The Test (29 page)

Before pulling onto I-25, Ashley stopped at a 24-hour gas convenience station. Using Sandra's Visa card, she gassed up, purchased trail mix, beef jerky, assorted breakfast bars, packets of cheese, boxes of that sterilized milk, and a New Mexico map. It was one thirty a.m.

Returning to the car, she flipped on the overhead light and unfolded the map when a sheriff cruiser pulled up beside her. She jerked off the light and stuffed the map under the seat. The lone officer got out of his car and glanced suspiciously at the Taurus. Giving Ashley the briefest of nods, he headed into the store. She breathed a huge sigh. She had her Ashley Parnell driver's license, but would she have shown it?

She drove slowly, fighting the urge to get as far away from the sheriff as fast as possible. When she reached the first Interstate entrance, she took it. No more debate. She found herself retracing her path of the trip to Albuquerque on I-25 South the day before, passing the Santa Fe County Municipal Airport and through native American reservations. She kept scrupulously to the speed limit, resisting the urge to stare into the rearview mirror. If only she could drive into Albuquerque, find Ruthie, and hide out with her, but she knew she could never do that now. She drove past Las Cruces, New Mexico, and started to come up with a plan. She'd drive as far as El Paso, Texas, a city she judged would be big enough to have an airport and a bus and a train terminal.

Crossing the New Mexico–Texas state line at five thirty a.m., Ashley strained to locate a sign pointing out a bus or train station. Her stomach had started to rumble and she felt dangerously faint. Other than the three pieces of cheese she'd snatched at Sandra's and a glass of milk, she hadn't eaten since the previous morning's breakfast. Once she got to the airport, she'd be okay. But suddenly she questioned her plan. Since September eleven, IDs were being checked and double-checked at airports. So when she saw a sign for a bus depot, she headed for it. She parked
the Taurus in the long-term parking lot, and headed to the lone cab keeping vigil at the terminal's entrance.

“Train station.” She'd tossed her bags into the backseat and climbed in.

“'Lil lady, you're up early in the mornin',” the bulky driver drawled. “Change your mind?”

“What?” she asked.

“You show up at the bus depot and wantin' to go to the train. Now what's that all about?”

“Somebody dropped me off at the wrong place,” she said. “The jerk.”

“A Yankee lady,” the driver said turning around to get a better look. “Figures.”

Ashley said nothing during the rest of the ride. The driver stopped his commentary, and flipped from one radio station to another. When he dropped her off at the train station, she paid him ten of her precious dollars, gathered up her motley bags, and approached the terminal. She planned to take the first train heading somewhere. Later, she'd consider the possibility that the man who showed up at Sandra's might not have been from Conrad, but from her family. The thought of her family, especially Rory, tore at her resolve. But she couldn't take the chance of calling her family. She had to stick to her plan. She could not allow Conrad to force himself back into her life with his powerful mind control, probably enhanced by drugs. He wanted her inheritance, she was sure of that now. After that she'd be of no use to him. She'd have to stay missing until the money was disbursed. Even if it meant letting Rory down, perhaps killing her. She'd risk anything for Rory, except her child. Her unborn baby had to be protected from Conrad.

Departures were posted on the board in the center of the terminal. The Sunset Limited would depart for Orlando, with multiple stops in between, in thirty-five minutes. As Ashley stood trembling in the ticket line, she saw that the train made a stop in New Orleans. She'd been there with her parents when she was a teenager and had loved the offbeat characters, the unique culture, the fabulous food. Once in New Orleans, she knew she could blend in with the tourists until she figured out her next move. For now she'd purchase a ticket to Beaumont, Texas, which was half way to New Orleans. With any luck she'd manage to stay on
the train all the way to New Orleans. Once she got there, if she felt safe enough, she'd rethink her approach to Rory. She'd be in the second trimester of her pregnancy, a safer stage for a donor procedure.

Still thinking about Rory, Ashley boarded the train. As she searched out a seat, she became aware of the kneading sensation in her abdomen.

Dan had not expected such opulence as he stepped for the first time into the family's Learjet. As he and Preston settled into plush seats, he felt the strongest urge to smoke since he'd quit cold turkey right after the previous Easter. The cabin felt manly, like cigars and whisky. Dad and Frank must have entertained plenty of political cronies in the skies.

“Mind if I smoke?” Preston asked, pulling out a pack of Marlboros. “Now you know why I leaned on the senator to get the plane. You don't wanta be anywhere near me if I don't get my fix.”

Dan didn't object even though he was moving into a holier-than-thou attitude toward smokers. When Preston held out the pack toward him, he shook his head to decline. He did want one, but instead he reached inside his jacket pocket for the Nicorette gum he kept on hand for emergencies. Chan had given him some of that nicotine nasal spray for the tough urges, but it made his eyes burn and tear so badly he'd used it only once.

He must have drifted off to sleep right after the steward served a full-course meal. The plane had already landed when Preston's big hand squeezed his shoulder. “Time to rock and roll, sleeping beauty.”

Dan jerked his arm back, for a moment wide-eyed and confused.

“Sorry if I scared you.” Preston's deep baritone sounded reassuring. “Hey, anybody ever say how much you and your brother look like Bobby Kennedy?”

“That's what people say,” Dan said, rubbing his eyes. “Remarks like that used to piss off Dad. He was so Republican that the notion of his sons looking like the Kennedys irritated him. As for me, I don't like the Kennedy dynasty any better or worse than the Bush dynasty.”

“Read something about your brother takin' on old man Teddy in the Senate. Forget the issue.”

Dan stood to retrieve his jacket and the small duffel bag that Gina had packed. “Yeah, maybe. Me, I'm not political. Hell, I don't even have a voter's registration card.”

The year before, right after Florida's insane presidential election, he'd made the mistake of mentioning this to his father. Dan thought he'd have a stroke right there. The old man was dying of pancreatic cancer. He didn't need that kind of blatant disrespect. Paul and Frank were personal friends of the Bush family, staunch supporters of both George W. and Jeb in Florida. Dad was too far down cancer's path after last November's elections, but Frank was beside himself with politics as the Florida debacle tilted back and forth between George W. and Al Gore.

The air was still cool when they deplaned. “I love the West,” said Preston as they headed for the private terminal. “Wouldn't mind living out here. Get a ranch, a few horses, peaceful. How about you?”

“I have a ranch of sorts in Florida,” Dan said.

“Horses?” Preston asked as he adjusted what Dan guessed was a lapel microphone. “My kids would love horses.”

“No horses. No livestock. Just palm trees. I call it a plantation. Sounds better than a farm.”

“Cool, man. When I retire, I wanna go west. Maybe New Mexico. Maybe Arizona. Not as far as California.”

“Me, I'm never leaving the Sunshine State.”

“Let's grab coffee and some breakfast and review the plan,” Preston said as they climbed into their rented Land Cruiser. He sounded in charge. Good, Dan thought, because he didn't know what the hell they were supposed to do now. They found an isolated table in a diner not far from the airport. The sky was becoming pinkish in the east and Dan pulled off his watch to set it to Mountain time.

“As I see it, Ashley ran away to escape Welton and he's hell-bent on finding her,” Preston said, dialing his booming voice down. “Gotta be the money. He marries her. Then what?”

“He gets it,” Dan said.

“Yes. But is he satisfied with that?”

“What?” Dan looked perplexed.

“Call me paranoid. Call me clairvoyant. But people like Welton are psychopaths. Their sense of ego and entitlement has no bounds. They
have no conscience. In this case, I wouldn't put it past him to try to annihilate the entire panel of Parnell siblings. After all, he believes he
deserves
their money. He's
entitled
to it. And nobody is going to screw him out of it.”

“You're kidding. Right?” Dan stared at Jack Preston, a forkful of scrambled eggs poised midair. “You're saying he intends to kill us all?”

Preston took a second before answering. “First, let's consider his father. From what we know, they had a disastrous relationship. Started out okay. But something went wrong, and Conrad was sent to military school. There he had a few scrapes, like stealing money, bullying, but nothing that got him thrown out. But that two-bit trouble must have pissed the old man off and he effectively downgrades his son. He supported him but in a second-rate way. Conrad goes to Ohio State, brother Stanley gets Princeton.”

“What about the brother?” Dan asked, familiar with the over-achieving brother scenario.

“Five years younger. A plastic surgeon. Owns one of those fancy cosmetic centers. Married, two sons, a player in Cincinnati social circles.”

“Both physicians,” Dan commented.

“Yes, and Conrad, Sr., too, an orthopedic surgeon.” Preston continued. “Eventually, our boy gets into the University of Cincinnati Medical School on a scholarship and does a psychiatric residency there.”

“And his concentration is hypnosis?”

“It is. But let me tell you about a suspicious incident that happened in Cincinnati. Picture this: Conrad, Jr.'s a resident when Conrad, Sr. shows up in the ER complaining of chest pain. With a diagnosis of a
mild
heart attack, he gets sent to the coronary care unit with his son. Elevator stalls. Finally opens. Picture this: our boy's pumping away on a dead dad.”

Preston took a slug of coffee and resumed. “As for the will, our boy's totally cut out. Everything goes to Brother Stanley. An annuity for their mother, which reverts to Stanley at her death.”

“Rather harsh.” Dan was reminded of his own father's strange last will and testament.

“Then I learn there are rumors of a paternity issue. Remember, this was pre-DNA.” Preston paused as the waitress freshened their coffee.

“I dug up an attorney who said Conrad's mother had made inquiries about challenging her husband's will on our boy's behalf, but nothing came of it. Several months later, she overdoses on sleeping pills. From that point on, Welton's been estranged from his brother. Couple years later, brother Stanley's wife, Lenore, is killed in a hit-and-run.” Preston stopped long enough for a gulp of coffee. “Same year Lenore dies, our boy marries a nineteen-year-old heiress.” Preston went on to explain the tragic story of Crissy Moore. “Nobody's gonna tell me that's coincidence. But proof? Nada.”

Dan pushed his empty plate aside. “Jack,” he asked. “What's your theory on Meredith's death?”

“I've investigated all the angles. I don't see it being anything but an accident. A car collision, simple as that. But Carla, another story, maybe.”

“Carla?” Dan jerked back in his chair. “She was a drug addict. She relapsed. Overdosed. Frank sugarcoated all that shit to make it sound like anorexia, but we all know the truth. Don't we?”

“My guys are still checking in New York, so I won't say more. But you do recall her boyfriend was found dead too? Coincidence? I don't believe so, Dan.”

“Holy shit, you're saying that—”

“I'm only saying that our first priority is to find Ashley. Find her before Welton does.” The waitress appeared with the check and Jack Preston reached for it. “Parnell expense account,” he said. Then he switched to a whisper. “As long as Welton thinks your sister is alive, he'll track her down. His endgame? Get what he thinks he deserves. How? Coerce her into marrying him. Keep her alive. Eliminate the competition. Wallow in the entire Parnell inheritance.”

“You really believe this?” Dan asked, wondering who was the craziest, Conrad Welton or Jack Preston.

Preston scratched his smooth, black head. “Tell you the truth. I don't know. I have guys checking all the angles, and we'll see what happens here in New Mexico. Man, who would believe this scenario? That's what you're thinkin', right?”

“Yeah, that's what I'm thinking,” Dan agreed.

When they'd climbed back into the Land Cruiser, Jack explained to
Dan how Welton's private investigator had made it easy to pick up his trail. C. W. Crane had used his own name for a rental car and hotel. How that made things easy, Dan did not comprehend, but he assumed rightly that Preston was good at what he did. Earlier, Preston's man had followed the Crane guy to a small art gallery on the plaza, the center of the Santa Fe art scene. Crane was inside the gallery only five minutes, before he headed to a residential address on the outskirts of town. Preston's agent watched as Crane rang the doorbell and then stood talking to a slim, dark-haired woman. Preston showed Dan a digital image of the two chatting. After the woman closed the door, Preston's agent followed Crane back to his hotel and made arrangements for around-the-clock surveillance. Since then Crane had not left his hotel room.

“Okay, this is the place.” Jack pointed to a modest-sized adobe house situated in a cul-de-sac—a kid-friendly place, Dan judged, noticing the swing sets and basketball hoops. “Perhaps I shoulda had my guy talk to the woman yesterday, but I didn't want to spook her. So Dan, you're gonna ring the bell and play the caring-family card. If your sister's in there, she's running from her identity. She needs to be convinced that you'll protect her. I'm gonna wait in the car—for now.”