Catching the Wind(60)

“Hello, Lucas,” he greeted, as if the man beside her were his nephew or grandson.

“Good evening, sir.” Lucas reached to adjust the brightness, and Mr. Knight’s wild white hair filled up most of the screen.

Mr. Knight leaned forward, squinting. “Miss Vaughn?”

She leaned closer to the camera. “I’m here.”

“Very good.” He looked down at the desk beside him and picked up a stack of papers. “You’ve uncovered quite a bit already.”

“It appears that Brigitte left a trail for you after all.”

“My earlier investigators should have found the tin in Newhaven,” he said.

She glanced at Lucas before turning back toward the screen. “You mean the one on Mulberry Lane.”

“No.” Mr. Knight shook his head. “At the Mill House.”

“Your investigators knew about the Mill House?”

“Of course.”

When she looked at Lucas again, he didn’t look back at her. Heat crawled across her skin. Why had they been withholding information from her? And how much more did they know?

“Why didn’t you—?” she started, but Lucas stopped her. Not with a word, to her or Mr. Knight, but he gently placed his hand on her knee, signaling her not to probe. At his touch, a tremor rocketed through her.

Clearing her throat, she decided to change direction. Later she would ask about the Mill House. It was completely unproductive for her to unearth a trail that had already been blazed.

“Did you read the letters we found?” she asked, not knowing whether Mr. Knight had found the letters as well in years past.

“Not yet.” He looked down, and then his eyes returned to the screen. “Is she well?”

Quenby hesitated. “She was hungry and worried. She missed you.”

“Any idea where she went?”

“Not yet.”

“The Terrells, sir,” Lucas said, inching closer to the camera. “It seems as if they were helping the Nazis.”

Something flickered in his eyes, and Quenby wished she were on the other side of Mr. Knight’s desk instead of studying a screen. “I suspected as much, with those photographs in their house.”

“Mrs. Terrell moved to Newhaven to assist them during the war.”

“With Brigitte?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Sadness lingered on his face, and she guessed this was new information for him. Information she almost wished they hadn’t found, for his sake.

It was too late to redeem Brigitte’s life. Why dredge up this sadness when they had no influence on the outcome? Unfortunately, justice was too late in coming for people like Eddie and Olivia Terrell.

But then again, perhaps justice had already been served.

“I want you to keep searching,” Mr. Knight said.

“Of course.”

His eyes grew wide as if something had alarmed him. “But you must be careful, Brigitte.”

Confused, Quenby wasn’t certain how to respond.

Mr. Knight’s screen shook, his head bouncing up and down on their monitor. “They’ll try to stop you.”

Lucas leaned forward, stealing away Quenby’s view of the camera. “She didn’t forget you, Mr. Knight.”

There was a long pause before Mr. Knight responded. “I told her I would find her.”

“We know, sir.”

“And I will find her yet.”

Lucas inched away from the screen, and Quenby saw Mr. Knight again, the man’s hand pressed into his chin. “I pray God leads us to her, before it’s too late.”

Lucas ended their conversation, and then he disconnected the video chat.

Quenby turned toward him. “Too late for what?”

Lucas shrugged, closing the computer screen.

She scooted up on the upholstered seat. “Why wouldn’t you let me ask about the Mill House?”

“Mr. Knight was confused.”

“I’m confused! He called me Brigitte.”

“I don’t believe any of the past investigators came to Newhaven.”

“But he said—”

Lucas’s gaze trailed to the morning light that streamed through the window. “Sometimes his mind slips and takes him back to his youth. He’s trying to stay present.”

She paused. “How confused is he?”

“A little more each day. Some days there’s more absence in his mind than presence.”

“Hence the urgency,” she whispered.

Lucas nodded. “He wants to find her now, before he forgets that he was looking.”

“Poor man.”

“He’s a fighter, Quenby. Always has been.”

“But he can’t fight the battle against his brain.”

“He has a team of doctors, the best in the world, fighting alongside him. And he has people like us who’ll remember for him.”

“Perhaps it’s better for him to just remember the good.”

“The good isn’t what he usually remembers.” He slid the laptop into his black messenger bag. Then he checked his watch. “I have to leave for London before noon.”

“Can I catch a ride?” she joked.

He picked up his bag, and when their eyes met, a smile returned to his face. “Perhaps.”