Resurgence: Book 2 of the Second Chances Trilogy

by M. M. Mayle

  In her absence, Nate arranges bound proposals on the dining table and sets out fresh legal pads, a calculator, and a pair of Montblanc pens. From a sideboard in the sitting room, he brings bottled water and stemware. He’s eyeing a phone, estimating if he’d have time for a quick call—if he’d even be able to get through to Amanda—when Laurel returns carrying her own printed agenda.

  “Do you mind if we start with this first?” She singles out the appraiser’s report from the printed material she drops on the table. “And I’d like to touch on these other things before we get down to the main business or I’ll be distracted.” She indicates the handwritten notes he sent along with the appraiser’s report—the notes describing his visit to her New Jersey property and the call paid to the nursing home housing her father.

  “Start anywhere you like. I have the rest of the afternoon.” He holds a chair for her, then takes one for himself.

  She begins with a review of his experience with the whacko neighbor lady the day of the house appraisal, a subject they’ve discussed more than once by phone.

  “I probably shouldn’t bring it up again, but I’m still intrigued by how definitive she was with her assertions. How descriptive she was of this . . . this figment of her imagination, whose job she thinks you took. I could laugh about that if it weren’t indicative of how far gone she is.”

  “Thank you for pointing out that only the deranged are apt to mistake me for a maintenance man,” he says, and they both laugh for a few seconds before she again consults his notes, obviously searching for a specific entry. He offers to help, but she finds the passage she wants and targets it with one of his pens.

  “This. This is what gives me the most pause, this part about her creating a whole persona, a construct—a chimera, you could almost call it—and then giving it a haircut, an upgraded vehicle, and credit for knowing its place.” She refers to his almost verbatim account of the woman’s aberrations. “That worries me a lot more than her tendency to lose whole decades at a time.”

  “If I may . . . Why should it worry you at all?”

  “Because she helped me and my family when we had nowhere else to turn. And now it looks like she has nowhere else to turn. I’ve learned that the poor old dear has no relatives, not even distant ones, and if she has any friends among her contemporaries, they’d of course be reluctant to turn her in. So that leaves me.”

  “Okay. Now I begin to understand why we’ve been over this so many times.”

  “Yes, I’ve shamelessly used you to help strengthen my resolve. Every time I go over your notes or question you about the most telling incident so far, I’m that much closer to being able to follow through. Believe me, I don’t look forward to having to blow the whistle on her, but at some point I may have to, if only for her own safety. I’ve checked with neighbors at the far end of the court and they’ve seen nothing that would support her claims.”

  Laurel stabs at the notes again. “These aren’t partial truths or misinterpretations, these are full-blown hallucinations she’s having. I doubt I have to remind you that I’ve never employed a maintenance man of any race, creed, or color, let alone one with a pigtail and a flashy truck with an upside-down sign on it. And I probably don’t need to tell you again how grateful I am that you were thorough about passing this information on to me. “And speaking of thorough,” she says while flipping through the pages of the appraisal, “this appraiser guy gives ‘thorough’ a whole new meaning. He was way out of line with some of these findings.”

  “If you’re referring to his mention of conditions that don’t affect ultimate value, I can’t argue there.”

  She looks off into space for a moment. “You know how this makes me feel? Violated. So-called break in the flooring or not, he had no business poking around in my secret hiding place. None at all. And even a partial list of what was found there has no place in a report of this kind. Gewgaws, diaries, marbles, currency . . . Who cares? And who cares if acorns are sprouting in the gutters and the eaves need caulking? So what if something was spilled in the attic when, in all likelihood, the house is going to be razed.”

  “Again, no argument from me. The guy was a real pisser, especially about what he saw as squirrel poison.”

  “So I noticed.” She zeroes in on a word with the business end of the pen and grimaces. “That’s just plain insulting to think I would spread a rodenticide and simply leave it at that. If I have to remove a squirrel, I trap it and release it in the woods. And whatever this jerk mistook for a chemical squirrel barrier was most likely something my brothers spilled in the process of tossing their open gym bags into the storage area. Jock itch powder, common foot powder, even baby powder, would be my educated guess.” She sets the report aside, “Ridiculous. All of this squirrel shit.”

  He’s not sure what to expect when she moves on to his notes about the nursing home. But all she says about that is how glad she is that he made the surprise inspection, and how fortunate she is that her father is receiving such good care and still has visitors from his former life—Mrs. Floss and her cherry blintzes notwithstanding.

  “I’m contemplating bringing my father over here, you know. I’m giving it serious thought. A lot depends, though, on what his physical condition is at the end of August, the earliest it could happen. And that’s the earliest I can make a decision on the house. Aside from the appraiser overstepping professional bounds, I am satisfied with the report,” she says, shoving her remaining paperwork aside.

  He takes this as a sign she’s ready to get down to business. But no—she’s not finished housekeeping the incidentals. When he moves to open one of the proposals, she holds up a restraining hand. He can’t really object to another delay; he’s not all that focused, either.

  Not so surprisingly, she brings up the telephone interview he arranged for her with Aaron Kice, the maverick Denver neurologist. The topic is overdue for discussion, with this being as good a time as any to respond to her take on the doctor’s methodology.

  She’s quick about summarizing what she was told and targeting what she took exception to. “And never mind my reasons for wishing to reject Dr. Kice’s catalyst, I want to know why you gave it significance.”

  Nate swallows hard. He knew this was coming, didn’t he, so why didn’t he have a logical answer ready? “Are we talking about the same thing?” he asks as a stall.

  “I am, of course, talking about Aurora’s decapitation being designated the sole cause of Colin’s retreat into himself.”

  “Is Anthony apt to overhear?” he asks as another stall.

  “Anthony knows what happened to his mother. Chris Thorne recently filled me in about that.”

  “I’m not clear on what it is you want to know, then.”

  “I want to know why you thought I should talk to this Dr. Kice in particular. I understand there are a number of specialists at the clinic who could have described that phase in Colin’s treatment.”

  “Undoubtedly. But Dr. Kice was the only one offering anything resembling an absolute.” He plucks an answer from thin air.

  “I see.”

  “I hope you do. If it seemed that I was placing special significance on the doctor’s conclusions, I can assure you it was inadvertent,” he says with an absolute ring of truth because technically, that is true. Any emphasis she’s latched onto was placed by accident—an accident he cannot afford to repeat.

  She puts down the pen she’s been batoning through her fingers. “Do you know what? I think I may have to blow the whistle on myself and give up the goddammed book project. Look what it’s doing. It’s making me doubt you, of all people, and it’s making me feel I’m part of some sort of conspiracy whenever I have to take someone else’s word for what happened to Colin. I think I need to ignore this notion that a single event triggered Colin’s dormancy, because now it’s got me obsessing about Aurora, and it wasn’t that long ago that I was preaching to the media to give her a permanent rest.”

  “Dormancy—now there’s a new w
ord for it.”

  “Don’t give me credit for being original. The word was once applied to me.”

  “Applied to you? You experienced some kind of overwhelming shock?”

  “You could say. But it didn’t compare to Colin’s ordeal, and oddly enough, it didn’t occur when my mother died, when it would have been most expected. It happened when I was a young teenager, when my grandmother died in an accident. I’m told I blanked out for a little while—no more than a day—and Mrs. Floss came to the rescue and talked me out of this dormancy, as she insisted on calling it. She was always a little over the top with her descriptions, but she was never less than kind and generous, and I must sound like a broken record getting stuck on that subject again—wasting your time and—”

  “If you were wasting my time I’d be gone by now. I’m very interested in what you have to say. On all subjects. And I’d like to return to one you only touched on. Are you seriously thinking of scrapping the book project?”

  “Yes, I am. For the reasons cited, and because lately I’ve been asking myself what real purpose it would serve.”

  “May I put in my two cents worth? Off the record, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “I still believe the story should be told, but maybe not as originally envisioned. I now see it as a series of magazine pieces—the interviews you already have—concluding with a summation by the man himself that would correct assumptions, dispel rumors and—”

  Blessedly the phone rings before he can fully demonstrate how much thought he’s given to a project that should no longer concern him.

  Laurel’s end of the phone conversation sounds like the nanny is a definite no-show, a supposition Laurel confirms when she returns to the table.

  “Another two cents worth.” He plunges on with reckless abandon, questioning why Rachel Elliot hasn’t been enlisted to lend a hand with the kids.

  “I thought I was sparing her. Hasn’t she already done enough?” Laurel says. “Didn’t you tell me she put her life on hold to step in during the emergency? The emergency’s over, isn’t it? Unless you or someone else thinks I’m not up to the job—”

  “I’m not questioning your capabilities. I can’t imagine that anyone would, I’m only saying that I know Rachel very well and even if she indicates otherwise, she’d much prefer being involved with the boys. I think it safe to say she’s going out of her way to avoid casting herself as an interfering motherin-law, and you’re going the extra mile to avoid taking advantage of her. You both need a course correction, Laurel. Trust me on this. And you can trust me to know that if you don’t include her on the European tour, you’ll be making a big mistake.”

  “Very well. Fair enough. Now my two cents worth. If you don’t figure out some way to reinstate yourself with Colin, I will.”

  “Please do not. I was never more serious in my life than when I told you I had to be free of the day-to-day. And I wasn’t entirely kidding when I once thanked you for taking him off my hands. If I seem to still stick an oar in now and then, it’s in an unofficial capacity and no different than periodically checking on the welfare of my ex-wife.”

  She’s regarding him with naked skepticism—as well she might—when an outburst from the next room precludes whatever comment she was about to make. While she hurries to see who’s being killed, he packs up to leave—to make a run for it before she can ask again if he’s been in touch with Amanda.

  “I’ll show myself out,” he says when she returns with both shamefaced boys. “Call me when Rachel arrives and you have time available. I’ll be in London indefinitely.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  Late afternoon, May 18, 1987

  Getting on to teatime, Colin wearily climbs the makeshift bleachers slanted against the back wall of a West End rehearsal hall and plants himself on the top bench. From up here, it looks like the personnel milling about the mockup stage have always been in perfect accord with the organizers of the event; from up here, no one would guess the amount of jaw-clenching statesmanship that went into convincing the artists in that group to leave egos at the door, along with expectations of special treatment and any major props symbolizing individual acts. As Amanda pointed out earlier today, if they made even one concession, they’d have to bow to all; they’d now be pushing catering and technical staffs to the limit, and seeking ways to accommodate pillars of fire, rotating drum kits, trapezes, floating staircases, elevated catwalks, smoke machines, confetti cannons, parade balloons, clown cars, and the occasional dancing bear. And they’d be needing Wembley Stadium instead of Royal Albert Hall.

  But he can save the self-congratulatory Bob Geldof moment for when the concert’s actually under way, and that’s not far off. They’re counting hours now, not days; fifty-one remain, give or take. He winces as he stretches his legs across the hard wooden bench in front of him and attempts to work the kinks out of his back by extending his arms as far over his head as they’ll reach. Bemus must see this as a summoning gesture because he breaks away from a huddle of security people down on the floor and mounts the risers in long sure strides.

  “About time,” Colin says as Bemus lowers his bulk onto the space next to him.

  “Whaddya mean? I got here when agreed upon. Ten o’clock Monday morning—this morning—right on schedule.”

  “About time we had a moment to catch up.” Colin refers to a day so full of demands they’ve exchanged nothing but perfunctory greetings till now.

  “Before we do, I wanna know who to thank for the job offer. I haven’t seen a contract yet, so I don’t know if it came direct from you or the usual.”

  “The usual? You mean Nate?”

  “Well, yeah. This was all his idea wasn’t it? This big blowout of a concert for Rayce and gettin’ the band back together to fill in for Rayce. That’s got Nate Isaacs written all over it.”

  “Your eyesight’s gone bad then. Nate Isaacs had nothing to do with this. Any of this. Amanda Hobbs came up with the idea for the memorial concert and floated the idea of Verge gettin’ back together for the one event. When we agreed to that, she pushed the envelope and next thing we knew we were agreed to cover Rayce’s dates on the continent and—”

  “There. Don’t you see what I mean? If that isn’t a Nate maneuver, I don’t know what is.”

  “Are you deaf as well as blind? Did you not just hear me say this was Amanda’s doing? Do you actually believe Nate Isaacs is the only person alive capable of taking advantage of a situation? Jesus, given enough time and clarity of thought, I might even have pressed for a Verge reunion under present circumstances. And if you’re still wondering whose arse to kiss, it was me requesting your services. I owe you that much after leaving you in the lurch at the airport that morning. No hard feelings, then?”

  “No, I got over that quick, but I’m still findin’ it hard to believe Nate’s not involved in this operation. Scuttlebutt in New York says he’s still on your case.”

  “In what way?”

  “I heard he was nosing around the photographer’s place and showing unusual interest in the Lester investigation.”

  “What photographer?”

  “The one you decked outside the studio that time.”

  “The bloke who got his throat cut and stuffed with the shitload of coke?”

  “Yeah, the hit they tried to finger you for. And now they’re tryin’ to finger somebody to have done both him and Lester because the coke found with the photographer’s a perfect match for the traces found at Gibby Lester’s place.”

  “This is public knowledge?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And affects me how?”

  “When it made the New York papers, you got the usual mention—the Aurora angle as relating to Lester, and the street scuffle as relating to Sid Kaplan, the dead photographer. But the main story’s the drug match.”

  “And this supposedly set Nate off on one of his mad pursuits?”

  “No, the way I heard it he was already sniffin’ around before they an
nounced the connection between the two murders.”

  “Who are your sources? Who are these people telling you Nate’s again gone paranoid on my behalf?”

  “Clients. People in your line of work—I’ve been freelancing since you left me in limbo—and you know I can’t name ’em as sources anymore than I can repeat stuff you tell me in confidence.”

  “Right. Like you never shared any of my confidences with Nate.”

  “Okay, you got me there, but it was always for your own good.”

  “My own good as defined by Nate.”

  “Can’t argue that.”

  “No, you can’t. And as long as we’re not arguing, I’ll strongly remind you that Nate Isaacs no longer works for me, has no bloody fucking say in anything I do, and no conceivable right to coerce information from you. If you report back to him in any way, you’re history—and that’ll be industry-wide history. Anything else need bringing out in the open?”

  “Just one thing. All this talk about coke makes me wonder what you think of the coroner’s report that was leaked to the Sunday papers on both sides of the pond?”

  “There’s nothing to think. Rubbish. The lot of it, and I hope to hell the New York rags got the story straight and printed that it’s a bleedin’ preliminary finding—that there’s unquestionably more to find if any of these forensic arsewipes think to look in the right places.”

  “That’s my feelin’, too. Couldn’t have happened the way they’re sayin’. No freakin’ way.”

  “Thank you. Helps to know I’m not the only diehard that doesn’t believe everything said. What’s the take on it in the States? Any idea how opinions are running over there? With Nate out of the picture and David here in London, I’ve rather lost my American ear to the ground.”

  “I’m gonna say the average American doesn’t give a good fart in a windstorm and just figures another rocker went down to an overdose. Not a lot different from when you got wracked up and written off as brain-dead. People believe what’s convenient to believe.”