Chapter 6.

Zack Phillips watched the sun creeping over the horizon. He'd barely slept, tossing and turning all night long. He'd talked last night's situation over with his partner ad nauseam until he thought he would go out of his mind with the lack of any solution. His first loyalty was to Gretchen Spyder. She'd trusted him to do what she asked, and he'd failed her. Because. . . because . . . he'd thought Greg Albright had a right to know the secret he'd been entrusted to keep. He felt guilty as hell now. "A guy thing," his partner had said. Bullshit! What could be worse than a man waiting for the love of his life to show up and being left hanging. With no explanation. And the baby. Twins. He needed to tell Greg that, too. Right or wrong, he had to live with what he'd done. And now he was going to compound the problem.

Zack hitched up his sweatpants. Normally, he was out running at this time of the morning, but today he could barely place one foot in front of the other, much less run his usual five miles. All the lies he'd told lately were starting to eat at him. His placid life was now full of stress and intrigue. His guests last night had seemed the best so far, but he was still glad he had held back. At the present time, he didn't trust anyone. Hell, he couldn't even trust himself. He'd betrayed his best friend. What did that say about him? Not much, that was for damn sure.

"Crap!" It was an explosive sound. So loud, his cat hissed his disapproval and flew out of the room.

Zack rummaged in one of the kitchen drawers for the prepaid cell phone he'd bought at Target a few months ago. He'd used it only three times, and that was to call Greg Albright in England. It took only one meeting with the gun-toting visitors to tell him they were more than capable of checking the calls he made on his own cell phone or any other cell phone that used a SIM card, like a TracFone.

He didn't watch Law & Order on TV for nothing. He knew how it all worked. Even though he'd done his best to stay under the radar, he was absolutely positive that he was under surveillance. Too many strange faces around, too many times that the hair on the back of his neck warned him things weren't normal. So he took a deep breath and hit the only programmed number on the prepaid burn phone. He thought he'd been clever when he asked the mother of one of his students to pick up the phone. He'd given her cash, and she'd done as he asked and brought the phone to him before class.

"Greg, it's Zack. Listen, I had another batch of visitors last night. I think you need to relocate, and just to be on the safe side, I'd get some new identity cards if you can. This thing seems to be heating up. Look, they found me, not that I'm that hard to find, but sooner or later, someone is going to tie you to me. There's only so much I can do. And before you can ask, no, I have not been able to get in touch with Gretchen. So, are you going to take my advice?"

Zack listened to the voice on the other end of the phone. His stomach roiled at the torment he was hearing. "Greg, you're the father of the twins. Gretchen's father wants your kids to carry on his bloodline. With you in his corner, he can get the kids, and the Domingos lose. You lose, too. Trust me on that. Is that what you want? I know you didn't know any of this when you did what Gretchen asked you to do. I think now that she was trying to protect you from her father the only way she knew how. She wasn't counting on being in that killer accident.

"The good news is she never told her father about you. I don't know this for a fact, but I would guess that she probably said something like she had too much to drink and had a one-night stand. Something like that. Otherwise, they would already have you in their hot little hands. Do not forget for one minute that he's the richest man in the world, or at least that's what he says. Money is power. If he wants you, you're his. That's the bottom line. Run, buddy, as far and as fast as you can. If you need me to do anything, call only this number. Let's set a time for calls. Let's say, nine o'clock my time. I'm usually home by then. Good luck, buddy."

When the phone was shoved back into the kitchen drawer, Zack realized he didn't feel one bit better. He immediately took it out and shoved it down in the bottom of a box of cornflakes. If anything, that made him feel even worse. He poured himself a cup of coffee and drank it as he paced the spacious kitchen. Then he poured a refill as he thought about the people who had visited him last night. There was something different about them, as opposed to the gun-toting jerks who had confronted him earlier. The foursome seemed like they were on the Domingos' side, and rightly so. It would be cruel to rip the twins away from the only parents they had ever known. And yet they seemed genuinely concerned about Gretchen Spyder. He didn't know if he was glad or not that he'd opted not to tell them more about Greg Albright.

Zack's shoulders slumped as he made his way to the second floor. He needed to get a move on since he had an aerobics class for a group of senior citizens at eight thirty, followed by a class in ballroom dancing for the same group of seniors. He always enjoyed the classes with the oldsters, all of whom claimed to have two left feet. Which, he'd come to find out, was true. Secretly, he thought some of them came just for the coffee and doughnuts and the socializing. Whatever, he had to get a move on. He crossed his fingers the way he had when he was a child in the hope that things would go well in regard to Gretchen Spyder and the Domingo family. And, of course, Greg Albright.

Maggie Spritzer was a whirlwind as she raced through her duties as editor in chief of the Washington Post. She delegated tasks, signed her name a dozen different places, scanned the morning's front page, and nodded in approval. As an afterthought as she munched on a banana, she watered the plants in her office. And all this was done while she was still wearing her rain gear. She opened the door to check on the boys, who were standing in a straight line, their arms crossed over their chests, waiting for her. Their expressions clearly said, "What's taking so long?"

"You guys ready?" Maggie asked breathlessly. "You know, Ted, that was a brilliant idea you had for the front page. Annie is going to love it."

Ted basked in his beloved's praise. "It was Espinosa and Dennis's idea. I just ran with it and wrote it."

"I like the idea of a prize of a Barnes & Noble Nook for the first ten people who can name the woman you wrote about. By the end of the week, Countess Anna de Silva will be a household name. Let's just hope that someone on Spyder Island reads our paper," Maggie said.

"Everyone reads the Post," Dennis said confidently. "I think you can take off your raincoat, Maggie. The sun is out. April showers bring May flowers, and all that." Dennis chortled. "Who's driving?"

"Me," Espinosa said, raising his hand. "Anyone in favor of stopping somewhere for some takeout we can eat in the car on the way out to the farm?"

Settled in the Post van, Maggie leaned back and started to talk. "What's your honest opinion of Zack Phillips? We really didn't talk about him last night, and we all slept on the flight home."

"Seemed okay to me," Espinosa said as he hit the highway.

"Something was off-key," Ted said.

"I think he knew something he didn't tell us. I don't think he gave us the full skinny on everything," Dennis said.

"I agree. I think he knows exactly where Greg Albright, the baby daddy, is," Maggie said. "My gut tells me that even if we pulled out his toenails, he won't give it up, either. He's a loyal friend. I understand that and admire him for his loyalty."

"I didn't get that feeling," Espinosa grumbled.

"That's because you don't have a reporter's instincts. Didn't you pick up anything with your photographer's eye?" Ted demanded.

"No, I didn't," Espinosa grumbled again as he turned on his blinker to hit a burger house that claimed to have the best hamburgers in the state of Virginia. They loaded up with killer fries, burgers, and fruit pies and added diet sodas to make up for their fat intake.

The foursome ate with gusto. Bad manners or not, they kept up a running conversation about what was going on, with Dennis asking for explicit clarification as to why they were so interested in a man like Angus Spyder when it was the Domingos they should be concentrating on.

"Listen to me carefully, kid," Ted said. "It all ties together. The girl, the birth mother named Gretchen Spyder, who, by the way, is an only child, was sent to Florida to go to college. She had bodyguards. Because her daddy is who he is. I'm sure she had a list of do's and don'ts a mile long. She wasn't to mix with others, just go to classes and behave herself. Which I guess she did until she met Greg Albright. She somehow managed to convince one of her bodyguards to cut her some slack. She probably paid him a fortune, but I don't know that for sure. Then she finds herself in the family way. I'm thinking she panicked and made arrangements to give the baby up for adoption.

"We have to assume both bodyguards knew of her condition, and again, we have to assume that she paid bodyguard number two to keep quiet, even though it was bodyguard number one who had allowed the dirty deed to take place. It all worked, and Daddy and Mummy were none the wiser until she was in a car accident several years later. You know hospitals ask a lot of questions before they admit you. It came out that she had given birth to a child. Just part of the questionnaire. Her family is notified because she is seriously injured. Her daddy sends someone to take her back to Spyder Island."

Ted turned to Maggie and said, "We should have checked the hospitals to see what we could find out."

"Yeah, I thought about that last night, so I called Abner and asked him to hack into the hospital records to see what he could find out. Someone signed her out. Her daddy's goon squad. Imagine that. He couldn't even come to the mainland to see his daughter. What kind of father is that? And where's the mother in all of this?"

"We should be trying to find the two bodyguards," Dennis said.

The others laughed.

"Kid, they are long gone," Ted said. "Maybe even dead, for all we know. People like Angus Spyder do not tolerate mistakes or betrayal. The daughter is probably locked up in some dungeon for bringing disgrace to the family. Yet he wants those kids. Go figure. The man doesn't give a hoot in hell that he'll be ripping those twins away from the only parents they've ever known or that the adoption was perfectly legal. They're his blood, and he wants them. Unless he can find the birth daddy. That would be our guy Greg Albright, who supposedly resides in England these days. And that is the end of the story as we know it at this point in time."

Dennis leaned forward. "So you're saying no matter what we do, he's going to get those kids."

"Unless we stop him," Maggie said as she licked at her fingers. "We can do that, you know. Stop him, that is. If you don't believe that, then you don't belong in this group, Dennis."

Dennis snorted. "This whole thing sounds like some bizarre fairy tale. Us and what army?"

"No army, kid. Just us." Ted laughed. "Obviously, you need to read up on the vigilantes. Have you already forgotten what happened with the crooked judges? Or the crooked developer who had been your benefactors' childhood friend? And while you're at it, remember who our newest best friend is. Jack Sparrow. That army enough for you, kid?"

Maggie waved off the conversation like it was too stupid to discuss any further. "Ted, what is your gut telling you? Mine is telling me, we're missing something or we've overlooked something." Maggie's tone of voice was so fretful, Dennis sat up straight and stared at her. He'd learned over time to pay attention to Ted's and Maggie's reporter's instincts.

"Like what?" Dennis demanded.

"I don't know. That's the problem. Ted, am I right or not?"

"No, you're right. When my left eyelid twitches, that means I'm missing something, and it's been twitching like crazy since yesterday. Don't sweat it. Sooner or later it will come to one of us. It always does," Ted said.

"Let's hope it's sooner rather than later," Maggie groused. She hated it when she couldn't get a handle on something. And her middle name was not Patience.

The rest of the trip out to the farm was made in silence. Espinosa, always a careful driver, kept his eyes on the road and his thoughts on Alexis, while Ted, Maggie, and Dennis tapped out text messages.

"Wow! Look! The parking lot is full," Dennis said as Espinosa pulled alongside Alexis's car. "Everyone is here, it looks like."

"Nope! Just the girls! Something's going on," Maggie said, eyeing the cars. "Park this van already, Espinosa, so we can find out what's going on. Damn, I hope we didn't miss anything." Maggie was out of the van the minute Espinosa brought it to a full stop.

Inside the kitchen the women went through their little war dance, with hugs and kisses, questions and offers of coffee. The guys stood like dummies in the doorway, waiting for the five-minute festivities to be over. As one, they shrugged and accepted Myra's offer of coffee.

"We have news, and I'm sure you have news, so let's decide if it's war-room worthy or if we can do it all here at the kitchen table," Kathryn said.

"I think the kitchen table will work, because we're all kitchen-table people," Alexis said as she moved her chair closer to Espinosa's. She reached for his hand, not caring if anyone saw the little byplay or not. No one cared.

"Go first, Maggie," Annie said.

Maggie related the past day's events, with Ted and Dennis adding bits and pieces. She ended with, "The trip was a success, but we don't really have that much more than we did before. Ted and I both agree that Zack Phillips didn't give us the full skinny on the biological father. Here's the thing, though. Ted and I both feel-and I admit, it's our reporter's gut instinct here-that we are missing something. Can't put my finger on it, but it is nagging me."

The women at the table laughed.

"We know what it is. Nikki came up with it earlier. We all missed it, too," Yoko said.

"What?" the four new arrivals asked as one.

All eyes turned to Nikki. "You ready for this?" she asked.

The four new arrivals nodded.

"Think Hank Jellicoe!" Nikki exclaimed.

"Oh my God!" The words ripped out of Maggie's mouth like gunshots.

"Son of a bitch!" Ted blurted.

Espinosa was befuddled enough to take his hand out of Alexis's and throw his arms up in the air at the fact that he, too, had missed it.

"Who is Hank Jellicoe?" Dennis demanded.

"Before your time, kid. A really bad dude," Ted responded. "Just follow along, and you'll catch up."

The conversation ramped up, with everyone throwing out ideas and suggestions. Observations that might or might not mean something were offered up at the speed of light. Then they all wound down at the same time, with Alexis saying, "Now we wait."

Ted decided to move on to his article in the morning paper and Annie's take on it.

"I thought you did a super job. It would be nice if we knew if Angus Spyder reads the Post. I'm not sure about my becoming a household name, however," Annie said, laughing.

"Types like Angus Spyder read every newspaper on the market. That's how they stay ahead of the game, or at least that is what they want us to believe. The object of the five-day series of articles is to let him know how rich you are and that your wealth exceeds his. The philanthropic part will make him nuts because his type doesn't believe in giving or sharing. All they believe in is 'Gimme more, more, more' and how to accumulate even greater wealth. I think it's safe to say the man doesn't have a generous bone in his body," Ted said.

Maggie's cell chirped to life. She clicked it on, announced herself, then mouthed the word "Abner." She listened as she scribbled notes on a pad next to Myra's phone on the counter. The others could hear her say, "Uh-huh. Yep. Sure. Oh. Good work, Abby. Thanks."

"What?" the group asked as one.

"We now have the name of the orthopedic surgeon who worked on Gretchen Spyder. He's in Miami. Abner's hacking also gave him the name of the ob-gyn who delivered the twins. Abby said there is a note on Gretchen's chart that the surgeon didn't want Gretchen transported out of the hospital. Seems that the four people who came to get her convinced him otherwise, and he did sign off on her being moved, but only under protest. The hospital lawyers got involved and made the four men, each and every one of them, take full responsibility for Gretchen and agree that if something went awry, they could not come back and retaliate against Miami General. They all signed off on the agreement, and Gretchen Spyder was taken to one of those medical planes, never to be seen or heard from again. End of that story right there."

"I don't think there's any point in going to Miami to talk with the surgeon. He won't tell us anything, because of the privacy laws. Keep his name and phone number, just in case. Also the ob-gyn's," Myra said.

The others agreed.

"Now what?" Yoko asked.

"Like I said before, now we wait," Alexis intoned as she reached for Espinosa's hand under the table.

Chapter 7.

Isabelle Flanders stood at the window of her London flat and looked out at the heavy spring rain. Normally, she liked a nice rainy day, but that was back in the day when her life was normal, which it decidedly was not anymore. She wanted to cry at her circumstances, but she bit down on her bottom lip so she wouldn't. Big girls didn't cry, especially when the reason they were crying in the first place was their own fault.

She was sooo done with England. She hoped she would never have to set foot on these shores again. What had seemed like a dream come true had turned into a nightmare. Not that the nightmare was her own fault. She should have bailed out months ago, gone home, and begged Abner's forgiveness-and the girls', too. But, no, stubborn mule that she was, she'd had to hunker down and not give in. Giving in was a sign of weakness. Crap!

Like it was her fault the financial people behind the building of the new age city ran out of money. Or so they said. Was it her fault they didn't pay their contractors? How could all this happen when the consortium responsible said they had the queen's backing? The queen's backing to her meant the queen's money was being used. Unless it was all a lie, and she couldn't prove whether it was or it wasn't. And then there were those weird new people who had marched in and taken over. Just like that. The Brits were a tight-lipped lot, for sure, especially when it came to confiding in a Yank from across the pond.

Two months ago, her paycheck had been returned for insufficient funds. She was told to resubmit it. It was paid, and it was the last check she'd gotten. The very next day, when she reported to work, the building site was deserted, and a barricade was set in place. There was no way she could even get onto the site. She'd called every name she had stored in her phone, but no one had answered. Even if she were stupid, which she wasn't, she should have known that it was the end of the road, and that the new age city, her dream, was already crumbling to ashes as far as she was concerned.

Why she'd stayed on in this tiny London flat was beyond her. She turned when she heard the cell phone on the table, where she'd left it, ring. She walked over, but before she could answer it, the call went to voice mail. She waited, then clicked it on. Maggie! Well, damn! She listened to the message five times before she flopped down on a worn sofa that came with the rented flat. The ad in the paper had said elegant furnished flat. It was so far from elegant, she wanted to cry all over again.

Isabelle walked over to the tiny foyer, where her five bags were waiting to be taken down to her rental car for her trip home. Going home with her tail between her legs. How humiliating. As she stared at her bags, she wondered if her husband, Abner, would ever forgive her. Would the girls forgive her? She rather thought she would fare better with the girls than with her husband. She wondered if she was capable of begging her husband to take her back. She winced at the thought. Better to think about the message Maggie had left for her. She headed back to the living room to call Maggie.

A needle in a haystack. Didn't Maggie know how big the English countryside was? How was she going to find an American who bought a cottage four years ago in the English countryside? How? Maybe . . . She had made some contacts while she'd been here, like . . . Arnold Biberman. One of the biggest Realtors in London. She'd even had dinner with him, because he'd wanted to pick her brain on the new age city and to see if he could get an exclusive rental agreement. Now that the entire project was down the drain, she wondered if he would even talk to her. She hadn't exactly given a promise, but she had alluded to the fact that she would do her best to help him out because she liked him. Well, it was worth a try. If she struck pay dirt by some wild stretch of the imagination, she wouldn't be going back home empty-handed.

Isabelle scrolled through her contact list and pressed in the digits for Biberman's number. She was surprised when he answered the phone himself. She identified herself, said why she was calling.

"It's kind of urgent, Arnold. I'm leaving for the States tomorrow. By the way, this flat will be available for rental at noon tomorrow. I've cleaned it up, and it looks better than the day I moved in. So, can you help me or not?" She listened. "That's fine, Arnold. I'm not leaving till tomorrow. Like you said, it might be easier than we think, since not that many Americans buy cottages in the English countryside. Call me when and if you find something." She listened again and then said, "Of course I'll miss all of you. I won't miss your weather, though." She forced a laugh she didn't feel and broke the connection.

Back in the foyer, Isabelle rummaged in one of her bags for her laptop, yanked it out, and carried it over to the small table in the living room. She booted it up and typed in the name Greg Albright. Two hours later, she closed up the laptop and walked out to the mini kitchen to make a pot of coffee that she didn't really want or even need. She almost dropped the wire basket when her cell phone buzzed to life.

"You actually found the needle in the haystack?" Isabelle said in wonder. "Amazing. And you have a phone number! Glory be! Of course I want it. And directions to the cottage. Arnold, you never cease to amaze me. The next time I find myself on your shores, I will spring for the biggest dinner you have ever had in your life. Seriously, thank you."

"Ah!" Did she dare call Greg Albright, or should she head out to the cottage? Even with the bad weather, it shouldn't take her more than an hour each way. She didn't have anything else to do to while away the hours until the crack of dawn, when she would leave for the airport. She ran to her bags and rummaged again for her rain gear. Five minutes later, she was out of the flat and down at the parking area, map in hand. She closed her eyes and relished the adrenaline rush seeping through her. Damn if she wasn't excited. Very excited.

Ninety minutes later, Isabelle pulled onto the gravel driveway of a small cottage. She opened the car door and stepped out onto the driveway. It was hard to see details through the rain, but it looked enticing. A smattering of spring flowers were already blooming; others, just poking through the soft, loamy earth. The shade trees were starting to bud, and a few were already in full leaf. She peered through the rain to see that the cottage looked to be in good repair. It looked quaint, with its Dutch doors and heavy black hardware in the back, probably the kitchen area. She particularly liked the diamond-paned windows. From where she was standing, she could see that the porch was tiny, just barely big enough to hold two caned rocking chairs.

She ambled along a well-manicured walkway of colored flagstones bordered by bright yellow daffodils to a pristine white front door. She gave the knocker a resounding bang and stood back. When there was no response, she banged it again, then a third time. Finally, the door opened to reveal a tall, muscular man with a deep frown on his face.

Before Isabelle could utter a word, he said, "Whatever you're selling, I don't want or need. I didn't invite you here, so please turn around and leave."

"Will you please listen to me, Mr. Albright? Please. Then if you don't like what I'm telling you, I'll walk away, but at least listen. I'm an American, like you. In fact, I'm returning to the States tomorrow morning. A friend asked me to check on you. It's rather complicated, and you really need to speak to the people who asked me to find you. It's about . . . Gretchen Spyder."

The man's face lit up like a football field at night. "Gretchen! Why didn't you say so? Come in, come in."

"I thought I just did. Tell you about Gretchen, that is."

"Right, right. Please come into the parlor and sit. Tea, coffee?"

"Thank you, no. I hate tea, and I'm coffeed out."

Isabelle looked around. It was a pretty little place, with chintz-covered furniture, a wood-burning fireplace. The tables looked like they were handmade and sturdy. There was no clutter. A man's place. But definitely homey. And yet it felt empty to Isabelle. It smelled good, though, like he had cooked something earlier or something was baking.