Unintended Detour: A Christian Suspense Novel (The Unintended Series Book 3) Read online

  The two daughters came forward first. The little one held her wrist out to her older sister, who removed a gold chain-link bracelet from the little girl. The younger one took a step back as the older sister stepped forward.

  She was clad in a slippery, silver gown that hugged her slim figure. Her short blond hair was curled in waves, coming to rest at her jawline, perfectly framing her flawless face. She didn’t look at him. Not once. She kept her eyes focused on the bag as she slipped a sparkling diamond-and-emerald cuff off her wrist and dropped it and her younger sister’s bracelet into the bag’s opening. She removed her diamond-encrusted necklace and did the same, then spun on her heel, reaching for her younger sister’s hand. She marched them several paces forward until reaching the other guests. Then she turned to face Will.

  Mr. Stone took an altogether different approach than his daughter. Stiff-necked and straight-backed, he came forward with his wife in tow, his shiny shoes slapping on the tile. He locked eyes with Will and held his gaze for several seconds. He was a well-built man with strong shoulders and slicked-back hair that revealed a forehead growing redder by the second. Even his mustache seemed to draw taut as sheer fury smoldered in his dark eyes.

  The blood in Will’s veins dropped to an icy low, but he fought to keep his expression sharp, devoid of any hint of weakness. Mr. Stone glared at Will as he removed his signet ring, cufflinks, and pocket watch, then handed them to his wife, who feebly dropped them into the gaping maw of the bag. She contributed her own ruby-and-silver filigree bracelet, elegant silver-and-pearl encrusted earrings, and a miniature tiara, which landed on the heap inside the bag with a clank.

  “You won’t get off this property,” Mr. Stone drawled, his tongue curling around the words as he delivered them stoically—a promise, not a threat. His eyes bored into Will’s as if memorizing their every aspect.

  Will set the intensity of his gaze to match Mr. Stone’s. “We’ll see about that, sir. Now you best be moving over.”

  Mr. Stone didn’t move, but Mrs. Stone took a step back and tugged on her husband’s hand. At her second pull, he backed up with her, never turning and never breaking his gaze.

  Will had prepared himself in advance for the scare tactics Mr. Stone would likely employ. But in the aftermath, he still found himself weaker in the legs for it. Grateful that it was almost over with only a handful of guests left, a whiff of relief passed briefly through him. But it evaporated entirely when he got a good look at the man at the center of the three last guests approaching. As his face registered, Will’s heart nearly stopped.

  Franklin Delano Roosevelt—newly re-elected governor of the great state of New York—the man whose face was plastered on campaign posters on every lamppost and telephone pole from Massapequa to Manhattan, now stood before Will with the aid of a cane in his right hand and leaning heavily on a man sticking close to Roosevelt’s left hip. A second man approached with them, sticking tightly to Roosevelt’s right side.

  Roosevelt, who some said might be President one day. Roosevelt, who lived just up the road in Hyde Park and who absolutely, positively wasn’t supposed to be there.

  Governor Roosevelt stopped a few feet from the bag with his men flanking him, their gazes drilling holes into Will deeper than Mr. Stone’s had.

  Bodyguards. Will’s stomach dropped. This was not good.

  But unlike the fear or anger that simmered in all the other eyes that had met Will’s, Roosevelt’s held something different. There was a distinct sadness behind those wire-rimmed glasses. Leaning on the cane, he removed his gold cufflinks and, with a flick of one wrist, tossed them into the sack. Will’s eyes traveled to a thin gold chain visible just inside his vest. Roosevelt must have caught the glance because he tugged the chain up, revealing a gold pocket watch. He suspended the watch while holding the end of the chain, letting it dangle momentarily over the bag before lowering it as far as he could. Then he let go. The piece hit the others with a light thunk.

  “I’m a bit partial to that one,” he commented benignly, as if simply discussing the weather.

  Can he hear my heart thundering?

  “Don’t do this, son. I don’t think you understand what this is going to mean for you.” His words were heavy, weighted in the knowledge of the consequences this misdeed could have for Will. If he wasn’t shot tonight trying to escape, he might well be caught later, which would mean a long stint in prison. Then he could kiss his life goodbye.

  But Roosevelt was wrong. Will knew exactly what he was doing. He had simply decided it was worth the risk.

  “Sorry, Governor.”

  The faintest light flickered in Roosevelt’s eyes as he seemed to realize that Will knew who he was. “Right then,” Roosevelt replied, turning to make his way across the room to the left of where Mr. Stone’s family stood in front of the gathered crowd. Will kept his primary focus on the two men still at the bag. They were not dressed in black-tie like everyone else but in well-cut woolen suits, probably intending to blend into the background. No hope of that now.

  The one on Will’s left, a hulking, short figure with a granite visage leveled straight at him, dropped in a gold, flat-faced pinky ring. The one on Will’s right, taller and lanky, shrugged, muttering, “I got nothing on me, fella.”

  “Let’s have ’em then, boys,” Will urged, wiggling the barrel of his gun, a gesture that steeled their frames even more, though he would not have thought that possible. In slow, steady movements, each withdrew a revolver from a holster beneath their jackets. Will didn’t let his aim falter. His message was clear. You shoot, I shoot.

  “Easy now, by the butt, and in the bag. Gently.” Simultaneously the men squatted, laid the weapons inside the opening, rose, then took a step back. “Keep on,” Will urged, and they backpedaled further until once again flanking Roosevelt.

  The silence in the room was split by the single stroke of a clock announcing it was a quarter past twelve. Will released a faint stream of breath in relief. It was done and on time. A swell of giddiness filled his chest as he took two steps to the bag, then crouched to grab it without taking his eyes from the room.

  But it was this lowering, this dropping down, that brought him eye-level with the youngest Stone daughter, and the terror in her gaze crushed him to his core. It arrested his focus and trapped his gaze like a magnet claims iron, leaving in its wake a momentary forgetfulness that brought a tipping of Will’s revolver toward the ground. And that was enough to make it all go wrong.

  The world erupted in flashes of movement and sound.

  The bodyguard on Roosevelt’s left, who stood just a few feet from the little girl, whipped something from behind him, his coat-tail flipping as a glint sparked in Will’s vision.

  A scream sounded from the middle of the throng, then more screams as the bodyguard’s spare gun came into full view. Bodies were darting, falling, scattering…the mother pushing the youngest girl to the floor…the abyss of the bodyguard’s barrel leveled at Will.

  A shot rang through the air as Will bolted through the door and slammed it shut. Panic swallowed him whole as a second shot boomed above the cacophony of panic on the door’s other side. Its blast drove fear, unlike any Will had ever known, into his heart. But fear was all that struck him. The bullet missed its mark.

  With all the speed Will ever had within him, he ran.

  Pure adrenaline, hot and powerful, coursed through Will’s veins as he burst through the door of the drying room into the crippling cold air of the rear courtyard. As far as he could tell, to his surprise, no one was chasing him yet. He had expected to at least hear distant footfalls echoing through the house as he made his way through it on his pre-charted course. But there were none. They must have really believed my threat that I would shoot someone if they followed me.

  It won’t hold them forever, but maybe it’ll hold them long enough.

  He hadn’t even come across a servant. The shots and screams must have driven them to safer spaces in the mansion. He was grateful for that and
that it hadn’t snowed in a week. The sea of white blanketing the grounds days ago had mostly melted, making footprints hard to follow. Still, he zigged and zagged, even turning in a few circles, disguising his forward momentum as best as possible, hoping to leave less for his pursuers to discover.

  The sound of his feet pounding the ground came to his ears as his mind raced, alarm piercing his innards as what had just happened upstairs registered wholly.

  The men had guns.

  He had not counted on the guests being armed. Not the hoity-toity revelers of Hyde Park and Upton Lane and Manhattan and all manner of opulence in between. Not the men and women untouched by hunger and poverty and the disaster their own selfish greed and irresponsible gambling had brought down on the nation.

  But then, he hadn’t counted on Roosevelt being there.

  I should have, he thought, the notion searing his brain, burning at the edges of his consciousness as he intentionally dropped a handkerchief at the entrance to the vast, expertly-designed, and thoroughly disorienting hedge maze behind the extensive rear gardens, fifty yards from the back of the house.

  That should draw them in.

  Then he ran pell-mell into the labyrinth of ten-foot-high evergreen hedges and more dead-ends than thoroughfares, leading to the rectangular reflecting pool at the middle. More paths led to the exits on each side of the square maze—if you could locate them. Which he could. Because he knew this maze like his own neighborhood. And he was certain those guards did not. If they followed him in, they wouldn’t find him.

  Finally he heard shouts over the whistling wind. Two, three…six men? The whipping air and sheer distance disguised the number. However many, he hoped they would see the handkerchief and follow him inside. Diving onto his belly, he pushed through a break in the hedge just inches off the ground exactly where he knew it would be—because he had put it there weeks ago. When he pulled his feet through, there was no sign he had ever been in the maze at all.

  It took Will several minutes of darting, dodging, pausing, and sneaking behind trees, bushes, and various architectural features to reach the edge of the woods surrounding the estate unseen. He sprinted past the bench where he had waited earlier, into the thick woods and toward salvation. Toward freedom.

  A new beginning.

  Snow had started falling, and the wind was picking up. Will loosed the cord around his neck and ripped the bag from his head, the ends of his hair whipping in the gusts. He heard the horse whinny before he saw it, and the sound drove his steps harder until finally he saw the chestnut mare glistening in the moonlight. And atop her was Archie.

  Dependable, reliable Archie.

  Thick, wet flakes crusted Archie’s cap, pulled low on his forehead and fully covering his light brown hair, shaved close on the sides and, as Will knew, long and swept to one side on top. His narrow eyebrows angled sharply inward toward his angular nose, a jaunty glint in his eyes as his prickly shadow of a beard surrounded a tight-lipped, knowing grin.

  “What do you say there, Willy?” Archie’s voice was low and gravelly, more so than one would expect from a man of his short stature. But what he lacked in height he more than made up for in confidence and pluck. Not many people got the better of the nineteen-year-old. And the ones who tried usually regretted it.

  “All good, Archie.” But the moment he said it, Will realized that all was not good. He took a step back. “Where’s the other horse?”

  Archie pursed his lips, tightened his grip on the reins, and tilted his head toward Will, squinting hard. “Where’s the bag?”

  Will’s heart froze. No. Not this. “Archie, come on. Where’s the horse? They’re right behind me.” Urgency sharpened his words, as he swung his head back toward the estate before returning his gaze to his friend.

  “Then I’d suggest you tell me where it is quick-like,” Archie replied, backing the horse up a few paces.

  He’s going to leave me behind.

  Panic mounted in Will as voices, shrill and urgent, sounded behind him on the estate grounds. It would not take them long to reach the woods. Will sucked in a breath, then released it in shudders, the warm vapors visible in the night air. Archie wasn’t going to like this. “I don’t have it with me.”

  “Now see, I find that hard to believe.”

  “I made other arrangements. Just in case. I had to leave it back there. If we get caught, we don’t want it on us, do we?”

  “You tryin’ to cut me out of my share?”

  “No! I’m trying to keep us out of prison. We’ll get it later, when they aren’t looking.” Anger rose in Will’s bones to meet his fear, and he pointed his weapon at his accomplice. “You’re the one not holding up his end, Archie. Where’s my horse?”

  An amused snicker escaped Archie as he shook his head. “You and I both know that thing only had one bullet in it to start with.”

  Terror forced the air out of Will’s lungs. His shoulders dropped. It was true. He had only loaded one bullet. He just wanted to make a statement by shooting something in the room—like the window. He would never have actually shot anyone. Because the answer to the question, “Do I have what it takes to kill a man?” was unreservedly, no. And if Archie knew that, Will had no cards to play.

  “Checked it last night.” Archie shook his head in disgust. “What’re you thinkin’, runnin’ in there like that with just one bullet? You could’ve been killed. I heard those shots so I’m bettin’ that it’s not in there now. Not that you’d shoot me if it was.”

  Archie was right. He could’ve been killed. But above all things, he hadn’t wanted anyone to get hurt. Despite what he had threatened back at the mansion he never would have fired at anyone. He would’ve let them take him first. But he hadn’t wanted Archie to know that. Archie would’ve thought him weak. Which would’ve made Archie doubt him. Which is apparently exactly what happened.

  “You’ll get your share. I promise,” Will said.

  Archie leaned over and spit on the ground. “Your promise don’t mean nothin’. Hand it over.”

  “I’m telling you, I don’t have it on me! But I’ll get it in a couple of days.” Will’s brain was swirling, regrets and doubts and wishes for a different outcome spinning around like the snow falling harder and harder. I should have known better. I know what he’s like. I should’ve seen it coming.

  Another voice inside answered. You did. That’s another reason you hid it.

  Archie shook his head. “Then you get your horse in a couple of days.”

  Will stiffened, his stance solid and his feet planted shoulder-width apart. “I’ll tell them about you.”

  Archie’s head flew back as he laughed cruelly. “No, you won’t. ’Cause if they catch me, I’ll tell what I know, and you don’t want that comin’ out, do ya?” Archie jerked the reins, pulling on the bit to turn the mare around.

  “You’re my friend, Archie. I thought you were my friend.”

  He heard Archie sniff loudly over the rising shouts of men drawing closer. “Well, that’s your mistake, ain’t it,” he snapped, yelling over his shoulder. “I was in this for the dough, Willy, not you. I ain’t sticking around and getting nicked for some bag of loot I ain’t never seen and ain’t never gonna see.”

  Archie clicked his tongue and kicked the horse, which started moving.

  Will shouted over the wind that had begun to howl, hurling words at Archie like arrows. “Archie! Come on! Don’t leave me here! What am I supposed to do?”

  Will barely heard the answer come back to him over the screaming wind as Archie’s horse galloped into the thick tapestry of trees.

  “I’d run, Willy! I’d run!”

  2

  PRESENT DAY

  CHLOE

  The scenery of the Hudson River Valley flew by as Jack and Chloe’s rental car hugged the northbound lane of State Highway 9, headed to Upstate New York. Chloe Bartholomew looked over toward her husband of nearly two years, his light brown hair spiking at the crown. His long fingers drummed on the leathe
r-wrapped steering wheel to the tune of a Christmas song, broadcast by one of those satellite stations that streamed holiday music right up to New Year’s Day. She felt her face break into a soft grin and, as if he had sensed it, he cut his eyes to her, the crook of his mouth rising to match hers before returning his gaze to the road.

  They had spent Christmas in Franklin, Tennessee, with her family. Oh, how she still loved the sound of that. She never thought there would be family after Tate, the last of her…well, original family. For so long, after their father left and mother died, it had just been her and her twin brother. And then, misguided and deluded, Tate had gone down a greedy path that led to his death, and would have led to hers had it not been for Jack. But a little over two years before, she’d reconciled with her absent father and gained a half-sister and brother in the bargain. Not to mention that now, she and Jack constituted a family of their own. God had been so good to her—to them. Warmth and gratitude spread through her center, and she reached over and gently squeezed Jack’s leg, drawing another crooked smile from his handsome face. But amid the contentment, a twinge pinched her insides, as it often did these days when she dwelled too long on family.

  “You okay?”

  The mellow timbre of Jack’s voice cut through the sounds of strings and Andy Williams’s warbling about homemade pumpkin pie. Chloe eyed Jack again, and though he wasn’t looking at her, she knew he must have picked up on something amiss.

  What had alerted him?

  A heaviness in her breath? A bit of unconscious fidgeting? He knew her so well that it could’ve been any number of things. It made it nearly impossible to hide anything from him.

  He ran a hand through her tawny hair that fell in waves to her shoulders from beneath a stylish white-knit beanie.

  “I think I’m just hungry,” she said. “I haven’t eaten since the airport this morning.”

  “I knew we should have grabbed something before we caught the train.”