Retribution (#3)

by M. M. Mayle

  “You’re thinking the same thing?” She lets her hope show.

  “I’m heavily bent in that direction. The keeping quiet about what we know direction.”

  “But you wanted to clear Rayce’s name, you wanted the world to know—”

  “You think you’re the only one periodically gone mad with idealism? That was my idealism showin’ and once I thought it through a few hundred times I couldn’t see a point to it. Not when the world’s gonna think what they wanna think—as you’ve finally come to accept—and given fresh details to distort, Rayce’s fucked-up family’ll just be more dug in on the idea of me as enabler, facilitator, whatever they wanna call it. The only good I see coming of this is to the self-promoting detective bloke out to stick it to the higher-ups any way he can.”

  “You caught that too?”

  “After Nate brought it to my attention, I did, and I can’t say I’m keen about him grabbin’ his fifteen minutes of fame at my expense—at cost of what’s gonna trickle down on me in the process . . . Shit! Will you just listen to the rock star now gone mad with his own concerns? Am I not the fine one, callin’ the detective self-involved?”

  “No, you’re not. No, not at all. You’re not being selfish to want to avoid a predictable media blitz or try to put it off as long as possible.” She jumps to her feet, makes for the phone niche at the other end of the kitchen. “I don’t suppose anyone thought to write down a number where Detective Grillo can be reached.”

  “Nate would know.”

  “I don’t want him involved, not yet. Now let me think . . . I heard someone say Grillo’s staying in a local guest house and I’m sure I heard Emmet say the name when he was explaining why they held the briefing in the church. Local guest house, so that would mean Middlestone, wouldn’t it?”

  She pokes through two shelves of cookery books for the ever-wandering phone book before he finds it in a bureau drawer.

  “A British word.” Laurel takes charge of the phone book, flips it open to the listings for hostelries and such. “I think it means forest or wild, something like—”

  “Weald.”

  “Yes! The Weald Guest House. Here it is.”

  She reads the number aloud, he places the call. No answer. He tries again, this time reading the number himself. Again no answer. “Bollocks.” He tries one more time, still no answer after ten rings.

  “Is a guest house anything like a bed and breakfast?” Laurel offers. “Might there be no phone service after a certain hour?”

  “That’s as good a reason as any I’ve got, but still, wouldn’t you think . . .”

  “We’ll try again in the morning. First thing. There’s still time, you’ll see.” She puts a positive face on it and beckons him to follow her upstairs.

  Life on the road taught him clockwatching only prolongs insomnia. Colin estimates another half hour to have passed when he gives in and looks at the bedside clock. Learning how long he’s been locked in this limbo of his own making doesn’t much matter, but learning how much longer he’ll have to tolerate it does matter. Matters a lot and it’s worse than thought, he’s sorry to see. Three more hours to endure before the very earliest he can take action. He rolls over, regards Laurel’s achingly desirable shape, untouchable for at least another week, and that decides him to leave the bed now. Now, before lust and frustration take charge. She stirs slightly when he smoothes the covers and slips away without so much as grazing her forehead or that choice spot just there in front of her ear.

  From the dressing room, he grabs clothes and shoes at random and makes a clean getaway from the bedroom. Clean getaway, Laurel’s term, one he hasn’t thought of in a while. Not since it meant evading paparazzi instead of watchdogs of his own hire.

  That realization catches up with him on the first floor, where his intentions of going to the studio are dashed. He can’t go there now, not unless he’s willing to be seen by any number of inquiring eyes and speculated about by too many gossiping mouths. Even circumspect Sam Earle might wonder why the master’s fled the master bedroom this hour of the night and if it portends another disaster.

  “Bleedin’ Jesus,” Colin mutters as he scatters a construction of Simon’s Legos and bumps into one priceless antique after another in the semidarkness of the central corridor. Who needs motion detectors with all this shit strewn about.

  He curses and stumbles his way into the great hall, where there’s enough ambient light to dress himself in the odd conglomeration of clothing that includes trousers to a track suit and a shirt better suited to a tropical island. The shoes he slips on are the tired old trainers he’d no more part with than the tuxedo he was wearing on the fateful New York day when Laurel stood out from the crowd.

  The only thing standing out here is the piano he so seldom plays. He’s far enough from sleeping quarters he could risk playing it now if he had anything he felt like trying out—anything that was even faintly new or original. All the themes he’s explored lately have seemed puerile, derivative, or worse. How many tunes about first love, last love, found love, lost love, live love, and dead love are needed? How many lyrics contain some turn on the phrases “you complete me” or “you are the air I breathe” or “I can’t live without you?” Who by now hasn’t written of loneliness, disillusion, disappointment, and heartbreak from every possible angle? Enough with the rainy day and sunny day metaphors. And does the world really need another impassioned power ballad to reduce to elevator music and hear butchered by wedding singers?

  Laurel’s little cat wanders in and he finds fault with it simply because no one’s ever given it a name. He picks it up, “From now on your name’s Purrhaps, goddammit. ‘Purrhaps,’ get it? Because you make that sound in your throat and because you’ve always been a ‘maybe’ because nobody’s ever committed to you.” He strokes the cat strenuously enough that the little creature is relieved to be set free.

  Next, he paces off the broadest dimension of the vast space, attempts to project beyond these prison walls, beyond being the target of a world-class nutter and that wears out after three back-and-forths and a dead end where life beyond these walls is concerned.

  Then he takes up a pose in front of the fabulously mullioned window, where he amuses himself by inventing names for a proposed supergroup made up of himself, Chris, and the two best-known survivors of Rayce’s original band: Dirge, Merge, Purge, urge, Surge—all offshoots of Verge—are too lame even for an emergency Jeremiah tale.

  A belly-flop onto one of the couches isn’t as satisfying as Anthony makes it look. Nor is contemplating an outing to seaside with three or more bodyguards in tow and a trip to a safari park with more entourage than participants—the only relief activities under consideration right now.

  He turns onto his back thinking he might be able to doze for a bit, but he has no better luck than he did the night he ran out on Laurel. That naturally starts him thinking about how willing she was to compromise her principals in order to protect him from himself, how willing she is now to pay for it, how much she’s already paid for it, because he will never believe the loss of the baby was unrelated.

  “Never,” he says, gritting his teeth and reliving the episode of bleeding he thought would take her from him forever.

  He sits up to escape that vision, works hard to capture another: the happiest day of his life, a day that didn’t coincide with the one she gave as hers. His occurred much earlier, when she consented to marry him and come home with him. The same day he inadvertently contributed to Rayce’s death. A connection he’s never made till now. Does that mean anything? “Does it have to mean anything?” he says.

  When he left the bedroom he didn’t think to bring a watch—or his wallet, for that matter—and the clocks in this room haven’t told time since the minstrel’s gallery was occupied by actual minstrels. The gradual fade-out of the exterior lighting is a reasonable indicator of encroaching dawn, but he’d rather rely on sound. He’d rather hear Tom Jensen mustering the Chandlers for the airport run to know th
e time is near.

  Towards that end, Colin moves to the doorway nearest the main stairway, remains in the shadows till he does hear hushed activity coming and going on the stairs. He crosses to the doorway above the arcade, where he’s able to hear a vehicle enter the porte-cochère and a series of muffled door closings and engine noises meaning they’re on their way. Unless Laurel broke her promise to remain abed during her family’s leave-taking, there’s no reason for anyone to think he’s not honoring a similar promise and still snoring at her side—or for him not to proceed with the plan to stop Detective Grillo in his tracks.

  He nevertheless waits a cautious interval before descending to ground level and another interval before coding himself through the electronic lock and out into the arcade. From there it’s an easy sprint to the garages, where he intends to take the first vehicle with keys in the ignition. That turns out to be one of the Jaguars. But there’s no remote unit in it for the gates, he discovers when he’s more than halfway to the barrier. He can either go back to the garages for a unit or go forward knowing he’ll have to come to a full stop and get out of the car in order to activate the gate opener. Either way he risks being caught, having to explain himself, and, worst of all, having to carry out his mission in the company of at least two bodyguards. He opts to go forward, all the while checking the rearview mirror.

  At the massive wrought iron gates he leaps out of the car, quick enters a code on a recessed panel in one of the stone gate supports and is back behind the wheel the second the gates start to move. “‘Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage,’” he recites one of Rayce’s half-remembered contributions in a mocking singsong. “Like hell they don’t,” he says when he’s clear of the gates with nothing chasing after him so far.

  — THIRTY-SEVEN —

  Dawn, September 29, 1987

  Hoop wobbles slightly under the full load, then gains control as the bike picks up speed on a downslope. Over jeans and flannel shirt he’s finally wearing the hooded rainsuit that came with the camping package. He could have put it to good use long before now, but before now he didn’t want to look like he was afraid of a soaking, and before now he didn’t have the need to conceal himself with a hood. The stiff suit has another benefit; it has reflector stripes on the jacket and pants. Most times he’d prefer not to stand out—even in the dark—but with all his possessions strapped either to his back or to the back of the bike, he’s not as nimble about getting out of the way of drivers that don’t see him till the last minute.

  His spirits are high for someone who willingly went the night without sleep; he’s made peace with yesterday’s learnings and last night’s happenings. He’s fine about having left the guest house without going through the rigmarole of checking out. It’s not like he left there owing them anything; his up-front payment more than saw to that. And he’s not suffering any twinges over helping himself to foodstuffs from their larder; he didn’t eat anywhere near all the meals paid for in advance.

  Two hours after abandoning Middlestone in the dead of night, equipped with a planned-out way of finding the Wheelwright Road and whatever it has to offer, he was tempted to take a breather when he passed St. Margaret’s Church and burying ground a little while ago. But even at the beginning edge of dawn there was too much chance of attracting notice that might question why he was there again, so he pedaled on and stuck to the route he came up with after close study of every map and tourist leaflet he could put his hands on.

  All the maps show there is, in fact, a Wheelwright Road—with or without a signpost—and all the maps agree it’s middled in the grid of roads between the church and the tavern where he ate lunch Sunday. So, if he’s counted off the right number of roads since passing by the church, the unmarked crossroad—the one seen on Sunday that had no importance attached to it at the time—should be the next one he comes to.

  He pedals on, swiveling every time he thinks he sees a break in the heavy undergrowth, till he comes to a four-way intersection with no markers of any kind, not even stop signs. If he could get through the rainpants and into his jeans pocket for a coin, flipping it would be as good a way as any to choose which way to go from here. Minus the coin, he lets the terrain decide and turns in the direction showing the flattest stretch of road.

  That doesn’t last long, however. He soon finds himself laboring up a moderate incline—laboring, because he’ll never get used to shifting gears on a bicycle. At the top of the rise he’s rewarded with another flat stretch, only now the road’s heaved in the center like it just came through a Michigan winter.

  He rides the hump as safer than wobbling along the sloped edges the way the cycling rules of the road would have him do. But that has him in a bad position when a car appears up ahead. It’s not coming at him all that fast, but it’s also hogging the center of the narrow road, so somebody will have to move over.

  Visibility doesn’t figure into it; he doesn’t need reflector tape now that the sun is full up. The driver would have to be blind not to see him. Blind or looking to be the winner of a mismatched version of that jackassed-fool chicken game the bullyboys played on the long lonely roads of Michigan’s U.P.

  Hoop holds position as long as he dares. Then, at the very last second, he veers toward the shoulder. Except there isn’t any shoulder, there’s only dense growth right up to the pavement. So dense it holds him upright when he crashes into it.

  The car—a fancy black sedan—slows, stops, and backs up to where he’s propped against the heavy undergrowth. His mouth is already agape from the near miss, so his jaw doesn’t have far to drop when the driver rolls down a window and looks out, all full of concern. Or so it appears, because this is a rock star asking if he’s all right; this is Colin Elliot in the flesh asking if he needs help righting the situation.

  Hoop quick closes his mouth and stiffens against the multiple sensations running through him thick, poisonous, and hard to pin down—like mercury from a broken thermometer. He thinks to turtle his head back into the cover of the rain hood before waving off Elliot’s offer of help; he wrestles the heavy-laden bike back into service and goes along like it’s business as usual in case the rock star’s watching in his rearview mirror as he drives away.

  But it’s not even close to business as usual. Not when luck comes along and meets him this way. The shock and surprise of it has him wobbling again and wishing for a chance to write down everything that just happened while it’s still fresh in his pounding head. The writing will have to wait, though. It’ll have to wait till he’s tested this sudden spurt of luck by forging ahead in search of the spot where the rock star entered what might turn out to be the Wheelwright Road.

  And if it’s more than just a spurt of luck pulling him along, spotting that place might even solve the mystery of the other name he heard said by the plotters in the church. A queer-sounding name—Terra Firma—that was a lot less queer when it happened to match an entry written on the plastic-coated card that now has an extra special place in his wallet.

  One thing he is sure of: This Terra Firma place is not a park or a castle or he’d have seen it on one of the maps or read about it in one of the dozens of tourist leaflets he’s collected. Maybe it’s a pub or a tavern; maybe it’s one of those bed and breakfast places or a guest house like the one he just left. Whatever it is, he’s got a strong feeling it’s on this road. Or close by to this road.

  With that possibility filling his head, he rounds a long curve where things start looking oddly familiar. But why shouldn’t they? Everything around here ought to look familiar after combing through the general neighborhood for going on three straight days.

  At the next incline, a slight one, he thinks he knows why and pauses to drink it all in. There, on his left, with the addition of a lineup of buses, is a scene right out of the wedding album he’s hung onto for what else might be learned from it. And there, above the stand of trees bordering that side of the road, with the addition of a few hot-air balloons, is another scene from the sel
fsame album.

  He rides into the picture and an opening in the heavily wooded area soon shows itself. A hundred or so feet into the opening, a pair of stone pillars support iron gates half again higher than his head. He slows down to read the stand of letters bordering the tops of these closed gates. “Terra Firma,” they read, just like he thought they would. And there’s every good reason to think this is where the rock star was coming from when he came hogging down the road.

  Hoop stops to one side if the paved driveway because all that’s needed now is some kind of sign saying this is the for-real Wheelwright Road and he’d know it’s a gusher of luck that’s found him. Before he can do much looking for a mailbox or something with a regular address on it, the gates open and a car just like the one the lawyerwoman crashed through the garage door of her house in New Jersey speeds through. Well out of the way when the Range Rover joins the road, he can’t see who’s behind the wheel. But that’s because the driver guns it in the direction the rock star took. He does see, however, that the gates with the funny name close all by themselves and, upon review of the bigger picture, that the neighboring property will probably do for a campsite.

  — THIRTY-EIGHT —

  Early morning, September 29, 1987

  Number one: Because she would have objected to his confronting Grillo in person; she would have called it unnecessary. Number two: Because she would have objected to his confronting Grillo in person; she would have called it grandstanding.

  Nate cites the reasons Amanda was left behind and unaware of the reason for his predawn departure. She’ll figure it out soon enough, but not before he attempts to forestall the detective’s meeting with his counterparts at Scotland Yard.

  At six-fifteen on a Tuesday morning, he was going against traffic flow when he fled London, so there was none of the hurry-up-and-wait that characterized last night’s commute. And he wasn’t thinking in fits and starts the way he was last night when he was undecided what to do, so he’s made better route choices as well as better time.