The Lazarus Trap

by Davis Bunn

  Loupe placed a pair of sandwiches on a second plate and settled back into his seat. He did not touch the food either. “He was an absurd figure, no doubt. Standing in a wilderness of mud and death, draped in a tattered uniform and waving a bayonet because his saber had been broken on a helmet or a rifle or a tank. We were all dressed in rags. Our boots we had stolen off the bodies of fallen comrades. We were starving, of course. That is what I remember most about my war years. The hunger. That and the smell. The odor of a battlefield is so fierce it leaves you unable to taste anything fully ever again. I was always famished. When I arrived in London I weighed one hundred and nine pounds. I was twenty-three years old.”

  Terrance leaned forward far enough to set the plate down on the newspaper. Wally stared straight ahead, apparently blind and deaf to all that surrounded her. In a flash of insight, Terrance understood her disconnectedness. This was no run-down tenement in a city she knew. They were surrounded by an alien level of luxury, hosted by a gentleman of the old school. The woman was utterly out of her element. Which, truth be told, suited Terrance just fine. He was the master performer when it came to power and privilege. This was his realm.

  “Newly arrived in England,” Loupe continued, “I assumed I was invincible. After all, I had survived the Nazis and the Reds. But Stalin was not my worst enemy, Mr. d’Arcy. Time is such a subtle foe. You think you have mastered everything. But in the end, time always wins. Look at me. Seventy-four, no sons, no one I can trust with my business. So a mistake has been made, and I must personally travel out to meet you, and apologize.”

  Terrance set his coffee cup down. “Tell me what happened.”

  “I assure you, Mr. d’Arcy, we took your request most seriously. I sent two good men to cover this job. I had formerly considered them to be some of my most reliable people.”

  Loupe’s accent was such a subtle shading it was almost lost behind his careful diction. Clearly the man had spent a fortune on elocution. “They failed?”

  “An utter shambles.” No amount of plastic surgery could fully hide the creases of concern. “Your man is alive and back in England.”

  Rain began falling heavily. The only sounds inside the Bentley were the gentle thunking of the wipers and Loupe’s recounting of the foiled attack. The two people occupying the front seats remained motionless. Wally might as well have been turned to dark-haired stone.

  “The only bit of good news is that your man has not come close to the Jersey bank. My men are now stationed there twenty-four hours of the day.” Loupe mused to the side window. “I am thinking that perhaps I might leave them there on permanent assignment as punishment for having failed us.”

  The Bentley pulled through an arched stone gate and entered the grounds of a palatial hotel. “Where is our man now?” Terrance asked.

  “We are doing our utmost to determine that, Mr. d’Arcy. And I can assure you that there will be no second failure. I intend to personally ensure that everything is done according to our agreement. And done swiftly.” Loupe nodded as the bellhop opened his door and bid them welcome. “We’ll give you a night to recover from your journey, and tomorrow we shall go on the attack.”

  VAL PLACED THE CALL FROM THE CHEERLESS FRONT ROOM OF A rundown guesthouse, just another weary brick rowhouse in a street by the port. The front room had a small television set by the windows overlooking the street. The program was something about gardening. A trio of truckers snored beerily from the sofa, the grime and fatigue of constant travel a stain as deep as their tattoos. The wall clock claimed it was only nine, but the night felt eons old. Val sat in an alcove formed by removing the door from a rear closet. The walls were carpeted and smelled of ten thousand cigarettes. The telephone was brown plastic and had a counter that counted down the seconds remaining before he had to feed in more coins. Val unfurled the rumpled page with Audrey’s number and dialed.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me, Audrey. I’m sorry to be calling so late.”

  Her tone instantly went frigid. “Did you do it?”

  “Not the four hundred million like they’re saying.”

  “That’s not what I asked. Did you or did you not steal money from the company?”

  “This is not the sort of greeting I was expecting.”

  “I take that as a yes.”

  Her voice was so arctic Val felt it necessary to beg. “Don’t hang up. Please.”

  “You of all people. Never in a million years would I have thought you capable of such a thing. Why ever did you do it?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Hardly the most brilliant of excuses.”

  “I was sort of hoping for a different reception. You know. After your letter.”

  “Forget the letter, Val. That was before.”

  “Before what?”

  “Just put the letter down as the ramblings of a distraught woman. Pay it no mind.”

  Val’s pay telephone beeped a warning signal. The slot where he fed in coins was stubborn, as though even the apparatus was trying to tell him it was a mistake to have called. “How did you know? About my taking the money, I mean.”

  “Don’t be daft. Terrance is my brother, remember? His forte is finding another’s weakness and going on the attack.” She paused, then asked, “Where are you?”

  “Portsmouth. The Seaside Bed and Breakfast on Wyckham Lane.” Val felt her uncertain silence compress and squeeze. Leaving him no way out. “I really need your help, Audrey.”

  “You’re stubborn enough to think you’re doing the right thing when you’re only causing further harm. Which is precisely why I have to see you, I suppose. To ensure you don’t make matters worse than they already are.”

  She hung up on him then. A new first. As far as he could remember.

  The street held the night in a narrow embrace made slick by rain. A car coughed apologetically as it passed, the tires slicing dark rivulets along the asphalt. Val could have remained inside. But the guesthouse stank of the landlady’s constant cigarettes and the guests’ bleak weariness. Val had no idea whether Audrey would show up. He decided to wait for a time before letting the bed claim him. He extracted Audrey’s letter from his pocket, his movements slow. It was not that he wished for more of her instruction. He simply found comfort in unfolding the well-creased pages. The words revealed a woman who thought well of him. The knowledge of love, even one now past, warmed his bones.

  Val raised his gaze to find Audrey leaning against a car. She observed him with crossed arms and a hostile expression. The truth was, whatever she wanted to hit him with, he probably deserved it. He showed her the pages and said, “Your letter has meant an awful lot.”

  Audrey bit off the words very carefully. “I suppose it’s my nature to reach out. Even when the cause is utterly lost.”

  Val was determined not to offer her a reason to rage. He stowed the letter away and rose to his feet. “I just want you to know how grateful I am.”

  She stabbed the air between them with a blade of a hand. “I want one thing understood right here at the outset. You are not to try and draw me back in again.”

  Val remained mute, while his heart keened at her closeness and the distance between them.

  Audrey opened her door and slipped behind the wheel. “I suppose you’d better come along.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Home.”

  “Are you sure that’s—”

  She started the engine and jammed down on the gas pedal, drowning out his protest. “Just get in the car.”

  Her automobile was a vintage Rover, a boxy vehicle turned an indeterminate grey by the night and age. Val felt as though he knew the car, which was impossible, for he had never seen Audrey in England before. Of that he was certain, and little else. “Why did you come for me?”

  “You’d prefer I leave you for my brother to devour?” The car had an oversized steering wheel of hard plastic, which Audrey constantly kneaded. When Val did not respond, she finally said, “The police cam
e by.”

  “Why would they want to talk with you?”

  “Not me. My father. This could not have come at a worse time for him.”

  Val took this for the male voice on the phone, and breathed easier. “Is he sick?”

  “Dying, actually.” The words caught in a throat clenched taut. For the first time her stern facade cracked slightly. “The cancer has spread to his lymph nodes.”

  “I’m so sorry, Audrey.”

  “Everything that is good in me I owe to him.” She spoke with determined matter-of-factness, and patted the steering wheel. “Even this old dear of a car.”

  “You went back to care for him?”

  Her tone hardened instantly. “I left because you ordered me to go.”

  Passing headlights painted her in brief flashes. She looked so strong, so vibrant. Val could see so much of Terrance in her, the same determined set to her features, the same brilliant luster to the hair. But in Terrance everything was tainted. Never was Terrance’s twisted state more evident than now. “Tell me about the police.”

  “They came with some dreadful man in grey from the American embassy. He had some official title, I don’t recall what.” Audrey’s gaze reminded him of a lifetime seafarer. Her eyes appeared focused upon some infinite horizon. Even when she was looking at him. Like now. “They claim Pop was behind the theft.”

  “Why would Terrance take aim at his own father?”

  “You’ve forgotten all our discussions?”

  “I don’t remember a lot of things.”

  “In this case it’s perhaps for the better. My family’s history no longer concerns you. You’re here because we have to stop him before he does further damage to a fine, dear man.”

  Hastings preserved its medieval village charm even at night. Gas lamps lined the thoroughfares rising from the rocky beach. Tudor houses marched in complacent camaraderie up the steep slope. Beyond the market square and the ancient church tower glistened a holiday port. The sea had the radiant quality of oiled silk. The rain had stopped. Audrey waited until she parked in front of a thatched- roof house with walls of wattle and blackened beams to ask, “Did Terrance do that to your head?”

  “Not directly, no.” He did not hurt in any particular place so much as throb in general. Residual jet lag mixed with the day’s battering to form a potent mixture. “Where are we?”

  “My father’s house.”

  “This is a terrible idea, Audrey. Terrance’s hired goons attacked me on the boat to Jersey. They’re probably still on the island hunting for me. But there could be others.”

  She said in a tightly compressed voice, “You were just going to sail away, weren’t you?”

  “I was hoping you’d . . .” The closed door behind her eyes stopped him in midflow. He changed direction to, “Terrance has muscle on my trail. I don’t know how they tracked me to the boat, but they did. This wasn’t just some random attack. They wanted to kill me.”

  “I should have known. This is what you were planning all along, wasn’t it? This was why you stole.” Her face took on the pinched quality of having received the worst possible news. “Val, there is only one way to die to the past and all its burdens and mistakes. Stealing money and running away is not it.”

  “Please, Audrey, listen to what I’m saying. Terrance knows about us. Sooner or later they’ll come here looking for me.”

  “Oh, why on earth do I bother? You wouldn’t listen to me then. Change was your worst enemy. Why should now be any different?” She rose from the car and slammed the door. Her shoes clicked an angry pace up the stone walk. She unlocked the door and entered without a backward glance.

  Casting worried glances behind him, Val followed her inside. The home’s interior was as charming as outside. Beams thicker than his chest laced overhead. The floor was polished tongue-and-groove planking two hands broad. Val guessed the wood was oak, but centuries of polish had masked the grain. Antique brass candelabra had been refashioned to hold lightbulbs. The windows were squared with lead, the panes hand-blown and so old they had run like clear honey. Lamplight danced a soft tune upon antique furniture and a stone fireplace large enough to contain a bench and cooking station. The rooms smelled of beeswax and a roast.

  She was already busy in the kitchen. Audrey said through the framed partition separating her from the living room, “Do you think you might possibly delay running away by a few days?”

  “First I need to find someplace where you won’t be endangered.”

  She waved at him with the carving knife. “Let’s move beyond that, shall we? Are you or are you not going to help us stop Terrance?”

  “Who is we?”

  She finished slicing a lamb roast into thick slabs and began slapping hot English mustard on fresh bread. “Answer my question.”

  Val felt something ugly and unwelcome crawl around in his gut. Terrance had outmaneuvered him very badly. The attackers on the boat had terrified him. His entire focus had been on one single tactic. Cut and run.

  Audrey’s attitude became clear to him now. His conception of this woman and her state were entirely wrong. She was not pining away for him. Nor was she planning to help him escape. She had brought him here with the exact opposite in mind. And she was worried he would let her down.

  Again.

  The kettle whistled behind her. She moved with the efficient motions of an experienced chef, drawing out plates and saucers and cups, fixing a pot of tea, slicing fresh lemon, squeezing it into one cup, stirring in two heaping spoonfuls of sugar. Reaching through the partition and setting it on the counter for him. Val stared at the steaming mug. He was far less sure what he wanted than Audrey was.

  “Go tell Father his tea is ready. No doubt you’ll find him in the garden.”

  Nighttime had been banished from the rear of the house. Spotlights were fastened to the back wall, and others embedded in the garden soil. A postage stamp of a lawn was rimmed by flowers that sparkled from the recent storm. The perimeter wall was fifteen feet high and made from brick so old it was crumbling. The garden was on fire with color.

  Arthur d’Arcy puttered by the back wall and hummed a single faltering note, a soft message that his entire universe was bordered by these brick walls. Val stood in the doorway, breathing in the scent of tilled earth and an evening stolen from some softer season. Overhead he spotted a first star.

  “Mr. d’Arcy?”

  “Eh? Yes?” The old man slowly rose from his stoop. “Ah. You’re Audrey’s young man.”

  Val watched him ease up in very gradual stages. The hand holding the trowel was slightly curved, like a bird’s claw, and pressed tightly against the base of his ribcage. “Audrey says your tea is ready.”

  “Splendid.” He set the trowel down by the flowers he was planting and stripped off his gloves. “The weather has been positively atrocious, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Val pointed to where roses the size of pink dinner plates climbed the rear wall. “Those are some amazing flowers.”

  “Yes, my high walls trap the spring heat. That is, when there is any sun at all.” His walk was not quite a limp, but he carefully favored his left side. “But those roses have very little to do with me, I’m afraid. I trim them back each November and till in a bit of bone-meal every spring. The rest is up to God and nature. Have a look at the stems where they emerge from the earth. Thick around as your thigh, they are. I wouldn’t care to hazard a guess how long they’ve been standing sentry there by my wall, doing their proper duty each and every spring.”

  D’Arcy smiled at Val as he took the back steps one at a time. “Pity not all of life follows such a proper course, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Val matched his pace to the older man’s and followed him back inside. The home’s ease relaxed him so thoroughly that, in his already weakened state, he had trouble lifting his feet over the top step.

  Arthur d’Arcy washed his hands in the kitchen sink and asked his daughter, “What has he determined?”

  Audrey kep
t her gaze on her work. “Val hasn’t said.”

  The two of them stood by the back window, eating their sandwiches and sipping tea in the companionable silence of people who had long since left behind the need for empty chatter. Val’s provisions were stationed on the kitchen’s other side, a silent message that he was relegated to the fringe.

  Arthur reported to his daughter, “Gerald phoned you.”

  “What did he say?”

  “That he was back and he had your message.” Arthur held his cup out for refilling. “He said if you were absolutely certain, he would go along.”

  Audrey cut Val with a glance, but said nothing.

  Val stared through the partition to the empty living room. An ancient anger barely managed to flicker up through the blanket of fatigue. But he knew it was there, banked up and hidden behind the same walls that kept out most of his memories.

  Val turned around. He could hear weariness gum up his words, but could do nothing about it. “What exactly is it you want?”

  Arthur smiled slightly, then buried it in his cup.

  His daughter replied. “Terrance drained the British company’s pension fund. He has blamed it on my father. Now we learn that the plant is due for closure.”

  “Spun off, I believe is the word they’re using.” Arthur shrugged. “The employees will be left penniless. This simply cannot be permitted.”

  “They’re going to blame it on Dad. They’ve said he might be brought up on charges.”

  “Hardly a major concern,” Arthur replied. “Given my current state.”

  “I won’t let that happen.”

  Val stared down at his hands. He knew what the next step should be. Not even the weight bearing down on his eyelids could keep that out. He told them, “I need access to a computer wired into the company system.”

  “Listen to you,” Audrey said. “You’re asleep on your feet.”

  Arthur drained his cup. “Gerald should be able to arrange that.”

  “Who’s Gerald?”

  “A chief engineer at the company,” Arthur explained. “Splendid chap. My former protégé.”