“You’re wearing a hole in that carpet, hon’,” Cassie sighed and sat back against the couch as she watched her friend pace back and forth in front of all of them.
“How long is the flight again, Jack?” Annabelle asked, running a hand nervously through her long hair. She turned at the end of the small living room space and walked hurriedly in the opposite direction. Again.
Jack tried not to grit his teeth when he answered, for the third time in the last hour, “Approximately two hours, luv.” He, too, sighed and sat back against into the love seat across from Cassie and Dylan. “And seventeen minutes, give or take.”
“Thanks for that, Mr. Spock,” Clara shot him an aggrieved look.
Jack shrugged, eyebrows lifted. His daughter, who was seated in a love seat adjacent to the couch, only smiled in response.
“Miss Drake, the flight will be over before you know it. It’s like – take off, level out, get a drink, and then land. Or, at least that’s what it’s like when you fly commercial,” Dylan told her. His voice was soft and his tone somewhat deadened, but his words were meant to comfort. And, coming from him, at this point in time, that was something that Annabelle could appreciate.
She stopped pacing and turned to face him. “Are you sure, Dylan? Because that chamomile tea was nice at first,” she shot a look at Jack and then looked back at Dylan. “But it sure as hell didn’t last all that long.” Her own voice shook a little and it was obvious that she was so distracted by her own fear, she’d given up on social niceties hours ago.
“I’m sure, Miss Drake,” Dylan straightened a little, now that he felt he’d actually said or done something useful toward the situation. “We can play cards. Your pick. I’ll even try to win this time.” He smiled a half-smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes and stood.
Annabelle blinked. “Okay.” She chewed on her lip and forbade herself from resuming her nervous back and forth stride.
“I’ll find a pack,” Dylan told her and then turned to Jack, who was watching the exchange with quiet interest.
“In the kitchen,” Jack said, before Dylan could ask. “First drawer on the left.”
Dylan nodded and left.
Jack didn’t fail to notice that his daughter watched Dylan go, a strange expression on her pretty face. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that.
He re-focused his attention on Annabelle, before he could give the matter too much thought. Annabelle’s temporary sanity didn’t fool him one bit. Her posture was rigid with tension, her hands were gripped tightly in front of her, and he knew her too well. He stood and closed the space between them in two long strides. She watched him with large eyes.
He bent and whispered in her ear. “You’re still terrified, aren’t you, luv.”
She let out a shaking breath with a whoosh and nodded, closing her eyes.
“Blimey… My head’s pounding like a bung-load of African drums…”
Annabelle and Jack both turned to see Beatrice emerging from the hallway that led to the room where she’d been sleeping for the past two hours.
“Mum, how are you feeling?” Clara stood and approached her mother, concern across her young features. Annabelle was instantly struck with the dichotomy of how she acted toward each parent.
“I need an aspirin,” Beatrice said softly, as if speaking to Clara alone. Clara nodded and turned away, heading toward her own black backpack, which she’d draped over the arm of one of the chairs at the kitchen table. While she was gone, Beatrice took a moment to eye the living room’s occupants.
Dylan had returned with the deck of cards and had already placed them inside his jacket pocket and re-claimed his end of the couch. Cassie sat back against the other end of the couch, more or less quiet, but watchful. She met Beatrice’s gaze head-on. Annabelle and Jack, of course, stood in the center of the room, watching her as well. No one spoke.
“Well, Jack,” Beatrice sighed and claimed her ex-husband’s abandoned love seat. “I suppose you’d best go on and explain this mess to all of us now – that is, unless everyone else has already been de-briefed and I’m the only one still in the dark.”
“No, actually,” Dylan said then, turning his attention to Jack, “I’d kind of like to know what’s going on as well. Mr. Thane?”
Jack met the boy’s gaze. Dylan’s expression was hard and unyielding. Annabelle was momentarily distracted from her fear of the upcoming flight by Dylan’s strange behavior. What did he mean by asking Jack to explain the situation? Didn’t Dylan know, as well as Jack did, what was going on? This whole mess was centered around his own parents, after all.
Her brow furrowed.
“What do you mean, Dylan?” she asked softly.
“Oh, you know…” Dylan shifted and shrugged, his expression going from hard to feigned puzzlement in a second flat. He held his hands up at his side. “I guess I was just wondering about a few things,” he continued. “Like, why a quote-unquote business man who dealt in real-estate would need a secret passageway in his apartment complex and what looks like spy gear in his closet.” He settled his green eyes on Jack again. Jack didn’t move a muscle.
Dylan didn’t stop there. He went on, “and why he has a black bag full of black-ops-issue weapons on the bed in the other room.”
So, Dylan had gone exploring.
“And why he seems to have something like a dozen different men, all wearing black, working for him.” Dylan was on some sort of role now and the occupants of the house had grown unnaturally still and quiet. The air was thick with tension as Dylan continued.
“I wonder, Mr. Thane, what kind of business, exactly, it is that you do that would require no fewer than three safe houses in and around the Twin Cities area. I also found the wired limousine a little odd…” he smiled a grim smile at Jack’s raised brow. “Yes, I noticed the devices, though you tried to hide them well. I’ve read a lot of science fiction novels, Mr. Thane. I could recognize stuff a lot more sophisticated than that. And I know enough to recognize that a real-estate mogul would have no need of it.”
Annabelle’s mouth had gone dry. Her feet felt numb, her legs weak. She had, by this time, entirely forgotten about the flight to New York. She had much more immediate concerns to deal with, such as the health and well-being of everyone in the room – especially Dylan Anderson.
She could feel the presence of Jack Thane at her back like a weight, tall and dark and heavy. She found it hard to breathe.
And then Jack’s cell phone rang. No one moved, not even Jack. The air between him and Dylan felt positively charged. It almost crackled.
“Saved by the bell, Mr. Thane.” Dylan said.
Jack very slowly pulled the cell out of his inside jacket pocket and flipped it open. Amidst dead silence in the room, he spoke into the receiver.
“Thane.”
Dylan smiled smugly. But there was something dark in the teenager’s eyes.
Jack’s gaze never left his as he said, “Good. We’ll be there in fifteen.”
Desperate to diffuse the situation, Annabelle turned to face him. “Was that Sam?”
Jack hesitantly took his eyes off of Dylan to look down at her. His expression was deadpan, his blue-eyed gaze impenetrable. “Yes.”
He turned to everyone else. “Get your things. We’re heading out.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in for everyone, the last few minutes had been so intense. But, eventually, Clara stood and moved toward the hallway, walking past Dylan as she did so. Annabelle didn’t miss the dirty look she shot the kid. Dylan’s eyebrows raised in surprise.
Beatrice was the next to rise. She did so slowly, but steadily. Without a word, or a look at any of them, she followed her daughter down the hallway and to whatever room Clara had disappeared into.