The Hidden Key (Second Sacred Trinity)

by S E Holmes

  “Vegas,” Bea said gently, “for better or for worse, he is your father. We cannot simply dismiss him and cause needless worry. A guardian’s distress for a child is the most horrible feeling. I should know.” Bea smiled tiredly at me and I smiled back, ashamed all over again for upsetting the people I cared about most with my casual attitude. “We can at least spare half an hour. The jet needs further loading, in any case.”

  “I thought as much,” Smith relented. “How do you want to handle it?”

  “I’ll meet him and address his concerns.”

  “Should we come?”

  “That is up to you, Vegas.”

  He chewed his bottom lip. “Probably. But we’ll hide until we know what the judge is about. Winnie and I are supposedly in the Whitsundays. Maybe he thinks his postcard got lost in the mail and he’s just after news.”

  More likely, our presence at Bondi this morning was noticed. I cursed myself once more, painfully aware that I could not undo the damage, no matter how hopeful Smithy seemed.

  “Grace, take the Bentley. I’ll catch a cab back to the warehouse. Finish preparations for our trip and we’ll review events on my return.”

  Precisely fifteen minutes later, Bea buzzed Nash Smith into the luxurious conference room, all Chesterfield leather and polished mahogany. We listened from behind a screen on a track that divided the space, tummy-down on plush wool carpet. Several tasteful pieces advertised my Aunt’s trade in antiquities: a matched pair of lesser Ming vases, a fragment of rare parchment behind gilt-framed glass, the petrified skull of an early hominid embedded in stone in a case.

  “What a lovely surprise, Nash. How was your holiday?”

  The judge was a suave, youthful man with waves of ginger-blond hair, a natural tan and a trim physique. He played tennis and windsurfed. When not drowning his sorrows about his wayward son, his hazel eyes glittered at some private joke. Charmingly self-deprecating with a cutting intelligence that didn’t bode well for anyone not firing on all cognitive cylinders, he was the youngest ever to make it to the bench, and still only forty-two. I’d always liked him, despite his Casanova leanings. A fact I didn’t repeat often around Smithy.

  Bea and Nash traded pleasantries for what seemed like hours. It was a sign of Bea’s anxiety she joined the judge in a cognac. Smithy poked me in the ribs. I stifled a giggle and glared in warning. He blew me a kiss and I wished it was for real. It was so rare to slob around like this.

  “Another tag and release,” Nash said, in answer to Bea’s query about his early return. “Brianna took a particular shine to several of the cabana boys. I left her to it. She can purchase a nice new apartment to match her fresh tan with the divorce pay-out.” Our tickle fight ceased. Smithy’s mouth dropped open. He held up spread fingers and mouthed, “They only lasted five months.”

  “I’m so sorry, Nash.”

  “Rubbish, Bea. The only thing to be sorry about is my inability to learn from my mistakes. And an appalling history of forgettable liaisons. Other people collect trophies.” He chuckled. “My cabinets are populated with certificates of divorce. Of course, if one chooses the wrong seeds, weeds are likely to grow. Reaping what you sow, etcetera.” He didn’t sound sad about Brianna.

  “We all have weaknesses, Nash. No one is perfect.”

  “Thank you for your kind words, Beatrice. However, I suspect the girl is responsible for the inexcusable act of repelling my son from his own home.” Now, the annoyance was easy to detect. “It’s high time I pruned some of my less admirable habits and concentrated on what is important. I pray it’s not too late. Which brings me to the reason for my visit. I have rather a conundrum regarding Vegas, and am hoping you can shed some light on the matter.”

  Uh-oh. It didn’t seem he was interested in holiday snapshots of parasailing or scuba-diving.

  “Naturally, I’ll do what I can,” Bea said.

  The judge went on to explain there was a message on his answering machine from a Constable Davis relating to a street-racing incident involving a bike that closely resembled his son’s. Nash had the police report and supporting evidence couriered over almost as soon as he’d arrived home that morning.

  “There are discrepancies in the paperwork I find most confusing. The video is next to useless, obscured by digital noise and horrendous weather, except for one clear shot capturing the number plate and the driver from the back. It’s not registered to Vegas, but his bike was custom-fitted, unique. I’m sure it’s the one in the scene.”

  “Wasn’t Vegas’ bike stolen?” Bea asked, so convincingly innocent she deserved an Academy Award.

  Mrs Paget had inserted a fake backdated report into the police files, her skills in IT just one aspect of her advanced talents. Smith’s poor bike was in wrecking yards spread across three jurisdictions.

  “Well that’s the problem, Bea. The stolen vehicle report had Vegas’ bike taken sometime in the morning, two days before the video.”

  “Am I missing something, Nash? I don’t see the problem.”

  “Vegas and I had a heated argument one afternoon in the garage – a day after the supposed theft. I remember the date well. I was home early, an uncommon event due to the unexpected completion of a long-running trial. I distinctly recall Vegas taking off on his bike. So, you see, it could not have been stolen on the date recorded.”

  Bea didn’t miss a beat. “Perhaps, the report is in error, a mistakenly transcribed detail. What was the day of the traffic infringement?”

  “The episode occurred the day Vegas left with Winnie for the Whitsundays.”

  I heard her chair creak as Bea sat back. “Well, that settles it. Vegas was out of the state during the period in question.”

  “Hmm, the thief must have stolen his bike leathers also. Or bought two identical sets. And he had a pillion passenger, although difficult to make out – the individual was so swaddled in bike gear. She was small with long dark hair though, that much was discernible.” The judge’s tone changed from speculative to eager. “Are you absolutely certain Vegas and Winsome made their flight? I could double-check with the airlines? Call the yacht company?”

  Next to me, Smithy’s eyes widened in alarm. I raised my brows in query.

  “That won’t be necessary, Nash. Fortescue flew them up himself. I’ve not seen Winsome since she left. However, we have spoken on the phone. My niece assures me the water is balmy, the sky blue and a yacht in the tropics with Vegas everything she could wish for.”

  Bea’s voice was firm, aimed at preventing further discussion. The judge continued heedless, now sounding adversarial.

  “How odd.” Suddenly, I understood perfectly what he was doing. Vegas trapped me the same way, often. It was a common interrogation technique, revealing withheld facts slowly to tangle the evasive in their own lies. “You see, there’s another strange piece of the puzzle. I had a chat today with one of Vegas’ best friends, Jay Hudson. He saw my son and your niece at Bondi this morning.”

  Things were unravelling fast. Smith slapped his forehead and swore silently. At this point, I thought Bea might even forgive him the lapse. I heard the judge’s chair squeak in an echo of Bea’s challenge and then silence, which stretched uncomfortably. Ice tinkled as water poured into a glass. Finally, Bea spoke, her words clipped.

  “Allow me to summarise. You don’t believe our children are holidaying. For some reason, they’ve travelled back and are gallivanting about town?” There was a pause for confirmation and then Bea continued. “Say for argument’s sake, that is the case. What do you propose their motive for such deceit is, Nash? And I must say, their efforts at secrecy are rudimentary.”

  That last was a barb directed at me. And given the trouble my run had caused, well deserved.

  Nash snorted. “It’s been obvious from the beginning, Bea. My son is in love with your grand-niece. Hud thought they were preparing to leave the country. Said Winnie looked particularly unnerved, slightly ill. Judging by her state of health, Vegas has gone and gotten her pregnant. We n
eed to find them. Let them know we’re here to help. It shan’t be too difficult to track them down. If they’re eloping, I want to be at the wedding. I trust I have your support in this, Bea.”

  I would have given my entire inheritance, helicopter included, to see the look on my great-aunt’s face at that moment. Smithy clamped a hand over his mouth, his shoulders jiggling hysterically.

  We waited together in the conference room in stormy silence until Bea was satisfied the judge had left the suburb, her fingers tapping the tabletop with such force I thought she’d leave divots. Finally, she rose and swept from the office. We scrambled to keep up. In the elevator, the dam containing her ire finally burst.

  “Meddlesome … Nosy … Busybody,” she fumed. “I’ll have Hugo shoot that blabbermouth, Hudson! Better still, cut out his tongue. Of all the occasions for the fool of an idiot of a man to develop a paternal conscience.”

  I’d never seen my refined, elegant Aunt lose it like this. She muttered, “Casting aspersions … unable to supervise my own progeny … insinuations of moral turpitude.” The lift pinged and the doors parted. We stepped out into the stylish foyer, Bea twirling to confront me.

  “Tell me, Winsome. At what age were you fully cognisant of the female reproductive system?”

  “Er, seven.”

  “And at what age where you thoroughly versed in contraception?”

  “Umm, seven.”

  “Precisely,” Bea declared, as though closing the deal. “No niece of mine would find herself accidentally impregnated at such an age.”

  “But it’s nice the judge expressed concern and affection for his son. Don’t you think, Aunt Bea?” I tried to douse the inferno.

  “Of course, Winnie.” She tugged at her pearls and alarming visions of us scrambling to collect rolling beads when the string broke leaped to mind. “I’m very happy for you, Vegas. But really, of all the improbable scenarios at the most inopportune fulcrum. It’s as if providence is conspiring against us!”

  “No disrespect intended, Aunt Bea, but this time my father’s conclusion is actually more rational than the truth.”

  “Touché, Vegas,” she conceded wearily. “Except for considerations of physiology. It would need to be the Immaculate Conception to have advanced so in one week.”

  “Call me Mary because it would also be a virgin birth.”

  This miserably humiliating fact was a testament to our packed schedule, not for want of desire. Smithy’s brow furrowed as he choked back laughter, unaware of the painful truth. I’d decided to spare him. The stupid topic of children had arisen more in the past day than ever in my life, as if I needed a constant reminder of what I could never have. Someone, somewhere, had a ‘kick’ button aimed squarely at my behind and they weren’t averse to pressing it.

  Ten

  Smithy drove Fortescue’s Mini like Ricciardo, swerving through the skinniest of gaps between cars. I clung to my seatbelt, tossed around as though on a fairground ride. Using a Wet One from the glove box to dab crusted blood from my upper lip one-handed, I inspected myself in the visor mirror. I had failed miserably in an attempt to neaten my braid: my hair looked not unlike Medusa’s nest of snakes.

  “Dying in a car accident would make the Crone’s job easier. And I don’t think poking an eye out would improve my appearance.”

  “Yeah, sorry,” he said distractedly. The Mini slowed marginally. “Do you get the impression I’ve gained a creepy stalker? I don’t trust Daniel. And I don’t get why his name’s changed either. He’s probably reporting back to his friends in the freak brigade.”

  “The diary doesn’t lie.”

  “I hate the way he looks at you. It’s … greedy. Like a drunk guy salivating over a kebab at 3 am.”

  I choked back laughter.

  “You think it’s funny?”

  “No, not the situation. The situation sucks, big time. Same can be said for comparing me to a kebab.” I pressed my lips together. He stared over at me with a scowl, before we burst into laughter.

  “Fine,” he said after a moment. “Seems I’m as crap at similes as I am at handling this whole horror movie. And now, we’re dragging my friends into it as well.”

  Early-afternoon rays shafted intermittently through high rises. The reflection off his sunglasses was blinding, and denied me the chance to study his profile for long.

  “The Claiming Ritual will happen very soon and then things will get better.” This would be the single pro in a long list of cons.

  “Will they?” He snorted, sounding identical to his father. “Sure as hell not for the Traceurs.” Smithy and his gang had christened their Parkour club the ‘Traceurs.’

  For the umpteenth time this interminable day, I fought tears. The concept of friends was new to me, and not as unwelcome as I’d conditioned myself to believe. Destroying these bonds in their infancy just didn’t seem fair and wanting it made me feel selfish. I thought about Daniel and how much we had in common, both solitary by circumstance, an undercurrent of loss dictating our reactions. Of course, Daniel’s grief was more profound than that of a girl who’d never put down roots.

  Smithy’s warm, strong fingers wormed into mine, no noticeable difference between his one-handed driving and two. “Look, you’re right. The tension will ease up once you and I aren’t worried about the olds every nanosecond. The thing that disturbs me most is that I already know what my guys are going to say. Pack of mad bastards. I guess I’d better give them a vague heads-up.”

  He spoke into the bluetooth set attached to his ear. My mind wandered. With each passing kilometre, the daunting task of persuading Smithy’s Traceurs to join us on the lunatic fringe neared. We’d concocted no specific plan for how to achieve this – without them calling the crisis intervention team to have us certified. I gnawed a nail, staring out the window. Pedestrians in business suits and shoppers blurred by against a flashing backdrop of skyscrapers. Normal people, normal jobs, normal lives. I’d always felt apart from that existence anyway. But now I was more separate than ever.

  “Yep, there in ten. Wait on the highway and watch out for a new model, British racing-green Mini with white stripes.” I heard a garbled objection over the earpiece. “I know, Hud, but we’re kind of in a rush. And I don’t want to have to drive around the uni campus. You know what a snail-trail it is. Besides, you’re a BASE-jumper. It should be easy to throw yourself into a moving vehicle.” The volume of the reply rose a few decibels. “Of course I’ll slow down. A bit. Nope. Can’t explain over the phone, it’s something you need to see to believe. Thanks heaps.”

  Smithy hung up and spoke a new phone number, waiting silently while it connected. He concentrated on the road, ignoring the pandemonium of screeching tires, horns and abuse triggered by his Formula One driving.

  “You’d better hop over the seat. We’re nearly there.”

  I shimmied between bucket seats, perching forward to point. “I can see Hud, up ahead.”

  A figure balanced on the gutter with his thumb thrust out in the universal hitchhikers’ signal. Smithy veered across a line of cars and into a bus lane, earning a further round of honks. He slowed marginally and thrust open the door. We still travelled at speed. With the precision of a gymnast, Hud caught the door and swung himself around, jumping nimbly onto the ledge and into the cabin with minimal exertion.

  “What’s goin’ on, Vee? It had better be no less than an incoming meteor. I’ve just ditched my funding presentation on Hudson’s Orchid to the faculty heads.” He squirmed against the leather, getting comfortable. “My supervisor looked apoplectic when I ran out. Poor guy will have to up his meds.” He glanced over his shoulder and grinned broadly at me, completely contradicting any worry in his words. “Hey, Bear. Great hair! Are you growing in dreadlocks?”

  “Funny,” I mumbled. “You won’t get in too much trouble, will you?”

  Hud chuckled. “Nah. The funding for my next excursion to Borneo is in the bag. I discovered a brand new species of flower with never-recorded med
icinal properties. See?” He lifted the sleeve of his t-shirt to show me the tattoo of a vivid hot pink orchid on his biceps. “The Departments of Botany and Pharmacology would be mad not to throw money at me. Only one problem, I can’t get the damn plant to grow out of its native environment.”

  “It’s beautiful.”

  “Yeah. Nastiest sucker I’ve come across, though.”

  Hud carelessly waved at festering ulcers on the inside of both arms. I couldn’t hide my shock. The sores were deep and painful-looking.

  “The petals are covered in a waxy acid that eats anything it touches. The ground beneath it is a veritable graveyard. Even small mammals aren’t safe. Beautiful – maybe, powerful deadly – definitely.”

  “Charming,” I said, sorry I asked. He should have called it the ‘Finesse Orchid’.

  He turned back to Smithy. “So, what’s the story, anyway?”

  “You’ll have to wait a little longer. We’re meeting at Andie and Bickles’ lab. Then all will be revealed. I appreciate you coming, Hud. Thanks.”

  “Very Houdini. I dig the suspense. You know their lab is restricted, right? Hard-arse rent-a-cop manning the boom gate won’t even let us into the car park.”

  “Oh, I don’t think access will be a problem.”

  Smithy dipped his face to wink over rims at me in the rear-view mirror. His confidence had me very nervous. I’d never achieved what we were about to try, and failure had the potential for acute humiliation. And possibly arrest for breaching national security.

  “Whatever. So,” Hud said slyly, “have we finished packing for overseas to visit the poor bereaved relatives? Where was it you’re going again … Budapest?”

  A short while later, we juddered to a halt on the road outside a complex of squat buildings, best described as white-panelled, four storey bricks, taller on one end than the other. Whiplash seemed a distinct possibility. A chain-link fence with razor wire on top surrounded the compound and armed guards cruised the perimeter, pulled by Alsatians that appeared far too jumpy.