Son of the Morning Read online

  “There. Now you’ll have it if you need it.” He paused, staring at the computer with the ongoing chess game. His opponent had made a move. He studied the board, head cocked slightly to one side, then he chortled. “Aha! I know that gambit, and it won’t work.” Gleefully he moved a knight and clicked the mouse.

  “Who are you playing with?”

  “I dunno,” he said absently. “He calls himself the Fishman.”

  Grace blinked, staring at the screen. Naw, it couldn’t be. Kristian was playing with someone who had probably chosen that Net name with malice aforethought, to trick people into making just that assumption. The real Bobby Fischer wouldn’t be surfing the Net looking for games; he could play anyone, anywhere, and get paid huge amounts of money for doing it.

  “Who usually wins?”

  “We’re about even. He’s good,” Kristian allowed as he rehooked his other desktop.

  Grace opened her purse and pulled out her checkbook. “Want a pizza?” she asked.

  His head cocked as he pulled his mind back from cyberspace to check the status of his stomach. “Boy, do I ever,” he declared. “I’m starving.”

  “Then call it in; this one’s on me.”

  “Are you going to stay and split it with me?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t. I have things waiting for me at home.” She barely controlled a blush. Ford would have roared with laughter if he’d heard her.

  She wrote out a check for fifty dollars, then pulled out a twenty to pay for the pizza. “Thanks, buddy. You’re a lifesaver.”

  Kristian took the check and tip, grinning as he looked at it. “This is going to be a good career, isn’t it?” he asked, beaming.

  Grace had to laugh. “If you can stay out of jail.” She placed the laptop in the case and balanced the repaired modem on top of her unzipped purse. Kristian gallantly took the heavy case from her and carried it downstairs for her. Neither of his parents was in sight, but the sounds of gunshots and a car chase drifted from the den and pinpointed their location; both of the older Siebers unabashedly loved Arnold Schwarzenegger’s action movies.

  Kristian’s gallantry lasted only as far as the kitchen, where the proximity to food reminded him of the pizza he hadn’t yet ordered. Grace retrieved the computer case from him as he halted at the wall phone. “Thanks, Kris,” she said, and left the same way she had entered, through the darkened laundry room and out the back door.

  She paused for a moment to let her eyes adjust to the darkness. During the time she had been with Kristian, clouds had rolled in to block most of the starlight, though here and there was a clear patch of sky. Crickets chirped, and a cool breeze stirred around her, bringing with it the scent of rain.

  The light from her kitchen window, fifty yards to the right, was like a beacon. Ford was there, waiting for her. Warmth filled her and she smiled, thinking of him. She began walking toward her home, stepping carefully in the darkness so she wouldn’t stumble over some unevenness in the ground, the soft spring grass cushioning her movements in silence.

  She was in the Murchisons’ backyard when she saw someone in her kitchen, briefly framed by the window as he moved past it. Grace paused, frowning a little; that hadn’t looked like either Ford or Bryant.

  Oh, Lord, they had company. Her frown deepened. It was probably someone interested in archaeology or associated with the Foundation. College kids pondering a career in archaeology sometimes dropped by to talk, and sometimes she was the one they wanted to see, if they were having a problem with Latin or Greek terms. It didn’t matter. She didn’t want to talk shop, she wanted to go to bed with her husband.

  She was reluctant to go in, though of course she would have to; she couldn’t stand out there in the dark waiting for whoever it was to leave, which could be hours. She edged to the right, trying to see if she recognized the visitor’s car, hoping that it belonged to one of Bryant’s friends. If so, she could signal her brother to take his friend into his side of the house.

  Her familiar Buick sat in the carport, and beside it was Bryant’s black Jeep Cherokee. Ford’s scratched and dented Chevrolet four-wheel-drive pickup, which was used for field work, was parked off to the side. No other vehicle occupied their driveway.

  That was strange. She knew they had company, because the man she’d so briefly glimpsed had had sandy-colored hair, and both Ford and Bryant were dark-haired. But unless it was a neighbor who had walked over, she had no idea how he had arrived. She knew most of their neighbors, though, and none of them fit the description of the man she’d seen.

  Well, she wouldn’t find out who he was until she went inside. She took a step toward the house and suddenly stopped again, squinting through the darkness. Something had moved between her and the house, something dark and furtive.

  A chill ran down her spine. Icy shards of alarm ran through her veins, freezing her in place. Wild possibilities darted through her mind: a gorilla had escaped from a zoo… or there was a really, really big dog in her backyard.

  Then it moved again, ghosting silently up to her back door. It was a man. She blinked in astonishment, wondering why someone was skulking around in her yard, and going to the back door instead of the front. A robbery? Why would any thief with half a brain break into a house where the lights were still on and the occupants were obviously at home?

  Then the back door opened, and she realized the man must have knocked on it, though softly, because she hadn’t heard anything. Another man stood in the door, a man she knew. There was a pistol, the barrel long and curiously thickened, in his hand.

  “Nothing,” the first man said, his voice low, but the night air carried the sound.

  “God damn it,” the other man muttered, stepping aside to let the first man enter. “I can’t stop now. We’ll have to go ahead and do it.”

  The door closed behind them. Grace stared across the dark yard at the blank expanse of her back door. Why was Parrish Sawyer there, and why did he have a pistol? He was their boss, and if he’d called to let them know he was coming over, for whatever reason, Ford would have called her to come home. They were on cordial terms with Parrish, but they had never socialized; Parrish played in the more rarefied stratosphere of the rich and well connected, qualifications Grace’s family didn’t have.

  “Do it”—that was what he’d said. Do what? And why couldn’t he stop?

  Puzzled and uneasy, Grace left the shadows of the Murchisons’ yard and walked across her own. She didn’t know what was going on, but she was definitely going to find out.

  While she had been cooking earlier she had opened the kitchen window so she could enjoy the freshness of the spring day, and it was still raised. She plainly heard Ford say, “Damn it, Parrish, what’s this about?”

  Ford’s voice was rough, angry, with a tone in it she’d never heard before. Grace froze again with one foot lifted to the first step.

  “Where is she?” Parrish asked, ignoring Ford’s question. His voice was indifferent and cold, and the sound of it made the hairs lift on the back of her neck.

  “I told you, the library.”

  A lie. Ford was deliberately lying. Grace stood still, staring at the open window and trying to picture what was happening on the other side of the wall. She couldn’t see anyone, but she knew there were at least four people inside. Where was Bryant, and the man she’d seen enter the kitchen?

  “Don’t give me that shit. Her car’s here.”

  “She went with a friend.”

  “What’s this friend’s name?”

  “Serena, Sabrina, something like that. Tonight’s the first time I’ve met her.”

  Ford had always thought fast on his feet. The names were enough out of the ordinary that it gave the lie a bit of credence, where a plain Sally wouldn’t. She didn’t know why Ford was lying, but the fact that he was doing it was enough for Grace. Parrish had a pistol, and Ford didn’t want him to know where Grace was; something was very wrong.

  “All right.” It sounded as if Parrish exhal