Geoff was strong and confident, needing help from no one. Dad, on the other hand, had always needed her. She’d felt that if anyone could keep her father on solid ethical ground, it would be her.
How wrong could a woman be?
Lately, more and more, she’d been experiencing the sting of loss. Could her relationship with Geoff be rectified before the divorce was final? She had been the one to file in the first place. She’d left Geoff, spurred by her anger at his defection and his ultimatum that she do the same.
Geoff had landed on his feet after resigning as Dad’s top aide. With his background and degree in communications, he was now a reporter and anchor for the six-o’clock news on Jefferson City’s Channel 6.
Shona seldom missed the news these days, and yet she found it painful to watch. It just made her miss her husband more, and realize her loss more sharply.
Tonight, after the dinner, she would have a talk with Dad about her need to be independent from him. She would officially resign and offer to help him find her replacement, but after that, who knew?
She hated to leave politics altogether, though that was essentially what she would be doing. Dad was the one who had mentored her, grooming her to run for his Senate office when he made his bid for the governorship.
She only knew she needed out before the compromises she made at Dad’s behest destroyed the final foundations of her character. Since the fight, she and Dad had barely communicated unless it was about work. Dad didn’t seem angry with her, just very preoccupied.
She pressed her electronic key into the plate at the side of the front door and waited for the sequence of numbers to be translated into the main computer that controlled security. The door slid open and she entered, glancing at her watch. There would barely be time to shower, change and slide into the new creation of burgundy silk she had purchased last week for this dinner.
First, she would find Dad and remind him of what he was to wear tonight—the understated dark gray Armani suit, with a fit that hinted at the power behind the facade. Whenever he was in public, he wanted to dress the part, although he had little fashion sense, much like Karah Lee, his younger daughter.
Halfway across the formal dining room en route to the kitchen, Shona spotted something on the floor. It looked as if someone had spilled some of the dark red paint that a crew had been using for a touch-up job on the garage.
She winced at the thought of her father’s reaction when he saw it. Kemper MacDonald had never had a lot of patience with mistakes or messes.
The housekeeper, Mrs. Reynolds, had Friday afternoons off, so Shona didn’t call out. She pushed through the swinging doors into the kitchen to get a paper towel to clean the mess.
Her father was probably upstairs in his suite, showering.
She dabbed at the spot. It came up easily. It was obviously fresh. Examining the paper towel more closely, she felt a twinge of unease. She sniffed it. Not paint. Not catsup. Was that a coppery scent?
Don’t panic. It’s your imagination. Dad has always teased you about your vivid imagination. She tossed the paper towel in the trash as she rushed through the kitchen, suddenly noticing another splotch of red by the back door.
Following one droplet after another, she turned left into Dad’s home office. In the dim light of the setting sun, she saw a human form—a man—splayed on the floor, faceup, between a corner of the desk and the French windows. A stain of blood fanned out from beneath his head.
Shona’s breath stopped.
“Dad!” She rushed to him and fell to her knees at his side. “Dad?”
Blood streaked down his face, running from his nose, pooling in his thick, silvery hair. His eyes came open as if with great effort, and he tried to speak. Blood speckled his teeth.
Shona forced herself not to cry out. “Dad, hold on. I’ll call for help.” She reached for the cordless desk phone. It wasn’t in its cradle. Dad must have tried to call for help and dropped it somewhere. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and punched in 911.
“Shot…” her father murmured, his voice a hushed croak.
“What do you mean? Did someone shoot you?”
He grimaced, more blood dribbling down his chin. “Get away from…Geoff….”
The dispatcher came on the line, and Shona asked for an ambulance. “My father is badly injured. He says he’s been shot.” As the dispatcher asked for more information, Dad grabbed her by the arm. His sleeve slid back, and she saw a hideous bruise on his forearm, black and swollen. Shot? He looked as if he’d been beaten.
“Hang on, Dad. Help’s coming.”
“You need your little one…get…away…” His eyes glazed over and his face fell slack.
“No. Dad, stay with me!”
More blood trickled down his face from his nose. His head fell sideways, and she saw a huge bruise on the side of his face. His whole body was hemorrhaging.
She felt for a pulse at his carotid artery. His heart was still beating, and his warm breath touched her face when she leaned close.
“Please,” she said to the dispatcher over the telephone. “My father is in bad shape. Tell them to hurry.”
As the voice reassured her that help would be there soon, Shona wanted to scream. Soon might be too late.
TWO
Geoff Tremaine faced the camera and read the final words of the evening newscast from the telepromter. His image would continue to be present for a few moments in homes throughout the central Missouri viewing area. It was a concept to which he still had not grown completely accustomed, and he tended to avoid watching himself on television.
He said good-night and held his smile until the lights dimmed.
Once, the camera crew had continued filming after the director told them to cut, and Geoff’s coanchor had made a snide comment about the governor. That coanchor no longer had a job with this station. Competition was fierce in the broadcasting business; deadly mistakes were not tolerated.
Because of the competition, Geoff considered himself fortunate to be an anchor after working full-time at Channel 6 for only a year. He tried to convince himself that his split with Kemper MacDonald had not been the reason he’d landed the job, but sometimes he wondered. Most television stations preferred younger talent. Though thirty-eight wasn’t exactly over the hill, television cameras did tend to emphasize age.
He knew he had established himself here; he now carried his own weight. Nonetheless, he had always suspected that his initial employment with this station had come about because the director, Wendy Phillips, had long held animosity toward Kemper MacDonald.
His coworkers had implied she might have had other reasons, as well. Tall and statuesque, with a strong will and the ability to lead a diverse news team, Wendy usually got what she wanted. She had never made a secret of the fact that she found him attractive.
Geoff loosened his tie and shrugged out of his sport coat before opening the door to his dressing room. The lights on the set were hot, and one of the challenges during the show was to keep perspiration to a minimum.
Before he could step through the door, a familiar contralto called to him from the hallway.
“Heads up, Tremaine. We need you on a scene.”
He turned to see Wendy quick-stepping toward him, her face slightly flushed with that familiar, excited look she got when a good story landed in her lap. Wendy was considered beautiful by most standards, with her slightly tilted dark eyes and fiery highlights in her golden brown hair. Geoff had always kept her at arm’s length, even more so in the