by John Chabot
"Was Matt Carlsberg one of those?"
"Oh, no. We had our wilder moments, but we never made that mistake. Not that I wouldn't have, but quite frankly I was never asked."
"But you left Wilford with him."
"Yes, but that was my idea, not his. Oh yes, I was completely mad about him. Or rather, Maria Rhyne was. That was so long ago, wasn't it?"
"I was told you were close to his brother."
"His brother? Robert? Oh, I may have gone out with him once or twice. I hardly remember."
"When you left, you went to France?"
"We went to England first. With the language and all, it's easier. We worked at a resort hotel on the coast—a dozen rooms and a path to the beach. The manager hired us for our accents. He thought they helped create an international flavor. We used to laugh about it—they thought we had accents."
"Someone said your letters were from France."
"Yes, that was Matt's idea. He wanted to go to France eventually so, whenever we could, we took the ferry over. It gave us a chance to look around, to learn the language. We'd both had French in high school, but that doesn't get you far. Whenever we were there, Matt insisted we speak only French, even to each other. That's when I would mail the letters. Probably a good thing too. If my father had found us, he would have caused a lot of trouble. Make a scene, threaten the hotel, probably get us fired. He was good at that."
"But you'd need passports for all that traveling."
"I had one from the summer before. My father had gone to England on some kind of business, and Mother and I had gone with him. Matt got his before we left."
"His parents must have known?"
"I don't think so. He was very careful. He had planned this for two years, saved every dime he could. He had a savings account his parents didn't know about. A man he worked with helped him set it up, signed as his guardian or whatever. As soon as he was eighteen, he opened another account and closed the first one. And if you're eighteen and not in prison, there's no problem getting a passport."
"I suppose he used this other man's address so it wouldn't be sent to his house."
"Yes, probably. Matt always thought of those things."
"And this friend—do you know who it was?"
"Not the name. It was too long ago. But strangely enough, it was the man who killed his father. Isn't that ironic?"
"Hanover?"
"That sounds familiar."
"Did Matt ever talk about that—his father's death?"
"Just once that I remember. It was when he told me he was leaving home. His father was the reason he'd made all those plans."
"Was he an abuser?"
"Not the kind you usually think of. He never beat them or anything like that. It wasn't physical. I gathered from what Matt said that it was a constant put-down. It wasn't that they didn't measure up to what he expected, but just that he expected nothing from them. Anything they did left him cold. He used the sarcastic remark, the sneer, the belittling laugh. I think both Matt and his brother hated him."
"What about their sister?"
"My impression was that she didn't come in for this treatment. He simply ignored her. After all, she was only a girl, not important enough to bother with."
"A real charmer. Why did Matt leave, though? I mean, by that time his father had been dead for two months."
"Why not? He'd put two years into it. He wanted to see Europe, anyway, father or no father. He didn't say so, but I don't think he was close to the rest of the family. You'd think that kind of experience would bring the victims closer, but in this case it seemed to have a splintering effect. At least, it did for Matt."
"Was he glad his father was dead?"
"That's hard to say. I don't believe he wished his father any harm—he simply wanted to get away from him. I remember him saying that everyone had been a victim. Well, there weren't any winners, were there?"
"When did you finally go to France?"
"At the end of the tourist season. We went to work for a Frenchman we had met at the hotel. He had an exporting firm in Marseilles. The jobs weren't much, but we had a chance to get established, to learn the language. We became independent." She glanced at Harry with a little smile and a lift of her eyebrow, and added, "Too independent, I'm afraid. At first, we were foreigners with no friends, no family. We weren't familiar with the language, the food, the customs, the prices, the thousand things that isolate you. We clung to each other out of need. Later, we didn't. We gradually came apart. Probably the only thing we had in common was that we didn't care much for our fathers."
She stood quietly for a few moments, her eyes on the dark shoreline, her thoughts in another time. "Then a friend of Matt's asked him to join a group of mercenaries he was putting together. That was very unusual since Matt had never been in the military. I think he was included mostly out of friendship. That, and the fact that he had connections and knowledge about exporting—getting equipment from one country to another, whom to bribe, whom to avoid. The firm we worked for did a lot of business they wouldn't want examined. And Matt was a fast learner. I've never known anyone who could learn so quickly once he had put his mind to it.
"At any rate, he left. I didn't see him again for—oh, it must have been ten years. I was living in England then, recently divorced, and we met in a park. I saw him sitting on a bench, watching the swans. But that's not what you want to know, is it?"
"I'm not sure what I want to know."
"Well, I saw quite a lot of him for a while. He was an easy man to love, just not easy to live with. I tend to be a bit of a slob, I'm afraid, and he isn't—wasn't. What you probably want to know is that he was no longer a mercenary. He had used his exporting experience and what he had learned as a mercenary to step up the ladder. He specialized in equipping mercenary groups."
"Arms?"
"Arms, yes, and tents and mess kits, canteens, cots, uniforms, inflatable rafts—whatever you might need, he could get in quantity. And for an extra fee, he could get it to wherever it was needed."
"Legally?"
She didn't bother answering that. "We split again, eventually. I think we found we were better friends than lovers. I married again and went to Italy. I never saw Matt again, but we kept in touch. We wrote now and then, and we had common friends in England. I heard from them that he was very sick for a while—lung cancer. After it had gone into remission, he told me about it.
"Then he gave up his business and went to Japan. He was very excited about it. He wrote to me several times from there. The last letter, about six weeks ago, was very strange. It went back over all the times we had been together. No regrets, no blame, just how happy we had been in the good times. It was very unusual for him. He said at the end that he was having some problems, and would go to Boston to see a doctor, but he didn't say why. I read that letter several times before I realized what it was. He was saying goodbye."
She paused, remembering, then went on. "It frightened me. My husband had died the previous year, so I had no real ties. And I wanted to see Matt again. So I went to Boston. It took some doing, but I found his doctor. I told him I was Matt's sister. I'm not sure he believed me, but he told me what was wrong."
"How did you know he'd be here?"
"I didn't. At first, I thought he might go back to Japan. Then I thought, Well, he started here. Where else did he have any family?"
"You called his brother when you got here?"
"Yes, but he hadn't heard from him. I thought I had made a mistake. I spent an afternoon calling all the motels and hotels. I found one where he had stayed three nights, but he had checked out. At least I knew he had been here. But why hadn't his brother known?"
"He called his brother later. After he bought the house at the beach."
"I see. That's how I finally found him. Talking to realtors."
"You went to see him?"
She hesitated, rubbing the palms of her hands together. "I didn't know what I should do. If he was as sick as the doctor said, I
thought he might not want me to see him. He hated pity. He never gave it and would never accept it. Still, we were friends. I finally decided to go see him. I'm staying just up the beach at the Mariner. I walked along the beach to his house but, when I came up to it, there were two other people with him—a man and a woman. So I turned around and walked back. I told myself I'd go by the next day, but I put it off, and the day after that I heard he was dead."
"Did that surprise you?"
"What? Oh, I see. No, not really. He wouldn't have lingered if he had a choice. But from what you said at the restaurant, he wasn't given a choice."
"You heard?"
"I was eavesdropping. I picked a table close enough to overhear."
"You knew who I was?"
"Your picture was in the paper. Not very flattering, but close enough. And the man with you was the one I saw with Matt."
Harry found he didn't want to leave this woman, but couldn't think of any more questions he needed to ask. It was time his Karen came home.
Maria said, "Perhaps it was best I didn't see him. Maybe he wouldn't have wanted me to. At least I was at his funeral. I suppose that's really why I came."
"Yes," said Harry, "it's nice there was someone there to mourn him."
CHAPTER 19
"Is he drunk?"
"He's not dead, is he?"
"No, he's moving."
Hearing the voices, Terry pushed himself up to a sitting position and leaned against the wall. Opening his eyes to slits, he saw several faces in the semi-darkness.
"Where's the switch? Somebody turn the light on." A man's voice.
It came on, and Terry wished it hadn't. He flinched from the glare, and felt the pain in his head. His left arm was numb. Beside him was an overturned chair. It must have been one of the rungs he grabbed when he had reached out. Alex was on one knee beside him.
"You all right, sir? What happened?"
"Something hit me."
Ben asked, "Did you trip over the chair?"
Terry thought back. Had he tripped? "No. Somebody hit me with it."
Christy asked, "Do you have any brandy?" When the others looked at her strangely, she said, "Well, they always give people that in the movies."
"I wish," answered Terry. "I don't have any anything except a couple of beers in the fridge."
"Would you like one?"
God forbid! "No thanks. Not just now."
They had changed from their funereal finery. Christy wore cut off blue jeans, mostly covered by a blue, extra large, UNC sweatshirt. Ben wore a shirt of the same size, but red, with NCSU on the front. Sibling rivalry at another level. Alex stayed neutral with brown cords and a sweater. All of them seemed ready to head into the wilds in search of treasure.
Terry took a deep breath, got his feet under him and, with Alex's help, stood up. He started for the sofa, but halfway there, he stopped and looked around. "What the hell!"
The sofa cushions were on the floor. Chairs were turned over. Throw rugs were all in a heap in the middle of the room. Every drawer in the room was open, some of them emptied on the floor. In the bedroom was more of the same. Every drawer had been opened and dumped. The bed was stripped, the linen in a pile. What had been hanging in the closets made another pile.
"You've been trashed," said Ben.
"Or robbed," added Christy. "Is anything gone?"
Terry went back into the living room. "The computer's still here. I can't think of anything else worth taking." Even so, he checked his box of discs, and found the one that held his manuscript. It would be of no value to anyone else, but was irreplaceable to him.
"Like I said, you've been trashed."
They heard steps on the porch. Diane put her head in at the front door. "Anybody here?"
Alex answered, "In here."
She came in, looking around at the mess. "Wow, you guys really know how to party."
"Somebody broke in while Mr. Eason was out. He got hit with a chair when he came back."
She looked wide-eyed at Terry. "You mean burglars? Are you all right?"
"Nothing was taken. I'm all right, I guess."
She turned to Alex. "Guess what happened when I got home tonight. That policewoman, the detective, was there. She wanted to know if I could make a sketch of Matt."
"Did you?"
"I already had some. I did them right after I had seen him. Just ideas for a painting. I gave her those." She scanned the room again and said, "I wonder what they were looking for."
They stood there, a bit stunned by the mess, no one knowing just where to begin. Then Alex said, "Okay, two questions. First, do you want a doctor? We can run you over to the emergency room."
Should he? He knew that if he had been at home, he probably would have. But the truth was he wasn't sure whether or not he was still covered by company insurance. His cash reserves were getting low. This could wipe him out. He moved his arm. It hurt, but not sharply. It was still numb, but moved in all the normal ways.
"No. It's all right. I could use a couple of aspirins though." He started for the bathroom, but Diane said, "You sit down—I'll get them. Through the bedroom?"
Sit down? Where?
Alex said, "That brings up the second question. Before we pick this place up, do you want to call the police?"
"What for? As far as I can see, nothing's been taken. I'll call Chervenic later and tell him what happened." He reached into his left inside jacket pocket and came up empty. He was sure he had put the paper with the clue there, then remembered someone pulling at his jacket. "Damn!"
"What's wrong?"
"The paper with the directions—it's gone. I had it in this pocket."
"The directions are gone?" Ben's voice almost wailed.
"I'm afraid so."
Faces around him crashed and burned. Alex said, "I don't suppose you made a copy, or memorized it. Could you remember it?"
"I doubt it. It doesn't make any sense. I just—whoa!" The heavy disappointment left him. "I showed it to Lieutenant Chervenic. He copied it into his notebook."
"Great!" said Ben. "Let's get to it."
"No." If Christy had known how much her voice and expression reminded them of her mother, she might have relented. "Not yet. First we get this place cleaned up."
"Oh, come on!" from Ben.
"That's all right," said Terry. "I can straighten this up later."
Diane came back with the aspirins and a glass of water, saying, "It won't take long. It's just a matter of picking up."
"Right," said Alex. He put the cushions back on the sofa. "Now sit down, put your feet up and let those aspirins get to work. You see if you can get the Lieutenant while we do this." To the others he said, "If we're going to work as a team, now is a good time to start."
Terry reached for the phone book. He felt he should help with the cleaning up, but knew it would do no good to offer. They had decided to mother him.
Harry had been home only a few minutes when he got the call. He took the message from the night officer, frowning as he hung up. What did Eason want to talk about? He had just seen him an hour ago. Probably wanted to find out who the woman was. He dialed the number that had come with the message, and heard Terry's voice before the second ring.
"Chervenic. What can I do for you?" He kept the tone brisk, not wanting to gossip. As he heard what Terry had to say, his face took on the cold, blank expression that meant his brain was focused on one point, examining, searching, trying to see all sides of it. When Terry came to a stop, he asked, "Was the house locked?"
"No, the house wasn't locked. It's mid-November on a practically deserted beach." A guilty pause and then, "I know, I know, it should have been locked."
"What else was taken?"
"Nothing that I can see."
"You still have your wallet?"
"Sure."
"How long were you unconscious?"
"Darned if I know. I might have been as much asleep as unconscious. I came out of it when the others got here."
"Tell you what. We'll make a deal. I'll give you the clue or whatever it is, and you do a couple of things for me. Whatever you plan to do on this hunt of yours, try to let me know in advance. Will you do that?"
"Sure. What else?"
"What else?"
"You said there were two things you wanted me to do."
"Oh, yeah. Lock your doors."
When he had hung up, Harry went to the fridge and opened a bottle of beer. He went into the living room, made himself comfortable in the lounger, turned out the light, sipped the beer, and thought. The answer was there, somewhere in his head. It had almost come up once before, then slipped away in his sleep. This time he would find it.
Terry watched the four of them staring unhappily at copies of the clue. He knew how they felt. He had felt the same way when he read it at the restaurant.
You can find the key where the confused nudes get cross with
the ancient supporters of something not quite ripe.
"Give me a break!" wailed Ben. "Is that supposed to mean something?"
"Yes," answered his sister. Her mind was trying to attack it, trying to find a way in.
"What?"
"I don't know!" Her voice was irritable.
Alex rubbed his forehead. Diane leaned back in her chair, resigned. Her mind dealt best with pictures, with form and texture and color. If she could see it, she could understand it. Words she found treacherous and vague at best. Words such as these she refused to deal with.
Terry leaned his head against the back of the sofa, closing his eyes. The side of his head was tender and swollen and, despite the aspirin, was beginning to throb.
Alex saw him and said, "I think it's time we left. We can study these tonight or tomorrow, and see if inspiration strikes."
Terry ran his fingers along just above his left ear, testing. "Just don't let it catch you on the side of the head. It hurts."
