King's Ransom (26 page)

The police
stopped instantly as the armed man took aim at King. But their guns remained
pointed at the man by the bar. There was just no way they could disarm him
without endangering the unarmed civilian, so they stood by, waiting anxiously
for the armed man to make a mistake, or have a change of heart and put down his
weapon.

"Why?"
King asked, fury and betrayal in his posture and voice.

"Why?"
Duncan repeated, and then his entire surface charm vanished. His face and
posture changed. Suddenly he didn't look like King at all. He looked old and
beaten.

"Because!
Because you were born with what I wanted. What I deserved," he snarled.
"Andrew was
my
brother before he was
your
father. You were
born with
my
face
. . . and they named
you
the 'King.' It
wasn't fair. It wasn't fair."

King was stunned.
He had to force himself not to shout as he spoke. "You blamed me for being
born?" he growled in disbelief. "You spent
...
no . . . wasted your life hating me for an accident of birth?
You pitiful son-of-a-bitch. I knew you were weak. I just didn't know you were
stupid."

His taunt struck
home as Duncan stood and glared furiously at the man he should have been.
"Shut up," he warned, and took steadier aim at the third button on
King's shirt.

"Back off,
mister," the police said to King, but he ignored them as well as their
order.

"Go
ahead," King shouted, losing what was left of his control. "Shoot an
unarmed man. I know you're capable. Anyone who'd use an innocent woman just to
get back at me would do anything."

Duncan's face
crumpled. For the first time, King saw genuine regret.

"She wasn't
supposed to get hurt," he muttered. "He wasn't supposed to touch
her."

"No?" King
drawled sarcastically. "You were just going to kidnap her, scare her to
death, cause her mental anguish for the rest of her life, but you weren't
going to hurt her? What the hell kind of a twisted plot is that?"

"Well,"
Duncan sneered, "it wasn't smart. I'll admit that. But after all, what did
you expect? I'm not the 'King.' So," he continued, "where does that
leave us? I have no intention of going to jail and watching you walk away with
everything, including Jesse."

King started
forward, taking each step with controlled deliberation.

"Now's your
chance," he snarled back in Duncan's face. "Pull the damn trigger,
and get your misery over with."

"No!" a
policeman shouted at King.

"Drop your
weapon," the other ordered Duncan.

But the big man
didn't stop advancing, and his mirror image remained, gun aimed, poised at the
edge of making the last big mistake of his life.

Duncan blinked,
startled that King was no longer under his control. He felt a sick, sinking
feeling start at the bottom of his boots and crawl steadily upwards toward the
huge knot of horror stuck in his throat. Now he had to make a choice, and he
knew he had none left.

Duncan took
unsteady aim, cocked the pistol, and called aloud in a jeering fashion,
"The King is dead, long live the King."

A shot rang out.
King stopped, his next step forgotten as the wide, spreading pain tightened
around his chest. A denial of rage erupted from his mouth, but it was too late.
He watched, horrified, as Duncan dropped limply to the floor, the life in his
eyes disappearing as a pool of blood appeared beneath him.

Duncan
McCandless, as usual, had taken the easy way out of a bad situation. He'd taken
his own life.

"Aw,
hell," one of the policemen muttered as they pushed past King's frozen
figure. "Get an ambulance," he ordered, and his partner quickly
responded.

Neither man had
time to spend assuring King there was nothing that could have prevented this.
When a crazy man has a loaded gun, someone's bound to get hurt. He could have
just as easily turned it on them.

King turned and
walked blindly toward the open door into the hall as the pain in his chest
expanded into his mind. He felt helpless, uncertain, and betrayed in a way he'd
never imagined.

The arrival of
paramedics and OSBI officers clogged the narrow hallway as King wandered
aimlessly toward the elevator. He had to get away from this nightmare. The only
thing that was keeping him from coming apart was the thought of Jesse. She was
out there . . . somewhere. And he knew he had to find her.

"What's
happening?" Jesse asked nervously, as Captain Shockey maneuvered his way
through Tulsa traffic, a red light on the dash of his car flashing a warning to
allow him easier access. Jesse could hear the traffic on the police radio, but
nearly everything was in code. She couldn't decipher their messages, yet the
look on Shockey's face told Jesse something was wrong. She was afraid of his
answer.

"Police and
paramedics are on the scene," he replied gruffly.

"Paramedics?"
Jesse felt sick to her stomach. It was almost more than she could ask.
"Someone is hurt?"

Shockey hitched
his position in the car seat, trying to find a cooler, more comfortable spot.
But the sun coming through the windows beat out the faltering air conditioner's
weak airflow, and the seats in these cars weren't ever going to be comfortable.
One way or another, a policeman was always on a hot seat. Finally, he cleared
his throat and blurted out, "Someone's not hurt," he replied.
"Someone is dead."

"Not King,"
she moaned, and buried her face in her hands. It wasn't King. She couldn't face
it if it was. "Hurry, please!" She choked back a sob, and gripped the
armrest on the car door until her fingers turned white.

There were so
many official vehicles in the apartment parking lot that Shockey had trouble
turning into the entry way. Jesse looked frantically from man to man in the
milling crowd around the cars and in the doorway. She saw nothing but uniforms.

Shockey hit the
brakes, flashing his badge as an officer momentarily halted their progress.
Jesse took the opportunity to bolt from the car. She was out and pushing her
way through the policemen before Shockey had unbuckled his seat belt. Her heart
was pounding so viciously against her ribcage that it hurt to breathe. Fear
weakened her legs so that each step she took was a test of endurance. Yet she
continued blindly toward the darkened doorway, shaded by a wide, striped awning
over the walkway. More than one officer noted the pretty, dark-haired woman in
the green dress darting through the crowd, but each time a hand stretched out
to restrain her, she would elude the order to stop.

King saw a flash
of green coming through the crowd, and felt all the anxiety of the last few
minutes pour from him in a rush. It was Jesse. He fixed on that sundress with
desperation, and came out of the shadowed doorway into the sun.

Jesse saw him
pause, saw the stunned, blank expression and the almost aimless stride. Then
she saw him focus and start toward her with unwavering determination. She was
in his arms!

King clutched
desperately, tangling his fingers in her hair as he drew strength and sanity
just from holding her against his heart. He couldn't talk. It was beyond him to
tell her, at least
...
not yet. He
couldn't admit to himself the festering guilt that was beginning to spread
inside him. How had he been so blind? How could he have been so unaware of such
vicious, demented hate? Maybe if he'd noticed sooner? There had to have been
signals over the years. Maybe . . . just maybe he could have prevented this.
But it was too late to speculate. Jesse had nearly died . . . and Duncan
was
dead. And in some
way, King had decided, it was all his fault.

Jesse felt him
begin to shake, felt the desperation in his grasp, and tightened her hold on
him, breathing a prayer of thanksgiving that he was alive and in her arms.

Minutes passed.
They were surrounded by OSBI and Captain Shockey, all wanting answers to their
questions. They wanted to know what had tipped him off. How had he realized
who was the mastermind behind Jesse's failed kidnapping? Finally King had
enough.

"We're going
home," he said tersely, daring anyone to argue. "If you have any
other questions, come to the ranch, or call. You have our number."

No one disagreed
as King ushered Jesse toward the car.

"King,"
Jesse said. "Let me drive."

He looked down at
the concern on her face, and the way she kept holding back tears. His mind was
blanking out. Whenever there was a lull in the conversation, King saw that
last look on Duncan's face over and over. He knew if he got behind the wheel of
the car, he wouldn't see traffic. He wouldn't hear anything but Duncan's last
accusations flung into his face.

He nodded, opened
the door on the driver's side for Jesse, then hurried around to get in. A KTUL
camera crew had just arrived. He had no desire to be on the six o'clock news.

"We're
home," Jesse said quietly. She pulled into the long driveway and looked at
King with a worried expression in her eyes. He'd ridden the entire trip without
speaking a word.

He blinked,
looked up with a startled expression, and then wearily wiped his hands across
his burning eyes.

"How am I
going to tell everyone?" he muttered. "What do I say? Oh, by the way,
Duncan is dead now? He hated me so much that when his plan to get even failed,
he shot himself?"

"King,"
Jesse rebuked softly. "It's not your fault. Nor is it mine. I could be
sitting here telling myself that if I'd loved him, instead of you, you'd both
be alive. The world does not run on 'what ifs.' "

King glanced
sideways at Jesse, grimaced, and then opened the door.

"I'll tell
Maggie. I'll find the words . . . somehow."

"We'll tell
her together, King," she replied, as she walked beside him toward the
house. She slipped her hand in his and squeezed gently. "We'll tell them
all
together.''

Somehow the deed
had been accomplished. Uttering the words aloud had, in some way, increased the
horror. But the telling was over. Now all they had to do was bury Duncan and
get on with their lives. It was easier said than done.

It was late as
Maggie bid good night and finally departed to her bedroom for a much needed
rest. Jesse walked through the house, moving quietly on bare feet as she
checked the locks on the doors. This was usually something King did, but not tonight.
Jesse knew a nightly routine would be the last thing on his mind.

The memorial
service had been disastrous. How could one mourn the loss of a stranger? That's
what Duncan had become. All Jesse had been able to do was say a prayer, hoping
he'd find a peace that had escaped him in life elsewhere. She hadn't known what
King was thinking during the services. He'd remained too silent, watching it
all from a distance, not allowing himself to grieve in any manner. As soon as
they'd come home, King shut himself in the den . . . away from phone calls . .
. away from sympathy or pity.

But it was late,
and Jesse had worried herself into tomorrow. King had had enough time alone.
She was going in, and she wasn't taking no for an answer.

She opened the
door and stood silently in the doorway, allowing her eyes to adjust to the
darkness inside.

"Close the
door."

King's voice came
out of the shadows and Jesse stepped inside, complying with his gruff order.

"Where are
you?" Jesse asked softly, and started to turn on the lamp beside the door
when another order in the form of a plea stopped her hand.

"Don't turn
on the light, please."

Jesse followed
the sound of his voice to the long, overstuffed leather sofa in the middle of
the room. She stopped as her foot touched the corner, walked around behind the
sofa, and traced her hand along the cushions and down the side until she felt
the uneven rise and fall of King's bare chest.

"Sweetheart,"
Jesse said, and then felt King clutch at her hands in desperation.

"Come
here," he coaxed, as he reached upward, pulling Jesse gently off her feet
and over the back of the sofa until she lay stretched full length on top of
him.