Twisted Shadows (10 page)

“At least Nicholas Merritt will,” Nate agreed. “But by then we'll know more about her. What buttons to push.” His voice was purposely cold. He'd acted entirely contrary to form at the airport. He didn't intend to let that happen again.

Sam woke at dawn. She'd slept restlessly even for the few hours she'd been able to shut out thoughts.

She dressed hurriedly and checked out, just in case anyone was looking for someone who had paid cash. That was, she knew, unusual in today's world of plastic.

She checked her bag with the bellman, knowing from extensive experience at hotels that the only record was a numbered claim ticket. She'd taken her personal identification tag off. She'd wandered out, looking first for breakfast, then for a pay telephone.

She read the paper at the coffee shop, first anxiously skimming headlines for anything to do with Merrittas, or crime, or an incident at the airport. Finding nothing, she forced herself to read it as she usually did. She'd always been a newspaper addict, but now it was as much about consuming time as natural curiosity. Nine was when most offices opened. Nine was when she might be able to reach Nicholas Merritt.

Reading the paper, she realized, was an attempt to bring normalcy into a life that had become anything but normal.

She checked her watch again. Eight-thirty. She paid the bill and left the shop and headed three blocks to a large office complex. It would have telephones in the lobby. She reached it a few minutes later and found the pay telephones. Taking a long breath, she dialed the number she'd looked up the night before.

To her surprise, a real voice answered. She'd been ready for a long, involved menu.

“Mr. Merritt, please.”

“I'll put you through to his office.”

Then a second voice came on the phone. “Mr. Merritt's office.”

“Is Mr. Merritt in?”

“May I tell him who is calling?”

Sam willed away the queasiness in her stomach. “Samantha Carroll.”

“And may I tell him what this is regarding?”

“It's personal. A family matter.”

There was a short silence. Then a deep, wary voice said, “This is Merritt.”

“Nicholas Merritt?” Her knees were rubbery, and she could barely keep from stuttering.

“Yes,” he said abruptly. “You mentioned a family matter?”

“Have you ever heard of Tracy Edwards?”

A long pause, then a harsh reply. “Why in the hell are you calling and what do you want?”

She took a deep breath. “My name is Samantha. Tracy Edwards is my mother and, I believe, yours.” She continued quickly. “I was born on August 15, 1967, in Boston.”

“I don't know what you want, or what this is about, but my mother died a long time ago.” His voice grew rougher. “If this is some scam—”

“No,” she said quickly. “Please listen. I don't want anything from you. But Paul Merritta sent someone to tell me that he … was my father and you were my brother. My twin brother. They said he was dying.”

A long silence. At least he hadn't hung up.

She hurried on. “One of the men showed me birth certificates. Photos. He asked me to come to Boston. I have an … appointment with Mr. Merritta tomorrow. I wanted to meet you first.”

“My mother and sister are dead,” he said flatly.

“No,” she said, not sure how hard she should push. She knew he wanted to slam the phone down. It was exactly what she would have wanted to do.

“No?” he said with a sarcastic edge in his voice. “If this is some sick joke or another scheme of my father's …”

He was about to hang up. She knew by the anger and impatience in his voice that she had only a few seconds to convince him.

“Please. Just take a look at the documents I was given. Then tell me whether they could be real.” She was speaking rapidly to keep him from hanging up.

“Look, Miss … what in the hell did you say your name was?”

“Samantha Carroll, but now I've been told I was born Nicole Merritta. I live in Colorado. I know how you must feel. When I was told … well, I was in shock. I'm still in shock. But at least
I
want to know the truth.” Her carefully rehearsed speech had gone down the tubes. She knew she was about to lose him.

There was another momentary silence. Then, “Someone is playing a very nasty trick on you.”

“Do
you
know someone named Tommy? About fifty? Bulky? Rolex watch? He was one of the men who visited me, who said he was sent by Paul Merritta.”

She heard a muttered oath, then, “What do you want?”

“The truth. Nothing else. I have a career. A life. I'm content. But I have to know if I have a brother.”

A silence.

“A
twin
brother,” she emphasized.

“My sister's dead,” he insisted again. “She died with my mother in an accident.”

Her heart quickened. So he knew about a twin sister. She knew what he must be feeling. Doubt, and a lot of it. The anger came later. She hurried on. “I know how you feel. I felt the same way. I
still
feel that way. But it was your father who contacted me.”

“If this is a con …” he started, then stopped abruptly. “Where do you want to meet?”

She'd noticed a small seafood restaurant down the street. “The Chowder House?” she asked. “It's on—”

“I know where it is,” he said. “At two? It won't be so crowded. How will I know you?”

“I'll know you,” she said. “I have a photo.”

“I'll be just inside the door,” he said. “Don't show up if you're not who you say you are.”

The phone went dead. She held the receiver for a moment, then placed it gently in its cradle. She looked at her watch. Five hours before she would meet him.

And five hours avoiding whoever wanted to find her. The image of the sandy-haired man from last night sprang back into her mind, followed by those of the two larger men who'd approached her at the airport. She remembered the fear that had run down her spine.

Had the first man deliberately headed the others off, as she'd thought? Or had it been one of those coincidences that seemed to come straight from the Twilight Zone?

Maybe Nicholas Merritt would know who they were. And why someone might be tracking her.

If he even acknowledged her.

seven

Sam took one last look at herself in an office building rest room.

She had tramped around Boston for hours and was in the same clothes she'd worn this morning. A pair of slacks, a coral blouse with long sleeves and a matching scarf. Black sandals.

Fine for Steamboat Springs. Not so fine for Boston. Or for the first meeting with a brother she hadn't known existed until a few days ago.

But her dress was in her luggage back at the hotel, and acting on an excess of caution, she hadn't wanted to chance a meeting with someone who might be looking for her. Maybe later.

Paranoia again. She knew it, yet she couldn't dismiss the events of the past few days. Paranoia might be a good thing.

A look at her watch. One-forty.

She checked her purse, making sure the birth certificates and photos were there. Then she took a deep breath and left the relative safety of the rest room.

The streets were busy with people in a rush. Returning from lunch. Shopping. Going to business appointments. She felt very alone in the crowd. Stomach churning, she forced herself to walk to the restaurant.

He was just inside the door. Even if she hadn't seen the photo, she would have known him. His eyes were a deeper blue than her own. Almost black, in fact. Or maybe it was the lighting. His hair was also darker than her own and it had a reddish tint that hers had never had.

Her breath caught in her throat as their eyes met, and she knew her pulse was racing. Her brother. It hadn't really been real until this moment, but now she saw herself in him, and a jab of familiarity made her reach for a wall to steady herself.

His eyes sharpened and his body stiffened as he saw her, and his hand grasped her elbow to catch her. Just as quickly he withdrew it. His gaze traveled over her, lingering on her eyes. “Miss Carroll?”

She nodded. She knew she was looking at him with the same intensity that radiated from him.

He shook his head as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. Then he seemed to jerk out of the daze and looked for the maître d'. Almost immediately they had a table, although there were people waiting.

Nick Merritt remained standing as the maître d' pulled out the chair for her. Then he sat down across from her.

He studied her carefully. “There are similarities,” he finally admitted. “But blue eyes and dark hair are not uncommon. Easy for them to find.”

“Them?”

His lips turned upward, but the expression couldn't be called a smile. “The family,” he said with a shrug.

His hand, though, looked white as it clasped a water glass, and she knew he felt far more than he wanted to show. Anger was in the tilt of his head, the strain of a muscle in his throat.

“I was angry, too,” she said, swallowing hard and shaking her head. “Those first unbelievable words. Disbelief. Then the feeling of loss and betrayal. I still—” Again she swallowed. She reached for her water glass, then drew her hand back. It was trembling. She forced it to still. “I didn't believe it, either,” she said again.

“Then why are you here?”

“My mother confirmed it. Unwillingly. With the kind of grief I hadn't seen either before or after my father died.”

He stared at her, his dark eyes unblinking.

She realized what she had said. “My mother married him after she … left …” She was suddenly aware she had taken a napkin and was folding and refolding it. She put it back on the table.

“After she left my father and me,” he finished grimly. “That's what you meant, isn't it? I think I prefer my version.”

“What is your version?”

“My mother and sister were killed in an automobile accident.”

She bit her lip. It was a cold, even cruel statement, but she couldn't fault him for it. She could only guess what he felt upon being told that he'd been abandoned by a mother he thought he'd lost in an entirely different way.

“I'm sorry,” she said.

“Why?” he asked coolly. “You had nothing to do with it.
If
it happened.”

She didn't have an answer for that.

“What explanation did she give
you
?” he asked in a detached voice.

“That I was born a twin, that she was married to Paul Merritta, and that she had to leave him to save—” She stopped.

But he finished for her. “Us? You? I guess we know which one she chose,” he said ironically. “
If
what you claim is true.”

That
if
again. But she understood. “It took me several days to accept the possibility that it was. But now I know it's true, or my mother never would have confirmed it.” She took out the photos and the birth certificates and put them on the table, pushing them over to him.

His face didn't change as he perused them.

“It'll take
me
longer,” he said. “I want a blood test.”

His face was set in hard lines. It was a handsome face. But now his mouth was grim, his eyes cold. She understood. She'd had three days to get used to the idea of having a brother, of being fathered by a reputed mobster. He hadn't had any time to get used to the idea of having a sister and a mother who had apparently deserted him.

She nodded. “I don't think Mother had a choice about whom to take with her,” she said, trying to mitigate the hurt she would have felt had she been him. “If she had, she never would have—”

“I'll arrange the test for tomorrow morning,” he said, cutting her off.

“That's fine,” she said. “I need that proof, too. That's one reason I came.” She
was
sure now, but she knew the agonizing steps she'd taken to reach that truth. He had to take his own journey.

She reached for the documents and photos.

His hand flattened on them. “I want to keep them. At least for a while.”

She was reluctant to let them go. But she'd had them several days and had made copies of everything. She expected him to do the same. They probably shared an overabundance of caution.

The waiter appeared, and she ordered grouper and he a steak. Nicholas chose a bottle of wine with an ease she'd never mastered. She suspected it would be expensive.

“Where do we go from here?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” he said flatly as his hand scooped up the photos and placed them on his right-hand side. “Why did
you
come? You know what my father is?”

“I read the news accounts I found on the Internet. Articles in the Boston papers.” She caught his gaze, held it. “I wanted to meet you. I have always felt that something was missing. I wanted to know if that something was you.”

Some emotion flickered in his eyes, but she couldn't define it. She wondered whether he had ever felt the same. She didn't ask, though. It would be asking for a commitment, and he wasn't ready for that.

“Is he?” she asked instead. “Is he a mobster, a criminal, a crime boss, a don, whatever it's called?”

He raised one dark eyebrow. “The papers say so. The feds say so.”

“I don't believe everything in the papers.”

“That's wise.” He gave her another long look. “I can't help but wonder, though,” he said, “if you're here because you think you might inherit when he dies.” The words were coldly and meanly said.

“I'm not rich, Mr. Merritt, but neither am I poor. I'm part owner of a growing business I love. I don't need money, particularly dirty money. I don't want it. I wouldn't take it if it were offered.”

“Then you're the only one,” he said.

“Who else?”

“Two uncles, an aunt, cousins, my half brother.”