Retribution: The Second Chances Trilogy Book Three (49 page)

That’s not hard to believe when a casual look at the immediate surroundings reveals a drooping cobweb of downed utility wires and the flattened remains of a good-sized support trailer plastered against the side of the roofless garage, with another reportedly lodged in one of the few solitary trees left standing, the specimen copper beech out by the helicopter landing pad. All things considered, it’s a fucking wonder they didn’t suffer more casualties—of a different kind—especially on the retreat from the search area as the storm intensified.

He trudges back to the main house, picks his way through windrows of debris left by the storm. Smoke curls in the distance from the smoldering wreckage of the oast houses and adjoining barn. Hard to believe even a kerosene-fueled fire could have prevailed against unrelenting rain, but with hundred mph winds working as bellows, the fire won out.

A preliminary report by one of the groundskeepers says all that’s left of the oast complex are the stone foundations and the heat-distorted remains of derelict farm machinery that was stored in the barn. Which means the carefully undisturbed evidence left there—the handful of rooster feathers, the dog’s pelt and charred carcass, the diary presumed to be Laurel’s, the photo wallet known to be Colin’s—was destroyed as well. Not that any of it matters now that fate has functioned as judge, jury, and executioner.

As he nears the mansion, resident workmen are visible on the roof of the main section, covering the gaping hole left by the collapsed skylight, lowering rubble either blown there or manufactured there when several chimneys went down. At the mansion he pauses to marvel that the exposed window wall of the great hall is somehow unscathed, whereas much of the sheltered glass within the arcade suffered direct hits. He necessarily crunches through those shattered remains to reach the door leading to the kitchen.

Amanda watches his approach through the two surviving panes of glass in that door. As he draws closer, she questions with her eyes if he followed through with the preparations for placing the bodies in temporary storage. He nods just perceptibly and leaves it at that. This is no time to raise another argument about what to do with Jakeway’s mutilated body until it can be handed over to the proper authorities. Securing the near-severed head to the broken body with bandages torn from an old sheet was done with the least amount of dignity possible. And shrouding the result in plain ordinary plastic garbage bags was the next best thing to pitching it onto the compost heap or staking it out for wildlife to further defile.

But the other corpse, although wrapped and bagged in similar fashion, was treated with dignity approaching tenderness. From the moment it was found at daybreak until it was brought to the porte-cochère and identified as Brownell Yates III, it was never accorded less than full respect. Even by the strangers who found it.

Nate’s stomach roils as it did when they summoned him to make that identification. “Jesus, Jesus,
Jesus
,” he mutters under his breath as he did earlier when forced to view yet another example of Jakeway’s vicious handiwork. He’s still muttering when he enters the house, still carrying on—albeit unintelligibly—about the terrible injustice dealt Brownie just as the writer was on the upswing with everything to live for.

Without asking for a translation of his mutterings, Amanda lays a consoling hand on his arm and lets him know Anthony is awake and able to talk.

Anthony. That’s it. Focus on Anthony and the miracle of his survival. Count on Anthony to fill in the gaps left by Jakeway’s abrupt demise.

Nate avoids the crowd in the kitchen—the new command center—and heads for the central staircase. Amanda catches up after excusing herself from further duty. There’s nothing much left for her to do now that Jakeway is history and Anthony and Brownie have been accounted for. And not much she can do until the roads are reopened and phone service is restored.

On the second floor they approach the open door of the master suite with understandable trepidation. The last time they saw Anthony they thought he was dead in his father’s arms. Whatever shape he’s in now is bound to be an improvement over the way he appeared when carried from the attic past stunned responders drawn there by the thunderous collapse of the skylight.

Amanda raps on the doorframe before they enter this comparative oasis of calm and normalcy. All the drapes are open, revealing intact glazing throughout. Simon is playing quietly with his endless supply of Legos in the bay of the oriel window. Serenity personified, Laurel is seated on the nearby sofa with a cat on her lap; she pats the space beside her, beckons Amanda to join her there.

Anthony and Colin are seated at a table in front of the fireplace where they’re laying waste to grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup. Both are speckled with superficial nicks and cuts; both are a little drawn and hollow-eyed. But according to the onsite medic who examined them minutes after Anthony was recovered, neither warranted hospitalization.

His mouth full, Colin gestures for Nate to have a seat and dig in. Nate moves to comply. The nursery food does hold more appeal than anything else shoved at him during the harrowing night and heartbreaking morning. Maybe a few swallows of soup and a triangle of sandwich; maybe he can keep that much down. God knows he’d better try or he’ll be subjected to force-feeding at Amanda’s behest.

In the act of trying, while ladling a scant serving of soup from the tureen and preparing to take a seat at the table, he feels a tug on his sleeve. Anthony peers up at him, hope alive in his expression.

“Did Toby come home yet? Do you know? Have you seen him? Have you? Huh? Have you? Have you? Huh? Huh?” the child pesters in blissful ignorance.

Nate drops the ladle and nearly overturns the chair. He pinches the bridge of his nose to no avail and blinks in rapid succession without being able to hold back the combination of grief and relief manifesting as tears. Mumbling a few words about having forgotten something, he flees the scene.

In the corridor, struggling for control, he senses a presence he assumes is Amanda. But it’s Laurel’s hand that offers a wad of Kleenex and leads him to the neighboring suite where she sits him down on a narrow bed, drops down beside him and fills him in to the extent she can.

“You’re saying Anthony remembers none of it,” Nate responds at the conclusion of the pieced-together narrative.

“Apparently not. But that’s based on what he
hasn’t
said. We haven’t questioned him about . . . about any specifics and if I have anything to say about it, we never will. I’d rather that his memory of the ordeal remains buried. Dredging it up won’t accomplish anything. Not really. Not at this juncture.”

For some reason her mildly expressed opinion comes across as harsh condemnation of the weeks and months of dredging that were a large part of Colin’s treatment at Denver’s Fortescu Clinic. But that’s not a fair comparison; there’s no “like father, like son” thing going on here. Anthony, whatever horrors he was forced to witness, has not withdrawn altogether; he’s only hiding from the worst elements and his input is unnecessary to any healing process or carrying out of justice.

“I’m guessing he simply couldn’t process any more.” Laurel jars him from his rumination. “Especially after being made party to Brownie’s slaughter,” she goes on as though having read his mind.

“Do you really think he saw that carried out?”

“I don’t see how he couldn’t have. I can’t imagine Jakeway spared him in any way. Didn’t you say you found Anthony’s soccer cap near Toby’s remains? Nothing says he wasn’t made to witness that slaughter, you know.”

“But he just asked . . . oh, I get it, he’s blank from the time he sneaked away to look for the dog until he came to in Colin’s arms,” he says.

“Appears so.”

“So if he was given details, if Jakeway bragged about how he got into the estate, say, or how he got into the country, or if he talked about his demented obsession with Aurora, we may never know.”

“There was never any guarantee Jakeway would talk if taken alive,” Laurel responds.

“True.”

“And there’s no guarantee Anthony has blocked this out for all time, but I, for one, hope he has. As I said before, revisiting what he saw and heard would serve no purpose that I can think of.”

She continues speaking in this vein, convincingly, as though imparting privileged information, and with a conviction that brooks no argument. Not that he was contemplating one.

“Yes, there
is
a lot we don’t know,” she says as though he had raised an objection. “There will
always
be a lot we don’t know for certain,” she says as though she’s had more than a couple of hours to think this over. “Perhaps we don’t
need
to know . . . everything.” She looks away for a moment, smoothes the bed covering, repositions several of the stuffed toys inhabiting the pillow end of the bed. “Perhaps we’re not
supposed
to know everything,” she says to the toys.

The Great Storm of 1987, which occurred during the night of 15 October and early morning of 16 October, left an enormous path of destruction across southern England.

Wind gusts of 70 knots or more were recorded for four consecutive hours. The strongest recorded gust was 100 knots at Shoreham on the Sussex coast, and gusts of 90 knots were recorded at other coastal locations. Inland, gusts as high as 85 knots were recorded at Gatwick airport.

These catastrophic winds brought down millions of trees that severely damaged buildings and cars and blocked roads and railways. Hundreds of thousands of homes were left without electric and telephone service for prolonged periods of time. The storm killed 18 people, capsized a ship at Dover, and drove a Channel ferry ashore near Folkestone.

A total of 15 million trees were lost in the storm, including 10 million conifers, 3.25 million oaks and 1.75 million beeches. The National Trust lost over 250,000 trees and 30 of its properties were badly damaged.

If the storm had struck a few weeks later, damage to trees would have been far less. Because of an unusualy mild autumn, most trees were still in leaf and therefore more wind resistant. Because the autumn of 1987 was also unusually wet, sodden root systems could not withstand this massive assault.

The Great Storm was not a hurricane. By definition, a hurricane is a storm that develops in the tropics, which the Great Storm did not, and supports sustained winds of 64 knots, which the Great Storm failed to do for more than minutes at a time. Regardless of origin and qualifying factors, the devastation wreaked by this storm surpassed that of a great many actual hurricanes.

Forecasters came in for heavy criticism because the public did not receive adequate warning. A BBC weather presenter famously told viewers there would be no hurricane. He was, however, referring to a tropical storm in the North Atlantic that he correctly predicted would not reach Britain.