A Place of Hiding (Inspector Lynley, #12)(15)

“I don’t think so.”

The ringing continued, rousing the household dog from her slumber. As they went to the entry, Peach came barreling up the stairs from the kitchen, barking like the outraged badger hunter she was. Deborah scooped up the squirming dachshund.

St. James opened the door. He said, “Have you decided—” but he cut off his own words when he saw neither Thomas Lynley nor his wife. Instead, a dark-jacketed man—his thick hair matted by the rain and his blue jeans soaked against his skin—huddled in the shadows against the iron railing at the far side of the top front step. He was squinting in the light and he said to St. James, “Are you—?” and nothing more as he looked beyond to where Deborah was standing, the dog in her arms, just behind her husband. “Thank God,” he said. “I must’ve gotten turned around ten times. I caught the Underground at Victoria, but I went the wrong way and didn’t figure it out till...Then the map got soaked. Then it blew away. Then I lost the address. But now. Thank God...”

With that, he moved fully into the light, saying only, “Debs. What a frigging miracle. I was starting to think I’d never find you.”

Debs. Deborah stepped forward, hardly daring to believe. The time and the place came back to her in a rush. As did the people from that time and that place. She set Peach on the floor and joined her husband at the door to have a better look. She said, “Simon! Good Lord. I don’t believe...” But instead of completing her thought, she decided to see for herself what seemed real enough, no matter how unexpected it was. She reached for the man on the step and drew him inside the house. She said, “Cherokee?”

Her first thought was how could it be that the brother of her old friend would come to be standing in her front doorway. Then, seeing it was true, that he was actually there, she cried, “Oh my God, Simon. It’s Cherokee River.”

Simon seemed nonplussed. He shut the door behind them as Peach scooted forward and sniffed their visitor’s shoes. Apparently not liking what she discovered there, she backed off from him and began to bark.

Deborah said, “Hush, Peach. This is a friend.”

To which remark, Simon said, “Who...?” as he pi cked up the dog and quieted her.

“Cherokee River,” Deborah repeated. “It is Cherokee, isn’t it?” she asked the man. For although she was fairly certain it was he, nearly six years had passed since she’d last seen him, and even during the period of their acquaintance, she’d met him only half a dozen times. She didn’t wait for him to reply, saying, “Come into the study. We’ve a fire burning. Lord, you’re soaked. Is that a cut on your head? What are you doing here?” She led him to the ottoman before the fire and insisted that he remove his jacket. This might have at one time been water resistant, but that time had passed and now it shed rivulets onto the floor. Deborah tossed it on the hearth, where Peach went to investigate.

Simon said reflectively, “Cherokee River?”

“China’s brother,” Deborah said in reply.

Simon looked at the man, who’d begun to shiver. “From California?”

“Yes. China. From Santa Barbara. Cherokee, what on earth...?

Here. Do sit down. Please sit by the fire. Simon, is there a blanket...? A towel...?”

“I’ll fetch them.”

“Do hurry!” Deborah cried, for stripped of his jacket Cherokee had begun to shake like a man who was bordering on convulsions. His skin was so white that it was cast with blue, and his teeth had bitten a tear in his lip that was starting to ooze blood onto his chin. This was in addition to a nasty-looking cut on his temple, which Deborah examined, saying, “This needs a plaster. What’s happened to you, Cherokee? You’ve not been mugged?” Then, “No. Don’t answer. Let me get you something to warm you up first.”

She hurried to the old drinks trolley that sat beneath the window overlooking Cheyne Row. There, she poured a stiff glass of brandy, which she took to Cherokee and pressed upon him.

Cherokee raised the glass to his mouth, but his hands were shaking so badly that the glass merely chattered against his teeth and most of the brandy spilled down the front of his black T-shirt, which was wet like the rest of him. He said, “Shit. Sorry, Debs.” Either his voice, his condition, or the spilling of the drink seemed to disconcert Peach, for the little dog left off sniffing Cherokee’s drenched jacket and began to bark at him again. Deborah hushed the dachshund, who wouldn’t be still till she’d hauled her from the room and sent her to the kitchen. “She thinks she’s a Doberman,” Deborah said wryly. “No one’s ankles are safe around her.”

Cherokee chuckled. Then a tremendous shudder took his body, and the brandy he was holding sloshed round inside the glass. Deborah joined him on the ottoman and put her arm round his shoulders. “Sorry,” he said again. “I got really freaked out.”

“Don’t apologise. Please.”

“I’ve been wandering around in the rain. Smacked into a tree branch over near the river. I thought the bleeding stopped.”

“Drink the brandy,” Deborah said. She was relieved to hear that he’d not fallen into some sort of trouble on the street. “Then I’ll see to your head.”

“Is it bad?”

“Just a cut. But it does need seeing to. Here.” She had a tissue in her pocket and she used this to dab at the blood. “You’ve given us a surprise. What’re you doing in London?”