Cold truth

Chapter 33

"I feel so stupid," Abby said to Mason. "I've made a complete and utter fool of myself, thinking Jordan could be my daughter. Especially when I saw her with her parents in court this morning."

Abby's PR firm, Fresh Air, was on the second floor of a building a block from her loft. Mason brought lunch from a deli at the corner of 21st and Baltimore, remnants of panini and Thai chicken salad littering a small round table in the corner of Abby's office, overlooking the street. Her staff busied themselves, shuttling in faxes she didn't read and phone messages she didn't return, pretending not to notice the tear-stained mascara streaks at the corners of Abby's eyes. The suite was decorated to soothe with creamy burnished wood, indirect light, and comforting music. The walls were hung with colorful photographs of people, places, and things in motion, sending the subliminal message that Abby and her people made things happen.

"Only because you look like Gene Simmons after a bad KISS concert," Mason said.

"That good, huh?" Abby answered, scrubbing her face with another tissue. "Even if Jordan is my daughter, I can't jump into the middle of her life now. The Hacketts are the only parents she's ever known. In spite of everything that's happened, Jordan wanted them to be in court this morning. That's her family. I should just butt out."

"Jordan needs friends too," Mason said. "You've connected with her. Don't let go of that."

"I know," Abby said, "but I need something else. I need to know what happened to my daughter, even if I can't be a part of her life. I need that closure."

"Closure is overrated," Mason said. "You trade one pain for another. If you found her, you'd want to meet her, be with her, make up for all those years, and she might not be interested. If you couldn't find her, you'd have a wound that never healed."

"I just want to know that she's all right, that she has a life," Abby said, gazing at the street as if her daughter would step out a door or turn a corner and wave to her.

"What if she wasn't all right?" Mason asked too carefully for his question to be academic. "What then?"

Abby looked at him, catching his meaning and her breath. "Lou, if you know something, tell me."

Mason pushed back from the table, not wanting to tell Abby what he suspected but didn't know for certain, unable to keep it from her any longer. "After we got back from St. Louis, I reread Gina Davenport's autopsy report. She had a congenital abnormality that prevented her from ever getting pregnant."

Abby wrinkled her brow. "What's that go to do with me?" she asked, then gasped with understanding, racing to the conclusion. "Emily! That's why Gina never signed the Baby Book at the hospital and why my medical records are missing. Is that what you're telling me? That Gina Davenport took my baby!"

Mason shoved bread crumbs into a mound, smashing them with his thumb. "I don't know for certain. That's why I didn't tell you. We know that Terry Nix worked at the hospital. We know that he could have met your uncle in the alcohol treatment program, and we know that Nix dealt in black-market babies. Emily's birth certificate identifies Gina and Robert as her natural parents. They couldn't adopt legally because Robert was a drug addict. The birth certificate had to have been forged. The date of birth is a week before your baby was born, but changing the date was one more step to make it look legit. It all fits, but I can't prove it."

"Oh, my God!" Abby said, coming out of her chair, the full impact of Mason's explanation hitting her. "Emily is dead." Mason took her in his arms, Abby shuddering, dissolving, repeating again and again, "Emily is dead." Mason held her until she pulled away, walking around her office, arms crossed, finding her center of gravity.

Mason explained, "Gina must have told her lawyer, David Evans, about you. Evans let it slip to his girlfriend, Paula Sutton, who worked at KWIN and was jealous enough of Gina to hook you and Gina up. She used Jordan's cell phone to cover her tracks. All she wanted to do was cause Gina some grief. Instead, I think she put this whole thing into motion."

"Jealousy and hate," Abby said. "That's what killed Gina and Trent. What are you going to do?" Abby asked, her mouth set in a thin, fierce line.

"Terry Nix is in the middle of all of this. He was there at the beginning and at the end. He's got ties to Gina, Robert, and you. I'm going to have a come-to-Jesus meeting with him."

"You think Nix killed Gina and Trent?"

"No, especially if you're right about jealousy and hate. It's not his style. He's a let's-make-love-not-war relic, but I bet he knows a lot more than he's told me so far."

"Why would he tell you anything now?" Abby asked.

"Self-preservation. That's how guys like him survive. They use guys like Centurion for muscle. Take away the muscle, and they'll give it up. Blues and Samantha have Centurion under wraps. Nix may be ready to talk."

"I've got some questions of my own," Abby said, her jaw tightening.

"Don't even think about it," Mason said. "Write them down. I'll add them to my list."

"I'll call you," she said, returning to the window, palms against the glass, eyes on the street.

Mason wiped his dry-erase board clean, starting over with what he knew, and what made too much sense not to be true. From that, he made a list of questions, guessing at the answers. When he was done, he had a story.

Terry Nix supplied drugs to Robert Davenport when they lived in St. Louis, getting one hook into the Davenports. Nix sold Abby's baby to the Davenports, adding another hook. Years later, Nix landed at Sanctuary, using those hooks to persuade Gina Davenport to refer patients there, adding credibility to the operation, while plugging Robert Davenport into Centurion's drug supply. Gina must have feared disclosure of the truth about Emily and Robert enough to go along, even to the point of letting Emily live at Sanctuary. She lost control of her daughter, her husband, and her life. Emily's death made her more vulnerable, not less, to Nix, one more secret to be kept, the price paid by contributions from Emily's Fund.

Paula Sutton's gambit made real the rule of unintended consequences. Gina must have panicked, Mason theorized, believing that her past was going to catch up to her, and gone to Nix, perhaps to warn him, perhaps to ask his help. Mason doubted Nix killed Gina. It was more likely that Nix would slip away under cover of darkness, content to set up shop somewhere else. Centurion would have had a different solution, equally pragmatic but deadly. He had too much invested in Sanctuary to walk away. Car-jacking Mason to find out what he'd done with the baby ledger was proof enough of that.

Though he was satisfied with his analysis, Mason still couldn't make Trent part of Nix's equation. It was time to talk with Terry Nix. First, he called Blues.

"Are you and Centurion still playing Me and My Shadow?" Mason asked him.

"Gave it up. Samantha's got the cops covering him so close, every time he farts, they gotta roll down a window."

Mason said, "Centurion must know he's being watched."

"They ain't keeping it a secret," Blues replied.

"Where was Centurion when you last saw him?"

"Holed up in a big house in Sunset Hills, belongs to one of Sanctuary's sponsors. He doesn't want to give the cops any reason to go sniffing around Sanctuary."

"Perfect. I'm going to have a chat with Terry Nix."

"You need any help putting that dog in a mellow mood, you let me know."

Mason pulled into the center drive at Sanctuary just after seven o'clock. The grounds were deserted, the main house dark, except for a light over the porch, the only other illumination from October's first moon. A lone girl was climbing into a Jeep as he got out of his car.

"Where is everybody?" Mason asked.

"Sent home," she said. "I'm the last."

"What happened?"

"Something about insurance coverage. That's all I know."

"How about Terry Nix? Is he still here?"

"Yeah," the girl said. "He was packing until some woman showed up. Last I saw, they were headed downstairs."

Mason's cell phone rang as the girl drove away.

"Lou, it's Samantha. Where are you?"

"In the front yard of Sanctuary. I came out here to talk to Terry Nix. All the kids are gone. The place is shut down."

"My people followed Centurion to a house in Sunset Hills that belongs to Kelsey Bond, one of his big contributors. He made Bond smuggle him out in the back of his car and drive to Sanctuary, but Bond jumped out when they got off I-70, made it to a gas station, and called us."

Mason looked at his watch. It was 7:05. "How long since Bond jumped out of the car?"

Samantha said, "An hour, give or take."

"What kind of car?" Mason asked, walking toward the garage.

"A Lexus sedan. Lou, I'm on the way. Get out of there," Samantha said.

Mason opened the side door to the four-car garage. A Lexus, its hood still warm, was parked next to Abby's BMW. "Can't do it, Sam. Abby is inside," he said, hanging up.

Mason searched the garage for a weapon, finding a box cutter hidden under a pile of oily rags. Slipping it into the pocket of his suit jacket, he circled the grounds, looking for signs of life. He crossed a brick patio with a liquid-propane barbecue grill next to the barn, which smelled of hay and machine oil. Hoping to find a better weapon, he was disappointed when there was nothing there except for a tractor, three ATVs, an assortment of tools, and a heater already in service used to warm the barn during cold weather.

Back outside, he jogged along the perimeter of the house, the first and second floors silent and dark. Lights were on in a third-floor room on the back where, from Jordan's description, Centurion had his apartment. Mason moved on, skirting the evergreen hedge that hugged the house, coming to a break in the hedge for a pair of daylight windows cut into Terry Nix's basement office.

Though the night air was cool, Mason was sweating, his breathing accelerating when he saw Centurion, Nix, and Abby in Nix's office. Abby was strapped into a chair, duct tape holding her arms and legs in place, a small swatch over her mouth, her eyes stretched wide with fear. A syringe lay on Nix's desk next to two open gym bags partially stuffed with cash, another tall stack of currency on Nix's desk. A third bag lay open, its cargo neatly piled plastic bags of white powder.

Though he couldn't hear what they were saying, Mason could tell that Centurion and Nix were arguing. Nix's face was red and he was gesturing wildly, clutching the baby ledger, while Centurion listened, his hands planted at his sides, his head down. Judging from the body language, Nix was chewing out Centurion, an indulgence Mason expected Centurion would soon end with his fist. The argument had to be about how to divide the cash and the drugs, a dispute complicated by Abby, though Mason was worried that they were in agreement about her.

Centurion had raced back to Sanctuary to pick up the money and drugs before Nix could skip out with them. Nix was obviously on the same schedule, though Mason doubted that they were using the same travel agent. Neither one could have been happy that Abby showed up, and both were desperate enough not to leave her as a loose end.

Mason didn't like the odds of getting Abby out by tapping on the window and asking if she could come out and play any better than he liked the odds of walking in and telling Centurion and Nix that he'd dropped by to pick Abby up for dinner. Samantha was at least half an hour away, and the arrival of an army of cops would, at best, make Abby a hostage of two men with nothing to lose. More bad odds, Mason decided. He needed to get Centurion and Nix out of the office without giving them a reason to kill Abby before they left.

Mason retraced his steps, not risking being seen passing the windows, running to the patio next to the barn, almost tripping over the barbecue grill. He disconnected the twenty-pound propane tank from the grill and carried it inside the barn, setting it down about thirty feet from the heater. Pulling off the front panel of the heater, he found the pilot light, an orange and blue finger of flame barely illuminating the inside of the heater, but powerful enough for what he had in mind.

From a case he'd once handled, Mason knew propane gas escaping from a tank would pool along the ground because it was heavier than air, eventually exploding if it mixed with the right amount of oxygen and found an ignition source. Mason opened the barn door, letting cool air pour in from the outside, feeding the furnace that was designed to suck it in, warming and recirculating it. The combination, Mason hoped, would draw the propane to the pilot light, generating a rich enough mixture of propane and oxygen to turn the barn into a one-shot Roman candle. The one variable Mason couldn't account for was how long it would take before the propane ignited. When it did, he hoped Centurion and Nix would take it as a sign from God to hit the road.

Mason opened the valve on the propane tank and ran without looking back. He slipped into the garage, following the covered walkway that connected it to the house. The door into the house was unlocked and the security alarm was off. Centurion and Nix were obviously more concerned about getting out than about who might get in.

Mason walked quickly through a room lined with empty coat hooks and built-in boot baskets, then a laundry room with three washers and dryers, and a pantry stocked with food for a small army. The barn exploded as he entered the kitchen, the shock wave shattering windows, shards of glass rifling the air as he dove for cover, sliding across the hardwood floor into the dining room, its walls bathed in the incandescent glow of the fireball that poured out of the barn.

Mason flattened himself against the wall as Centurion and Nix pounded up the stairs cursing, bolted through the entry hall, past the dining room, and out the front door. Not waiting to see if they would come back, he sprinted down the stairs, stumbling on the last step, bracing himself with one hand as he regained his footing, shouting for Abby as he wheeled into Nix's office.

He pulled the tape from her mouth, covering her lips with his for an instant. "Are you okay?" he asked her as he sliced her duct tape bonds with the box cutter.

"I think so," she said. "Hurry, before they come back."

He started to say that they wouldn't be back when he saw the bags of cash and drugs strewn on the floor, mixed with broken glass from more windows shattered by the blast. Looking closer, he saw bloody fingerprints on the desk and a trail of blood out into the hallway. "What happened?"

"They were fighting over the drugs and the money when the explosion broke the windows. A piece of glass cut Centurion. Nix was already bleeding from the beating Centurion was giving him. They'll be back if they don't kill each other first."

"We're not that lucky," Mason said. "Come on. In a place this big, there's got to be another way out of here besides going back up those stairs."

Taking Abby by the hand, Mason peeked into the hallway, leading away from the stairs. A series of smaller explosions rocked the night, lacing Abby with fresh tremors.

"What did you do? Call in air strikes?" she asked, forcing humor to calm herself, stuttering the punch line.

"I blew up the barn," he said with a shrug like it was no big deal. "Those last explosions were probably the gas tanks on a tractor and some ATVs that were stored there. The fire must have caused them to blow."

The wall above Mason's head erupted in a shower of sheet rock splinters, the crack of a gunshot lost in yet another explosion in the barn. Mason spun Abby around, shoving her toward the next turn in the hall past a trophy case, glancing over his shoulder as Centurion took aim again, his next shot slamming into the trophies, raining more shrapnel on them as they ran.

They were in a corridor with doors on either side marked as locker rooms, one for each sex, and another door at the end of the hall. Crashing through that door into an exercise room, Mason tipped a rack of hand weights against the door, buying a few seconds, knowing that Centurion could power-lift him, the door, and the weights. He knocked over benches to trip Centurion, grabbed a pair of eight-pound hand weights, pointed Abby to an exit on the far side and hit the light switch, blanketing the room in darkness. Centurion collided with the door, firing three shots that knifed through its hollow interior, bullets pinging off exercise machines as Mason and Abby escaped, relieved to find a lock on the door they closed behind them, Mason jamming it down with his thumb.

"Here," he said, pressing one of the weights into Abby's hand, "hit him like you mean it."

They looked around, finding themselves in an indoor basketball court, illuminated only by the neon news on the scoreboard hanging from the ceiling that read "time expired."

"You wanted another stairway," Abby said, her breath coming in gulps. "There it is."

She pointed to a platform built high into the wall in one corner of the court, a ladder hinged on one end and folded beneath the platform. A trapdoor was built into the ceiling above the platform. Mason found a control panel on the wall with a bank of switches, cycling through them, lights turning on and off, until an electric motor engaged and the ladder began unfolding, its pace excruciatingly slow.

The ladder stopped six feet off the floor. Abby leapt for the bottom rung, Mason bracing her legs as she pulled herself up, then following her as Centurion pounded on the locked door, using bullets instead of a key. There was a power switch for the ladder on the wall above the platform. Abby punched the switch starting the ladder's labored ascent as Mason skimmed his hands across the trapdoor, finding the inlaid handle that was concealed in the dim light. Swinging the door up and in, Mason pushed Abby through the opening, taking back the hand weight he had given her as Centurion kicked the door to the basketball court off its hinges.

Crouched on one knee, Mason launched the two eight-pound weights in rapid fire succession, the first catching Centurion on the arm, the second in the neck as he turned to fire, the shot going wide. Mason scrambled through the trapdoor, flinging it shut, blinking his eyes in the pitch black of a low-ceilinged utility tunnel, barely large enough for them to crawl.

"Abby," he whispered hoarsely, "where are you?"

"Here," she answered, reaching out, finding his face with her hand.

Mason extended his arms, remembering how Jordan had measured her cell, figuring out they were at one end of the passageway. "There's only way to go," Mason said. "Take the lead."

The crawl space was made of concrete, the walls lined with pipes and electric cables. The air was dry and dusty, tasting of metal. Abby, unable to see, moved slowly, using one hand as her guide to avoid using her head as a bumper.

"Hold on," she said. "I found a shaft I can almost stand up in." She eased herself upright. "There's another trapdoor. It's propped part way open and there's light on the other side."

Mason's initial relief that they'd found their way out vanished at Abby's description. "Get back!" Mason snapped, too late as Abby screamed and a gunshot rang out, echoing in the crawl space, the bullet ricocheting as Mason covered himself. "Abby!" he shouted.

"She all right, cockroach," Centurion said. "That's what you are, Mason. A cockroach, crawling around inside the walls of my house. You go back to crawling. Your lady and I got business elsewhere."

"Lou!" Abby cried. "Help me!"

"Shut up, bitch!" Centurion told her. Mason heard the smack of Centurion's hand and Abby's muffled cry. "So long, cockroach."

The trapdoor slammed tight, the sounds of something heavy being dragged across the floor, landing with a permanent thud above his head.