell out of here.”
Propelled at last, Derrick raced down the steps. Caith backed along the catwalk, retreating as McClure advanced. With a single click of the lighter, he sent a rod of flame shooting from the end of the cutting torch.
“You shoulda stayed in Boston.”
Caith sent a glance below. He stood in the center of the catwalk, open space gaping on either side. As long as he kept McClure focused, Derrick stood a chance of escape. He tried to spy his son in the shadowy darkness below, but the light was too limited. Had he made it to the door?
Wetting his lips, he gripped the rail on either side. Beneath the leather gauntlets of his costume, the metal was slick without traction. “You’re only digging a deeper grave, McClure.”
“Think I give a fuck?” McClure swiped the torch at his face, making Caith wrench backward. “Galina’s got lots of money. More than you. More than your whole good-for-nothin’ family. She’ll buy my way clear of anything. Know why?”
Another swipe of the torch. The heat hit Caith directly in the face, searing his skin as he flinched to the side.
“She’s gonna resurrect the Tolars.” McClure kept the torch in front of him. “It’s why she wants the lodge and the lake. It’s part of some cult she got involved with, thanks to her old man. He told her about the history of the lodge, and now she thinks she’s a fucking Tolar Queen. Like I give a shit about some stupid mumbo-jumbo. All I care about is money.” His lips split in a wolfish grin. “That and kickin’ your rich, snotty ass.”
Caith was prepared this time. When McClure lunged, he pivoted as far as the narrow catwalk would allow. McClure blundered into the opening, and he locked hands with the bigger man, straining to hold the lethal flare at bay.
“You’re no match for me, whelp.” McClure bared his teeth, pressing an advantage of height and weight. The hiss of the high-intensity flame was blinding at such tight quarters. Inch by inch, he forced the burning metal shaft closer to Caith’s face.
Releasing him, Caith drove his fist squarely into McClure’s nose. The bigger man staggered, dropping the torch to paw at his face. He lurched clumsily, inadvertently kicking the flaming rod. It clattered over the side, caught when the hose snapped into place like a bungee cord. Dangling five feet below the catwalk, the nozzle spit a steady stream of fire, cutting a halo of light through the shadows.
“You mother fuckin’ S-O-B.” With a roar, McClure plowed into Caith, snaring him around the waist and slamming him against the retention rail.
The impact ignited fireworks in Caith’s head and sent pain boomeranging up his spine. Gasping, he drove his fist into McClure’s midsection using his shoulder for leverage. McClure staggered and Caith caught him a second time, delivering a solid uppercut. The rage he’d felt earlier bubbled up like hot lava. “You tried to hurt my kid, you sick bastard.”
McClure slumped against the rail. With a dazed expression, he raised his head. The blood from his nose dribbled over his mouth and chin. To Caith he looked ghoulish, a Halloween monster. Only monsters kidnapped children.
“Derrick shouldn’t even be here.” Like Trask. It was his fault all over again. Neither of them should have been there. “I’m going to make sure you get locked away.” Somewhere in his head, past and present merged. “Like Richter, Farrow, and Force.” With a savage curse, Caith kicked him in the ribs.
McClure grunted, but recovered quickly, grabbing Caith’s boot at the last second. With a violent wrench of his hands, the thug rotated his ankle, twisting like a corkscrew. Pain ricocheted up Caith’s leg. He crumpled with a groan, striking his head on the rail. Something wet and sticky streamed into his eye. Before he could recover, McClure straddled him, throttling him by the throat.
“You ain’t lockin’ me nowhere, Breckwood.” McClure pinched his windpipe, cutting off his air. “And when I’m done with you, I’m goin’ after your prissy kid.”
No!
The scream was soundless, heard only in his head, but it echoed seventeen years of pain. The same unspeakable horror he’d felt when he’d watched Trask fall beneath Richter’s knife. Not again. Not Derry. Panic, frustration, and fear mushroomed into rage so black and lethal, the loss of air no longer mattered.
Caith stopped fighting the pressure on his neck. He drove his fist into McClure’s broken nose. Blood gushed over his glove as McClure loosened his grip. Sensing freedom, Caith wormed free. He hooked his leg around McClure’s neck, and in a move reserved for self-defense classes, somersaulted the bigger man backward.
Unable to stop his momentum, McClure rolled to the edge of the catwalk. Weight carried him beneath the retaining rail as he scrambled frantically for a hold. At the last second, he locked onto Caith’s leg, but gravity sent his greater weight plunging toward the earth. Dragging Caith with him, he tumbled from the catwalk.
Instinctively, Caith clutched the metal lip, halting his fall. McClure clung to his leg just below the knee, both of them dangling precariously in midair. When McClure cursed and tried to clamber upward, using his body like a ladder, Caith knew he was in trouble.
Heat washed over him and sweat dripped into his eyes. Suspended by the hose, the acetylene torch swayed near his leg, cooking him as it hissed flame. Growing lightheaded, he ground his teeth and tried to dislodge McClure. As the bigger man’s fingers hooked into his belt, Caith released one hand from the rail and pivoted violently to the side. The jarring movement sent McClure careening face first into the flame-spewing torch.
With a gurgling scream, he released Caith, frantically pawing at his face. The stench of burning flesh filled the air, but Caith barely had time to register the horrific odor. McClure plummeted twenty-odd feet, his body landing with a sickening thud on the concrete below.
Swinging away from the torch, Caith tried for a better hold on the rail. His head rang and his ankle throbbed painfully. Grimacing, he wedged an elbow on the steel lip and tried to hoist himself up. His hand slipped and he fell back, losing what little advantage he’d gained.
Derry. Veronica.
The thought of his son and the woman he loved spurred him to try again. Straining for a better grasp, he tightened his grip. But the glove was slick, the metal too smooth. Risking a single-handed hold, he snagged one glove in his teeth, tugged it free, and spit it from his mouth. It fell to the ground like a flightless bird. Exhausted, he groped for the rail.
And encountered flesh.
Solid, wonderfully strong, impossibly anchoring. A firm hand locked onto his forearm, holding him in place when fatigue would have let him fall.
“Did you think I’d let you down, Caithelden?”
Caith tilted his head back and looked up into the eyes of his father. “Dad.” His smile felt foreign, the warmth that accompanied the name, odder still. “Pull me up. I need to find Derry.”
“Derry’s safe.” Reaching over the side, his father snagged his belt and hoisted him onto the catwalk. Somewhere in the distance a siren started, gradually increasing in volume. Caith got no further than dragging himself to a sitting position before Derrick barreled from the landing.
“Dad!” He flung himself into Caith’s arms.
Relieved, Caith hugged him close. “It’s all right, Derry. You’re safe now.” Soft curls brushed his cheek. A residual tremor of fear raced through Derrick’s body. Gripping him by the shoulders, Caith pried him back. “Did he touch you? Did he hurt you?”
Derrick shook his head. Caith scanned his face, ran his hands over Derrick’s shoulders and arms. He saw no visible damage, but emotional and psychological wounds were harder to heal. “Derry…this is all my fault. You shouldn’t have been involved.” He faltered for words, finding them tangled with secrets he’d locked away for too many years. His kid had a right to know. About Trask, about him, about why he’d been taken tonight. Cupping the back of his head, Caith pulled him close, hugging him fiercely. “If I’d lost you…” He couldn’t finish the thought. The warmth of his body appeared to ease Derrick’s fears, and his son’s shivering gradually subsided.
His father laid a hand on Caith’s shoulder. “I found him outside,” he said quietly. He squatted, still wearing his Civil War costume. What a sight they must make—a highwayman, a Union general, and a terrified child. “I think he’s more worked up over seeing you in that fight than what happened to him. He was petrified you were going to fall like McClure.”
“You saw?”
“Most of it.” The hand on his shoulder tightened. “You were both on the catwalk when we came inside, but I couldn’t get to you in time.”
“How’d you find me in the first place?”
His father shrugged, grinning crookedly. “It wasn’t hard. I made myself think like you. I tried to imagine who Kelly would use as an accomplice, and that led me to Lance McClure and here. I’ve been following your career for so long, I know how your mind works. The moment I came inside and saw you on the catwalk, I called Duke Cameron on my cell. Not bad for an old man, huh? I would have helped you in the first place, but you left the house in such a damn hurry.”
“I had to.” The words caught again.
“I know.” Reaching around him, his dad ruffled Derrick’s hair. “I was worried, too. And not only about my grandson.”
Derrick stirred in Caith’s arms and raised his head. There were tears in his eyes, shining on the surface, blue and liquid as seawater. “Dad…that man. He said things. He was gonna hurt me.”
“But he didn’t.” Carefully, Caith cupped his chin, and then smoothed a hand over his silky curls. “I know what you’re feeling, Derry. It’s okay to be afraid as long as you don’t let it control you.”
Derrick sniffled, nestling closer. “I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“I know you don’t.” He paused, making a decision. He didn’t want his kid growing up with the same fear he’d kept bottled inside for so many years. A terror so constricting, it kept him from telling the woman he loved he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her. If his kid could put tonight behind him, he could do no less with his own past.
He’s spent his entire life fearful his name and connection to the Breckwood fortune would put his son in danger, but his family was the one thing he never should have kept from Derrick. His family was his strength, not his weakness. There would always be unscrupulous people looking to profit from the misery of others, but he couldn’t safeguard Derrick from everything. He couldn’t expect his kid to live in a bubble, nor could he live in one himself. It was time to face the world for what it was, to let go of the chokehold Trask’s death had held over him for far too long.
“Derry, Trask didn’t die accidentally. We were kidnapped when we weren’t much older than you.” He swallowed hard and blundered ahead. “Trask died saving my life. When you’re ready, I’ll tell you about it. Maybe afterward, you’ll tell me about tonight.”
Puzzled, Derrick raised his head. “But you told me you were playing in a basement. That he got hurt.”
“I know, but that’s not what happened. It’s my fault for not telling you the truth.”
“Mine, too.” Caith’s father stood and offered his hand. “It’s time we both faced the past, Caithelden. I have some explaining to do to Derry as well.”
Caith looked from his father’s hand to his son’s shining eyes. Somehow, he didn’t think either had anything to do with past events as much as future promises. It made him realize he still had one to give.
To Veronica.