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Authors: Janet Dailey

BOOK: Bannon Brothers
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Montgomery smiled. “Did you have horses growing up, Erin?”
She swallowed hard and shook her head. “Not really. Unless you count our old plowhorse. He was too smart to work.”
“Ah. I didn't know you grew up on a farm.”
“It wasn't a working farm by the time we bought it.”
“Tell me more. I really don't know much about you, Erin.”
“There's not that much to tell,” she admitted, especially since she wasn't sure anymore what the truth was. “My mother used to be a teacher, but I was homeschooled.”
“You seem to have had a good education.”
Did her voice sound as brittle as she felt? “Oh, I learned a little something about practically everything.” She forced a smile. “My father let me hang around in his workshop. He was an inventor—we lived on the income from some of his patents.”
“I see. Were you an only child?” The question rocked her. His vanished daughter had been his one and only. She hoped that he didn't see Ann when he looked at her, then chided herself for the thought.
“Yes, in a way. I did have a brother, but he died before I was born. He was only two, I think. Maybe three. My folks never talked about him.”
Montgomery nodded. His next question was tentative and gently voiced. It was almost as if he'd guessed the answer before he asked. Stroke or no stroke, he was shrewd, she thought.
“Are they still alive?”
“No.”
“I'm sorry,” he said. “And I shouldn't pry.”
“It was a while ago,” she said.
“Yes.” His tone grew curt. “But even so . . . some things don't get easier to bear. I—I suppose you know about my daughter.”
A sudden, almost unbearable curiosity consumed her. She nearly asked why he didn't mention his wife. “Just what I saw on the news. I'm sorry—” She hesitated, not knowing quite how to express her concern. “I hope the case being opened again didn't shock you too much.”
He didn't respond for a few moments, lost in thought. “Ann would have been about your age.”
“I—I think I heard that.” Erin's heart sank. Should she tell him? Ask questions? How much did he know?
Montgomery's eyes clouded over. “Gone. Not forgotten. Not ever.” He paused to compose himself. “Well, let's talk of happier things. Mrs. Meriweather came by. She asked about you.”
Erin didn't know whether to be grateful for the abrupt change of subject. She felt like crying. “I should call her. She's very nice.”
“She happened to mention that you have a small house in the country—”
“It's not mine,” Erin said quickly. “A girlfriend of mine owns it—she's living up in Vermont.”
“I see. Mrs. Meriweather said she'd been driving through—” He stopped, looking confused. Erin supplied the name of the little town and he nodded. “That was the place.”
“The house isn't in town, though,” Erin said. “It's about five miles out. Maybe six.”
“Oh. She said she stopped by and saw your car in front, but that you weren't there.”
Remembered fear clenched at her insides. The thought of the sweet old lady out there alone after what had happened made her feel suddenly shaky. But she'd had no way of knowing that Mrs. Meriweather would pay a call. Thank God nothing had happened.
“If it was the afternoon,” she said in a controlled voice, “I was out with Charlie.”
Montgomery raised an inquiring eyebrow.
“He's my temporary dog—he belongs to a friend of mine.”
“Oh.”
She tensed, inwardly hanging on to her self-control and switching the subject herself. “I'm sorry I missed Mrs. Meriweather, though.”
He didn't seem to want to ask any more questions, just let his gaze move over her face. Erin stopped talking, disconcerted.
“You remind me of someone,” he said, catching himself. “That tilt of the head when you seem thoughtful, the way you did just then. Or is it—never mind. I might be imagining things. My memory has been playing tricks on me.”
“Oh.” She knew he meant his missing daughter. Her. But his quick dismissal of it as a trick of his memory told Erin the resemblance he spoke of wasn't to him. Her mirror had told her the same thing.
“The neurologist told me to expect memory lapses. He says it should improve in time. But he can't say when.”
“That's too bad,” she said sympathetically.
“Numbers escape me. And I can't quite connect faces with names.”
“I understand,” she assured him. “That happens to me sometimes. Although I don't have—any experience with what happened to you.”
Montgomery's pensive expression grew sad. “And I hope you never will. My apologies. I didn't mean to bring that up.”
Erin was glad that their conversation hadn't taken any wrong turns. She hadn't cracked or burst into tears. Even hinting at what she now knew could have derailed everything. She wanted to take her time. If she was his daughter, she wanted to hear him say it. That meant more to her than anything. The evidence didn't.
Vernette came back, her sensible shoes squeaking faintly on the tiled floor of the solarium. “Sorry to interrupt,” she said quietly. “I just wanted to check on Mr. Montgomery.”
“And for once I'm happy to see you,” he said, teasing her before she could start in on him.
They seemed to have become fast friends. Erin was glad that he hadn't been left to Caroline's tender mercies.
Montgomery seemed tired, more tired than before, and there were gray circles under his eyes.
Erin gathered up her things and made her good-byes to both of them. He was nothing like he'd been at their first meeting. She was no longer intimidated, only sad for him. And for herself.
His mind might fade away before they could get to know each other as father and daughter. What if they ran out of time?
She followed the butler out the way she'd come in, not thinking too clearly herself.
CHAPTER 20
E
rin maneuvered around the curves of the long driveway, back to the main road. But she didn't head in a direction that would take her to Wainsville. She drove out to the west instead, over roads she knew well, not paying much attention, lost in thought.
Spending time with Mr. Montgomery and seeing for herself the aftereffects of his stroke left her shaky. She hadn't been able to even hint at the things Bannon had gone over with her. If she had been abducted, if she were his long-lost daughter—she still couldn't get her mind around either one.
When she got back to Bannon's condo, she was going to open up those boxes from the TV station and try to take a long, hard look at everything now that she was calmer. Driving did help—once her hands were on the steering wheel, she could concentrate on the road and not her troubles. But the steady feeling might be something like the eye of a hurricane—a deceptive lull. What she didn't know and hadn't seen might knock her down.
Bannon wasn't going to stop investigating the Montgomery case, no matter the risk—and what had happened to her was next on his To Do list. Nice of him to care that much.
He did care.
Good going
, she told herself ruefully.
You had to go and get mixed up with a detective
. He liked to live dangerously, she didn't. Finding out what people wanted to hide was a good way to get whacked.
She had been hidden for so long. That had taken thought and planning and a measure of luck. Still, during all those years someone could have noticed that the little Randall girl seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, even if no one ever went to the authorities. There had to have been someone who'd glimpsed her once or twice. She had a fierce need to believe that.
See me. Hear me
. She had been too young to say those words and no one had. She might as well have been invisible.
Their old farmhouse had been out in the middle of nowhere. There was no return address on the letters her mother would write from time to time. They sat in sealed envelopes for weeks, not stamped, unsent. The post office was miles away and her father never let her mother drive the banged-up car he kept in a garage with locked doors.
Erin had had no idea at the time whom the letters were meant for. She'd been old enough to read, but she didn't remember the names or addresses on the front.
Those details were forever lost. The Randalls were dead, their possessions destroyed.
Erin looked into the rearview mirror and saw that the road behind her was empty. She drove faster.
She had to see where she'd come from. Even though there was nothing to see.
Twenty minutes later, she pulled over again. This time she was well off the main road. The trees had grown back some since her last visit here, but there was still an empty spot where the house had stood.
The smell of ashes was long gone, but the black ruins of what had been the Randall farmhouse were still there. She'd driven away from the only home she'd ever known in a rattletrap car her father had fixed up, on her way to college. Her parents were still living here then, almost recluses, but they, too, were elsewhere on the evening of the fire.
A conscientious deputy had called her, revealing a little too much in his eagerness to be helpful. Her mom and dad had refused to cooperate with the police investigation. The fire had been chalked up to arson. Perpetrator unknown.
They had died within months of each other of natural causes after their home had gone up in flames. Whatever clues to her real identity there might have been within its walls were ashes too.
Erin didn't stay long. The sight of the ruins affected her differently this time around. She literally couldn't stand to look at the scene now.
She still didn't head back to Wainsville. Erin just wanted to keep moving, and she did, for the better part of an hour. The roads changed but she stared straight ahead, thinking and thinking.
About Bannon, mostly.
She wanted him passionately. She had from the start. Why? Maybe it had something to do with the way he took care of her.
What lay ahead was anyone's guess. Erin sighed and turned off onto an intersection that looked familiar. Wainsville was about ten miles thataway. She'd been driving in an irregular circle many miles in diameter. It was time to go back.
Erin realized she hadn't called Bannon when she'd arrived at Montgomery's house. This long after her departure, it seemed beside the point, but she decided to text him. Easier than talking. He didn't have to know where she was right now, and if he asked, she could always say that the text had been delayed.
Got here @ 1 pm. Leaving in a while.
Not now. Not even soon. If he picked up on the fact that she needed more time and wasn't going to ask him for it, then good. The short message was meant to be vague.
 
Bannon's cell phone chimed in his shirt pocket.
“Excuse me,” he said to Doris. “Incoming text.”
She rolled her eyes. “Do me a favor,” she replied. “If you and everyone else in your generation—”
“That's a lot of people,” he said with a wink.
“Okay, then just you. If you would stop acting like you're guiding a jet with a blown engine down to an emergency landing on Runway Nine every time your cell phone makes noise, I would be very happy. Incoming, my bunny slippers. Want some coffee?”
“Sure.” It was tactful of her to excuse herself, even if all he had to do was pick up the message, not listen or talk. He punched the button to read it, and frowned.
Got here @ 1 pm. Leaving in a while.
Not very informative. But it was better than nothing.
He turned back to the boxes Doris had brought from the police station. The two of them had been organizing all the evidence.
“Wait for me,” she called. “I don't trust you to follow my system.”
“Okay,” he replied, lifting out more papers and photos anyway.
She came back in with two cups on a tray. “I knew you wouldn't listen.”
Bannon looked at the cups. “They're empty.”
“Yeah. On purpose. I'm not going to let you spill coffee on stolen evidence just because you get excited easily.”
“You know I'm always careful,” he said absently, holding up what he'd been looking for. “Yay. Here's the Ann Montgomery photos. I wanted to get a better look at those—do you know I have a digital microscope? And don't call me Sherlock,” he added quickly.
“I won't. By the way, there are some new photos in there,” she said, setting down the cups well away from the boxes. “Old but new to you, I mean.”
“Got it.”
Bannon looked through them all. The last one stopped him cold and his eyes widened. He double-checked the back of it for an evidence tag.
Yup, it was Luanne Montgomery. Young—too young, by his guess, to have had a baby. She was incredibly pretty. Slim. The bathing suit she was wearing clung to her skin. Her wet hair was pulled back, completely off her face, and she wasn't wearing any makeup.
He could have been looking at Erin, right out of the shower. The two women were nearly identical. Like mother and daughter.
 
Bannon had returned home by the time Erin walked through the door. He had brought back the boxes of evidence, placed them on top of the larger ones from the TV station.
“Hello,” she said. From her closed expression, Bannon figured she wasn't inclined to talk. He wasn't going to press her. Seeing Montgomery must have been a strange experience, to say the least, considering that she knew he was almost certainly her father.
Her gaze moved over the room. Unfortunately, she seemed to notice the new boxes right away.
“What are those?” she asked without much interest.
“Doris found more boxes of evidence.”
She nodded. “And she brought them home?” Her face turned to the new boxes, then back to him.
Bannon got up. “Yes. It's all from the Montgomery files. You can go through them if you like.”
Erin's expression was noncommittal. “Okay. Maybe later.”
He could take a hint. “I think I'll head out for a jog. I just walked Charlie, so he's good for a while.” He moved toward the bedroom. “Gotta change, then I'm out of here.”
She didn't look up when he came out in shorts and a T-shirt, and Bannon went straight to the door. “See you in about an hour. Maybe two hours if I have the energy to finish up with laps around the high school track.”
“Okay.” Erin leaned back as the lock clicked behind him. His casual attitude didn't fool her. There was something important in the new boxes that Doris had brought.
He wanted her to find it for herself.
 
One functioning strap was still attached to the crummy backpack slung over Paul's shoulder. He knocked and then fiddled with the other strap, which was torn, until Hoebel unlocked the door of the basement office for him.
“What's up?” he asked.
“You're late,” Hoebel growled.
“So what?” Paul grabbed a metal folding chair and unzipped his backpack, taking out his laptop. The thing had acquired a few more skateboarding stickers on its aluminum case since the last time Hoebel had seen it.
“Can't you afford a better machine?”
Paul yawned and scratched himself under his sweatshirt. “Nobody wants to steal an ugly one.”
“You have a point, punk.” Hoebel had to admit it. But sometimes he had a tough time believing that he'd entrusted a kid like this with secrets that could put them both in a federal pen. “I was thinking of buying you a shiny new one. Part of your bonus when you hook the Montgomery money for me.”
“Don't bother. I live in a dorm,” Paul reminded him. “With nine million other punks.”
“Did any of them ever hack you?”
“Lots of times. We do it back and forth to see if we can catch each other. Trojan horse attacks, mash-up malware, auto-porno installs. It's fun.”
Hoebel shot him a wary look. “Are you serious?”
The hacker rolled his eyes. “Dude, this particular laptop is pure.”
“Really.”
“Unhackable, if you want to know. I carry it with me everywhere. I sleep with it. So are you going out for pizza or what?”
Hoebel reached for his wallet and peered inside the leather flap. “Let me look—yep, two twenties. At least you're cheap to feed.”
Paul nodded and opened his laptop, booting it up and picking a browser from five on the screen. “I pride myself on that. Pepperoni, extra cheese. Two cans of Coke. I need sugar and caffeine. This is going to take a while. And come back with a chunk of cash if you don't have any. You owe me.”
Hoebel scowled and put his wallet back. “Maybe I should learn to do my own hacking.”
The kid snorted with disgust. “You don't have what it takes.”
“I could learn. You learned.”
Paul shook his head as he pulled up a pirate music site. “Hey, I could teach.” He made his voice sound like a late-night TV ad. “Are you under twenty-five, with a flexible sense of right and wrong? Study up on kick-ass code and break every law in the book for your degree in hackology.”
“Ha ha.”
“Don't laugh. I'm not going to teach you.”
Hoebel opened the door and looked both ways down the hall. “Didn't think so. Get started. I'll be right back.”
Paul's colorless eyes barely blinked as he heard the door slam shut behind Hoebel.
 
The chief unlocked the door while balancing a pizza box and a plastic bag of Cokes, paper plates, and napkins. He was thinking that it was nice of Bill, the security guard at the business upstairs, to loan them this room. Of course, Bill wanted to join the boys in blue and Hoebel would help him with that. Even if he didn't have a prayer of passing the exam or the background security check. Bill could man a desk and chow down on crullers with the best of them.
“Mmm. Smells like a heart attack,” Paul said with satisfaction. He didn't turn around.
Hoebel kicked the door shut and slung the pizza box on a battered L-shaped desk that had been brought into the room and forgotten. “Let's eat.”
“Throw a couple slices on a plate and bring 'em here,” Paul said absentmindedly.
“You into Montgomery's account yet?” The chief pried open the lid and pulled at two greasy slices. Melted cheese on the hot dough stuck to his fingers and he blew on them.
“Not yet.”

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