A Killer's Agenda (2 page)

He mentally shrugged. Old history. History he had no

intentions of dwelling on. It wouldn’t change anything even if he did. He reached in his pocket and flipped open his cell phone.

“Pete, its Brad. Think you can keep an eye on things for a week or so?”

He could hear the surprise in his manager’s voice when he

answered.

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A Killer's Agenda

“Sure. You actually taking a vacation?”

“In a manner of speaking. Only thing pressing is that new

development. I’ve got a hunch we’re going to win that contract. If you have any issues, I’ll leave the cell phone on.”

“What’s this all about, Brad?”

He hesitated. He trusted his right hand man, Pete Struthers, implicitly, but this was something he didn’t want to make public until he had more facts. If he and Kevin were off base, they would look like fools and if they were right, he didn’t want information, however innocent, to leak out.

“Got some family business to deal with. I’m just not sure how long it will take.”

“Take as long as you need. There isn’t much I can’t deal with myself.”

“I know that. Thanks, Pete.”

He disconnected the call, fighting the urge to turn right toward his condo instead of left when he reached the stop sign. His conscience told him he needed to let his father know what he suspected, if for no other reason than Ellie had been his sister. He wouldn’t welcome the information. Probably wouldn’t believe him either. Brad forced himself to relax the tight grip he had on the steering wheel, leaning back in an effort to enjoy traveling through the heart of the charming old city.

Charleston was at its best this time of year. The sun was

shining brightly and the oppressive heat of the summer had slid into the more comfortable temperature of fall. The trees were brilliant with vivid colors, their beauty only accentuating the charm of the century homes that lined the downtown streets. It was a city steeped in history. A city that brought throngs of

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Anita Whiting

tourists to enjoy the scenery and listen, enthralled, to the tour guides describe its colored past. Ghosts and pirates and the sea made for interesting year-round entertainment. There was a time when he had thought about leaving. About starting new

somewhere else. Somewhere where the Norton name wasn’t a

household word. He was glad he had resisted the impulse.

As he neared the south side of town, his thoughts switched to his only parent. He glanced at his watch. A little after five. His father would be arriving home in exactly ten minutes. The routine never varied. Up at seven, allowing enough time to read the

morning paper and have breakfast, leave the house at 7:35 exactly.

Accept his last call at 4:55 and arrive home at 5:25.

His hands tightened on the steering wheel. In the beginning he had tried so hard, so very hard, to be what he thought his father wanted him to be. He had detested the private school his father insisted he attend and the uniform he had been forced to wear. Yet he had endured the rigidity of the routine without complaint because he had wanted his father’s approval. Craved it. As he grew, he began to realize it made no difference. No matter what he did or how well he did it, it was never enough. Yet he continued to try. Until the day he found his mother’s photograph. As he drove down the familiar road, the memories came flooding back just as sharp as they had ever been. As was the pain…

It was the summer of his twelfth year. The day his whole life
changed. He awoke on his birthday and jumped out of bed, hoping,
as he did every year, that this time his father would be waiting for
him downstairs. Want to spend the day with him. Just him. Even at
twelve, he hadn’t given up those childhood fantasies. He dressed

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A Killer's Agenda

quickly and ran downstairs, stopping in the doorway. The empty
table that greeted him dashed those hopes immediately.

The gifts were waiting by his place at the table as usual. He
walked toward them, sitting for a moment before he slowly pulled
the wrapping off the gaily covered packages. The rich smell of
leather greeted him. He slid his hand wonderingly into the baseball
mitt. It fit just like it was supposed to. As if it was made for his
hand. He tore the wrapping off the other package. The bat was two-toned, its gleaming finish shining. Wait until he showed his friends!

Of course, they wouldn’t be surprised. They knew how much he had
wanted that bat and mitt. That’s all he had talked about for…

And just like that, he knew.

Knew there was no way his father had bought these things. He
had never been to one of his games, never seen the longing in his
eyes when he had watched other friends break in a new glove.

Never knew he was using Maggie’s brother’s old mitt. He had been
fooled before but not this time. These gifts mattered too much.

He heard his father preparing to leave, heard his bedroom door
close with a smart click and he jerked at the sound. Maggie peeked
around the corner and then came into the dining room singing happy
birthday with a huge stack of pancakes in her hands, a candle
burning in the middle. She stopped, a hurt look on her face, when he
stood abruptly and ran from the room, dashing angry tears away.

He clenched his fists tightly as he knocked into furniture in his
haste to leave. He didn’t care. He hated this big, old house and it’s
carefully cared for antiques. Hated his school. But, more than
anything, he hated his father. His friends had fathers who taught
them how to throw a ball, hold a bat. Fathers who stood on the

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Anita Whiting

sidelines cheering them on proudly. His father didn’t even know he
was alive.

Feeling miserable and unloved, he sought the only place he
knew that no one would look for him. The very top of the huge
house. The one place he had never dared to enter before. He needed
to be alone. Totally and completely alone. Far away from servants
who tossed him looks of thinly disguised pity or from Maggie whom
he knew would attempt to comfort him as she had so often before.

He sped up the stairs, higher and higher, until he reached the
long hallway that led to the lone door at the end. He began to drag
his feet as he drew closer, not at all sure he would have the courage
to open it. Dashing the last of the tears from his face, he slowly
turned the knob and breathed a sigh of relief. Bright sunshine
streamed in through the tall windows and bathed the thick planks
on the floor with a golden light. Dust swirled in the beams but even
that beckoned to him as he edged inside and closed the door behind
him. Heat the air conditioning couldn’t reach enveloped him but he
quickly forgot that as his eyes widened at the sheer size of the room
and its shrouded contents. He took tentative steps forward, the pull
to explore strong.

His gaze flitted around the enormous space. Old furniture, lamps
and clothes were haphazardly stacked against the walls. He caught
a glimpse of something familiar and walked toward it. He ran a
hand along the white rail. His old crib, the rabbit mobile still
attached. Immediately a hazy picture of filmy white curtains and
stuffed animals pushed their way into his thoughts. The memories
became stronger.

Laughter and giggles. Warm hugs. Love.

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A Killer's Agenda

He grew braver, slowly examining the wealth of family history in
front of him, his twelve-year-old curiosity overcoming his fear. There
was the smell of age and something less definite. A fragrance that
compelled him to move further into the room. It grew stronger,
relaxing him, while at the same time continuing to pull vague
memories from his earliest recollections. Burying chubby hands into
long hair, inhaling that same fragrance. The feeling of being
cherished. Without realizing it, he followed the scent to an old gray
chest. He stood in front of it, heart pounding and lifted the lid. It
opened with a groan and he stared at the photograph that lay on
top. Gently and very carefully he lifted it to the light.

The woman had an air of delicacy about her, fineness. He sank
to the floor and hungrily stared. This was his mother. He had her
dark eyes and raven black hair. Maggie had once showed him a
very small picture of her, warning him not to say a word to his
father. When he asked why, she had merely shaken her head.

He sat there for a long while, reveling in the few sharp but sweet
memories he had of being swept up in her arms and held close,
wishing with everything in him that he could feel those things again.

Feel that love that only Maggie came close to giving him.

He jumped, still clutching the photograph close to him, when the
door slammed open. He spun around, heart pounding, and found
himself face to face with his father.

“What are you doing in here?” he demanded, his voice and
expression furious.

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. He scrambled to his feet,
backing away, his mother’s picture still clutched against his chest.

He watched his father’s gaze find it, saw his expression grow
even darker.

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Anita Whiting

What happened next…

A car horn blared, bringing Brad back to the present. It took a moment for him to push the pain away. Lucky for the other

drivers, he knew this town, he thought grimly. No matter how many times he pushed those memories away, they were always

there waiting to intrude at odd moments, moments when he was most vulnerable.

The scenery had changed. The charming old houses had been

replaced by elegant estates with ornate fencing surrounding them and the glimpse of ocean behind. This was where the rich lived.

The old, established families with old, established money. He’d take his condo any day.

Taking a deep breath, he turned into one of the long, curving driveways. He slowed in front of the gatehouse, saluting the gray-haired man who sat inside. Ben Johnson had been keeper of the gate for as long as he could remember. Brad lowered the window.

“Afternoon, Ben. How are you?”

The older man’s smile was genuine. “I’m fine, Brad. It’s good to see you.”

“My father home yet?”

“Just pulled in.” He leaned further out, waiting until Brad

looked up at him. “He misses you.”

“That’ll be the day,” Brad said lightly. “How’s Sarah?”

“She’s fine, just fine. If you’re staying for awhile, she’d love to see you.”

He shook his head. “Wish I could but I’ll only be here a few minutes.”

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A Killer's Agenda

Ben pushed the button and the high, curved gates swung open.

Brad waved as he drove through and they closed smoothly behind him.

Brad wound his way along the paved driveway. The

landscaping was meticulous as usual under the guidance of the bevy of gardeners his father employed. There were fountains

spraying crystal water into artfully set basins while a riot of fall blooms were reflected in the ever-moving liquid. The mansion was the same as well. Tall pillars graced the front of the white brick four-story structure while the eye was drawn to the backdrop of the incredibly blue water behind.

Damned impressive, Brad thought, slamming the car door, to

anyone but himself. In the years he had lived there, it might as well have had prison bars on the window. He felt no affection for the structure or, save one, for those who lived inside. He strode up the walk and, just as he reached the double doors, they were flung open and a slender, dark haired woman threw herself into his arms.

“Brad! 'tis about time you visited us,” Maggie said with that distinct Irish brogue that was so much a part of her. Her arms were surprisingly firm as she squeezed him hard against her for a brief moment. “You live not five miles away and yet I’ve not seen hide nor hair of you for over three months.”

He bent down to kiss her cheek and she wagged a finger at

him.

“Don’t you be tryin' that smooth stuff on me, Bradley Norton.

I’ve known you too long. Raised you for too long.”

He tugged at her apron affectionately. “I love when you get your Irish up, Maggie.”

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Anita Whiting

She gave him a shove, her fierce expression softening into a reluctant smile.

“Come in with you. I’ve got some fresh cookies sitting on the table and a pot of tea brewed.”

He followed her inside, ignoring the opulent entryway and the smell of lemon and polished wood. He knew where she was going.

To the one place they had always considered their own. Maggie’s domain. The big, airy kitchen tucked at the very back of the house where, growing up, he had spent countless hours doing homework or sharing milk and cookies after school with a friend. It was the one place in the immaculate house that he hadn’t had to worry about getting crumbs on the floor. Maggie had seen to that as well as supervising his homework at the round oak table in the center, not allowing him to shirk his studies.

Before he had left this house for good and never looked back.

He sat there now and in just a few moments, had a plate piled high with fragrant cookies and tea in front of him. Maggie slid into the chair across from him, her long hair pulled back into an untidy bun, her cheeks red, blue eyes sharp as ever.

“So you think it’s time to visit your old cook, is that it?” she teased.