by M. M. Mayle
“Wait a minute. Laurel’s blaming herself now? Good grief, what for?”
“Earlier today, when I updated her about Emmet’s trip, she spoke as though she and she alone was responsible for Grillo’s death. She maintained that he wouldn’t have been in harm’s way if she hadn’t held back what was known about Rayce’s—”
“Spare me. This is getting really, really old. If she’s responsible, then so are we. And so is the system. Any system you want to name, any system that would let the Jakeway creep out of the States and into the UK and allow him to get this close.” Amanda narrows her eyes as well as the gap between the thumb and forefinger she holds up.
“What’s that, equal opportunity condemnation? You think it’s fair to blame immigration, local law enforcement, the FBI, and Scotland Yard all in one breath?” Nate says.
“I don’t see why not.” She flashes indignation and reopens the portfolio.
“I think they’re doing the best they can.”
“Sure they are. Now they are. Now that one of their own was struck down, but what about when one of ours is about to—”
“Amanda, honey . . . Take it easy. We all want to blame someone or something. Even ourselves, the way Laurel is. This is hard on us all, this living under the gun, but it can’t go on forever.”
“No, it can’t, but don’t you mean under the sword?”
“If you want to put a fine point on it, yeah, the sword.”
“If you’re trying to be funny, you’re not.”
“That was unintentional. And if you’re looking for literal context in legend—the Damocletian legend—it’s Jakeway who’d be under the blade, not Colin. Remember that it was Dionysius—synonym for rock star—who invited the fawning and probably jealous and resentful Damocles—synonym for Jakeway—to observe his riches and revels firsthand and seated him beneath the blade to demonstrate at what cost came power and privilege.”
“Wow. I never thought of it that way.”
“Neither did I. Not until now, but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to remember Jakeway’s also waiting for a sword to fall.”
“You mean in the form of capture.”
“Yeah. I agree with Emmet’s assessment. The reckless slaughter of a police detective says a lot about his attitude toward capture. He’s resigned to it, he may even be impatient for it. But not until he’s achieved his goal.”
Amanda reopens the portfolio and slides it across the desk. “That’s kind of what I’ve been working on, expanding Emmet’s theory that Jakeway’s got nothing to lose at this point—that he’s behaving as though he knows he’s got nothing to go home to. But mainly I’ve been trying to figure out how Detective Grillo was traced to Middlestone and what we should expect next.”
Nate examines a faultless analysis of the current crisis starting with the day they now know Jakeway to have falsified his way into the UK. Included are her usual charts and diagrams, time lines, speculations, and substantiations.
“I believe it was news of Laurel’s miscarriage that drew him to Middlestone.” Amanda indicates a list of media reps known to have swarmed the Middlestone hospital until a decoy ambulance lured them away. “I think Jakeway concluded, as anyone would, that in an emergency situation the patient would be taken to the nearest medical facility and from that, further concluded that Colin and Laurel must live in the general vicinity of Middlestone. I know that sounds flimsy, but it is a starting point.”
“No flimsier than some of the other theories I’ve heard.”
“Then try this one on for size.” She leans across the desk and flips open a page in her portfolio he hasn’t looked at yet.
“These entries refer to the laminated card you told me about—the list of names and numbers you put together for Colin when you thought he needed prompting and he stuck in the picture wallet without even knowing what it was just to get you off his back and then the picture wallet was stolen from his L.A. hotel room practically under Bemus’s nose, presumably by Jakeway disguised as an Hispanic minibar attendant, and when Colin told you about the theft and you told him what was on this mini-directory, that was the beginning of the end and—”
“Okay, okay, I’ve got it.” Her breathless account sweeps through him like a sudden gust of cold wind.
“Good, because that angle absolutely must be pursued.”
“The numbers printed on that card are all different now. The entry codes have all been changed.” Nate scorns her concern. “Even the phone numbers have been changed since then.”
“Not the numbers, honey, it’s not the numbers I’m worried about, it’s the street names, it’s the place names you said—”
“Shit! . . . Then again maybe not.” He struggles for composure. “There are no signs at either end of Wheelwright Road. You mentioned that just the other day when—”
“Maybe so, but the road is named on the map inside this folder.” She produces a small brochure depicting tombstones. “The day of the burials I took that from the church vestibule, where they have all kinds of handouts related to the region. I was just curious about why they were promoting grave markers as an attraction and found out a lot of people like to do tracings—rubbings, they call it—of ancient stones and that made me find out there are quite a few other maps—special interest maps you could call them—that show Wheelwright Road as the third one over from the road the church is on and I also managed to find out that these maps, these brochures, are in fairly wide distribution.”
To her credit, she doesn’t gloat over this discovery; she doesn’t say in so many words that Jakeway, if armed with the incendiary card from Colin’s picture wallet and a readily available tourist brochure, could be in an excellent position to make his move. She doesn’t say it, but she clearly believes it.
Nate steadies his interior being and moves away from the desk with anger and confusion vying for control. The anger is directed at himself for overlooking this potential and at Amanda for bringing it to his attention; the confusion covers all fronts, blankets the need to examine yet another set of plausible theories on short notice.
“When you were detained after discovering Grillo’s body, did you tell the police about the meeting in the church?” Amanda presses on.
“No,” he replies without facing her. “It never came up. Their interest centered on why I was at the guest house so early in the morning. And I know Emmet didn’t mention the church when he was questioned about the purpose of Grillo’s intended meet with Scotland Yard.”
“So no one’s interviewed the people at the church—the vicar, the sexton, the secretary? How ’bout the gravediggers? Anybody think to check with them? . . . Nate?” she says when he neither responds nor turns to face her.
He makes her wait an extra beat before advancing on the desk. “I need you to stop this,” he declares at close range.
“Stop what?” She recoils, but only a little. “This extra work? What’s the problem? I’ve been doing it on my own time. You’ll find the concert promotion data you requested is current and I’ve gathered figures for the record labels you want to challenge. The list of unrepresented artists is current and so are my written reviews of the real estate you’ve had me look at. Everything’s on your desk. Go.” She dismisses him with a flick of the hand. “You’ll see.”
“I don’t doubt that I will.” He stays put. “But the problem is that you shouldn’t be doing extra work at all. I’m not talking about just the Nancy Drew bit, I’m talking about your functioning as Colin’s de facto manager, Laurel’s personal assistant, and Emmet’s aide de camp. And I’ll probably find out you’ve been doing gratis transcriptions for Brownie.”
“No you won’t because I haven’t!”
“Not yet, anyway.” He displays a placating smile that doesn’t work and attempts an explanation that gets him nowhere until he places blame where it belongs. “This is my fault, Amanda. I let this happen. I watched this happen and did nothing to stop it as long ago as when you balked at living with me unless you were allowed t
o bear some of the expenses. And because I didn’t grant you that dignity, you’ve been hell-bent on earning your keep—justifying your existence or whatever you want to call it—in other ways. By making yourself indispensable, I’m saying. And not just to me. To those I work for and work with. As I see it now—”
“Who died and appointed you Sigmund Freud?”
“Then I’m right?”
“Yeah, I suppose.” She folds her arms over her breasts and regards him with skeptical eyes.
“Then you’ll agree I fucked up right from the beginning when I garbled the original offer. When I said I wanted you to be with me, then diluted the statement for being premature. And I made matters worse by dragging my feet about giving you a title or a precise job description once you were free to work for me. I took advantage of you and the situation practically from the start. I want that ended now. Or as soon as possible. I want us to be married so there’ll never be a question in your mind about your value or who you belong to.”
“You want me under contract. Is that what you’re saying?”
“Jesus!” Nate slaps his forehead. “I just fucked up again, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, you kinda did, but I’m gonna let it go. For now.” She meets his gaze without a trace of the moist vulnerability that characterized her uncertainty that day in the Shepherd Market pub. “You know, it might be a good idea for you to call Colin now and relay this info I just dredged up much to your annoyance and chagrin,” she says. “Remind him that Jakeway has, or once had, pictures of the kids and will recognize the estate name as well as the road name if he hung onto the stupid card that was stowed in with the kid’s pictures and has already caused way too much trouble. While you do that I’ll try to get through to someone with enough clout to extend the investigation to the church personnel.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Yes to what?”
“Are we gonna get married or what?”
“I dunno. Are we?”
— FORTY-THREE —
Early evening, October 3, 1987
At the business end of the kitchen, Colin cuts short the call from London and returns to the supper table. Laurel lifts a questioning eyebrow; Anthony spots advantage and pesters to be excused.
“Don’t go beyond the terrace and stay where I can see you,” Colin calls after the scampering boy.
To Laurel, in language Simon won’t grasp, he relays the message from London.
“I see,” she says to news that Jakeway has probably found Wheelwright Road and identified Terra Firma by now. News that doesn’t come as a shock to him—not after the near miss with the cyclist four mornings ago. If anything, Nate’s fresh warning rather comes as a relief, reinforcement for remaining silent about that sighting. Redundant to mention it now.
Laurel frees Simon to spend a few minutes with his Legos before bath time. “Well?” she says when they’re alone.
“Well what?”
“That’s it? No reaction? No comment?”
“What would you have me do? Cower in a cupboard? What should I say? We’re doomed? All’s lost? The end is near?” He pulls his chair closer to hers. “What if the fuckbag does have a bead on the front gates?” he says in a voice that won’t carry beyond her hearing. “That narrows the field. That concentrates the manhunt. Means we’re that much closer to being done with this, then.”
“I can’t disagree . . . But I can’t help being . . . I still . . .” Laurel hops up and begins clearing away the supper things.
“Leave that.” He catches her free hand, tugs her back to her place, where she hangs onto a handful of cutlery as though it had the power to ward off fiends and madmen.
“For starters,” he begins, “we already had ever how many bleedin’ miles of barbed wire strung atop eight-foot commercial grade chain link fencing—we came equipped with that—and now we have extensive sensor-activated outdoor lighting, a hardwired alarm system covering every bloody ground and first floor window of the house, closed circuit telly—thirty-five cameras last count—with rotating staff of ten monitoring round the clock and our own personal swat team. . . . What am I forgetting?”
“You still won’t consider a moat? Sharp shooters? Attack dogs?”
“I’m givin’ it thought, I’m givin’ it thought,” he says, straight-faced as she is.
Her smile, when it comes, is strained, a borderline grimace. His smile isn’t much better.
“The expense,” she says. “You haven’t said what this all—”
“Astronomical, it is. Outta sight. But I’m lookin’ at it this way. The permanent upgrades and improvements were gonna happen eventually, with or without yours and Nate’s encouragement, so I can’t begrudge the expenditure, only the pressure brought to bear.”
“Nicely put—encouragement instead of nagging—pressure instead of insistence.” She produces that strained smile again.
“Don’t give yourself too much credit in the pressure department. It’s the demon Jakeway applying it, not you.”
“Not sure I want that reprieve.”
“Take, it, you’ve earned it.”
“Very well, I will.” Now she’s holding the bunched cutlery with both hands, like a bouquet. “Did I hear someone say a tripped alarm will bring an onsite response rather than from a remote location?”
“Yeh. They set up the monitoring in the studio, where most of the electrical needs could be met, but Sam said they had to bring in more juice from the pole for stringing the cameras . . . Sorry, that’s not what you asked, you were asking about responders. Yeh, they’ll respond from here—right here on the estate—instead of from a distant alarm headquarters the way they would with the usual setup. Five to a shift, there are. Very low profile. You’ll probably never see the blokes unless they’re called to active duty.”
Colin cranes towards the bay windows in case one might be in evidence now, but the only figure in sight is Anthony tossing a Frisbee for Toby to fetch. “Another good thing about having ’em on site,” he continues, “for not having to travel great long distances, these responders may be a bit more forgiving of the occasional false alarm. I rather expect we’ll have a few before everyone’s learnt the boundaries and got used to electronic barriers.”
“By that you mean entry points and the perimeter established by the television cameras.”
“Yeh. We’ll all have to remember not to absentmindedly dart through any outside doors or open any of the wired windows without punching in a password of sorts.”
“And to avoid the no-man’s land beyond the camera perimeter.”
“That’s a given unless you let someone know you have business outside the camera coverage,” he says.
“If I did, how would I know who to inform? How would I identify one of these someones?”
“They’ll be wearing color-coded wristbands of the sort issued to the wedding guests.”
“Amanda come up with that?”
“No, it was Bemus, actually, and in case you haven’t noticed, he’s got everyone wearing ’em. Permanent staff, grounds and house personnel, the lot. All but us. Saves the bother of challenging, eliminates the ‘who goes there’ shit.”
“And we could wear neon-orange jumpsuits to show we’re the prisoners.” Laurel spills the bouquet of cutlery onto the bare wooden table top with an emphatic clatter. “I’m sorry, that wasn’t fair. I asked for this—I have no right to complain.”
“Yeh, you do, and you only said what’s been goin’ through my mind day ’n’ night. But it can’t last forever. We’re gonna be sprung soon. All the signs say so. We’ll get back to where we were, we’ll come and go as we please and Anthony’ll be back in regulation school with those slavering mates of his. We’ll start filling this place with the sort of artwork and furnishings that justify the shitload of extra security devices. We’ll restore the library and resume work on the oast conversion, we’ll finish ripping down the ramshackle fire escape and turn that walled garden into the medieval retreat you fantasize.”
“No,” she says. “You’re overcompensating, you’re way over the top, so rather than waste any more on me why don’t you go start Simon’s bath. I’ll call Anthony in when I’m finished here.”
Taking offense from her candor doesn’t enter in. But he could argue, as he’s argued countless times before, that someone else could do the washing up just as someone else could have prepared tonight’s meal.
He follows her to the sink, stifles the impulse to kiss a certain spot near her ear and take in that special scent that’s hers alone.
On the way up the back stairs with Simon, he continues overcompensating—or whatever the hell it is he’s doing—by telling the boy there are men with dogs beating the bushes for an escaped goblin. “But it’s a small one, insignificant it is,” Colin assures and goes on to explain that the unicorn intended for Mummy’s walled garden has gone into hiding because of the unusual amount of traffic on Wheelwright Road, and the faeries that live in the dovecote have taken a holiday to Marrakech rather than appear on closed-circuit telly.
Simon’s response is to ask when the party is; he only wants to know if there will be balloons—big ones—and can he ride in one. And is it any wonder? Support caravans for emergency personnel are lined up near the studio where catering trucks once provided for the wedding celebration. The immense amount of electrical work and the installation of dozens of cameras must look to his innocent eyes like just so much party preparation.
Why not let him think that? His November birthday’s just weeks away and the hiring of at least one hot-air balloon can’t be ruled out unless weather’s the deciding factor.