A Treasure Worth Seeking (12 page)

"Well, the game is over. You may enjoy slumming it with me, but I never play out of my league."

"League?" she asked remorsefully. "Why do you think we're in different leagues?"

"Because, dammit, you drive a white Mercedes and I drive a maroon Chevette. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

He released her wrist so abruptly that she was staggered and bumped against him in inertia. He moved away from her and stared out the opposite window.

It took several moments for his meaning to sink in.

When it did, she bristled with fury. "How dare you insult me like that!" she gasped. "How dare you think it would matter to me what kind of car a man drives or how much money he has. I . . . I slept . . . slept with you because I wanted to."

"Did you?" he asked silkily, facing her once again. He lunged toward her, pinning her against the back of the seat with his hands on her shoulders. He leaned into her.

"Don't you like the way Stanton makes love? What excuse were you going to give poor ol' Bart on your wedding night when he found you less than pure? But then he'll naturally assume that your husband took what by right should belong to him."

"Stop it, please," she sobbed.

He settled on her heavily and whispered degradingly,

"When he holds you, do you mold to him like this?" She wriggled and tried to push him away, but he was too strong and the movement of his body against hers made his point for him. "When he kisses you, do you make that purring sound in your throat?"

He tried to kiss her, but she twisted her head away from him. His hand grasped her jaw and held her head immobile as his lips crushed hers brutally. She fought him, but his hold on her was unyielding. The pressure of his fingers on her jaw was so strong that she feared any moment the cracking of her bones.

"Does your body respond to him the way it does to me?"

He flung aside her coat and covered her breast with his hand. In opposition to her will, she could feel herself responding to his touch. His fingers pressed into the soft mound of flesh and then began to stroke her. What had been intended as an assault became a caress. He slipped his hand under her sweater and squeezed her until her flesh was crowded between his fingers. He unclasped her bra and captured a taut nipple with fingers no longer cruel, but dedicated to giving pleasure.

Only his mouth continued its onslaught. And gradually it, too, ceased to plunder and began to persuade. The kiss changed character so subtly that Erin wasn't even aware of it until she heard herself moaning in acquiescence. Her lips softened and accepted the alluring power of his tongue. Her body became pliant under his exploring hands. She wasn't even aware of saying, "Oh, Lance," until he yanked himself himself away from her.

His name, recited in his ear with such disillusionment, penetrated that wall of anger and resentment he had erected since hearing her conversation with Stanton. He retreated swiftly behind the steering wheel of the car and gripped it with his hands as if to pull it away and destroy it. He rested his forehead on the backs of his hands.

God! What had he almost done?!

Erin watched with a feeling of empty helplessness.

Lance's shoulders slumped, and the heels of his hands were digging into his eye sockets while his fingers made deep furrows in the thick, mussed, sun-gilded hair. His chest was heaving as he gasped for restorative breath.

Finally, he raised supplicant eyes to her and opened his arms in a gesture of bewilderment. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Never,
never
in my life have I . . . If I've hurt you . . . I'm sorry," he repeated hoarsely. He squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger. He spoke more to himself than to her in a voice full of desperation. "I don't know what's happening to me."

MELANIE SEEMED
unaware of and indifferent to the tension between the other two passengers of the car. The three of them rode home in remote silence.

Erin had noted that her sister-in-law's eyes were red and puffy, testifying that she had been crying recently. The usually effervescent woman had barely mumbled a hello to her and Lance when they pulled into the garage and she had climbed into the backseat. Lance had instructed Clark to stay with the car until the minor repair was made.

Melanie huddled in the corner of the backseat and made it apparent that she wasn't in a mood to talk. Since her arrival in San Francisco, Erin didn't remember seeing Melanie quite this despondent. It was a depression too deep for tears, a hopeless despair that finds no release through normal channels.

As soon as they walked through the front door of her house, Melanie apologi
zed, but excused herself and as
cended the stairs.

Not a word was exchanged between Lance and Erin.

She hung her coat on the hall tree and proceeded into the kitchen to get a drink of water. When she walked back through the hallway toward the stairs, she met Lance as he was coming out of the living room after consulting with Mike.

The cold, impersonal nod he gave her was like that of a stranger. Only today she had been lying in his arms, listening to an outpouring of passion. She knew his body intimately, yet she knew the man not at all. His anger had been explained. He had overheard her conversation with Bart and totally misconstrued it.

How could he think her capable of such duplicity? Did he truly think that she could take what had happened between them so casually? If he did, he didn't, know her.

Which was precisely the point. They didn't know each other in the ways that were important.

Once she got to her room, it didn't take her long to prepare for bed. She had just snapped out the light in the bathroom and was crossing to the bed when there was a timid knock on her, door.

"It's me."

"Come in, Melanie. I'm not in bed yet," Erin answered.

Melanie came in dressed for bed with a light robe covering her nightgown. "Am I disturbing you?"

"Of course not."

"How was your day?" Erin asked the younger woman who collapsed dispiritedly into the armchair.

"It was terrible, Erin." The blond head shook from side to side. She twisted the wedding ring on her finger. "My parents drive me crazy. They called early this morning, insisting that I come visit them today. Do you know what they wanted to see me about? Divorce. They want me to file for a divorce from Ken."

"Oh, Melanie! How could they even suggest such a thing at a time like this?"

"I don't know. I wouldn't even listen, of course, but they kept on giving me all the reasons I should. They don't honor the one reason that I wouldn't. I love Ken." She buried her face in her hands and began to cry with wracking sobs that tore Erin's heart in two. She knelt down in front of her sister-in-law and drew her into comforting arms.

"It's Father's fault that Ken did what he did anyway.

He was always pressuring Ken, giving him impossible tasks at the bank and then embarrassing him in front of other people when he couldn't carry them out. Ken tried very hard, but his best was never good enough. For the past year or so, he wanted to change jobs, but I begged him not to. Father didn't have any sons, you see, and I thought that Ken might be able to fill that gap that I couldn't. I was so selfish. I didn't see what all of this was doing to Ken as a man."

"Don't blame yourself, Melanie. Ken is an adult. He may have been hurting inside and feeling insufficient and insecure, but he's done something wrong and he'll have to pay the consequences. He realizes that. He doesn't blame you, I'm sure."

"Then why hasn't he even tried to contact me? I haven't seen or heard from him since he left for work that morning. Erin, I'm miserable without him."

Erin sighed and patted Melanie on the back, providing what small amount of solace she could. "I think he doesn't contact you because he loves you. He doesn't want you to become involved. He's protecting you."

"I could use less protection and more of him."

Erin smiled gently. "I can understand that, but I doubt if a man could." Her thoughts turned introspective for a moment and she said, "They see things so differently than we do."

Melanie blew her nose on a tissue Erin handed her.

Wiping the tears out of her eyes, she said, "I haven't been around to help you today. I haven't even asked how you felt."

"I'm fine. Much better."

Melanie nodded absently. Erin could see that she was still distraught. Her husband's absence was causing her anguish, anguish she must suffer alone.

Confirming Erin's surmise, Melanie said, "If you don't mind, I think I'll go back to my room. I'm not very good company tonight. I want to lie in the bed I share with Ken and think about him. Does that sound crazy?"

"It sounds perfectly normal. If you need to talk to someone in the middle of the night, I'm available. You won't be disturbing me."

"Thanks, Erin. I . . . I'm really glad you're here."

Thin arms went around Erin's neck and she hugged Melanie closer. "I'm glad I'm here, too. Good night."

"Good night."

Erin had slept so much during the day that she didn't think she would be able to fall asleep, but it was amazingly simple. She wanted to analyze Lance's peculiar behavior, but her brain refused to focus on that. Ken's disappearance was a problem she still had to cope with, and Melanie's unhappiness troubled her as well. Defensively, her brain shut out these burdensome thoughts and she fell asleep the moment she lay her head on the pillow.

Her dreams were full of Lance. One moment he was cruel and vindictive. The next, she was locked in an intoxicating embrace and he was making love to her. Her fingertips could feel the texture of his hair where it lay against his neck. His scent was so familiar to her now, she was engulfed in it as he moved against her. He was repeating her name close to her ear. Erin, Erin, Erin. She drew him closer still and clasped her hands behind his neck.

For a moment, after she opened her eyes, she thought she was in an extension of her dream. Lance was saying her name softly. He leaned over her. Her arms were tight around his neck.

"What—" she gasped, pulling her arms back and reaching hastily for the covers.

"Shhhh, it's okay. I'm sorry if I scared you," he whispered. "Erin—"

"What are you doing here?" she demanded angrily.

What kind of game was he playing now? She didn't trust him. He was too unpredictable. She didn't understand him. Nor did she understand why her heart was pounding and her body trembling as though the dream had been real. It had been so vivid. She could feel—

"Erin, I have something to tell you. Do you want me to turn on the light?" She shook her head no. "We've had some news. It's not good. I need you to help me tell Mrs.

Lyman."

"Ken?"

She could see his head nodding before he said, "Yes."

A foreboding cloaked her with dread.

"Oh, God," she whimpered. "Lance, you found him?"

"Yes." He took a deep breath. In the darkness he found her clenched hands being pressed against her lips. He took them in his hand and warmed them between strong

fingers. "Erin, he's dead."

"No," she breathed, shaking her head in denial. It couldn't be true. God wasn't that cruel. "No," she said aloud with more emphasis.

Lance took her by the shoulders and said, "I'm sorry, Erin, believe me. They found him late last night in a dumpy hotel room on the outskirts of San Diego. Apparently he was waiting to slip across the border."

She was trying to absorb all the facts, but couldn't. Only one grim truth had significance. She would never see her brother alive. Kenneth Lyman was dead. She realized that Lance had stopped talking and asked listlessly, "How?"

Did it matter?

"We'll go into that later—"

"Tell me now," she said levelly.

"He was murdered," Lance sighed. "He had been robbed of pocket money, his watch, things like that.
Ironically, the suitcase with all the money in it was found intact under his bed." He waited for a moment before asking,

"Are you all right?"

"Yes," she said. Her calmness surprised her. "We'd better go tell Melanie." She didn't wait for him to say anything. She got out of bed and slipped into a robe. When she turned around, he was already out in the hallway.

At the door of Melanie's room he suggested, "Why don't you go in and wake her up. Call me when you're ready."

It was the hardest thing she had ever had to do in her life, but Erin went into the room, awakened Melanie, helped her get into her robe, and then stood by while Lance told the young woman about her husband's death.

Erin would have expected her sister-in-law to faint, cry, scream, or go into hysterics. But she listened calmly and dry-eyed.

When Lance finally finished telling her the facts, sparing her the details, she said tonelessly, "I think I knew that he was dead. I've had a feeling all day that I'd never see him again. It's strange how I knew."

She asked Lance what procedure they must follow and he answered her. "Well, we're sure it's him, but unfortunately you'll have to go down there and identify the body.

Because his demise was the result of a crime, you'll have to sign a lot of papers to have the body released. I can help you with all of that."

"Thank you, Mr. Barrett. I'll need your help, I'm sure."

"I'll call your parents—"

"No!" Melanie said with a newly acquired maturity.

"I'll do this myself. Except I want Erin to come with me."

Lance looked as if he were about to object on that point, but Erin said, "Of course," before he had a chance to speak.

His face showed grim acceptance as he checked his wristwatch and said, "I'll make the airline reservations.

It's six thirty now. Can you be ready in two hours or so?"

"Yes, we'll be ready," Melanie stated calmly.

THE EVENTS OF THE
next day and a half were forever a conglomeration of hazy recollections for Erin. She couldn't remember everything, though certain incidents would remain in her mind for the rest of her life.

Somehow she and Melanie managed to get themselves ready for the trip to San Diego in the alloted amount of time. They dressed for comfort and efficiency. Erin wore a navy blazer over an ivory silk blouse. Her skirt was caramel-colored wool. As they left the house, she took her leather trench coat off the halltree and carried it over her arm.

Melanie was similarly dressed and had pulled her hair back into a severe pony tail. Her face looked naked, scrubbed clean of makeup. But she was beautiful in the way of tragic heroines. Erin's heart went out to the young woman who exhibited such courage.

Lance drove the repaired government car to the airport.

Melanie sat quietly in her corner of the backseat. Erin's eyes were brimming with tears, but Melanie's remained dry. Her only evidence of grief was to grip Erin's hand during the flight from San Francisco to San Diego. They sat on the window and aisle seats, placing their purses and coats in the seat between them. Lance sat across the aisle from them and stared out the window for the entire trip.

He was polite to Melanie. He showed the same courtesy to Erin, but it was impersonal and remote.

When they were met at the airport by a man of Mike's caliber, he ushered t
hem to yet another innocuous au
tomobile. Lance sat in the front seat next to the taciturn driver while Erin and Melanie shared the backseat. The two men conversed in low tones, but their exact words were indistinct. Melanie watched the traffic and passing landscape like one hypnotized.

For hours it seemed they alternately stood or sat in dim, hushed corridors waiting for one official or another. Lance was in and out of offices, conferring with soberly dressed men who looked curiously at Melanie. Every so often she was interrogated. She answered the questions listlessly, but honestly.

Erin was rarely spoken to. Her only responsibility was to provide support to Melanie, who was going through this ordeal with more aplomb than Erin would ever have guessed she possessed.

Thankfully, Erin had to concede that Lance shielded Melanie from many of the unpleasantries. He must have cut through miles of red tape and helped to expedite the endless legal procedures. Every law enforcement agency—federal, state, and local—seemed to be involved to some extent, and each had to be provided with information and answers.

The sun had long since set when they left the last of the austere offices and drove to the county hospital. Erin dreaded this last stop. Although his identity had already been confirmed, they must go to the morgue and look at Ken's body before it could be released to them.

The man who had met them at the airport was escorting Melanie down the hallway toward a forbidding door at its end. Erin was following them. Lance was behind her.

Before they reached that looming door, he grasped her upper arm and turned her around to face him. "Erin, you're not going in there," he said quietly but firmly.

"Yes, I am. Melanie needs me."

"I'm going with her. You're not going in there," he repeated.

"Don't tell me what I am or am not going to do." She pulled her arm free of his firm grip. "I want to see my brother."

"No, you don't. Not like that." He took both her arms then. "Think, Erin. You have an image of him. He was a healthy, good-looking young man. Wouldn't you rather always think of him that way as . . . " His voice trailed off.

Then he urged, "You don't want your only vision of him to be like he is now. Don't go in there."

His pleading eyes and the tense, anxious set of his mouth convinced her he was right. She nodded her assent and slumped against him in defeat. He led her to a vinyl-covered sofa and sat her down. The other two had reached the door to the morgue and were waiting expectantly for Lance. He settled a reassuring hand on Erin's shoulder and whispered, "I won't be but a minute."

When the trio came back out into the hallway, Melanie was crying softly into a man's handkerchief. Erin rushed toward her and put her arms around the younger woman who seemed to have shrunk in the last few minutes.

In her hand she clutched a white piece of paper. Her tear-streaked face was pitiful as she looked at Erin. "They found this in his pocket. It's a letter to me, Erin. He loved me. He says so. He loved me." She fell against Erin's declining strength and sobbed as she continued to aver Ken's love for her.

Erin held Melanie against her as they sat on the same uncomfortable sofa while Lance arranged for the trans-port of Ken's body to San Francisco. Erin was glad that Melanie was crying. It was a much needed release and tears were cleansing. A weeping griever was better than the zombie Melanie had been all day, merely performing as she was expected to.

During the drive back to the airport and while they awaited their flight, Melanie continued to vent her grief.

She was exhausted by the time they boarded the airplane.

Luckily the late-night flight wasn't crowded.

A sensitive, sympathetic flight attendant suggested that they remove the arms separating the individual seats and allow Melanie to lie down. She didn't argue, and by the time Erin covered her with a blanket, she was subdued and lying with her tear-swollen eyes closed.

Lance, who had been conferring with his associate, was the last passenger to board. He took a seat beside Erin, stowing an ordinary looking suitcase under the seat in front of him. Erin knew what it must be and averted her eyes from it. The brown suitcase was something hideous that had destroyed her brother's life.

After the plane had taken off into the darkness and the lights of San Diego had
become no more than a multicol
ored blanket, Lance asked, "How is she?"

"The crying helped. She needed to do that. I think seeing his . . . his body confirmed his death in her mind."

She licked her lips and asked, "Was he . . . ?"

"No. It was a merciful murder," he said bitterly. "The coroner's report named asphyxiation as cause of death.

They probably smothered him in his sleep by placing a pillow over his face."

She covered her mouth with one hand and paled considerably but didn't say anything. She stared straight ahead.

"I'm grateful to him for having written that letter," she said musingly. "Whatever its contents, it seemed to reassure her of his love."

"Yes. I'm glad the burglars saw fit to leave that behind."

"Do they have any suspects?"

"No. It will go down as one of those unsolvable murders. Burglary was the motive. He—or they—were in and out in minutes. Obviously professional. Of course, we're lucky that they missed the money under the bed."

"Yes, aren't we though," she sneered. An uncontrollable urge to hurt him seized her. She wanted to punish him for treating her the way he had the night before. She wanted him to suffer under verbal attacks the way he had made her suffer.

"You should be very proud of yourself, Mr. Barrett.

You can go home the hero now. What do you say when you've succeeded in ruining someone's life? 'Well, boys, we can close the cover on this one.' Or maybe, 'Wrap this one up'?"

It wasn't fair. She knew it wasn't. He hadn't been responsible for Ken's crime. But she was hurt. She would never see her brother. All her dreams of establishing family ties, sharing, finding affection, had been cruelly dashed.

She wanted to lash out at something, someone, for the pain she was feeling. Lance was here. It wasn't fair, but she felt a perverse sense of satisfaction at seeing the lines around his mouth tighten. His eyebrows lowered over glowering eyes.

To escape that hard stare, she leaned her head back on the seat cushion and shut her eyes. A few minutes later, she felt rather than heard him stop a flight attendant as she made her way up the aisle.

Lance nudged her elbow and ordered, "Here, drink this."

He was holding a glass of liquor. "What is it?"

"Brandy. You need it."

She shook her head no. "I don't drink anything that strong."

He looked at her scornfully, then said, "Well I do." He gulped the first glass of the amber liquid and tears came to his eyes. He made a terrible face and sucked in his breath when the fiery liquor hit his stomach, but then he lay his head back and closed his eyes. "You really should try it. It does wonders for the nerves." He sipped at the other glass slowly.

For long moments neither of them spoke. When he did, his voice was softer. "I'm sorry about Lyman, Erin. I wouldn't have had it end this way."

She turned her head to face him. His eyes met hers across the inches of dusty upholstery that separated them.

"I know," she whispered. "What I said before was foolish and unfair. Forgive me?"

For an answer, he reached out and took her hand. He passed his brandy glass to a flight attendant, then moved into the middle seat next to the one by the window in which Erin sat. He raised the armrest separating them.

Very few lights remained on inside the aircraft. The few passengers on board were either sleeping or using the dim overhead lights above their seats. The flight attendants, after having seen to everyone's comfort, had retired to their assigned stations.

With her hand lying in the palm of his, he examined it with the fingers of his other hand. He traced the long, oval nails, the knuckles, and the fine delicate veins on the backs of her hand. His knee was pressing companionably against hers. Somehow her shoulder had come under the protection of his.