Chosen To Die. Lisa Jackson

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СКАЧАТЬ in his stocking feet. Fresh fruit in a bowl on the counter, three newspapers spread neatly on the table in the nook, country music emanating from hidden speakers, and as he opened the refrigerator door, he discovered platters of cheeses and deli meats, spreads and dips, his favorite nacho that just needed reheating. He knew the cupboards would be stocked with his favorites. All because he’d called her less than eight hours earlier.

      Clementine asked for nothing other than to keep her job. Not only was she paid well, she and her son lived in this big house rent free. Still, he did, as he aged, feel a twinge of conscience about the eager if submissive sex.

      God, he was getting old.

      Things that never bothered him had started to dig a bit into his conscience. His old man lying near death in the nursing home, his sister in a far-off institution, and Clementine with her full lips and quick tongue…Oh, hell. He shoved his hair from his eyes and realized he hadn’t thought of Maya and the way that he refused to give into her demands. Probably because she was as hardheaded and probably hard-hearted as he.

      “A match made in heaven,” he said and flicked on the lights, then made his way to the thermostat in the front hallway where an open staircase climbed to the upper floors and leaded glass surrounded the massive front doors. As he adjusted the heat down a couple of degrees, he glanced across the stone floor of the foyer to a huge room where the ceiling soared twenty feet upward and a wall of glass offered an incredible view of the forest and creek that wound through the grounds. A river rock fireplace stretched to the beamed ceiling on the opposite wall and leather chairs, tufted couches, and metal wall art, all compliments of his last ex-wife, filled the wide expanse.

      “A goddamned fishbowl,” his father had complained, preferring the den located down a wide hallway where he was allowed to smoke his cigars while surrounded by pine walls covered with the heads and hides of creatures killed by generations of Long huntsmen.

      From one of the bank of windows, Brady took a look down the lane to the spot where, through the trees, he could just make out the house that had been built as part of the original homestead. Sure enough, he caught a glimpse of some light through the trees and assumed that Santana was either in the cabin, stable, barn, or other shed. The guy was a hard worker. For all his faults.

      What was the old axiom? Keep your friends close, your enemies closer?

      Brady subscribed to the theory. Big-time. He wondered if Santana guessed, then discarded the question. Didn’t matter. They’d known each other as kids and, both super competitive, had butted heads and clashed fists. There had been a few black eyes and a couple of bloody noses, but Brady had always wondered what made Santana tick. The man never sucked up to him, never gave in; always, it seemed, looking down his crooked nose at Brady. But Santana was a helluva horseman, communicated with animals in a way that Brady found both uncomfortable and fascinating. The upshot was that Santana was working for him, here, in No-Fucking-Where Montana, which was just as it should be.

      Brady carried his laptop case to his father’s den and dropped the computer on the desk. Then he found the bar located near another massive rock fireplace and poured himself a stiff drink. Three fingers of bourbon. On the rocks, again compliments of Clementine, who had left a filled ice bucket on the counter. Ice cubes clinked softly as he carried the drink to his desk. Reaching down, he pressed a hidden button and waited as a false wall decorated with the fading coat of a zebra slid to one side and a bank of cabinets was revealed. Flanked by an arsenal of rifles, shotguns, bows, and pistols was a safe where, he hoped, his father’s most recent will would be found.

      He could have just asked his father’s attorney, Barton Tinneman, for a copy, he supposed, but truth to tell, he didn’t trust Tinneman any more than he held faith in his father’s friends, most of whom had already died. And that went double for the members of the damned board.

      The safe had an old-fashioned combination lock. No electronics or bells and whistles of any sort. Brady had memorized the numbers as a kid of five and never, ever, let on that he knew. Well, his sister, too, had learned the secret sequence, but it wouldn’t do her a whole helluva lot of good where she was, locked away in a sanitarium, barely able to function, now would it? He felt a bit of guilt about her condition, then shrugged it off. Padgett had been unable to care for herself for half her life, nearly fifteen years, and before that time, she’d been a raving bitch, so he rarely spent too much time worrying about how she’d ended up there or what his part in it had been.

      It was all water under the bridge.

      He heard the soft click of ancient tumblers as he turned the dial.

      “Sorry, Dad,” he said aloud with the final flick of his wrist, the dial stopping at just the right spot, the lock giving way. Smiling in satisfaction, Brady set down his drink and yanked open the door to the safe.

      He was certain the will was inside.

      All he had to do, once he retrieved it, was wait a few hours, maybe days, for the old man to die.

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