Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three (26 page)

Ever-observant Amanda interprets her pensive pause as the signal for dismissal and encourages the men to remove themselves to the studio, which Nate has yet to see in its finished state.

Laurel takes for granted that Amanda will remain behind as the men quickly file out, but Amanda leaves with them and it’s Emmet who hangs back, asking to speak with her in private.

They return to the comfort of the winter parlor where she instantly suspects a setup. No wonder Amanda fled with the others. They all knew what was coming when Emmet asked for time alone with her.

This is it. This is the day of reckoning when she learns the full cost of a deliberate breach of ethics. This is when she’s deservedly rebuked by a peer. This is when David would look straight through her as if she didn’t exist. This is what she dreaded more than learning Jakeway might be lurking in the neighborhood.

She attempts to get comfortable in her usual chair that now feels like it’s stuffed with artichokes. The little cat attempts to get comfortable on her lap without success.

Emmet appears completely at ease in a straight back chair next to the game table. He wastes no time getting down to business, outlining a proposal that has nothing whatsoever to do with coroner’s juries and withheld evidence.

“Many of the permissions required are little more than formalities,” he explains. “However, there is a certain amount of red tape to be cut through, there are the inevitable bureaucracies and hierarchies to be maneuvered around, tasks I feel certain can be accomplished in a fortnight or less. I lay a bit of the groundwork whilst I was in the States earlier this week. Awaiting only your blessing, I’m ready to go forward with what I’ve described.”

Without a moment’s hesitation—without consulting either Colin or Nate—she nods her blessing. Speech is not a remote possibility and won’t be until she’s sure the first sound she makes won’t be a hiccough.

Emmett adds a few details that serve to convince her beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s now the one channeling David. No surprise there, though; he was mentored by David nearly as long as she was.

When her fellow protégé does bring up the dreaded subject of that which is due the London coroner’s office, it’s almost as an afterthought. When he explains that satisfactory resolution of the matter is underway and no disciplinary action will follow, she asks only if he’s had to falsify anything.

“Heavens no.
I’m
not falsifying anything, someone else is. And quite eager he is to do it.” he says with David’s influence as obvious as stripes on a zebra.

They exchange smiles that do nicely as a secret handshake and promise to confer again as soon as the situation dictates.

“Bed and Breakfast” didn’t need explaining, but the meaning of “Guest House” wasn’t altogether clear till Hoop compared it to those boarding houses back home in the U.P. that offered meal plans. That decided him on the Weald Guest House when he made the move from London to Middlestone.

“Bicycle” didn’t need explaining either, but what he would like to have explained is why he didn’t think of buying one the selfsame minute it turned out he couldn’t rent a car. Why didn’t that dawn on him right away? Hasn’t a bike always been the fallback means of getting around? How could that have slipped his mind?

As long as he’s asking himself questions, maybe he ought to pose one on why he didn’t recognize the sporting goods store for what it could provide the first time he passed by its windows. He can’t answer that either. And he can’t go on blaming the jet lag thing every time he’s thickheaded. He’s been off the plane almost a week now and he’s been eating and sleeping regular, so he’s fresh out of excuses.

With suppertime fast approaching, he waits in the front parking lot of the guest house for delivery of the purchases made once he was drawn back to the Middlestone shopping street and the store that filled all his needs.

The costly touring bike he could have ridden here without drawing extra notice; even in the big city of London nobody seems to think there’s anything queer about riding a bike—not even when the rider’s done up in office-worker duds of the kind Hector Sandoval had on when he made the purchase.

But riding the bike here to the guest house with the new-bought goods plus the valise strapped to his back, was the sort of thing Hoople Jakeway would’ve done—would’ve had to do, just to show that he could. Hector Sandoval doesn’t have to show himself off that way. Not after shelling out more cash than he’s ever spent for something that wasn’t a truck or a set of false identity papers.

A van marked with the name of the sporting goods supplier rolls up a little before five o’clock, as promised. Hoop presents receipts for the assorted items as they’re unloaded, and in keeping with the experienced businessman-solo-cyclist-adventure-traveler they took him for when he was picking things out, thinks to slip the delivery guy a little extra once everything’s been accounted for.

The handmade bicycle is the two-wheeled equal of an El Camino Conquista in Hoop’s eyes. The rest of the gear, except for the knife, can’t be compared to anything he’s owned before because he’s never before owned a lightweight bivouac tent or a breathable rucksack; a waxed-cotton rain suit or a highest quality down-filled sleeping bag; an inflatable ground mat or a pocket stove that’ll boil a liter of water in four minutes flat. Not to mention the special pot to boil the water in and special implements to stir it with. And, before now, he’s never even heard of a cable locking device to use instead of a heavy chain and padlock.

They wanted to add a hatchet and a folding shovel to what started out as a simple bicycle and sleeping bag purchase, and he drew the line there, no matter what good deal they offered in the way of package pricing. They said he ought to have this and that bike accessory—saddlebags, a rear carrier platform, a basket for the front—and he said a big “no thank you.” Any kind of carrier would only make him think of the shared bike back in Bimmerman with its fringed handle grips and plastic flower decorations stuck to the beat-up basket hanging lopsided off the handlebars.

When it came to choosing a knife, they wanted to send him out into what they called the camping wilderness equipped with one of those combo affairs tricked out with a jumble of blades unfit for any of the tasks they’re assigned to. But when he eyed the selection of single-bladed knives they had, he saw right away that he’d have to settle for less than he wanted. He saw that he’d have to pick the common ordinary one with only a six and a quarter-inch blade or leave a memory in their heads that could spring to life if Hector Sandoval ever got famous.

Now that he thinks about it, now that he’s got it in his possession, the blade length doesn’t matter overmuch. The job can be done—has been done—with a box cutter, after all.

He carries his regular burden—the valise—and the parcels inside the guest house. There, he breaks a rule Hoople Jakeway would never have broken by leaving everything unsecured behind a chair in the vestibule while he returns to the parking lot to see to the storage of the bike. But it’s only for a couple of minutes, he tells the Hoop part of himself.

The bicycle shelter they’ve got here was another good reason for choosing these lodgings. Once he knew to look for little signs welcoming cyclists, as they call bike riders over here, the rest was easy. And the experience in London had him ready when these check-in people wanted to see his passport and driver’s license, asked for a credit card, then agreeably accepted cash on the barrelhead.

He wheels the bike to the shelter, fits it into a slot and secures it with the newfangled locking cable. There’s no interference from an attendant; nobody’s got their hand out and that means nobody will be around to note his comings and goings. This makes the setup even more to his liking.

Upstairs, he lays the valise and bulky parcels on the bed and does a slow careful inventory of his possessions the way he has in every room he’s rented since leaving Bimmerman. Right off, he sees that they must have thrown in a knife sheath, whetstone, flashlight, and compass as goodwill gestures because none of the receipts show those items. The compass makes him grin because he’s never had use for one. But maybe he shouldn’t be grinning; it wasn’t that long ago he thought he didn’t have use for a wristwatch, and it turned out he couldn’t get along without one.

He looks at the tricked-up face of the watch he’s wearing now—the one with all the extra features that go with his new and improved station in life—and reads that the downstairs dining room starts serving in ten minutes. Egged on by his empty stomach, he quick transfers the all-important items from valise to rucksack and slings it’s near emptiness over one shoulder as he’s seen done in these environs. A last glance at the array on the bed takes in cycle maps of Kent and Hampshire, and the cycling rules of the road bound up in a pocket-size booklet. More goodwill offerings, no doubt.

The rules booklet he sets aside to study before he does his maiden ride tomorrow. For being on the wrong side of the road, that may turn out to be more ruinous to his nerves than the first bicycle ride alongside New Jersey’s Route 22.

In the small dining room of the guest house, his meal of steak and kidney pie is no harder to palate than the chicken liver platter he put away at the restaurant of the Speedwell Motor Lodge that time. And the kidney smell doesn’t really bother him; he’s been up against a lot worse when he filled in at the abattoir. He is glad, though, that this meal doesn’t come with the smashed peas they served him with the fish and chips he ate the other day when he didn’t know that chips meant French fries and that mushy peas were something to push aside. When he’s done with the main part of the meal they ask if he wants pudding, but pudding’s another soft food he doesn’t much care for, so he passes on dessert.

He pretends the pub next door wasn’t also a reason for picking this particular guest house; he pretends when he goes there after supper that he’s not half hoping to strike up gainful acquaintance the way he did at the Chink place.

“Yeh, you’ve got me there . . . Yeh, it
was
my idea,” Colin says. “Emmet covered for me because I didn’t want you thinkin’ I was gone overboard in the compensating department.”

“I thought as much.” Laurel smiles across the short distance separating them on the terrace and takes a healthy sip of the first wine she’s tasted in weeks. “This afternoon, after Emmet laid out the plan—after I got over being gobsmacked—he seemed hesitant about accepting thanks and that’s what made me think you were the instigator.”

“He shouldn’t have been. Even though it was my idea, he gets full marks for the way he’s handling it. And he gets full credit for the way he’s handling the other thing . . . the Rayce thing. That’s strictly his doing. Brilliant it is. Inspired, actually.”

Her smile widens. “Unquestionably.” She drinks to David’s influence before pressing on. “Whose idea was it to send for Bemus and Tom Jensen? That doesn’t strike me as something Emmet came up with on his own.”

“Got me again. And again I didn’t want to come across as overdoing. Rubber-gloving, as I was accused of earlier.”

“You
are
a goddammed jewel, you know.”

“I’ve been called worse.” Colin grasps her free hand, brings it to his mouth, nuzzles it with unmistakable meaning.

“Three weeks.” She anticipates his question. “Three weeks, barring complications, and three to six months before I can hope to conceive again.”

“I’m marking that on my calendar.” He gives her hand a sharp squeeze before letting go.

For a while they enjoy a silence weighted with nothing more ominous than when Simon’s next squalling fit might occur or when Anthony’s next dramatic plea for independent living quarters might be made. She accepts more wine, drinks it a little faster than is wise. But wise has its place and it’s not here, not now.

“I still can’t get over it,” she says.

“Get over what? There’s been a lot to get over lately.”

“I can’t get over the perfectly logical idea of bringing my father’s body and my mother’s . . . my mother’s remains here, to Kent, to be buried together. Who knew I could be this excited and happy at the prospect of a joint funeral service? But I guess you did, didn’t you?” She lifts her glass and drinks to Colin this time. “When were you first struck with the idea?”

“During the sendoff for David—frenzied affair
that
turned out to be—I was tryin’ to think of a way to avoid similar when it came time to put your father in the ground. And a bit later I had a chat with one of your brothers, who said you seldom visited your mum’s gravesite because it was so near the spot where your demon grandmother’s planted—that’s what set fire to the idea, actually.”

“But you said nothing to me.”

“No, I didn’t. I wasn’t worried you wouldn’t go for it—no doubts there—but I was worried about disappointing you. I didn’t want to raise your hopes then see them dashed if I couldn’t deliver.”

“I seriously doubt there’s anything you can’t deliver.”

“This’ll be my first with dead bodies—no disrespect. Then again, maybe not. Not if you count . . .”

He divides the rest of the wine between their two glasses. “We’ve never talked about that, have we? That delivery I made to the bottom of the ravine. We’ve never talked about the beheading I had to have witnessed.”