Return of the Prodigal Son, Page 2

  As Donovan drew up a chair beside Micah everyone joined hands while Kieran intoned the familiar blessing.

  “Bless this food and this family. Not only those of us gathered here, but those who can be here only in spirit. Bless especially our Donovan, who has been missing for so long and has finally been returned to us. And as always, bless Riordan, who watches over us all.”

  Donovan saw his mother wipe fresh tears before picking up her napkin. Then he was forced to field a hundred questions as he disposed of a mountain of spaghetti drenched in his grandfather’s famous sauce.

  At last he sat back, sipping his wine. “You’ll never know how many times I’ve dreamed about this, Pop. Nobody makes pasta like you.”

  The old man beamed with unexpected pleasure.

  “So.” Kate sipped her tea and studied her middle son. Even after a fine meal and friendly conversation, surrounded by loving family, he didn’t appear to be at ease. Instead, she could sense a tension in him. A subtle drawing away. “When did you get back, Donovan?”

  He stared into his glass. “I’ve been back for nearly a month.”

  “A…month?” Kate nearly spilled her tea before carefully setting the cup on the saucer. “And you never called?”

  “Sorry.” He looked up, and the darkness was back in his eyes. “I had a lot of things to deal with.”

  “Are you leaving again soon?” Kate struggled to keep her tone even. The last thing she wanted was to sound as though she were whining, but the truth was she dreaded the thought of saying goodbye. Each time Donovan went away, he took a piece of her heart with him.

  He shook his head. “I’m out of…government service for good. I bought a house in the hills of Maryland.”

  “You bought a house?” Kieran’s tone sharpened. “And you didn’t think to tell any of us until now?”

  Donovan met the older man’s eyes. “I need to be alone for a while, Pop, while I sort out my life.”

  “It seems to me you’ve had plenty of time for that, boyo. More than—” Kieran saw Kate shake her head and bit back the rest of what he’d been about to say.

  “I know you don’t understand, Pop. In fact, I don’t understand it, either.” Donovan looked at his mother and saw the light going out of her smile. It hurt, knowing he was the one who always seemed to bring the darkness with him. “I may have found my niche. I’m writing a book on international criminals, and the loopholes in our laws that allow them to flourish.” He gave a mirthless laugh. “I consider myself something of an expert on that.”

  “Is that what you were doing for the C.I.A.?”

  Cameron saw the sudden frown on Donovan’s face before he managed to compose himself. “My work for the government is over. Now I’m going to take some time just for myself.”

  “I’m glad.” Kate picked up her cup and drank, feeling her nerves begin to steady. “Can you support yourself by writing?”

  Donovan shrugged. “That remains to be seen. I’ve already had an offer from a publisher. And I got a healthy settlement when I left government service. I’ll be fine.”

  “I know you will.” His mother drained her cup and glanced at Kieran, who was studying his grandson through narrowed eyes. “What’s for dessert?”

  Kieran pulled himself back from the million questions that begged to be asked. “Brownies and ice cream.”

  “I’ll get it, Pop.” Before his grandfather could move, Donovan was striding out of the room, grateful for the chance to escape.

  In the kitchen he paused beside the big bay window to stare at the battered basketball hoop above the garage. Minutes later he returned to the dining room with a tray of brownies and bowls of chocolate cookie dough ice cream.

  When he’d passed them around and remained standing, Kieran looked up in surprise. “Aren’t you having any?”

  Donovan shook his head. “I need to work off my food. I think I’ll shoot some hoops.”

  “I’ll join you.” Micah pushed away from the table, his sweet tooth forgotten.

  “Me, too.” Cameron wasn’t about to be left out.

  “I’m in.” Not to be outdone by her brothers, Bren trailed after them.

  Half an hour later, his mother and grandfather joined Pru at the kitchen window to watch as the four siblings did what they’d been doing since childhood.

  As Donovan ruthlessly pushed and shoved and broke free to score yet another basket, it occurred to Kate that her middle son was still fighting his demons, as well as fighting for his place in the family. Though he showed a stoic face to the world, and used whatever bullying tactics he needed to stay competitive, the weight of his loss was apparent to anyone who bothered to look beneath the surface.

  The tragedy of his father’s death at the hands of a gunman was still the motivating force behind everything he did. Grief still weighed heavily on his heart.

  Perhaps, she realized, it always would.

  Prologue

  Chevy Chase, Md., 1981

  “Bren. Call your brothers in before it gets dark.” Kieran Lassiter turned to his eight-year-old granddaughter, his voice still rough from the tears shed at the funeral of his son. Police Sergeant Riordan Lassiter had been given a hero’s farewell by the city of Washington, D.C., after taking a bullet meant for his partner. The day had been a long and emotionally draining one for his widow, Kate, and her four children.

  It was the first time any of the family had ever seen Kieran Lassiter cry. This stern, bear of a man was a tough former cop who had become his family’s anchor during this turbulent time. His daughter-in-law, Kate, the mother of his four grandchildren, was still reeling from her loss. But throughout the day she’d managed to keep her composure as she went through the motions of meeting and greeting the hundreds of officials who had turned out for the ceremony.

  Now, at last, they had returned to their home in the nearby suburb of Chevy Chase, away from the pomp and grandeur, where they would be free to grieve in private.

  Minutes later, as Kieran was pouring boiling water into a teapot, Bren returned, followed by two of her brothers.

  Kieran looked up. “Where’s Donovan?”

  “Up in the tree house.” Micah, the oldest at twelve, carefully hung his coat on a peg by the back door and tried not to stare at his father’s coat, hanging on a peg beside his.

  “Tell him to come inside.” Kieran filled two steaming cups and handed one to Kate, who sat like a wilted flower at the big trestle table, her shoes kicked aside, her eyes red and swollen, though no one had seen her shedding her tears.

  “He said he’s never coming in.” Five-year-old Cameron missed the peg and left his coat on the floor until, seeing his grandfather’s scowl, returned to the spot and carefully hung it beside Micah’s.

  Kieran glanced out at the gathering darkness. “Rain’s turning to sleet again. Micah, climb up that ladder and make your brother come down this minute.”

  “Can’t.” Micah held his hands over the still-warm stove, rubbing them together while keeping his back to the others. He and Cameron had been shooting hoops to stave off the time when they would have to come inside and face the empty spot at the table. Now that they were home, their loss seemed all the more real. Everywhere they looked, they could see the evidence of the loving father they’d lost. “Donovan pulled the ladder up into the tree house so nobody could follow.”

  “He’ll freeze to death up there.” Kieran paced to the window, then back to the table, where Kate was already slipping into her shoes.

  With a sigh she went to the back door and pulled on a coat before heading across the lawn, with the others trailing behind.

  “Donovan.” With her hands cupped to her mouth she shouted into the freezing rain.

  A figure appeared at the entrance to the tree house. “I’m not coming down, Mom.”

  Kieran’s tone was rough with frustration. “Stop giving your mother grief, boyo. She’s had enough for one day. Now come down here. It’s going below freezing tonight.”

  Donovan shook
his head. “I have to be here. Don’t you understand? Dad and I…” He stopped, swallowed, then struggled on. “Dad and I built this. It was our special place.”

  Kieran turned to Kate, expecting his daughter-in-law to put an end to this foolishness and order her son down without any further delay.

  Instead she seemed to think about her son’s words for several minutes before lifting her head. “All right.” She passed a hand over her eyes and gave a soft shrug of her shoulders. “What do you need to get through the night?”

  Kieran shot her a stunned look. His Irish brogue thickened with anger. “You’d leave a ten-year-old boy all alone in a tree house on a night like this?”

  “I would. If it helped ease his pain.” She wondered what would ease her own. She glanced up. “Tell us what you need, Donovan.”

  “Nothing. I don’t need anyone or anything.”

  His reaction was so typical, she almost smiled. This, her middle son, had always been her most difficult child. The one to test her patience. The one to break the rules, or at least to push them to the outer limits. Riordan had called him his wild child. But he’d always said it with a trace of pride.

  She turned toward her children. “Put a sleeping bag and some food in a bucket.” She cupped her hands to her mouth. “Donovan, lower the rope you keep up there and we’ll send you some supplies.”

  Bren went in search of a sleeping bag. Cameron filled a pillowcase with the things a five-year-old considered necessary for survival. Peanut butter. Cheese. Bologna. A slice of bread and a container of milk, and his favorite stuffed pig, that had been on his bed since he was an infant. He hated parting with it for even one night, but he figured Donovan needed it more tonight. He hoped his older brother would draw some comfort from it.

  When everything was ready, Donovan lowered a rope, and Kieran grudgingly tied it to the bucket.

  Just as it began to lift slowly off the ground, Micah shouted, “Wait.” He raced out the back door and placed something on top of the pile, then called, “Okay. Take it up.”

  In the doorway of the tree house, they could make out the shadow of Donovan as he pulled the bucket inside, then lifted from the top of the pile the heavy pea coat his father had always worn so proudly. As he buried his face in it, he could still smell his father in the folds.

  Micah glanced at his mother and saw her eyes, shiny with tears. “I hope you don’t mind, Mom. I thought it might help Donovan.”

  There were no words. And so she merely nodded and pressed her cheek to his, surprised that her first-born was already as tall as a man.

  As he watched his family return to the warmth of the house, Donovan Lassiter slumped down against the rough bark of the tree house, wishing he could cry. But the grief was too deep for tears. And so he sat throughout the long frigid night, with the scent of his father wrapped around him, his heart so badly shattered he feared it would never heal.

  Chapter 2

  It was dark when Donovan returned to his home in the hills. He liked the darkness. Was comfortable with it. He found he did some of his best work while the rest of the world was sleeping. And though he’d put in a full day, driving down to his mother’s home and back, he wasn’t feeling tired. In fact, the visit with his family had been just the stimulation he needed to spend a few pleasant hours at his computer. He was looking forward to it as he passed the rental house at the bottom of the hill.

  The windows glowed with light. Behind the drawn curtains he could see movement.

  He hadn’t realized Champion’s sister and family had planned to move in so soon. Still, Champ had said they were coming up as soon as school closed for the summer.

  He caught sight of a van parked beside the small shed at the rear of the house. The thought of people living so near had him frowning. He’d begun to enjoy the solitude of these hills. To savor the slower pace. There was no traffic. No horns. No brakes squealing. No peeling of tires. Best of all, no ambulance and police sirens breaking the night silence. Those were sounds guaranteed to wake him from a sound sleep and have him pacing the floor for hours in a cold sweat. There had been too many times that he, or one of his co-workers, had been rushed from the scene of carnage to a safe house if there had been no American hospital nearby.

  As he parked and made his way up the steps of his porch, he glanced at the thick file folder lying by the door. Apparently Champ had stopped by after helping his sister move and, finding him gone, had left it on the porch, knowing nobody but Donovan would bother with it. One more reason to bless this backwoods lifestyle he’d recently adopted.

  He stared at the documents with a frown, wondering again why he’d agreed to take on somebody else’s problem. He’d told himself, when he left government work behind, that he’d concentrate on his own life for a change.

  He thought of his younger brother’s remark about James Bond. Was that how his family and friends saw him? If only it had been so. There had been nothing glamorous about the work he’d done. It had been dirty and dangerous, and there had been dozens of times when he’d thought about tossing in the towel and returning home to a nine-to-five job. But whenever he tried to picture himself with a wife and kids and a comfortable life in the suburbs, he knew he was fooling himself. From the time he’d been very young, there had been a devil inside, forcing him to push the boundaries.

  The work he’d chosen had suited him perfectly. Until he’d had his fill. Now it was time to move on and find out what he wanted to do with the rest of his life.

  The rest of his life.

  How many times had he wondered if he would be around another day to utter such a phrase?

  He let himself into the darkened house and snapped on the lights. After climbing over a row of tumbled boxes, he tossed aside his keys and started a pot of fresh coffee before sitting down at his desk and opening the folder. Within a few minutes, his plan to work on his book was forgotten. The computer remained off as Donovan lost himself in the bizarre details of the investigation of Adam Brady and his apparent slide into criminal behavior.

  Though he’d been accused of bilking his clients out of millions, none of the money had been found. Authorities were investigating every angle, from the suggestion that he’d been leading a double life, and had stashed the money with a lover, to the possibility that his current wife knew where the money was hidden and was waiting until the heat was off so she could go about spending it.

  The one thing everyone seemed to agree on was that Adam Brady had been guilty as sin. And only his death had saved him from an ugly trial and eventual prison time.

  By the time Donovan fell into bed at dawn, he was inclined to agree with the authorities who were convinced of Brady’s guilt. What other explanation could there be for the loss of millions of dollars?

  Still, he had promised his old friend he would do his best. If he could find even one tiny flaw in the case, he would pursue it to its logical conclusion. At least then he would have the satisfaction of having done all that was humanly possible before closing the file on this dead man.

  It was laughter that woke him. A child’s high-pitched giggles that seemed to come from somewhere nearby.

  Donovan pulled the covers over his head and tried to block the sound. It came again, louder and closer, until it seemed to be just outside his window.

  He sat up, tossing aside the covers as he climbed out of bed and stalked across the room. He looked out the window, hoping to spot the culprit. When he saw two figures race around the corner of his house, he pulled on a pair of faded jeans and hurried, barefoot, to the door.

  “Ohhh, Cory. Don’t touch him. He might bite.” A little girl was standing slightly behind a boy who was crouched down, reaching into the bushes.

  There was a rustling sound and the boy jumped back, knocking the girl to the ground. As he turned to help her up, a fat woodchuck waddled deeper into the brush and disappeared from sight.

  “He got away.” Annoyed, the boy was about to start after the animal when he caught sight of Donovan and
froze.

  The little girl ducked behind the boy, peering fearfully around his shoulder. While his hair was dark, the girl’s hair was pale wheat. Both of them had round, solemn faces and wide, honey-colored eyes. Even without an introduction, it was obvious they were brother and sister.

  The boy’s chin came up like a prizefighter, anticipating the punch. “We didn’t mean to.”

  “Mean to what?” Donovan’s eyes flashed fire. He halted a few steps away when he saw the fear in the little girl’s eyes.

  “Set foot on your property. Uncle Champ said we shouldn’t. But Taylor saw the guinea pig and we thought we could catch it.”

  “That wasn’t a guinea pig.”

  “It wasn’t?”

  Donovan shook his head, his anger quickly dissolving into mere annoyance. “It was a woodchuck. And he wouldn’t like being caught.” He glanced at the little girl, still hiding behind the boy’s back. “Your sister was right. He’d probably bite if he felt cornered. Most animals will fight back if they have no other choice.”

  Because his hands had automatically closed into fists, he tucked them into his back pockets and decided to start over. “My name’s Donovan. What’s yours?”

  The boy paused a beat, as though debating the wisdom of revealing his identity. It occurred to Donovan that even at this young age, the boy had already learned a painful lesson about the pitfalls of bearing a famous, or in his case, infamous name. How many times had he been teased and taunted about his father’s crimes since the media had begun its attack?

  “I’m Cory. And this is my sister, Taylor.”

  “Hi, Cory. Taylor.” If Donovan couldn’t manage a smile, at least he tried to appear less threatening. “How old are you?”

  The little girl ducked her head and stared hard at the ground.

  “She’s five. And I’m nine.” Cory pinned Donovan with a look. “You going to tell our mom we were on your property?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

  Cory started to relax until Donovan added, “I think she’s just found out for herself.”