46
CORVO
Sean stood outside his small island home, enjoying the early morning air before starting his hike up the Morro dos Homens, the highest point on the southern rim of the Caldeirão. He loved the spongy earth of the peat bogs of the caldera. They were some of his favorite places on the island. The bogs had been a good, natural reminder that the earth didn’t have to be solid or predictable under his feet in order for him to move ahead and enjoy the view.
On Corvo, Sean had found solace when the underpinnings of his life were ripped out.
His mother, whom he’d respected and loved for more than three decades, wasn’t who he thought.
His father wasn’t who he thought.
The way he’d arrived on this earth wasn’t how he thought.
He wasn’t who he thought.
Now it made sense why his middle name was Thomas. Why he didn’t have a generational Worthington first name or middle name like his brother and sister. Why his profile in the mirror wasn’t one of a Worthington. O’Hara, certainly, from his mother’s side, but not the Worthington nose his brother and sister had—the feature that seemed to mark every Worthington for generations. The Irish heritage side had definitely won out in his looks. Both his mother and Thomas had Irish blood running through their veins.
He shivered, thinking again of her betrayal. He’d asked her once, when he was in elementary school, why she’d named him Sean Thomas.
“Thomas is a good, solid name I’ve always loved,” she’d said. She hadn’t said, “Thomas is the name of my friend and your dad’s best friend who I slept with when your dad had to go out of town. He’s your real father.”
He winced. That sounded crass, but wasn’t it the truth?
His first name, meaning “God has favored,” was ironic. How could God favor him, a mistake? The product of a one-night love—lust—affair? Why would his mother name him that? Each time he thought deeply about the meaning of his name, he got angry all over again.
Does anyone else in the family know? Does Will? Sarah? Dad?
The questions had played like litanies through his mind for nearly two weeks until they were well worn and ragged around the edges. The only way to find out, he knew, was by returning to the States and asking his mom face-to-face. She’d lied to him once, which made her capable of lying again. That was why he had to look her in the eyes to know the truth. It was the only way he could be sure.
But he wasn’t ready for that yet. The heat of the betrayal was still too hot for him to handle facing her. He didn’t want to say anything he might regret later.
“One last question.” Sarah smiled at Marie. “I know we’ve taken a lot of your time.”
“Not at all, dearie. Those are my boys. I care about them with a mother’s heart. But I’m concerned. Is Justin all right?”
Darcy studied the headmistress. “You asked just about Justin. Any reason?”
Marie patted Darcy’s hand. “I know Michael is all right. Justin I’ve been concerned about for a long time.”
Little does she know, Sarah thought, but she wasn’t going to tell the older woman how Justin’s story had ended. At least not yet.
“Do you have a way to get in touch with Michael, other than mail at his apartment?” Sarah asked.
“Of course. Right now he’s in London, but we talk by phone, and I have his number. He also gave me the address you type into the computer, but I’ve never used it. I’m not into such newfangled things,” Marie whispered.
After riffling through her large purse, she extracted a dog-eared address book and jotted Michael’s phone and email address on a piece of paper. “Here.” She extended the paper to Sarah, then took it back again briefly to jot another note. “When he works in theater, he uses another name—Michael M. Madsen. That’s his mother’s maiden name. He never wanted to publicize his last name, Vara, because of what his father did. It was a terrible time in his life. Most folks know him now simply as Michael or Michael M. Madsen.”
Darcy and Sarah got up from their spots on the pew.
“Oh,” Marie said, looking flustered for a minute, “let me give you one more thing.” She extracted another sheet of notepaper from her purse and wrote a message on it. “When you find Justin, give this to him, would you?”
Sarah took the paper. How would this dear old woman take finding out the truth? “Is it all right if I make a copy of your contact information for myself?” she asked. Once the name was going to be released, Sarah would circle back and let Marie know what had happened to Justin before the press hit. The headmistress who truly cared for her former students deserved to know.
As they exited the massive stone church, Darcy and Sarah paused outside the door.
“So we find Michael Vara-Madsen, and we might find some answers,” Darcy said.
“Agreed. But how can we go about it so we don’t tip him off, if he did have something to do with the bombing?” Sarah asked.
“Jon,” both women said simultaneously.
“Bet he wouldn’t mind writing a piece about special-needs theater camps, if Michael is on the up-and-up,” Sarah said. “He told me once he has to have ‘evergreen’ pieces ready to go—human-interest stories that can be easily updated and slipped in if a hot news piece falls out at the last minute.”
“There you go,” Darcy declared.
Sarah would give him a call. She hailed a taxi and got in the back. Realizing she was still holding two pieces of paper in her hands, she opened Marie’s note.
Justin, my dear, I have missed you. Remember you have a home at St. Mark’s and in my heart. Call me anytime, day or night.
Fondly, Mrs. Chesterton
Sarah’s eyes misted. Her mother often said that people who worked with children and adults who had special needs were the salt of the earth. Marie Chesterton had proved that truth once again.
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
The man was brisk and businesslike as he mounted the stairs of the private jet that would take him to the Azores.
“Welcome aboard, sir.” The middle-aged pilot, experienced and confidential, greeted him at the doorway.
The man carried only a small overnight bag and his briefcase. He wouldn’t need more than a couple changes of clothes and the packet in his briefcase. A quick phone call to someone high up in the Portuguese government had ensured that his plane would be able to land without delay and that he wouldn’t need to go through the usual customs check.
No one but himself and the pilot was on board. The pilot already had his instructions. No further conversation was needed. The man liked it that way—quiet, simple, streamlined.
His contact had already caught a flight from New York to Boston, and then to São Miguel. They’d meet at the hotel on the island.
If Sean was in São Miguel, the man would do what he needed to do.