Smoke and Mirrors (45 page)

"As it happens, Will is not in Charlottesville. He moved up
here a few days ago, so he could be on the spot during the last days of the campaign. He's got a room at some hotel. . . . Damn, he told me the name, but I can't remember it. Wait a minute."

He grabbed the phone and punched a few numbers. When he spoke his voice was soft and wheedling. "Yes, ma'am, I sure hope you can. I'm looking for a hotel or a motel on fifty west, near Gilbert's Corners. Could be a Middleburg number, or maybe . . . Well, you see, ma'am, I had an accident a few years back, and both my eyes . . . Oh, thanks, ma'am, I sure would appreciate it. No, it wasn't a Ramada or a Sheraton. It had a name like ... no ... hey, right! That's it! May God bless you, ma'am, for your kind heart."

Erin pressed both hands over her mouth. She was afraid that if she started laughing she wouldn't be able to stop. "You ought to be ashamed," she hissed, as Nick dialed again.

He ignored her as she deserved. "Windy Hill Hotel? Yes, will you please connect me with Mr. William Gates? What? The hell you say! Listen, mister—"

He stared incredulously at the telephone.

"He hung up on me!"

"I don't blame him."

"Mr. Gates is not taking calls," Nick said, in savage mimicry of the clerk's refined tones. "Here, you call back and ask how to get there. He probably won't tell me."

Scenting a possible client, the clerk was happy to supply the information. "I didn't dare to ask for Will's room number," Erin began.

"That's okay, we'll find him." Nick towed her toward the door.

It should have taken longer than ten minutes to reach the motel. Nick's driving exceeded his best, or worst, effort in maniacal speed; either he had a sixth sense for police cars or their luck had turned, for they were not stopped. They almost missed the Windy Hill Hotel. Its small, discreet sign was half concealed by trees. Nick pulled a screeching turn and slammed on the brakes.

"Looks like a classier version of the Shady Lane Motel," he muttered as they cruised along the line of small cabins. The trees and shrubs that landscaped the grounds were losing their leaves, but they still provided a high degree of privacy for the occupants of
the isolated buildings, which were designed to look like Swiss
chalets.
"Look
for Will's car."

"I don't think I would ... Is that it?"

"Yep. " Nick glided to a stop beside the brown Ford. "He is at home, the bastard."

"That belligerent attitude won't get you any farther with Will than it did with the desk clerk. He deserves an evening off, he's probably reading or napping—"

"That's too damned bad. " Nick slammed his door and strode purposefully to the cottage. A tiny porch enclosed the entrance; Nick began pounding on the door

At first there was no reply. Nick continued the fusilade and finally a voice demanded he identify himself.

"It's me, Nick. Open up."

"I might have known." Will's voice was resigned but firm. "Get lost, Nick. I'm off duty and I intend to remain so. '

"I've got to talk to you. We're in a real mess, Will. We need help."

"I know about the autopsy."

"No, you don't understand. That's the least of our problems. Let me in."

"No way, buddy. Whatever it is can wait till tomorrow."

"It can't wait," Nick bawled, rattling the door. "Rosemary has disappeared and Jeff's gone too, but it's worse than that, he's flipped his lid, gone crazy, and he's taken Laurence—"

"Stop bellowing," Will said sharply. "Wait a minute."

Nick pressed his ear to the door. After only a momentary hesitation Erin followed his example. Will must be watching television. She couldn't make out the words, but there were at least two voices, one higher in pitch than the other. . . .

The truth was beginning to dawn on her when the door opened, so suddenly that both eavesdroppers were caught in flagrante delicto. Nick had been too distracted to make the logical deduction from what he had heard; when he saw who it was, he literally staggered back.

Rosemary had let her hair down. It flowed loosely to her shoulders. She was wearing an astonishing negligee of chiffon and black lace and—as the light behind her made evident—nothing else.

16

What's this
about Jeff?" Rosemary demanded.

Nick choked. "I—uh—I guess we'd better go."

Rosemary shaded her eyes. "Erin too? Come in, both of you." Nick didn't move. Rosemary poked him. "In, I said. Don't stand there gawking. What's happened to Jeff?"

The motel room had a certain charm, if your tastes ran to ruffles and chintz and heart-shaped ornaments. At least it was new and clean, and although the queen-sized bed was the most prominent piece of furniture, there were chairs and a table in an alcove. On the table stood a bottle of wine and two glasses, one half-full.

"Sit down," Rosemary ordered, pointing to the chairs. Nick dropped into one as if he had been shot. "Now talk. What about Jeff?"

"Listen," Nick began, cracking a knuckle. "I'm really sorry. I was looking for Will—"

"Oh, for goodness' sakes," Rosemary snapped. "You're a big boy, Nick, stop squirming. I don't advertise my extracurricular activities, but I'm not ashamed of them. Or of my feelings for
Will."

Will
had retreated to the bed. Half-sitting, half-lying against plumped pillows, glasses askew on the tip of his nose, his lips were quivering with repressed laughter. "Didn't you ever see a sex object before?" he inquired.

A look passed between him and Rosemary, conveying such warmth and tenderness, such shared amusement and sheer delight
in one another that Erin's self-consciousness vanished. If that was how it was for them, she was glad—and a little envious.

Then Will said briskly, "Enough of this persiflage. Suppose you eschew journalistic hyperbole and try a straight narrative form, beginning at the beginning and continuing until you reach the
end."

Rosemary listened to the first part of Nick's story in silence. The soft tapping of her fingers on the tabletop was her only sign of impatience, and her face betrayed nothing. But when Nick explained—choking with embarrassment—about Jeff's discovery that Edward Marshall was his father, Rosemary sprang to her feet. "That's impossible. '

"I'm sorry, Rosemary, I know it's hard," Nick began.

"Hard, my eye. It's impossible. Ed was . . . Never mind that, just take my word for it. Where did Jeff get this crazy idea? "

"His mother told him,'' Nick said. "It couldn't have been a lie, or a delusion of Jeff's, Rosemary; there's too much confirmatory evidence. She said his father had agreed to help them. They were in desperate straits, or she never would have appealed to him. He had arranged for them to stay temporarily in that building, one he owned, until he could make better arrangements. That was the clue—the ownership of the building—that enabled Jeff to trace—"

"I get the picture," Rosemary broke in. Her pupils were so widely dilated, her eyes looked black. "Enough of the orderly exposition, Nick. What was that about Jeff going off with Philips?"

Nick only got a few sentences out before she interrupted him again, even more dramatically. Her hand went to the neck of her robe and yanked. Erin had a flashing glimpse of bare skin before Rosemary dashed into the bathroom. "Go on," she yelled. "He left a note? Did he say where they were going? "

"No. He thought it would be better if we could tell the police we didn't—"

Rosemary emerged from the bathroom wearing jeans and buttoning her shirt.

Will was on his feet. "Better put on some shoes," he suggested, picking up his coat and shrugging into it.

Rosemary grabbed her sneakers but didn't stop to put them on. "Where?" she asked.

There might have been no one in the room but her and Will. "He wouldn't risk taking him to his apartment. They're probably still on the property. That would be the most logical—"

Rosemary flung the door open and ran out. Will paused in the doorway, car keys in his hand. "If you two want to join us, you'd better move," he said.

Will's headlights went on as they ran toward the car and piled into the back seat. Rosemary, in the passenger seat, bent over to slip on her shoes.

"Maybe I should drive," Nick suggested.

"Hang on," Will said.

Erin never forgot that drive. It exceeded anything she had ever gone through with Nick. Will didn't stop for signs or red lights; he banged on the horn and barreled through. Rosemary leaned forward, every muscle tense, as if she could add a few more miles per hour to the frantic pace. They were almost at the house before Nick got his breath back.

"We goofed, didn't we?"

"No, not at all," Will said. "Whoops—sorry; I'm afraid that turn was a little abrupt."

Erin got off Nick's lap. "Yes, we did. But I still don't understand what we did wrong. Is Mr. Laurence—is he in danger?"

Rosemary spoke. "Philips can take care of himself. No one better. It's Jeff I'm worried about. Can't you go any faster, Will?"

"We're almost there. Are the gates open, Nick?"

"Jesus, I hope so," Nick said devoutly, as Will made another slashing turn with no diminuation of speed.

They bounced along the driveway and came to a stop in front of the house. "The outbuildings first," Rosemary said, through clenched teeth. "We'll need a flashlight—"

"Glove compartment," Will said. Rosemary snatched the flashlight. They got out of the car, leaving the doors open and the headlights burning, as Will continued in the same unhurried voice. "Erin, get to a phone and call the police. Extreme emergency,
missing person, possible hostage situation. We need all the personnel we can get. Nick—"

"What? What?" Nick danced up and down, too nervous to
stand still.

"Wait a minute," Will said. "There's someone out there."

His hearing must have been abnormally acute. It was a few seconds before Erin heard footsteps—quick, heavy, uneven. Then a figure reeled into the glow of the headlights. He swayed to a stop and raised a hand to his head. "Rosemary?" he said uncertainly. "Rosemary, is it you?"

"It's me," Rosemary said. "Where's Jeff?"

"Out there." Laurence leaned weakly against the fender and gestured toward the dark belt of woodland. "He's gone crazy. He made me write a note and then he hit me over the head. . . . When I came to, I was tied to a tree. I managed to free myself. ..." He held out his hands in mute witness and showed the reddened marks on his wrists. "I was afraid he had you too. Rosemary—"

She was gone, running as if pursued by demons.

"Stop her," Laurence cried. "Nick—Will—don't let her go after him. He has a gun!"

He turned as if to follow. Quickly as he moved, Will was quicker. He caught Laurence's arm. "Hold on a minute."

Laurence whirled, tried to free himself. "What the devil are you doing? She's gone after a—"

Will hit him. It was a classic right cross, precise and passionless as a diagram, but aimed with enough accuracy and force to topple Laurence backward onto the gravel. He lay motionless.

"No time for the police now," Will said, bending over the columnist's sprawled body. "I had intended to ask you to get another flashlight from the kitchen, Nick, but we haven't time for that either. Nor—I fear—will we need it."

The sky above the burning trees was a garish crimson. "We better hurry," Nick said, grim-faced. "What about him?"

Will straightened. "Leave him. I wouldn't have bothered decking him if I didn't have a prejudice against being shot in the back." Carefully he checked the safety on the automatic he had taken from Laurence before putting it in his coat pocket. "Straight
down the path as far as we can safely go. I doubt Mr. Fastidious would venture into the underbrush, but if we haven't found them by then, we split up. You two stay together, go north. I'll go south."

Erin could only guess what it cost Will to speak so calmly and collectedly. It had required more patience than she had known she possessed to stand quietly awaiting orders instead of rushing off after Rosemary; but she was agonizingly aware of the fact that there was not the slightest room for error now, and no time to be wasted on false trails. A few seconds might mean the difference between life and death.

As soon as Will finished speaking, she ran as she had never run before, ably assisted by Nick, who pulled her along in a series of giant leaps; but Will had disappeared into the woods before they reached them. It was dark under the trees at first, but all too soon the glow of the fire brightened the path, and smoke began to sting their nostrils. When they caught up with Will he was hoisting himself to his feet; he had fallen heavily, his face and shirtfront were smudged with dirt, and blood trickled from his nose. "No, don't wait," he wheezed, as Nick went to help him. "They—they're up there. Listen."

They had gone a few feet farther before Erin heard Rosemary. She wasn't screaming, just yelling, steadily and wordlessly, in order to guide them. Erin could see the fire now—a solid curtain of flame—up ahead. Smoke coiled among the tree trunks like giant gray snakes.

Rosemary was on her knees beside Jeff, struggling with the knotted rope that held him bound to a tree. Her hair was smoldering, and she continued to shout, even after Nick dropped down beside her.

Erin slapped at the sparks in Rosemary's hair. She stopped yelling and looked up. "Where's Will?"

"Right here. Get out of the way, Nick." Will began sawing at the rope. Where he had gotten the knife Erin didn't know, but she wasn't surprised that he had one. Nothing Will did from that time on would ever surprise her.

The heat was so intense she felt like a piece of meat on the grill, but it never occurred to her to retreat. "He's unconscious."

She forced the words past the smoke that clogged her throat. "Or is he—he isn't—"

Rosemary staggered to her feet. "No, he's breathing. Philips must have . . ." A fit of coughing interrupted her. "Hurry, Will."

"These damned Swiss Army knives aren't all ... they're cracked up to be," was the reply. "Thank God for a southwest wind. If it had been blowing the other way—"

A dead pine went up like a Roman candle, showering them with sparks. Will straightened with a grunt of satisfaction, and Nick, who had been supporting Jeffs head, heaved the limp body over his shoulder. "Let's get the hell out of here."

As they fled down the path they heard the distant sound of sirens.

Joe had arrived
shortly after they entered the woods; seeing the flames, he had called the fire department. There wasn't much the fire fighters could do, or cared to do, other than contain the fire and prevent it from reaching the house and outbuildings. Thanks to the southwest wind Laurence had failed to take into consideration when he started the blaze, it would burn itself out on the far edge of the woods.

Aside from blisters, scorched skin, and minor smoke inhalation, the rescuers were uninjured. Jeff was still unconscious when they loaded him into the ambulance.

Rosemary had to be forcibly prevented from going to the hospital with him. It was not until Will dragged her into the house and put her in front of a mirror that she gave in. None of them was a specimen of sartorial elegance, but Rosemary was in worse shape than the rest; she had been closer to the fire for a longer time, and she wasn't wearing anything under the shirt that had been ripped half off her body by brambles.

After some cursory first aid they assembled in the commons room. Food and drink, especially the latter, were the first priority, far more important than appearance. Rosemary had gone upstairs to bathe and change. Joe, who had watched the proceedings in appalled silence, finally found his voice.

"If somebody doesn't tell me what this is all about, I'll have a heart attack!" he shouted.

"Have a drink," Will suggested.

"I have a drink. What I want is information."

Will cleared his throat professorially. His nose was swollen, his hair was scorched, and a blister was rising on his chin. "To begin at the beginning—"

"Not you," Joe said. "Him. No, her." His cigar moved from Nick to Erin. "I don't want a detailed piece of reasoned research and I don't want one of Nick's disorganized speeches. Erin?"

"It was Jeff," Erin said. "The pyromaniac. He's really Raymond Wilson."

"Who the hell is Raymond Wilson?"

Joe turned with obvious relief to Rosemary, who had just come in. She was wearing tailored slacks and a loose sweater, and she moved as if every muscle in her body ached, but she was smiling. "I just called the hospital. Concussion and smoke inhalation—but he's going to be all right."

"That's nice." Joe puffed savagely at his cigar. "I like the kid, whatever his name may be. Now, if you don't mind ..."

Rosemary began with the long-past fire in Richmond. Joe's eyes bulged. "And your name was on those papers? Jesus, Rosemary! I asked you if there was anything—"

"It never entered my mind, Joe. Honestly. I had nothing to do with Ed's business affairs, I signed everything he put in front of me, like the young fool I was; and I had no idea there was anything sinister about that tragedy."

Erin glanced at Nick. They were sitting side by side on the couch, but not touching; there was hardly an inch of skin on either of them that hadn't been scorched, scraped, or bruised.

"Some brilliant detectives we were," Nick mumbled.

Rosemary heard him. "I can't blame you for assuming I was involved, Nick. You don't realize—you can't possibly realize—how naive I was, and how different things were, even twenty years ago. 'Women's lib' was a dirty word to me and a lot of other docile idiots. I hadn't graduated from college when I married Ed; I didn't go back and finish my degree until several years later.

"It wasn't just a question of feeling inferior—I
was
inferior, in every measurable way—wealth, age, sophistication, education, family background. And in even more important ways that are not susceptible to measurement."

Her eyes met Erin's in a flash of empathy and understanding so eloquent they might both have spoken aloud. Erin knew she was the only one in the room who did fully understand, with her emotions as well as her intelligence—the only one who had been there herself.

Rosemary went on, "I knew one thing you did not know, Nick—that Philips was Ed's secret partner in that deal and in others. They had been friends since college; Philips' family had a lot more money than the Marshalls, but they were nouveau riche, not landed aristocrats. I think that was what attracted Philips to Ed; he's always been a first-class snob. I also assumed that was why Philips supported me—the old family name, plus a few sentimental memories. ... I guess I'm still somewhat naive. He wanted my help; he did have political aspirations, he planned to run for Congress in two years. It wouldn't have done either of us any good if that story had been made public, but Philips stood to lose a lot more than I did. He could not have denied being involved; the funds for the trust must have come from him, Ed never had that kind of money."

"Doesn't sound like Laurence," Nick said cynically. "It would have been more in character for him to sneak into the hospital where the kids had been taken, and try to finish the job."

"For all we know, he may have tried," Erin said. "But I think—I'd like to think—that they forced him to put up the money. Mr. Marshall and my father. If one or both of them suspected what he had done, but couldn't prove it, that was the only way they could make amends."

Rosemary's bloodshot eyes widened. "Is that what's been worrying you, Erin—that your father was involved? He handled the legal arrangements, yes, but I'm absolutely certain he was blameless. I wish I could be equally certain about Ed. He was in bad shape that year. Insomnia, nightmares ..."