Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three (34 page)

“Never,” he says, gritting his teeth and reliving the episode of bleeding he thought would take her from him forever.

He sits up to escape that vision, works hard to capture another: the happiest day of his life, a day that didn’t coincide with the one she gave as hers. His occurred much earlier, when she consented to marry him and come home with him. The same day he inadvertently contributed to Rayce’s death. A connection he’s never made till now. Does that mean anything? “Does it
have
to mean anything?” he says.

When he left the bedroom he didn’t think to bring a watch—or his wallet, for that matter—and the clocks in this room haven’t told time since the minstrel’s gallery was occupied by actual minstrels. The gradual fade-out of the exterior lighting is a reasonable indicator of encroaching dawn, but he’d rather rely on sound. He’d rather hear Tom Jensen mustering the Chandlers for the airport run to know the time is near.

Towards that end, Colin moves to the doorway nearest the main stairway, remains in the shadows till he does hear hushed activity coming and going on the stairs. He crosses to the doorway above the arcade, where he’s able to hear a vehicle enter the porte-cochère and a series of muffled door closings and engine noises meaning they’re on their way. Unless Laurel broke her promise to remain abed during her family’s leave-taking, there’s no reason for anyone to think he’s not honoring a similar promise and still snoring at her side—or for him not to proceed with the plan to stop Detective Grillo in his tracks.

He nevertheless waits a cautious interval before descending to ground level and another interval before coding himself through the electronic lock and out into the arcade. From there it’s an easy sprint to the garages, where he intends to take the first vehicle with keys in the ignition. That turns out to be one of the Jaguars. But there’s no remote unit in it for the gates, he discovers when he’s more than halfway to the barrier. He can either go back to the garages for a unit or go forward knowing he’ll have to come to a full stop and get out of the car in order to activate the gate opener. Either way he risks being caught, having to explain himself, and, worst of all, having to carry out his mission in the company of at least two bodyguards. He opts to go forward, all the while checking the rearview mirror.

At the massive wrought iron gates he leaps out of the car, quick enters a code on a recessed panel in one of the stone gate supports and is back behind the wheel the second the gates start to move. “‘Stone walls do not a prison make nor iron bars a cage,’” he recites one of Rayce’s half-remembered contributions in a mocking singsong. “Like hell they don’t,” he says when he’s clear of the gates with nothing chasing after him so far.

Hoop wobbles slightly under the full load, then gains control as the bike picks up speed on a downslope. Over jeans and flannel shirt he’s finally wearing the hooded rainsuit that came with the camping package. He could have put it to good use long before now, but before now he didn’t want to look like he was afraid of a soaking, and before now he didn’t have the need to conceal himself with a hood. The stiff suit has another benefit; it has reflector stripes on the jacket and pants. Most times he’d prefer not to stand out—even in the dark—but with all his possessions strapped either to his back or to the back of the bike, he’s not as nimble about getting out of the way of drivers that don’t see him till the last minute.

His spirits are high for someone who willingly went the night without sleep; he’s made peace with yesterday’s learnings and last night’s happenings. He’s fine about having left the guest house without going through the rigmarole of checking out. It’s not like he left there owing them anything; his up-front payment more than saw to that. And he’s not suffering any twinges over helping himself to foodstuffs from their larder; he didn’t eat anywhere near all the meals paid for in advance.

Two hours after abandoning Middlestone in the dead of night, equipped with a planned-out way of finding the Wheelwright Road and whatever it has to offer, he was tempted to take a breather when he passed St. Margaret’s Church and burying ground a little while ago. But even at the beginning edge of dawn there was too much chance of attracting notice that might question why he was there again, so he pedaled on and stuck to the route he came up with after close study of every map and tourist leaflet he could put his hands on.

All the maps show there is, in fact, a Wheelwright Road—with or without a signpost—and all the maps agree it’s middled in the grid of roads between the church and the tavern where he ate lunch Sunday. So, if he’s counted off the right number of roads since passing by the church, the unmarked crossroad—the one seen on Sunday that had no importance attached to it at the time—should be the next one he comes to.

He pedals on, swiveling every time he thinks he sees a break in the heavy undergrowth, till he comes to a four-way intersection with no markers of any kind, not even stop signs. If he could get through the rainpants and into his jeans pocket for a coin, flipping it would be as good a way as any to choose which way to go from here. Minus the coin, he lets the terrain decide and turns in the direction showing the flattest stretch of road.

That doesn’t last long, however. He soon finds himself laboring up a moderate incline—laboring, because he’ll never get used to shifting gears on a bicycle. At the top of the rise he’s rewarded with another flat stretch, only now the road’s heaved in the center like it just came through a Michigan winter.

He rides the hump as safer than wobbling along the sloped edges the way the cycling rules of the road would have him do. But that has him in a bad position when a car appears up ahead. It’s not coming at him all that fast, but it’s also hogging the center of the narrow road, so somebody will have to move over.

Visibility doesn’t figure into it; he doesn’t need reflector tape now that the sun is full up. The driver would have to be blind not to see him. Blind or looking to be the winner of a mismatched version of that jackassed-fool chicken game the bullyboys played on the long lonely roads of Michigan’s U.P.

Hoop holds position as long as he dares. Then, at the very last second, he veers toward the shoulder. Except there isn’t any shoulder, there’s only dense growth right up to the pavement. So dense it holds him upright when he crashes into it.

The car—a fancy black sedan—slows, stops, and backs up to where he’s propped against the heavy undergrowth. His mouth is already agape from the near miss, so his jaw doesn’t have far to drop when the driver rolls down a window and looks out, all full of concern. Or so it appears, because this is a rock star asking if he’s all right; this is Colin Elliot in the flesh asking if he needs help righting the situation.

Hoop quick closes his mouth and stiffens against the multiple sensations running through him thick, poisonous, and hard to pin down—like mercury from a broken thermometer. He thinks to turtle his head back into the cover of the rain hood before waving off Elliot’s offer of help; he wrestles the heavy-laden bike back into service and goes along like it’s business as usual in case the rock star’s watching in his rearview mirror as he drives away.

But it’s not even close to business as usual. Not when luck comes along and meets him this way. The shock and surprise of it has him wobbling again and wishing for a chance to write down everything that just happened while it’s still fresh in his pounding head. The writing will have to wait, though. It’ll have to wait till he’s tested this sudden spurt of luck by forging ahead in search of the spot where the rock star entered what might turn out to be the Wheelwright Road.

And if it’s more than just a spurt of luck pulling him along, spotting that place might even solve the mystery of the other name he heard said by the plotters in the church. A queer-sounding name—Terra Firma—that was a lot less queer when it happened to match an entry written on the plastic-coated card that now has an extra special place in his wallet.

One thing he is sure of: This Terra Firma place is not a park or a castle or he’d have seen it on one of the maps or read about it in one of the dozens of tourist leaflets he’s collected. Maybe it’s a pub or a tavern; maybe it’s one of those bed and breakfast places or a guest house like the one he just left. Whatever it is, he’s got a strong feeling it’s on this road. Or close by to this road.

With that possibility filling his head, he rounds a long curve where things start looking oddly familiar. But why shouldn’t they? Everything around here ought to look familiar after combing through the general neighborhood for going on three straight days.

At the next incline, a slight one, he thinks he knows why and pauses to drink it all in. There, on his left, with the addition of a lineup of buses, is a scene right out of the wedding album he’s hung onto for what else might be learned from it. And there, above the stand of trees bordering that side of the road, with the addition of a few hot-air balloons, is another scene from the selfsame album.

He rides into the picture and an opening in the heavily wooded area soon shows itself. A hundred or so feet into the opening, a pair of stone pillars support iron gates half again higher than his head. He slows down to read the stand of letters bordering the tops of these closed gates. “Terra Firma,” they read, just like he thought they would. And there’s every good reason to think this is where the rock star was coming from when he came hogging down the road.

Hoop stops to one side if the paved driveway because all that’s needed now is some kind of sign saying this is the for-real Wheelwright Road and he’d know it’s a gusher of luck that’s found him. Before he can do much looking for a mailbox or something with a regular address on it, the gates open and a car just like the one the lawyerwoman crashed through the garage door of her house in New Jersey speeds through. Well out of the way when the Range Rover joins the road, he can’t see who’s behind the wheel. But that’s because the driver guns it in the direction the rock star took. He does see, however, that the gates with the funny name close all by themselves and, upon review of the bigger picture, that the neighboring property will probably do for a campsite.

Number one: Because she would have objected to his confronting Grillo in person; she would have called it unnecessary. Number two: Because she would have objected to his confronting Grillo in person; she would have called it grandstanding.

Nate cites the reasons Amanda was left behind and unaware of the reason for his predawn departure. She’ll figure it out soon enough, but not before he attempts to forestall the detective’s meeting with his counterparts at Scotland Yard.

At six-fifteen on a Tuesday morning, he was going against traffic flow when he fled London, so there was none of the hurry-up-and-wait that characterized last night’s commute. And he wasn’t thinking in fits and starts the way he was last night when he was undecided what to do, so he’s made better route choices as well as better time.

Now, shortly before seven, he passes the Sidcup exit. Then it’s Swanley, the M25, and finally the turnoff for West Maling that alerts him to watch for a Middlestone exit he hasn’t used before.

At that exit he follows directions given when it was assumed yesterday’s briefing would take place at the Weald Guest House instead of St. Margaret’s Church. But those directions assumed him to be coming from the church, not the A20, and now they have him going the wrong way for the first several blocks. Once he’s turned around, though, he sees the Weald Guest House just beyond a half-timbered pub with one of those graphic names invented for the illiterati of yore.

He parks next to a bike storage shelter toward the back of the building, contemplates entering by a side door he decides is locked at this early hour. If the limited phone service is any indication, the main door to this place may not be open, either. To his relief, it opens at his touch and a small reception desk is manned when he walks in.

“Mr. Grillo’s room, please.” The civilian title makes the request sound less urgent, Nate decides.

The clerk consults a clipboard. “His knock-up’s not scheduled for another five, not till half-seven.”

“We’re not gonna quibble over five minutes, are we? Just give him a ring. Tell him he’s got company. If there’s a problem, let him think your clock’s fast.”

“I’m sorry sir, I can’t do that.”

“Jesus, over five fucking minutes? Now going on four?” Nate flashes his watch.

“The rooms are not equipped with phones. We’re not
that
sort of establishment.” The clerk sniffs as though this unthinkable inconvenience should rate a Michelin Star. “At the appointed hour, when I wake Mr. Grillo in a civilized manner, whom shall I say is calling?”

“Tell him it’s his ride to London and do it now or I will.” Nate snatches the clipboard from the unprepared clerk and manages to read Grillo’s room number before the clerk snatches it back.

“Sir, I must ask you to stop. This is highly irregular!” The clerk gives chase when Nate heads for the staircase.

“Fuckin’ A it’s irregular. What
is
this place, Fawlty Towers?” Nate takes the stairs two at a time with the clerk in hot pursuit.

Near the end of the first floor hallway, a room number matches the one glimpsed on the clipboard. Nate raps on it loud enough to be heard half the length of the corridor. “Wakey-wakey.” He sarcastically employs the Briticism for the clerk’s benefit. “That civilized enough for you?”