A Place of Hiding

Deborah drew a shaky breath. There seemed nothing more to say. China took a gulp of her tea, her face averted.

Deborah wanted to argue that no one on earth ever got to put in a request for the hand of cards they were dealt in life, that it was how one played the hand that counted, not what the hand was. But she didn’t say this. Nor did she remark that she’d learned long ago with the death of her mother that good things could arise from bad. For saying that would smack of self-satisfaction and supercilious preaching. It would also lead them inevitably to her marriage to Simon, which would never have come about had his family not believed it necessary to get her grieving father away from Southampton. Had they not put Joseph Cotter in charge of renovating a run-down family house in Chelsea, she would never have come to live with, to grow to love, and ultimately to marry the man with whom she now shared her life. But that was dangerous ground for her to tread on in conversation with China. She had far too much to deal with right now. Deborah knew she possessed information that could alleviate some of China’s concerns—the dolmen, the combination lock on its door, the painting inside it, the state of the mailing tube in which that painting had been unwittingly smuggled into the UK and onwards onto Guernsey by Cherokee River, what the state of that mailing tube implied—but she knew she owed it to her husband not to mention any of this. So instead, she said, “I know you’re frightened, China. He’ll be okay, though. You’ve got to believe that.”

China turned her head away further. Deborah saw the trouble she had in swallowing. She said, “The moment we set foot on this island, we were someone’s patsies. I wish we’d handed over those stupid plans and just taken off. But no. I thought it would be so cool to do a story on that house. And I wouldn’t have been able to sell it anyway. It was dumb. It was stupid. It was a just-so-typical China screw-up. And now...I did this to us both, Deborah. He would have left. He would’ve been happy to leave. That’s what he wanted to do. But I thought here’s a chance to get some pictures, do a story on spec. Which was even stupider than anything else, because when the hell have I ever been able to do a story on spec and sell it? Never. Jesus. I am such a loser.”

This was too much. Deborah got to her feet and went to her friend’s chair. She stood behind it and dropped her arms round China. She pressed her cheek against the top of her head and said, “Stop it. Stop it. I swear to you—”

Before she could finish, the door of the flat popped open behind them and the cold evening December air whoosh ed into the room. They turned and Deborah took a step to hurry over to shut it. But she stopped when she saw who was standing there.

“Cherokee!” she cried.

He looked utterly done in—unshaven and rumpled—but he grinned nonetheless. He held up a hand to stifle their exclamations and questions, and he disappeared for a moment back outside. Next to Deborah, China got up slowly.

Cherokee reappeared. In each hand was a duffel bag, which he threw inside the flat. Then, from within his jacket he brought out two small dark blue booklets, each of which was embossed in gold upon its cover. He tossed one to his sister and he kissed the other. “Our ticket to ride,” he said. “Let’s blow this joint, Chine.”

She stared at him and then looked down at the passport in her hands. She said, “What...?” And then as she dashed across the room to hug him, “What happened? Cherokee. What happened? ”

“I don’t know and I didn’t ask,” her brother replied. “A cop came to my cell with our stuff about twenty minutes ago. Said, ‘That’ll be all, Mr. River. Just get your ass off this island by tomorrow morning.’ Or words to that effect. He even gave us tickets back to Rome, if that’s our pleasure, he said. With the States of Guernsey’s apologies for the inconvenience, of course.”

“That’s what he said? The inconvenience? We ought to sue these bastards to hell and back, and—”

“Whoa,” Cherokee said. “I’m not interested in doing anything but getting out of this place. If there was a flight tonight, believe me, I’d be on it. Only question is, do you want to do Rome?”

“I want to do home, ” China replied.

Cherokee nodded and kissed her forehead. “Got to admit it. My shack in the canyon never sounded so good.”