The Bourbon Kings
Page 96
In like Flynn, as they said.
But now what?
On the trip to Easterly, he had wondered whether his brain would come back online for any of this. He had worried that the painkillers, or the trauma, had damaged his gray matter in a way that was not material when all one did was drink and sweep up stables—but rather dispositive when one attempted to function at a higher level.
That was not the case.
Although his circumnavigation among the file system of secured documents was slow at first, soon enough, he was moving quickly through the information caches, exporting what was relevant to a dummy account that would appear to be a valid BBC e-mail, but was in fact, out of the network.
Yet another shadow.
And what was best about it all? If anyone looked into the activity, they would trace the destination to the name of his father’s bulldog executive assistant—in spite of the fact that she herself knew nothing about the account. But that was the point. Anyone in the company who saw that woman’s name on something was going to back away and say nothing.
As he sifted through the financials, he focused exclusively on raw data that had yet to be “scrubbed” by accountants, and though there was a temptation to start to analyze, it was more important that he capture as much as he could—
The lights in the reception room flared to life.
Jerking his head up, he froze.
Shit.
Lizzie’s phone went off finally just as the first of the guests started to take their leave. And she nearly ignored the vibration, especially as two of the waiters came up to her with a series of demands from a table of twenty-year-olds who were underaged and utterly drunk.
“No,” she said as she took the cell out of her back pocket and accepted the call without looking. “They’ve been cut off for a reason—by their parents. If that bunch of entitled asshats has a problem with the service refusal, tell them to talk to Mommy and Daddy.” She put the phone up to her ear. “Yes?”
“It’s me.”
Lizzie closed her eyes in relief. “Oh, my God, Lane … here, let me find somewhere quiet.”
“I’m around back. By the garages. Can you come out for a minute?”
“On my way.”
Ending the call, she caught Greta’s eye across the tent and signaled that she was stepping out for a minute. After the woman nodded, Lizzie hightailed it down the periphery of the party, jogging behind the buffet tables where uniformed servers cut slices off perfectly roasted wedges of locally raised Angus beef.
A couple of waiters raised their hands to try to get her attention, but she held them off, knowing Greta would be on it.
Entering the house through the door that opened into the kitchen, she ducked her head, trying to look as if she were already on a mission. And she supposed she was. In the far corner, by the pantry, there was another door that opened into the mudroom, and after running by all the spring jackets of the help, she emerged outside by the garages.
She looked around for Lane’s Porsche—
“Over here,” his voice announced.
Turning, she recoiled as she saw him leaning against a truck that was nearly as old as she was. But then she got with the program, jogging across the cobblestones.
“Now, this is my kind of ride,” she said as she came up to him.
Even as he didn’t move a muscle, Lane’s eyes traveled all over her, as if he were using her presence as a way of grounding himself. “Can I hug you?”
She glanced around, focusing on the windows of the house. “Probably better not to.”
“Yeah.”
“So … what are you doing here? With this F-150?”
“Borrowed it from a friend. I’m trying to keep a low profile. How’s the party?”
“Your wife’s been giving me the evil eye.”
“Ex-wife, remember?”
“Are you … are you going to head to the brunch?”
He shook his head. “I’m busy.”
Awkward. Pause.
“Are you all right?” she whispered. “How was Edward?”
“Can I stay with you tonight?”
Lizzie shifted her weight back and forth. “Aren’t you going to the ball?”
“No.”
“Well, then … yes, I’d like that.” She crossed her arms—and tried not to feel a surging happiness which seemed inappropriate given everything that he was facing. “But I’m worried about you.”
“Me, too.” He glanced up at his house. “Let me ask you something.”
“Anything.”
It was a while before he spoke again. “If I decided to leave here … would you consider coming with me?”
Lizzie thought about joking it out, referencing Robinson Crusoe, or maybe the Carnival Cruise Lines. But he wasn’t laughing in the slightest.
“Is it that bad?” she whispered.
“It’s worse.”
Lizzie didn’t bother checking to see if anyone was looking. She stepped in close to him and put her arms around him—and his response was immediate, his larger body curling around her own, holding on.
“Well?” he said into her hair. “Would you leave with me?”
She thought about her job, her farm, her life—as well as the fact that as of three days ago, they hadn’t spoken in almost two years.
“Lane …”
“So it’s a no?”
She pulled back … stepped away. “Lane, even if you never come back here again, you aren’t going to be free of this place, these people. It’s your family, your core.”
But now what?
On the trip to Easterly, he had wondered whether his brain would come back online for any of this. He had worried that the painkillers, or the trauma, had damaged his gray matter in a way that was not material when all one did was drink and sweep up stables—but rather dispositive when one attempted to function at a higher level.
That was not the case.
Although his circumnavigation among the file system of secured documents was slow at first, soon enough, he was moving quickly through the information caches, exporting what was relevant to a dummy account that would appear to be a valid BBC e-mail, but was in fact, out of the network.
Yet another shadow.
And what was best about it all? If anyone looked into the activity, they would trace the destination to the name of his father’s bulldog executive assistant—in spite of the fact that she herself knew nothing about the account. But that was the point. Anyone in the company who saw that woman’s name on something was going to back away and say nothing.
As he sifted through the financials, he focused exclusively on raw data that had yet to be “scrubbed” by accountants, and though there was a temptation to start to analyze, it was more important that he capture as much as he could—
The lights in the reception room flared to life.
Jerking his head up, he froze.
Shit.
Lizzie’s phone went off finally just as the first of the guests started to take their leave. And she nearly ignored the vibration, especially as two of the waiters came up to her with a series of demands from a table of twenty-year-olds who were underaged and utterly drunk.
“No,” she said as she took the cell out of her back pocket and accepted the call without looking. “They’ve been cut off for a reason—by their parents. If that bunch of entitled asshats has a problem with the service refusal, tell them to talk to Mommy and Daddy.” She put the phone up to her ear. “Yes?”
“It’s me.”
Lizzie closed her eyes in relief. “Oh, my God, Lane … here, let me find somewhere quiet.”
“I’m around back. By the garages. Can you come out for a minute?”
“On my way.”
Ending the call, she caught Greta’s eye across the tent and signaled that she was stepping out for a minute. After the woman nodded, Lizzie hightailed it down the periphery of the party, jogging behind the buffet tables where uniformed servers cut slices off perfectly roasted wedges of locally raised Angus beef.
A couple of waiters raised their hands to try to get her attention, but she held them off, knowing Greta would be on it.
Entering the house through the door that opened into the kitchen, she ducked her head, trying to look as if she were already on a mission. And she supposed she was. In the far corner, by the pantry, there was another door that opened into the mudroom, and after running by all the spring jackets of the help, she emerged outside by the garages.
She looked around for Lane’s Porsche—
“Over here,” his voice announced.
Turning, she recoiled as she saw him leaning against a truck that was nearly as old as she was. But then she got with the program, jogging across the cobblestones.
“Now, this is my kind of ride,” she said as she came up to him.
Even as he didn’t move a muscle, Lane’s eyes traveled all over her, as if he were using her presence as a way of grounding himself. “Can I hug you?”
She glanced around, focusing on the windows of the house. “Probably better not to.”
“Yeah.”
“So … what are you doing here? With this F-150?”
“Borrowed it from a friend. I’m trying to keep a low profile. How’s the party?”
“Your wife’s been giving me the evil eye.”
“Ex-wife, remember?”
“Are you … are you going to head to the brunch?”
He shook his head. “I’m busy.”
Awkward. Pause.
“Are you all right?” she whispered. “How was Edward?”
“Can I stay with you tonight?”
Lizzie shifted her weight back and forth. “Aren’t you going to the ball?”
“No.”
“Well, then … yes, I’d like that.” She crossed her arms—and tried not to feel a surging happiness which seemed inappropriate given everything that he was facing. “But I’m worried about you.”
“Me, too.” He glanced up at his house. “Let me ask you something.”
“Anything.”
It was a while before he spoke again. “If I decided to leave here … would you consider coming with me?”
Lizzie thought about joking it out, referencing Robinson Crusoe, or maybe the Carnival Cruise Lines. But he wasn’t laughing in the slightest.
“Is it that bad?” she whispered.
“It’s worse.”
Lizzie didn’t bother checking to see if anyone was looking. She stepped in close to him and put her arms around him—and his response was immediate, his larger body curling around her own, holding on.
“Well?” he said into her hair. “Would you leave with me?”
She thought about her job, her farm, her life—as well as the fact that as of three days ago, they hadn’t spoken in almost two years.
“Lane …”
“So it’s a no?”
She pulled back … stepped away. “Lane, even if you never come back here again, you aren’t going to be free of this place, these people. It’s your family, your core.”
