Death Under the Lilacs (11 page)

She nuzzled into the hollow of his shoulder. “Tell me this is the real thing,” she whispered.

“It is. You're free.”

She lifted her head, and the sun, falling through the leaves, dappled her face. She smiled and resumed her position against his neck. “I've lost weight. It makes for easier carrying.”

“We'll fatten you up with lots of thick milk shakes and steaks.” He knelt with her and let her rest her back against the fence by the road. “A car's bound to be along soon and we'll get a ride to the nearest town.”

“I want to go home,” she said.

“I think we had better have you checked out at a hospital.”

“I just want to go home. I'm tired and that shouldn't be. All I've done the past few days, however long it's been, has been to sleep.”

He felt for her wrist and tried to take her pulse. It seemed fast and erratic. “I want you seen by a doctor before we go home. I'm sorry it took me so long. It took a while to find out what you meant by the lilac clue.”

She smiled at him with drowsy eyes. “I knew you'd get it eventually. See, I have complete faith.”

“We're lucky you knew where you were. You practically drew me a map.”

She yawned. “The only thing I had to go on was the Trumbull name.”

“Trumbull?”

“The name of the people whose tomb I inhabited. I knew I was in an old cemetery, and then I saw the family name Trumbull cut into the sarcophagus.”

“I still don't understand.”

“That's because you aren't a political person. When I ran for secretary of the state, I traveled through all of Connecticut. In the northwest one of my staunchest backers was a Rebecca Trumbull. A sweet old lady whose family had been here since before the Revolution. It's not a common name, and that meant I was probably in her family mausoleum. That balloon trip we took last year had to have passed near here.”

“A mile away, as I compute it.”

“Did you give him what he wanted?”

“The stamps?”

“Whatever he asked for on the tape. I was so busy thinking about the Trumbulls that I wasn't paying much attention.”

“Yes, I did.”

“How did we afford it?”

“It's complicated. I'll explain later.”

“Then you didn't need the lilacs,” she said with another yawn. “He would have told you where I was when he got the ransom.”

“I guess,” Lyon said. He didn't tell her that the letter containing her location had never arrived. Nor had there been a further tape or phone call. He wondered how and when he could tell her about the sale of Nutmeg Hill.

“I feel funny, Wentworth.”

“We're sure to get a ride to the hospital in a few minutes. Can you last that long?”

She laughed with a voice that skirted the edge of hysteria. “Oh, sure. Why not? I've lasted this long and it isn't dark anymore. Did you know that I was afraid of the dark?”

“No, I didn't,” he replied softly.

“Well, I am. Never knew it before. I mean, even as a little girl I never cowered under the covers to get away from the monsters. There is a bogeyman, Went. He's out there somewhere. He's lurking in the bushes or behind the rocks and trees or in a van ready to spirit us away to some dark place.”

Lyon did not answer.

“He got me. Boy, and how he did. In the beginning he looked at me with a strange sort of lascivious glare.… I thought my honor was ready to fall, and I didn't even have a tower to fling myself from.” She laughed aloud. “But he didn't. I guess I turned him off, and so my honor remains intact. Pleased to hear that, Wentworth?”

“I'm glad you weren't hurt.”

“Hurt? No way. A little chain on the old wrist.” She clanked the chain curled at her feet. “Maybe I'll leave it on as a sort of reminder of how vulnerable I am.”

Lyon tried to speak, but his throat was tight and swollen, and the words wouldn't come. “It's going to be all right,” he was finally able to mutter. “The hospital … maybe a shot of something.” A pickup clattered down the road toward them. “Maybe we have a ride,” Lyon said as he stood to flag down the truck.

“They wouldn't let me see her.”

Lyon looked up from his fourth cup of bitter hospital cafeteria coffee to see Rocco Herbert looming over him. He stood and put an arm around his large friend. “Are you all right?”

“A few minor glass wounds in my neck and a bad case of embarrassment over letting the bastard get away.” He straddled a chair. “What's with Bea?”

“She seemed all right when I first found her, but became quite depressed by the time we arrived here. They have her under sedation and are trying to balance her fluids and cure a mild case of dehydration.”

“Then she's going to be all right?”

“Yes.”

“I haven't had time to get the details yet. How in the hell did you find her?”

Lyon told him how Bea managed to indicate her location with the lilac clue.”

“One smart lady,” Rocco said. “Thank God you got to her in time.”

“What happened in London is disappointing. Everyone seemed to be sure you'd grab the guy when he made the pickup.”

“He outsmarted us. He did something we weren't prepared for. We had the Hotel Dalton, where the drop was made, covered with the proverbial goddamn blanket. Yard guys all over the place, FBI observers and me watching from across the street with a spotter scope. I saw your letter, with the stamps, put into a room mailbox. I had my scope trained on it when the damn bomb went off.”

“You're lucky your eyes weren't hurt by flying glass.”

“The Yard guy posing as the room clerk lost an eye. There was someone in the hotel who knew when the bomb was going off and who grabbed the letter from the box and ran.”

“And there's no trace of Willingham, the man it was addressed to?”

“We never found a trace of anyone by that name except for the typewritten room-reservation letter.”

“We're doing fine, aren't we, Rocco? All the police resources of two continents behind us and the guy gets away with it.”

“We're not through. Norbie's people and the FBI are searching the area where you found Bea. They'll turn up something. Has Bea been able to make a statement?”

“No. I talked to her a little, but we didn't go into anything in depth except about the Trumbulls' crypt. She sort of faded out after that.”

“When she's rested and can talk, maybe we'll be able to get something to go on from her.”

“I came across a name that appears on both the flight manifests and the stamp-journal list. Robert R. Traxis of Wessex.”

“Christ! That's the guy who goes ape over Bea's politics.”

“The same one.”

“Did you tell Norbie?”

“I went to see Traxis myself and found that he has a perfect alibi for the night Bea was taken. He appeared at a town meeting and is identified in the minutes.”

“Another strike-out.”

“Maybe not completely. He's got a man working for him by the name of Reuven something or other who seems to act as a valet-handyman type of person.”

“And you want me to check into him?”

“Very much.”

“You conjecture that this fellow Reuven handled the Connecticut end while Traxis made the pickup in London?”

“It's a possibility.”

“That's the best lead so far. I'll run it down as soon as I find out what Norbie's up to at the cemetery.”

“What happened to my friend?”

The alarmed voice behind them startled them. Lyon jumped, and Rocco's hand automatically brushed against the magnum holstered at his belt.

“Holy Jesus, Kim! Don't sneak up on us like that,” Rocco said.

“They told me at the nurses' station you were down here. Any chance of getting a cup of coffee?” Kim Ward plunked into the empty seat at the small table as Lyon went back through the cafeteria line to get her coffee.

For years, Kim Ward had been Bea's close friend, campaign manager, assistant, and had served as deputy secretary of the state when Bea held that office. The two women were alike in many ways: feisty, strong-willed, and always ready to do battle for their beliefs.

Lyon returned to the table with the coffee, and Kim took the cup gratefully.

“You look like hell,” Rocco said.

“You always were one with the fast compliment, Herbert. My plane just landed. I can't tell you how many hours … or is it days that I've been in the air? I came across a week-old
New York Times
in this crazy African hotel and saw a short article about Bea's kidnapping.”

“You flew back from Africa to help?” Lyon asked, although he knew the answer.

“They won't let me see her, Lyon.”

“She's under sedation right now.”

“What's this Africa bit?” Rocco asked.

“Kim was appointed to a committee formed by the American Friends, to investigate child malnutrition in several countries,” Lyon said.

Kim finished her coffee. “As soon as I saw the newspaper, I tried to fly out. I had one hell of a time until I caught a feeder flight to Kenya and a flight to London from there.”

“Everyone seems to fly to London these days,” Rocco said bitterly.

“Did you finish your report?” Lyon asked.

“Almost. I can get the rest of the data when the other members of the committee return next week. It's not just starvation, Lyon. It's dysentery. In certain areas dysentery is killing half the children under a year. They go into dehydration, and there's just not enough medical treatment.” She stared past them toward some unseen place filled with the horrors she had recently witnessed. “Dysentery, for God's sake!”

“Is there a Mr. Wentworth here? Phone call for Mr. Wentworth.”

Lyon turned in his seat to see the cafeteria cashier standing by the cash register with a phone receiver in her hand. He hurried to her. “Yes, thank you. Hello.”

“This is Perkins on the sixth floor, Mr. Wentworth. You wanted me to call when your wife awoke.”

He recognized the brusque and officious voice of the charge nurse on Bea's floor. “Yes, thank you. I didn't think it would be so soon.”

“Neither did we. She has enough Valium in her to keep a normal person out for another twelve hours. Frankly, Mr. Wentworth, she is giving us a very difficult time.”

“Difficult?”

“She's trying to leave the hospital.”

“I'll be right there.”

Lyon stood in the doorway to Bea's private room and tried to see her through a maze of orderlies and nurses that were clustered around the bed.

He heard her.

She was hyperventilating in a rasping, throaty wail. He pushed past two orderlies.

Her arms and feet were strapped to the bed frame with heavy leather restraints. She fought against the straps. Her shoulders were arched, raising her head a few inches off the pillow. Her eyes were wide with fright.

“Let her go!” Lyon commanded. He pushed a nurse aside and fumbled at the leather strap pinning her right arm. “Don't you idiots know where she's been? Get these damn things off!”

Hands motivated by his voice of command undid the straps. In seconds Bea was free and swinging her feet off the side of the bed.

“Always to the rescue, Went. Thanks.”

Lyon turned to glare at the offending hospital personnel. “Who ordered this?”

“The resident,” a nurse answered. “Doctor Panditt felt that because of the amount of Valium we had given her it would be dangerous for her to sign out.”

He kissed Bea. “They didn't realize.”

“No matter. I'm going home. There's a lot to be done. The garden hasn't been tended in a week or more. I bet you've forgotten to do any shopping. Maybe I'll see my friend at the shopping center parking lot.” She laughed in a high-pitched falsetto. “Things to be done. My God, I'm running for majority leader.” She pushed away from the bed. “Where are my clothes?”

“In the closet,” one of the nurses said.

“I'm calling the chief resident,” the charge nurse said.

“Do that,” Bea replied. “I'm still signing myself out right now. Where are those clothes?” She opened the closet door and looked in horror at the bundle of dirty clothes she had worn to the hospital. “Oh, God. Gross.”

“I haven't had time to bring fresh things,” Lyon said. “I think you had better get back in bed.”

“No way. I'm leaving. There's too much to do, and I've goofed off long enough.”

Lyon looked at his wife and saw the fear that still lurked in her eyes, which seemed filled with dark flecks. He wanted to hold her.

“Get back in bed, honey,” Kim said softly from the doorway.

Bea whirled to meet her new oppressor. “You can't … Kim!”

“You sure can get in a lot of trouble when I'm not around,” Kim said as she stepped into the room. “Everyone but Lyon out,” she commanded.

Lyon stepped back as the nurses and orderlies filed silently from the room and Kim approached Bea. The two friends grasped each other's shoulders and then embraced.

“We're running for majority leader, Kim. We have lots to do.”

“I know.” Kim hugged Bea tighter. “In a while.”

“It was ghastly.”

“I know.”

For the first time since he had found her, Lyon saw his wife's shoulders heave and her body convulse as she cried in her friend's arms.

He left the room and quietly shut the door.

Lyon felt a wedge of stomach pain as the Murphysville police cruiser pulled to a stop by the rusted gates of the country cemetery. Other vehicles, some with dome lights, others unmarked, lined the quiet road. Roaming state police troopers with downcast eyes marched along the rows of tombstones, searching for anything that might provide a clue to the kidnapper.

Lyon and Rocco trudged up the hill toward the summit where the Trumbull mausoleum squatted. A portable gasoline generator that had been placed outside the vaulted entrance hummed while lights flickered inside the crypt.