Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three

RETRIBUTION

THE SECOND CHANCES TRILOGY

BOOK THREE

A NOVEL BY

M. M. MAYLE

—INDIAN RIVER INK—

ALSO BY M. M. MAYLE

REVENANT RISING

RESURGENCE

RETRIBUTION
Copyright © 2012 by M. M. Mayle.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced,
scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form
without the written permission of the author.

Published in the United States of America.

This book is a work of fiction. The literary insights
and perceptions contained herein are based on experience;
all names, characters, places, organizations,
and incidents are either the product of the author’s
imagination or used fictitiously.

ISBN: 1467926884
ISBN-13: 9781467926881
eBook ISBN: 978-1-62111-183-2

Library of Congress Control Number: 2011960514
CreateSpace, North Charleston, SC

…Payback’s a bitch.

—Various

TITLE PAGE

COPYRIGHT PAGE

DEDICATION

PREFACE

ONE: Midafternoon, August 14, 1987

TWO: Morning, August 15, 1987

THREE: Late morning, August 15, 1987

FOUR: Early afternoon, August 15, 1987

FIVE: Midafternoon, August 15, 1987

SIX: Early evening, August 15, 1987

SEVEN: Evening, August 15, 1987

EIGHT: Morning, August 16, 1987

NINE: Early afternoon, August 16, 1987

TEN: Morning, August 17, 1987

ELEVEN: Late afternoon, August 17, 1987

TWELVE: Evening, August 19, 1987

THIRTEEN: Morning, August 28, 1987

FOURTEEN: Early afternoon, August 28, 1987

FIFTEEN: Late afternoon, August 28, 1987

SIXTEEN: Midday, September 13, 1987

SEVENTEEN: Late night, September 13, 1987

EIGHTEEN: Early morning, September 14, 1987

NINETEEN: Noon, September 14, 1987

TWENTY: Early morning, September 15, 1987

TWENTY-ONE: Late morning, September 15, 1987

TWENTY-TWO: Midafternoon, September 15, 1987

TWENTY-THREE: Late afternoon, September 15, 1987

TWENTY-FOUR: Early evening, September 15, 1987

TWENTY-FIVE: Early morning, September 16, 1987

TWENTY-SIX: Midday, September 19, 1987

TWENTY-SEVEN: Late afternoon, September 19, 1987

TWENTY-EIGHT: Early evening, September 19, 1987

TWENTY-NINE: Evening, September 19, 1987

THIRTY: Afternoon, September 26, 1987

THIRTY-ONE: Late evening, September 26, 1987

THIRTY-TWO: Midmorning, September 28, 1987

THIRTY-THREE: Midday, September 28, 1987

THIRTY-FOUR: Afternoon, September 28, 1987

THIRTY-FIVE: Evening, September 28, 1987

THIRTY-SIX: Late evening, September 28, 1987

THIRTY-SEVEN: Dawn, September 29, 1987

THIRTY-EIGHT: Early morning, September 29, 1987

THIRTY-NINE: Morning, September 29, 1987

FORTY: Afternoon, September 29, 1987

FORTY-ONE: Late afternoon, September 30, 1987

FORTY-TWO: Late afternoon, October 3, 1987

FORTY-THREE: Early evening, October 3, 1987

FORTY-FOUR: Morning, October 8, 1987

FORTY-FIVE: Early afternoon, October 8, 1987

FORTY-SIX: Afternoon, October 8, 1987

FORTY-SEVEN: Early morning, October 9, 1986

FORTY-EIGHT: Late afternoon, October 15, 1987

FORTY-NINE: Dusk, October 15, 1987

FIFTY: Early evening, October 15, 1987

FIFTY-ONE: Evening, October 15, 1987

FIFTY-TWO: Night, October 15, 1987

FIFTY-THREE: Night, October 15, 1987

FIFTY-FOUR: Deepening night, October 15, 1987

FIFTY-FIVE: Late night, October 15, 1987

FIFTY-SIX: Approaching midnight, October 16, 1987

FIFTY-SEVEN: Midnight, October 16, 1987

FIFTY-EIGHT: Just after midnight, October 16, 1987

FIFTY-NINE: Early hours, October 16, 1987

SIXTY: Early hours of October 16, 1987

SIXTY-ONE: Late morning, October 16, 1987

AUTHOR’S NOTE

The only other time Nate Isaacs felt this dependent on the mercy of strangers was that long-ago night when he went looking for help in the suffocating darkness of Northern Michigan. On that occasion, he at least had his own transportation. Here, within the artificial darkness that descended following the actualization of his worst fears, he’s not only denied an independent means of seeking help, he’s obstructed by the help that has arrived.

On a mid-August Friday afternoon in Manhattan, the staff is just going through the motions, more focused on how they’ll be spending the weekend than anything else. That includes Nate, who buzzes Lillian, the office manager, and instructs her to send everyone home and close up for the day.

At home, Nate leafs through the mail, ignores anything resembling yet another invitation to a house party in Sagaponak or extended stay on the Vineyard. He similarly spurns phone messages from other ambitious hostesses and a couple of former fuck buddies who just won’t give up. He goes to the kitchen for a beer, eyes the phone there, pretends he’s not hoping it will ring with an overseas call even though it’s too early to hear from Amanda.

Everything he sees increases longing. He avoids the breakfast table setting where he first told Amanda he loved her and moves into the library, where it’s impossible not to recall her teary-eyed reaction to the Klimt portraits on her first visit there. He abandons that evocative atmosphere for the study, where he’s immediately reminded of Amanda’s commonsense approach to his bizarre accumulation of puzzle pieces and her deft hand at assembling them into workable shape—into what was, for a time, believable shape. Dwelling on that memory tempts opening a locked desk drawer and examining her precise documentation of the aborted Hoople Jakeway project, as it’s now thought of.

Since the Paris interlude when a major roadblock and a quest for basic sanity combined to suspend the project, no one’s been in touch with Brownell Yates, the freelance journalist. But lack of encouragement’s not apt to lessen the writer’s conviction that Hoople Walking Crow Jakeway is responsible for a trio of linked murders and hell-bent on committing more. When has Brownie ever been swayed once he’s determined to turn fiction into fact?

Nate glances at the desk phone, considers checking in with Brownie now—just for old time’s sake, say—and stifles the impulse as negating everything said to Amanda toward convincing her to back off. He’s still eying the phone, strengthening his resolve, when it rings.

It’s only Lillian letting him know the office is secured for the weekend and a few late-breaking faxes have been forwarded to his home number. At the conclusion of the call he pushes away from the desk as if it’s about to burst into flame.

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” he says under his breath, forgetting for the moment that the housekeeper is through for the day and there’s no one else around to overhear.

He returns to the kitchen, where the only debate is about making himself a sandwich—calling it late lunch or early dinner—or descending to the lower level for the workout he’s blown off for the past two days.

Workout wins. There are no Amanda associations on the lower level of the triplex. He’s halfway downstairs with a fresh beer when the phone rings again. It’s still too early for Amanda to call, so he lets the machine pick up and keeps going.

He strips down to boxers, laces up cross-trainers and begins with the Nordic Track. He sets it to lowest resistance, negates what little effort he does put forth by sucking on the beer at regular intervals. Finished with that exercise in idiocy, he’s contemplating a full range of free weights when the phone rings again.

“Shit!” He steps around the weights, hangs onto what’s left of the beer, and lunges for the wall phone although it’s still too soon to hear from England. But it is Amanda, and she’s bursting with news of the wedding celebration.

“It’s not over, is it?” Nate looks at the large industrial wall clock and calculates the time in Kent as approaching nine p.m., an unheard of hour for a celebrity-studded affair to be winding down.

“Heavens no. It’s just starting.”

“What do you mean? Was the ceremony delayed? Did something—”

“Everything went exactly as planned with no delays, no disruptions, no departures from schedule, so when I says it’s just starting, I mean the fun part’s just starting because the garden party portion was dull as dishwater and dinner was kind of a bore until the balloons went up, the kids and dogs got loose, and Idella did her set and Current Events began kicking major ass, although I guess “The Hokey Pokey” can’t really be considered major . . . omigod, the balloons!”

“I was beginning to wonder if—”

“That was incredible! Out of sight! I could scarcely believe my eyes and neither could anyone else—believe their own eyes, I mean—when we first saw them this morning.”

“But did they work?”

“To keep flying paparazzi away? They sure as Shinola did. We could hear helicopters in the distance, but they never got close enough to get any pictures, and once the guests figured out the balloons weren’t up there just for color and spectacle, I heard a few jokesters wonder if there might be snipers on the roof to discourage parachuters.”

“What was Colin’s take when he found out it was my doing? What was his reaction, do you know?”

“I really can’t say. If he objected I didn’t hear about it.”

Amanda rattles on with a full rundown of the day’s events, forgetting he’s somewhat in the loop for having received her daily updates during the planning stages of the event. She breathlessly recites a partial guest list that includes many of the brightest shining stars in the field of entertainment and the worthiest notables of associated industries.

He smiles at this reminder of their first real date at Tavern on the Green, where she seemingly identified everyone but the wait staff. He hadn’t the heart to interrupt her enthusiasm then, and he doesn’t now, until he stops to wonder why, if she’s been looking forward to the fun part of the program, she’s not where the action is instead of on the phone with him. He’s about to ask her when she explains there was a break in the action.