Fear Familiar

by Carolyn Haines

  Breck propelled both women out the door.

  The car tore out of the parking lot with loose gravel spinning from beneath the wheels. Eleanor looked through the back window. The Behavioral Institute was a redbrick building tucked away in a small nook of isolation. It wasn’t that far from her university, but it seemed like another planet.

  “There’s not even a tree nearby,” she said aloud.

  “To some people, trees aren’t important. Cal Vrenner and his ilk are that type.”

  “What will happen to the monkey?” Eleanor asked.

  “Not a damn thing!” Breck said, turning to them over the front seat. “I’m serving you both with a strong warning. If anything goes amiss at that lab again, I’m holding you responsible. Got it? It may take several weeks of interrogation before anyone decides that you have certain civil rights.”

  “That’s a dire threat, Charles,” Magdalena said. There wasn’t a trace of concern in her voice. “As a former resident of the Washington city jail, I can only hope the federal facilities have a higher standard of cleanliness.”

  “You can be cute all you want to, Magdalena. But if you get in trouble again, it’s your hide. Don’t call me.”

  Magdalena started to respond, but Eleanor touched her hand and restrained her. There was no point in pushing the conversation any further. Breck was seething, and Magdalena was clearly itching for more hot words.

  “Let us out at Brenniton’s," Eleanor said suddenly. “I think I’d like to treat Mrs. Caruso to dinner.”

  “Eat hearty,” Breck said; the car pulled to the curb in front of the busy restaurant. “And stay away from Vrenner,” he warned as they exited.

  “I do what I have to do,” Magdalena answered. She slammed the door with unnecessary force.

  “He’s really angry with us now,” Eleanor said to the older woman as they made their way to the maître d’. For the moment, she held back her own frustration with Magdalena.

  “Not nearly as much as I am with him,” Magdalena answered. “There was a time when I thought Charles might actually have a little soul in him. I can’t believe he’s paying Cal Vrenner for any type of governmental work. I’m not exaggerating, Eleanor. If Vrenner’s the man I think he is, his reputation is so disgusting that even the larger chemical companies won’t hire him. There was a fire about fifteen years ago at International Chem-Co.” She stopped suddenly.

  “And what happened?” Eleanor prompted. Magdalena looked shocked.

  “A man who looked an awful lot like Vrenner was running the lab there. An assistant was implicated, and in a major fire many animals died. Nothing was ever proven.” Magdalena’s voice had lost its tone of conviction. She seemed to be thinking of something else as she talked. “It’s a complex story.’’

  “That’s horrible,” Eleanor said. “What happened to the assistant?”

  “I don’t know. He disappeared. I’m sure, he never got another job in research. But that Vrenner person has continued, and now that I know he’s here and working under federal contract, I intend to stop him.”

  The maître d’ led them to a table near the window. Eleanor couldn’t stop herself. She leaned over and took Magdalena’s hand. “Be careful. Vrenner isn’t a man to tamper with.”

  “I don’t tamper. When I strike, I intend for it to be a fatal blow.” Magdalena flipped her napkin and effectively changed the subject. “Especially now.” She looked up with a quick smile. “What do you know about AFA?”

  The acronym drew a complete blank. “Nothing. What is it?” “Another animal group. I thought you might be a member.” Eleanor shook her head. “I have my own set of personal worries, one of which is that you set me up with Breck. You made no effort to make him believe I wasn’t a member of your group.” Magdalena shrugged. “He already had his mind made up. There really wasn’t anything I could do.”

  “Then why did I meet with him?”

  “You never know.” Magdalena shrugged. “How are the desserts here?”

  “Maybe we shouldn’t have come on so strong. I mean, how did you know the ape was injured by Vrenner? She could have burned herself, as he said.”

  “She could have,” Magdalena agreed, “but I don’t buy it. As I told you earlier, Vrenner’s reputation precedes him.”

  Eleanor let the subject drop and ordered a glass of white wine and a light salad. “Excuse me,” she said, rising. “I’m going to find a phone. I promised Peter I’d check in.”

  “Tell him to meet us here,” Magdalena said, then smiled. “I don’t think you’ll have to twist his arm.”

  Eleanor shook her head and chuckled as she walked away. She had to hand it to Magdalena; she was a sharp cookie.

  The restaurant was crowded, and she wove her way around the tables. That was a wonderful thing about Washington. She could go to the busiest places and never see a familiar face. It was such a contrast to the small mountain community where she’d grown up. Anonymity was a very comforting sensation.

  As she turned right to find the ladies’ room and a pay phone, she saw the tall, tailored body of Alva Rousel. The CIA agent was sitting alone at a small table at the window, his face hidden in a newspaper. The obvious attempt at concealment was so pathetic that Eleanor smiled. The man was tailing her, and everywhere she went, she caught on to him. Her first impulse was to go over and talk with him, but she stopped herself. She didn’t want to confront the issue of Carter’s past. But she was dying to find Betty Gillette and see what the two of them had talked about during Betty’s question session.

  One more thing to do tomorrow, she reminded herself as she turned into the ladies’ room. A pay phone in the small alcove was available, and she made the call to Peter. He quickly offered to come to the restaurant and drive her and Magdalena home.

  They’d finished dinner and were having coffee by the time Peter arrived, eager for an account of the evening’s meeting.

  “Eleanor was brilliant,” Magdalena gushed. “She tried to make those rascals accountable for their conduct.”

  “I didn’t,” Eleanor protested. “I only asked a few questions. The place was, well, disreputable.”

  Peter raised his eyebrows. “Meaning?”

  “There wasn’t even a single tree,” she said, realizing she sounded ridiculous. “And the orangutan had these sores on her hands.” She didn’t want to get into the business about Vrenner.

  “Electric shock?” he asked. When he saw Eleanor’s startled look, he regretted his sudden question.

  Magdalena nodded. Her green eyes were sharp as a cat’s, he noted.

  “How did you know?” Eleanor asked Peter.

  “Standard operating procedure for some labs and other so- called training facilities.” He shrugged it off.

  “The Behavioral Institute,” Magdalena said. “The cages were empty. I didn’t get much of a chance to tour the place. Typical setup, mesh cages on top of each other, that type of thing.”

  “I know it only too well,” Peter said, shaking his head. He stood up. “I’d better get you ladies home. It’s late.”

  He assisted Magdalena to her feet. Outside the restaurant, a sheen of ice had touched the sidewalks. The wind sang around Eleanor’s ears with a new bitterness as she slipped into the car. Something had transpired at the lab that she’d missed—something between Magdalena and Vrenner—and possibly Breck.

  Magdalena made an issue of giving Peter her address as they moved into the traffic. Their eyes met and held in the rearview mirror for a moment.

  ‘‘Hey, isn’t that your friend from the university?” Peter pointed to the comer window seat.

  Eleanor strained to catch a glimpse of the red-haired woman who sat at the table with Alva Rousel, but couldn’t be certain if it was Betty or not. Traffic forced their car forward before Eleanor could get a good look.

  “I couldn’t tell if it was Betty, but I’m certain the man was Alva Rousel,” Eleanor said, and for some reason the idea of the two of them dining together unnerved her. “I saw him ea
rlier when I went to the ladies’ room. He was hiding behind a newspaper, as if he’d been sent to tail me and needed a crummy disguise.”

  “Maybe he was just having dinner,” Peter said. “That isn’t an unreasonable assumption. Betty is an attractive woman, and from all I could gather, she’s single.”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Eleanor agreed.

  “But you don’t like it, do you?” Magdalena asked from the back seat.

  “No, I don’t,” Eleanor admitted, chuckling at her own irrationality. “And I don’t know why.”

  “Woman’s intuition,” Magdalena said. “It’s the best reason, and the only one you can’t ever explain.”

  Tuesday morning rain pelted Eleanor’s bedroom window. She pulled the covers over her head and sighed. Only Familiar’s insistent kneading convinced her that she had to get up. She checked the bedside clock and found that it was nearly nine.

  “Ten days until Christmas,” she said, awed by the reality. “I’d better do some serious shopping today.”

  Looking out the window, she knew she’d go instead to the university. She didn’t have the fortitude to confront millions of shoppers on such a dreary day. She needed the comfort of her research, and she was dying to talk with Betty.

  Peter had walked her to her door the night before, but she’d declined his offer to act as watchdog. There were things she needed to tell him, but last night hadn’t been the proper occasion. She was still up in the air about her own feelings.

  “I’ll talk with Peter about it in a day or two,” she told Familiar as she opened a can of salmon for him. “I owe him an explanation.”

  “Meoww!” Familiar answered, then tucked into the food.

  Eleanor took her time selecting warm clothes and getting ready for work. She dressed casually, in a long, flowing wool skirt and turtleneck sweater that accentuated her willowy grace. With her hair pulled back in a ribbon and the dark frames of her glasses, he looked very young and studious.

  As she walked across the lobby to the desk, she recognized Alva Rousel sitting in one of the lobby chairs. Once again a newspaper concealed most of his face.

  “You must be up on current events,” she said, stopping in front of him.

  “I try to keep alert,” he said. His smile was boyish, charming. “Did you enjoy your dinner last night?”

  “Very much.”

  “I can’t say as much for the company you keep,” he added, still smiling.

  “Which one, the woman or the man?”

  “Both,” he said, then smiled again. “The CIA isn’t interested n your romantic life. Is that the role Peter Curry is playing?”

  “In a manner of speaking,” Eleanor said, fighting her inclination to become defensive. “I have a few personal questions for you. Was that Betty Gillette you had dinner with?”

  Rousel grinned, breaking the tension. “She’s a fascinating woman.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Eleanor said. “Even if you haven’t found a good reason to lock me up, at least you discovered a nice woman to date.”

  “Fate has a way of rewarding the deserving," he said. A worried frown replaced his smile. “I don’t want you to have something you don’t deserve happen to you.”

  Eleanor felt the rush of blood through her veins. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

  “Your background. Your husband had a lot of irons in the fire. He was a man with many interests, and I’d guess at least ninety percent of them were illegal.”

  “I can’t defend Carter, and I don’t intend to try,” Eleanor said. “But he’s dead, and I wasn’t responsible for what he did.”

  “When federal authorities asked you to testify against him, you refused. Isn’t that correct?”

  Eleanor’s anger moved up a notch. “Yes, that’s true. I was married to him, and whether you understand it or not, I took my vows seriously. For better or worse, in sickness and in health. Those little words meant everything to me. I couldn’t testify against my husband. Even if I wanted to, I didn’t know anything about Code One Orange until you told me. I didn’t even believe you until yesterday, when I talked with his old friend.”

  “I’m not always at liberty to reveal details.” Rousel’s blue eyes hardened. “Who did you talk with?”

  “Rayburn Smith. Carter’s best pal.”

  “He’s still alive?”

  “Very much. He wasn’t involved in the Central American thing. Rayburn was a petty criminal. He had no ambitions like Carter.”

  “Few men had the ambitions of your husband,” Rousel said. He folded the newspaper and held it in his lap. “Eleanor, is there any chance that Carter...might have survived his automobile wreck?”

  The room seemed to dim slightly, and Eleanor saw her hand reach out and clutch the arm of Rousel’s chair. He stood quickly and assisted her by grasping her elbow. Cool sweat covered he back and forehead, and she thought for a moment she might be physically ill. Rousel helped her into the chair.

  “Was it something I said?” he asked, concern wrinkling his forehead.

  “What makes you ask if Carter might be alive?” Her heart as pounding so violently against her ribs that she thought Rousel would surely see her distress. He was watching her eyes, after all.

  “No real evidence, just a hunch.”

  “The officer who investigated Carter’s accident had no reserve about declaring him dead. He said no one could have survived that crash. Why are you asking so many questions about Carter? What does he have to do with the break-in at a laboratory?” This was the link that completely eluded her. She was completely confused.

  “If Carter was in that car,” Rousel said, biting his lower lip. If he was in that car...”

  “He couldn’t have escaped.” She knew she was sounding desperate, but couldn’t stop herself. “Nine years have passed. It doesn’t make any sense that Carter would come around now. If there was the chance Carter was alive, don’t you think he would have contacted his wife?”

  “Maybe he did, Eleanor. Maybe he will again.”

  Chapter Nine

  Eleanor’s legs were steady, but her blood rushed from the surge of adrenaline Alva Rousel’s words had created. Carter, alive! It wasn’t possible. But a CIA agent had given the nightmare thought some daytime credence. There were so many questions. Why now, after all these years, would Carter suddenly reappear if he were alive? She stumbled out of the elevator and into the dank parking garage. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind he she felt an attack of fear.

  She swept the garage with a long, slow gaze. The rows of cars seemed somehow sinister. The dark shadows and trapped fumes created a gruesome atmosphere straight from her childhood fantasies of hell. Taking a deep breath, she thought about getting back into the elevator and calling a cab to take her to the university.

  “No,” she said aloud. Carter Wells had effectively ruined her past. He wasn’t going to get control of her present and future. If he was lurking around parking lots trying to scare her, she’d confront him. She’d ask him right out what he wanted. All of her obligations to him had been erased. She owed him nothing. She owed herself the courage to confront her past and end it, once and for all. She had to do it. For herself and for Peter. If her feelings for Peter were to grow and develop, Carter had to be laid to rest.

  Her booted footsteps echoed in the empty garage as she walked down the line of cars. She could see the bumper of her own and walked toward it, never looking left or right. Her spine tingled as she listened for an unnatural sound, for some half-expected warning.

  “I’m too old for such foolishness,” she told herself. “I’m spooked like a silly teenager.”

  The walk seemed to take forever. With each step forward, she seemed to fall two steps back. The sensation was like a nightmare. The longer she moved toward the car, the farther away it seemed.

  She picked up her pace, still refusing to look to either side.

  Out of the darkness her nightmare was reborn. Behind her came the sound
of footsteps.

  Panic struggled to release itself in a scream, but she held it back. It wasn’t Carter. It couldn’t be. The talk with the CIA agent had simply rubbed her nerves raw. There were hundreds of cars in the garage. That meant hundreds of owners would be coming in and out, getting and parking their cars.

  She cast a quick glance over her shoulder. Someone darted into the shadow of a column. Someone tall and masculine.

  She started to run, fumbling in her purse for her keys. The footsteps came after her.

  She knew better than to look back. The figure was gaining, drawing closer as she clumsily searched her purse and tried to run in the high-heeled boots. Her breath came in gasps, the fumes of the garage tearing at her throat and lungs.

  She flung herself at the car, finally pulling the keys free of the purse. The doors were locked, and she cursed as she struggled to insert the key into the lock. She heard the footsteps behind her, coming at a steady but rapid pace.

  At last the door lock clicked and she threw herself inside the car. Simultaneously pulling the door closed and cranking the motor, she jerked the car into Reverse and hit the gas. Cold, the motor stalled, then fell into gear with a roar. The car shot out of the parking spot.

  “Hey!” the figure called to her. She heard a thud and punched the car into First. Whoever was behind her was flesh and blood! With a squeal of tires, she drove away. In the rearview mirror, he saw a man struggle up from the pavement.

  She’d hit him! She’d actually struck a human being with her car! The panic began to clear and she slowed. The figure in the rearview mirror was standing upright and limping. He held up hand to her, a hand of...pleading? Her hands gripping the steering wheel were numb, but her foot slid from the gas to the brake. The figure was coming toward her, one leg dragging. Whoever was, it wasn’t Carter!

  She turned off the ignition, struggling with the key. Clumsy fingers fumbled again and again. It was as if all the messages from her brain had somehow been garbled. Time hung suspended.