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Twisted Shadows
By Patricia Potter OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 2003 Patricia Potter
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-5040-0405-3
CHAPTER 1
Steamboat Springs, 2002
Samantha Carroll didn't frighten easily.
Still, apprehension rippled through her as two men walked into the western art gallery she owned with her mother.
She could tell at a glance they weren't ordinary tourists or typical art lovers. They wore expensive dark suits and highly polished shoes rather than casual slacks or shorts and trendy T-shirts. Yet one look at their faces told her they weren't salesmen, either.
The one in his mid-twenties wore his hair slicked back, a gold chain around his neck and a flashy watch that looked like a Rolex on his wrist. The other one had well-groomed graying hair and face. Their eyes were hard. Without humor. Without friendliness. They looked like hunters, but not the kind who were after deer or elk.
Western Wonders was unusually empty in the midst of the summer tourist season. The last customers had just left. Had the two men waited until the customers departed? She moved toward the panic button that was linked to the police dispatcher.
She didn't know why all the bells in her head were ringing. No one would rob her small gallery. Nearly everyone paid with credit cards, and the bulk of the store's business came through the web site she'd designed. She kept the finest pieces locked in secure storage, bringing them out only when she knew she had a viable buyer.
Sure, she had some ready cash, but not enough to attract a daylight robbery. The gallery had some nice western art, but no one would drag armloads of paintings or heavy sculptures out the front door and onto the main street. At least, she'd never believed so. Not in Steamboat Springs, where major crime was nonexistent.
Her apprehension deepened as the two men browsed among the paintings but seemed to have little real interest in them. Their gazes continued to roam back to her, studying her as a collector might before pinning a butterfly to a board.
She resented it. She resented anyone who diminished her. And these men were doing just that.
Sarsaparilla wandered in from the storeroom, swishing her great bushy tail. The once stray cat who now believed herself queen of all she surveyed investigated the two strangers and rubbed against the trouser leg of the older man.
He immediately jumped back, his right hand going to the inside of his suit jacket.
Her heart leaped into her throat. "Sarsy," she scolded, forcing herself to stand fast and not show the reaction her cat's behavior prompted. Sarsy sensed people who disliked cats and went out of her way to irritate them.
Sarsaparilla gave her an indignant look, then slunk back into the other room.
"Is there anything I can help you with?" she finally asked the men. "A particular artist? Or style?"
The older man nodded toward one with a thousand-dollar price tag. "This any good?"
If she'd any doubts about his interest before, she didn't now. The painting was very good. Anyone with even the faintest interest in art would know the lighting was exceptional. The moonlight depicted in oil seemed to glow.
She looked toward the door again, willing someone else to come in. "It's the work of a local artist who is becoming very popular," she said, unable to keep the edge from her voice.
"I'll take it," the man said.
She didn't want to sell it to him. The painting was one of her favorites, an oil of a snow-covered mountain at night. A wolf peered out from the shadows of a stand of trees, as if ready to begin a night's prowl.
The men reminded her of that wolf. Prowling after prey. "I'm sorry," she said. "It was sold earlier today. I haven't put the sold sign on it yet." Now she would have to purchase it herself. It was in Western Wonders on consignment, and she'd just cost the artist a sale.
His cold dark eyes studied her. He didn't believe her.
The hair on the nape of her neck stood up; a shiver ran down her back. "If there's anything else," she said, "I'll be glad to help you. Otherwise, I'm going to close for lunch."
"It's three," the man noted skeptically.
"I was busy at lunchtime."
"Are you the owner?"
"My mother and myself," she said.
"Mrs. Carroll?"
"She's my mother, yes," Sam said, growing even more wary.
"And your father?"
"I don't think that's any of your business."
The speaker looked surprised, as if he'd never been corrected before. He glared at her.
The younger man glanced out the door, as if keeping watch.
"He's not dead," the older man finally said.
"I beg your pardon?" She felt the bite of anger. She had always been slow to anger, slow to allow any emotion to take control. But when she removed the leash, she could be a holy terror. That was one reason she disciplined herself.
"Your papa ain't dead." The younger man joined the conversation. "Not yet."
The older man gave him a warning glance but didn't correct him.
Both were obviously crazy. "I think you'd better go," she said, her hand once more moving toward the panic button. "I do want to close."
"I wouldn't do that," the younger man said. "Keep your hands on top of the table."
How could he know about the button?
"Or?" she asked.
His eyes glittered.
The older man broke in. "I don't think your mother would appreciate it," he said softly. Somehow he was more menacing than the other.
"Why?" she challenged him. She felt trapped and afraid, and she was furious with them for causing it. She hated the feeling. Hated the fear that was growing. She'd always prided herself on conquering fear. Or ignoring it.
"She has some secrets," the man said. "Secrets she might not want to share with this town." The words were poisonous. Cold. Deadly.
Her mother? Her protective, good-citizen mother? Her best friend? Since her father's death, the one person she trusted above all others?
"You must have me confused with someone else," she said. "I asked you to leave. Now I am telling you."
"Your mother's been lying to you," the older man said. "She committed bigamy years ago. David Carroll was not your father."
She shook her head, denying his words rather than questioning them. David Carroll had been her father. In every way. She'd seen her birth certificate when she entered college.
Yet the older man had planted the smallest seed of doubt with his quiet certainty.
"Now I know I want you out of here," Sam said, feeling a desperate need to disconnect from this situation before it became too real. She went to the door and held it open. Neither man moved.
She wasn't quite sure what to do. She could continue to stand there, looking like a fool, or go outside and yell for help. The younger man moved in front of her, neatly herding her back toward the interior while the older one closed the door, turned the sign to CLOSED and stood in front of it, arms crossed, feet apart.
"I'll call the police," Sam said through clenched teeth, her doubt being drowned by their arrogance. She hated personal conflicts, but she'd never been timid. She'd sailed down mountains on skis, spent days alone in the deep woods, climbed mountains. She knew how to fire a pistol. It completely went against the grain to let these men intimidate her.
Still, they did. They reeked of ... violence.
They made no move to back away. The younger man stepped between her and the phone. She tried to weave around him.
He blocked her.
She turned to the older man, who seemed to be in charge. "What exactly do you want?"
"Your papa is dying. He wants to see you."
"My father died two years ago."
"Carroll wasn't your real father."
Despite the softness of his voice, his statement was like a boulder dropping. The absolute conviction made her feel it was dropping on her.
"No," she denied, her voice not quite as strong as before.
She flinched as the older man reached in his pocket, pulled out an envelope and placed it in her hand. "Open it," he commanded.
From the corner of her eye, she saw a couple pause in front of the shop, looking at some of the paintings in the windows. "I have customers," she said, the envelope burning her fingers.
"Hell with them," the man said. "This is more important."
"To whom?"
"To you. To your real papa."
"Who are you?"
"Just messengers."
As much as she didn't want to give them the satisfaction of acceding to their demands, it seemed the only way to get them to leave. She opened the manila envelope. A photo fell out.
She stooped, picked it up and looked at it. A new shock jolted her. A pretty young woman sat in a chair holding two babies. A darkly handsome young man stood behind her. It was an old-fashioned pose. The man protecting his family.
The woman was her mother. She was at least thirty years younger and her hair was long rather than short, but the wide cornflower blue eyes were unmistakable. She was also wearing a bracelet Sam immediately recognized. Her mother always wore it.
Sam found herself compelled by that photo, by the two children. One was dressed in pink. One in blue. They sat in their mother's lap. The girl beamed at the camera; the boy stared impatiently. His eyes were the same blue as those of the little girl beside him. And of the man standing behind them.
From the snapshots of her own early years, she knew she was one of those babies. The other ...
"Your brother," the man said. "Your twin brother."
Her legs started to crumple under her. The younger man reached out to steady her. She shook him off and stumbled past him to the desk, and this time he let her. She studied the photo again, then looked farther into the envelope. Three more items. Copies of two birth certificates. She chose the top one.
None of the names was familiar. Mother: Tracy Edwards Merritta. Father: Paul Merritta. Baby girl: Nicole.
Date of birth: August 15, 1967. Place of birth: Boston. Weight: four pounds, three ounces.
She looked at the second one. Same mother and father. Baby boy: Nicholas. Born four minutes earlier than the girl. Weight: four pounds, nine ounces.
The fourth item was a photo of a well-dressed man with dark hair and dark blue eyes just like her own. She could tell the photo was more recent than the family portrait. The cut of the casual sports jacket gave it away.
"Your brother," the older man said again.
She was too stunned to move, to speak, to react. She wanted to deny it. Accepting the pronouncement meant her entire life was a lie. Her mother had lied to her. And her father. He would have lied as well.
But these men said he had not been her father after all. At least, not her biological father. Though she knew he certainly had been her father in every important way.
This was some really twisted joke. It would be easy enough to create phony birth certificates. Computers could do anything these days.
Yet something clicked inside her head. She'd always had an odd feeling that something was missing from her life, as if she were not quite whole. She'd dismissed it as her longing for siblings and an extended family.
Her mother had said she had been orphaned and raised in a foster family. Her father's mother and father had died in an accident before Sam was born. No uncles. No aunts. No grandparents.
A flash of recognition leaped in her heart when she looked at the boy in the family photo. But that was because they looked alike, she told herself. Remember what a computer can do.
But who would possibly attempt such an elaborate and cruel hoax?
She touched the birth certificate. "I have a copy of my own. It's different. It says David Carroll is my father."
The man smiled. "They can be forged."
"My point exactly," she said. "One of them has been."
"Granted," he said. "But the picture doesn't lie."
"I know what computers can do. Anyone could take my mother's photo, make her younger, doctor photos of the children."
"But why make the effort?"
"You tell me," she said, trying to keep her voice steady.
The door rattled. She jumped, her nerves jangled. All three of them looked toward it, but the tall man blocked her view. Someone was not taking the CLOSED sign seriously.
Her mother? But her mother was on a buying trip to Taos. Sam wouldn't be able to reach her. Possibly not until tomorrow.
The door rattled again, and she managed to slip around the two men. Terri. Her best friend who helped with the books at Wonders.
"Get rid of whoever it is," the older man ordered.
"It's a friend of mine. She knows I'm here alone. She can see you two. She won't leave now, not without knowing I'm all right. You look ... intimidating. If I don't open the door, she'll go down the street to police headquarters."
"Then tell her you're all right and get rid of her."
"No." She felt more in control now. Terri would do exactly what she'd said. Her friend would be as suspicious of the two men as Sam had been when they first entered.
The older man gave her an odd look of approval. "Your papa doesn't have much time left. He's real sick."
She forced her gaze away from him and back to Terri. Her friend had capped her eyes against the sun and was peering inside. In seconds, she would be running down to the police station.
Did Sam want that?
No. Not until she talked to her mother. Not until she made some sense of something that made no sense.
She knew she had to find out whether there was even a thread of truth to their tale. She had to know whether she had a birth father she hadn't known existed. And a brother. Not only a brother but a twin.
How many years had she dreamed of having a big brother?
No, it's impossible.
Ignoring the two men, she went to the door and opened it. Terri had been leaning against the door so hard she stumbled, then caught herself. Her gaze shot to the two men, then she turned back to Sam.
"What's wrong?" Terri asked, starting to back out the door.
"Miss Carroll was giving us a ..." The younger one said, glancing at Sam, obviously expecting her to supply the rest of the excuse, as if there were no doubt that she would.
"Private viewing," Sam said, hating to give him even that much.
"A private viewing," her visitor concurred. "We're just leaving." He turned to Sam. "We'll get back to you about that picture tomorrow."
The two politely passed Terri but left an aura of menace behind them.
The tension in the shop dissipated noticeably, and for a brief moment Sam wondered whether the visit had happened at all.
CHAPTER 2
A nightmare?
Sam wanted it to be. But the photo of the family together, and the one of the self-assured young man who stood alone, were all too real.
Had her mother and father lied to her all her life?
She avoided Terri's questions about the two men, saying only that they seemed intent on finding work from a certain artist.
Terri wasn't satisfied. But she took one look at Sam's frozen expression and asked no more questions.
Terri Faulkner had been her best friend since grade school. They told each other everything, or almost everything. A history teacher in the local school, Terri was also a whiz at math and moonlighted as bookkeeper at Wonders. The arrangement helped both of them.
Terri's interruption had been a godsend. Oddly enough, Sam hadn't felt—except for a brief few moments—in physical danger. But she had been terrified of losing her composure, of showing weakness to people she suspected would use it against her.
She tried to listen to Terri, but she was still numb. It was as if a bomb had exploded her world. Shock deadened every other emotion.
"Still game for the books?" Terri asked.
The question startled her. She had forgotten that they'd planned to go over the books this afternoon, then have supper at The Hitching Post.
She shook her head. "Something's come up. Maybe tomorrow."
Terri looked concerned. "Anything wrong? Those men looked a bit weird, as if they'd stepped out of a movie."
Sam tried a smile. "I had the same feeling. But they turned out to be rather ordinary. They were looking for a painting."
She almost vomited after Terri left.
She closed the shop early, scooped up the cat and drove the ten minutes to her home, but questions haunted her all the way.
An elaborate hoax or the truth? And if it was the former, why would anyone go to so much trouble? Neither she nor her mother had any enemies. At least, none she knew of.
Her eyes kept wandering back to the envelope on the seat beside her. She could still see the photos in her mind's eye. The children looked to be less than a year old. Still, wouldn't she remember something? Wouldn't she remember a brother? Even at that age.
Maybe she had. Maybe that's why, as a child, she used to reach out her arms after a nightmare, and no one would be there.
A sense of overwhelming loss invaded her.
She started to relax as she neared her house. Her dream home. She had put her heart into every log as it was being built. The house sat at the foot of a mountain, and the view was particularly spectacular from the back porch and back balcony.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Twisted Shadows by Patricia Potter. Copyright © 2003 Patricia Potter. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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