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THREE
THERE...IT IS AGAIN—THAT SAME odor. I know it...It stinks...I remember the...What’s the name of it? Can’t remember the name...Faint, familiar, antiseptic.
Wainwright couldn’t see. Something was covering his eyes. He wanted to touch it, to understand what it was, to remember its name and the name of the smell. He needed to know these things; he needed to remember his own name.
One arm wouldn’t move and hurt like hell. The other one...I can move it a little...but it’s restrained by the whatchamacallit. Uh, what is it? It has a name. Why can’t I move my arms? Why can’t I remember what things are called?
Wainwright was in the ICU at UCLA Medical Center. He needed to scratch his cheek. The arm that wouldn’t move was encased in plaster from his wrist to his shoulder. He couldn’t move his other arm due to the restraint attached to the bed rail, which prevented a patient from removing tubes placed in his or her body. Right now Wainwright was a collection of tubes and wires. Wires on his fingers, chest, and neck ran to monitors on the wall. Their incessant beeping drove him mad.
His head looked like a mummy’s, wrapped in gauze. Elastic bandages covered his scalp, forehead, and eyes. His face had sustained cuts, bruises, and lacerations. His wounds had required so many sutures that the surgeon joked about calling in a seamstress to consult on the case. Panic set in as Wainwright continued the inventory of his body.
His mouth wouldn’t open, as the surgeon had wired his jaw shut to heal his fractured mandible. He had no understanding of where he was or why he was there. In fact, he had no memory of anything. As he realized these things, depression replaced his confusion. He felt an overpowering urge to cry but how can he know that he no longer has what he doesn’t remember he’s lost?
He felt blood behind his eyes; his heart was pumping hard, pushing the orbs out of his skull. He heard each beat with his pulse, increasing his anxiety. When he bent his elbow, he felt the tubes in his left arm. He was aware an oxygen cannula was in his nose, but it was still difficult for him to breathe. Hearing was the one sense that seemed to work. People were talking; the voices were male and close to his bed but not next to it.
“How long before he’s awake, Doctor?”
“Hard to tell in cases like this. We’ve tested for brainwave functions, but until he’s conscious and can speak, we won’t know if there’s any damage. You should prepare yourself for the possibility that he might never wake up, Mr. Shaw. It’s touch-and-go. I’m very sorry. Come on—I’ll walk you to the lobby.”
After the voices left, Wainwright took deep breaths. He needed to feed his heart more oxygen. Oh, God, that hurt. His mind focused on the pain in every part of his body.
He dozed off and on until he sensed another presence in the room. With his jaw wired, he half mumbled, half whispered in hopes that whoever was there would understand him.
“Time’s it?” There was no response to his question, so he tried again. “What day?” Unable to see, he sensed the person had laid a hand on the plaster cast. He thought he felt the pressure.
The other person said in a soft, reassuring tone, “It’s Easter morning, my son.”
He thought the voice might be male, but it could also be a female. The person must have removed his or her hand from the cast, as the pressure ceased. And miraculously, so did his pain. Wainwright no longer felt the sharp pains of cuts, bruises, and broken bones. And then, when he was sure the person was no longer in his room, he slept.
He had no memory of the events he’d experienced nine days before and six thousand miles from his hospital bed. He had no memories of any other time or place.
LACEY WAINWRIGHT WAS awake, enjoying her room service: toast and coffee. Relaxed after a good night’s rest, she was ruminating on her life. And why not? Here she was on her honeymoon, in one of the finest hotels in Salzburg—a new bride with a successful novelist husband. Life was good.
Lacey knew Garth considered himself both lucky and unique as an author. Unique because his first several novels continued to sell well, which rarely happened with a new author. He’d heard so many horror stories about starving writers. With two New York Times best sellers to his credit, he was a jubilant man. He was lucky too, since he had retired as a partner at CapVest, a successful investment company. His net worth ensured he’d never starve, even if his books didn’t sell.
True, he and Lacey had intended to wed sooner, but business commitments hadn’t allowed for it until now. Oh, glorious now, she thought. You can have your April in Paris—I’ll take April in Austria. There isn’t another place I want to be right now.
Lacey pictured Garth in her mind’s eye as he’d looked the day they’d first met. It was on the job. He had walked into the conference room with a slight limp, daring anyone to notice. She loved that expression he always got when he wasn’t sure of his circumstances. Lacey had learned that the hard set of his jaw was the “tell.” Did he lack confidence? Not at all. He had plenty, but sometimes, when he was off his home turf, an almost-pained crease appeared between his eyes. Ah, those eyes always remind me of a warm cup of cocoa, she thought with a smile.
A mutual attraction had led to dates, and then they’d fallen in love. They could only endure the long-term, bicoastal romance—her in Boston, him in Los Angeles—for so long. Her law firm had an office in LA, so she moved to the West Coast.
She stopped pondering Mr. Wonderful and glanced at the alarm clock on the dresser. Where is he? When that big lummox writes, he loses all sense of time. With a day of sightseeing planned, Lacey needed her husband at the hotel. While she waited, she continued the pleasant pastime of daydreaming about him. Lacey Kinkaid Wainwright was in love with Garth, their life together, and her place in it.
Her happy thoughts expanded when Wainwright walked into the room. He set his gear down and walked over to her. Lacey rose from her chair to embrace him.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” he said. “How long have you been of this world?”
Clearing her throat, she said, “Considering that considering is the first word I’ve spoken, I’d say not long enough. Did you get any work done this morning?”
Lacey donned a sheer white negligee trimmed with delicate white lace, over which she wore a matching silk dressing gown. Her natural radiance glowed from her freshly washed face. She was one of those women who looked lovelier without makeup, which would mask her natural beauty. She wore her raven-black hair in a classic short A-bob style, a dramatic contrast to her porcelain skin.
“I did. If you sit at that café long enough, the whole world will walk past on the Giselakai. I’ll bet I got plenty of interesting faces this morning. We can take a look later.”
“Will you join me for some coffee?”
“Thanks, but no. If I have one more cup, I’ll start speaking Brazilian.”
“Portuguese.”
“What?”
“Portuguese. The indigenous peoples of Brazil speak Portuguese as their first language. There isn’t any language called Brazilian. Considering you’re a best-selling author, I’m surprised you don’t know that. I suppose you left your copy of Languages of the Modern World in the hotel room when you left this morning.”
“Babe, the only thing of value I left in this room was you! How about we spend the rest of the day between those satin sheets?”
“You’ve become a horny ol’ husband, haven’t you? Why don’t we take a little break from honeymoon consummation?” She smiled. “I need the rest.”
“You know what they say: ‘Use it or lose it.’”
“Oh, no. God forbid that from happening. Then where would we be?”
“Love will find a way.” Wainwright said. “Oh, honey, I bumped into a CapVest client in the lobby just now. He’s doing some pension-fund business here in Salzburg. He asked if we’d join him for a late lunch at...oh, what’s the name of that place? Just up the street from here. We had a cocktail there before going to the theater a few nights ago. You remember, right?”
“The name escapes me too. Who’s this man we’re meeting for lunch?”
“Stanley Chambers, a Boston portfolio manager and a CapVest investor. Since we’re going out, I’ll grab a hot shower first. Care to join me, Mrs. Wainwright?”
“I sure like the sound of ‘Mrs. Wainwright.’ It’s got a ring to it, don’t you think?”
“A ring?” Wainwright reached out and took her hand. “You mean like what a bell does? Come with me, sweet lips, and I’ll see what I can do about ringing yours!”
They skipped off to the suite’s sumptuous bath. Over the next thirty minutes, the two lovers might have used up all the hot water in the hotel. Lacey and Wainwright emerged with cheeky grins.
The name neither of them could remember was Krimpelstätter. A place not too touristy and with enough locals so they could avoid feeling like they were in a Starbucks. Stanley Chambers, the client from Boston, was still doing business with CapVest and enthusiastic about the firm’s new management. Although he wasn’t happy that Wainwright no longer worked there, he was a big supporter of Tommy Shaw, the company’s chief executive officer and Wainwright’s best friend.
“So what made you two choose to honeymoon in Mozartland?” Chambers asked, after Wainwright had made introductions and they’d all taken seats at the restaurant.
“It was one of those marital compromises. The Sound of Music is Lacey’s favorite film; they shot many scenes in Salzburg. You should hear her sing a parody of the movie’s theme song. When she thinks I’m not listening, she belts out, ‘The hills are alive...and that’s really scary.’’’ Chambers laughed. “And I’m here to soak up the intriguing history of this place,” Wainwright added.
The conversation continued with recollections of deals done and those they had passed up. Lacey responded to questions but seemed passive in the conversation, Wainwright thought. Then she asked Chambers, “How long have you been in Boston?”
“My whole life. That’s where I was born. My family has always lived there, and I still do. Are you familiar with the city?”
Lacey nodded. “I used to live there with my uncle. Later I worked for the DA’s office before moving to Los Angeles.”
She took Wainwright’s hand in hers. He thought she seemed nervous, uncomfortable even, in this man’s company. He realized Lacey seemed to be acquainted with Chambers somehow. How does she know him? This guy isn’t reacting to her in any strange way. But then, portfolio managers don’t respond to anything but a bull market. Since he’s a good twenty years her senior, he probably isn’t an old boyfriend. Could be the county business she dealt with as an ADA. Yeah, it’s gotta be something like that.
WAINWRIGHT PICKED UP his slides from the photo shop in the lobby after their late lunch with Chambers. He intended to ask Lacey if she had issues with the man who’d just treated them to an expensive lunch.
In their suite, before he had framed his question in his mind, Lacey said, “I got you something when I was out yesterday. Want to see it?”
She went to the entry closet and pulled out a large box with a blue ribbon and bow. She handed it to Wainwright.
“Hope you find it to your liking.”
“Babe, you have exquisite taste, as illustrated by your selection of a husband,” he said with a smirk. “How could your gift be anything but perfect?”
He opened the box, then tossed the lid and pushed back the tissue paper to reveal a light-tan leather topcoat. He shook the folds out and held up the long coat before he put it on. The hem came down to the top of his Tony Lama boots.
“What do you say? The man said it’s a duster but didn’t explain why it’s called that. It looks marvelous on you, handsome.”
“It’s fantastic, sweetheart. I love it.”
Wainwright, not one to avoid a speech, was unusually silent as he examined the details of the exquisite duster. “Looks like a custom job. Did you have it made to order?”
“Yes, but they did it fast for me. I saw something similar in the tailor’s window. The owner—oh, the cutest little man—helped me make some design changes. I gave him some of your clothes, which helped him get measurements. I selected the hide and added a little detailing. I hope you like it, because they won’t take it back. It’s one of a kind. Just like you are, baby.”
“Like it? I love it. The trim above the pockets has darker suede piping. So cool!”
“Turn around so you can see the back in the mirror.”
Wainwright admired the back cape, which would protect his shoulders from rain, snow, sleet, and sun.
“Why do you think the back is split to just below the waist?” Lacey asked.
“On trial drives, drovers or ranch hands moved large numbers of cattle hundreds of miles to train yards. These trips took months, and the cowboys had to endure all the elements of nature along the way,” he explained. “They’d unsnap the flaps to keep them from bunching up behind the saddle cantle while still protecting their thighs from the sun or rain or snow.”
“I wasn’t sure about those throat latches. The shop owner assured me they’re authentic. Again, to protect the face and neck against the elements, I guess.” Lacey lifted the collar and snapped the latches, holding it around Wainwright’s ears. She cocked her head to the side and grinned. “I like it. Looks good on you and goes with your boots. Oh, I almost forgot—your new duster comes with an accessory.” She reached behind the sofa and handed him a light-tan felt cowboy hat. The four-inch-high pinched crown complemented a three-and-a-quarter-inch-wide brim with rolled sides, the front and back turned down.
“This is terrific,” he exclaimed, embracing her. “I’ve never seen a hat in this style. How did you find it?”
“The same man who made the coat suggested it. He said he and his wife saw this style of hat in a Kirk Douglas movie called The Man from Snowy River. It’s an Australian film that hasn’t been released in the US yet. We’ll have to watch for it when we get home. The film and the hat are from down under, I guess. He gave it to you as his wedding gift.”
“That was very thoughtful of him. I’ll have to thank him in person. You know me so well, Lacy. I guarantee I’ll wear them every chance I get. Now how about we take in the Mozart Museum? I can show off my new outfit to the haut monde.”
“Honey, why don’t we rest a little before we play tourists? We can watch the slides of the photos you took this morning at Café Amadeus.”
“Sure thing,” Wainwright said, then went to set up the rented slide projector.
He and Lacey sat on a velvet chaise lounge as he used the remote to proceed through the tray of slides.
“Look at this one. Can you believe it? Right here in downtown Salzburg, a genuine New York City bag lady. Oh, did you see that?” He backed up to the previous slide. “See her head? Hey, she’s wearing a Raiders Super Bowl cap. Can you read it?”
“It’s a striped knit hat. Yeah, on the front it says...” Lacey got up from the chaise and peered closely at the image projected on the wall “They’re Roman numerals, I think. It’s hard to make out, but...it could be XIV or XV. I think its XV.”
“What’s that? Sixty?”
“Maybe in Brazilian, but to an ancient Roman, it would be fifteen.”
Wainwright chuckled then clicked through the next several slides, pausing for a few seconds on each one.
“Go back to the last one, the nun and the guy with a bicycle. Yeah, hold that one a sec.” Lacey moved in for a closer look. Her eyes grew wide. “Look at that! If I’m not mistaken, BJ Dreaver is now a bride of Christ.”
“What? No way!”
“Way. I’ll bet you my law license the guy pushing the bike is the Assassin.”
Wainwright got up for a closer inspection as well. “Oh, my God, it is him. Greg Mulholland questioned him after he killed Bennie Rubens. That was almost four years ago, and the nun...I’d know her anywhere. That’s BJ for sure. They’re in Salzburg? I took that shot just a few hours ago.”
“You’d recognize BJ whether she was in a nun’s ha
bit or stark naked, which was her preferred outfit with you anyway, right?” Lacey said.
“Baby, like I’ve said, she was a casual date when I was in Bellevue, and it was over as soon as I met you.”
“Oh, I’m just teasing you, sweetheart. So those two fugitives are in Salzburg. What should we do?” Wainwright didn’t respond for a beat or two. “Well?” Lacey prodded.
“I’m thinking.”
“Take your time. I think it must hurt because I hear gears grinding.”
“What should we do? Is that the question?” Wainwright finally said. “You’re the lawyer. You tell me what we should do. I’m just a poor novelist trying his best to earn a meager wage to support—”
“Call Greg. We need to let the FBI know the Assassin and his girlfriend are in Salzburg.” Lacey reached for the phone. “I know Stacy’s number by heart,” she said. “She can get to Greg quicker than we can, with all the FBI BS we’d have to go through to get him on the line.”
The phone in Sacramento rang three times. Stacy Mulholland picked up on the fourth ring. “Stacy?”
The woman recognized Lacey’s voice. “Mrs. Wainwright, please don’t tell me you’re leaving the guy you—”
Lacey interrupted her longtime friend. “Stacy, we’ve got an emergency. We’re in Salzburg, and Garth saw Amiti and BJ here. You need to tell Greg right away. They need to track down—”
“Are you sure it was them?” Stacy asked.
“Yes, yes, Garth took their picture. We can fax it to the FBI or wherever your husband wants. But hurry or they’ll get away. Tell him about this ASAP, can you? Can you get him on the phone right now? Oh, please, Stacy, do it. BJ and Amiti are here right now!”
After placing the handset in its cradle, Lacey dropped her hands to her sides and looked at her husband. “She said she’ll call us back.” Letting her weak knees unlock, she dropped onto the chaise next to Wainwright.
Inside Moves Page 4