Almost Home

by Pam Jenoff

  “Liverpool Street,” a woman’s recorded voice announces. Vance stands and heads for the door. I leap to my feet and follow him from the train and up the escalator. He makes his way up into the main station, from which the regional trains depart. My pulse quickens. Is he going out of the city somewhere to see Duncan? But he continues through the station, taking the underground passage that leads to the far side of the street.

  Outside we pass a handful of large office buildings, the last frontier of the city, lobbies dim and vacant at this time of night except for the security guards. Vance turns off the main thoroughfare onto a winding passageway, no more than a few feet wide, lined with tiny boutiques and pubs. Then, without warning, he stops. I freeze, ducking into a doorway of a closed sandwich shop. My heart pounds. Has he noticed me? He bends to tie his shoelace. Straightening, he lights a cigarette, its tip forming a beacon as he continues walking. More cautious now, I hang back farther, trying not to let the soles of my low-heeled pumps scrape too loudly against the cobblestones.

  We cross a wide thoroughfare, then start down another narrow street. A minute later Vance turns right at another broad roadway and I follow, relieved by the anonymity that the noisy traffic and pedestrians provide. “Brick Lane,” a sign at the corner reads. Spicy smells from a series of curry restaurants on the far side of the street tickle my nose and I stifle back a sneeze. Two blocks up, Vance stops and enters an unmarked building, letting the door slam shut behind him.

  Carefully, I step out of the doorway, studying the building. It is a brick low-rise, indistinguishable from the buildings on either side, an empty shop on the ground floor, three stories of flats above. Is this where Vance and Duncan live? My heart sinks as I study the half-dozen buzzers beside the front door. I would not know which one to ring even if I dared. And I cannot wait all night on this dark, deserted street for him to emerge again. Damn.

  The door of the building opens once more and I leap back to hide. It is not Vance, but two shorter men walking arm in arm in the opposite direction down the street, not seeing me. I notice then a pounding beneath my feet, like the rumbling of a subway train only more rhythmic and distinct. Music, I realize. Straining my ears, I can just hear the techno song coming through the closing door to the building. I walk to the door and open it. The music comes louder now, pulsing up a dilapidated stairwell.

  I start down the stairs. At the bottom is a large, muscled man in a tank top, wearing more jewelry on his right ear alone than I possess. He looks down at me. “This is a private club.”

  I should have worn a skirt. “I’m sure you could make an exception. For me.” I smile as flirtatiously as I can, but he looks unimpressed.

  “Private club,” he repeats.

  I reach into my bag, pulling out all of the money I can grab. I look down at the handful of notes. It cannot be more than eighty pounds. I hand the money to him and smile hopefully.

  “You’re not someone’s wife, are ya?” I shake my head vigorously. He shrugs. “All right. But I don’t think this is your type of place.” He takes the money and steps aside, opening the door behind him. Inside, I blink my eyes to adjust to the purple haze. The club is cavernous, running at least half a city block, I estimate, though I cannot see the far end. Despite its size, the low ceilings give the place a claustrophobic feel. Most of the room is occupied by a dance floor, bodies writhing to the now-earsplitting techno. I understand then what the bouncer meant about my type of place, why wearing a skirt would not have mattered. The club is almost entirely men, dancing in various states of undress. A quick scan of the room reveals only two women, or what appear to be women, making out in the corner.

  I cross to the bar on the left side of the room, feeling the stares as I pass. “Cosmopolitan,” I say, then survey the room once more. At the far end of the bar, I see Vance, talking to a burly, shirtless man. Striking in his orange coat, he stands out, even here.

  I pay the bartender and take my drink, then head toward Vance, trying not to spill as I weave through the crowds. “Excuse me,” I say as I come up behind him. He does not hear me but continues speaking to the other man, back turned. I touch his shoulder lightly. “Vance Ellis?”

  He jumps, then turns toward me. “Yes…” he replies politely, as if girding himself for another round of praise from a theatergoer, a faint undercurrent of annoyance at being bothered by the public at his favorite haunt. Then recognizing me, his eyes widen. “Jordan. What are you doing here?”

  “I just need a minute of your time. Please.”

  Vance hesitates. “It’s okay, Martin,” he says to the other man.

  As Martin scrutinizes me, I try not to stare at his nipple rings, connected by a gold chain. “If you’re sure. I’ll be right over there.” He pats Vance’s arm and walks a few feet away to a group of dancing men, still eyeing me suspiciously over his shoulder.

  “Mind if I sit down?”

  “Suit yourself.” Vance pulls out a pack of cigarettes, seemingly oblivious to the NO SMOKING sign behind the bar.

  I climb onto the bar stool, then gesture to the three empty shot glasses in front of him. “What are you drinking?”

  “Bourbon.” He waves over the bartender, who places two shots on the counter. Vance slides one of them toward me, then picks up the other. “Bottoms up,” he says, draining his glass. Closer now, I can see the dark circles under his eyes, a tiny smudge of greasepaint at his left temple.

  I tilt my head back and down the shot, trying not to gag as the brown liquid scorches the back of my throat. “I thought those were supposed to be bad for your singing voice,” I remark as Vance lights a cigarette.

  “They are,” he replies, taking a long drag. “And I hadn’t smoked for eight years.” He exhales. “Until yesterday.” His voice is heavy with recrimination.

  I fight the urge to swat away the smoke that drifts in front of me. “You mean since Duncan left.” He does not respond. “Why did he go?”

  “As if you didn’t know.”

  “I really don’t. That’s why I’ve come to you. I’m sorry to bother you like this. But I have to find him. It’s very important.”

  “I can’t help you.”

  I reach out and touch his arm. “Vance, I’m not the enemy. I don’t want to hurt Duncan or to interfere with your lives in any way. But I’m working on a very important investigation, one that could save lives. And Duncan has information I desperately need.”

  He pulls his arm away. “So you’re asking me to trade his life for theirs? Forget it.”

  “Trade his life? I don’t understand.”

  Vance grinds out his cigarette and motions to the bartender once more, not speaking until two more shots of bourbon are placed before us. “Look, after you met with Duncan, he came home as scared as I’ve ever seen him. I haven’t seen him look that afraid well…not in a very long time.” He raises the shot glass, downing the bourbon with ease. “He said he needed to go and I helped him get the hell out. He didn’t say why and I didn’t ask. He won’t be back.”

  I can tell that he will not risk his lover’s safety by telling me where he went. “Why do you think he was so afraid?” I ask instead. He shrugs. “Vance, if you know something, anything…”

  He bites his lip. “It has to do with that business at college with Jared.”

  “Jared.” My breath catches. Vance thinks I’m here about Jared, as Duncan did originally. I start to tell him that’s not what I wanted to talk to Duncan about, then stop again. Let him keep going, a voice inside me says. “What business?”

  “You really don’t know, do you?” he asks and there is a hint of smugness in his voice. His college lover shared a confidence that mine did not. “The last year at college, Jared came to Duncan to ask for help with something in his research that troubled him.”

  “But I don’t understand.” This time I cannot keep myself from interrupting. “Jared was a historian and Duncan read finance and economics.”

  He nods. “It seemed a little odd to me at the time
, too. I really didn’t understand much about it. But it seems that in researching war criminals, Jared found something about Nazi money.”

  “Gold?” I blurt out. Legends of a lost cache of Nazi treasure have circulated around the department for years.

  But Vance shakes his head. “I don’t think so. At least not that Duncan mentioned. It was more like a large bank account of some sort. Anyhow, Jared discovered information that suggested the bank account was still active, in use somewhere. So he came to Duncan, who was a finance major, to track it down.” He pauses, taking a long drag on his cigarette.

  “What did they find?”

  He shrugs. “I don’t know. They wrote some sort of paper on their findings and they were supposed to give it at a conference but they never did. Anyway, something happened there, and Duncan came back terrified. He said he told Jared that he was done with the research. But Jared insisted, said he would publish it alone, that Duncan couldn’t stop him.”

  “What happened after that?”

  “Well after, you know…” He trails off and a guilty expression flickers across his face. His lover is still alive and mine is not. “After graduation, Duncan seemed to relax. It never really came up again.” His face darkens. “Until now.”

  “Any idea why he would get scared again now?”

  He shrugs. “I assume it has to do with your questions.”

  I didn’t ask Duncan about Jared, I want to say. But I can’t tell Vance that without going into the Infodyne investigation. “Anyway, that’s all I know,” he adds.

  I hesitate. He is telling the truth. “Thank you, Vance.” I can see his eyes working, wondering if he has said too much, if his words could somehow hurt his partner. “If you speak with Duncan, tell him that I’m thinking of him and that I hope he’s all right. That I’m sorry.” I pull out a pen and scrawl my cell phone number on a napkin. “I already gave Duncan my mobile but here it is just in case. He can reach me at this number if he wants to, anytime, day or night.” I can tell from the way he shoves the paper in his shirt pocket that Duncan will never see it. I stand to leave and Vance turns from me, reaching for another cigarette. “Oh, one other question. The conference Jared and Duncan went to: Do you remember where it was?”

  His eyes drift upward, remembering. “Spain, I think. I remember being mad that I had rehearsals and couldn’t get away to go with him. Barcelona maybe, or Madrid.”

  Madrid. My heartbeat quickens. I reach for the second bourbon shot, which sits untouched on the bar, and down it in one gulp. “Tell Duncan to call me,” I repeat.

  I start for the door, my mind racing. I’d assumed that Duncan’s disappearance had to do with Infodyne. But Vance thinks it’s related to Jared and whatever they were planning to present at Madrid. Could Duncan possibly know something about the reason Jared was killed as well? The room, suddenly too warm, seems to wobble around me. Everything is turning out to be different than I thought. I asked Duncan about Infodyne and he immediately thought of Jared. We asked Lord Colbert about Jared, and the backlash came over Infodyne. Something exceedingly strange is going on.

  “Leaving so soon?” the bouncer asks, his tone mocking. I do not answer. As I climb the stairs my dizziness grows. What is wrong with me? I shouldn’t feel this drunk from two shots.

  I struggle to remain upright as I reach the street. It has begun to rain, thick drops smacking against the ground, freeing earthy smells from the pavement. I tilt my face upward, hoping that the cool wetness will revive me, but it does not help—I am dizzier than ever. I’ve got to find a taxi and get home. I make my way between two parked cards, holding on to the hood of one for support and looking out into the street. A horn blares loudly. I leap back as a truck barrels down the road, just inches from where I stand.

  The buildings are spinning more quickly now, my vision growing blurry at the edges. I’ve got to get help. Blindly, I reach for my cell phone. Who should I call? Sarah cannot help me now and I don’t want Mo to find out where I’ve been. I start to hit the button to call Chris. Then thinking better of it, I hang up and redial. The phone on the other end of the line rings once, then again. “Pick up, dammit,” I whisper. Sebastian’s voice mail answers. “It’s Jordan,” I say. The ground seems to tilt beneath me. “I found something, uh…” It is becoming hard to speak. I have to tell him where I am. “I-I’m on Brick Lane,” I manage, looking up desperately for a sign to give him a crossroad. “South of Liverpool Street.” I feel very hot, then freezing cold. I’m going to be sick, I think, racing toward a nearby alleyway as vomit rises in my throat. The drink. There must have been something in the drink. “I need…” Then the ground rises swiftly up to meet me and everything goes black.

  the MAY TERM

  chapter SIXTEEN

  THROUGH THE DARKNESS comes a low, persistent ringing. My alarm clock, I think groggily. As I roll over to turn it off, my outstretched arm smacks something cold and wet. I am abruptly aware of the hard pavement beneath me, the drizzle of rain against my skin. My head pounds. I remember going to the nightclub, my conversation with Vance. What happened next?

  The ringing noise comes again. I grope the ground beside me, closing my hand around my cell phone and bringing it to my head. “Hello?” I manage, inhaling the smell of fresh vomit one the ground beside me.

  “Jordan, can you hear me?” Through the haze, I recognize Sebastian’s voice. “Are you all right?”

  “I-I don’t…” I falter.

  “Stay on the line,” he orders. “Do not hang up.”

  “Okay.” I press the phone weakly to my ear. A few minutes later I hear footsteps. I try to turn my head toward the sound but cannot. Out of the corner of my eye, I see a figure approaching from the shadows. Panicking, I reach for my gun, but my movements are slow, as if I am swimming through mud.

  Then the figure is above me. I struggle to sit up. “Don’t move!” a familiar voice hisses.

  “Sebastian!” I cry weakly.

  “Shhh!” He crouches low, looking in either direction. I can see that his gun is drawn. “How did you…?”

  “Don’t try to talk.” He places his hand underneath my neck and lifts me gently, as though I am a child.

  A sharp pain shoots up from the base of my skull. “Ouch!” I yelp.

  Sebastian lowers me once more and I notice how the rain sticks his hair to his forehead, making him look almost boyish. “Is it your back?”

  “My head. It feels like someone used it as a football.”

  He runs his hand over the back of my head. “There’s a bump. You must have hit it when you fell. Did you trip on something?”

  “Hardly,” I reply, weak but indignant. “I got dizzy out of nowhere. I’m pretty sure I was drugged.”

  “What?” he exclaims, forgetting his own admonition to be quiet. “By whom? And what are you doing in this neighborhood anyway?”

  “One question at a time.” I swallow. Where to begin? My head throbs. “I was here talking to Lauder’s partner, trying to get a lead on where he went.”

  “I thought you were going to talk to him at the theater.”

  I swallow over the dryness in my throat. “I tried, but I couldn’t get him alone so I had to follow him and he went to some sort of gay club. When I went to leave, I felt sick. I must have managed to vomit before I passed out.” I reach for my waist, relieved to find that my gun is still there.

  “Jesus, Jordan, you could have been killed! We’ve got to get you to a hospital.” He crouches lower, examining the back of my head more closely. Despite the pain, I am aware of his closeness, the warmth of his hand against my neck. “There’s no blood, but you could have a concussion.”

  I shake my head. “No hospital. I’m fine.” Grabbing Sebastian’s arm, I struggle to sit up. “If I’m hospitalized, it’s going to get Mo all stirred up.” I see his face working as he considers my point. “She’ll want to know what I was doing and why. It could set us back weeks, if not get us shut down for good.”

  “Okay,” he concedes,
helping me to my feet. “But we should get out of here in case whoever did this comes looking for you. Can you walk?” He puts his arm around me and I lean on him for support as we walk. I look like a mess, I am sure, not to mention the smell of sick and dirt from the pavement.

  At the corner he hails a taxi and helps me into the back. I slump against the seat as he leans forward and speaks to the driver. “How long was I out?” I ask again, as we speed through the rain-slicked streets of East London.

  “About twenty-five minutes, give or take. I found you as quickly as I could.” I start to ask where we are going. Then I lean back and close my eyes, too tired to care.

  “Hey.” Sebastian leans over, pressing his hand against my brow. “Stay with me, all right?”

  I nod. “Just resting.”

  A few minutes later I feel the cab slow, turning one corner, then another, feeling its way through unfamiliar streets. I open my eyes as we stop in front of a warehouse building and look at Sebastian quizzically. “Where are we?”

  “Docklands. This is my flat,” he explains as he pays the driver. “It’s not that far from where you went down, so I thought it made sense to come here. We can go to yours if you’d rather.”

  My shoulders sag with weariness. “This is fine.” We do not speak as a creaky grated elevator carries us to the fifth floor. Inside, Sebastian’s flat is an open loft, but with none of the polish that Chris’s had. The wood floors are old and splintered and there is no furniture except for a mattress in the corner. “I haven’t lived here long,” he explains. “I bought the place unfinished, hoping to do it up. But with all of the traveling…”

  “I understand,” I reply, thinking of my own bare apartment in Washington. I walk to the broad windows that cover the far wall. The buildings across the street are lower set, allowing for a panorama of the river, the city illuminated on the far bank. “The view is nice.” The rubbery sensation returns to my legs and I sink to the edge of the mattress. There is a blue cardigan at the foot of the bed I am certain belongs to Sophie.