Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three

by M Mayle

  “Yours is not an unbiased opinion.” He produces a weak smile, leans across the table and grasps her nearest hand, interlaces his fingers with hers in the manner initiated in a Paris taxicab and since become something of a standing joke between them that more often than not leads to full-body action.

  Amanda wiggles her fingers between his, leans over to meet him half way. She kisses him lightly, then urgently, and then, without warning, pulls away.

  “Oh no you don’t.” She withdraws to the far corner of the settee. “Not yet, you don’t. Not until you’ve told me Emmet’s reaction to the Rayce predicament. You had to have said something about why you wanted to meet with him today.”

  Nate eases back into the depths of his chair, unbothered by the physical rebuff; there’s always later. “I wasn’t able to say much. There was an awful lot going on, remember, and there was an unrelated matter he insisted on working into the conversation. But I was able to say enough that he’s in up to his neck. He’s now one of us, unless, of course, he decides to turn us in.”

  “I wouldn’t altogether rule that out even though he’d be committing professional suicide if he did,” Amanda warns.

  He hears this as the opening shot in a barrage of criticism and what-ifs that doesn’t come. He braces for a lecture on breached ethics and conspiracies of silence that doesn’t come. She does have a few questions, though. She asks if the public will be told of the substantial break in the case; if Scotland Yard and the local constabularies will treat Jakeway as a serious threat to these shores; if ghastly photos of Aurora’s head will appear in the tabloids; if Colin and Laurel will ever be able to lead reasonably normal lives. She doesn’t appear to expect answers.

  When he gets up to pour himself another drink, Amanda accepts a watered-down version. “You know what?” she says after an experimental sip or two. “In the category of leading normal lives, I’d almost forgotten that Laurel’s poor father never got a decent sendoff, not even a graveside service, but can you blame the Chandler family for not even trying after they were all put through the nightmare of David’s funeral and subjected to the constant fear that Jakeway was lurking somewhere in those crowds and could strike at any moment with little regard for his own safety or his chances of getting away, and now that Laurel’s no longer pregnant and could return to the States and hold a traditional ceremony she still can’t because—”

  “Good lord, Amanda I swear you’re prescient or something. How could you know about that?”

  “Know about what? I don’t even know what prescient means.”

  “Means clairvoyant. Means how could you know that the topic Emmet insisted on bringing up today, of all days, relates to that very concern. Jesus, girl, I don’t know how you do it.”

  “Neither do I,” she says, mirroring the amazement he feels.

  — TWENTY-FIVE —

  Early morning, September 16, 1987

  In Bimmerman, Michigan, if your name was in the paper, a clipping of that mention got tacked to the Kings Tavern notice board the very same day. The notice board was in the back of the tavern, next to the toilets, where patrons that didn’t always read the weekly gazette could catch up on selected happenings, be they large or small. Didn’t matter for what reason your name got into print—could be for bagging the biggest buck deer of the bow and arrow season or getting yourself bagged for drunked-up driving; it could be for winning a county-wide cribbage competition or losing a life-and-death football game by running the ball eighty yards in the wrong direction.

  Hoople Jakeway. Hoop views his name in The Daily Telegraph like he’s looking through old, filmed-over eyes that can only see straight ahead. For the longest time nothing stands out but his name; he can’t see—or won’t see—the words all around it that will make people forget about his one other appearance on the Kings Tavern notice board. Nobody reading this article when they tack it up—and they will—is going to remember that back in 1973 he was written up and displayed for causing the Bimmerman loss to Paradise in a football game that decided the Trout Lake Conference championship. That’s not even a hill of beans compared to what they’re saying he’s blamed for now.

  He blinks through the filter of time and takes in the whole piece. He goes at it slow-like, word by word, on the lookout for mistakes—his, not theirs—and watchful for clues that’ll say how big a bother this could turn into.

  NEW YORK, NY (AP) September 14 — Suspect named in ongoing murder probe. In an eagerly awaited move, the FBI and cooperating law enforcement agencies named Hoople Jakeway, of no current address, as principal suspect in the August murder of David Sebastian. Sebastian, who was prominent in London and New York legal circles, was ambushed at the suburban New Jersey home of Laurel Chandler Elliot, a former colleague. Elliot witnessed the brutal attack, narrowly escaping injury herself. Her positive identification of Jakeway enabled this break in the case. No motive for the crime has been announced and at present there is no indication the search for Jakeway will extend beyond the Metropolitan New York area, where the public has been enlisted in the search through blanket distribution of posters and handouts bearing Jakeway’s photograph and description.

  The letters “AP” right up front show that the story’s not limited to just one newspaper or one part of the world, so he’s not out of line to think this write-up will one day make its way to the Kings Tavern notice board. If it hasn’t already. Down deep, didn’t he always know something like this would happen—that one way or another the homefolk would find out what he’s been doing?

  The two-day-old date on the piece tells him nobody here in London was in that big a hurry to spread this news around and also says that his escape from New York three days ago couldn’t have come at a better time.

  And it only figures that the hifalutin FBI would be brought in when the guy he felled by mistake in that darkened garage turned out to be hifalutin himself. That only stands to reason, doesn’t it? Like looking after like? But it doesn’t stand to reason that the FBI people are any smarter than the regular cops. If they were, they would have caught him by now. Wouldn’t they?

  He goes on this way, testing and questioning the statements from every angle till he’s down to the two things that do look like a bother. He can’t for the life of him solve how Laurel Chandler Elliot was able to put a name to his face, or where the FBI and the cooperating law enforcement agencies came by a picture of him to put on the posters and handbills they’re said to be spreading all over the place.

  This starts a fit of worrying till his head catches up with his nerves and settles him down. However the lawyerwoman happened to identify him, and whatever picture they’re using to describe him, doesn’t much matter because he’s not Hoople Jakeway anymore.

  He jumps up from his seat at the small desk in his hotel room, hurries into the bathroom to make sure. And sure enough, it’s not Hoople Jakeway who’s looking back at him from the mirror over the sink. It’s the same guy whose reflection caught him off guard on the train yesterday. Till he finds out they’re after a neatly dressed bald guy with glasses and a mouth that warps downward—a guy who answers to the name Hector Sandoval—he can stop wasting his time on foolish worries.

  The touch of queasiness and unsteadiness felt when he returns to the desk is blamed on drinking too much coffee and sitting too long in one place. But those cautions are put aside while he looks for something useful to study.

  A page by page, column by column, feature by feature search of the four other newspapers bought this morning proves that nobody ever heard of Hector Sandoval and only The Daily Telegraph bothered to print the story about Hoople Jakeway.

  There’s no mention of the lawyerwoman and her rock star husband either—the reason he bought five newspapers in the first place. Going by all the special attention the Elliots got yesterday because of her no longer being in the family way, Hoop expected today’s papers to hold more of the same and then some. But there’s nothing he can see; nothing that would help him come closer to pinpointing j
ust where in the County of Kent they’ve again gone into seclusion, the fancy word for hiding.

  Time is the main thing he’s wasting now, so he stacks the collection of newspapers in a neat pile by the wastebasket and quick makes the bed. He sets the room service tray of coffee things by the door to be carried out when he leaves. In the bathroom, he swabs out the toilet with the brush provided, glances around for something to use on the tub and sink, and catches an accidental look at himself in the mirror that jabs with the reminder he’s a paying guest and not required to do chores.

  He eyes the idle TV when he’s ready to leave. He completely forgot about it while he had his head stuck in the newspapers. For all he knows, the television announcers may be jawing nonstop about Hoople Jakeway and showing pictures of him on all the channels. But that’s not supposed to matter, is it?

  Hoop squares his shoulders in his freshly cleaned and pressed travel clothes, scoops up his valise, and departs the room without setting the room service tray in the hall or troubling to be sure the door is well and truly locked behind him. None of that matters in light of today’s plan to rent a car, brave himself to drive on the wrong side of the road, and begin an acre by acre search of Kent County if that’s what it takes to snare Colin Elliot and his finger-pointing wife.

  A different guy is on duty at the help desk in the lobby. “Oh but I can organize a car hire,” he says when asked directions to the nearest Hertz place. “Choose your agency, set your budget, pick your style and I’ll arrange delivery to the hotel,” he assures.

  This is too easy; there’s got to be a catch. Hoop nevertheless goes along with the process, makes choices, fills out forms till he meets the catch. The concierge guy looks at him like he’s from another planet when it comes out that Hoop doesn’t have a credit card that’s required no matter how much money is offered up front. Then the concierge guy looks at him like he’s smelled something bad when Hoop confesses that he doesn’t have any references either—bank or personal.

  The plan goes on hold right then and there. Any further palavering will only make the attempt stick out that much more in the concierge guy’s mind—make Hector Sandoval stick in his mind.

  With the help of a Central London street map held back from the other maps stored in the valise, Hoop returns to Victoria Station on foot. The walk does him good, nerves him up to nose around for a Hertz office where he can hear straight from the horse’s mouth that a car can’t be rented for cash. After a few false starts he finds several car rental desks. Without giving out his name, he’s learns that they all agree with what the concierge guy said. That leaves him no choice but to return by train to Middlestone and hope the ride there will cause him to hatch another plan.

  On the train ride he gives thought to buying a car, but something tells him that could get more complicated than renting one. For someone like him, at least. Maybe the answer is to steal a car. No, that won’t work. That won’t work because that would make Hector Sandoval no less a man on the run than Hoople Jakeway and spoil the chances of going about the search in a calm and careful way.

  At the Middlestone jumping-off point, he takes a different route into the town center, avoids the places he went yesterday and keeps a sharp eye out for anything that might jar loose a new plan. He wanders along a street that’s shut off to automobile traffic, stops now and then to look in store windows the way the rock star and the lawyerwoman were once described doing on New York’s Fifth Avenue. He’s blind to most of what he sees because his mind’s busy with the new setback and still cluttered with leftovers from yesterday.

  Try as he might, he can’t quite get empty of how hard the urge struck him yesterday. The braying laughter of the nursewoman is hard to forget. So is the heedless way he wanted to answer to it. And would have if he’d had the means.

  Hunger makes him start paying attention to what’s inside the store windows. He’s glad to have his stomach take charge and give his head a rest. He’d like to find the English version of a Blimpies, but he doesn’t see a lunch counter anywhere. There aren’t even any sit-down restaurants. Now that he’s bothering to notice, he sees that the places he’s been dawdling in front of are mainly dry goods stores, sporting goods stores, and variety stores.

  At the next intersection, he rounds a corner onto a street that looks more promising. He sees a sign for fish and chips halfway down the block and homes in on it despite the bothersome feeling he’s overlooked something.

  — TWENTY-SIX —

  Midday, September 19, 1987

  “Very well, I’ll ask,” Laurel says to the small gathering. “Please state what you’ve only implied so far.” She directs at Nate, but it’s Amanda who takes the deep breath, Emmet who clears his throat, and Colin who answers.

  “He doesn’t fancy sayin’ the Jakeway blighter’s somehow made it to these shores. Not in so many words, he doesn’t.”

  “Hold on there, mate,” Emmet says to Colin. “No reason to believe the worst—we’ve heard nothing concrete about the blighter’s location, have we then?”

  “But what we have heard would make us fools of the first order if we didn’t believe Jakeway’s headed in this direction—assuming he’s not already here,” Nate says. “And damned right I don’t fancy having to say so in so many words, but I’m compelled to. I’d be seriously remiss not to. For what other conceivable reason would Jakeway abandon his social security card, his driver’s license, his birth certificate—they even found his high school diploma, for chrissake—if not because he’s established a new identity? And for what purpose would he need a new identity? I don’t have to say that in so many words. Do I?”

  “Refresh my mind,” Colin says. “This morning, when Grillo rang in with this latest development, I forget if he said discovery of those documents changed the focus of the investigation? Have the profiler blokes changed their tune or are they still clingin’ to the belief Jakeway wouldn’t journey far from his . . . his security blanket or whatever the fuck they’re callin’ severed heads these days?”

  “One of them was quoted by Grillo as referring to Aurora’s head as a totem,” Amanda says.

  “He should have stuck with motivator,” Emmet says. “By referring to it as a totem he’s descended into racial profiling and he’s off the mark quite a bit because totem usually means—”

  “That’s quite enough.” Laurel cuts Emmet off, making no effort to conceal her disgust with euphemisms for grisly objects, whether politically incorrect terminology or profiler jargon. By any other name, it’s still a severed head and the ultimate indication that Hoople Jakeway is far more deranged than first thought.

  She glances at Nate, who’s taking his sweet time responding to the request on the floor, and catches him eyeing her. He’s watching her much the same way she was watched the night of the garage ambush when everyone at that gathering viewed her as a ticking bomb—and rightfully so. Alert now for a trend, she catches Colin darting surreptitious looks her way even as he listens to Emmet pick up where Nate left off. And now that Emmet has over-explained the equivocal stance the investigation has taken regarding Jakeway’s current whereabouts, Amanda is caught sneaking appraising peeks at her.

  “Stop,” Laurel says. “Stop right there. Do not say another word about this until I—”

  “There, you see? I bloody well knew it’s too soon for her to be exposed to any more of this shit!” Colin erupts.

  “Be still,” she says to Colin. “Please,” she says to them all. “I want you to stop monitoring me as though I’m about to keel over or go stark raving mad or something. I want you to understand that I was not traumatized by the recent . . . misfortune. I was disappointed by what happened . . . of course I was . . . I was heartbroken, really. However, I am trying to move on and that’s what I’d like you all to do—move on. If you don’t, I’m afraid nothing very useful will be accomplished today. Or any day.”

  She’d feel stronger in her appeal if she weren’t speaking from the depths of an armchair. “Have I made myself
perfectly clear? Is that plain enough?” she says in a tone usually reserved for naughty children.

  Their reaction, their collective eyerolling and eyebrow lifting, is tinged with burlesque qualities she’d love to laugh at. And if she laughs now, in the midst of this sobersided briefing, she’ll only reinforce the notion she shouldn’t be exposed to anymore shit.

  With exquisite timing, Gemma Earle raps sharply on the open door of the winter parlor and announces that luncheon is served. The group rises as one and follows Gemma to the seldom-used dining room. They’re taking their seats when Bemus and Tom Jensen are ushered in by Sam Earle, who announces the newcomers as just arrived from the States.

  No one but Laurel is surprised by the sudden appearance of the two bodyguards who had said their goodbyes at the end of the European tour. Again, she would love to laugh—this time of sheer pleasure combined with the comfort derived from the familiar—and again, she stifles the impulse as the wiser course of action.

  Subdued greetings are exchanged all around and the meal is well underway before Emmet emerges as the one who summoned the extra manpower from America.

  “Dab hands they are from way back,” Emmet explains as though Bemus and Tom need explaining. “And, as first line of defense, I expect Mrs. Elliot would prefer someone known to her,” he says as though having read her mind.

  They progress from soup to salad with Emmet’s the only direct mention of the main reason they’re assembled here today. From the others there aren’t even any oblique references to the ever-increasing menace posed by Jakeway, making her wonder if they’ve somehow agreed behind her back to limit lunch conversation to bland subject matter.

  The elephant in the room continues to enlarge while they talk about the weather and work through a light entrée of poached salmon. When one of Gemma’s girls comes in to clear, Laurel lifts her glass of Pellegrino water: “Here’s to catching the sonuvabitch,” she says, startling the girl and affecting another contagion of eyerolling consternation among her tablemates. “Even if we have to do it ourselves,” she says and turns to Nate at the opposite end of the table. “You called this suffocatingly serious meeting,” she sputters, “and you, Emmet, you emphasized the gravity of the situation by calling in specialists from the States, so why in hell doesn’t one or both of you say what the fuck it is you want us to do?”