As he steered down the ramp into the garage below his apartment building, he tried to calculate what time it was in New Zealand. If it was already tomorrow there, as he suspected, would that be too early to call Caroline Cummings? Or too late? He decided to phone her anyway.
Doyle had described the capture of Ronald Mortvedt in a phone conversation he’d had with Caroline two nights earlier. It was a lengthy call, for which he was grateful. He’d missed the sound of her voice. Caroline had updated Jack on Aldous’ improved condition.
Caroline went on to thank Jack for his role in Mortvedt’s capture, and then she made him promise to phone with a report on Heartland Derby Day. “I’ve got a feeling Saturday’s going to be a corker,” she said. “Be sure to call me, Jack.” He promised he would. He then heard her invite him to come down for the holiday.
“What holiday?”
“It’s our Labour Day. It’s coming up October 27.”
“I’d like that,” Doyle said.
“And plan to stay with us awhile,” she’d insisted. “It’s a long flight to get here, and expensive as well. There’d be no sense in turning about and going right back, would there?”
There was a pause in the conversation. Then Jack said, “No, there wouldn’t be any sense in that.”
Doyle eased the Accord down the damp, oil-slicked ramp toward his parking place. He got out of the car and locked it. He looked around the garage and saw no one. His footsteps echoing off the concrete floor were the only sound in the dank, dimly lit structure. It was still relatively early for a Saturday night, and most of his fellow residents’ vehicles were absent from their parking places.
Smiling broadly, he suddenly stopped, lifted his arms wide, and raised his eyes to the moisture-beaded ceiling only a few feet above his head.
“Where did I go right?” shouted Jack Doyle.