by Lanyon, Josh
“I don’t think you understand,” Peter said coldly. “I remember everything I saw that night. And I don’t plan on doing one minute of jail time.”
“Well, that’s… I’m not sure what…” Cole seemed to give up midsentence.
Mike mouthed, Offer him the deal.
“Since you’ve pretty well already ruined my name and my career, I’m willing to make a deal with you.”
Silence.
“I’ll give myself up and plead guilty to stealing from the museum in exchange for one million dollars.”
Cole laughed, although it sounded slightly hysterical. “That knock on the head must have scrambled your brains. This is clearly a desperate attempt at blackmail on top of your other crimes. Listen, old friend, I suggest you count yourself lucky the board isn’t demanding you pay restitution. That’s what Sally wanted.”
“One million dollars, old friend, or I tell everything I know.”
“Why are you doing this to me?” Cole asked angrily. “Dragging me into this won’t save you. The police will see this for what it is!”
“That’s why I’m willing to make a deal. According to Stephenson, I’m going to prison either way. This way at least my future will be secure when I get out. Either pay up or I tell everything I know—and I know quite a bit. I covered for you for a long time, Cole.”
“Y-y-you covered for me!” Cole was stuttering his astonished outrage.
Mike whispered, “Don’t debate it. Wrap it up.”
“I’ll meet you at the grotto tonight.”
“I can’t get a million dollars by tonight! Are you crazy?”
“I’ll take a down payment, and we’ll arrange how you’re going to pay the balance.”
“You’re out of your mind. This is ri—”
“Ask Herschel for the money. I’m sure he can lay his hands on some quick cash.”
Mike was nodding approval. Dead silence from Cole.
“Tonight. Nine o’clock at the grotto.” Peter hung up the phone hard.
“Okay?” Mike asked brusquely.
Peter shook his head. His eyes met Mike’s and then he looked away. “Yeah. It’s just… I guess I hoped…”
Mike snorted.
“He sounds like he’s going to turn me over to the police. If he does, I’m sunk. We both are.”
“They won’t turn you over to the cops.” Mike sounded very confident.
“I would.”
“That’s because you’re looking at this from the standpoint of an innocent person.” Mike touched his arm, indicating they should head back to the car. “Anyway, if he does report your extortion attempt, I’ll get a call and we’ll abort.”
They did not get a call, however, and at seven o’clock, Peter and Mike drove behind the back of Constantine House, hid the car, and climbed over the back fence into the museum grounds.
While Peter waited in the grotto, Mike did a quick reconnoiter of the garden.
“All clear,” he said when he’d returned to where Peter was nervously pacing up and down.
Peter watched while Mike set up the tape recorder he’d brought from work.
Mike showed him where to stand. “Say something.”
“I hope this isn’t a mistake,” Peter said.
Mike pressed Stop and then Play. Peter’s voice said faintly, “I hope this isn’t a mistake.”
“You’ll have to speak a little more loudly,” Mike told him. “Constantine’s voice will carry, but yours is softer. So speak up.”
Peter nodded.
“How often does the security guard make his rounds?”
“Donnelly is supposed to patrol the grounds every hour, but”—Peter shrugged, his eyes meeting Mike’s—“I wonder now if there was a reason the museum security was so lax. I always put the board’s resistance down to cheapness, but now I think Cole must have actively discouraged investing in decent security to make it easier for him to pilfer.”
“I think you’re right.”
At eight o’clock, they heard the whine of the security cart at the top of the hill and a few seconds later Donnelly zoomed by without even glancing down at the grotto.
Peter and Mike spent the next half hour talking desultorily, and then Mike told Peter they’d better get into position in case Cole was early.
Peter nodded and Mike faded into the deep shade beside the grotto.
“Mike!” Peter said sharply.
Mike appeared again. “What’s wrong?”
“I just wanted to say…either way this goes down, thank you.”
“Thank me when it’s over,” Mike said briskly and stepped back into his concealment.
Peter was left on his own in the grotto as the night deepened and cooled. Moonlight sifted through the jacaranda, casting odd shadows over the grass and still water of the koi pond.
Chjjjj…chjjjj…chewk, scolded the mockingbird from overhead.
And just like that…like a key turning a lock, tumblers clicking over…Peter’s memory came flooding back.
He had been thinking about Mike. Thinking how good it would have been to come home and find Mike waiting for him. Thinking of those hot, wicked things Mike used to do to him—and would never do again because Mike didn’t do second chances, and Peter had blown it. But he’d had a couple of drinks that night, and as he walked down to the grotto, he was thinking that maybe he’d try to call Mike. Maybe use the excuse of the continuing thefts at the museum, because something had to happen there. It had to stop. Had to. And…because he wanted to see Mike so badly it was worth taking the chance that Mike would tell him to go to hell. He would take the chance because maybe Mike would say—like he’d used to—“Why don’t you come over?” It had been a beautiful night, the air sweet with flowers from the garden above and the music of the crickets and the frogs, and he’d heard voices from the grotto—
Cole appeared in the mouth of the grotto, and Peter’s reflections broke off.
“Don’t look so surprised,” Cole said. “This was your idea, remember?” He tossed Peter a bundle of money wrapped in plastic.
Peter caught the bundle. It took him a second to reconcile the past with the present. So Cole had come on his own. He had not gone to the police, and he had not sent Herschel in his place. Maybe it was going to be all right after all.
Peter found his voice. “How much is it?”
“Fifty thousand dollars.” Cole added coolly, “You’ll get the rest after you turn yourself in and plead guilty.”
“That’s…not what we agreed.”
“That’s the deal, though. Once you keep your end of the bargain, we’ll deposit the balance of money in an offshore account for you.”
Absorbing this, Peter almost laughed. Not a bad move on their part at all. Once Peter had been arrested and pled guilty, no one would listen to his protests when the rest of the money didn’t suddenly appear in a mysterious offshore bank account. He’d have effectively discredited himself by that point.
Cole was watching him closely, waiting to see if he swallowed it.
Peter said, feigning reluctance, “I guess I don’t have any choice.”
“No, you don’t.”
“All right then. We’ll do it your way.”
“Yes, we will. Which means Stephenson is handling your case again—and this time you take the plea bargain like a good boy.”
“I’m not going to jail.”
Cole snorted. “For one million dollars? I think you’ll do whatever you have to, don’t you?”
Peter said bitterly, “And you’re okay with that? With me going to prison? All these years I thought we were friends. The best of friends.”
“We are friends,” Cole said curtly. “Don wanted to kill you. I’m the one who insisted we should just pay you off. I saved your life, so don’t forget that.”
“‘Just pay me off.’ You do remember that I’m the victim in all this, right? I’m being paid off to take the rap for you. You and Herschel.”
Cole’s gaze flickered. “I remem
ber.”
“And before you take credit for saving my life, did you give him the key to my bungalow so he could try to kill me last night?”
That seemed to spark something in Cole. He snapped, “He wasn’t supposed to try to kill you. How can you think I’d agree to that! He was supposed to plant a few items from the museum to guarantee the police would have enough to strengthen their case. That bastard Griffin apparently had some doubts even after Don identified you in the lineup.”
“Herschel tried to shoot me while I was sleeping.”
“I know. I know.” Cole even looked a little queasy. “But that was not the plan. Don’s impulsive, but I never agreed to that. Never. No one wants you dead, Pete, least of all me. If you’re smart, you’ll simply do the jail time and collect your money. Think what you can do with fifty thousand dollars.”
“Let alone a million.”
“Uh…yes.”
Peter smiled, though it wasn’t much of a smile. All at once he was very tired of this game they were playing—and of Cole. He raised his voice slightly, saying, “That’s got to be enough, surely, Mike?”
Cole whipped around as Mike stepped out of the shadows beside the grotto.
“That’ll do it,” Mike agreed. To Cole, he clarified, “For both you and Herschel.”
Cole seemed to actually sway, as though shock had knocked him back on his heels. He stared at Mike in disbelief. He turned to Peter. “It’s a setup?”
When Peter didn’t answer, he repeated in a stunned tone, “You set me up?”
Mike said dryly, “Seems only fair, doesn’t it?”
Cole ignored him, speaking directly to Peter. “How could you do this to me, Peter?”
“I guess it was easier knowing that you could do it to me.”
There was a rustle of bushes behind Mike.
“Don’t move,” a harsh voice said as Mike half glanced around. Mike froze.
It took Peter’s eyes a few seconds to adjust to the flickering light, and then he made out the burly figure of Donald Herschel standing half in shadow. Light gleamed off the barrel of the gun he was aiming at Mike’s back.
For what felt like a very long time, no one moved. No one spoke. One of the koi in the pool drifted lazily to the surface, gulping for air.
It occurred to Peter, on some very distant plane, that the pond must need tending—and that he and Mike were probably going to die in the next few seconds. His gaze found Mike’s.
Herschel said in that same hard tone, “You dumb bastard. Didn’t I tell you? I told you it was going to turn out to be some kind of trap.”
Cole blustered some protest. Peter was still staring at Mike. He was hoping that Herschel would shoot him before Mike, because he really couldn’t take losing Mike again, not even for the few seconds before he died himself.
Mike looked right back at him. He looked utterly calm, utterly cool. “It’s under control,” he said to Peter—and he actually smiled.
And to Peter’s utter astonishment, the grove was suddenly ablaze with lights. Cops were seemingly springing out from behind every bush and rock, and Herschel was being ordered to throw down his weapon.
For a tense moment, Peter was sure Herschel would open fire like someone in a bad TV movie, but instead he tossed his gun into the koi pond. It landed with a heavy plop as uniformed officers moved forward.
“I told you,” Herschel said to Cole. “You never listen.”
* * * * *
It was Mike who walked Peter up to the bungalow as Herschel and Cole were handcuffed, and listened stonily to their rights being read to them. As they reached the top of the stairs, Peter could see red and blue lights cutting swaths in the warm night air. There was a veritable fleet of cop cars waiting up there.
Mike had not chosen to share that information with Peter—the fact that they were going to have backup for their little charade—but it was hard to feel resentful about having his life saved. Maybe later. Maybe after he’d had time to accept the fact that he was going to be okay after all.
“I’ve got to go down to the station to interrogate these assholes. It’s probably going to take most of the night,” Mike was saying. He broke off.
Peter looked his way and found Mike watching him alertly.
“I’m listening.”
It wasn’t easy to tell in the eerie flashing light of the police cars, but he thought Mike’s expression changed. “You okay?”
Peter nodded. He had no idea if it was true or not. Too soon to tell.
Mike nodded too, as though this confirmed his own thoughts. He didn’t say anything else until they reached the bungalow. Peter fumbled for his keys, got the door open, and felt around for a light.
The living room looked weirdly untouched. He had that sensation again of being in a museum. He had lived here for how many years? And he had never felt as at home here as he had in Mike’s apartment. Suddenly, he wondered what they were even doing there.
Mike cleared his throat. “Hey.”
Peter looked at him.
“You…you did great tonight.”
“Thanks. So did you.”
Maybe the wryness showed, because Mike said, “Peter, I didn’t tell you about the backup because you’re not very good at hiding your feelings.”
“And yet you thought I was capable of faking amnesia and stealing from my own museum.”
Mike grimaced.
“It doesn’t matter,” Peter said. “You’re right. I probably would have given the whole thing away.” He gave a short laugh. “I thought Herschel was going to kill you.”
Mike’s gaze slid back to his. “Sorry. I mean that.”
“It’s okay.”
“You…er…got the rest of your memory back, didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Peter was surprised. “How did you know?”
Mike raised a dismissive shoulder, and it occurred to Peter that he was nervous. He wasn’t sure how he knew, but he did. Something else: Mike was hovering. He wasn’t much of a hoverer, but it was clear he didn’t want to walk away, and Peter felt his hope rise.
“Not sure. Something in your voice changed. Your stance too.”
“I remembered, yes.” Not that it really helped. Other than to clarify exactly how much he had to be depressed about, because six months ago Mike had been very definite that it was over between them. And Mike was not a man given to easily changing his mind—despite the fact that he was still standing in Peter’s living room looking like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.
“So what are your plans now?”
“Well, I’m still out of a job and a place to live, but at least I’m not going to jail.”
Mike took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If you need a place to stay—I mean, until you figure out what you want to do—you can stay with me.”
In the pause that followed Mike’s words, Peter could hear the distant crackle of police car radios.
“Mike, I’m sorry about before. When you told me to make up my mind and decide if I wanted a real relationship with you or a pretend relationship with Cole, and I chose… It was a big mistake.”
“So you said before.” Mike sighed. “Hell. I guess I could have been a little more tactful. A little more patient.”
“I could have been a little smarter.”
“That’s for sure.” Mike relented slightly. “But maybe I could have been a little more honest too, because what we had was worth some extra effort.”
Peter gathered his courage. “Was?”
Mike stared at him for what seemed a long time. “Is,” he said finally.
One word. And such a little word to contain so much hope. Peter said carefully, because if he had this wrong the disappointment was probably going to kill him, “I thought that door wasn’t open anymore.”
“So did I.” Mike shrugged. Then, as he studied Peter’s face, his wolfish grin appeared. He reached for Peter. “But I’ve been wrong before.”
Lovers and Other Strangers
Chapter
One
If he had been painting the scene before him, he would have used only four colors: Permanent Rose alkyd for the pink streaks in the fading sunset and the reflections in the water; Dioxazine Purple alkyd for the shadows lengthening on the creamy sand, the crevices of the rocks, the glint and gleam of water, the edges of the pier; Cadmium Yellow alkyd to blaze from windows, for the dimples in the sand, to limn the rocks, to gild the tips of scrubby, windblown grass, more reflections in the water; Indigo oil for the tumbling waves, for the indistinct forms of the buildings beyond, for the swift coming night.
For the first time in weeks, Finn felt the desire to take a palette knife and mix color, to pick up a brush and try to capture what he saw. For the first time in weeks, he felt a flicker of something close to interest, to emotion.
Maybe it was the salt air, maybe it was the cold—the briny wind whipping off the ocean stung his face—maybe it was the smell of wood smoke with all the warm memories it conjured. Or the cries of the gulls, the slap of the waves, the mingled fragrance of pipe smoke and car exhaust as he waited in the old station wagon for Hiram to carry his bags from the dock. Maybe it was all these things.
But it was the color he felt most intensely. Luminous color seeping into his consciousness, the hues and values, the shadows and lights, the dull tones, the vibrant—he was waking up. It was not a comfortable process, and Finn huddled deeper into his leather jacket.
Hiram strode to the car and threw Finn’s bags in the back. Coming around to the front, he climbed in behind the wheel. Starting the engine, he glanced briefly at Finn as he backed the car, narrowly missing a leaning tower of stacked lobster traps.
“Guess it looks pretty different after all this time?”
Seal Island didn’t look different at all in the purple dusk, but Finn said, “Three years is a long time.”
“Ay-yup,” Hiram said. “Your uncle Thomas is going to be happy as a clam at high tide to see you.”
