Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three (48 page)

Drawn to the only thing that stands out in the near-blinding rain, he makes out a big structure that’s lit up from down below. From what he can tell, it’s mainly made of glass with a solid base and fancy trim like a dressed-up greenhouse. But it doesn’t stand high enough to be a regular greenhouse. And if this is what he saw glinting in the far distance the first time he got a look at the mansion house, it’s not high enough to be the sunroom he took it for.

Could this be the fairytale coffin the kid jabbered about in the same breath as unicorns? Is this the way to sneak into the house? To find out—and to find out if the kid knew enough to go flat when he surfaced onto the wind-scoured rooftop—Hoop will have to get closer to this queer glass box and hope the kid’s waiting for him there.

On his belly, much the way he went under the fence, he writhes across the open space separating him from the coffin thing. There’s nothing to hang on to, not even a vent pipe, and the only chimneys he can see in the dim glow are too far way to provide a handhold. His fingers are soon raw from digging into the asphalt-like roofing material and his knees have gone through his pants by the time he reaches the structure.

Whatever the thing is intended for, it has slats along the base; moveable slats like the ones in the barn windows, except these are wider and attached to a chain device that regulates their opening and closing from down below.

A ventilator. That’s what it is. Hoop curls his bloodied fingers around an ornamental iron corner post. It’s a combination skylight and vent for fresh air, with enough light showing through to see that the kid wasn’t blown away after all. There he is, on the other side of the chain mechanism, hanging on to the framework the same way Hoop is.

With motions doing for words, the kid shows that at least three slats will have to be removed in order for someone Hoop’s size to squeeze through and winch down to the floor below. This raises all kinds of unasked questions about how strong the chain is, how far the drop is, and how to remove the slats without tools, let alone in a violent windstorm. Meanwhile there’s the constant worry about either losing the boy or making the mistake that allows the boy to escape and himself to fail.

Before that can happen, Hoop unsheathes the knife for what good it might be against the heavy wooden slats. The kid quick scoots over, closes up the space between them.

“No, not that way!” he hollers like he did when Hoop was about to break the window. “This way,” the kid screeches and proceeds to show how the slats can be slid from their slots and unhooked from the chain attachment—like maybe he’s done it a time or two before.

At the conclusion of the reprised Anvil Chorus, a tremendous downdraft forces Colin to the back wall of the cupboard he’s pretending to search and slams the doors shut behind him. He stays put, face to the wall, listens for sounds of destruction that are sure to follow. Something’s undoubtedly struck and damaged the skylight; given an inroad, the raging storm’s bound to make quick work of the remains.

But no distinctive shatterings and crashings follow. The only noise he isolates from a full orchestra of sounds is the unmistakable clank and grind of the chain that works the louvers of the skylight.

Bloody hell. What’s that about? He turns, cracks a door open, cranes upwards at a sight that forces him into the depths of the wardrobe again.

That can’t be. He cannot have seen the figure of a man lowering himself down the louver control chain. And he cannot have seen the figure of a boy descending by the same means. No, that was flashback to whatever pitiful state he was in whilst huddled on the office floor. It has to be because there’s no other rational explanation. He shuts his eyes even though he can’t see his hand in front of his face; he covers his ears against an auditory hallucination and remains that way till basic curiosity overpowers his defenses.

He again cracks open the wardrobe door and again encounters a vision. The same man and boy he saw before are now landed on the attic floor. There they are, not that far away, planted on the oriental rug of the mockup stage set with their backs to the tall mirror backdrops and their faces to him and the double row of gilt banquet chairs standing in between. There they are, big as life, come to life as Hoople Walking Crow Jakeway and Anthony Arthur Christian Elliot. Unmistakable, they are, and talking in an animated fashion.

He strains to listen and catches very little. He watches their actions as reflected in the mirrors, concludes that they’re arguing and the bedraggled Anthony apparition is losing. Colin steps out of the wardrobe when the Jakeway figure grabs Anthony in a chokehold from behind and displays a knife in a threatening way.

“Let the lad go!” Colin cries, his cracked voice poor competition for the wind noise. “It’s
me
you want, motherfucker.” His voice fractures on the epithet, but he has made himself heard, as shown by Anthony’s reaction to his sudden presence.

“See! I told you!” Anthony squeals at his captor. “Didn’t I tell you at the start my dad would—”

Jakeway clamps a hand over Anthony’s mouth and rather gapes at Colin as though he can’t quite believe his eyes, either. His moment of doubt is just that, though—a moment—and his recovery is swift. With his other hand he presses the knife blade against Anthony’s throat.

“Yeah. It’s you I want. You and that lawyerwoman of yours,” Jakeway calls out, far more calm and clear-spoken than expected. “But I’m not lettin’ the boy go. I want him to hear direct from your mouth why I’m rightful to make you pay. I want him to hear your confession firsthand and understand—”

“Confession?” Colin snarls. “You wanna hear my
confession
? What are you, some sort of fucked-up priest along with everything else? You gonna be administering the last rites as well?”

Jakeway twists his mouth into a distorted grin and at the same time presses the blade harder against Anthony’s neck, where a thin trickle of blood appears.

Whilst fast assembling his thoughts, estimating what all he’s expected to confess to, Colin focuses on the mirrors rather than the knife blade and finds himself staring at another image he didn’t expect to see. Didn’t want to see. But it’s as undeniable as the flesh and blood figures a short distance away.

There, in the lower corner of the nearest mirror, is Laurel’s reflection. She’s evidently crept up the attic stairs unheard in all the commotion, and stopped on the same step where he once watched, unseen, as a far lovelier drama played out.

Just her head is revealed—just enough to startle him into fleeting recall of the bathroom encounter a few hours ago, and more than enough to expose her to dire threat should either Jakeway or Anthony happen to face the other way.

Towards making dead certain they don’t, Colin advances on the pair. Only one row of chairs separates them now; he clears his raw throat for all the good it does.

“C’mon, spit it out.” Jakeway anticipates him. “I’ve waited long enough. I know to the minute when you did away with Audrey. It was in the truck you stole with her inside. It was when she let on that she’d come back to Michigan, to me and a life without all the eviltry of fame and fortune to drag her down and make her do unworthy things that—”

“Shut the fuck up!” Colin roars, tortured throat be damned. “You want me to tell it, then let me tell it.
My
way.” He continues in a good imitation of the strong voice heard during the period of weirdness spent on the office floor. In the interest of holding their undivided attention, he moves closer to Jakeway and the squelched Anthony

“Was in the stolen truck, as you say, but that’s where all similarity ends. She never said a bloody word about renouncing the evils she was beset with. She had no problem with having been dragged down, seein’ that she did most of the dragging. And she
sure
as shit never said a word about
you
or a life without the fame and fortune she so craved. I cannot
begin
to imagine how the hell you came up with that particular bit.

“What she
did
have a lot to say about was the baby she’d just dropped—a baby she said most likely wasn’t mine. And didn’t she think
that
was rather the grand joke, as was the fact of her having hooked it on smack and sold it to the highest bidder even before it was born. Made her porn adventure look like a kiddie cartoon, it did. So when all this news came screaming out of her that day in the hijacked truck, when she commenced beating on me with her fists as well as her words, you better
believe
I had done with her. Didn’t I just reach over and choke the bleedin’ life out of her!” His emergency voice is shaking now. “There, that what you had in mind?” He somehow manages not to stumble over the words. “Is
that
the shit you’ve been waitin’ to hear?”

Colin checks first for Laurel’s reaction. Does she understand what he’s doing? What he’s done? Is she okay with it?

She’s unreadable at the moment. And so is Jakeway. Anthony, however, has gone goggle-eyed and that can be blamed on the knife held to his throat.

The knife hasn’t moved a whisker since it drew blood. Which could mean the confession wasn’t detailed enough and the condemnation of Aurora wasn’t harsh enough or the blade would be pointed at him. Thrust at him. Plunged into him.

Without consulting Laurel’s reflection again, Colin takes another step forward, draws even with the front row of chairs. “This score you’re hell-bent on settling . . . I think you should know the cunt made a far bigger fool of me than you,” he says, his voice breaking now of passion. “Me she cuckolded, humiliated, cheated, betrayed, tricked every which way, and all in full media glare. You—according to reliable sources—you she only laughed at and mocked, and only in an offhand way.”

“Filth!” Jakeway bellows. “Lies!” He stabs air with the knife. “That’s made up!” He maintains a suffocating hold on Anthony and drags him closer to the lineup of chairs where Colin is holding his ground.

“You’re makin’ stuff up the same way the lawyerwoman did on the TV,” Jakeway rants. “And that lawyerwoman wife of yours is no better’n you. Fine one she is to talk about high-mindedness after what she set down in that little diary-book of hers. You think I couldn’t figure out from her writings and the valuables she kept in the secret hiding place under the floorboards what went on with that granny she hated and despised? You think . . . you think I don’t know . . . you think I don’t know about . . . the . . . the . . . them-there . . . hundreds of ’em . . .” Jakeway goes incoherent with his raving, cuts more air with the knife, and tightens his grip on Anthony.

“You don’t know
anything
!” Laurel shouts from the stairwell and emerges head and shoulders into the attic. “And you’re not getting a second chance at me!” she fairly howls and keeps coming till she’s all the way emerged and possessed of Jakeway’s full raging attention.

The distraction is sufficient for Colin to loft one of the gilt banquet chairs, the only weapon at hand. But before he can complete the swing, the sounds he anticipated earlier produce a distraction that shifts all attention to another life-and-death matter.

As expected, the skylight is toast. It’s coming apart before their very eyes—directly above their unprotected heads. In great huge deadly pieces.

The lofted chair becomes shield as Colin lunges for Anthony. Then it’s Jakeway who becomes shield as he rather crouches over the boy before taking a direct hit from a piece of ironwork that topples both floor mirrors. Flying guillotines of glass originate from above as well as from the mirrors; a rain of assorted debris continues for what seems like minutes—an agony of uncertainty when he can’t be sure he’s not the only survivor.

Actual rain pours in to the extent he can’t distinguish between water and the blood soaking the oriental carpet where Anthony was last seen; actual minutes pass before Laurel, miraculously unharmed, approaches the drenched carpet.

Tentative at first, she prods at the wreckage there with the toe of her shoe. Then, more determined, she looks to him for help and together they slide an empty mirror frame out of the way and go to work on the heaviest piece of debris. With much effort they wrest it aside to reveal Jakeway’s lifeless body; with even greater effort they roll his body aside to reveal Anthony’s body, facedown and motionless.

Nate, with Sam Earle’s input, selects the undercroft of the studio as the logical holding area for the corpses. The stone vault seldom exceeds six or seven degrees Celsius for having once been part of the dairying operation. The only other possibility—walk-in refrigeration units serving the mansion—is too repugnant to consider.

Until the roads are cleared of the scores and scores of trees mowed down by what’s already being called the storm of the century, there’s no summoning the medical examiner and the meat wagon or even a private hearse to remove victims of what Nate will forever refer to as the ordeal of the century, hurricane-like conditions notwithstanding. Trickling in via two-way radio, updates from the authorities indicate it may be days before main thoroughfares are cleared and weeks before secondary roads are again passable. They’re saying local phone service may not be restored before the end of the month, two weeks away.