The Gold Pawn

by L. A. Chandlar

  “Well, that’s what I’m here to discuss. I believe you met a friend of mine a while back, Roarke—” But before I could even say his last name they cut me off.

  “Sure! We remember Roarke! Nice guy, had a lot of laughs with him.” I bet they did.

  “Well, I know he asked about a cousin of his. Lane Sanders?” I said.

  Their faces turned slightly downcast, wary. “Oh yes, we remember,” said Fred.

  “Well, I’m Lane. Lane Sanders.” They all looked at me closely, like they were looking for someone deep down, to see if I was who I said I was. I smiled as recognition hit the sweeper first.

  “My God, Charlotte’s smile,” said Benson.

  “Damn,” said Fred appreciably.

  I laughed, making them smile broadly. I told them briefly about getting things in order here now that I lived in New York. They nodded as they listened closely. I was attempting to sound light and airy, but these men were smart. Like Roarke said, they knew that there were fishy things that happened back then and that the mystery of my parents’ death had never come to a satisfactory conclusion.

  “Could you take a look at this?” I asked as I pulled out the photograph of my mother, pointing to the previously hidden man next to her under the fold. He looked young like my parents and handsome with a large, hawk-like nose, but his angular face could handle it. It made him look distinguished.

  “Wow! Charlotte was quite a looker!” Benson blurted out. “Oh, sorry, Lane,” he said sheepishly. I just laughed. She was a looker.

  “Actually, do you know who this man is next to her?”

  Both barbers took off one set of glasses and put on another, presumably stronger, set of spectacles and peered closely. They both looked at each other with dubious glances and Benson spoke for them all. “Why, that’s Rutherford. Rutherford Franco.”

  I’m not sure what I was expecting. I had a vague notion that these all-knowing barbers might be able to shed light on this man, but Eliza’s father? The man who had perished on the lake with my parents? What were they doing in a photograph with him? My parents had been killed outright, it was no accident. There had been a small explosion that went off as my parents and I skated close to the outskirts of the rink, out toward the middle of the lake. We all fell into the icy waters as well as another man, Rutherford Franco. But whether it was intended to kill or just be a distraction, a bullet is what killed my mother and father. I was the only one rescued. Was Rutherford’s death intentional as well? I’m really not a believer in coincidences, but why this small-town man? And why was he in a photograph in New York with my parents? And most intriguingly, why was it imperative for my father to point this out to me and in such a clandestine way?

  “How long had the Francos lived here?” I asked.

  Benson, the obvious spokesman of the group, replied, “Well, let’s see, a few years. In fact, maybe just a little after your folks moved in. Their daughter Louise was just a bitty thing when they moved in. And lemme think, their son was much older than the little girl, and he was about . . . Oh, I’d guess about ten years older.” Louise had been Eliza’s original name. The first of many.

  “They had a son? What was his name?”

  “I think it was Tom. That sound right, boys? Tommy?” he asked his cronies. They replied that yup, sounded right, but more than anything they started eyeing the delicious scotch again.

  I murmured, “Tom, huh . . .” while I poured another glass all around. This time I poured myself a small, restorative swig.

  “Anything else you can tell me about the Francos?” I asked.

  “Well . . .” The other barber, Fred, spoke up in an intense and thoughtful voice. “You know, I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but that wife of Rutherford’s, Daphne, she was a bit of a twit.”

  “Hah!” barked out the seventy-year-old Jasper. “Scary twit! Something not quite right about her. Always used to feel sorry for those kids. Course that son, Tom, went away and really it was the little girl that was around most of the time. That Thomas, boy oh boy, he could charm the skin off a snake. But there were times, though, there was somethin’ deep down in him that was off . . . kind of scary, like his mother.”

  I took all this in and then asked the most important question I had now that they were warmed up, hoping that the question wouldn’t scare them off. “When the ice skating, uh, accident happened . . . was there anything or anyone out of the ordinary around town? Or just anything at all that comes to mind that was out of place?”

  “Well, there was this friend of your folks; real tall guy, bright blue eyes, gray hair even though he didn’t look that old. Looked like he could have been a sailor or somethin’ . . .” Mr. Kirkland. For sure.

  “Anyone or anything else?”

  “Well . . .” said Benson hesitatingly, as if he wasn’t sure he should say something.

  “Spit it out, Benson,” I said with a smile.

  “Oh, ah. Well, this happened a long time ago, but it might mean something. I remember going out to eat one night. Me and the missus, took her out to a fancy night on the town down in Detroit. And across the room, I saw that young Tom Franco—had to be about eighteen then. He was with an old man, looked like his grandfather or something. But Jesus, that man had an evil look about him. And Tom, he was eager; eyes wide like he’d do anything at all to please the guy. The only reason I remember that meeting, was that I had thought to myself that the old man was trouble. Bad things would happen around him.

  “I only saw Tom one time after that, much later. In fact, come to think of it, it was just a day or two before your parents’ accident. In Detroit again, saw him across the train station. I made a run down there to pick up some sick relative or other who wanted to come out to the country to visit. After the accident, I felt awful for Tom. Hard for a boy to lose his father. But I never saw the boy again. He never even went to the funeral.”

  “Hard to imagine . . .” I whispered, thinking hard. “Anything about that old man that stood out to you? What did he look like? Besides bad.”

  “Well, he was sitting down, so I don’t know how tall he was. Looked average to me other than the criminal feel . . . But I know! He wore a lot of jewelry.”

  “What kind of jewelry?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Necklaces? Rings? Bracelets?”

  “I don’t know. Just jewelry.” Such a guy. “Wait a minute, lemme see that picture of Rutherford again.” I handed it to him and he looked up at me after looking closely at it. “You know, I think it really was Tom’s grandfather. He had that same big nose as Rutherford. Didn’t remember it until I saw that picture just now of Rutherford up close.”

  “Well, thanks, gentlemen. I’ve really enjoyed meeting you,” I said getting up, feeling that I had gotten all the information I could. “And keep the bottle,” I said, laying a hand on the beautiful amber glass. “I don’t have many friends here yet, and it meant a lot to talk with you.”

  “Mighty nice of you, Lane, thanks!”

  I smiled as I walked out the door, hearing the clanging bells clunk against the glass door, making an audible bookend to my time with new friends in this familiar, yet strange town.

  I needed to think. I took a winding walk away from Main Street, in the opposite direction of my home. I meandered along the quaint streets as I continued to slide the intriguing pieces of my puzzle around, trying to find a shape that would make sense.

  As I walked down the sidewalk, a cardinal pattered down a branch with his showy bright red feathers, brilliant against the snow. In a fenced-in yard, a couple of joyous black dogs romped around in the snow together, with huge mounds of snow piled up on their noses from shoving their snouts into the cold, delightful white stuff.

  Past the house with the black dogs, a lovely little church came into view with what looked like the winding branches of wisteria trees by the entrance—a beautiful sight, I was certain, come spring. I was admiring the charming little building made out of brownstone with a large, curving stai
ned glass window, when the door opened and a very large man who must have been the rector came stomping out into the frozen air. He was carrying bagpipes.

  “You!” I said loudly, making him jump as his back had been turned to me to close the door behind him.

  He whipped around. “Oh . . . pardon?” he asked.

  “Sorry about scaring you. I’ve heard your bagpipes a couple of times the last few days I’ve been here. They’re wonderful,” I said earnestly. Those hauntingly beautiful sounds, slipping their way through the winter night like cool silken ribbons, right to me.

  He was a balding man, probably in his forties. A large, burly guy with a very friendly, open, and capable face. His warm brown eyes looked like they laughed a lot. He had a lively Scottish brogue, which made sense with the bagpipes and all.

  “Hi, I’m Lane Sanders,” I said, holding out my hand.

  “Father Alan MacQueen. Nice to meet you, Lane.” We shook hands slightly awkwardly as he held the leggy instrument that looked like it was trying to make a run for it; his hands were enormous and warm.

  He took a good look at me and his searching gaze made me wonder what he saw. Kindness shone out of his eyes, just like the sun was shining down, warming our heads. I liked him. I was reminded of Little John in Robin Hood; he felt safe and perfectly capable of handling any evil sent his way. Still smiling, he cocked his head in an earnest way and said, “Is there something troubling you, lass?”

  I was shocked at his forthcoming question, but found myself blurting out, “Yes!”

  He grinned even wider at my exclamation and said, “Come! Let’s sit for a moment. It’s chilly out, but such a glorious day, I hate to be inside.” He ushered me over to a little bench that had been brushed off along with the front walk to the church, and we sat down.

  “So, you heard me playing my pipes, eh?”

  “Yes, in the moonlight. They were glorious.”

  “Thank you.”

  He waited for me to say what was on my mind, unafraid of pauses. “You know,” I ventured. “Your bagpipes helped . . . stop me from making a big mistake. It’s hard to say what I was wrestling with, but it was powerful. And a large part of me wanted it. I don’t really understand, but I was considering . . . I’m not sure how to put it . . .”

  “Darkness,” he supplied.

  “Exactly.”

  “I can understand that,” he said simply.

  “Really?”

  “Of course, Lane.” His Scottish brogue was thick and pleasant. His muscular frame and broad arms and long legs made me think of Highland games and how he looked like he could easily toss around a caber.

  We sat in comfortable silence a few seconds longer, his gentle presence inspiring patience and stillness. Then he said, “You know, Lane. It occurs to me to tell you about a sermon I was just preparing inside before you came. You see, there are things in life that we have to fight and conquer on our own. And then there are times when we need other people.”

  I nodded. He sounded like Morgan.

  “I was studying the account of the fall of Adam and Eve in the ancient Jewish scriptures. And it’s always made me angry that people, men mostly, I hate to admit, have made Eve to be the villain.”

  I was surprised to hear that, because even though I could completely understand the plight of Adam and Eve and certainly had my own moments of specifically choosing things that I knew were wrong . . . the story agitated me.

  “You see, when Eve was being tempted . . . and she took a bite of the apple as she was being seduced and deceived by the enemy . . . where was Adam?”

  “I have no idea,” I said.

  He smirked. “He was right there. Eve should never have listened to lies, listened to tempting evil that she certainly knew was wrong and corrupt. But Adam should have picked up his bride and whisked her away from the enemy. He should have helped her see evil for what it was, to save her. She couldn’t fight that battle on her own. And neither could he. She should have protected him, too. That was the point of God creating them for each other.”

  Before I could chew on that, he abruptly declared, “Well, Lane? I must be off. Come again, I would love to chat some more. But if I am to get in some practice, I had better be going.”

  “Don’t you practice in the evenings?”

  “Sometimes. The last few days I wanted to get in a little extra practice for the Christmas service. Most often I practice in the morning or afternoon. But I’m sure you noticed, music in the dark is magical. Right, Lane?”

  “Yes, it really is. I have to get going as well. I have a couple of appointments in town. I need to find some answers to a perplexing problem.”

  He briskly replied, “And you can count on my prayers for you. See you soon, Lane.”

  I shook his hand warmly and walked toward Main Street. I wondered about getting lunch before heading back home. The heels of my black boots click-clacked along the shoveled sidewalks. The town looked empty; most people were inside on this frosty day. I pondered the things my new barber shop buddies had told me about that Tom Franco, the meeting with Father MacQueen, needing people, certain battles that you just can’t win alone . . . I watched my feet walk in their rhythmic pattern, deep in thought, my hands stuffed into my pockets as I hunkered down into my fluffy red fur collar. A movement caught my eye up ahead and I looked up.

  Tucker.

  CHAPTER 33

  “Between these two, I now felt I had to choose.”

  Tucker’s intense eyes pierced into mine as he nodded a greeting, motioning for me to come over. I walked toward him with a little wave.

  “What have you been up to, Lane? I thought we were going sledding again,” he said with a low voice. He wasn’t his usual, charming self. But there was something familiar about the way he was acting, albeit off.

  “Well, I went for a walk and then I ran into the rector up the street. He’s been the one playing the bagpipes the last couple of nights. We chatted for a while and now I’m just making my way back,” I said, consciously making a cheerful effort to soothe his obviously agitated stance. What’s wrong with him today?

  “Are you okay, Tucker?” I asked.

  He took me by the shoulders and looked at me intently. “Lane . . . I just . . . I’m just worried about you. I was worried that something might have happened last night.”

  “Oh no, I’m fine, Tucker. Really,” I said, watching his charm slowly return. Back in place. An ability that reminded me of the effortless sleight of hand of a magician. His affable countenance nicely tucked back into place.

  And then it hit me all of a sudden, like an avalanche. Thoughts started to flood through my mind, all the things I had seen in bits and pieces coming together into one fluid line, one terrifying whole. Tucker’s friendly nod to the man today outside the diner; the man I thought I recognized as one of the attackers the other day. Tucker’s familiarity with Tabitha while brushing the lock of her hair off her face; he’d met her before. The RR on the pawn being Rex Ruby. The fact that Eliza had a big brother, Tom; Tom meeting with his evil-looking grandfather who wore jewelry, perhaps a ruby ring. That familiar something about Tucker’s face in the bar when he saw me unexpectedly and today when his charm had not been securely in place. The fact that someone powerful—an über gangster—must have been in play to extricate Eliza when she was shot, someone Uncle Louie knew to have been around and yet invisible. The flash of red on Tucker’s finger at the restaurant . . .

  My eyes locked onto his; his smile faltering as he saw what was behind my gaze. I said quietly, “Tom?” His eyes dilated and he sucked in a breath. I whispered slowly, determinedly, “You’re. The new. Rex Ruby.”

  In an instant, that familiar thing about Tucker’s face fell. Just like hers. His veneer of charm and control came crashing down. That was his mother, Daphne, I had met in the insane asylum. My God, Eliza and Tucker were brother and sister. The grandchildren of Rex Ruby.

  His fingers tightened painfully on my arms.

  “Lane,” he
growled with primal urgency. “Don’t do this. We’re made for each other. I saw the anger in you. I hated it and I loved it. It’s what you want, you know it. You want me,” he said raggedly.

  It was true. I loved that anger. I had wanted to dive into it. I wanted it to consume me. It was so tempting. Tucker was tempting. I could definitely choose anger—I was capable of it. But there was a choice to be made. One thing or the other. Their natures so completely at odds they could not coexist. Anger was a solitary thing, pushing, clawing, ripping at everything else. The other . . . well. The other.

  I made my choice.

  I took a powerful inhale of crisp air, refreshing and bracing my heart and my mind. What these past days of searching and fighting had painfully but perfectly shown me, culminating into one powerful idea, was simply this: I loved the man more than my anger.

  “No, Tucker.”

  He was livid; his loathing and his rage pumping through his body in an almost palpable throb. He took a hand away from my shoulder and brought it back. I saw hatred and confusion in his eyes. I saw a lot in his eyes.

  In his anger, his draw back was slow like he was enjoying the thought of striking me. All my defense practice with Mr. Kirkland just left me like a lifeless leaf tossed away in the wind, but I was enraged that Tucker was going to try to strike me. With a savage shove to his chest and an unladylike growl—“Unh!”—I shoved with all my might, totally indignant, completely changed. I saw my choice clearly for the first time.

  “Lane!” I heard a shout from behind me and I knew that voice, like a voice from inside my soul, and I thought my heart would leap right out of my chest.

  I whipped around. “Finn!”

  I took a step toward him and he started running toward me. He yelled desperately, “No!”

  There was the click of a gun being cocked behind me, and then a hard arm wrapped around my shoulders and pulled me against him. I felt the cold barrel of the gun just beneath my ear.