Chasing the Son Read online

  “Because if he’d have known, he’d have crawled over broken glass to help you,” Sarah said. Her head was swiveling back and forth between the two of them, as if sorting out a Gordian Knot from so many years ago, and looking for her own angle to play. “You gave up,” Sarah suddenly realized, staring at Erin. “You made a feeble attempt to contact him, just to cover yourself, and then you just gave up. Because you did know he’d come back. He’d give up West Point, everything. He’d have come back for you and for the child. You did understand him. Even if you don’t know you did. You didn’t want him to do that, and, ultimately, you didn’t want him.”

  Chase felt stupid, listening to them talk about him as if he weren’t even part of this, when he most definitely was, but Sarah’s words sent a chill through him on another level.

  “No,” Erin said. She seemed confused. “My father. He wouldn’t have it. When we didn’t hear back from Horace right away, he said I had to leave. I had to go to my mother’s in Oklahoma. That she’d take care of me. My father got rid of me. Just like you did, Horace,” she hissed at the end, drawing her hatred back to the present.

  Chase took a step toward Erin. “I’m so sorry. I would have come. I’m sorry you had to go through it alone. I’d have held your hand.”

  Sarah laughed, sending Chase’s thoughts tumbling into freefall.

  “Horace! Erin knew you so much more than you ever knew her. She didn’t want you there holding her hand while she got an abortion. Because she didn’t get one. She didn’t want you there holding her hand while she gave birth to your son.”

  Chase’s knees buckled, and he almost fell. “My son?”

  Sarah got to her feet, finally putting the pieces together. She was focused on Erin. “That’s what this has all been about to you, isn’t it, you bitch?” There was real anger in her voice. The betrayer, betrayed. “This has been a game to get Chase here, right now, because you knew he’d show up. You want to hurt him. All you’ve ever wanted to do is hurt him. It was never about the money. Why? Why, Erin? Why was that so important to the point you’d get us both killed to do it?”

  “Because he left me,” Erin said.

  “I didn’t leave you,” Chase protested weakly. “I had to report to West Point.”

  “You left me,” Erin said. “Everyone left me.”

  “You never asked me to stay,” Chase said. “We have a son?”

  “You left me,” Erin said, and then her right hand snaked behind her back and she brought the gun out.

  Chase didn’t even attempt to lift the MP-5 as she brought it to bear at his head.

  She was the mother of his son, two intertwined facts so staggering he was incapable of even protecting himself.

  The shot startled him.

  Erin looked down at the small black hole in her upper chest, just over the top of her sundress. From hard experience Chase knew the exit wound wasn’t as pretty. Erin gave the slightest of smiles. “His name is Horace, too.”

  And then she crumpled, in the inelegant way the dead do, to the tiled deck, blood pooling underneath her body.

  At least Gator hadn’t used the Barrett, was the bizarre thought that went through Chase’s brain as he looked down at Erin’s body. The massive .50 caliber round would have blown Erin in half.

  Chase turned to Sarah.

  Her face was white. “I didn’t know she was crazy like that, Horace. You have to believe me.”

  Chase stared at her, the weight on his heart gone. “The money—whatever’s left—will switch accounts in”—he looked at his watch—“twelve minutes.”

  Sarah stiffened. “What?”

  “Sarah.” Chase shook his head. Clearing it. Feeling a warm glow growing deep inside. “I might have my faults, but stupid isn’t one of them.” He reached into his waterproof bag, tied to his waist, and pulled out the USB key. “My acquaintance in black ops programmed this. He did what I should have done. As soon as I called him on my way down to see Karralkov, he checked on you. He learned you didn’t have a son. Or a husband. He knew who you were, and what you were. But he let it play out for his own reasons. And it worked for him. You might be good, Sarah, but he’s in a world you can’t even imagine.

  “Before I left the Fina, I sent a retrieval code so that it automatically moves your money to several pre-programmed destinations. There’s nothing you can do to stop it.” He checked his watch. “Eleven minutes.” He turned and headed back toward the cliff and ocean.

  “Horace?” Her voice had lost all its allure.

  Chase turned. “You know, if I can find you, so can someone else. And they’re looking. Hard. Karralkov had friends. And the bettors, those whose millions you took, they aren’t happy, either.”

  He opened the gate and took the stairs down to the beach. He threw the USB key into the water, took off the running shoes, and retrieved his fins. He couldn’t see the Fina at this level, but knew it was just a couple of hundred yards offshore. He whistled, and heard Chelsea’s short bark. Chase whistled back, turned in that direction, and dove into the water heading toward his dog and his friends.

  It was over, but it wasn’t over.

  It was just beginning.

  He had a son, and his son’s mother was dead.

  It was all just beginning.

  But once more, Horace Chase was heading into the murky future without much information.

  He was going to have to correct that.

  He began finning, heading toward the Fina and his teammates and his dog.

  And his new future.

  Chapter Two

  Wednesday Evening

  The balcony commanded a superb view of Charleston Harbor and the only complaint Mrs. Jenrette had about the view was that Fort Sumter was still out there with the flag of the Federalists flying high over it. The National Park Service lit it with a spotlight every single night, as if taunting the city that had taken it down by force so many years ago and replaced it with the Stars and Bars.

  “Mrs. Jenrette?”

  The grand dame lifted her right hand off the arm of her exquisite cane chair ever so slightly, a signal for the supplicant to proceed. He was a man in his late sixties, awkward in this subservient role, cloaking himself in it only on this balcony. To the rest of Charleston he was a ruthless lawyer with only one client: the most powerful family in the city.

  Like many things in that rarified world full of secrets, that wasn’t quite true.

  Charles Rigney walked up next to the wooden railing, smartly blocking Fort Sumter from view, a silent acknowledgement between the two of them. He was six and a half feet tall, had played forward on the Institute basketball team many years ago, and was bald as a billiard ball and lean as a cue stick.

  “Yes, Charles?” Mrs. Jenrette said, a voice dripping in magnolia, Charleston, and age, swirled with the essence of power that came naturally from birth and exercised without restraint for decades. She had once been as physically commanding as the view, an inch shy of six feet, willowy and graceful, with long auburn hair. She’d broken many a beau’s heart when she was a debutante; as a young married woman, she’d brought attention to herself and her husband, as he escorted her about on his arm. Men envied him, women hated her, and the truly insightful knew she was more than beauty: she was the brains behind the throne. Even in her later married years, as her hair turned silver and she disdained coloring it and cropped it back, she was still a marvel. But now, in her early nineties, the realities of arthritis and age had worn her down, literally shrinking her a few inches and making any excursion out of chair or bed a painful endeavor. Only the voice and the surroundings reminded one of who she was.

  “The invitation list for the Ball has been finalized,” Rigney said.

  He didn’t have to specify what ball, as there was only one that mattered in Charleston: the St. Cecilia Society Gala, held once a year. Which evening it was held was a closely guarded secret and at the whim of Mrs. Jenrette, who’d reigned as president of the Society for eighteen years. It was never repo
rted on in the local newspaper and spoken only of in whispers. No one got in unless invited and no one was invited unless they were a member of Society of St. Cecilia, a dwindling, but still very powerful social circle, the most powerful one in Charleston. Mrs. Jenrette had ‘come out’ at that ball three quarters of a century ago.

  Mrs. Jenrette sighed. This used to be one of her favorite tasks, an annual display of power. Even she admitted, only to herself, that she dipped into the well of petty once in a while, scratching a line through this name or that, for some slight, real or imagined. There was no point being powerful without some of the perks. But now, implicit in it, was a deep pain. And the realization the odds were rather good it would be her last one.

  “There are no other men in my line,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “It dies with me.”

  “It need not,” Rigney said, daring an argument that she always shot down. But it was late, and the large glass carafe on the table next to his patron was two-thirds empty, indicating she’d imbibed more than usual. Perhaps, for once, reason might prevail in this matter. “No woman was President before you. Perhaps the rules can be changed. You have a daughter. And she has a daughter.”

  “But no living son or grandson; no male heir to carry on the name.” Mrs. Jenrette scoffed: “The men did not elect me. It passed to me when my husband and son moved on from this mortal coil in the crash, since no one was willing to step up during a difficult time. When I move on, no woman will set foot in the inner council. And they will never allow me to change the rule: only direct male descendants of founding members of the Order of St. Cecilia may become members.”

  “It is a dwindling pool, ma’am,” Rigney pointed out. “Half of the houses south of Broad are now owned by strangers.”

  “Turncoats,” Mrs. Jenrette stirred angrily. “Youngsters selling out their family homes for money.”

  “They need the money,” Rigney gently pointed out. “Their parents did not provide as well for them as they should have. As you have so generously provided for your own family.”

  “Tread carefully,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Those parents were, and those still alive are my friends.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Rigney said.

  Both were silent, the only sound the waves breaking on the rocks lining the Battery. It was late and the park south of the house was empty of tourists. There were those wondered if that was why Mrs. Jenrette always chose the night to be out there. She would never be caught out on the porch during daylight any more, not when some yahoo tourist from Ohio with a camera could capture her image. Whether it was from a sense of privacy or vanity was up for debate. That and the fact that three years ago one of the tour guides who drove the carriages that clopped through the streets was regaling his captive audience with a tale of the Battery so inelegantly false in historical accuracy, belittling the bravery of the men who’d fired the cannon, that Mrs. Jenrette had gone inside and brought one of her deceased husband’s guns out and fired a load of bird shot at the poor young man. No one was hurt, but Mrs. Jenrette had begun a retreat into the cloak of darkness.

  “What is the status of Sea Drift?” Mrs. Jenrette asked, touching on her final project, her legacy to the Low Country.

  “It will be in three days, on Saturday. All is as I briefed you yesterday.”

  “And the Bloody Point Course?” she asked, referring to one of the three defunct golf courses on Daufuskie Island.

  “Ownership is still buried under several shell companies, but I’m getting closer to finding out the true owner so we can proceed.”

  “It has to be completed by Saturday. You don’t have much time.”

  “I know. But even if it isn’t completed, we can go to our alternate plan. Block off easement to the course, which will make it worthless. The owner will then have to show themselves and sell.”

  “One would think so,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “But the true owner has not showed themselves yet, and we’ve put good money on the table. Perhaps this mystery owner knows more than they should?”

  Rigney had no answer to that speculation.

  Another silence played out.

  “Mrs. Jenrette . . .” Rigney began, a bit uncertain, which he knew was a mistake as she snatched on that like a cobra.

  “What is it man? Speak.”

  “There’s been a development.” Rigney had thought this over on the short walk from his house (not waterfront) to her’s (owning the waterfront). “Someone has been making inquiries concerning the whereabouts of Horace Brannigan, whom we know as Harry Brannigan.”

  “I assume you mean someone other than us,” Mrs. Jenrette said.

  “Yes.”

  “So what is the development?”

  “It’s on Hilton Head. As you know, his mother, who had nothing to do with him since birth, disappeared a few months back. We checked into it and couldn’t track her, which is suspicious in and of itself. But now a man named Farrelli is making inquiries about both the mother and the younger Brannigan.”

  He continued, not giving her a chance to ask questions, and knowing her dislike of having to ask.

  “Farrelli has connections with New Jersey. Organized crime connections. He launders money for New Jersey through several restaurants on the island and has been trying to expand his operations as much as possible. Protection. Gambling. Escort services.”

  “A gangster.” Mrs. Jenrette’s voice dripped derision for the criminal element; conveniently ignoring her own family history and the truism in America that behind every great fortune lay criminal activity somewhere in the past.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Why would he be interested in Brannigan?” Mrs. Jenrette asked.

  “We suspect he’s asking on behalf of someone else.”

  “Who?”

  “We don’t know.”

  Mrs. Jenrette tapped her finger on the arm of her chair, a sign of extreme agitation those who were close to her would recognize, except there were few of those. Rigney was one.

  “We knew Brannigan was of poor blood,” she finally said. “Why the Institute would allow such a person in to the Corps, is beyond me. And, as usual, your news is not news. I also have heard rumors that someone is asking of Brannigan. I believe we must pursue that angle further.”

  “Of course,” Rigney said, not surprised that she’d already heard. Whispers came to the old woman, even though she rarely left the house, creeping to it, like the vines which crept up the brick walls on the back of the house.

  “I’m bringing in someone new. He’s an Institute man, class of ’08.”

  “Young,” was Rigney’s immediate assessment.

  “I thought that would be beneficial,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “Closer in age to my grandson’s classmates and those who were involved.” When Rigney didn’t say anything, she continued. “He’s young, but he’s sharp. Commissioned in the Army upon graduation. Branched Infantry. Airborne and honor graduate of Ranger school. Served with the 101st Airborne in Afghanistan for one tour; awarded a Bronze Star for bravery. Then into the Ranger Battalion at Hunter Army Airfield, outside of Savannah. Multiple short deployments to combat zones; awarded a Silver Star. He resigned his commission four months ago and moved back here.”

  “’Back here’?” Rigney repeated. “What is his family name?”

  “Dillon.”

  “From Charleston, you say?” Rigney was running through the families of Charleston in his brain and coming up short.

  “North Charleston,” Mrs. Jenrette amended. “He attended the Institute on a football scholarship. A good man. Tough. Single family home, raised by his mother who works as a paralegal, but he’s taken his opportunity and made the most of it.”

  “How much are you paying him?” Rigney asked.

  “I’m not,” Mrs. Jenrette said. “You are. If he succeeds, you will put him through law school and give him a place with your firm. Like me, you have no successor. If this young man works out, that might well be his position.”

  “Mrs. Jenrette, that’s—�
�

  She cut him off. “If he succeeds in this task he will be a valuable asset. He will be bound by spilled blood. Sometimes I fear that is a stronger bond than blood in the veins. He is waiting in the library. I have not met him in person yet.”

  “If you’ve not met him,” Rigney said, “how do you know he is up to the task?”

  “I did some research,” Mrs. Jenrette said, vaguely. “He’s waiting downstairs. Please bring him to me, Charles.”

  Rigney disappeared through the French doors behind her. Mrs. Jenrette signaled and a silent figure who’d been practically invisible all this time appeared out of the shadows at the rear of the porch. The butler, an old black man, dressed in a white starched shirt with a bow tie, and black trousers, poured her another drink from the pitcher. Task accomplished, he faded back into the darkness.

  Rigney appeared, accompanied by a younger man, three inches shorter, but broad and well built. He wore a suit much like Rigney’s, except purchased from a store much farther down the pecking order in men’s clothing. He had light-colored hair, cut short in the military way. There was a scar on the right side of his face, and a pockmark below and to the outside of the eye.

  “Mister Dillon,” Mrs. Jenrette said.

  “Ma’am.” Dillon stood near the railing, at attention, just short of the way a rat would be braced at the Institute. But his eyes were moving, shifting about, taking in his surroundings.

  “Did you ever think you’d stand here?” Mrs. Jenrette asked. She didn’t wait for an answer. “I am sure you have walked the Battery. Looked at these houses. What did you think when you did so?”

  “I thought they were quite magnificent,” Dillon said.

  “An impersonal observation,” Mrs. Jenrette noted. “What did you feel?”

  Dillon didn’t hesitate. “Ambition.”

  Mrs. Jenrette laughed, a surprising sound. “Honesty. I so enjoy an honest man. Most use words to obscure the matter, but you cut right to it with a single utterance. Do you understand the situation I’ve explained to you over the phone?”