"You cannot fully appreciate the repercussions of your … actions." Winston stated; he did not bother to elaborate, but she certainly felt like pressing the issue.
Logan reflected upon his somber words as he studied something hidden within his hands.
Of course she understood somewhat the severity of her actions. She knew John was to be protected, she understood he'd drawn the proverbial short-straw. Anything else, she was clueless. From the moment John crossed her threshold, dripping in blood and rainwater, she was grasping for insight and understanding. Little had changed since then. What Logan discovered, was how woefully and inadequately prepared she was to negotiate her way within John's treacherous coterie.
"Trust me when I say I fully intended to remove you from this earth and leave nothing of you for your family to mourn. Ah, but for the coins and the Marker … The ring certainly gave me pause. However, if not for the picture, Miss Ryder ..." Winston's pale eyes took on a dangerous gleam as his ominous words hung in the air.
Logan swallowed thickly, fully aware of his thinly veiled threat.
"Jonathan is a remarkable man," Winston continued with an indulgent, almost proud smile. "Every child has a moment in life, when they realize they're afraid, that there are things and people they should avoid. Sometimes ... they see something in the dark, but weren't quite certain what it was, or what it is they glimpsed. That fear follows them as they mature; the uncertainty, the unknown thing in the dark - staring at them, hidden within the thick shadows. Their fears have become a real and tangible terror. As adults, it never truly goes away. It changes, from monster to man." He set aside the item in his lap: Logan's family portrait. "That monster — for the lot of our kind, is John Wick." He turned his icy gaze back to her and laced his fingers together. "But there are many like him, even if they do fall short of true glory."
True glory, she knew, was the crown and throne claimed by John alone.
She eyed the picture. A knot constricting her throat. "So what does that have to do with me still being here?" The picture stopped him but how? More importantly, why? Was there something or someone in the picture that What spared her life?
Winston smiled, pleased with her query.
"You created a ripple in this proverbial pool of blood; John has affected many lives, both for good and terrible. This is merely a chemical reaction, a long, harrowing chain of events. They will hunt for you like they hunted for him."
She wondered who they were, the same perpetually ubiquitous fiends that had chopped up her mother?
"What about the picture?" She reminded him, eager to know why of all things she possessed it was that that saved her life.
"I beg your pardon?"
"The picture," she gave it a hard stare before shifting it towards Winston. "Why are you so fond of it?"
Winston smirked. "You poor child. You truly have no idea." He drew quiet, ending that vein of discussion.
Flexing her jaw in aggravation, Logan sank back into her seat as a wave of nausea overcame her. Too much was happening; she needed to be still - to breathe and think.
Winston watched her carefully.
The room around them grew quiet, sans the clock. If under different circumstances, she probably would have found the dwelling charming and distinguished. Given it more appreciation unfortunately…
"I can't stay here," she told the manager simply, as she slowly and carefully stood. She got what she wanted and that was news of John's death out. If they came for her, that gave him and her father time to plan.
She plucked up her heels and moved towards the door. On her way past, she picked up her clutch, hopeful they still held her car keys.
Everything else was no use to her now. And after the nightmare, she really didn't want to see or think about Jennifer. She only needed the coins to get into the Continental, now that she was here, she wanted out. The Marker, well that was something else entirely.
The picture… she thought, fuck that picture.
"You could go out there," Winston called over his shoulder as she reached for the door. "But you won't last." The warning went unheeded.
Her job here was done.
She opened the door and said over her shoulder,
"If they're out hunting for me then they're not hunting for him."
The door to his study slammed shut. Winston listened to the steady ticking of the grandfather clock against the wall; in his mind's eye, he replayed and reflected upon the young woman's words, the subtle nuances and telling gestures of her body language.
Miss Ryder was not telling him everything.
But neither was Winston.
Upon the end table was her cell phone, the coins and the Marker. At his side was the picture she left behind. If she had asked for it, he would have obliged. Because she didn't had Winston wondering if there were troubling waters between the Ryder family.
He picked up the phone and powered it on.
The screen lit up; as it went through its reboot, Winston made himself an espresso. The machine hummed and whirred, heating his drink and pouring it into a dainty, white cup seconds later.
A tentative sip first, then he returned to the phone.
There were several notifications, including text messages, voice mails, and missed calls crowding the screen. He dismissed them all, found the last call made and dialed the number.
It was answered mid-ring.
"Logan?" The voice shook, desperate and familiar. "Logan, where are you?"
"Mr. Ryder, good morning." Winston smiled, turning towards the window. Beyond it, the towering city strained into the sky like crooked teeth. It was a clear gorgeous morning. The sun was ascending a cloudless sky, the pigeons strutted along the cement, searching the manicured shrubs for morsels. The courtyard was abundant in vegetation and blooms, swaying with a gentle breeze.
And most of all, John-alive.
The familiar voice, back from the dead, sighed in defeat.
"Winston, please." Ryder's voice cracked. "Where's my daughter?"
"She just left," Winston muttered, smirking. That answered that question. "May I speak to Jonathan?"
There was a clattering on the other end, like the phone was dropped. Winston waited. Unbeknownst to him, he was worrying. The fingers on his free hand worried the hem of his waistcoat, adjusting and readjusting. He checked his watch. Neither Miss Ryder or her father depicted any indications of deception. But he couldn't stall the pessimism.
A few seconds later, a new voice came on the line.
"Hello Winston."
Relief washed over him like a cool breeze, steadying his heart.
Winston smiled again. It was going to be a good day.
"My dear Jonathan." The kingpin said softly. "I thought you were dead."
"Not yet." John replied.
There was a pause.
"Where is she?"
"She just left." Winston answered, "Where are you?"
"Texas." John replied, "Why did she say to you?"
Winston was thoughtful. "That she killed you; to call off the search. But we both know the Camorra will want a body; they always do." Winston paused, contemplating. "Did you put her up to this?"
"I didn't," John admitted.
That surprised Winston, especially now that he knew John currently resided with Mr. Ryder, an old associate who all this time Winston believed to be deceased; a trendy affair, it seemed. He thought of the younger, fairer Ryder, just as pigheaded and brazen as her father. Now that his suspicions were confirmed, he could see their similarities. The freckles and pale eyes. Miss Ryder's hair was a dark brown, but he could see hues of red against the sunrise.
Funny, he mused. The apple truly never falls far from the tree.
Perhaps he could let the past go. Water under the bridge, as they say. If it meant helping John survive, Winston could bend the rules.
Without rules, though… A bridge he'd rather not cross, he thought. If word of his corroboration reached any ears...
Sighing, Winston sat his coffee down and said, "Nonetheless, she's here and the word is spreading. My stipulations remain, Jonathan." He paused, allowing his words to gain weight and severity. "You are still ex-communicado, but I will do what I can."
"Thank you," John said.
"Fare well, Jonathan; I have several calls to make."