by Winona Kent
“What?” she whispered.
“Hamelin. And Mara.”
“Oh, no!”
Ian was silent, thinking, his eyes fixed to the back wall of the stage.
“Maybe they won’t come up here.”
He looked at Charlotte, then stared at the wall again.
“It’s all my fault. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should have stayed down by the door. I should have been there.”
“Be quiet,” Ian whispered. Mara and Hamelin were talking, standing in the center aisle, unaware they were being overhead. Ian kept one hand on the safety catch of his Beretta, the other on the trigger, ready. In case.
“Where was the ambulance found?” Hamelin queried.
“Behind the first dormitory building.”
“Empty?”
“Our two gentlemen employees were minus their clothing and wrapped head to toe in white gauze bandages,” Mara said, a slight note of amusement in her voice. “The gauze had been saturated with a sort of…glue…before it was applied to their bodies.”
In behind the crate, Ian grinned. Charlotte stared at him. What was so funny about that?
“Glue?” Hamelin inquired.
“Yes, a sort of…bonding glue. You know.”
“And the boy?”
“We can’t find him,” Mara replied. “He is on the grounds, somewhere.”
They were walking toward the stage. Ian tensed, getting up on his knees, pressing the side of his face close to the crate. Behind him, Charlotte hugged her knapsack close. She kept her eyes on the back of his neck.
“I suggest we do our utmost to locate him,” Hamelin said. “His usefulness to us is now, of course, negligible: We have the microfilm. But I still don’t like the thought of him lurking about, unaccounted for and unaccountable.”
Ian raised his head. They had the microfilm? Since when?
They stopped short of the stage. Ian held his breath, counting the seconds until they were out of viewing range. They turned and walked back to the center aisle, still discussing Robin’s disappearance and the squadron of guards who’d been dispatched to find him.
Ian stuck his head around the corner of the crate, watching their backs, the gun still cradled in both hands. Charlotte poked her head over the top. She could see Mara, her yellow robe and strappy black high-heeled sandals a contradiction in tastes—like Stella Stevens playing a movie nun with gobs of black mascara and glossy pink lipstick.
Hamelin pulled the door open and they were gone. Ian relaxed.
He was about to remark to Charlotte how glad he was he didn’t have to pull the trigger and complicate their lives in incredible ways, when something very cold and very hard rammed up against the side of his head, a pressure point behind his ear. He lifted his eyes. It was one of the high financiers from Hamelin’s office. He had a gun of his own, and its snout was buried in Ian’s hair. His free arm was around Charlotte, crushing her against him, his hand cruelly covering her mouth.
“Tag,” said the man, with a slight smile. “You’re It.”
Giselle knocked on the door to Anthony’s room and tried the handle. It was locked.
“Ian!” she whispered. “Let me in!”
There was movement on the other side. “Who is this?”
“What do you mean, who is this? It is Giselle. Who is this?”
The door was unlocked, and opened. Giselle slipped inside. “Robin?”
“I remember you,” Robin said warily. “Endless nuclear winter.” He locked the door behind her.
“What are you doing here?”
“I don’t know,” he replied. “One minute, there I was, soaring down Oak Street in an airborne Chevette. The next, I was in bed down the hallway with all of my clothes gone and a killer of a headache. What are you doing here?”
“I am on an assignment. I was sent.”
Robin looked at her. “By who?”
“By the department. The same one your father is working for.”
Robin didn’t say anything. The entire Pacific Northwest was peopled with spies. There weren’t enough civilians left to protect anymore. Trust nobody.
“Why do you want Ian?” he said.
“He was to meet me here, in this room.” Seeing the very peculiar look Robin was giving her, she added, “He is partners with me. You understand?”
“I think I’m beginning to,” he answered, slowly. Ian, too?
Giselle went over to the bed. She lifted the blanket, uncovering Anthony’s boots where his head should have been, nestling comfortably on the pillow.
Robin tugged at the bottom end of the bed covers. He bent over and studied his brother’s face.
“I think he must be asleep,” he said. “Or dead.”
Giselle sat down. She ran her hand over Anthony’s head, and he stirred, without waking. Robin walked across to the window, staring out at the graveled alley behind the dormitory and the stand of fir trees. It was very dark out there, and wet. He opened the window an inch. Smelled like the country, and forests. Nice. Fresh. He could hear the rain falling to the ground in gentle whispers. Where was Evan?
“I have a helicopter in the field, beyond the airstrip,” Giselle was saying. “If Ian is much more delayed, perhaps you should go there with Anthony and wait.”
Robin peered out the window. Things were happening too quickly: great chunks of the day had gone missing. He had the feeling he was losing control, that his very existence had been taken, utterly and completely, out of his hands. Life had been so simple before Evan had shown up. Life had been so—ordinary.
Larry Hamelin studied the two individuals who sat before him, straight-backed, in the plastic chairs. On the stage rested the evidence against them: one Beretta, with a modified fifteen-shot clip; one Adidas bag, half full of plastic explosives, detonators, wires—the accoutrements of a saboteur; one knapsack containing an archaic armament Hamelin was certain he had seen before, but couldn’t quite place. It was Mara who identified the gun from the television series.
“This is too amusing,” she said, holding it up, balancing it in her hands. “Our special secret weapon. Where on earth did you locate such a thing?”
“She got it from the fan club,” Ian replied, before Charlotte had the opportunity to open her mouth. “They trade them—for videotapes, comic books. It isn’t real.”
“It certainly looks real,” Mara replied, scrutinizing the barrel, clip, and silencer.
“It isn’t,” Ian repeated.
“Yours is, though,” Mara replied, putting the Spy Squad Special down in favor of the lightweight Beretta.
Ian remained silent.
“What could you be thinking of, Oran? Trying to blow up my community?” Hamelin seemed truly disappointed. His eyes no longer beaded steel-gray: they were soft, liquid, dark in the half-lit auditorium. He rested his weight against the apron of the stage, his feet, in their Birkenstocks and woolly ski socks, poking out from beneath his robe.
“I think he was sent,” Mara said, gliding along the floor in front of the chairs. “I think they both were.”
Ian folded his arms. Escape was out of the question. The guy with the gun on him was probably a crack shot. So, very likely, was the fellow who had that bizarre-looking automatic elephant cannon aimed at Charlotte. He’d never seen a weapon like it. Talk about the realm of fantasy…
“What about it, then?” Mara said, pausing in front of Ian. He met her glare with one of his own, solid, unblinking. “Who sent you here?”
“I was hired,” Ian said, transferring his attention to Hamelin. “Remember?”
“Yes,” Mara replied, “but to write—not to blow us all to kingdom come.” She gave Hamelin a grim, thin-lipped smile. “He’s made a fool out of you,” she said, under her breath. “Leave him to me.”
Hamelin gazed sadly at the oldest son of the man who had discredited him all those years ago in Hollywood.
He had the temerity of his father. And whatever his real business was here, in Dehra Dun, he certainly wasn�
�t going to part willingly with the details. An agent of his government, dispatched to destroy the movement? Or a simple urban terrorist, guided by personal satisfaction?
He had more important things to worry about now. Codes to be recorded, data to be retrieved—
“One hour,” he agreed, nodding at Mara, and then at the two men who were guarding the prisoners. “You’ll allow her one hour, and no more. And lock that girl up somewhere safe. She might shed some light on this matter later.”
Ian watched him leave. He felt slightly sorry for the man. Always had. He observed, with somewhat more emotion, Charlotte being dragged away through a doorway at the side of the stage.
He turned his attention back to Lesley Towne, who was now meaning to make the most of her sixty minutes alone with him. Well, relatively alone, anyway. The other guard, he supposed, was going to act as audience.
This might possibly turn out to be the greatest acting experience of his life.
“Well,” she said, barely managing to conceal the delight on her face. “This is cozy, isn’t it?” She reached across and fingered the collar of Ian’s shirt, and the pale gray wool sweater he was wearing on top. “We’ll have these off, for a start.”
Chapter Fifteen
Later Still
Handy Andy, age indeterminate, with his long, dirty white hair and his wispy beard—the sort of growth that tended to capture samples of whatever he’d scrounged for breakfast and lunch that day—was feeling lucky. He’d been saved. He’d met a doggone nice fella on the sidewalk after the party. He had a bellyful of tea—godawful tasteless stuff, but it was warm and it was free. And he’d stayed away from those little green pills he’d got warned about.
Handy Andy flopped down on the bottommost step leading into the first dormitory building and rubbed his neck. All them muscles back there was refusing to behave. Could do with one of them horse collars, he thought, eyeing the ambulance somebody’d had the good sense to park right outside, across the way there.
He wandered over, dumping the oversized shopping bag he always carried with him onto the ground. Somebody’d sure made a mess in there: bandages all over the place. Decent stuff, though. Shame to waste ‘em. He helped himself to one of the rolls, unwinding it and poking it through the loops in his pants, making a stretchy white gauze belt. And there was one of them nice horse collars he was looking for, sitting pretty in a box.
Handy Andy fastened it around his neck, taking great pains to exclude his beard. That sure felt good. A small tot of whiskey for the ache in his ribs, and he’d be a happy man.
He picked up his shopping bag and meandered back to the dormitory steps, his chin and neck getting used to the immobility of the collar. Wonder what’s inside this place, he thought, squinting up. Wonder if I should go take a little look. He pulled on the door. It was open.
Maybe I’ll find me some of that whiskey, he thought, as he mounted the inside staircase, one step at a time. Maybe I’ll find me a good-hearted woman, to keep me warm tonight.
Anthony had woken up and had decided to sing. He hadn’t really been fast asleep, anyway. He’d been fooling them, listening to his brother and Giselle, their voices all gassy and colorful, like vaporous kites. Robin was red and Giselle was blue, and when they both talked together they created a wonderful mauve, which was all right with Anthony, because it looked quite nice up against the emerald green sky. Which might have been the ceiling. Or a blanket. Or the pillowcase he’d put over his head like a hood until Pooh made him take it off in case he stopped breathing.
So he sang some songs, and Giselle came over to the bed and sat down and held his hand and said, “Do you think you could perhaps only hum, instead?” And Pooh said, “Do you think you could perhaps shut up altogether?” And then Giselle left to look for Ian.
Soon after, there was a scrabbling noise at the door like Mrs. Peel wanting to be let inside after a yellow-eyed prowl around the mountain. He ducked beneath the blankets.
Robin put his mouth to the crack. “What do you want?” he whispered.
“Eh?” said the voice on the other side.
“Who is this?” he countered, suspiciously.
“Ya got any booze in there, pal? Ya got any whiskey?”
Robin silently slid the dead bolt open, held his breath, and flung the door back, at the same time nimbly pulling the old man inside, hurtling him to the floor.
“Hey,” the old man groaned, “watch the ribs, eh?”
Robin looked at his hands, surprised. All this judo and kung fu business—nothing to it. The trick was maintaining the unexpected. He folded his arms and glared at the man. Mess with me, and die.
The old fellow straightened up, making a great show of rearranging his clothing and ensuring that the contents of his bag were intact. He peered around the room.
“Swank,” he said, impressed. “I sure am glad I come to this place to get saved. Sure does beat the hell outta the hostel back in Vancouver.”
Robin stayed where he was: he really didn’t want to get too close to the guy again. He looked as though he had bugs. Itchy things. Contagious. He smelled like liniment and cooking oil. The old man staggered toward him, and Robin backed away.
“How you feelin’?” The old fellow grinned, advancing, waving his filthy gloved hand in Robin’s face. “How’s the head?”
Robin unfolded his arms, ready to fend off the lice and ringworm with Hollywood karate, then stopped, staring closely at the creature in the Sally Ann seconds and laceless boots. The guy had intense green eyes. And the straightest, whitest set of teeth he’d ever seen on a Granville Mall spare-change artist.
“Evan!” he shouted, leaping forward, flinging his arms joyously around the stained vest, hugging the warm body beneath.
His father, a little surprised, hugged back. His ribs were being crushed. It didn’t matter.
“I’m so glad to see you!” Robin refused to let go. “I thought you were dead.”
“I feel like death warmed over,” Evan answered, “but I’m not dead yet. I don’t think.”
“What are you doing dressed like that? Why are we here?”
Evan sat down on the bed. The mattress seemed extraordinarily lumpy.
“We’re here,” he said, “because we were hijacked. In an ambulance. By Berringer and Grosch. And we haven’t left yet because while I was semiconscious in the back, somebody else came along and relieved me of my wallet, the microfilm, and the tape.”
There were gaps in Evan’s memory. He’d heard voices, male and female—an altercation on the side of the road. Much later, he’d come to again, to find Berringer and Grosch unconscious in the front, his I. D. gone, and the ambulance stalled in a blind turnoff near the highway.
“They took everything from the Chevette that might identify me and put it in the ambulance,” Evan said. “Rental agreement, license plates, that box of movie gear I had in the back. Which accounts for the way I look. I thought I’d best disguise myself if I was going to try and retrieve my possessions.”
“You brought us here?” Robin said.
“I drove the ambulance onto the grounds, yes.”
The mattress he was sitting on really did have a peculiar shape. He lifted the edge of the blanket to have a look at what was lurking underneath.
“Anthony,” he said, somewhat taken aback to discover his middle son with a pillowcase over his head. The Doctor Who scarf had given his identity away: it was wrapped around his neck and knotted like a tie, both long ends trailing off in the direction of his legs.
“I’m invisible,” said the voice.
“Are you really?” Evan replied, glancing at Robin.
“Little green pills,” his youngest son answered, producing the container from the pocket of his robe.
“Little green pills,” Evan repeated, thoughtfully. He peeked under the pillowcase.
“Boo,” said Anthony, beaming. His expression clouded momentarily, then cleared as he made sense out of his father’s disguise. “I knew it was you.”
“I knew it was you, too,” Evan replied.
“I have a secret.”
Evan eyed his son with amusement. “Want to see?”
Oh no, Robin thought, wearily—not this again.
“OK,” Evan said, unprepared.
With great pride, Anthony showed his father his arms.
“That’s very interesting, Anthony,” Evan said, his voice, his face, behind the makeup and beard, not changing. “How did you manage to get those?”
“Guess.”
“I don’t dare.” He looked up at Robin. “How’d that happen?” he asked, quietly.
“I’m not sure,” his son replied, sitting down on the other side of the bed, so that Anthony was between the two of them. He leaned back and lifted a copy of Design for Living out of the drawer in the bedside table. “Something to do with one of these conscience exercises. You should ask Giselle—she’s the authority on this place. I’ve only just arrived.”
Evan flipped through the booklet, pausing here and there to peruse selected paragraphs. He stopped cold when he reached the section on conscience exercises, and briefly read the description beneath the first subheading.
“This is from Spy Squad,” he said, surprised yet again—surprised that he was actually able to remember that far back. “It was a script that was never produced—in our last season. Hamelin didn’t write it. We’d replaced him by then.”
“He must have known the person who did write it, though,” Robin speculated, “to have got hold of the idea.”
Evan nodded, thinking. “Lesley,” he said. “Lesley Towne. It was her story. Yes—and it was never shot because of objections from the sponsors. And the network. We were forced to go with something a bit less offensive to their sensibilities, thrown together at the last minute. I do remember…” He scrutinized the paragraph once more, the description, and then considered his middle son.
“The Bagraj doesn’t like you,” Anthony said.
“Yes, I know.” Evan surveyed the two deep burn marks on Anthony’s forearms. “I suppose this is his own little way of reminding me that he’s still alive and kicking. An indelible signature, as it were.” He brushed a few stray strands of hair out of his son’s eyes. “Hurt much?”
