Читать книгу Shooting Starr - Kathleen Creighton - Страница 9

What else could I have done?

C.J. had spent the last twenty-four hours asking himself that question and still hadn’t come up with an answer. His mind played and replayed it for him while he was churning up the interstate, like a piece of music sung to the rhythm of his eighteen tires. It was there in the background noise of his thoughts while he dropped off his load in Jersey, got new marching orders from his dispatcher, made his way down to Wilmington. Now, with an overnight to kill waiting for his load to be ready, he was holed up in a motel room with nothing but his thoughts, and he’d never been in worse company.

What the hell was I supposed to do? I didn’t have any choice. I didn’t! Stretched out on the bed in his undershorts and T-shirt, he stared up at the ceiling and argued with his conscience. What would it have cost you to drop them off at the airport? They could have at least rented a car there. Most likely nobody would ever have known you were involved.

Most likely…

C.J. wasn’t all that comfortable with “most likelys.”

The TV program he’d been watching without really seeing had ended and the eleven-o’clock news was coming on. He reached for the remote. Maybe he’d have better luck on HBO; nothing like gratuitous violence to numb the mind and quiet a restless soul.

While he was feeling around for the remote amongst the tumble of bedspread and yesterday’s newspaper he heard the anchorman begin his intro. And then…

“Topping the news this evening: a niece of former president Rhett Brown is in jail tonight in South Carolina on contempt charges, after refusing to comply with a judge’s order to reveal what she knows about the whereabouts of a Florida millionaire’s missing daughter. For more on this breaking story we go to…”

With remote in hand and scalp prickling, C.J. jerked around and squinted at the TV screen. Too late. He caught only the barest glimpse of a file-photo head shot before the scene shifted to a young, slightly windblown woman correspondent standing in a nighttime courthouse square lit by old-fashioned-style street lamps, the wide empty courthouse steps behind her.

“Yes, Tim…it’s quiet here now, but this was the scene earlier this evening, when Caitlyn Brown, niece of former President Rhett Brown, was taken from this South Carolina courthouse in handcuffs….”

The scene was pushing, shoving crowds of reporters, grim-faced men in uniforms and suits surrounding a slender figure wearing a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up to hide her face.

“Ms. Brown was ordered to spend the night in jail after she refused to obey Judge Wesley Calhoun’s order to divulge the whereabouts of five-year-old Emma Vasily, who is the daughter of Florida billionaire, Ari Vasily. The little girl had been missing since Tuesday, and is the object of a nationwide hunt….”

On the television screen, the knot of law enforcement bodies loosened to reveal glimpses of the lone hooded figure sitting in the back seat of a police car. She turned her head and looked straight into the camera, and for one heart-stopping moment her eyes flared silver.

“The child’s mother, Mary Kelly Vasily, allegedly took her daughter from her school in Miami Beach only hours after a Florida judge had granted sole custody of the little girl to Mr. Vasily, also granting Mr. Vasily’s request that the mother be denied visitation….”

The young reporter stood alone once more in front of the deserted courthouse. A windblown strand of hair teased her cheek as she earnestly continued.

“Details are still sketchy at this time, but according to police sources, around 9 p.m. yesterday Mrs. Vasily, accompanied by Ms. Brown, walked into the police station here and gave herself up. The little girl was with the two women at that time, that much is certain, but what happened after that is unclear. As nearly as we can ascertain, the child apparently left police headquarters in the custody of a woman who identified herself as a representative of family services, but it now appears that woman may have been an impostor. Here’s what we do know—more than twenty-four hours later police and social service agencies still have no idea where the child is. Little Emma Vasily seems to have vanished into thin air.

“Just what Ms. Brown’s involvement is in the case is also unclear, but police investigators must have strong reason to believe the president’s niece has some knowledge of Emma’s whereabouts, because this morning they asked a judge to order Ms. Brown to tell what she knows. She was given until the close of court this afternoon to comply, and when she refused, Judge Calhoun ordered her to jail.

“Mr. Vasily, who arrived this morning from Miami expecting to be reunited with his daughter, has been unavailable for comment, but at a press conference just before noon a visibly angry chief of police promised a full investigation into his department’s handling of the whole affair, and vowed to remain personally committed to finding the little girl and returning her safely to her father. Back to you, Tim.”

A sharp pain in his chest reminded C.J. of the breath he’d taken in some time back and hadn’t gotten around to letting go. He released it in a gust of swearing and mashed the power button on the remote, cutting off the anchorman as he was launching into news of the latest statehouse scandal. He hitched himself around on the bed till he’d got his feet on the floor and reached for his cell phone. His heart tapped hard against his ribs as he punched a number programmed in the autodial.

“Hey, bro,” he said to the groggy voice who answered. “Wha’d I do, wake you?”

“What? Who’s that—C.J.? Naw, you didn’t wake me. I just dozed off watching the news. What’s up?” There was an audible yawn. “Where in the hell are you? Everything all right?”

“I’m okay.” Well, it wasn’t much of a lie. “Hey, is Charly around?”

“She’s right here. Aw, hell—you’re not in jail, are you?”

C.J. shrugged off that conclusion and the low opinion of his own character it reflected. Where his brothers were concerned, he’d accepted the fact that it was going to take a while to live down certain escapades of his misspent youth. “Just let me talk to her, okay?”

There was a pause, and then in a molasses-thick Alabama drawl, “Hey, C.J.—honey, how’re you? What’s up?”

“Hey, Charly. You see tonight’s news?”

“I’m watchin’ it right now. What part in particular?”

“The president’s niece getting jailed for contempt.”

“Oh, yeah. I did catch that. What about it?”

“Well, I’m…I think I’m sort of involved. Or…I might be.”

“What? Lord’s sake, how?”

He told her the whole story, then waited through a thinking silence. A quickly drawn breath.

“You did exactly the right thing, if that’s what you’re askin’. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. The police are probably gonna want to ask you some questions—that’s to be expected. If you want me—”

“That’s not…” C.J. rubbed at his temples with his free hand. “It’s not me I’m worried about. What I was wondering…I was thinking, you know, maybe you could go up there, see if she needs anything…”

“She? You mean the mother—what’s her name—Mary Kelly? Hon’, you know she’s probably lookin’ at kid—”

“Well, her, and…uh, Caitlyn.”

“Caitlyn?”

He said a bad word under his breath. “Miz Brown, then—the president’s niece. Whoever.” He paused, but his sister-in-law didn’t say anything, so he added in self-defense, “I didn’t see any sign of a lawyer on that news footage, did you? Aren’t they usually right there, shielding their client from the buzzards? I offered, you know—to get her one. Well, hell, I’m the one turned ’em over to the cops, it seemed like the least I could do.” He’d about rubbed a burned spot on the skin of his forehead, but it hadn’t done a thing to help the pounding inside his skull.

“Don’t you go blamin’ yourself,” Charly scolded. “Those women are grown-ups, they made their choices, one of which was to involve you in their mess. It’s not your fault their choice of getaway driver turned out to be a law-abidin’ citizen.”

C.J.’s face stretched into a grimace nobody was there to see. “Yeah, well…I’d feel a whole lot better about that if I knew she had somebody in her corner, is all. I know she made at least one call after I told her I was turning her in, and I just assumed… But I’m thinking that must’ve been how she arranged for somebody to pick up the little girl. If she did, maybe—”

“C.J., she’s the ex-president’s niece, for Lord’s sake. Do you seriously think they won’t have the best lawyers money can buy?” C.J. didn’t say anything, and after a moment she let out an exasperated breath. “Okay, look, do you want me to see what I can find out for you?”

It was his turn to let a breath out in a rush of relief. “If you wouldn’t mind? I’d go myself, but I’m stuck up here in Wilmington waiting for my load. Soonest I can get there is—”

“Best you stay out of it,” Charly said in a warning tone. “If she gives you up as the person who gave her a lift and the cops come lookin’ for you to ask you questions, that’s one thing. Otherwise, speakin’ as your lawyer and as your brother’s lovin’ wife and therefore family, I’m advising you to keep your distance. For all kinds of reasons, startin’ with the fact that if this Ari Vasily is as dangerous as these gals make him out to be, you don’t want to mess with him. And like I said, it’s not like she hasn’t got resources. She’s the president’s niece.”

“Yeah…” His laugh was dry and bitter. “She neglected to tell me that little bit of information.”

Charly snorted. “What did you expect her to do? Say, ‘Hi, I’m hijacking you, and by the way I’m the president’s niece’?”

“She had plenty of time later on to tell me anything she wanted to,” he said, feeling sullen and put-upon. “She never told me a damn thing about herself. Not even her name. I only got the Caitlyn part when the other woman called her that.”

“She was probably just tryin’ to keep you out of it as best she could.” Charly’s tone was uncharacteristically sympathetic. “I doubt she was happy about havin’ to do what she did.”

“Spoken like a defense attorney.”

“Which is what I am, and the whole reason you called me, sugar. And by the way, if you’re so PO’d at the woman, why are you tryin’ to help her?”

Damned if he knew. He closed his eyes, thinking how much he wished he had a beer right now. Or something stronger. Which was just about unheard of, for him; he’d spent his teenage years watching his brother Roy battle the booze and it had left a lasting impression on him. He heaved a big sigh and said, “Just see what you can do, okay? I’m gonna be home probably late tomorrow night, but you can reach me on my cell.”

“I’ll make some calls, but I’m not promising anything.”

“That’s fine. And Charly…thanks.”

He disconnected but sat where he was for a long time, fidgety and keyed-up, slapping the cell phone against the palm of his hand. He’d done the right thing, turning them in, he knew he had. It wasn’t his affair, and Charly was right, he ought to stay the hell out of it. So why was it he couldn’t get her out of his mind? Her. All three of them, really. Except, it wasn’t Mary Kelly’s scared brown eyes or even little Emma Vasily’s big black ones he saw whenever he shut his eyes, as if the backs of his eyelids had been tiny TV screens. Uh-uh. No, it was her face that haunted him, pale and frozen in the shadows of the back seat of a police cruiser, the silvery slash of her eyes zeroing in on him, seeming to look right into his soul with mute and desperate appeal.

He was on I-95 somewhere south of Richmond when his cell phone tweedled at him from the no-hands holster mounted on the dash. He reached over and mashed the Receive button and hollered, “Yeah?” over the roar of highway noise.

“C.J., honey, that you?” Charly’s voice was distant and tinny.

His heart gave a little kick. He turned up the volume and yelled, “Yeah, Charly. What’d you find out?”

“Couple things. First thing is, she’s still not talking. Neither one of ’em is—the mother, either. So they’re both back in the pokey, and it looks like they might be there for a while. Judge Calhoun seems determined to keep ’em where they are until they give up the little girl.” She paused.

“And?” C.J. prompted. He kept his hands easy on the wheel, but a pulse was tapping hard against his belt buckle.

“She doesn’t want any help, C.J.—at least, not from you.”

“Did she say that?” He squinted at the ribbon of interstate rolling out ahead of him, though there wasn’t a speck of glare. “You got that straight from her? Not some other lawyer? You talked to her?”

He heard the gust of an exhalation. “In a word, C.J., yeah. What she actually said was that you’d done enough.” There was a long pause before Charly added gently, “She’s right, you know. Give it up, honey. It’s not your trouble, so don’t go spendin’ any more time stewin’ about it. You got other things to worry about—which reminds me, how’s that law degree comin’? When are you plannin’ on tackin’ up your shingle here with Troy and me?”

C.J. managed a grin, his first in quite a while. “Why would I want to do that? I’d have to live in Atlanta. Hell, might as well just shoot me now.”

Charly laughed. “Wait’ll you pass the bar, and then we’ll see about that. Atlanta’s where the action is, sugar.”

“Yeah, yeah—just don’t hold your breath.” His grin lasted about a second longer than it took him to disconnect. Then he took in air and huffed it out, waggled his shoulders like somebody’d just relieved him of a burdensome load.

Charly was right; it wasn’t any of his affair. He had a load to deliver, an exam to take. A semester to finish. A final to pass. A law degree to earn. A life to get on with.

As for a hijacker with a fairy-tale face and unforgettable eyes…well, he’d find a way to forget her. Somehow.

During the next five months or so C.J. concentrated hard on doing that, which, if nothing else, had a beneficial effect on his study habits. He got his law degree in June and spent the summer cramming for the bar exams, which he was scheduled to take the last week in September and as a matter of principle was determined to pass on the first try. He still had a lot to prove, mainly to himself.

What he mostly learned during that long, hot summer, in addition to a whole lot of law stuff, was that it was one thing to try to forget somebody and another to actually succeed.

His task wasn’t helped any by the fact that hardly a day went by he didn’t hear the name Caitlyn Brown or see her face on the nightly news—that same file footage of a handcuffed prisoner in a hooded sweatshirt being hustled into a police cruiser. It seemed to be one of those stories the media had sunk its teeth into and wouldn’t let go, and why not? It had everything: a mysterious billionaire, his ex-stripper wife, a beautiful young woman with connections to one of the most famous families on the planet, and, of course, a missing child.

Everyone with any connection at all to the case, no matter how dubious, had been interviewed over and over and over again, on the network morning shows and the primetime news magazines as well as the major network and cable news. Biography had done a two-hour piece on the former president, featuring his entire family and making a big deal of their Iowa farm beginnings. The tabloids trumpeted wild and improbable theories from their racks beside the grocery store checkout lines.

And night after night reporters stood in front of file photos of the red brick courthouse in South Carolina, faced the cameras and told the same story: Caitlyn Brown still wasn’t talking. The Today Show reported that office pools had sprung up around the country, and that betting on how long the holdout would continue was more popular than playing the lottery.

C.J. had taken to avoiding television sets the way certain celebrities and mob bosses avoided cameras.

That particular afternoon, though, he was a captive audience. He was in a truck stop in Virginia, having his usual truck-stop lunch—a club sandwich on white bread with potato salad and sweet tea—and no matter which way he turned there was a wall-mounted TV set looking down at him. Normally they’d be tuned to the Weather Channel or some sporting event or other, but today for some reason they all seemed to be set on CNN. And sure enough, there was the same reporter standing in front of the same damn red brick courthouse he’d been looking at for months, no doubt saying the same damn thing. At least the sound was turned off, and he didn’t have to read the closed-captioning if he didn’t want to. Stubbornly he pulled his eyes from the screen and scanned the dining room instead.

When he noticed every set of eyes in the room except his was riveted on those television sets, a chill ran down his spine. It reminded him of another bright and beautiful September morning not so long ago. The bite of club sandwich he’d just swallowed made a lump in his throat as he forced his eyes back to the television screen, dreading what he was about to see, preparing himself for unthinkable disaster.

The familiar white-on-black letters of the closed captioning darted across the bottom third of the picture:

“…the scene earlier today, as Caitlyn Brown and Mary Kelly Vasily left the courthouse to return to their jail cells under heavy police guard. It was the same scenario that has played out so many times before during the last months, only this time something went terribly, terribly wrong. As the two women, flanked by police officers, made their way down the courthouse steps, shots rang out….”

The words ticked on across the screen, but C.J. wasn’t watching them now. His eyes were riveted instead on the pictures behind them, jerky and incoherent pictures of unexpected violence captured live on videotape. Pictures of pushing and shoving and falling bodies, of horror-stricken faces, of arms waving and fingers pointing and mouths opened in silent shouts. The chill in his spine ran into his very bones. Around him the clatter of dining room sounds retreated to a humming silence.

The melee on the screen gave way to the reporter’s face, mouthing words. C.J. jerked his eyes back to the closed captioning.

“…on the exact number or condition of the injured at this time. We do have information that at least four people have been taken to a local hospital, but that has not been officially confirmed. Police and hospital personnel have refused to comment on reports from eyewitnesses. Repeat, these are unconfirmed reports, that at least one of the prisoners—one of the women—has been killed in this brutal attack.”

“Do police have any idea who might be responsible for the attack, Vicky?”

“As you can imagine, things are still pretty chaotic here, Tim. It does appear the shots were fired from the bell tower of a church across the street from the courthouse—that’s about half a block down from the police station—but as far as we know no traces of the gunman or a weapon have been found.”

“Any indication as to whether this was a random shooting? Or if it was deliberate, who the intended target might have been?”

“No, Tim, and police are refusing to speculate—”

“’Scuse me, hon’, were you needin’ your check?”

“What?” C.J. looked down at the waitress, frowning in confusion; he didn’t know when or how he’d come to be standing up. He blinked what was left of his club sandwich into focus and mumbled, “Yeah, that’d be great…thanks.”

His skin felt clammy. Barely aware of what he was doing, he dug his wallet out of his hip pocket and randomly selected some bills, which he thrust at the waitress with a muttered “Keep the change.” Next thing he knew he was outside, gulping air like a netted fish and soaking the September heat into his chilled body. Ninety degrees, it had to be, and it wasn’t warm enough. He felt he was never going to be warm enough again.

You just don’t know what it is you’ve gone and done.

He felt as though he might throw up but made it to his truck before the shakes hit him. He climbed into his seat and spent the next five minutes or so fighting for control the way most men of his acquaintance did, those that weren’t smokers: he swore. And swore. And swore some more. When he ran out of cusswords, some of which he’d never used before in his life, he ran a hand over his face and reached for his cell phone.

“Charly?” he croaked when he heard his sister-in-law’s voice. His own was probably unrecognizable, so he added for good measure, “It’s me, C.J. You heard?”

“Yeah, I did, sugar, just a little while ago. Troy called me.” Charly’s voice was low and urgent, like a conspirator’s.

“They said somebody’d been killed, some more injured, but they aren’t saying who. You don’t—”

“No. I don’t know any more than that, either. I’ve been in court all morning, I just got back in the office a little while ago. There’s supposed to be a press conference at the hospital any minute now.” Her voice turned sharp. “C.J., honey, don’t you go and blame yourself for this.”

I’m not blamin’ you, Mr. Starr….

“I didn’t believe her,” he muttered, shaking his head like a dazed boxer. “She told me he’d do it and I didn’t— I thought she was just—”

“She, who? He, who? Do what?”

“She told me he was going to kill his wife, but I just thought she was…you know—”

“Who, you mean Vasily?” Charly lowered her voice even further, as if she thought somebody was going to overhear. “You think that’s who did this? My God, C.J.—”

“Who the hell else?” He spat the words into the phone.

There was a pause before she said, cautiously at first, “I know the husband is always the first suspect, but that’s assuming Mrs. Vasily was the target, and even if she was—” she was arguing, now, with herself as much as him “—my God, C.J., the man’s a billionaire. A friend of the governor. He’s had dinner at the White House. He’s—”

He is also a charming and intelligent, violent and dangerous—very dangerous—man.

“I don’t care who he is, Vasily set it up.” C.J.’s voice was stony. “You can bet on it.”

“Even if he did, there’s no way on God’s green earth they’re ever gonna prove—”

“I know.” He cut her off, calmer now, his brain beginning to function again. “Hey, look, Charly—I gotta go. Do me one favor, would you? I’m going to try and find me a news station on the radio, but if you find out anything, could you let me know? Call me on my cell.”

“What are you going to do? You’re not fixin’ to go down there now, are you?”

There was a long pause, and then: “I have to, Charly. I need to find out what’s going on.”

He heard a sigh. “C.J., you’re just gonna insist on blamin’ yourself for this, aren’t you?”

The only reply he could manage was a sharp and painful laugh as he disconnected.

He called his dispatcher and told her she’d need to find another driver to pick up his load, then fiddled with the radio for a few minutes trying to find an all-news station. Antsy and impatient to be on the road, he gave it up and settled for a golden oldies station he knew would have updates on the hour, then rolled his Kenworth out of the truck stop and back onto the interstate, heading south.

A long hour later his cell phone tweedled, interrupting tumultuous and totally useless thoughts. He mashed the connect button and barked, “Yeah!”

“C.J., I thought you’d want to know—they’re having that press conference at the hospital. It’s still going on, with all the questions and such, but they’ve made their statements. The official toll is, three injured, two critically, one dead….”

“Yeah?” He stared at the road ahead, flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. Preparing himself. As if he could.

“C.J., honey, it was Mrs. Vasily who was killed. The mother. Mary Kelly Vasily…”

A cool rush of feeling blew through him, like a breeze through a stuffy house. He nodded, though there wasn’t anybody to see, and his mind filled with images: Mary Kelly’s face, Southern magnolia-type pretty, almost lost in billows of fluffy red-brown hair…a tentative smile as she shook his hand and murmured polite phrases like a well-brought-up child…lips forming No! as she shook her head in fear and rejection…then quiet eyes, accepting smile. I’m not blamin’ you, Mr. Starr.

But the feeling, that cool, lightening wind in his soul—he knew what it was, and it shamed him so that he slammed the doors of his mind to it, tried every way he could to deny it. Shaken, he tried to explain to himself why he should feel relieved when a good woman had just been killed. But he was. Relieved it wasn’t Caitlyn Brown who’d died.

“C.J., are you there?”

“Yeah.”

“Honey, I’m sorry—I know how you must be feelin’. I just feel so bad for that little girl….”

“What about the others?” He made his voice hard and clipped off the words, leaving no room for emotions. “You said two were critical?”

“One of the guards was shot in the arm—he’s not serious. The other took a bullet in the chest and is still in surgery.

His chest tightened; he forced a deep breath. “Caitlyn?”

“They just said her condition is critical. No details. C.J., there’s no point in you going down there. There’s not a thing you can do except get yourself into trouble.”

His vision shimmered. He blinked the highway back into focus and mumbled, “I just want to talk to her.”

“How? They’re never gonna let you in there, you know that, don’t you? I mean, seriously—a stranger? After somebody just tried to kill her? The president’s niece? I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve got the Secret Service, the FBI—”

She broke off, then was silent for so long C.J. prompted, “Charly?” and was ready to start mashing buttons on his cell phone, thinking maybe they’d got disconnected the way cell phone calls do sometimes.

“C.J., I’m gonna have to call you back, okay?” She sounded rushed and distracted. “Just…don’t do anything until you hear from me. Promise? This is your lawyer speakin’ now.”

“Yeah,” he grunted, “I promise.” He disconnected and settled back, trying hard to concentrate on driving and on not letting himself think about what critical condition might mean. Trying not to think about a fairy-tale face, silvery eyes, a light-as-a-feather touch. One thing he didn’t have to try very hard to avoid was thoughts of that exquisite face and graceful body bloody and torn…ruined by violence. His mind cowered and protected itself from those images, like eyes avoiding the sun.

Though it seemed longer, it was barely half an hour later when his phone chirped at him again.

“C.J., it’s me.” Charly sounded out of breath and in a hurry. “Hey, I’m gonna meet you there, okay? If you get there—”

“Meet me there…”

“The hospital. If you get there before I do, sit tight. Okay? Don’t do anything until you hear from me, you hear?”

“Charly, what’re you up to? I don’t think I’m gonna be needing a lawyer for this.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I’ve got somebody who can get you in to see Caitlyn Brown.”

The woman in the hospital bed stirred. Her fingers plucked at the sheets, rearranging them needlessly across her chest.

“The thunderstorm…” Caitlyn murmured, and closed her eyes. After a moment she asked in a slow, drug-thickened voice, “What is it you want? Absolution? You have it, okay? I told you, I don’t blame you for anything. In fact, I suppose it was bound to happen…someday. When you go against violent people… I just…” Her voice cracked and dropped to a whisper; her lips quivered. She turned her face away. “I didn’t expect it to come quite this way.”

C.J. cleared his throat and leaned forward. There were so many things he wanted to ask her…so many things he wanted to say. He didn’t know where to start, so he murmured, “What way did you think it was gonna come?”

Her eyes crisscrossed him like searchlights, not silvery, now, but liquid and lost. Then, incongruously, she laughed, a soft ironic chuckle. “Well, for one thing, I never expected to be blind.”