father on the phone?”
He was surprised to see a look of doubt touch Max’s face. The boy idolized his father.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” He knew he had to speak to his dad soon-in fact, he really needed to see him-but he was dreading it.
“I’ll see what I can do. All right, Max. Off you go.”
Max’s dad had endured mind-wrecking torture at the hands of a madman in Africa. The fist of trepidation thumped into Max’s stomach at the thought of challenging his own father, who had become a stranger with only fleeting moments of recognition of his son. Max would confront him to dig out the truth from his mind, as a firefighter digs through the rubble to save a victim’s life. Max needed to know everything about his mother’s death.
He left Mr. Jackson wandering around the courtyard. He was obviously thinking about matters-he seemed impervious to the cold.
Max headed to Eagle House’s common room. Some of the boys were playing computer games. He could hear the electronic crackle of gunfire and the hoots of joy as the boys made a “kill.” It all felt so phony. After what Max had been through in the past, having experienced real violence where people had done their best to kill him, Max couldn’t bring himself to play anymore.
The boys had noticed this and just thought he was going through some sort of rough time. Except Sayid. The common bond he and Max shared was that each had experienced the terror of real gunfire, the swirling confusion of attack and the heart-crushing loss of a loved one. As Max came across the room toward him, Sayid was wedged into a window seat reading a book, but was now distracted by the leaden sky that had sunk lower across the high ground. The forecast was for snow.
“Hello, mate,” Max said quietly, pushing himself into the narrow space next to Sayid.
“You all right?” Sayid asked.
“Yeah. Just a bit strung out-one thing and another. Sorry if I’ve been a bit of a pain.”
“Easier having a tooth out than being around you these last few weeks.”
“You want a written apology?”
“That’d do, yeah. Sure you’re OK?”
Max nodded. “I need your help.”
Sayid didn’t know whether to smile or cry. Helping Max could be bad for your health-but he really wanted to be back in his best friend’s confidence after these weeks of him being withdrawn and uncommunicative. Despite the conflicting thoughts, he realized he was already nodding.
The day Danny Maguire died, Jasmina Dhokia had run down the escalator to catch her train for work. Her usual bus was delayed by roadwork, and she was not familiar with the Underground station. She took a wrong turn, realized her mistake and went back just in time to see her train move smoothly away.
The deserted platform was a lonely place. Fingers of cold air sneaking out of the tunnel tugged at her coat. She wished she could be home with her family, where it was warm and dry and people laughed and smiled more easily than they did here. But this country had been good to her and she was grateful. She was very fortunate to have a good-paying job that allowed her to send money back to help her family. Curiosity made her pick up the small padded envelope that lay on the edge of the platform near the mouth of the tunnel. It was already stamped. Someone must have dropped it. She tucked it into her shoulder bag. She would post it as soon as she could, as she trusted someone else would do if she had dropped an envelope.
Like her own letters, this one might be carrying words of love between a parent and a child.
Where the land rose in the fold of hills, the Range Rover nestled against a tor’s slabs of precariously balanced granite. Black sheen against black rock. At first glance, the big 4?4 would be indistinguishable from the boulders around it. In the distance, Dartmoor High was shrouded by the confused mist and rain, but the wet tarmac that ribboned its way around the vales and rock outcrops was still visible.
Drew looked through binoculars. “Nothing. What a place to send your kid to school. If it were me, I’d hate my parents for the rest of my life,” he moaned. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Stop complaining,” Stanton said quietly, keeping his gaze on the view through the windscreen.
“A good whine makes me feel better,” said Drew.
Stanton was silent. They’d give it a few more hours. Then, if it was obvious that Maguire had not sent Max Gordon any information, they could call it a day. He checked the radio signal: it was clear and strong. Who knew how long it would be before someone found the listening device they’d planted in Jackson’s study when he’d left the room to attend to that injured kid? He had already heard Jackson speak to the nursing home inquiring about Gordon’s father. Then he gave instructions to another teacher that he was to bring the post directly to him when it arrived.
“Kid on a bike,” Drew muttered, binoculars still clamped to his eyes.
“Is it Max Gordon?”
Drew looked at the photograph they had stolen from Max’s room, then, concentrating on the figure in his lenses, said, “Nah!” He snorted. “He probably
Sayid pedaled his mountain bike as fast as he could. Stinging rain pecked his face. It was six kilometers to the nearest road junction that bisected the moor. An ancient stone clapper bridge straddled a turbulent stretch of the river there. By this primitive drover’s crossing was the Packman’s Horse, a pub popular with seasonal holidaymakers. It was a rough-and-ready place where walkers could take their dogs and riders could tether their horses while their owners enjoyed a warming drink.
Just like the postman.
Max sat reading a book, eyes skimming pages as his MP3 player’s music rattled around his brain at the same time. Neither engaged him. They didn’t have to. Tucked into the pages of his book were the last photographs he had of his mum-half a dozen pictures taken in different areas of the rain forest.
Max was considering what to do next. Besides trying to find connections to Danny Maguire, he wanted to confront his dad. Why did Max’s heart still harbor the terrible accusation made against his father? Perhaps it was because he knew that Tom Gordon had different sides to his character. There was the strong, kind man, passionate about ecology and making sure that the people who harmed it were brought to justice. But Max knew that as a younger man, before he’d become an explorer-scientist, he had been trained as a hardened soldier. Max had to admit there had been times when he’d been scared on their holidays together off the beaten track. His father had averted frightening situations by using his courage to confront violent people. He had pulled a gun against pirates when they sailed in the Indian Ocean, had shot up their engines and left them floundering in shark-infested waters. Facing drunken men spoiling for a fight in Greece, he had talked them out of attacking his family. He seemed to have the ability to close the door on fear and become almost another person.
So who was Max’s real dad? Snow began to tumble. The book and music were forgotten. Out of the dreamlike storm, the small red postal van appeared.
“Anything?” Drew asked, shoving a stick of chewing gum into his mouth.
Stanton pressed his earpiece. “They’re shuffling stuff. Letters. Jackson is moaning about junk mail. He’s asking if that’s everything … if there’s anything for the Gordon boy. The other teacher’s in there with him. Says no. That’s it. OK. Now he’s telling him to take everything to the mailroom and make sure the kids get their letters.”
Drew looked at Stanton and shrugged. “Well? If the dead kid didn’t get to send anything, it’s all hunky-dory. Let’s get back to London. I can’t stick all this fresh air.”
Stanton was less impatient. Maybe they should wait out the day. But what was the point? If Maguire had sent anything before he died, it would have been delivered by now, and nothing Jackson had said suggested it had. Drew was right. Job done. Time to go back.
Something wasn’t right, though, and Stanton didn’t know what it was. He nudged the hood out onto the narrow tarmac, but his thoughts were still held by this Max Gordon. He hadn’t laid eyes on the boy, so why did it
