The Chase: A Novel

by Brenda Joyce

  Afterward, he rolled onto his side and pulled her into his arms. Rachel burrowed there against his chest, spooned into his large, muscular body. Her breathing began to slow. Her mind clicked into its customary coherence, and images from the evening began tumbling swiftly there.

  It had been an evening filled with tension and undercurrents.

  Eddy suddenly pulled her onto her back, moving over her. “You’re not asleep,” he said.

  Rachel’s heart lurched. “No. Eddy, Lionel knows.”

  He did not have to ask what she meant. “Yeah. Somehow, he figured out I’m no ordinary pilot. He’s smart.”

  She wanted to beg him not to finish what he had begun. But how could she? His courage and determination made him the man that he was, the man she so desperately loved.

  He crushed her in his arms, not even kissing her. “I have to go.”

  “No!”

  He sat up, tossing the sheets aside.

  Too late, the words tumbled forth. “Eddy, please don’t. So far nothing has happened. In the morning I will go back to Bentley Priory, and you to North Weald. Please? She hadn’t realized until that exact moment just how desperate she was. “You don’t have to do this!”

  He stood, sliding on boxers and pants. “Nothing’s happened? Not only did he murder his father, Rachel, he’s a frigging Nazi spy.”

  “I mean, nothing has happened between you and him,” she pleaded, almost in tears.

  He was pulling on his shirt, his expression grim. He finally looked at her. “I can’t quit now. I just can’t. It’s not who I am.”

  Rachel clutched the covers to her chest. “What are you going to do?”

  He glanced at his wristwatch, which had an illuminated dial. “It’s two. He should be sound asleep by now. I am going to take a peek around the house.” His tone was easy, his gaze was hard. “You don’t have to worry.”

  “But why? You already have those photographs! And maybe he isn’t asleep,” she tried. “Maybe there isn’t anything in the house. He must have gone back and removed the body after we found it! He is very clever!”

  Eddy was dressed. He walked over to a chair and lifted his bomber jacket, then dropped it back down. Rachel gasped when she saw the small gun in his hand. “What is that?” she cried.

  He tucked it into the waistband of his pants, then slid on the worn leather jacket. “Look, hon. I’d like to find a list of contacts. He isn’t the only agent operating here in Britain.”

  “You could search the house another time—after he’s arrested.”

  He came over to her swiftly and kissed her forehead. “You worry too much. I’m a tough guy, and Elgin’s a pansy.” It was clear now that he was no longer thinking about her, that he had other matters on his mind. “Try to get some sleep,” he said, and he was gone.

  The huge horrible realization of what was happening—and what might happen—hit her now. Eddy was hunting Lionel. Lionel—who was a killer.

  Rachel leaped up from the bed, uncaring that she was naked. She ran after him, pausing in the doorway. “Please,” she whispered, clinging to the door. She was so afraid now that her fear blinded her.

  He did not hear her, for he was disappearing down the stairs.

  He was gone.

  Rachel froze, clutching the door. She faced her very worst nightmare—the certainty, in every fiber of her being, that she had seen him for the very last time.

  He did not make it to the library. In fact, he did not make it downstairs.

  A door was wide open at the far end of the hall, and two small lights were on inside. Eddy took one glance into the room and realized it had to be the parlor of a suite. A large sofa faced the fireplace, brilliant works of art covered the upholstered crimson walls, and a desk that was clearly in use was against an adjoining wall. Eddy did not hesitate. He knocked on the open door. “Lionel?” he called quietly.

  There was no response.

  He tried again, with the same effect.

  Eddy stepped into the parlor, glanced around, reassuring himself that no one was present. Then he crossed it to the next open doorway, where he was greeted with the largest bedroom he had ever seen, with a huge canopied bed in its center. These walls were done in a softer shade of red that was more salmon-hued. Here was another sitting area and another fireplace with a marble mantel. One small nightlight was on; no one was in the bedroom.

  “Lionel? It’s Eddy. You still up?”

  There was no answer.

  Eddy quickly returned to the sitting room, going straight for the desk. He explored every inch of the surface but found nothing incriminating. There were three drawers, but again he found nothing. Lionel was being very careful now. Eddy felt certain that if he ever searched his Knightsbridge flat again, there would be nothing there except pictures of birds.

  Eddy glanced at his watch. He’d been in the master suite for less than three minutes. He’d give himself three more. He looked around the parlor and finally saw a small valise under a settee. It was the size of an overnight bag, so he had no reason to be suspicious of it; on the other hand, it should be in the bedroom, not the parlor. He quickly crossed the room, squatted, and opened it. He was expecting to find a radio. Inside was nothing but items of clothing.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. The valise was a decoy—a trap.

  Eddy had processed the film he had taken at Tantallon, and four microdots were inside a slit in the sole of his shoe. He was going to hand-deliver the microdots to his contact at the American embassy tomorrow. He did not have to make a conscious decision—his every instinct told him to secure the microdots before he came face-to-face with Elgin now.

  Eddy left the valise open and in full view at the foot of the settee. He leaped up as he grabbed two of the four microdots, missing the others. The footsteps were just outside the door. He had about fifteen seconds to act.

  Eddy crossed over to the fireplace. Just above the mantel was a beautiful painting of two nude women and a parakeet. As he pressed the two dots between the gilded frame and the canvas, the words “Venus and Psychée” caught his eye. He turned away, shoving his hands in his pockets.

  Lionel entered the parlor. He stopped short, eyes widening.

  Eddy was sweating. He didn’t really know what reflex had caused him to hide the microdots that would definitely incriminate and probably convict Lionel as a traitor, but his reflexes had saved his life too many times to count, and he did not question his own motivations now.

  He hardly had the time.

  “Eddy?” Lionel wore trousers and a smoking jacket that was an exquisite shade of lapis. He was also wearing black velvet slippers with his initials embroidered on the toes in gold. He glanced from Eddy standing before the masterpiece to the open valise on the floor by the settee.

  “I couldn’t sleep. I was going downstairs to find a book when I saw the lights on and the door open.” Eddy smiled. His gun felt hard against his waist. He was acutely aware of it as he slowly removed his hands from his pockets and let them hang loosely at his sides. Lionel would not get the jump on him, oh no. “I was hoping for some company.”

  If Lionel realized what Eddy had been doing, he gave no sign. Nor did he question the fact that Eddy was wearing his jacket, and he did not glance again at the obviously ransacked valise. He returned Eddy’s brief smile with one of his own. “How about a nightcap downstairs?”

  “That’s a great idea.” Eddy was on alert now. Lionel was too clever to be so dumb; he should be very suspicious of Eddy’s being in the master suite at this hour. Eddy had no doubt that this was a trap and he had no intention of being caught in it.

  Lionel stepped aside, but Eddy smiled and said, “After you.” He would not give this man his back.

  Lionel suddenly looked at the doorway. “Rachel?” he asked.

  Eddy started, turning to look, thinking, Damn it, I told her to go to sleep. He was expecting to find her standing in the doorway of Lionel’s suite, but he was wrong. The threshold was vacant. It was the old
est trick in the book. And as he was faced with a glimpse of the empty hall beyond, he felt the knife slicing across his throat and jugular.

  As he gripped Lionel’s wrists, he heard the gushing of his own blood, and in the mere seconds of life that were left to him, he thought, I’m dead. He’s won. The fucking bastard has won.

  A split second of life was left to him as Lionel released him and he fell, hard, to the floor. Blackness shrouded him.

  His last thought was Rachel.

  The blackness fell.

  Beyond it, there was so much light.

  Eddy did not return.

  The sun was shining brightly, as if it had not rained through half the night. It was a quarter past seven on Christmas Day, and Rachel was fully dressed. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come back?

  Rachel thought she might die of grief. Surely he would walk through her door at any moment.

  She had not gone back to sleep. About an hour after Eddy had left her, she hadn’t been able to stand the suspense any longer, and she had crept down the hall with a small candle. She had found the door to a man’s suite wide open, and two small lights burning within. The sitting room and the bedroom had both been empty, although a valise was at the foot of the settee, left carelessly open.

  She had seen dark, wet stains on the rug. Rachel had been afraid that they were bloodstains. An inspection had told her she was looking at soap and water.

  She had continued down the hall and through the house, telling herself that anything might have spilled on the rug, requiring Lionel to clean it up. The house had been huge and frightening, all darkness and shadows, and she had not been able to find either Lionel or Eddy.

  Now she heard footsteps in the corridor outside her bedroom door.

  Rachel dashed to the door and flung it open. She gripped the knob in shock, for Lionel was just coming in, clearly having taken an early morning horseback ride. He was in his riding boots and a hacking coat, and mud covered the leather uppers. “Lionel!” she exclaimed.

  “Oh, good morning, Rachel.” He smiled pleasantly at her, removing leather gloves. “It’s such a beautiful morning, I’ve been out riding. Did you sleep well?”

  Had he been out riding all night as well? “I haven’t slept at all,” she cried, her heart hammering uncomfortably. “Where is Eddy?”

  He stared. “What do you mean, where is Eddy? Isn’t he with you?” He blinked so innocently at her.

  She glared furiously at him. She was shaking now and only just aware of it. “He couldn’t sleep last night. He went downstairs, maybe for a drink, I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since!”

  “Really?” Lionel was so calm. He seemed mildly surprised. “Maybe he went out for a walk, the way I went out for a ride. I’m sure he’ll be back at any moment; after all, he has to report back to his command.” He came closer and took both of her hands in his. “Your hands are so cold!” he exclaimed.

  Rachel stared at his smooth, boyish, handsome face. She wanted to retch, for she was filled with revulsion, but she couldn’t seem to move and didn’t try to pull free of his grasp. “Where is he?” she whispered. “Please tell me what you’ve done with him!” Even as she spoke, Eddy’s words returned to haunt her.

  I smell a rat . . . he’s used you to lure me here.

  “Rachel, are you ill? You seem hysterical. What are you saying? I haven’t seen Eddy since we all retired last night.”

  Rachel shivered violently. Eddy had to be all right. Just because he hadn’t come back to their room did not mean that something horrible had befallen him. It didn’t mean that he was dead.

  “Rachel? Maybe you should sit down.”

  Rachel blinked and found herself staring into Lionel’s gray eyes. His tone had been concerned, but his eyes reflected nothing but emptiness.

  The comprehension seared her. He is a madman.

  Eddy’s voice filled her mind, so loud and clear it was as if he were standing right there beside her, speaking to her in that very moment. I think the best thing is for you to steer clear of him.

  Rachel whirled because she felt him there beside her, and she really did expect to see him standing behind her, smiling at her. No one was there; she faced a smiling portrait of an Elgin ancestor instead.

  Stay away from him, Rachel.

  The words were so crystal-clear. Perhaps she was the mad one.

  “Rachel.” Lionel took her hands again. “Do you want to lie down? Should I call Ellen? Perhaps you need a bit of tea.”

  She looked wildly at him. She couldn’t seem to think clearly now, no, she couldn’t seem to think at all. All she could seem to focus on was staying away from Lionel—she must stay away from him—it was what Eddy wanted. “I have to go, I’m late,” she cried, tearing herself free of his grasp and hurrying down the hall.

  Lionel followed her downstairs. “Rachel! Where are you going? Are you all right?”

  Rachel ran faster, tripping in her haste. She had to get away from him, she had to!

  “Rachel! Your coat!”

  Rachel flew across the foyer, hearing him, but only vaguely. His words did not sink in. She knew only that she had to get away from him and it was crucial, it was urgent. Her brain had formed a series of words, and it was a chant she could not shake.

  Eddy was dead.

  Rachel knew it because a few hours ago, a part of her had died as well.

  Rachel wandered into her father’s house. Papa and Hannah were in the kitchen, sipping tea and nibbling on toast. Papa was also reading the newspaper.

  He did not look up. Hannah did, and she cried out, leaping to her feet, when she saw Rachel’s expression.

  Rachel staggered into the doorway and hung on to it for her life.

  “Rachel,” Hannah whispered, all the color draining from her face. “Rachel, what is it? Oh God, has someone died?”

  Rachel nodded, the tears coming now in endless, silent streams. The pain inside her would kill her as well, and soon, she realized. She did not care.

  “Not . . . Sarah?” Hannah gasped, unmoving.

  Papa looked up, eyes wide.

  So he had heard; so he was human after all. “Eddy,” Rachel whispered, and then the pain went through her like a lance, and for the first time in her life, she fainted.

  She awoke on the sofa. Sarah had laid a wet compress on her head, and Hannah held her hand. Papa stood in the center of the parlor, his eyes upon her. Rachel looked at Sarah.

  “What happened?” Sarah asked, ashen.

  “Eddy has disappeared,” Rachel said, struggling to sit up.

  “He’s disappeared?” Sarah cried.

  Rachel nodded, and the tears began all over again. It was impossible to speak.

  “You mean he was shot down?” Sarah asked grimly.

  Rachel looked from one sister to the other. Then she looked at Papa. “My husband is dead,” she whispered. The grief was too strong, she could not speak. But Papa met her gaze for the first time in four months, just before she collapsed, sobbing, in her sister’s arms.

  Also weeping, Hannah fled upstairs.

  Papa came over and laid his hand on her shoulder. “I am sorry,” he said.

  It was too late.

  That afternoon Rachel told the authorities all that she knew. But Eddy Marshall had disappeared, and it was two weeks before his body was found in a lake just north of Elgin Hall. It was the same day that Rachel learned she was pregnant with his child.

  PART FIVE

  A STRANGER IN OUR MIDST

  CHAPTER 22

  Claire paced the waiting area of the emergency room at New York–Presbyterian, choking with fear. She had one coherent thought. She could not lose Ian now.

  A police car had actually been driving by as the shooting occurred, and while the shooter had gotten away, an ambulance had arrived only moments later. Claire had given her statement to the police, while Ian was being sped toward the nearest hospital. She had then called Leonard Feinstein, Ian’s boss. Both of his numbers were stored in Ian’s
cell phone. She had snatched it from him while he was on a stretcher awaiting surgery in the chaos of a corridor in emergency, all the while trying to tell her that he was okay and that being shot in the back was no big deal.

  It had been a rotten time to play hero, Claire thought now, tears coming to her eyes.

  And the last thing he had said to her, or tried to say to her, as he was being wheeled away was “Lisa, Claire. Call Lisa.”

  His FBI-agent sister. Claire didn’t even know her last name, but if she was single, it was Marshall. And it might still be Marshall even if she was married.

  “Claire?”

  Claire looked up at the sound of a stranger’s voice. A middle-aged man with dark hair and graying temples was approaching. He wore an impeccable suit and was rather good-looking; he also exuded an aura of wealth and authority. “Is he still in surgery?” he asked.

  “Are you Leonard Feinstein?”

  “Yes. Are you okay?”

  Tears filled her eyes. “No. Damn it, I’m in love with him,” she heard herself cry.

  Leonard was grim. “Let me find out what’s going on,” he said.

  Claire nodded and watched him walk over to the reception desk. She had no doubt that he would get the answers she had not been able to get herself. Claire looked at Ian’s phone. Then she sank into a chair and opened up the digital phone book. Sure enough, Lisa Marshall had three listings. Claire chose the number of her cell phone and dialed. There was no answer, so she left a voice mail.

  Leonard returned. “He’s being taken to his room. She was reluctant, but I told her that you’re his fiancée.” He smiled a little. “He’s okay, Claire. They dug a slug out of his shoulder; Ian’s lucky the shooter missed.”

  Claire shuddered. “Thank God.”

  “What happened?” Leonard sat down next to her. “Did you see the shooter?”

  “No. And I already told the police everything about Ian and Elgin. I hope I did the right thing.”

  He patted her hand. “You did. We’re the good guys, remember? We follow the rules, we don’t break them.” His expression changed. “Shall we go see how our buddy’s doing?”