Chapter Thirty-Two

Mark lifted the ornate gold knocker and rapped at the massive carved door, glancing back at the security gate he'd driven through, the name of the estate spelled out in scrolled letters above: Thornland . The door opened, and a man in a butler's uniform stood before him. He inclined his head. "Sir, please enter. Mr. Fairbanks is waiting for you in the parlor."

Mark stepped inside, feeling as though he'd just entered a game of Clue and Miss Scarlet was going to glide down the grand, curved staircase at any moment with a candlestick.

The butler led the way, extending his arm toward another grand door that Mark guessed led to the parlor where the owner of this estate and the many acres of surrounding ranch land lived. He'd called the contact number from the website the woman at the library had visited and spoken to Halston Fairbanks's secretary. He'd been out of the office at the time, but Mark had received a call back a few hours later, saying Mr. Fairbanks could meet with him at his home outside Missoula.

"Thank you," Mark said to the butler as he entered the room. An older man was standing at a bar cart near the window, and he turned as the door clicked shut behind Mark.

"Mr. Fairbanks," Mark said, walking to the tall, broad-shouldered older gentleman and extending his hand. "Agent Mark Gallagher. Thank you for seeing me."

They shook, Mr. Fairbanks's grip strong, his eyes assessing. "Agent Gallagher."

"Please call me Mark."

Mr. Fairbanks nodded as he turned, moving back to the bar cart. "Call me Halston and you've got a deal. I was just pouring myself a drink. It's about happy hour, wouldn't you say?" He smiled, large, straight white teeth flashing. "Join me?"

"No, sir, thank you." It was only four o'clock, and Mark didn't drink on the job, but he figured this man was rich enough to designate happy hour to whatever time he chose.

"How long has your family lived here at Thornland?" Mark asked, as he heard ice dropping into a glass.

"It's been in the Fairbanks family for four generations now. Almost one million acres of prime Montana land that stretches over six counties." Mark knew that part because he'd looked it up before coming out there. He also knew that the Fairbanks family had earned its substantial wealth as owners of one of the top ten lumber companies in the United States. The current CEO of Fairbanks Lumber turned, smiling and swirling a crystal glass of amber liquid. "But I'm sure you're not here to discuss Thornland. What is it I can do for you, Agent?" He inclined his head to a seating group, and Mark took a seat in one of the blue-velvet chairs, Halston sitting across from him as he took a sip from his glass.

"Mr.—Halston, I'm here because a woman was found dead in Helena Springs a little over two weeks ago, and I have reason to believe she contacted your office the day before she died."

"Died?"

"Yes, sir."

Halston Fairbanks regarded Mark over the rim of his glass, taking another small sip and then setting his glass aside. He let out a sigh. "Emily Barton."

Mark was caught by surprise. "We don't know the victim's name yet. We recovered some prints, but so far—"

"It was Emily Barton." Halston sighed, rubbing at his eye. "How'd she die? Overdose?"

"No. It was a homicide."

That seemed to surprise Halston, and for a moment, he simply stared at Mark. "Murdered? Why?"

"We don't know that yet."

The color had drained from Halston's face, and for a second, he simply gaped before reaching for the glass again and downing the remaining liquid.

"We're still gathering information about the victim and the crime. The name you supplied—if correct—will go a long way in helping us do that. Can you tell me how you knew her?"

Halston sat back in his chair, seeming to need a moment to gather himself. Mark gave it to him, glancing around the room, taking in the paneled walls, the rich drapes, the two groupings of luxurious furniture, the grand piano in the corner. He couldn't imagine waking up every day in a place like this. It would feel like living in a museum.

"Emily Barton," Halston mumbled. "She's the woman who ruined my son's life. And mine, though I own most of the blame for that."

Mark leaned forward. "I think you need to tell me about Emily."

Halston sighed, meeting Mark's gaze. He looked weary suddenly, older than he'd first appeared. "My son, Hal Junior, took up with Emily Barton when he was barely eighteen years old, his whole life in front of him. I told him to cut her loose. She was pretty to look at, but trash is trash. I don't know how many times I told him not to let some two-bit whore with dollar signs in her eyes trap him. The boy didn't listen." Halston's gaze grew distant, his expression set, deep sadness in his eyes. "Wasn't even six months before he knocked her up, the dumb fool. I offered her money to get the hell out of town. Told her she'd never get a dime otherwise. As expected, she took it."

When Halston lapsed into silence again, Mark asked, "What'd you hope she would do with the baby?" Your grandchild. Your blood.

"At the time? I didn't care as long as she didn't give him or her our name. I wasn't even convinced the baby was my son's. Girls like that…well, anyway. Now? Time and circumstance change things, don't they?" He paused, and when he began speaking again, there was a hitch in his voice. "Hal never was quite the same after she skipped town. Fancied himself in love with her, I suppose. He'd dabbled in illegal substances, thanks to her, but when she disappeared without a word, he started the heavier stuff." His shoulders sagged. "He was killed in a high-speed drag race, heroin in his system."

Mark took a deep breath, his heart going out to the man. "I'm sorry for your loss. I lost a daughter myself. I know the agony."

Halston met his eyes, an understanding flashing between the two men who'd survived the unsurvivable. Despite the difference in the way Mark would have handled the situation Halston spoke of, the loss of a child was something Mark wouldn't wish upon anyone. He'd made the offer that drove Emily from town and perhaps led to his son's spiral downward, but Emily Barton had accepted it.

But now? Halston looked like an old man filled with regret. "What'd she do with the baby?"

"I didn't know until two weeks ago. Turns out the boy was less than an hour away from me his whole life. Emily gave him to a man who raised him off the grid, away from society. He grew up in the woods outside Helena Springs."

The boy. Raised off the grid. Mark sat in shock for a moment, digesting the information.

Lucas.

Holy Christ. Lucas had family. Lucas was a Fairbanks. The woman at the bed-and-breakfast with an arrow through her throat had been his mother. But if she gave him up for adoption—legally or not—why in the world had she opted to give him to Driscoll instead of a nice family in the suburbs? Had it simply been a matter of money? Mark flinched internally, picturing some of the unthinkable things he'd seen mothers do to their children for drugs over the span of his career.

Halston had just provided several answers and ushered in a whole slew of new questions.

"Isaac Driscoll."

"Excuse me?"

"That's the name of the man whose property he's living on. Although to say he ‘raised him' is a stretch. Lucas, that's the name of your grandson, said he barely had a relationship with the man. And Isaac Driscoll was found dead a week after Emily Barton, murdered in the same manner."

Again, Halston gaped, but then he shook his head, released a loud whoosh of breath. "Can't say I'm sorry."

Mark understood that. Now that it was becoming clear that Driscoll had had far more to do with Lucas living alone in the woods the way he was and that his motives were more than likely nefarious in some way Mark was still trying to figure out, he couldn't muster much sympathy for the dead man either. Lucas was a different matter. Lucas had never been given a chance to live a normal life. But why ?

"Today is the first time you're hearing his name? You didn't know anything about him prior to two weeks ago?"

"Not a thing."

"Do you know what Emily's connection to Driscoll might have been? Did she give you any indication why she'd given him her baby?"

"Because she was an addict. He probably paid her. Who knows?"

They were both silent for a moment, Mark attempting to piece together this new information. He was surprised that the victim's fingerprints hadn't gotten any hits. It was rare that a person with a lifetime of addiction—if Halston was correct—avoided at least a run-in or two with the law. She'd gotten lucky. On one front at least. "What did Emily want the night she called from Helena Springs?"

"Money. She always wanted money."

Mark frowned. "Why did she think you'd give it to her?" His son was dead. It'd been two decades. What could she threaten him with?

"To make a life for her and the boy," he said. "She'd burned through the money I'd given her originally and whatever money she might have made from the adoption and had caved to her addiction again. She'd come back to town before, asked for money, but wouldn't give me any information about the child then except that he'd been adopted. Two weeks ago, she told me how he'd been raised—if you can call it that—in the woods like some goddamned animal. But not by whom." The words had emerged through gritted teeth, the final one sounding choked. Halston dropped his head, taking several deep breaths, his shoulders quaking with the movement. "She said she'd caught a ride from a friend and only had enough money to pay for a week's stay in town, but not a dime more. It was my fault, she said, that things had turned out the way they had. It was because of me she'd been forced to make the choices she'd made. I'd backed her into a corner, and now lives were ruined. She said she was back to right the wrongs, and I could do the same if I gave her and the boy enough to start a new life." Halston's last word emerged on a broken whisper, and Mark gave him a moment to compose himself.

After a minute, Mark asked, "Lucas is in his early twenties, if I'm doing the math correctly. Do you know why Emily wanted to set up a life for them now ? Why she'd waited so long? He's an adult."

Halston shrugged. "Because in the past the girl couldn't get clean. This time, she told me that she'd been clean for a year, though I didn't believe her. Or if she was, it wouldn't stick. As far as Lucas, he's an adult, yes, but what prospects does he have to make a life for himself? The boy must be completely uncivilized." He looked defeated, not like a man who'd built an empire.

"He's not. I've met him. He's…lived an unusual life, yes, but he's no animal."

Halston regarded Mark, something that looked like the bare glint of hope coming into his eyes.

"What's the likelihood he'll ever live a normal life?"

"Normal? I'd say it depends on your definition. I'm not a psychologist, Halston, and I can't begin to guess what type of psychological harm came to him after the severe isolation he's experienced. But he's intelligent. He's obviously a survivor. I'd hazard a guess that he could adapt to society if he chose to do so."

Halston sighed, looking off to the side again, seeming to be deep in thought.

Mark leaned forward. "You regret rejecting your grandson? Letting Emily give him up for adoption?"

Halston pressed his lips together. "I acted hastily, with selfish motives in mind. I…don't suppose he'll ever really be one of us, but the least I can give him is his name. Whether he chooses to accept it is up to him. What does he go by now? Barton or Driscoll?"

"Neither. Only Lucas. He's never had a last name. He's been alone for a long time."

Halston steepled his fingers and mumbled a curse under his breath.

"Along with a name, you think you might find it in you to give him a home too?"

Halston looked up, appearing surprised. "A home? Why? I was of the understanding that he has a home."

"The cabin where he's lived most of his life belonged to Isaac Driscoll and now belongs to a sister who is uncompromising about allowing Lucas to stay there."

"I see." He pressed his lips together, looking Mark in the eye. For several beats, he said nothing and then, "If the boy will accept it, he has a home here at Thornland."