by Mari Carr
Hugo shook his head. “No. I’m going with you.”
“Dammit, Hugo. I told you—”
“I know what you told me, but I’m not going to sit in the car like some damsel in distress. I know how to fire a gun. You go in the front. I’ll approach from the back and wait there. You can search the ground floor on your way to the back door, then let me in. After that, we can go upstairs and search the rest of the house together.”
It appeared Lancelot hadn’t been the only one mapping out a plan during the drive here. He wasn’t crazy about the idea, but at least he’d have the opportunity to enter the house on his own. He was typically very good at sensing whether or not someone was lying in wait, his sixth sense strong.
He hoped that fact remained true tonight because he wouldn’t just be risking his life. He’d be putting Hugo in danger as well.
He simply nodded his assent, then slowly made his way to the front door. Unlike Sylvia’s ranch-style house, this place was a genuine estate situated on a large plot of land. It boasted a large front parlor, a kitchen that was bigger than Lancelot’s entire flat, two bedrooms on the first floor, with four more upstairs.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Hugo skirting the perimeter of the yard, using the maple trees along the edge as cover.
The door was closed and locked. He punched in the code, then slid the door open. Lancelot waited for the report of gunfire, but only silence greeted him. Slipping inside, he moved slowly, with purpose, around corners, searching each room on the ground floor.
The house was still, quiet. Lancelot felt fairly certain whoever had been here was now gone. Even so, he continued on. He unlatched the back door. Hugo, true to his word, had been waiting for him.
Keeping to the shadows, they climbed the stairs, doing a room-by-room search until they were both satisfied they were indeed alone in the house.
Lancelot led the way back to the front room, switching on a light. He went to each of the trail cameras he’d set up—which took stills of any movement in the room—to retrieve the SD cards. He was used to more high tech cameras back home, but these were the best he could find in Charleston and he’d decided they’d do in a pinch.
He opened his laptop and inserted them one after another. “This is why we kept the weapons and all our intel with us in the car. If they were searching for something, they didn’t find it because it wasn’t here.”
Opening the first card, they slowly clicked through a series of still-frame, grainy photos. They revealed a person—most likely male—in a ski mask, searching the house. Lancelot had set up cameras in each of their bedrooms and the front room. From the time stamp on the photos, it was evident the intruder had searched the entire home because there were ten minutes unaccounted for between the man’s presence in the front room and their bedrooms.
Lancelot was nearly through the last set of photos—these taken in the room Hugo was occupying—when something caught his eye.
The intruder was holding a book.
“What’s that?”
One look at Hugo’s face told him they were fucked. The professor had gone white, his eyes suddenly wide. “Merde. Lancelot.”
“What’s that book, Hugo?”
“Poems. Sylvia’s.”
“Jesus fooking Christ!”
“I packed it because I knew there was a chance we might need to speak to her,” Hugo hastened to explain. “I hadn’t read it in a couple of years, and I thought it might be wise to re-familiarize myself with her work.”
Lancelot slammed the lid of his laptop closed. “So basically you just turned on a big fucking neon sign to tell the Trinity Masters we’re talking to Sylvia.”
Hugo looked around the empty house. “Do you think they’ve gone to see her?”
“We gotta get back to her place.”
The two of them raced back to the car, and Lancelot spun tires as he turned the vehicle around in the yard.
He reached for his phone. “I’m calling her.”
Hugo nodded. “If they’ve gone there…if they’ve told her who they are…who we are…”
Lancelot didn’t want to consider the fact that they’d lost her. And not just as their lead, as someone they needed to help them succeed in their mission.
He didn’t want to lose her.
If the Trinity Masters got to her, explained who they were, then issued her an invitation to join…
The thought of Sylvia being placed in an arranged ménage marriage with two bloody American blokes sent his blood pressure spiking, which was a ridiculous response. She wasn’t theirs. She never could be. Yet that didn’t stop him from wanting it.
The phone rang three times, and he started to panic she wasn’t going to answer. Then, finally, her voice.
“Hey, good-looking. I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. Meeting already over?”
Her voice, sweet and warm, wasn’t enough to still the sudden racing of his heart. “Sylvie, we’re coming back.”
He wanted—needed—to say more, just in case the Trinity Masters got there first, but he was struggling to figure out how to drop that bomb over the phone.
“Oh, hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t think I’d see you again until tomorrow. I’m actually not home.”
“Where are you?” he asked, his question capturing Hugo’s attention. The other man frowned.
“I’m headed to Palm Coast, Florida, if you can believe it.”
Lancelot’s blood ran cold. “Why?”
“Alicia called. Asked to see me.”
All bets were fucking off. “Sylvie, turn the goddamn car around now. You can’t go see Alicia—”
“What?” Hugo shouted.
Lancelot didn’t stop yelling into the phone, didn’t bother to shield his words. “She’s not who you think. She’s a murderer. She’s dangerous. Turn around and come back to your house. We’ll meet you there, we’ll explain it all. You’ve got to come home. Now!”
She didn’t reply.
“Sylvie? Sylvia? Hello?!!!”
The line was dead.
“What the fuck is going on?” Hugo asked.
“I think her phone died.” Lancelot slammed his fist against the dashboard. “Goddammit!” He tossed his phone to Hugo. “Click on the tracking app, open it up. We can see if she heard me. If she’s turning her car around.”
Lancelot plugged in the words Palm Coast on the car’s GPS system. Four hours. It was a four-hour drive. Lancelot tried to figure out exactly how long they’d been away from her. Returning to the safe house, searching it, studying the photographs.
Shit. They’d wasted too much time.
Hugo studied the app. “I’ve found her. She’s on US-17. Passing some wildlife management area.”
“Has she stopped? Has she turned around?”
Hugo shook his head. “No.”
She hadn’t heard anything he’d said. None of it. He’d issued the warning, but he’d waited too long, done it too late. And now Sylvia was headed toward a killer.
“How far ahead of us is she?”
Hugo tapped a few buttons on the phone, then cursed. “Two hours.”
Lancelot stomped on the gas, pushing the car up to ninety.
“Lancelot, get a grip on yourself. We don’t know why Alicia called her. She’s clearly fond of Sylvia, cares about her.”
Lancelot shook his head. In his line of work, he’d learned the hard way—too many times—there was no such thing as a coincidence. Somehow, someway, Alicia had found out they were talking to her. There was simply no other explanation. Eric had called him paranoid, and maybe it was true, but Lancelot’s gut told him they’d just done exactly what Hugo had feared from the start.
They’d thrust her into their war.
And they were too far away to protect her from the fallout.
Chapter Twelve
It was closer to 1 a.m. than midnight when Sylvia reached Palm Coast. A cup of bad gas station coffee and an intriguing podcast had kept her awake. Alicia had texted her
an address just after she’d left her house, which was lucky, since her phone died during her call with Lancelot. In her haste to get on the road, she’d forgotten to pack her charger.
Sylvia was sort of sorry she’d agreed to the journey, now that she knew Lancelot and Hugo had been returning to her house. She felt guilty for even thinking that. Alicia was her friend and she’d asked for help. Sylvia had never considered herself the type to choose a man over a friend in need, but…well, damn, she must be more shallow—or horny—than she’d thought. She tried to comfort herself, to allow herself to pretend she was still a good person by blaming her selfishness on the short time frame on this new affair. Regardless, she had been tempted several times to turn the car around.
She was glad when her map told her it was less than a mile to her destination. She crossed a tall bridge over the Matanzas saltwater river that allowed boats to come and go from the inland marina, where tall-masted sailboats and gleaming yachts waited for their wealthy owners to take them out for a pleasure sail or cruise. Despite the late hour, the marina was well lit, and the water reflected and magnified the illumination.
Her destination, the Matanzas Beach Club sat right on the coast, the drive flanked by low palms lit from below with landscape lighting. The building itself was painted deep teal with accents of golden yellow.
Sylvia pulled up under the porte cochère. A valet came around to open her door. Sylvia passed over her keys, leaving her tote with her overnight things in the car, but taking the one she used as a purse. Glass double doors slid open as she approached the entrance. Cool, dry air washed over her, muting the damp heat of outdoors.
A woman in a uniform dress that matched the subdued tropical shades of the resort color scheme approached her as she entered. “Welcome to the Matanzas Beach Club.”
“Thank you, I’m actually here to meet a friend.”
“You must be Ms. Hayden. Please follow me.”
Sylvia was led through the lobby to an outdoor bar set up on a large crescent-shaped terrace that hugged the edge of the circular building. The view was spectacular, looking out not only over the ocean, but the lush and artistically lit grounds of the club, which included several man-made lagoons and verdant plantings.
A curved wooden bar hugged the edge of the building, a man in the resort colors confidently working a cocktail shaker. A handful of people sat on stools at the bar, and a few of the dozen or so tables were occupied by couples or small groups.
Alicia was seated at one of the two-top tables against the railing. She turned at the sound of their steps and rose, a pleased smile on her face. Sylvia smiled in response, and when Alicia held out her arms, she went in for a brief hug and cheek kiss.
“Sylvia, my dear,” Alicia said. “You look wonderful. That color suits you.”
“You look lovely as always,” Sylvia replied. It was true. Alicia was a tall woman, but statuesque, not gangly. She wore red slacks and a black and white dress shirt with a standing collar. Despite the Florida heat, her outfit looked freshly pressed.
“Please, take a seat.” Alicia gestured with the genteel authority that had made Sylvia long to be her when she grew up.
Now that she was older, she knew that she would never be exactly like Alicia. Sylvia was confident and self-assured, but she knew she didn’t radiate authority the way this woman did. Maybe it was from all those years being a teacher, or maybe it was just who Alicia was.
They took their seats, and Sylvia ordered an unsweetened iced tea—she doubted the ability of anyone who wasn’t a native Carolinian to make sweet tea properly. Alicia requested the same.
Alicia leaned back in her chair looking cool and collected. Sylvia now wished she’d stopped somewhere so she could change out of the creased wide-leg pants and boatneck shirt she’d been wearing for hours while she drove.
Brushing aside her momentary feelings of inadequacy, she leaned across the table to touch Alicia’s hand. “First, let me just say I’m so sorry.”
“What for?”
“For your loss. I haven’t seen you in person since your husband passed.”
“Ah, well, your sentiments are appreciated.”
Sylvia blinked and sat back. They’d hadn’t exchanged letters since Alicia’s husband had died, hadn’t even spoken except for that short phone call, and there hadn’t been much emotion in Alicia’s voice then, either.
Alicia cocked her head. “You don’t approve of my emotional reaction.”
Sylvia crossed her legs. “It is not my place, not anyone’s place, to approve or disapprove of another person’s emotions.”
“A lovely sentiment, but naive, don’t you think?” The question wasn’t condescending, but an invitation for her to reply.
“Far from it,” Sylvia said with a smile. “Naive would be to assume that everyone has to react the way I think they should. Naive would be assuming that I can accurately interpret every person’s words, body language, and expression, and use that information to correctly identify the emotion they’re feeling.”
Alicia laughed, a pleased sound. “It’s been far too long since I talked to you. Our conversations give me hope for the future.”
Sylvia thanked the server who brought her iced tea. Alicia ordered a pitcher of sangria before the woman glided away.
They sipped their tea in companionable silence until the server returned with two stemless wine glasses and a glass pitcher of red-wine sangria. Maybe the caffeine was wearing off, but Sylvia felt a little disconnected from reality. She hardly lived with a traditional schedule, since poetry didn’t require going into the office every morning, but even for her, a late-night four-hour drive to go have a drink with a friend in need was abnormal.
Alicia poured, then handed Sylvia a glass. She took it and leaned back, fingers itching for her sketch pad to capture the moment. Not a pencil sketch. This place needed color. Watercolor would have been too pale; she’d need pastels, which, despite the name, would allow her to capture the richness of the colors.
“Tell me what you see with your artist’s eyes,” Alicia said softly.
“Power,” Sylvia replied. “It’s there, waiting. In the sky, in the ocean. A hurricane, a tsunami, would wipe all this away. Every careful human detail could be gone in a moment.”
“Power,” Alicia repeated. “It’s always about power, isn’t it?”
Sylvia turned to face her mentor, her friend. “Alicia, why did you leave Exeter?”
“An intimate question.”
“And one I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t care about you. I was worried. That’s why I had Oscar check that you were all right.”
“Things were, are, changing for me. You know I have my secrets.”
“Secrets by necessity,” Sylvia said. “I understand why you and your husband were not just private, but secretive about your sex life. But you weren’t ashamed.”
“No, secrets from shame are not my way.”
“Are you…are you sick?” Alicia was such a proud woman that a terminal illness, especially one that would rob her of her dignity, would be abhorrent to her. Sylvia had wondered, more than once, if Alicia had left her home so she could die anonymously, away from those who would pity what illness did to her body.
“Sick? No, and I’m sorry if that’s been worrying you.”
Sylvia waited for the other woman to say more, but Alicia merely turned to look out at the view. Alicia had taught her many things, including how to be quiet. How to fight that all-too-human urge to fill a silence. How to listen to hear, rather than listen to respond.
“You know more about me than most,” Alicia said finally. “Perhaps, after my husband, my lovers, you are the person who knows me best.” The way she said it was as if that was a compliment.
Instead of feeling honored that she held such a position, Sylvia felt sad for Alicia because it seemed like a lonely existence.
They sipped their drinks in silence as the moon shimmered over the ocean.
“Secrets and power,” Alicia said a
t last. “An appropriate start to what I fear will be a difficult conversation.”
Frowning over the change in her tone, Sylvia sat forward. “Difficult in what way?”
“You’re not truly naive, but there are truths you don’t know.”
“I’m not afraid of the truth,” Sylvia said softly.
“Do you believe in conspiracy theories?” Alicia asked.
“That’s a non-sequitur.”
“Actually it’s not. There aren’t lizard people running around in human skins, and the moon landing was quite real, but secret societies, powerful men who have worked in secret to shape the world, that is not a theory, but a reality.”
“Secret societies…” One thing that hadn’t occurred to Sylvia was that Alicia had suffered some sort of mental breakdown.
“Think about how many stories there are in history. There is usually a kernel of truth buried in the tale.”
“But there is also fabrication and elaboration. It’s the nature of storytelling.”
“Also true, but there is a secret society, very real and very powerful, that is destroying our world.”
“You mean…like a secret group of oil company CEOs?”
“I’m sure many of the members are soulless proponents of capitalism, but when I say destroying our world, I mean that they keep the playing field unlevel.”
“What do you mean?”
“Power breeds power. The best way for those in power to stay in power is for them to decide who in the next generation is powerful. Members of this society are successful and wealthy—not by their own merit, but because once they are chosen, they are fast-tracked to the best schools, the best jobs.”
“That’s hardly fair.” Sylvia tried to process what Alicia was saying. She sounded bizarre, like a madman ranting on a street corner. But Alicia wasn’t ranting, she was calm and composed, using that same voice she’d used to teach class. But what she was saying couldn’t possibly be real, could it?
“You don’t believe me, and I take that as a compliment.”
“I’m sorry, Alicia, I’m trying to wrap my head around it…”
“You’re a dreamer by nature. I tried to teach you to be a skeptic. To question and analyze. If you accept such a silly-sounding story without questioning it, I would be disappointed.”