by Allan Folsom
“Friends of mine from Taos,” she said with a smile, then glanced over to Lybarger, thinking maybe his silence was due to the emotion of his sudden freedom.
He was sitting forward, his weight against his seat belt, staring at her in a way that made it seem as if he’d suddenly come out of a long sleep and was totally bewildered.
“Are you all right?” she asked, suddenly flashing with the horror that maybe he was having another stroke and that she should turn around immediately and go back to the nursing home.
“Yes,” he answered quietly.
Joanna judged him for a moment, then relaxed and smiled. “Why don’t you sit back and rest, Mr. Lybarger. We have a long afternoon and night ahead of us.”
Lybarger responded by sitting back, but then he turned and looked at her again. His puzzled expression remained.
“Is there something the matter, Mr. Lybarger?”
“Where is my family?” he asked.
“Where is my family?” Lybarger asked again.
“I’m sure they’ll be there to meet you.” Joanna lay back against her pillow in the first-class section and closed her eyes. They had been in the air less than three hours, and Lybarger had asked the same question, by her calculation, eleven times. She wasn’t sure if it was a lingering effect of the stroke that kept him asking it over and over, or if he suddenly felt displaced at being away from Rancho de Piñon, and the family he was referring to were the staff he’d spent so much time with there, or if it was genuine concern that someone might not be waiting in Zurich to meet him when he arrived. The truth was, in the entire time she had been treating him, not once, as far as she knew, had anyone besides his personal physician, an elderly Austrian doctor named Salettl who had made the trip from Salzburg to New Mexico six times, come to see him. So she had no idea whether or not he would have family waiting for him at Zurich airport when they got there. She could only assume he would. But other than Salettl, the only personal contact she’d had with anyone representing Lybarger’s interests was when his attorney had called her at home to request she accompany Lybarger to Switzerland.
That, in itself, had been a complete surprise and had caught her totally off-guard. Joanna had rarely been outside New Mexico, let alone the United States, and the offer, first-class round-trip air fare and five thousand dollars, had been too generous to pass up. It would pay off the loan on the Volvo and, even though it was only for a short time, it would be an experience she would probably never otherwise have. But more than that, she’d been happy to do it. Joanna prided herself in taking special interest in all her patients, and Mr. Lybarger was no exception. When she started, he’d barely been able to stand, and all he’d wanted to do was listen to tapes on his Walkman or watch television. Now, though he still listened to his tapes and watched TV voraciously, he could easily walk a half mile with his cane, alone and unaided.
Coming out of her reverie, Joanna realized the cabin was dark and that most people were sleeping, even though a movie was playing on the screen in front of them. For the first time in a long time, Elton Lybarger was silent and she thought he might be sleeping as well. Then she realized he wasn’t. The airline headset covered his ears and he was fully engrossed in the movie. Movies, television, audio tapes, trash to classics, sports to politics, opera to rock ‘n’ roll, Lybarger seemed to have an insatiable appetite either to learn or to be entertained, or both. What so intrigued him was beyond her. All she could imagine was that it was some kind of escape. From what, or to what, she had no idea.
Pulling the airline blanket up around him, Joanna settled back. Her one regret was that she’d had to put Henry, her ten-month-old Saint Bernard, in a kennel while she was away. Living alone, she had no one to take care of him, and asking friends to take in a hundred-pound bundle of ceaseless enthusiasm was beyond the name of decency. But, she would only be away for five days, and for five days, Henry could manage.
38
* * *
VERA HAD tried unsuccessfully to reach Paul Osborn since nearly three o’clock in the afternoon. She’d called four times without response. The fifth time, she called the hotel desk and asked if by some chance Mr. Osborn had checked out. He had not. Did anyone remember seeing him that day? The clerk put her through to the concierge desk, where she asked the same question. An assistant to the concierge volunteered that he’d last seen Mr. Osborn earlier that afternoon when he passed through the lobby to the elevators, presumably on his way to his room.
It was then a concern that Vera had been consciously. keeping in the back of her mind became a distinct fear. “I’ve rung his room several times since midafternoon with no response. Would you please send someone up to make certain he’s all right?” she asked deliberately. She’d tried not to think about the succinylcholine, or Osborn’s intended experiments with it, because she knew he was a very competent physician who understood precisely what he was doing and why. But anyone could make a mistake, and a drug like succinylcholine was nothing to fool with. An accidental overdose and a person would suffocate very quickly.
Hanging up, Vera looked at the clock. It was 6:45 in the evening.
Ten minutes later her phone rang. It was the hotel concierge calling back to report that Mr. Osborn was not in his room. There was a hesitancy in his voice and then he asked if she were a relative. Vera felt her pulse quicken.
“I’m a close friend. What’s wrong?” she asked.
“There seems to . . .,” the concierge said haltingly. He was looking for the right word. “. . . have been some—‘difficulty’—in Monsieur Osborn’s room. Some of the furniture and furnishings have been abused.”
“Abused? Difficulty? What are you talking about?”
“Mademoiselle, if I could please have your full name. The police have been called; they may want to question you.”
Inspectors Barras and Maitrot of the First Paris Préfecture of Police had taken the call when hotel management reported that evidence of a physical disturbance had been discovered in the room of a hotel guest, an American doctor by the name of Paul Osborn. Neither knew what to make of it. The inside doorjamb to Osborn’s room had been torn from the wall, apparently by someone breaking in from the hallway outside. The room itself was in wild disarray. The big double bed was shoved hard to one side, a table had been knocked over. A nearly empty bottle of Johnnie Walker Black was on the floor beside it, amazingly still intact. A bedside lamp hung precariously Inches above the floor, having been knocked off the bed table but stopped short by its cord just before it hit the floor.
Osborn’s clothes were still in the room, as were his toiletries and his briefcase containing his professional papers, traveler’s checks, plane ticket and a hotel notepad with several telephone numbers written on it. On the floor under the television was a copy of today’s newspaper open to the entertainment page with the name of a movie theater on the boulevard des Italiens circled in ink.
Barras sat down with the notepad and looked at the phone numbers. One he recognized immediately. It was his own at headquarters. Another was for Air France. Another for a car rental agency. There were four other numbers that had to be traced. The first was to Kolb International, the private investigation firm. The second was for an English-language movie theater on boulevard des Italiens, the same one that was circled in the newspaper. The third was for a private apartment on Île St.-Louis and listed as belonging to a V. Monneray, the same name and number provided by the hotel concierge. The last number was that of a small bakery in the section of Paris near the Gare du Nord.
“Know what this is?” Barras looked up. Maitrot had just come in from the bathroom and was holding a small prescription bottle between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. Even though there was no evidence a felony had taken place in the room, the room belonged to Paul Osborn and there was enough disarray to evoke suspicion on the part of investigating officers. As a result, both men were wearing disposable surgical rubber gloves to avoid disturbing fingerprints or adding their own physical bo
dy presence to whatever was already there.
Taking the bottle from Maitrot, Barras looked at it carefully. “Succinylcholine chloride,” he said, reading the label. Handing it back, he shook his head. “No idea. Local prescription, though. Check it out.”
Just then a uniformed patrolman showed the hotel concierge into the room. Vera was with him.
“Messieurs. This is the young lady who placed the call.”
Darkness and wet was all Paul Osborn knew. He was lying somewhere facedown in a spongy sand. Where he was or even what time it was, he had no idea. Somewhere nearby he heard the rush of water and was thankful he was no longer in it. Exhausted, he felt sleep begin to descend and with it came a darkness blacker than that around him and it came to him that it was death and if he didn’t do something quickly he would die.
Picking his head up, he cried out for help. But there was only silence and the rushing water. Who would have heard him anyway in the pitch-black and in the middle of God knew where? But the fear of death and the effort of calling out had picked up his heart rate and sharpened his senses. For the first time he felt pain, a deep throbbing toward the back of his left thigh. Reaching down, he touched it lightly and felt the warm stick of blood.
“Damn,” he cursed hoarsely.
Pulling himself up on his elbows, he tried to ascertain where he was. The ground beneath him was soft, moss on top of mushy sand. Putting out his left hand, he touched water. Shifting to his right, he was surprised to find something that felt like a fallen tree only inches from his face. Somehow he’d come ashore, either under his own power or pushed there by the current. His mind flashed to the horrid sight of Kanarack’s mutilated body clinging to him in midriver, then being rushed off by the force of the water. As quickly he thought of the man on the embankment. The tall man in the hat who had obviously shot them both.
Suddenly it occurred to him that he might have somehow followed him and be waiting close by for daylight to finish what he had started. Osborn had no way of knowing how badly wounded he was, how much blood he’d lost or if he could even stand. But he had to try. He couldn’t stay where he was even if the tall man was near, because if he did there was every chance he would bleed to death.
Inching forward, he reached for the fallen tree. Grasping it with one hand, he pulled himself toward it. As he did, searing pain stabbed through him and he cried out without thinking. Recovering, he lay still, his senses alert. If the tall man were near, Osborn’s cry would bring him straight toward him. Holding his breath, he listened but heard only the moving river.
Unbuckling his belt, he pulled it from his waist, looped it around his left thigh above the wound, and buckled it. Then, finding a stick, he put it through the belt and twisted it several times until the strap tightened around his leg in a tourniquet. Nearly a minute passed before he could begin to feel the numbness. As it did, the pain eased a little. Holding the tourniquet tight with his left hand, Osborn pulled against the tree with his right. Struggling, he got his good leg under him and in a minute he was standing. Again, he listened. Again, he heard nothing but the rushing water.
Reaching out in the darkness, he found a dead branch the width of his wrist and broke it off. As he did, he felt a weight in his jacket pocket. Balancing himself against the tree, he reached in and felt his fingers close around the hard steel of the automatic he’d taken from Henri Kanarack. He’d forgotten about it and was amazed it hadn’t come loose on his journey downriver. He had no idea if it would work or not. Still, just pointing it would give him advantage over most men. It might even give him a moment against the tall man. Picking up the tree branch, he used it as half crutch, half cane, and started off in the darkness, away from the sound of the river.
39
* * *
Saturday, October 8, 3:15 A.M.
AGNES DEMBLON sat in the living room of her apartment working on her second pack of Gitanes since midnight and staring at the telephone. She still wore the same wrinkled suit she’d worn at the office all day Friday. She hadn’t eaten or even brushed her teeth. By now, Henri should have been back or at least called. Somehow she should have heard from him. But she hadn’t. Something had gone wrong, she was sure. What, though? Even if the American had been a professional, Kanarack would have handled him with the same efficiency he had Jean Packard.
How many years had it been since he’d first pulled her hair and lifted up her skirt in front of everyone in the play yard of the Second Street School in Bridgeport, Connecticut. Agnes had been in the first grade and Henri Kanarack—no, Albert Merriman!—in the fourth grade when it had happened. He’d done it and laughed and then swaggered off with his friends to tease a fat boy and punch him and make him cry. That same afternoon Agnes got even. Following him home from school, she sneaked up behind him when he’d stopped to look j at something. Stretching to her full height with both hands over her head, she brought a huge rock down on the top of his head. She remembered him hitting the : pavement, with blood everywhere. She remembered actually thinking she’d killed him, until he suddenly reached out and tried to grab her ankle and she ran off. It had been the beginning of a relationship that had lasted more than forty years. How was it the same kind of people always sought each other out, even from the beginning.
Agnes stood up and rubbed out a Gitane in an overflowing ashtray. It was now 3:30 in the morning. Saturdays the bakery was open a half day. In less than two hours she would have to leave for work. Then she remembered Henri had her car. That meant taking the Métro, if it was open that early. She didn’t know. It had been that long since she’d last done that.
Thinking she might have to call a taxi, she went into her room, took off her clothes and put on her robe. Then, setting her alarm for 4:45, she lay down on the bed. Pulling the top blanket over her, she turned out the light and lay back. If she could sleep, seventy-five minutes would be better than nothing.
Across the street, Bernhard Oven, the tall man, sat behind the wheel of a dark green Ford and looked at his watch. 3:37 A.M.
On the seat beside him was a small black rectangle that looked like the remote control to a television set. In the upper lefthand corner was a digital timer. Picking it up, he set the timer at three minutes, thirty-three seconds. Then, starting the Ford’s engine, he pushed a small red button at the bottom right of the black rectangle. The timer activated and began counting down in tenths of seconds toward 0:0:00.
Glancing across at the darkened apartment building once more, Bernhard Oven put the car in gear and drove off.
3:32:16.
Strung across the cluttered floor in the basement of Agnes Demblon’s apartment building were seven very small bundles of highly compact, incendiary plastic attached to a primary electronic fuse. At a little past 2:00 A.M., Oven had broken in through a cellar window. Working quickly, in less than five minutes he had placed the charges among stacks of old furniture and stored clothes and paid special attention to the thousand-gallon drum that held the building’s heating oil. Afterward he slipped out the way he had come in and went back to his car. By 2:40 all the building’s lights were out but one. At 3:35, Agnes Demblon turned hers out as well.
At 3:39 and thirty seconds the plastic charges went off.
40
* * *
AMERICAN AIRLINES FLIGHT 38 from Chicago to Zurich touched down at Kloten Airport at 8:35 A.M., twenty minutes ahead of schedule. The airline had provided a wheelchair, but Elton Lybarger wanted to walk off the plane. He was going to see the family he hadn’t seen in the year since he’d had his stroke and he wanted them to see a man rehabilitated, not a cripple who would be a burden to them.
Joanna collected their carry-on luggage and stood up behind Lybarger as the last of the passengers left the aircraft. Then, handing him his cane, she warned him to be careful of his footing and abruptly he stepped off.
Reaching the jetway, he ignored the flight attendant’s smile and well-wish and firmly planted his cane on the far side of the aircraft door. Taking a determin
ed breath, he stepped through it, entered the jetway and disappeared into it.
“He’s a little anxious, but thank you anyway,” Joanna said apologetically in passing as she moved to catch up with him.
Once inside the terminal, they waited in line to pass through Swiss Customs. When they had, Joanna found a cart and retrieved their luggage and they went down a corridor toward Immigration. Suddenly she wondered what they would do if there was no one there to meet them. She had no idea where Elton Lybarger lived or whom to call. Then they were out of Immigration and pushing through a glass door into the main terminal area. Abruptly a six-piece oompah band struck up a Swiss version of “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and twenty or more exceptionally well-dressed men and women applauded. Behind them, four men in chauffeur livery joined in the applause.
Lybarger stopped and stared. Joanna had no idea if he recognized them or not. Then a large woman in a fur coat and veil, carrying a huge bouquet of yellow roses, rushed forward and threw her arms around Lybarger, smothering him in kisses and saying, “Uncle. Oh, Uncle! How we’ve missed you! Welcome home.”
As quickly the others moved in, surrounding Lybarger and leaving Joanna all but forgotten. The whole thing puzzled her. In five months of intensive physical therapy, Elton Lybarger had never once given her any indication of the wealth or position he seemed to have. Where had this entourage been the entire time? It didn’t make sense. But then, it was none of her business.
“Miss Marsh?” An extremely good-looking man had left the crowd to approach her.
“My name is Von Holden. I am an employee of Mr. Lybarger’s company. May I escort you to your hotel?”
Von Holden was in his thirties, trim and nearly six feet tall, with shoulders that looked like a swimmer’s. He had light brown, close-cropped hair and wore an impeccably tailored, double-breasted navy pin-striped suit with a white shirt and dark crested tie.