The Inheritance

By K. L. Minier

. . . and the legacy.

Running away from the boys home in LA turned out to be much easier than sixteen-year-old Ethan Casey had ever imagined. The FBI gave him a ride. But how was he supposed to know that overnight he would go from an unhappy orphan to a key player in a past filled with darkness, deceit, and murder?
Juggling a gun happy rogue agent and a long lost, suspected killer fathernot to mention a 13th Century castle deliberately designed to trap the unwaryhad never been on Ethans do-today list. Its all certainly enough to discourage a lonely boy only trying to be his own man. Without some clever thinking and stubborn determination, on a good day, any one of the three could get him killed . . .

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 4, 2007
• ISBN: 9781462843756

K. L. Minier

Author of The Sunshine Boy, K.L. Minier was born in Nebraska and has lived all over the Midwest before landing in Oklahoma. K.L. Minier draws upon like experiences for writing, such as being second to the youngest in a large family, art training, years of retail pet sales, hitch-hiking to both coasts, people watching, marriage, and being both a parent and grandparent.

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The Inheritance

K. L. Minier

Copyright © 2007 by K. L. Minier.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

All characters and events in this book are fictional. Rapid City is real but I took a few gentle liberties with its airport. Evergreen exists only in my heart and on paper.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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40560

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

Chapter Twenty-seven

Chapter Twenty-eight

Chapter Twenty-nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-one

Chapter Thirty-two

Chapter Thirty-three

Chapter Thirty-four

Chapter Thirty-five

Chapter Thirty-six

Chapter Thirty-seven

Chapter Thirty-eight

Chapter Thirty-nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-one

Chapter Forty-two

Chapter Forty-three

Chapter Forty-four

Epilogue

DEDICATION

In loving memory of George and Betty Minier

Special thanks to Dianne, who stuck with me despite drowning in adjectives, to Jim, who found the perfect light, and to Kevin, who wasn’t afraid to use the blue pen.

Prologue

Death took only moments, once the elderly man woke to see it coming.

He fumbled the prepared noose around his skinny neck with mute, guilty acceptance. Then, unsteadily, he climbed onto the bench below the beam. Closing his eyes to his fate, his executioner—his life—he kicked the wobbly little bench away.

The drop was too short to break his neck, which would have killed him instantly. The cottage was centuries old, which meant that the rough-hewn beams were scarcely six feet from the plank floor. A broken neck would have been more humane than this prolonged strangulation, but the low beam was at hand. And the old man’s final chokes and retches were much less noisy than a bullet, which, of course, would have been quickest and most humane of all. But using a firearm on a quiet night with people sleeping only yards away was too ridiculous to even contemplate. Cutting the old man’s throat while he slumbered would have been both fast and silent, but messy and potentially too incriminating—in other words, also too risky.

Taking risks for the sake of mercy was an absurdity. Had he been taught to step close to a rattlesnake to make sure he humanely killed it with the first swing of his stick? Of course not. Father had impressed upon him early that one must use the most expedient and the most logical approach to any goal—a doctrine that had served him very well for many years now.

. . . the old man’s body eventually hung silent.

Leaving the stub of candle to burn itself out, he slipped through the warped door into deepest night, content that he had done what he could, for now.

He didn’t belong here, not after what he had done sixteen years past. Erroneously killing Grandfather had marked him as much of a threat to Evergreen as Father had been. Since ignorance was never an excuse, he should have died along with Father and Grandfather. He would have died, had he not been so sinfully neglectful of his weapon. But he had been, and he had lived.

Self-banishment was a poor second best to death. Therefore, over the years on the Outside, he had disciplined what was left of his life along a properly strict and exacting road, as punishment. He was ever vigilant of his day-to-day conduct, unwilling to allow himself the smallest ease in judgment or action. Such rigorous self-discipline was difficult at times, but he deserved nothing easy as a reward for his past failures.

It bothered him very much to break his personal vow to never return to Evergreen. Vows, to him, were set in stone. But he had an honest and compelling reason to come home. He had recently learned of a new treachery here—enormous changes in policy and population unexpectedly made by a person who had no right to make them. This blatant betrayal had to be curbed and the changes corrected. Without the cornerstones of trust, loyalty, and respect, it was reasonable to assume that Evergreen would fail.

And, however much he didn’t like to break his vow, his circumstances were greatly changed now; he was both wiser and more experienced than he had been sixteen years ago. He would cause no harm this time.

Fortunately, the solution to stopping the disloyalty was obvious to him, as was the means with which to do it—he would simply evoke Grandfather’s only law. The law said that the status at Evergreen was to remain rigidly quo. Since that bedrock principle was the one being sorely tested by one of the villagers, he meant to assume, however briefly, the only position of authority that would enable him to reinforce the law. His mere presence would go far to meet that end, and set things right.

Then there was the appalling secret he had more or less accidentally entombed at Evergreen, so long ago. As hard as he had tried back then, including attempting to die with it, he hadn’t been able to find a way to bury the secret any deeper. As long as he was back to address the villager’s defiance, he would also remove the final threat to Father’s secret—ultimately righting his failed duty.

Exterminating the corrupt old man tonight was a minor detail. It was something he would have done at the time, had he been intelligent enough to see what evil forces had actually been at work back then. And, finally, if the rest of his stay at Evergreen went as well as this night had, his years of shame and isolation could at last come to an end.

Slipping out of the shadows of the small cottages, he ducked through the tangled weeds and thickets that backed the south side of the tiny village. He headed for one of the narrow posterns cut into the inner curtain wall. Once back inside the keep he wouldn’t have to worry about being seen, because no one knew he was here. Until tomorrow, when the boy arrived and would need to be attended to by others, he shared the keep only with the ghosts the castle had collected over the centuries.

Chapter One

Somebody grabbed my ponytail and yanked. It scared the crap out of me, and it hurt like the dickens, but I didn’t struggle. Trying to get away would only make it hurt worse. Randy Neap was as big as an ox. And, ox-like, his thing in life was to find an excuse to charge—especially at me. My name was Ethan, but he called me Edie. He and I were the oldest boys at the home, and he just had to prove he was also the toughest.

Whatcha readin’, Edie? he sneered, tightening his grip on my hair to lean over my shoulder. ’Nother one of those dumb old books? I thought I burned ’em all.

He had. I still owed the public library eighty dollars, which was bad. My weekly allowance barely stretched over a couple of days as it was, no matter how I tried to budget. And I couldn’t check out any more books until I paid. That really hurt. I’d rather read than do just about anything else. Except draw, maybe.

Cringing under his heavy flab, I gritted, Knock it off, Randy! I’m studying. There’s that Algebra test tomorrow, remember? And don’t call me Edie.

Randy pushed off me. That hurt almost as bad as the hair pulling. Ya like Ethel better? Okay, Ethel, you like suckin’ up so much, test this: Olson wants you, so pucker up! You’re in trouble again, ya fuckin’ wimp.

I cautiously slid off the narrow bed. After hunching over the textbook for the last hour I was too stiff to duck if Randy wasn’t done ragging me. Thankfully, he hulked on the other side of the bed—I was out of his reach, and I was faster than him. I kept him in the corner of my eye, though, as I put the textbook onto the metal shelf marked with my name. I hoped he wouldn’t burn it after I was gone.

I didn’t want to see Mr. Olson. As far back as I could remember, I had always caused some kind of trouble. I didn’t do it on purpose, but Mr. Olsen, the administrator of The Sacred Heart Home for Boys, told me once that if dunce caps were still used, ours would have my name on it. He wasn’t mad when he said it, but he wasn’t joking, either. It always worried me to be summoned to his office, mainly because I never knew I was doing anything wrong. I couldn’t have a good excuse ready, if I didn’t know what I needed an excuse for.

What’d I do now? I worried aloud.

Randy grinned at my uneasiness. Don’t know; don’t care, stupid. Old man Olson said to get you, so I got you. Move it!

I scuttled out of the attic bedroom. I would have almost liked the little room in the slanted eaves of the house if it had been a place I could call my own. I had to share it, though. I had been moved into it when I turned fourteen, a couple of years ago. Randy had been my roommate for about six months now, which was six months too long, as far as I was concerned. But the house wasn’t big enough to give us kids our own rooms.

On average, twelve boys, six years old and up, stayed at the state-certified, private institution for varying lengths of time. The waiting list to get into it was a mile long, because the courts loved Mr. Olson and his all-male staff. I usually tried to suppose I was lucky to be here, but it was getting harder. For whatever reason, none of us kids would ever go back to our parents. Some of us were waiting for adoption. Others waited for suitable foster care and then adoption. By now, I was just waiting for my eighteenth birthday.

Oddball that I was, I had been left here as a baby, not a six-year-old. I was a special case, as Mr. Olson said every now and then, just to remind me that I was an oddball. The home’s policy was to avoid babies like the plague—too much time and work had to go into them. I hadn’t exactly been left on the doorstep in a basket, but I had been just a few weeks old when Sacred Heart took me in. And I had never come close to being wanted by anyone, not even for fostering.

I had lived at the home longer than anyone else, but it was only recently that I realized that I had been here too long.

Sacred Heart was the only home I had ever known, but the older I got, the less I felt like I belonged here, and the more I had been thinking I should leave. I had grown up with the rules and routines, the house, the yards and classrooms, and the five teacher/staff members, but I had never fit in, not even as well as the come-and-go kids. I never felt appreciated or especially wanted, and since nobody ever talked to me like a person, I had never understood why. None of the other kids seemed to have my problems, so I had long ago accepted that I wasn’t as smart or good or as adoptable as they were. That made me feel bad enough, but having to face Mr. Olson yet again made me a little sick to my stomach.

The big old house was quiet. It was only nine-thirty, but that was Lights Out for the younger kids. I tiptoed down the two flights of stairs, not wanting to disturb anybody and get into more trouble than I apparently was.

Mr. Olson sat at his desk, watching for me. I saw that he had a pencil in his hand—not a good sign. Whenever he was mad about something, he tapped the pencil, or used it to point. He never yelled. Maybe if he yelled this time, we would both feel better.

You wanted to see me, Mr. Olson? I asked, resigned.

Speak up, Ethan, he said. And come here and explain to me what you were up to yesterday.

Frantically, I replayed time, trying to see where I had screwed up. I hated these guessing games because I couldn’t ever win.

Take off your shirt, Mr. Olson ordered in my dumb silence.

Startled, I pulled the tails from my belt and unbuttoned the shirt. I had seven shirts all alike, made of light gray twill. We all did; they were standard issue—washable and durable. Why did he want mine? I took it off and meekly held it out, over the desk.

What on earth were you thinking? he sighed, shaking his head. He was staring at my tee shirt. "What did you do?"

I looked down at my tee shirt, too.

Uh-oh.

I stammered guiltily, Um—I dyed it, Mr. Olson. I read how to do it and—oh! Thinking that I understood his disapproval this time, I rushed to tell him, But I used a Laundromat washer. I didn’t get dye all over ours! I wouldn’t have done anything that—

The pencil came up, so I shut my mouth.

You dyed it, he repeated. Just one of them?

Um, no sir, I reluctantly admitted, blushing. That would have been a waste of dye, so I…

So you ruined all of them, he flatly ended for me.

I couldn’t look at him anymore. My face was burning, but I tugged at the vivid red, yellow, and blue material, offering lamely, Is it ruined? I think it’s pretty cool. And it was fun tying the strings to make the patterns…

"But why did you do it?"

I dug the toe of my polished oxford into the rug, still unable to look at him. I don’t know, I shrugged hopelessly. What did it matter? Nothing I was interested in ever mattered to anybody anyway, and I was sick of trying to explain myself. But he expected me to say something. Um, I guess I didn’t see how it would hurt anything—nobody ever sees them, since they’re under my other shirt.

"You didn’t see, period, Mr. Olson told me, sounding insulted. You didn’t see the waste when you used that package of construction paper to make wrappers for your schoolbooks, either. Why did they need to be wrapped? They have perfectly good covers. You didn’t see why it was wrong to glue that jigsaw puzzle to the wall above your bed. And now you’ve ruined seven perfectly good tee shirts because you didn’t see why it wasn’t appropriate. What kind of an example are you setting for the other boys?"

I blinked at him. The other boys didn’t care what I did. I hardly ever talked to the other boys because none of them talked to me.

Ethan, I’ll say it one more time; you must follow the rules.

I do! I denied weakly. "I mean, I try to follow the rules, Mr. Olson. I didn’t know it was against the rules to tie-dye my tee shirts. I’m sorry!"

Yes, but being sorry isn’t going to make those shirts white again, is it? Being sorry didn’t pay to have the wall above your bed repaired. He was finally jabbing the pencil at me. It isn’t written in the rules that you can’t permanently glue something to a wall, he stressed, because that’s something you Just (jab) Don’t (jab) Do (jab). Do you understand? Nobody else would even consider doing something so peculiar.

I’ll buy new shirts, I said helplessly, wondering how much they cost. Wasn’t that the issue now? Why were we talking about stuff I had already done?

No, you won’t, Mr. Olson returned. You’ll throw those shirts away and do without for the rest of the year. But I’ve let your rebelliousness go too far. It’s time you conform, Ethan. Tomorrow is Saturday—Mr. Currant will take you to the barber.

The barber? I gaped.

Yes, the barber. It’s been years since you’ve gotten your hair cut with the other boys. It’s halfway down your back.

But I wash it every night! I blurted. You said if I kept it—

I know what I said, Ethan, but this is your punishment for not taking the house rules seriously. What would happen if all the boys behaved like you? he asked sternly. "Sacred Heart would fall apart, wouldn’t it? I can’t allow that, of course. So you’ll go to the barbershop. I’m sure you’ll remember this wake-up call, and think twice before you go off on another one of your hare-brained schemes."

No, please! I begged. It means a lot to me to—

And that’s precisely why you’ll get it cut. You’ve become entirely too self-centered in the last couple of years. It’s way past time that you rejoined the group, Ethan. Throw away those ugly shirts, and see the barber in the morning. Go on now; get ready for bed.

I numbly crept back up to the attic. Cut my hair? All of it? But it was mine—me.

The girls who talked to me in church liked my ponytail, and that made me feel good, so maybe it was bad. But why was it bad to do something to get yourself noticed by somebody, especially girls? I didn’t know. I only knew that at the home I mostly felt like I didn’t exist—that people in the same room didn’t even see me. Mr. Olson wanted me to rejoin the group, but he didn’t understand that I had never been a part of the group. Talk about lonely? And my feeling of being part of the woodwork was getting worse all the time. Why was it wrong to look for attention from somewhere, somehow?

Okay, the barbershop was a punishment; I understood that. But that didn’t make me feel any better. I didn’t know why I did half the dumb stuff I did, except that it mostly felt right at the time. Dyeing my shirts had been fun, and wearing them—even under the ugly twill—made me feel a little less invisible, a little better. Until now, anyway.

But the bad part was, I knew I would do something just as dumb later—what kind of punishment would I get then?

By the time I reached the attic room, I stoically decided that Mr. Olson had finally made it clear that I never been more than a bother to him. Since he had taken me in as a baby, he hadn’t known what he would be getting into. And the older I got, the less he liked me, or anything I did.

I was already packed. My stuffed gym bag had been tucked out of sight under my bed for over a week, now. But I had hoped that I would have a little more time to get some money together before I ran away from the home.

I bleakly wondered how far I could get on twenty-seven dollars and thirty-five cents.

Randy was in bed, waiting to gloat over my latest screw-up. I ignored him as much as possible by going into the tiny bathroom and shutting the door, to put my pajamas on. I stared at myself in the mirror while changing—I was scared, and my stupid girly face showed it. It was paler than usual, making my sprouting nightly stubble even darker. And even in the harsh light above the sink, my blue eyes were all black with fear. My mouth was dry as I went over The Plan again in my head.

I tried to use the KISS rule on myself whenever possible. Keeping it simple meant I had less chance of stupidly screwing up. So, at exactly three in the morning, I was going to get up, get dressed, and walk out the front door. The Plan couldn’t get much more simple than that.

Everybody in the home would be asleep. I knew this because I had practiced The Plan twice in the last week. I knew which were the noisiest steps going down both flights of uncarpeted stairs, and I had figured out how to re-lock the door from the outside. I knew which shadows were the deepest just outside the house, in case somebody did hear me go out, and I of course knew where the nearest bus stopped, a couple of blocks away. It wasn’t going to be hard to leave.

Nobody would care that I was gone; that was the main reason I was going. But Mr. Olson would have to try to get me back. Wouldn’t he get into trouble with the state, if he didn’t? And if he did get me back, he would be mad all over again because he’d think I was setting another bad example. As far back as I could remember, nobody had ever run away from the home, so maybe I was. But I was sick of being the target of Randy’s cruelty, and of always being in trouble, and of having no friends. Nobody I lived with ever tried to understand me. And now they were going to make me cut my hair.

I had to find people who would like me for who I was.

But I was a wimp who had a habit of screwing up. Nothing much likeable about that. And how could I possibly manage a grand getaway with less than thirty dollars in my pocket? Would that even get me out of Los Angeles? Well, it had to. It had to get me far, far away.

I got into bed. Laying there in the dark, listening to Randy’s snores, I tried to picture where I would be, what I would be doing, this time tomorrow night. Maybe it was better that I didn’t know. I was worried enough.

I kept checking my watch, but the minutes crawled by.

Chapter Two

Two a.m. eventually arrived—only an hour to go.

Then I heard a distinctive creak on the stairs. My pajama top was already soaked from thinking about what I was going to do at three; the creak at two made my heart stop. Nobody ever came up those attic stairs at night. And nobody was supposed to be awake but me. Then I was blinded when the overhead light switched on, but not before realizing that Mr. Olson was standing in the doorway.

How had he known? I wondered frantically.

Ethan? I heard. Wake up.

I couldn’t pretend; I was awake. I sat up.

Get dressed and come down to my office, Mr. Olson said gruffly as he finished tying his tie. Hurry up. He was gone, and I heard the stair squeak again.

Without understanding anything, I anxiously did as he said. Did he know, or guess that I was running away? But he hadn’t looked angry—he had looked like he had been dragged out of bed. What was going on that had disrupted the house in the middle of the night? I glanced at the big lump in Randy’s bed, but it kept snoring, not disrupted at all. But Mr. Olson was disrupted, and I was totally freaked.

Dragging my hair back into its normal ponytail, I ran down the two flights of stairs as quietly as I could. I wasn’t wearing a tee shirt under my twill—supposedly in the trash, they were all packed in my gym bag.

The light was on in Mr. Olson’s office, and he was behind the desk. Feeling a queasy flash of déjà vu, I went in and perched on the edge of my usual chair. I couldn’t think of a single excuse to give him, if he asked about the bag hidden under my bed.

Someone is here to see you, Ethan, he said ponderously. It’s not visiting hours, of course, but I asked him to wait in the hall while we—

What? I interrupted stupidly. I had never had a visitor. To see me? Who is it?

It’s rude to talk over other people, Ethan, he chided. I’m trying to tell you who it is, but first we need to talk a little. You know your mother died in childbirth, don’t you?

I nodded, barely distracted. Yeah, that was my history—dead mother, no father—but what did that have to do… ? Then, what he said about a visitor truly sank in and my heart jerked around in my chest. Maybe I wouldn’t have to run away, after all. Maybe someone finally wanted me. I blurted, Is it my father?

Ethan, please, Mr. Olson groused. No, it’s not your father. Perhaps I should have told you this a long time ago, but the right time just never seemed to come up. Please listen to me now—an out-of-state lawyer has been paying Sacred Heart a generous yearly sum for you to remain here. This is irregular enough, but there has always been a stipulation attached to the checks, too, which has disturbed me since the first time I read it. The stipulation demands that you remain here until we can legally keep you no longer. He hesitated, frowning at my frown. Didn’t you ever wonder why you were never fostered or adopted?

I shook my head. I had, of course, but I didn’t like to dwell on the fact that I wasn’t wanted.

Well, that’s why, Mr. Olson said curtly. And the lawyer made it quite clear in his introductory letter that your father wanted nothing to do with you.

He’s alive? I asked, trying to understand. I’m not an orphan? Who is he—do you know?

Yes, well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Mr. Olson admitted slowly. I have always assumed that there were extenuating circumstances for your father’s lack of interest… alcohol or drug abuse—something of that nature. No, I don’t know who he is, but I wonder if we aren’t about to find out.

He paused, but I didn’t ask any more questions. Besides being too flabbergasted, I could tell that Mr. Olson was mad about something now; he tapped his pencil.

I’m a little uncomfortable with this visitor, Ethan, he continued, clearing his throat. He chose an inappropriate hour, and the man is a complete stranger. But I suppose I can’t stop the FBI from talking to you. Agent McCormick?

I gaped at him. The FBI wanted me?

Mr. Olson was looking over my shoulder, so I twisted fast in the hard chair to see a good-looking man in his early thirties standing in the doorway. He was dressed in a severe navy suit and dark tie, and his reddish dark hair was cut short with military precision. Thin, with hard planes for a face, he had a black leather briefcase in one hand and his identification clipped to his breast pocket. He hadn’t been dragged out of bed.

Mr. Olson stood and gestured at me. Agent McCormick, this is the Ethan Casey you inquired about. Be seated; I’ll remain in the room while you speak to him.

Oh, I don’t think so, Arthur, Agent McCormick said casually. Until Mr. Casey and I come to an understanding, you won’t be needed.

He is a minor child, Mr. Olson declared with a frown. Sacred Heart is his guardian, and I am Sacred Heart.

A quick grin transformed McCormick from official to playful. Gee, Dad, he snickered right back, I promise not to show him any dirty pictures or offer him booze, okay? And damned if I didn’t leave the rubber hose at the office. He laughed out right. Relax, Arthur! I need the kid’s cooperation; I’ll be nice to him. Really. Besides, I’m going to be telling him things that are personal to him—if he wants to share later, that’s up to him, isn’t it?

Mr. Olson looked doubtfully at me, but I could only stare back in shock. He wasn’t going to leave me alone with the FBI, was he? He knew I was dumb enough to say or do something that could get me into Federal trouble.

It’ll be all right, Ethan, Mr. Olson muttered unhappily as he left. That didn’t make me feel any better at all, but he closed the door behind him.

FBI Agent McCormick had stepped aside to let Mr. Olson out. I kept craning my neck to keep my eyes on him.

He laughed that nice open laugh at me next. Jesus, kid, chill. I’m not nearly as mean as I look.

He didn’t look mean at all, not really. He looked tough and businesslike, maybe, but he was the FBI. He unclipped and tossed his identification to me, to prove it.

Let’s sit over here, he invited, heading for the two easy chairs by the curtained window. I twisted my neck the other way to keep a scared eye on him. He set his briefcase on the low table between the chairs. After sitting, he raised his eyebrows at me. A chat, kid; that’s all I’m after. Smoke? He held out a pack of Marlboros.

I shook my head, but cautiously went to the other chair, sitting on the edge of it.

Fight, flight, or freeze, McCormick commented humorously, eyeing me as he lit up. Which is your choice of action right now?

Did he really wonder if I was going to try to punch him out, or run like a jackrabbit? Since neither was the least bit likely, I uncomfortably chose, Freeze, handing back his ID.

Good boy! McCormick praised me like I had just done a trick. Then I won’t have to chase you down or smack you around if I say something you don’t like. You just freeze right there, and I’ll tell you a story you are virtually going to hate. Sure you don’t want a smoke?

I was frozen, so he put the pack away. First, you need to understand where I’m coming from, he said conversationally as he sat back and crossed his legs, "so I have to begin by telling you that I am a sick man. Oh, I’m not terminal or anything, but I have racked up enough medical problems in the last year that I’m going to retire from the Bureau before it finds out. It’ll stick me behind a desk. I