M ead didn’t break any speed records returning home. He knew what awaited him there and slowed his pace to prepare for the inquisition, one that would be particularly grueling if the police had beat him there. He wasn’t ungrateful for his mother’s attention toward his recovery and understood she’d called in some serious IOUs to get him the best medical help beyond what the military had provided, which had been pretty damned fine from what he could tell. But what he craved was space in all of its ramifications. Since it was increasingly clear that he wasn’t going to remember who he had been, he’d like to decide for himself who he wanted to be from here on. If he didn’t grasp that before, that episode in the park with the little girl and her mother convinced him.
No doubt the poor kid had been scared. And her mother…Devan Anderson…who was that woman? It was nuts, but the moment she’d arrived, he’d felt as if the stream in the park had shifted ninety degrees and was suddenly carrying her energy straight to…no, through him. Whether she wanted to discuss it or not, he was convinced they had more of a history than she had admitted. Getting truthful answers would be the tricky part. It would happen, though, because until a few minutes ago, he hadn’t been convinced that he belonged here, let alone figured out whom he wanted to gamble on trusting.
Spotting Pamela’s majordomo at the back gate of the mansion, he steeled himself for the next step through his foggy maze. “Evening, Philo,” he said to the compact man in the tailored gray suit. Pryce Philo’s burr haircut was a duplicate of his except that it was completely silver and had him increasingly wondering if they didn’t have more in common than easy-to-manage hair.
“Are you all right, sir?” the manservant asked in his polite, mid-Atlantic voice that gave away little of his background.
“You ask that a lot.”
“Because Mrs. Regan expects regular and full reports, sir.”
Mead paused outside the wrought-iron gate to study the man with the winter-cold eyes who had yet to release the lock. What did anyone know about Philo other than that he took as much pride in his appearance as he did his work, making him integral in keeping the estate running smoothly and its owner on schedule, if not out of trouble? Only Pamela and her CPA knew how valuable that was—and only she knew the full realm of his responsibilities.
“How long have you known me now, Philo?” It was a question he asked whenever he was totally frustrated with the puzzle and his environment and willing to push buttons, even if that meant shooting into the dark.
“I don’t know you at all, sir,” the manservant replied as usual. “But I’ve been privileged to be serving you on your mother’s behalf for two weeks, two days…and almost a pair of shoes ago, Mr. Regan. It looks like you’ll need a new pair yourself.”
It was more than he and Philo usually had to say to each other, and Mead glanced down at his soggy athletic shoes and damp jeans to hide his smirk. Philo didn’t like babysitting him any more than Mead cared for his salaried shadow. “Look at that.”
“You might also like to know the police are here,” Philo added. “They came to inquire about your whereabouts this afternoon.”
“Did you sell me out?”
“You wound me, sir.”
Mead didn’t believe it for a minute. “I went for a walk beyond the sacred walls. Big deal.”
“But there’s the matter of a 911 call in the area. A child living on the other side of the park was feared—” Philo coughed discreetly “—attacked.”
Tightening his fisted hands in his pockets, Mead replied coldly, “She wasn’t. We ran into each other down there.” He nodded in the direction of the park. “One look at me and she wanted her mommy or the marines—whichever she could find faster—and hightailed it home.”
“Excellent. Allow me.” Philo punched the security code into the keypad built into the wall and the gate lock opened with a subtle click. “Would now be a good time to ask how you managed to leave in the first place, since you don’t have the code?”
“No.” Mead stepped into the yard and waited for the sound of Philo closing up behind him.
“Have mercy, sir. Mrs. Regan is already in a state. In case you’ve forgotten, she’s hosting another of her fundraiser dinners this evening, and I think she and Mr. Walsh had something of a row earlier.”
Mead had only observed Riley Walsh of Walsh Development and Construction, Inc.—his mother’s choice as the next mayor of Mount Vance—from a distance, but even with his diminished abilities, his gut told him Pamela would be better off if the guy was dispatched to build ice condos in Antarctica.
“Sir?”
“If I tell you, will you let me slip upstairs and avoid your boss and the law?”
Pryce Philo laid his hand over his heart. “‘A man cannot serve two masters.’”
“I bet you’ve tested that theory,” Mead muttered. Shrugging, he gestured, “Lead on, faithful Philo.”
One thing he couldn’t deny as he returned to the house was that Regan Mansion, and its remaining twenty acres, was an impressive accomplishment. Having achieved centennial status, the three-story, Grecian-style mansion stood on what had been a massive pine and peach tree farm. Today it was a shutterbug’s fantasy: acres of dogwood, red bud and azaleas in the spring, and magnolia mixed into the various pines in the summer. Was his mother’s decision to sell off the land a good thing? Heaven knows, from the looks of things, she didn’t need the money, but it was how the town had gotten the park. He’d gleaned that much information from one of the yard workers. Was it what the father he couldn’t remember would have wanted? He suspected that was another question he would never get answered.
Mead followed Philo inside through the living room French doors and immediately heard his mother’s second soprano voice resonating with anger all the way from the foyer.
“Really, Officer Brighton, I expect a formal apology from Chief Marrow. My son is a medaled war hero, was honorably discharged, and yet this is the manner with which he’s welcomed home? Accusing him of such vile behavior?”
Cursing under his breath that his mother would use a messenger to vent her frustrations with Walsh—and him, too—Mead stepped into the foyer. “If you’d give the man a chance to hear his radio, I think you’ll both learn that the situation is resolved.”
In front of him he saw Pamela Niles Regan—his mother if documentation was to be believed—resplendent in a red, white and blue sequined jacket and an ankle-length, navy-blue skirt. The massive chandelier over her head accented the honey-gold highlights in her short, brunette coif, and her five-foot-three ripe body teetered on three-inch heels.
With a grateful glance, the flustered policeman keyed his shoulder mike. After a bit more static and some vague jargon Mead didn’t understand, he heard the officer reply, “Copy.”
To them the young man said with some chagrin, “It’s confirmed. False alarm. Just doing my job, sir. Ma’am. Good evening to you.”
As soon as the front door closed behind him, Pamela seethed, “Incompetent man. I’ll have his badge.”
“Don’t.” Mead slipped off his bandana, wearier from listening to those few moments of his mother’s railing than from what happened earlier. “It was a misunderstanding. Let it go.”
“Excuse me? Insult a national hero?”
“Stop it,” Mead replied more tersely. “You don’t know that.”
Pamela lifted her chin. “Of course I do. They presented me with your ribbons and medals on your behalf. It’s not my fault that you refuse to look at them.”
Mead wrestled with a dark emotion he couldn’t quite name. “The mission failed. People are dead. There’s nothing to honor.”
Once he’d