She smiled slowly. “I could get hardened to your wicked insults. Mysterious cheekbones and haunting eyes. Very nice, Mr. Helm. So I will tell you a secret. I am not ashamed of my accent, but I do exaggerate it occasionally. I do not know why it is, but many American men seem to be taken by an attractive woman—if I may flatter myself—who speaks somewhat less than perfect English, if the accent is foreign. Some kind of snobbery, I suppose. They might not look at me twice if I spoke good Hoosier American.”
I grinned. “Now you want me to flatter you and tell you that you’re selling yourself short and they’d flock around even if you talked Brooklynese.” Astrid Watrous stuck out her tongue at me daintily, and we laughed, and I said, “Tell me about your relationship with Karin Segerby. How long have you known her, how and where did you meet her, and why did you have lunch with her if you hate her guts?”
“I do not hate her guts, I am merely bored by her,” Astrid said. “I have known her for several years, ever since Alan had to go to Washington on behalf of the Institute and I went with him…”
But at that moment the door opened and the doctor came in, the heart man to whom I’d spoken the day before named, if you’ll believe it, Hartman. It must have been something to learn to live with after he’d decided on his profession; and I remembered that he’d introduced himself with a wry grin that had had lots of practice. There was a nurse with him. He sent me out of the room while he did his stethoscope thing; then he emerged and came over to where I leaned against the corridor wall, waiting.
“She’s doing very well,” he said. “Of course it will take some time for her system to return to normal after two such shocks, the cardiac episode and the quinine reaction. I would like to keep her under observation until the weekend. After that, she should take it very easy for several weeks, preferably within reach of good medical facilities in case of an emergency. Not that I really anticipate any further trouble if her condition remains stable over the next few days.”
I said, “That’s the good news. Have you got any bad?”
Hartman regarded me for a moment without a great deal of liking. He took an envelope from the pocket of his white coat.
“With respect to the questions you asked,” he said, “I can see no easy way in which the quinine reaction could have been induced, under the circumstances. However, there are certain compounds which could have brought on the original symptoms of tachycardia, and I have listed them for you with notes as to their availability and the methods by which they could have been introduced into the patient’s system. I must say that I felt as if I were writing a mystery novel, and I hope you find it gripping; but let me advise you not to build too much on it. All our tests and analyses are consistent with a natural attack triggered by… Well, we simply don’t know what triggers these episodes naturally, Mr. Helm.” He looked past me. “Yes, Nurse?”
“Is this Mr. Helm? There’s a call for you in three-fifty-seven, Mr. Helm. From Washington.”
Unexpected calls from Washington are always hard on the nerves. I tried to tell myself that they’d just misplaced all the keys to the second-floor john and wanted mine so they could make duplicates, fully urgent.
“Thank you, Nurse,” I said. I took the envelope Dr. Hartman gave me, and said, “Thank you very much, Doctor.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, but I had a hunch that I wasn’t, very. He didn’t like my thinking that he could have overlooked a murder attempt, even if I were wrong; and I didn’t think he was as certain of that as he pretended.
I went back into the room, where Astrid Watrous held out the phone to me. I took it, and said, “Helm.”
The voice in the phone belonged to Doug Barnett. It said only three words. “Scramble. Repeat, scramble.”
“Scramble received,” I said and hung up. I looked at the woman in the bed. “Get your clothes on. The man says we’ve got to get out of here fast before the roof falls in.”
5
I’d hoped she’d just hauled on a pair of old jeans and a T-shirt when it hit her in the middle of the night and she dressed in a panicky hurry and stumbled off to the hospital with her heart going crazy in her chest. Not that I really approve of girls in jeans unless there’s a horse in the picture; but here I didn’t know how long it would be before we could find her a change of clothes. In a good pair of slacks, or a skirt, one day on the run and maybe a slight accident along the way with some Coca Cola or hamburger juice generally qualifies a lady for membership in the slob club; but nobody gives a damn how long she’s worn a pair of jeans, or how carelessly. In some quarters they aren’t even considered respectable until they’re thoroughly seasoned: what every well-dressed fugitive should wear.
However, even on such short acquaintance I should have known her better; she was not a dirty-denim girl. In the closet I found a pair of handsome brown flannel slacks, a brown blazer with brass buttons, a tan—well, call it beige—silk blouse, and a pair of brown sandals with heels high enough to be interesting. There was also a pair of short nylon stockings with elastic tops, and a pair of white nylon panties discreetly embroidered with little flowers. No brassiere. When I turned with the stuff in my hands, she was still sitting in the bed.
“Well, come on!” I snapped. “Let’s see some action, Watrous!”
The idea was to rush her into it. I was taking for granted that, given time to think she’d delay us with a lot of stupid questions and pitiful protests: why was I doing this to her, didn’t I know she was a poor invalid who couldn’t possibly be expected to leave her sickbed, it would kill her quite dead, and how could I even think of suggesting such an outrageous thing! But I’d misjudged her badly. There were no interrogations or objections. There was only a small practical obstacle about which she felt obliged to remind me.
“Somebody must pull it out,” she said calmly. “I am a bit of a sissy, Mr. Helm. I would rather it was you.”
“Oh.”
I laid her clothes on the bed and studied the needle in her arm. Having put in some hospital time myself, in the line of duty, I had a pretty good idea of how the withdrawal operation was performed. The supplies were readily available. I found a Band-Aid and laid it handy. I got some cotton ready. Steadying the needle, I yanked off the tape holding it in place. I held a wad of cotton at the point where the needle disappeared into the skin, slipped it out, wiped off the small amount of blood that appeared, and stuck on the Band-Aid.
“Well, what are you waiting for now?”
She was still sitting there. “Aren’t you going to turn your back like a gentleman?”
“After you sent a gun moll to visit me, what makes you think I trust you enough to turn my back on you?”
She studied me for a moment longer. I saw a faintly malicious smile touch her lips. She got out of the high bed. The modest next step, of course, was to pull on the panties under the hospital gown before removing the gown; but I’d challenged her and to hell with modesty. She caught the hem and made a slow and graceful production of pulling the gown off over her head. Clearly, she was confident that while her face displayed the haggardness of illness, there was nothing wrong with her body. She was quite right. It was a very nice, taut female body, moderately tall, adult but slender, lightly tanned except for very skimpy bikini-marks. Watching her unveil and dress it was a disturbing experience, just as she meant it to be.
“What did they tell you over the phone?” she asked as she zipped and buttoned herself up.
“Scramble. In our language, that means get the hell out of wherever you are, with whoever you care to preserve alive, because they’re coming for you with homicidal intentions now.”
“Who is coming?”
I shrugged. “How the hell would I know? I’ve had a little Japanese car tailing me, and a pretty blonde girl waving a pistol at me, and a handsome brown-eyed lady doing a reverse striptease for me. Things are tough all over. I’ll worry about who when I’m clear; right now all I want is out of here.”
“Well, you’d better fast
en my shoes, then,” she said. “If I try to bend over that far, I’ll fall on my face.”
I knelt at her feet, where she obviously enjoyed having me. “Your heart pills,” I said. “Have you got any spares?”
“No, they just bring me one four times a day.”
“When’s the next one due?”
“Two hours from now, at ten o’clock. Then I take it at four, ten, four—that’s the ghastly early-morning one they’ve been waking me for—and ten again. They say it does no damage if I am a little over the time, or under, but I am not supposed to miss it by too much.”
“We’ll have to head for a drugstore I know where we can stock up, no questions asked. We should be there in time to keep you on schedule. You know the stuff you want?”
“Procan SR, five hundred milligrams.”
“Smart girl.”
She laughed rather grimly. “Would a smart girl let a strange man drag her out of the hospital half-dead on her feet?”
But she marched out of the room bravely enough, holding herself very straight, her high heels tapping crisply on the vinyl flooring; and nobody stopped us. I hated to make her take any detours, but it seemed inadvisable to use the front door. By the time we’d found our way to the rear of the hospital and used the stairs there and found an exit, she was sagging noticeably.
“Can you make a block and a half?” I asked. “I could leave you here and bring the car around, but—”
“I do not want to be left anywhere, please,” she said. “Not if you think people are planning to kill us.”
I had to steady her for the last half block. A stout lady who passed us thought it was disgusting, a nice-looking, nicely dressed young woman like that stumbling around drunk so early in the day. As we approached the place where I’d left the jazzy little Ford, I couldn’t spot it at once. I had a moment of panic, wondering whether I’d remembered the street and block incorrectly, or whether the police tow truck had been around. There was no way my rubber-legged companion was going to make it clear to the Holiday Inn, where her Buick was parked, under her own power. I preferred the mini-Ford anyway. It was smaller and peppier and less conspicuous; and I was used to the way it handled.
Then I saw it, hidden behind a blocky green van, exactly where I’d left it, without even a parking ticket on the windshield. I got the door open and helped Astrid inside after reclining the seat to make her more comfortable. She lay back against the headrest and closed her eyes, looking very pale and vulnerable. I made her a silent apology. For all her glamour-accent and femme-fatale manner, she seemed to be a brave, tough woman, fighting hard to meet my unreasonable demands in spite of her weakness. I was beginning to get quite attached to her in a protective way; but I warned myself it was just a normal attack of the broken-wing syndrome. This was no time to get mushy about a pretty, crippled birdie that wasn’t necessarily a harmless domestic pigeon.
We picked up I-70 just south of town and ran it as far as Frederick, Maryland, and let it continue east to Baltimore without us, while we turned southeast on I-270, the Washington Pike. Ceiling unlimited. Visibility unlimited. Passenger mostly asleep beside me. Escort: none. Apparently the hideout car had thrown them off, at least for the moment. Sloppy work. They should have known I’d arrived in something that had to be somewhere if it wasn’t at the motel. They should have found it. But maybe the Honda had belonged to Karin Segerby and she’d decided she had no more gun-business, or other business, to transact with me.
Traffic density increased as we approached the District of Columbia. At last I cut out of formation at the proper exit, and drove for a while through residential districts that varied from luxury homes with green lawns and shade trees to shabby old apartment buildings right on the sidewalk. My own domicile fell into the latter category, but if people were laying for us, that was one of the places they could be waiting, although you won’t find my phone number, or address, in the white pages. Self-preservation. I chose a route that would pass a few blocks away.
Astrid Watrous sat up at last, and raised her seat back a bit. She tucked in her shirt and patted her hair into place, healthy feminine reactions.
“Feeling better?” I asked.
She shrugged. “After spending so many days in bed, my legs were starting to atrophy, I think. Where are we?”
“Washington, D.C. Tell me more about Lysaniemi.”
“I do not know any more.”
“Where did you get the name?”
“I am not able to tell you that.”
I glanced at her irritably. “Nor where it is?”
“That I do not know. Truly. I am sorry.”
I said, “A Finnish name. North of the Arctic Circle, you said. It probably wouldn’t be in Alaska or northern Canada; I don’t think many Finns settled up there. It could be in western Russia, near the Finnish border—languages particularly place names, have a habit of slopping across national boundaries—but that would make access pretty awkward for our conspirators unless it’s all a sinister Russky plot, and I haven’t been getting that impression. That leaves Norway, Sweden, and, of course, Finland. I guess we’ll have to check them out.”
She said, “You are very crazy if you are thinking what I think. I cannot possibly travel… She paused and frowned at me. “Is this what you really had in mind when you asked about my passport?”
I shrugged. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t have dragged you out of bed so soon if there had been a choice. But since we’re running anyway, why not there? All you have to do is sit. The Scandinavian Airlines System, or whatever, will do all the work.” I glanced her way. “Think about it. It’s as good a way of keeping out of people’s way as any. People who apparently want to kill us, motives as yet undetermined. But you’re a strong girl. You can do it. We’ll find a place to rest you up once we’re across the big water, before we get into any strenuous Arctic exploration.”
She was silent for a little; then she said, unsmiling, “Well, you could get another man to carry the feet.”
I said, “With a skinny wench like you, who needs another man? I’ll just toss you over my shoulder and walk off with you.”
“Now you are boasting,” she said. “All right, Mr. Helm. I will go along on your crazy expedition, just to see what you really do when I faint in your arms.”
“Good girl.”
She shook her head irritably. “Will you please to refrain from that smart-girl, strong-girl, good-girl nonsense? I do not need any pats on the head, thank you very much. I am not that sick, and my morale is very tremendous. Where is this pharmacy for which we are looking, anyway?”
6
From the pay phone at the corner of the lot, I could see the station attendant filling the tank of the little Ford. He was a young fellow in reasonably clean brown coveralls sporting the Chevron insignia. Waiting for the fuel to run in, he attacked the windshield with a squeegee, and then proceeded to clean the other glass surfaces including the mirrors, something that happens all too seldom these days even if you pick the lane marked “Full Service.” But the miracle didn’t end there. With the windows clean, he actually went so far as to open the hood and check the oil, using a rag to hold the hot dipstick after burning himself on his first try. Somebody ought to warn the kid to straighten up and fly right, or he’d be kicked out of the Service Station Attendants’ Society for coddling his customers, instead of treating them like the dirt they were.
It had been quite a drive. After picking up Astrid’s medicine, and a bottle of 7Up with which to wash down her ten-o’clock dose only half an hour later, I’d had her bring her seat back upright and pull her safety harness tight. We’d picked up a leech at last. Losing us in Hagerstown, somebody must have got right on the ball and determined that we’d need medicine, even on the run, and that it was medicine that required a prescription, which we didn’t have. Somehow they’d known where I lived and which nearby drugstore would bend the rules for me a bit… They’d known too much, too soon, for a bunch of kidnappers who might be interested in M
ac but weren’t likely to have dossiers on everyone working for him. However, that was something I could worry about later. At the moment, the significant fact was that they were right behind us in their white Honda. Two large men. No small blonde girls.
I’d expected, with my sporty little car and my knowledge of the city, that I could easily shake the even smaller car behind; but it had turned out to have more power than I’d thought, and a good wheelman. I’d had to use all the boost of the EXP’s crazy little turbocharger, and all my driving skill, to get clear, perhaps because I came to front-wheel drive cars late. I’m still not used to the idea of having the same tires doing both the steering and the pulling, since you never know—at least I don’t—if applying a lot of power in a corner is really going to drag you through it the way the 4WD advocates claim, or just break the front end loose and let you go sliding off into the boonies. Back in the days when the power went to the rear wheels, you could kick them loose or not as you pleased, while the front tires kept right on steering the heap unless you got unreasonably violent.
Anyway, it had been a bit hairy while it lasted. However, in the end we’d managed to lose them, at least for the moment, and without picking up any cops in the process. Now I was standing at the open-air phone feeling exposed and vulnerable, and wondering whatever happened to those nice sheltering booths the phone company used to pamper us with. It seemed to be my day for nostalgia.
I listened to the instrument ringing in my ear and presumably also down in Florida. None of the cars or people on the street seemed to be interested in me. I’d already triggered the emergency-communication routine by an aborted call to Doug Barnett’s St. Petersburg number from the drugstore where I’d picked up Astrid’s pills. Five rings and hang up. That had let Amy Barnett, covering the number for her absent dad, know that she should await my next call at a safe phone we’d arranged to use a long time ago when we were setting up our crisis system.
The Vanishers Page 5