by Jean Chapman
The woman was trying on a bright pink hat covered with red roses.
‘What do you think?’ she asked him.
‘Very nice,’ he said tactfully, ‘pink’s your colour.’
Cannon lingered near a display of shot glasses, embellished with Kentucky Derby in gold. They were the same size as the one he had carefully wrapped in his pocket.
The assistant looked his way. ‘Good morning, sir, are you looking for anything in particular?’
‘I believe there is also a gift shop inside the Race Track,’ he said.
‘That’s right, sir, and I work there when the races are on.’ The man came closer and their eyes met momentarily, but with swift mutual understanding. ‘You are interested in that shop?’ he asked.
‘Very,’ Cannon said, and as the lady came towards them, carrying the hat, he added, ‘I’ll wait.’
The purchase completed and the lady seen out of the shop, the man returned to his side.
Cannon put his hand into his pocket but before pulling out the tiny parcel, he made one final check. ‘You had a previous occupation,’ he said.
‘A jockey,’ the man said and as Cannon nodded and handed over the package, asked, ‘this is…?’
‘The message,’ Cannon confirmed quietly as more customers walked in.
‘It will be understood?’
Cannon nodded emphatically. The tiny unique glass bearing the name The Trap in black letters had been the cause of much leg-pulling and banter in Cannon’s bar. Austin had demonstrated how a shot should be tossed back in one swallow. He was the only one ever to have drunk from it. Cannon had never pursued the idea of having glasses with names on, judging them too expensive. This sample was a one-off.
‘You might like to call again,’ the ex-jockey said, ‘new things come in every day or so.’
Cannon drove back to the hotel, wondering just how the message would be put into Austin’s hands. When, how, and if, it might lead to an early meeting. He wondered where Austin was at that moment.
Then, as he neared their hotel again, Babs became his chief concern. How she was going to get through that day’s reunion, he had no idea. He supposed it depended how her grandfather and her sister reacted to, or even believed, the story Charlie had volunteered to go in first to tell.
CHAPTER 16
They reached the vicinity of White Picket Ranch just before midday, passing under a wooden archway intricately carved with horses’ heads and the name of the place. The whiteness of the fences was heightened by the vast fresh green meadows and copses they enclosed. The homestead, visible, but still far in front of them, was like a sprawling miniature which grew larger with every minute.
This, Cannon could see, was a place that had been loved and cared for over many years. The expansive white ranch house was like a Hollywood film set. A desirable, substantial property a realty agent could say with complete honesty. There must, he thought, be security cameras.
Charlie had opted to sit in the back with Babs. ‘We’re nearly there,’ he said, then asked quietly, ‘you all right? You are remembering to breathe?’
She made a noise that was half sob, half laugh, but still she did not speak. She had not spoken since they left the hotel parking lot. Cannon wondered if she was remembering how she had ridden past this same white fencing when she was a girl and had felt she was flying.
‘There’s an old fire engine bell under the porch near the door,’ she said, ‘well, there used to be …’
‘We’ll soon see,’ Charlie said, ‘we’re nearly there, and then the reunion of a lifetime.’
‘I am not sure I can go through with …’ Babs suddenly sounded panic-stricken. ‘We could go back, we could …’
‘Think of Jonathan,’ Cannon said, ‘his whereabouts, his safety.’
‘And be thankful you have someone left to be reunited with,’ Charlie said bluntly.
It sounded harsh, it was harsh, but it was the truth.
‘Yes, yes, but we should have telephoned – prepared them.’ Her voice fell to a whisper, as she decided, ‘It would have been better if I had died, had drowned in a river in Thailand.’
‘Don’t … you … ever … say … that! Ever!’ Charlie again spaced his words like hammer blows on his anvil. ‘Now,’ he exclaimed as Cannon stopped the car right in front of the porch, ‘we’ll play it as we planned.’
In the momentary silence that followed they both heard her swallow.
Whether there was a bell hanging in the porch, they did not find out for as Charlie got out of the car, the front door opened and a man in riding chaps, carrying a Stetson came out, closing the door firmly behind himself.
‘You looking for someone?’ he called as he strode towards them.
Charlie walked just as purposefully to meet him. ‘I’d like to see Mr Tom Beale,’ he said.
‘Is it about this property?’ he asked. ‘You need to deal first through the agent. No casual enquiries permitted.’
‘No, it’s a more personal matter,’ Charlie said. ‘Is Mr Beale at home?’
‘And you are?’
‘We’ve come from England specially to see Mr Beale and Miss Jane Beale on a personal family matter,’ Charlie said firmly.
‘Really?’ The man looked inquisitively towards the car. ‘Well, OK. I’ll let them know you’re here, and your names?’
‘My name’s Charlie Brown, farrier by trade …’
The man glanced at the thin white gloves Charlie still wore, but got no further as another voice called from the porch.
‘What is it, Don?’
An elderly, white-haired, tall man walked out into the sunshine.
Babs gasped. ‘That’s my grandpa,’ she whispered, ‘that’s … that’s …’
‘Stay in the car, we don’t want to give him a heart attack. I’ll tell you when,’ Cannon said, climbing out of the car and closing the door firmly behind himself. ‘Is it Mr Tom Beale?’ he called.
‘What is this?’ Tom Beale asked. ‘Who are you?’
The old man looked towards his man. ‘Don,’ he ordered with a meaningful jerk of his head. Don nodded, understanding, and went away to the left of the property, his long stride covering the ground quickly. Cannon had no doubt he was fetching reinforcements. This old man was expecting trouble, trouble he expected to be able to deal with, but he had no idea of the shock he was in for.
‘I’ll sit back in the car with the lady,’ Cannon said, ‘but would you listen to what my friend here has to say? Perhaps you might sit on the porch together, listen in comfort?’
Tom Beale glanced back to the porch. ‘Sure, why not,’ he said, and before there was more said, had gone back to where the rocking chairs stood, reached up and clanged a bell which Cannon had no doubt at all had been an alarm bell from an old fire engine. He almost grinned, he liked people with spirit, particularly old folk. This old boy was taking no chances.
‘We’ll have coffee, please, Lucas, and the usual,’ Tom Beale to the hefty black American who answered the call.
‘How many for, boss?’ Lucas asked.
‘Two for starters,’ he replied.
Cannon felt a tactical retreat to keep Babs company while this conversation took place was the best option.
‘Charlie…?’ Babs said as he joined her.
‘As we planned,’ Cannon replied, ‘better for your grandfather to be sitting down.’
‘Is this the right way?’ she asked. ‘I sit here, while a stranger …’
‘Charlie’s no stranger to loss,’ Cannon emphasized, ‘let’s just be patient and watch.’
The minutes stretched out, and with the sun high in the sky and the shade in the porch deep, there was little they could make out, just vague figures. Lucas came out twice with trays. They saw him linger but then, each time, he went back inside and closed the door.
Cannon noted some movement to the left of the house, a swirl of dust, then a truck drove out, passed them and towards the entrance gates. Don reappeared with another man in ri
ding gear. Walking to the porch steps, they sat, one on each side.
Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Cannon thought, a good matching pair, and had no doubt that at the entrance to White Picket Ranch, there were more men just sitting and waiting in a truck.
It was twenty minutes – it felt like twenty days – when the two men on the steps suddenly rose, along with the breathing rate of the two watching from the car. Tom Beale again emerged from the shadow of the porch, coming slowly down the steps, he indicated the two men should stay put, then turned to wait for Charlie.
The two looked like men on a moon landing, Cannon thought, as if uncertain of the ground beneath their feet, as they came so slowly towards the car. Distance, like time, seemed stretched to impossible lengths. As they came nearer, Cannon looked to Charlie for some clue as to how it had gone, but his face was impassive.
Cannon walked round and helped Babs out of the car, and they stood together waiting. He realized that beyond this point they had not planned, it all rested now on the meeting of Babs and Tom Beale. When they were within two paces of each other, Tom Beale stopped, staring, shaking his head. Disbelieving?
‘Babs?’ he said.
‘Grandpa,’ she said and held out her hands pleadingly, for forgiveness, for recognition?
Beale took a step closer and Cannon thought he heard him mutter, ‘It is.’ Then he reached out. Slowly, wonderingly, she went to him. There was a very gentle but all-encompassing quality to that embrace. It was an embrace to encompass a lost lifetime.
Cannon felt tears come to his eyes as he saw Babs reach up to hold her grandfather’s face between her hands.
‘You always did that when you were a little girl,’ Tom Beale said, and his voice broke as he added, ‘even when you were so small …’
‘I had to stand on a chair.’
‘All those lost years … all that lost time.’ He pushed her away so he could look at her. ‘You are so like your mother, I would never have doubted …’
The old man’s piercing blue eyes now moved to Cannon and he held out a free hand to him.
‘John Cannon, I am forever in your debt, yours and Charlie’s – you’re good men, I’ve learned that much.’ Emotion seemed about to get the better of him, but he shook it off. ‘Come, let’s get out of this darned sun,’ he said aggressively.
Still with his arm around his granddaughter, Tom led the way back to the porch, then still holding Babs’s hand, he went to the tray with bottles and glasses. At the first rattle of the glasses, Lucas was there with them.
Cannon perceived that, whatever else, Tom Beale had some loyal, caring, employees.
‘Bourbon for these two, I think,’ he said, then asked, ‘Is Jane still in the kitchen?’
‘She is, boss,’ Lucas replied, ‘you want I …’
‘No, I think me and this young lady should go and see her there. We’ll have our drinks when Jane joins us out here.’
‘Make that now, then Gramps,’ a voice said from the doorway and a wheelchair appeared at the top of the gentle ramp, then was skilfully guided down to join them.
A middle-aged woman, who Cannon felt was so upright even in her chair, that statuesque, composed and beautiful, the words Babs had used to describe the sister she had left behind, were still very true.
‘We seem to have many visitors, and to me as I came through, they sound English. Are we having some of Lucas’s famous mint juleps?’ she asked.
When she received no answer, she wheeled herself a little nearer, into the circle and asked, ‘Or is there something wrong?’
‘No, not wrong,’ Tom Beale said, ‘just the opposite. Something … well … miraculous has happened.’ He led Babs by her hand and drew her towards her sister. ‘Do you see who this is?’
‘You’re …’ she began, leaning forward, frowning, ‘you know what, you’re very like a picture I have in my bedroom, of my mother.’
‘That’s what Grandpa said.’
‘You a relation? Grandpa!’ Jane repeated the word with a laugh. ‘The only other person who … but that’s not possible.’ She looked towards her grandfather who nodded his head.
‘Babs?’ she whispered. ‘My sister? But she drowned in the Far East.’
‘I never went to the Far East, I only ever went to England,’ Babs said.
‘But we looked for you, had people searching … Spracks, that man who came here – who’s apparently here again. Oh!’ she gasped. ‘You’ve come with him!’
‘No!’ The denial was a shout and she strode away to the edge of the porch. Cannon knew the reason for her vehemence, and knew beyond any doubt the others must be told to ever make sense of it all: their presence in Kentucky, and how it would affect their lives and future plans.
‘Babs, I think you should tell everyone exactly what did happen,’ he said gently but firmly, and pulled a chair up to complete a rough kind of circle. ‘I remember you told me how clever the man was, offering you the opportunity to work for him and oversee the birth of the foals from the mares served by your grandfather’s stallion …’
‘“Annuity”. I remember all that well enough,’ Tom Beale said.
‘Yes.’ The word was low, for a breath-held moment Babs did not move, but then very slowly she sat down and looking across at her sister, she began, right from the mixed-up, crazy, teenage reasons why she had left with Spracks.
Occasionally there were low gasps and groans from either Tom or Jane, but no word was spoken until she had finished, then Jane startled them all.
‘Please, please forgive me,’ she begged, sounding heartbroken.
‘Forgive you?’ Babs said. ‘You did nothing.’
‘Oh! I did,’ Jane said adamantly, ‘I did. I teased and scoffed at that man. I disliked Kevin Spracks and I let him know it. He did all that to you because of the way I treated him. It was spite because he did not get his way with me, so he took you away, forced himself on you, then told terrible lies, said you were dead.’
‘And put you in a wheelchair,’ Babs whispered.
‘There was no proof,’ Jane said, ‘and I was lucky not to be killed.’
‘Yes,’ Charlie said heavily, ‘you were. My girl was killed – murdered – and by the same method – proof enough for me.’
‘What!’ Tom Beale was on his feet now, only slowly sitting down again as Charlie told a story that was just as painful for him to relate as the one they had just heard from Babs.
‘And this man, this man, is back here!’ Jane exclaimed.
‘“This man” is the father of my son, Jonathan, a son I love dearly, a son I would gladly die for,’ Babs said.
‘And this boy is my great grandson!’ he turned to Charlie. ‘You didn’t tell me about a child.’
‘Babs’s privilege,’ Charlie said, ‘and the boy’s a credit to her.’
Babs had pushed her hand into the back pocket of her jeans and drew out her phone, a few taps and she passed a picture of Jonathan mounted on his horse at the last event they had gone to in England.
‘He’s a real, true horseman,’ she said proudly, ‘and I think …’ She passed the phone from her grandfather to her sister for her to make the judgement.
‘Why, he looks like Grandpa did as a young man,’ Jane said, ‘it’s remarkable.’
‘He’s my great grandson,’ Tom Beale repeated, bending closer to stare at the photograph. ‘Jonathan,’ he tried the name out loud, though softly, tentatively.
Cannon cleared his throat, there were hard facts to be told. ‘Spracks read in the International Racing News of a possible sale of this ranch. It’s felt that some attempt is going to be made, legally or illegally, to try to secure this property for him, or rather, for Spracks.’
‘He’d have to murder the lot of us first,’ Tom Beale declared.
No one contradicted him.
CHAPTER 17
‘So now they want to meet Jonathan,’ Babs said quietly as they left the ranch with promises to return the next day, Babs bringing her belongings to stay in her o
ld home.
‘But where is he? Where is Spracks keeping him?’ she agonized.
‘One thing’s for sure,’ Charlie told her, ‘you don’t harm the goose that lays the golden eggs.’
No, Cannon thought, you just dispose of all those who might stand between you and those golden eggs.
‘I wish you two were going to stay at the ranch as well,’ she said, ‘everyone wanted you to. I’d sorta feel safer.’
‘I wouldn’t worry too much on that score,’ Cannon said as he drove past the truck that had left the house when they first arrived. Two men sat in it, doors wide, rifles on their knees, watching. Cannon raised a hand and was acknowledged by both men. Further along the white fencing, and in either direction, he could see smaller vehicles, jeeps, no doubt with other men keeping watch over the Beale family and their interests.
‘Yes, OK, but where is my son?’ Babs persisted. ‘What do you think Spracks is doing with him?’
‘Keeping him under wraps until he sees the best way to exploit the situation,’ Cannon told her, ‘but that gives us the same time to make contacts, get the lay of the land, and hopefully help put Spracks where he belongs.’
‘Behind bars,’ Charlie said, ‘with the rest of his gang.’
‘Gangs,’ Cannon corrected, ‘two rival gangs, that’s a complication we must never forget,’ and judged now was the time to tell all he knew of Valdes and his gang. He knew this would consist of many ruthless men, who would do anything if the price was right. Most of them would have climbed the ladder from delinquency to street gang, been honed for crime from birth – defensive, touchy, trigger-happy men.
‘I suppose finding Jonathan is a side issue compared with what could be …’ Babs began despairingly.
‘Gang warfare,’ Charlie added, ‘mayhem.’
‘A person’s safety is never a “side issue” for the police,’ Cannon assured her, ‘so don’t think like that.’
‘And come on,’ Charlie said, ‘look how much we’ve done since we arrived.’