The Gold Pawn

by L. A. Chandlar

The darkness of the night cloaked his approach. With everyone gone for the evening, his only trick was how to be quiet enough not to rouse their dog. He had taken precautions to wear dark clothes, to wear his tennis shoes for the climbing he’d have to do and, just in case, he’d brought along a few hot dogs in his pocket, hoping they would stall the dog long enough for him to make a getaway should it become necessary.

  Tucker’s emotions had taken him off guard the last week. Sleep was evasive and he found himself mulling over strange and new thoughts. Darkness and light seemed to pull back and forth at his mind. Things he had known forever seemed less substantial and confusing. On one hand, he was amused by these lesser emotions that he used to mock others for exhibiting. Then again, on the other hand, there was something deep, deep down, like the tiniest sliver that had dug deep into the skin, unable to be extracted, deep enough that it was almost impossible to feel at times. Then out of the blue: penetrating and obvious. What does it mean?

  Tucker climbed up the gutters and along the window frames to the top story. It was tricky, but doable. The small window was just big enough for him to squeeze through. He slowly looked around, taking in the scent of oil paints heavy in the air, canvases scattered about, a particularly large canvas with wild colors that strangely moved him to walk up to it and touch it. He wondered what the colors and swirls meant; even in the dimness of twilight, he could see the fingerprints of color at the top and the passionate swirls and wide strokes in the midsection and at the bottom.

  Tucker had done his homework and knew where he needed to go. He did a cursory look around a few nooks and crannies in the loft, but it was the room just below that he zeroed in on. He took off his shoes, laying them carefully by the window where he’d have to climb back out. He slowly, slowly crept to the stairs.

  Toe, heel, toe, heel. He kept to the far sides of each step. Sweat began to dampen his forehead and his shirt. He made it to the bottom of the flight without a single creak. Lane’s room was directly on his right. He felt a passion rise in his chest, wanting to devour the place looking for what he sought. Something else pulled at him as well, a desire to see her room. Where she slept, where she thought, where she lived.

  He went in and it looked just as he imagined it. Soft, but not silly or frivolous. Warm with inviting smoky blue walls. A white chair in the corner by the window where he could easily imagine Lane with her hand holding her chin deep in thought as she read a good book.

  Tucker focused on the dresser and walked toward it with his hand out, ready to pull open a drawer. Something held him back. Why? Why should he hold back from this particular indiscretion? He was reminded of that moment of indecision with his complicated plan involving her maple tree.

  He was a thorough planner and he had used Tabitha quite easily. She was young and impressionable, especially because of his good looks and sophisticated style, something a teenager in a rural area always longed for. It had been her idea to cut the limb off that tree. She’d known from her parents that the tree meant something to Lane. He’d just needed to give Lane a little push. Something that might draw her toward him, and his open arms.

  But it had been more than he’d bargained for. He had watched as Lane first glimpsed her beloved tree. She walked slowly over toward it, stumbling once over something. He lurched to catch her, but something stopped him. He’d stood there, stunned by an unfamiliar feeling, something uncomfortable and agitating.

  She had turned in his direction and his heart sank. He saw her face and in it was something he had never seen in her before: deep resentment and pain. He saw the remains of a single tear that had made a track down her cheek. He had felt odd sensations at seeing all this, completely alien to him. He felt sadness, anger, and a kind of fear. At that thought, a feeling of dread started to seep into him as he looked at his hand, touching the handle on the dresser. The intensity of those memories made him shake his head, trying to clear his mind that fought against that alien indecision and insecurity.

  He pulled his hand back and turned away from the dresser. He glanced over at Lane’s nightstand stacked with a couple candles, a brass clock, and several books. One book had been selected and stood alone by itself, closest to her bedside. He walked over and stroked the cover of the book, curious as to what had been piquing her interest. He picked it up to have a closer look, not wanting to turn on any lights nor strike a match. The cover was exquisite, a deep blue with artistic swirls like an artist’s brush, embossed with gilt. It was beautiful, but somehow . . . off. And then he saw it. The title had been cunningly secreted within the swirls, but then once seen in its entirety, suddenly leaped off the page. The spacing was meant to make you feel the abnormality that was right in the middle of the beauty. He gasped as he recognized the title and almost dropped the book.

  He didn’t fear much. Pain could be overcome. Death was just an end. He had always—only—feared one single thing. Tucker had read this book one time in his life and within the peculiar story, there was one idea, one thought, that made him wake up in a cold sweat on more than one occasion.

  His hand went to his forehead, wiping away the prickly heat. He walked to the window where it was just the smallest bit lighter. He opened the book and it naturally fell to a certain page. He read the main passage and then flipped to another page. To the words that gave him nightmares. A moan almost escaped his lips as he read it, and he hastily put the book back in its place, instantly pulling away his hand as if the leather cover might burn him.

  He left.

  Outside, the twilight had grown a heavier mantle of darkness, in exact imitation of his mind.

  “Did you find it, Tucker?”

  “No,” he snapped.

  “You weren’t in there very long, did you do a thorough search?” Eliza demanded, scorn dripping from her voice.

  They had been walking down the block at a quick clip, her shoes echoing off the cold, harsh sidewalks. At her disrespectful tone, he stopped dead in his tracks and turned slowly toward her, his hands deep in the pockets of his black trench coat. He just stared at Eliza, the street lamps glistening off her bright red head, an impudent look radiating from her face, which was pinched with disgust.

  He was surprised at her disrespect, but ever since her relationship with Donagan, she had accrued more and more ability to disdain his charms and power that had always wrapped her around his little finger.

  His mind retraced over fragmented memories of their irregular childhood years. The father who had in the early years been kind, but absent most of the time, consumed with his business. Then something drastic had changed when they moved abruptly to Michigan. Ties with his grandfather had been broken, a quick move in the middle of the night, leaving behind a great number of treasured things due to their hasty retreat, their father leading the way. And Eliza. She was so little then. So fragile.

  He hadn’t liked her back then either, a baby sister was mostly a hindrance to his boyhood desires. Then as she grew and matured, he disliked her even more. She had a propensity to be at once clinging and boisterously independent, demanding her own way. Of course, their alcoholic mother with already surfacing mental problems had a great deal to do with this, giving them a difficult and unnatural home life.

  But his father had been around more after that. He had liked that. For a while. Until his grandfather secretly found Tucker and set up clandestine meetings. That’s when it had been revealed that his own father had been weak. A loathsome trait that repulsed him, especially in the eyes of a teenager who craved a hero. His grandfather became that hero. Rex’s strength and cunning mind flamed his own desires and ambitions; and lit a fuse that led him on a path of passion, progress, and cruelty. He devoured it, having opened his heart and mind to things he had never before hoped or dreamed. His own hatred of his feckless father grew and blossomed.

  Then it transferred to the real culprits; the ones whom his father actually turned to for help. The ones who clinched the altering of his father’s once proud countenance and profession to
a new cowardly and useless personage. The Lorians. That was something he shared with his sister: hatred of the Lorians.

  Eliza. His eyes flickered down to look at her hands, still small and slender. It was a shock to realize he never truly liked his own sister. Yet there was something about one solitary memory of his, that night they ran away to Michigan. A small, weary, and frightened hand that had found his in the back of the cold car, traveling to God-knows-where, taking them to who-knew-what kind of home . . . And it was that one single memory that he realized he did like. If not the person before him, then that one night.

  All this happened in a moment, but Eliza saw emotions flash across his face in a most unusual pattern for him. She could always sense his masterful mask of deception and though the diabolical nature of it annoyed her, she admired it deeply. But here . . . his face showed an honesty that she wondered if she had ever beheld in her entire life. At most, she had been but a tool to him. Her eyes dashed from side to side, completely unsure of what to make of it. Something happened. Something had transpired between them.

  “No. I didn’t find the gold pawn,” said Tucker. “I did do a thorough search. Thorough enough to know that she most likely has it on her person. We need to find it before . . . anyone else does,” he said, catching himself before he uttered Donagan’s name, certain that her loyalty was now with Donagan. Not him.

  “Tucker,” she sighed, with the first sign of genuine interest not marred by disdain, disapproval, nor her particular brand of mockery. “What exactly happened in Michigan?”

  CHAPTER 46

  Finn couldn’t get much more information from the guy on the library porch (not because of any lack of prowess on Finn’s part, but from a lack of cranial capacity of the miscreant). We walked him to Fifth and 42nd. Finn knew that we’d find a couple of cops walking their beat. Finn and I, not to mention Fiorello, had become somewhat of a spectacle within the police force in the last few months, so the two young policemen were delighted to be able to share in a Finn and Lane caper.

  They relieved us of our burden and we were left on the sidewalk looking rather despondently at each other. Finn looked a bit crestfallen as I took a good look at him. I thought about those last few sentences we shared at the beer garden about wanting that time alone. Time with no one chasing us, for starters. I suddenly had an inkling of what was seeming to worry him.

  He raised a hand and ran it through his hair. “Well, Lane. That was exhilarating.”

  “Oh definitely. Just another ordinary date.” He smiled. I took a step closer, putting a hand on his chest, and said, “But you know by now I don’t want a humdrum life anyway, right? I want the adventure. With you.” I stepped in to him, putting my hands behind his neck and the back of his head and brought his lips down to mine, my mouth open, finding his and melting into him. And for those long minutes, smack in the middle of the busiest city on earth, the tall sparkling buildings looking down on us, hundreds of people milling around us like a river effortlessly slipping around the rocks and branches in its path, horns honking and the din of traffic, the music floating up and over the library toward the velvety sky . . . we were alone.

  Finn dropped me off at home and I walked up the steps to find Aunt Evelyn in her studio. I quickly relayed the events of the evening to her, both of us curious in the extreme about the ridiculous number of people wanting to get their hands on one of those gold pawns.

  “Hmmm,” I ruminated out loud. “Do you think they know there’s more than one gold pawn?”

  “What makes you say that, Lane dear?” she answered while dabbing a deep fuchsia into the middle of a square shape in the bottom left of the canvas.

  “Well, they seem to think that I have it. I haven’t heard of any other approaches made to other people,” I said.

  “Huh. You’re right. You have your father’s pawn, Kirkland has his. I wonder if there are even more,” she pondered.

  “I guess that remains to be seen,” I said. “But I have an even bigger quandary, Aunt Evelyn.”

  She pursed her lips and her brow and looked up at me with her piercing gaze. “What could that possibly be?”

  “I need a dress for the ball.”

  “Hah!” she laughed. “Well, don’t you worry about a thing. I have something perfect for you.”

  Just then the doorbell rang, which was a strange hour for visitors, but not absurdly late. I went downstairs and opened the door to a surly looking Roxy.

  I smirked a little at her disgruntled look. “Hi, Roxy. What’s wrong with you?” I said with a laugh.

  “I can’t go,” she stated obstinately.

  “Go where?”

  “To the stupid ball,” she said with the exact and exasperating voice of a teenager who can’t find a date to the highly anticipated prom.

  “Ah,” I said, nodding sagely. “You didn’t find a dress to borrow?”

  She shook her head, scowling.

  “I think I can help.” I took her by the hand and was happy to see a tiny look of hope dart across her furrowed brow.

  “First things first.” I took her to the kitchen, gave her a bottle of white wine to carry, and I took three glasses. Then I led her upstairs, past the now reclining Ripley, who was keeping watch over the front door.

  “Wondering where I’m taking you?” I asked as we started up the second flight.

  “Nope. Now that wine is involved, I’m happy to follow you anywhere,” she said.

  We rounded the last flight and trooped up to the attic.

  “Hello, Aunt Evelyn!” I greeted, slightly out of breath.

  “Why, hello, girls. What do we have here?” she asked, wiping the paint from her hands, preparing for what was obviously going to end up as a party.

  “We have a Cinderella situation, Aunt Evelyn. But there are two of us. Two beautiful girls in need of ball gowns. Is there any way you could step in to be our fairy godmother?” I asked, pouring three generous glasses.

  “Oooh . . .” she said, as if anticipating a gratifying challenge. “All right. Now. Let’s see, stand there, please. Let me get a good look at you both.” Roxy and I eyed each other, smirking at the close attention Aunt Evelyn was paying to our faces and our anatomy. “You’re both very different, yes, hmmm . . .” she muttered. “I like it. I like your differences. And I think I know what I am looking for. It might take a little tailoring, but I have just the thing for you both.”

  She left the room, running down to her capacious and wondrous closet. Roxy and I clinked our glasses and both wondered what she would find for us. I felt confident she would find something good. Roxy looked a little dubious, probably given the fact that Aunt Evelyn was currently dressed like a gypsy with a long skirt and peasant blouse (her favorite outfit for painting). We sipped our wine, both lost in our thoughts for a few quiet moments. Then we heard Evelyn from downstairs, directing me to go to my room, Roxy to Evelyn’s bedroom. We both whisked down the steps in a clatter of anticipation, feeling the excitement Cinderella and all fairy-tale princesses must have felt.

  The dress was . . . incredible. And judging by the dreamy look in Roxy’s eyes when she came back up to the loft to finish her wine, she felt the same about hers. Our dresses would both need a little tailoring, but only small touches here and there. The dresses themselves were perfection.

  We had a truly enjoyable evening laughing, telling funny stories, talking about the ball and where exactly Aunt Evelyn got such glamorous ball gowns. After Roxy left for the night, with her gown folded carefully over her arm and a smile of thanks adorning her little round face, I said good night to Aunt Evelyn and headed up to bed.

  As I did all my nighttime ablutions, a funny feeling crept over me. While I brushed my teeth, something made me think of Tucker. Rochester seemed more and more distant, like another life, and in some ways it was. But I wanted to remember what I faced. What I had learned. Where was Tucker? What was he doing? What was he thinking?

  I walked over to my bed and immediately my eye was caught by the str
ange angle of the book on my nightstand. It was off-kilter from how I remembered leaving it, one corner off the edge of the table. I froze.

  My eyes shifted around to the other elements of my room. My dresser, my jewelry boxes, drawers. All were in place, nothing odd. Could he have? No. That was ridiculous. My imagination was getting the best of me. I certainly could have hit the book with my elbow or my purse and made it move to that unnatural angle. Or Ripley could have bumped it. It was just a funny set of circumstances: my thoughts focusing on Tucker at the same instant that I noticed something out of place. Nothing was missing. I double-checked my dresser, just in case.

  But as I slipped into bed, those thoughts of Tucker and the out-of-place book engendered a feeling of impending urgency. Hopefully, the ball would bring us new information. I was getting more and more concerned for Mr. Hambro and it now seemed that he was wrapped up in all this cloak and dagger business of the red envelope, the gold pawn, and whatever my parents had been involved with. If we couldn’t get more information at the ball, perhaps Finn’s contact Miles would be able to help. Whatever he was doing, it sounded intriguing. I couldn’t wait to meet him.

  CHAPTER 47

  Miles felt so completely out of place that it took every ounce of his effort to remember his training and stay in character. Given the past several years of obscurity, he was out of his league. However, he used to be a top agent and that kind of intense lifestyle was something that could never really become obliterated. It was in his blood, in his genes for better or worse.

  He had received Finn’s telegram and followed the directions to the hidden compartment in his boarding room where he found money, papers, and everything he needed. When Miles saw what he was to try to accomplish and how, he laughed. It was absolutely absurd! But the absurdity itself had a certain allure to him and he knew the information was crucial to the case, not to mention crucial to the safety of a couple of people he had an affection for, as well as a cause that was ingrained in his heart.