Going Grey (36 page)

"You don't have a rehoming duty. I didn't ask Micko to do this with the expectation that it would become a commitment."

"Where else can he go, Dad?" Mike asked. "An institution? That's just more people who'll know what he is. If we don't step up for him, who will?"

Dad didn't even blink. Perhaps it actually seemed like a good plan to him now. At least he'd know where Ian was. "You sure you're okay with that, Livvie?"

"Yes. And we're not dumping this on Rob, either." She wagged a finger at Mike. "Let's see how it goes. Ian might have plans of his own before long, and then what are we going to do? Stand back and respect them? He's an adult."

Rob opened another beer. "I don't mind, Livvie. It's been ages since I played dad."

"You've already got a terrific son," Mike said. "Don't hog them all."

There was a short, embarrassed pause before Rob laughed. "Okay, your turn to play surrogate dad, then," he said. "We'll take it in shifts. It's bloody hard work teaching a lad to drink and chase women."

Mike cringed.
Damn, why did I say that? Am I that broody?

He suddenly remembered the cats at Livvie's lodgings in Oxford. One of them had a litter, and another cat was desperate to mother them. She'd carry off the kittens and spit fury at the real mom when she came to reclaim them. Mike found it
heartbreaking to watch. But animals did that. It was an overwhelming instinct, and he was just another animal, subject to all the hard-wired instincts of the wild. Sometimes it bubbled up and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

"Ian's picking up Rob's accent," Livvie said, changing the subject. "He's actually a very good mimic. He really
listens
."

"Well, my accent's part of my gorgeousness," Rob said, "but I think Ian's going to be better off talking proper posh like Mike. It's better for his prospects."

Dad reached for one of the jugs of Livvie's special mimosa mix.  Mike could see Ian jogging back with Oatie at his heels.

"If he's not going back to the ranch," Dad said, "we'd better get that property disposed of and set up accounts for him."

Mike nodded. "I've started that."

"Are you staying tonight, Leo?" Rob asked.

"I certainly am. I've got drinking to do."

"Good. Before we get too hand-carted, let's go down the range and I'll show you how well Ian's doing." Rob stood up and gestured to Ian. "Come and show Leo your marksmanship."

Ian would do whatever Sergeant Rennie told him. Dad fell into line too, probably because he realised that Rob was dragging them off to give Mike some talking time with Livvie. Oatie watched with his ears pricked as they disappeared behind the house, then flopped down next to Livvie as if he knew they were going to do that noisy thing again and didn't want any part of it. Livvie lay back, eyes shut, basking in the sun slanting through the branches.

"Are you asleep?" Mike said.

"No." She reached out and picked up her glass. "Just feeling mellow."

"So you want Ian to stay around."

"Like you said, who else is going to step up for him?"

"I'm sorry I dropped this on you."

"Stop apologizing. It's not exactly a scenario anyone could plan for."

"Just bear in mind that he might need to be around for a very long time, and it might be a pain in the ass occasionally."

"That's kids for you, I'm told."

"I'm not asking you to make a substitute family out of him, honey."

Mike hadn't formed a detailed plan beyond not handing Ian over to anyone he didn't want to be handed over to. There were essential milestones, like getting a driving licence and providing for his financial future, but Mike had to consider whether that might turn into a lifetime commitment. What if he developed health issues? Modified animals had problems, and even legitimate gene therapy sometimes went wrong
.

The more I read about it, the more I worry. Tumours, rejection, viruses from the original vector. Who knows?

Perhaps every parent worried about their kid's future just like that. Maybe it wasn't Ian who was different, but Mike who was the same as every other anxious dad.

"We could have the barn converted for him," Livvie said. "He'd have his own place, but with security and support next door."

"And how about the IVF?"

Livvie stared into the glass as if she was working up to telling Mike something uncomfortable. "Right now, I'd rather call it a day and go straight to adoption. But let's see how I do with Ian. If I can't cope with a well-behaved adult, I won't be much use with a child."

"Whatever you want," Mike said. Everything seemed to have changed now that a family had shifted from theory to reality. He kept Rob's advice in mind. "As long as we're okay. We
are
okay, aren't we?"

"You had to ask?"

"No. Of course not."

"Mike, this isn't a swipe at you, sweetheart, but I've been stuck on my own in this house for years. You know why I don't drink while you're away? Because I'd get wasted every night. I teach conversational French in town once a year. If I'm lucky, I might see Mr Andrews to wave to a couple of times a week. When you're away, the rest of my social interaction with the outside world is via a video link. I know exactly how Ian feels."

Livvie had never given Mike an ultimatum about his military career, such as it was. He'd dumped it on her early in their marriage and she'd supported him all the way without complaint. But now he realised how long she'd sat on that unhappiness before she felt able to say it. He was mortified.

"I'm a selfish bastard," he said. "I'm so sorry. I know I do this to people. I arrange them."

"No, you're just trying to do the decent thing all the time for
everybody
– serve your country, feed the poor, protect the weak, save the frigging whale, every goddamn thing, and that's spreading yourself too thin. You end up saving nothing at all." She drained the glass in two pulls. "Saving Ian is pretty heroic on its own, Mike. It's a big ask. Maybe that's enough to keep your karma in the black for the next few years."

"I'll be at home a lot more now we're starting the company," he said. "Life's going to be different, honey, I swear."

"And Rob?" Livvie gestured with her empty glass. "He needs a life too. He's always there for you."

"I know. And I'm there for him. I'm not expecting him to sweep up for me on this."

"We're sorted, then," she said, using Rob's favourite declaration of a situation under control. "So, once the ranch is sold, Ian vanishes completely."

"We'll pass it through a few companies to make sure. And a few bank accounts."

"What if someone gets his social security number, though?"

"They'd have to know he existed before they could even start digging for that," Mike said. "And they don't."

Mike wondered how witness protection actually worked in detail. The people going into hiding almost certainly had much more complex, connected lives to erase than Ian did. They had relatives, employers, all kinds of records like footprints in their wake that had to be swept away and replaced with fake histories. Ian had almost nothing. That, at least, worked in his favour now. The only untidy detail was Kinnery. It was too bad that he'd come to the house, but Dad couldn't have known that the crazy story was completely true.

Ian could be anyone he wanted to be, though, and as long as Kinnery maintained his long silence, nobody would ever know he was here.

EN ROUTE TO DUNLOP RANCH, ATHEL RIDGE.

Dru realised she'd missed the unmarked turning to Dunlop Ranch when she passed a sign welcoming her to Athel Ridge.

A veil of unseasonal chilly drizzle didn't help. She turned the rental car around to retrace her route. Several U-turns later, she found the road and then the ranch's entrance, just a gap in some bushes with no gates, no sign, and an unpaved track leading up a shallow hill. Maybe she had the wrong place.

She checked the sat map. No, this was it.

The track curved across sloping pasture and through trees. A house finally emerged through the foliage, and Dru stopped about fifty yards from it to sit with the engine idling. There were no signs of activity. On a wet day, that didn't necessarily mean nobody was home.

If I can cold-call Kinnery's graduation class, I can knock on that door.

It was another crossroads choice, one path leading to safe failure, the other accelerating her drift into the unknown and possibly indefensible. She started counting. On five, she'd either switch off the engine and get out of the car, or turn around and go home.

One.

Two.

Three ... four ... five.

Dru pulled up the hood on her jacket and started the long walk to the front door, purse crushed under her arm for reassurance. She was sure Maggie would see her coming and fling open the door.

But it remained resolutely closed. She paused in front of the steps and looked up, trying to catch some movement at the windows, but there was nothing. The only sound was a crow rasping
car-car-car
,
car-car-car,
in a voice so articulate and human that for a stupid, irrational moment she was ready to believe that the bird was warning someone that a car had arrived. Black shapes flapped out of nearby branches and vanished.

Okay. Knock.

Dru rapped a few times, then spotted the doorbell and gave it a three-second press. Perhaps she'd been optimistic to expect to find anyone at home, but there was no way of checking first. Her only option was to wait and watch. She pressed the bell a few more times but there was still no answer. Birds settled in the branches again. It felt as if the crows were gathering to keep an eye on her.

She rang one more time, then began working her way around the house, first along the porch and then down the side towards the barn. Maybe she'd find someone in there. If Maggie Dunlop was watching her from the house, this might make her come out. Dru made a show of calling like an innocent visitor genuinely looking for the owner.

"Mrs Dunlop?" Dru pushed the barn door and stuck her head inside. Her voice sounded shaky even to herself. "Mrs Dunlop? Anyone home?"

The barn smelled of farmyard and musty, decaying things that she couldn't identify. Something rustled in the corner.
Calm down. It's just mice. Rats.
Dim light from a couple of small windows showed that the place was empty except for piles of timber. Dru crunched around on the straw-scattered floor, feeling stupid, wishing she'd worn more sensible shoes, and wondering what to do next.

Go into town. Have a coffee and ask at the post office, perhaps. People always help if you ask nicely.

She turned, still trying to compose a cover story, and walked straight into the barrel of a shotgun.

"Jesus
Christ
– "

Her heart beat so hard that she thought it would tear itself loose. But the gun wasn't aimed at her. It was simply all she could focus on. The thickset, curly-haired white guy who was holding it muzzle down looked at her without curiosity, just distrust. He wore faded blue overalls and looked to be in his fifties, not the age she expected.

"Can I help you, ma'am?"

Well, he wasn't the British guy who'd answered the phone. He sounded local. Adrenaline was worse than alcohol for snatching the reins out of Dru's hands. Her mouth took over. Her rational brain was so slow out of the gate that she was into the next furlong of deception by the time it moved. It was like watching a stranger, a genuine out-of-body experience.

"I'm sorry, are you Ian?" She pushed back her hood and tried to ignore the shotgun. "I'm looking for Maggie Dunlop. Have I got the right address?"

The man just stared into her face for a few seconds. "Why do you want to see her?"

Stick to the story. He might be able to check it with someone.

"My late aunt – she had a college friend, and all I know is that he or she lived in Washington. I don't even have a name, male or female. I got Maggie's name from one of her classmates."

The man wasn't even looking her over. He just focused on her face as if he could stare the truth out of her. "And what's
your
name?"

If Dru got too smartass he might call the police, and she couldn't explain herself without sounding insane, criminal, or both. Now the lies bred. They had to. A fake first name was the easiest way to get tripped up. The only surname that came to mind was her maiden name.

"I'm Dru. Dru Wilson." She held out her hand. "You're Ian, right? Ian, I just came to tell Maggie that my aunt passed on. I couldn't write or phone. Obviously."

Dru thought she was doing okay when Ian took her hand and shook it. But then things started to go downhill.

"That's not my name," he said. "I look after the place."

Now she was stuck. Did he mean Maggie was away, or that he was an employee? She couldn't ask him to clarify without exposing herself to more questions she probably couldn't answer. And she'd blown her one explanation for being here. She couldn't make up another. She either had to walk away or persist.