“Oh shit.”
CHAPTER 11
“I shall make it my business to see you are no loser.”
I am such a loser. I couldn’t believe I let Roarke get me into another predicament!
The two thugs were more interested in Marty than with us, but they effectively barred our exit. We quickly decided the only way to go was toward the stream. With a mutual nod in that direction, Roarke and I picked ourselves up and walked behind the bench up toward the boulders. It quickly led to a rock wall where the stream flowed down, rainbows shining in the droplets of water. It was an easy climb with good footholds—about twelve feet up—and I watched kids do it all the time. Right now, the place was deserted. The Rambles were full of New Yorkers and tourists during the weekends, but during the week it could be pretty secluded. I was glad kids weren’t around just then, but I would have given a lot to have a nice big, loud bunch of tourists meander through.
Just as we got to the farthest part of the rock wall and I had started to get ready to climb up, Roarke urgently exclaimed, “Go, Lane!”
I didn’t even look back; I started climbing for all I was worth, which was no easy task since I had on a skirt and high heels. Shocking, but I hadn’t really planned on rock climbing when I dressed for work that day. Just as I was about to get up the final large rock, I felt a mighty heave right on my posterior that shoved me upward, shooting me up and over the top of the wall, landing on the path with a poof of dirt and plenty of swearing.
Roarke abruptly appeared like he’d levitated up the rocks, with not a speck of dirt on his clothes. He said incredulously, “Lane! What are you doing?”
I glared daggers at him, but he pulled me quickly to my feet and we started running up the path to our left, then a quick right. We kept going and going. There was just no one in the Rambles today. Would it have killed Fio to have this area patrolled a little more frequently? The only place I knew that the trails led to for sure would be Belvedere Castle. But we needed some assistance that had bite; a rescue party a little punchier than a handful of tourists.
While panting up the path I asked, “So what exactly happened back there?”
“Those guys had been after Marty, but it looked like they were just talking with him. Then they saw me and evidently decided to come after us.”
“Huh. We seem to have that effect on a lot of people.”
“You could say that again!”
“Do you think those are Louie’s guys?” I asked.
“I don’t recognize them, but that doesn’t mean anything. I’m sure he has hundreds of people working for him. Plus, their type all look alike: big, beefy, vacant eyes, gun-happy . . .”
“Winning . . . combination,” I panted, getting well and truly out of breath.
Just when I thought maybe we’d lost them, I heard some yells and running footsteps. It wasn’t looking good. We had to hide somehow. There were trees all over the place, but it felt barren without the full foliage of summer. We would be exposed and vulnerable anywhere and everywhere.
I had an idea.
“Roarke, this way!” I whispered urgently, veering to the right. We ran and ran, I could still hear footsteps behind us, but I was happy to notice a lack of guns firing. The paths in the woods were knotted all together going this way and that. I just hoped I was going in the right direction. Finally, up ahead I saw it. There was a road that cut through Central Park here; the tricky part was that the road was cut deep into the ground to protect the park from noise and pollution. It was at least twelve or fifteen feet below us and the cars were zipping by dangerously fast. We’d have to lower ourselves down the smooth face of the wall, but if we could get to it before those guys saw us, we’d be hidden since only insane people would attempt climbing down something like that.
Roarke instantly knew what I had planned as soon as he saw the roadway and well . . . We were both crazy enough to try it. We ran right up to the ledge and before I could say a word, he took my arms and started lowering me down the wall onto the extremely narrow sidewalk that flanked either side of the road. We had done this same maneuver on the Queensboro Bridge recently. That time, I had been dangling hundreds of feet above the East River; now I was dangling by the side of a speeding roadway. Ah, yes. Moments to treasure.
Roarke let me drop the last few feet to the pavement and I landed steadily. He lowered himself down and we plastered ourselves up against the wall. We didn’t hear anything so we slowly started to walk east, trying to keep as close to the wall as possible. I looked back at Roarke to smile and tell him I thought we’d lost them, but as I turned, over his shoulder I saw a mustached face in a bowler hat peering over the edge. The guy yelled a deep-throated, “There!”
Blast. We began running again and luckily the road started to curve to the right so we’d be out of gunshot range should they decide to give that a try. And finally . . . finally. I saw what I was hoping to find: the Central Park Police Station. We ran right in the entryway, startling two patrols on horseback. The horses whinnied a little, but we ran on slightly farther before we felt like we could stop. We both bent over, hands on our knees, panting and heaving with stitches in our sides. The two policemen on horseback decided to canter over to see what we were up to. I heard and saw the brown horse legs and horse hooves before I looked up to see the men. I was also looking at my poor shoes. They used to be cute little cream and brown polka-dotted shoes with a bow on the toe. The bows were both gone and the shoes were pretty much all brown now. I hated to think what the rest of me looked like. I slowly straightened up to say hello.
“Hey! Is that you, Lane?” said the officer on the left.
I looked a little closer and remembered him. Someone had recently attempted to snatch my purse down in the subway and as that week had been particularly trying, I’d had enough. I ran after the miscreant, tackled him to the ground, and got my damn purse back. One of the policemen who had arrived on the scene tried to ask me out. This was the guy.
His buddy on the other horse said, “That’s Lane? That girl you told me about?”
Roarke was laughing.
“Hi. Scott. Right?” I asked between great gasps of air.
“Right,” he said with a smile. “Uh . . . What’s going on? Why do you look . . . ?”
“Like I’ve been rolling around in the dirt?” I supplied.
His friend guffawed and Roarke started to ineffectually swipe at the dirt on my back and rear end.
“Cut that out, Roarke. Yeah. Well, actually we could use your help.”
I filled them in on what we were doing running around. Their laughing faces turned serious and they called over another couple of policemen and went out to have a look around for our two friends. Roarke and I sat down heavily on a bench outside and one of the men brought us some water. I took out a brush in my purse and got most of the leaves and dirt out of my hair. I looked at Roarke and it was like the guy had some magic Dirt-Away spell. Where my hair was tangled and I had scuffed and muddy shoes, not one single hair was out of place on him, and his suit coat looked impeccable.
“What?” he asked, noticing my scrutiny.
“Nothing,” I said with a roll to my eyes.
By the end of the day, the police hadn’t found our beefy friends, I’d had two requests for a date despite my grubby looks, and Roarke was working furiously on a new novel he’d decided to write. I looked dubiously up and down from his face to his notebook and back again. He’d told me about writing a book. But another notion hit me.
“You’re writing down our escapades, aren’t you?” I accused.
“Oh yeah. This is good. I couldn’t make this stuff up!” he exclaimed enthusiastically. Oh boy.
CHAPTER 12
“Compose yourself, said I.”
We straggled home to my townhouse on East 80th Street. Roarke and I were dead tired from running for our lives, climbing rock walls, and the delightful fresh air. Ripley was waiting by the side window of the red front door. Mr. Kirkland waved from the bay win
dow in the front that had the copper top and bottom. I loved this house. Aunt Evelyn peeked out the topmost story with the curved dormers that opened up to her studio, perfect for her painting. I waved to her and we walked wearily up the steps as Mr. Kirkland opened the door.
“Lane! What have you been doing?” he asked in his gruff voice.
“I know, I don’t look so great. Roarke took me for a stimulating jog through the park today.”
“Hmph,” was his only remark.
I patted Ripley and after Roarke greeted Mr. Kirkland, we all filed through the house to the kitchen. I went to the fridge and took out four beers. I figured Aunt Evelyn might like one, too, as she was sure to join us. And in she swept, not to miss out on what I knew she must have surmised from our vainglorious entry.
Sure enough. “You two were sleuthing again!” she accused. But the funny thing about it was, she looked amused and relieved. It hit me how hard it had been for her these past few days. I’d always confided in her, I loved her dearly . . . I still didn’t know why I was feeling like excluding her and Mr. Kirkland.
Suddenly, in his typical way of being everywhere at once, in barged Fiorello. Ripley was delighted to have his favorite people collected together and showed it by running to each of us in turn. Fio came into the kitchen and I greeted him while retrieving one more beer from the fridge. Sensing an uneasy silence, I turned around and everyone was looking at me.
I took in a deep breath through my nose with a determined set to my mouth and proclaimed, “So, a little intervention, huh?”
Roarke laughed and a smile tugged at the corners of Mr. Kirkland’s mouth.
Fio put his elbows on the kitchen counter from the stool he perched upon and cocked his head to one side. “Lane, you haven’t been yourself and Evelyn and Kirkland filled me in on your quick departure from Michigan. You’re entitled to your privacy, of course, sort of . . . We all just want to know if you’re all right. It’s very . . . er . . . extremely . . . um . . . strange for you to not talk about how you’re feeling.”
“Hmm, yes, I’m not exactly the strong silent type,” I said wryly.
Roarke mumbled, “Not silent . . .” I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment to the word strong or an insult to the word silent. I just looked at him until he cleared his throat and said, “Uh . . . sorry . . . do go on.”
As quickly as I had felt relief at having a rollicking good sleuthing escapade with Roarke, my moodiness swung the other way suddenly and I had to fight the feeling of annoyance at being trapped. I hated a big fuss made over me and yet I knew I had been the impetus to this fuss. I also found it galling to not understand my own emotions. I loved emotion and felt deep passion for things and for people, but I was also very logical and I hated not being able to simply understand my past and how it made me feel. I reflected back to that moment of being in my favorite maple tree in what used to be my home. I very clearly remembered that intense, raw emotion that caused me to painstakingly, determinedly put up that wall.
I’d done a good job avoiding the issue and the sleuthing spree was distracting and fun, despite the danger. As usual. But I felt heat creeping up my collar and my face. I backed up a little, hating the feeling of being a bit cornered.
I wanted to be tactful and grateful. These people loved me. But I was more annoyed than appreciative. “Well, I’m really sorry,” I said in a clipped voice. “It’s . . . I just don’t know what to say. I still can’t figure it out. I thought I was ready to go back, was looking forward to it. But when I sat up in my tree, I hated it. I did not want to be there one second longer than I had to. It was a fight, half of me longing to be there and wanting to figure things out. The other half wanting to tell it all to go to hell.” I was clenching one of my fists as I tried to put it to words. Punching something sounded good. The anger was close to the surface. And strong.
Aunt Evelyn nodded. Even though I knew my reaction had been rough on her, I saw her strength written all over her steely eyes and firm jawline. It made me unclench my fists, which were ready for a fight.
I looked at Fio. He knew all too well about loss. He nodded. “Do you think you’ll want to go back, Lane? Or is that a chapter that you’d rather have closed for you?”
“Oh, I definitely want to go back. I’m not sure when, but there’s something I need to face. But this time, I’ll know what I’m heading into.”
Mr. Kirkland gave a small, closed-lipped smile. “You just say the word, Lane, and we’ll get you back whenever you like.”
Everyone went home after we had a little lighter time to chat about normal things. Roarke and I had also given a small overview of our jog through the park, all of us thinking through what it could mean. After everyone left, I sat in our parlor and wrote a letter to Finn. I wasn’t even sure he was getting my letters. I put my pen down, stretched, and listened to the silent house.
I looked around the room and remembered my birthday in August. A night full of family and friends, good food, thoughtfulness, laughter. That evening, there’d been this sting at the unfairness of the fact that my parents couldn’t be part of it all. A sting that grew dangerous roots that night and festered into something that reared its head while I was sitting in that maple tree. Now Finn was out of touch, across an ocean, for an undetermined amount of time. With ghosts of his past, one of whom he’d been in love with at one point. Gwen.
The room suddenly seemed very empty. And cold.
CHAPTER 13
The wind chilled Finn to the bone as one of London’s famous fogs rolled in. It truly was as thick as pea soup and the gray mist blurred the gas street lamps, producing golden halos. He listened to the click of his shoes on the pavement as he crossed the bridge, just able to make out the dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral in the distance. He was thinking about the things he gleaned from his meeting that afternoon, unsure of what it all meant. Finn went over the cloak and dagger conversation in his mind....
The greasy, dirty, ancient face of his contact had looked back at him with shifty eyes, darting to and fro, never stopping, never resting, ever-searching for danger lurking in the shadows. Finn’s usual calm started to be rubbed away as the anxiety pouring from this person started to infect him. He felt the hairs on his neck rise.
Finn tried to assure him. “Miles, we weren’t followed. The people who had been chasing you have been dead and buried for years.” He tried to reason with him, but reason had nothing to do with it. Primal fear had molded and shaped this keenly anxious man before him. It had been a miracle that he’d even found him.
The man’s voice was a residual of what it once was, a raspy croak. “Oh . . . You can’t be sure of that, Mr. Brodie. You can never be sure.” His shaking hands reached out to Finn, making signs that he wanted—needed—a cigarette. Finn pulled one out of his inner coat pocket and lit it for him. The light of the match made a shocking show of warmth and otherworldliness in the midst of this clawing damp that reminded one of prisons and dungeons. The damp was so complete, so chilling, that Finn had to fight off the illogical flicker of fear running up his spine that whispered to him that he might never grasp the cozy, homey feel of a fire in the fireplace ever again. He shook his head to clear those thoughts out of his mind.
“All right, Miles, tell me what you know. I’ve been searching for a remnant of the old crew.”
“Old crew, eh? For someone so certain that those who were after me are dead and buried, why would you have the need to find one of us?” The old man might be paranoid and anxious, but his mind still worked like a steel trap. At least sometimes.
“We have reason to believe that those in charge might have left . . . oh, let’s just say, an heir or two,” said Finn, searching for words to describe a notion, an idea, that he had just started to be able to put together.
“An heir . . .” the old man sputtered. “But he only had one child and that son died years ago. You can’t mean Rex had more than one child?”
Rex. Finn had been waiting for him to say that name. He’d heard
that name only once or twice before and knew hardly anything about the mysterious man. Rex Ruby was the leader of what became known as the Red Scroll Network, a group that organized an effort to take advantage of war-torn Europe. They systematically raped and pillaged several countries of their precious works of art, jewels, and anything of value left unsecured as the countries fought off their more visible enemies. Ruthlessly, they’d befriend wealthy citizens and promise to smuggle out their jewels, their priceless paintings and sculptures, and keep them for them in America, then help them escape and the treasure would be waiting for them to help kick-start their new lives in the New World. Then the network would just disappear with their loot and leave the trusting people without a dime, and nothing to help them against their enemies as they were rounded up and killed or taken as prisoners of war. And there was no coincidence about the red scroll on that silver gun of Lane’s nightmares; this same Rex once held that lethal gun in his own hands.
“No, we’re as sure as we can be that Rex only had one child, that son you mentioned. But was it possible that he had grandchildren?” asked Finn.
“Oh God,” said Miles, pulling so deeply on his cigarette that Finn worried he’d burn his lips as the burning ashes made their way up the cigarette at an alarming rate. Miles’s hands shook even more violently.
In fact, the embers did burn his lips and with a shocked reflex, Miles abruptly brushed the offending stub away. He was irritated from the unexpected spasm from the burn, but that momentary sharp pain seemed to clear his head. Finn watched him with fascination as emotions swept across his face.
Miles tilted his head and pursed his lips as if giving ear to advice or a deep consideration, and something altered in his haunted eyes. Resolve made a spark, albeit small, come out of those shifty eyes. He suddenly seemed more human, more aware and alive. Miles started talking faster, still with a heavy rasp like he’d grown up in the coal mines, but the cogs of his mind were really moving now.
The Gold Pawn Page 7
