Chapter Ten – Atonement

Nottingham ignored the sideways glances of the security guards for the estate as they reluctantly let him pass, no doubt by order of Irons himself.   Surely there was no dictum about letting the pig into the slaughterhouse.  There was an outside chance the glances were due to the Led Zepplin T-shirt he wore, which was very uncharacteristic of him.  But more than likely, they may have wondered why he had returned at all, when most of them would have left Irons' cruelty long ago.  A bright streak of orange blazed across a deep blue sky.  The sun had started to set on what had been an almost perfect day, but Annie was on her way to Oregon and Sara…well, there was his beloved Sara.  His long walk back to the estate had brought no better solution to his dilemma regarding the wielder.

As he meandered up the path from the front gate, he surveyed the grounds.  They were beautiful this time of year, but nothing seemed familiar.  The only place he wanted to be was with her.  The front doors of the estate loomed ahead.  The feeling was not unlike a prisoner walking the last mile, he presumed.  Maybe there was no presumption to it, for a part of him would die when he entered this time.  Stopping on the front step with eyes closed, he placed his right hand on the door as he took a deep breath.  For Lady Sara, he reminded himself.

Walking through the threshold, he stood just inside the entry listening for him.  Nottingham was not sure how much physical abuse his body could take, on top of the last flogging he had sustained.  But he was determined to survive for Sara.  He would do anything to protect her…anything.  Slowly, he headed for the Great Room, the site of his last torture.  This was Irons' usual spot this time of day.   The fire was ablaze in the hearth but Irons was nowhere to be found.  The expression on his face did not give away the slight elation he had felt not finding his master right away.  Being a realist, however, he knew this was only a delay of the inevitable.

The stairs to his room lay ahead.  With much deliberation, he climbed them, hoping to have some time to himself to shower and change before having to face his master.  As was customary, the door to his room was closed.  A mockery of privacy, for he had none at the estate.  Moving into his quarters, he closed the door behind him and stepped over to the console table to his right to turn on the table lamp.  With downcast eyes, he stared at the all too familiar lamp, allowing himself to be distracted as he tried to picture Sara's face.  Suddenly, his heart leapt, as he became aware of another presence in the room just behind him.

"So…Has the prodigal son returned?" 

Nottingham did not have to turn around to know the chilling voice of his master, Kenneth Irons.  Closing his eyes, he prepared for what was to come.  No answer was going to be acceptable, so Nottingham responded with his silence.

"I have come to the rather painful conclusion that I have failed with you…as your master."  Irons spoke in hushed tones; but then again, a snake could be at your feet without making a sound. 

Ian turned to face Irons' retribution as he leaned against the console table.  Irons had spoken of his failure, but as Ian knew from past experience, Irons never acknowledged his own shortcomings, but was going to blame Ian for their failed relationship.  His master had been sitting on Ian's bed in his custom-made, dark blue Italian suit with one of many designer red power ties, a matching kerchief in his pocket.  There was not a hair out of place.  He looked as if he had just stepped off the cover of GQ magazine.  There was a time when Ian had admired his sense of style, but of late, his attire had only reminded him of the luxurious striped coat of the most deadly tiger.  Although the tiger's fur was beautiful, it was still the last thing its prey would see before having its jugular ripped out.

"I keep trying to change your behavior but you keep doing what you will do…to spite me.  You get more willful everyday." 

Irons had been watching Ian, hoping to make him feel more uncomfortable by now.  Nottingham just stared at him, without any indication of his emotions.  Perhaps Irons had taught him well.  Still, this lack of reaction angered Irons.  This was only proof of how much his servant had changed over the years. 

As a child and into his teenage years, Nottingham had been easy to read and desperately strived to please his master.  Somewhere along the line, he had gotten smarter at his passive resistance game.  Irons could not prove, in many instances, if he failed on a mission because of circumstances out of his control or because of a deliberate, well thought out failure of his own making.  Nottingham had learned to play chess from the master, and he had learned the game and its principles well.

Nottingham had played this blame game with Irons countless times before, growing more tired of it as the years passed.  He knew Irons had an agenda that was to be forthcoming.  Expressionless, he waited for Irons to divulge his destination, for there was no point to rushing him.  His master relished the journey only secondarily to its conclusion.

"We cannot continue like this…you and I."  Again, Irons waited for a reaction from Nottingham, but Ian refused to give him the satisfaction.  This angered Irons even more.  He started to clinch his jaw, glaring more pointedly at Ian.

"Do you think me a fool?  It is obvious you wish to serve the wielder solely as your master."  Nottingham blinked, giving himself away.  Although what Irons had said was true, Ian had not even come to the same conclusion as yet.  Irons continued.

"I created you…made you what you are…gave you the opportunity to serve her.  And this is how you have repaid me."  Irons' voice was shaking with rage.

"Well…I am offering you the ultimate opportunity to serve the Lady Sara."  Irons said smugly.

Nottingham's reaction could not be abridged.  Was Irons offering him an opportunity to serve Sara exclusively?  If this were true, would he remain Irons' confidante in all things…to protect her from his master?  Nottingham waited for the other shoe to drop, for his master always knew how to set him up.

"It seems your precious Lady Sara has a deadline, no pun intended.  Captain Dante has been instructed to kill Detective Pezzini by midnight tonight…unless he hears from me, of course."  Irons was finally getting the reaction he had planned from Nottingham.  His eyes had not strayed from those of his master.  Irons could also tell by the rise and fall of his servant's shoulders that his breathing was erratic as his anxiety level mounted.  Nottingham could not hide his true feelings any longer.  Since he now had an audience, Irons continued with supreme confidence.

"You may ask yourself…What does he want?  What would it take to have him call this whole thing off?"  Even though Irons was taking his own sweet time with his delivery, Nottingham knew where he was going.  His eyes welled with tears for he could not believe it had come to this.

From behind his back, Irons pulled out a 38-caliber Smith and Wesson handgun, along with a piece of paper and pen, laying it conspicuously on the middle of the bed. With an arrogant look in his eyes and with frigidity even Ian would not have believed possible, Irons continued.

"You have failed me…but you can still serve Lady Sara…by making the ultimate sacrifice…your life for hers.  I have even provided you some paper so you can write her a suicide note…for her eyes only.  I will deliver it to her myself."

His tears could no longer be hidden.  They streamed down his face, awash with all of his memories.  Irons had been the closest relationship Nottingham had to a father.  For Irons to desire his suicide and provide the weapon to do it, it was as if he had reached into his chest and pulled out his beating heart.  His father had severed all ties with him, his son, and was now asking him to do the same. 

Images flashed into his mind of the many moments he had experienced with this 'father' of his.  Irons was a master at taking their dysfunctional relationship and contriving circumstances to place the blame for their dysfunction at Ian's door, in much the same manner as an abusive parent controls a battered child.  Most of the memories were harsh, but through it all, Nottingham had tried desperately to please him, never succeeding.  Maybe he could succeed in this, his final demand.

Nottingham knew that he had always wanted more than Irons was capable of giving.  Yet, Ian had continued to love him like a father.  What Irons had said had been true.  He had ultimately failed him.  But he would not fail her.  It was now in his power to save Lady Sara's life.

"Do what must be done, young Nottingham.  Ultimately, I am sure you will thank me for this opportunity to serve her.  It shall be a mercy."

Nottingham, growing more despondent, walked across the room to sit on the far corner of his bed, opposite his master.  The futility of his life…his despair…had encased him in its web.  The tears refused to come any more.  He stared out the window nearest him that overlooked the well-manicured, pristine grounds of his father's…his master's estate.  The gardens were truly beautiful this time of year, he thought as he reached for the paper and pen.

Irons sensed Nottingham could no longer hear him.  He stepped toward the door, looking back only once…it was done.  As Kenneth Irons closed the door to Ian's room, the magnitude of what he had asked his loyal servant to do hit him like floodwaters, yet he could not make himself reverse the course of its currents. 

His pride would not allow it.

Irons made his way towards the Great Room.  He would have a sherry and sit by the fire in his favorite chair, and try to forget the knot of regret in his stomach.  The fire warmed his face but his heart remained as cold as his words to Ian.  He tried to repress the many memories he was conjuring in his head, images of Ian as a child, a youngster who only wanted to serve his master.

"When can I learn to fight, master?"  Even then, as a young boy, his eyes were as intense as they were today.  The pervasive sadness didn't come until much later.

"Be patient, young Nottingham.  All in good time, lad."  Irons had a mound of clay standing before him, a pliable willing minion at his beck and call.

"Where did you go, young Nottingham?" Irons muttered to himself, starting on his third glass of sherry.

His mind would not stop the instant replay of his life with Ian.  The tireless discipline he had when he was a boy trying hard to become Irons protégé was only a small measure of his devotion.  Irons had played countless chess matches with his eager, young student, played solely to teach the advantage of strategy and defeating an opponent.  Nottingham had been a willing and open book for Irons' instruction and eager to reflect Irons' sense of morality in his earlier years. 

As Irons tested his student's willingness to blindly accept his commands, he found Ian had developed a threshold of tolerance that could not be overrun.  Even though Irons was openly critical of this, he would not have respected Nottingham if he had just blindly obeyed without question.  Further, his loyal servant endured the painful genetics enhancements and chemicals, trying only to please his master.  The mental and physical abuse dished out by Irons to appease his own emotions, at the expense of his young warrior, was now being recalled in great detail, including the lashing he suffered only recently.  Nottingham had never once raised his hand to his master although he had been given much provocation.  Again, an example of his love and devotion to a man he looked upon as his father.

Irons had not noticed when his tears had started to flow.  He just saw their wet reflection in the crystal he brought to his lips, trying to drown his remorse.  Looking at the clock, he was amazed to notice he had been sitting there over a half-hour since walking down from Nottingham's room. 

Maybe there was still time.  Maybe he could find another way.

Irons set his glass down and bolted to the door of the Great Room, desperately hoping he would be in time.  His heart raced as he dared to hope.  Before he had taken a few steps, the ear shattering blast of gunfire ripped through his head and his heart, doubling him over in pain and sorrow as he collapsed to the floor.  His grief manifested itself in a long, slow moan that had escaped from deep within his soul.

He was too late.  This could not be fixed.  Young Nottingham was no more.  Images of Ian as a child…as a young man…as his loyal servant flashed in his head, he could not stop the flood of memories…or the guilt.  His purveyor of justice…his confidante…his faithful servant…his son…was forever gone.  You could not convince Irons that he had not suffered a gapping hole to his chest with that gunfire, for the agony of his culpability made it feel as if he would soon die…of the broken heart he had a hand in making.

It took Irons a long while to notice the servants were agitated over hearing the sound of gunfire.  He became aware of them chattering about the sound coming from Nottingham's room…and how it was deathly quiet in there now.  One brave soul, a long time servant named Benjamin, had found Irons crumpled on the floor, with eyes glazed over.

"Sir…I believe I have heard a gunshot coming from Mr. Nottingham's room.  The door is closed and I do not wish to intrude.  Is there something you wish me to do?"  Benjamin's voice was trembling.  He had only ventured a few feet into the room.  It took Irons a while to hear what Benjamin had conveyed.

"Bring me a phone…I need to make a call."  Irons' voice was so low Benjamin had barely heard him from where he had been standing.  He hurriedly moved across the room to grab the remote phone off the console table on the far wall.  He conveyed it to Irons before he departed the room, closing the doors to give him some privacy.

"Captain Dante…I have a situation here at the estate.  It seems…" Irons' voice was failing him.  The words were too difficult to say…giving voice to the finality of the act.

"It seems Ian Nottingham may have…committed suicide.  I need you to be discreet."  He disconnected the phone, dropping it to the floor, without waiting for a response from Dante.

There would be no redemption, no atonement for his sins.  It was done.