Pushing her wet hair away from her face, she dialed the Colorado number and asked for the news desk. At first her voice faltered, but as she continued to talk, she grew more self-possessed. The reporter on the other end listened attentively, and with no small degree of sympathy, as far as she could tell.
"I remember the case," Adeline Valentino said. "It was my opinion that the police didn't try very hard to solve the murder."
"Carter's death wasn't exactly a blow to the social fabric of the nation," Eleanor said, unable to cover the bitterness. "I know it's an odd request, but could you send me copies of the clippings involving the car crash?"
"We really aren't supposed to do that," the reporter said, "but I'll do it this afternoon, on my time. But first you have to answer a question."
"Okay?"
"Is there some reason I might be interested in these clips myself?"
Eleanor paused. "Not at this time. But you have my word, if it turns out that you might be interested, I'll give you a call."
"It's a deal," Adeline said. "I'll post them to you overnight."
"Thanks." Eleanor replaced the phone. She never would have believed she'd want to read the newspaper accounts of her husband's death and subsequent exposure as a gambling crook. When she'd left Colorado nine years before, she'd burned every scrap of paper, every item that might link her to her ex-husband.
With the small victory at the newspaper behind her, Eleanor got the number for the Denver police. She'd talked to a Sergeant Kleaton on the day her husband died. So when the phone was answered, she asked for him.
"Kleaton here," he answered, sounding just as bored and routine as he had nine years before.
Eleanor explained her call. "Would it be possible for me to get a copy of the death certificate?"
"Let me check," he said.
As the minutes ticked by, Eleanor's sense of accomplishment began to slip from her. Something was wrong. The sergeant was taking far too long.
"The state granted a death certificate on Carter Brett Wells, but there was no actual coroner's examination of the body."
"I know," Eleanor responded. "But there was proof that he died. Solid proof. Right?"
"The car at the bottom of a ravine, the explosion. That's pretty solid, but all circumstantial. It's like the air disasters. When there's no way to reclaim the bodies, the presumption of death is based on circumstantial evidence." There was a pause. "Nine years is a long time to wait to get curious about your husband's death, isn't it?"
"Sergeant, did you ever suspect that Carter might be involved in something more than gambling?"
There was a longer pause. "Mrs. Wells, I don't know what you're trying to imply. Maybe it would be better if you brought your questions here in person, or had your local police department call me."
She could hear the suspicion in his voice and tried to allay it. "There's really nothing to investigate. It's just that I— thought I saw someone who looked exactly like my dead husband. I guess my imagination got away with me and I started thinking. I never saw a body. I just wanted to be sure."
"Well, if Carter Wells was in that car, you can be sure that he's a dead man. No one could have survived that crash. No one. And looking at the file here, the searchers did find a shoe you positively identified as your husband's." There was a note of pity in the policeman's voice. "Listen, Mrs. Wells, take my advice and put this behind you. I remember you. Just a kid. Your husband wasn't the nicest guy in the world. No point rattling bones where he's concerned."
"You're right," Eleanor said. "But just the same, I'd like a copy of the death certificate."
Sergeant Kleaton chuckled. "You said you were a college professor now, eh. Well, that sounds like thorough research. I'll see if I can't arrange to have one mailed to you." He took down her address. "By the way, what type of trouble was your husband supposed to be hooked up with?"
Eleanor hesitated. The CIA agent had spoken in strictest confidence. But was telling another law officer a violation? Certainly not after nine years.
"Something called Code One Orange."
"Never heard of it," Kleaton said. "But then working a homicide beat, I'm not often thrown into activities with official code names. Mostly I get the day-to-day criminals."
"Thanks for your help," Eleanor said. As she replaced the receiver, she didn't know if she felt relieved or more concerned. Sergeant Kleaton seemed to have no doubt that Carter had died. If he was in the car.
In all of the time that had passed, she'd never doubted that. Now she couldn't leave it alone.
Her hair was almost dry now, as she stroked the brush through it several times until it fell in a soft tumble of curls to her shoulders. Still feeling bleak, she picked up her address book and turned to the back page. There were two numbers listed, both without names beside them. She discounted the first, her parents', and finally dialed the second. Rayburn Smith. Carter's best friend from grammar school. When she and Carter had moved to Colorado, Rayburn had moved with them. He and Carter had been inseparable.
"Rayburn Smith, Sundial Sales."
The familiar voice sent a pang through Eleanor. She'd never been close to Rayburn, but his friendship with Carter had been one of the few instances where she'd seen her husband demonstrate any lasting integrity. He and Rayburn had stuck together through thick and thin. Mostly thin, and mostly slightly illegal schemes.
"Rayburn, this is Eleanor."
"Eleanor?" Rayburn's voice rose an octave. "Of all the people I expected to hear from, you'd never be one."
"I know. I'm calling to ask you a few questions, if you don't mind."
"After nine years, what could I mind about?" Rayburn said, "Unless you've decided to work for the IRS. Then I might get a little anxious. How are you?"
"I'm fine. I've started a new life and things are going well for me."
"I don't guess you could say that when you were with Carter. He never did treat you right, Eleanor. I told him, more than once. It was something I never understood about him. He was a good friend to me, but a terrible husband."
"He was a good friend to you. It's one of the best things I remember about him," Eleanor agreed.
"What kind of questions did you want to ask?"
She couldn't be certain, but there seemed to be complete openness in Rayburn's voice.
"Did you know any of Carter's associates in the last few weeks of his life? I mean, some of the people he might have had business with?"
"You mean who wanted to cut his brake line and kill him? I never thought finding out that information was very important to you."
"It wasn't. Until now." She was shocked that Rayburn had thought of Carter's death as a murder all of these years. She'd never considered it. The leak had always been accidental— in her mind.
"Carter had a lot of irons in the fire. He was getting in over his head in some areas. He had his gambling business, which was bad enough, but in the months before he died, he got in a little deeper with some other guys."
"Code One Orange?" Eleanor asked.
The gasp on the other end was very audible.
"Carter told me never to say that name out loud." Rayburn's voice was panicky now.
"Why?" Eleanor pressed. She could feel her skin beginning to prickle. So Alva Rousel wasn't far off track. Carter had been involved in something other than gambling schemes.
"Eleanor, you've got to believe me. Carter never told me much. He would drink a little too heavily and say something about how his ship was really going to come in. He talked about his contacts, but he was always careful never to reveal any names. And to be honest, I didn't want to know. When he talked about that stuff, I tuned him out. I had my little sales scam going with the mobile homes and I was content. I tried to get Carter to come into a partnership, but I was too small-time. I tried to get him to…"
"I know that, Rayburn. You did. I heard you talk to Carter again and again. As you said, he wanted to make the big league. But I have to find out about Code One Orange. I have
to!"
"I wish I could help."
Now there was a distance in Rayburn's voice. Eleanor knew she would have to fight to pull any further information from him. But one thing she'd learned without asking. If Carter was alive, he hadn't contacted Rayburn. Rayburn spoke of him as dead, as only a friend who truly grieved could speak.
"Did this Code One Orange have anything to do with the Indians?" she asked, trying to jog his memory and grasping at straws.
"Hell, no! You were the one worried about the Indians. Carter used to, well, laugh at you behind your back. I liked what you were trying to do, but Carter thought you were ridiculous with your books and dreams of education."
Even nine years later, Eleanor could still feel the sting of her husband's disdain.
"You're right!" Her mind jumped forward again. "Was Code One Orange about animals?" She couldn't control the excitement in her voice.
"Animals?" Rayburn was shocked. "Hardly! If you have to know, it was about some bombing in Central America. Now, take that and put it away. Let it drop, Eleanor. I'm serious. When Carter talked about that stuff, it gave me the willies."
Eleanor felt her firm grasp on the clues begin to slip away. "Rayburn, you have to tell me the rest. What about the bombing? I have to know." She was more confused than ever. What could this have to do with Familiar and herself?
"Why? That's the question I should have asked. Why after all this time do you have to know this?"
"Because someone is impersonating Carter and trying to scare me, and the CIA is questioning me about Code One Orange."
"Holy cow!" Rayburn whistled. "Why?"
"I don't know. I honest to God don't know. I picked up this stray cat, and my life began to disintegrate."
"Code One Orange had to do with a plan to blow up the Mexican Embassy in San Gabriel. The idea was to blame the government of San Gabriel and throw the two countries into open fighting. Carter was supposed to train the guerillas in the Colorado mountains. He did, but the plan went wrong and some people working with Carter got in big trouble about it. That's all I know."
"What went wrong?"
"I never knew for certain. The wrong people got blown up."
"And they thought Carter did it deliberately." She was taking broad guesses, but knew she was getting closer and closer to the target.
"Carter and his associates."
"What associates, Rayburn?" She could hear the strain in her voice.
"I don't remember their names. Bingington or something like that. Anyway, he was some big cheese in Central America at the time."
"How long was this before Carter's accident?"
"Two weeks or so."
"So it wasn't gambling debts." A cold chill raced down her spine. "It wasn't anything nearly that simple and clean. It was this other. Code One Orange. And Carter had to die because he knew too much."
"That's your assumption, not mine. Listen, I got a customer waiting here. Since I've become an honest car salesman, I got to service my clients. I haven't got time to gab all day on the phone."
"Rayburn!" Eleanor felt a sudden attack of panic close in. "If you had seen Carter, you'd tell me, wouldn't you?"
"He's dead, Eleanor. I accepted that a long time ago. You should, too. And bury the past, or it'll eat you alive. Got to go." There was a click and then the sound of static on the line.
* * *
CATS HAVE an extraordinary sense of direction. Better than dogs, though most people don't know it. I'm not great on estimating distances, but I can tell you that if I traveled due south, I'd eventually run into the prison where Zelda is confined. It's a fair distance, but that isn't really the drawback. It's all of these damn cars! I mean, think about confronting a highway from my perspective— wheel level. And not a single vehicle willing to slow down and let me across. Getting to Zelda is going to be an exercise in futility, but I've got to try. And I've got to do something to protect my Eleanor. She was terribly distressed when she came home from work. She didn't say a word, but it was all over her. That woman is strung as tight as a piano wire. I'm no rocket scientist, but I can predict that something awful happened to her at the university.
Let's see, now, this is the second level of the garage. Not a lot of animal traffic through here. There's not even the scent of another cat. Too bad. Since I left the laboratory, I haven't had a single conversation with one of my peers. I love Eleanor, and Peter's okay, but I crave my own people. Maybe next escape, I'll try for a park or an alley. But now it's down to work.
Here's Eleanor's car. Nothing unusual about it. No current odor of Dr. Frankenstein, at least. In fact, there's not one interesting smell in this whole place. Maybe I'd better go topside and check out the street.
There must be a way to get from here to the lab. Or some way to get Dr. Doolittle over there. The dame is great, but he's the one with the muscle— and, I suspect, the big interest. The dame is the kind of person who never even thinks of cruelty because it's alien to her nature. That's why she makes such a perfect target. I've been putting together the tidbits I hear, and it's clear to me that Eleanor's in for some serious trouble. She's part of a plan, a tiny cog in a big gizmo of destruction.
Well, here's the street. Traffic is mad in Washington. I'd be one big, greasy spot if I tried to make a dash across this four-lane. It's not even safe to sit on the street. The dogcatcher will be down on me and before I know it, I'll end up sold for research again, and believe me, that's a fate I can miss without shedding a tear.
But look! There's that tall blond guy. Mr. CIA with the gray suit and the debonair smile. Yeah, he's sitting in that car across the street. If he's protection, then I'd rather buy a German shepherd. It seems like he should be showing a little interest in who comes and goes in the dame's building. He obviously thinks his job is to watch her. Great! Now that's human logic. Why isn't he out trying to find a criminal?
Well, enough people-gazing. I'd better get back in the apartment before the dame realizes I'm gone and has a catniption— hey, hey, that's pretty clever, if I do say so myself.
* * *
PETER CLOSED his office door and pulled the photocopied flyer from his pocket. He hadn't wanted to read it in Eleanor's company. Now he studied it carefully. There was the gruesome picture of a dog in some experiment, then a brief paragraph of copy calling for action against animal abuse.
"There will be a rally of the Action for Animals at 7:00 p.m., Wednesday night at Pier 27," he read aloud. He knew the area, a small section of houseboats on the Potomac. It was the perfect meeting place for a radical group. Especially one planning some new aggressive action. Would Eleanor be there? There was only one way to find out.
He slid the note into the middle drawer of his desk and locked it. He had one other task to accomplish before the afternoon slipped away. That was a visit with Magdalena Caruso. Just as soon as he finished with his afternoon patients.
It was nearly five, with traffic turning thick and irritating, when he pulled up in front of Magdalena's house. He expected Bowser, but the cats were something of a surprise.
"I have two more left at my kennels. The owners decided it was too much trouble or too expensive to care for them. Would you like them?" Peter asked her as she showed him into her crowded living room.
"Not necessarily. But I'll take them."
Peter couldn't conceal his smile. His visit wasn't one of pleasure, but he couldn't deny that he felt a lot of respect for the short woman who bustled about, making room for him on her sofa. She put her money where her mouth was. She didn't simply criticize the way other people treated animals. She took care of them herself.
"You've come to talk about Eleanor, haven't you?" she asked, taking a seat across from him.
"Is she a member of ARSA?" There was no point evading the issue.
"No, Peter, but I'd like for you both to be."
"I'm a vet," he said, looking deep into her green eyes.
"We could use a good vet. Some of the animals we get are in pretty bad shape." Sh
e smoothed her skirt. "We've tried several vets in the area. Some will help, but not if it's obvious what we're doing."
"They're afraid of losing their license. You know that."
"I do. But something tells me you wouldn't necessarily be afraid. Why is it, Peter, that you look so familiar to me?"
"I look like a million other guys with brown hair and hazel eyes. We aren't exactly unusual." He smiled his crooked smile.
"It'll come to me. I'll have to think about it, but it'll come. So what do you want to know about Eleanor?"
"Just after her office was destroyed, I found a flyer for a rally. The Action for Animals group."
"AFA?" Magdalena paused. "I didn't know they were in the area. They must have been the group that staged the raid that has everyone so worked up. Eleanor had a flyer?"
"It was in her office, but the thought has crossed my mind that it could have been planted. That's the thing. People are breaking in not to steal, but to leave incriminating evidence behind. I'm beginning to wonder what was left in her apartment."
"It wouldn't be the first time that maneuver worked," Magdalena said. "That's an old but effective trick."
"What can we do about it?"
Magdalena smiled. "If you won't save animals, at least you're willing to save Eleanor. Well, what we can do is arrange a meeting for Dr. Duncan and Charles Breck. Once Breck takes a look at Eleanor, he'll see she isn't capable of violent actions."
"Can you arrange it?"
"Yes. I'll call Eleanor tonight. You just make certain that she agrees to come."
"I'll take care of it."
"And Peter, I'll remember where I know you from. Eventually."
"Maybe I was your vet in another lifetime." He laughed as he stood to leave.
On the drive back to Eleanor's, he tried to frame a reason for barging in on her evening. At last he remembered the movie date they'd broken. He stopped at a video store and picked up a tape of The Bishop's Wife and hurried to Eleanor's building.
"Want to check out Cary Grant in action?" he asked, holding out the tape when she opened the door.
Fear Familiar Bundle Page 9