Heartstone, p.1
Heartstone, page 1
Other Five Star Titles
by D. C. Brod:
Paid in Full
Heartstone
D.C. Brod
a division of F+W Media, Inc.
For Greg, Ali, Kenzie and James …
and all their possibilities
and in memory of Jane Jordan Browne
Acknowledgments
Heartfelt thanks to the many people who provided support during the writing of this book:
To Rachael Tecza and Donald Brod, who probably read every version of this novel that ever existed (without complaining or rolling their eyes) and provided invaluable feedback and suggestions.
To Tom Moriarty, gemologist, who introduced me to alexandrite and sparked the idea for this novel. (Please excuse any liberties I took with the stone, Tom.)
To readers, technical advisors and people who opened their homes to us while we were traipsing across England in search of Arthur: Maria Alderson, Miriam Baily, Michael Black, Matt Clemens, Kim and Bruce Cobban, Cecelia Downs, Jacqueline Fiedler, Vonelle “Buddy” Kostelny-Vogts, Wendi Lee, Marilyn Nelson, Joan O’Leary, Patrick Parks, Keith and Maryanne Peterson, Michael Seidman and Mark Richard Zubro.
To John Helfers, my editor.
And to the late Jane Jordan Browne, a remarkable woman and literary agent, and to her staff at Multimedia Product Development.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
About the Author
Getting Sassy
Also Available
Copyright
Prologue
Twenty miles off Land’s End, England,
1 a.m., April 4th
It took twenty minutes via helicopter to fly from any one of the Scilly Islands to Penzance. Benjamin Pike had spent the first half of this relatively short trip convinced that the man sitting next to him intended to kill him before they arrived. It had been an excruciating, regret-filled ten minutes. Regrets made all the more painful because if he could have gotten to Penzance, he’d have made them right. He’d have talked to Max, told her everything. Fearing her anger or outright rejection wasn’t a good enough reason to hold back, nor was it fair to her.
In the midst of his self recriminations, he spotted the lights of Cornwall’s coast, appearing like bright, tiny gems on jewelers’ velvet, and hope sparked in his chest. If they planned to kill him, surely they’d have done it by now.
He glanced at Tommy. His large, round head rested against the back of his seat and his arms were folded across his broad chest. It was too dark for Ben to make out his face, and he wondered if the man had fallen asleep.
By shifting, he was able to peer between the two seats in front and could make out the pilot’s profile, cast in an eerie shade of green from the glow of the craft’s instruments—the slash of a nose, the ubiquitous toothpick now gripped steady between his teeth. Krett seemed intent on flying the craft.
No, Ben decided, if these men had orders to kill him, he’d be sinking into the Atlantic by now, and his escorts would be on their way back to the island like a flight crew returning from a successful mission.
He ran a hand through his thick, white hair and wiped at the dampness accumulating on the back of his neck. Strange to be sweating a thousand feet above the ground in a helicopter without any doors. His face was numb with cold. He wiped his hand against his khakis, drew in a deep breath and expelled it. What if he had died without being able to explain any of this to Max? He clenched a fist and wrapped his other hand around it. He needed to call her as soon as he could get to a phone. Ask her to come here. Insist on it this time. She’d be confused at first, perhaps angry, but she had to understand how her destiny and the stone’s were entwined. As was his. He refused to believe otherwise.
The helicopter bumped over some turbulence and Ben squeezed his eyes shut. He put himself back on the island, imagining what he’d say when he returned. Why had Murdoch been in such a damned hurry to get him off the island? He couldn’t have known Ben’s plans. Could he? Damn. He was so close. Thirty years, and it had finally come together like the pieces of a miraculous puzzle. He’d found the final piece—seen it, touched it. He could make it whole.
If only he’d gotten past Murdoch, Ben knew he could have explained. He believed in a world where reasonable minds prevailed. There had to be a way to recover.
After he called Max, he would call Antony. Within two hours, they’d be on their way back to the island. With any luck, they’d be there by morning. Murdoch would wait until then to report Ben’s alleged misdeed.
Ben sucked in a deep breath and released it slowly. He visualized the stone, imagined holding it, feeling its warmth. Its greens danced and vacillated, cloaking the flame within. Consider your advantages, he told himself. Work from there.
Beside him, Tommy shifted his bulk and dropped his hands into his lap. Ben glanced out the door. It took a moment for him to re-establish his bearings, and when he did he knew something was wrong. They were still out over the water. England was on the right. They were heading north rather than east toward Penzance. Why? What was north? … Wales was north. He tried to swallow, but his throat constricted. Rhys Lewis lived in Wales. They weren’t taking him to Penzance. They weren’t going to kill him. They were taking him to Rhys Lewis first.
Ben’s thoughts spiraled toward the inevitable outcome of that encounter. Once Lewis had Ben, he’d be able to control Max. Ben couldn’t let that happen.
He glanced at Tommy, who perhaps was not here to kill Ben, merely subdue him. They weren’t expecting him to go quietly. Despite the man’s current state of repose, Ben knew that Tommy would enthusiastically thwart any attempts he made to hijack the helicopter. Which, he realized, was what he had to do. Soon.
When he looked at Tommy again, Ben saw that his head now rested on his shoulder. He had to be asleep. A plan formed. It was a desperate plan, but there were no sane ones available. If he could get his hands on Tommy’s gun, he could threaten Tommy with it, forcing Krett to take him to Penzance. The hell with Penzance. Just get him down on Cornwall soil.
Ben’s heart thudded against his chest as he worked out the logistics. Tommy carried his gun in a shoulder holster beneath his left arm. Ben had seen it when the big man’s jacket flopped open as he climbed into the craft. A big chrome revolver. Ben sat to Tommy’s right so he’d have to lean across his body with his right hand to reach the gun. Unfortunately, Ben was left-handed, but he could play a decent game of darts with either hand, so he knew he could maneuver well enough. But it wasn’t simply a matter of slipping the gun from its holster. He’d have to undo the holster snap and pull it free. The seat belt limited his range of movement. He considered releasing it, but he was literally inches from a long fall into the ocean that would kill him as surely as a bullet in the brain. If Tommy woke in the middle of this, Ben wanted a fighting chance. The steady vibration of the helicopter might help cover his movements. A drop of sweat slid between his shoulder blades and he shivered. This was insane, he told himself. Tommy was a trained killer. But he apparently had instructions not to kill Ben. Yet.
Get on with it, he told himself. If he thought about this much longer, he’d freeze up. He’d be in Rhys Lewis’s living room and it would be too late. Too late for everything.
He edged around in his seat as much as the belt would allow. After looking to make sure Krett was still occupied with flying the helicopter, he gently lifted the edge of Tommy’s wool coat. The smell of must and dried sweat rose in a wave and dissipated. Beneath the jacket he wore a light-colored shirt, which allowed Ben to make out the dark mass that was the holster. Holding his breath, he reached into the jacket and felt for the butt of the gun, then the holster, found its snap and, gritting his teeth together, nudged it open. It was like flicking on a switch. Grunting his surprise, Tommy jerked his head up and locked his huge hand around Ben’s wrist, twisting.
It shouldn’t have been much of a contest—Tommy outweighed Ben by at least fifty pounds. But his right arm was wedged between Ben and the seat, and he was fighting to hold onto Ben and get out from under him at the same time. Ben pressed his shoulder into Tommy, gaining traction by bracing one foot against the front seat; he could feel the rumble in the big man’s chest as he struggled. Ben managed to snake his free hand across Tommy’s belly toward the gun.
Just as he yanked the revolver from its holster, the helicopter dropped and swerved to the left. The momentum propelled Ben forward, throwing him off balance and freeing Tommy from his pin. Before Ben could recover, Tommy had one arm wrapped around his neck, the scratchy fabric pressing hard into Ben’s windpipe. He grabbed for the gun, knocking it from Ben’s hand. It fell between Tommy’s feet, and he had to let go of Ben in order to go after it. Ben gulped air and dove first, but his seat belt held him back. He pressed the release, and when it gave, he lunged. Tommy caught him under the chin with the toe of his boot, and Ben gagged as a bolt of pain shot up his jaw. This time Tommy reached the gun first and Ben thought he heard him cackle as he picked it up. Ben seized the thick wrist with both his hands and prayed for an adrenalin rush as he tried to wrench the weapon away.
A loud report set Ben’s chest on fire. He pitched backwards. Colors swam in his head and blood surged up his throat. The helicopter lurched again and then the floor fell out from under him.
Falling, he thrashed wildly, but found only air. This was wrong. He hadn’t finished. There was so much to do. To witness. Then, as the universe slowed, his panic receded. He felt no pain, only release. Like letting go and feeling your muscles sigh. But still he resisted. People needed him. He hadn’t finished the fight. Pikes didn’t give up. No, they don’t. Then he experienced a moment of piercing clarity and all the pieces tumbled into place. This was his time. Spreading his arms, Ben closed his eyes and submitted himself to his faith in a legend and in a daughter who would have to find the answers herself. And as the black water rushed to him, he prayed that she wouldn’t come to despise him for what he’d given her.
Chapter 1
Chicago, Illinois, April 15th
As Maxine Pike unlocked and pushed open the door of her second-floor apartment, Fiona nosed past her and headed for the kitchen, where she lapped loudly at the water in her bowl.
Max slammed the door shut with her hip and tossed her jacket, along with the Great Dane’s leash, onto the nearest chair. Not yet noon and already it had been a day of small scourges. Nothing disastrous, but wasn’t it the little stuff that brought you down, gnawing away at you like rats’ teeth? She shuddered.
Noting the blinking call button on her answering machine, Max rewound the tape and listened to her messages as she unwrapped two slices of American cheese for a sandwich. While she’d hoped to hear from Ben, she was only a little disappointed when the first message was from her office mate’s daughter, Kenzie, who had actually called to talk to Fiona. Smiling, Max listened as she spread low-fat mayonnaise on wheat bread, picturing the three-year-old with her serious, blue eyes and reminded herself she’d promised Kenzie a photo of Fiona. Kenzie chatted for more than a minute, telling the dog about her trip to the dentist and her fitting for her aunt’s wedding. Then Alison, Kenzie’s mother, came on. “Hi, Max. Sissy and I are going to the movies tomorrow night. She wants to see a chick flick and I want to see something blown up. Why don’t you come along and cast the deciding vote? Give me a call.”
Max was thinking how it all depended on who was blowing things up, when the next message clicked on. It was her real estate agent, sounding chirpy as ever, informing Max that the seller had rejected her offer on his house. “I believe I warned you the offer might be too low,” she added, then asked Max to call her.
“Damn,” Max said without much feeling. Leaning against the counter, she ate her sandwich and listened to the kitchen clock ticking the seconds away. She could think of only two ways to recover from a miserable morning and since there was no man in her life and she wasn’t in the habit of bedding strangers, she decided now was a good time to make that photo for Kenzie.
After cleaning up the dishes, she transferred her darkroom equipment from the closet in her office to the small bathroom.
The series of unpleasant events had started at the post office. She’d intended to go in and buy a roll of stamps while she mailed the three bills, but as she drove past the building she saw her department chair, Cheryl Horchow, climbing the steps. Max didn’t feel like sparring with the woman while on spring break, so she pulled up to the drive-up mail slot. The moment she let the three bills slip from her hand, it hit her. Had she put stamps on those envelopes? No. Damn. It hadn’t even occurred to her. How dumb can you be? she thought. As she sat there, stunned by her actions, the guy behind her in the SUV honked loud and long. Max’s foot slipped off the clutch and her car shuddered and died. Fiona, who had been curled up on the back seat of the Honda Civic, rose like Godzilla from the sea and began baying as the guy continued to lay on the horn.
Max got the car started and pulled away from the mailbox. She knew she ought to go into the post office and throw herself at the mercy of a civil servant, but Cheryl would probably still be in there and Max wasn’t going to reveal her air-headed actions to someone who thought she was marginal to begin with.
As she merged onto Halsted, she pushed up the button for the Civic’s window. It rose three inches and stopped. She pushed the button again, harder, and the window emitted an urgent moan—it wanted nothing better than to go up—but didn’t budge.
“Hardly a disaster,” Max chided herself now, as she set the enlarger on a board spanning the sink.
“Bad things happen in threes, don’t they girl?” The harlequin Great Dane regarded her briefly from the hallway, then resumed cleaning herself. Max closed the bathroom door. “By law, the rest of the day has to be charmed.” Besides, it was Friday, and next week was her spring break. Plenty of time for the fates to turn.
After filling the developing trays and lining them up in the tub, she positioned the negative she wanted to print—Fiona in her chair—beneath the enlarger’s lens. She supposed that one day she would give digital photography a try, but there was something about the process of developing a print that she craved. As she adjusted the shot, cropping out the edge of the couch, she felt some of the tension leave her shoulders. The rest of the morning hadn’t been awful, she told herself. Just frustrating.
Even if it hadn’t been a drizzly April day, Max couldn’t park her car on Chicago’s north side with a window open. Might as well leave the keys in the ignition and the engine running. So, she’d driven to her local service station only to learn that Raoul, the mechanic, wasn’t expected in until eleven. She and Fiona sat in the small office inhaling oil and gasoline fumes until Raoul arrived and pulled the window back up—by sheer force—and made her promise not to open it again until he could look for the real problem.
Max slid the exposed print into the developing solution and nudged it down into the tray with a pair of tongs, completely submerging the white paper.
“You’ll survive,” she told herself. The bills would come back, she would get the window fixed, and she wasn’t all that sure she wanted to buy a house anyway.
Maybe the rejection was an opportunity to examine her ambivalence and that twinge of relief she’d experienced upon learning her offer had been turned down. She ought to want to buy a house, so what was the problem? There’d been so many reasons it seemed like a good idea—more space, an extra bathroom for a darkroom, an investment, a commitment. She should want a house. She’d worked hard to reach her five-year goal a full six months ahead of time—tenured English instructor at Coulter Community College with the means to buy a house. And now it was all she could do to remember why she worked so hard to get here. Maybe it was the commitment part that made her balk. It placed a period in her life, when she was so much fonder of commas.
Max knelt on the doubled-up throw rug, reached into the tub and rocked the tray gently from side to side. The black-and-white image began to emerge. She thought she’d captured Fiona’s gentle nature with this shot of the big dog draped over the beanbag chair. It was in the eyes and in the way the late afternoon light softened the shadows.
