The Digger's Rest (21 page)

He went closer to the glass to get a better
look. His face looked gaunt and haunted, like a ghost. He had to
get there, or die. He knew it then. He walked hurriedly on, faster
than before, his feet pinching and squeezing more and more with
each step he took. They weren’t his boots. They were too small.
They belonged to someone else, that’s why his feet hurt him so
badly, but he couldn’t stop now that he was getting closer, so
close.

Then he was across the street from the row of
glittering nightclubs. He crossed over just as a huge, black
stretch limousine was pulling up in front of the one with flashing
red and gold lights stylized to look like ancient writing: Club
Euphrates.

The door of the limousine opened and a man in
a tuxedo got out. He couldn’t see the man’s face but he could see
that the man was holding out his hand to the open door. A woman’s
hand extended out, long bright red fingernails and a bracelet in
the shape of a serpent around her upper arm.

The man took the woman’s hand and they
stepped out into the light. She had red hair with gold highlights,
but not styled in any modern fashion. It was wound upward and the
gold highlights weren’t highlights at all; they were braided stands
of gold formed to look like serpents.

She was wearing a waist-cinching, strapless
golden bodice; the cloth around her breasts formed to look like
outstretched wings, a wolf’s head with rubies for eyes at the
center. Her skirt was golden too, long and trailing with the front
gathered up so high he could see her inner thighs as she walked,
but he couldn’t see her face, the man was blocking her face.

As they stood there together, arm-in-arm,
about to walk up the red carpet to the entrance of the club, they
stopped, turning to look at him. He gasped with the shock of it.
The man was Julian Bramson the Third and the woman…the woman looked
remarkably like the French film goddess Catherine Deneuve in her
prime. They stared at him for a moment, a hungry look in their
eyes, like starving animals, and smiled menacingly.

The woman held her hand out to him languidly
but didn’t speak; the man did. “Come to your father, Mitchell,”
Julian Bramson said, waving him in, nodding and smiling.

“
No, no!” he shouted and turned to run,
to get away from them and that place, but he couldn’t move;
something was holding his leg. He looked down. There was a heavy
metal brace on his right leg. He tried to run again, to drag the
brace with him, but it was so heavy.

He’d gone only a few feet when he saw a deep,
dark doorway up on his left and the dim silhouette of a figure
lurking in the shadows. As he got closer and tried to pass, he
heard a hushed, murmuring voice whisper, but he couldn’t understand
what it was saying.

Suddenly a small, thin hand reached out of
the shadows and grabbed his arm. The figure came out of the
shadows. He saw the ripped sleeve of an old hippy shirt. He looked
up and saw her face, dirty with soot and smeared from the rain, and
felt himself being pulled into the safety of the shadows. “They
can’t find you here, Mitchell,” she whispered in his ear as she
pulled him closer to her, deeper into the darkness. “You’re safe
here with me.”

He woke up to the sound of his own voice
crying out as he jumped out of the bed and began to pace back and
forth maniacally across the room, not knowing why. His mind was a
blank, one great thumping, thudding, crashing blank.

***

Alida Ruales opened her eyes and saw the
small nite-glow alarm clock on the bedside table, 8:00 A.M. That
can’t be, she thought to herself noticing that it was still dark
out. She reached to feel the bed beside her. It was empty. “Yack”
she called out quietly in the dark.

When she got no answer she sat up and slid
her feet into her slippers. She knew there would only be one place
he could be and walked over to the high-backed chair that faced the
window over-looking the park. “Yack, are jou okay?” she asked
quietly, stroking his hair as she stood behind the chair. He took
her hand and she walked around.

“
Couldn’t sleep,” he said,
weary.

“
Bad dream?” she asked, touching his
face.

He nodded. “He was lost and I couldn’t find
him,” Jack said rubbing his temples, a light tremble in his hand.
She never had to ask who he was; there was only ever one ‘he” in
Jack’s life. “It’s nothing, probably just the stress of his leaving
and then having that asshole from Boston dropping in on me so
unexpectedly. You’re sure the files are safe?”

“
Chess. No one will ever find them at
Maria’s place on Roosevelt Island,” Alida said, sitting down on the
floor and putting her head in his lap. “I promise jou.”

“
Thank you, Alida. That takes a great
weight off my mind,” Jack said putting his hand on her head,
feeling her soft black hair, then asked, “What time is
it?”

She took his hand and turned it to look at
the watch he’d forgotten to take it off before he went to bed. 8:05
A.M. She told him what it said and took it off, telling him that
the battery must be wearing down and that she’d get it replaced
that day.

“
Come back to bed, Yack. I’m sure he’s
fine,” she said pulling him up from the chair and leading him back
to the bed. Neither of them would have thought that when it was
3:00 A.M. in New York, it was 8:00 A.M. in England, but when Alida
went to lay herself down again and looked at the nite-glow clock.
It said 3:15 A.M. It scared her, remembering from her girlhood days
in a small village in Cuba that these things usually meant someone
was going to die.

Lying on her side, her rear comfortably
snuggled against Jack’s, she crossed herself and said a prayer to
Santa Maria for the only men she had left in her life, Jack, Mitch
and Simon, as she drifted off back to sleep. The next morning she
called the Digger’s Rest from the office just to make sure they’d
arrived alright.

***

Meredith Bramson had long gotten used to
sleeping in a separate bed from her husband, and the truth be told,
she preferred it. It gave her the peaceful night’s sleep she
required, while still allowing her to know where her husband was at
night, not that they were ever clinging, passionate lovers
anyway.

She was raised to be a rich girl who would
marry a rich man and she’d accomplished that. The fact that they
were never really in love mattered very little. She’d conveniently
given him two beautiful sons and had all of the comforts and
prestige she ever wanted. That was enough for her.

It was a nice contract Annabelle had arranged
for her. She never had to do very much and didn’t concern herself
with anything that didn’t revolve around having the most beautiful
house in Massachusetts, raising her children, being admired by her
friends and letting Annabelle pull all the strings. But then things
began to change after Annabelle died.

In those seven years, Julian began coming to
bed later and later, and he was drinking more and more. When he did
come to their room, he was constantly up and down, rarely, if ever,
sleeping the whole night through.

When he had come back from his recent trip to
New York, things got even worse. He started talking in his sleep,
which would have been fine if he had his own room, but he kept
waking her up with his mumbling and crying; getting up to pace the
room then going back to sleep.

It wasn’t long before his talking in his
sleep got louder, so loud she got up to listen. “Mel…an…ie,” he
would call out, then toss and turn for awhile, then call out again,
“Mi…tch… ell.”

Is he having an
affair?
She doubted it, and she wouldn’t have much
cared if he did, as long as it was discrete and he didn’t embarrass
her. They were long past the point where divorce would ever have
been an option, especially since Julian the Fourth had been elected
to Congress, and …
Who is
Mitchell?

After a few weeks, she couldn’t take it
anymore and she packed his things and had them moved into their
largest guest room. He didn’t say a word the next day at breakfast,
and life went on for her as usual. But it was a different story for
him.

The day after he was moved into the guest
room he called his lawyer. Not to ask about a divorce but to have
his lawyer hire a private investigator to find out where Dr.
Mitchell Bramson was and to get a detailed view of his life so the
next time Julian planned to see him, he would choose his
opportunity, and he would choose one that was far away from New
York…and Jack Edgeworth. It would be a risk but he knew he would
never, ever get another night's sleep again until he saw Mitch, no
matter what that meeting would hold for either of them.

***

When Mitch and Simon sat down to breakfast at
a table near the window overlooking the road there was no sign of
Malcolm, Deck or Jed. Instead a tall, statuesque, young woman with
long, wavy, dark red hair highlighted with blonde streaks walked
over to them. When Mitch saw her face, he knew. She had those
blue-gray eyes and the same pale complexion sprinkled with
freckles. Her features were similar to those of the men but more
delicately suited her gender, and very, very pretty, indeed.

“
Good morning. I’m Dr. Bramson with the
party staying in the cottage,” Mitch said to the young woman,
working through his hangover to put on a good face; expecting the
same or similar greeting that he got from Mal and Deck when they’d
checked in.

“
I know who you are,” she said coldly,
standing in such a way as to avoid having to look him in the face
or meet his eyes. She looked to Simon instead. “Would you like
something to eat?” she asked stiffly. Simon didn’t know what to
do.

Anyone within twenty feet of them could have
felt the chill that came off the woman.

“
Two English breakfasts and a pot of
coffee would be fine, thank you,” Mitch said never taking his eyes
off her.

“
Would that be white coffee or black?”
she asked to Simon.

“
Black would be fine, thank you,” Simon
said, knowing that they both took theirs black. She walked away.
Mitch looked at Simon.

“
Did I do something wrong?” Mitch asked
him. Simon shrugged.

“
Not that I know of.”

“
Do I smell?” Mitch asked, lifting his
arm, putting his face under it and laughing. Not a good thing since
it made his head throb even louder.

“
Stop,” Simon said, smiling innocently
and blushing as he looked around to see if anyone was
watching.

Ten minutes later the woman came out through
the kitchen door with a tray, setting it down on the table next to
them. Without a word, she put the coffee pot on the table between
them and put Simon’s breakfast plate down in front of him. Then she
took the other plate and roughly slammed it down before Mitch.

“
Whoa,” Mitch said looking to Simon to
see if he was seeing the same thing. Simon just kept his eyes down,
waiting for her to go away. “Excuse me, Miss. Did I do something to
offend you? If I have, please accept my apologies,” Mitch said
honestly and politely. She turned and looked at him with fire in
her eyes.

“
Well, if you mean other than being a
rich American with too much money and nothing better to do with
your time than come down here and show us poor ignorant villagers
how much you have and how easy it is to disrupt our lives. No, I
don’t think you have, Dr. Bramson,” she sniped at him in the same
educated English accent as the men, leaving him
speechless.

As she turned to go, Malcolm was standing
behind her, blocking her way. Simon felt like he wanted to crawl
under the table, any sign of conflict always made him feel like
hiding.

“
Ivy, please…” was all Malcolm could
get out before she pushed past him and rushed back through the
kitchen door. He turned to Mitch and Simon. “Please pardon my
sister, she’s been a little overwhelmed around here lately and the
stress is showing,” he said, rubbing his forehead, flushed with
embarrassment. “Please accept all your drinks on the house
tonight.

“
Malcolm, that’s not necessary. I’m not
one of those Americans,” Mitch said, feeling his own embarrassment
and putting his hand out to Malcolm. “It’s alright.”

“
Thank you, Dr. Bramson. I appreciate
that,” Malcolm said and left, going through the kitchen door where
his sister had fled.

A few minutes later, the sound of dishes
smashing came through the closed door. A woman’s voice shouting, “I
will not…” and Malcolm’s voice saying “Ivy, please…” Then
silence.

Just as Mitch and Simon were finishing their
breakfast, keeping their heads down, half expecting dishes to come
flying through the door at them at any minute, they heard another
woman’s voice, much closer to them.

“
Dr. Bramson, so good to finally see
you again,” They looked up. It was Lady Madeline Cotswold with an
attractive young brunette standing behind her.

“
Lady Cotswold,” Mitch said standing up
instantly. Simon followed his lead. Mitch took her hand and bowed.
“I wasn’t aware that we’d met. I certainly would have remembered
such an occasion,” he said.

“
Well, we didn’t, officially,” Lady
Madeline said, “But I was in attendance at your Bayeux Gala. You
were just so busy, we never got to actually meet.”

Mitch felt honored. “I wish I’d known. I
would definitely have made time for you, Lady Cotswold.”

“
I did manage to grab a few minutes
with Jack Edgeworth though. We’re old friends from our mutual
British Museum days,” she said smiling.