through, dark-blue eyes, tall and slender. High cheekbones, sculpted elegantly to make him look like an aristocrat.
'Actually, he's just an older version of Scott. Isn't that strange that I thought I fell in love with a man who looked like my father?'
'Yeah,' Dillon said. 'I'd say that's plain not good. It's a good thing that Quinlan here doesn't look like anybody except himself.'
'I came home at random times. He knew I would. Once when I'd been visiting Noelle, after I left to go back to my apartment, I realized I'd forgotten my sweater. I went back into the house and there he was, kicking my mother. I went to the phone to dial 911. As far as I was concerned, it was the last straw. I just didn't care anymore. He was going to pay. You won't believe it, but my mother crawled to me, grabbed my leg, and begged me not to call the cops. My father stood there in the library doorway and dared me to do it. He dared me, all the while watching my mother sobbing and pleading, on her knees, her nails digging into my jeans. Jesus, it was horrible. I put down the phone and left. I never went back. I just couldn't. Nothing I did mattered, not really. If I was there for a while, he just waited until I left. Then he probably beat her more viciously than if I'd never been there at all. I remember I wondered if he'd broken her ribs that time, but I never asked. What good would it have done?''
'But he didn't take his revenge until six months ago,' Dillon said. 'He waited-what?-some five years before he went after you.'
'That's not quite true. He started his revenge with Scott. I'm convinced of that now. Yes, he was behind my marriage to Scott. There weren't any men in my life before that. I worked for Senator Bainbridge right out of college. I was happy. I never saw my parents. I had friends. I'd see my father every once in a while, by accident, and I could tell that he still hated my guts.
'I remember once at a party, I ran into my mother in the women's room. She was combing her hair and her long sleeve had fallen away. There was a horrible purple bruise on her arm. I remember just looking at it and saying, 'What kind of monster in you allows you to let that bastard beat you?'
'She slapped me. I guess I deserved it. I didn't see her again until that night I went to her for money when I was running away from you.'
'You do remember actually going to your parents' house the night your father was killed?'
'Yes, but nothing else is clear. How was I sure my father was dead? I don't know. But I did know, and I guess I must have believed that Noelle finally couldn't stand the beatings any more. Yes, that's what I must have thought, although all that isn't particularly clear.'
She began to rub her temples with the palms of her hands. 'No, I don't know, James. I think I remember screams, I think I can see a gun, but nothing else, just these images. And maybe blood. I remember blood. But my father? Dead? Was Noelle there? I just can't swear to anything. I'm sorry. I'm no help at all.'
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
But Quinlan wasn't worried. He looked over at Dillon whose fingers were tap-dancing on his laptop, nary a furrow of worry on his brow. He knew that Dillon was hearing everything they said. He also knew that Dillon wasn't worried either.
Quinlan had pulled this off before. They had lots to work with. Sally was ready.
He said slowly, more to himself really, so she would get calm again, 'So your father bided his time.'
'Yes. It wasn't until after we were married that I found out my father was Scott's boss. He'd never told me what firm he was with. He was vague and I didn't really pay attention. It was all downhill from there, once I found out.'
Quinlan paced his living room, not nervous pacing, just rhythmic strides. Dillon worked MAX's keyboard. Sally rubbed the dust off the small rubber tree that sat in a beautiful oriental pot next to the sofa.
Quinlan stopped. He smiled at Sally. 'I think it's time you made some phone calls, Sally. I think it's time we get the gang together and do some rattling. We'll see what falls out.' He handed her the phone.
'Mom, then Scott, then Beadermeyer.'
22
'You WANT TO know what's driving me crazy?' Dillon said, looking up from the keyboard and stretching his muscles. “I want to know why Beadermeyer is still after you. It was your father who had you put away there. He's dead. Why the hell would Beadermeyer care anymore? Who's following in your old man's footsteps? You said Scott had to be in on it? But why would he care now? Wouldn't he just want that divorce so he could get on with his life? You sure you're up for this, Sally?'
'Yes, I'm up for it. In fact, I can't wait. I want to spit in Beadermeyer's face. As for why they took me again, I've thought and thought, but I can't think of a decent reason. Now let me make those calls.'
She took the phone and dialed. There wasn't any wait at all. 'Mom? It's me, Sally. I wondered if I could come over. I need to talk to you, Mom. Yes, right now. Is that all right?'
Slowly, she pressed the off button. She started to dial Scott's number. Quinlan lightly touched his hand to hers and shook his head. 'No, I think your mom just might get the other players there.'
'He's right,' Dillon said. 'If she doesn't, then we'll talk to her alone. We need to anyway. We need to know exactly where she stands in all of this mess.'
'James is right,' Sally said and swallowed hard. 'The others will be there. But know this-she was protecting me. I'd bet my life on it.'
He wanted to hug her, but he didn't. He watched her blink back the tears and swallow until she had control again. Sally had guts. She also had him.
He said, 'Okay. Let me make some phone calls, then we'll get this show on the road.'
Thirty minutes later James tapped the griffin-head knocker of the St. John home.
Noelle St. John answered the door herself. She was wearing a silk dress in a pale blue. Her hair, blonder Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
than Sally's, was twisted up in a neat chignon. She looked elegant, tense, and very pale. She hesitated a
