She made it sound like Kate had done it on purpose. Kate was about to respond to the woman's a.s.sessment, but the door opened, and Dylan and the chief walked out of the office. She immediately noticed the gun in a holster at Dylan's side. He had a box in his hand. Probably extra bullets, she thought. Can't have enough of those, can he?

"You're in good hands with this boy, Miss MacKenna. He's got an impressive record and his superior in Boston was mighty aggravated he was doing a job for Silver Springs. He finally agreed but made sure I knew it was temporary. They want him back," he added with a nod.

She couldn't stop looking at the gun. Images of Dylan lying in the hospital bed flashed into her mind. She realized his job required that he carry a gun, and as Drummond had just confirmed, Dylan was very good at that job, but still, just seeing the weapon made her feel queasy. She smiled at the chief and said, "Yes, I am in good hands with this boy."

Drummond walked them to the door and held it open. In parting he called, "Try not to get yourself blown up again, Miss MacKenna."

Kate walked ahead of Dylan to the car. "The way people are acting around here you'd think I was some kind of walking detonator-wherever I go there's an explosion," she complained.

Dylan laughed. "I think you've brought a little more excitement to Silver Springs than they're used to."

He pulled the car out of the parking lot but stopped at the corner. "Want to give me directions?"

"The most direct route to get to the highway is to take Main Street, which is your next left, but there will be a lot of traffic this time of morning."

"Compared to Boston, this is nothing," he said a few minutes later. "It's nice not to have to be so aggressive. The noise level is so much lower here. I like that."

Kate adjusted the air conditioner vent so it wouldn't blow on her face and tried to relax.

"What did you think of Chief Drummond?"

"Cranky," he said. "The man is definitely cranky. I don't think he knows how to smile. The way he was frowning at me when he took me into his office made me think he was going to give me trouble, and even after he started complimenting me on my record, the guy was still frowning. It took me a while to catch on." He shook his head and added, "He kind of reminds me of my father."

"Judge Buchanan isn't cranky. He's a dear man. He's always so kind to me."

"He likes you," he said.

"Jordan and Sydney still call him Daddy."

"His sons don't. We call him 'sir.' He was tough with us when we were growing up, but I guess he had to be. Keeping six boys out of trouble couldn't have been easy."

Kate was remembering what Judge Buchanan was like in the hospital when he was waiting with his family for Dylan to come out of surgery. The time had dragged on and on, and the anguish in his eyes was heartbreaking to see. He might have been hard-nosed with his sons, but he also loved them fiercely.

"I hate hospitals."

She hadn't realized she'd whispered the thought out loud until Dylan said, "I imagine you do." Responding to the sadness he heard in her voice, he put his hand on top of hers and said, "What made you think about hospitals?"

She didn't want to talk about it. "I just did," she said without an explanation.

The highway traffic was light. Dylan set the cruise control and sat back.

"I talked to Nate early this morning," he said.

"You did?"

"I let him know last night that you were going to Savannah," he explained, "and I asked him to check out a couple of things."

She turned toward him. "Yes?"

"Remember, he had already told us that a corporation owns the warehouse that blew, but he was having trouble finding out who the shareholders were. He finally was able to dig through the layers, and guess who has controlling interest."

"Who?"

"Carl Bertolli."

She certainly hadn't expected to hear his name and immediately thought there had to be a mistake. "Carl? Are you sure? He said Carl? That can't be right."

"You think Nate made it up?" he asked, smiling.

"No, of course not, but . . . Carl? He never said anything to me . . . why wouldn't he tell me he owned the warehouse?"

"Obviously because he didn't want you to know."

"Did Jennifer know?" she asked. "Surely she did. She's a Realtor, for heaven's sake. She'd have to know who the owners were. Did anyone talk to her yet?"

"She and her family are camping, but she's scheduled to be back at work tomorrow morning. Nate could have tracked her down, but he'd already gotten the names of the shareholders, so he's waiting until tomorrow to question her. Nate's guessing Carl instructed her not to tell you."

Kate couldn't wrap her mind around any of it. It just didn't make any sense.

"What would Carl have to gain by blowing up his property? Even if he had the place heavily insured." Her mind was racing. "He doesn't need the money. And tell me, please, what would he gain by killing me? No, it doesn't make any sense."

"You can bet the FBI is digging into Carl's financials right now. If there's a motive, they'll find it."

"The FBI won't find anything."

"You might be surprised. Everyone has secrets, and Carl could have a couple of big ones."

She couldn't accept it. "I've got to think about this."

"I'll give you something else to think about. Compton Thomas MacKenna was, in fact, your great uncle."

"Was?"

"That's right. He died last night, exactly two hours before the letter went out. According to his attorney, Anderson Smith, Compton left specific instructions about the notification of his relatives."

"Then why-"

"You're not going to the attorney's office to meet Compton as the letter implied. You and your sisters have been summoned for the reading of his last will and testament."

She was shocked by the disappointment she felt. "Then I guess I can't ask him any questions, can I? You might as well turn around. I'm not interested in anything the man left."

"Your sisters might be interested."

"I'll be happy to give them the attorney's phone number, and they can talk to him. The next exit is coming up. We can turn around there."

"Kate, you and your sisters weren't the only ones to receive letters. Your cousins will also be there. Now are you interested?"

"Just cousins?"

"I can't answer that. The attorney only mentioned cousins to Nate. Smith also told him that the cousins don't know you're coming. Fact is, he was certain they don't even know you and your sisters exist."

She was even more disheartened. "I'm definitely not interested, then. Slow down. You'll miss the exit."

The exit ramp was a blur as they sped by.

"Dylan, I told you I'm not interested. There isn't any reason for me to go to the reading now. If these cousins haven't been told anything about Kiera and Isabel and me, they certainly won't be able to answer any of my questions, now will they? They were obviously kept in the dark by their parents."

She thought about it another moment and said, "I know Kiera would like medical history, but-"

"There's more," he interrupted.

"Oh?"

"The attorney has photos of your father and other mementos that belonged to him."

She nodded. "Okay, now I'm interested."

Chapter Twenty-two.

Roger Mackenna came armed with a .45 to the reading of the will.

He arrived at the prestigious law firm of Smith and Wesson twenty minutes before the scheduled appointment, but because it was the lunch hour and the area was filled with trendy, upscale bistros, he had to park three blocks from the square. He got out of the car, leaned against the door, and took one last drag of his cigarette. He'd smoked it down to the filter and could feel it burning his lips as he sucked the nicotine in. He tossed it away and immediately reached for another.

His head felt as though it were going to explode. He was in no condition to walk anywhere today, but he wasn't about to miss this appointment even if he had to crawl to get there.

He had no one but himself to blame for his misery. Upon hearing the glorious news that his uncle had finally died, he'd cried out with joy and then proceeded to get roaring drunk. His private celebration lasted well into the middle of the night.

Walking in the heat and humidity was making him nauseated. He finally reached the square and would have cut across the park, but it was crowded with office workers taking in the sun while they ate their packed lunches.

By the time he stopped in front of the attorney's office building he was exhausted, out of breath, and coated with a clammy sweat. He was anxious to get inside. Pulling the door open, he rushed in. He felt a blast of cold air brush his face a scant second before the alarm sounded. The noise was surprisingly dignified. It wasn't a loud, piercing siren, but a quiet and steady pulsating beep like a heart monitor.

Two armed guards rushed toward him from opposite corridors. Like a jackal, he snarled at them and tried to bluff his way past. The ploy didn't work, and he was given the choice of either leaving the premises or handing over his weapon.

He pulled the gun out of his vest pocket and gave it to the guard standing directly in front of him.

The man glanced down at the weapon, and said, "Is this loaded?"

"Of course it's loaded," Roger snapped. "Why would I carry an empty gun?"

"Did you realize you failed to put the safety on?" he asked as he lifted the gun to show Roger and then flipped the lever. "You wouldn't want this to go off accidentally, now would you?"

Roger didn't answer. The guard on his left drew his attention when he said, "Sir, do you have a permit to carry a concealed weapon?"

"I most certainly do," he answered indignantly. It was a lie. He'd gotten the gun from his brother Ewan for protection. Ewan kept an a.r.s.enal of weapons and didn't mind making a temporary loan. "I'll want that gun back when I leave."

They didn't ask his permission when they patted him down to make sure the gun was the only weapon he was carrying. Roger was outraged. He was a multimillionaire now and should not be treated this way.

"Do you know who I am?"

He a.s.sumed they didn't when neither one of them answered. They stepped out of the way and let him go forward.

He was fuming as he stormed across the tile floor toward the receptionist. He practically shouted his full name so the guards would be sure to hear.

The receptionist asked him to wait while she called upstairs to announce him.

"Mr. Smith's a.s.sistant, Terrance, will be right down to escort you to his offices," she said.

Roger didn't have to wait long. He looked up to the top of the winding staircase just as a young man appeared on the landing. He was elegantly dressed in a spotless dark suit, crisp white shirt, and tie. He neither introduced himself nor shook Roger's hand. He simply said, "Mr. MacKenna, if you'll follow me please."

He followed the a.s.sistant up the stairs and down a corridor and was shown into the attorney's s.p.a.cious outer office. The carpet was thick, the furniture was plush, and the paintings on the walls appeared to be originals.

The place reeked of money, and Roger was impressed. Though he'd never met his uncle's attorney, he used his first name when he asked, "Where's Anderson?"

"Mr. Smith will be here momentarily. May I offer you something to drink while you wait?"

Roger ordered bourbon straight up, and as the a.s.sistant was leaving to fetch it, he called out, "And bring the bottle. My brothers and I will want to . . ." He caught himself before he said "celebrate" and subst.i.tuted "toast our uncle."

Bryce was shown into the office a few minutes later. He spotted the tray on the coffee table and immediately helped himself to a drink. There was an ice bucket, but he didn't bother. He took a long gulp, expelled a sigh, and finally acknowledged his brother's presence.

They had not seen each other in over six months, and Roger was shocked at the change. The flesh seemed to hang from Bryce's body. A mannequin had more fat than his brother. His eyes had a yellow tinge to them, and his skin was pasty. Cirrhosis, Cirrhosis, Roger thought. Roger thought. Up close and personal. Up close and personal.

"It's been a long time," Roger said.

"Yes," Bryce agreed. "When was that?"

"Uncle MacKenna's birthday bash."

"Ah, that's right."

"How are you feeling, Bryce?"

His brother immediately went on the defensive. "I'm feeling fine. Why would you ask me that? Don't I look fine?"

Was he daring him to tell the truth? "I heard . . ."

"What? What did you hear?"

"Vanessa mentioned you weren't feeling up to par."

"My wife doesn't know what the h.e.l.l she's talking about."

Roger shrugged. If Bryce didn't want to admit his liver was going south, he wouldn't argue with him. "Has she moved out yet? Last time we talked you told me she was threatening to leave you."