Reprisal ac-5

by F. Paul Wilson

  "Knock it off, Rafe."

  "No. I'm serious. I mean, consider his name—Ev. What normal man lets himself be called £V? It's effeminate. And he's such a priss, so neat and particular. Like a maiden aunt. And have you ever seen him with a woman?"

  "No. But I've never seen him with a man, either. Maybe he's just asexual."

  "Maybe. But he's hiding something. You can count on that. Have you seen his CV?"

  "No. Why would I—?"

  "There's ten years missing. He graduated cum laude from Emory, worked for a few years, then entered the masters pro-gram at Duke, went on for his doctorate, then came here to Darnell."

  "What's wrong with that? Lots of people work in the real world before going on for postgraduate degrees."

  "Right. But there's a ten-year blank spot in his curriculum vitae."

  "Ten years?"

  Rafe nodded and placed his hands on her shoulders, his fingers brushing the base of her neck, raising delicious gooseflesh along her arms.

  "Like he dropped off the face of the earth. He's not telling anybody what he did with those years, which means he's hiding something. And we're going to find out what it is."

  He began to knead the tense muscles in her neck and shoulders, magically relaxing them. She closed her eyes and reveled in the soothing sensations. As always, Rafe's touch caused her doubts to dwindle, her fears to fade. Nothing mattered more than keeping him by her side. As she listened to Rafe's soft voice, she found herself falling in line with his way of thinking. Her interest was piqued now.

  What was Ev hiding?

  Everett Sanders, Ph. D., where the fuck are you?

  Renny sat and smoked a cigarette on the stoop outside the apartment house. Waiting. He'd been waiting here most of the day. This guy Sanders had to show up sooner or later. He hoped for sooner.

  He was almost out of names. And just about out of hope. He'd checked out all but two of the people on Lisl Whitman's guest list. If he didn't hit pay dirt with this one or the final one, he'd be forced to write this whole trip off as a complete bust. No way. Too much time and money and goodwill back at Midtown North down the tubes for that. He needed to score here.

  More than just a score—he needed to strike it rich. He needed Everett Sanders, Ph.D., aka Father William Ryan, S.J., to walk up the steps-, head bowed, lost in thought. Renny would recognize him in an instant and say, "Hey, Father Bill. How's Danny doing?" Then he'd land a right hook and knock him back to the sidewalk. And extradition be damned, he'd haul him back to Queens for arraignment.

  A dream. A pipe dream.

  As he was scuffing his latest cigarette butt into oblivion on the stone stoop, a bony guy in a tan raincoat started up the steps. At first glance he looked older, but close up Renny pegged him as somewhere in his mid-forties. This sallow, bifocaled ghost wasn't Ryan, that was for sure. And hopefully he wasn't Sanders, either. Because if he was, that left only one more name to check.

  "Excuse me," Renny said, reaching for his badge. He'd been using his NYPD shield but not giving anyone a good enough look at it to realize that it had been issued a long way from North Carolina.

  The man stopped abruptly and stared at him.

  "Yes?" His voice was cool, dry—like the desert at night.

  "Would you be Professor Sanders?" Please say no.

  "Why, yes. Who are you?"

  Damn! "I'm Detective Sergeant Augustino with the State Police"—a quick flash of his medal in midsentence—"and I'm investigating an incident at Dr. Lisl Whitman's party last month."

  "Party? Incident?" The man's expression was genuinely confused for a moment, then it cleared. "Oh, you mean the Christmas party. Why would you be investigating her party?"

  "There was a sort of obscene phone call and—"

  "Oh, yes. I remember her mentioning that. It seemed to have upset her terribly. But I'm sorry—I can't help you."

  Renny put on a smile. "You may be able to help more than you know. You see, lots of times—"

  "I wasn't there, Sergeant."

  Automatically, Renny looked down at the slip of paper in his hand.

  "But your name's on the list."

  "I was invited but I didn't go. I don't go to parties."

  Renny gave Dr. Sanders's prim, fastidious exterior another quick up-and-down.

  No, I guess you don't.

  "Well then, maybe you can help this way." He pulled the Father Ryan photo from his inner pocket and held it out to Sanders. "Ever seen this guy before? Anywhere?"

  Sanders started to shake his head, then stopped. He took the picture from Renny and stared at it, cocking his head this way and that.

  "Strange…"

  Renny felt his heart pick up its tempo.

  "Strange? What's strange? You've seen him?"

  "I'm not sure. He looks vaguely familiar but I can't quite place him."

  "Try."

  He glanced at Renny through the upper half of his glasses.

  "I'm doing just that, I assure you."

  "Sorry." Twit.

  Finally Sanders shook his head and handed the picture back.

  "No. It won't come. I'm quite sure I've seen him somewhere but just when and just where I can't say."

  Renny bit down on his impatience and pushed the picture back at him.

  "Take your time. Take another look."

  "I've looked quite enough, thank you. Never fear. I never forget a face. It will come to me. Give me your number and I'll call you when it does."

  Out of habit, Renny reached for his wallet where he kept a supply of cards—New York City cards. He diverted his hand to his breast pocket for his pen and notebook.

  "I'm right here in town for the moment." He wrote down the number of the motel where he was staying. "If I'm not in, leave your number and I'll get back to you."

  "Very well." He took the slip of notepaper and started up the steps toward the front door.

  "Sure you don't want to take another look?"

  "I've committed it to memory. I'll be in touch. Good day, Sergeant."

  "Good day, Professor Sanders."

  What a tight-ass.

  But Renny didn't care if Sanders farted in C above high C, as long as he remembered the guy who reminded him of Father Ryan.

  There was a new lightness to his step as he hopped down to the sidewalk and headed for the last name on his list—Professor Calvin Rogers. Too old, apparently, to be Ryan. A wasted trip, probably, but Renny wasn't leaving anything to chance. After all, look what a five-minute conversation with this Professor Sanders had turned up.

  Yeah. Renny had a gut feeling Sanders was going to turn this trip around..«

  "I don't believe we're doing this," Lisl said in a low voice as she followed Rafe into the vestibule of Ev's apartment building.

  "Nothing to it," he said, and handed her a shiny new key, fresh cut from Ev's own this afternoon.

  Reluctantly she took it. She had the jitters.

  "I don't like this, Rafe."

  "It's not as if we're going to steal anything. We're just going to look around. So let's get going. The sooner we get in there, the sooner we'll be out."

  Unable to argue with the logic of that, and wanting very much to have this over and done with, Lisl unlocked the vestibule door. With Rafe in the lead, half dragging her up the narrow stairs, they climbed to the third floor. Outside apartment 3B, Rafe handed her another key. Her fingers were slippery with perspiration now.

  "What if he's in there?"

  "Put your ear to the door," Rafe said.

  Lisl did. "The phone's ringing."

  Rafe nodded, smiling. "Remember that call I made before we left?"

  "When you left the phone off the hook?"

  "Right. This is the number I called. There was no answer then, and if it's still ringing, it means he hasn't come back while we were in transit."

  Wondering at the deviousness of Rafe's mind, Lisl checked the hall to make sure no one was watching, then unlocked Ev's apartment door and hurried inside. When
the door was closed behind them, she allowed herself to relax—just a little.

  Rafe found the light switch, then the phone; he lifted the receiver long enough to stop the ring, then replaced it.

  Silence.

  "Now," he said. "Where do we begin?"

  Lisl looked around. Her immediate impression was that nobody lived here. The only personal item was the computer terminal, a duplicate of hers, with a dedicated line to Darnell's Cray II. Remove that and the apartment was like a hotel room after the cleaning crew had passed through—freshly spruced up and waiting for someone to rent it. It wasn't decorated like a hotel room, not with this motley collection of furniture, but it had that just-cleaned, everything-in-its-place look and feel. She wondered idly if there was a paper ribbon across the toilet seat.

  "Let's get out of here," she said.

  "We just got here." He strolled from the front living room to the study at the rear, into the bedroom, and back again. "The man lives like a monk—a neatnik monk with vows of cleanliness and orderliness."

  "Nothing un-Prime about that," Lisl said.

  "Yes, there is. It shows an obsessive-compulsive personality. A Prime would be able to overcome it."

  "Maybe he's a damaged Prime, like me."

  Rafe gave her a long look. "Maybe. But I'll reserve judgment until after we've made our search."

  "All right, but let's hurry. I don't want him coming back and finding us here."

  "He won't. But be careful to put everything back just the way you found it. And let me know when you come across anything that looks like a bank book. We both have a pretty good idea what Darnell is paying him and we know he can live better than this. Where's his money going?" His grin became wolfish. "Maybe somebody's blackmailing him."

  Lisl opened the refrigerator. It was pitiful inside. Nonfat yogurt, orange juice, fruit, corn oil margarine, some lettuce, a red pepper, and some low-fat Swiss cheese.

  Rafe glanced in over her shoulder.

  "He eats like you do."

  "Maybe he's a health nut—or he's got a cholesterol problem."

  But Rafe had already wandered over to Ev's computer terminal.

  "My, my," he said, flipping through a notebook on the desk. "Here are all his access codes for his files in memory. Dear Ev believes in security."

  They began going through the drawers. There weren't many in the apartment, so it wasn't long before Rafe came across Ev's financial records. He shook his head and whistled as he paged through them.

  "Rent, utilities, and food… rent, utilities, and food… that's all he uses his money for. The rest is all in CDs and zero-coupon bonds in IRAs and Keoghs. He's loaded."

  Lisl couldn't repress a smile of satisfaction.

  "There. I told you. He's a Prime. He'll be able to retire in another ten years."

  "We're missing something," Rafe said.

  "Like what?" She was getting annoyed now. "What could we be missing? There are no drugs or alcohol here, not so much as a bottle of sherry, no gay magazines, no child porn, no notes from a blackmailer. Give it up, Rafe. The man's clean. And he's a Prime."

  "We still don't know where he is tonight, or every other Wednesday night for that matter. Once we know that, I'll rest my case… or bow to yours."

  "How are we supposed to find that out?"

  "Simple. Next Wednesday night we'll follow him."

  Games… Rafe loved games. But at least following Ev wasn't illegal—not like snooping through his apartment.

  "All right. We'll do that. But let's get out of here. Back to my place." A fiery desire was growing within her. "I know something we can do that's a lot more fun. And legal too."

  They made sure everything was just as they had found it, then they hurried back to Rafe's car. Lisl took the lead on the way out.

  Bill edged his old Impala out of the parking lot and into the flow along Conway Street. Traffic was light and he was in no hurry. He'd just seen Who Framed Roger Rabbit? for the third time and he was in a great mood. Each time he found something new to marvel at. He'd tried watching it at home once on a rented cassette but it wasn't the same. When he'd read that The Strand was running a big-screen revival, he'd jumped at the chance for another look.

  As he pulled to a stop at a light, he noticed a familiar-looking sports car to his right on the side street, waiting to make a left turn. A Maserati. In the bright, diffused peach glow of the mercury vapor lamps that lined Conway, Bill recognized Rafe Losmara at the wheel, speaking animatedly to someone next to him. Once again Bill was struck by the feeling that they'd met before. Something tantalizingly familiar about his face.

  He wondered who Rafe was with. He almost hoped it wasn't Lisl. He didn't want to see her hurt but he was convinced that Rafe was no good for her, that his twisted values were behind the appalling deterioration in Lisl's character.

  Maybe Rafe was out with somebody else tonight. If so, perhaps Bill could find a way to use that as a wedge between Lisl and him. All the standard objections rolled through his mind—It's none of your business, she's a big girl, a grown woman, you're not her father, not even her uncle, and even if you were, she has a right to choose her lovers and her values—and he let them roll right out again. All valid, but his feelings for Lisl overruled them. Lisl was heading for a fall—Bill knew it as sure as he knew his real name—and he wanted to catch her before she did. Because she might not come back from this crash. And if Bill couldn't save the one friend he had left in the world, he might not come back, either.

  As the Maserati made the turn and swung around the front of Bill's car, he recognized Lisl in the passenger seat. He cursed in disappointment and shot one last glance at Rafe.

  A wordless cry escaped Bill as the street seemed to tilt under his car. Close up, in the strange mercury glow that gelled the air, Rafe's mustache seemed to fade away, and his face… it looked… just like…

  Sara!

  And then he was past, gone, out of sight, his car a receding blob of red. But the vision remained, floating before Bill's eyes.

  Sara!

  Why hadn't he seen it before? The resemblance was unmistakable. He could be her brother!

  What if he was her brother?

  But how could that be? And why would he be here? What possible purpose—?

  Lisl! Was he going to hurt Lisl like his sister had hurt Danny?

  The blare of a horn from behind startled Bill and he looked up. The light was green. His slick palms slipped on the wheel as he pulled over to the curb and shut off the engine.

  He sat behind the wheel, trembling, sweating, trying to get a grip as the wild thoughts raced through his head.

  Wait. Stop. This was crazy.

  Rafe had looked like Sara for an instant. So what? That was scary, but he wasn't Sara, and the odds of someone related to Sara showing up as a graduate student at the same university where Bill was working under an assumed identity were astronomical.

  And yet…

  Bill couldn't shake the feeling that a veil had parted for an instant and allowed him a peek at a deadly secret. He couldn't ignore it. He had to follow it up. Now. But he couldn't do it himself. He couldn't raise his profile. He needed help. But who? How? He searched for a way, a name. And he knew: Nick.

  He scooped the pile of change out of his ashtray and started the car. He drove until he saw a phone booth, stopped, jumped out, and lifted the receiver.

  The sweat was pouring out of him now.

  Just once… just this once, let me get a dial tone.

  There was dead air, then a click. The operator? His heart was pounding. A minute… that was all he needed. Just a minute of conversation, even if it was with Nick's answering machine.

  "Hello? Hello?"

  And then came the voice, the awful, too-familiar child's voice.

  "Father, please come and get me! Pleee—!"

  With a groan, Bill slammed the receiver down and ran for his car. Behind him the pay phone began to ring… continuously. He could still hear it echoing in his mi
nd over the sound of his roaring engine as he gunned out of earshot.

  He headed for home and along the way he searched his memory for everything Lisl had ever told him about Rafe Losmara. He had it all arranged in his mind by the time he reached his computer. He accessed the DataNet network and found the bulletin board. He typed out a message to Nick.

  TO EL COMEDO

  NEED BACKGROUND CHECK ON ONE RAFE LOSMARA…

  He gave as much background as he could, Rafe's undergraduate school, year of graduation, anything he could remember from Lisl's glowing rambles about him, but he scrupulously avoided any mention of Rafe's present circumstances or whereabouts. He had to be careful here. Too much current data in the message would allow some nosy busybody in the network to contact Rafe and let him know that he was being investigated.

  Bill closed with a circumspect note that he hoped would spur Nick to dig as deeply and quickly as he could:

  … CHECK FOR POSSIBLE RELATION TO THE MISSING MYSTERY WOMAN WE WERE LOOKING FOR LAST TIME WE WERE TOGETHER. CHECK WITH OUR POLICE FRIEND. MAYBE HE CAN HELP OUT. PLEASE HURRY. URGENT, URGENT, URGENT!

  IGNATIUS

  Bill signed off and leaned back in his chair. He didn't have to leave it all to Nick. At lunch break tomorrow he could hit the university library and see if there was some way he could get hold of a copy of the Arizona State yearbook from last year.

  Probably all a wild goose chase. No way Rafe and Sara could be related. Just a freak combination of light and shadow, nothing more.

  Bill couldn't repress a shudder at the memory of how much Rafe had looked like Sara in that instant.

  He picked up his Breviary and tried to concentrate oil his daily office.

  This isn't working.

  In the dark of her bedroom, Lisl coiled her arms around Rafe's neck and thrust her pelvis down against his. She'd wanted tonight to be different. Insisted, in fact. No belt, no symbolic beating, no taunts, no shouting, no catharsis—just lovemaking, pure and simple. So that was what they had done: strip, turn the lights off, and meet under the sheets.

  But it wasn't working. Rafe had only half his usual tumescence, had even had difficulty penetrating her. Even now, sliding within her, she sensed his softness, his listlessness.

  Suddenly she was angry. He wasn't going to cooperate. Was this how it was? If they didn't approach sex his way, he'd participate, but just barely? In a sudden burst of fury, she bit him on the shoulder.