Full Circle Read online

  OTHER NOVELS BY DAVIS BUNN INCLUDE:

  Heartland

  My Soul to Keep

  International Thrillers

  Imposter

  The Lazarus Trap

  Elixir

  Novellas

  The Book of Hours

  Tidings of Comfort and Joy

  The Quilt

  For a complete listing of novels by Davis Bunn,

  visit his website at davisbunn.com

  © 2008 by Davis Bunn

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Thomas Nelson. Thomas Nelson is a registered trademark of Thomas Nelson, Inc.

  Thomas Nelson books may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Publisher’s Note: This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. All characters are fictional, and any similarity to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

  Managing Editor: Natalie Hanemann

  Page Design: Mandi Cofer

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Bunn, T. Davis, 1952-

  Full circle / Davis Bunn.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-1-59554-204-5 (softcover)

  I. Title.

  PS3552.U4718F86 2008

  813’.54—dc22

  2008004089

  Printed in the United States of America

  08 09 10 11 12 RRD 6 5 4 3 2 1

  CONTENTS

  chapter 1

  chapter 2

  chapter 3

  chapter 4

  chapter 5

  chapter 6

  chapter 7

  chapter 8

  chapter 9

  chapter 10

  chapter 11

  chapter 12

  chapter 13

  chapter 14

  chapter 15

  chapter 16

  chapter 17

  chapter 18

  chapter 19

  chapter 20

  chapter 21

  chapter 22

  chapter 23

  chapter 24

  chapter 25

  chapter 26

  chapter 27

  chapter 28

  chapter 29

  chapter 30

  chapter 31

  chapter 32

  chapter 33

  Excerpt from the book of hours

  chapter 1

  Adam sat in the plush leather chair and tried hard to focus. His future depended on pushing the past aside and concentrating upon the here and now. But the contrast between these elegant surroundings and two years of yesterdays was hard to get his head around.

  For the past twenty-five months, he had been imprisoned in a hard hospital chair. The previous day, he had flown from Baltimore to London. Now he was seated in a mystic realm where loudspeakers did not bark and hospital bells did not jangle and smells were not sharp as scalpels. Instead, he sat in a palace, one where the fragrance of fresh-cut flowers filled the air. A cheery fire at the reception hall’s opposite end kept the English December at bay. The hardwood floors framed Persian carpets. Chandeliers marched like sparkling sentries down the high-ceilinged chamber, guarding a lovely lady behind a curved rosewood desk.

  A lady who was trying very hard not to weep.

  Two other women appeared through the rear doors, one bearing coffee and the other an embroidered hankie. They clustered around the receptionist.

  A tall pendulum clock by the curved staircase bonged nine times. Adam had been kept waiting over an hour. Which was odd, as he had been awakened from a jet-lag stupor at seven o’clock, when a sullen woman phoned his lodgings and demanded that he present himself precisely at eight.

  Time dragged at a glacial pace. Adam knew something was horribly wrong. Employees streamed through the front doors. Their dread-filled glances toward the receptionist suggested the problem was not hers alone. Whatever might be ailing this company, it approached an epidemic.

  Adam reached into his blazer pocket and touched the folded note. His mother had slipped it to him as he had left the hospital. The single sheet had been opened so often the creases were tearing. Illness had reduced his mother’s hand-writing to a scrawl. But the words were clear enough. The sign will signify many things. Gifts, and the chance to use them to the fullest. Purpose, and the joy of doing well for yourself and others. Hope, and the illumination this brings to your every day. And love. When you arrive at your destination, I pray you will know clearly that you are doing the right thing. Love, Mom.

  Adam rose from his seat, turned his back to the receptionist, and stared at the art adorning the walls. A collection of framed black-and-white photographs rimmed the reception chamber. Adam knew most of them intimately, as they were by his mother’s favorite photographer. He stepped forward until he saw his reflection in the glass. A sign, his mother had written.

  “Mr. Wright?” A heavyset young woman with a funereal expression paraded down the broad, curved staircase. “I’m Robin Oakes. We spoke this morning. Mr. Dobbins will see you now.”

  “I was told to report to Mr. Austin.”

  The woman was halted in the process of starting back up the stairs. She chose her words with care. “Joshua Dobbins is the company’s chief financial officer.”

  “Mr. Austin isn’t here?”

  “Please, Mr. Wright. Joshua Dobbins does not like to be kept waiting.”

  The broad stairs ended in an elegant hall where polished oak doors stood recessed within carved frames. They passed two clusters of people sharing muted conversation and grave expressions. More strident than the company’s somber mood was the artwork on the walls. The line of Eve Arnold prints clawed at Adam, slowing his progress.

  “In here, if you please.” The woman knocked on the hall-way’s last door. “Mr. Wright for you, sir.”

  “Come in, Wright. That will be all, Mrs. Oakes.”

  Adam stepped into the office and halted before yet another Eve Arnold print, one that held a special poignancy. The office was high-ceilinged with plaster scrollwork around the chandelier. A pale silk carpet rested upon the polished wood floor. Between him and the desk stood a marble fireplace. The desk was rimmed by tall bay windows.

  “Come sit down, Wright.”

  “I’m fine where I am.”

  “I didn’t ask for your sentiments. Come over here and take a seat.”

  The man behind the desk was made a silhouette by sun-light. For two years Adam had faced cameras he couldn’t see because of the surrounding spotlights. He showed the man a professional calm he did not feel. “You’re going to fire me, right? So get it over with.”

  The man responded with a double-beat of hesitation. “What makes you say that?”

  “Your secretary told me Mr. Austin was not in. Your chair-man personally offered me the job, and he’s my only contact with your company. Your secretary said you are the finance director. You’re probably the man who must approve all new hirings. And by the scene I’ve been watching downstairs, I’d say your company is in serious crisis.”

  There was only silence from the other end of the room.

  Adam went on, “You ordered me here at eight so you could get rid of me before the boss arrived. But then you made me wait for over an hour. I’m thinking you decided to check with him, but he wasn’t reachable. Now you’ve either argued your case, or you’
ve decided to take matters into your own hands. It’s doubtful Austin would make an issue over his number two firing a low-level peon. Especially when your company has been hit by incoming fire and is hemorrhaging badly.”

  “What have you heard about our company’s problems?”

  “Nothing, until this very minute.”

  The man, who rose from his desk, held one shoulder slightly lower than the other, or perhaps it was merely the result of his ill-fitting dark suit. A narrow tie was offset by a starched white shirt. His features were pockmarked, his mouth a thin slit. He was a man made to wield the corporate dagger, and without remorse.

  “Come sit down, Mr. Wright. No, over here. Will you take coffee?”

  “Will I be here that long?”

  “I’ll take that as a yes.” Joshua Dobbins settled into the sofa and waved Adam into the suede chair opposite him. He phoned for coffee, then replied, “I won’t deny it, Mr. Wright. I had intended to dismiss you out of hand.”

  Adam caught the slight inflection. “And you still might.”

  Mud-gray eyes flashed with something that might have been humor. “This ability of yours to read subtle signs is impressive.”

  “I’m an analyst,” Adam replied. “A good one.”

  “Are you indeed?” A moment’s further inspection, then Dobbins asked, “That print on my wall, the one you noticed upon entering. No, don’t turn around. What can you tell me about it?”

  “The photograph was taken by Eve Arnold.”

  “We are hosting a retrospective of her work. You might have read the plaque downstairs. Anything else?”

  Adam saw no need to explain how a copy of that very photograph had adorned his mother’s studio. “Eve Arnold shot the picture in 1963, on her first trip to England. She was over to do the promo stills for a movie version of Becket. Richard Burton played the starring role. The photo was taken of his death scene. The photograph shows Elizabeth Taylor off camera with their three children. Their daughter was terrified, watching her father die. Eve Arnold took the photo just as Taylor cradled the child in her arms and explained that Burton was acting. The child refused to leave the set until she saw her father get up again, Burton’s death was that real.”

  A curious secretary laid out bone china and poured coffee. “Be so kind as to bring me this gentleman’s file from my desk, Mrs. Oakes. Help yourself to cream, Mr. Wright.” Dobbins accepted the file from his secretary, read for a time, then said, “There is very little here to commend you for a position with our company.”

  The morning’s initial shock was wearing off, leaving Adam hollow. “Those pages don’t include why Mr. Austin spent two days with me in Washington.”

  Adam had met the chairman of Oxford Ventures, a boutique investment house, at a conference in Washington. Oxford Ventures handled about half a billion dollars, mostly from Oxford college endowments. They were also involved in spin-off companies based upon research done within the university system. Peter Austin had started the firm sixteen years earlier. Oxford Ventures was moderately successful, a steady but not spectacular earner. Over the past five years, returns averaged about fourteen percent. They were known to take the long-term approach. Adam knew this because he had checked. He knew a great deal more besides.

  Dobbins slapped the file shut and tossed it on the table. “So tell me what the file does not say, Mr. Wright. Such as, why you chose not to complete your university studies. You left after your second year, I believe.”

  “My third.”

  “We have two Americans on our staff, both graduates of Ivy League schools.”

  “Did either of them double their investment capital their first year in the market?”

  Dobbins was saved from responding by his secretary appear-ing once more. “Sorry to disturb you, sir. But this can’t wait.” She walked over and handed her boss a note.

  He glanced at the slip and said, “The file is on my desk. You were saying, Mr. Wright?”

  “One of my business courses required us to set up and run an investment portfolio. I did it with real capital.”

  “Your family gave you the funds?”

  “My family had no funds to give me.”

  “Yet you had free capital with which to invest.” When Adam did not rise to the challenge, Dobbins went on, “Any number of young men and women manage investment port-folios while remaining in school.”

  “That was not possible in my case.”

  The gaze sharpened. “How did you obtain your funds?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “I did not ask for your preferences. My objective is to detect sordid little details before they might risk the company’s good name.”

  Dobbins’ secretary glanced over. Her somber expression was broken by a tight little smirk. There was no question in Adam’s mind. She knew.

  “I’m waiting, Mr. Wright.”

  “I got an acting job.”

  “Acting? As on the stage?”

  “I was doing some amateur work with the university’s theatrical society. Before.”

  Dobbins flipped the pages of Adam’s file. “You had a partial scholarship to Georgetown?”

  “Full academic.” Adam focused on the secretary’s smirk and continued, “A Hollywood studio began shooting a prime-time drama based on the Washington political scene. They came to the college looking for somebody they could cast as a congressional intern. I got the part.”

  Dobbins recalled they were not alone. He looked over to his secretary. “Are you quite done?”

  “Sorry, sir. I can’t seem to find the file.”

  Dobbins rose and walked over. “So you quit university to act on television, and you invested your capital in your spare time. Not what one might call stellar qualifications.”

  “I gave Mr. Austin a copy of my investment records. I tripled my money in six years.”

  Dobbins impatiently sifted through the papers on his desk. His tone was not cold so much as impersonal. “Then why do you need to work for us, Mr. Wright?”

  “I lost my money in a personal matter.”

  “Personal, as in an investment gone sour, perhaps?”

  Adam sighed. There was nothing he could say that would change the man’s mind.

  Dobbins said to his secretary, “Go ask Trevor if he took the file and failed to inform me.”

  “Yes, sir.” As she turned to leave, Dobbins’ phone rang. The secretary picked it up. “Mr. Dobbins’ office. Oh, good morning, sir. Yes, he’s right here.” She handed him the phone. “It’s Mr. Austin.”

  “I’ve been trying to reach you. Yes, he’s still here. No, I’m sorry, I do not . . . Peter, I must ask that you hear me out . . . Yes. Very well. If you insist.”

  Dobbins set down the phone. He studied Adam for a long moment. “You have thirty days, Mr. Wright. One month to come up with a pair of investments our firm would otherwise not have identified. And not one instant longer.”

  chapter 2

  Kayla was awakened far too early by the ringing of the phone. Her flight from Tanzania had been delayed six hours, and it was after midnight when she finally arrived home. She had then taken her first true bath in months, reveling in such marvels as clean water and a spotlessly tiled bath and lights that worked. When she had emerged, her father had gone to bed. She had made a midnight snack of toast and marmalade and drank in the home’s silence.

  Thankfully, her father’s new wife of nine months was not around. Kayla had only met the woman once. That time, their argument had brought the restaurant to a standstill. The next day, Kayla had left to resume her work in Africa. If the excuse of urgent work had not existed, Kayla would have invented one.

  As she rose from bed, the phone rang again and finally cut off. Her parents had started attending morning chapel the win-ter her mother had become ill. Her father still attended almost every morning. Peter Austin never took calls before church. It was one of their home’s ironclad rules. Kayla made herself a cup of coffee, then returned upstairs to dress. When
she came back downstairs, Peter Austin had returned from church and stood reading the Financial Times at the kitchen counter. He set down his coffee, kissed her forehead, and examined Kayla’s dark suit. “I told you on the way back from the airport. The board will not be able to speak with you today.”

  “If I could just have five minutes—”

  “Kayla.” He addressed the paper instead of his only daughter. “There is no money for you.”

  “We don’t need much.” Kayla had spent much of the night rehearsing the words she intended to use before the board. She had never thought it would be necessary to use them with her own father. “Without the extra funds, we face bankruptcy before Christmas.”

  Peter Austin sighed and turned the page. Sipped his coffee. Shook his head. Sighed again.

  “The robbery shouldn’t mean the ruin of a very good project. The welfare of over a thousand families in Kenya and Tanzania hangs in the balance.”

  “No one denies the value of your work. But none of this matters in the face of our current—”

  “You know it matters, Daddy. Three minutes. Please.”

  Nineteen months earlier, Kayla Austin had returned from working with England’s largest private aid organization with a plan. One that had sparked a passion and a drive in her that had astonished everyone, most especially her father. Together they had presented her plan to the company’s board: set up a trust to run this project, and use the resulting publicity to pro-mote the company’s good name. The board had agreed, with one proviso. Kayla was sent back to Africa with instructions to hire a number two with solid business experience.

  Everything had proceeded swimmingly, until the business manager had vanished. With all their capital. He had stripped the project’s bank accounts and even robbed the office cash box. But the money was not all he had stolen. By then, Kayla had become engaged to the man she was certain was her life’s mate.

  All of it gone in an instant. Grinding her heart into dust.

  Kayla swallowed against the rising gorge. She hated speaking the man’s name. “Geoffrey robbed us blind.”

  “That was ten months ago. Now is not the time—”

  “Now is precisely the time. We’ve almost managed to make a go of it. That’s why I came back now. To show just how close we are. We’ve scaled back and revamped and we’re so close. All we need is the money to see us through this crisis.”