They had headed east from Tunbridge Wells and spent the next few days and nights in a small cabin at the far side of a traveler’s lodge just west of an area called Lamberhurst. Adam had used Richard Lyle’s identification to rent one of the units at the back of the property. They left the cabin rarely, only for the kids to play in a run-down common playground, or for Kate and Trudy to drive to a Tesco for supplies. Adam watched the news whenever the kids were outside, trying to keep as close to real time as he could.
There was chatter on all of the cable outlets, all around the world. The press were hanging on even tighter than Adam. Thankfully, there was still no mention of him, the conference, HGI, Heaton, or, worse, “the Michigan radical that tried to kill the governor.” The talk was all politics, terrorism, the health of Lassiter, and who would run the Labour Party in the days ahead.
Inside the press glare, even as the dark drama washed over the airwaves, there were moments of levity that were, of course, lost on Adam. He watched wearily as the world news played and replayed footage of Georgia Turnbull falling asleep in the House of Commons at PMQs as the press heartily enjoyed her quick riposte to the portly opposition leader.
It was the evening of their fourth night at the cabin when it became time to leave. The Daily Mail had the story of Richard’s murder. The killers were said to have escaped in Richard Lyle’s aunt’s 1969 Volvo, of which the paper ran a photo. It wouldn’t be long before someone recognized the antique Volvo in front of the cabin. Adam figured that the powers that be were by now on the trail. For some reason the media had been left to twist in the wind as he was quietly hunted. He knew it wouldn’t be long, and even if the government didn’t make a formal statement, the media horde would put it together soon enough. The connection to the Heaton Global conference and “the nutter from Michigan” would be a new pail of chum for the sharks any hour now. In the meantime, he was checked into the lodge as Richard Lyle, a man who had been recently shot through the head, and was driving an old car being sought by the authorities and the press. They had to leave. Now.
They had nowhere else to go so they headed back, west and north, toward London. The best plan he could muster was to see Beau and Tiffany in Shoreditch.
* * *
ADAM MADE KATE promise not to say a word to Tiffany. The kids wouldn’t because they were embarrassed, he knew that—embarrassed and in shock at the thought that their father may once again be involved in an intense criminal scandal. No, the kids weren’t going to be a problem. It was Kate. She would crack soon. It was only a matter of time before she lost her composure, said something to someone she shouldn’t say. He could feel her, a dam ready to burst.
As they neared London, Adam had a troubling thought: Gordon. He broke an icy spell of silence that had persisted since Lamberhurst.
“Does your father know where Beau and Tiffany live? Does he know anything about them?”
“No. Why would he?”
“I don’t know. Have you ever mentioned them to him? I need to know if he knows anything about Beauregard, about us having friends in Shoreditch. I don’t want to be surprised again by Heaton’s thugs.” What he really wanted to say was that he didn’t want to get Beauregard and his family killed.
“No, my father doesn’t know about them. I’ve never breathed a word to him about them.”
“How do you know? How can you be so sure?” She took a moment, then finally spoke, as if telling a truth on herself she hadn’t intended on sharing.
“Because I didn’t tell him on purpose, from the beginning, when we made friends in Michigan.”
He turned to his wife. She sat in severe rigidity. Her skin was tight, her jawline hard. She was bracing herself, preparing to put the ice wall back up, yet still trying to stay in the moment with him, trying to be there for all of them as they drove into a chapter of their lives that had nothing good to offer.
“I didn’t want him to be jealous that I had made friends with people from home. I know that sounds stupid, but you need to remember how wounded he was that I wasn’t coming back to Britain, that I was firm set on living in America forever.”
“He could have easily hopped on a plane, you know. All those years, it wasn’t all on us. Other people do it all the time, visit family far away.” Kate nodded. It wasn’t a debate she wished to pursue. Whatever had gone wrong between her father and her had happened too long ago, and too far away. Gordon’s actions in the present were enough to upset her for a lifetime; she couldn’t be bothered with what did or didn’t happen almost twenty years ago.
* * *
ADAM AND KATE and the kids dropped in unannounced at the McCalisters’ flat at around eleven p.m. Beau and Tiffany were, to say the least, shocked. In the age of smartphones, people don’t just surprise one another, and certainly not whole families. Adam quietly pulled Beau aside and explained that there was trouble, that they needed a place to stay until he could sort things out. Beau didn’t blink; Tiffany wasn’t the least bit fazed, either. She just turned and headed toward a closet full of spare sheets and blankets.
Within minutes the Tatums had taken over the guest room. The kids would sleep on the floor in sleeping bags; Adam and Kate would have the lumpy oversized spare bed. Beau and Tiff quietly checked in with each other when they were first briefly alone. It was fine. They both assumed that Adam had lost his job. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Beau wondered if the bombing had something to do with their stricken visitors. Perhaps, he thought, the unexpected event had crimped Heaton Global’s business model, which would then have adversely affected Adam. In no way could Beauregard imagine the real reason the Tatum family was on their own, lost, slightly disheveled, knocking on the door of his seventh-floor flat in the middle of the night.
Adam suggested that he and Beau take a ride around the city. He needed some time to unload and strategize. He spoke in short, clipped, grim clouds of speech, his voice for some reason slower and an octave lower than Beau remembered it being. Of course he said yes. It was obvious that Adam was in the middle of something profound. Who could say no to a friend in a moment like this?
When they got to the curb, Adam walked over to the old brown beat-up Volvo.
“Where the hell did you get this one, Adam? It’s got to be thirty years since it’s had a car wash.”
“It belonged to Kate’s old boyfriend. We had to borrow it. Can you follow me for a while in your car? I need to get rid of this and then I can’t walk back or take a bus or the Tube. Too many cameras.”
“Too many cameras?… I don’t get it. What are you afraid of?”
“I’m afraid of everything.”
“What’s going on, Adam?”
“I’m gonna tell you. I just need to get rid of this car first. Can you follow me?” Beau thought quickly and nodded yes. He wasn’t sure how many more yeses he could offer, but he got his car from the building garage and followed Adam in the old Volvo out into the London night.
They drove through Shoreditch and snaked their way down toward the river on Brick Lane into Osborn Street, taking every turn as if Adam knew precisely where they were going, but he didn’t have a clue. He just drove, wanting to put as much distance between Beau’s house and the car when he dumped it, but without going too far away, not wanting to be spotted or stopped on a long ride back. Beau played along, following in his car. He wanted to ring Adam on his mobile but knew Adam had “lost” his phone, so he put up with the wild, curious drive for as long as it would last.
When they hit Wapping Gardens, a block or two north of the river, Adam ducked into the parking lot of a block of council flats and found an empty spot. He waited for Beau to pull in, got out, and jumped into the passenger side of Beau’s car. There was nothing to take: what luggage and supplies they had, along with Richard’s father’s shotgun and pistol, were all hidden in the guest room back at the McCalisters’ flat. Adam even left the key in the ignition.
“Go. Quick. Take off.” Beau looked at him and wasn’t sure for a second that this wasn’t a put-on. Adam locked weary eyes with Beau and told him with a look that there was no punch line coming.
“Drive, Beau. Please, let’s go.” Beau pulled out. Adam burrowed low into the depths of the bucket seat. The streetlights came and went; the car interior flickered between piercing brightness and calming dark, surfing from one pool of light to the next as they drove away from the Thames.
“What is it, Adam? Tell me what’s going on.” They barreled ahead, taking one short turn after another, slithering through the empty city streets. Sometime later, about halfway to Shoreditch, Adam told Beau the whole sordid tale, beat for beat, the unvarnished truth. He had nothing to hide; there was no reason to leave anything out, so he didn’t.