CHAPTER TWO

Phryne couldn't sleep. She'd been trying for the last hour, off and on. Outside, sheet lightning backlit the clouds, the rumbles of thunder coming closer together now. Phryne stared at the ceiling, fingers tapping and curling the duvet unconsciously. Her book had long been abandoned, still resting on the pillow next to her.

Perhaps it was the string of home invasions that had her so on edge. But we solved those, she reminded herself, looking around the room, the very same room in which the crime spree had come to an end. In fact, she'd only been allowed to use it for its' intended purpose since that morning. The night before that, it had been a crime scene.

You may want to wait a night or two, Jack's voice echoed in her mind.

She'd laughed it off. Oh, really, Jack. Every other room in my home has been the scene of some disaster or another.

His tone had been serious, knowing. Yes, but there's a bit of a difference between your kitchen…and your bedroom.

And on that happy note…Phryne got up, reached for her dressing gown and made a beeline for the stairwell. Perhaps I'll find the couch more inviting.

She refused to admit that Jack may have been right.

A rumble of thunder shook the house, and she paused on the middle landing. She listened for rain, but didn't hear it.

Phryne sighed, and pivoted back upstairs. If Jack Robinson's usual pattern of behavior continued, he would be working late tonight.

Perhaps now is the best time to admit that Jack was right. And a drive will clear my head.

"Lucille Brown was your mother?" Jack questioned the boy, watching him pace back and forth in front of him. It was clear the boy's plan had been executed as far as he'd had planned. Now that he had Jack where he wanted him, the young man didn't seem as though he knew what to do next.

And thank goodness for that.

"Yeah," the boy said shortly, stopping in his pattern and turning to face Jack. "Yeah, she was."

"I'm sorry," Jack told him, and meant it. He never wanted to use deadly force unless circumstances warranted it.

"I bet you are." The boy aimed the gun at him again, and Jack sensed now was not a good time for conversation. He chose instead to focus on the handcuffs around his wrists, flexing to see if there was any give. He found a little, but not enough to wiggle them off.

"My mother was a good woman," the boy said, startling Jack. "We didn't have much, but she always made sure that we had what we needed. She didn't want me to go to work someplace…she wanted me to be a child. Me and my sister."

Lucille Brown had children. They had been in the process of looking for next of kin; it had actually been the next thing on Jack's to-do list. He hated these times. Hated that good people were sometimes forced into bad things to survive.

"All she wanted was for me and my sister to have a good life. She wasn't a bad person!"

Jack believed it. By all accounts she had merely been the scout, the decoy, the lookout. Oscar Abbott had done the dirty work.

The boy waved the gun in Jack's face. "All she wanted was for us to never go without. And now she's dead and it's your fault!" He cocked the gun and Jack tensed.

"The Inspector is not responsible for your mother's death," a voice interrupted, punctuated by a crack of thunder.

Jack and the boy both started at the new arrival, Jack's eyes going wide.

Phryne Fisher stood in the doorway, one hand on her gold-plated pistol. "Working late, Jack?" she asked him.

Jack shrugged the best he could with his hands cuffed behind him. "Had a few last-minute things to take care of," he said. "What brings you down at this hour of the night?" The interplay between the two appeared to be confusing the hell out of the young hostage taker, who was watching the banter in disbelief.

But then that is what Phryne Fisher does, Jack thought, takes command of the room. And, he admitted, he was not entirely unhappy to see her.

"A bit of humble pie on my part," Phryne admitted, "and you're the cause of it."

Jack nodded. "Ah. Perhaps we could deal with the present situation?" he suggested, nodding to the boy.

Phryne turned to the young man with the gun, her own pistol now trained on him. "I suppose. Priorities," she agreed. "What's the meaning of this, then?" She grinned. "Can't say I haven't thought about putting the Inspector in handcuffs myself," she said, sultry. "Though I imagined circumstances much differently."

"Phryne." Jack rolled his eyes (although he wasn't entirely put off by the idea).

"Shut it!" The outburst came from the boy, who moved his pistol from Jack to Phryne. "You. Go stand over there," he ordered her.

Phryne arched an eyebrow, and to Jack's surprise, complied. She kept on eye on the young man as she moved to stand by Jack, placing one hand on the back of his chair in a reassuring fashion. "You're in charge," she reminded the boy. "Would someone mind telling me what's going on here?"

"He killed my mum," the boy told Phryne.

Phryne glanced down at Jack. "This is Lucille Brown's son?" she clarified, and Jack nodded. She looked at the boy. "The inspector had been looking for you," she told him.

"Why, so he can go ahead and kill me too?"

"Jack doesn't just go around killing people without cause," Phryne snapped. "Although kidnapping a policeman would certainly be cause." Her tone softened. "Perhaps you should put that gun away," she suggested. To Jack's surprise, Phryne set her own down on Hugh's desk. "Let's discuss this."

"There's nothing to discuss. He killed my mother." But the arrogance was gone in the boy's tone, perhaps disarmed by Phryne's tone and the fact that she'd put her gun away.

"I don't think you believe that," Phryne said. "I think you're sad, and scared, and you need someone to blame."

The was a crack of thunder, and through the open windows, a cloudburst of rain.

Jack took over. Comforting children was not Phryne's strong suit; she did much better with adults. "I can tell your mother cared for you," Jack told Milo. "She wouldn't have made the choices she did for any other reason. And they may have been bad choices but…she made them for you. And your sister."

Phryne raised an eyebrow. She hadn't been there for that part of the conversation.

Jack stood up now, his hands free thanks to Phryne's spare lock pick, but kept his hands level, placating. "I didn't shoot your mother that night, Milo. Oscar did."

He looked at Phryne, then to Milo. The boy's face faltered. "Your mother was ready to confess to everything. She didn't hurt anyone, Milo. She took what they were stealing and sold it, so you and your sister could eat. She wanted to make the right choice."

Jack took a step toward the boy. Milo's hands were shaking. "She was going to turn herself in, and Oscar shot her." He took another step forward, well aware that Phryne was close enough to her pistol and probably a quicker shot. "We tried to help her."

"Let him help you now, Milo," Phryne urged him. "If you go to prison, there will be no one to look after your sister."

Milo was crying now. "It's too late," he sobbed. "I've already made a mess of things."

Jack slipped forward, took the gun from his hands and handed it to Phryne. To his shock, Milo wrapped his arms around Jack and sobbed into his shirt. Jack glanced helplessly over his shoulder at Phryne, who only gave him half a smile. "No," Jack assured him. "You haven't done anything of the sort."

Jack and Phryne watched from the car as Milo darted out in a light drizzle, knocking softly on the door of the small house. The door opened and a little girl with dark hair threw her arms around him. Milo hugged her, looked back at the patrol car, and gave the two adults a wave.

"Are you going to press charges?" Phryne asked Jack as they drove off.

Jack kept his eyes on the road as he answered, "For what? Milo and I only had a late-night conversation, that's all."

"I see." Phryne nodded thoughtfully. The two drove in silence for awhile.

Jack glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. "Exactly, why, Miss Fisher, were you at the station this evening? I seem to recall something about 'humble pie?'"

"Oh. That." Phryne shrugged. "You were right. I couldn't sleep."

Jack nodded. "I'm not sorry I was right. Do you think you'll be able to now?" He pulled up in front of City South. Phryne's beloved Hispano-Suiza was parked on the side street, plastic covering the upholstery.

Phryne stepped out of the police car, then paused. "Oh, I imagine I'll have better dreams from here on out," she replied, and tossed Jack's handcuffs at him before closing the door with a smile.

Jack shook his head, and turned toward home. The skies were clear; the storm had moved on.