Bloodlines (14 page)

“Thank God,” Olivia muttered, then swayed where she stood.

Marcus grabbed for her, but Trey caught her first and led her to the bed.

“Lie down, Livvie…you're white as a sheet.”

It wasn't until her head hit the pillow that Olivia realized she was shaking. She broke out in a cold sweat, while the bed felt as if it was rolling.

“I'm okay,” she mumbled, but closed her eyes anyway until everything stopped spinning.

“You're not okay,” Marcus said. “You've been up too long, and our discussion didn't help.”

Trey eyed them curiously. Unless they offered, he didn't feel as if he had the right to ask.

“It's over, isn't it, Trey?” Olivia asked. “I really am Michael and Kay Sealy's child?”

He frowned. What he was going to say wasn't going to help. In fact, it only added to the mystery of this mess.

“I can't say that for sure, but you are definitely Marcus's granddaughter.”

Both Marcus and Olivia frowned.

“What do you mean?” Marcus asked.

“Both Olivia's DNA and Baby Jane Doe's DNA show that they're related to you.”

Now Marcus was the one in shock.

“Dear God,” he said, and stumbled to the nearest chair.

“I don't understand,” Olivia said.

“Michael,” Marcus muttered.

Olivia frowned.

Trey sighed. He was glad he didn't have to explain the implications to Marcus.

The old man seemed to wilt where he sat, but Olivia still wasn't connecting.

“Will somebody please explain what the hell is going on?” she said.

Trey sat down on the side of the bed, then laid his hand on her arm, wishing he could soften the impact of what he was going to say.

“Michael and Kay Sealy had a daughter they named Olivia.”

“Yes. Me,” Olivia snapped.

“Not necessarily,” Trey said, avoiding her eyes. “You and the victim shared a father, but not mothers. Without DNA from Kay Sealy to compare to both you and Baby Doe, we can't prove which was which.” He glanced toward Marcus. “Does Kay have any surviving family members?”

“No, none that I know of.”

“That complicates things a bit,” Trey said.

Olivia started to shake as she clutched at Trey's hand.

“Even if we resembled each other, surely half siblings wouldn't have been identical. Grampy would have known if I wasn't the right one.” She looked to Marcus for backup. “That's what you said, right, Grampy? You would have known if they returned the wrong baby.”

“Absolutely,” Marcus said, but he was so shaken, he was no longer sure. He wasn't sure about anything anymore.

Trey glanced at Olivia, then turned his attention to Marcus.

“I have some more questions I need to ask you,” Trey said.

Marcus nodded. “Yes, I suppose you do.”

“Were you aware that your son was having an affair?”

Marcus reeled from the question as if it had been a physical blow.

Olivia stared at her grandfather's face. His expression raised new doubt.

“Oh, God, Grampy, what if—”

“Stop it,” Marcus said. “Just stop it right there. I said I knew my own granddaughter, didn't I? I won't say it again.” But even as he said it, the seeds of doubt had taken root.

Olivia covered her face, then rolled over onto her side.

“This is a nightmare,” she whispered, and closed her eyes.

Trey would have given anything not to have been the bearer of this news, but he'd been handed the case, and he had to see it through. He eyed Marcus again, waiting for him to answer. When he didn't, Trey prompted him.

“Marcus?”

“I never knew. I swear,” Marcus muttered. “Michael was always so loving toward Kay. The only other woman I ever saw him pay any attention to was Carolyn, Terrence's wife, and she was family.”

“That doesn't eliminate her,” Trey said. “Are you
sure there weren't others? Maybe someone at work? Someone he came in contact with on a daily basis? Were you ever aware of another woman in your son's world who was pregnant at the same time that Kay was carrying her child?”

“God in heaven,” Marcus said. “This can't be happening. I will not believe that my son had a child and let it be murdered.”

“That's not the only possible scenario here,” Trey said. “I would advise against drawing any kind of conclusions until we know more.”

“What more is there to know?” Marcus muttered. “My son got two women pregnant, virtually at the same time. The dead baby and my kidnapped granddaughter were the same age, right?”

“The coroner thinks they couldn't have been more than a month apart in age when the kidnapping occurred.”

“I'm still missing something obvious, aren't I?” Olivia asked.

Marcus couldn't look at her, and Trey couldn't look away.

“Back when the kidnapping occurred, the authorities never could reconcile Foster Lawrence as having been the only kidnapper. He was the one who picked up the ransom, but they were never able to link him to the murders. It was one of the reasons why he didn't get the death penalty. According to my lieutenant, they always thought there were at least two people involved, and that the other one did the killing. At the trial, Lawrence kept swearing he'd had nothing to do
with murder, that he was the one who'd turned the baby loose. He told them where he'd parked at the mall and the door through which he'd carried her in. There was a store clerk who remembered seeing a man who looked like Lawrence carrying a child into the mall about the same time that Lawrence swore he was turning her loose. But if Lawrence had an accomplice, he never gave him up.”

“Only now you think it could have been a woman…a woman scorned, couldn't it?” Marcus said.

“The possibility exists,” Trey said.

“I don't know. I can't think,” Marcus mumbled. “I need to go home. Maybe if I go through some old photo albums, someone will come to mind.”

“What about Uncle Terrence and Aunt Carolyn?” Olivia asked. “If my father is…responsible for both children, then that lets Uncle Terrence off the hook.”

“Yes, I suppose it does,” Trey said. “But now that we're looking for another woman, what about Carolyn? You said she and Michael were friendly?”

Marcus's face turned a dark, mottled red.

“She can't possibly be a suspect! I never intended to degrade her reputation. I only meant that she and Michael got along. I didn't add, but I will now, that she and Kay were also best friends, and there is no way that Carolyn Sealy got pregnant from my son, gave birth and then hid a two-year-old child from our entire family before…before…killing it and plastering it up in some wall.”

Trey's chin jutted. He was just as determined to solve the case as Marcus was to make this all go away.

“I was not insinuating that Carolyn Sealy was the mother,” Trey said. “But if she and your son were friendly, there is a possibility that she knew something about Michael's other life that you and his wife did not. I'll have to interview her.”

Marcus's posture sagged.

Trey regretted his anger.

“Look, Marcus…I'm not trying to be difficult about this. I know how everything that's happened has affected you and Olivia, but let's not forget what started this whole damn mess. A child is dead. And all I've got to go on are a bag of bones in the coroner's office, and a suitcase, one sock, a bloodstained nightgown, a wooden cross and most of a dirty pink blanket. I told you once before, and I'll say it again. I will find out who killed her, and I won't quit until it's done.”

Marcus nodded once.

“I'm sorry. This is your investigation, and I never intended to try and influence you. I was just looking out for my family.”

“I understand that,” Trey said. “But after what I've just told you, you also have to understand that you can't keep your family out of this anymore. Your son was involved with the mother of the murdered child. When we find out who she was, then I think we'll be able to find out who killed Michael and Kay Sealy and kidnapped Olivia.”

“But who killed the baby in the suitcase?” Marcus asked.

Trey wouldn't look at Olivia as he answered.

“I think it all depends on which baby it was that died.”

Olivia turned her back to both men and curled into the fetal position. She felt sick and afraid—as afraid as she'd ever been.

Marcus tried to talk to her, but was so rattled by the revelations that he made a feeble excuse and quickly left with a promise to call soon.

T
rey waited until Marcus was gone, then moved to Olivia's bed. She hadn't moved or spoken since she'd turned her back on both of them, and he worried that she blamed him for the news he'd brought.

He scooted onto the side of her bed, then put his hand on her shoulder. When he felt her flinch, his heart sank.

“Livvie?”

“Go away, Trey. I don't want to talk about this anymore,” she said.

He heard tears in her voice. She was crying again. He couldn't blame her.

“I'm so sorry,” he said softly.

She braced herself as she turned, trying not to disturb the sling on her arm, and rolled over onto her back.

“You have nothing to apologize for, and as you reminded us, your main purpose here is finding a murderer.”

“That's my job,” he said shortly. “Loving you is a complete and separate thing, and I would like to remind you that I don't intend to be bullied into giving
you up again, no matter how pissed off you or your family get at me.”

For a long silent moment he and Olivia just stared at each other.

“Are you okay with that?” he finally asked.

She swallowed once, then nodded.

His voice was a little softer, but there was determination in his hands as he cupped her face, then leaned down.

“All right, then,” he said softly, and kissed her, only this time the kiss was filled with passion, rather than his previous restraint. He felt the tremble in her lips, heard the catch in her breath, and knew she was feeling it, too.

When he finally pulled away, Olivia was shaking.

“I remember what it was like making love to you,” she said.

The hair stood up on the back of Trey's neck.

“Oh, baby, I remember what it was like making love to you, too, and when you get well, we'll make new memories, okay?”

“More than okay,” she said softly.

Trey touched her lips one last time, but with the tip of his finger, then slid his thumb the length of her mouth before tilting her chin just a bit.

“Look at me,” he urged.

She looked her fill and then some.

“No matter what happens with this case, it doesn't change anything that's between us, right?”

This time she didn't hesitate.

“Right.”

He grinned. “So you go home tomorrow, right?”

“Yes, and none too soon.”

His grin faded. “Something wrong?”

“I don't like being the object of so much curiosity.”

His voice deepened, as did the frown between his eyebrows.

“Are you being bothered here?”

“Not really, but someone is always staring.”

“You're a damn beautiful woman. I don't blame them. Now, quit reading stuff into what's probably just natural curiosity.”

She sighed. “Yes, you're probably right.”

“I can put a guard on your door,” he said.

“Grampy said the same thing, but there's no need. I'm just being silly. Besides, by this time tomorrow I'll be gone.”

“I'm going to be keeping the road hot between the station and your house.”

“You'd better,” she said.

He pointed to her sling.

“Speaking of better, when does this come off?”

“Soon. The doctor is going to start me on some kind of therapy to help loosen the muscles. We have a complete gym in the basement at home, so all I'll need is some instruction and then I can do it myself every day.”

He nodded and would have said more, but his pager went off. He glanced down at the number, then frowned.

“I'm going to have to go, honey. I'll check back with you this evening, okay?”

“Okay.”

A moment later he was gone, leaving Olivia with the memory of his kiss tingling on her mouth and the anticipation of more to come.

 

Foster Lawrence had settled on a plan. He was getting out of Dallas now, even if he had to hitchhike to make it happen. He had less than three hundred dollars to his name, with no prospects of adding to that unless he went to work. But he couldn't do that here unless he bought himself a new identity, and that would cost more than three hundred dollars.

When the police arrested the man responsible for the attempted murder of Olivia Sealy, he'd breathed a huge sigh of relief. One less monkey on his back. But there was still that matter of a dead baby and a suitcase, and while he hadn't witnessed anything, he knew the name of the person who was responsible. Trouble was, even if he decided to give that up, he had no earthly idea where to tell the cops to start looking, and they were bound to press for that information before letting him off the hook.

He'd divided his money into three separate portions and hidden them in three different places. One third was in his bag, another in his wallet and the last in his sock. He had a switchblade in his pocket, and a freshly shaved face and head to keep him from being recognized. He gave his hotel room a last lingering look to make sure he'd left nothing of himself behind, then went out the door, closing it behind him.

He'd cleared the fourth-floor landing and was just
starting down to the third when he suddenly smelled smoke. He thought nothing of it. Some down-and-out resident was cooking on a hot plate in the room. It wasn't allowed, but it wouldn't have been the first time the rule had been broken.

He readjusted the strap on his duffel bag and moved a few feet farther down the stairs. He was almost to the second-floor landing when the smoke came up to meet him, spiraling up the stairwell, as if drawn up a chimney.

“Son of a bitch,” Foster muttered as his heart skipped a beat.

He took another couple of steps down, and as he did, the steps seemed to disappear beneath his feet. Where treads had been, there was now nothing but smoke. He looked down and realized he couldn't see past his knees.

“Oh God, oh no. No. No.” His voice kept rising until he was shouting the last two words. Then he started to scream. “Fire! Fire! Somebody help! Fire!”

He was frozen to the spot, watching the smoke as it continued to rise, and then suddenly realizing he was beginning to feel heat.

He turned abruptly and began running back up the way he'd come, convinced there had to be more than one set of stairs to each floor, certain that if he could just find them, he could get out another way.

He reached the fourth floor, and then kept going up, up, until he reached the door that led to the roof. He could hear footsteps behind him—the sounds of people crying, someone screaming—and always there was the continuing accumulation of heat and smoke.

He burst through the door and out onto the roof, and for a few seconds could almost believe he'd outrun the fire. Then reality surfaced as a swarm of people came out behind him and began running to the edge of the building. He followed and, like the others, found himself leaning over the edge and screaming down below to the people who were beginning to gather.

“Help! Help!” they screamed, as if the mere uttering of the word would automatically keep them from harm.

Foster could hear the fire trucks coming now, racing through the streets below with their sirens signaling their imminent arrival. Fire had jumped from the second-floor windows to the third, and there was smoke beginning to come out of the fourth-floor windows, as well.

Foster panicked. Was this going to be his end? Was he going to go up in smoke like the money he'd fraudulently obtained so long ago? It seemed impossible, and yet, in a cruel and ironic twist, almost justified.

He began to circle the rooftop, running as fast as he could, looking for a break in the smoke, but it seemed now that it was coming up from all four sides. His panic was echoed by the others on the roof. Two of them found a small stack of wooden planks and began frantically dragging them to the edge of the building, intent on using them as a bridge to the next building over.

But when they extended the planks as far as they would go, they discovered the boards were about three feet too short. A wail went up from the group en masse
as if one brief window of escape had suddenly closed before them.

“The fire trucks! They're here!” someone yelled, and pointed as the trucks turned a corner up the street.

“We're saved! We're saved!” another cried, and began to weep.

But Foster wasn't as elated. He didn't see how any of them could be saved when it was obvious that the firemen couldn't see them on the roof any better than they could see the firemen below. The way he looked at it, they were about to be royally screwed—or fried, as the case might be.

When he was just at the point of making peace with his sins and asking forgiveness from God, he heard shouts from the building directly north. He turned. The building was at least six floors higher than the one they were on, but at the edge, he saw a group of firemen strapping on rescue gear. Immediately, he understood what they were about to try.

“There!” he yelled, pointing up, and watched in openmouthed amazement as a helicopter suddenly appeared, then unfurled a rope ladder from one of the open doors.

Within seconds, the powerful downdraft from the rotors threatened to sweep them off the roof. Foster ran with the others to a central portion of the roof. As they watched, a fireman jumped onto the ladder, locked one arm through the rungs, and then rode it down to the top of the burning building.

The fireman leaned down and grabbed a victim, then pulled her onto the ladder, positioning himself be
hind her so that she was pinned between the ladder and his body. The ladder was swinging wildly, partly from the downdraft of the chopper's blades, and partly from the wind being churned by the growing wall of heat below. The chopper rose slowly to keep from slamming the people against the wall of the next building. In moments the woman was dropped into the waiting arms of the firemen on the other roof.

One after another, they were removed that way until there were only two men left—Foster and an old man he knew only as Ralph. The roof of the building was so hot now that he could feel the heat through the soles of his shoes. He saw the chopper coming, calculated that there might be time for one more run before the roof caved in, and knew if they had to choose, they wouldn't choose him. Desperate to save himself, he grabbed hold of Ralph's arm and started to run toward the dangling ladder and the fireman hanging on to the rungs.

Only seconds after they'd moved from where they had been standing, the center of the roof began to give way, sinking slowly inward as the structure was devoured by the fire.

“Hurry!” he screamed, and motioned for the fireman to climb up out of the way.

The fireman was waving his arm and pointing to the far corner of the roof, where the outer wall still held. At that moment, Ralph stumbled. It was instinct, not a sense of bravery, that made Foster grab him under the arms and lift him off his feet. In one last desperate sprint toward safety, they reached the corner just
as the ladder swung across his line of vision. With a desperation born of fear, he grabbed the ladder just above the last rung and screamed in the old man's ear.

“Put your arms around my neck and don't let go.”

“We'll fall,” the old man wailed.

“Do you want to die?” Foster shouted.

“No!” Ralph cried.

“Then hold the hell on. I won't let go if you don't,” he promised.

At that point, the rest of the roof began to fall inward. He could feel the outer wall as it began to sway.

“Now!” he screamed.

The old man's arms went around his neck. He grabbed the ladder with both hands and locked his legs around the old man's waist just as the ladder swung out into space.

He looked up once and found himself staring straight into the soot-streaked face of the fireman, then looked away.

The chopper went up. The burden of the old man's body was more than he'd expected. Almost instantly, his shoulder muscles began to burn from the pull of the weight. Ignoring everything but the feel of the rope against his palms, he closed his eyes, focusing all of his energy into his grip.

It seemed as if they were suspended forever, when in fact it was only seconds. Just when he thought he would have to let go, he heard the sounds of people shouting and then felt hands grabbing his ankles, pulling him down, down, to the safety of the other roof.

“Let go, man! Let go!” someone shouted as fingers
grabbed at his hands, trying to make him turn loose of the ladder.

So he did—and immediately collapsed.

In the few moments it took him to realize they were safe, he opened his eyes and looked up. There were faces looking down at him, then hands pulling at his clothes and yanking him upright.

“Can you walk?” someone asked.

Foster nodded.

“Follow me,” one of the firemen ordered.

Foster did as he was told. It wasn't until they reached the street below that he accepted they'd been saved. He stood for a moment, his legs trembling, his heart hammering against his chest, and then dropped to his knees.

“Good job,” someone said, and clapped him on the back as they moved past.

“Way to go, mister,” another said, and thumped him on the shoulder as he, too, passed.

While he was still trying to catch his breath, two men scooped him up by the arms and all but dragged him to a curb.

“Hey… I'm all right,” he mumbled. “Let me go. Let me go.”

They patted him on the back, shoved a bottle of water into his hands and draped a heavy blanket across his back before running back to the other survivors.

 

Rose was in the kitchen, preparing vegetables for the evening meal. The portable television she kept tuned to her favorite soaps was on a nearby shelf. She
listened as she worked, and every now and then had to pause to watch a particular scene.

“That crazy woman,” she muttered as she stopped to point at the screen. “She breaks up every romance on this show. You'd think they'd have at least one man who could resist her charms.”