by M Mayle
Shit. What was he thinking when he chose this place? Low profile of course; a tourist establishment he wouldn’t be expected to patronize. But did it have to be decorated with fake medieval weaponry and references to beheadings?
If Amanda’s of similar mind, she’s not letting on. She only cups both hands around her mug of tea and makes a gallant attempt to skirt the issue of who found what.
“There’s no avoiding it, honey. I’m afraid we’re reduced to depending on volunteers. On dedicated types like Chris and Detective Helowicz—on ourselves to see this through,” he counsels.
“I’m trying really hard not to come to that conclusion, I really, really am, and I’m trying not to be so harsh on the police officials and trying even harder to find something good to say about the situation and the only thing I can praise is the way the media’s been keeping their distance—physical distance, I mean.”
“I was going to comment on that myself.”
“You’ve noticed too?” She hunches her shoulders to conceal another little shiver.
“Yeah, since the hospital caper, even the worst have shown restraint.”
“You think it’s out of respect or fear?”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to call it respect. And if it’s fear, it’s not fear of Jakeway, it’s fear of the legal ramifications that would follow if one of those ghouls pinpointed a target for a madman.”
“Well, whatever the reason, Bemus says there are no identifiable paparazzi anywhere around—not even in Middlestone—and that anyone attempting travel on Wheelwright Road or any of the roads bordering the estate better have a majorly good reason or they’re turned back. I asked him if that was legal and he said it’s as legal as putting out word that stopping anywhere on the estate perimeter constitutes trespassing and will bring an armed response and I got the distinct feeling that’s not legal either even though the armed response threat is what kept the slavering hordes at bay during the wedding celebration—that and those jazzy balloons you surprised us all with.”
“There may be another element at work in that area—the element of goodwill established when Colin’s mother chose to depend on locals for goods and services instead of using big-name establishments in London, a practice Colin continued when he took over—as much to please his mother as to invite my disapproval—with the upshot . . .” He has to pause for breath whereas Amanda could probably keep going. “The upshot being, the favor was returned when it came to respecting Colin’s freedom and privacy. Discounting a couple of outlets that deal in manufactured celebrity-schlock, there’s been no exploitation to speak of. Nothing blatant, anyway. No glaring incidents, no sellouts, no loose lips among the retailers or the service sector. And it’s worth noting that the extended community was ultra discreet when we lured the media away from the hospital and when we arranged for the burial of Laurel’s parents.” He blathers on through the arrival of her salad and his burger, citing only the gravedigger for an innocent enough slipup.
“Are you about finished?” Amanda says when he again pauses for breath.
“Yeah, I believe I am. Sorry. Don’t know where that came from.”
“I do. From a feeble attempt to distract me from the worsening situation we’re entrenched in and from the certain inevitabilities I may be even more aware of than you.” She pokes at her salad, lays the fork aside without taking a bite. “Do you have any idea how many knifings there were in London during the past five days? How many there were in Kent during the same period? How many were fatal?”
“No, but I’m sure you do,” he says, on the edge of annoyed that she’s moonlighting again, this time as a crime statistician. He regrets the blunt remark the second it leaves his mouth—even before he registers the stricken look on her face and the longer stronger shiver that has her in its grip.
“C’mon, we need to get out of here.” He flips some bills onto the table and all but drags her from her chair. “You’re going someplace safe until this is over.”
“I’m not going anyplace without you!” she protests, drawing a few glances as they exit to the street.
“Yes, you are, but it won’t be for long. I’ll catch up with you in a few days. Sooner if the situation warrants.”
“But we can’t abandon—”
Pulling her along with him, he steps to the curb to hail a cab. “We’re not abandoning anyone, we’re joining them.”
— FORTY-EIGHT —
Late afternoon, October 15, 1987
Laurel raps on the partially open door of Amanda’s room. It’s the only room in the north wing with an attached bathroom and outside phone line—the room Nate occupied during the dark days and David occupied the last time he overnighted here. Because of the David association, she’s never really looked inside. But now she does, as much to see what’s keeping Amanda as to satisfy simple curiosity.
Amanda steps out of the bathroom when Laurel enters. “I’ll just be a minute,” Amanda says, slipping into a waist-length jacket.
“I heard Sam Earle say we could be in for some weather, so you might want to bring a scarf in case the wind picks up.”
“I don’t know if Nate packed one for me.”
“He packed for you?”
“Yeah, he kinda had to because I refused. Even though I knew it’s probably safer here than where I was, I didn’t want to come, I didn’t think I should come, I mean, don’t you already have enough trouble, like you really need more in the form of an obsessive-compulsive that can’t leave well enough alone?”
“Don’t be silly. You know you’re always welcome here—In any form you care to take.” Laurel makes light of Amanda’s self-condemnation and moves deeper into the room, where she identifies the reason Amanda’s been scarce for most of the five days she’s been in residence. Amanda’s trademark portfolio and the contents of several accordion files are spread out on the broad surface of the executive desk dominating one side of the room.
“I thought you weren’t supposed to work while you were here.” Laurel says. “Nate told me you weren’t supposed to do anything more taxing than curl your eyelashes.”
“How could I not work? There’s so much else going on besides this . . . this never-ending crisis,” Amanda sputters without specifying exactly what else is going on.
They stop at the master suite to furnish Amanda with a scarf and Laurel with a hooded sweatshirt, then clatter down the backstairs to the kitchen, where Gemma Earle seconds Sam’s caution about the weather.
“We’re not going far,” Laurel assures the housekeeper. “Just far enough to put some color in her cheeks and ease the creak from her walk.”
That produces a polite smile from Amanda, who still appears reluctant about leaving the house for the first time since she arrived.
From the terrace, they start out on the path leading to the prized beech tree and the helicopter landing pad beyond. They silently pass the studio, which now serves as a monitoring station, the sobering lineup of support trailers for security personnel, and a pair of pole-mounted surveillance cameras. Two cameras later, Amanda has drawn deeper into her jacket with the headscarf pulled forward Muslim-style and her eyes cast straight ahead as though blinkered.
“That’s it.” Laurel calls a halt. “That’s enough. I’m with you. Absolutely. How the hell can we go for a walk when we know we’re being ogled by that hired goon squad?” She scowls up at the nearest camera before reversing their direction.
At the studio command center, Laurel halts again. “Wait right here,” she instructs Amanda, “this won’t take a second.”
Inside the studio, to forestall a false alarm upon their return, she warns the oglers that she and her jeans-clad friend with the great little ass will be leaving the televised area. Amanda will have to see the specimen copper beech tree another time—if the time ever comes when their every move isn’t being recorded.
Now headed in the direction of the oast houses and stowage, Amanda’s only concern is with the possibility of repeating her previous expe
rience there.
“Don’t worry,” Laurel says. “We won’t go that far. No funny business—no rats, no snake-eating roosters today. We’ll just go as far as the stone wall. Okay?”
Amanda’s nod is semi-convincing, but once they penetrate the no man’s land between the monitored area and the fenced perimeter she does open up a little. “Was Chris Thorne actually looking for Jakeway when he found the bike and that other stuff in the woods? Did he ever say?” she asks.
“He never said, but I believe he was. I don’t think he was just out for a casual stroll, not in woods that dense.” Laurel answers, reflecting on last week’s excitement. “I have to say—when Chris burst in here with the news—then when every spare cop in the county burst in, I thought they’d caught the bastard. I let myself hope.”
“I’m still back there with Chris, alone in the woods where God knows the bastard could’ve ambushed him.”
Laurel pretends not to see Amanda shiver and her eyes fill up. From a stray gust of wind? From the strain she’s been under as long if not longer than everyone else?
“Are you all right with this . . . this?” Laurel gestures at the atmosphere in general when words fail her.
“I’m not afraid to take a walk within the confines of the estate, if that’s what you mean,” Amanda says.
That’s not what was meant, but Laurel lets it stand and gropes for another opening that might draw Amanda out a little further. “Did I understand Special Agent Bell chimed in—pun intended—on this latest development? On Chris’s find?” she says.
That gets a nod and no details.
They advance to the slope leading to the chestnut thickets, where she tries another approach. “My brother Ben tells me the Glen Abbey house is scheduled for demolition before winter sets in,” Laurel says.
Another nod, this time with an unintelligible murmur.
“Ben went on to say that Mrs. Floss’s death has tentatively been ruled a homicide. Did you know that? Did Detective Helowicz comment on that when he showed up the other day?”
“Don’t know. Helowicz only spoke with Emmet.”
“I understand Emmet’s now the go-to guy, the chief liaison officer, to put it in military terms,” Laurel says. “Was that his idea or Nate’s?”
Nothing but a momentary frown and a shrug from Amanda.
“I got a clean bill of health from the doctor on Monday. There’s no reason I can’t get pregnant again and carry to term,” Laurel says in exasperation. The real Amanda would be all over that news, wanting to know the details no less than Emily did when told.
“I’m sorry,” Amanda says without looking up. “I’ve heard everything you said, I know what you’re trying to do, I don’t mean to be rude, it’s just that I’m not tuned in yet, I’m not yet over having been brought here against my will all because I got a little carried away with collecting crime statistics and almost lost it in a public place after having been flippant and mean-spirited about things that deserved better and having been a total bitch for longer than I can remember and . . . and having been no freaking good to anybody anywhere, so I guess I had this coming . . . I freaking deserved to be locked up.”
“Wait a minute.” Laurel casts about for a stopping place, someplace more conducive to understanding whatever in hell Amanda’s talking about than the rugged course they’re on. “Hold that thought—those thoughts,” she says and leads the way through the chestnut stumps with their vicious whips of new growth to the tumbledown stone wall that comes with another set of problems.
But when they reach the section of wall that Anthony was warned away from the last time they came this way, the adjacent nettle patch is gone. Removed by a scrupulous groundskeeper? By a foraging animal? What kind of groundskeeper has time for tidying up wild outlying areas when there are so many groomed areas to look after? What kind of animal eats stinging nettles? And what else should she be worried about out here in this isolated hollow approaching the oast house complex?
“Okay, let’s have it,” Laurel says, shaking off a mild attack of the willies and patting a space beside her on an unbroken portion of wall.
Amanda complies with another rush of words. Given what they’ve all been through lately, none of her self-directed lamentations are that remarkable until she bemoans the way she responded to Nate’s marriage proposal.
“Good lord! You didn’t turn him down, did you? Is this another case of your being scared? Or thinking you’re not worthy or something? You can’t still be carrying a torch for . . .” Laurel trails off rather than state the name of Amanda’s only other known suitor, a distant lost cause, and refrains from suggesting Amanda’s rock-ribbed relatives might object to her marrying a Jew. “I know, you’ve reverted to thinking he’s too good to be true,” Laurel supplies the better, more acceptable reason.
Whatever Amanda comes back with is drowned out by the sound of running feet. They both leap to their feet and assume laughably defensive postures before the barking of Anthony’s little dog, Toby, announces it’s only the boy they have to fear.
“Dad had to let me go early,” Anthony explains why he’s not at his piano lesson with Colin. “He had to go to the attic and loosen the bolts on those rickety stairs they’re gonna take down tomorrow.”
This only makes sense to someone with foreknowledge of the exterior iron stairs sagged into rusted decrepitude under the weight of the recently removed wisteria vine, and of how these stairs relate to an attic-level outside door secured from the inside.
Laurel attempts to fill Amanda in, but even a brief description is impossible with the dog running interference and Anthony wheedling to go to the oasts and stowage when they’re this close. He carries on until she points out that he’s already pushing his luck for having strayed beyond the video barrier. “I’ll guess that you didn’t tell anyone where you were going, did you. How do you expect to get back in if no one knows you left? How do you know the SWAT team won’t come after you with weapons drawn and—”
“Because they didn’t the other times . . .” His eyes widen, his mouth forms a silent swear, his throat visibly contracts on the self-incrimination he tries to swallow.
Played out in slow motion, these actions would be hilarious if the infraction were less severe. Even so, Laurel has to look away and pretend scowling interest in an ominous cloud formation, in what the dog is doing, in Amanda’s reaction, in anything but Anthony’s predicament. When she does focus on him again, he has hope written all over his face in one of the quickest turnarounds she’s ever witnessed. But his appeal is directed at Amanda.
“The real reason I legged it all the way out here was to tell you your boyfriend’s come down from London with that writer bloke and Emmet. I thought you’d wanna know straightaway.”
“Of course you did, my darling. And how lucky you were to have found us on your very first try. Just imagine that, will you?” Laurel executes an exaggerated all-knowing wink and whistles for the dog that’s disappeared in the direction of the oasts.
“He’ll come back after he’s had his rat,” Anthony says.
“Thank you for reminding me,” Amanda says, hurrying to establish a pace back to the main house that precludes anymore talk about botched marriage proposals.
— FORTY-NINE —
Dusk, October 15, 1987
Hoop is ready when the dog comes within range. If need be, he can give chase. Thanks to the rooster meat and the water squeezed from the hand pump attached to the horse trough, his strength is almost back to what it was. And thanks to seven straight nights of unbroken sleep, his mindset is pretty much restored. Enough so that he’s not real happy about having been stuck here for a full week with nothing to show for it but a steady water supply and the means to cook whatever he can catch or forage.
The dog raises no alarm at finding a stranger in the queer chimney house, so Hoop was right to stay put and make the animal come to him. When it does, when it closes in to take the gristly rooster shank held out as bait, it bares its throat to the b
lade.
Hoop jumps aside to avoid the blood spatter that’s heavier than that from the rooster and doesn’t have any appeal now that his own juices are flowing again. When the animal stops twitching, he rolls it onto a gunny sack for skinning and gutting. He’d prefer hanging it as he would a deer; he’d prefer dressing out a deer, but beggars can’t be choosers. Not that he should be calling himself a beggar when food comes to him this easy.
The pelt doesn’t want to come off any too easy, though, and the meat, when he gets a look at it, is even stringier than the rooster’s. All the more reason to be glad he remembered how charcoal burns without smoke and thought to rig a spit of sorts before he’d eaten overmuch of the rooster raw. Slow roasting looks to be the best means with this catch as well and if it isn’t, he can always stew the dog meat in the leftover nettle soup made in a beat-up kettle found in the barn.
He takes a break when the dirty work’s done and steps outside to shallow-bury the offal alongside the latrine pit dug once he was strong enough to squat without support. He lingers a minute or two, leans on the handle of a scavenged spade and watches a boil of clouds overtake what’s left of sunset. These are peculiar clouds, funny-colored clouds, different from any he’s seen here or anywhere, for that matter. And the air feels strange. No, that can’t be. That’s not right. That’s his nerves acting up again because you can’t feel air unless it’s moving and there’s no wind at the moment.
With full dark dropped down early tonight, he has to feel his way back through the barn to the lair established in one of the chimney houses. The stone tipi, as he now thinks of the peaked and vented space, is outfitted with all manner of comforts and conveniences brought from the barn once he was able to do for himself. In the low glow of the fire kept burning there, he skewers the dog carcass on a long threaded rod picked from the scrap heap next to the old tractor, and supports it above the fire on a pair of upended cream cans.