Retribution (#3)

by M. M. Mayle

  “Laurel . . . baby . . . take it easy,” Colin says, rising from his chair opposite her.

  “You’re rubber-gloving me!” She stares him down. “And you, of all people, ought to know better!”

  This brings a gasp from the girl clearing the table, whose reaction indicates a lively imagination regarding exotic uses for rubber gloves. A trickle of nervous laughter from the others evaporates into nervous silence.

  “C’mon Nate, do you want us under house arrest? Is that what it’s come to?” Laurel demands.

  “I absolutely understand your impatience with—”

  “If you understood my impatience at all you’d stop beating around the bush and just get on with it.”

  “It’s not about what I want, it’s about what’s deemed prudent under the circumstances.”

  “Fine. Given the present circumstances of a lunatic on the loose that’s bent on assassinating Colin and anyone else who might get in his way, what then is deemed prudent? What would the good Detective Grillo have us do? What recommendations have issued forth from the FBI? From the local law enforcement officials?”

  “As you surmised,” Amanda answers, “as of this morning, because of the personal papers they found mixed in with a collection of old newspaper clippings and magazines, they would prefer you all to remain here behind manned gates—under house arrest as you so aptly put it. That would make their job easier—everyone’s job easier.”

  “Does that mean me too?” Anthony enters from the kitchen, wide-eyed with hope and excitement. “If I have to stay inside the gates I can’t go to school, can I then?”

  “How long have you been listening?” Laurel says.

  “I heard your swears, but I didn’t hear anything really-really bad. I promise. I already knew about the nutter that’s after Dad. Everybody knows about him.” Anthony approaches the table bristling with bravado. “But I’m not scared. No nutter’s gonna get me. I know all the escape routes and a million ways to trick him.”

  Colin’s chiding of the boy is lost in Simon’s squeals as the younger child bursts into the room determined to keep up with his brother, and even more determined to find a place on Nate’s lap.

  “Up! Fix me up!” Simon wails at the top of his lungs until Nate gives in.

  This generates considerable amusement, especially from Amanda. The sight of Nate cowed by a toddler also has the affect of removing the impediment to plain speaking. Over homemade peach ice cream, with both children present, the talk finally turns to how best to ride out the exigency, as Emmet insists on calling it.

  Simon leaves when the ice cream is finished; Anthony drifts away when it’s made clear his schooling won’t be interrupted and no amount of swagger will win him new quarters in the north wing.

  “What was that about, what does he want with the north wing?” Nate refers to Anthony’s little drama.

  “He was promised rooms of his own when it was thought a baby would be squeezing him out of the present nursery setup. The promise is still good, so he’s pushing the envelope a bit—wanting to distance himself from Simon. And from us, safe to say,” Colin answers.

  “Will this be a simple transfer to one of the bedroom suites in the main house or are you going to customize something for him?” Nate asks.

  “I offered Anthony that option when he first approached me about moving as far away as possible—I was placating him, I suppose, distracting him from his disappointment. But I can’t imagine what your interest in this is. Don’t tell me you’re taking up his cause,” Laurel says.

  “Far from it. My interest is in how any proposed custom jobs will be implemented. Are you talking about work that can be done by regular staff or will outsiders be brought in?”

  “When Laurel ran the idea by me, thought was to utilize craftsmen that’ll be working on the oast house conversion,” Colin says.

  “Oh? I thought that project was stalled indefinitely,” Nate says.

  “Only seems that way. The delay’s because the conversion experts we want are best in the business and extremely democratic in the way they go about their business, so we’ve had to wait our bloody turn.”

  “Then a hardship won’t be imposed if you have to wait a little longer.”

  “Yeh, it will. I very much will consider it a hardship if I have to go to the bottom of the waitlist because of this sodding—”

  “Background checks could be run,” Amanda says. “You could have these people vetted.”

  “That wouldn’t account for fluctuations in the work crews or the possibility of slipping in a few day laborers and God knows who else,” Nate argues.

  “Credentials could be issued and only the known and established would—”

  “Yes, they could.” Nate cuts Amanda off. “And I still wouldn’t like it.

  “You’re not gonna like this either,” Colin says. “I’ve gone far as I’m goin’ with the goddammed security upgrades. There’ll be no talk of electrifying anything or videotaping our each ’n’ every movement or crisscrossing the place with laser beams and whatnot. Enough that we’re already gone to considerable bother—fucking incredible bother, actually. Enough that we’re virtual prisoners here, so I do not want to hear about enforcing a delay of the oast conversion.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that,” Bemus says.

  “Which part? Tom Jensen says.

  “All the parts,” Bemus answers.

  “You’re not bein’ paid to like it. I’m not lookin’ for your approval, just your cooperation.” Colin moves his chair nearer to the two bodyguards, the better to debate them at close range with Emmet serving as moderator.

  Perhaps to conceal his frustration and distance himself from that faction, Nate moves his chair a little closer to hers and asks apropos of nothing if she ever found her girlhood diary.

  “No, not yet,” Laurel says. “I looked for it the night I went to the attic to get Colin’s Dopp kit. I ransacked through all my old luggage, but it wasn’t there. Maybe it’ll turn up when I get around to sorting through the contents of the Glen Abbey house.”

  “I never did hear why you went after the Dopp kit,” Amanda says, drawn to the less volatile discussion.

  “I was building up to telling Colin what Nate and I had stumbled on regarding the probable means of Rayce’s death and I got to wondering if there might still be coke residue in the kit to support our theory. My thought was to have it tested by a private lab—a foolish thought because of course the bag had been washed out countless times in the interim.”

  “So Jakeway’s confession would be required in order to prove the altered aspirin packets were planted there,” Amanda says.

  “To prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, yes.”

  “But there’s still the garment bag with the altered packets inside,” Amanda says.

  “Yes, but don’t forget I authorized that bag and its contents to go into storage when the Glen Abbey house was stripped—while I was still hell-bent on protecting Colin at all costs.” Laurel looks away, recognizes a new cost, realizes for the first time that authorizing removal of that bag by strangers was the same thing as tampering with evidence.

  Ever-observant Amanda interprets her pensive pause as the signal for dismissal and encourages the men to remove themselves to the studio, which Nate has yet to see in its finished state.

  Laurel takes for granted that Amanda will remain behind as the men quickly file out, but Amanda leaves with them and it’s Emmet who hangs back, asking to speak with her in private.

  They return to the comfort of the winter parlor where she instantly suspects a setup. No wonder Amanda fled with the others. They all knew what was coming when Emmet asked for time alone with her.

  This is it. This is the day of reckoning when she learns the full cost of a deliberate breach of ethics. This is when she’s deservedly rebuked by a peer. This is when David would look straight through her as if she didn’t exist. This is what she dreaded more than learning Jakeway might be lurking in the neighborhood. />
  She attempts to get comfortable in her usual chair that now feels like it’s stuffed with artichokes. The little cat attempts to get comfortable on her lap without success.

  Emmet appears completely at ease in a straight back chair next to the game table. He wastes no time getting down to business, outlining a proposal that has nothing whatsoever to do with coroner’s juries and withheld evidence.

  “Many of the permissions required are little more than formalities,” he explains. “However, there is a certain amount of red tape to be cut through, there are the inevitable bureaucracies and hierarchies to be maneuvered around, tasks I feel certain can be accomplished in a fortnight or less. I lay a bit of the groundwork whilst I was in the States earlier this week. Awaiting only your blessing, I’m ready to go forward with what I’ve described.”

  Without a moment’s hesitation—without consulting either Colin or Nate—she nods her blessing. Speech is not a remote possibility and won’t be until she’s sure the first sound she makes won’t be a hiccough.

  Emmett adds a few details that serve to convince her beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s now the one channeling David. No surprise there, though; he was mentored by David nearly as long as she was.

  When her fellow protégé does bring up the dreaded subject of that which is due the London coroner’s office, it’s almost as an afterthought. When he explains that satisfactory resolution of the matter is underway and no disciplinary action will follow, she asks only if he’s had to falsify anything.

  “Heavens no. I’m not falsifying anything, someone else is. And quite eager he is to do it.” he says with David’s influence as obvious as stripes on a zebra.

  They exchange smiles that do nicely as a secret handshake and promise to confer again as soon as the situation dictates.

  — TWENTY-SEVEN —

  Late afternoon, September 19, 1987

  “Bed and Breakfast” didn’t need explaining, but the meaning of “Guest House” wasn’t altogether clear till Hoop compared it to those boarding houses back home in the U.P. that offered meal plans. That decided him on the Weald Guest House when he made the move from London to Middlestone.

  “Bicycle” didn’t need explaining either, but what he would like to have explained is why he didn’t think of buying one the selfsame minute it turned out he couldn’t rent a car. Why didn’t that dawn on him right away? Hasn’t a bike always been the fallback means of getting around? How could that have slipped his mind?

  As long as he’s asking himself questions, maybe he ought to pose one on why he didn’t recognize the sporting goods store for what it could provide the first time he passed by its windows. He can’t answer that either. And he can’t go on blaming the jet lag thing every time he’s thickheaded. He’s been off the plane almost a week now and he’s been eating and sleeping regular, so he’s fresh out of excuses.

  With suppertime fast approaching, he waits in the front parking lot of the guest house for delivery of the purchases made once he was drawn back to the Middlestone shopping street and the store that filled all his needs.

  The costly touring bike he could have ridden here without drawing extra notice; even in the big city of London nobody seems to think there’s anything queer about riding a bike—not even when the rider’s done up in office-worker duds of the kind Hector Sandoval had on when he made the purchase.

  But riding the bike here to the guest house with the new-bought goods plus the valise strapped to his back, was the sort of thing Hoople Jakeway would’ve done—would’ve had to do, just to show that he could. Hector Sandoval doesn’t have to show himself off that way. Not after shelling out more cash than he’s ever spent for something that wasn’t a truck or a set of false identity papers.

  A van marked with the name of the sporting goods supplier rolls up a little before five o’clock, as promised. Hoop presents receipts for the assorted items as they’re unloaded, and in keeping with the experienced businessman-solo-cyclist-adventure-traveler they took him for when he was picking things out, thinks to slip the delivery guy a little extra once everything’s been accounted for.

  The handmade bicycle is the two-wheeled equal of an El Camino Conquista in Hoop’s eyes. The rest of the gear, except for the knife, can’t be compared to anything he’s owned before because he’s never before owned a lightweight bivouac tent or a breathable rucksack; a waxed-cotton rain suit or a highest quality down-filled sleeping bag; an inflatable ground mat or a pocket stove that’ll boil a liter of water in four minutes flat. Not to mention the special pot to boil the water in and special implements to stir it with. And, before now, he’s never even heard of a cable locking device to use instead of a heavy chain and padlock.

  They wanted to add a hatchet and a folding shovel to what started out as a simple bicycle and sleeping bag purchase, and he drew the line there, no matter what good deal they offered in the way of package pricing. They said he ought to have this and that bike accessory—saddlebags, a rear carrier platform, a basket for the front—and he said a big “no thank you.” Any kind of carrier would only make him think of the shared bike back in Bimmerman with its fringed handle grips and plastic flower decorations stuck to the beat-up basket hanging lopsided off the handlebars.

  When it came to choosing a knife, they wanted to send him out into what they called the camping wilderness equipped with one of those combo affairs tricked out with a jumble of blades unfit for any of the tasks they’re assigned to. But when he eyed the selection of single-bladed knives they had, he saw right away that he’d have to settle for less than he wanted. He saw that he’d have to pick the common ordinary one with only a six and a quarter-inch blade or leave a memory in their heads that could spring to life if Hector Sandoval ever got famous.

  Now that he thinks about it, now that he’s got it in his possession, the blade length doesn’t matter overmuch. The job can be done—has been done—with a box cutter, after all.

  He carries his regular burden—the valise—and the parcels inside the guest house. There, he breaks a rule Hoople Jakeway would never have broken by leaving everything unsecured behind a chair in the vestibule while he returns to the parking lot to see to the storage of the bike. But it’s only for a couple of minutes, he tells the Hoop part of himself.

  The bicycle shelter they’ve got here was another good reason for choosing these lodgings. Once he knew to look for little signs welcoming cyclists, as they call bike riders over here, the rest was easy. And the experience in London had him ready when these checkin people wanted to see his passport and driver’s license, asked for a credit card, then agreeably accepted cash on the barrelhead.

  He wheels the bike to the shelter, fits it into a slot and secures it with the newfangled locking cable. There’s no interference from an attendant; nobody’s got their hand out and that means nobody will be around to note his comings and goings. This makes the setup even more to his liking.

  Upstairs, he lays the valise and bulky parcels on the bed and does a slow careful inventory of his possessions the way he has in every room he’s rented since leaving Bimmerman. Right off, he sees that they must have thrown in a knife sheath, whetstone, flashlight, and compass as goodwill gestures because none of the receipts show those items. The compass makes him grin because he’s never had use for one. But maybe he shouldn’t be grinning; it wasn’t that long ago he thought he didn’t have use for a wristwatch, and it turned out he couldn’t get along without one.

  He looks at the tricked-up face of the watch he’s wearing now—the one with all the extra features that go with his new and improved station in life—and reads that the downstairs dining room starts serving in ten minutes. Egged on by his empty stomach, he quick transfers the all-important items from valise to rucksack and slings it’s near emptiness over one shoulder as he’s seen done in these environs. A last glance at the array on the bed takes in cycle maps of Kent and Hampshire, and the cycling rules of the road bound up in a pocket-size booklet. More goodwill offerings, no doubt.


  The rules booklet he sets aside to study before he does his maiden ride tomorrow. For being on the wrong side of the road, that may turn out to be more ruinous to his nerves than the first bicycle ride alongside New Jersey’s Route 22.

  In the small dining room of the guest house, his meal of steak and kidney pie is no harder to palate than the chicken liver platter he put away at the restaurant of the Speedwell Motor Lodge that time. And the kidney smell doesn’t really bother him; he’s been up against a lot worse when he filled in at the abattoir. He is glad, though, that this meal doesn’t come with the smashed peas they served him with the fish and chips he ate the other day when he didn’t know that chips meant French fries and that mushy peas were something to push aside. When he’s done with the main part of the meal they ask if he wants pudding, but pudding’s another soft food he doesn’t much care for, so he passes on dessert.

  He pretends the pub next door wasn’t also a reason for picking this particular guest house; he pretends when he goes there after supper that he’s not half hoping to strike up gainful acquaintance the way he did at the Chink place.

  — TWENTY-EIGHT —

  Early evening, September 19, 1987

  “Yeh, you’ve got me there . . . Yeh, it was my idea,” Colin says. “Emmet covered for me because I didn’t want you thinkin’ I was gone overboard in the compensating department.”

  “I thought as much.” Laurel smiles across the short distance separating them on the terrace and takes a healthy sip of the first wine she’s tasted in weeks. “This afternoon, after Emmet laid out the plan—after I got over being gobsmacked—he seemed hesitant about accepting thanks and that’s what made me think you were the instigator.”