Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three

by M Mayle

  “I’m not getting you.” Amanda bristles at the perceived criticism.

  “I know what he’s getting at,” Nate says. “In all your meticulous documentation he’s unable to find the one single incident that put me over the edge—made me into the paranoid, nursemaid I became after Colin’s accident. And, oddly enough, if the detective hadn’t broached the subject today, I would have. Because of the blood connection.”

  Amanda, who was bristling a minute ago, is now close to cringing. Nate looks as pained as he was when his injuries were fresh. Colin displays mild annoyance, and Grillo appears ready to wait as long as it takes.

  “Very well,” Laurel says into the void, “I’ll bite. What’s the blood connection?”

  Nate repositions himself in his chair, fusses with the sling supporting his left arm, clears his throat.” I started to make the connection when I saw what had happened to David,” he says. “When I saw the incredible amount of blood that was spilled and compared it with the lesser amount I saw on Aurora’s mutilated body. A trickle by comparison.”

  Grillo holds up a silencing hand. “Wait a minute. Lemme make sure I’m following,” he says. “By Aurora, you refer to the first Mrs. Elliot.”

  “Right,” Nate says.

  “And you’re referring to the condition of the body when—according to documentation supplied by you—you were first on the scene of the ’eighty-four road accident that claimed her life.”

  “Yes. That’s the incident you’re looking for. The incident I’ve spoken of only once since.”

  “I’m all ears,” Grillo says.

  “The decapitation . . . I believe everyone here knows that Aurora Elliot was decapitated.” Nate bounces questioning glances off each of his listeners; each nods in turn.

  “You’ve been led to believe the decapitation was caused by the accident, but that’s not true. It didn’t happen that way.” Nate pauses, takes several shallow breaths. “When I first got to the crash site, Aurora was whole. She was dead, but she was in one piece.”

  Another pause follows; more breaths are taken before Detective Grillo speaks for the group: “Meaning her head was still attached.”

  “Yes,” Nate answers. “But when I returned to the accident scene with help, her head was gone. Cleanly, almost bloodlessly removed. The help—a former army medic and volunteer fireman who had seen his share of gore—jumped to the obvious conclusion that she was decapitated by the accident and treated the situation as routine.

  “I was too shocked to argue. My shock was such that I went along with the obvious and even began to doubt my earlier perception. I began to question if her head ever was there. At one point I decided I’d hallucinated, that I only imagined seeing her head because I couldn’t deal with seeing the . . . with seeing where it should have been.

  “But there were always annoying details that came back to haunt me. Too many details to have been imagined. Such as remembering that when I first reached the wreckage, her head was bent backward at an unsurvivable angle. An angle that exposed marks on her neck that looked like bruises, but were, in all probability, needle tracks. That had to explain why there were no signs of struggle. No signs that she resisted a violent death, almost as though she was already dead when the truck crashed. Or stoned beyond fear of death.”

  “The blood connection,” Grillo prompts.

  “Blood.” Nate fusses again with the sling supporting his disabled arm. “There wasn’t a lot of blood on Aurora when I viewed her in a whole state, and not much more when I viewed her in an altered state. A remarkable lack of blood if—”

  “Got it,” Grillo says. “You saw the amplitude of blood that drained out of Sebastian yesterday while he was still . . . uh, vital, measured that against the minimal amount shed after Aurora Elliot was tampered with, and decided you could finally believe your own eyes.”

  “That’s correct. And yesterday I had the opportunity to question a doctor in a nonspecific way about the pooling of blood in a corpse—how fast blood pressure collapses at death, to what extent spurt and flow rate diminish, things like that—and his answers convinced me that Aurora Elliot had been dead for a while when her head was removed.”

  “I’m gettin’ the distinct feeling this isn’t the only thing you’re newly convinced of,” the detective says.

  “It isn’t. Not by a long shot. At this juncture it’s not preposterous to believe Hoople Jakeway visited the crash site and cut off Aurora’s head while I went for help. We now know Jakeway had serious designs on Aurora. Unhealthy designs, I want to say, so it’s not a stretch to believe he was stalking her before Mr. Elliot apprehended her at a Northern Michigan fuel stop and that Jakeway was at the wheel of the vehicle tailing me just prior to the accident—a vehicle matching the description of the one he was driving when he first invaded Old Quarry Court.

  “And it’s certainly no stretch to believe Jakeway knew his way around the rugged terrain where the wreckage came to ground. This was his home turf, after all. Less than a half mile from where he grew up, according to one of my sources,” Nate adds.

  “Okay, sayin’ that’s all true—and I’m not sayin’ it ain’t—I’m still left wonderin’ what Jakeway wanted with her head. But most of all I’m wonderin’ why he didn’t finish off Elliot, here, when he had the chance. Isn’t the whole premise based on this guy being out to eliminate anyone he saw as screwing with the object of his affection? If that’s really the case, why’d he spare Elliot?” Grillo probes.

  “Mr. Elliot looked pretty bad at the time. Jakeway probably thought he was already dead,” Nate replies.

  Laurel hazards a sidelong glance at Colin, whose gaze remains fixed on Nate. From Colin’s strong profile she’s unable to tell how this bombshell has affected him; she’s unable to tell if his eyebrows are working in the super-anguished way the Denver neurologist likened to dueling caterpillars.

  “Did you witness the beheading?”

  Laurel hears Grillo ask Colin the inevitable as though from a great distance. She hears in the question the stressor the neurologist must have used without knowing its full implications.

  Stressor. She gets stuck on the term she once vowed never to employ again—even in thought. Catastrophic event. Another term she could scrap, but nothing else describes what transpired just now. Or what transpired yesterday, for that matter.

  What was it the neurologist said about the likelihood of Colin experiencing a flashback on the stressor? Didn’t he say that if Colin encountered a precise set of provocations or another monumental agent of stress, he might return to the event that sent him into oblivion? Has not that criteria just been met and then some? Is there not damn good reason to worry that Colin might slip away again?

  Long after he should have responded in some way, Colin remains mute and motionless, the detective’s question left hanging in the air like a threatening cloud.

  “I fail to see how that information will further the investigation into Mr. Sebastian’s death,” Laurel blurts, much as Nate did when making his shocking disclosure. She stands, advances on the detective, leaves nothing to chance as to where her annoyance is directed. “You already have my eyewitness account—my description of the perpetrator—and Mr. Isaacs has been more than cooperative in describing the incident that first provoked his suspicions. Unless you have something pertinent to add to your update, this session is over.”

  Grillo looks affronted for a second or two, recovers with a shrug. “I guess they weren’t just whistlin’ Dixie when they said she used to be a prosecutor,” he mumbles as Nate escorts him from the room.

  — NINE —

  Early afternoon, August 16, 1987

  The detective was well briefed if he knew Laurel Chandler Elliot was once a prosecuting attorney. So why wasn’t he told that Colin Elliot has no legitimate memory of the bloody damn accident or the events surrounding it?

  Colin ponders this in Nate’s gym an hour after Detective Grillo was shown the door and soon after the good news of Laurel’s pregn
ancy was revealed to Nate, Amanda, and Laurel’s brothers. But the good news wasn’t complete antidote to the can of worms served up at the briefing in the library. Not for him, anyway.

  Slumped on a bench in the same area where he first came across concrete evidence of Nate’s dodgy practices, Colin also ponders how today’s new evidence impacts on the old, and the answer is, very little. Even if he’d known what Nate was dithering over for close to three years, he’d still be pissed and insulted about having been denied a star turn at the Icon ceremony. And he’d still be outraged that Nate had Laurel investigated against his stated wishes. But he doesn’t feel any specific animosity towards Nate at the moment; he doesn’t feel much of anything in that sector or he wouldn’t have agreed to stay here, safe haven or not.

  Whilst changing into shorts chosen for wear on a Turkish sailing vessel, he examines his present feelings for Laurel. Yeh, he is a bit annoyed that she sprang to his defense when Grillo posed the question he couldn’t answer. But why should that bother him, actually? Has he already forgotten his delight when she spoke to the press on his behalf that day at The Plaza? Or all the times since when she’s made clear to all comers where her allegiance lies?

  He tugs on a pair of trainers intended for shore excursions to the many ancient ruins along the Turquoise Coast and dismisses his annoyance as ridiculous. Beyond ridiculous. What kind of deficient lout could find fault with this fabulous woman who continues to thrill, surprise, and touch him in ways the most inflamed imagination could never envision?

  The deal made before he left her in the kitchen just now requires her to eat a full balanced meal and him to complete a much-needed workout while they’re apart. Assuming she’s digging into some hearty fare about now, he’d better get his arse in gear.

  He starts with the treadmill, as he did the only other time he used this gym. Inside of fifteen minutes he’s breaking sweat and feeling benefit to his legs. He’s also flashing back on Detective Grillo’s ill-advised question. He speeds up the treadmill as though to outdistance the intrusion; he’s running before the effort registers as more ridiculous than being annoyed with Laurel. He slows to a permissible pace and a whole litany of questions overtakes him. Some predate the accident; some are only minutes old; all are destined to forever remain questions as far as he’s concerned.

  Whatever he knows about the period beginning with the chance discovery of Aurora at a road stop, and ending with his gradual emergence from self-induced hibernation, is the product of someone else’s recall. If he did have a front row seat for Aurora’s decapitation, the imagery did not generate a homegrown memory. If he observed that Aurora was strung-out when he commandeered the truck and drove off with her, it’s because someone told him he did. If he saw needle tracks riddling her neck, it’s because someone said they were there. He has only the word of a biased onlooker and theorist that Aurora provoked him with taunts and threats, maddened him with shameless admissions, struck out at him with fists as well as epithets on the final dash to death and destruction.

  Transplanted memories, the lot, and this latest one they’ve embedded is no different. If Aurora was already dead when her head left her body, he’s not the one to say. Nate’s gruesome revelation didn’t jar anything loose; he’s no closer now to remembering anything on his own than he was when they first started seeding his fallow memory with their take on things. And he’s in no danger of remission. It would take something worse than the notion of having watched a beheading to return him to the dark side; the bright side holds too much appeal to make that even a remote possibility.

  He finishes with the treadmill, gulps down a half-bottle of Evian brought from upstairs and moves to the Soloflex machine, where he concentrates on the brightness that is Laurel.

  Laurel, as she looked when she came to him in the church; Laurel, as she looked when she kissed his wedding ring prior to placing it on his finger; Laurel, as she looked when dancing with the children at their wedding celebration. As she looked when she learned her father had died, as she looked only hours after having seen David struck down, as she looked last night when she told him about the baby and declared the need for emergency sex. And, most of all, as she looked, later in the night, when old and new grief combined to overwhelm her.

  Legitimate memories, all of them. Memories to treasure, including that last one. He’s obligated to remember the sound of her weeping or risk forgetting what she’d already been through before her involvement with him brought about more sorrow and loss. And he’s obligated to figure out how in bloody hell he’ll ever be able to make up for the additional sorrow and loss. He’ll start on that as soon as he figures out how in bloody hell he’ll ever be able to live with the deaths of Benjamin Chandler and David Sebastian dropped on his doorstep.

  He strains through an extra ten pull-ups before stopping to reconfigure the machine. He adds weight plates to increase resistance, inclines the bench to facilitate reverse curls and groaningly executes several before confronting a concern that refuses to remain secondary.

  Although Grillo’s task force and the Feds aren’t looking for a Jakeway connection to Rayce’s death, what if that changes? What if something makes them start looking? What if a connection is made and—same as the others—leads back to him? What if Rayce’s rush-to-judgment family were justified in pointing a finger at him, even if they didn’t know for dead certain what they were pointing at? How would he bear up under that?

  The thought is too repellent to linger over. He grunts with the effort of discovering a less withering, less debilitating topic and nothing suitable shows itself. He touches on the material ways he could compensate Laurel for what he’s caused: By putting a team of pricey decorators and art dealers at her disposal; providing a luxury assortment of new motorcars; acquiring showy real estate—a posh flat in London, a New York flat to rival this one, and villas in all the current hot spots.

  “No. God no,” he gasps. It’s the wrong wife he’s thinking of; it’s Aurora who responded to that sort of thing. Laurel would tell him to bugger off right after she told him if she wanted any of that shit she’d buy it herself.

  “No,” he mutters and dismounts the machine midset, thereby ending his physical martyrdom. If he’s to make up for the extra burden added to Laurel’s load it will have to be with a spiritual endeavor, a day in, day out, never-ending effort to keep a smile on her face. It will have to be by showing her his fabled capacity for love—that limitless capacity some say was his downfall in dealing with Aurora.

  Under the harsh needle spray of a lukewarm shower, he lathers up and confines his thoughts to the expected baby. But that tempts worry that the baby has been marked in some way, no matter Laurel’s assurances to the contrary. And who’s to say Laurel hasn’t been marked and won’t be given to nocturnal outbursts of grief for the foreseeable future?

  He dials the water temperature down to a punishing cold, tips his head back to take it full force and one of Rayce’s irreverent remarks surfaces.

  “Tell ’em you already gave at the office,” was Rayce’s ready response to an oversupply of misfortune. Especially if that misfortune was viewed as an act of God and showed signs of continuing.

  “Isn’t that the bleedin’ truth,” Colin says after he shuts off the water and steps out of the shower stall. “I fucking gave at the office, didn’t I then?” he projects heavenward. “So you can quit tryin’ to get more,” he bellows as he drips his way towards a supply of towels. “Especially from family and friends,” he adds whilst drying off with renewed vigor.

  “Sorry, thought you were alone down here.” Nate pops up without warning, then reverses in the direction of the stairs.

  “C’mon back. I am alone. I was talkin’ to myself. I was rehearsing, actually.”

  “For what?”

  “For when I meet God.”

  “Should I ask if that’ll be anytime soon?”

  “No, and don’t ask if I’m about to go unplugged after hearing what you had to say earlier.”

/>   “Unplugged . . . That’s a new way of putting it, isn’t it?”

  “However it’s put, you know what I mean. That’s why you came down here, isn’t it? To see if I was still . . . here.”

  “No, that’s not the reason.” Nate frowns, lowers himself to the bench in the dressing area. From his sling he brings out two bottles of imported lager and a couple of Cuban cigars. He needs help opening the refreshments, which rather puts the shoe on the other foot about who needs watching over.

  Colin secures a towel round his waist and takes a seat at the opposite end of the bench. He passes on the cigar but does accept a beer.

  The wariness that described Nate yesterday is gone. He fires up the Panatela without aid and sends up a wreath of blue smoke before appearing ready to get on with it. And when he does get on with it, it’s without the condescending claptrap that marked the final weeks of their professional association. And there’s none of that “first of all” and “second of all” shit that always came across as verbal finger-shaking.

  “Inopportune time or not, you need to decide on a management plan right away,” Nate says around the cigar.

  “I intend to once things settle down a bit.”

  “You can’t wait for that to happen. You need to act now because there are limits to what people will contribute during a crisis. I’m not talking about myself or Amanda, I hasten to add. You’re welcome to stay here as long as necessary and Amanda and I will serve in whatever way we can for as long as it takes. But—and I’m sorry to have to force the issue—the present situation calls for structured representation to control the media, deal with legal concerns, liaise with law enforcement, handle security, transportation, and the myriad other problems that are bound to arise.” Nate ticks off each item on the fingers of his immobilized hand indicating he’s not sworn off old managerial traits altogether. “You can’t expect volunteers to perform these tasks with the same level of professionalism as a staff that’s contractually obligated,” he lectures.