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The Real Deal	By : Gallivant Category: M through R > Red Eye Views: 3200 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own Red Eye. I am not making any money from publishing this story.

Chapter List
- 14
- 15
- 16
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: Home Sweet Home
Who the heck was James? Lisa thought, despite her fraught circumstances. Colm had to be speaking of Jackson. Who else could it be?
Her mind cast back briefly to the passport she had found in the hotel room at the Lux Atlantic. He had been called 'James Ryder.' So perhaps that was his real name? After all, Colm had known Jackson since they were at school together.
Any further ruminations were disrupted by Colm's overbearing presence, a malicious sneer on his face, as he clasped her throat in one hand. He closely watched her face, his eyes squinted to half-mast.
'I see you don't know as much about your boyfriend as you thought, eh?' he said in mocking tones.
Suddenly, three loud reports exploded into earshot. Lisa's heart pumped furiously inside her chest. Please, not Jackson, she begged silently.
Colm snickered. 'Oops,' he said. 'That sounds nasty.'
'I … I thought Jackson was your friend,' Lisa blurted, desperately trying to lever herself away from the table, where Colm had crudely pushed her. Desperate to stand tall.
'Or maybe friendship, trust and loyalty are anathema to the likes of you,' Lisa spat angrily, recalling Jackson's weighty sadness when he considered his friend's betrayal.
Her eyes darted left and right, seeking a means to escape.
Although she realized, of course, that Colm would be carrying a gun. And by the look on his face, he'd be only too willing to use it.
'The thing is Lisa. I have to protect my interests,' Colm said smoothly.
His nonchalance infuriated her.
'And how exactly does Jackson threaten your interests?'
'Because of you,' Colm said, enjoying the shocked bemusement which shone in her eyes.
'I don't get what you mean,' she breathed, seemingly transfixed by his taunting leer.
What had she ever done to Colm? How was she a threat to his plans to assassinate Keefe?
Sure, she could understand why De Bowen had been suspicious of her relationship to Jackson. After all, Jackson was his future son-in-law.
But Colm?
'You see Alex told me that she had met this woman who reputedly saved Keefe's life in Miami. At some art event … your dear friend Charley's, no less,' he explained. 'I realized then that you and Jackson were associated in some way … otherwise, why didn't you create merry hell on earth when the guy who held you to ransom on a night flight and threatened to kill your father, suddenly showed up? I also knew he'd been to Miami since the failed attempt to kill Keefe, and I put two and two together.'
'So it was you who told De Bowen?' Lisa asked, curling her lip in disgust.
Colm grinned. He raised his hand as if he was about to stroke her cheek. Lisa automatically flinched.
'I've always believed in keeping your enemies close,' Colm sniffed. 'But you and Jackson, together, were too close for comfort.' Colm smiled smugly. 'As for old man De Bowen. He was a wily old fox. He was half-way there already.'
Lisa could barely suppress the fierce anger brewing inside of her.
'So did you know that Talbot Haynes would be killed when they came for me? Did you?' Lisa screeched.
Colm sighed. 'Sometimes collateral damage is unavoidable.'
Lisa couldn't stand the sight of his condescending, toxic smile a moment longer. All she wanted was to vanquish him from her sight. To find Jackson. To help him.
She closed her eyes, and steeled herself. She charged into him, bellowing her rage, forcing her head upwards so that it struck his chin.
Colm was caught off-guard and stumbled backwards, but he soon recouped, again thrusting her into the table.
However, Lisa had now found sufficient space to raise her knee, ensuring that Colm fell awkwardly against her once he advanced towards her - which she knew he was going to do.
'You fucking bitch,' he cursed, bug-eyed with pain.
Lisa frantically reached behind her, hoping to grab something, anything more instantly effective than the fork she had earlier tucked into her sleeve, which she could then use as an impromptu weapon. But in so doing, she shunted the table backwards, so that they both almost fell to the floor.
She swiftly rolled aside, so that Colm crashed into the table leg, falling to his knees.
His face was puce with fury.
'You're going to regret this,' he sneered, swiping at her with his arm, and grabbing hold of her waist so that she was unable to scrabble away.
He then dragged her down to the floor with him. Lisa soon lay flat on her back, panting heavily.
He grinned, dramatically pulling a gun into view with his other hand, holding it above her.
'You'll damn well do what I say,' he yelled through gritted teeth. 'You hear me?'
Colm cocked the gun, poised to shoot at any given moment.
'I'll do whatever you want,' she whispered helplessly, thinking it might be better to play along for the time being.
Lisa had noticed that just a few foot behind her, the trapdoor to the basement was still open, but Colm's view of this was possibly obscured by the table.
It was her only chance.
If she could somehow slide inside and lock the door, she'd have guns and ammo at her disposal.
Slowly, she shuffled backwards towards the opening, keeping her eyes firmly trained on Colm's.
Colm exploded into laughter.
'You really think you can get away?' her cried, incredulous. 'I've got a loaded gun in my hand, for fuck's sake. It'll take me a single second to blow your brains out.'
'Good,' breathed Lisa. 'Sounds nice and quick.'
Colm pursed his lips, irritated by her defiance.
'You don't deserve quick,' and with that, he took hold of the table and clumsily hoisted himself to his feet, still directing the gun at Lisa.
He leaned over, about to grasp Lisa's wrist, to pull her into a standing position too, but she realized that this was her golden opportunity.
She still had the fork secreted up her sleeve. She now slid it into her hand and plunged it, with as much force as she could possibly muster, into Colm's groin, as he stood, legs astride, above her.
He screeched in agonized pain and tottered sideways, smashing into the table.
Lisa pulled herself into an upright position, grabbing his leg for leverage, ensuring he further lost his balance.
The table that had been supporting him, skidded away, and he plummeted backwards, losing his footing, as the gaping hole leading to the basement suddenly seemed to open out underneath him.
He stumbled and fell into the hole.
She could hear his gun falling down the stairs, bouncing from one step to the other.
'What the …?' he exclaimed in confusion, but Lisa had dashed forwards, seizing her chance, and proceeded to kick him, stamping on his hand which still clung to the top step, until his fingers were bruised and bloody.
Colm looked furious, gnashing his teeth in pain and anger. He repeatedly tried to grab at Lisa's ankle with his other hand. Lisa pushed the small dining table onto its side and brutally drove it forwards, smacking the hard wooden surface into Colm's jaw.
Colm looked a little dazed. He fell backwards, his mouth wide in surprise, swiftly followed by a hollow tumbling noise, and a nasty crunching sound as his body came to a halt at the foot of the stairs.
Lisa cringed at the noise, hoping that he had broken his neck.
She instantly sprang into action, leaping forwards to slam shut the trapdoor, firmly locking it.
Heart galloping wildly inside her chest, she ran towards the door, almost dizzy with the excess adrenaline surging through her body.
She could hear a faint groaning and a scuffling emanating from beyond the locked trapdoor.
'Damn,' she muttered. He was still alive.
She had to find Jackson. Had to get out of here. It could be minutes … moments even … before Colm retrieved his gun and shot his way out of the basement.
XXXXXXXXXX
Outside, there was no instant sign of Jackson's whereabouts, but she could see his footprints, heading along the length of the cabin, where they were soon joined by another set of tracks, both scooting into the direction of a clump of a trees just ten metres away.
Lisa ran towards the trees.
The tracks continued, deeper into the forest.
Before long, there was evidence of the tracks merging, as the path was scuffed and mashed, before the footprints, now closer together, led away from this spot; long skids leading to a trail of crimson blood staining the snow.
'Oh no,' Lisa gasped, a sickly feeling welling up inside of her.
She followed the tracks, tears blurring her vision, and soon emerged into a small clearing.
Here, she could see a body, slumped on the ground, encircled by blood, seeping into the surrounding snow.
'Please god no,' she wailed, advancing closer.
She almost fainted with relief when she saw that the man prone on the ground was wearing a long, gray mackintosh, his head bent to the ground.
It was Gerry Montana.
He was alive, clearly unable to move, but regarding her curiously.
Alarmed by a brief movement directly behind her, she spun around.
Jackson was holding a gun, which he had leveled at Montana.
He glimpsed at Lisa, but his pale, gaunt features barely flickered in recognition. His hot breath hung, vivid, tangible, in the sharp, cold air.
'Colm?' he croaked, never once tearing his gaze away from Montana.
'In the cabin,' she said. 'Alive.'
A wave of annoyance rippled across Jackson's face.
The snow had started to fall again. A soft, light flurry, feathering their faces, their hair.
'I have no quarrel with you Gerry, you know that, don't you?' Jackson said plainly to Montana.
Montana nodded, grimacing in pain. Lisa saw that he had been shot in the legs, and that there was another wound, somewhere on his torso, judging by the blood pooling in front of him and the fact that he was resting one hand inside his coat, as though trying to stem the flow of blood.
'But … I can't let you follow us,' Jackson continued, almost apologetically Lisa thought. 'We need your car.'
Montana cleared his throat, straining to speak.
His voice was low, barely higher than a whisper.
'The other guy … not Colm ….' His eyes were dim with pain and loss of blood.
Lisa felt a surge of unbidden anguish rise up inside of her.
Jackson placed his hand on her arm, leading her away. They walked backwards.
Lisa watched Montana watching them as they left. Slowly his head sank to the ground, the snow wafting slowly across his form.
Jackson and Lisa ran back along the path she had followed to reach the clearing.
Jackson pulled the sedan car keys from his pocket and slammed them into Lisa's hand.
'I'll get the other set,' he said, running towards the cabin which was now in view. 'If I'm not back in five, just get the hell out of here.'
Lisa trudged towards the Chrysler, which was steeped in snow. The trunk was open, and the bags Jackson had been loading into the car were standing guard by the back tires.
She hoisted the bags into the trunk and banged it shut.
In the distance she could hear a rally of gunshots.
They came from the cabin.
The queasy fear which had gripped her earlier immediately returned.
She heard footsteps tramping heavily towards her, teamed with harsh, ragged breathing.
Jackson came flying towards the Chrysler, throwing a fresh bunch of keys in her direction.
Shocked into action she caught them, realizing that these belonged to another vehicle.
'Get into the car,' Jackson yelled, snatching the sedan keys from her hand.
'Colm's gone and found my fucking arsenal,' he snarled furiously.
He slammed the key into the ignition slot, and revved the car into a terrifying fervour.
'What are you doing just standing there?' he shouted, his clear, blue eyes bulging impatiently.
Lisa dived into the car. Jackson kicked the gas pedal, the car leaping into action before Lisa had even found time to close the door.
The Chrysler bumped its way along the snowbound path for a few hundred metres before encountering a hulking black BMW X5 SUV, parked up on the verge.
'You got the keys?' Jackson said.
'Yes,' Lisa said tremulously.
'I'll follow you,' he said.
Lisa paused momentarily, gathering her thoughts, before snapping into action.
XXXXXXXXXX
She could do this. Of course she could, Lisa thought.
She stilled her hands from shaking, so that she could slot the correct key into the ignition.
She gazed at her hand, a puzzled expression on her face, as she noticed her fingers were stained with sticky blood.
Was it her blood? Had she been wounded in some way?
She then realized, with sickly certainty, that it had to be the beige man's blood.
She soon found, to her relief, that the BMW was a sturdy, efficient vehicle to navigate through the snow, and the route was pretty straightforward, clearly defined by tire tracks.
In comparison, she could see Jackson's sedan sliding and slipping dangerously behind her, even though driving conditions had probably eased a little compared to last night.
It was as well. They needed to get out of this forest and as far away as humanly possible, and as quickly as possible.
They could be certain that Colm would have escaped from the basement by now.
A small part of her now wished that she had somehow killed him before quitting the cabin. She imagined, in lurid detail, driving that fork into his neck rather than his groin. Watching his face convulsed with fear, deadly spasms shaking his body.
She gripped the steering wheel, disturbingly enervated by this deadly fantasy.
What the hell was she doing? Since when had she become so darned bloodthirsty?
Simple, she thought. It was a question of self-defense. She hadn't felt an iota of remorse for the assassin she had mowed down outside her Dad's property in Miami, all those months ago.
And she would have killed Jackson too. If she'd had to.
Her blood ran cold at the thought.
She didn't have much time for further ruminations as they fast approached the main road. She noted in her mirrors that Jackson was flashing his headlights, urging her to pull over.
She parked up close to the exit and waited for him to skid the sedan to a crunching halt alongside her.
XXXXXXXXXX
Jackson instantly jumped out of the Chrysler, opened the trunk, and pulled out the heavy bags she had placed inside earlier. He threw the bags into the BMW X5.
Lisa opened the driver's door.
'I'd better go dump this,' Jackson said, gesturing towards the Chrysler.
'Can I come with you?' Lisa asked, shivering with cold and unwilling to be left alone.
Jackson paused, eyeing her strangely. 'I'll be quick as I can,' he said.
Then, to her surprise, he pulled her roughly towards him, embracing her tightly.
'God, I'm so sorry,' he murmured. He pressed his warm lips to her neck.
'Don't be,' Lisa said. 'This was my fault. Completely and utterly.'
She encircled him with her arms.
'No Lisa. I pulled you into this mess from the start,' Jackson replied. He sighed deeply, pulling her even closer.
She rested her head on his chest, eyes closed, relishing his warmth and solidity.
And for that brief moment, she felt it had all been worth it.
XXXXXXXXXX
'So where are we headed?' Lisa asked, once they were back on-road, safely esconced in the BMW. 'Should we cross the border? It's not far from here, is it?'
Jackson vehemently shook his head. 'No way. Certainly not the official border.'
As they passed last night's diner, Lisa felt a pang of guilt. Why had she made those calls? What had possessed her?
'I'm thinking Colm will be on our tails within the next hour or so,' Jackson said.
'You think there's a tracking device in the car?' Lisa asked, astonished that they had taken the vehicle, if that was the case.
Jackson shook his head. 'Unlikely. But Colm will call in assistance. And he'll soon realize we have their Beamer.'
'So, we should get as far away from here as possible,' Lisa urged.
However, one quick glance at Jackson's face, his lips pursed, brow creased in concentration, and she soon saw that this was maybe not his first consideration.
'I'm not so sure,' he muttered. 'I have another idea. It might do for tonight at any rate.'
XXXXXXXXXX
They drove for a further one hundred and fifty miles or so, passing various settlements en route. They first headed South then East, towards the coast, stopping just the once for fuel and some food.
Here, the weather was slightly less inclement. The snow had abated long ago, but the skies were washed gray, and a gusty wind was swirling ferociously, whipping the trees and the hedgerows they passed, into a rustling frenzy.
They had decided not to listen to the radio, almost by mutual, silent consent. They knew any news would be bad news.
Better just to get on with it.
'Why did you let Montana live?' Lisa finally asked. Conversation had skirted this issue, focusing more on what had happened with Colm. And what Jackson figured Colm might do next.
Lisa had been surprised that Jackson hadn't straight out finished Montana. She had assumed Jackson to be a lot more clinical in dealing with those he felt had wronged him.
'You think I should have killed him?' Jackson asked in return, a note of surprise in his voice.
Lisa flushed red. She hadn't meant to sound so bloodthirsty.
And she couldn't help but recall, that without Montana's calm dissuasion of Mr Beige in New York, they would never have gotten out of the city in the first place.
Sure, he hadn't wanted to attract undue attention from passersby, and possibly the cops too, but his cool-headedness had saved their bacon.
'On the contrary,' Lisa said. 'I rather hope he survives,' she added in a still, small voice.
She didn't like the idea of Montana, indeed anyone, slowly bleeding to death, with no help to hand.
Jackson smiled at her. He reached over and squeezed her hand tightly in his own, before returning it to the steering wheel.
'You'd make a terrible assassin,' he chuckled.
'Well. That's fine by me,' she said cheerily, somehow reassured from Jackson's response that Montana would probably survive.
There was something else that had been bugging her.
'Colm called you James,' she said pointedly.
Jackson's face broke out into a wide smile.
'Did he indeed?' he said. 'That's really rather touching.'
Lisa was puzzled by his reaction. He shot her a quick glance.
'It is my name,' he said. 'But you know that already.'
'The passport,' she said coolly.
'It kind of helps having multiple identities in my line of work,' Jackson snickered. 'And in my case, I really do have two.'
'How so?'
'I was born a Ryder,' he explained. 'But adopted by Rippners. I was very young at the time.'
'And your original parents?'
'Dead of course. A traffic accident.'
'I'm sorry,' Lisa said, her voice brimming with sympathy.
Jackson laughed mirthlessly. 'It's alright Lisa. It's not like I knew them.'
'So … who was Henry Beauchamp?' Lisa asked curiously.
'Ah yes. The plot thickens,' Jackson said. 'Good old Uncle Henry,' he said between gritted teeth.
'You really want to know this stuff?' he asked her, a bemused look on his face.
'You bet,' Lisa said. 'I'm ashamed I ever thought my family was complicated, when the worst that ever happened was my parents got a divorce!'
'OK. Well Uncle Henry was my real father's older brother. British.'
'Head of Beauchamps.'
'That's right. But he took on the name Beauchamp as an affectation. The original Beauchamp line died out yonks ago.'
'You know there's a Graham Ryder working at Beauchamps' London office?' she said.
'Nothing to do with me. At least not to my knowledge anyway,' Jackson replied. 'But I do have a snotty cousin. Edwin Ryder. He inherited the company and then proceeded to sell it off, piece by piece,' he added.
'And is he one of your … cogs?' Lisa asked tentatively, hoping to trigger Jackson's memory, back to when he called De Bowen a cog in a very big wheel … a network, as he had put it, of ruthless individuals dead set on manipulating the world to their liking.
Jackson burst into loud laughter. 'Edwin? Fuck no. He's not that interesting. He simply sold the company off, and now it has been well and truly split up, and is owned by a variety of different interests who use its name as a cover for their own activities.' He paused. 'Not all nefarious I might add. There are still real-life links to the world of finance too.'
He looked at her intently. 'It's not that unusual you know. There's a lot of Beauchamps out there, believe me.'
Rather chillingly, she did.
XXXXXXXXXX
Before long, the vast silvery expanse of the Atlantic, tossed and torn into myriad frothing white cornets, by the fierce winds, swung into view.
They were approaching a small seaside resort, as hailed by a roadside sign welcoming them to Cutter Cove.
There was a decidedly Anglicized feel to the town, which was really little more than a village, comprising a sprinkling of white clapboard houses, a single shopping street, and a tiny harbor, populated by a host of fishing boats, currently being smashed mercilessly against a short wooden jetty, by high, seething waves.
The town looked to be closed down. Shops and businesses were boarded up. Curtains were drawn, shutters tightly shut, blanking out any sign of life.
Cutter Cove was strangely devoid of cars, ensuring a solitary drive through the town, and out onto a similarly desolate highway, which soon swung away from the shore, heading into a low range of heavily wooded hills.
They passed a modest, white wooden church, where Jackson swerved left onto a narrow, dusty road, bordered by grassy fields which Lisa imagined were usually home to grazing livestock – no doubt driven indoors by the stormy conditions.
'This is where I was brought up,' Jackson said suddenly.
Somehow Lisa already knew this. She didn't know how. Just an instinct.
She also knew he didn't like where he was at all, judging by his clenched jaw and the pallor of his knuckles as he gripped the steering wheel.
'And here's where I lived,' Jackson said, stopping the SUV outside of a dark wooden house. 'Home sweet home,' he said, his voice laced with irony.
'I thought you schooled in England?' Lisa said.
'From my teens onwards,' he said. 'Before then. I was here.'
The gate was closed, even though there was a silver Subaru Forester parked on the driveway.
Lisa noted there was a large, shabby barn building, a hundred feet away from the house.
'That's where we're going to put up for the night,' Jackson said, following her gaze with his own.
Lisa pulled a face at the darkening clouds and recalled the choppy sea, indicating a storm was fast brewing.
Sure, they needed to find shelter. But in a barn?
Plus, the place was clearly inhabited.
Jackson seemed to be reading her thoughts. 'There's no one here,' he said. 'It's only really used during Summer vacation.'
'How do you know?'
'Because I know who I sold it to. A nice family. From Boston.'
'OK,' Lisa said, figuring that this house must have once belonged to Jackson's parents – likely his adopted parents, the Rippners - who had clearly left it to him in their will.
She cursorily remembered that Jackson had once told her he'd actually killed them. But that was clearly a tasteless joke.
Or at least she hoped it was.
'So would this nice family from Boston mind if we stayed in the house itself? We're in for a humdinger of a storm. Believe me. I'm from Florida. I know these things,' Lisa continued.
Jackson's eyes flicked to the house and then back to Lisa's expectant face. There was a guarded expression in his eyes which unnerved her.
Was it fear? Certainly, apprehension of some sort.
Maybe he did kill his parents? came a small, unbidden voice inside her head. She trembled a little.
The house itself was one-storey. Peeling brown wood. Low-slung. Almost menacing. It exuded a dark, brooding air. As though they were being watched by its blank, featureless windows.
'I'll get the gate,' she said quickly, jumping down from the BMW and opening the gate.
Jackson drove straight into the barn.
XXXXXXXXXXX
The barn was large and spacious, and surprisingly hospitable, Lisa realized. It hadn't been used as a farming barn for many years, she decided.
Instead, the space was used, she surmised, as a place to store household and gardening equipment, but also as something of a hideaway, judging by a moth-eaten couch and a pile of blankets and cushions ranged against one wall.
Maybe Mr Nice-Family-Man from Boston would come out here and down a few beers, earning himself some peace and quiet, as suggested by a long line of empty Bud bottles, stretching almost the length of the wall.
Jackson immediately checked out the bottles to see that they were all empty. He pulled a disappointed face and slumped onto the couch.
Lisa joined him.
'I could do with some food,' she griped, aware that her stomach was grumbling. It had been a long time since they ate.
'Maybe I should see if there's anything to eat in the house?' she asked tentatively.
'Maybe,' Jackson said. He didn't look at her. There was a dark expression on his face that she didn't like. He tightly screwed up his eyes, seeming to focus intently on a stack of cushions a few feet away from them.
Suddenly he pulled a gun from his pocket and decimated the cushions, with an explosive rally of bullets.
The cushions erupted into a mound of white fluff, which scattered across the floor, clogging the air.
Lisa squealed in shock.
'What the fuck are you doing?' she shrilled, flinging herself into the furthest corner of the couch, as far away from Jackson as possible.
'There was a spider,' Jackson muttered menacingly.
His eyes were glacially cold as he spoke.
'You … you don't like spiders?' Lisa asked, her voice shaking. What was it with this place? With him? Maybe coming here had been a bad idea.
'I hate the fuckers,' Jackson said venomously.
Lisa froze. Something in his voice chilled her.
'So … Jackson. I take it you weren't happy here,' Lisa said cautiously.
He smirked. 'It wasn't the best of childhoods. But I don't want to bore you with the details.'
'You wouldn't be boring me,' she said sincerely.
'OK. I don't want to frighten you then.'
'You wouldn't,' she insisted. She reached out a hand, and gently laid the tips of her fingers on his arm. But he recoiled at her touch, allowing her fingers to fall away.
He looked at her, a regretful sneer on his face.
'Some places Lise, are truly evil. You know that?' he said.
Lisa frowned. 'I can believe that of some people. But a house is just a house.'
He smiled, an odd, twisted smile, which slightly scared her. There was a dark gleam in his eyes.
'Don't you think a place absorbs the memories, the energies of the past?' he asked in hushed tones, almost as though he didn't want their conversation to be overheard. Even though there was no one around.
'Frankly Jackson, I'm surprised someone like you could possibly think like that. You seem too … prosaic, hard-headed, to believe in such fanciful crap.'
Lisa tried to smile, and failed.
The rain was now beating down on the barn roof, and the light was dimming. Not a pleasant combination at this moment in time, Lisa thought with a shudder. The wind was picking up too. There was a distant creaking noise, courtesy of the increasingly powerful gusts which were whistling around the barn.
Jackson didn't answer. He turned away and continued to stare, a glazed expression on his face, at the foamy mess which was all that remained of the cushions he had shot at.
'Why did we come to this place?' Lisa asked, 'if you hate it so much.'
'Because Lisa, it's the absolutely last place anyone would come looking for me,' Jackson said darkly. 'Anyone who knows anything about me, that is.'
They sat in silence for some time before Jackson eventually spoke.
'My parents died here … you realize that, don't you?' he said.
Lisa nodded mutely. Her eyes urged him to go on.
'As you know. They … the Rippners …. weren't my real parents,' he added, emphasizing this point. 'But I didn't know that at the time. Not until my Uncle Henry took me to England.'
She could sense there was something large. Something unfathomable that he hadn't yet told her.
Somehow, Lisa was dimly aware what it was.
The ghastly thing that had happened here. And she knew it was ghastly.
It was only an instinct, a hunch, but she felt strangely sure she was right.
She could see it in Jackson's haunted face, the dark lines etched under his eyes. He seemed to have sagged, to have aged many years in the short time they had been curled up on this solitary couch in this old, echoing barn, which was increasingly falling into dusky shadow.
As much as she desperately wanted Jackson to tell her what had happened, it didn't look like he wanted to talk further.
At least not now.
She sighed.
'Jackson?' Lisa said. 'I'm going to try and get inside the house. Find us some food. What … what's the best way?'
Now that Jackson had sunk back into a blank, miserable silence, she had a sudden desire to steer clear of him. And the roaring winds raging around the barn were doing little to encourage her to stay.
'There's a key … behind the drainpipe. Close to the back door,' Jackson said, his eyes fixed still on the exploded cushions.
'How do you know that?' Lisa asked, surprised.
'It's mine,' he said simply.
She flung herself off the couch, rapidly making for the exit.
'Check to see if there's any spare car keys, would you?' Jackson called after her. 'We might as well swap cars while we have the chance.'
XXXXXXXXXX
Lisa was glad to temporarily escape Jackson, despite the onslaught of hard, cold rain falling from the skies, as she crossed the garden towards the house.
The house key was easily found. It was a small Yale key, half-covered by moss, snuck behind a drainpipe – just as Jackson had said.
Clearly the nice family from Boston had never thought it necessary to change the locks, and moments later she was inside.
XXXXXXXXXX
There was something about this place which unnerved her.
She experienced a sudden, searing sympathy for Jackson's dark mood.
Thankfully they were only staying the one night.
Once inside the house, the nice family from Boston didn't seem so nice after all. She couldn't imagine why anyone would want to come to this place for a vacation.
The décor clearly hadn't been altered for many years. Peeling wallpaper and chipped paintwork predominated, and the fixtures and fittings were clunky and old-fashioned.
Almost frozen in time.
There was a sombre air pervading the house, as she moved from the hallway, into a small living room, and then into the kitchen, which had a wide window, looking out onto an unkempt stretch of land beyond.
The insistent drumming of the thunderous rain outside, and the fearsome clouds looming overhead did nothing to relieve the pervasively gloomy atmosphere.
Jackson was right. The barn was a damn sight more welcoming.
She was here to find food – if any was available.
She pulled open all the cupboard doors, fighting off the uncanny feeling that she was somehow being watched from behind. Yet whenever she swung round to look, her heart thumping at a rapid rate, there was no one in sight.
It was this house. It made her uneasy. This room in particular.
She had a nagging sensation that she couldn't quite explain to herself in terms that were either rational or logical. But she felt sure that Jackson's parents had died unnaturally. Here. In this house.
Maybe even in this kitchen.
Something sudden. Probably traumatic, which had changed the course of Jackson's life. Coaxing his sinister Uncle Henry – he had to be sinister, surely, seeing as he was a one-time friend of De Bowen's – to come into his life, to whisk him away to England.
That would explain Jackson's belief that no one would expect him to ever return here. Willingly.
After all. Would a child who had witnessed something they shouldn't … something 'evil' as Jackson had inferred … want to return to the site of their fears?
She speeded up her hunt for food, actually wanting to get back to the barn as soon as she could. To get back to Jackson.
After perusing all the kitchen units she had discovered that there was hardly anything worth eating. A tin of sweetcorn. A hardened chorizo. Slightly more interesting was a value pack of potato chips and a tin of shortbread biscuits. She ripped off the lid, and plunged her hand inside. They were perhaps a little too soft and crumbly, and certainly tasted on the stale side. But they'd do.
She had better luck in finding some bottles of Budweiser which Mr Nice-Family-Man from Boston hadn't yet secreted to the barn.
She looked for a bag of some sort to load up with supplies to take with her.
She looked in the cupboard under the kitchen sink and found a scrunched-up plastic bag.
Again, she had that distinct feeling, like a cold prickling across her skin, that someone was watching her.
She could barely breath.
Suddenly there was a loud rattling clamor at the back door, shocking her into a terrified whimper.
She shot into the hallway, glad to leave the kitchen behind. She could see a shadowy figure waiting at the door, barely visible through a frosted glass central panel.
Her heart was pumping so violently, her chest almost hurt.
'Lisa!' came Jackson's voice.
She almost melted with relief, her knees trembling beneath her. She flattened herself against the wall, the faded floral wallpaper damp against her blouse.
'Lisa! Open up! It's important,' Jackson yelled.
She flung the door open, and he half-fell inside.
His clear blue eyes were lurid, staring.
'Put the TV on,' he gasped, his voice half-strangled with panic.
Lisa raced to the living room where she had seen a TV set. She plugged the TV in, and switched it on.
Jackson grabbed a remote control from a side table and began flicking feverishly through the channels.
'What is it?' she groaned, although she could guess.
Except.
Except she couldn't. What she was to discover had actually been too horrible to truly contemplate.
Jackson had found a news channel, and staring out at her was the face of Charley. A photo taken a few years back, when her hair was a little longer, a slightly softer frame to her strident features.
The clipped, nasal tones of the striking blond newsreader intoned the tragic news with cold clarity.
Promising young artist Charley Robinson had been found dead in her Manhattan apartment. And police were treating her death as 'suspicious.'
Lisa felt light-headed. She staggered backwards, glad to have Jackson directly behind her to break her fall. He wrapped his arms tightly around her and led her to the sofa.
'I heard the news on the car radio,' Jackson said, almost whispering in her ear. 'I thought it best to try and … catch up … while you were gone.'
She gulped back the tears, aware of a whining hysterical wailing, somewhere, deep inside her head.
'I'm so sorry,' he said in gruff tones. He kissed her hair, cradling her face in his hands.
'Did … did they mention De Bowen?' she asked huskily.
Better to know the full horror of their situation.
'Oh yes,' he said with a weary grimace. 'And Talbot Haynes. Keep on watching and it's bound to come up. His murder's being spun as an execution, I think … a deliberate attack on the Keefe campaign's tough stance on gangland crime. Apparently.'
'Really?' Lisa asked, half-startled, half-admiring at the campaign's ingenuity.
Jackson nodded. 'That's politics for you,' he muttered morosely.
'It makes our job easier too,' Lisa said, almost ashamed at this burst of blatant callousness which was currently overriding the sharp, stabbing sensation in her breast ... the sorrowful realization that her dear friend was dead. Murdered. And that it was her fault.
They couldn't allow anyone else innocent to die. They simply couldn't.
'What job?' Jackson asked quizzically.
'Well. If Keefe and his campaign are already feeling threatened, then maybe they'll be more willing to hear that one of their own is actually an assassin, ' she suggested. 'We can trade that information, and perhaps more, for our … for your safety. Surely the Department of Homeland Security can offer us some form of protection?'
'You really think so?' Jackson asked sceptically.
'It's our only hope,' Lisa said ardently.
And sadly, she really did believe this too.

Disclaimer: I own nothing.
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The Real Deal