Frame Change: A Nina Bannister Mystery (The Nina Bannister Mysteries Book 5)
Page 17
He received no answer, for the chamber before him was inhabited by people made of metal.
It yawned before him, the vast and almost untouched, for centuries, arsenal of Graz.
Row upon row, row upon row, they stood gleaming silver in light filtered through beaded-glass windows: suits of armor.
There were hundreds of them, all lined along the wall so close that he could touch them, just to his right. And then, farther down, toward the end of the great hall, there were more suits of armor, just as brightly polished—but made for horses.
Metal horses, eight feet high, their heads encased in visors and every inch of flank, thigh, shoulder, upper leg, haunch––tightly covered by its own metal-segmented plate, screwed marvelously and flexibly to its overlapping plate, the whole impregnable horse-ship creating a vision unseen outside of these fine dust-infiltered walls for more centuries than could have been conceived by creatures, such as he, from the still slightly parvenu lands stumbled upon by Columbus.
“Mein Gott.”
What else could one say?
It never grew old to him, even though he’d been coming here since childhood.
He began moving along the row of breast-plated and iron-expressioned soldiers, all at rigid attention, all held upright by the straight metal rods to which they’d been bolted.
He walked on; wooden boards creaking almost imperceptibly with each of his heavy-booted steps.
He made his way along the rows, fighting the urge to reach over the green-baize rope cordoning soldier after soldier who stood, never wavering, attention eternally perfect, swords at the ready, awaiting his approval.
Fighting the urge to touch one of the suits of armor.
Just touch it.
Of course, this was forbidden.
Later on in the morning, there would be guards, sternly watching each of the visitors making their way down the aisles, admonishing them that even a slight touch could begin the process of rusting.
There were no guards here now, of course.
Too early.
His agent had taken care of having the armory opened.
So that they would be alone.
One could not be too careful.
Hopefully, the agent would have satisfactory news. Then all this secrecy could be ended.
Then he would not be at war any more.
Muskets.
There, behind Sergeant King Arthur and General Sir Galahad…were rifles like blunderbusses––and there beside them, pistols.
And so, for a time, he simply wandered, his gaze drawn away for a second or so by the huge windows through which he could see more courtyards, some serving as parking lots—and briefcased bureaucrats walking to work in municipal buildings—but then drawn back constantly to these quiet ornaments reminiscent of unthinkably brutal wars and battles.
Stairs at the far end of the chamber.
He climbed them: second floor.
Third floor.
He’d begun to inspect the collection of gunnery wagons and powder holders, when he noticed, on the wall to his left, a solitary chair in which sat a wax-like gnome of a figure seated and surveying the weaponry. He would almost have taken this image to be a part of the collection itself, had it not spoken to him.
“Herr Beckmeier.”
“Jawohl.”
“Bitte. Setzen Sie sich.”
And there was a chair, usually occupied by one of the guards.
He sat down opposite, who looked like nothing other than a human version of Rumpelstilzken, and was doubly useful because of this.
No one feared him.
That was a mistake.
But this was one of his most trusted men. And had been for some time.
“You are back. Im Lande.”
“Ja. Im Lande.”
They sat for a time.
Then the question:
“News?”
A shrug from the fairy tale figure:
“Yes, there is news.”
“And?”
“I received word from one of Red Claw’s people this morning.”
“How?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Also. So what is this ‘word’ you have received?”
“He and his men will be coming.”
“To Eggenburg?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“Soon. The next few days.”
“You told him I have men, too.”
“He knows that. Red Claw seems to know everything.”
“Well. Then we shall do what these armor-covered fellows around us spent their lives doing. We shall have a little war. And that, I think, will be the last of the inscrutable Lorca Reklaw.”
“Do you want me to…”
“I don’t want you to do anything. I myself shall know what to do when the time comes. I shall know how to protect my paintings.”
He rose, then said:
“And tonight I shall entertain a guest.”
“An art lover?”
“A lover.”
“I see.”
“Thank you for your services. You may disappear now, as is convenient for you. I shall know how to contact you, if I need you again.”
“Jawohl.”
Beckmeier turned and left.
When he returned to the Café Europe, fresh coffee had been poured.
Both for him and the dark-haired woman sitting at his table.
She rose, smiled, extended her hand:
“Herr von Beckmeier.”
He took the hand and kissed it, bowing as he did so.
“We do not use the ‘von’ for some decades now.”
“I apologize.”
“No need.”
They sat.
She was, he thought, ravishingly beautiful.
Even more so offstage than on.
“I took the liberty,” she said, “of ordering more coffee.”
“Excellent. I had to leave for a short time to do an errand.”
“I’m sure you’re a very busy man.”
“Not so much now. These are the first days of my…well, my ‘retirement.’”
“Oh! You are not so old as all that!”
“I am a mere relic.”
“Do not say such things. I would never consent to spend the next two evenings with a relic.”
“All right. I shall, from now on, simply view myself as an experienced man of the world.”
“Much better. A man of the world, who collects paintings.”
“I do have a modest collection.”
“So I have been told.”
“But I should apologize.”
“And why?”
“I was not able to attend the performance last night. The flight arrived late.”
“Oh. A pity.”
“A great pity, since all of Graz is talking this morning about the great Anya Celline, who is the greatest Violetta in the world, in the greatest performance ever of La Traviata.”
“I hope it went well. You will come…”
“For Tuesday’s performance, of course.”
“Wonderful.”
“But between now and then, I will have you as my guest.”
“As we have arranged?”
“As we have arranged.”
And so, for a time, Franz Beckmeier sipped his coffee.
And stared wonderingly into the eyes of one of the most beautiful and talented women in the world.
And forgot about Lorca Reklaw.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: AN INVITATION
At eleven AM, the door to Carol Walker’s hospital room burst open and three nurses, in single file, entered carrying flowers and baskets.
“Good morning, lazy bones!”
She raised herself on an elbow and smiled back at them, but said nothing.
“How do you feel?”
“All right.”
“Your vital signs are fine.”
“That’s good.”
“Everybody in town has sent you f
lowers or written you cards. These are only part of the whole shebang.”
“I didn’t know that many people in Bay St. Lucy even knew me.”
“Well, they do, honey.”
She knew nothing to reply to that.
“The doctor’s going to want to see you again in an hour or so. After that, it’s a little unclear. We don’t know where would be best for you to stay tonight. The main thing is, you’re all right now. Nothing will happen to you.”
“Thank you.”
“You just went through a bad trauma. It’s going to take a while, but everybody in Bay St. Lucy is looking out for you. For you and Nina.”
“Am I,” she asked, “going to need to go to the police station?”
A shake of the first nurse’s head:
“I don’t know, honey. Maybe later on, but only when you feel like it. I wouldn’t worry about it. You have some very fine folks looking after you.”
“I know. And I appreciate it.”
“Now,” said the nurse, placing the letter basket on a chair next to the bed, “we’re going to get out of here and let you enjoy the flowers, and read some of these cards.”
The nurses left, the door closing quietly behind them.
Carol began to feel her way through the cards:
“We’re all pulling for you!”
Alanna Delafosse.
“All Bay St. Lucy is thinking about you.”
Edie Towler
“Be brave, be strong, trust in the Lord.”
Emily Johnson
“The Bennett family is with you!”
Jackson Bennett and Family.
And on and on.
Until, the next one in the pile, a letter and not a card.
She opened it.
It had been carefully typed, on an elegant, though unmarked, sheet of stationary.
It read:
IT IS TIME.
LORCA REKLAW WILL RETRIEVE THE PROPERTY OF HIS PEOPLE
ALL THE THIEVES WILL LEARN WHAT THE JEWISH PEOPLE HAVE HAD TO LEARN, AND ENDURE WHAT THEY HAVE BEEN FORCED TO ENDURE.
AS SOON AS YOU READ THIS, COME TO THE WHARF, SLIP 15.
YOU ARE BEING AWAITED.
IF YOU DO NOT DO THIS IMMEDIATELY, YOU AND MS. BANNISTER MAY WELL BE KILLED.
THIS WAY, SHE WILL REMAIN SAFE.
AGAIN; THE TIME HAS COME FOR LORCA REKLAW TO DO WHAT MUST BE DONE.
The letter was not signed, but there was a crude drawing of a claw where the signature would have been.
She lay in bed for a moment, staring at the ceiling.
Then she got up and walked to a closet, where her clothes were hanging.
She got dressed, folding the hospital garments neatly and putting them on the bed.
She took pen and paper out of her purse, sat down beside a small bedside table, and wrote a letter, sealed it in an envelope and placed it when finished on the table beside the hospital bed.
She walked out of the room, her purse slung over her shoulder.
The corridor was deserted.
She went down the stairs and out into the entry vestibule, where people—nurses, doctors, patients, visitors—were coming and going.
No one noticed her. She walked out the main door, blinking in the sunlight.
There were several ambulances and police cars scattered around, but, again, no one noticed her.
She made her way toward the ocean. In fifteen minutes, she had reached the wharf.
Slip 5.
Slip 10.
Slip 15.
She sat down.
Within five minutes, a boat arrived.
She made her way onto it.
And in that way, Carol Walker was taken by agents of The Red Claw.
Nina Bannister, having surveyed the damage done to Elementals and satisfied herself that the first reports had been accurate (the damage being surprisingly minor) returned to the hospital at noon carrying a bouquet of roses and a box of Kentucky Fried Chicken (breast, wing, mashed potatoes),which she knew Carol would love.
Damn all hospital food, anyway.
She waved to the woman at the desk, spoke cheerily to two nurses in the main corridor, pushed the button beside the elevator door, stepped inside, and pushed the button for the third floor.
She got out of the elevator and entered the quiet corridor.
Room 302. Room 304. Room 306.
She pushed open the door, saying, as she did so:
“Chicken time.”
The empty bed smiled back at her. She noticed an envelope with her name on the side of the bed. She slipped it into her pants pocket.
She walked into the room and put down the things she was carrying.
“Carol?”
The bathroom.
Empty.
Carol was clearly not there.
She walked back out into the hall, where a nurse was leaving one of the rooms at the far end.
“Hey!”
The nurse looked at her.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Where’s Carol?”
A shake of the head:
“I’m sorry?”
“Carol Walker. The patient in 306.”
“Isn’t she in there?”
“No, she isn’t.”
The nurse approached her, then passed her, then stuck a head in the room.
Then the nurse emerged, saying:
“Well, she’s not in there.”
“That’s what I just told you. Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Somebody has to know.”
The nurse pulled a pager out of her pocket and said quietly into it:
“Assistance in 306.”
Then she put the pager away, and re-entered the room.
She walked around it, brushing her hand against the flowers, peeked into the bathroom, and came back out into the corridor.
“She’s definitely not in there.”
“No. No, she isn’t.”
Two more nurses arrived, one a younger woman, the second clearly someone in charge.
This was the person who said, with an authoritarian ring to her voice:
“What’s happening here?”
“The patient in 306 is gone.”
“What do you mean, gone?”
“She’s just not in there.”
“Has she gone for testing? Maybe they took her down to the lab.”
“Can you call down there?”
“Here. I’ll do it.”
Another pager produced.
“Hey. We’re trying to locate a patient. Room 306. Walker. Carol. Dr. Stephenson. No. No, I’m not showing any testing on the schedule, but we’re checking anyway. Is she down there?”
Pause.
Shake of the head.
Pager back in its holder.
“She’s not in the lab.”
Nina:
“Well where the hell is she then?”
“Ma’am, if you’ll just…”
“I don’t want to ‘just’ anything. I want to know where my friend Carol is!”
“I’m sure she’ll turn up.”
“‘Turn up?’ This is a hospital! People don’t just ‘turn up!’”
“She must be somewhere.”
“Well, that’s a profound statement!”
“Please, ma’am. If you’d lower your voice…”
“My voice is not the problem here! Do you realize someone tried to kill this woman last night?”
“Yes, ma’am, we do.”
“There ought to have been a guard at her door!”
“Yes, ma’am, but the doctor thought an armed guard would disturb the rest of the patients. There are officers downstairs to be sure no one suspicious came in.”
“Ok, so no one did. But are you sure no one suspicious went out? Like your patient?”
“She may simply have taken a walk down one of the corridors…”
“Oh, the hell with you!”
And, so saying, Nina turned and walked away.
There was a welter of people coming and going in the entry vestibule. She looked around madly but could see no sign of Carol.
Outside, a young policeman was leaning against a corner of the building, smoking a cigarette.
“Hey!”
He turned and looked at her:
“Yes, ma’am?”
“Did Moon Rivard assign you to be here?”
“Yes, he did.”
“What were your orders?”
“I’m not sure I’m supposed to…”
“What were your orders, dammit?”
“Well. I was just supposed to be sure nobody suspicious came into the hospital.”
“And has anybody suspicious come into the hospital?”
“No, ma’am. Not during my shift here.”
“How long has that been?”
“Four hours.”
“You’ve been here at the door all that time?”
“Yes.”
“And you haven’t seen Carol go out of the building?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You don’t think so?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Do you know what Carol Walker looks like?”
A pause.
“Do you know what Carol Walker looks like?”
“Well. Not really.”
Another pause.
Nina looked around.
No Carol Walker.
She flipped open her cell phone and dialed a number.
Buzz.
Buzz.
“Sheriff’s office.”
“Give me Moon Rivard. And quick.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: THE JOYS OF CROSS COUNTRY SKIING
Swissssh.
Swissssh.
Snow had continued to fall through the day, and the trails were perfect. Loose but dry. It was quite cold—Beckmeier had no idea exactly how cold––but he knew that if he did not keep moving, keep working quite hard, he would begin to lose feeling in his extremities, despite the extra warm woolen socks over his ski boots, despite the thick gloves, despite the added layers of sweaters and scarves and whatever else he’d been able to wrap up in.
Swisssh.
Swisssh.
Left pole, right pole, alternate stride, alternate stride––the darkened forest slid by.
His darkened forest.
God he loved it here.
And he was not in bad shape.
Tomorrow, he’d have some of his men re-open the ski lift—a private lift he’d constructed for intimate parties of those close friends who did not care for the crowds that thronged each winter to Innsbruck and Salzburg—and he’d see how much rust his downhill abilities had accumulated over his period of absence.