back from the past, returned to the cabin in time to watch helplessly as Lester stepped into the flames, his own death now burning in him, reducing him to ash.
Chapter Three
Owen had imagined happiness as such a simple thing, just the feel of his granddaughter in his arms, the way her large eyes seemed to study him, as if already yearning for his secret.
“Come on, Mary, say ‘Grandpa,’ ” he said quietly.
“She’s only a week old,” Julie told him.
Owen laughed. “Of course.” He looked at the baby tenderly. “I wish Sam…”
“Right,” Eric blurted stiffly. He reached out and pulled Mary from his father’s caress and handed her to his wife. “Julie, could you give Dad and me a minute?”
Julie rose, holding Mary to her chest, and left the room like an obedient soldier summarily dismissed.
“I bring my baby over to you, and you think about Sam,” Eric said sourly.
“I’m worried about him,” Owen explained. “I haven’t heard a word from him since he left.”
“You won’t be hearing from him anymore, Dad.”
Owen stared at Eric darkly. “What are you talking about?”
“Sam is dead,” Eric told him brutally.
Owen felt his soul empty.
Eric’s voice was as cruel as his eyes. “He went trying to find proof that would destroy you. He died trying to bring you down. He hated you that much.”
Owen sucked in a cold breath. He felt something close inside him, the last open chamber of his heart.
“You never told me any of the things you told Sam… I would never have broken your trust and you never once gave it to me.”
Owen slumped forward, then reared back, the room closing in upon him.
“Is this what you saw, Dad?” Eric taunted him.
Owen clutched his left arm. He felt one side of his face draw down, pain exploding everywhere, shooting tongues of fire through every vein and artery.
“Is this what you saw in that kid’s eyes?” Eric sneered.
Owen dropped to his knees.
Eric towered above him, staring down in spiteful triumph. “A stroke, right? The moment of your death? That’s why you always hated me. You knew I was the last thing you’d ever see.”
In the fading light, as the curtain fell, Owen realized that it had all come to nothing, all his cruelty and lies, his long train of crimes. He had sown the wind, and reaped the whirlwind of a son who would do no better, reach no higher wisdom, find no better life than his own sorry round of days. Oh, he had made a mark in the world, he thought as he tumbled forward at Eric’s feet, but it was only the mark of Cain.
Tom and Becky Clarke stopped at the receptionist’s desk. “We’re here to see Jack Barlowe,” Becky said.
A moment later, he stepped out into the room, a man who’d named himself Jack Barlowe, though Jacob’s features remained unmistakable. He was twenty-eight years old now, but he looked much older, already frail and losing his hair.
“My, God, Jake,” Becky breathed.
Jacob drew Becky into his arms, held her briefly, then did the same to Tom.
They sat down on a bench in the lobby.
“I read about your crop circle,” Jacob said. “The peace sign. Very funny.”
Tom smiled. “Not to Owen Crawford.” The smile widened triumphantly. “I wanted him to know he’d messed with a good Texas family.”
Becky touched Jacob’s face. “We thought with him gone, we could risk coming to see you.”
Jacob shifted the subject from himself. “How’s Mom?”
“Still feisty,” Becky replied. She glanced toward the reception desk, noticed how the woman behind it glanced away. “That woman, the receptionist.”
“Carol,” Jacob said.
Becky placed a finger at each side of her head. “I’m sensing something,” she said, pretending psychic powers.
“Really?” Jacob said with a shy smile.
Becky looked at him knowingly. “So, Jake, how long have you been going out with her?”
Eric stared contemptuously at the new sign that adorned his father’s old office.
“Eric, thanks for coming,” Marty said as Eric came through the door.
Eric gave Marty one of his father’s smiles. “You’re the boss.”
“How’s the new baby?”
“Fine,” Eric said, faking a bright cheerfulness. “Mary gets cuter every day.”
Marty’s tone turned serious.
“Listen, Eric,” he began, “I’ve got to say something here. This kind of thing has a way of coming out and I just want to clear the air between you and me about it.” He paused briefly, then went on. “I was always, not to speak ill of the dead, I was always a little afraid of your father.”
“He had that way about him.”
“Yes, he did,” Marty said. “You remember my friend Howard Bowen?”
“He was with my mother when she died.”
“That night, Howard told me he was driving your mother to a clinic in Minnesota,” Marty said. “For rehab.”
“Well, Howard and my mother were… close.”
“That’s not the way I remember it,” Marty said coolly. “Your dad took a car from the motor pool that night. When he returned it, the car had four hundred and seventeen new miles on it.”
Eric lifted his head slightly, as if to receive a blow.
“That’s the exact round-trip distance from Groom Lake to the spot where Howard and your mother were killed.” Marty waited for Eric to respond, then continued when he didn’t. “They were both killed with Howard’s service revolver. He lost that revolver two days before he died. I remember him asking me if I’d seen it. He said he’d left it in his desk drawer and it just disappeared.”
Eric felt it all come together, his father’s work, his mother’s murder. Almost to himself, he said, “She was drinking a lot. Threatening to expose his work.”
Marty did not deny it, and in that lack of response, Eric felt that he’d finally reached the truth not only of what had happened to his mother, but also what had to happen next. “Thank you for telling me this, Marty,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
Eric left the office, but only after shaking Marty’s hand with a hearty flourish.
It didn’t take long to decide how to do it, and by nightfall, Eric had chosen the two MPs and put them in position.
He stepped out of the shadows when Marty approached. Once again, he offered his father’s smile.
“I checked the motor pool records, Marty,” he said. “The night my mother was killed, you checked out that car, not my father. That makes you an accomplice. Accessory before the fact.”
