The light was on in Jenny’s room, the bed covers thrown back, the pillows propped up for reading; a paperback lay on its open pages on the floor. Ben Shahn’s
The Shape of Content.
He heard the front door close, a subdued dialogue; Berg and Munson. There was no gun in the drawer under the bedside table; only three vials of morphine and a syringe.
He stared at them, anger threatening the bonds of his control, then turned his attention to the door, attracted by the slipper lying near it. Its mate was on Jenny’s body. He noted the black rubber sole, but only after he saw the dark, horizontal streak just above the doorknob.
When he heard Isadora’s voice, overtones of hysteria in it against the counterpoint of Munson’s soothing tones, he hurried back to the living room. She was sitting up, clinging to the back of the couch, oblivious to Munson, her face pressed into the cushions, muffling her ragged sobs.
“Conan?” Carl Berg, standing near the front door.
“Did you get hold of Nicky Heideger?”
“Yes, she’ll be waiting at your house.” He looked down at Jenny’s body, then at Isadora. “Damn, I should’ve stopped her somehow. I never thought she’d do anything like this.”
“Think again, Carl.” Conan sat down beside Isadora and pulled the blanket up around her shoulders. At that, she drew back eyes wide, so dilated almost no blue showed. “Dore, look at me,” he said softly. “You know me.”
“Conan?” She collapsed into his arms, the sobbing renewed. “Oh, God help me, I’m going out of my mind—
Conan!
”
“You’ll be all right, Dore. Trust me, just trust me.” He looked up at Munson: “Did you monitor any calls from this phone at—Carl, when did Dore get that call?”
“8:50.”
“I don’t know,” Munson said. “I set up the tape recorder in the car, and haven’t had a chance to check it yet.”
“Check it as soon as you can.” It was becoming impossible to keep his voice level against Isadora’s agonized weeping. “Carl, go back to the Surf House; I want to know who served her that cup of coffee. And try to get a line on Hicks and Garner.”
Berg glanced at Isadora. “Can you handle her?”
“Yes. Call me later. I’ll be at home.”
“Okay, and good luck.”
At the slamming of the door, Isadora began trembling violently, the sobbing edged with panic. He held her tighter, his cheek pressed against her rain-wet hair.
“Harry, I have to get her out of here.”
“What do I tell Travers?”
“Everything.”
He hesitated. “Even where Miss Canfield is?”
Conan said coldly, “She isn’t a fugitive. Dore, come on, I’ll take you—” But she was suddenly rigid in his arms, terror-stricken. He heard the approaching wail of a siren.
“White…oh, too white…it hurts, oh…it—”
The words dissolved into short, gasping screams; she jerked away from him, the blanket slipped in his hands, and she was free, swaying to her feet, running blindly toward the windows.
Conan lunged, caught her, and almost lost her again.
Then abruptly, her cries ceased and she sagged against him.
“Oh, help me…
”
CHAPTER 20
Building the fire was an esthetic experience; it occupied his mind and muscles and created an atmosphere of warm calm. Like the music on the stereo system. Debussy
Sirènes.
Green and crystal blue music for Isadora; for the part of her mind that listened even in tranquilized sleep.
He put the poker in its rack and looked up to the balcony and the open door of the guest room where Nicky Heideger tended her patient. He could only see the softly lighted walls and ceiling. All quiet now; the whole house warm and quiet. Yet an hour ago, it had echoed with screams.
Those screams were meaningful, however irrational.
Isadora wept during the interminable drive from the cottage, struggling against the seat belts, assaulted by hallucinations, terrified by every shadow and light, yet she’d still been capable of responding to his voice and touch. Only when Nicky took out the syringe for the Thorazine injection did the hysteria slip entirely out of control.
Then it had taken all his strength and Nicky’s combined to hold her long enough for the injection. She fought with the desperate ferocity of mortal fear, the screams tearing her throat. Later, he saw the bruises on her arms and realized he had caused them, and the words kept echoing in his mind.
Not again…not again
…
The same words she’d spoken when she looked up from Jenny’s body and saw him; when she fired the gun at him.
Under the sleeve of his robe, a strip of cloth was wrapped around his forearm as a temporary bandage. A minor wound, only a graze; he could ignore the pain.
Not again
…
Who had she been seeing when she pulled the trigger?
He looked for his watch, but he’d forgotten to put it back on. Once the Thorazine took effect and he’d carried Isadora up to the guest room, Nicky ordered him to get out of his soaked clothes and take a hot shower. He’d accepted her warnings of potential pneumonia knowing full well her real purpose was simply to rid herself of a distraction.
The storm had settled down to a steady, pelting rain. There was still some wind; it came in gusts that shimmered the reflections of warm fire in the windows. He looked out past the reflections into the blackness, thinking of death.
He understood more about John Canfield’s death because of Jennifer Hanson’s, but there was no comfort in that. He’d been forced to go into the library twice; both Berg and Munson had called with reports. Otherwise, he doubted he’d have ventured into that room to face the Knight.
“The least you could do is offer me a cup of coffee.”
He turned, smiling at Nicky Heideger as she came down the stairs. She was carrying her medical case.
“I put a fresh pot on. Is there something else I could at least offer?”
“Coffee will do for now.”
When he returned from the kitchen, she was sitting on the end of the couch that faced the fireplace, her medical case open on the side table. She tasted her coffee, then motioned him to the chair at right angles to the couch.
“Sit down. I’ll take care of that arm.”
He complied and rested his arm on the table, watching a vertical crease appear between her brows as she pushed his sleeve back and removed the cloth.
“How’d you do this?”
“I must’ve caught it on a nail.”
“In that case, I’d better give you a tetanus shot.”
“That’s just pique. Nicky, how is she?”
“She’s all right now, but that was a bad one; as bad as I’ve ever seen. Who is she?”
“A client.”
She shrugged and began swabbing the long, red cut with antiseptic, only smiling at his quick intake of breath.
“Smarts a little? Well, my mother used to tell me, if it doesn’t hurt, it doesn’t help.”
“Modern medicine marching on,” he commented sourly, watching her deft, practiced movements. “Nicky, if you’re worried about your legal position, my client is of age.”
She didn’t look up. “Who’s worried? By the way,
Doctor
Flagg, thanks for prescribing the Thorazine.”
“She’s had it before. This isn’t her first attack.”
“
Attack ?
What are you talking about?”
“A schizoid attack. That’s how it was diagnosed on the previous occasions. Of course, her doctor didn’t see her while the attacks were in progress, and her symptoms were confused by physical illness and grief.”
Nicky methodically applied an antibiotic salve.
“Who’s her doctor, or is that confidential, too?”
“Milton Kerr. Morningdell. I’ll take her to him tomorrow unless someone stops me.”
“Why would anybody—” Then she sighed and unwrapped a pair of gauze pads. “Well, it’s a good idea to get her to Morningdell. Here, hold these.”
He held the pads over the wound while she unfurled a length of gauze and began looping it around his arm.
“All right,” she said when she had the pads anchored. “Anyway, I hope you don’t mind another guest for the night.”
He frowned, watching the perfectly aligned, overlapping loops fall into place.
“Of course, I don’t mind, but why—”
“Not to chaperone you,” she said with a sidelong smile. “She’ll probably be all right, but these things are funny, you know. I doubt you can handle another ‘attack’ alone.”
“Nicky, didn’t anyone tell you doctors don’t stay all night at their patient’s side anymore?”
“You think I’m doing this out of the kindness of my heart? Where do I send my bill, anyway?”
“To me. I’ll put it on my expense account under miscellaneous. And you can have my room for the night.”
“Thanks, but there’s a couch in the guest—” She frowned, distracted by the door bell. “Who the hell’s that?”
“Probably Steve Travers.”
“Just keep that arm right there.” She was already on her feet and on her way. “I’ll let him in.”
He relaxed and waited. His back was to the hall, but he didn’t turn, listening to the friendly exchange at the front door, then the hall closet opening, Steve’s comments on the weather as he hung up his coat, their voices drawing nearer, Steve asking, “All right, where’s Miss Canfield?”
“I don’t know a Miss Canfield,” Nicky said as she returned to the couch and Conan’s bandage.
Travers stopped behind the couch; a lean, spare, slack-shouldered man with brownish hair the color of desert flats, eyes the gray-green of sagebrush.
“Hello, Steve.”
He nodded, looking down at Conan’s arm.
“I guess she didn’t hit anything vital.”
“It was a rusty nail,” Nicky put in.
Conan laughed. “Did I say it was rusty?”
“Does it matter what you said? How does it feel?”
He pulled his sleeve down over the finished bandage. “Like hell.”
“Take some aspirin. I mean, is the bandage too tight?”
“My hand hasn’t turned purple yet. Just throw the debris in the fire, Nicky.” As she cleaned up her makeshift surgery, he turned to Travers, who was waiting, but not patiently; his eyes had their old, long-distance squint.
“Steve, she’s upstairs in the guest room.”
“I want to talk to her.”
“You’ll have to ask Nicky about that.”
He frowned irritably. “The run-around stops here, Nick. I want to see Miss Canfield. That’s an official request.”
“Well, you can certainly
see
her.” The she added, “But you aren’t going to
talk
to her.”
“Now, look,” he began hotly, but she only laughed. “Steve, I’m simply stating a fact. That girl isn’t talking to anyone for at least eight hours.”
He nodded, apparently satisfied. “How is she?”
“Heavily sedated right now. She was in bad shape.”
“That’s what Munson said. Well, I’d better
see
her, anyway. I have to call Mrs. Canfield back.”
Conan looked up. “You’ve already talked to her?”
“Yes.”
“How did she take it? I mean, about Jenny?”
“I don’t know. Quiet. I’ve heard it before; all cool and business as usual, and you wonder when they’re going to fell apart.” He paused, briefly withdrawn. “She seemed relieved you were looking after Isadora, but she wanted me to call back after I checked on her.”
“Nicky, perhaps you should talk to her.” Then at her nod, “One favor, though. Isadora is suffering from shock; nothing more.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Really? Well, I guess it’s just a question of semantics. Come on, Steve. It’s time I checked my patient, anyway.”
* * *
Travers’s call seemed to take a long time. Nicky went into the library with him, emerging a few minutes later to assure Conan that Catharine Canfield was assured. Then she went upstairs; the guestroom door was closed now.
He busied himself with choosing more music for the stereo, and when Travers finally came out of the library, he was again working at the fire.
“What did she say, Steve?”
“Not much.” He went to the bar and casually helped himself. “I’m supposed to tell you she’s sure you’ll ‘protect Isadora from any unpleasantness.’ Jim and Carleton were on hand; I had to talk to them, too.”
“Did they have anything interesting to offer?”
“No, but I wasn’t pushing it. Mostly, Carleton was making lawyer noises, so I gave him the story—with a few deletions. Like the fact Berg and Munson were on the job.”
“Good. I hope you can keep a lid on that.”
“I’m working on it.” He had two glasses when he left the bar, one of which he presented to Conan. “Here, you look like you could use it.”
“Thanks.” He took the glass, cold in his hand warmed by the fire, and watched Travers as he slouched down on the couch. “Can you keep a lid on it?”
“Well, I passed the word that Berg and Munson will be surprise witnesses. That usually makes a pretty good lid. Anybody working for me knows some heads will roll if it leaks out. I can’t put much pressure on Sheriff Wills, but he seemed impressed. Anyway, Carleton and Jim are coming down in the morning to take care of the arrangements for Jenny.”
“You’ll have someone at the cottage if they—”
“It’s officially sealed. They’ll have an escort, and if they take anything out, it’ll be duly recorded.”
“Did Carleton say when they plan to arrive?”
“About nine. I had a hard time talking him out of coming tonight. All I need is Carleton underfoot.” He frowned down at his drink. “You know, your client’s in one hell of a mess. Sheriff Wills calls it an open-and-shut case.”