by David Wind
Blayne’s arm dangled limply at his side. He used his left hand to knead circulation back into his shoulder. “That was a mistake.”
“Yours,” Steven said before walking out of Banacek’s office, Savak at his heels.
He felt Blayne’s hot and angry eyes follow him all the way to the front door. In the back of his mind, he knew Blayne wouldn’t let it end here.
But Blayne didn’t matter right now, only Ellie mattered.
Chapter Four
A team of doctors surrounded Ellie. Daniel Skolnick stood at the foot of her bed, holding an aluminum medical chart. Steven, drained from his experience at the sheriff’s office, leaned against the doorframe while the neurosurgeon lectured the students.
In a strange way, Skolnick’s well-measured cadence of medical jargon was reassuring. If Ellie was still in critical condition, the neurosurgeon wouldn’t be lecturing over her, or so he believed.
A moment later, a nurse came up to him and placed a gentle hand on his arm. “Grand rounds,” she explained. “They’ll be finished in a few minutes. Would you like to wait elsewhere?”
He thanked her, but stayed. The teaching session ended a few minutes later. The troop of doctors-in-training filed out. Skolnick trailed, pausing long enough to tell Steven that they had stabilized Ellie, and she was doing better than expected.
Steven smiled his thanks and entered the room. He closed the door part way, and pulled a beige plastic chair close to the bed. He was finally alone with Ellie.
Ellie appeared to be in a light sleep. Her chest rose and fell rhythmically. There was a little more color in her face, which he took as a good sign.
A heartbeat after he sat, an all-consuming despair swept over him, inundating him with feelings of loss and inadequacy. He put a hand to his face, squeezed his eyes shut, and found himself remembering their times together. He heard softness of her voice, smelled the scent of her skin after they’d made love. His mind slipped into the past, carrying him back to relive the day he had given Ellie the engagement ring.
<><><><>
The sun was bright overhead, warm and soothing on the late March day. The crowds of tourists, who would swarm over the Washington Mall, surrounded by the stately buildings of the Smithsonian Institution, had not yet arrived in force.
In the near distance, the needle-like tower rose against the cloudless blue sky. The cherry trees were just starting to bloom. Soon, they would blossom, heralding the start of spring.
Ellie sat across the plaid blanket. They had just finished a light picnic lunch she’d prepared, when Steven reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew something. He took her hand, brought the soft skin of her palm to his lips. Before releasing her hand, he placed a small box in her palm and closed her fingers over it.
He saw her eyes cloud and her lips grow taut. “Steven….”
“Open it,” he ordered with a mock gruffness he realized was not as false as he’d intended.
Her lips quirked in a fleeting grin. She pried up the top of the black velvet box. Her eyes widened when she saw the square-cut emerald. “My God, Steven. It’s so beautiful. But I—”
“Don’t say anything yet, just listen to me. We’ve talked about the future. We’ve never said when. I know you’re not ready to get married. And I’m not trying to push you. What I’d like you to do, if you love me, is to put on the ring. We’ll let the future take care of itself.”
Ellie stared at him, her eyes searching his face. “Are you sure, Steven? You really don’t know me that well.”
“I know I love you.”
She tried to blink away the tears forming in her eyes, but they came anyway. Without taking her gaze from his, she wiped beneath her lower lids with the knuckle of a finger. Then she took the ring out of its velvet box.
She smiled, hesitantly. “I do love you, Steven. More than I have ever loved before. After the job is...after the elections, we’ll get married if you still feel the same way.”
He drew her to him. Kissing her gently, he tasted the moist warmth of her mouth.
When they parted, she said, “I promise I won’t ever let you go, Steven. No matter what, I promise you that. But...”
“But what?” he asked, ready for another argument.
“When you get the wedding band, make sure it’s the right size,” she said, laughing lightly while she struggled to push the emerald over her knuckle.
“I can have it resized.”
“Not today,” she said quickly. After moistening her finger with her tongue, she worked the ring over her knuckle. Holding her hand out at arm’s distance, she tilted her fingers slightly up so the ring would be directly in the sun.
“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, her voice catching.
<><><><>
Steven opened his eyes and stared at Ellie’s bruised face. In the eleven months since he’d given Ellie the ring, she had steadfastly refused to take it off and have it resized. She had told him she would do it after they were married.
“Oh, Ellie,” he whispered, bending to kiss her unresponsive hand.
He breathed deeply, his self-pity turning into a rage directed at the unknown person who had done this terrible thing to her and to him.
Steven focused his attention on Ellie, and on the possible reasons why someone had put her in this hospital bed. He thought back to what the sheriff had said, sifting through Banacek’s verbiage, going for the core of the sheriff’s explanation.
But all of Banacek’s explanations seemed to be guesses and suspicions.
Why was she here? When he’d left Washington, she’d been deluged with work.
Someone had tried to kill Ellie. That same person had tortured her first. Could it have been a psychotic? Banacek didn’t believe so. Neither did he.
The soft padding of a nurse’s rubber-soled shoes came up behind him. “Would you like something to drink? Water, coffee?”
Morrisy looked at the nurse. She had a young face but her eyes were old with experience. “No, thank you.”
She left, taking with her the nylon whooshing of pantyhose rubbing against her cotton uniform. He thought back to the last time he’d seen Ellie—a week ago today. He searched his memory, as he had so long ago trained himself to do.
Gifted with the rare ability of total recall—an eidetic memory—he put the special ability to use by seeking a memory switch, a trigger to unlock a particular memory path. When he found the release, the memory returned so swiftly he could almost smell the light scent of her perfume.
As he’d told Banacek, he’d been in his car, dropping her off at the office. She had been calm and relaxed. There had been nothing in her face or carriage to suggest something was wrong. They’d talked about Pritman’s scheduled trip to Los Angeles, as the guest speaker for the annual L.A. Press Club dinner. She’d been looking forward to going to California with Pritman and Steven.
He explored other possibilities. Banacek had mentioned the possibility of Ellie finding something about someone on Pritman’s staff, a discovery that had almost cost Ellie her life.
Whatever she had uncovered, it had to have happened on that day. It was the only plausible explanation for the note. She must have tried to come to Greyton to find him, tell him who, and warn him.
Why torture her? Torture is either to gain information or for sadistic pleasures. Had someone tried to learn the extent of what she knew, or if she had told anyone? “Told what?” he asked aloud.
He thought it puzzling as to why the kidnapper waited a week from the day she disappeared before attempting to drown her. What was the reason to do this in Greyton, on the night before he was due back in Washington?
And why the hell was the FBI involved? Why did they want him in custody?
None of it made sense, and the enigma made him look in a new direction. He had to consider the possibility that what happened to Ellie was in an effort to discredit him, and thereby cast doubt on the man they both worked for, Senator Philip Pritman.
Steven was a good eno
ugh judge of character to recognize that Blayne’s anger was not a put on. Blayne appeared a dedicated man who took his job seriously. Steven had seen the look in Blayne’s eyes on other people committed to what they believed a higher purpose.
He swallowed a groan. There were no answers, not yet.
“What is it, Ellie?” He looked at the bank of monitors and contemplated the green, yellow, and red phosphorous lines tad poling across the screens.
Why here? Banacek had shown how all the circumstantial evidence pointed to Steven; but that was because Ellie had not died in the lake.
He exhaled loudly. Could that be it? Was it all planned to look like a botched murder attempt? If Ellie had died, it would appear her killer had failed to hide the evidence of the crime. Again came the ugly notion of scandal.
He tried to clear his mind, tried to think straight, but there were too many unknown elements to find a reason for what happened.
Leaning back in the chair, and, in an effort not to think at all, Steven took Ellie’s hand and listened to the variety of sounds unique to a hospital.
An hour later, Helene Latham came into the room. Chuck Latham’s wife hugged Steven and offered him a strained smile with her regrets. Helene, an elementary school teacher with green eyes and wavy blond hair, was a pleasingly handsome woman with a maternal nature she shared with the world.
After releasing Steven, she drew one of the plastic chairs across the room and set it next to his. “I don’t understand why anyone would want to hurt Ellie.”
He shook his head.
“I’ve never seen Chuck so upset. He...he told me a little about her wounds. He said it was just like—” She took a deep breath. “Who could do something like that to another human being?”
Looking into Helene’s soft green eyes, Steven read both fear and doubt. He moistened his lips, started to speak, and then stopped. There was no explanation; the kind of person who could carve another’s flesh into a raw and bleeding mass had never been a part of Helene Latham’s world. No, that kind of person was from a world buried in Steven’s past.
Instead of words, he shook his head and turned back to Ellie.
Helene remained for another half hour, holding his hand, and lending him silent support. When he was again alone with Ellie, he submerged himself in his memories of their times together.
At seven, Savak and Latham put a stop to his bedside vigil. They brought him to the almost deserted cafeteria, where the three friends ate a quiet dinner.
When they finished, and were having coffee, Steven saw Savak cast a signaling glance to Latham before saying, “Steven, I know all of this just happened, and that you’re going to argue with me, but I want you to think about coming back to Washington. Chuck and I have been talking, and—”
“I’m not leaving her alone,” he stated, his tone carrying a warning to drop the subject.
Shaking his head quickly, Savak reached across the table and gripped Steven’s hand. His touch was firm, the warmth of his hand important. “I’m sorry, Steven, I wasn’t making myself clear. I meant I want us to bring Ellie to Washington.”
Steven exerted an answering pressure before withdrawing his hand from Savak’s. “It’s too soon.”
“No, it’s not. We can have her transferred to Georgetown University Hospital. She’ll get the best care in the world there, won’t she, Chuck?”
A momentary flash of anger crossed Latham’s features. “This is a damn good hospital, Arnie.”
“It is, Chuck, but I’m thinking about what’s best for Ellie. Georgetown is the better equipped hospital. We both know that.”
“What I know is that you politicians have seen to it that the hospitals in Washington are better equipped than the less important areas of the country.”
“Jesus, Chuck,” Savak snapped, “we’ve been down that road enough times. We’re not talking about allocations; we’re talking about Steven’s fiancée—about our friend! You and I spent half the afternoon on this. An hour ago you agreed with me, but now you—”
Annoyed at the childish byplay, Steven leaned forward and cut them off. “Both of you shut up and listen to me. We’re not going to argue about this. I’m going to do what I feel is best for Ellie.”
Latham turned from Savak to favor Steven with a searching gaze. “You’re right. And so is Arnie,” he admitted, grudgingly. “Georgetown is better outfitted for long-term coma care, and it won’t make any difference if Ellie is here, or in Washington. She isn’t aware of who is or isn’t with her. It’s doubtful she even knows who you are.”
Refusing to acknowledge Latham’s last remark, Steven picked up his glass. “Right now, the most important thing is for Ellie to get better, not which hospital is better.
“The decision to transfer her has to wait,” Latham stated. Steven and Savak looked at him, waiting. “Before we move Ellie anywhere, we have to make sure she’ll remain stable. And,” he added, holding Steven’s gaze, “we have to wait for Londrigan and Lomack to back you up.”
<><><><>
Fifteen minutes after sundown, a white-and-silver Cessna landed smoothly at a small airport outside Fairmont, West Virginia to refuel. Two men got out of the plane and strode purposely to the single structure serving the private airport in all capacities from control tower to pilots’ lounge.
While the two men were inside, the Cessna’s pilot went about getting the plane refueled. It took ten minutes for him to round up what passed for a ground attendant: A shaggy haired gas jockey wearing faded jeans and a grease stained Grateful Dead denim vest.
After fueling, the pilot parked on a side apron in preparation for take-off. He stepped down and then leaned casually against the fuselage to wait for his passengers.
When they appeared a few minutes later, the taller of the two, a man with iron gray hair and dark brown eyes, called Anton, said, “The plane is on the south apron. Twin-engine job with a blue and white undercarriage. White and blue wings, registration PA-N72341A.” His accent was all but unnoticeable.
The second man withdrew a leather satchel from the plane’s cabin. Then the three walked across the darkened runway to the south apron and the line of small planes anchored along its length.
They spotted the blue and white Beechcraft, and checked the FAA registration number. With the pilot keeping watch, Anton and the other went to work. Thirteen minutes and twenty-eight seconds later, the white and-silver Cessna lifted off the runway.
At nine-fifteen, Sam Londrigan started the engines of his plane. As usual, Larry Lomack was bitching. This time it was about having to leave the two women they’d met at dinner.
“With your luck, you’d probably end up with the clap,” Londrigan said, studying the instrument panel.
“That’s why they invented penicillin,” Lomack informed his friend as he extracted a silver flask from his pocket. “Want a drink?”
“You want to make it back to Greyton?”
“I don’t really give a shit.”
Londrigan glared at his friend, but knew it was useless to say anything when Lomack was in one of his dark moods. Instead, he contacted the tower for permission to take off.
Approval and instructions for takeoff came a minute later. He eased off the brakes and maneuvered the small plane to the foot of the runway, revved up the engines, and taxied forward.
He brought the plane to the proper speed and pulled back on the control. The light plane lifted smoothly off the runway. As always, Londrigan experienced the special thrill of breaking free of the ground.
At a thousand feet and climbing, he followed the control tower’s instructions to bank away from Fairmont. At five thousand feet, he changed course to his approved flight plan.
There was a loud snapping in his ear as he rose to flying altitude. “What was that?”
“What was what?” Lomack asked, his flask hovering an inch from his mouth.
“Nothing,” Londrigan said, belatedly realizing his headset had gone dead. He tapped the earpiece ineffectually, and then
leaned forward to try a different frequency.
The headset remained dead.
As his hand came away from the dial, an unexpected vibration rippled through the plane. He identified it as coming from the left engine. He looked at the wing and saw a sputter of flames. Ten seconds later the engine was engulfed in fire.
He turned to Lomack, about to speak. Before the words could come out, the right engine burst into flames.
Lomack followed his wide-eyed stare, and saw fire consuming the right engine. “Oh fuck.”
The two words were enough to snap Londrigan out of his daze. He shuddered, turned to the instrument panel, and scanned the gauges.
Surprising himself with his calmness and remembering everything he’d learned, Londrigan shut down both engines and maneuvered the plane into a wide turn.
“What the hell’s happening?” Lomack was unable to tear his eyes from the fireball on the wing.
“We’ve got problems,” Londrigan understated, his voice shaky. “But we can make it back to the airport.”
Halfway into the wide gliding turn, an explosion destroyed the stabilizer and aileron cables.
The blood drained from Londrigan’s face. His knuckles turned white as he fought the controls. Then, when he was unable to make the plane obey him, his calmness shattered.
Londrigan sat paralyzed by the horror of the onrushing ground. The tentacles of dread winding tightly about his chest squeezed off the low moan building deep in his throat. His heart rate sped up, his bladder voided as the Beechcraft struck the ground.
Larry Lomack screamed once.
Chapter Five
Steven and Arnold Savak arrived at Steven’s house at ten past nine. After turning on the lights and putting his attaché case on the desk, Steven went toward the kitchen.
He stopped dead in the center of the living room. A feeling of apprehension sent his internal alarms clamoring. He looked around and spotted several things out of place. Not by much, just enough to tell him something was wrong. Two of the trophies on the fireplace mantel were in the wrong positions.