heard him humming, a new country-western song. She frowned. “Do you know what I can’t get my brain around, Dillon? How did anyone find out Rebekah knew about the Big Take? Her grandfather made her promise never to tell a soul, and she didn’t. Until last week Rebekah believed the Big Take was only one of his made-up adventures.”
After Sherlock made him forget his name, Savich fell boneless into a deep sleep.
He was lying on his back on a narrow white bed. Blackness surrounded him, cocooned him, but it wasn’t frightening; it was comforting, like resting in his mother’s arms, listening to her heartbeat as she whispered how much she loved him, how she knew he’d be a great man one day. He knew time was passing, but it wasn’t important. The blackness never lightened, always stayed exactly the same, but that was all right. He was one with it, a part of it.
He heard many voices around him, but they didn’t touch him. Only hers did. Rebekah held his hand, and he heard her beloved voice, telling him how much she loved him and missed him. She told him about her studies, how after she earned a master’s degree, she was going to hunt for forged paintings and keep the art world honest. And it might make her rich. He wanted to tell her she already was rich. Hadn’t he left her several million in a trust? But none of that mattered. Rebekah was here, and she was his.
As she held his hand, she repeated to him dozens of adventure stories he’d told her when she was young, wild hair-raising tales he’d invented about his and Nate’s exploits. Nate. Where was Nate? He knew Nate was gone, gone for a very long time, but he didn’t know where he was. With Miranda? Was that her name? So pretty she was. With his mother? How much time had passed? He didn’t know, didn’t care. His mind settled into a timeless drift.
He heard Rebekah’s voice telling him about the Big Take again, her favorite story, she’d say. He wished he could tell her the Big Take wasn’t only a story, it was real. The poem he’d written and made her memorize, the poem he’d made her promise never to tell another person, wafted through his head, but he couldn’t seem to remember the words. He wished he could tell her he loved her, but he couldn’t. He floated, content, then he heard another voice, close to his face, a voice that said matter-of-factly, “I do wonder if you can hear me, Congressman Clarkson. Can I call you John? Of course I can. You won’t mind, will you, not about anything. Your granddaughter is charming. How she loves to repeat all those stories to you, but it’s time for her to go now.” He felt a warm hand on his forehead, felt the warm hand take his pulse. “But you’ll be fine, just fine. I’ll be staying here with you, John.”
He fell asleep then, rocking in his mother’s warm, strong arms, living in a lullaby.
Savich slowly opened his eyes. He stared into the gray predawn light coming through the window, didn’t know for an instant where he was, then felt Sherlock’s soft breath against his neck. She’d set the dream in motion, told him to let it all simmer. He lightly touched his fingertips to her curls, and she pushed closer. He smiled, kissed her, and whispered into the warm air, “Thank you for that, John Clarkson.”
53
CLARKSON UNITED INDUSTRIES
WEDNESDAY MORNING
Mrs. Frazier looked up to see Rebekah, Agent Hammersmith, and a tall, tough-looking man she’d never seen before step off the elevator.
“Rebekah, you’re back so soon? I saw you yesterday—” Mrs. Frazier’s voice fell off a cliff. She stared at three stone faces. She knew something was very wrong, and it involved Mrs. Clarkson. And the company? Mrs. Clarkson hadn’t been her usual self these past weeks. She’d gone from euphoric, which was rare at the best of times, to pacing her office, quiet and brooding, to sharp and curt. Olivia had heard her speaking with the Clarksons’ senior accountant, heard raised voices. She’d nerved herself up and asked Mrs. Clarkson if there were any problems and could she help? Mrs. Clarkson had given her a long look and said only, “Yes, Olivia, but they’re my problems. You’re not to worry.” And she’d walked back into her office, chin up.
And now the FBI was here again with Rebekah. What had Mrs. Clarkson done?