HITS STOP SCARE TACTIC STOP RR HAD SON
STOP BE CAREFUL STOP SAW GWEN NOT
SEAN STOP WRITE SOON STOP
FINN
Saw Gwen. Well, how nice. That wasn’t what I’d hoped to hear. I wonder how he ran into her? And I wondered darkly about his brother, Sean. He was the kind of man that didn’t just go away. Finn would have to deal with him sooner or later.
So, Rex Ruby left the pawns with the people he killed. And Rex had a son, huh? Who was that? Could there be a connection with the silver gun, the gold pawn, and a possible heir? Maybe a legacy had been handed down . . . Perhaps that new über gangster in town? Maybe those pieces, the gun or the pawn, were a kind of proof-of-ownership of Rex’s legacy.
I was suddenly very, very tired. Gwen, Sean, Rex, Rex’s son, Uncle Louie, Mr. Hambro . . . Gwen.
I was weary of trying to figure out who the real enemies were. And why they were often coming after me, all because of things I couldn’t control such as the choices my parents made decades ago. Trusting, not trusting. Even with my love of the hunt and figuring out the mystery, there were times I wanted to throw off the clinging heavy cloak of intrigue and run away. Abandon the complicated, cloying feelings. Be free. Escape.
Of course I’ll be careful, I thought irritably. Where is he? What is he involved in? We’d only been dating a little while, but I could always count on Finn to be there when I needed him most, watching out. But now he was across an ocean. It felt wrong. I felt wrong and fragmented. Fractured somehow. What if . . . What if I’d read him wrong?
Heat started to climb up my face. I took another drink. I’d been wrong about my parents, about what I’d thought had been a simple life. Everything that I knew about them had been a lie.
I’d always prided myself on seeing the truth in people and yet I’d been wrong about my own mother and father. What if Finn wasn’t who I thought he was either? I was so in love with him, it hurt. What if it wasn’t real?
Saw Gwen. My thoughts went bitterly back to that damn telegram and those two words. Was there anything written there between the lines? Did seeing her again after all these years bring back those feelings he had for her? Did he long for a shared past that she could understand—that I could never be a part of? I took another long drink of wine, poured another glass, and grasped the envelope from the safe.
I quickly ripped it open and in my haste, I slashed a deep paper cut into my finger.
“Damn it!” I yelled, a few tiny droplets of blood splashed onto the crisp paper. I sucked on my finger and grabbed a napkin, holding it to the cut. That tiny slice hurt like hell, making me utter a few choice words.
I took a good look at the note from the safe, taking a moment before I unfolded it. It was a letter from the past, written to me. My name had been written on the envelope in a masculine hand, with sharp upstrokes in the cursive penmanship. It was my dad’s writing. I felt that imaginary train of time rushing up, the wind hitting me hard, the horn blast loud and cautionary.
I opened the letter.
Dearest Lane,
We knew you would find your way here. You’re probably about twenty-five. Even at your young age, as I write this, I can see that you will be quite an amazing woman full of imagination, life, and intelligence. This letter will be frustrating to you, Lane. I know you and you will be angry. I can just see your scrunched nose and furrowed brow.
I fought off the urge to look around as if the writer of the letter might possibly be watching me. I straightened my scrunched nose and scowling face and kept reading.
This letter can’t come close to telling you all that I wish to tell you. It’s not enough. I know that, and I hope I’ll be able to tell you more later. Our business requires us to be extremely careful. For now, my sweet girl, this is all I can say: Follow what we pointed out to you. Do you remember those lessons? Keep looking up, have faith. It will all work out. We love you.
—Mom and Dad
Follow what we pointed out to you? And why was the word pointed underlined with a dark black line? Sure, I remembered a lot of lessons they taught me. Survival skills, archery, the many puzzles we pored over . . . And they were always taking advantage of those parental teaching moments. As a kid, I rolled my eyes when they made a point of a lesson. Now I was wishing I’d kept a log of each of those lectures. Keep looking up.
I understood why they couldn’t be straightforward. Their work, their business, as he said, required hidden meanings and mystery. But he was right: I was so frustrated. Damn damn damn. That heavy cloak was getting claustrophobic. The heat from the fireplace was stifling. I longed to fling off that cloak in rebellion. I was so angry, and so stuck. I didn’t know which way to turn. I swiped at a small tear that pricked at my eyes. He was right. It wasn’t enough.
I looked around. The music had ceased playing. The silence was heavy and hung about my shoulders, weighing me down. I was very, very alone.
Behind the letter was a second piece of paper. I slipped it out. It was my birth certificate. I saw my birthdate, birth city, birth parents. Then I gasped and almost dropped the papers. It didn’t say Sanders. It said Lane Lorian. Parents: Matthew and Charlotte Lorian.
Nothing, not one single thing that I had counted on in my life, was as it seemed. Not one thing. Not even my name. I put my hand to my heart, as if making sure I was still who I thought I was. That I was still here, still substantial. My head was pounding, heart aching, and it felt like a tormenting shadow had crept into the room with me.
The doorbell rang, a clanging dissonance that made me jump. It must be six already. I stood up, slightly tipsy from the wine. I took a deep breath to try to clear my head and made a firm decision. I straightened my sweater, patted my hair, and swept my hands down my slacks, making them crisp and orderly. I nodded smartly.
I took the telegram, my dad’s letter, and my birth certificate and put it all under a heavy, brightly polished lapis lazuli stone upon the mantel. I let the stone clunk down upon those goddamn papers.
Then I went to the front door and let Tucker in.
“Just a second! Let me get my coat and we can go,” I said as he stepped into the foyer.
“Great! Did you have a good day?”
“Yeah. I guess. I did, overall. It was nice being here.” I shook my head again, clearing my mind. I was in a bad mood, surly and irritated. My finger throbbed. I struggled to make sense of things.
I slipped on my coat and buttoned it up. I guess Sanders was a good, blending-in kind of name, just shy of Smith. My parents had come here to get away from danger, after all. It would make sense that they’d use a different name. Right?
I clenched my jaw. No. Not all right.
“Good. I’m glad,” said Tucker. “Hey, there’s a little mom ’n’ pop restaurant downtown, want to give it a try?” asked Tucker.
“Sure. Sounds great.” I didn’t really care where we ate. I put the screens in front of the fireplace as low, red-hot embers were still burning. I grabbed my keys and purse and headed out.
“Okay, Tucker, let’s—” As I closed the front door behind me, the words died on my lips. I dropped my purse and fought the feeling that my knees might buckle.
“Lane, are you all right?” asked Tucker.
I slowly walked over to my precious purple maple tree. The place I played a thousand times as a little girl. The place where I could climb, be alone, look out over my house, my home. The defining place of my childhood. The leaves were completely off the branches now, but that wasn’t what I was looking at. We’d driven up to the back of the house this time and entered in the side door, so I hadn’t seen my tree yet.
The large branch that I climbed up on, the branch that was like a friend, the arm of a friendly giant beckoning to me to come and play . . . had been completely chopped off, leaving an enormous, shockingly white, new, smooth scar upon the dark trunk of the tree, about four feet from top to bottom.
It was like I had been sucker punched in the gut. The air came right out of me, le
aving me unable to breathe, a racking pain in my chest. I walked numbly over to the tree, stumbling once over a root in the ground. I wanted to shout and cry and hit something. But I couldn’t do anything. I was cold. I slowly, numbly lifted a hand trying to touch the scar. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. It was like the tree’s very heart had been amputated. One solitary tear slipped down my cheek. Just one.
I looked down at the ground and as I breathed in and out, in and out, I slowly, one at a time, clenched my fists. I set my jaw and lowered my eyes. And I built up that goddamn thick, solid, impenetrable wall again. One heavy, vile stone at a time. This time it wasn’t just a wall—it was a fortress. And I dared anyone to come and get me.
CHAPTER 27
“I was conscious of a heady recklessness, a current of disordered sensual images running like a millrace in my fancy, a solution of the bonds of obligation, an unknown but not an innocent freedom of the soul.”
On the way to the restaurant I saw that the apothecary was still open and with a determined step I decided to send out a spicy little telegram of my own. Gwen. Bah. It wasn’t too late to send it despite the late hour; they were just happy for the business of an expensive telegram. I sent it off, banged out the door into the cold fresh air, and looked forward to my evening with Tucker.
The restaurant was a nice little place, Merchant’s Restaurant. They served alcohol. Perfect. I ordered a steak and suddenly missed Roarke a lot. I thought about that time we ate at the little French bistro after the Randall’s Island incident. I wondered what he was up to. I ordered some cocktail or other that looked good and potent. Tucker smiled, ordering one for himself, but he also looked . . . wary. An odd look for him. Huh, maybe he had a hard day with his business deals.
We both ate our dinners with relish and ordered a bottle of wine with it. I started to laugh a lot. I didn’t realize Tucker was so funny. It reminded me of that day in the rowboats at Central Park.
“You know, Roarke . . .”
“Tucker,” he reminded me, which I thought even funnier.
“Yes, of course, Tucker. You know, Tucker, that day with the rowboats was really fun. I was thinking that that’s just like shledding. I mean, sledding.”
“Sledding?” he asked with a chuckle. He was almost giggling. Honestly, some people just can’t handle their liquor.
“Exactly, except for the part with the oars and the water,” I said matter-of-factly.
“Naturally.”
“What I mean is, I love sledding, except for those horrible sleds with the big iron runners on the bottom. What exactly are they supposed to go over? They just sink right into the snow. It would be faster to ride down on your bum versus a slow metal runner digging into the snow. I don’t get it.”
“Well, from the looks outside, we may get that chance tomorrow,” he said, nodding to the large front window.
We were just finishing up our meal, and as I looked out, I glimpsed big, chunky flakes of snow coming down. It was beautiful. The anger and steam inside of me had been waning just a bit. But there was a part of me that liked it, I liked that bastion that wouldn’t let anyone or anything in. They could all go to hell. I didn’t need anyone and I would figure out this shitty mystery all on my own. And maybe I’d have some fun doing it, too.
I looked at Tucker in the flickering candlelight. He was about to say something, but then he stopped and looked at me. Really looked at me, and his eyes grew dark.
“Come on, let’s go take a walk in the snow,” he said, helping me up and putting my coat around my shoulders as I shrugged into it. Now I was more than slightly tipsy and Tucker kept his arm around me.
It was pitch-black outside as the days had grown short. The snow was falling with the muffled, soft sound that is unique to snow. The little downtown was already blanketed in a covering of white; the cottony flakes coming down in a heavy, steady pace. I was cold; I hadn’t put my boots on. But the snow wasn’t deep yet, so I managed all right. I slipped a few times, but Tucker kept me upright. The cold air cleared my head a little. I couldn’t decide if I liked that or not.
We slowly made our way to my house past dark, spindly trees outlined in white, and bright spots of gold shone out from the porchlights of the houses we passed. We came up to the doorstep of my little Tudor-style house. Tucker took me by the shoulders and looked down into my eyes.
“Lane, I . . .” He paused and the sense of wanting to surrender was powerful. I wanted to do something reckless and defiant. “I want to come in,” he said.
“I . . .” Tucker started to lean into me. I looked at his lips, wondering if they’d feel warm or cold from the night air. That’s when I heard it. “Where’s that coming from?” I asked, turning in the direction of the beautiful sound.
Echoing eerily in the blue night, bagpipes played their steadfast, noble tune across the snowy fields, past the glowing street lamps, and throughout our sleepy neighborhood. And what the cold air couldn’t do, that sound did. I didn’t know what I wanted, I didn’t know what I was searching for. I just wanted so badly to run away. The bagpipes were in the distance, but not too far away. It was the Christmas carol, “The First Noël.”
I felt Tucker’s eyes on me, his face altering a bit in the night, the mood having changed. “Good night, Lane,” said Tucker. “Thank you for a . . . good evening.”
I nodded. “Good night, Tucker.”
“Maybe sledding tomorrow?” he asked.
“Yeah, maybe. Good night.” I closed the door and turned toward the dying embers in the fireplace.
CHAPTER 28
“I sat on a bench; the animal within me licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a little drowsed, promising subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to begin . . .”
I woke up freezing cold the next morning with a pounding headache. Not surprising on both counts: I had slept on the couch—which my dad called a davenport—in the living room but the fire had died midway through the night, and well, the headache just made sense. I stacked the large fireplace with fresh wood, nice and dry and ready to burn. It came up to an orange, crackling fire quite quickly. After I warmed myself sufficiently, I went to the kitchen to put the kettle on. As my tea brewed, I grabbed a couple of slices of nut bread that Tabitha’s mom left for me and the whole kettle and my cup. I raced back for milk and sugar, ran to the couch, and quickly wrapped up in a thick blanket.
Later, I managed the courage to run to the frigid upstairs bathroom and got a hot shower going. After I dressed and had another cup of tea, the doorbell rang. I went to the door and there stood Tucker with two sleds in tow.
“Come on!” he yelled, and turned around and started walking off.
“Okay! Wait a minute!” I yelled, and quickly put on my boots, coat, mittens, and hat. I got outside and he looked at me with a funny expression on his face.
“What?” I asked.
“Your hat.”
“What about it?”
“It’s . . . very pink and . . . very long.”
“Yes, it is.” I smiled impishly waiting to see if he would outwardly make fun of my goofy hat or just keep it inside.
Kept it inside, much to my amusement. “All right then! Let’s go!” he declared.
He seemed to know where he was going and off to the right of our house we tromped through the white snow. It had left a thick blanket of at least eight inches or so through the night. Just past the old cemetery, we eventually came to a big hill that already carried several laughing, rollicking children racing down with gleeful shouts. We slowly climbed the big hill with minimal grousing on my part, puffing and out of breath once we reached the top.
He handed me the dismal sled with the heavy iron runners.
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Nope! Just like the rowboat, you’ve got to give it a try.”
“Hmph.” In my head, I was whining that he got to use the toboggan with the slick underside that was sure to go skimming effortlessly over the surface of the fluffy snow.
One of the helpful boys at the top of the hill turned to me and said, “Don’t you like your sled?”
“Not really, I can never make the ones like this with the runners go fast,” I answered.
“Aw, it’s easy, lady! Here, see how I do it. And great hat, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I grinned smugly at Tucker.
The boy took his sled by the wooden body and went running to where the hill dipped, slammed the sled down, and did a graceful belly flop right onto the top of his sled, which had runners identical to mine. He shot down the hill at full speed, whooping and yelling as he passed several kids on slower sleds. My spirits lifted and I thought that maybe I could do it.
First, Tucker went down the hill on his toboggan just as quickly as the other kids. He reached the bottom and waved enthusiastically at me, excited for me to give my sled a try.
I backed up a few feet just like the boy did, trying to take the exact steps he took, and adjusted my angle a little. Okay, I can do this!
Stupid sled.
I ran, bending my knees, getting ready to do a graceful belly swoosh onto my sleek sled. I did everything perfectly: The sled hit the ground smoothly, I angled myself down and POOF! My belly sure did hit the sled perfectly and at top speed—but also with maximum momentum. I crushed the sled into the snow, digging the damn runners deeply in. It caught fast. But I didn’t.
After smacking the top of the sled with all my might, my body rebounded up and over the sled, into the snow. But now I was on the slick, packed-down part of the hill from the sledders before me. I continued to roll and poof my way down the long, long hill. A litany of profanity rang through the air, sprinkled with general shouting. I finally landed at the bottom with an even bigger puff of snow, completely covered in the cold, glittering frosting.
No one spoke a word.
Then the boy who showed me so expertly how to sled said, “Uh, you lost your hat.”
The Gold Pawn Page 16
