Chapter Five
Thursday 1st December 1988.
London.
Sam was still lying on the four-poster bed when Al arrived.
"Wakey-wakey. Rise and shine. Up and at 'em," ordered the Admiral brightly.
Sam stirred, moaning softly. He was still fully clothed. The duvet was in a state of disarray around him, evidence of a restless night. There was a bowl on the floor with a little water in it. Al didn't need to be able to smell it to work out that there was probably disinfectant in there too. Sam's head injury had evidently led to him being sick.
Now Sam curled up on his right side. His lower arm slid beneath the pillow, bunching it up under his ear. The left coiled round his face, cradling his head, cupping the injured area in his hand, so that he resembled a duck with his head tucked beneath his wing.
"C'mon, Sam. Another day, another dollar – you got work to do, buddy."
"Go'way," mumbled Sam shifting position again in a futile attempt to get comfortable, and grunting with the effort.
"Quit playing for sympathy, Sam and get up. Ziggy says the kidnappers are gonna make contact soon." Al wanted to believe his friend was just yanking his chain, but the dried blood in Sam's hair and the tension, which oozed from every pore, told a different story. The mention of kidnappers had penetrated his befuddled brain, however, and the Leaper roused himself reluctantly, turning bleary eyed towards the sound of Al's voice.
"Okay, okay, Oi'm up, Oi'm up. Just give me a minute, will ya?" Sam rubbed his eyes, willing them to focus. "Oh, me aching heed," he complained. An unbearable tightness scraped at his scalp. He had the sensation of someone pulling his hair out – one root at a time. Unlike Al, he was not at all rested or refreshed from his night in bed. He couldn't say "night's sleep" for he had not slept above a few scant minutes at a stretch all night. Each time he sank into oblivion, the stabbing in his head dug down and found him, dredging him back up to all too painful awareness. Nausea had turned to repeated vomiting, until the meal he'd enjoyed with the girls had been thoroughly expelled from his system, leaving him feeling utterly wretched and even more exhausted than before.
The hours had dragged frustratingly, yet paradoxically he could not conceive that it was already time to arise and face another day. He was grateful that he'd closed the drapes whilst concluding his unpacking the previous evening - was it as recent as that? They kept out the morning sunshine, which though weakened by the season, would still have been too powerful for his poor pounding brain to endure.
Sam was still intermittently rubbing his eyes, and despite his assurance to the contrary he had made no attempt whatsoever to get out of bed, or even to sit up. Al was growing increasingly concerned by Sam's reticence. He punched the hand link, trying to establish if his friend's condition had deteriorated. He didn't need Sam's medical degree to know how tricky head-wounds could be. At the same time he requested the information from the horse's mouth.
"What's wrong kid?"
"Can't see straight. Like Oi'm looking trew a veil," Sam muttered, renewing his rubbing.
"Is that all?" Al's voice reflected his relief; he caught a laugh in his throat. "You are, dummy," he teased, "the net curtain, remember?" He stuck his holographic head through the lace that surrounded the bed, a big beaming grin on his face. It didn't have quite the reassuring effect he'd expected, however.
Sam recoiled with a cry.
"Aargh, don't do that!" He pinched the bridge of his nose and screwed up his eyes, then, wrinkling his nose in distaste, he peered through hooded eyes at Al.
"Doesn't help," he declared. "Are ya sure you're tuned in to the right channel?"
More button pushing established that Al was, indeed, properly locked into Sam's brainwaves. It also provided him with a prognosis from Ziggy, who informed the Admiral matter-of-factly that Dr Beckett had – as already stated – sustained a fractured skull and should seek medical attention forthwith or she, Ziggy, would not be held accountable for the consequences.
'Which tells me precisely nothing,' thought Al. Now, instead of encouraging Sam to take up the call to arms, Al's concerns for his friend's welfare made him seek to keep the Leaper abed and call a doctor.
Contrarily, this was the suggestion that spurred Sam into action. Self-interest was never one of his strongest motivators, and besides, the vision of the two young girls he'd shared such happy hours with lying so horribly murdered returned now to haunt him.
"No can do," he informed Al in response to his suggestion. He disentangled himself from the bedcovers and got up – in the most unorthodox manner Al had ever witnessed. Still uncoordinated, and unwilling to subject his throbbing head to the forces of gravity, he swung his legs out first, and then the rest of his body rolled after, leaving his head flat on the pillow until the last possible moment. He ended up on all fours, swaying precariously. This position being untenable, he sank back on his ankles, slowly raising up his torso, grabbing at the bed and leaning against it as the room span wildly before his unfocused eyes. He drew in three or four deep breaths then, gritting his teeth; he rocked forward and hauled himself to his feet, pushing on the bed to provide a fulcrum for the leverage of his arms. Once upright, he staggered woozily backwards a couple of paces, and hooked his arms round the bedpost for support, as a drunk caresses a lamppost.
"Steady, Sam," cautioned Al, instinctively reaching out to do just that – frustrated as always by his inability to lend practical assistance. "Are you sure you're up for this, buddy? You really don't look so good you know."
Sam clung on tighter still, white knuckled, his head resting against the bedpost, eyes closed, panting. Then he swallowed hard and lifted his head to look at Al.
Mary's Irish brogue was ever strong on his tongue, much to his continued bemusement. "Sure'n Oi've felt better, an' dat's a fact." He blinked slowly, still struggling to make his eyes function within normal parameters. "But it seems t'me Oi've felt a whole lot worse too in me time." He paused momentarily, as if daring Al to refute it, and then he continued, "And just supposin' fer a moment I was t' say Oi didna feel loike goin' trew with it. What odds would Ziggy put on me being able to sit this one out altogether, d'ye t'ink?" he gave his friend a mildly patronizing stare.
Al reflexively began pushing buttons, then stopped short and looked up at Sam, sheepishly. "Point taken, buddy. Just go easy, huh?"
"Doubt if Oi can manage much else." Somewhere in the canyons of his brain a cyclone was raging and the lure of the bed to which he still clung was strong, but his look was one of determination.
"Have Oi got time for a quick shower? It moight make me feel a bit more human."
"Sure thing. Go for it. I'll come back in good time for the call. Hang in there, Sam." Al looked at his friend compassionately.
Sam managed to extricate one arm from the support post, and gave a half-hearted thumbs-up, before feeling his way around the furniture to the en-suite.
Al watched him go, his heart in his mouth as he witnessed each faltering step, expecting at any moment to see Sam fall flat on his face. He waited until the Time Traveler disappeared through the bathroom door and then keyed in his own door and left.
0o0
The shower invigorated Sam more than he dared hope, though less than he would have wished. After the initial torture of washing congealed blood out of his hair, wincing and gasping as he rubbed in the shampoo, he basked in the feel of the water on his face and body. By the time he stepped out and dried off, he was walking more or less steadily, without the aid of walls or fittings.
He could see well enough to pick out a coordinating salmon pink outfit of twin set and skirt from Mary's wardrobe – though he most emphatically left the bra and girdle lying idle in the drawer. He even coped with scrubbing the stubborn bloodstains out of yesterday's ensemble. The only hitch in the proceedings came when he sat down at the dresser to brush his hair. As the stiff bristles made contact with the back of his head, the unbearable pressure made him dizzy, and he fumbled with the brush, before dropping it on the carpet.
Bending automatically to retrieve it induced a sudden wave of renewed nausea and he struggled to maintain his equilibrium. He grabbed at the dresser and fought to control his breathing as the room swirled around him, silently cursing his folly.
Looking at Mary's distorted reflection in the mirror, he implored her, "Remind me not to do dat again in a hurry, would ya, Mary?" Elbows on the dresser, he crossed his arms and slumped forward onto them, eyes closed, waiting for the pounding in his brain to subside. It seemed to take forever before the pain eased enough for him to dare to sit up.
Even longer before he felt brave enough to get to his feet.
When he did, he proceeded haltingly, pausing every three or four paces to check his balance and make sure he was still heading in the right direction. In this manner, he weaved his way into the dining room, where he came face to face with his employer, Lyle Strickland.
This morning, the businessman was wearing a double-breasted gabardine suit in air force blue, well cut and very fetching. Had he not been distracted by even more physical considerations, Sam may have spared a moment to wish the suit were his, rather than the pleated tweed skirt he bore.
As it was his attention was focused on making his way over to join Strickland at the table by the window, where he was having breakfast. Not that Sam was hungry. In fact the smell of fried egg, bacon and sausage wafting up form Lyle's plate made him feel queasy again, but the stability of the wheel-back chair only a short distance before him was too great a temptation to ignore.
"Ah, Mary. Join me for breakfast. Feeling better this morning?" Strickland had been bent over his repast, and poring over the morning's edition of the Financial Times. He registered Sam's arrival from the corner of his eye, and half rose from his seat politely, without really looking up. His whole demeanor was as if yesterday had never happened and Mary was suffering nothing worse than a head cold. Sam detected none of the stress he would have expected from a man whose daughters were under sentence of death.
However, since the Leaper was unsure how accurately his powers of perception were operating, he gave the man the benefit of the doubt for the moment.
Outside the window, the dawn sunshine had been swallowed up by dark, menacing clouds, and spots of rain began to tap on the glass and dance on the balcony.
They echoed the drumming in Sam's head.
He eased himself gratefully into the chair, carefully pouring himself a cup of black coffee. It was with some slight satisfaction he noticed that less than a quarter spilt in the saucer.
Lyle ignored him while he sipped slowly at the coffee, relieved that it stayed down. After a while Sam even risked a slice of dry toast and with each successive mouthful he felt himself regaining some degree of normalcy.
His doubts about the girls' father were growing, however.
The man had finished his disgustingly greasy meal without once taking his eyes from the peachy pink pages of the newspaper he was reading and making no attempt to communicate, beyond the odd mumbling of pleasure or annoyance – to himself rather than Sam – about the rise or fall or various share prices. For all the attention he paid, Mary could have been a character on the TV screen, and the children non-existent.
Last night, Sam had thought he'd seen a loving father, frantic with concern for his offspring.
Yet this morning…?
Come to think of it, the man's reactions had struck him as strange even at first, but he had attributed that to the blow to his brain. Sam was still not in full possession of his extensive faculties, so perhaps he was making something of nothing, but his instinct told him that all was not as it should be. He recalled Shelley-Anne's panic when he'd found her mother's book. Could the divorce be even more acrimonious than he'd guessed? Sam envisaged the situation: Father gets to take the children on holiday, doesn't intend to surrender custody on their return to the States. He stages a kidnapping to throw the wife off the scent, enabling them to start afresh someplace else. Maybe even arranges their "murder" to prevent the mother from pursuing them. Only there is a falling out with the "kidnappers" or a misunderstanding as to his intentions, and the poor little pawns wind up dead for real. No wonder the grief stricken father had taken his own life, burdened by the guilt of knowing he'd effectively killed the two people he loved most in the entire world. Except that at this juncture, he was sitting there, supremely confident that he was pulling off the perfect ruse to put one over on an ex-wife who was trying to keep him from his girls. No need to worry, everything was under control. His control.
Sam looked across the table, seeking confirmation of his hypothesis in the man's bearing or his face. He tried to think back to the previous evening, to put his finger on what it had been about Strickland's behavior that had aroused his suspicions. Something had definitely been amiss. Yet, looking back, if Lyle had been expecting the ransom note then he was a consummate actor, for he'd deceived not only one confused, concussed imposter, but also a professional Observer who was nobody's fool. And if he'd gone to such lengths to put on an act then, why was he making so little effort now? It didn't add up and Sam was almost certain that his temporary mental handicap was not exclusively to blame.
The Leaper realized that if he were going to stand any chance of making headway he would have to make his presence felt. Somehow he didn't think starting a polite conversation about the British weather would do the trick. If he wanted to succeed in drawing this fellow out from the world of high finance into which he'd disappeared, it would take something much more dramatic.
Sam remembered how Al had congratulated him for exaggerating the previous evening when in fact he felt he had been playing down his condition. No matter, the point being that since he was still suffering, he may as well turn the situation to his advantage. Once more the simple truth would suffice, with only the merest hint of embellishment for flavoring. So Dr. Beckett took a deep breath and prepared to do one of the things he hated most – draw attention to himself.
He began by clattering his empty coffee-cup clumsily back into its saucer, which as he'd suspected didn't even register with the other man.
Next, he excused himself from the table and began to rise slowly to his feet. He gambled that Strickland's in-bred civility would have him mirror the action, as indeed he did, though still automatically without actually looking up. So, before Lyle could resume his seat, Sam deliberately caught the leg of his own chair with his foot, flipping it over behind him and leaving him swaying precariously. With a louder cry than was strictly necessary he grabbed at the table, 'accidentally' knocking over the milk jug. Sam was relieved on two levels when his companion sprang round to catch him before he crumpled to the floor, and then helped him over to the couch.
"I think maybe I should call you a doctor after all, Mary." The employer's concern sounded genuine, even if Sam couldn't make out his expression clearly enough to confirm it.
'You should call me a Doctor, after all I am one!' thought Sam irrelevantly.
"Dere's no need, really," Sam reassured him aloud, if half-heartedly. "Oi'll be foine in a tick. Just stood up too quick, so Oi did." As an opening to a discussion of the magnitude Sam had in mind, it was pretty feeble, but at least he had the man's full and undivided attention at last. It even looked for a moment as if Strickland was going to pull rank and insist, but Sam forestalled him.
"Oi've a lump on me heed as big as a goose egg, t'be sure, and the granddaddy of all headaches, but we've more important t'ings t' worry about just now, have we not?"
It was a challenge.
Lyle sat down on the couch next to Mary and put his head in his hands.
"I spent the whole night worrying," he confessed forlornly, alleviating Sam's suspicions to some degree, "I told you we should never have come back to this goddamn country." Then almost at once the other man backed off again, clearing his throat and straightening up. He rose to his feet, squared his shoulders and strode away.
"Then I remembered, you promised you'd get them home for me. So I figured I have nothing to worry about, right. Have I?"
There was no hint of sarcasm or teasing in his tone. It was sheer self-deception. His expression of blind faith in Nanny's ability to make everything all right was pure Christopher Robin. He was the little boy who'd fallen from the apple tree and scraped his knee, and Nanny was going to dry his eyes and kiss him better.
Pathetic - in the truest sense of the word.
With a flash of insight, Sam realized where Strickland was coming from.
In his working life Lyle was the confident, capable businessman, accustomed to manipulating people and events to his own considerable advantage. At home, it was a different story. He was out of his depth with family matters, relying totally on Mary to keep things on an even keel. When things went a little awry, he didn't get bothered with details – a busy man with loftier matters on his mind. So when they went badly wrong, he couldn't conceive of the consequences. And if the thought was unbearable, then don't think it. Bury your head in the sand and pretend it is not really happening. Ignore it and it will go away. That was why he'd been so engrossed in his newspaper. It kept him from having to address the really important issues. Classic avoidance.
Sam wanted to get hold of the man and shake him and shout at him: "Get real!"
But even if he could have overcome his lethargy enough to complete the maneuver, he didn't think it was the sort of behavior appropriate to a woman in his subservient position. Whilst he was pondering a more suitable response, a loud rap on the door interrupted them. Sam stirred himself to answer it; mindful of his adopted duties, and expecting the awaited contact from the kidnappers.
A dismissive wave of Strickland's hand bade Sam retain his seat, while he turned and barked, "Come."
At this the door opened to admit a lean young man in his late twenties. His features and complexion suggested West African ancestry, though his accent when he spoke was positively Brooklyn.
"I have dose figures you requested, Mr. Strickland."
With which he handed over a wad of papers to his employer and hovered at his shoulder while they were perused, oblivious to Sam's presence. Summing up the close cropped wiry black hair, the Navy blue suit with sharply creased trousers, the whole bearing of the newcomer, Sam tagged him as Strickland's P.A. Quietly efficient, capable and affable, deferential without being obsequious, Sam felt the young man well suited to the task.
Whilst Sam sat silently nursing his relentlessly aching head, the two men muttered and mumbled over their fact-sheets in close conference, moving over to the writing desk to consult the incongruously modern calculator Strickland had placed there. After several minutes, the muted conversation ceased and Strickland dismissed his companion, "Get on it right away, Otis."
"Yessir," replied the young man smartly, and headed for the door, turning back as Strickland added, "And get that smarmy redhead on Reception to check up on the limo. I want it here in good time. 'First meeting's at 10 sharp."
"Yessir." Otis left, closing the door behind him.
This encounter raised a barrage of new questions for Sam, who had deliberately kept a low profile during the exchange. He had no idea what relationship, if any, existed between Otis and Mary. He may have simply been preoccupied and not noticed the old woman, or they may just move in different circles and not even be on speaking terms. This option the Leaper deemed to be unlikely if Otis had been Strickland's assistant for any length of time, as seemed to be the case, but Sam was unwilling to risk any social gaffes in the face of so little information. He could always attribute 'Mary's' rudeness to the head injury, if Otis later commented on her lack of interaction.
Sam had been unable to form much of an impression of the man beyond his professional capabilities. Was he totally trustworthy? Had he even been told of Lyle's personal problems, or was his involvement strictly business? Did he really enjoy his work, or was it all a façade? Could he be nursing a secret grudge – underpaid, undervalued? Enough to plot a kidnapping to get his boss to give him what he felt he was owed? Sam couldn't help suspecting some form of 'inside job'. After all, the villains had known who and when to strike, and the family hadn't been in the country very long.
Otis looked to be a personable, honest young man, but Sam knew better than most the folly of judging by appearances. He - who was a human chameleon, constantly changing his camouflage to blend in with his surroundings. He looked at himself now, in his tweed skirt and twin-set, and thought he was behaving more like Miss Marple than Mary McGillicuddy, seeing suspects coming out of the woodwork, trusting no-one, expecting every smile to be hiding a crocodile's jaws. He would reserve judgment on Otis for now, though his inclination was to believe the young man innocent.
Hope for the best, prepare for the worst. It was a philosophy that had served to keep him alive on more than one occasion. Sam started wishing that his invisible informant would deign to show his face again, supplementing the suppositions with a few sound facts.
At that precise moment, as in the previous leap, Al turned up like a genie summoned from his lamp, materializing in the centre of the grand piano.
Glancing at his bisected torso, Al hastily moved forward, making a note of Lyle's position at the writing desk, where he was still deeply engrossed in the papers Otis had brought him. The Observer did not think they needed to make the usual exit to the men's room. If Sam kept his voice down, Al was sure that they could talk without disturbing Strickland. He pretended to perch on the coffee table so that he could converse with his friend at eye level, clearing his throat to attract Sam's attention.
"Earth calling Dr. Beckett. What planet you on, buddy?"
Sam looked up, wearily, "Oh, hi, Al." he muttered.
"How d'ya feel, Sam?" Al had been hoping for a perkier response by now, despite the constant warnings from Ziggy.
"How do Oi look?" countered Sam.
"Quite frankly, pal, I'd say somewhere on the down side of lousy," observed the Admiral.
"Yeah? Dat's roughly aboot how Oi feel," agreed Sam. "What news?"
"Ziggy says the phone's gonna ring any time now. We still have no idea where the girls are currently being held, but the odds are still way up there on them getting killed, so play it cool, okay?"
"Sure."
The phone rang.
"Get that for me, would you, Mary?" commanded Lyle without looking up, despite the fact that the phone was practically within arms reach for him.
Al looked across at the father, aghast that he didn't leap up and grab it on the first ring. "He's a bit of a cold fish, isn't he?" Al nodded in Lyle's direction.
"And then some," replied Sam, hauling himself to his feet and dragging himself over to the phone, eager to stop its jangling.
"Balmoral Suite, M…" he began.
"Mornin' duchess, how's your head?" came the taunting reply.
Even muffled by the telephone and his own dulled senses, Sam recognized the voice as that of the "waiter" from the previous evening. Not wanting to admit they had him at a disadvantage, Sam retorted, "Fine, how's your groin?" He thought he almost heard the man wince, and allowed himself a slight smile.
"Is the rich bastard gonna pay up? Or do we take these little brats on a one way trip?" his tone was both aggressive and edgy.
Sam bit back the threats he wanted to shout at the creep, the warning to leave those poor innocent young girls alone. He swallowed to compose himself. "Play it cool," Al had said. A grisly vision chilled his blood.
"How do we know you haven't already done that? Oi want to talk to them."
"Not likely, duchess. But we thought you might want a bit of proof we got 'em. So put a sock in it and listen, right."
Sam heard a click and a whirr as the kidnapper started up a cassette machine, then the voices of Shelley-Anne and Tori, tiny terrified fragile voices pleading not to be hurt, to be let go; begging their father to give the kidnappers what they wanted, their Nanny to help them. Tori was crying. Her sibling was fighting valiantly but vainly to sound brave, trying to reassure her sister that their nightmare would not last much longer.
As he listened, Sam found himself gripping the phone, his stomach churning. He leant back against the wall. He daren't imagine what sort of night they'd had, how badly they were being treated. It sounded as if the atmosphere wherever they were was tense in the extreme. And despite the girl's statement that they were unhurt, Sam was unconvinced. He knew first hand what their captors were capable of – he felt sure the girls had not been tucked up for the night in comfy beds with a bedtime story and a tray of milk and cookies. He didn't want them in those evil clutches a second longer than was absolutely necessary.
Abruptly, the tape was switched off and the kidnapper broke into Sam's thoughts.
"That's all you get for now. So? Has Daddy dearest got the readies ready or not?" He chuckled at his choice of phrase. "I ain't hanging on the phone all day. I may not be bursting with 'O' levels, but I'm not that dumb."
Sam hadn't yet ascertained what, if anything, Strickland had done about getting hold of the million pound ransom, but he now believed that man's assurance that he'd pay anything to get his daughters back, so he winged it.
"We're working on it. It takes a while to come up wit' dat sort o' cash. We couldna just get it from a hole in the wall machine in de middle o' the night, now could we? You have to give us more time."
"I told you, I ain't stoopid." The voice was terse, angry. The man was on a short fuse.
"I wasn't trying to…" placated Sam, not wanting the guy to take out his temper on the girls.
"Shut your gob and listen, duchess," Henry cut in. "You tell that Strickland bloke to have the money in unmarked bills stuffed into that big old carpet bag thing of your'n. Then he's to get in his motor and drive up the M1 with it. He's to come off at Junction 13, turn right and be at Brogborough Picnic site by half five tonight. He'll find his next instructions taped underneath one of the picnic tables. 'Course, if he's late, someone else might just have taken them away first, if you catch my drift." This last threat was delivered with a malicious snigger.
Sam was seething, but managed to keep his anger in check. He glared at Al, who had been pushing buttons throughout the conversation.
"Sorry, Sam. Ziggy still can't get a lock on them. You're gonna have to track 'em down the hard way."
"Don't worry. You'll get ya money." Sam told the extortionist curtly. Then, inexplicably sure of his facts, he added; "Only dere'll be one slight change in plan, so dere will. Mr. Strickland doesna drive himself, so Oi'll be delivering it to you personally."
This seemed to throw Henry off balance for a moment, so that Sam expected to hear him conferring with his accomplice. However, she was evidently not at hand to offer fresh instructions. The man umm-ed and ah-ed for a bit – initiative was obviously not one of his strong points. Then he muttered a grudging "S'pose that'll have to do. Just make sure you turn up on time. Or else." With which he hung up.
Sam stood motionless until the buzzing tone of the disconnected call became intolerable to his ear. He replaced the receiver in its cradle and let out a long breath.
Only then did Strickland look up from his work and acknowledge the call had taken place. He looked at Sam with questioning eyes. 'Are they all right? Did you speak to them?'
Aloud, he simply asked "Where and when?"
Sam retreated to an easy chair and sat down again, breathing heavily.
"Dey're playing games with us, so dey are," he told both Al and Lyle. "Directions by installments. Oi've t'be somewhere called Brogboro by five thirty with the money. Oi'll get me orders from there." Sam was wringing his hands in frustration. "Does that give us enough time?"
"Ziggy's predicting the girls will be kept alive as insurance until they know if he's gonna pay up. Don't panic, buddy," soothed Al.
"We should have the cash by…" Lyle paused to look at his watch, making a mental calculation, "by 3:00. How far is this Brogboro place? I never heard of it." He was once again all business, no trace of emotion.
"Oi'm not sure," Sam looked at Al for prompting. "Oi'll be needing a map."
"Ask at reception. They'll get hold of one for you." Strickland could have been discussing plans for a picnic, but Sam could hear the underlying tension in his words.
"That's a good idea, Sam. At this distance, Ziggy's bound to need all the navigation aids you can get."
Further discussion was cut off by the return of Otis with the news that the chauffeur from 'Edwardian' was waiting out front in a white stretch Lincoln.
Lyle immediately gathered his papers into a leather briefcase and they departed with no more from the father than "Leave you to it then, Mary."
"Unbelievable." Al pronounced, shaking his head. "What is it with that guy? Doesn't he have any idea what's going on? Or is it just that he doesn't care at all?"
"Oh, Oi'm sure he cares deeply, Al," Sam corrected. "He just doesn't know how to show it Oi guess."
"No kidding. That much I had noticed."
"Pretty obvious, huh?"
"Does Dolly Parton sleep on her back?" said with a smile and a twinkle in his eye.
Sam shot his friend a reproachful look, and changed the subject.
"What about the mother, Rachel? Is she back State-side? Shouldn't she be told? Even if they are divorced, she still has a right to know her kids are in danger."
Al was surprised. Firstly, that Sam had got the mother's name right and secondly that he had gotten the marital status so very wrong.
"I don't know where you're getting your information, pal," he scolded, "but you're way off base." He repeated what Mary had told him about Rachel's illness and sudden demise.
"Probably PRD," responded Sam automatically, with the confidence of an experienced diagnostician.
"Say what?" countered Al, with the ignorance of the layman.
"Polycystic Renal Disease," explained Dr. Beckett, "that nearly always affects both kidneys. It's fairly common. Can tend to run in families…" Sam stopped, caught his breath, and then stared at Al. "Is there a history? Are either of the girls going to inherit it?" Sam gestured at the hand link, desperate for answers.
Obligingly, Al pressed the necessary buttons. He shook his head.
"Amazing, Sam, I'm impressed. Ziggy confirms she did have PRD. We can't tell about the girls, I'm afraid. Ziggy says there are too many variables and not strong enough odds on them surviving the current danger. Neither of Rachel's parents had it though, only a cousin so far as we can tell, and the girls haven't exhibited any symptoms to date, so maybe they'll be lucky."
"Tis devoutly to be wished," uttered Sam, his hands clasped together in supplication. The thought of saving their lives only to consign them to the same problems that had beset their mother was unendurable.
"Don't sweat it, Sam," advised Al, "One crisis at a time, huh?" he paused, "Two at the most."
They both forced a laugh.
Sam knew what Al meant. The relative comfort of the four-poster bed still beckoned from the bedroom. He turned a deaf ear to its call. Although still unable to ignore his pain completely, he was somehow managing to relegate it to the dimmer recesses of his consciousness.
Not so far that his friend couldn't see the effort it was costing him, of course.
"Hang in there, kid. Rest up 'til the cash gets here. There's not a lot you can do before then. May as well conserve energy."
"Whatever you say, doc," mocked Sam, settling back in his chair, knowing full well that had their positions been reversed he would have offered much the same advice, and expected it to be followed to the letter.
Al favored him with a sly smile and called up his door.
Sam sat perfectly still, watching the spot where the bright rectangle had swallowed his companion for a full minute or more after it disappeared, as if he suspected it may return to catch him out. Then, with the furtive look of a knowing transgressor, he let out a weary sigh and got to his feet.
"Oh sure, Oi could take it easy," he said to no-one, "but then how am Oi supposed to get meself back in gear when Oi need to?" No-one answered. The way Sam felt, if he dared to 'rest up' now, it would take nothing short of a tornado to shift him when the time came. 'Wrap me up and label me "Not to be opened until Christmas"' he mused. Let Al think he was being sensible. No point in worrying him -even less in arguing with him.
"Oh well," Sam told himself, "here goes nothing."
Twenty minutes and a couple of aspirin later, Sam had managed to make it down to the hotel lobby. He'd rejected the option of relying on room service. The suite was starting to feel claustrophobic, and he figured he'd better not try to drive before he could walk.
He approached the main desk – a solid, paneled, mahogany monstrosity that dominated the area. Firmly entrenched behind this wooden barricade, the receptionist was busy berating a pair of gossiping bellboys. This was evidently the slow part of the day, with very few guests checking in or checking out, but she was making it abundantly clear that they should appear ready for action at all times. Slacking would not be tolerated.
With a stern look, she nodded in Sam's direction and they snapped to attention. Sam's sympathies went out to the lads, who visibly trembled under the onslaught of this sharp-tongued martinet.
Her manner changed totally when she addressed Sam. Charm turned on like a tap; smile carefully contrived to appear genuine and natural.
"Good morning, Madam. I trust you are enjoying your stay with us. How may I assist you?"
Sam winced almost imperceptibly at her words. 'Enjoy my stay? Hah! For sure, so far it's been a barrel load of laughs and no mistake.'
He forced a grin, which he reckoned to be pretty much as natural as her own, and replied lightly, "Top o' the mornin' t'you too, m'dear. Would ya be after knowing where Oi might be able t'lay me hands on some road maps?"
Sam thought he caught an odd look from her at this request, but it was there and gone in a nano-second, and he concluded that it was probably just wild imaginings and blurred vision. His mind was playing all sorts of tricks on him this morning. He even fancied that both this young woman's face and her voice were familiar to him. Yet he was positive he had never seen her before. Her flowing locks were such a striking shade of dark ruby red that once seen could never be forgotten. Sam figured that Mary must have met her the day before when they checked in and – like the accent – the memory had lingered on. The badge on the breast pocket of her smart, well-pressed uniform identified her as Miss H Brookes.
"Planning a touch of sight-seeing?" she enquired conversationally.
"Somet'ing loike dat," evaded Sam.
Miss Brookes reached beneath the counter and produced a small paperback with blue and red writing on a white cover pronouncing it to be the 'A to Z of London'. She pushed it across to Sam with another gushing smile. "Compliments of the management."
One glance told the traveler that it was not all he needed.
"T'ank ya kindly, young lady, but we were t'inking of goin' a bit further afield. Oi'll be needing somet'ing wit' the motorways on it as well. Is dere somewhere Oi could buy…?"
"Oh, of course. One moment please." She ducked down behind the desk and began rummaging through cubbyholes. Sam leant on the countertop and took the opportunity to close his eyes momentarily in the hope that when he re-opened them the lobby would be docked in calmer waters.
"Ah, here we are!"
Startled, Sam opened his eyes and forced them to focus as she handed him a spiral bound tome containing detailed maps of the entire British Isles.
She looked at him with what passed for concern. "Are you alright, Madam? You look very pale. Can I get you something?"
"T'ank you, m'dear, Oi'm perfectly fine," he lied, "Just me time o' life." He whispered conspiratorially.
"Well then, this should have everything you could possibly need." Miss Brookes informed him, with a curious edge to her voice. Then she flashed him her professional smile again.
"May I recommend you try a day trip down to Brighton? There's plenty for the children even at this time of year, and you could take in Poole. I'm sure you'd love the potteries."
"Sounds lovely, we may do that." Sam was rifling through the gazetteer, anxious to find his target. His response was polite but dismissive and he started to move off so that he could study his route in privacy. Holding the books up and waving them at shoulder height in farewell as he departed, his breeding led him to conclude with a "T'ank you."
Watching him go the receptionist allowed herself a gloating grin. The silly old cow had looked straight at her but not recognized her. She had known she could get away with it but it had still been risky. She shuddered, wiping the merest hint of sweat from her palms. She was so high on the thrill of her own audacity as to be practically orgasmic. What if the old girl had identified her and raised the alarm? But no, she had it too well orchestrated for that. The stupid bitch would be looking for a blond, not a redhead, and the last thing she would expect – anyone would expect – would be for the kidnapper to turn up, bold as brass, at the scene of the crime and put in a normal day's work. It meant trusting Henry to play minder to the brats, but then she had them so well sewn up they could be left more or less unattended 'til she got back.
They couldn't go anywhere.
Honor Brookes was well pleased with the way things were going. No police plodding around trying to look unobtrusive, and every indication that the ransom would be paid. Providing Henry didn't screw up, she was home free.
She had fumed when he'd called her back after the ransom message. She'd told him clearly and repeatedly that direct contact was a definite no-no, and it had taken all her self-control to talk to him without giving herself away. His news had actually pleased her when she thought about it, especially since she'd seen the old girl's condition. She hadn't been fooled for a moment. The Nanny was patently still suffering from the blow that clumsy oaf Henry had dealt her. Honor was going to enjoy giving her the run-around. Suddenly the game had gained a whole new dimension and she felt a tingle of anticipation run up and down her spine. She couldn't remember when she'd had so much fun.
