Jackson 07 - Where All the Dead Lie (8 page)

Taylor was usually a good flier. She was in first class on British Airways, the red-eye, cuddled into the full-length seat, a glass of champagne at her elbow. She couldn’t get settled though. This whole trip had her anxious. She fidgeted, played with her hair, annoyed she couldn’t put it up—her normal ponytail seemed to make the headaches worse. It started that way. Now she kept it down to cover the scar on her temple.

Baldwin had seen her off at the airport with a bitter kiss. That had been enough to set her off, make her second-guess her decision. She’d never seen him so withdrawn.

But she had to do this. She had to get away. She was sick and tired of being the victim of the story. She was ready to get back to herself, and she truly believed some time alone, away from everyone, would help.

Her voice wasn’t coming back, but little bits and pieces of words seemed to find their way out. It gave her hope. She was horribly raspy, even in a soft whisper, her usually huskiness even more so, but somehow things felt…better.

She could have started healing a hell of a lot faster if she’d just given in and forgiven Baldwin sooner. The stress and pressure of being mad at him was certainly a culprit. She’d done one more quick session with Victoria Willig, too, which seemed to help. The horrors from November felt like they were fading a bit. She would get herself back all the way after her stint in Scotland.

For nontherapeutic reasons, she was looking forward to the week ahead. She’d been to the U.K. on a school trip in high school, a ten-day whirlwind around Scotland, Wales, Ireland and England. She’d been entranced by two places: the Lake District—she’d been deep into her Wordsworth stage—and all of Scotland. Wales had fared well in her memory, a late night at a pub in the wilderness, but it was Scotland that always came to mind when she thought back. The barren green-and-brown hills, the rocky crags, the lochs, nestled valleylike into the surrounding mountains, misty and fittingly mysterious, like they held the answer to a millennia of secrets. No wonder the legend of Loch Ness persevered. It was easy to believe that the still waters were a part of the land that time forgot.

Memphis had warned her that he wouldn’t be able to stay long. He’d been assigned to the case he mentioned: three missing girls. He could do some work from the estate, but the brass was the brass, which meant he would only be able to sneak away from London for a bit.

Taylor nursed a tiny bit of jealousy after hearing the stress in his voice. She never felt so alive as when she was working a breaking case. She could hear the worry and excitement in his words, feel his distraction, his desire to solve the mystery. She loved that feeling. She missed it.

The champagne had dulled the headache, but she took a pain pill just in case. She let her eyes close. One thing she knew for sure—she was going to be very careful around Memphis Highsmythe.

Taylor woke as the plane landed, the jolt and reek of the tires immediate in her nose. She was shocked at how rested she felt. Even just a couple of hours of shut-eye could rejuvenate her completely. She fluffed her hair, over the scar, allowing it to hang over her shoulders, then gathered her bags and wandered off the plane, stretching and yawning. Customs was bogged down, the line winding around the building in serpentine circles, sleepy, unkempt people being herded into their pens. It was going to take her forever to circumnavigate.

“Welcome to England!”

Taylor jumped a mile. Memphis was standing three feet away, his face partially hidden behind a massive bouquet of fat roses. White ones, not red. Red would have been too inappropriate. He was waiting for her.

She smiled wide and waved. She went to Memphis, accepted the beautiful cabbage roses, and let him kiss her on both cheeks. He smelled good, like wind and rain and man. She felt that familiar tick in her heart that she’d thought she was done with, which made her mad. She scowled, and Memphis looked hurt. She stepped back from him, confused.

“My schedule shifted and I thought I’d walk you through customs, free up some time for you. The weather may turn and interrupt our travels. You don’t mind, do you?”

She shook her head. Pointed at her throat, a reminder that she couldn’t talk.

“Ah, well. I’d hoped seeing me would bring it all rushing back.”

Memphis picked up her bag, started off toward the customs sign. He looked good, blond and tight, strolling through Heathrow. Women turned to look at him, but he was unaware of the attention. Completely oblivious to his effect. Baldwin was like that. Only had eyes for her. She couldn’t help the comparisons—Baldwin, dark and tall and lean and chiseled, Memphis shorter, more compact, but just as pretty. Two very pretty men.

They were two sides of a coin. Both good, she had no doubts about that. But there the similarities stopped. Baldwin was rational, whereas Memphis was unreasonable. Violence hid just underneath his polished surface. Memphis didn’t look like a brawler, more like a cobra swaying in the breeze. His whole countenance sent off distinct signals—you knew to leave well enough alone or get bitten.

Both smart, both educated, both in love with her. She stopped herself. Comparing them wasn’t smart.

Memphis looked back over his shoulder and winked at her. No, all would be well. She had a feeling Baldwin may have had a chat with Memphis, told him to behave. She didn’t blame him. Memphis wasn’t good at playing with his own toys. And just in case it became necessary, Taylor had written up a stern letter explaining the ground rules. She was hoping it wouldn’t be needed, but she found it entirely impossible to predict Memphis’s behavior. He could swing between Lothario and Lancelot at a moment’s notice. And she, fickle beast, seemed to get caught in his ebb and flow as if he were the moon and she the tides. She wasn’t quite sure what to make of that sensation.

Memphis was prattling on as he led her to the front of the line, making small talk.

“I hope you won’t be too jet-lagged, but I’ve set up a breakfast meeting tomorrow with Madeira James, the doctor friend that I mentioned. I believe you’ll enjoy her company, Taylor. She is a smart, lovely woman. She’s taken good care of me since…well, you know.”

Since Evan died. I know, Memphis. I know. No one should have to go through losing a spouse. And a child.

“Yes,” Taylor said, the word nearly guttural.

Memphis pulled up short. “Oh, my. That sounds like it hurts. Can you do more?”

She shook her head. It wasn’t the pain that stopped her from talking, just the memories. Now that she was starting to be able to vocalize again, she was suddenly shy, every word measured for worth, for impact. She hoped that would go away before too long as well.

They were up to the customs agent now, who asked them business or pleasure in a bored voice.

Memphis answered for her.

“Both.”

The man stamped her passport and handed it back. And just like that, she was free.

It was chilly outside the terminal, low gray skies and a lingering threat of rain. Taylor pulled her shearling jacket close around her, adjusted her scarf. She breathed deeply, the grit of canned plane air replaced by brisk, cool city smog. It smelled wonderful.

Memphis had a car waiting, low and sleek and black, with a driver who held the door. Taylor raised an eyebrow at him. He just smiled and bowed with a flourish.

“My father sends his best wishes to the lady.”

She slid onto the smooth leather, smelling the tiniest hint of cigar smoke wafting up from the seats. Many a deal had been done in the back of this car. She could feel that immediately. Memphis sat across from her, riding backward. The car slid from the curb.

Taylor pulled out her notebook.

Tell him thank you. This is lovely.

Memphis winced at seeing her having to write rather than speak, but covered his dismay quickly. “I thought I could do a quick drive through town for you, give you a taste of London. It’s been a while since you were here last, correct?”

She nodded.

“Good. Then we can head to King’s Cross. I’ve booked us seats on the noon train. We could have flown, but it’s only three hours, and the countryside is pretty. I thought it would give you a chance to catch up on your rest.”

“Thank you, Mmmmemphis,” Taylor whispered, then put her hand on her throat. The plane’s dry, recirculated air had made it tight and itchy, she was better off not talking. She needed some cough drops. When she wasn’t speaking, her throat hadn’t hurt at all.

“Oh, goodness, apologies. You must be thirsty. I’ve got a bit of tea. Would that help?”

She nodded, and he produced a stainless steel thermos and poured her a cup. Earl Grey, with milk and sugar, just the way she liked it. Already prepared, ready to go. She couldn’t help but see the quiet smirk on his face. She narrowed her eyes at him but he avoided her gaze, started pointing out landmarks.

London was overwhelming. The sheer size of it, for starters. Taylor was shocked by how much it had changed since she’d been there as a teenager—she remembered Old World architecture and history brimming from the cups on every corner. This new London was spread and steel and glass and fast. It lacked the romanticism she remembered.

But it had a sense of excitement, of glamour and sly humor, hidden just beneath the uptight modern exterior. She craned her neck for a street sign and saw they were on Victoria, which meant they were traveling into the city following the winding Thames. Once she saw the Tower of London, and the gaily-decorated Tower Bridge looming large and blue to her left, the city reasserted itself. A few minutes later Big Ben came into view and she felt more at home, despite the London Eye soaring into the gray sky. The Thames was as murky and gossamer as she remembered, the spires of Parliament and Westminster Abbey gothic and foreboding.

Welcome to England, indeed.

They drove up to Buckingham Palace, the black wrought-iron-and-gold gates glowing in the meager daylight, and she had the same sense of disappointment as she’d had when she saw the palace as a girl. It was a giant box. Elegant and huge, with unbelievably luxurious touches, but a fortress. Taylor was a little girl when it came to kings and queens and princes and princesses. Castles were meant to be gray stone with turrets and moats and crenulated battlements. Balmoral, the Queen’s summer residence, in Scotland, was much more in keeping with Taylor’s romantic view of proper royal residences. Baronial and tower architecture in castles, that’s what really appealed to her. Glamis Castle was another. Of course, Glamis was haunted, by a white lady, a gray lady, a possible vampire child, a monster, the devil—the works. She wondered if Memphis’s castle was haunted. Surely he’d have mentioned something like that, knowing her predilections. Ghosts didn’t scare her; it was more the living evil she had nightmares about. But she really didn’t like the idea of being haunted.

Taylor caught a quick glance into St. James Park, the view at this angle like a glimpse into a Monet painting, lush and green even this late in the season. For some reason, the vision reminded her of her father. She hadn’t returned his call, and when he arrived in Nashville and came looking for her, she was going to be nowhere to be found. He’d go to Sam, but Sam had strict instructions. Under no circumstance was she to reveal Taylor’s whereabouts, nor any other details about the recent troubles. He was not allowed to be a part of her life. Never again.

Running away from her dad was childish. She’d have to face him sooner or later. Later seemed much preferable, though God knew what sort of trouble he’d manage to get himself into by the time she returned. If Win were a self-destructive drunk, he’d be as trouble-prone as a raging alcoholic with his fourth thirty-day chip and an unopened bottle of cheap brandy. As it was, his excesses ranged to quieter issues. He’d be into something, some scheme, some plan, guaranteed to be illegal, by the time she returned.

The car was turning back now, toward Mayfair. A motorcycle whizzed past them on the right, screaming around the car and cutting it off. The driver slammed on the brakes, and Taylor reeled back in her seat. Her heart began to pound, and she felt a familiar moment of panic. Her breath started to come faster, and she got that strange carsick feeling that preceded one of her attacks.
Oh no, not now. Not in front of Memphis.

She closed her eyes and tried to force her mind away, but the red wash of blood covered her face, and her head throbbed in sympathetic pain. She looked into Sam’s eyes, saw her friend’s streaming tears, felt the anger and hate build in her, felt the slick metal of the gun in her hand…

Think about your safe place, Taylor. Camp. The horse. Breathe
.

She took sips of air through her nose until her racing heart slowed.

She cracked her eyelids. Memphis was cursing the motorcycle rider. He hadn’t noticed. Thank God. She buried her face in her teacup, managed a full, deep breath.

She’d had just about enough serial killers to last her a lifetime.

“Are you okay?” Memphis asked. “You’re white as a sheet.”

Crap. He
had
noticed.

Yeah. One of the side effects. Flashbacks. Joy.

“So with all the issues you’re still having, how did you talk Baldwin into letting you come alone?”

Bribery.

“In other words, you two are getting along better,” Memphis said. His tone was neutral—not questioning or beseeching. Just asking.

She turned away from the window and back to Memphis. She took a sip of her tea.

We made up. Things are good again.

“And is it fixing things? Your voice, for instance?”

Let’s not do this, Memphis. Okay?

She wasn’t kidding, she didn’t feel like talking about her relationship with him. It was one thing to talk on the computer, but in person, it felt like a betrayal. And she wasn’t here to betray Baldwin. Away simply meant away, a little time, a little space. Less pressure on her to keep up her strong facade. She could be herself here.

She couldn’t read his look. He gave her a small smile.

Seriously, Memphis. It’s not like that.

“Ah, Taylor. Young love has its ups and downs. Oh, look—there’s my place.”

For a moment she was confused. Memphis lived in Chelsea, and they were nowhere near his posh neighborhood. But then she saw the great silver-and-blue revolving sign. New Scotland Yard on one side, Metropolitan Police: Working together for a safer London on the other. The entire judicial system of Nashville could fit into its shiny corridors. The building was massive, glass and steel and concrete; she could see the reflection of the stunning redbrick St. Ermin’s Hotel in its gleaming windows.

A lone female bobby stood guard at the front entrance, but Taylor had a trained eye. There were layers upon layers of security—a bulletproof glass barrier, cameras and tri-level turnstiles and revolving doors and electronic card readers. A surface-mounted spike system with wicked angled teeth allowed cars to pull into the garage below, but not back up lest they shred their tires. She saw submerged concrete barriers that could be raised at a moment’s notice to trap people inside, or stop people from entering.

“Like it?” Memphis asked, and she nodded. It was fiercely beautiful, very much the new London look that she was starting to get used to. The sun peeked out from behind a cloud for the briefest of moments and set the building to flashing.

“Fancy,” she said.

“Wave to Pen. She’ll be mad I didn’t bring you by. Unless you want to go in?”

She shook her head—that would be too much. Maybe on her way back out of town. She didn’t want that feeling of despair and loneliness that she felt every time she thought about work to invade her here. She was here to get away from police work, from her job, her life, her mistakes. All she wanted was a quiet place to heal. And hide.

Memphis’s mobile rang and he excused himself, murmuring into the headset. Taylor watched the people of London. It felt like New York, but with bigger smiles and a British accent. Everyone looked cold; they were hurrying about, scurrying, really. It was a blustery winter day, chilly and cloudy with heavy rain expected later in the evening.

Everyone they drove past looked so nonchalant and buttoned-down. It made her feel flashy and childish. Too enthusiastic. She’d have to remember to be more subdued—physically, at least. She had the mousy quiet thing down already.

The drive to King’s Cross Station took another five minutes. The driver deposited them and their luggage at the entrance, and Memphis produced two tickets.

“We’re in first class, and we’ve got seats on the right side of the train. It’s lovely once we get up toward the border.”

The seats weren’t crazy luxurious, as Taylor expected when thinking first class and train. They were roomier than the regular seats, only four across instead of six, a few with completely separate single two-top tables. The food was better, the drinks higher quality. And less crowded; she could see into the train car behind them at the seething mass of people crowding in. One small boy caught her eye—he stuck out his tongue at her and turned into the car with his frazzled mother scooting along right behind.

The last time she’d been on a train was the Caledonian Sleeper from Inverness to London, after a rousing tour of Loch Ness with a gaggle of rowdy teenagers. She remembered purple bunk beds, stainless steel washbasins, tea and toast to soak up their evening’s excess. They’d gotten plowed on the train (thrilled to be able to say they were appropriately pissed, in the local lingo) and disembarked with legs that wouldn’t hold them properly, giggling and swaying through the train station like a mustering of newborn storks.

Things were more seemly now that she was an adult. Their seats were reserved with a small piece of paper stuck to the top. They faced one another, with a tan plastic table in the middle.

“Forward or back?” he asked.

She motioned to the forward seat. The idea of riding backward made her nauseous.

They took their places. Taylor turned her phone on so she could check her messages, was relieved to see she had none.

And sad, at the same time. It used to be she couldn’t go five minutes without a call, but now her phone sat silent and unused. Unloved. She sent Baldwin a quick, needless text that they were on their way, and stowed the phone.

The train’s doors closed. The cabin around them was full. The movement began with a gentle tug, then built into a rhythm. Quickly, a girl with a trolley came by. Taylor followed Memphis’s suggestion and ordered tea, fruit salad and a bacon sandwich. She was delighted when it showed up—the bacon was crisp, the wheat toast warm and crunchy, and the side was a large dollop of what she first thought was barbeque sauce, but quickly discovered was HP Sauce, similar, but more peppery than what she knew. It was delicious, and she immediately felt at home. Bacon and barbeque sauce in first class on a northbound train to Edinburgh. She could get used to this.