Prologue

Courthouse, Seattle, WA

The pencil snapped into two pieces in Clifford Radisson's hand. He dropped the broken ends onto the floor as Angeline Lisbon and Jake Lalonde entered the room. Radisson scowled at the half-Haida archaeologist and the ebony-haired beauty clinging to his arm. Lalonde had a headband knotted around his forehead. Who did he think he was? Daniel Day-Lewis in ‘The Last of the Mohicans?' 'They stopped and, for a second, Jake said nothing, his smoky grey eyes dark with contempt.

"I thought so," Jake taunted. "Not so confident, now that you're in a courtroom. That's just as well, since you have nothing to look forward to but a future behind bars."

Walter Zinsser, Radisson's lawyer, put out a steadying hand. He urged his client to remain seated. Radisson submitted and turned from Jake to study Angeline. She was still as captivating as he remembered. The gold-green eyes, he would never forget. They had once showered him with admiration, but now her expression showed only hate. Radisson locked his gaze on her and sneered.

I always get what I want.

Her expression hardened like she had read his mind. She grabbed Jake's arm and firmly dragged him to the witness seats.

Radisson smiled, but then his smugness suddenly vanished. Near the entrance, two bailiffs ushered in an unusually dressed man. He was cloaked all in black with a black hood over his head. His stance and demeanor were vaguely familiar, but his face was masked. Only a nose and the shadow of a beard peeked out from beneath the shade of the hood as the man turned to sit. Radisson frowned, confronted his lawyer. The immaculately dressed attorney wore Armani and nothing less. His appearance spoke of money and his money came from one source—Clifford Radisson. There was more at stake here than Radisson's reputation. Had Zinsser anticipated this? He jabbed the lawyer in the shoulder with his fist and pointed to the black-hooded man.

"Stop worrying, Mr. Radisson," Zinsser said. "We've got this case cut and dried. Your contractor is the only one whose testimony will hold up in court. The archaeologist and his young lady there are lovers. The jury knows they'll protect each other. It's their word against yours. Whoever the hell that witness is, he can't hurt you. Only one man can do you any harm and he was your contractor. Only Sam Smythe can put you away. And he's dead."

"Exactly," Radisson said. He singled out the hooded man. "Who is that?"

The thud of the gavel drew their attention to the judge's bench. The courtroom hushed and the high, arched ceiling echoed the prosecutor's shrill voice as he read his opening statements.

The charges were kidnapping and attempted rape.

The sound of a chair scraping back caught Radisson's attention. He turned to look. The man at the back of the courtroom had removed his hood and was settling back into his seat.

The humid air in the courtroom suddenly seemed thick. Radisson choked.

He grabbed Zinsser's arm and jerked him sharply around. "You fool. That's Smythe. How could you let this happen?"

The lawyer stared at the red-bearded man with the hood around his shoulders. He turned back to Radisson, his face bone white.

Angeline Lisbon was called to the stand. She glanced at Radisson's former contractor at the far end of the courtroom, then turned her eyes on Clifford Radisson. Her voice was steady, her posture stiff with confidence, her right index finger accusing him.

"He staked me to the ground," she said.

In those six words, she sealed his fate.

CHAPTER ONE

Skidegate, Queen Charlotte Islands, BC

Angeline mustn't go to Tonga. How was he going to stop her? Jake could hardly breathe. He stood in the middle of the cabin floor and stared at the bed against the far wall, which he and Angeline had shared for almost eight months. There was a table in the centre of the plank floor. A few feet away, his laptop computer sat on a wooden stand near the sofa by the fireplace. This was home. Their home. He shoved his hands inside his pockets to still their trembling and went to check the email. A message from Lee Turner, in Tonga, said that she would send someone to meet Angeline at Lifuka's small airstrip in four days. Lee was giving Angeline the opportunity to do her PhD research in the South Pacific. Jake was tempted to delete the message, but he didn't.

Four days. He had four days to tell Angeline the truth.

Jake left the cabin and closed the door. Ahead, tall majestic conifers surged skyward. He breathed deeply to calm himself. He loved these trees that surrounded the village of Skidegate. They were the life and blood of his people. Half-Haida himself, his ancestors had used these trees to build their homes, their household items and their clothing. Jake's family crest was the Raven.

As he penetrated the forest, he reached out, broke off a frond from a nearby tree, and spiced the air with cedar. He wandered through the forest to the sea. Offshore, brimming the terrace of an islet, more cedars swept the water. They flourished along the shoreline, their tall straight trunks unbroken by branches for much of their upward climb. In a large grove embedded in luxuriant ferns and moss, his feet sank into wet earth. He suddenly felt fine.

"Hey, daydreamer, I don't got all day," Damon Spencer shouted from the beach. "Get aboard." Angeline was already in the boat with Damon. He was going to drop them off on one of the smaller unnamed islands to scout for sites. The day was cool, though pleasant. Angeline was wearing a thick, grey and white Cowichan sweater, and underneath it she wore a black turtleneck. Her long dark hair fell in a tumble over her shoulders, and her gold-green eyes smiled mischievously like a cat's.

The sea was choppy, but they were in good hands. Damon was an experienced sailor, and he piloted the boat expertly and dropped them off on an island, agreeing to retrieve them in two hours. Jake nodded, gave it one hour, then decided hunting for sites on this bit of rock was a waste of time. There were no signs of midden, no shell or flakes of stone or fragments of animal bone. Nothing. Jake looked around. It was so beautiful. Towering, spiked trees, thick with bright hanging moss. Why would anyone want to leave here? He thought again about Angeline's impending trip. What could he do to make her stay? He had no right to ask her to stay.

They hiked a little farther, then stopped on a spit of land jutting out to the sea. He stretched his arms into the air, heaved in a deep breath of sweet air, and smiled down at Angeline.

"I know that look," she said.

He grinned. She knew everything there was to know about him so that he rarely had to speak. His grin died. That was a lie.

She cocked her head as if to ask, "Something wrong?" Nothing was wrong. Not just at this moment. At this very moment, everything was right. He flattened a bower of fir saplings and motioned her down onto it. "Here's your bed."

She giggled and sat on the mat of foliage, while he unzipped his pants. Then he unzipped hers and pulled them to her ankles and spread apart her knees.

Life was great. She was great. If it could only stay that way.

The wind bit, but the sun broke through the cloud just as he lowered himself on top of her.

There in the cold, clear sea air, with the rush of the waves pounding in tune to his body's own momentum, he slid his hands up under the thick layers of wool to her breasts and felt the thrill of skin on skin as their bellies met.

Neither of them spoke. It would have broken the spell. The pure sensualness of the forest, sea and sky. The smell of kelp and the spray on his bare butt and the taste of salt on her lips. When they were done, he zipped up his pants and hauled her up and kissed her before she could dress.

"Oh great," Angeline said. "There's the boat."

Jake stepped around to shield her from its view while she pulled up her pants.

"Hey, you two," Damon shouted as he motored nearer. "Go get a room."

"Damn you, Damon," Angeline shouted back. "What did you see?"

Damon grinned and grated his hull against the rocks. "Only your pretty little bum."

 "I'm going to kill you." She ran over and jumped into the boat to thump him, but he half rose and tripped her into his lap.

He tickled her until she giggled and forgave him. Jake got into the boat.

"Get off my woman, Spencer," he said. He grumbled good-naturedly,

"Hey, she's the one who attacked me."

"Well, you deserved it, you pervert," Angeline said. "Just wait until I tell Lucy."

Damon laughed and plucked a piece of cedar out of her hair. "You won't tell Lucy."

When they got to shore, Damon left them at the forked road to go home, and Jake and Angeline returned to their cabin. Jake was quiet as she fixed dinner.

"What's the matter, Jake?" Angeline asked, setting two plates down onto the table. She could always tell when something was bothering him.

He took her to the sofa and sat her down on his lap.

"Mine just as good as his?" he asked.

She twisted to look at his face. "What?"

"My lap," he said. "Is it just as good as his?"

She laughed and turned until she was straddling him. She placed her hands on his shoulders and he settled his on her hips. "Jake, don't tell me you're jealous of Damon. We were just fooling around. We always do that. It doesn't mean anything."

"Doesn't it?" Jake paused, then he asked, "If you had never met me. If you had met him first—"

"He loves Lucy."

"I know, but if he had never met Lucy. Would you have gone out with him?"

Angeline lowered her head, then looked seriously into his eyes. "I don't know . . . They have a baby, Jake. Jimmy Sky's namesake."

Jake exhaled, hesitated. He'd been waiting for this moment and now it was here. But what he really wanted to know was whether she had the hots for his best friend. He shook off the thought. That was crude and completely unfounded.

"Do you think you would ever want to have one of those with me?" he asked instead.

Angeline inhaled. "You mean a baby?"

Jake nodded.

Angeline wet her lips, swallowed. "Only if I was married first."

Jake smiled. He shoved her playfully off his lap, almost dropping her onto the floor. She caught herself from falling, straightened, and watched him go to the chest of drawers where he kept his socks. He pulled out a small, square, velvet box and brought it to her.

Her eyes widened enormously as he nervously displayed the small diamond solitaire inside the box. "When did you buy that?" she asked.

"Last year. After MacPherson died."

He slipped the ring onto her finger, half-expecting her to slide it back off.

Her eyes glistened.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, yes," she said.

***

Cedar Creek Corrections Center, WA

"I needed the money," the young man said. He stared his victim in the eye. The middled-aged woman was visibly shaking. The man had beaten her and robbed her in her own home, and now he was being asked to see the crime from her point of view, but instead he was defending his actions.

Radisson stifled a laugh. The entire scenario was comical. Was this even for real? Where had they drummed up these actors?

The prison counsellor threw him a dirty look. "It will be your turn soon, Mr. Radisson. When we locate your victim, we will request that she participate in our victim awareness program."

"Angeline Lisbon will never agree to come," Radisson said.

"You don't know that."

Radisson snickered. "But if she does come, I will certainly make her feel welcome."

The way he had spoken was filled with sarcasm and contempt. The program was supposed to teach offenders the financial, emotional, and physical impact of their behaviour on their victims. That was fine for these men, but he wasn't a criminal. He had done nothing but taken what was rightfully his. He could care less how this thief had damaged this woman and her pathetic life.

The prison counsellor's face reddened. He nodded at the guard who walked over and grabbed Radisson by the arm and drew him aside, and then to the door. In the hallway, he spun him around and punched him in the stomach.

"I don't like you, Mr. Radisson. You're a bully and a thug, dressed up like an arse-sucking gentleman. Well, look around you. Do you see any gentlemen here?"

In the corridor, there were rough-looking men dressed in orange jumpsuits, the uniform of the incarcerated. "No one likes you here. No one likes what you did."

"Go to hell," Radisson said.

The prison guard kicked him in the groin.

"You go to hell."

Radisson doubled over and collapsed on the floor, cupping his crotch. The bastard would pay for this. He managed to crawl to his knees and, eventually, to stand up. The guard sneered at him. Radisson waited until he could speak without squeaking.

"What's your name?" he demanded.

"Why? You think anybody will care that I kicked the crap out of you?" The guard glanced through the glass window where the inmates and the prison counsellor continued their session. "You think he didn't expect me to do that?"

"Your name," Radisson growled.

The guard shrugged, a mean smirk returning to his face. "My name is Marks," he said. "Ethan Marks. Remember it. I'll be watching you."

And I'll be watching you.

The victim awareness session was over and the participants were leaving the room. Radisson glared at the counsellor as he exited to meet the guard, but neither of them spoke to him. They left him where he was. He was supposed to go back to work. Work. What kind of work was planting trees? When he got out of here, he fully intended to level some, specifically the big trees on the Queen Charlotte Islands, where he meant to construct an exclusive fishing resort and spa. The only reason he went along with planting the trees was so that he could get away from this place and get a lay of the land.

The Cedar Creek Corrections Center was a minimum security institution situated in the Capital Forest about 23 miles southwest of Olympia, near Littlerock in Washington. It was isolated, which suited him quite well. The only good thing about staying in this facility was that inmates were allowed access to computers and telephones. He had taken advantage of the privilege.

 Radisson looked up as he leaned against the wall. A guard, a different one, was leading a woman toward him. Radisson felt himself shrink. No one, not that prison counsellor or that jerk of a guard he had following his ass, could make him feel small. But Connie Amos could.

"What's she doing here?" Radisson asked, addressing the guard.

"It's visiting day. She came to visit you."

He was completely self-conscious of the stupid orange jumpsuit the inmates were forced to wear. "I don't want to see her."

The guard grabbed his arm and led him into the common room. "Not my problem."

The slim Native woman followed Radisson and the prison guard into the room and stood boldly erect as Radisson was plunked down into a chair next to a table. "Let me know if he causes you any trouble," the guard said, and went to wait by the door.

There were a few other inmates with visitors in here. Ordinarily, the inmates only had to wear the orange jumpsuits when they were outside the walls of the corrections center. Radisson had recently returned from the Capitol Forest restoration project to attend the victim awareness session. He was due back at the project in two hours. It was Tuesday, visitor day, and he was allowed an hour per visitor. He glanced at his watch and noted that she wasn't the visitor he had been expecting. He had been expecting his lawyer.

"Clifford," she said. "May I sit down?"

He nodded. He could care less what she did. He felt humiliated having her see him here. "I phoned your lawyer's office," she said. "You must not try to leave here. You've done enough harm. Try to make reparation. I know there is good in you. It's not too late."

Radisson pursed his lips. He watched her very closely. She was slim, of medium height and build, and close to seventy years old. Her face was smooth except for a papery quality about the light brown skin that was drawn tightly over her cheek bones. Tiny lines creased the corners of her eyes and her mouth was grim. She wore her hair in a long silvery braid like she always did.

Radisson inhaled, shook his head in mock sadness. It was already too late. It was too late when she abandoned him as a child. But he'd done okay. More than okay. He had done great. He was one of the richest men in America. His development projects were recognized all over the world. And if she hadn't betrayed him, thwarted him, allied herself with that archaeologist Jake Lalonde, he wouldn't be in this stinking hellhole now.

"I did the best I could," she said. "There were circumstances beyond my control. Even had I tried to keep you, I would have lost you anyway."

"Why are you here?" Radisson asked. "In my entire life, you never bothered to look for me. Why now?"

"I never had to look for you, Clifford," she said. "I always knew where you were. I just couldn't believe what had become of you. And now, the crimes that you've committed."

"Get out of here," he said, bluntly.

Connie Amos sighed, coughed unexpectedly. She collected herself though her face looked grey. "I want to help you," she said.

"I think you've done quite enough."

Connie Amos left, accompanied by the guard who had brought her to him, and Radisson stared at the door for a long time. Finally, he got up and walked into the corridor. He was halfway to his wing when someone called out to him.

"What the devil do you want, Marks?" Radisson demanded.

The prison guard marched up to him and glared. "If I had my choice, you'd be in the State Pen—after what you did. But because you're Mr. Big Shot, Clifford Radisson of Radisson Enterprises, you get to stay here. They should have stuck you with life."

Radisson scowled. He was ready to explode, but he had the sense to keep his invective to himself.

The guard grabbed Radisson by the arm again. "Where the hell are you taking me?"

"There's someone to see you. Get moving," the guard said.

Radisson shrugged the man's hairy hand off of him and let out an exasperated groan. He was certainly Mr. Popularity today. He followed the guard back to the visitor's room.

What he saw there sent a shot of adrenalin into his system. He took control of his body, squashed the shaking that he was experiencing, and went to the chair opposite to the one where his attorney was seated.

"Walter," Radisson said to Zinsser, who was dressed in his Sunday best. Armani again. "It's about time."

 "Congratulations, Mr. Radisson. You've won your appeal."

Radisson rose from the stiff-backed chair where he had slumped. He stared incredulous, then nodded with vigour. He shook Walter Zinsser's hand.

"You're free to go," the lawyer said. "You can leave right now. I have a car waiting outside for you."

"Is my man driving it?" Radisson asked.

"Yes," Zinsser said. "I arranged it just as you wished. And no press either. Nothing in the papers. No one will know that you're out. I know you don't want the publicity."

Radisson nodded and followed the lawyer to collect his things so that he could change into his civilian clothes. As they returned to the prisoner discharge area, Radisson caught a glimpse of Connie Amos standing against the wall watching him. She started to approach but, at his look of pure malice, she refrained. Zinsser noticed her too as they exited the prison. Zinsser nudged his arm. "Who was that?" he asked.

Radisson looked down to where Zinsser had disrespectfully nudged him, and an irrational surge of revulsion suddenly overwhelmed him. "That," he answered coldly, "was my mother."

Zinsser pulled up short, turned around.

"She didn't raise me," Radisson said. "I never knew her. So you can get that stupid look off your face. And just so you don't ask, I know I don't look like her. I look like my father."

Radisson wondered if she would tell Jake Lalonde that he had been freed. He hoped so.

Once outside, he saw his gold Lexus and felt the heat of freedom return in his blood. He and Zinsser got into the car. The driver said nothing. They headed out of the prison gates, and both client and attorney gave a collective sigh.

"I'm sorry it took so long, Mr. Radisson," Zinsser said. "But ordinarily the appeal process takes years. I pulled some strings. You still have a lot of clout in this state."

Radisson clenched his jaw. Two months. Two bloody months he had spent in that ridiculous hellhole. They had made him plant trees and build birdhouses. Birdhouses of all things. Their conservation practices of conserving water and electricity were absurd. They had made the inmates take lukewarm showers and required that lights be out by nine o'clock. They recycled everything from Styrofoam to aluminum foil. They composted food waste, paper, sawdust, grass and weeds. He had spent most of his evenings sorting garbage!

"Hey you, driver," Zinsser said. "You're going the wrong way. The turnoff was to your left. You missed the highway."

They were headed down a lonely road through the forest. Radisson indicated for the driver to continue on his course.

The lawyer turned his head, perplexed. "Where are we going, Mr. Radisson?"

"To hell, Walter," Radisson said. He reached down under the driver's seat and removed a revolver. The lawyer's mouth dropped open. He didn't have a chance to scream. Radisson shot him.