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CHAPTER THREE: NIGEL
As Nigel woke, he immediately knew he was alone. Even before his brain returned to full consciousness, he knew the bed beside him was empty. The room was too quiet, the sheets were too cold. He blinked his eyes open, wondering sleepily if the whole thing had been a dream. Had Sydney really been there or had his subconscious just given him another vision of home? His hand reached up and rubbed the last of sleep from his eyes. He lay there, studying the shaft of late morning light that reached across the carpet to the bed. With his head turned this way, a faint scent drifted to his nose from the pillow beside his. At first, he thought he imagined it. Then, he brought it in close, burying his face in the pillowcase. Sydney. It hadn't been a dream. The realization made Nigel sit up. Where was she? He listened carefully but only silence met his ears. Now that he was sure it was real, his mind went over everything that happened the night before—Sydney's phone call and her arrival, the soft vulnerability in her expression when she admitted her failure, and the eagerness with which she wanted to rouse Nathan Turnbull from his bed at 3:30 in the morning. It was then that he knew where Sydney had disappeared to. Nigel sighed as he got out of bed, wishing that Sydney had either woken him or waited for him. It had been so nice having her in his bed again, and he wanted to tell her. He also wanted to ask her to take him with her. He didn't like the thought of Sydney on this hunt alone. Already, people were dead and, if Sydney's face had been any indication, Carmen's death had not been a pleasant one. What if Morgan Lewis decided to kill Sydney in that very same way? Sydney was usually able to take care of herself, but Nigel remembered a fight with Carmen and knew that she could too. Besides, if Morgan got to the amulet first, there was nothing anyone could do to stop him if he decided he wanted Sydney dead. Nigel couldn't bear the thought of Sydney being brutally ripped from him, especially not now when he had decided that he wanted to go home with her. He wasn't exactly sure when he had made his mind up about that. All he knew was that having Sydney come to him for help had reopened a wound he had been trying to mend with plaster promises and outright denial. He wanted to be with her again. He needed to be by her side, sharing her smiles and keeping her safe. Not that it would be hard to leave his teaching job. He didn't like it all that much. He missed American students and their direct, probing, and sometimes improper questions. Plus, he had been homesick for Trinity and Sydney and relic hunting since the day he left them, and all he wanted was just to go back. Of course, Sydney might not want him back. He knew that, but he also knew that she had come to him in her time of need. It took a lot of trust for someone like Sydney to admit that she was lost. That she had placed such trust in him made him feel honoured. As these thoughts tumbled through his head, Nigel busied himself with getting ready. Though he hadn't made a conscious decision about it, he already knew what he was going to do. He was going after her. He was going to help her in her stand against Morgan Lewis and La Mort Rapide. He finished getting ready and hurried downstairs. A quick look out the window showed him an unpleasant gray drizzle. He'd definitely need a jacket. After grabbing the jacket and a couple of crumpets for his breakfast, Nigel went to his sitting room to look up Nathan Turnbull's address. His stomach gave a strange tingle as he saw a piece of paper on his writing desk. He dropped his jacket and snatched up the paper, reading the note written in Sydney's large and slightly messy hand: Nige, Thank you so much for your help. I couldn't have figured it out without you. Sorry for acting like such an ass. I have to talk to Turnbull as early as I can if I want to catch up with Lewis. I didn't want to wake you. I hope I see you again soon. Remember what I said—the planes fly both ways. Love, Syd. The words made him smile, and he carefully folded up the note and put it in his wallet. That way, even if he didn't catch up with her or he couldn't find her, she'd be with him. Finding Turnbull's address was easier than he expected because Sydney had left the phone book open with Turnbull's address underlined in red near her note. Nigel gave it a quick scan, jammed a crumpet in his mouth, threw on his jacket, and headed out the door. Turnbull's house was a quick walk over damp sidewalks. The mist was cold, but not overly unpleasant after the strong showers that had been the weather for the past couple of days. Even so, Nigel was thoroughly wet by the time he reached Turnbull's door. He eagerly bounded up the steps and prepared to chime the bell. His questing hand stopped when he noticed that the door was slightly ajar. A sense of foreboding stole over Nigel then as he remembered a time long before when he and Sydney had discovered something similar. He knew that this could be completely different, that someone might have entered or left in a hurry and forgotten to close the door all the way. After all, there were no scuff marks. His head told him this, but his instincts screamed at him. Working with Sydney had taught him to trust his instincts so, with trepidation, Nigel gently pushed open the door. The house around him was silent—as silent as a tomb. Nigel pushed this thought away and called, “Hello? Mr. Turnbull? Your door was open.” No answer came down the hushed hallways, and something deep inside of Nigel's stomach told him to run. But Nigel wasn't the same man who went to work for Sydney seven years ago. He knew how to hold his fear close and subdue it to get the job done. Besides, if there were danger here, it might involve Sydney. He would never forgive himself if his fear led to her getting hurt. Nigel hadn't gone much further when a tangy, familiar smell met his nose. His insides turned to ice as he recognized the scent as blood. He opened the nearest door to see what had once been a pristine and opulent sitting room. Now, furniture was overturned and broken, pictures were smashed on the floor, and papers were scattered. Through it all ran splashes of red, splashes that might have been paint but for their shade and the odor that came from them. The blood was everywhere. It stained the white carpet and traced patterns across the wall as if placed there by some demented modernist artist. Ivory upholstery was globbed with it and, in some places, the blood was still so wet Nigel could hear the patter as it dripped to the floor. Nigel's stomach rebelled as his eyes took in more and more horror. He clamped his teeth tightly together, fighting the urge to be sick that welled up into his throat. Through a mind shocked into stillness, a thought struggled to the surface. Was this Sydney's blood? There was no body. Nigel's panicked eyes searched the room, looking for any evidence of a corpse. Denial bubbled up through the panic, and he knew that the blood couldn't be hers. It couldn't be because he refused to accept that possibility. Sydney had to be alive. For how long was the next question. Someone had ruthlessly murdered Carmen Facey and then, Nigel assumed, Nathan Turnbull had been murdered in the same way. Chances were, it was Morgan Lewis and, because of something found in Alec Ryan's research or the headquarters of the Group of Ten, he was going around butchering anyone that that knew anything about La Mort Rapide. Sydney could be next, and there was no way in hell Nigel could allow that to happen. He would die first. That's when Nigel noticed the crumpled papers by his feet. They were blood stained and in parts illegible, with one very clear large palm print through the middle, but he understood enough. These were the instructions Lewis had come to Turnbull to get. Chances were Sydney had discovered them as well. Nigel sighed in relief. Now, he knew what to do. First, he had to make an anonymous phone call to the police. Then, he had to find his way to Fleuve de Sang, France. |
