by Gayle Lynds
She was sweating nervously as she lied: "I'm Susan Schwartz. I'm here to see my grandmother, Ione Schwartz. I know it's late, but I won't stay long." She raised her chin and hoped it didn't tremble. She forced a firm, imperious smile—the wealth-and-power smile of the Redmonds.
Ione Schwartz was an old friend of both of Julia's grandfathers, and her husband had done business with them for years. Several friends from the old days had also chosen this exclusive nursing home, including another billionaire—Jed Coopersmith. Ione really did have a granddaughter, Susan, but the last Julia had heard, Susan had married a man from Brazil and moved there.
The sentry checked his log without much interest.
"I'm sure I'm not listed," she offered. "I was visiting a cousin in Bedford Hills, so I thought I'd swing by to say hi to Grandma."
"Just a minute, miss." Bored or not, the guard had been drilled in his main job of keeping unauthorized visitors out. He picked up the phone and spoke quietly.
He hung up. "Go ahead. We close at ten o'clock."
With a sense of dread, she drove out the long drive toward the brightly lighted front of the elite nursing home.
Everything was new to her. She'd been here with her mother, but that'd been months ago and, of course, she'd been blind. The grounds were windswept and gloomy. She could see the dark, turned-over earth of barren flower beds. Brick pathways wound among them and along a small lake that glistened like black onyx in the moonlight. She saw a shadow move, and then another. With an abrupt sense of claustrophobia she realized guards in bulky winter clothing were patrolling the area, rifles clasped in their arms.
What kind of nursing home was this? Were these armed guards here the last time when she'd been blind? Her mother hadn't mentioned them.
She parked in the circular drive and stepped from the Chevrolet. The brutal cold wrapped around her like an icy cloak. Off to the left behind the wire fence that guarded the property she saw headlights turn and pause where there seemed to be no houses. She couldn't fight the cold long enough to watch. She hurried to the big front doors.
They swung open, and standing there was a why man with a red face and a stony expression. He must be John Reilly, who'd met her and her mother before they went into her grandfather's bedroom. Her throat went dry. She slid her hand inside her coat pocket where the Walther lay. She prayed she looked different enough—no tinted glasses, no white cane, no long brown hair.
She smiled brightly, but put on that indifferent commanding tone so many of her parents' friends used with servants. "I'm Susan Schwartz. Direct me to my grandmother's bedroom, please."
John Reilly stared at the woman. There was something familiar about her, but he couldn't quite place her. Their records showed Ione Schwartz's granddaughter Susan had visited only once. Like many people who served the rich, he'd never learned to fend off their assumptions of superiority. Deep down, he felt they were superior. "Yeah, I can take you. But you better be prepared. Mrs. Schwartz can be pretty vague these days."
She saw he was a little intimidated, but he was also trying to recognize her. She needed to give him more reason to believe her. She sighed. "I should visit more, I know. But I live in Brazil most of the year." She made herself brighten. "I hope seeing me after such a long time will be as much a treat for her as for me."
"Brazil?" Reilly knew he'd seen her somewhere. "That's pretty far."
"And it's nearly summer there now." She shivered. "How crazy to come back to New York in November, Mr. . . . What did you say your name was?"
He was flattered. Visitors seldom asked his name. "Reilly. Come on, I'll take you to your grandmother."
She closed her eyes briefly when they reached the corridor that led to the rooms. She knew where her grandfather's room was—on the far right. Reilly turned right, and inwardly she sighed with relief. Ione's room was convenient.
As they walked, Reilly again contemplated the gray-haired woman's face. Vince had phoned to warn that Julia Austrian and Sam Keeline might try to see the old man. This one didn't really look like Austrian, and she wasn't asking about the old sonofabitch. She seemed the right height, but she didn't have the same friendly but shy personality. He'd better make certain. He'd have Julia Austrian's photograph faxed to him.
He stopped before a bedroom that was midway to the end. "This is it. Have a good visit." He watched her go in, and he went to phone Vince Redmond.
Ione Schwartz was sitting in a chair beside her bed, a photo album on her lap. Her hair glowed lavender in the lamp light, and she looked up with a sweet smile on her pale, wrinkled face. "Do I know you, dear?"
"Oh. I'm sorry." Julia stopped inside the door. "I must have the wrong room."
She opened the door, looked outside, and saw Reilly disappear toward the lobby. She smiled at the confused old woman, then slipped out and ran in the opposite direction along the corridor, letting her memory guide her. She stopped at what she was sure was her grandfather's door. It was closed. Excitement surged through her. What could he tell her? At last she might have some answers—
Swiftly she turned the knob and stepped inside. The room was dark.
"Grandfather? It's Julia. Marguerite's daughter. I need to talk to you."
She heard no breathing. Apprehensive, she flipped on the light. He was in bed. His head was hidden behind a pillow.
"Grandfather? I don't want to disturb you, but I really need to talk."
The old man didn't move, and as Julia approached she saw no rustling of sheets or blankets. Her breath caught in her throat. She quickly reached the bed, stared at the empty pillow, and whipped back the blanket and sheet.
Two pillows had been arranged under them to give the appearance of someone asleep. The bed and the room were empty.
Stunned, Julia ran out of the room and quietly along the corridor checking bedrooms where the doors were open. At last she reached the craft room, but it, too, was dark and empty. Inside the TV room a half-dozen residents sat in wheelchairs and on an overstuffed sofa facing the screen. They gazed up. She smiled and said hello, but her grandfather wasn't there. Last she checked the rec room. No one there at all.
She stood in front of the locked door at the end of the hall, puzzled and worried. Where was he? The pillows in his bed were meant to fool anyone who checked on him. Had he run away? Or should she say, escaped? Could a senile old man plan an escape?
Or were the pillows intended to fool someone else? Her? In case she managed to get into the home?
As her heart sank at that thought and what it could mean, she leaned back against the exit door. It clicked softly open. The hairs on the back of her neck seemed to stand on end. The door wasn't a fire exit; it had no knob or bar to open it. It could be opened only by a key.
It should be locked.
She pushed the door open. The wintry blast chilled her. Had someone gone out through this door?
She needed answers. There was one person who might give them to her. She ran back along the hall and again slipped into Ione Schwartz's room. The old woman was turning a page in the photo album. "I know you," she decided.
"I was just here." Julia dropped into the chair beside her. A light scent of lilies of the valley filled the room. "Do you know where Lyle Redmond is?"
Mrs. Schwartz's array of fine wrinkles rearranged themselves in puzzlement. "Lyle? That old goat. He's probably in bed by now. I never knew anyone who rampaged so much. Then he gets tired and falls asleep. But he is fun, isn't he?"
Julia needed information. "He's not in his room. Has he left the nursing home?"
Mrs. Schwartz's white eyebrows raised. "He's never left, not that he doesn't want to. He wrote some journals about his life, but Reilly took them. Lyle's always in trouble." She smiled. "It's part of his charm. We were in love, you know." She pressed a hand against her heart, and her face seemed to grow younger. She flipped pages of the album, heading toward the front.
That was news to Julia. There'd been rumors in the family of Lyle Redmond's busy romantic life, but
Julia had never known anyone firsthand who'd talk about it.
Age had loosened Mrs. Schwartz's tongue. She touched a black-and-white photo. "There he is. What a rascal."
Julia studied the Lyle Redmond of at least fifty years ago. He was in a business suit with his hat tipped rakishly back. Beside him stood her other grandfather, also in a business suit, but stiff and dignified, with a hand casually at his hip holding a cigarette. Behind the two stood the wood frames of many houses all being built at the same time.
"That's one of their tract developments?" Julia asked curiously.
"The first one," Mrs. Schwartz said proudly. "My husband was the contractor."
This was an opportunity not to be missed. "So you knew Lyle and Daniel when they were young. How did they meet?"
Mrs. Schwartz leaned back, her eyes hazy on the past. "I grew up with Daniel. Our folks had summer places near each other on Fire Island. But then his dad lost all their money, and poor Daniel had a hard time of it. Had to work his way through Harvard. But that's where his dad had gone, and Daniel was determined he'd have everything he'd been promised, even if it meant he had to pay for it himself—"
Julia was astonished. "I thought the Austrians were always rich!" It was another lie, and perhaps it explained why Daniel Austrian would've not just wanted but needed the Second Himmler Treasure.
"Oh, no, dear. Daniel was poor as a chapel mouse. But then, so was Lyle. The difference was that it made Daniel very, very angry. I think they met in the war. At least they were stationed together in southern Germany at the end of it." She grinned and shook her head. "Two men more unsuited for partnership I never knew. But they were friends until the day Daniel died." She reached up to fluff her hair. "I was very naughty. Lyle and I had an affair. But then, my husband had other women, too. Lyle was sooo romantic. Of course, his wife was dead. He used to sneak out of Arbor Knoll to meet me in Oyster Bay."
Julia leaned forward. "Did Daniel Austrian ever go into Switzerland—"
Abruptly the door swung open. Julia turned. John Reilly filled the opening. His narrow body radiated violence. "We don't want to disturb Mrs. Schwartz any more." His voice was cold. "Come out here, Ms. Austrian."
Julia's throat closed with fear.
She couldn't let Mrs. Schwartz be hurt. She had no choice.
A hard knot settled in her chest. With a feeling of doom, she stood and walked toward John Reilly. But then she thought about Sam and what he'd taught her. How she'd managed to shoot the Janitor in the theater. Maybe she had a chance—
Heart pounding, she slid her hand into her big coat pocket and grasped the Walther.
42
9:12 PM, SUNDAY
Father Michael slowed his van to a crawl as he approached the wire mesh fence that surrounded the nursing home. Lyle Redmond's directions of how to drive to this spot beside the perimeter fencing had been good, but now he worriedly searched the cold night for Lyle. Where was he? It made him think of the Alps, where hikers could freeze in ten minutes if temperatures plummeted.
In the frosty moonlight, he focused on the gate. The wind rustled across dry bushes and long grasses. Where was Lyle Redmond?
And then he saw movement. The gate swung open, and with a surge of relief he saw a long robe and hood, whipping in the wind. It had to be old Lyle. Eagerly he rolled the van forward, craned over, and slid open the side door.
Lyle climbed in on a blast of icy air. "Thank you, Father. Thank you indeed! Cold as the nubs of hell out there!" He slammed shut the door, shuddered, pounded his palms together for warmth, and looked around at the crumbling interior of the priest's vehicle. Faded drapes covered the side windows. The lining was gone from the walls, and the upholstery had worn through on the seats. But heat rushed out, and soon the van would seem almost tropical. "This is paradise!"
The priest's jowls rose in a smile of relief. "You are all right?" His large nose was red, as if he'd been leaning out into the cold from his rolled-down window a very long time, watching for Lyle. His square fingers had a death's grip on the steering wheel, and his dark eyes were intense with concern. The strain of all his sixty-five years showed in his lined face.
"Right as rain, Father. But we've gotta get out of here. No telling when that snake Reilly will figure out I'm gone."
"Of course." His words were soft-spoken, and his demeanor gentle, but Father Michael knew when it was time to act. He gunned the VW's Porsche motor, and the tires spat sand until they caught the asphalt. He blasted the VW away from the nursing home along the dark night road.
The old man said, "Nice driving. But I've got to tell you, I'm hungry."
"We can eat at the church."
"I had in mind real food."
The priest looked across at Redmond, who leaned against the tall passenger seat with his hood thrown back. The magnificent mane of white hair seemed almost alive in the shadows. His age-bleached eyes glowed like opals. His rangy bones pressed out against his pale skin, and the priest again had the sense of power subdued only for the moment. Lyle was weak, but he wasn't finished. Now that he was out of the home, he seemed suddenly stronger.
"I've been dreaming about fried chicken," Lyle rumbled. "Deep-fat fried chicken with real mashed potatoes and lots of gravy. Nothing out of a box like at the nursing home. You got enough money to feed me that?"
The priest smiled. "I think I can manage."
"Good. Then we can talk some more about God. I feel like I just got out of prison."
"You did, in a way."
"Oh. Another thing. We can't go to the Mount Kisco parish church."
"I thought we agreed—"
"We did. But I figure if that bastard Reilly decides you're connected to my breakout, that's the first place he's going to check." Now that he was away from Reilly, he had things to do. And something he had to see one last time—
The priest wondered whether Lyle had agreed to the Mount Kisco church only to make certain he'd help.
"This is the plan." The old man began to talk.
Father Michael listened with growing alarm.
9:28 PM, SUNDAY
At night, the rugged beauty of Westchester County seemed eerie and forbidding. Sharp-tipped tree branches dipped low to wind-whipped ponds. Stone bridges and dense woods crowded the narrow roads. Worried and apprehensive, Sam sped his Durango into the hamlet of Armonk and stopped at the Shell station on Main Street. Inside a youth gave him directions to the Rolling Hills Retirement Home.
As he ran out, Sam could smell the inviting aroma of hamburgers from the café next door. He jumped into the Durango and peeled away.
Rage at Pink's betrayal simmered at the edge of his brain. Because of Pink, Julia could be dead. He knew Pink had been desperate to get back out into the field, and that he'd always been more influenced by authority than was good for him. If Vince had used either of those pressure points on Pink, he could've won Pink over. It wouldn't have been easy, but it was possible.
Sam grimaced. None of the reasons mattered. He'd never forgive Pink.
He shook his head, clearing it. He focused on Julia. Her face flashed into his mind. More than anything he wanted to be with her again. He wanted to hear her voice and feel the warmth of her standing next to him. She had to be alive.
Pain knotted his chest. And an old, awful guilt.
9:30 PM, SUNDAY
As if he could read her mind, Reilly produced a pistol as Julia stepped out into the corridor. Arrayed around him were three other men. All had guns.
"Don't be a problem," Reilly growled.
She closed the door behind her. "Why would I want to cause trouble, Mr. Reilly?" Her hand was trembling. Quickly she dropped it to her side. She mustn't let Reilly see her fear. "I'm a visitor here, and you're the one who's going to extremes—"
"Where is he?" he demanded. "Where's your fucking grandfather?"
"That's what I'd like to know," she said hotly. "What have you done with him?"
"Listen, you goddamn—"
An attendant
in a white uniform ran up. His features were contorted in worry. "Boss! The corridor tape shows two priests coming out of the rec room wearing those long brown robes. One headed to the lobby, but the other went out the side door."
"The door that's locked?" Reilly's pocked face seemed suddenly redder.
"That's the one."
Reilly thought rapidly. When the rest home was built, cameras were hidden behind light fixtures in all the halls and the lobby. The security man in charge of the monitors must've been off duty when Father Michael arrived alone. Inwardly Reilly cursed. He'd handle the staff problems later. Right now he focused on the old bastard who must've gotten a key to the service door and escaped that way.
Reilly had to get him back pronto. "Sounds as if the priest sneaked in an extra robe. Mack and Jimmy, go check outside that frigging side door. The priest's a Franciscan. Name's Father Michael. Drives an old VW van, and he's got a German accent. Go to the Franciscan church in Mount Kisco. It's at the corner of Main and Green—"
"I know where it is!" The third armed man peeled away and ran off.
Thinking, Reilly watched the first two head for the door at the end of the hall.
For an instant, no one was watching Julia. Only Reilly stood next to her, his men sent off on assignments. In that moment, everything she'd experienced since her mother's murder just two nights ago riveted her. The person she'd been was as dead as her mother, and she saw in Reilly's distraction probably her only chance to shift the balance of terror. . . and survive.
She swallowed hard. She slid out her Walther. Just as he started to turn back to her, she jammed the muzzle into his hard belly. Instantly he went rigid. He looked down. Shock stretched his face.
Her voice was low, and with relief she found it was controlled, almost cold. "Whatever else you are, Reilly, you're not suicidal. Don't say one word. Not a sound."
9:38 PM, SUNDAY
Sam sped up to the kiosk just as a car raced out the other side without being stopped. He caught a glimpse of the faces of the driver and the man sitting beside him. They were worried and grim, and by the velocity at which they were exiting, he knew some emergency had driven them out into the night. As he stopped in the kiosk's light, he stared ahead at the circular drive. Joy surged through him. His mother's Chevrolet was parked ahead. Julia was here. She'd survived.