Eagle bay, p.10
Eagle Bay, page 10
“Dad? Dad? No!”
Robert walked over, stooped down, and put one hand on each of his shoulders. “Yes, Thomas. I know this must seem horrible to you, but it’s not. It protects our family. Trust me.”
Thomas began crying. “But, but . . .” He lowered his head.
The bound man struggled against his constraints. They dropped him twice while carrying him across the dock’s wooden planks and laid him down near the boat, where he began grunting.
“Kick him hard.”
“What? Dad, no! I can’t,” Thomas said, stepping away. “No!”
“Pain is justice, son. He deserves it.” Robert kicked the man in the head.
“Stop. Stop!” Thomas screamed.
“You’re disappointing me,” Robert said as he delivered a second blow.
Thomas’s face twisted up; his lips trembled. He mumbled, “What’s happening?”
“Get in the boat,” Robert said.
Robert attached a chain from the boat to the man’s bound and weighted body lying on the dock. He accelerated. The chain stretched tight, yanking the trespasser into the pond. The prisoner dangled against the outside hull of the boat, his head and shoulders barely above the water. He turned frantic.
“It’s going to be alright, Thomas.”
“But . . .” He looked at Robert with desperation. His nose, mouth, and chin oozed tears and snot. “Please stop, Dad. Please.”
The chains remained woven around the man’s body, who stared up to the skies from the cool water, no longer squirming with panic.
Robert grabbed a pair of wire cutters. A single link kept the man from dropping into a watery grave. “Cut it, Thomas. He will never be able to hurt us, never be able to steal from us. We will be safe.”
“I can’t,” he sniffled. “I just can’t, Dad.”
“You can, and you must. You’ll understand one day. You’ll realize this was necessary. It’s his fault. He’s dangerous. Illegal. A thief. A bad man.”
“I can’t, I can’t,” Thomas pleaded. “This isn’t right.”
Robert slapped him across the cheek.
“I can’t. No! We need to stop!” The prisoner defeatedly shook his head. “Look! Look! He’s sorry, Dad. He’s sorry! Please help him. Please!”
“Look at me, damnit. It’s okay. Now cut the chain. Be strong.” Robert slapped him harder, and snot flew into the water.
Thomas’s expression turned blank. He gradually reached for the wire cutters, stared at Robert, waited, and clipped the man’s lifeline. The intruder closed his eyes as he sank into the muddied water.
“It’s okay, Thomas. It’s okay. You were brave. I’m so proud of you, so very proud.” Robert hugged him.
The boy sobbed.
“You must never speak of this to anyone. Not to your sister. Not to your mother. It is our job to protect this family. That’s what we just did. We protected our family and a great secret. You understand?”
Thomas quivered and nodded up and down.
“I’m passing important responsibilities of family protection on to you, just as my father did to me. We now share a common bond, Thomas. This great honor will be our legacy.”
The boy hardly reacted.
“Now I’m going to show you something remarkable. The great secret. You’ll see why this man broke into our home.” They drove back to the house, entered the basement, and stood next to the crate that had been pried open. Robert removed the lid.
Thomas lowered his head. He refocused on what lay before him and wondered if it was real.
“These are what I call the assets,” Robert said.
Thomas extended an arm and caressed what lay inside, grasping and carefully inspecting the artifacts that most intrigued him. The agony of the previous hour slowly abated, and he knew that was wrong. He felt guilty, frightened, and dirty but grew strangely consoled by the curious, remarkable relics.
“What do you think, Thomas, about the assets?”
“They’re interesting.” He was particularly intrigued by a strange male figure which stood three or four inches high. “Where are they from? How did we get them?”
“I’m pleased you’re fascinated. You should be. I will reveal the answers to those and other questions over time. Remember, this secret is only for you and me.” Robert turned around to grab the hammer.
Quickly, Thomas grabbed the object captivating him. He placed it inside the pocket of his sweatshirt, his father unaware.
Robert stepped to a shelf and grabbed a handful of four-inch nails, squeezing several between his lips. He drove each one into the thick wooden lid of the crate, securing the contents awaiting transfer into the vault under construction.
“Let’s head back to the kitchen.” He placed his hand on Thomas’s shoulder, guiding him toward the spiral staircase leading from the basement up to the den. Thomas’s fingers remained inside the pockets of his sweatshirt, tightly clutching his fascinating treasure.
Emma beamed as they entered. “There you are. How are my two workers? Fence repaired? Horses corralled?” She placed two plates on the table, each filled with heaping portions of blueberry pie and Tillamook vanilla ice cream. “Just as you requested, Thomas,” she happily announced.
Thomas moved cautiously. He met his mother’s blue-eyed gaze, pulled a chair away from the table, and sat in front of his dessert. He began eating without addressing her or glancing her way.
Emma raised her brows.
Robert smiled and sat down, patting Thomas on the back. “Big Thomas was an immense help. We repaired the fence, and I was proud of his hard work. He’s earned this delicious reward. Haven’t you, son?” Robert flashed an expression Thomas considered unmistakable in its intent.
“Thank you, Robert.” He finally turned to his mother. “It’s a delicious pie, Emma.” It was the first time he’d addressed his mother and father by their names.
“Emma?” She half-smiled at Robert. “Well, I guess our little boy’s growing up.”
“He’s a little tired,” Robert said. “But yes, I think he’s growing up.”
Emma assumed Thomas would return to his fun, obstreperous self the following morning. Instead, weeks later, she’d grown concerned; he had recovered little of his jovial essence. She gradually realized the cherished son she’d known had inexplicably vanished forever.
Chapter:
20
If it had been easy, it wouldn’t have been necessary. Thomas transformed himself after his disturbing fling with Zhara and banishing Diego. He now considered both events faded beacons of the past. Five years of tranquil marriage had since ensued. Living a life that met Skye’s hopes and expectations was his gratifying achievement. He hadn’t been so happy since adolescence. Thomas officially adopted Dakota and Johnny, so they now shared the Westbrooke surname, an honor Skye felt her husband had earned. The couple had settled into contentment.
Despite the better life Thomas forged, he never forgot what he’d done on St. Croix or what he was capable of. He assumed the shadows of any disturbed man’s past lurked just beyond consciousness, eager to reappear. Thus, he worked hard to be the man Skye believed him to be.
Recently, horrific nightmares of standing over John’s body—two bullet holes blasted through his chest—haunted him. John was sleeping in each hallucination, his stomach barely rising and falling. Thomas would kneel and peer into a peaceful face. John’s head would suddenly twist sideways, and his lids would open wide. Hugely dilated pupils with glowing red and yellow veins stared menacingly. Thomas relived this horror at least one night each month.
Subliminal contemplations had prompted the visions, Thomas concluded. But he struggled with the question, “Why now?” He welcomed the disgusting reminders of a life he’d left behind. They reinforced a purpose: Keep walking the path to redemption.
Soon other disturbing thoughts surfaced.
He fantasized about wild sexual encounters with other women. It made no sense; his adoration and admiration for her had grown stronger than ever. She was the talented, compassionate, and only woman he genuinely revered. He struggled mightily to push the unwelcome urges aside but dreaded failure.
Thomas processed these thoughts while driving toward his parents’ estate. He would say hello to Emma, though she’d express nothing beyond a wisp of recognition of her son in return.
As much as Thomas eschewed his father, he admitted Robert’s commitment to Emma might be termed impressive. And even though Thomas recalled few expressions of love from his father toward Emma—all of them occurring before her meltdown—he wondered if there might paradoxically be elements of good within Robert.
The house was quiet. Classical music typically greeted him from one of the many rooms in the sprawling residence. He stepped inside the den; it was empty, but a glow emanated from the staircase that spiraled downward from a corner of the room. As Thomas’s dress shoes clacked onto the cherry wood floor at the base of the steps, Robert spoke from inside the vault. “You’ve caught me doing inventory. Business is good?”
“I think you mean, ‘Good evening, Thomas, is your family well?’” He found Robert standing with Montoya’s journal in one hand and his reading glasses in the other. “Yes, Robert, my family is well. Thank you for asking.”
“Why do you do that? It’s aggressively confrontational.” Three similarly sized and crafted assets were sitting atop a metal container. Robert put his glasses back on, turned to a page marked in the journal, and glanced back and forth between the manuscript and the three relics of history before him.
“I mock your disinterest in my family because it’s just that—disinterest. Skye and the kids recognize your lack of genuine curiosity about their lives. But I’ve told you that before, and it’s made no difference.”
“Have you told your wife that you murdered her husband?” Thomas froze; he was typically more adept at anticipating his father’s crushing barbs. “No? Okay, then. You tell Skye you splattered John’s guts onto our barn floor, and I’ll be a better grandpa.” Robert removed his glasses and set his eyes on Thomas’s. Neither man blinked nor moved for a long pause.
“You bastard,” Thomas eventually said.
“You’re a murdering fraud, but that’s an issue between you and Skye. As for me, I’m grateful. You put the family first—our family first—when you killed John. It’s what you should have done. My comments aren’t mocking you, Thomas. I appreciate you in significant ways.” Robert put his folded bifocals in his shirt pocket, returned the three bejeweled artifacts to their containers, and turned off the lights in the spacious vault. He closed the door. Though steel and titanium dominated the vault’s interior and door, its outside walls and door façade were exquisitely trimmed in wood by a craftsman. It was nearly impossible to discern whether the entry even existed upon closing the door.
“Follow me,” Robert said, leading Thomas back up the spiral staircase to his den. “I think you’ll find this interesting. Have a seat. Grab me two fingers of port as I look for something.” Robert spread out Montoya’s journal and dozens of pages of Robert’s hand-written notes. “I’ve learned Montoya was initially after Aztec gold for the king of Spain.” He smiled expressively, like a child who’d discovered something special, something important. “But there wasn’t any gold. And Montoya claimed Hernán Cortés might have stolen it! If true, we’re talking a complete rewrite of conquistador and Aztec history.”
Thomas wouldn’t tell Robert, but he was genuinely intrigued by his father’s revelations. He again committed to claiming the assets one day and possessing Montoya’s historical account of his journeys. While he wanted to ask Robert where he kept the journal, he knew that would trigger suspicions. Not a problem; he wasn’t yet in a hurry.
Robert raised his hand, clutching a white sheet of paper covered with his notes, holding it high as if he were bidding at an auction. “It took me quite a while to translate this passage, but I think I’ve got it straight now:
An honorable man claims Gonzales, leader of yesterday’s scouting party, assaulted a native woman. He testifies thus as truth, on oath and Bible, that Gonzales ran her through with his saber after the woman screamed and attempted to flee to her people. The evidence is strong, and Gonzales has offered no denial. God help us.
“Sounds rather damning,” Thomas said, again trying not to appear fully engrossed. “Was that in Mexico?”
“No, modern-day Peru. The woman killed was an Inca. After finding no gold among the Aztecs, Montoya saved the life of a remarkable stranger who led them from Mexico to Inca treasures thousands of miles away. Every page of this damn journal is astonishing.” Robert grabbed a different page of translations from his pile of notes. “This last part reminds me of you, Thomas. You scoff at my words about loyalty, but Montoya’s fealty to the king was no different than yours to our family and me. Gonzales had put their mission in jeopardy by raping and murdering that woman. And this is how Montoya responded, which I’d like you to correlate to what you did to John for the benefit of our family:
Upon gathering the truth as best able, I informed the ship of my judgment. The monks acted as faithful men of God, comforting the despairing accused who begged for forgiveness. I was saddened to see Gonzales’s body hanging from a rope, swaying across the deck, tears in the eyes of his countrymen. Justice is often painful.
Thomas said nothing but reflected on a critical difference: John McCloud was innocent. He stood, grabbed his coat, and returned to his family.
Chapter:
21
Dakota relished sixth grade and couldn’t care less about her appearance. Her five-six frame consisted of twigs for arms and legs, with big knots functioning as knees and elbows. Her head was too big for her rail-thin body, and she’d recently ruined her long mane of brunette hair by letting a girlfriend play hairdresser. Her mouth protruded with shiny metal. All that considered, it was easy to recognize that her halting green eyes would one day grace a beautiful woman.
With dark hair, broad shoulders, and immense energy, Johnny walked his junior high school halls as a lanky thirteen-year-old. He’d spent countless hours with Thomas since their family union under a shared roof, but Skye had recently noted their father-son time had dwindled. She broached the topic and asked Thomas to give the boy more attention; he enthusiastically committed to doing so.
Both children drew strength from seeing their mother so happy. She believed her teenage son possessed what most parents would consider an unusual sense of duty to his family. Lately, Johnny was desperately missing his birth father, more than Skye realized, a truth she’d have found unsettling if she were aware.
Westbrooke Coastal Industries’ business empire continued to expand rapidly. Thomas secured Oregon Departments of Energy and Environmental Quality support for turning thousands of acres of harvested timberland into the largest wind-turbine operation in the Northwest. WCI also acquired a competitor based in Phoenix and relocated half its operations to Eagle Bay.
It was nothing short of remarkable that the Westbrookes had been able to convert their early nondescript investments into a sprawling company spanning sixty-five years. To those traveling through Oregon on Highway 101, the scene of the WCI Business Campus, incongruously set into the midst of hundreds of acres of flat grazing land at the base of the Oregon Coast Range, was unlike anything else observed along the state’s coastline.
Because WCI was a private company, it was challenging for outsiders to calculate its value. Fortune magazine recently estimated the family’s net worth to be in the $1.5 billion-$2.5 billion range.
A Pulitzer Prize-winning investigative reporter for the Oregonian spent two years probing the history of WCI, a challenging pursuit because of the company’s obsessive privacy. While he lauded the organization’s philanthropic contributions to Eagle Bay and the state, he concluded he’d need a staff of five and two more years to dissect and fully understand the company’s formative years.
Skye had grown increasingly conscious of how little she knew of Thomas’s family businesses, so she grew captivated by the Oregonian reporter’s suggestion that the founder of the WCI, Thomas’s grandfather William Westbrooke, was a violent man of ill repute. She smiled at the idea of Thomas being such a character; the humorous prospect would be fodder for ribbing him. Thomas had proven himself to be a doting father and husband fully engaged in all their lives—precisely as she’d expected.
Johnny and Dakota were no longer excited to see their father on television because it occurred too often. His reputation as a business maverick and generous donor grew in lockstep with the expansion of WCI. That success inevitably led to a progressively advantaged lifestyle for the Westbrooke family, which Skye pretended not to notice.
She remained deeply in love with Thomas, though sometimes disappointed that their romantic life had lost a bit of its luster since their courtship and honeymoon. Otherwise, their marriage was healthy, and she believed passion in bed would be a poor barometer for her life’s fulfillment. That said, she remained occasionally conflicted by memories of a love that had seemed to grow daily during her union with John.
Skye, Johnny, and Dakota had just completed a ride through the forest abutting their property. While Thomas appreciated the family’s fillies and mares, Skye and the children shared more enthusiasm for the horses. As they cooled down and shampooed the animals, she couldn’t help but smile while measuring her children’s happiness.
The remainder of their day involved preparing for a big occasion. “We need to decorate the kitchen before he gets home. Where are the balloons and streamers? Mom? You look spaced out.” Skye sat absorbed in views of white corral fencing and lush green meadows that were often her private solace, but she snapped alert as she felt her left arm getting tugged. “I’m sorry, honey. Your mother was daydreaming.”
