“Shhh.”
#156
In the centre of this room, Professor Sekrine was planted at the well-worn, stained pine table, his hands palm-down on top of it, wrists held close together by a pair of metal handcuffs.
He was wrapped in a baggy, beige-coloured cardigan that had leather patches on the elbows, and a white shirt beneath with the top button done up.
There was a half-full paper cup next to him, a Jolly Roger-brand teabag label hanging out. He looked chipper for someone accused of multiple-murder, and who’d spent the past twenty-four hours in the pen.
Even so, the man’s hair was more awry than ever before.
“Jack!” he called out, while he ran eyes from his visitor’s head to toe. “I say, this is wonderful. Nice to see that you dispensed with Captain America’s little wings and bright-red apparel — although I notice you kept the stars, and they have multiplied.”
The Equalizer settled into the chair on the other side of the square table. A perceptive look passed between the two men and they smiled.
“You knew I was a Cape.”
“I had my suspicions.”
“Why?”
“The unusually broad shoulders, the strong jaw line. You aren’t built like regular people, Jack, and I couldn’t picture you dabbling with steroids or being a fitness nut.”
“Ah.”
“Oh, and there was a slip you made, referring to Capes as heroes. Most people here wouldn’t think so.”
Jack laughed. “Are you okay? The cops are looking after you?”
“Although the tea they serve is rather —er — wishy-washy, the police have been most civil.”
“Possibly because some of them sympathize with what you’ve done. Killing Capes.”
“Is that what you believe?”
“You shot Gypsie-Ann.”
“Who?”
“The reporter.”
“Oh, yes. A necessity.”
“What about the others?”
“I have only Miss Stellar’s blood on my hands.”
“She recovered.”
“She did?” The Professor looked genuinely relieved. “Good show!”
“Thought you said her death was a necessity?”
“Given how things ended up, with my presence in this place, it doesn’t really matter. Tell me, how is Louise taking all of this?”
“I don’t know.”
“Pardon?”
“The last time I talked to her, she made it clear she doesn’t want to see me. I think we’re finished.”
“Oh. She did not tell me.” The elderly man allowed his eyes to wander, before fixing them back on his visitor. “The Cape business.”
“Mmm.”
“Jack, you must — you must — ensure she is all right. Promise me.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
“That sounds unpleasantly like a brush-off.”
“It’s not a brush-off. A lot depends on her willingness to see me.”
“And on how persuasive you are.”
Nodding, Jack had other matters to discuss. “Professor, I need to ask you — why’d you shoot Gypsie-Ann? She’s a friend, a good guy.”
“Are we being recorded?”
The Equalizer shook his head. “Switched off.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“I kind of ripped out the circuits.”
“Bravo.” The Professor leaned forward on his leather-cushioned elbows. “Well, then, allow me to make my point: there is no such thing as a good guy. I can trust nobody, not with this.”
“With what?”
“There’s the rub. If I tell you, I defeat my own philosophy — I trust in you. And yet, given the circumstances,” he sat back and raised his cuffed wrists, “I believe I shall have to do just that. Jack, I made a mess of things. I was not supposed to draw any attention, but when the lady reporter came snooping about the shop and sprouted the Erskine name, I panicked. Unforgivable. I was simply trying to protect our girl.”
“Louise? — Why?”
“Because,” the old man said in a soft voice, barely audible, while he leaned as far across the table as he could and Jack moved closer to meet him halfway, “she’s the Aerialist.”
#157
By the time she arrived home, Louise’s world had turned upside down, as well as inside out and frayed some.
She’d met up with a recently divorced friend, former model Millie Collins and her artist sister Ruth, and crashed the night at the girls’ place, consuming cocktails while commiserating together about lost love and the stupidity of men. When she went to work in the morning — her last day at the bank — it was at the mercy of a hangover and an uneasy stomach.