Retribution (#3)

by M. M. Mayle

  RETRIBUTION

  THE SECOND CHANCES TRILOGY

  BOOK THREE

  A NOVEL BY

  M. M. MAYLE

  —INDIAN RIVER INK—

  ALSO BY M. M. MAYLE

  REVENANT RISING

  RESURGENCE

  RETRIBUTION

  Copyright © 2012 by M. M. Mayle.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,

  scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form

  without the written permission of the author.

  Published in the United States of America.

  This book is a work of fiction. The literary insights

  and perceptions contained herein are based on experience;

  all names, characters, places, organizations,

  and incidents are either the product of the author’s

  imagination or used fictitiously.

  ISBN: 1467926884

  ISBN-13: 9781467926881

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-62111-183-2

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2011960514

  CreateSpace, North Charleston, SC

  …Payback’s a bitch.

  —Various

  CONTENTS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT PAGE

  DEDICATION

  PREFACE

  ONE: Midafternoon, August 14, 1987

  TWO: Morning, August 15, 1987

  THREE: Late morning, August 15, 1987

  FOUR: Early afternoon, August 15, 1987

  FIVE: Midafternoon, August 15, 1987

  SIX: Early evening, August 15, 1987

  SEVEN: Evening, August 15, 1987

  EIGHT: Morning, August 16, 1987

  NINE: Early afternoon, August 16, 1987

  TEN: Morning, August 17, 1987

  ELEVEN: Late afternoon, August 17, 1987

  TWELVE: Evening, August 19, 1987

  THIRTEEN: Morning, August 28, 1987

  FOURTEEN: Early afternoon, August 28, 1987

  FIFTEEN: Late afternoon, August 28, 1987

  SIXTEEN: Midday, September 13, 1987

  SEVENTEEN: Late night, September 13, 1987

  EIGHTEEN: Early morning, September 14, 1987

  NINETEEN: Noon, September 14, 1987

  TWENTY: Early morning, September 15, 1987

  TWENTY-ONE: Late morning, September 15, 1987

  TWENTY-TWO: Midafternoon, September 15, 1987

  TWENTY-THREE: Late afternoon, September 15, 1987

  TWENTY-FOUR: Early evening, September 15, 1987

  TWENTY-FIVE: Early morning, September 16, 1987

  TWENTY-SIX: Midday, September 19, 1987

  TWENTY-SEVEN: Late afternoon, September 19, 1987

  TWENTY-EIGHT: Early evening, September 19, 1987

  TWENTY-NINE: Evening, September 19, 1987

  THIRTY: Afternoon, September 26, 1987

  THIRTY-ONE: Late evening, September 26, 1987

  THIRTY-TWO: Midmorning, September 28, 1987

  THIRTY-THREE: Midday, September 28, 1987

  THIRTY-FOUR: Afternoon, September 28, 1987

  THIRTY-FIVE: Evening, September 28, 1987

  THIRTY-SIX: Late evening, September 28, 1987

  THIRTY-SEVEN: Dawn, September 29, 1987

  THIRTY-EIGHT: Early morning, September 29, 1987

  THIRTY-NINE: Morning, September 29, 1987

  FORTY: Afternoon, September 29, 1987

  FORTY-ONE: Late afternoon, September 30, 1987

  FORTY-TWO: Late afternoon, October 3, 1987

  FORTY-THREE: Early evening, October 3, 1987

  FORTY-FOUR: Morning, October 8, 1987

  FORTY-FIVE: Early afternoon, October 8, 1987

  FORTY-SIX: Afternoon, October 8, 1987

  FORTY-SEVEN: Early morning, October 9, 1986

  FORTY-EIGHT: Late afternoon, October 15, 1987

  FORTY-NINE: Dusk, October 15, 1987

  FIFTY: Early evening, October 15, 1987

  FIFTY-ONE: Evening, October 15, 1987

  FIFTY-TWO: Night, October 15, 1987

  FIFTY-THREE: Night, October 15, 1987

  FIFTY-FOUR: Deepening night, October 15, 1987

  FIFTY-FIVE: Late night, October 15, 1987

  FIFTY-SIX: Approaching midnight, October 16, 1987

  FIFTY-SEVEN: Midnight, October 16, 1987

  FIFTY-EIGHT: Just after midnight, October 16, 1987

  FIFTY-NINE: Early hours, October 16, 1987

  SIXTY: Early hours of October 16, 1987

  SIXTY-ONE: Late morning, October 16, 1987

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  PREFACE

  The only other time Nate Isaacs felt this dependent on the mercy of strangers was that long-ago night when he went looking for help in the suffocating darkness of Northern Michigan. On that occasion, he at least had his own transportation. Here, within the artificial darkness that descended following the actualization of his worst fears, he’s not only denied an independent means of seeking help, he’s obstructed by the help that has arrived.

  — ONE —

  Midafternoon, August 14, 1987

  On a mid-August Friday afternoon in Manhattan, the staff is just going through the motions, more focused on how they’ll be spending the weekend than anything else. That includes Nate, who buzzes Lillian, the office manager, and instructs her to send everyone home and close up for the day.

  At home, Nate leafs through the mail, ignores anything resembling yet another invitation to a house party in Sagaponak or extended stay on the Vineyard. He similarly spurns phone messages from other ambitious hostesses and a couple of former fuck buddies who just won’t give up. He goes to the kitchen for a beer, eyes the phone there, pretends he’s not hoping it will ring with an overseas call even though it’s too early to hear from Amanda.

  Everything he sees increases longing. He avoids the breakfast table setting where he first told Amanda he loved her and moves into the library, where it’s impossible not to recall her teary-eyed reaction to the Klimt portraits on her first visit there. He abandons that evocative atmosphere for the study, where he’s immediately reminded of Amanda’s commonsense approach to his bizarre accumulation of puzzle pieces and her deft hand at assembling them into workable shape—into what was, for a time, believable shape. Dwelling on that memory tempts opening a locked desk drawer and examining her precise documentation of the aborted Hoople Jakeway project, as it’s now thought of.

  Since the Paris interlude when a major roadblock and a quest for basic sanity combined to suspend the project, no one’s been in touch with Brownell Yates, the freelance journalist. But lack of encouragement’s not apt to lessen the writer’s conviction that Hoople Walking Crow Jakeway is responsible for a trio of linked murders and hell-bent on committing more. When has Brownie ever been swayed once he’s determined to turn fiction into fact?

  Nate glances at the desk phone, considers checking in with Brownie now—just for old time’s sake, say—and stifles the impulse as negating everything said to Amanda toward convincing her to back off. He’s still eying the phone, strengthening his resolve, when it rings.

  It’s only Lillian letting him know the office is secured for the weekend and a few late-breaking faxes have been forwarded to his home number. At the conclusion of the call he pushes away from the desk as if it’s about to burst into flame.

  “Okay, that’s enough of that,” he says under his breath, forgetting for the moment that the housekeeper is through for the day and there’s no one else around to overhear.

  He returns to the kitchen, where the only debate is about making himself a sandwich—calling it late lunch or early dinner—or descending to the lower level for the workout he’s blown off for the past two days.

  Workout wins. There are no Am
anda associations on the lower level of the triplex. He’s halfway downstairs with a fresh beer when the phone rings again. It’s still too early for Amanda to call, so he lets the machine pick up and keeps going.

  He strips down to boxers, laces up cross-trainers and begins with the Nordic Track. He sets it to lowest resistance, negates what little effort he does put forth by sucking on the beer at regular intervals. Finished with that exercise in idiocy, he’s contemplating a full range of free weights when the phone rings again.

  “Shit!” He steps around the weights, hangs onto what’s left of the beer, and lunges for the wall phone although it’s still too soon to hear from England. But it is Amanda, and she’s bursting with news of the wedding celebration.

  “It’s not over, is it?” Nate looks at the large industrial wall clock and calculates the time in Kent as approaching nine p.m., an unheard of hour for a celebrity-studded affair to be winding down.

  “Heavens no. It’s just starting.”

  “What do you mean? Was the ceremony delayed? Did something—”

  “Everything went exactly as planned with no delays, no disruptions, no departures from schedule, so when I says it’s just starting, I mean the fun part’s just starting because the garden party portion was dull as dishwater and dinner was kind of a bore until the balloons went up, the kids and dogs got loose, and Idella did her set and Current Events began kicking major ass, although I guess “The Hokey Pokey” can’t really be considered major . . . omigod, the balloons!”

  “I was beginning to wonder if—”

  “That was incredible! Out of sight! I could scarcely believe my eyes and neither could anyone else—believe their own eyes, I mean—when we first saw them this morning.”

  “But did they work?”

  “To keep flying paparazzi away? They sure as Shinola did. We could hear helicopters in the distance, but they never got close enough to get any pictures, and once the guests figured out the balloons weren’t up there just for color and spectacle, I heard a few jokesters wonder if there might be snipers on the roof to discourage parachuters.”

  “What was Colin’s take when he found out it was my doing? What was his reaction, do you know?”

  “I really can’t say. If he objected I didn’t hear about it.”

  Amanda rattles on with a full rundown of the day’s events, forgetting he’s somewhat in the loop for having received her daily updates during the planning stages of the event. She breathlessly recites a partial guest list that includes many of the brightest shining stars in the field of entertainment and the worthiest notables of associated industries.

  He smiles at this reminder of their first real date at Tavern on the Green, where she seemingly identified everyone but the wait staff. He hadn’t the heart to interrupt her enthusiasm then, and he doesn’t now, until he stops to wonder why, if she’s been looking forward to the fun part of the program, she’s not where the action is instead of on the phone with him. He’s about to ask her when she explains there was a break in the action.

  “First Laurel came in the house and then Colin followed a few minutes later. Tell me that wasn’t prearranged and who could blame them? I mean, they’ve been surrounded all day, even when they took an earlier break out by the terrace where they appeared to be in their own little world and unaware of the onlookers.”

  “Where are they now? Where are you?”

  “I’m in Laurel’s office, on her private line and they’re in the kitchen all engrossed in each other again. I don’t think they even noticed when I tiptoed by on the way to the back stairs.”

  “How are you holding up?”

  “Other than for missing you a whole lot, I’m fine, but I don’t think I’ll have trouble sleeping on the flight back tomorrow.”

  “Do you know yet whose plane you’ll be on?”

  “Whichever one leaves earliest and that’ll probably be David’s.”

  “You’ll let me know.”

  “You have my promise, boyfriend. I’ll call back as soon as I know for sure.”

  “I’m counting the hours.”

  “So am I. I so wish you had been here today—been nearby in London. I’d be so happy if I knew I was going home to you in a little while.”

  “Amanda . . . honey . . . you are. Now go back to the party and enjoy yourself. That’ll make the time go faster.”

  “Nate?” she says after a noticeable pause.

  “Yeah, babe.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about the balloons? In advance, I mean.”

  “I wanted you to be surprised too. I wanted to imagine the dazzled look on your face.”

  “Is that the only reason?”

  “Do I need another one? I love that face of yours and how it looks when you’re all stirred up about something, so indulge my imagination.”

  “I will,” she says, “especially the next time I see you.”

  He smiles broadly at what that innuendo must be doing to her cheek color. “I love you,” he says as easily as he’s ever been able to say it. She replies in kind with the sparkle returned to her voice.

  Beer forgotten, Nate completes a legitimate workout, ignores the strictly functional shower on this level in favor of the luxurious one adjoining the master bedroom, where he last engaged in water sports with Amanda.

  Relieved in a way he can’t yet identify—not just by workout-generated endorphins—he’s in unusually high spirits when he puts on pajamas last worn by Amanda and returns once more to the kitchen. Here, he has to rummage through two freezers before he finds a meal that fits his mood, then make another trip to the lower level for a wine that will complement beef bourguignon.

  While the meal heats, he takes the wine and a glass into the library and drinks to Gustav Klimt and all things erotic and aesthetically realized. After a second glass of wine he decides to eat in here, but has no idea where the small portable dining table is stored. So he returns to the kitchen, and just as well, because the library is too conducive to going overboard.

  He corks the wine and opens a bottle of mineral water to see him through until dinner. From the recycling bin in the back hall he chooses a previously unread periodical at random and would seem to have all elements of his solitary meal under control when the phone rings.

  Although only two hours have passed since Amanda went back to the party, that’s long enough to firm up travel arrangements, isn’t it? And she could be calling now to let him know exactly how many more hours he has to wait, couldn’t she?

  There’s no mistaking her voice when she responds to his hopeful hello, but the effervescence is missing; her delivery is as flat as warm champagne.

  “Please do not say that plans have changed and you won’t be home tomorrow.”

  “All the plans have changed. Everyone’s plans have changed,” she says without inflection.

  “Shit,” he mouths before asking her to just get it over with—to just tell him what happened.

  She takes an audible breath. “You know when I said earlier that first Laurel, then Colin, sneaked off to the house and were having a little breather from all the attention?”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “That wasn’t the case at all. What was really going on . . . Laurel had just learned that her father died this afternoon and Colin was doing his level best to hold her together.”

  “Dammit! I am sorry. Jesus . . . the timing.”

  “Yes, the timing could not be worse. For obvious reasons. And because no one’s in charge. Yesterday was David’s last day as counsel and interim manager. That effectively ended my stint as buffer and—”

  “And miracle worker. But that aside, you have heard of volunteerism, haven’t you?”

  “You think I should?”

  “Take charge? Absolutely. The sooner the better. You know what the priorities are and you’re damn near legendary for making things happen. Use David, use me, use anyone you have to. Meanwhile, what about the wedding guests? Did you make a general announcement—stop the music, c
lose the bar, turn off the lights?” he wonders aloud.

  “No. Nothing that dramatic. Laurel insisted no one be told until absolutely necessary and that included her brothers and sister. She and Colin rejoined the festivities shortly after I did. They danced, he sang to her—heartbreakingly, I now realize—and then Verge performed a set just before the fireworks were set off and no one had any idea anything was wrong.”

  “But you knew.”

  “No. I wasn’t told until the celebration wound down naturally and the buses were leaving . . . wait . . . hold on, here comes Laurel. Do you want to talk to her?”

  He’s not given a chance to refuse because Laurel comes on the line sounding as self-possessed as ever. Eerily so.

  He thinks to express sympathy instead of congratulations and recite the offer standard to any condolence call. “I mean it, Laurel. If there’s anything I can do, anything at all—”

  “There is, as a matter of fact,” Laurel says. “Tomorrow, if you could go to the nursing home and collect my father’s personal belongings, that would be a great help. I’m told the room won’t be reassigned for forty-eight hours, so there’s plenty of time.” She goes on to express particular concern over the family photographs displayed on a windowsill, where they seldom got more than a blank stare. “I’d hate for those to fall into the wrong hands and I’d take care of it myself if I thought news of his death wouldn’t get out and I wouldn’t be besieged if I went there.”

  “Consider it done. And if there’s anything else, do not hesitate to ask,” he says.

  “I won’t, I promise,” she says.

  Amanda comes back on the line, choked up and weepy. “I feel so bad for Laurel. She’s blaming herself . . . she keeps saying over and over that she waited too long.”

  “Am I supposed to know what that means?”

  “Did I forget to tell you Laurel was bringing her father over here immediately after their honeymoon?”

  “You must have forgotten because last I heard, he wasn’t stable enough to be moved.”

  “Well he must have rallied because she got the go-ahead the end of July and decided to postpone because of the wedding. She’ll never forgive herself,” she says, sniffing mightily.