Blind Faith (22 page)

His palm grew sweaty as it clenched the armrest. A small noise caught in his throat.

"Grigory, you know what your uncle said. The family doesn't want any more trouble or," Dawson's tone grew sharp, "embarrassment."

"If my father was still alive—"

"Your father's dead, your uncle is in charge now. And he considers you a liability."

"No one felt that way when I was making them money."

"They lost all that money and more when they had to close down operations after your arrest. Business is going well now and your uncle doesn't want anything to jeopardize that."

Grigory slit his eyes, glancing at the lawyer with disdain. He was an artist stranded among money-grubbing pagans. They'd never understood that—no one did.

"Now, what's this town you wanted to buy property in?"

Grigory's smile bared his teeth. "Hopewell? It's up in the mountains. Very peaceful and quiet. I'm going to be able to do some of my best work there."

Sarah's sharp intake of breath echoed through the clearing. Sam couldn't sit still any longer. He stood and paced to the edge of the overhang. Moonlight glittered off the dark water of the reservoir nestled in the folds of the mountain. Below the dam, the lights of Hopewell twinkled like beacons surrounded by dark forest.

Sam gathered his strength and told his story. Speaking to the empty air before him was easier than facing her. "Alan was my roommate in college. He was the ambitious one, made it through law school, worked in corporate law long enough to realize there were easier ways to make money than toadying to partners and left to set up his own practice—with a very specialized clientele."

"Crooks?"

"Not all of them. More like independent financiers who weren't afraid to gamble if it meant a large return. Power brokers. Producers, agents—the men behind the scenes of Hollywood. He hired me to help skirt any tax issues. At first it was all legit—questionable maybe, but nothing illegal. It was kind of fun, outwitting Uncle Sam at his own game, using his own rules against him. Then Alan began to deal with people who liked to play with higher stakes. People with very large sums of money."

"People like your Russian." Sarah's disdain colored her voice.

"Yeah. People like Korsakov. I should have just walked away, but it was kind of…intoxicating. Seeing how far I could push the edge. And then, all the sudden I was over the edge and I didn't even know it." He turned to her, she had crossed to the center of the clearing, was closer than he'd expected. The moonlight danced around her and he wondered for a moment if this wasn't all some kind of dream.

Nightmare was more like it.

"When I realized what was going on, I was going to call the cops. But before I could, Korsakov invited me to his house for dinner. Feast, really. Like something out of a movie—caviar and champagne, truffles, vodka, a parade of beautiful women, gold platters. Then he took me to another room for dessert."

He fell silent and turned away once more, gagging as he remembered what that "dessert" had consisted of. The edge of the cliff was so close, he was half-tempted to step over, fly away—except the next stop was the dam about 500 feet below. He cleared his throat and gathered his courage. He had to tell her everything, prepare her for what had to happen next.

"There was a man waiting for us. He was tied to a chair, stripped naked. Bruised up, a wild look in his eyes, his voice was hoarse from screaming. He kept asking us who we were, what we wanted, why him. I tried to run, but Korsakov's men held me in place, made me watch as Korsakov ignored the man's pleas for mercy and tortured him. He kept up a running commentary on the history of each technique, who invented it, modifications he'd made, the success rate."

Sarah made a choking noise from behind him. He felt his words tumble out, he was so eager to finish. "I begged Korsakov to stop. He demanded an oath of loyalty to him and I gave it to him. I would have done anything to stop the screaming—well, almost anything. He handed me a gun, told me to go ahead, shoot the poor bastard, put him out of his misery. Held my arm to steady my aim. Told me it was the only way to end the suffering, that I'd be doing the man a favor."

He had to stop, his teeth were chattering too hard for the words to come out. He pulled his arms around him, goosebumps lined up along his arms. Then he felt her warmth as she added her arms to his, turning him into her embrace. He let her hold him until his shivering stopped.

"What happened?" she whispered.

He kept his face buried in her neck, refusing to release her. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't shoot him. So Korsakov took a plumber's torch and used it to burn out the guy's eyes. He must have hit an artery or something, because all this blood came gushing out and then he was dead."

His head ached with the memory of the awful silence that had descended over the room. A silence broken too quickly by Korsakov's laughter.

"I asked him who the man was, what he'd done to deserve such punishment. Korsakov told me he had no idea. The guy was someone they pulled off the street. Just to impress me with how seriously they took an oath of loyalty." His mouth was parched, he swallowed but his throat was dry and scratchy. "So that's when I came up with my plan. I began collecting information about Korsakov's activities and building a new identity for myself in Canada. When I had everything I needed, I went to the FBI. After Korsakov was convicted, they sent me here. Stan Diamontes accountant to the mob and world class snitch became Sam Durandt, mediocre song-writer and insurance salesman."

"You never told me." She pulled away from him, her expression clouded. "You let me believe…you brought a child into this world, knowing that someday we might all be in danger because of your past." Anger edged her voice once more. "Sam, how could you not tell me?"

"I wanted a new life, a new beginning. For us all. I was planning to tell you as soon as I had a new identity set up for you."

A frown wrinkled her forehead. "New identity? From the FBI?"

"No. I knew sooner or later Korsakov would get out of jail. So I set up an escape route. New passport, driver's license, even medical card, work history. Meet Samuel Deschamps, Canadian citizen."

"Deschamps?"

"When Josh came, I set up an ID for him too. It's easy for a baby. I used to take him across the border while you were working, he's even had several checkups by a pediatrician in Canada. But, after 9/11, I couldn't get a new passport or anything for you—at least nothing that was good enough to risk your life on."

"So you planned this? You took Josh and ran, left me behind? Why? How? There was all that blood and Damian Wright confessed. Sam, what the hell happened?"

Caitlyn opened the first box of files and sat at the table while Hal freshened their now-cold coffee. He brought the mugs over and sat beside her, a stack of papers piled before them. She kicked her shoes off and kneeled on her chair so that she could sort the papers into categories.

Hal licked his fingers clean of white powder. "Spilled the sugar. You want any in yours? Sorry, I don't have any milk."

"Black's fine. I've found the evidence reports and crime scene photos. See those blood smears? Those belong to Richland. Looks like he hit his head on that big rock, rolled around a bit."

"That's what you said happened to Wright. Then he dragged Sam's body away and took Josh. But if Richland was sent to kill Sam, why hide the body? And what did he do with Josh?"

Caitlyn pursed her lips, her thumb massaging her palm. Wow, still no headache, she could definitely get used to this. Just the faintest pressure behind her eyes, easy to rein in. "That's the big question, isn't it?" She glanced at him, his eyes bright as they met hers. "Maybe Richland didn't kill Josh? Maybe he and Sam are both still alive?"

Hal sucked in his breath, his right eye twitching as he pulled back. "No," he said, shaking his head. "Sam wouldn't do that, not to Sarah. He'd never betray her like that, steal her son away. Look at all that blood. It'd be a miracle for anyone to survive that. Not to mention having enough strength to kill a federal marshal and dispose of his body."

"You're right, Sam couldn't have moved Richland." She frowned, staring at the photos. It was a hell of a lot of blood, but it was also raining—could have been diluted. Still, there was no way, unless— "Maybe Sam had an accomplice?"

"Couldn't be Sarah, she was in Albany."

"We've been looking at this like a crime of opportunity because we thought Wright did it. What if this was a well-thought out, orchestrated plan and the only opportune part of it was Wright's arrival to act as patsy?"

"I don't understand. You think someone planned to kill Sam and Josh, planned to hide their bodies, then framed Wright as an after thought?"

"Murder 101—look to the family first."

He straightened, his jaw muscle spasming again. "I told you, Sarah had an iron clad alibi."

"Doesn't mean she couldn't have hired someone to do it for her. Maybe she's the one who called Logan, got him to send Richland? Or maybe poor old Richland really was just caught in the middle like Wright. Maybe she hired someone to kill Sam and Josh and things got out of hand."

For a moment Sam couldn't breathe. It was as if the darkness had entered his lungs, smothering him from the inside out. Surrendering to the flood of memories, he gazed around the clearing. His steps were jerky as he walked to the tree line and squatted, patting the ground.

"Here." The syllable sounded as shaky as the leaves rustling in the night breeze. "This is where it happened."

Sarah rushed to his side, joining him on the ground, her hands encircling his arm. He was trembling but her touch released the constriction in his chest and he could breathe again. He had to tell her everything, he knew that. At least he wouldn't be re-living it alone.

"There was a man. I saw him taking pictures of the kids, spying. I told Hal about it, he told me he'd call the feds, keep an eye on him." He shrugged. "I guess he must've used my name and it sent a signal to the wrong person. Anyway, two days later a US Marshal named Richland came knocking, said I had to leave immediately.

"You were in Albany, so of course, I said no, I couldn't. Then he drew his gun." He slapped his palm against the dirt at his feet, the memory of his helplessness surging through him. "That's when Josh came in, distracting Richland. I tackled him, yelled at Josh to run, run up to our safe place."

"Your safe place?" Her grip tightened painfully on his arm. Anger flooded her voice. Not much he could do about it except explain.

"I was always worried something like this might happen, so Josh and I had a secret hiding spot up the trail a bit. I taught him to go there if anything ever happened—it's a cave stocked with supplies. Just in case."

"Just in case." The words came in a whisper tight with fury. "And you never thought to tell me?"

"I thought about it every second of every day," he protested. "But how could I ask you to accept the risks of a life like that? How could you ever love the man I was? The man I am," he added with regret.

Her hands dropped and suddenly he felt light-years away from her. "Just tell me what happened."

"I knocked Richland down, scrambled out the door, figured I'd lose him in the woods. Or at least slow him down, take him in a different direction from Josh."

"Why didn't you go into town? Flag down help?"

"Who was I supposed to trust? I still have no idea how Richland found me, I'm not sure if it had anything to do with Damian Wright or not. At least I wasn't then. So I did the best I could."

"You ran."

"Yeah. But he caught up with me here. Shot me."

The scar on his side burned with the memory. His hand rose to rub it, silence it, but the pain spiraled into his gut, as vivid as the day it happened.

"The movies have it wrong," he continued, his gaze fixed on the small patch of earth that had almost become his grave. "You don't fly back or crumple to the ground. I didn't even hear the shot at first—it was like my brain was roaring, I couldn't hear anything. Then I felt this burning and I looked down and blood was everywhere."