At the edge of town, just past the municipal airport, the road forked. “Stay to the right,” he said. “Take Canyon Road all the way to the United Church.”
She pointed. “The way straight through town and left, is a better route. It misses the twists and bends and is less likely to be icy.”
“You know your way around here.”
She heaved a noisy sigh of resignation. “I’ve spent the last two and a half months in the area and it’s a small place. Hard to get lost, but I feel a little lost now, Kitt. How did you figure it out? How did you tie what you saw in the wine cellar together with what you saw in the container?”
With a small laugh, he scratched the chin of his itchy beard. “I guessed.”
“You guessed?”
“The work I do is all about supposition.”
“I thought it was about improvisation.”
“It’s guessing, improvisation, connecting dots, and moments of utter tosh. When you were a child did you ever play the game where you have a sentence with a word missing here and there and you fill in the blanks? Hamish jumped in his blank Bentley and blank to blank for a blank of scrambled eggs. I gave Taittinger the sentence, he filled in the missing bits. I have something to work with, something to go on. Isn’t that lovely? No counterfeit wine means you’re done. Done and, nearly, gone.” Kitt turned to her as the car halted at a set of traffic lights beside a science museum. “Now,” he said, and waited.
Mae looked at him, the sun through the windscreen lighting up his eyes with a scorching blue flame. Calm, detached, his substantial fury held in beneath a practised façade, fifteen degrees below zero. He’d maintained that veneer since they’d left the barn. “Now?”
“Now, let’s talk about what you did.”
Mae reached out and angled the vent to blow warm air on her chest. “I wondered if we’d revisit that, if you’d feel some need to scold me again, and I want to know why. Why is it acceptable for someone to point a gun at you but not at me? Why can you protect me and keep me safe, but I can’t protect you and keep you safe?”
“As professional as you are, you are not the right kind of professional. You have no business being here, being part of this world, being part of my world.”
The light changed and Mae accelerated through the intersection, passing a hardware shop and post office. As they approached the Fuller Lodge, the building left behind from the old Boys Ranch School, she turned left and then left again into a carpark.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?”
“I want a coffee.”
“And I want you to leave town, before sundown.”
“Well, Sheriff,” she said, mimicking Ruby’s Texan drawl perfectly, “this is how it is.” She pulled into a car space in front of a stationer, restaurant, and chain coffee shop. “You can run me out of town after I get coffee.”
“I think you’re stalling.”
“I think I’m gettin’ coffee. May I get you somethin’, sir?”
“No, thank you. And you’ve got ten minutes.”
Mae left the engine running, undid her seatbelt, and got out of the Volvo. Eight and a half minutes later, she climbed back in, an iced coffee topped with whipped cream and a domed lid in hand.
“When did you start drinking iced coffee?”
“Bryce has them. I wanted to try it.”
“Bryce,” Kitt muttered.
Mae put the cup in the car’s cup holder, pulled out into traffic and drove along a heavily wooded stretch of road. She made a left just past the Jewish Center with its A-line red roof and went down a laneway half-hidden by thick pine boughs. Mounds of snow lined the sides of the pot-holed bitumen and gave way to ice and tyre tracks in a good ten centimetres of snow. The trail dog-legged around an ochre garden shed and came to an end at a breeze-block carport shadowed by pine trees.
“Which one?” she said, pointing at the three cars under the carport.
“The white Toyota Camry. The boot’s unlocked. The key’s inside the first-aid kit. Push button start. Follow the GPS to your destination.”
Mae put the car in neutral. “Here we are again, right where we were before, back at the start of October when you brought home a Christmas tree, and left me.”
“And now you’re leaving me.”
“Because that’s what you want.”
“Because it’s the only choice there is.”
“No, it’s the only choice you’ve given me. If I hadn’t agreed, you would have drugged me with whatever you put in Taittinger’s wine.” She tore paper from a straw and shoved it into the plastic cup of coffee.
“I am sorry about Felix. Truly. Where you’re going isn’t a place for a dog, and this is not how I want us to part, with you still so angry with me.”
“It doesn’t matter about Felix. He’s microchipped.”
Kitt bit his molars together. If the dog was chipped, then odds were everything that had happened had been deliberately orchestrated, right down to Mae’s presence, and he could guess why, but why didn’t matter right now. He disconnected from the rage he could not act upon, prioritising instead what he could control. And so did Mae.
With an absurd, breathy laugh, she lifted the coffee and returned it to the holder without taking a sip. “I have no real right to be angry with you. This is your life. This is what you do, what you are. I’m angry with myself for thinking that there...that I... I shall get over it. It’s one more thing about you and my life with you I’ll write in my journal.”
“I’m not going to die,” he said softly before he tipped his head. “You keep a journal?”
“Remember, you suggested it might help me process the things that have happened over the last year? And you’re right. It helps; more than I thought ever it could.” Mae stared out the tinted window at the three vehicles beneath the five-space breezeblock carport for a long, long moment. The car’s heating system whirred, blowing out heated air. “Kiss me and feck off, Kitt.”
“Do you want me to kiss you goodbye?”
“I want you to kiss me and go on with your bloody plan.”
“You really think I have a plan?”
Her head came around. “As good as you are at obfuscating your thoughts behind a wall of maddening calm, right now you are so transparent.” She sniffed a small laugh. “Not how you want us to part. You’re going to kiss me, make sure I get in that car, and I’ll never see you again.”
“Well, you did say you never wanted to see me again.”
Her expression told him just how full of shite she thought he was.
“I’m not going to die, Mae.”
Soft and bizarrely sympathetic, her smile was the sort a headmistress gave to a little boy who’d been denied permission to go on an excursion with the other schoolchildren. “Even if, by some miracle, you don’t die, I really won’t see ever you again.”
“Mae, y—”
“I can tell by your great, unimpressed face of stone you wonder why I would think that. Well, you said it yourself. Your work is nothing but guessing, improvisation, connecting dots, and moments of utter tosh. I guessed. Don’t tell me I’m wrong.”
The whirring of the heater grew loud in the silence that fell between them, and the ticking of his watch joined in with the low hum of the running engine.
At last, eyes burning, he said, “I was a fool to ever believe I could do this, that we could have something. I cannot put you in a position or have you put in a position where your life is in danger because of me, because of the work I chose to do, the work I have to finish. I don’t want to see you come to harm by trying to keep me from harm. So you’re right, I’m going to kiss you and you’re going to walk away.”
“When did you decide this for me?”
“The second you stepped in front of Taittinger’s gun.”
“Which you knew was a toy.”
“I didn’t know that until I got a little closer.”
“Maybe you’re right. Maybe you’re wrong. Maybe things between us will
never be the same. I was scared. I am scared, but I agreed to a very long engagement.”
“Yes, you did, which brings us back to I’m going to kiss you and you’re going to walk away.”
“Coward.”
“Yes. Oh, yes.” In one move, Kitt twisted, leaned across the gear shift, pulling her over, hand at the back of her neck, his mouth on hers. The kiss was warm, firm, and tinged with the taste of his tears. He let her go, sniffling. “Get out of the car, my love. Please.”
Dry-eyed, exhaling softly, Mae pulled the diamond from her finger. She lay the ring on his thigh, turned, lifted the coffee from the holder, and swung out of the car.
Kitt expected her to slam the door, but she shut it normally. She opened the right rear passenger door, grabbed her handbag and suitcase from the seat, closed the door, and walked away in a way he hadn’t anticipated. Like so many men, he bought into the sexist, stereotyped expectation of high drama, high emotion, shrill, raised voice, a slammed door. Her display was simple, matter-of-fact quiet disappointment. With him.
He would have preferred the stereotype.
Without looking at the bloody thing, he pocketed the ring, climbed over into the driver’s seat and, for a moment, sat behind the wheel watching her through the darkly tinted side window, as she said he would. He put on the cowboy hat. While he sniffled and swept away tears, she moved from the carport to a rubbish skip at the far end of the brick structure. She lifted the skip’s lid, changed her mind about tossing the coffee into it, went back to the Toyota, opened the boot, and deposited her bags. Then Mae got in the car, drink in hand, and started the engine.
Kitt wiped his nose, sobbed, swore, put the Volvo in gear, and went out the way they’d come in, passing an old green VW Beetle driven by a man with a handlebar moustache. Despite the various physical injuries he’d sustained in his life, and coming so close to dying, he had never known true agony before. He sobbed again and his stomach squeezed up into his oesophagus alongside his ragged, raw, aching heart.
Mae watched the Volvo in the mirror until a VW came into view and stalled behind the Toyota before it could reverse into in the car space beside her. She watched the man at the Beetle’s wheel swear and try to start the car. The engine made a noisy rrr-rrr-rrr and kicked over into that unmistakable Volkswagen hummingbird-like sound—and died out. The second and third attempt proceeded in the same manner. For a moment, in exasperation, the man’s head drooped against the steering wheel.
Mae cut the motor and climbed out of the car, coffee in hand. The man threw open his door and climbed out. “Sorry! Sorry!” He waved an apologetic hand, slammed the door. Snow from the Beetle’s roof fell on his three-piece tweed suit. He brushed it away from his jacket, a sparkle of white fell on shoes not meant for winter. He slipped on a patch of ice as he moved to the front end of the car. Mae assumed he’d start pushing. Instead, he opened the bonnet, which in the case of the old Beetle was the boot. After a second or two, he swore and his head popped around the side of the boot’s lid. “You don’t have jumper-cables, do you?” he called out to her, handlebar moustache bouncing on his top lip.
“I don’t.” Mae gave an apologetic shrug and moved to the end of the Toyota. “You want a hand to a push?”
“Unless you’re in a rush, I can wait. My girlfriend will be here soon. She has cables. Hey, I know you from somewhere, don’t I?” He began moving toward her car. “We met—” he slipped and slid and fell on his arse.
Mae went to help him up, but he gave a laugh and got to his feet, found his balance and took a few careful steps until he stood about a metre away, under the half-brick carport behind the Toyota, hands in tweedy pockets. “Yeah,” he said. “We met. The party. I took your picture last night. You’re the butler. Never met a lady butler before.” Now sober, the moustachioed dapper-dressing photographer came closer, hands going into his pockets as a snow-dusted figure moved around the rear of the VW.
“Car trouble?” Kitt’s words came out in little clouds. The front of his jacket dappled with white, the brim of his cowboy hat and his beard sparkled with ice, as if he’d fallen into a snow bank.
The photographer exhaled and turned, hands coming out of his pockets, a tiny gun gleaming in his grip. “You picked the wrong day to play good Samaritan, cowboy.”
The weapon levelled with Kitt’s nose.
Chapter 15
Mae hurled the iced latte. The domed, plastic lid blew off on impact, coffee, ice exploded against the man’s shoulder, a sharp thunderclap hurt her ears. Kitt rushed sideways, his body a blur. The cowboy hat flew, and the crown of her skull met breeze-block wall. The breath exploded from her lungs when she was crushed between the bricks, the man’s broad back, and the full force of Kitt bearing forward.
Whipped cream and coffee droplets hung in a handlebar moustache, the scent of vanilla latte mingled with the peppermint-infused breath blasting into Kitt’s face. He slammed the manicured hand clutching the tiny Derringer 9mm Cobra against thick brick, again and again. The damned thing would not dislodge, one round left in the pistol.
Mae grunted and gasped for a full breath. Kitt knew she was safer where she was, compressed by two bodies and hard, flat surface, than in a position where a bullet could hit her. The goon jammed upwards with a knee, missing the intended target of testicles, delivering instead a jolt to the groin that would leave a lump and colourful bruise for a few weeks to come.
Against the block wall, two circus strong-men engaged in a battle of brute strength, and crushed Mae, stomping her feet, kicking ice cubes across the concrete slab. Trapped by their combined bulk, she strained to move, to breathe, to help Kitt. She grunted and pounded her free hand into the dandy’s tweed-covered side while he hammered into Kitt’s left kidney. Rapid-fire, the blows continued.
Kitt’s grip on the man faltered for a millisecond. The balance of weight began to shift, the pistol twisting toward his temple, hammer cocking, but the crushing mass of their bodies altered enough to give Mae minute space. Her breath came in a sharp, noisy gasp, she jerked her trapped arm free, and boxed the chap’s ear, something dark clutched in her fist.
The seconds slowed in the manner that Kitt had long ago grown accustomed to. The man’s eyes widened. The petite 9mm curved, the muzzle flashed with a near-deafening crack! The bullet hit brick, masonry falling, striking and scraping Mae’s cheek. The Cobra bounced off the not-quite-a-gentleman’s two-toned saddled bucks. His body sagged back against Mae and Kitt drove knuckles into his nose, a spray of scarlet dappling her cheek.
Time resumed its normal course. Jaw clenched, electric pain flowed into Kitt’s guts.
“Ya gammy lout!” Mae shouted, pushed at their assailant, shoving him, knocking off his horn-rimmed glasses. Blood flowed over his lips and down his chin, his bow tie crooked.
Kitt’s eyes watered from the acidic sting, his kidney charred from the thrashing, but he kept moving. He kicked the spent pistol aside and hit the man in the throat and stomach. Clutching at his throat, the natty dresser struck the Toyota, slid down the car and crumpled in a gagging, coughing heap.
Then Mae swore like an old Irish sailor. She rushed to him and Kitt wanted to fold into her, to hold her close, but he fixed his attention on the hacking un-gentlemanly gentleman and bore her inspection, knowing, as she looked him up and down and searched for blood or an injury of any sort, her expression would be a mix of concern, fear, and fury.
“Are you hurt?” she said, her breathing rapid and shallow with fright.
“I’m fine, if not a little deaf. Thank you for your quick thinking. Sorry about treading on your feet.” He said, aware how much his ears were ringing. He realised how much his heart was pounding, how slow he’d become, and how foolish he was to believe getting her out of here would fix anything. “Deep breath, Mae,” he said and took one himself, tamping down his fear and anger, but not the unexpected theory that had taken off in his mind. His theory soared like a kite.
She rubbed the crown of her head, fingers coming away w
ith a small streak of blood. “Jaysus, why it is someone always has a gun when you don’t? What’s the bleedin’ point of having weapon skills when you never have a weapon when it matters?” Mae swallowed, inhaled and exhaled slowly, and squinted at Kitt. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy to be pissed off that you trust me so little you’d come back to make sure I’d left.”
“I recognised him from someplace, but seeing Grant stuffed inside the Beetle’s boot really set me off.” Kitt groaned, partly because of the shooting pain in his back, partly because he’d learned nothing from past experience when he’d left Mae ‘safely behind,’ and partly because this was one more twist he never saw coming. He looked at her. “Your face. You’re bleeding.” He drew a small flick knife from a pocket.
She peered around him, looking at Russell Grant’s shiny black shoe poking out of the VW’s open boot. Then she touched a stinging spot on her cheek, fingertips smearing through tiny dots of blood. “It’s a scratch. I’m not really hurt, but I am mad.” She gave an absurd little laugh and glanced at the blade he flipped open. “You gonna kill the rat-arsed feckin’ hipster?”
“It depends.” Without looking, Kitt grabbed her hand and kissed it. “You,” he said to the still-sputtering, wheezing man. “On your knees. Lock your fingers behind your head, cross your ankles.”
Hacking, watering brown eyes on Kitt, the man did as he was told, the green straw once in Mae’s coffee now protruding from his ear.
“He was the photographer last night.” Mae gave Kitt’s hand a squeeze and released it.
“Yes, that’s it.” With an amused puff, Kitt settled his focus onto the man’s face. “What’s your name?”
Forever in Your Service Page 21
