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He took one step toward her but she kept backing up. “Stay away from me, Witt. I mean it,” she said, before turning and running into the grayish dawn. Witt’s great shoulders slumped and he sagged against the wall. He turned damning eyes up at his son. “Now look what you’ve done, Zach,” he said, barely able to breathe. With an expression straight from hell, he loosened his tie then reached for his belt buckle. Zach remembered the times he’d been whipped by a thin leather strap. Not again. He wouldn’t suffer like he had when he was eight, leaning over the bed and biting his lower lip until it bled to keep from crying out as his father flayed him with the stinging leather. No way.
“Leave now and don’t ever…” Witt, suddenly ashen, reached into his pocket, fumbled for a vial of pills and popped the top. He stuck one of the tablets under his tongue. “Don’t ever come back here.”
“I won’t,” Zach promised, jaw clenched in determination. Injustice burned through his veins and he held his father with his remorseless stare. “You’ll never see me again.”
Witt’s blue eyes were cold, his fury evident in the white lines of strain near his mouth. “That’s the way I want it, boy.” He took one menacing step toward his son. “However, if I find out that you had anything to do with your sister’s kidnapping, I swear I’ll personally hunt you down like the lying dog you are and rip you apart with my bare hands.”
Zach stumbled back toward the door. His head throbbed, his jaw ached, and he glared at the man he’d called father all his life. He had to leave. Now. Run as far and fast as he could. And if he never saw Witt Danvers alive again, it would be much too soon.
PART FIVE
1993
11
Adria woke up to the squeal of hydraulic brakes and the thrum of a huge engine as a truck idled in the parking lot. With a groan she rolled out of the bed and surveyed her shabby surroundings. It certainly wasn’t the Ritz, or the Benson, or the Hotel Danvers, for that matter. But it would have to do.
The pipes were rusty, the drain of the tub stained, but she closed her eyes to the flaws of the Riverview and quickly showered under tepid water. She towel-dried her hair, tamed it by snapping a rubber band around a ponytail, and ignored her makeup bag. She didn’t need to look glamorous when she planned to spend the day in the library, the offices of the Oregonian, the historical society, and the Portland Police Bureau if need be. But as she glanced in the mirror, she remembered the family portrait and her heart began to thud. All night long she’d tossed and turned, thinking of the portrait and of Zach as he’d stared so intensely at Katherine, as if he wanted her approval.
“Dysfunctional,” she told herself. “The whole family. And you want to be a part of it. Stupid, stupid girl.”
With an eye on the silk dress in its plastic casing, she yanked on a sweatshirt, a pair of worn jeans, and slipped into ancient Reebok running shoes. She grabbed an oversized purse that doubled as a briefcase and was out the door.
Reading an old city map, she drove to the drive-in window of a McDonald’s and while waiting for her coffee, reacquainted herself with Portland.
Basically the city was divided by the river, and the east side spread away from the banks of the Willamette in a careful grid that was infrequently interspersed with winding streets or slashed by a freeway. The west side, however, was more difficult. Though the streets ran north-south and east-west, they were older, more narrow, and tended to follow the contour of the Willamette River, or meander through the hills that rose steeply from the water’s shore.
She paid for the coffee, took a sip, and drove steadily westward, through the low-rising office buildings and shops toward the river and the twin spires of the Convention Center. As she drove she wondered what her half-brothers and-sister were doing.
At that thought, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Worried blue eyes stared back at her. Was she really London Danvers, or was this all a fierce joke that her father had played on her? Well, it was too late to start second-guessing herself. For now, she was London Danvers and Jason, Nelson, Trisha, and even Zachary were not only her enemies, but her closest blood kin.
She studied the traffic behind her and had the crazy notion that she was being followed. But no car seemed to be tailing her, at least none that she could identify. She stepped on the accelerator. Tires singing on the metal grid, her Nova sped across the Hawthorne Bridge. Unfortunately, she had to drive downtown again, close to the Hotel Danvers, to the building only three blocks down the street from where the offices of Danvers International were housed.
She parked her car in a corner lot, finished the coffee, and grabbed her bag. Though the sun was making a valiant effort to warm the wet streets, the wind was cold as it blew down the Columbia River Gorge, rolled across the Willamette, and whistled through the narrow streets of the city.
She hurried up the steps to the library doors and felt a chill against the back of her neck, as if someone were watching her. “You’re just being paranoid,” she told herself, but couldn’t shake the feeling.
“Something happened last night at the grand opening.” Eunice Danvers Smythe had the uncanny ability to read Nelson like a book. He was edgy and restless and chewed at the corner of his thumbnail. Dressed in a sloppy T-shirt and jeans that had seen better days, he hadn’t shaved or bothered to comb his unruly blond hair and his lips were pinched. “Something went wrong,” she guessed again, shooing her Persian cat off one of the chairs.
“You could say that.” Nelson was slouched in a chair across the table from her in the morning room of her home in Lake Oswego. He’d called from his condo and been on her doorstep in less than the fifteen minutes it took to make the drive within the speed limit.
“What is it?”
“Another imposter.” Nelson ignored the newspaper sitting next to his plate.
“London?”
“So she claims.”
Sighing, Eunice sipped from her coffee cup and stared past Nelson and through the bay window over his shoulder. The lake, reflecting the clouds that had moved quickly in from the west, was a desolate, steely gray. A rough winter wind caused a few whitecaps to surface. On the opposite shore, like bony fingers, empty boat slips jutted into the cold water.
“She’s a fake,” Eunice surmised.
“Of course she’s a fake, but she’s trouble just the same. When the press gets wind of this, the shit’s really going to hit the fan. It’ll start all over again…the speculation and dredging up of the kidnapping. Reporters, photographers…just like before.” He plowed both hands through his thick blond hair.
“It’s always going to be a problem,” Eunice said with a little smile that she reserved for her children. “But it’s something you have to deal with. And it might help you. If you’re really interested in running for mayor someday—”
