“There’s more evidence against Barky than against Mac,” he said, sounding like a lawyer. “And I’ve known Mac all my life.”

“And I’ve known Barky all my life.”

She was choking with anger, unable to breathe, to think clearly. Unpleasant images kept flashing. Barky killing a bat with a broom. Shooting a woodchuck. Carving the head of a butchered pig for sausage. They were the grittier side of farm life, but now, in light of what Mac Stevens had accused her uncle of being, the images seemed filled with needless brutality.

All of a sudden it was dawn. The early morning sun brought out the rose accents in the Persian carpet and cast the room in a soft glow.

“I have to shower and pack,” Ashley said abruptly.

Jeremy sighed. “You’re going to Maine.”

It was a statement—a fact—but Ashley nodded. “I have to make my own decisions. I can’t let Mac Stevens make them for me—or you.”

“I would never presume,” he said with a small smile. “I’ll pack my things while you’re in the shower.”

She was truly shocked. “Why?”

“You don’t think I have any intention of letting you go up there alone, do you?”

“Crockett didn’t invite you.”

“I don’t give a damn who Crockett invited. I’ll charter my own plane if I have to, Ashley. I’m going with you.”

She snorted. “You heard Mac—you even believe him.”

“And I make my own decisions, too, dammit.”

“Are you possessive?”

“Just stubborn.”

“You sure you trust my flying?”

“Not in the least.” His smile broadened into a grin now that he was seeing he’d won. “But I’m a risk taker.”

She gave a toss of the head. “I could shove you out the door at four thousand feet.”

He walked over to her and stood toe to toe. “Do you have a parachute aboard?”

“Two.”

“Then I won’t worry. I may not know how to fly a plane, smart ass, but I do know how to jump out of one.”

24

Badger Rock Island was approximately forty acres of brush, pine and oak in Blue Hill Bay, southwest of Mt. Desert Island, the largest of the state’s thirty-five hundred islands and a popular national park. There were granite cliffs, crashing surf, a guest cottage, tennis courts, a pool, boats moored at a gleaming dock, a boathouse—and no people. The sprawling main house, of sun-bleached cedar shingles, stood in a wide clearing overlooking the bay.

Flying had improved Ashley’s spirits. Of course Barky wasn’t KGB. It was ridiculous! If not crazy, MacGregor Stevens was at least very badly mistaken. As far as she was concerned, if Barky was the one source of danger for her, then she wasn’t in any danger. There were just answers to be gotten to a series of sticky questions. Who set up the Liechtenstein trust? Why? When? Who were her parents? Who was Bartholomew Wakefield, really? Why had he lied to her and David? What did he plan to do with the tiara and the choker? How had they gone from the neck of Judith Land in Vienna, in 1956, to a vault at Piccard Cie in Geneva, in 1982?