by Mike Binder
Early interjected. He wanted the chancellor to know Mr. Harry had been well taken care of but told of the full schedule. Georgia thanked him and put the parade to the Cabinet Room on pause. She excused herself and escorted her father into Lassiter’s office. She closed the door.
“This is where you’re working out of now?”
“Yes, Daddy, for the time being.”
“It’s nice. I’ve only been in here once, for Roland’s birthday a few years back, to have cake.”
“I remember. It was a beautiful morning. He was thrilled you were here.”
“Is he going to make it?”
“I hope so, Daddy. I so hope so.”
They stood for a moment. Harry looked around, not thrilled about getting to the heart of the matter that brought him over.
“You don’t look well, Georgie. You look like it’s taking a toll.”
“I’ll be fine. I’m not going to lie to you, though. It’s been a horrid week.”
“I know. I follow the news. Normally I don’t, but this week I think it’s all I can do.”
“Daddy, is there anything wrong? Anything I can help you with?”
“Some pills have gone missing, Georgie. At the shop.”
“Pills?”
Her heart sank like a lead balloon. She felt like a nine-year-old girl. A cloud of shame mushroomed around her body.
“Missing? As in stolen, Daddy? Is someone stealing from you? If that’s true, it’s horrible, and we can have a police detective…”
“I’ve put in cameras last month. The new manager, Byron, had the idea. I okayed it.” Her chest froze up now, worse than her feet had done before. She felt as if a giant rock were sitting on it, even though she was standing straight up.
“You’ve cameras? Inside the store?”
“And the back. The shelves. Twenty-four hours. It’s you, Georgie; I knew it was you without the cameras. I’m very, very worried for you. These are incredibly strong pills.”
She didn’t know what to say. She just wanted to cry but wouldn’t allow herself to. The thought of letting him down, of her father seeing her in this light, was pure horror. She was caught. Revealed. Stripped bare.
Harry came closer, his eyes stern, concerned, sadly resigned to the truth. There was a new Georgia. Events, time, age, life, and too much responsibility had taken his baby away. This wounded woman with the wild hair had replaced her. She was a drug addict. He took her hands in his; they were as big and warm and friendly as they had always ever been.
“I know the pain you’re in, love, but these are very strong pills you’ve got yourself on. They were fine for the two weeks when your body was broken and you needed calm to start the heal, but being on them now regularly, you’ll not be yourself. You’ll make very bad choices. You’ll lose yourself, Georgie. I can make you that promise. You need to get some help, right away.” He gently brushed her busy bangs away from her face as tears cascaded down her cheeks. “I’ve told no one. I’ve no one to tell.”
“I love you, Daddy. I am so, so sorry.” She could barely look at her father, she was so embarrassed.
“Don’t be sorry. Get help. Right away. That’s what I’ve come for today—to look you in the eye, to tell you to reach out to someone. Right away.”
* * *
TWENTY MINUTES LATER Georgia was in the meeting in the Cabinet Room that had been postponed for her sit-down with her father. She had washed up and had done her best to recompose. Darling, the COBRA reps, the home secretary, several cabinet members, and, of course, Steel and her minions were there to convey the latest on the hunt for Adam Tatum. There were developments, an embarrassing group of revelations.
Steel was the bearer of bad news. Georgia was just glad to see her face. She would have loved to be able to talk to her alone, tell her all about the private hell she was in, tell her how she’d let down her father, how she’d been caught red-handed stealing pills from his shop. She wondered if Steel would sympathize or if, instead, she would be forced by her convictions to turn the matter over to the DPG.
Georgia’s mind went a thousand places in a fraction of a second. Telling Steel. Cleaning up. Getting free from those things for good. Admitting it all to the press. An inquiry. A scandal. A resignation. She had truly left the room, as badly as when she had fallen asleep and woken up again sure that she had just been in her bedroom upstairs. It was that dramatic of an exit. Steel’s lips were moving but she wasn’t hearing her. She nodded desperately, wanting everyone so badly to believe that she was in sync with them.
Steel sensed it. Instinctively saw the hidden cloud over Georgia’s head. She felt the confusion, wanted to somehow lend a hand, to hold Georgia’s arm all the way from across the room. She stopped, took a sip of water, was quiet for the longest time, pretended to be confused in her presentation. Darling finally broke the silence.
“Inspector Steel, can you please go on?”
“Yes, of course. I was just—I lost my train of thought. I don’t know why … if it’s all right with the chancellor, may I just quickly start over? From the top of the report? I’m so sorry. I’m having a long morning. Please forgive me, everyone.”
Georgia agreed, the men in the room grumbled softly, and Steel started from the top. Georgia knew clearly what she had done. She listened now to every word.
They were important beats, too, words that Georgia needed to hear. They had uncovered something from the day of the blast, something that had somehow fallen through the cracks for a solid week now. Tatum’s wife and his two children had gone to Heathrow just three hours after the bomb went off and suddenly booked flights to Chicago. Not Tatum himself, but his family. Even odder was the fact that they never made the flight.
“We figure that they were on the run, that someone had caught up with them at the airport.”
Darling wanted to know why this was coming to light a week later. Why wasn’t this known in real time? The home secretary had the head of COBRA’s liaison officer, Reginald Atwell, explain it off.
“We weren’t aware of the ticket purchases until Tatum’s image was distributed to the airport security staff. They never passed through customs or security, so a bell wouldn’t have gone off along that line. Once his photo was circulated within the system, within hours he was recognized as being there at the airport last Friday, and in fact he is on the CCTV files, for some reason chasing his daughter through the terminal.”
Darling tried to cover tracks by reminding the chancellor how busy a Friday it had been, how thinly spread assets were making sure more bombs weren’t going off, that major installations were secured. Steel had even more news. A fight on Paddington’s concourse that Friday, an incident that was put down to a wild woman fueled by drug use on the atrium landing, was now seen to be somehow connected.
“How could it be connected?” Georgia was focused now, keyed in, thanks to Steel. Focused but confused.
“Tatum’s daughter. The same girl that he chased through the airports. She’s on the CCTV files. Talking to the French woman who had the drug meltdown. It matches with the files from Heathrow twenty minutes earlier. We know she was on the Express, ran from her father, came to Paddington, and then was caught in the middle of a strange scene once she disembarked. Then she disappeared. We’ve pieced it together in a sense that we feel someone was fast on the family’s tail.”
“What has happened with the French woman, the drug addict?” Georgia winced as she said the words.
“She was taken to Transport Security for questioning and a checkup.”
“Then?”
“She was let go. We don’t yet know why. Let go, with no record of a name or an address. It’s being looked into, Madam Chancellor, but she’s disappeared. I’m sorry, but that’s all I have on that for right now.”
There was more, though. Steel opened another file.
“We have phone records now from a rented mobile Mrs. Tatum obtained from Heaton Global. The records were given to us by them.”
“Do they tell us anything
?”
“While in London, she was speaking quite a bit to a former boyfriend, a man named Richard Lyle, a local. Grew up and lives in London. A music promoter of some kind. That’s all that we have on him yet, but more is coming.”
“Do we think this Richard Lyle is somehow involved?”
“We don’t know yet. This is all developing quickly. We do know that Mr. Lyle also made a call from his mobile to Tatum’s father-in-law, Gordon Thompson, later that Friday evening from an area in Kent. Since then, he hasn’t used the phone again. In fact it’s gone offline.”
“Kent? Isn’t that where the rental car was found? With the dead body?” Georgia was wide alert now, sitting straight up. A picture was emerging. She couldn’t help but think it was about bloody time.
“Yes. Just outside of Kent. We’re not sure yet what the connection is. Why Kent and, for that matter, where? His name hasn’t yet come up on any property searches or hotel ledgers in that area. Once we get deeper into the who and what of Richard Lyle, we believe we’ll have an answer. We’re on that now and expect something very soon. I would say by early this evening we’ll know exactly where they’ve holed up down there in Kent.”
ON THE RUN ■ 6
It was late at night at the mill house. Everyone but Kate was comfortably asleep. Kate was wide awake. The silence scared her. Everything had gotten too quiet, the night air too flat. The wind on the back fields coming up the tiny river normally whipped past the old wooden mill house, giving it a familiar creak, but this night, for some reason, the wind had nothing to offer her as she lay next to her sleeping fugitive husband.
They had been there for four full days now. The first night, and even the nights after, she hadn’t slept; no one really had. Richard and the kids, maybe, but not her, nor Adam. They had tried to talk about what had happened, but there was nothing worth saying. It was too much of a nightmare to make it real with too many words.
It was eleven a.m. that first morning there at the mill house when Sky News reported that the prime minister had survived the attack. He was in a hospital just on the other side of the Thames from Number 10, and Adam and Richard watched the news together as both the young king and Georgia Turnbull, the chancellor of the exchequer, visited the hospital. Kate and Adam each let loose a silent sigh. At least what they would be discussing, when they could finally speak about their situation, wouldn’t be a murder. There was something to be grateful for in that.
The first two afternoons and evenings were uneventful. Kate took the kids on several hikes through the long golden fields on the other side of the tiny tributary. Most of the days Adam watched the news, all day, his head lost in his hands. Richard did light work out on the mill, work meant to kill the hours, to keep him out of the house so he wouldn’t have to spend too much time talking to Adam. They had a few dinners together, Trudy and Billy watched movies on the television, and Adam took a series of long walks alone.
There was a numbness to the air—a quiet, gentle, floating sadness. The kids weren’t sure what to say or how much to press. Maybe if they all said nothing, it would be as if nothing had happened. It seemed to be the most comfortable position for everyone trapped at the old mill house to take. So on that last night, the house sat still and quiet until finally, sometime around three a.m., the wind changed. There were visitors.
A car had pulled up a short way down the darkened road. Two men had crept up to the house in the pitch-black country air and scooted over the courtyard wall. Richard heard them first—sensed them. He got up and quickly dressed. Adam woke just seconds later. He turned to Kate, surprised to see her awake. They said nothing. Both listened quietly as Richard clomped down the steep wooden stairway, putting on his boots as he went. They heard him open the front door, heard him talking to two men out in the courtyard.
Adam went downstairs barefoot, still in pajamas, over to the front hall closet, and took out Richard’s father’s shotgun and the box of shells. He grabbed another pair of Richard’s work boots and slipped his bare feet into them. He pulled out an old brown workman’s jacket and shoved the box of shells into the pocket. Kate was at the top of the steps. She looked down to him.
“Stay in here. Please? Don’t go out there. Stay with us.” He looked up to his wife, her hands tightly throttling the banister railing. He didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure what his answer was, so he didn’t give her one. He went over to the window, looked carefully through the sheer curtains, stood at the edge, and watched Richard out in the courtyard. He was talking politely to someone outside of Adam’s field of vision. He didn’t seem to be too concerned. He was giving out directions—guidance back to Royal Tunbridge Wells.
Adam watched. Kate wanted to know what was happening. He signaled for her to be quiet. He looked back: two men came into view, pretending to listen to Richard’s navigation tips to the village. It was Harris and Peet. In what seemed like a jump cut, everything about the air outside changed. The redhead, now very close to Richard in the center of the courtyard, stopped pretending to listen and took out a handgun with a silencer on it and fired twice into the center of Richard’s head, killing him instantly. His legs buckled under him like a cheap parlor trick. He collapsed in a broken heap on the cobbled brick surface.
Adam turned around, whispered loudly to Kate, “Go upstairs. Get into bed with the kids. Lock the door!”
“What’s happened? What was that? Was it a gun? It was quiet. Was it a gun?”
“Now. Go. Do it.”
“Where are you going? You can’t go out there.”
“If I don’t go out there, they’re coming in here. It’s one or the other. Move it!”
She turned and ran to where the kids were sleeping. Adam raced through the kitchen, took a back door to the side yard, and crept as silently as possible through the dewy shrubbery to the front of the house. He saw Harris and Peet going through Richard’s pants. They found his wallet. Harris showed it to Peet. They were in the right place. Harris dropped Richard’s wallet as they both stepped over his blood-soaked body, each with a pistol loaded and ready, closing in on the front door.
Adam marched toward them. He fired the shotgun just as they sensed him coming. Peet went down. Adam stood his ground and fired again. Harris fired back at Adam and missed by inches. He grabbed Peet and ran in retreat as Adam reloaded, guiding his partner back toward the street. The two of them barreled over the moss-covered wall. Peet had been hit in the shoulder. He was oozing blood like an old-time schoolhouse drinking fountain. Harris helped him under the cover and confusion of darkness, pulled his shirt off, ripped it in half, and tied off his shoulder to close the wound. Peet was hurting bad, but at least he was alive.
Adam fired again, wanting to change that equation. He scurried around the wall, ran through the gate, pumped in another load, and waited at the ready for a stage direction to bubble up from the quiet. He finally saw the shadows of the two men running. He followed after them firing again and again.
He waited now for a reaction. The night went silent once more, just as quick as it had flared into terror; the world was now mute, muffled, and dark. Every moment was its own eternity. Harris and Peet were out there somewhere. He wasn’t going anywhere. He wanted to fight in the open air, away from his family. He reloaded and tried to discern shapes or movement in the pitch-black country stillness. Tried his best to calm his labored breathing.
A car door opened a short click up the road. An interior light went on then went off. He sprinted toward it, not wanting to take the chance that they were after more weapons, or calling for help. He raced as fast as he could in Richard’s untied boots, reached them as the car started. It was another one of Heaton’s endless supply of black Mercedes.
He fired into the car. He shattered the back windshield and shot out the back latch of the trunk, which popped itself wide open. He busted a taillight. He fired his last blast just above the roof of the car, aimed high on purpose; he didn’t want to thwart their escape—that wasn’t the goal. The aim was to send
them packing. There was no upside to having them stick around to stand their ground. He knew well the dark mettle of these men. He’d watched them murder Richard Lyle in cold blood. The best thing for everyone was for them to hustle away into the night and lick their wounds. He knew they’d be back once they could regroup, that was a given; the point was to get them to scuttle off for now.
The car squealed onto the road, kicked up dirt and gravel, and raced away. Adam quickly reloaded and flared off another shot in case they had the idea of turning back and barreling into him. He watched as they picked up speed; he focused on the red and broken white of their taillights for a quarter mile. They’d return—no question. With any luck Adam and his family would be long gone.
* * *
HE RACED BACK to the house. Richard’s body lay stone cold in a puppet’s clump, his eyes staring up toward the moon as Adam passed him, gazing eerily toward forever. He went into the house. Rummaged through the front hall closet in a blaze of desperation. Found Richard’s father’s pistol. Made sure it was loaded. Bolted up the steps.
He quietly announced himself, carefully opened the door to the room. The kids were up, concerned, wanted to know what the shots were.
“Firecrackers. Some older kids were out playing pranks. It’s fine, kids. Go back to sleep.” They didn’t believe him—they both protested—but he didn’t have time to respond. He signaled Kate out to the hall. She was scared out of her wits. The firecracker story wasn’t going to fly with her, either. She hugged him tight and whispered, so as not to startle the kids any more than they’d been startled.
“Oh my Lord, Adam, what’s happened. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay. Yes.”
“Where’s Richard? Is he okay?” He wiped her wet cheeks. He took a beat to find the courage to answer with the truth.
“No. No, he’s not okay. He’s dead. I’m sorry.”
“He’s dead? How could that be? What are you saying?”
“Two men came. I shot one of them. They ran. Drove away. They’re gone.”
