The Legacy, page 22
part #1 of New World Series
“How could you do that to me? To us?” he demanded.
“Daniel, what are you talking about?”
“Don’t lie to me,” he shouted. “If you’re going to drive a knife in my gut, at least look me in the eye when you do it.”
There was a moment of silence, and then her voice came through clipped and firm. “I do not understand what has you upset, but I will not allow you to continue yapping at me. Either tell me what is wrong or I will be forced to end this call.”
Jesus. Why had he fallen in love with the Old Man’s granddaughter of all people? “I drove up to the cabin tonight. Someone torched the place. It was you.”
“Why would I do that?” she asked, sounding genuinely surprised.
“You were going through my things. You must have found the address in my cell phone.” He heard her sharp intake of breath. “Yeah, I finally figured it out. Did you think a night between your legs would make me stupid?”
“I did not set fire to that cabin.”
“You lying bi—”
“Daniel,” she interrupted curtly. “I did search through your phone. You were acting strangely, and I knew you were holding something from me. But I did not set any fire. What reason would I have to do so?”
“You’ve hated this man your entire life. What other reason do you need?”
“Yes, I hate Cristobal Colón. He may be my uncle by blood, but it is not of my choice. When my grandfather looks at me, all he sees is the part of my blood I share with that man. The only way I can get my grandfather to see me for who I really am is to destroy Cristobal Colón. Why would I jeopardize our plan when we are so close to annihilating him?”
“The plan isn’t going to work,” he said abruptly. There was a thud on the other end of line. “Are you still there?”
“Yes. I . . . dropped the phone,” she replied a moment later. “Please explain.”
“The call I got the other day? It was from an informant. He was tailing Renee François’s ex-husband— the guy is a lawyer who could have made trouble for us.”
“And?” she prompted.
“And my informant spotted the ex-husband at the mall with a child.”
“So what? François and her ex-husband have a child together.”
“She is Colón’s child.” He could hear the increased tempo of her breath even as she tried to bring herself under control.
“No. It is not possible.” The words were nearly a wail.
“I checked it myself. He is listed as the father on the child’s birth certificate.”
“How can that be?”
He let out a harsh bark of laughter. “Renee François gave birth to his bastard child, that’s how. But the how of it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that our plan is shot to hell.”
“We could still—”
“Baby, it doesn’t work because you’re not the last Taino descendant.” He said the words with blunt force, and she started to cry. He could hear the soft, wet sniffles even as she tried to camouflage the sound.
“I am not Taino. I have never been Taino. I am Castilian.” She repeated the words by rote, like a child memorizing the alphabet.
He had no doubt her grandfather had drilled those words into her from earliest childhood. “Yeah, but it is the Taino in you that would have saved us.”
The plan had been quite simple, if not exactly easy: Lure Colón to the Dominican Republic on some bogus pretext of a coup. Get him killed. Have the Old Man’s granddaughter claim all the rights and privileges belonging to the Taino-Colón descendants. Then, finally would the rights of the Castilian Colóns merge with those of the Taino Colóns. Problem solved.
But not anymore.
“My grandfather never liked the plan anyway,” she said, her voice heavy with bitterness. “He did not want the world to know that my father—his pure-blooded Castilian son—had run off with the Taino whore he had been sent to kill.”
He could not argue with her there. Her grandfather was a proud murderer, but a virulent racist. He had no problem sending his son to the Dominican Republic to hunt down and kill a beautiful Taino university student. But he writhed in shame at the fact that his son—just like the family patriarch, Christopher Columbus—had taken one look at the Taino student and fallen in love. The two had run away together, living in hiding in South America. The Old Man had found them.
“Your grandfather went along with the plan because he could finally put an end to that pesky line of brown-skinned Colóns,” Dan Brown said. “But now we know the plan can’t work. Colón’s daughter would inherit before you. Killing him solves nothing. And killing him on U.S. soil would put me in a world of hurt with my superiors.”
“I did not try to kill him, Daniel. I knew nothing of this.”
He had to believe her. His life would not be worth living otherwise. “Then your grandfather must have sent someone to do the job.”
“When the hunters located my father in Columbia, my grandfather flew down there himself so he could personally choke the life out of his own son. He may not have the strength for hand-to-hand combat these days, but a fire is not his way. He likes to do such things with a personal touch.”
Damn. He had never heard the details of her story before. Her grandfather was a sonofabitch. “I’m sorry,” he said.
“He killed my mother too, but at least he drew the line at murdering a child.” She uttered a short, harsh bark of laughter full of bitterness and pain. “He brought me back to Spain and raised me as his own. Then, just a few years ago, he told me the story of my birth.”
No doubt about it. The Old Man was a sonofabitch. Someone needed to put him out of his misery. “To hell with all this, let’s just leave. Let’s run away together.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Maria Luis Guacanagari y Colón, will you marry me?”
“Are you serious?” Her voice was teary and wistful at the same time.
“As a heart attack,” he said. “I’m tired of fighting the wars of old men. Let’s start something new. Marry me.”
“I don’t even know your real name,” she pointed out.
“What difference does that make? I love you. Isn’t that enough?”
“I love you, too,” she said softly. “But my entire life has been a lie, and I don’t want to do that again.”
She had a point, he had to admit. It was time to tell the truth. “My name is Michael. Michael Seymour.”
37
The Rat Problem
The sliver of a moon provided a thin beam of light as Cesar made his way to the open window. He pulled himself inside, then carefully shut the window behind him, shuddering as the noxious smell of urine assaulted his senses.
Belleville never changed.
He pressed against the wall and paused to make sure no one was coming. Danny, the security guard he befriended a few months ago, had called to say tonight was a good night to get the job done. Several guards were out sick, so they were short-staffed and wouldn’t be doing as many patrols of the administrative offices. Danny had even given him the work schedule. He knew where each guard would be for the next few hours. But Belleville was not exactly a well-oiled machine, and he didn’t want to stumble on some errant guard who was either too early or too late for his shift.
He really didn’t want to be there at all. In fact, he had nearly turned back at least a half-dozen times. Belleville gave him the creeps. But he needed to get at Andrew’s files. He had to locate the missing patient, Mathieson, or somehow tie Andrew to the disappearance. It was the only way he could think of to salvage his investigation into the death of Renee’s father.
He waited, listening intently, but all he heard was the beating of his own heart. He moved cautiously down the dark and narrow hallway until he was standing in front of room thirty-nine. He pressed his ear to the door. No sound came from the Director’s office. Andrew never did like to work late.
Instinctively, he turned the knob and the door gave way. It wasn’t even locked. He stepped inside and waited, allowing his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. Carefully, he moved to a wall of file cabinets stacked on one end of the office. The lock on the ancient cabinet was standard fare, not that difficult to jimmy. He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a tension wrench, a small pick, and a flashlight, but when he pulled at one of the file drawers, it opened with no resistance. Empty. He opened another drawer and still another. Nothing. Damn.
He cast the thin beam of his flashlight at Andrew’s desk searching for a computer, but there was none to be found. No wonder Andrew hadn’t bothered to lock his office or the file cabinets. The room was a ghost town.
Before he could take in the significance of his find, he heard voices in the hallway. Double damn. His eyes searched frantically for a hiding place, even as he cut off his flashlight. At the last moment, he spotted a small coat closet at the far end of the room. He ran soundlessly to the closet and twisted the doorknob, pulling up short when it wouldn’t budge. Of all the things to lock up!
The voices were getting closer. He didn’t have time to waste. He slid his pick in the lock and turned until it gave way with practiced ease. He slipped inside the closet, closing the door gently behind him. It was pitch black. He turned on his flashlight to get his bearings, then quickly turned it off. But it was too late. He had seen enough to know he was not in a coat closet. He was stuck in Andrew’s personal torture chamber.
The four walls were heavily padded, and leather straps hung from the ceiling. A camera had been installed on a shelf just a few feet above his head, its red light flashing a silent signal of distress. The bastard liked to watch. Andrew locked his patients in this hellhole, then watched them come apart at the seams.
Cesar clenched his fists, then took a deep breath to calm himself. There was nothing he could do but wait.
He heard the office door open, and voices entered the room. Someone must have turned on the light because a jagged halo suddenly illuminated the chamber of horrors. He glanced down and saw a small peephole about kneeling distance from the floor. A poor victim, desperate for light and fresh air, must have poked out some of the wall’s padding and the thin wood that lay beneath. Cesar knelt and looked out of the peephole, but all he could see were two pairs of legs, both clad in dark slacks.
“I don’t know why you took the chance to come here. I told you, the court seized control of everything.” There was no mistaking the clipped, patrician tone of Dr. Andrew’s voice.
“You want me to believe you didn’t stash anything away? I know you, Andrew. Rats like you always have a nest.”
A bolt of recognition shot through Cesar. But it couldn’t be.
“See for yourself,” Andrew said.
Drawers were opened and slammed shut in a frantic cacophony of sound.
“What the hell happened?” the familiar voice demanded in irritation.
“The court appointed a hospital administrator, and that bitch controls everything,” Andrew whined. “I can’t even get into petty cash.”
He pulled out a chair and sat down. At last, Cesar could make out Andrew’s face. It was petulant and angry, like a small child who had been deprived of his toy.
“You better not be lying to me, Andrew.” More slammed drawers accompanied the threat.
“I’m not,” Andrew insisted.
A second figure suddenly moved into Cesar’s view, sinking into a chair across from Andrew.
It was Diego.
Cesar felt the blood rush to his head. His father? No, it couldn’t be. Please. No.
But there he was, his hair wild and disheveled, sitting across from Andrew having what passed for civilized conversation between two psychopaths.
“What am I supposed to do now?” Diego asked, his shoulders slumped in defeat.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Andrew replied. “I thought you were getting some big payoff?”
“The bastard double-crossed me.”
“If it’s money you wanted, why the hell did you blow up our thing? We were quite the team. You provided the warm bodies and false documents, and I ran them through Medicaid. We made money hand over fist. Why did you have to ruin that?”
“I wanted more,” Diego said.
“More money?”
“More power.”
“Now, you have neither.” Andrew slumped in his own chair. “What happened to all the money you got from me over the years?”
“I spent it.”
“How could you possibly have spent all of that money? That’s a lot of rum, even for you people.” Andrew’s contempt apparently knew no bounds.
Diego snorted. “You wouldn’t understand. Just look at you, with your ridiculous English pretensions. You have no history, so you’re constantly trying to steal someone else’s. Your people showed up here five hundred years ago, full of envy and resentment, and you’ve been trying to destroy us ever since.”
“Please spare me your noble savage speech,” Andrew shot back. “If your country is so great, what are you doing in the good ole USA?”
That seemed to bring Diego up short. He dropped his head in his hands and stayed that way for a long time. “I was going home.” He lifted his head to stare at Andrew. “I was finally going to take my place among my people. But then that woman showed up,” he spat the words like a curse. “I tried everything to get rid of her—even tried to kill her myself. Nothing worked.” He pounded a fist on the table, startling Andrew. “In less than a week, he fell for her again like a goddamn village idiot.”
“You mean, Renee François?” Andrew shook his head. “That woman never learned to take no for an answer, that’s for sure.” His tone was almost admiring.
“It’s not his fault,” Diego muttered. “She bewitched him. Those Haitians are known for that kind of thing.”
“Haitians or Dominicans, you’re all the same to me. Don’t you share an island?”
“We are not the same people!” Diego roared. “They are the sons and daughters of slaves, while we are descendants of the great Taino warriors of our race.”
“Is that nonsense about Colón being descended from Columbus actually true?”
“It’s all true.”
“I guess even the Great Navigator had to stick it somewhere,” Andrew said, vastly amused at his own joke.
Cesar felt trapped. His head was spinning. There was no oxygen in the closet. He shifted slightly, pressing his nose against the jagged hole, opening his mouth to suck in big, greedy, life-giving gulps of air. Somehow, his leg got caught in a tangle of cords and wires. The camera fell, landing with a soft thud on his right ankle. He grabbed at his foot, writhing silently in pain.
“What’s that?” Diego stood on high alert. “Something in your closet?”
“No,” Andrew nearly shouted. He cleared his thought and continued more quietly, “We have a small rat infestation problem. That’s all.”
Diego remained standing a moment longer, then sank back in his seat. “You are nothing if not predictable, Andrew. With all the money you stole, you couldn’t get an exterminator to solve your rat problem?”
“Well it hardly matters now, does it?” Andrew replied.
Diego swiveled back and forth in his seat. “There is something off about you, now that I think about it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Here you are in the midst of an FBI investigation. Your records have been seized. It will take a forensic accountant about ten seconds to figure out what we’ve done. By my count, you are facing at least ninety years in a federal prison. Yet, you seem remarkably calm.”
“I am not calm. I’m just trying to show a stiff upper lip and all that.”
“You’re not British.”
Andrew shrugged. “It’s merely an expression.”
Diego leaned in until their faces were mere inches apart. “Have you ever been to prison, Andrew?”
“Of course not!”
“I didn’t think so. You wouldn’t last five minutes in prison.” Diego leaned back, smiling sardonically. “But there you are. Cool as a cucumber.”
Andrew began to squirm under the lawyer’s unflinching stare. “I really don’t know what you’re insinuating.”
“You must have a plan,” Diego said.
“Plan? I don’t have any plan except to get a good lawyer.” Andrew gave a nervous chuckle. “Careful, you’re starting to sound paranoid.”
“So, you’re not hoping to strike a deal with a prosecutor? Not even for . . . say, information on a murder you might know something about?”
“Nn . . . no. Of course not. Why would I talk about that when I’m just as guilty as you are?”
“Well, you aren’t just as guilty, are you Andrew? You couldn’t do the deed. You backed out at the last minute.”
Andrew pushed back his chair and stood up. “Pinzón, I’ve been very indulgent, but now I must ask you to leave. I have—”
“Sit down,” Diego commanded.
Andrew obeyed without a word. A moment later, Cesar understood why.
Diego held a gun in his hand.
“What do you intend to do with that, Pinzón? Please, don’t do anything rash. We can—“
In the next breath, Andrew was slumped over his desk with a thin stream of blood oozing from a wound on his right temple.
Diego removed the silencer, wiped the gun, and placed it carefully in Andrew’s hand. Then he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.
In the padded cell, Cesar crouched in the fetal position with his hands covering his mouth.
38
All Is Right With The World
Renee awakened with her heart in her throat. She jerked up and swung her feet on the ground, ready to charge at her daughter’s bedroom. Marie-Thérèse was having a nightmare.
But as she stood there, poised to go into battle, she quickly realized no sound was coming from the little girl’s bedroom. The panic subsided, and her adrenaline levels began to recede.
All is right with the world, she said softly to herself.
“Are you alright?”
