by Dylan Madrid
“I can handle Howard,” she said. “If we even see him. Ever since he took up with that French whore, publishing a magazine is the last thing on his dirty mind.”
“I need you to behave yourself in my absence,” he instructed. “Be a leader.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” she said, “but no promises.”
Quintin opened a desk drawer and pulled out an extra cell-phone charger. He tucked it into the computer bag along with the laptop. “By the way, how did you manage to turn Abigail against you? She’s a very nice lady.”
“The hell she is. She’s told half the staff I’m a member of the IRA.”
“Yeah, I heard about that,” he said. “I figured it was just a rumor.”
“I’ll never tell,” she said. “But if I’m to terrorize anyone, Abigail Bitchface Carlisle is at the top of my list.”
The phone on Fiona’s desk rang, taking them both by surprise.
“That’s odd,” she said. She moved back to her cubicle, a few yards away. “Isn’t the switchboard shut down on the weekends?”
“Answer it,” Quintin urged. He shoved a few more items into the bag and slid his arm through the shoulder strap. He joined Fiona at her desk. “Maybe it’s Abigail. Maybe she has new evidence against you.”
Fiona flipped him off before reaching for the receiver. She cleared her throat and said in a convincing, pleasant tone, “Pensioner Weekly. This is Fiona Cassidy speaking.” The voice on the other end of the line said something before Fiona handed the phone to Quintin. “It’s for you. It’s a woman.”
Quintin placed the receiver to his ear. “Hello?”
“This isn’t a joke, Mr. Pearson.” It was Arianna. Her tone was strident. “Why have you not left?”
“I had some business to take care of. I haven’t even packed yet. I can’t just leave the country without—”
“Listen to me. Reed Ashton is on his way upstairs as we speak. He has strict orders to take you back to the Bremington estate whether you choose to go or not. He’s been instructed to use force if necessary. Now, get your ass to Victoria Station. Get on a train and go to Calais. Have I made myself clear?”
“Yes.”
“I’m at your flat now. I’ve packed up a suitcase of your things. They’ll be waiting for you in Belgium,” she said, then added, “with Luca.”
“I’m on my way,” he promised.
He hung up the phone.
“Quintin, what’s the matter?” Fiona asked, sounding genuinely concerned for the first time. “You look frightened.”
Quintin was, but he tried to hide it. There was no reason to alarm Fiona. Yet the panic still seeped into his words. “There’s a man on his way up here. I need you to stall him for me. I need enough time to take the stairs and get out of the building.”
“All right,” she agreed. “Is he good-looking?”
“Very.”
“Whatever I must do with my body is merely in support of our deep and loving friendship. I want you to know that.”
“You’re a beacon of decency, Fiona Cassidy.”
“I’m a slag who loves a good shag, and we both know it. Have a ball in Belgium, darling. Call me when you come up for air.”
“You’re a filthy woman with no morals.”
“Precisely why you worship and adore me,” she said. “If you find yourself in a spot of trouble, I’m the girl to help you.”
“Expect that call soon.”
Quintin looked in the direction of the elevators, alarmed by a chiming sound indicating the doors were about to open. He raced to a door beneath the illuminated sign that read Exit. He pressed down on the metal bar and began a quick descent of twelve flights of stairs, only reaching for the cool metal railing when he needed a little extra balance. By the third flight, he was already breathing heavy. By the fifth, he was sweating. By the ninth, he was worried he wasn’t going to make it. When he reached the first floor and slid into the coolness of the ornate lobby of the building, he felt a rush of adrenaline surge through his hot veins. He breathed deep, wiped the edges of his face with the back of a hand, switched the computer bag to the opposite shoulder, and headed toward the revolving door.
Sorry, Reed. I guess Regina’s business proposal will have to wait. I’m on my way to more important things at the moment.
Minutes later Quintin was standing on a train platform, ticket in hand. That was when the second thoughts hit him hard.
What in the hell am I doing? Chasing after some stranger? This isn’t me. I don’t do things like this.
As the train started to approach, Quintin quickly replayed the events of the last twenty-four hours through his mind. The drive to the party in the storm. The maid with the mean face who greeted him at the door. The sight of Regina Bremington in her red floor-length Valentino. The second the lights went out and Quintin discovered Luca in the dark. Leaping out of the second-story window and holding on to that rope for dear life. The early-morning visit by DS Evans. Meeting Arianna at Trafalgar Square. Giving Reed the slip at the magazine office. And now this: ready to board a train to the southern edge of England, the first leg of a long journey. And for what?
For Luca.
Just the thought of coming face-to-face with the enigmatic man brought a smile to Quintin’s face.
But his smile dimmed fast.
In the distance, sliding his way through the throngs of Saturday-afternoon train passengers, was Reed Ashton. Even from that far away, Quintin was certain it was him. The gray suit. The scarlet-red tie. The grace and strut of a man in charge.
The train doors opened. Quintin boarded with the fervent hope he hadn’t been spotted by Reed.
He took a seat and kept his eyes locked on the window. He waited for Reed to appear on the other side of the glass, rushing to get aboard the train. To stop Quintin from leaving. Force him to return to the scene of the crime, to the Bremington estate, where he could join Regina’s harem of beautiful men who lived to serve her.
Dear God, please let this train move. Now.
Every second felt like agony, ticking by as if it were stabbing the air around his face.
There was an announcement. The doors were closing. The train was departing.
Just get me to Dover. Please.
And then he appeared. Reed Ashton was standing on the train platform with his gaze narrowed in on Quintin like a laser. Their eyes met. Reed was trying to say something with his, but Quintin couldn’t interpret the message. Was it a warning? A reprimand? A surrender?
The train pulled away. Quintin held Reed’s stare until the security man was no longer in sight.
No conversation had been needed between them.
Quintin had the distinct feeling he would see Reed Ashton again.
And soon.
The Escape
Having dozed off during the almost two-hour journey, Quintin awoke when the train pulled into the Dover Priory railway station. He reached for his black computer bag and headed for the exit.
Outside the air was cooler than it had been in London. A light breeze was lifting off the surface of the Strait of Dover and filling the air around him with a refreshing lilt. For the first time in hours, Quintin felt his body start to relax. He breathed in deep, welcoming the heavy sea scent permeating the station.
Clearly I made the right decision. I can’t even remember the last time I left London. Maybe this is exactly what I needed: some time away. I still can’t believe I’m doing this. But it feels so right.
Quintin thought about the ambassador. In a sense, he was responsible for the sudden changes in Quintin’s world, for bringing Luca into Quintin’s life.
Their lives had merged because of the ambassador’s death.
However, Quintin knew it was wrong to feel even a shred of gratitude. He lifted his eyes to the sky, sending up a silent prayer in the man’s honor.
Quintin’s moment of thanks was brief. Within seconds of stepping off the train, he felt an arm around his shoulders. He turned to his right. He w
as greeted by an old man with large teeth who grinned and nodded and said, “You go with me now.” He had a scruffy beard and he smelled like cigars. He was wearing a flat tweed cap and he seemed to be held together with burgundy suspenders.
“Who are you?” Quintin asked.
The man shook his head as if to indicate questions were not allowed. He guided Quintin over to an idling taxi and ushered him into the backseat. Inside the cab, Edith Piaf was belting out a torch song in French on the radio. The driver was taller than the man Quintin had just met, but dressed similarly.
They could be brothers. Maybe they work together as a team.
“I take you to boat,” the driver said, meeting Quintin’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “You go to Calais, oui?”
“Yes,” Quintin answered. “And then I don’t know where.”
That was a lie. Quintin knew his final destination was Belgium, but where exactly in Belgium was still unknown. Brussels seemed like the obvious choice. Yet, like London, it was a large city. Maybe Luca had chosen a more quiet location for their reunion. Maybe their time together would be brief, long enough for a conversation, and then Quintin would be sent back to London.
A slight anxiety started to plague Quintin as the cab driver headed to the ferry terminal on the east side of Dover.
What if Luca has only asked to see me to say he’s not interested—face-to-face? It’s possible I could’ve misinterpreted everything that transpired between us. There was no love connection at all. If there was, it was one-sided. Besides, we don’t even know each other. The spark I felt between us could’ve been imagined. We’ve never even seen each other with the lights on.
Quintin had almost convinced himself of this by the time the taxi arrived at the dock. He tried to offer the driver some cash, but he refused. “You pay nothing,” he said. “Louisa say no money from you.”
Well, thank you, Louisa. Whoever you are.
The dock was populated with Saturday-afternoon tourists, en route to France or searching for the perfect view of the white cliffs of Dover. Instead of traveling in semi-luxury aboard the much faster Eurostar train, this crowd had clearly opted for a longer seafaring route to make the most out of their adventure.
Just as Quintin was wondering what to do next, the tall taxi driver returned with a ferry ticket in hand. “For Calais,” he said with a smile and a nod.
“Thank you,” Quintin said. His French was limited, but he gave it a try. “Merci bien de votre assistance.”
The old man seemed impressed. He tipped his hat and walked away.
Quintin turned in the direction of the boat, trying to ignore the slight gnawing of apprehension swimming in his stomach. He joined the other passengers and waited until it was time to board.
Moments later, Quintin was sitting on the open top deck, gliding across the water and heading toward the seaside town of Calais, France.
Quintin welcomed the warmth of the sun on his skin, wishing he was wearing shorts, a T-shirt, and sandals. Instead, he looked like he was on his way to a job interview in khakis, black loafers, and a white button-up oxford.
Why do I find it necessary to dress like this? Even on Saturday. I seriously need to change my style. Otherwise, I might be alone for the rest of my life.
Quintin scanned the crowd around him. Everywhere he looked, scenes were being played out, as if the boat deck were a big stage and the blue sky and the shifting water were just a backdrop for the actors. Some were seated. Some were strolling by hand in hand. Others were taking photographs of the breathtaking view of Dover. All of them were playing their parts.
A strong sense of happiness enveloped Quintin. It was slow dancing in the salty air. It was tickling his fingertips, nibbling on his earlobes, fluttering across his lips. It was tempting him to close his eyes, exhale, and let go of the constant knot of stress he’d been carrying between his shoulder blades for five months. Joy transpired into calm, falling over him like an invisible veil. He welcomed its arrival, grateful for its return.
Yet it didn’t last long. A man standing on the opposite side of the boat caught Quintin’s eye. There was something so familiar about him, even from far away.
And then it hit him. The man on the boat was no stranger.
A sudden rush of adrenaline devoured his state of serenity. Quintin’s body tensed. He could feel his own pulse quickening, pounding like a heavy drum in his ears.
He said the name aloud, certain who it was he saw.
Kevin.
Quintin stood up, struggling with the shoulder strap of his computer bag.
Even though his mouth was bone dry, he managed to say it louder: “Kevin!”
It’s him. I know it’s him.
The man kept his back turned to Quintin, moving as fast as possible.
Quintin followed, maneuvering his way through the crowd, anxious to reach him, to stop him.
We’re on a boat. He has nowhere to go. I’ll find him.
Quintin pulled open a metal door leading to a descending white metal staircase. He was positive this was the way Kevin had gone, trying to disappear.
Again.
He hurried down the stairs, heading for the lower, interior deck. He gripped the cold metal railing and felt his breath catch in his throat.
An older woman appeared, standing at the bottom of the staircase like a human barricade. She was blocking his path. He’d have to knock her over or shove her out of the way to get past her.
Then he spoke. “It’s you,” he said. Quintin felt the world as he knew it was unraveling. And fast. A strong mixture of anger and desperation caused his voice to rise when he demanded, “Where is he?”
She reached for his arm with a gentle hand and guided him down the last step. Around them, passengers were sitting, taking in the view from the windows. “It’s time you and I have a chat, Mr. Pearson.” Her tone was firm.
There was no arguing.
She was in charge.
“Please,” he said. “I just need to talk to him. I need to know why.”
She locked eyes with him. Her expression seemed warmer than it had been last night when she’d opened the front door of the Bremington estate and greeted him like an iceberg. “In due time,” she said. “You have my word. You will have the answers you are searching for.”
Quintin glanced around to make sure no one was eavesdropping on their conversation. Satisfied their words were safe and private, he continued on. “You’re not really a maid, are you?” he asked.
She clearly wasn’t. Today, out of uniform, she looked like the well-kept wife of a very wealthy man. She was dressed from head to toe in what appeared to be a tailored-made lavender skirt suit and heels that Quintin was certain cost more than the rent he paid each month for his flat in Ladbroke Grove. He was sure the diamonds on her ears and two of her fingers were real and worth a fortune. She smelled like money, sweet and fragrant, elusive. Her gray-and-black hair was more styled than Quintin remembered.
Quintin suspected her current persona was the real thing. She was no working-class domestic servant. Sure, her accent was distinctly British, but her voice had a high-society, overeducated plumminess to it, making her seem and sound like someone very important.
What’s this glamorous woman doing posing as a maid? She’s got secrets. A lot of them.
“Let’s go somewhere where we can be alone for a few minutes,” she said. Their arms were locked together, as if she were his mother and they were on vacation. Maybe they were heading to France to reunite with her husband and his father.
She led him into an unmarked storage closet and closed the door behind them. They stood eye to eye amongst the push brooms, mops, a vacuum cleaner labeled Broken, boxes of garbage bags, and metal shelves of plastic bottles of brightly marked cleaning products.
You’re old enough to be my mother. Yet my own mother is nothing like you. Mine is dull and boring. Words that have probably never been used to describe you.
“We can’t stay in here long,” she said.
“Why not?” he asked, knowing the answer and wondering if she did, too.
“Because you’re claustrophobic,” she said, passing the unspoken test.
Quintin was impressed. Obviously, she’d conducted some research on him. But why? “How did you know that?”
She smiled. “Actually, it was just a guess. You started to sweat the second we walked in here,” she said. “It is rather a tight space.”
“Why are we on the same boat?” he asked.
“Coincidence?” she tried.
Quintin shot her a look. “I want some answers,” he said. “Kevin is here somewhere. I need to see him. I deserve an explanation. Please. You have to help me find him.”
“You seem like a trusting person,” she said.
“I’m not,” he replied, folding his arms across his chest. The computer bag felt heavier than usual, hanging from his shoulder.
“I don’t believe you,” she said. “You came to London to fall in love, Mr. Pearson. Anyone who meets you can tell that. You’re a hopeless romantic. You thought a prince was waiting for you in the UK.”
“Yeah, and look how that turned out,” he said.
Her tone of voice softened. “Everything will make sense soon.”
“I came to London because Howard Burke offered me a job,” he corrected her.
“At the magazine,” she said, as if she were helping him fill in the details of his own life.
“It’s called the Pensioner Weekly.”
“I know what it’s called,” she said. “I’m just not of the age to read it…yet.”
“Howard brought me to London personally. He read an article I’d written online. He contacted me. I was still in Illinois then. We talked. He got me a work visa. He helped me find an apartment.”
“That’s very generous for a publisher of such high standing. Howard Burke has an impeccable reputation. He took a big chance on you,” she said.
“And I almost blew it.”
“Because of love?”
“Because he left me,” he said. “Kevin just walked out. He disappeared. Without a single word.”
