Judgement by Fire

by Lydia Grace

  “Why don’t I just come out there and see what the problem is?” he said gently, reaching behind him for his suit jacket.

  Elizabeth nodded gratefully and left the office. Jon’s searching hands came into contact with the chair back, and he realized he’d left the jacket in his own office. His mobile phone was in the coat pocket where he’d slipped it earlier, and he cursed quietly. Supposing someone—Stephen? Lauren? —had tried to reach him on the mobile number? He’d better get to his jacket as soon as he’d dealt with whatever problem Elizabeth had brought him.

  Chapter 15

  The man pacing the short length of the accounts department reception area was tall and thin, but exuded an almost electrical energy from every inch of his wiry frame from the top of his springy-curled head to the toes of his highly polished black shoes. Seeing Jon, he pushed the wire-rimmed glasses back up on the bridge of his nose and strode forward, covering the distance in a couple of steps, his hand outstretched.

  “At last, someone in authority. And to whom am I speaking, please?” he demanded, his peculiarly old-fashioned phrasing instantly explained by the slight Eastern European accent.

  “I’m Jon Rush, president of Rush Co.,” Jon said, shaking the other man’s offered hand. “This young lady tells me you have some kind of accounting problem?”

  “I’ll just say I do…company president? The Jon Rush?” the man hesitated suspiciously as if he was about to become the victim of a joke.

  “Without a doubt, yes,” Jon replied seriously. “You’re right, I don’t normally answer problems brought to the accounts reception desk, but things have been a little—er, strange around here and it looks like I’m the only available person right now.”

  The man focused an intense look on him for a moment, then relaxed. “Yes, well, everything seems strange at the moment. We have an exhibit, yes, the finest in Toronto: Ontario Wildlife. We are run off our feet, clients everywhere, even the artists behave themselves, and I know right then that everything has gone too well.”

  Jon almost smiled at the dramatic intensity of the man, but his lips froze in the middle of the act. Ontario Wildlife? Wasn’t that the exhibition that Lauren had been taking part in, the one where she’d met that guy Wallace? Stephen Wallace. Jon’s stomach plummeted like a runaway elevator and the pulse at his temple began to pound. He had a fleeting crazy thought that now he knew how Wily Coyote felt when he saw the cartoon boulder dropping towards him from the top of the canyon, then struggled to focus as the visitor began to speak.

  “I’m Victor Schenko,” he announced, ignoring Jon’s abstracted expression. “And I have come to demand to know why a check I take in good faith, payment for two beautiful paintings by an even more beautiful young lady, why this check is returned to me by the mighty Rush Co.? Surely,” he added dryly, “it is not that you have run out of money?”

  Jon swallowed hard against the fear that was building in his chest. “What reason were you given?” he asked quietly.

  “That stupid woman, she tells me it is as the letter says that the signature on the check is unknown to Rush Co., and even though it is one of your checks, I must get some further authorization.”

  Jon wished he could turn around, walk away. He wished he hadn’t already guessed what was coming next. But he did—and the normally spacious offices had suddenly become airless and too close.

  “Do you have the check with you? Could I see it?” he asked Schenko.

  “Of course I have it with me,” the other man looked at Jon as if he was a total idiot. “Would I come on this matter without the proof? And it was lucky, too, that I put it away in my briefcase last night, and took it home with me. Overnight my little gallery was broken into, my office wrecked, papers torn and thrown around from the files!”

  “It was the strangest thing, too. Even though we took a lot of money for the exhibit, it is deposited in the bank every evening. Everyone knows this. No one in Toronto ever keeps money in the office over night any longer. It is not safe. So you think when thieves break into an art gallery, what do they take? Do they take the valuable paintings on the wall? Do they take the prints? No, they ransack the office and they take nothing!”

  “It does sound strange, all right,” Jon said, although he knew it wasn’t really strange at all. Not when you had all the parts of the puzzle. And he knew, in a few moments, he would look at Mr. Schenko’s check and the last piece of the puzzle would fall into place. His stomach roiled in rebellion against the tension that flooded him.

  “Here is the check, and that is the invoice with the delivery instructions. The signature on the delivery chit is the superintendent at the building, who had a key and let my delivery men in.”

  Jon was sure his hand would shake, and was surprised to see his fingers quite steady, as he took the papers from the other man’s long, thin hands. It was a Rush Co. check without a doubt. With a signature that did not belong to anyone at Rush Co. authorized to sign checks. The name wasn’t unfamiliar, although Jon could see why the clerical staff had returned the check unpaid. It was signed with a bold, flourishing script: Stephen Wallace.

  Clipped to it was a delivery notice/invoice: two small paintings in acrylic by Lauren Stephens. The address was familiar too; it was Stephen Rush’s expensive city center condominium.

  *

  Lauren had finished her shower and was just blow-drying her short, wavy hair when the doorbell sounded, its gruff chimes echoing in the small studio. She guessed it would be Tom Perry back to take up sentry duties again after his brief tour of duty at the Highway 401 collision site. She’d already pulled on old jeans and an oversized tee-shirt, and felt decent enough to answer the door, padding barefoot across the smooth pine planks. There was still time to offer the likeable young man a warming cup of coffee while she got ready for the ABC committee meeting, and Lauren had a welcoming grin on her face as she pulled the big front door open.

  The grin quickly faded to a watered-down version of itself as she saw the man standing on her doorstep.

  Forcing a friendly note into her voice, hoping that he wouldn’t see the impatience in her eyes, she greeted him, “Stephen? This is a surprise.”

  “Hello, Lauren. I was in the area and thought I’d call in to see you. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” Stephen Wallace gave that charming grin of his, only now the chill in his eyes was very evident.

  “Gosh, Stephen, I wish you’d called ahead. You see, I have to go out, a committee meeting…” Lauren stammered, good manners warring with this instinctive warning of danger that filled her senses.

  “Hey, I’m a long way from home and its cold out here. You’re not going out dressed like that I’m sure. At least I could get a coffee from you while you’re making yourself presentable,” the tall blond man said affably, and if his sharp eyes picked up the flash of anger on Lauren’s face at his presumption, he showed no sign. Instead, he bulldozed past her into the cozy living area of the studio.

  “This is certainly pleasant,” he said, his eyes taking in the motley collection of cast-off furniture. “I’m glad you invited me.”

  Lauren bit back a retort, furnished him with a hospitable dose of coffee, and slammed into her bedroom to change. How dare he comment on what she chose to wear! And he’d taken no effort to disguise the contempt at her less-than-salubrious furnishings! Deliberately, she retained the worn jeans and simply pulled a thick cotton sweater on over the baggy tee shirt, dragged a brush through her hair, and swiped a lipstick across her full mouth.

  She was already telling herself that remaining in the clothes he’d criticized was a pathetic and unnecessary bit of rebellion as she stepped out from her loft bedroom onto the balcony that overlooked the living room. Feeling contrite enough to be nice to the man for a few minutes until she had to leave—after all, he had had the good taste to buy two of her paintings! Lauren looked over the rail, intending to call some pleasantry to him, but her breath caught in her throat, and the world took a dizzying spin on its axis. When it ha
d steadied, everything was the same—and completely changed. For Stephen had drawn back the living room drapes and was standing with his back to the room staring out of the window. For a moment, his back view had reminded her of Jon—and then memory had come crashing back in on a wave of fear.

  The last time she’d seen this back profile, she’d called after him, running to catch up and thinking he was Jon Rush. And a horrific blast had blown her from her feet, deafening her and knocking her unconscious with its force. Then, she’d thought the tall figure was that of the man she loved. Now she saw that it was a sick parody.

  “Oh, damn, my bag,” she said, striving for a tone of irritated normality in her voice as she found a mundane excuse to return to her room and the bedside phone that waited there. With shaking fingers she began to dial the local police number, but the handset was cold and unresponsive in her hands. Someone—her thoughts flew to the man downstairs—had disconnected the telephone line…but why? He’d have to be crazy to come after her like this. Probably there was a reasonable explanation, Lauren told herself as she sat down heavily on her bed, breathing deeply to ward off panic.

  Like Paul Howard, she was convinced that the same person was behind the destruction of her studio, the incident with the truck, and the burning of the information center. Ergo, the same person must have some connection to Rush Co. She remembered Jon’s theory that the same individual had caused the incidents that had been occurring at his company over the past few months. What connection could Stephen Wallace possibly have with Jon Rush?

  Oh, God….what if she’d got things the wrong way around? What if Jon was in danger because of her? The very thought brought shivers of horror through her, yet also a glimmer of hope. If this was about some sick stalker’s fantasy—and she had little trouble seeing Stephen Wallace in that role—then she could put an end to it, protect Jon from any danger.

  Yeah and maybe just get yourself a little hurt in the process, the little voice in her mind was sneering, but Lauren knew she could detect fear behind the bravado.

  Not if I play this right—Babycop will be back soon, and then… she replied.

  So you’d risk that poor kid being hung out to dry as well?

  No, I’ll contact Chief Ohmer…

  And how you goin’ to do that? Telepathy? The voice in her head mocked, and her eyes were drawn to the lifeless phone in her hands. Lauren swallowed, trying to keep back the fear that was honing her nerves to screaming point.

  She didn’t hear him come in, not until her brown leather purse was dropped on the bed alongside her, and her startled gaze flew up to meet his mocking, contemptuous look.

  “Ah, there it is. Wherever did you find it?” she said brightly, grasping the bag to her as if the soft leather could afford protection from a world gone mad.

  “It was downstairs, on the table by the door, where you probably always keep it,” there was no mistaking the sarcasm in his tone. “Did you mistake the telephone for your bag? Or were you going to telephone around to see if anyone knew where it was?”

  Lauren colored. He knows you know, the voice in her head confirmed.

  But what do I know? She asked.

  Too much, the voice replied sadly. Lauren bit her lip, then pasted a puzzled expression on her face and tried to look Stephen in the eye.

  “Don’t be silly, of course not. I was trying to call one of the other committee members to check on the time of the meeting, see if maybe we had time for a beer at the tavern beforehand.” Lauren tried to smile sweetly at him, but knew the rictus of her lips was a dismal failure when she saw anger flash in his eyes.

  “That would be nice. Why don’t you phone, then?”

  “Because…because the phone doesn’t seem to be working. I…I guess the lines are down or something. Happens a lot out here.”

  “Did you think that luring me up to your bedroom might put other thoughts in my head and save your pretty skin?” his voice was almost caressing, but the suggestion came so far out of left field that Lauren gasped as she absorbed the words.

  “Good God, Stephen!” she managed to croak. “Just what do you think I am?”

  Anger tightened whitely around his mouth and flushed red across his cheekbones as he grabbed her by the upper arm, his fingers biting painfully into her soft flesh.

  “I cut the telephone lines, Lauren. You can’t call out and have one of your boyfriends come running to save you,” Stephen ground out, his voice hoarse with fury. “And just so you’ll know, I think you’re a lying, cheating whore and I’d sooner lie down with one of the working girls from Jarvis Street than touch you. At least they’re honest about their whoring!”

  As he spoke, he pulled her to her feet, dragging her from the bedroom. Halfway down the stairs, he turned to her again, and this time Lauren shrank back from the madness that peered out from his eyes.

  “I’ve seen you, fornicating with my cousin, tempting him with your naked body, offering him everything you should have been giving to me,” he spat.

  Fear galvanized Lauren and she lunged forwards, driving her knee upwards at Stephen. But he moved too fast, and instead of hitting delicate parts, she only caught him a glancing blow on the thigh. Nevertheless, he howled in pain, releasing his grip on her arm as she wrenched herself away. Before she could turn to flee, Stephen lashed out in fury. His fist caught her across the face and hot red blood spurted from her nose as she tottered backwards on the wooden steps. Arms flailing, Lauren lost her balance and began to fall backwards—and as she fell she saw Stephen, a wild gleam of pleasure in his eyes, watching her fear and making no attempt to save her from the fall.

  It was only then that she knew with terrible certainty that he intended to kill her.

  *

  Jon left Mr. Schenko with Elizabeth; the tall thin man watching hawk-like while the clerical assistant wrote out the new check which Rush Co.’s chairman had already signed for the gallery owner. With blood pounding urgently in his temples, Jon raced to his office and yanked his mobile phone out of his jacket pocket—damn! With everything that had been happening, he’d forgotten to put the instrument on charge and the batteries were dead. Even if Lauren—or Stephen—had tried to call him, they would not have been able to get through. His startled secretary, Cathy, had followed him into his office after he had rushed headlong past her desk, and now regarded him with shocked eyes.

  “I need to contact Warren Dillon immediately,” he snapped, then seeing the query in her eyes, softened his voice, but added firmly, “No questions, Cathy.”

  But his administrative secretary was already at her desk, fingers flying over the telephone console as her boss’s urgency communicated itself to her. Resting the telephone receiver between chin and shoulder, she pushed a wad of pink telephone message slips at him, but Jon waved them away.

  “Just give me a run down on who called,” he asked.

  She reeled off a list of business contacts and other Rush Co. executives who wanted to hear from Rush, and added that Chief Ohmer, Jon’s housekeeper Mary Wilson, and Lauren Stephens had all asked for him to call them back.

  “I’m sorry, Jon,” Cathy concluded, “Mr. Dillon’s secretary says he’s out and not expected back today, and I tried his mobile, but there’s no answer. I left messages for him to call back immediately. Now, which one of the calls do you want to return?”

  Jon silently blessed the woman for her cool professionalism, and asked her to contact Lauren, Ohmer and to try his Cousin Stephen’s numbers, in that order. Too wired to sit at his desk, Jon paced the deep gray carpet of his office as he listened to Cathy work the telephone. Deep in thought, he jumped as she poked her head in through the door.

  “You okay, Boss?” she asked, concern in her voice.

  “Just get the calls, Cathy…”

  “Well, I’d like to, but there’s no answer from Miss Stephens or from Mr. Rush, and Chief Ohmer is apparently out on an emergency—a multiple pile-up on the 401.”

  Goddammit!

  “Okay, give
me a few minutes – maybe you’d try the Stephen’s number again and also Warren Dillon?”

  A short time later Cathy came back, carrying a ham and cheese sandwich and a mug of strong coffee on a small tray.

  “You looked like you could use this,” she said. “And there’s still no reply from any of the numbers. Is there anything I should know? Are we likely to get calls I need to field?”

  Jon took a deep breath. How could he explain his fears to this quiet, efficient woman? Telling her to simply continue taking messages and to forward immediately anything from Dillon, the police chief, Lauren or Stephen, Jon gulped down the last of the coffee and snatched up his jacket.

  “Just one thing, Jon,” Cathy touched his arm to detain him. “I thought I’d have the operator do a line check on the Stephens’ number, you know my folks have a cottage up there and it’s amazing how often the lines go down, anyway, the operator says all lines are functioning normally. But the Stephens’ residential number seems to be off the hook or disconnected.”

  Fear curled icy fingers over Jon’s gut as he absorbed her words, then he dashed from the room, commandeering the executive suite elevator from under the amazed noses of several other executive officers, and drummed his fingers with impatience as the elevator car seemed to creep down the twenty-six floors to the basement garage.

  Minutes later, he was gunning a big company four-wheel drive Jeep through the heavy traffic of a late Toronto afternoon, skillfully weaving in and out of the home-going commuter traffic. Frequently risky moves earned him a blast of horns and rude finger gestures from other drivers, but he was oblivious to all that was going on around him. Chief Ohmer had phoned on the mobile, which Jon had juiced up on the car charger, and when he heard Jon’s discoveries at Rush Co., told him that he was sending a car immediately to protect Lauren. However, there was still no answer on Lauren’s number. Jon had toyed with the idea of calling Paul Howard, but assumed the older man would be at the ABC committee meeting. He also had a gut feeling of terrible danger and didn’t want to involve the lawyer or his fragile wife in whatever might transpire.