White Mountain

Then he threw up his hands and headed for the car, leaving Marshall with no option but to follow.

Marshall got in and started the engine.

“Where to?” he asked.

Butoli glared. “Back to the precinct. We’ve got a name to go with the body, and a credit card number that should give us enough background information to find his next of kin.”

“But don’t you think we should—”

The look on Butoli’s face was enough to stifle what he’d been going to say. Instead, he pulled into the traffic and took a right turn at the next block.

Isabella handed a room key to the couple who’d just checked in. In the years since her father and Uncle David had opened White Mountain Fertility Clinic, she’d seen hundreds like them—people desperate for a child of their own and willing to try anything to make it happen.

“There is an elevator just to the right of the staircase,” she said.

“We’ll take the stairs,” the woman said. “Exercise is good for me.”

Isabella smiled. “Do you need help with your luggage?”

The man shook his head. “No. We only have the two bags. We can manage just fine. Oh…what time does the kitchen open? We have an appointment in town in the morning, and we don’t want to be late.”

“We start serving breakfast at six o’clock and if you need a taxi into Braden, you’ll need to call ahead and expect about a fifteen to twenty minute wait.”

The couple nodded their understanding and started up the stairs, their heads tilted slightly toward each other as they spoke in undertones.

Isabella hurt for their sadness. It was evident in every aspect of their expressions and posture. How sad to want a child so desperately and yet be unable to make it happen. Even sadder were the children who were born to people who didn’t care. It didn’t make sense. Why didn’t God just give babies to people who wanted them and let the people who were unfit to be parents be the ones who were barren? But she knew her thoughts were fanciful. Nothing in life was fair. She thought of her father dying so suddenly and leaving not only family, but waiting patients, behind.

The staff at White Mountain Fertility Clinic was well-trained and able to continue without her father’s presence. In the past few years he’d even talked about the time when he would retire and leave the creation of life to those younger than himself. Besides her father, Uncle David and Uncle Jasper still held active roles in the clinic, even though they took fewer and fewer new patients with each passing year.

Without thinking, her gaze automatically slid to the portrait above the staircase, unaware that the gentleness in the woman’s dark brown eyes mirrored her own. Her wandering thoughts stopped abruptly when the phone rang. Making herself concentrate on the present, she lifted her chin and picked up the phone.

“Abbott House.”

“This is Detective Mike Butoli with the Brighton Beach police. I need to speak to Samuel Abbott.”

Isabella’s breath caught as a quick film of tears blurred her vision. It was the first time this had happened since her father’s death, but she knew it wouldn’t be the last. She cleared her throat and made herself answer.

“I’m sorry, Detective, but Samuel Abbott recently passed away. I’m his daughter, Isabella Abbott. Maybe I can help.”

Mike Butoli frowned. He hated this part of his job more than spinach—and only God and his mother knew how much he hated spinach.

“Did you know a man named Franklin Walton?”

His use of the past tense made Isabella’s heart drop.

“Uncle Frank? What’s happened to him? Has he been injured? Is he all right?”

Butoli sighed. Damn. As many times as he’d done this, it never got easier.

“I’m very sorry to tell you, Miss Abbott, but Mr. Walton was found murdered in an alley a few days ago.”

The wail that came out of her mouth was a mixture of disbelief and despair.

“Nooo,” she cried, and staggered backward onto a chair.

John Michaels and Rufus Toombs, two of the men she called uncles, were just coming off the elevator from their third-floor apartments when they heard her cry. Without hesitation, they rushed forward.

“Isabella…darling, what’s wrong?”

She recognized the voices but couldn’t focus on the faces. Everything around her was fast going black. Before she could answer, she slid out of the chair onto the floor in a faint.

Rufus quickly knelt at her side, while John went for the phone dangling from her hand.

“Hello? Hello? Who’s there, please?”

Butoli knew the woman had not received the news well.

“This is Detective Butoli with the Brighton Beach P.D.”

“What did you say to Isabella? What has happened?” John cried.

“Are you her family?” Butoli asked.

“Yes, yes,” John muttered. “What has happened?”

“We just identified a murder victim as Franklin Walton, of Braden, Montana. The address on his credit card listed Abbott House as his home. Is this correct?”

John Michaels’s heart sank. Now it made sense. Now they knew why Frank had never called home.

“Yes,” he whispered. “Yes, that is correct.”

“I’m sorry to ask, but someone must come and identify the body. Just to make sure. You understand.”

John’s fingers were trembling and he wanted to cry, but he made himself focus as he picked up a pen.

“Yes, I understand. Just tell me where we must go.”

As he wrote, Rufus was running for the house phone. Within seconds, he had David Schultz on the phone.

“Get down here,” he cried. “Isabella has fainted.”

John hung up the phone as Rufus made his way back around the desk.

“David is on his way,” Rufus said.

“He can’t help,” John said, and covered his face in his hands.

“What are you talking about?” Rufus muttered, as he dropped to Isabella’s side again. “She’s just fainted. She’s going to be okay. Isn’t she?”

“It isn’t Isabella. It’s Frank.”

Rufus’s eyes widened, rearranging the pond of wrinkles that age had settled on his face.

“What about Frank?”

“He’s dead. Murdered.”

Rufus blanched and sat down hard on the floor beside Isabella. Unconsciously, he grabbed her hand, clutching it tightly in his own.

“Dear Lord,” Rufus mumbled. “Do you think—”

“Don’t say it,” John muttered. “Don’t even think it.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Go get him and bring him home to bury.”

“But—”

Isabella moaned.

“Hush,” John said sternly.

Rufus swallowed what he’d been about to say. Seconds later, David and Jasper came flying down the stairs, their speed belying their ages.

“What happened?” David asked, as he set his medical bag at Isabella’s side and pulled out a stethoscope.

“You won’t need that,” John said. “She fainted. Just pop some smelling salts and get her to her room. We’ve got bigger trouble.”

David rocked back on his heels. “What?”

“Frank’s dead. Murdered.”

David blanched.

“My God…where did it happen?”

“Brighton Beach.”

David frowned. “I’ve heard of it, but I can’t place the—”

“It’s part of Brooklyn, I think. Due to the large population of Russian immigrants, some call it Little Russia.”

Jasper Arnold’s gasp was the only vocal sign of the four men’s shock. Then Isabella began struggling to get up.

“What happened? Why did I—”

Suddenly she remembered, and her face crumpled as she was helped to her feet.

“Uncle Frank is dead,” she said, and began to sob.

The four aging men encircled her.

“We know,” they said. “Come with us, darling. You need to lie down.”

“The desk,” she mumbled.

“I’ll call Delia from the office. She can take care of it for the rest of the day.”

“What are we going to do?” Isabella asked, then covered her face in her hands.

The men looked at each other silently, but it was David who answered her.

“We’re going to get him and bring him home. That’s what we’re going to do.”

The sun was setting as Jack Dolan came out of his house and headed toward the deck surrounding his hot tub. Except for a bath towel wrapped loosely around his waist, he was completely nude. His house was on the outskirts of a Virginia suburb, only an hour or so’s drive from Washington, D.C. The eight-foot-high privacy fence surrounding his backyard provided coveted privacy. Besides, his nearest neighbor was over a quarter of a mile away and traveled more than he did.

Exhaustion was evident in his stride as he reached the tub of bubbling water. Modesty was last on his list of social graces as he dropped the towel from around his waist and stepped down into the water. A few steps farther, he sank down onto a built-in seat and leaned back with a sigh as the jets sent a rush of warm, bubbling water against his skin.

He had two knife scars on his back, an old gunshot scar on his upper thigh, and ribs that were still healing from the last case he’d been on. His personal life was nonexistent, and his career as a Federal agent had been ongoing since his graduation from Boston University. He was thirty-eight years old and had nothing to show for it but a house he rarely slept in and some investments he might not live long enough to spend.

The water roiled around his limbs, easing the aches from old wounds and relaxing the tension in his muscles. He leaned his head against the back of the tub and closed his eyes. Something inside him was starting to give. He’d known it for almost six months. There was a restlessness to his behavior that had never been there before, and a longing for something he couldn’t name. Although he couldn’t name his frustration, one thing was blatantly clear. Something needed to give. Whether it would be him or his lifestyle was yet to be determined.

He swiped a wet hand across his face and rolled his head. The beginnings of a headache he’d had since noon were starting to ease. A small squirrel scolded from the pine tree at the corner of his yard, angry at the invasion into its territory.

“Back off, Chester. It’s my yard, too,” Jack said, and then smiled at himself.

Now he was talking to squirrels. He really needed a change.

He had not taken a vacation in over four years. Maybe what he was feeling was a simple case of burnout. But whatever the diagnosis, the cure would be the same—a much-needed change of pace.

He sat in the hot tub until his legs felt like gelatin and watched the moon come up. It wasn’t until his phone began to ring that he dragged himself up and out of the tub. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he jogged into the house and picked up the phone.

“Dolan.”

“Jack, how are your ribs?”

Unconsciously, Jack straightened to attention as he recognized the director’s voice.

“They’re fine, sir. What do you need?”

The director’s chuckle rippled through the line.

“So you’ve taken up mind reading now, too?”

Jack grinned wryly. “Truthfully, sir, when was the last time you called just to chat?”

“Point taken,” the director said. “What I need is for you to pack for an undetermined stay in Montana. You will receive a packet tomorrow morning, including a plane ticket to a small town called Braden.”

Everything went through Jack’s mind, from militia-based groups to terrorists.

“Yes, sir. What am I facing?”

“Oh…I’d say at least a week, maybe more, at a fine old hotel called Abbott House. The air is clean. There aren’t any golf courses or rivers in which to fish, but I hear the scenery is great.”

“Sir?”

The director chuckled again. “Not what you expected, is it?”

“No, sir, but I’m certain you’re about to fill me in.”

The director sighed. “Yes, well…as Paul Harvey always says…‘now for the rest of the story.’ Two days ago, a set of prints from a dead man came through NCIC that didn’t match up with any we had on file.”

“I don’t get it,” Jack said. “Surely you aren’t wanting me to establish an identity? That’s a job for a homicide detective.”

“Let me finish,” the director said.

“Sorry,” Jack said.

“Yes, well, this is where it gets weird. The body was discovered in Brighton Beach.”

“Isn’t that the place they call Little Russia?”

“Some do, I believe,” the director said. “At any rate, I understand that because of the large number of immigrants in that area of Brooklyn, that from time to time when a situation warrants, the police also send prints through Interpol as a means of speeding up identification.”

A puddle had formed on the floor where Jack was standing, so he dropped the towel from around his waist, put his foot in the middle of the towel and began swiping at the water while he continued to listen.

“Yes, sir, but I still don’t—”

“I’m getting there,” the director said. “The thing is…the prints rang a bell at Interpol. A really big bell.”

Suddenly, the hair stood on the back of Jack’s neck.

“How big?”

“The prints belong to a Russian scientist named Vaclav Waller.”

“And?”

“Vaclav Waller died in a plane crash off the coast of Florida over thirty years ago.”

Jack kicked aside the wet towel and headed for the back of the house to get some clothes.

“But he’s dead now, right?”

“Oh yes, he’s dead, all right. I sent a man directly to Brighton Beach as soon as the prints were flagged. Trouble is…they’d already identified the man as Frank Walton of Braden, Montana. Had a credit card number and everything from the hotel where he’d been staying.”

Jack took a pair of sweats from the dresser and pulled them on with one hand as his boss continued.

“But…” the director added “…when my man ran a background check on the card owner, guess what he found?”

Jack dropped to the side of the bed.

“What?”

“The social security number the dead man was using belonged to a man named Frank Walton, only that Frank Walton died in 1955 at the age of twenty-four.”

“So we’ve got a dead Russian pretending to be a dead American who’s just died. Is that about it?”

The director’s appreciation for the humor of the situation was suddenly missing.

“That’s it, Jack, and I want to know what the hell is going on. The man who called himself Frank Walton has been living at a place called Abbott House for years. I want you in that hotel, and I want some answers to what the hell that man was up to. Considering Waller’s background, there could have been a lot more to his disappearance than just defecting. However, I don’t want you showing up there as FBI. For all intents and purposes, you are a man on vacation.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep me updated on what you learn.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh…and Jack.”

“Sir?”

“You could send me a postcard.”

Jack grinned as the line went dead.

3

It was fifteen minutes after two in the afternoon when Jack pulled his rental car into the parking lot of Abbott House. He parked and got out, stretching as he stood. A twinge of pain rippled across his belly from his still healing ribs, but the cool, rain-washed air felt good on his face. He got out his bag and headed for the door, noting absently that the place looked deserted, but when he walked inside, a short, middle-aged woman looked up from behind the desk and smiled.

“Welcome to Abbott House.”

Jack nodded as he dropped his bag and pulled out his wallet.

“I’d like a room please.”

“For two?” she asked, looking past him toward the door.

“No, just me,” Jack answered and wondered why the woman looked surprised.

“Yes, sir, and how long will you be staying?”

“A week, maybe more,” Jack said. “I’m doing some research in the area.”

“Research?” the woman asked.

“For a book.”

“Oooh, a writer, how interesting,” she said. “Most of our guests are here because of the clinic, you know.”

“What kind of clinic would that be?”

“White Mountain Clinic. It’s a fertility clinic for women.”

“I see.” Then he gestured toward the parking lot. “Doesn’t look like there’s much business today. I thought the place was closed when I drove up.”

The clerk’s face fell. “Oh…that’s because everyone is at the funeral. So sad.”

Jack’s interest kicked in. “Someone local, I assume.”

She blinked back tears. “Yes, one of our residents, Franklin Walton. He’d lived here for many, many years, and his death was so unexpected.” She leaned across the counter and lowered her voice. “He was murdered.” Then she added, “But not here, of course. Braden is a quiet little town. Nothing like that ever happens here, thank God. The tragedy is that it’s so soon after Dr. Abbott’s passing. Isabella is distraught, as we all are.”

Jack knew the name Franklin Walton. The man was the reason he was here. But he didn’t know who Isabella was, and the Abbott name meant nothing to him other than the name of the hotel.

“Dr. Abbott? Was he the owner of this hotel?”

She nodded. “Yes, but he and Dr. Schultz and Dr. Arnold also founded White Mountain Fertility Clinic. Most of the people who come to the clinic for help also stay here at Abbott House.”

“I see,” Jack said.

“I’ll need to see a credit card, sir.”

Jack pulled one out of his wallet and laid it on the counter. As she ran it through the system, he turned to survey the lobby. Like the house itself, it was quite grand to be in such an isolated location.

“This is quite a place,” he said.

The clerk smiled.

“Yes, isn’t it? It was built in the early nineteen hundreds by a well-to-do rancher who later went broke during the Depression. After that it went through a series of owners until Samuel Abbott bought it sometime during the seventies.”

“Interesting,” Jack said. “So am I to take it that Dr. Abbott and this Walton fellow were friends?”

The clerk looked up, a little curious as to the stranger’s interest.

“Yes. Mr. Walton lived here, as do Isabella’s other uncles.”

“Isabella?”

“Dr. Abbott’s daughter.”

“Other uncles? Are you saying that the murdered man was her uncle?”

“No, none of them are related by blood, but Isabella called them her uncles just the same.”

Jack nodded. “I know what you mean. Back home in Louisiana we sometimes call an elder member of our community by such a title. It’s our way of giving them respect.”

“Yes, exactly,” the clerk said, and then handed him a key. “You’ll be on the second floor, room 200. That’s the first one on your right at the top of the stairs.”

“I noticed this house has three floors. Are any of those available? I like heights.”

She shook her head. “No, sir. I’m sorry, but the third floor is the uncles’ apartments.”

One more bit of information to file away. “That’s fine,” Jack said, and smiled openly, not wanting her to question his curiosity. “It never hurts to ask, though, does it?”

Charmed by the big man’s smile, the woman felt herself blushing. He reminded her a bit of one of those hot young actors, only he was a bit older and had a much stronger jaw. Delia admired men with strong jaws.

“If we can be of any further service, don’t hesitate to ask. We begin serving breakfast at six o’clock but the kitchen stays open until eleven o’clock at night, so you can order à la carte any time you choose.”

“Thanks,” Jack said, and picked up his things and started toward the stairs. As he did, he glanced up, then froze, his gaze fixed on the painting above the stairs.

The woman in the portrait was stunning. A thick crown of black hair framed a heart-shaped face with features as delicate as fine china. But she had the saddest eyes he’d ever seen.

“So beautiful.”

“Yes, isn’t she?” Delia said. “That’s the late Isabella Abbott, Dr. Abbott’s wife.”

“She’s dead?” The thought brought real pain.

“Yes, almost thirty years ago. She died in childbirth.”

Jack took a step closer, locked into her enigmatic stare.

A phone rang behind him, and he jerked at the sound. Only after the clerk began to carry on a conversation with someone on the other end of the line did he manage to tear himself away from the portrait and move toward the stairs. Halfway up, he found himself at eye level with her face. She was looking straight at him, beseeching him for something he couldn’t understand.

Breath caught in the back of his throat, and his mouth went dry. It was only with great effort that he tore himself away and continued up the stairs. Still rattled from the unexpected communion with a ghost, his hands were shaking as he stuck the key in the lock, then opened the door to his room. Without paying any attention to the fine old world furnishings, he walked inside, turned the lock as he dropped his bag, and sat down on the bed with a thump.

The room smelled like his grandmother’s house—of lavender and roses, with a slightly musty air that had nothing to do with lack of cleanliness and more to do with age. A ripple of uneasiness made the skin crawl on his neck. He looked over his shoulder, half expecting to see Isabella Abbott looking back.

“I’ve got to get a grip,” he muttered. “I’ll unpack, scope out the place and make a preliminary report before dark.”

But weariness overcame his good intentions as he lay back on the bed, telling himself he would rest for just a few minutes.

When he next opened his eyes, the room was in darkness. He rolled over and sat up with a start, confused for a moment as to where he was at. Then the scent of lavender drifted past and he remembered. He was in Abbott House.

His belly growled as he glanced at his watch. It was almost midnight. He’d missed dinner but was too hungry to wait until morning. Hopefully there would be a vending machine somewhere on the premises. All he had to do was find it.

As he slung his legs over the edge of the bed, he looked up and then out the window. The curtains had yet to be drawn against the night, and the silhouette of the mountain range behind the hotel was very visible. It loomed over the landscape—a dark and immovable force of nature against the blue-velvet texture of the sky.

Stretching tired muscles, Jack stood, then walked to the window. Below, the well-kept grounds of the hotel looked black outside the circle of illumination beneath the security lights. The place had a beauty of its own that was difficult to name. The grandeur of such a house seemed out of place in a land that still bore traces of wildness from its past. He thought of the man they had buried today. It was a good place in which to get lost.

But why he’d done it was the question of the day. Why had Vaclav Waller faked his own death? And why come here to Montana? There were any number of countries in which he could have chosen to hide.

He ran his fingers through his hair in quiet frustration and turned away from the window. Tomorrow was soon enough to worry about all that. Right now he wanted some food and the rest of a good night’s sleep.

Isabella couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes she kept seeing her Uncle Frank’s face in the coffin. Even in death, she imagined she saw the horror he had experienced in knowing he was going to die.

They had laid Frank Walton to rest beside the man who’d been his best friend in life, but as the first shovel full of dirt had fallen onto his casket, Isabella had realized she had not known a thing about Frank Walton’s family. He’d always spoken of his past in vague references and of his family in the past tense, so she’d just assumed that he had outlived them all. But what if he hadn’t? What if there was the odd family member somewhere—a cousin, an in-law—someone who, if they had but known, would also have mourned his passing?

At the thought, she had looked up at the others and realized she knew little to nothing about them, as well. They had always been such constants in her life that she had taken them for granted, but she’d been jolted out of her complacency with the passing of her father and now her Uncle Frank. When this was over—when they could all think without wanting to cry, she was going to rectify her lack of knowledge. Family was everything, and now, except for five elderly men who were no blood kin at all, she had none.