Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three (25 page)

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.

“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?”

“Laurel . . .
baby
. . . take it easy,” Colin says, rising from his chair opposite her.

“You’re rubber-gloving me!” She stares him down. “And
you
, of all people, ought to know better!”

This brings a gasp from the girl clearing the table, whose reaction indicates a lively imagination regarding exotic uses for rubber gloves. A trickle of nervous laughter from the others evaporates into nervous silence.

“C’mon Nate, do you want us under house arrest? Is that what it’s come to?” Laurel demands.

“I absolutely understand your impatience with—”

“If you understood my impatience at all you’d stop beating around the bush and just get on with it.”

“It’s not about what
I
want, it’s about what’s deemed prudent under the circumstances.”

“Fine. Given the present circumstances of a lunatic on the loose that’s bent on assassinating Colin and anyone else who might get in his way, what then
is
deemed prudent? What would the good Detective Grillo have us do? What recommendations have issued forth from the FBI? From the local law enforcement officials?”

“As you surmised,” Amanda answers, “as of this morning, because of the personal papers they found mixed in with a collection of old newspaper clippings and magazines, they would prefer you all to remain here behind manned gates—under house arrest as you so aptly put it. That would make their job easier—everyone’s job easier.”

“Does that mean me too?” Anthony enters from the kitchen, wide-eyed with hope and excitement. “If I have to stay inside the gates I can’t go to school, can I then?”

“How long have you been listening?” Laurel says.

“I heard your swears, but I didn’t hear anything really-really bad. I promise. I already knew about the nutter that’s after Dad.
Everybody
knows about him.” Anthony approaches the table bristling with bravado. “But I’m not scared. No nutter’s gonna get
me
. I know
all
the escape routes and a million ways to trick him.”

Colin’s chiding of the boy is lost in Simon’s squeals as the younger child bursts into the room determined to keep up with his brother, and even more determined to find a place on Nate’s lap.

“Up! Fix me up!” Simon wails at the top of his lungs until Nate gives in.

This generates considerable amusement, especially from Amanda. The sight of Nate cowed by a toddler also has the affect of removing the impediment to plain speaking. Over homemade peach ice cream, with both children present, the talk finally turns to how best to ride out the exigency, as Emmet insists on calling it.

Simon leaves when the ice cream is finished; Anthony drifts away when it’s made clear his schooling won’t be interrupted and no amount of swagger will win him new quarters in the north wing.

“What was that about, what does he want with the north wing?” Nate refers to Anthony’s little drama.

“He was promised rooms of his own when it was thought a baby would be squeezing him out of the present nursery setup. The promise is still good, so he’s pushing the envelope a bit—wanting to distance himself from Simon. And from us, safe to say,” Colin answers.

“Will this be a simple transfer to one of the bedroom suites in the main house or are you going to customize something for him?” Nate asks.

“I offered Anthony that option when he first approached me about moving as far away as possible—I was placating him, I suppose, distracting him from his disappointment. But I can’t imagine what your interest in this is. Don’t tell me
you’re
taking up his cause,” Laurel says.

“Far from it. My interest is in how any proposed custom jobs will be implemented. Are you talking about work that can be done by regular staff or will outsiders be brought in?”

“When Laurel ran the idea by me, thought was to utilize craftsmen that’ll be working on the oast house conversion,” Colin says.

“Oh? I thought that project was stalled indefinitely,” Nate says.

“Only seems that way. The delay’s because the conversion experts we want are best in the business and extremely democratic in the way they go about their business, so we’ve had to wait our bloody turn.”

“Then a hardship won’t be imposed if you have to wait a little longer.”

“Yeh, it will. I very much will consider it a hardship if I have to go to the bottom of the waitlist because of this sodding—”

“Background checks could be run,” Amanda says. “You could have these people vetted.”

“That wouldn’t account for fluctuations in the work crews or the possibility of slipping in a few day laborers and God knows who else,” Nate argues.

“Credentials could be issued and only the known and established would—”

“Yes, they could.” Nate cuts Amanda off. “And I
still
wouldn’t like it.

“You’re not gonna like this either,” Colin says. “I’ve gone far as I’m goin’ with the goddammed security upgrades. There’ll be no talk of electrifying anything or videotaping our each ’n’ every movement or crisscrossing the place with laser beams and whatnot. Enough that we’re already gone to considerable bother—fucking
incredible
bother, actually. Enough that we’re virtual prisoners here, so I do
not
want to hear about enforcing a delay of the oast conversion.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Bemus says.

“Which part? Tom Jensen says.

“All the parts,” Bemus answers.

“You’re not bein’ paid to like it. I’m not lookin’ for your approval, just your cooperation.” Colin moves his chair nearer to the two bodyguards, the better to debate them at close range with Emmet serving as moderator.

Perhaps to conceal his frustration and distance himself from that faction, Nate moves his chair a little closer to hers and asks apropos of nothing if she ever found her girlhood diary.

“No, not yet,” Laurel says. “I looked for it the night I went to the attic to get Colin’s Dopp kit. I ransacked through all my old luggage, but it wasn’t there. Maybe it’ll turn up when I get around to sorting through the contents of the Glen Abbey house.”

“I never did hear why you went after the Dopp kit,” Amanda says, drawn to the less volatile discussion.

“I was building up to telling Colin what Nate and I had stumbled on regarding the probable means of Rayce’s death and I got to wondering if there might still be coke residue in the kit to support our theory. My thought was to have it tested by a private lab—a foolish thought because of course the bag had been washed out countless times in the interim.”

“So Jakeway’s confession would be required in order to prove the altered aspirin packets were planted there,” Amanda says.

“To prove beyond a shadow of a doubt, yes.”

“But there’s still the garment bag with the altered packets inside,” Amanda says.

“Yes, but don’t forget I authorized that bag and its contents to go into storage when the Glen Abbey house was stripped—while I was still hell-bent on protecting Colin at all costs.” Laurel looks away, recognizes a new cost, realizes for the first time that authorizing removal of that bag by strangers was the same thing as tampering with evidence.