The Hero's Son

CHAPTER THREE

“WHAT ARE YOU SAYING, exactly? That someone tried to kill you? Murder you, for God’s sake?” Julian Temple’s eyes gleamed gleefully at the prospect.

“That’s what I’m saying.” Valerie tried not to be offended by her boss’s reaction as she sat across from his desk the next day. She supposed she could hardly expect less from the “King of Sleaze.” At the age of forty, the owner and editor-in-chief of the Journal thrived on sensationalism and scandal, the uglier the better.

It was for that reason that Valerie, with her graduate degree in journalism from Northwestern and her years of serious reporting with the Sun-Times, had been squeamish about joining a tabloid-style paper like the Journal.

But it was also for that reason that she’d sought out Julian when she’d first arrived in Memphis. She’d known that no reputable paper would touch the story she wanted to write, not with the limited amount of evidence—mostly from undocumented sources—that she’d been able to gather so far.

The story she wanted to tell about the Kingsley kidnapping was just the sort of thing Julian Temple loved. In fact, he’d practically been salivating after that first meeting, when she’d outlined for him what she wanted to do. He’d loved the prospect of implicating a few of the old-guard police force—not to mention a local entrepreneur and philanthropist.

And the Kingsleys, with their money and power and political clout, were a tabloid’s gold mine, from the tragic kidnapping thirty-one years ago, to Edward Kingsley’s rise and fall in politics, to the exploits of his son, Andrew, the surviving Kingsley twin.

The Kingsleys were the stuff headlines and scandal were made of, and Julian had given Valerie carte blanche from the moment he’d hired her.

It was ironic, Valerie thought, because with his blond hair and movie-star good looks, Julian hardly looked the part of gossipmonger. And he certainly didn’t have that kind of background. He was from a very wealthy, old-money Nashville family who had bought him the Journal as a graduation present when he’d left Harvard, expecting him to turn it into a daily that would compete with the Press Scimitar and the Commercial Appeal.

Julian, however, had had other ideas, and while his family might not agree with his methods, they could hardly argue with his success.

He grinned at Valerie, not bothering to conceal his relish for what she had just told him. “Well, well, well. I’d say your little article has hit a nerve, Val.”

“To say the least,” she agreed. “And I’m fine, thank you. The bus didn’t touch me.”

“Oh, sorry.” Julian waved an impatient hand. “But that’s obvious, isn’t it? You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“I did go to the emergency room,” she reminded him. “Where I was interrogated by Judd Colter’s son, I might add.”

Julian’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding. What was he doing there?”

“That’s what I’d like to know. He says he was going to his cousin’s press conference, but I’m not so sure. I mean, he was right there. His was the first face I saw when I came to.” Valerie shivered in spite of herself, thinking about those black eyes staring down at her.

She’d even dreamed about him last night, a disturbing turn of events. The nightmares she’d had about his father were one thing, but the dream she’d had about Brant Colter was something else entirely.

The erotic images swept through her mind now, causing her face to heat unexpectedly. She fervently hoped Julian wouldn’t notice, but she needn’t have worried. His mind was off on a different tangent altogether. “You think he could have been the one to push you in front of that bus? You know…acting on his father’s behalf, or something? I hear Judd Colter’s been ill recently.”

“He had a stroke,” Valerie said.

“Whatever. In any case, you’ve got the makings of a real headliner here. Distraught Son Tries to Protect Dying Father’s Reputation. Cop’s Outrage Turns Deadly. Something like that. You get my drift.”

Loud and clear, Valerie thought. She rubbed her throbbing temples with her fingertips. Julian always gave her a headache.

He snapped his fingers suddenly and rummaged through the pile of papers on his desk. “I almost forgot,” he said, handing her a pink message slip. “Blackman called.”

Harry Blackman was a local P.I. Julian had suggested she use. Valerie had been skeptical at first, wondering if anyone Julian recommended could be trusted, but so far, Harry Blackman had proved to be reliable as well as resourceful.

“What did he say?” Valerie asked, glancing down at the paper.

“He’s got something for you. He wants to meet with you tonight in his office.”

Valerie’s initial excitement vanished. “Tonight? Why not sooner? I’m not exactly crazy about going into his neighborhood after dark.”

“Has to be tonight. He’s out of the office all day, on some Motel Eight surveillance job or something. His associate doesn’t spell him until seven.”

“All right,” Valerie said. “If that’s the way it has to be.”

“Look, I’d go with you,” Julian said, “but I’ve already made plans for tonight. Tomorrow night, however, I’m free as a bird, and I’d like for you to accompany me to Austin Colter’s fund-raiser at the Kingsley mansion.” He dangled two tickets in front of her, and Valerie reached across the desk to snatch them out of his hand.

“How did you get these? The Journal is definitely persona non grata in his campaign camp right now.”

Julian shrugged. “My family still has some pretty important contacts in the state. I had my old man call in a few favors. Besides, at five thousand bucks a ticket, they can’t afford to be choosy. I’ll pick you up at eight. It’s black tie, by the way.”

“Should be a night to remember,” she said, wondering if Brant would be there. Somehow a black-tie fund-raiser hardly seemed his scene, but then, what did she really know about Judd Colter’s son?

AT SEVEN O’CLOCK that evening, Valerie left the Journal’s offices, climbed into her dark blue Ford Explorer and headed toward the river.

Brant pulled into traffic behind her, keeping enough distance between her Explorer and his city vehicle—a beige, nondescript sedan—so he wouldn’t be detected. He had no idea what her destination might be, but he knew that, one way or another, she was headed for trouble.

It was ironic. She’d written an article trying to destroy his father’s reputation, and now he’d been put in the precarious position of trying to protect her.

Fate, he reflected, could sure as hell play some bad jokes.

She was a good driver, he noted as she wove in and out of traffic like a pro. On first glance, he would have pegged her as the sports-car type, in something sleek and red, something fast and dangerous; but then, when he’d seen her climb into the Explorer, he’d decided that maybe she had a practical side after all.

He hoped to hell he could appeal to that practical side now, make her see reason. If someone was trying to kill her, she didn’t appear to be taking any precautions.

Instead, she turned toward the river, heading for a section of downtown that no one, least of all a woman, should be going to alone. It would be dark soon. She should be home, safe and sound, watching television or reading a good book. Not traipsing about in a dangerous part of town.

But then, he had to admit, a part of him was glad that she was. A part of him was as intrigued as hell by Valerie Snow’s daring.

She pulled into a parking lot, paid the attendant, then headed across the street to a dingy office building that had once been a cotton warehouse. Some of the warehouses along the river had been turned into posh professional buildings and studio apartments, but no one had bothered to renovate the ones in this area. They didn’t have views of the river, but were bordered by alleys that led to more warehouses at the back.

She entered the building, and Brant quickly parked and followed her inside. The elevator door was closing as he walked into the dim, unattended lobby. A bank of mailboxes lined a wall across from a wooden stairway that led to the upper floors. Brant checked the boxes, looking for a name he might recognize. Blackman Security, on the fifth floor, caught his attention.

Harry Blackman was a security expert who used to work for his uncle Raymond. According to Raymond, Harry Blackman had once been the best in the business, but a drinking problem had led to his downfall, and Raymond had had to fire him. Their relationship had ended with bad feelings all around, and since then, Harry had become a small-time P.I., sometimes con man, hustling work wherever he could get it. He’d had run-ins with the police department more than once.

Brant checked the other businesses in the building, but none of them—independent insurance agents and accountants, for the most part—seemed likely prospects. If Valerie was mixed up with the likes of Harry Blackman, she didn’t know what she was getting herself into.

Brant started up the stairs, but a shadow moved by one of the grimy windows, drawing his attention. Probably a vagrant, he decided, or someone who worked in one of the warehouses at the back, but still, it wouldn’t hurt to check it out. Valerie was upstairs and would likely be there for several more minutes.

Brant hurried outside and entered the alley. Though darkness fell late in July, the street was full of shadows. Most of the evening traffic had long since disappeared from this part of town. Only the homeless and druggies looking for a fix would be caught out after dark down here.

And cops following beautiful women, Brant thought, hugging the warehouse as he made his way to the back of the building.

He stood still for a moment, listening to the darkness. A faint clanging sound came to him, drawing his attention upward. A metal fire escape led to the upper floors, and he thought he detected a movement on one of the landings.

Without a second thought, Brant started climbing.

HARRY BLACKMAN was probably the most formidable-looking man Valerie had ever met. It wasn’t just the fact that he was huge—well over six feet and at least two hundred and fifty pounds of solid muscle—nor the fact that his head was completely bald with a dagger tattooed at the back.

What Valerie found so intimidating was the fact that he always wore a weapon, a .357 Colt Python strapped to his side, in plain view. She had no idea if he carried the weapon on the street or not, or whether he even had a permit for it. She’d never met him any place other than his office, and the gun was always there, like a crucial appendage he couldn’t live without.

Valerie supposed it was the nature of his occupation, or perhaps the location of his office, that made Harry overly cautious, but whatever the case, she found it hard to keep her mind—and her eyes—off that gun.

“All right, here’s the deal,” he said, in a voice that sounded like two sheets of sandpaper being rubbed together. “I’ve located the woman you’re after. She’s in New Orleans.”

Valerie’s heart quickened. “Is? That means she’s still alive?”

He nodded. “She’s going by the name Marie LaPierre. Has been for over twenty-five years. She owns a voodoo shop in the Quarter.”

A voodoo shop? Somehow that seemed appropriate to Valerie. There were so many strange things about her father’s case.

“Here’s the address.” Harry shoved a crumpled piece of paper across the desk toward her. Valerie noticed, as she had before, the tiny tattoos on each of his knuckles, but she’d never been able to tell what the images were.

“The guy you’re looking for. This Odell Campbell. He’s in a nursing home in Madison, a small town fifty miles north of here. He’s suffering from Alzheimer’s, the advanced stages, so I doubt he’ll be able to tell you much.”

Valerie’s heart sank at that news. She’d hoped to be able to convince her uncle to tell the truth after all these years. He was her mother’s brother, so he had to have some goodness in him. But now it looked as if it didn’t matter whether he did or not. Odell would, in all likelihood, be of no use to her.

Still, Valerie took the address of the nursing home from Harry. She knew she would pay her uncle a visit for one simple reason: other than her father, he was the only living relative she had left on this earth.

“What was that?” Harry said.

“What was what?” So lost in thought had Valerie been, she had no idea what he was talking about.

Harry stood and drew his weapon. Valerie gasped, but he motioned for silence just as the window behind him shattered.

“Get down!” he shouted, plastering himself against the wall.

He didn’t have to tell her twice. Valerie hit the floor behind Harry’s desk as he reached over and turned off the light. The office fell into darkness, but enough illumination filtered in through the broken window that Valerie could see Harry silhouetted against the wall. He was moving toward the window, but another shot rang out, and he fell back for just a split second, then sprang forward, firing through the broken glass.

Valerie huddled against the desk, her hands over her ears, her heart pounding in terror. She looked up to see Harry heading toward the door.

“Harry!”

“Stay there,” he ordered. “He’s going in through a window. I’m going after him.”

“But—”

Harry disappeared through the door, and Valerie was left alone in the darkness. She wondered what she should do. Harry had told her to stay put, but she didn’t like the idea of remaining here in the dark, all by herself, while someone who had been shooting at either Harry or her or both of them roamed the building.

She would make a run for it, Valerie decided. Get to her car.

No, maybe she should use the phone. Call the police. But then, she didn’t exactly trust the police, did she?

All right, then, she would run for it. Done.

She edged to the end of the desk and peered around, toward the window. Someone was easing over the ledge, and for a moment, relief surged through her. “Harry,” she whispered. Then the man straightened, and she realized he was as tall as Harry, but not nearly as bulky.

The man stood for a moment, looking around, getting his bearings. Then, very deliberately, he moved toward the door. Valerie flattened herself against the desk, praying he wouldn’t see her.

As he passed by her, something triggered a flash of recognition inside Valerie. Suddenly she knew the man inside the office with her was Brant Colter. For a moment, she started to call out, but then she realized that his movements were suspect, to say the least. What was he doing here, in Harry Blackman’s office, moments after she’d been shot at?

He opened the door into the hallway, looked out, and then, in a heartbeat, was gone. Valerie sat huddled on the floor, her heart beating a rapid staccato inside her.

Brant Colter was here. Just like he’d been on the scene the day she’d been pushed in front of the bus. Had he been the one shooting into the office just minutes ago?

She got to her feet and stood in the darkness. She had to get out of here. Now. Her every instinct screamed in warning, and Valerie wasn’t one to ignore them. Crossing the floor to the door, she peered into the corridor. It was empty. The doors that opened to the other offices were all closed, and only a dim light near the elevator illuminated the gloomy hallway.

She started down the corridor when she heard the unmistakable clang of the elevator, and saw the Up arrow lit. Someone was heading up to the fifth floor. But who? Harry? Brant Colter coming back? Or was there a third person in the building? The gunman?

Valerie whirled and ran down the hallway toward Harry’s office. She vaguely recalled seeing the stairwell door somewhere off to her left, and she tried all the doors along the way until she found one that was unlocked. She pushed it open just as the elevator came to a halt and the doors slid open.

Trying not to make a sound, Valerie stood just inside the stairwell, leaving the door opened a crack so that she could look out. Someone hurried down the corridor. As he drew even with Harry’s door, he paused for a moment, and Valerie held her breath, wondering if he had heard the pounding of her heart in the darkness of the stairwell.

She didn’t recognize the man. He kept his face averted, so that she couldn’t see his features, but Valerie had the distinct impression from the way he stood that he was a good deal older than either Brant or Harry.

He carried a gun, and as Valerie stood watching him, she saw him check the clip with a smooth, practiced motion that made her wonder how often he’d done that very same thing in the past. Could he be a professional hit man? Hired to get rid of her?

The thought was almost her undoing. Her hand, sweaty with fear, slipped on the doorknob, and the door clicked shut. Even as slight as it was, there was no mistaking the sound, and Valerie knew she’d given herself away. She turned and headed for the stairs, slipping off her shoes as she ran.

Instead of going down, she went up. The gunman would expect her to try and reach the street, wouldn’t he? By going up, she hoped she could lose him.

In stocking feet, she flew up the stairs and pulled open the door to the roof. It was hot and muggy outside. The low-hanging clouds over the river were heavy with moisture. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Valerie knew there would be rain soon. She wondered if that would help or hinder her escape. She wondered where Harry was. And Brant Colter. Was he working with the gunman? Were the two of them stalking her together?

Valerie didn’t dare stop to think about her predicament. She had to concentrate on finding a way out of here.

She hurried to the side of the building and looked over. The wall was smooth and sheer, five stories to the ground. There had to be a fire escape around here somewhere, she thought. Another warehouse backed up against this one, and an eight-foot gulf separated the two roofs. For a moment, Valerie contemplated jumping across, but even though she’d never been afraid of heights, the gap looked wider by the moment.

She turned and started toward the other side just as the roof door opened. The opening lay in shadow, but she saw the gunman standing in the doorway. She couldn’t see his face, but she saw him lift his hand as he spotted her.

Valerie heard a soft, spitting sound as a silenced bullet whizzed by her ear like a bee. She turned and charged back to the edge of the roof. There was no other way, no time to warn herself she might not be able to make it. She caught her breath, and before she had time to think, she was flying through space as the wall of the second building rushed to meet her.

If she hadn’t panicked at the last second, she would have cleared the space with room to spare. As it was, she began to reach for a handhold before she’d made it across. Her momentum slowed, and Valerie grabbed desperately for the edge of the roof.

And missed.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE IMPACT JARRED her body as she slammed into the wall. She screamed and closed her eyes as her arms flailed wildly for purchase.

Then, miraculously, someone grabbed her. A hand closed around one of her wrists like a vise, and Valerie dangled in midair. Her head spun dizzily as she heard a familiar voice say, “Don’t look down. I’ve got you.”

Valerie looked up. She couldn’t see his face in the darkness, but she knew who he was. Brant Colter had saved her life.

Or had he? How much longer would he hold on to her?

With her other arm, Valerie reached out and grabbed a drainpipe.

“Let go,” Brant said. “I’ll pull you up.”

Let go? Not in this lifetime. Valerie closed her eyes, willing her strength. Her arms were on fire. She knew she wouldn’t be able to hang on much longer. In fact, if it weren’t for Brant’s grip on her wrist, she might already have plunged to her death.

But still, something wouldn’t let her release the drainpipe. Something wouldn’t let her trust Brant Colter.

“We can’t stay out here like this all night,” he said impatiently. “In case you hadn’t noticed, someone was shooting at you a minute ago.”

“Was it you?” Valerie gasped.

“Yeah, that makes sense.” His breath was beginning to tell from the strain. “I shoot at you one minute, and the next, I’m trying to keep you from falling off a roof. Now, turn loose before we both hit the pavement.”