Wildest Hearts

him into anything. The realization that he was busily altering his entire world in order to please Annie sent a jolt of deep unease through him.

    It dawned on Oliver that in many ways he was no longer completely in control of his life. He knew he was rapidly becoming vulnerable in a way he had never before been vulnerable. For as long as he could recall, vulnerability had always been equated with weakness in his mind. A weak man could not defend his family.

    “I'll take the bedrooms,” Bolt said.

    “Make certain the drapes are closed in them before you use the flashlight.”

    Bolt made an odd rumbling noise in the darkness that might have been a laugh. “You sound like an old pro at this kind of thing, Mr. Rain.”

    “I've been taking lessons from my wife,” Oliver muttered. “If Annie can do it, I can do it.”

    But he could hardly claim amateur status when it came to breaking and entering, he reminded himself grimly.

    He thought about the night five years ago when he and Daniel had broken into the warehouse where Walker Gresham had been concluding his latest gun-running deal. Technically that hadn't been an act of breaking and entering, Oliver thought. The warehouse had, after all, belonged to one of his companies. Nevertheless, he had experienced much the same sensation of heightened awareness, felt the same surge of adrenalin on that occasion that he was feeling tonight. He also felt a similar sense of wrongness.

    Five years ago he and Daniel had very nearly gotten themselves killed trying this particular trick.

    “Be careful, Bolt,” Oliver said softly.

    “All clear,” Bolt said. “Drapes are pulled.”

    Remembering what Annie had found near the wall phone in Thorpe's cottage, Oliver checked the counter next to Cork's telephone. There were no mysterious numbers penciled onto the calendar or the pad of paper that lay there.

    He opened a drawer and found nothing except some pens and a Seattle phone book. There were no personal address books or notebooks with interesting names in them.

    Oliver moved slowly into the small living room. He quickly went through the contents of an end-table drawer but found nothing except a paperback thriller. He had no better luck when he joined Bolt in the second bedroom, which Cork had apparently used as an office.

    “Nothing,” Bolt said, closing the last drawer.

    “Too much of nothing.” Oliver focused the narrow beam of light on the pristine surface of Cork's desk. “I've been in Cork's office at Lyncroft a couple of times. He's the kind of manager who keeps every active file out in the open where he can see it. His desk is always a disaster area.”

    “Maybe his family came by and cleaned things up in here.”

    “I'm told the authorities didn't reach his mother and sister in Virginia until late this afternoon. They aren't even in Seattle yet. According to Cork's file, he has no relatives in the Northwest.”

    “That leaves another possibility,” Bolt said.

    “Yes.” Oliver took one last look around as they worked their way back toward the kitchen. “Someone else got here first.”

    “Whoever it was that nudged him off that freeway?”

    “If he was deliberately nudged.”

    “I'd say the fact that someone may have cleaned out his personal files is fairly solid evidence that Cork's accident was no accident,” Bolt said.

    Oliver thought about that as he and Bolt exited the way they had entered. He also thought about a few other things. He waited until they reached the car, which Bolt had parked two blocks away, before he said anything else.

    “None of this makes sense.” Oliver sank back into the passenger seat and gazed broodingly out the window. “The worst-case scenario here is that someone murdered Daniel Lyncroft and then tried to kill Barry Cork. But where's the motive?”

    “The only motive I can see is that someone wanted Lyncroft to fail,” Bolt said. “Maybe one of those California outfits.”

    “There's another way of looking at this,” Oliver said slowly. “One we haven't considered. Someone may have killed Daniel for other reasons entirely, reasons that have nothing to do with Lyncroft.” Oliver paused. “But that doesn't make sense. Daniel was not the kind of man who collected enemies.”

    “The fact that someone is trying to make Mrs. Rain suspicious of you doesn't figure either, sir. Why reopen the question of Lyncroft's death when everyone assumes it's an accident? And why get rid of