The Society by Karen Guyler (feel good fiction books .txt) 📗

in the master bedroom. Terry’s killer, killers, must be responsible for the mess, may have already found and taken what he was looking for. On its surface it was valuable enough to have been stolen as restitution but no common thief would understand its true worth. Terry was beyond Charles’ apology for rifling through the things his brother had chosen, things he’d found memorable enough to keep. The shift in how it felt, voyeuristic now, uncomfortable, wasn’t enough to make him stop either. His and Lily’s lives were too important.

Charles reached the top of the even steeper stairs leading to the roof terrace. The call to prayer was ramping up from a whisper of suggestion to an urgent instruction blared across the city as each mosque passed it on. Beside the open door to the outdoors, tucked into the tiny landing, stood the twin of the ornately carved wooden cabinet from the entrance, its doors open. Skewed beneath a battered Scrabble box, it was right there, Charles could hardly believe it. He opened the drawstring bag beside the chess board and shook the contents onto the floor, a waterfall of black and white chess pieces. Innocently tumbled with the others, the one he’d come for, the white knight. It was a work of art beyond its value to him, sleek, smoothly cast in a metal that mimicked the quicksilver of mercury. He snatched it up, gripped it in his fist.

Too huge for the moment, his emotions propelled him out on to the terrace.

He was back in control.

This ought to have been a moment of celebration, it should have heralded the rebirth of the life he wanted, the sharing of it with his one love. Charles stumbled onto a lounger. The vastness of the deepening twilight sky mirrored his loss: unfathomable, all-consuming, encompassing everything he could see and hear.

Harder to lie to himself beneath the coming night’s impassivity. Harder to pretend that he could reunite with Eva.

But he had Lily. And now he could keep her safe. On the table beside him was a plate holding several peach stones. He picked up the knife Terry had used, sticky with dried juice, and levered off the knight’s base. He peered inside but couldn’t tell.

In the bright light from an anglepoise lamp beside a clunky desktop in Terry’s study, Charles’ euphoria was surprisingly weak, heart-breakingly so. There it was, as he’d placed it all those years ago, the evidence that would buy his and Lily’s safety. Until his new payday happened, at least, and then that regular income would guarantee them wanting for nothing lives and the best security money could buy. But it should have been for three of them.

Now his knees wobbled, his stomach threatened to rebel. He squeezed the chess piece, imprinting his guarantee on his palm that he wouldn’t share the fate of Tony, Hunter and Nancy.

Blocking Terry’s number—let them believe he was still in London—Charles dialled the one he’d called yesterday. Had it only been yesterday?

“US President’s office, Chief of Staff, Dennis Wakeman.”

“Hello, Dennis.”

“Who is this?”

“The royal pain in your and his arses.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific.”

“You don’t recognise me? How ‘bout now?” Charles tried to let go of the accent they’d taught him, but he’d had excellent instructors. His drawl just wouldn’t any longer. “It’s Charles Buchanan, Maxwell Peyton.” Here to sabre-rattle.

“Maxwell, calling to threaten some more? I heard you gave Allouette a hard time on the phone yesterday.”

“I’m not threatening anyone, I’m trying to help you. Put me through to Jed.”

“That’s Mr President to you.”

“It’s Mr President thanks to me.”

“He’s not here.”

Of course he wasn’t. “I’m not in a mood to play games.”

“Don’t you watch the news? He’s on Airforce One.”

“Patch me through.”

“No can do, you’re not high enough priority.”

Did Jed know Dennis was busy hammering nails in the coffin of his future?

“Ask him this, then. Where’s Duncan Leadbetter? Why was Nancy Seymour killed? Why are you going after my wife?”

“We’re not ‘going after’ anyone.”

“Call it off, I know what’s going on here and it stops now. My family and I are off-limits. If I sniff a hint of you coming after us, I’ll release the data from the fuel contamination,” Charles tightened his grip on the knight, let his insurance hang between them, swelling to fill the distance across the Atlantic. “I’m sure the senator Jed pushed under on his way up the pole to power will be real interested to learn about it.”

“You’re not holding any cards here.” Dennis growled down the phone.

“Senator Mack Hillard III might think otherwise. The Attorney General, Congress, the Senate, the American people, I think you’ll find I’m holding quite a few. Consider yourself warned. Oh, and Dennis? Having Nancy killed was a big mistake, you’ll regret that.”

Charles slammed the handset down. Now he just had to come up with a way to get out of the target The Society had on him.

39

Any of the three camp beds in the basement were comfortable enough, and the room was dark and quiet. Eva had a blanket and pillow and was secure a floor below the airlock at the entrance to 37 St George’s Grove, all the creature comforts needed for sleep. But there was no rest for her aching heart and arms, desperate to hold Lily. Not when her frenzied mind fed the battle between the ‘what if’ scenarios her brain kept running and her logical mind trying to convince herself Lily was okay.

It was too late to call the airfield again and no one was going to know more than they had the first three times she’d spoken to them. Addison’s Executive Assistant, if she was even still at work, would tell her that he was still unreachable, as he had been on the five times she’d already tried.

Eva dropped into and out of sleep, until her crash into dreamlessness was profound, disorienting, and made her late.

The office that sported Big Brother scrawled on a Post-It on its door refused to let her in, even when