“Jon, this isn’t your standard missing kitty case. This is a person’s life and you may have just saved it.”
Before he had a chance to respond, Rick reentered the room with June Chambers on his heels. Her gray-blonde hair was down and in her frail-looking hands was a steaming cup of tea. She placed it down on the coffee table in front of me. I turned to Rick for an explanation.
“I ran into Ms. Chambers in the kitchen. She heard us when we came in, but didn’t want to interrupt Mr. Cross. I remembered that if you have a concussion, you shouldn’t take aspirin. She’s suggested decaf tea.”
I forced a smile and thanked her, taking a sip of the hot, flavorless water. What is it with these people and hot tea? As I willed myself to take another one, I suddenly remembered where I had heard of Oliver Harris.
My eyes widened as I finally made the connection to Francine Harris, the New York journalist who committed suicide. According to the obituary Michelle and I found in Arthur’s dorm room at Crowell Academy, Oliver Harris was Francine’s brother. Rick took my look of revelation to be one of pain and dropped to one knee beside me.
“Jordan? What’s wrong? Are you all right? You’re not feeling dizzy, are you?”
“What? No! I know where I saw the name Oliver Harris before. He’s the brother of Francine Harris, that journalist who committed suicide.”
When I mentioned the name Francine Harris, I saw a glimmer of recognition cross June Chambers’ eyes. She tried to downplay it and excused herself, but I stood up and blocked her path.
Looking into her eyes, I said, “You know who that is, don’t you? You know who Oliver Harris is.”
“I have never heard that name in my life. If you’ll excuse me, it’s quite late.”
I watched her hurry toward the kitchen. “You’re right,” I called after her. “You haven’t heard of Oliver. It’s Francine you know.”
The housekeeper stopped dead, her back to us. I took the response as agreement and continued, “She’s connected to Arthur somehow, isn’t she?”
“It’s not my place to be discussing the personal matters of the family.”
I was about to argue when Rick walked up. “Well, it’s my family and I want to know.”
She whirled around to face us with a pained expression. “Please, don’t ask me.”
“Ms. Chambers, you know me,” Rick continued. “You know I’m a Cross, no matter how much I try to deny it. Arthur is my cousin and his life is in your hands. Please, tell us whatever you know.”
She stood there, fretting over how to proceed. Finally, wringing her hands, she said, “All I can tell you is that it had something to do with Arthur being sent to Crowell Academy. What he did to that girl ruined her life.”
“Ruined? How do you mean?” Rick demanded.
While Ms. Chambers shook her head, refusing to elaborate, I tried to remember the obituary.
“She was a paraplegic, wasn’t she?” My mind raced in search of a logical reason for Oliver Harris’s connection. The color drained from her face. A terrible thought crossed my mind, one I didn’t want to vocalize. Somehow, I knew I must. “Arthur, he—he didn’t have anything to do with that, did he?”
“Jordan, stop.” I felt Rick’s eyes bearing into me. It was the first time he ever shot me a look of rage. “That’s sick. Oliver Harris, whoever he is, he’s messed up. Period. Arthur’s a good person. What you’re suggesting—”
“Is true,” Ms. Chambers quietly agreed.
We all stared at her in disbelief.
She hung her head for a moment, putting a hand to her mouth. In a very British manner, she quickly regained her composure. Raising her chin stoutly, she admitted, “Arthur is the reason she was crippled.”
The silence that followed her statement was so heavy that it felt like someone had let the air out of the room. I swallowed hard, trying to comprehend what she was saying.
In a quiet, clear voice, Ms. Chambers told us the horrific story. Arthur Cross was more than rowdy in his youth. He was troubled. His parents didn’t realize their fourteen-year-old son had an alcohol problem until it was too late. A late-night phone call from the police informed Mrs. Cross that Arthur had stolen one of the family vehicles. He had gone for a joy ride with a girl he knew from school.
What made it worse was that Arthur also stole some of his father’s best whisky. He and the girl were both drunk when Arthur lost control of the vehicle. It flipped over, crushing her. Miraculously, they both survived, but she was paralyzed.
The ambassador was away on business and flew home. He assessed the situation and approached the girl’s family with a proposition to keep the matter quiet. They agreed. Because Arthur was underage, the matter went into a sealed juvenile record. It was never mentioned again.
“So that’s why he was sent to Crowell?” I deduced.
“Yes. He needed to be in a school that could help him deal with his issues. And they did. He excelled there. When Mr. Cross became ambassador, I was hired. I had no idea such a sweet boy could have caused such trouble. He just seemed like a nice, quiet boy who was eager to please.”
“If they never mentioned it, how’d you find out?” I pressed.
“Mrs. Cross and I became close,” Ms. Chambers replied. “As Arthur grew up, he spent less and less time with the family. She worries about him. So much. The whole ghastly story came out during one of our late-night talks.”
It suddenly became clear. Arthur’s obsession with helping others was his way of dealing with the guilt that consumed him. Not only did he permanently disable a friend. He was also ordered never to mention it to anyone. A dark secret, haunting him forever.
During Ms. Chambers’ confession, I didn’t once look at Rick. When I finally did, I noticed his tan complexion faded to a pale white and he was leaning against the wall for support. He looked like he had been run over by a train.
I approached him cautiously, not sure how to proceed. When I reached out and touched his hand, he snapped out of his daze and rushed to the balcony doors, hurrying outside without a word.
I saw Jon standing behind me, watching Rick rush outside. My head was throbbing hard when I hurried out after him. I stopped at the threshold and searched the balcony for him. I finally found him in the dark shadows, leaning over the stone wall and staring out over the Thames.
“I can’t believe it.”
“Rick—”
“Just, I need a minute.”
The wind whipped up around us, sending a chill down my spine despite the warmth of his jacket. I nodded to myself as I turned and went back inside. Jon was still standing in the same spot, but Ms. Chambers had obviously gone into the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea at some point. She’d returned. Now, she stared off into space and sipped the tea slowly. When I closed the balcony door behind me, she looked up.
“I do hope you will be discreet about this. I’m not as much concerned about my job as I am for Arthur and the family.”
“That information will not leave this room,” I promised.
Satisfied, she excused herself.
Jon and I were left alone. He walked over to me.
Reaching out, he touched my right arm and squeezed it. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. I just can’t believe that’s the connection.” I shook my head in bewilderment. The situation with Arthur led my mind back to the troubled look on Rick’s face.
“It’s pretty messed up,” Jon agreed. “So, are we going after him?”
“What? After who?”
“Arthur. Well, Oliver, I guess. We’ve got the address.”
I turned back toward the patio. Rick was still outside. “I want to, but Rick—”
Jon waved his hand. He leaned in closer, holding my arms with his strong hands. He unintentionally grabbed a bruise and I flinched. He released me and I saw remorse on his face. “Sorry. Listen, Rick’s upset, but Arthur’s the one in danger, right? I don’t think we have the luxury of worrying about ole Ricky’s
feelings right now.”
I shot him a dirty look.
Shaking off the attitude, Jon added, “We have the advantage right now! Oliver thinks he got away. If we show up at his place, bam, we’ll have the element of surprise.”
I considered his suggestion. The more I thought about it, the more it made sense. The ransom drop was a disaster, but there was still hope if Oliver had Arthur stashed at his home somewhere. “You’re right. If we’re gonna do this, we need to act fast.”
Jon’s eyes lit up with excitement. “Excellent! Okay, I’ve got the address here and we can—”
“Jon, you do realize this is a dangerous situation, right?” I pointed to my swollen jaw. “Oliver didn’t attack me with harsh language. He’s got a freaking gun.”
“Yeah. He’s got a gun and we’ve got a gun.”
“I don’t know. I don’t like the idea of using a gun.”
“Are you kidding me?” Jon blinked. “You don’t want to use a gun? How hard did you get hit on the head? Jordan, this guy kidnapped someone and holding him for ransom! He knocked you out! If ever a gun was called for, I’d say this is the time.”
“He’s right.” We turned and saw Rick had reentered the flat. His color was back to normal but he wore a blank expression. Slowly, he walked into the room and met us in the center. “We don’t know what this guy’s planning. It’s safer to have a gun than not. We don’t even know if Arthur is still—”
“Don’t say it,” I snapped. Rick’s beautiful blue eyes filled with anguish. It hurt my heart to see him that way. “Arthur’s fine. Jon’s right. We have the element of surprise on our side. We should go now.”
Rick walked closer, touching my waist softly. The act was sweet, but it felt empty. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine. Seriously! Get everything ready and meet me downstairs. I’ll be there in a sec.”
Reluctantly, they headed off together as I walked down the long hallway and into the bathroom. I closed the door behind me and turned on the light. The brightness caused me to blink rapidly while my eyes readjusted. Once they did, I walked over to the mirror to survey the damage.
Surprisingly, it was not as bad as I had feared. I had a yellowish bruise along my jaw. A purple one formed near my right temple. A small cut was in the center of the bruise, but the blood had coagulated and it no longer oozed.
Taking off the jacket, I noted several bruises on my arms. Sighing, I turned on the water and splashed some on my face. I dried off with a plush, white towel, careful to avoid the cut and bruises.
I grabbed the jacket as I raced out the room, making my way for the door. Once I was on the sidewalk outside, I jogged over to the car. I hopped in the front seat and we drove away. The clock on the dashboard read three-fifteen. Trying to distract myself and ignore my nerves, I pulled the tie out of my hair and brushed it with my fingers before putting it up again.
“Okay, so now what?” Jon leaned forward between the front seats.
“What do you mean?” I glanced over my shoulder at him.
“Well, I got the name and address. We’re heading over there to surprise this guy, right? I get that, but what are we gonna do?”
I chewed my lower lip, thinking. The discussion in the flat hadn’t developed into an actual, well-constructed plan. I knew I needed to get into Oliver Harris’s place somehow, find Arthur somehow, and disarm Oliver, if necessary, somehow. Bottom line? I was going to improvise.
“Don’t worry. I know what I’m doing.”
He raised his eyebrow. “We’ll see.”
It took about twenty minutes to get to the home of Oliver Harris, but that was only because Google Maps took us on the alleged “scenic” route. When we finally pulled up to Maypole Court, I was surprised to discover what a nice area it was.
Instead of the rundown, dank tenements I envisioned, I stared at well-maintained brownstones with flowerbeds decorating every windowsill and a streetlight every fifty feet or so. Rick parked the car across the street and we sat in silence, staring at the red door with “225” affixed to it in gold-plated numerals.
After several long minutes, it was Jon who broke the tense silence.
“All right, Nancy Drew. Now what?”
“Seriously?” I frowned as I stared at him. “Quit calling me that! I’m not Nancy Drew.”
“Yeah, you’re right. I can’t imagine her fighting a kidnapper in a cemetery at midnight. I mean, really, who fights evil in graveyards besides Buffy, the Vampire Slayer?”
Refusing to enter into a stupid argument, I ignored Jon’s comments and focused my energy on the task at hand. It was early morning and all the lights were off in each flat. I reached down on the floor. I explored the matted, rental car carpet until I located the flashlight the kidnapper left behind. Using it, I searched my purse for the cheap, lock-picking kit that I found at a flea market back in Boston.
“Uh,” Rick stared at the items warily. “What exactly is your plan?”
“Looks pretty straightforward to me,” Jon answered. “We’re breaking in, right?”
I tried to hide the anxiety building within me. Rick’s face expressed my concerns outright. “I don’t know if this is such a good idea. I mean, we don’t even know if the guy’s here.”
“Only one way to find out.” Jon grinned at us, throwing open his car door and climbing out. “You can keep the car warm if you’re scared.”
“Jon,” I warned. He rolled his eyes, then turned and strolled across the street.
Rick turned the engine off then pocketed the keys. We got out at the same time and he walked over to me, whispering, “Do you really know how to pick a lock?”
“Yep,” I replied as we hurried across the street to meet Jon. “I watched this how-to video on YouTube and practiced. I’m pretty sure I can do it.”
“Practiced? On what?”
“Don’t worry about it,” I winked.
Jon sat on the top step of Oliver Harris’s flat, looking around nervously. When we made eye contact, he leaped to his feet and leaned against the wall, playing off his own mounting anxiety at the felony we were about to commit.
I handed Jon the flashlight, instructing him to keep it pointed on the gold-plated lock. He did and as soon as I pulled the tools from the travel-size pouch, Rick took them from me. I gave him a surprised look.
His voice barely audible, Rick said, “I think I have a little more experience with this and, well, we’ve only got one shot.”
His revelation caught me off-guard for a moment, but it was short-lived. I backed up, giving him plenty of room. He took a deep breath and stuck the tools in the lock. After a few quick moves, he tried the doorknob and it opened with ease. He shoved the tools in his pocket and I took the flashlight from Jon.
Even though I was eager to discover how my boyfriend was able to pick a lock in less than ten seconds, a trick I would love to learn, I decided this was neither the time nor the place for that particular heart-to-heart. Both my heart and my head were pounding as I took the first step inside the eerily quiet foyer enveloped in the scent of stale smoke.
The entrance was set up in a cross pattern, with a red-carpeted staircase directly in front of the foyer and two rooms on either side. The room to the left turned out to be a living room, complete with a suede micro-fiber couch, two brown-leather recliners and a forty-inch flat-screen television. To the right was a dining room with an oak table and six oak chairs. An oak china cabinet was set back against the far right wall.
I paused as we entered the dining room, careful that my boots did not click on the wood-veneer floors and therefore give us away. As soon as I paused, Jon ran into me and almost knocked me over. I grabbed one of the chairs, miraculously managing not only to stay upright, but also to refrain from making a loud noise during the process.
He whispered an apology while I walked around the table, heading through two swinging doors that led to the kitchen. All the lights were off in the kitchen except for a sliver o
f light that illuminated a door at the end of the narrow room. I flashed the light around the room, making sure we were alone before I cautiously approached the door. Someone grabbed my left arm in the darkness and I spun around. It was Rick.
“Do you have the gun?” he whispered.
“What?”
“The gun. Where is it?”
“Oh, crap,” I grimaced when I realized in horror I had left it back at the flat.
“You don’t have it?” Grabbing his head, he began to pace the room. “I knew this was a bad idea.”
“I’m sorry.” Swallowing hard, I added, “We’ll have to make do.”
“Great plan,” Jon muttered.
Although I couldn’t see him, I knew he was either shooting me a dirty look or rolling his eyes. I glowered in his direction. “Get over yourself.”
“Hold on,” Rick whispered as I approached the door again. “You can’t go in there.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I replied, suddenly feeling annoyed by his “chivalrous” offer to do my job for me. Again. Just as quickly, I felt remorseful and added, “Watch my back. Please?”
I reached for the doorknob and took a deep breath before pushing it open. In a small laundry room, strapped to a black folding chair, sat Arthur Cross. His blond hair was greasy and matted. His face was gaunt and his green eyes frightened.
A piece of duct tape covered his mouth. Thick, nylon rope bound his arms behind his back and his legs together and to the chair. His face and arms were bruised and caked with dried blood. He blinked as he stared at me anxiously. The terrified expression remained on his face until he saw Rick. A single tear ran down Arthur’s dirty cheek. His head fell forward as he fought to hold back another.
I knelt down beside the chair. I untied his arms and legs. He ripped off the tape. Using the chair for support, he stood up on shaky legs.
I backed out of the tiny room, allowing him space to move while warning him to keep quiet.
He acknowledged my warning with a tired nod before turning his attention to Rick. They stood in silence, staring at each other. Suddenly, Rick reached forward and hugged Arthur who weakly gripped him. Despite the filth, Rick held his cousin, offering him both physical and emotional support.
Lost Distinction Page 24
