Part 15 (1/2)

Chapter Sixteen.

Jackson Sonnet stared up at his newest trophya”a ma.s.sive moose head head bagged on a visit to Alaskaa”tapped his fingers on his desk, and waited. And waited.

Finally Phil Chronies appeared in the door of his study. ”Here it is, Mr. Sonnet. I found it. I just sort of misplaced it. Forgot about it, really. You get so much mail itas hard to keep track of it all.” He sidled up and handed Jackson the detectiveas report.

Jackson looked at the flat manila envelope. ”Itas been opened.”

”Yeah, those mailmen up here in Montana are real nosy.” Phil fidgeted like a kid who needed to go to the bathroom.

”Get out.”

Phil fled.

”Donat slama””

Phil slammed the door behind him.

”a”the door!” The little p.r.i.c.k did it every d.a.m.ned time.

Chronies wasnat good for anything. After hearing his story about how Karen had been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g around with some Himalayan biker, how Phil had struggled to keep the job going by himself, and how Karen had left him to die, Jackson had felt bad about the missing arm, not to mention that head wanted to avoid a lawsuit, so head made sure all the hospitalization and rehab were paid for one hundred percent. That was six months Phil had been out of commission.

Then, when he came back, Jackson had given him a job in his main office in town, answering questions from the field. It made sense; Phil was a G.o.dd.a.m.ned construction a.s.sistant. He should have known the business, or so Jackson had thought.

But Phil had been lousy, ignorant of the most basic matters, unable to get materials where they should be when they should be, and his misplaced arrogance had resulted in Jacksonas loss of one of his best site supervisors.

Two, if he counted Karen.

So, to minimize the damage Phil could do, Jackson had stuck him in employee relations and told his office manager to keep him busy. After three months Nancy had begged Jackson to get rid of Phil before they had a s.e.xual-hara.s.sment suit on their hands.

So Jackson had brought him to his home office, and told him to do the filing.

The dumbs.h.i.+t couldnat even do that.

What had Karen said before she walked out?

Enjoy your time with Phil, and try to make yourself believe heas telling you the truth.

It was as though shead cursed Jackson, because these last two years had been a misery. As far as he could tell, Phil was allergic to work, any kind of work. He made up stupid excuses for his incompetence. Every time Jackson yelled, Phil brought up the story about how Karen had been s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g a biker and left him to be crushed by a rockfall. And every time the guy started in on the story about Karen and the rockfall, it changed a little.

Jackson shouldnat have listened to him in the first place. He shouldnat have told Karen the truth about her mother. He should have kept his promise to Abigail and raised Karen like his own daughter instead of like a convenient employee . . . c.r.a.p. For the first time in his life he felt guilty.

He was going to have to dump Phil. Head give him a nice retirement package, threaten him with death and worse if he told secrets about Jacksonas personal business, and out the door head go.

Because no one had the right to know what was happening with Karen except Jackson Sonnet.

The envelope opened easilya”preopened envelopes did thata”and he pulled out the report.

Karen had spent almost a year in Europe doing just what she said she was going to doa” not one whole h.e.l.lofa lot of anything.

Sure shead never be able to stand it, Jackson had kept waiting for her to come crawling home.

But she didnat. The detective agency had sent him photos of her at the Vienna opera, traveling by rail, eating at an open market, lolling on beaches with people head never seen before.

Apparently she made friends easily. Just like her mother.

But unlike her mother, she wasnat sleeping with anyone. As far as the detective could discover, Karen was as pure as the driven snow.

That made Jackson wonder . . . was that story shead told him the truth? Had she really been kidnapped by a warlord and held hostage?

Had some son of a b.i.t.c.h hurt his little girl? Had Jackson failed her so miserably?

The paper crinkled in Jacksonas fist.

Last year, when shead finally returned to the States, Jackson had waited to see her walk through the door, looking for a job.

She went to a spa in Arizona instead, stayed there as a guest for a week, then got a job as an events coordinator.

When he read that report, Jackson had almost frothed at the mouth. All those years of college, of training, of learning to survive in the toughest conditions, gone to waste in a pansy-a.s.s spa and hotel taking care of parties for people who lounged around in hot tubs and got ma.s.sages. And got pedicures, for s.h.i.+tas sake.

According to this latest report, she was still there. They liked her a lot. Every progress report was filled with praise. Shead had a couple of raises. And there were pictures.

Jackson sank down in his chair and stared at the photo in his hand.

She looked good. Not like Abigail; if shead looked like Abigail maybe he could have forgiven her. Instead she looked like a female version of her father, that G.o.dd.a.m.ned Indian Nighthorse. Shead fixed herself up. Gotten a tan. Let her hair grow and lightened it. Wore makeup and dresses . . .

She was an awfully pretty woman, and she didnat deserve what head given her.

He should have kept his promise to Abigail.

If he had, he wouldnat now be a pathetic old man spying on the girl head loved like a daughter.

Phil soundlessly shut the door to Jacksonas office.

Head learned that if he banged it hard enough, it popped back open and he could watch the old fart. It helped to know Sonnetas mood, and it helped to know when to look busy. The old fart threw a tizzy when he caught Phil checking e-mail or playing computer solitaire, and he had really been ugly about that ”lost” detectiveas report. But Phil couldnat help it.

Someone wanted to know all about Karen Sonnet, and someone was willing to pay well for the information. And Phil Chronies was pleased as h.e.l.l to give up that self-righteous b.i.t.c.h to anyone with a cas.h.i.+eras check.

The phone rang.

He smiled unpleasantly as he grabbed his copy of the detectiveas report and picked up the receiver.

Someone was right on time.

Chapter Seventeen.