Jacob's lips twisted. "Oh, Nathan," he said, and suddenly he looked very old. "When Jake told me what he believes you'd planned, I couldn't take it in. That a son of mine should sink so low as to try and destroy his own brother's life. No-" This as Nathan began to speak again. "I listened to you, boy, and now you'll listen to me. You're a liar, and I know it. And you've not come back here to help anyone but yourself."

Nathan stared at him. "Oh, I see. He's got to you, has he? He's poisoned your mind against me, and you're prepared to believe him before me. That's great, isn't it? My own father won't listen to me. You'd turn against me, the son you raised yourself."

"Yes, I raised you," said Jacob steadily. "And I'm ashamed to say it, Nathan. Deeply ashamed. Oh, I knew you were a selfish boy. I saw you turn into a selfish man. But you're right-I haven't been a good father or I'd have recognised you for what you are before now."

"And what am I?"

"Greedy, weak, irresponsible." Jacob's voice was cold. "What I find so hard to believe is that you could think you might get away with it. For pity's sake, Nathan, were you so desperate that you'd consign your own brother to jail to escape what you deserved?"

"To jail?"

"What do you mean?"

The two brothers spoke simultaneously, but Jacob fixed his gaze upon his younger son. "Since you went away, I've had time to think, Nathan. I'd already surmised that you must have stashed the drugs Jake was supposed to be carrying somewhere. Is that where you've been? To collect them?" He moved his hand dismissingly. "It doesn't matter now. Where the drugs are at this precise moment isn't important. What is important is how you hoped to implicate your brother, and I think I've come up with an explanation."

He paused, but before Nathan could attempt any defence, he continued, "Jake has told me there was no cocaine in the suitcase he was transporting, but I think there was."

"Are you sure?" That was Jake, and Nathan threw him a nervous look.

"Yes," their father went on. "It's the only explanation. It was hidden, of course, so that if the plan backfired, you wouldn't suspect Nathan had been trying to double-cross you. But there must have been enough cocaine in the case to ensure you at least being arrested at Heathrow."

Jake gasped. "I don't believe it."

"Nor do I," cried Nathan, looking to his brother for his support. "You're going senile, old man. What would be the point of that?"

"I couldn't work that out at first," said Jacob quietly. "And then it dawned on me that the authorities would find it hard to believe that Jake wasn't who his passport said he was. I mean, who's going to believe a drug smuggler? And when he did eventually succeed in convincing them that he was Jake Connor and not Nathan Wolfe, they'd think he was using your passport because of his own record."

"What record?" exclaimed Nathan contemptuously, but he already knew. It was one of the things he'd banked on. The fact that Jake had been a junkie when he got back from Vietnam.

"You bastard!"

They were both glaring at him now, and Nathan realised he wasn't going to gain any advantage by continuing to lie. "All right," he said, "I'd stashed a few ounces of cocaine in one of the paperbacks in the case. I'd hollowed it out."

"So, you had no intention of meeting me in London," Jake said accusingly. "You expected me to be detained in England and, under cover of this smokescreen, you'd escape from your mess of a life no matter what disasters you'd bring on me, or pain to your father-and wife."

"Pretty clever, huh? So what are you going to do about it? We're all in this together. We're family, remember?"

"You wish."

Jacob's response was harsh with loathing, and even Nathan felt a twinge of regret for the relationship they had once had. Okay, so they'd had their problems; so did lots of other people. But he'd always believed his father loved him, no matter what.

"I need a drink," he said, wiping his hand across his parched lips. He saw to his dismay that his hand was trembling, and he thrust it in his pocket. Then he looked at his brother. "You can join me if you like. It might help us all to think-"

"Stay where you are."

To his astonishment, Jacob had turned the gun on him now, and Nathan stared at him with disbelieving eyes. Christ, he thought, the old guy really was losing it. He might be able to intimidate Jake with that old gun, but as far as he was concerned, it was a joke.

To prove it, he pushed past the old man and sauntered along the hall towards his father's study. "Has he told you he doesn't drink?" he addressed Jake, aware that he didn't feel quite so confident with the gun pointing at his back. "Well, don't you believe it. He's got a bottle in his desk drawer. He's just an old hypocrite. I should know."

The bullet that whistled past his shoulder had him diving into the study doorway. The light was on, and as he groped to turn off the switch with sweating fingers, he found his father was right behind him, with Jake at his heels.

He thought Jake looked a little stunned that the old man had actually fired the gun in anger. Like him, he apparently hadn't expected the gun to be loaded, let alone that it was capable of firing a shot. The realisation of how close to death he'd come made Nathan reckless, and he stared at them both with wide, accusing eyes.

"Are you crazy?" he choked, forgetting for the moment that only seconds before he had been disparaging his father for being senile. "What the hell's got into you, old man? If you want some-some target practice, go aim someplace else."

Jacob didn't say anything. He simply raised the gun again and a bullet ricocheted harmlessly into the woodwork just inches from Nathan's ear. The noise it made was terrifying, splintering the wood and sending fragments flying in all directions. One dug into the back of Nathan's neck and he screamed, believing for one awful moment that he had been shot after all.

"You're mad!" he cried when a tentative exploration discovered the sliver of wood that had grazed his neck. But there was blood on his hands and on his collar, and he gazed at it with disbelieving eyes.

"I was just proving I don't need any target practice," replied his father evenly, showing no remorse for his behaviour. "You shouldn't have tried to make a fool of me, Nathan. I can be ruthless, too-if I have a mind."

"Jake, for God's sake!" Nathan appealed to his brother. "Do something, can't you? Or are you going to let him kill me? Is that what you want?"

Jake hesitated. Nathan could see the uncertainty in his brother's eyes. Christ, what more did he need? A written confession? The old man was crazy. Couldn't he see it? He'd totally flipped his lid.

"I think you ought to put the gun down," Jake conceded at last, not without some reluctance, and in the second it took for Jacob to turn and look at him, Nathan took his chance. He wasn't fit, but he was younger and stronger and heavier than the old man, and when he lunged at him, Jacob fell heavily to the floor.

But he didn't let go of the gun.

Although Nathan had no choice but to follow him down, Jacob hung on to the gun as if for grim death. His bony fingers were glued to the butt, his forefinger hooked relentlessly round the trigger.

Another shot rattled ominously into the smouldering grate behind him, and Nathan knew that the next one might be for him. But it was impossible to extricate himself without running the risk of taking a bullet, and he could only struggle to stay out of the line of fire.

Jake's arm coming between them was another small miracle. His sainted brother was actually risking his life for him, he realised, scrambling for cover. As Jake grasped his father's wrist, Nathan scuttled behind the desk, so that when the gun was fired again, he was safely out of harm's way.

The silence that followed was horribly ominous. For a moment, he wondered if he had been shot after all, and that the reason he couldn't hear anything was because he was dead. But then someone howled, a terrible sound that turned his blood to ice in his veins, and he heard his father sobbing his brother's name.

Panic gripped him again. Oh, God! The old man had killed Jake, he thought wildly. Jacob would kill him now, for sure. Christ, what was he going to do? The world had gone mad around him. Was he the only sane one in this fucking place?

Quivering with terror, aware that it wasn't just sweat that had dampened his trousers, Nathan risked a swift glance round the corner of the desk. He drew back almost at once, his worst fears realised. He was right: Jake had been shot. He was lying, motionless, on the floor, with Jacob on his knees beside him, keening like a banshee.

He swallowed, the dry convulsion of his throat muscles sounding loudly in his ears. His hands conversely were so wet he had to dry them on his jacket, the blood smearing his lapel, reminding him of what had so nearly happened before.

This couldn't be real, he told himself unsteadily. It was all just a crazy dream. If he pinched himself, he'd wake up in his own bed back in London. But when he squeezed an inch of the midriff that hid his waistband, he almost gagged with the pain.

The sobbing continued on and on, until Nathan had to put his hands over his ears to block out the awful sound his father was making. It's no good crying, old man, he thought, despising his father, even at this time, for his weakness. If you hadn't intended to shoot anyone, you shouldn't have been carrying a gun.

The gun.

Nathan pressed his shoulders back against the side of the desk. Where was the gun? That was what he ought to be thinking now. It had to be here somewhere. He sensed Jacob would have thrown it aside when he realised he'd shot Jake. Nathan hadn't heard it fall, but then, he'd hardly been in any state to listen for it. If he could find the gun, he'd be all right, he thought urgently. Jacob wouldn't touch him if he was armed.

Licking his dry lips, he inched his way along the back of the desk. He would look through the knee-hole, he decided. Just in case his father was still holding the gun. He wouldn't present such an obvious target from that angle. Jacob might not even know where he was.

His luck held. As he'd hoped, the gun was lying just inches beyond the edge of the desk. His father actually had his back to it as he leant over his innocent victim. If Nathan could just ease himself though the knee-hole, he'd reach it easily.

Every sound he made seemed magnified in the awful aftermath of the killing. Even though his father was still moaning over the body, Nathan's efforts to reach the gun seemed certain to reach his ears. Nathan wished he was thinner; he wished he'd paid more attention to his diet while he'd had the chance. He could smell the fear that soaked his body. He prayed that Jacob wouldn't smell it, too.

His fingers touched the barrel only seconds later. But for a few minutes, his hands were so slippery, he couldn't get a grip. Looping one finger inside the trigger guard, he drew the gun towards him. Then, after smoothing his damp palm against the carpet, he lifted the gun and cradled it against his chest.

He'd done it!

Relief washed over him, and not caring if he made any noise now, he scrambled to his feet. God, he needed a drink, he thought, remembering the whisky. He deserved one for what he'd suffered. Then he'd decide how he was going to deal with the old man.

It was the noise of the desk drawer being opened that alerted Jacob to his other son's sudden revival. But although Nathan expected him to reach for the weapon, the old man seemed incapable of coherent thought. Nathan was almost disappointed when all his father did was watch him remove the cap from the whisky and drink thirstily from the bottle, his expression pale and haggard, his eyes red-rimmed with grief.

Nathan wished he'd admit that he had defeated him. He wanted his father to beg him for his life. He didn't want to see this pathetic figure, staring at him as if he were a phantom. He wanted some animation; he wanted an excuse to use the gun.

He hadn't realised how powerful a gun could make you feel. Cowering behind the desk, all he'd felt was fear for his own safety, but now he felt almost invincible. The realisation that Jacob might have been experiencing these selfsame feelings when he was holding the gun made him angry. He'd killed Jake; he deserved to die. But Nathan found he just couldn't pull the trigger. He couldn't kill his own father in cold blood.

So he had to do something, say something, to arouse some sort of reaction. Aggression, preferably. It would be easier if he was mad. The old man probably thought he wouldn't use the gun against him. A half-hysterical gulp rose in this throat. If he only knew.

Jacob was getting to his feet now, and for all his bravado, Nathan felt a return of the terror he had experienced earlier. His father straightened his back and looked at him, his eyes dull and unseeing. He was beaten, thought Nathan firmly, but he tightened his grip on the gun just the same.

"I-I guess I ought to say thanks," he taunted, his voice higher than he would have liked, but it wasn't easy keeping his cool. "You've done me a favour, getting rid of that bastard. Now that Jake's out of the way, it makes things so much simpler for me."

The roar that erupted from Jacob's throat as Nathan spoke was almost too primitive to have human origins. It seemed to well up from the depths of his father's being, and his whole face took on an unholy glow. It terrified his son, despite the gun, and his breathing quickened instinctively. The old man was mad; did he need any further proof? God, he breathed, give me the strength to fire the gun.

"Keep back," he warned as Jacob started towards him, but although he'd wanted this to happen, his finger still trembled over the pin. "I-I don't want to have to kill you," he added, aware that he was backing away and despising himself for it. "For Christ's sake, don't make me do it, Pa. I didn't mean what I said."

But Jacob didn't seem to be listening to him. He just came on like some lumbering beast, closing the space between them, until he was only the length of the desk away. Behind Nathan was a wall of bookcases, with no escape possible. Oh, God! He closed his eyes, and using both hands, pulled the trigger. It clicked once-twice-and then his father's body fell.

When he opened his eyes again, Jacob was lying face down on the hearth. A trickle of blood was coming from his head and pooling on the stone beneath. Nathan didn't know if he was dead. It certainly looked that way, but he couldn't be positive. Not without touching him at any rate, and for the moment he could only stare at the gun in disbelief.

A mirthless laugh escaped him, and after fiddling with it for a few seconds, he at last managed to pull the magazine out. It was empty. It had been empty since his father fired the shot that had killed Jake. There must have only been four bullets in it.

He hadn't shot his father, he thought unsteadily. The clicks he'd heard were just that-clicks-of the hammer hitting the firing pin. Proof that he hadn't gone suddenly deaf as he'd feared. No, ironically enough, his father had fallen headlong over the open drawer from which Nathan had removed the whisky. His thirst had saved him. Or, God knew, he could be dead.

Steeling his nerves, he put down the gun and approached his father's prone body. A shudder of revulsion ran through him, but he managed to lay two fingers beneath the old man's ear. He was warm from the embers of the fire, but there was no pulse, not even the faintest thread of a heartbeat. He shivered. Like Retch, the fall must have killed him. Jacob was never going to threaten him again.

Nausea almost choked him, but he turned aside and took another mouthful of the whisky. Christ, he thought, wiping his mouth, who would ever believe he was the innocent party here? If he called the police, he could say goodbye to his freedom for good. They'd probably lock him up and throw away the key.

He permitted himself a brief glance in his brother's direction. But the sight of the blood issuing from the wound on his head turned his stomach, and he quickly looked away. God, he thought incredulously, Jake had survived the plane crash just to be killed by his own father. If that wasn't ironic, he didn't know what was.

He tried to think, but his brain felt as thick as leather. It felt as if it was swollen, enlarged, pressing against the walls of his skull, until he felt sure it was in danger of splitting his head apart. What the hell was he going to do? Who would believe his story? Not Carl; not the Websters; not Caitlin. That bitch wouldn't lift a hand to bail him out.

No one knew he was here.

The thought came out of nowhere, and the bottle fell from his nerveless fingers as he acknowledged something that until then had been little more than a niggling awareness in his mind. No one knew he had been staying with his father. As far as the people of Prescott were concerned, his father hadn't had any visitors. And when they found his body-and Jake's, too-they'd probably blame his brother for what had happened.

He frowned. It might not be that easy to arrange, he realised grimly. If they found the bodies right away, they'd probably be able to tell who had died first. Jake could hardly be accused of killing his father if he'd been already dead, could he? Nathan needed a way to complicate the evidence. To ensure no one knew exactly how they'd died.

It was almost light. If he wanted to get away from here without anybody knowing, he didn't have much time left. He had to think of some way to delay their examination. Then the sale of this old woodpile would be his inheritance.

Not that it was worth much, he conceded bitterly. If the old man had sold out years ago, he'd have been worth a hell of a lot more. The insurance was probably worth more than the sawmill. His eyes glittered. It would serve him right if the whole place went up in smoke...

25.

It was the smell that brought Jake to his senses.

The acrid aroma of smoke and kerosene was all too reminiscent of the plane crash, and for a moment he felt as paralysed as he had been then. He had a vivid image of himself, lying on the edge of the runway, incapable of doing anything to help himself or anybody else. He could hear the crackling of the flames; he could feel the heat. But this time his memory was clear.

And he could move. His head hurt-pretty abominably, actually-but he didn't think he was seriously injured. The bullet must have grazed his temple, he decided, tentatively exploring the area where it hurt. And, as with all head wounds, it had bled profusely. He wondered if he'd lost a lot of blood.

But that didn't explain the fire, he realised dizzily. Although his head swam when he moved, and his limbs felt like jelly, he levered himself slowly to his knees.

For a moment, nausea assailed him. Despite the urgency he felt to get to his feet, he had to wait for the sickness to pass. That was when he saw his father's body. The old man was lying half over the hearth, and he looked ominously still.

All around him now he could see billows of smoke swirling. The old house was as dry as tinder, and it was a mercy this room hadn't yet been engulfed by the flames. He realised the noise he could hear was coining from the staircase, and it was only a matter of time before the fire leapt along the hall.

Panic gripped his stomach. The realisation that he was in a house that was rapidly being consumed by fire was terrifying. How the fire had started-why the fire had started- were questions that barely licked along the edges of his consciousness. His first task was to get himself and his father out of the building. If he could, he acknowledged unsteadily. Somehow he had to find the strength.

If only he didn't feel so helpless. The bullet, which he thought must have ploughed a shallow furrow along his hairline, had combined with the lingering effects of the accident to sap his will. Confronting Nathan earlier had robbed him of most of his resistance, and now the amount of blood he'd lost was adding to his fatigue.

The smoke was getting thicker, and pulling off his jacket, he used it to shield his nose and mouth. Then, ignoring his own pain, he crawled across the floor towards his father. There might be some way he could protect the old man.

There was a pool of blood beneath Jacob's head that was rapidly staining the stonework of the hearth. Jake uttered a groan as he leant over him, but he sensed before he touched his cold cheek that his father was dead. He didn't know how long he'd been lying there. Although his skin felt cold, that was no guarantee. This was a cold room; it had been a cold house; and he was no expert. And the old man's blood must have been thin for a long time.

A feeling of helplessness was his first reaction, followed swiftly by an almost numbing sense of disbelief. He hadn't realised Jacob's death would mean that much to him. But it did. The man had been his father, and neither time, nor distance, nor their years of estrangement could alter that.

With trembling hands, he turned him over, catching his breath at the ugly wound that split his temple. Blood had congealed around the wound, and the old man's face was deathly white. Dear God, he thought sickly, had Nathan done this? Was that why he could smell the kerosene?

A splintering sound came from above his head, and looking up, he saw an ominous crack appear in the ceiling. Evidently, the intense heat was buckling the floorboards. The wood was baking and tearing the beams apart.

He staggered, but he managed to get to his feet. For all he would have liked to spend more time mourning his father's passing, he knew he couldn't indulge in maudlin sentiment now. If he didn't get out of here soon, the whole building would collapse around him, and he'd never find out if Nathan was to blame.

But he couldn't leave the old man behind. For all he was sure Jacob was dead, there was always a chance he might be wrong. Just because he couldn't find a pulse didn't mean there wasn't one. He'd seen men in Vietnam who'd looked as bad and made a full recovery.

But they'd been young men, with youthful constitutions. His father had been old and far from well. Looking at him now, he felt a pang for his frailty. He wouldn't have had much resistance to the blow.

All the same, it took every ounce of strength he had to move the body. With an immense effort, he managed to lever his father's shoulders off the hearth and haul him unceremoniously across the floor. It was an undignified exit, but it was the best he could do in the circumstances. The old man would remember nothing about it, and it was better than leaving him behind.

He'd reached the doorway when he heard the sound of hurried footsteps. He'd expected Nathan to be long gone by now, and the realisation that he might have misjudged his brother caused him a moment's grief. What if Nathan hadn't started the fire? What if he'd just panicked when Jake was shot and run away? Could the old man have thought Jake was dead and lit the fire himself?

The smoke in the hall was so thick Jake couldn't immediately be sure it was Nathan, As he'd suspected, the stairs were burning, and sparks from the flames would soon have the hall alight. Already the worn ribbon of carpet was smouldering, and as he watched, the curtain at the foot of the stairs was swiftly consumed.

And, in that brief flare of illumination, he recognised his brother. The sudden conflagration had startled Nathan, so that when Jake reached out and touched his sleeve, he had no chance of hiding his reaction. "Christ," he gasped, staring at his brother's smoke-blackened face with undisguised horror. He took a shuddering breath. "I thought you were dead."

Caitlin was the first to see the pall of smoke that hung over the sawmill.

Although they'd flown over from England the previous day, Marshall had suggested it would be more appropriate to arrive at Jacob Wolfe's house in the morning. There was nothing spoiling, he said. Nothing that couldn't wait until the following day at any rate. And they couldn't be absolutely sure Jake had gone to see his father. Better to arrive at a respectable hour than late at night.