“Can you make it?” she asked.
“Yeah.”
His voice was laced with pain. Ashley said, “We could always call an ambulance—”
“Let’s just go.”
Half dragging, half carrying MacGregor Stevens, they got him into the kitchen, propped him against the refrigerator and caught their breath.
“He’s a big son of a bitch, isn’t he?” David said.
“Tall. I feel crushed.”
“I guess Carruthers lied.”
“I guess he did.”
They resumed their positions and got Stevens into the living room, where they laid him on the couch, covered him with afghans and went for ice. Ashley wrapped the ice in plastic wrap and, kneeling on the floor next to the couch, placed it on the still-colorless swelling.
Stevens opened his eyes. “I can manage.” His voice was less than a whisper, and the hand that took the ice from her was trembling. “I’m all right. Thank you.”
“That’s a matter of opinion, Mr. Stevens,” Ashley said tartly. “I’m calling an ambulance.”
His hand shot out, and he dropped the ice. A dozen cubes clattered to the floor. “No.”
She collected the ice. Behind her, David paced, holding his tender ribs. Ashley pointed out gently, “Mr. Stevens, you could have a concussion.”
Again the gray eyes focused on her. She thought that must be a good sign. Were they supposed to be dilated? Or not? She didn’t know much about head injuries.
“I’ll be fine.” He was making an effort to sound fine, she realized, but it cost him. He sank into the frayed couch cushion and seemed to lose more color, although Ashley couldn’t imagine that was possible. “Fine,” he repeated, shutting his eyes.
Ashley held the ice to the wound. “I don’t know what to do,” she said to no one in particular, staving off her own incipient panic. “Oh, Lord.”
“I was hit.” The gray eyes didn’t open; the lips barely moved. “From behind. Your uncle.”
“Barky?” Her throat hurt. “But that’s impossible! He’s...fishing.”
David came and stood next to her. “Your friend Carruthers said you didn’t know Barky—you mistook him for someone else.”
There was the barest shake of the head. Dark circles around Stevens’s eyes made them appear sunken in his pallid face. “I need rest,” he murmured. “Please. No...doctor.”
He drifted off. Ashley rose up beside her brother. “Maybe we shouldn’t let him sleep. God, David, what if he’s really hurt? What if he dies—”
“He’ll be okay, Ash. The wound’s not that bad.”
“What do you know about wounds? We should call the police.”
“You want Barky arrested?”
She shot him a look and pushed past him to the kitchen, where she dumped out the kettle on the wood stove and refilled it with fresh water. She checked the fire, crossed her arms and paced.
David put his hand on the doorjamb. “This guy doesn’t want a doctor, either. He must have a reason.”
“Damn.”
“I’ve been thinking, Ash. Maybe you’re right— maybe this Stevens and Carruthers are jewel thieves or something. Barky stiffed Stevens somehow thirty years ago and now he wants revenge.”
“I know, I know,” she said impatiently. “But it doesn’t make any sense! How could Barky be a jewel thief?”
“He’s something, Ash.”
She dropped her arms to her sides; her hands felt cold. “He’s our uncle, dammit. He’s a farmer. He—”
“Maybe he became those things. Ash, what do we really know about Barky’s life before he came to Massachusetts? Not a damn thing.”
“If Barky was a jewel thief before we were born, David, and Stevens does actually have a bone to pick with him. What’ll he stoop to in order to protect himself? He could have killed Stevens.”
“But he didn’t,” David pointed out reasonably.
“I know. I just...I just wish the hell I knew what he was doing, why...where he is. David, what are we going to do?”
They went back to the living room and stood over MacGregor Stevens. The ice was melting, dripping down his neck. Ashley shuddered. “He looks awful.”
“It’s a nasty bump, but he’s not hurt anywhere else.” David gave a weak smile. “Unlike some of us. Ash, think you can watch him on your own?”
“Yes, but why?”
“I’m going out and have a look around. If Barky’s skulking around out there, maybe I can get him to tell us what’s going on, to quit the bullshit. I don’t know—it’s something to do.”
She nodded. “Be careful. I mean—” Catching herself, she tried to smile. “It’s all right. Barky would never hurt you.”
* * *
In places, they had to walk in near-freezing water that was up to their thighs. It would have been better if the swamp were frozen, but they couldn’t wait. They’d had to leave now, tonight. Often, the reeds and rushes grew tall, above their heads, and were so thick they couldn’t see one another. Speaking was forbidden. It was a pitch-dark night, cold. He could sense the fear in all of them. That was all right, he thought. Only an imbecile would not have been afraid.
As promised, they came to a spot of high ground. They stamped their feet, but it was useless. Silently, he told himself there was no cause for worry. There was only a short distance more. In a little while, they could all relax and shout for joy. He thought of Viennese coffee, and his body quaked with the pain of wanting, of being cold and afraid.
Never before had he trusted another person with so much. He’d had no choice. Orült szerzetes knew the swamp better than anyone alive, and only he could get this motley, dangerous group out of Budapest, away from the Russians and their hardline cronies. Or so went the legend of the “mad monk.” Like so much during these difficult weeks, it went unconfirmed.
He didn’t like to trust legends.
Making little noise, the rest of the group started back into the water, knee-deep now, ever so close to freedom. His instructions were precise. He forced himself to wait, and then he would follow. It was his job to get the others to safety; his job to accept the position of greatest risk.
A bright light flashed, blinding him.
Guns cocked.
Somewhere behind the painful light a voice commanded, in Russian, “Halt!”
* * *
“You were dreaming,” Ashley said. She handed Stevens a fresh ice pack. “Feeling better?”
He tried to smile. “Some.”
“You talked in your sleep—in another language. You kept saying, over and over, ‘orült’ and then something that sounds like a sneeze. What does it mean?”
“It means crazy monk or friar.” His voice seemed stronger, and his color had improved. But his look was distant. “The mad monk.”
“Oh.”
“Thank you for the ice.”
“No problem.”
“Your brother—”
“He’s outside trying to find Barky. You haven’t changed your mind? It was our uncle who hit you?”
“I was hit from behind, but I know it was he.”
“You’re enemies, aren’t you?”
He said nothing.
When David came in, they agreed to take shifts watching MacGregor Stevens. If he seemed to be worsening in any way, they’d call an ambulance and to hell with his protests. In the morning, if all went well and he improved, they would grill him. It was all they could hope to do: David had found no sign of Barky outside.
Ashley took the first shift. She stoked the fire in the potbelly wood stove and turned off most of the lights. Sitting in Barky’s chair, next to his pipes and ashtray, she covered her legs with an afghan and yawned.
MacGregor Stevens slept. This time he didn’t talk in his sleep.
In two hours, Ashley dragged herself upstairs. David was snoring, and she hated to wake him, but she’d been on her feet since dawn. It had been one hell of a long day. She needed rest.
She shook him. “David, co
me on. David—”
Downstairs the screen door banged.
“Oh, no!” She smacked her brother hard. “David, get up! Stevens is leaving.”
“Huh? What?”
She ran out of the room and took the stairs two at a time and bounded through the house. The kitchen door stood open. A cold gust of air blew in. She raced outside.
The headlights of her Jaguar blinded her. The engine purred to a start. She leaped toward the light. “Wait!”
The car skidded backward, turned sharply to the right and kicked up gravel as it careered to the end of the horseshoe. Without stopping, it screeched out onto the road.
“You bastard!” she yelled. “That’s my car you’re stealing!”
David burst out in his bare feet and jeans. The situation needed no explanation. “Shit,” he said, immediately leaping toward his Land Rover.
“It’s useless, David. Your beat-up Rover isn’t going to keep up with a Jaguar. Where’s your Ferrari when we need it?”
“I can try, can’t I?”
He had his keys in his jeans pocket. She hopped in beside him. After a few huffs and puffs, the Rover rattled to a start They drove out the backroad to Route 9. Went into town. Drove around. Asked at a few places.
But no one had seen a maroon Jaguar or an injured middle-aged man.
“The police?” David asked. They were stopped at a red light in the center of Amherst. “Your decision, Ash. It’s your car.”
She shook her head. “Not yet. The Jaguar’s replaceable, but Barky’s not. Think I’d know not to trust a jewel thief.”
“Water over the dam, Ash.”
She smiled halfheartedly. “The egg is broken.”
“Yeah. What next?”
She took a deep breath and let it out in a cathartic huff. “I’m flying out to San Diego.”
The light changed. David ground the gears going into first. “Sounds good to me.”
“David, I think you should stay here in case Barky needs one of us or anything else happens. Or maybe Stevens will show up again.”
David was silent.
“I’m not shutting you out,” she said quickly. “This could be a wasted trip—maybe Carruthers didn’t lie; maybe he was lied to. At this point, it wouldn’t surprise me if I got to San Diego and found out there was no such thing as a law firm by the name of Carruthers and Stevens—or not one that has heard of our MacGregor Stevens and Jeremy Carruthers. I don’t know. Hell.” Her jaw tightened. “But I damn well intend to find out.”
“You’re right,” her brother finally agreed. “Carruthers might still be on the East Coast. We have only his word that he left—and we’ve already gotten a taste of how good that is. I’ll stay. But if you see him, Ash, you can tell him I don’t like being played for a fool.”
She called up an image of the green-eyed man in the light shade of the apple tree. “If I see him,” she said ominously, “I intend to make that very clear.”
10
Lillian Parker moved quickly through the city streets, rushing, hurrying away from the fears and doubts she hoped she’d left behind, in her Park Avenue apartment.
Dammit, this time she was going to mind her own business!
Thirty years ago, she’d stuck her nose where it didn’t belong. She’d blamed her budding journalist’s instincts, but now she knew that was just self-delusion. She’d been spoiled, headstrong and dangerously naive.
But she wasn’t twenty-two anymore. She could make a case for forgiving herself for the terrible mistakes of the past, but now she should know better. If nothing else, life should have taught her when the hell to butt out.
She was still catching her breath when her secretary thrust the telephone at her. “He’s been calling since nine,” she said, exasperated. “He won’t give his name.”
“I’ll take it in my office.” Lillian closed the door and grimaced at the flashing white light. Then, inhaling deeply, she picked up the receiver. “Lillian Parker.”
“Lil.”
She shut her eyes at the sound of the familiar gruff voice. “Crockett.” She tried to add buoyancy to her tone, as if she were glad to hear from him. “How are you?”
“Alive. Got the magazine, Lil. You want to tell me why you sent it?”
She pictured the old man on his windswept island off the coast of Maine, on his sun porch, the screens still on, as the brisk, cutting wind swirled around him. Lillian had told him often enough he’d catch pneumonia one of these days, but she knew he didn’t care. In so many ways, J. Land Crockett had died a long time ago.
“Just spur of the moment, I guess,” she said.
“No note. No explanation. Lil, I know you better than that.”
Her head had begun to throb. She’d known Crockett since she was twelve. A long time, she thought— for both of them. But never had she willingly done anything to hurt him. She rubbed her forehead with two fingers. “Crockett, please—”
“I laid the past to rest, Lil.”
So he knew. “I shouldn’t have upset you, Crockett. I apologize.”
“Too late to be sorry—and no need. Never asked for anyone’s pity, don’t want it now. What I want, Lil, is your help.”
“I don’t think we should interfere,” she said, hearing the plea in her words. “Crockett, there’s no point. I’ve been thinking, and maybe it’s best just to let this ride. I shouldn’t have sent you that magazine.”
“But you did, Lil. And I saw it, anyway, before you sent it. I wondered if you would. You want answers just as much as I do. Don’t try to deny it: I know you too well. Look, all I want is to meet this girl.”
“Ashley Wakefield? Oh, Crockett. She’s under tremendous media attention right now, and if they find out you want to meet her—”
“You let me worry about that, Lil.”
“I don’t want to get involved with this.”
But her voice quavered, and she could hear the old man’s sharp intake of breath. “Something you haven’t told me, Lil? If there is, spit it out now.”
She tensed: Crockett had known her far too long and far too well. He was a quick, accurate, nasty judge of character. “No, of course there isn’t.”
He chuckled. “You never could lie. But you’ll talk to me when you’re ready, Lil.” The chuckle grew smug. “You always do.”
“I don’t know what your game is, Crockett.”
“Hell, this isn’t a game. Isn’t a damn thing fun about it.”
She sighed. “You know what I mean.”
“I do, indeed. And it’s simple, Lil: I want to know who in hell that girl is.”
* * *
Jeremy groaned and rolled over in his king-size bed when the telephone rang. He glanced at his watch: seven. Hell. He’d gotten in late last night and stayed up drinking Scotch on his deck and wondering what the hell he was going to tell Elaine Stevens, how he was going to get the flash of Ashley Wakefield’s eyes out of his mind. For starters, he’d get a good night’s sleep.
So much for that. He fumbled for the telephone and yawned a hello into the receiver.
“It’s Mac.”
Jeremy was instantly awake and sitting up. “Where are you?”
“Listen to me. I don’t have much time.”
“Mac, what’s wrong?”
“Dammit, just listen! I’ve picked up Bartholomew Wakefield’s trail. He’s searched Ashley’s place in New York and this morning he went to see Evan Parrington, the twins’ attorney.”
“You saw him?”
“Actually, no. I spoke with Parrington myself, and he mentioned that the uncle had stopped by. Look, it doesn’t matter. The point is I believe now that Wakefield wants the tiara and the choker Ashley was wearing in the You photographs. Apparently they’re a part of the trust and—dammit, I don’t know their significance. I have to find out, and I have to stop him. I do know that.”
Jeremy reached for his terry-cloth robe. “Mac, the guy’s been planting peas and pumpkins for the past thirty years. He’s a farmer�
��”
“Don’t let him fool you, Jeremy.” Mac sounded tired and bitter. “Wakefield isn’t anything he says he is and never has been. He wants the jewels, and it’s clear to me he’ll do whatever he has to in order to get them.”
“Why tell me?”
“Because Ashley Wakefield is on her way to San Diego.”
“What?”
“I imagine she wants a word with you.” Jeremy could almost see Mac’s wry smile. “It’s a long story, but I’m sure she’ll give you all the particulars. Jeremy, I don’t want to involve you in this—I told you that— but it’s possible I’ve underestimated the gravity of this situation. I can handle things on my end. But you can help.”
Jeremy was sitting on the edge of his bed now. “How?”
“Keep Ashley Wakefield from either contacting or being contacted by her uncle. He must not get his hands on those jewels.”
“If you can, Jeremy, keep her in San Diego.”
“What about the brother?”
“He’s safe. He doesn’t have access to the jewels.”
“And you, Mac?”
There was a short silence. “I know how Wakefield thinks. I can handle him.”
Click.
* * *
Ashley had gotten some sleep on the plane. It was a night flight, crowded but quiet. She had driven Barky’s truck to Boston, showered and changed at her duplex, packed an overnight bag and driven the truck out to Logan Airport. By then, nothing could keep her awake.
With the three-hour time difference, it was just before seven when she landed in Southern California. San Diego was enveloped in a cool mist. She found a pay phone inside the old east terminal and looked up Carruthers and Stevens in the San Diego telephone book.
The number and address matched those on the business card Jeremy Carruthers had given her. So that much wasn’t a con. Maybe. She looked under Stevens: MacGregor and Elaine Stevens were listed in Point Loma.
Jeremy Carruthers, she discovered, lived on San Luis Rey in Coronado. She jotted down the number and address, hailed a cab and told the driver, “Coronado, please.”
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