by M. K. Wren
“I’m not wrong, and you are a liability to a woman who’s already demonstrated her willingness to dispose of liabilities by murder. And you are in a legal noose. With a good lawyer, you might get off with a light sentence if you’re only charged with Gould’s murder. If you’re charged with both murders—well, maybe you didn’t know that in Oregon, aggravated murder carries a death penalty.”
Her eyes went wide and dark with fear, and the moment hung like a raindrop caught on a leaf. Conan said softly, “Please, Savanna, talk to Earl Kleber. Tell him the truth.”
Then the moment was gone. “I don’t believe you! You’re just trying to frighten me!”
Conan caught her arms, felt her trembling like a bird ready to take flight. He said, “All right, Savanna, forget Earl for now. Just let me take you to my house, somewhere safe.”
“No! Let go of me! Leave me alone!”
A shadow of motion caught his eye, fixed his attention on the door onto the deck. Someone was standing there.
Dana Semenov.
He had just run out of time.
Her cornsilk hair was windblown, and she stood with her hips canted, like a model displaying the stylishly loose slacks and oversize jacket of white linen, the mint green blouse, the latticed white sandals.
But her sandals were crusted with sand, and what she held in her right hand was jarringly inappropriate to the ensemble.
He had asked Savanna where the gun was, even then doubting that she knew. Now they both knew. Sunlight glinted on the silvery barrel of the small automatic in Dana’s hand. Her gloved hand. She was wearing leather driving gloves.
No one spoke or moved, not until Dana walked slowly toward them, stopping perhaps ten feet away, until she said, “It’s all right, Savanna. I won’t let him hurt you.”
Savanna pulled away from him, ran to Dana as if she were an angel of mercy come to her rescue. “Dana, we’ve got to get out of here! That sheriff is coming to arrest me.”
Conan felt a chill between his shoulder blades. Dana glanced at Savanna, then turned her unblinking gaze on him, and the circular void of the gun’s barrel was no less menacing for its small size. At ten feet, a bullet fired from that gun could be as deadly, if not as destructive, as a .44 Magnum. He was dimly conscious of the music shifting in mood to the dark “Blitzkrieg” theme with its stalking, empty fifth chords.
Amber eyes narrowed speculatively, Dana said, “I suppose Savanna spilled her guts for you, Flagg. I knew she would.”
Savanna stared at her, perhaps beginning to sense the deadly potentials here, and Conan stood poised, part of his mind calculating timing, distance, probabilities, another part battling the adrenaline rush that made his pulse pound, that urged him to reckless flight.
He yelled, “Savanna, get away from her!” and took a stride forward, but Dana reached out, hooked her left arm around Savanna’s neck, and Savanna fell against her, then went rigid when she felt the muzzle of the gun jammed against her right temple.
He froze, hands loose at his sides; Savanna whimpered, “Conan…”
And Dana said flatly, “You can’t change anything, Flagg.”
Conan knew then that the decision had already been made. Dana had already designed Savanna’s suicide. No doubt she had included him in her plan. Savanna had told her on the phone that he was here. And so Savanna Barany, having murdered two people, would suffer an attack of remorse and despair in the face of her imminent arrest. Conan Flagg would try to stop her, but in the struggle, she would shoot him, then turn the gun on herself.
Seven feet between him and Savanna and the gun at her head. And where the hell was Wills? All Conan asked was a distraction. Any kind of distraction…
“Dana,” he said, “the police found Ravin Gould’s will.”
The gun remained pressed into the soft flesh at Savanna’s temple. “And I suppose you’re going to tell me Savanna isn’t his heir?”
“Oh, she’s his heir. But there was another provision in the will.”
“Of course. And what is it?”
“Another provision besides the bequest to his first wife—”
“Damn it, what is it?”
Conan took a deep breath, let it out slowly. “It has to do with Gould’s literary estate.”
“What about his literary estate?”
“Gould named Byron and Justine Lasky agents for his literary estate, and that includes any manuscripts not yet published. That includes Odyssey, Dana.”
But she only laughed. “Sure. Good try, Flagg.”
Savanna cried, “It’s true, Dana!”
“Shut up! I’m not stupid!”
Her fingers flexed on the gun’s grip, and Conan saw her swallow as if her mouth were dry. Perhaps killing didn’t come so easily when she held the victim in her arms.
But Dana Semenov had gone too far to stop now. She would pull the trigger, and while Savanna lay dead at her feet, she would pull it again until Conan also lay dead. She would put the gun in Savanna’s lifeless hand and press her index finger against the trigger to fire a random shot so that a test would show the expected powder residue.
And she would never even flinch.
Conan shouted, “Dana, she’s left-handed!”
He knew that to be a lie, but Dana had to think about it, to realize that a small mistake of that nature might make the police wonder if an apparent suicide was murder.
And Savanna perhaps felt a slight change in the pressure of the gun, or perhaps she had simply reached a point of mindless desperation. She thrust her elbow hard into Dana’s stomach, twisted away. With Dana’s cry of chagrin, the gun went off, and Conan launched himself across the abyss of seven feet.
“Police! Freeze!”
Before he could complete the two strides that bridged the abyss, Dana fired twice. Momentum carried him crashing into her, and his weight bore her down with a strangled cry that was cut off abruptly when her head thudded against the floor.
And it was only now that the shouted order registered. Police? He rolled away from Dana, found himself looking up at Earl Kleber. But even Kleber’s presence was only a peripheral awareness.
“Savanna…” She lay in a motionless swirl of white, sunlight like fire on her bright hair, the right side of her face streaked with blood welling from the gash in her temple.
Kleber knelt beside her, fingers pressed to her throat. He nodded. “She’s alive. You okay?”
Conan slumped with his elbows on his knees, panting with relief, and it seemed incredible that Dana had missed him with both shots. “I’m intact, Earl. She must be a lousy shot.”
“Not that lousy. She winged Neely. Where’s the damn phone?”
“On the bar.” Conan turned to Neely, whose left sleeve from just below the shoulder was soaked with blood. She had Dana on her feet and handcuffed. Dana’s eyes were glazed, blind, and she was offering no resistance.
Neely answered his silent query. “I’m okay,” she said tightly. “For now, anyway.”
He nodded and leaned over Savanna. She didn’t seem to be breathing at all, yet when he held his fingers to her open lips, he could feel a faint, wavering warmth.
“The ambulance is on the way,” Kleber said as he hung up the phone. “Just don’t try to move her. Billy’s on his way, too. Neely, you look a little green around the gills. You better arrest that woman and read her her rights while you’re still on your feet.”
Neely frowned. “Chief, she’s your prisoner.”
“Not the way I figure it. She’s all yours, Officer.”
Conan realized then that Neely was wearing a gun and a badge: a Holliday Beach Police Department badge.
Neely let her smile come through, but only briefly. She was all business when she asked, “What are the charges, Chief?”
“Well, I guess you can start with the attempted murder of Savanna Barany and assault on a police officer.”
Conan took Savanna’s hand and felt for a pulse, found it finally, slow, but strong. He said, “And the murder of
Dan Arno and conspiracy in the murder of Ravin Gould.”
“We’ll get to that part later,” Kleber said, nodding to Neely as she began the ritual of arrest. Dana listened in numb silence, but managed a clear “Yes” when Neely asked her if she understood her rights.
The wail of sirens didn’t come from the speakers this time. Kleber said, “That’s either the ambulance or Billy or…”
He laughed as he headed for the door. “Come on, Conan. Neely, bring the prisoner. It just might be ol’ Giff.”
With some reluctance, Conan rose and left Savanna, followed Kleber and Neely, with Dana in tow, to the door. When they reached the porch, the air seemed to vibrate with an ominous rumble, a cloud of dust moved toward them until it enveloped the turnaround in a tan fog, and the rumble became a roar as a squadron of vehicles slewed to a stop. The first two were Taft County Sheriff’s Department patrols, but the rest were a motley of vans, station wagons, sedans, and even a motorcycle, most marked with television, radio, and newspaper logos. Their occupants spilled out and poured toward the house.
This, Conan thought grimly, was a beachhead, even if the soldiers carried cameras and mikes instead of guns. And leading the clamoring charge, breaking though the yellow tape at a jouncing jog, was Sheriff Gifford Wills.
But when he had almost reached the porch, he came to a sudden halt. His troops stopped behind him like a wave hitting a breakwater. Wills glared at Neely and demanded, “What the hell’re you doing here?”
Conan smiled as he retreated into the house to wait at Savanna’s side for the ambulance. He held her hand, simply to assure himself of the life still warm in it, and listened to the music, to a rich, husky voice, fragile and sweet to bring tears to his eyes.
I never asked for forever.…
Chapter 30
After spending most of the afternoon at the Holliday Beach Police Station answering questions for various agencies of the law, as well as answering questions—as promised—for Shelly Gage, Conan didn’t reach the North Taft County Hospital until nearly five o’clock.
The small, fifty-bed hospital hadn’t been so crowded since the infamous twelve-car pileup on Highway 101 ten years ago. The corridors were full of reporters, plus an unusual number of visitors who decided this was a good day to visit friends or relatives who happened to be confined to the hospital, and even an unusual number of hospital personnel who decided this was a good day to put in extra time inventorying linen and bedpans, not to mention the hospital volunteers who found this a good day to bring cheer to the patients. Even the patients were amazingly ambulatory today, when there was a chance, however remote, of catching a glimpse of Savanna Barany.
With few exceptions, no one even came close to a glimpse.
Conan had had numerous updates during the afternoon on Savanna’s condition. The bullet had grazed her skull, causing a concussion and some blood loss, but she would certainly recover. Thus when he arrived at the hospital, he didn’t ask the harried staff about Savanna, but searched out Neely Jones’s room. Deputy Sonny Hoffsted was posted outside. He smiled and waved Conan in.
Neely wasn’t alone. On the other side of the bed stood a lithe young man of Oriental descent, who held her hand in a tender grasp. Neely seemed quite lively for someone who had recently had a bullet removed from her left arm, which was bandaged and restrained in a sling. The television set on the wall across from the bed was on, but the sound was muted while an inanely cheerful, middle-aged man with a bristly crewcut sold appliances.
Neely said, “Hi, Conan. I want you to meet a friend of mine.” And she looked up with the secretive, revealing smile of love at the young man. “Jan Koto. He’s a biologist at the Oceanographic Center.” Then as Conan and Koto shook hands across her bed, she added, “Jan’s from San Francisco, too. He’s a rock climber and a brown belt in karate.”
Koto laughed. “That’s not a warning. Actually, Neely’s better at karate than I am, but I can outclimb her any day on a good rock face.”
Conan said, “You make a formidable team. Neely, how are you?”
“I feel terrific, and I don’t see why I have to stay here tonight. The arm doesn’t hurt at all.”
“It will if you don’t stay near a good supply of Demerol.”
“Hey, it’s about to start,” Koto cut in as he snatched the remote control from the bedside table, and the energetic music loop that introduced KEEN-TV’s Evening News rattled from the television.
The events in the quaint little village of Holliday Beach were the lead story, and Shelly Gage’s face filled the screen as she began the saga, but she was displaced by the scene at the Gould house as Giff Wills led the charge, only to find Earl Kleber, a handcuffed Dana Semenov, and a bleeding Neely Jones on the porch. Behind them, Conan was retreating into the house.
And Giff Wills, pink-faced, shouted at his erstwhile deputy. “What the hell’re you doing here?”
The cameras and mikes simultaneously shifted to Earl Kleber as he replied, “Officer Jones was wounded in the course of arresting this woman for the attempted murder of Savanna Barany.”
If Wills had been smart, he would have simply faded into the crowd at that point. If he had spoken in less than a bellow that the mikes easily picked up in spite of the general hubbub, no one would have heard his chagrined, “Officer? You’re my deputy!”
Which gave Neely an opportunity to counter, “You fired me! Remember?”
Then a cut to the arrival of the ambulance and Savanna’s removal from the house on a stretcher; a cut to the hospital and a curt comment from the physician on duty in the emergency room, Dr. Nicole Heideger; then comments from DA Owen Culpepper and other official personages explaining in sound bites that Savanna was under arrest for the murder of Ravin Gould. Dana’s role in the affair was obviously a source of confusion for both the interviewers and interviewees. Wills had the last word. When asked how it felt to have the deputy he had just fired solve this sensational case, his comment was, “No damn comment!”
When it was over, and Koto muted the sound again, Neely frowned. “What happened to Chief Kleber? They just ignored him.”
Conan said, “You’re more telegenic than Earl.” And she had indeed been impressive, standing straight and unflinching, her sleeve drenched in blood, her prisoner firmly in hand. Dana had probably been close to shock, but in the video eye, she looked sullen and dangerous.
“At least,” Koto said, “Giff had his chance to make a real ass of himself on TV.” Then he squeezed Neely’s hand, gazed into her eyes. “And you were incredible, Neely.”
Conan decided that he constituted a crowd here and was about to make an unobtrusive exit when the door swung open, and Dr. Nicole Heideger strode into the room, an attractive woman, somewhere in her forties, dark hair cut short, who had no time for cosmetics or fashion. She gave Conan a crooked smile. “Damn, it’s refreshing not to have to patch you up with the other casualties.”
“I find that rather refreshing myself. How are you, Nicky?”
“Today? Running my feet off. Hi, Jan. Okay, Neely, let’s see what’s going on here.” And she began studying Neely’s chart.
Neely said, “You were on TV, Dr. Heideger.” Then she laughed. “The look you gave that reporter should’ve frozen the camera.”
Nicky cast an annoyed glance at the television. “Every TV in the hospital is tuned to the news today. Usually it’s Lawrence Welk or Star Trek. Even Mr. Lasky was watching the news, and he’s from New York.”
Both Conan and Neely came to attention, and Conan was first with “Who did you say, Nicky?”
She looked from one to the other in bewilderment. “Byron Lasky. He came in yesterday. Visiting from New York City.”
“That idiot!” Neely burst out. “Conan, Giff was so sure the Laskys had made a break for Canada, he didn’t even check with the hospitals.”
Conan asked, “Nicky, what room is Lasky in, and can I talk to him?”
“No way. I’m trying to get him stabilized for a life flight to Por
tland. I don’t want him talking to anybody except me and his wife.”
“His wife is with him?”
“Yes. She’s been with him round the clock.”
“Was there a middle-aged woman with reddish hair—”
“Who sounds like Lauren Bacall? You mean Marian. Yes, she’s been here most of the time, too. In feet, she was here just a few minutes ago.” When Conan made a headlong dash for the door, Nicky called, “Conan!” waited until he stopped, then added, “Room thirty-nine.”
“Thanks, Nicky.”
Room thirty-nine was in the new wing, and its main corridor was blocked by a crowd of reporters, fans, and the curious. When Conan pushed his way through, he discovered that the crowd was restrained behind a barrier consisting of two large, armed State Patrol officers and the equally large and armed Sergeant Billy Todd.
Todd recognized him and waved him forward. “Hi, Conan. Ms. Barany said she wants to see you.”
The crowd behind him clamored at the unfairness of it all, and Conan didn’t explain to Todd that he hadn’t come to this wing to see Savanna. He simply nodded and set off down the corridor.
A short distance past the barrier, the corridor made a sharp right turn, and just beyond it Conan was hailed by a familiar voice. “Conan, my man, I’ve been looking to hell and gone for you.”
Marcus Fitch. He stood at the door of one of the rooms, talking to a nurse who gazed at him with a beguiling smile. As Conan approached, she hurried away, tossing her flaxen hair over her shoulders.
Conan cocked a thumb at the door. “I assume this is Savanna’s room and you’re here because she’s your client.”
“Your deductive powers are dazzling,” Fitch replied with a tigerish grin.
“I won’t ask how that came about. It seems all but inevitable.”
“Kismet, no doubt. Conan, I’ll need to discuss La Barany’s case with you. At least I’d like to know if you’re going to be a hostile witness.”
“Probably not. Call me this evening, Marc.”