by Leslie Jones
“Yes, I’m calling to check the status of one of your patients? Floyd Panderson. Yes, I’ll hold.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Perhaps he should have thought to call. “Yes, I’m here . . . I understand. Thank you.”
She set her phone down. “He’s in critical but stable condition. That’s all she’d tell me, since I’m not family.”
“The one who was stabbed? Did you know him? Other than him being one of the hostages, I mean.”
“They were dating,” Trevor said. He kept his tone bland.
Shelby’s chin notched up. “Only for a couple of weeks, and I didn’t know he was married.”
Lark whooped with laughter. “Oh, that’s precious. But you’re still checking up on him?”
Shelby lifted her shoulders and let them drop. “He might be a jerk, but that doesn’t mean I want him to die.”
As though she couldn’t keep still, she pushed her chair back and roamed into the living room, peering out the window. He followed her.
“I’d prefer you stay away from the windows,” he said. “It’s better if we stay out of sight.”
Shelby moved to an armchair without argument.
Lark joined them, curling up in the rose-patterned chair. “So what’s your story, Hunky Guy? Cop? Scotland Yard? MI-5? MI-6?”
He groaned inwardly. Truthfully, Lark had shown amazing restraint waiting this long to grill him.
“Just a patriot. And I thought we agreed on Trevor.”
“Yeah, but you have a military background, right? Special Forces? SEALs?”
“That’s the American military,” he pointed out.
“Yeah, whatever. So what were you?”
Trevor slanted a grin at her. “I was a juvenile delinquent.”
“No way! Join the Army or go to jail?”
He tilted his head. “I beg your pardon?”
Shelby kicked off her shoes and curled her legs under her. “That hasn’t been the case in decades. The military raised their standards years ago. Now it’s mostly college-educated kids, or kids looking to get an education.”
“Oh. So you’re rich and have a secret identity, like Bruce Wayne or Oliver Queen? You party all day and fight crime at night?”
Trevor sent Shelby a bemused look.
“Quite the character, as I said. I warned you. Lark, leave him be. He’s had a tough couple of days.”
Lark stuck out her lower lip, looking all of twelve. “All right, if you won’t tell me about your military training, and you’re not a masked vigilante, tell me something personal. I bet you started young with the girls. How old, and who was your first?”
“Lark!”
Trevor rubbed a hand over his face. Shelby sounded like she didn’t know whether to be outraged or amused by the other woman’s temerity.
“I started at sixteen,” he said. Shelby’s face creased in surprise. Why was he answering such a personal question from the inquisitive little sprite? Damned if he knew. “Rosemary Dane. She was seventeen and very experienced by then. I was a year away from my A-levels at Eton. She studied at Windsor Girls’ School across the Thames. We were together nearly every weekend. When she went on to university, we said we’d stay together. I rang her up one weekend, and a man answered. She was having a bit on the side, but she gave me the cold shoulder, as though I’d done something wrong. That was the end of it.”
“That blows. But it doesn’t make you a juvenile delinquent. That takes wrecking a Beamer, at the very least.”
Shelby groaned. “Lark, for the love of—”
“It was a Jaguar, but yes.”
“No way! Freaking awesome! Unless you were hurt. Were you hurt?”
Trevor sighed, pushing his legs out in front of him. “No. But the lady I was with ended up in hospital. That was the end of my drinking.”
Shelby’s eyes were huge in her face. The very neutrality in his voice had probably told her there was more to the story. He met her eyes.
“Are you sure you want to hear this?”
“Fuck, yeah!”
But he hadn’t been speaking to Lark. His attention remained focused on her. She slowly nodded.
“My father expected me to go into politics or law, as he did. Had no interest in either. I rebelled, as a lot of young men do. The usual—getting tanked up, fights, motorcycles. I was home on holiday from Eton. Went to a bar. Got laggered. Met a woman. Got behind the wheel.” He stopped and cleared his throat. “She, uh, she was, um . . . kissing me. I crashed into a utility pole.”
Lark started to laugh. “No fucking way! You wrapped your car around a pole getting a BJ?”
Trevor wouldn’t meet Shelby’s eyes. “My father had enough influence to get the DUI charge dismissed. But it snapped me out of it. My self-indulgent behavior could have had very serious consequences.”
“Was she all right?” Shelby asked quietly.
“She had a broken arm and was concussed. She also turned out to be married.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry she was hurt because of me. I paid her medical costs against my father’s advice. He was more concerned with inviting a lawsuit, I think.”
“Then you realized the errors of your ways,” Lark said. “And became Batman.”
Trevor snorted. “Hardly. Then I went to law school at Yale.”
Lark pulled her feet in and turned sideways on the sofa. Her toes almost brushed his thigh. “So what’s a freaking lawyer doing with a bunch of mangy terrorists?”
He laid his head against the back of the sofa. “I quit after two semesters. Now, leave off. I need a nap.”
He folded his arms across his chest and closed his eyes. He wasn’t really tired. He just didn’t want to see condemnation in Shelby’s eyes.
Lark tapped away on her computer. Shelby flipped though the channels on the telly and eventually settled on an action film. He tried to focus on it, but his mind kept drifting to Shelby. He knew she’d pictured his childhood as privileged, pampered, and perfect. What would she do with the truth?
“That’s stupid,” he said abruptly. Both women looked at him in surprise. His eyes were half lidded as he watched an action scene. “No one would do that in a proper fight.”
Lark bounced on the cushion and clapped her hands together. “Oh! Show me, show me. Teach me how to kick ass.”
That pulled a grin from him. “In one afternoon?”
“Why not? I’ve got my search engines running. There’s not much else to do until they spit out something useful. What else we got to do?”
He stood and stretched. “God forbid everything go pear shaped, but in a dangerous situation, knowing one or two moves might save your life. Let’s do it.”
Shelby settled in to watch.
“Nope. You participate, too.” Trevor crooked a finger at her.
Radiating reluctance, she joined them in moving the furniture back so they had space.
“I teach self-defense courses for military wives on foreign postings,” Trevor said. “When I’m in garrison. Believe it or not, the most important thing isn’t how to throw a punch or kick.” He tapped the side of his head. “The battle is won or lost here first.”
“Like, if you believe it, you can do it?” Lark asked.
“Not precisely. Women are nurturers. Mothers. Wives. A woman’s instinct isn’t to fight; it’s to protect.”
Lark puffed up. “Are you saying women are weaker than men? ’Cause if you are, we’re going to have a problem.”
“Not at all.” Without warning, he transformed into warrior mode, stalking toward Lark with his fist raised. He made hostile intent radiate from every pore. As expected, Lark squeaked and threw her arms over her head, cringing away from him. He stopped, dropped his arm, and relaxed. Both Shelby and Lark’s eyes were huge in their faces.
“I’ve fo
und over and over again that women don’t value themselves as highly as they do others,” he continued, as though nothing had happened. “What they’ll do for a loved one, for example, they won’t necessarily do for themselves. Women can be more fierce and deadly than any man when you rouse their protective instincts. For example, think of the one thing, the one person whom you hold most dear. The one person you love more than any other in the world. The one person you would die for.”
“My baby sister.” Lark’s eyes softened. “I’d do anything for her.”
“Good. Now imagine that you are the only thing—the very last thing—standing between her and the rapist in front of you trying to get at her.” Once again, he morphed into a deadly warrior.
This time, Lark’s eyes narrowed and became ferocious as she raised her fists, clearly prepared to fight. “No way you get past me.”
Trevor nodded and stopped. “That’s what I mean.”
Lark’s jaw dropped and she stared at Trevor in amazement. “I did it! I stood my ground.”
“Well done. It’s that feeling, that instinct I want you to focus on as I teach you some basics. Shelby, your turn.”
Her brows pulled down, she took her place in front of Trevor.
“Same thing. Place the one person you love the most in the world in the forefront of your mind.” He came at her. Her breath left her lungs in a rush and she backed away fast, hands held out in front of her as though to ward him off. He stopped.
“Okay, we’ll go a bit slower. Picture someone important to you. Sister, friend, lover? Pet?”
Her hands started to shake and she shook her head back and forth. She didn’t seem to be able to pull enough air into her lungs. Alarmed, Trevor took her by the arm and pulled her to the sofa, pushing her onto it and bending her head forward between her knees. What the hell had just happened here?
“Easy, Shel,” he said. “Take your time. Catch your breath.” Without warning, she jumped from the sofa and ran from the room.
Chapter Sixteen
LARK ORDERED IN pizza for lunch, which Shelby ate mostly in silence. Trevor and Lark chatted, which was to say, Trevor listened as Lark chattered. Shelby couldn’t even pretend to care.
Her entire world had just tilted on its axis.
Picture the one person you would die for.
Which of her family or friends did she care the most about? Trevor’s question had seemed so simple, but it was one for which she had no answer.
There was no one.
She’d tried to pay attention while Trevor taught them something called a palm strike. Hold an imaginary pie by her hip, then smash the pie into the bad guy’s face. Aim for under the chin or into the nose. He also taught them how to knee someone in the groin for maximum effect. Grab their shoulders and yank them forward as she drove her knee in and up. Do it until the attacker dropped. Her focus had been fractured. Trevor had noticed, but had mercifully given her space.
Picture the one person you would die for.
She was not close to her family. She’d left the insular world of Coon Bluff behind long ago. The poverty she could have handled. But the small-town hypocrisy had sickened her to the point of fleeing as soon as she was able. The gossiping, rampant intolerance, and holier-than-thou attitudes, while those same good folk cheated on their spouses and beat their children. Singing hymns on Sunday and gay-bashing on Wednesday. Everyone in everyone else’s business, with dirty little secrets passed down from generation to inescapable generation.
Her family hadn’t understood or supported her desire to leave home, go to college, build a career. Her rare visits were awkward and uncomfortable, punctured by crude attempts to set her up with some local boy so she’d come home, get married, and have babies. She had nothing in common with them. Eventually, it had been easier to stay away.
Her friends were also her coworkers. She had no husband, no lover. She’d allowed her career to consume her. And until now, she’d been happy with her decision.
After lunch, Lark resumed her computer research. Too keyed up to sit still, Shelby wandered from kitchen to living room and back again. Trevor lined up all six handguns on the coffee table and inspected them one by one, breaking them down and examining each piece. With nothing better to do, she curled up in one of the armchairs and watched him. The absolute expertise of his motions reassured her.
“This lot is filthy,” he said, gesturing to the weapons he’d confiscated from the Bedlamites. “And the firing pin on the Springfield is worn. Doesn’t look like Eric ever made them maintain their equipment. We’ll have to pick up some cleaning supplies to make sure these don’t jam up when we need them.”
When. Not if. A chill slithered down her back.
“Have you ever fired this thing? It looks brand new.” He held up her Beretta, grip loose as he pointed it toward the ceiling.
Shelby flushed. “Er, uh, I took a class when I bought it.”
“Not good,” he said. “If you’re going to have a handgun, you need to know how to use it. You need to practice regularly at a firing range. If not, you’ll likely freeze at the worst possible time, and have it taken from you and used against you.”
“Okay. I understand.” Maybe she’d get rid of the thing. It had seemed like a good idea when she’d broken things off last year with Bruce. For a while he’d virtually stalked her, demanding that she resume their engagement. Verbally abusing her until she was afraid he would physically attack her as well. Now, though, she couldn’t imagine herself shooting anyone.
“All right, kiddies. News update time.”
Shelby leapt to her feet and hustled into the kitchen, Trevor right behind her. “What did you find?”
Lark beamed at them. “Good stuff. So Max garners sympathy votes as an apartheid orphan. In fact, he’s been vocal about the black violence in South Africa that killed a lot of whites—innocent victims, according to him. Contrary to popular belief and his official biography, Max’s mother did not die in South Africa. Turns out she’s alive and well and living in a nursing home in Kent.”
Trevor tipped his head to the side. “Are you certain it’s his mother? Could it be another relation?”
Lark puffed up indignantly. “No, it’s his mother. I found a passenger manifest from 1977—and believe me, it was not easy to find—for a Nandi and Maxwell Whitcomb, traveling from South Africa to London on a cargo ship called the Cape Queen. The ship was German-owned, registered in Angola, and had an all-Portuguese crew. No one to know or care about just two more apartheid refugees.”
“Maybe a sister? Aunt?”
Lark blew out an annoyed breath. “Max is an only child. I found nothing whatsoever to suggest any other family in South Africa. His father had a brother here in England, but that’s it. I could be wrong, but I’m not.”
“All wonderful information,” Shelby said. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. There are no records of Nandi after she and Max docked in London. Nandi must be short for something fancy. Amanda? Anastasia? I couldn’t find her birth records because her last name doesn’t seem to be mentioned anywhere, so I’m wondering if she went back to using her maiden name for some reason. But I did find a birth certificate for Max. Born in Cape Town in 1962. He went to live with his paternal uncle in 1977 at fifteen years old. From there on out, every reference to his parents shows them killed in a black uprising in 1976.”
Shelby frowned, disappointed. “Well, it proves he lied to the public. But having a mother who’s alive isn’t a crime.”
Lark flashed a smile. “It’s a start, though. I’m combing through a lot of data. There’s a reason Max wanted his mother out of the public eye, and I’m gonna find out what it is. Here, I found an old photo, though. It’s Max’s grandfather with Winston Churchill. How cool is that?”
She handed Trevor the picture centered on photo paper. It was a grainy black-and-white,
but the man standing next to the former prime minister was a dead ringer for Max Whitcomb.
“Maybe it’s really him. Maybe he’s one of the immortals from Highlander. ‘There can be only one.’ Maybe he’s the one.”
Shelby laughed. “You watch too many movies.”
“Not possible,” Lark replied promptly.
Shelby studied the photo over his shoulder. The two men stood in front of a courthouse. The former prime minister wore a suit with his trademark polka-dot bowtie. The elder Whitcomb wore a plain black gown and barrister’s wig.
“Is he still living?” he asked.
“Nope. He croaked about ten years ago.”
Trevor clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth as he contemplated the woman in front of him. “Hmm. Given what you just discovered about his mother, how can you be certain his grandfather is really dead? Or his father, for that matter?”
“I anticipated that question,” Lark said. “The grandfather is dead because otherwise he’d be a billion years old now. A hundred and seventeen, actually. Still. As for Max’s dear old dad, I traced his death record through Ancestry dot com. While there’s no actual death record for Nandi/Amanda/Anastasia, Nicholas is recycled worm food. Definitely.”
“It might have proved useful to talk to him. I want to talk to the mother, certainly.”
“Certainly,” Lark mocked. “We can do that after I make a store run. I guess you guys need to eat and all that. And Trevor here wants to Pledge the shit out of my place. I’ll be back in about an hour. Make that two.”
Shelby sighed heavily as she shut the door behind Lark. “I could really use some fresh air. Couldn’t we go for a walk?”
Trevor pursed his lips together. “I appreciate your patience with this, Shel. I know this must be difficult for you. You’ve been a real trooper.”
She glanced toward the window. “I take that as a no.”
“I’m truly sorry. I don’t want Jukes finding Lark. It would put her in danger.”
“No, I understand. I don’t want that, either.” She flopped inelegantly onto the sofa. “I just . . . I need to do something.”
