Rebels and Lovers (6 page)

But this wasn’t sibling rivalry. This was something no Guthrie did well: feeling helpless. Ethan just did it worse than the rest of them.

“Explain to me why there’s no sign of a struggle in the apartment,” Devin asked again.

“To throw us off,” Jonathan said grimly.

“But if they wanted to cover the kidnapping by making it look as if Trip ran away, then why leave Halsey’s body behind? If they had time to get a cleaning crew in Trip’s apartment, they had time to get someone to dispose of Halsey’s body. Any other explanation is illogical.”

“Tage wants Philip, badly.” J.M.’s voice was tight. “That kind of hatred can make a man do illogical things.”

Just as the horror over Halsey’s death and Trip’s disappearance was making Devin’s father and brothers jump to illogical conclusions. “Tage doesn’t kill people himself, Father. He farms that out to his ranks of ImpSec assassins. And ImpSec wouldn’t be that sloppy.”

Ethan waved one hand dismissively. “So you’re an expert on ImpSec now?”

That earned him another warning glance, this time from Jonathan. “Try contributing instead of complaining.”

“I’m not complaining. I’m as upset as the rest of you are.” Ethan’s voice rose to an almost petulant
whine. “Just because I don’t have all the degrees you and Devin have doesn’t mean I’m stupid. Neither is Father. We’re Guthries. We have money. Lots of it. And people who want that try kidnapping. All the time.” Ethan switched a look from Jonathan to J.M. “You know that’s true. There’ve been kidnap threats against us before.”

Devin opened his hands in a helpless gesture. “Kidnappers work against time and discovery. They’re not going to let a kid pack his duffel and his bookpad. It would be of no use to them.”

But it would be of use to Trip. That was something Devin thought of as soon as he saw the police reports. Trip never went anywhere without his bookpad, which held his prized collection of Philip’s training manuals.

Ethan sat up straighter. “Kidnappers plan—”

“Father, Uncle Devin’s right.”

Startled, Devin glanced to his right. Sixteen-year-old Thana stood in the library’s wide doorway, a large, long-furred black-and-white cat in her arms. Cosmo, Devin remembered. Petra Frederick had evidently let the children stop home long enough to retrieve Cosmo—a source of comfort—but not to change their clothes. Thana was still in the dark-blue pants and white tunic that comprised her school uniform, her long dark hair pulled back and tied with a white ribbon. “Trip takes his bookpad everywhere.” Her voice wavered slightly. She sucked in a breath. “Not only because it has his class work. It has all of Uncle Philip’s stuff. If someone kidnapped
him …
well, he’d make sure that was left behind. Because then we’d know he really didn’t want to leave.
I’d
know.” She held her father’s gaze for a moment, then looked at Devin. “He cried a lot when we heard Uncle Philip was dead. I told him he should
talk to you or to Father, but he … he said no. He said …,” and she hesitated, her desire to find her brother clearly warring with her desire to protect him.

“I know you’re worried about Trippy.” Devin prompted her as gently as he could. “I am too. But if you know anything that might help—”

“He said he was gonna join the Alliance and help them kill Prime Commander Tage,” twelve-year-old Max said, stepping into the open doorway. Like Thana, he was in blue pants and a white tunic. But his dark curly hair was mussed.

“Maxwell Macy!” Jonathan shot to his feet. “If your brother was talking such nonsense, I should have been told. Immediately.”

Max dropped his gaze to the carpet under his shoes. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Devin stared at Max, then at Thana, seeing—
feeling
—their fear. And not of their father but for their brother’s safety. Jonathan was stern, but he was fair. And, in rare moments, he could even be kind.

But Max and Thana, who knew Trippy better than anyone, were afraid. So was Jonathan. So was Devin. Trippy
had
spoken to him about Philip’s reported death, but Devin hadn’t taken the young man’s rantings against Tage seriously. More than half the Empire was ranting about the new prime commander lately.

Jonathan looked at his daughter. “He told you this as well, Thana?”

“Something like that.”

“Something?” Jonathan’s voice rose as he stepped toward his daughter. She lowered her face into Cosmo’s thick fur, cradling the cat more tightly against her. “Your brother’s missing and all you can remember is ‘something’?”

“That’s because they’re lying.” Ethan cut in, his voice hard and angry. “They just want the attention—”

“That’s not true, Uncle Ethan!” Max’s hands fisted at his side.

“Enough.” A deep voice that hadn’t lost its firmness or ability to issue orders in almost eighty years halted them all in their tracks. J.M. splayed his large hands on his desktop. “Yelling and unconfirmed suppositions are unproductive,” he said to Jonathan. He nodded at his grandchildren. “Thana, Max, please go to the kitchen and tell Audra we’d like some coffee brought to the library. Ethan.” He pinned his third son with a meaningful glare. “Go see if your mother needs anything.”

Thana let Cosmo slip to the carpet then turned, grabbing Max’s shoulder as Ethan shoved himself off the couch. The cat on their heels, the children hurried away from the doorway, obviously glad to have escaped their father’s wrath. Ethan followed, but not without one final glance back into the library, peevishness clear in the tight lines of his face.

“Sit down, Jonathan,” J.M. ordered. Then, as Jonathan returned to his seat: “I understand exactly what happened now. If your son did in fact have some wild idea to harm Darius Tage, it stands to reason Imperial Security would have taken him into custody. It also stands to reason we will be hearing from them or Tage’s office shortly. We will, of course, get our barristers working on the case immediately.”

“But why kill Halsey?” Devin persisted. “Halsey wouldn’t have stood in the way of a legitimate arrest warrant. And why remove Trip’s bookpad?”

“Evidence, of course.” Jonathan’s tone was as hard as his father’s was earlier.

“But they didn’t take his deskcomp. Any research
Trip did—and I’m assuming we’re all now thinking he hacked into plans for the palace or schematics for Tage’s personal transport—would have to go through his deskcomp first. He could download things onto his bookpad, but how and where and when he acquired them would reside on his deskcomp.”

“Maybe he erased them,” Jonathan said.

“Trippy doesn’t know how to permanently erase data. I would know if he did.” If there was one thing Devin Guthrie knew, it was data. Data, computers, numbers. “ImpSec could recover erased data. If they believed Trip was involved in something subversive, they wouldn’t leave a deskcomp behind.”

J.M. dismissed Devin’s argument with a sharp wave of his hand. “They probably have some specialist retrieving his deskcomp. They’re not going to lug that and my grandson out the door at the same time.”

No, but they had time to bring in a cleaning crew. The illogic of it all made Devin’s stomach twist into a knot. He pulled his glasses off again and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“You really should get your eyes fixed,” Jonathan intoned. “It’s a simple five-minute—”

A soft double knock halted his brother’s relentless recommendation for eye surgery. The pungent, nutty aroma of coffee drifted into the room. Devin peered over his hands, expecting Audra’s short, rotund form in the wide doorway but seeing Barthol’s lanky one instead.

“Coffee, sirs?” Barthol asked as Devin straightened.

Devin glanced at his watch. It was almost one-thirty in the afternoon, seven hours since the discovery of Trip’s disappearance. Twelve hours since Halsey’s death. That had to mean Trip left to “join the Alliance”—he
could still hear the excitement in Max’s voice—twelve or so hours ago.

Ben Halsey’s death was a separate incident. And J.M.’s and Jonathan’s refusal to see that put Trip in increasing danger. Because Devin couldn’t discount that whoever killed Halsey
was
after Jonathan Macy Guthrie III—and was likely still after him. And had a twelve-hour head start.

Obedience warred with responsibility, loyalty with protection.

There was Baris–Agri. The Galenth Fund. His parents …

And his nineteen-year-old nephew, with no idea that a killer was tracking him.

Devin shoved himself to his feet as Barthol placed the coffee tray on the low sofa table. “None for me.”

His father’s voice stopped him at the library’s doors. “Where are you going?”

He turned slightly, as if not fully facing his father could somehow buffer the wrath he knew would come. “To find Trip. Somewhere between here and Calth sector.”

“Devin Jonathan! You can’t be serious—”

“I am. You can sit here and wait for Tage to contact you, but every minute you do is one more minute Trip is out there, chasing this crazy scheme of his, with whoever killed Halsey right on his tail.”

His father’s eyes narrowed. “I will not have you use this as an excuse to run out on your obligations.”

Excuse? Obligations?
“You already have Nathanson and Torry handling my projects—”

“And your wedding?”

Devin stared hard at his father. “I think Trip’s life is more important.”

“Our barristers will handle his arrest. Your job is to marry the Embersons’ daughter.”

His job. The ludicrousness of it almost made him laugh out loud. His job—the youngest, least important Guthrie son’s
job—
was to be put out to stud to a social-climbing Garno family, while the next Guthrie heir’s life was in danger.

He raised his chin and said a word he had never before uttered to his father. “No.”

His father’s lips thinned. “Devin Jonathan Guthrie, how dare you defy me!”

“I’ll need the
Prosperity
. I assume she’s fueled and we have a pilot available? That will get me there quicker.” He wasn’t one hundred percent sure where “there” was, but based on conversations he’d had with Trippy right after the erroneous news of Philip’s death was released, he had a strong suspicion Trippy was heading for the border of Aldan and Baris sectors.

His father glanced at Jonathan. “Alert our pilots. Devin is banned from using any Guthrie stellar transport until I say otherwise. And you,” his father said, turning back to Devin, “will stay here. And do as you’re told.”

Small tendrils of hot anger coiled beneath Devin’s skin. It was an unfamiliar and uncomfortable feeling. He tried to tamp the anger down, but some escaped, adding a bitter note to his answer. “No. I will not.”

He swiveled abruptly away and, ignoring his father’s command to return to the library, headed doggedly across the grand salon for the closest set of elevators and his suite, his fists clenched so tightly by his side that his arms shook.

——————

Devin was sealing his duffel when a soft rapping sounded on his door. He left the suitcase on his bed, then crossed his small living room, his footsteps hard even against the plush carpeting. Shoulders tensed, he yanked the door open, expecting Jonathan or Ethan. Or even Valerie, because he wouldn’t put it past J.M. to use a mother’s tears to try to stop him.

But it was Barthol, alone in the hallway.

“May I come in, Mr. Devin?”

“If my father sent you—”

“He didn’t.”

Devin stepped back warily, noticing a black box tucked under the chief steward’s arm.

“I thought you might need this,” Barthol said, as Devin closed the door behind him. He held out the box.

Devin took it, recognizing what it contained as Barthol named it: “It’s a Carver-Twelve. Admiral Guthrie gave it to me.”

“Philip gave me one too.”

“But I doubt you brought it. And if you’re going to catch up to Master Trip, you’re not going to have time to stop at your residence in Garno to get it.”

Surprise and relief surged through Devin. “You don’t believe Tage has him either.”

Barthol stepped by him, hands behind his back, pacing the room as he spoke. “Miss Thana wasn’t the only person Master Trip confided in about his concerns for his uncle Philip. And ImpSec would not leave a deskcomp behind. Nor would they be holding a Guthrie for this length of time without contacting Mr. Jonathan or your father. It’s simply not the way we—they—operate.” He turned to face Devin.

Devin didn’t miss the deliberate correction from
we
to
they
. “You were with Imperial Security?” That
didn’t totally surprise him. Many of GGS’s security personnel had been. But Barthol?

“Yes and no. My division was Special Protection Service: SPS.”

That
surprised him. “Executive protection and political assassinations.”

“Yes.”

Devin’s eyes narrowed. “Are you working for Tage or for my father?”

A corner of Barthol’s wide mouth quirked up. “Barrister Tage lost my allegiance years ago. The man is a dangerous and despotic megalomaniac. As for your father, more than twenty years ago I took an oath to protect the Guthrie family. It’s one I still follow—your father’s firing of me ten minutes ago notwithstanding.”

“He—”

“Also banned me from GGS transports. However, I took the liberty of booking passage for two on a commercial flight that leaves the spaceport in one hour fifteen minutes. We have not been banned—yet—from any of the ground vehicles. If you pack a duffel now, we may well make it to the spaceport before your father realizes that oversight.”

“Barty …” Devin hadn’t called the man that since he was a child. “I’m appreciative. Touched, honestly. But do you have any idea of what we could be getting into here?”

Barthol adjusted his jacket, which, Devin realized, was black with a black shirt underneath—not his uniform. The edge of a shoulder holster peeked out. He acknowledged Devin’s appraisal with a slight nod. “A lot more than you do, Mr. Devin. Shall we go? We have at least two days of travel ahead of us.”