Full Circle (20 page)
“Friends.”
“I was about to say, inseparable. But yes. Friends as well.” Peter coughed hard, then rasped, “Then my daughter grows up with all the spirit and passion of her mother. She dedicates her life to this astounding project, only to be brought low by the same vile group that has dogged me for years.”
Adam watched Peter struggle from his chair. “Can I ask you something?”
Peter waved a weary hand.
“Why did you hire me? The company is in crisis, you're faced with an impossible situation. Why add something new?”
“Honor asked me the very same thing. I will tell you what I told her, for there is no other answer I can give you.” He shuffled wearily across the floor. “I felt the hand of God upon our meeting.”
Adam sat in the empty room long after the last light had died.
Adam came fully awake at precisely 5:17. He knew because the only light he could see was an illuminated digital clock. He went straight from deep sleep to full alertness. At first he had no idea why. Then the chair on the opposite side of the guestroom creaked, and he realized he had heard the sound in his sleep.
He jerked upright upon the pallet. “Kayla?”
Her whisper was more shiver than sound. “I had a bad dream.”
He did a fan-dance with the blanket, slipping into his trousers. He slipped the sweatshirt over his head and rose barefoot from the pallet. “Let's go make some coffee.”
Kayla came limply up from the chair. One hand kept a quilt clutched about her shoulders. When he opened the guestroom door and led her downstairs, it was to a silent house.
Honor ordered her kitchen in the manner of someone used to fumbling through mornings. The coffee fixings were all set together, the cups hung from hooks directly over the machine. A platter on the fridge's bottom shelf held the clay crocks of butter and spreadable cheese and marmalade. Adam laid a fire while the coffee brewed. Kayla let herself be lowered into one of the chairs by the fireplace, as pliant as a quilted doll.
“How do you take your coffee?”
“Milk, no sugar.”
He doctored their mugs, cut off the kitchen lights, handed her one painted with a smiling kitty, and drew his own chair closer to hers before settling down. He sipped his mug, and waited.
Kayla asked, “Why did your father leave home?”
“Are you trying to avoid talking about what frightened you?”
“Probably.”
“When I asked Mom why he'd left, she said she had only two answers for me. First, that no matter how much it hurt her to be alone just then, all she had to do was look at me to know loving my father had been the right thing to do. And second, God would see us through this.” Adam stared at the fire for a long moment, then finished, “I didn't think much of those answers at the time.”
Kayla raised her mug and realized it was empty. “Could I have some more, please?”
Adam rose from his chair, poured her another mug, brought it back and set another log on the fire. The wave of sparks col-ored her face in a different light, and for an instant Adam saw her as she might look in an African dawn. Far from the gray and the cold of an English winter. Out where light was harsh and dawn's only veil was dust and need. He had a sudden impulse to lean over and kiss her. Kayla looked at him, her gaze filled with a submission that defeated him.
He returned to his chair and waited.
“I dreamed about all the mistakes I made with Geoffrey.” She brushed a wisp of hair from her forehead. “I woke up feeling powerless to keep from making the same mistakes again. No matter how hard I try. No matter how much I want . . .”
Adam shifted his chair closer and reached for her. She allowed herself to be bundled up, quilt and all, and resettled in his lap. She curled her arms around his neck and rested her head upon his shoulder. Adam smelled the clean sweet scent of her hair, the faint trace of perfume, the heady flavor of her skin. His mind kept repeating two dreadful words.
Four days.
She said soft as the rising dawn, “I wish I knew what to do.”
T
he call came after breakfast, while Peter and Honor attended morning service. Kayla listened as Adam took it on his new cell phone. Adam responded with the terse punches of a man receiving news he had been half expecting. Adam finished the call, turned to her, and used the same tone when explaining to her what needed doing. Kayla accepted his plan and went to dress for what would no doubt be an enormously difficult day. Such a submissive nature was not her style. But just then, it was all she could do to accept what she was finding inside herself. She trusted this man.
Adam left Peter and Honor a note. They borrowed Peter's car again and headed for his rooms on Norham Gardens Road. The day was still and not particularly cold. They slipped into Oxford ahead of the worst of the morning rush hour. Kayla waited in the car while Adam went upstairs to change. The sun rose over the buildings opposite and illuminated a silent lane and its canopy of winter-bare trees. Kayla thought briefly about the previous night's dreams and the fears that had driven her from her bed. She sat in the car's rising chill and reflected on how it had been, entering Adam's room and watching him sleep. She had felt so protected there, and yet so vulnerable. She shut her eyes and smelled the morning fire and felt Adam's arms wrap around her, offering a comfort stronger than words.
They took the train to London's Paddington Station and a taxi to Saint Catherine's Docks. During both legs of the journey Adam took a number of phone calls. As they passed Saint Paul's Cathedral and entered the money district, Adam announced, “Detective Foley's managed to arrange things like I hoped.”
“Thank you, Adam.”
He looked at her. “For what?”
“Right now, mostly for thinking for both of us.”
His gaze glowed with dark determination, strong as heat. “We've got the break we need. We've prepared the best we can.”
“You have,” she corrected.
“You'll be fine.”
The docklands redevelopment project had transformed three centuries of harbor sprawl into upscale residential con-dominiums, wine bars, sports complexes, and the sort of shops that catered to the young, the fast, the City's winners. The driver slid the separating window aside and asked, “What number was it you wanted?”
“Just pull up here, thanks.” Adam slid the window closed. “Don't say anything about my working for your father's company.”
“You have a plan, don't you?”
“More of an angle. Half-finished. Full of holes. But listen, if I touch you on the arm and offer to help, I want you to trust me and don't say anything more.”
“Just let you take over?”
“Yes. Can you do that?”
Kayla had a sudden urge to tell him just how absurd that sounded. To trust herself to the strength and care of another man. Instead she said, “The policewoman and the detective are waiting for us.”
Detective Bill Foley stood on a sunlit corner with the woman officer Kayla had last seen at Scotland Yard. Foley said, “The bloke is off to Paris on the three-fifteen Eurostar.”
The policewoman declared, “I am officially here on behalf of an inquiry made by your company. That clear?”
“As day.”
She asked Foley, “You'll do the paperwork to back me up?”
“Before I leave for my evening tea and knees up,” Foley confirmed.
“The situation's not changed since we last met. There is nothing I can do officially. No crime on UK soil, no evidence permissible in court. This may be a total loss. But I couldn't just stand by and do nothing.” She asked Foley, “You're certain of your information?”
“As rain on my day off.” The detective pointed at the building down the block. “Our bloke is upstairs packing as we speak. Gone for two nights.”
“How did you happen upon that information?”
“Our lad is not well liked among the female employees in his division.”
Kayla said, “What a surprise.”
The sky overhead had taken an iron-hard cast. Christmas bunting stretched across the broad lane leading to the river Thames. The sidewalks were full of couples bundled against the dropping temperatures. Up ahead Kayla could see lights festooned about the pinnacles of Tower Bridge.
Derek Steen lived in a renovated Victorian warehouse. The structure was built like a mock brick fortress whose interior courtyard contained two Porsches and a Bentley. The court-yard was fronted by steel-barred gates.
Foley said, “Our bloke occupies the penthouse.”
Kayla looked up. The top floor was rimmed by a waist-high glass wall. Planters held a variety of winter firs. The penthouse had a spectacular view of Tower Bridge and the Thames.
Adam stepped in close and murmured, “He hasn't won yet.”
Kayla felt consumed by an emotion she could not name. Which was absurd. If a feeling was so strong it electrified her entire body, she should at least be able to call it something. Yet this was neither fear nor rage. Certainly not eagerness. She dreaded the confrontation, yet could not wait for it to begin and then be done. She fiercely wanted to walk away from this thief.
They stood at the building's bottom step. Officer Walton said, “I suppose this is where I should take the lead.”
Adam said, “We can't thank you enough for helping.”
“This is why I became a copper. To help the innocent. I knew from the outset I wouldn't right every wrong. That lies in the realm of Providence, and I'm no angel. I'll tell you that up front, and if you don't believe me, you can have a word with my dear old mum. She'll straighten you out right sharpish.”
“Protecting the innocent,” Adam said. “That's us.”
Officer Walton started up the front steps. “Something tells me this is going to be a fine day indeed.”
The main entrance was reinforced glass doors in a steel frame. A sentry camera was imbedded in the ceiling. Every other floor had four apartments; the top floor had one. Adam reached for Kayla's arm. She jerked at his touch. Her body had become one great generator. The current just waited for a chance to surge.
Adam said, “You need to step over to one side.”
Detective Foley agreed, “If the bloke sees you he'll bolt.”
The policewoman pressed the top-floor buzzer. There was a moment's wait, then a male voice said, “You've got the wrong flat.”
Kayla's gut knotted so tight she wanted to scream. Adam's hand returned and rested on her arm.
The policewoman replied, “Not if you happen to be Mr. Derek Steen, sir.”
“I'm headed out of the country. Come back another time.”
“And I am Officer Walton with Scotland Yard. I'd like to have a word.”
“Show me your badge.”
She unfolded her ID and held it to the camera.
“What's this about?”
“I'd prefer to discuss that in person. May I come up, please?”
The first words out of his mouth were, “I can explain.”
Kayla, she of the full-body tremors, responded with the ease of a woman who had spent all night preparing. Instead of not having a proper thought to her name until that very moment.
“That would be a truly astonishing feat,” she calmly replied.
His hair was a shade lighter than she recalled. And his face was flabbier, as though the features were gradually melting. Geoffrey looked dissipated. He had it all, and it was eating away at his core.
“I didn't . . .” Then he stopped.
“Should I call you Derek or Geoffrey?”
He looked from Kayla to the cop and back again.
“You're a thief,” Kayla said. “Of course I came with the police.”
She had dreamed of this moment. Screaming at him. Clawing at him with talons. Shredding him to the bone. Watching him bleed. And beg. And finally reduced to nothing before her eyes.
Now all she felt was ashes.
Geoffrey said, “I want my attorney.”
The policewoman replied, “You are certainly welcome to contact whomever you wish, Mr. Steen. But I must inform you that we are not here to arrest you.”
