by Gayle Lynds
It gave Lyle a sick feeling in his gut. For an instant it almost seemed it'd be impossible for him to get the keys. He summoned all his self-control and announced, "I'm feeling as well as can be expected." He had no intention of telling his sons' hired gun he was stronger than any of them realized.
"Going for a walk? I'll come along." Reilly peeled off the wall.
Lyle glared. "I'm going to the craft room, Warden. Want to come watch me paint posies?"
"If that's your pleasure, sir."
Lyle wanted to punch the asshole, but instead he simply shrugged. "You must be hard up for entertainment." The last thing he wanted was Reilly's company. Reilly magnified the danger of what he was about to do.
Now even more nervous, he resumed his shuffle down the hall. Reilly fell in beside him. Reilly was lean, but with a belly the size of a medicine ball. Too much booze and sett-indulgence, Lyle figured. But that didn't take anything away from his dangerousness. Since the staff had found Lyle's journals earlier that week, Reilly had worn a pistol on his hip. Tonight it was still right there, an unspoken threat.
They passed the recreation room, where a movie played and the scent of popcorn floated out. Lyle hated the popcorn. The idiots in the kitchen made it without salt or butter. It was like eating crunchy cardboard.
Then a small burst of hope seemed to explode in his heart. Ahead was nirvana. At the end of the corridor stood an outside door with a large glass pane. Through the glass he could see the staff parking lot and beyond that a tall, wire-mesh fence with a gate. Both the door and the gate were kept locked at all times.
But a set of keys to both was stored in the nearby craft room.
That was his goal. He desperately needed those two keys, because beyond the security fence was a road that led through the forest and wound past a half-dozen large homes sitting on ten-acre parcels. He knew all about the road because he'd developed the land himself and made a bundle from it thirty years ago.
That road meant freedom.
In the craft room, the do-gooder Mrs. Langer had pastels and water paints out. Some of the old women had written Thanksgiving poems this week, and tonight Mrs. Langer had them decorating their words with colors and the silly giggles of long-ago youth.
Lyle gathered his courage and went in. He took in the room with a sweep of his gaze. Little rivulets of frightened sweat ran down the inside of his hospital gown.
Behind him, Reilly's voice announced, "Mrs. Langer, I need to talk to you."
Mrs. Langer turned and went into the hall. Lyle watched her frown and gaze directly at him. Reilly must be warning her again to not let him take paper back to his room so he could write more journals. That didn't bother him too much, until they finished their conversation and Reilly didn't leave. Reilly stood like a sentry in the doorway, leaning back against the jamb.
Mrs. Langer strode up to Lyle. "Ah, Mr. Redmond. Good to see you up and about again."
"Thank you, Mrs. Langer. Thank you indeed." He grinned to show no hard feelings and that he was simply an innocent victim of circumstances. "Suppose I could try a little oil painting if I promise not to swipe any more of your paper?"
Her eyes grew large with embarrassment. "Of course. I'll be right back."
He swallowed. This was where it began. "I'll help."
He followed as she closed in on the paint storage closet, which was kept locked, too. She'd been trying to convince him to do some craft like painting for months, but that wasn't why he was agreeing now. It was because inside the closet were the keys.
Now he had to cause a disturbance. Trembling, he looked around. Reilly was still in the doorway, dammit. His arms were crossed over his chest, and he was watching the room. Reilly looked bored, but his mean, pale eyes missed nothing.
Inwardly, Lyle steeled himself. He put on his most charming smile. Shaky with fear, he went to stand next to Mrs. Langer as she unlocked the closet and pulled open the door. Inside the shelves were stacked neatly with canvases, paints, brushes, and other supplies. Instantly he spotted what he needed: The key ring hung on a nail pounded into the side wall to his right.
"What would you like, Mr. Redmond?" she asked.
He quieted his pounding heart. "I'm going to paint the Mona Lisa. I don't need a photograph of her." He tapped his white head. "I've got her up here. She had some meat on her bones. And that elusive smile. I'll need oils for that."
"That sounds like an admirable goal."
He could almost feel Reilly's hot gaze on his back. But he had to get on with it. This might be his only chance. Terror gripped him, almost immediately followed by the cool calmness that had led him through more business crises than he could remember.
He said, "Let me. I can do it." With his hip, he gave her a little nudge away from the closet opening.
She turned. "Really, Mr. Redmond. You shouldn't. You haven't been well. Go sit down, and—"
While she was still talking, he moved swiftly past and into the closet, fumbling as he gathered supplies into his arms. The fumbling was no act. Fear was making him shake like an autumn leaf, even though this had been his plan from the beginning.
"Mr. Redmond! You really shouldn't—"
"Sorry." That's when he did it. To create a diversion, he dropped the brushes. The wooden handles clattered to the closet floor. He reached for them, knocking over a can. The burning stink of turpentine burst into the air.
Mrs. Langer exploded: "Stop! Mr. Redmond. Please stop!"
He let her push him aside to the right. This was the moment for which he'd hoped. His temples pulsed with fear. As her body crammed inside the closet after him, she blocked the door and Reilly's view. At the same time, she was distracted by frantically cleaning up the spreading turpentine on a shelf at eye level.
Lyle didn't dare check what Reilly was doing. In an act of complete faith, he reached off to his right, snagged the key ring from the side wall, and dropped it into his bathrobe pocket.
And waited. Terrified. Had Reilly seen him?
When there was no shout, he turned. Breathing too fast, he saw Reilly had stepped from the doorway and was hurrying toward him with a scowl of suspicion deep on his face.
"What's going on here?" he demanded. He stared into the closet where Mrs. Langer was cleaning up and muttering to herself.
Lyle shrugged and stepped out of the closet. "Sorry, Reilly. Guess I screwed up." His arteries were pulsing with the hot excitement of success. The keys made a nice little bulge inside the pocket beside his right hand. "Come on over and sit down with me while I paint. Keep me company."
But Reilly ignored him. As Lyle watched in horror, Reilly strode past and leaned into the closet. He studied the shelves as Mrs. Langer continued to clean. Reilly wasn't educated, but he was street-smart. If he stared long enough, he'd notice the key ring was missing from the wall.
Lyle felt panic surge through him. He wanted to ram his head into Reilly's back and smash him against the shelves. He wanted to rip his gun away and shoot him in the kneecap. He wanted to beat the crap out of him—
Think! he told himself. There had to be some way to get Reilly out of the goddamned closet!
And then he had it. He'd do what was expected. After all, Reilly himself had said he was a sick, old man.
Instantly Lyle moaned. "Reilly. I don't feel so good."
He closed his eyes and collapsed, dropping to the floor like an exhausted blimp.
He lay limp on the linoleum tile and listened as Reilly's feet turned and hurried toward him.
"Mr. Redmond!" Reilly's voice had abruptly changed to worry. "Call the infirmary, Mrs. Langer. Mr. Redmond, can you hear me?"
As Reilly crouched and leaned over him, inwardly Lyle smiled. Just like the old days, he had his future right in his pocket. His sons had better look out. Lyle Redmond was back. And after tomorrow night, they'd all know it.
27
9:46 PM, SATURDAY
APPROACHING THE NEW JERSEY TURNPIKE
Still in New York, tension filled the Dodg
e Durango as Sam watched for police and Julia crouched on the floor and told her story. The fitful rush of unseen traffic made her nerves raw. Then she heard a sudden change of sound: The air rang with hollowness. They were in the Lincoln Tunnel, crossing deep underneath the Hudson River into New Jersey. Cramped and sore, Julia started to rise to the seat.
Sam put a hand on her shoulder. "Wait until we get onto the turnpike. It's a longshot, but the NYPD could've alerted the state police to post people to watch for you at the tollbooths. We'll have to pause just long enough to get our ticket from the dispenser, and if you're sitting next to me and they're watching—"
"I get the point." So many police looking for her. The farther they escaped from Manhattan, the better. "Do you have a coat in the back I can put over me?"
"There's a blanket. Can you get it?"
He was switching lanes, moving off to the right to the feeder that led to the turnpike, which was their fastest route. She crawled up over the seat and grabbed a plaid stadium blanket. Fortunately it was dark green and would fade into the shadows. She sank back to the floor. Her palms throbbed in the gauze he'd wrapped around them. She tried to make her body relax.
Sam glanced at her as she settled down into place. Briefly a streetlamp cast light across her oval face, illuminating her glowing blue eyes and full red mouth and deep worry. Instantly he returned his gaze to the traffic. He thought about her turmoil and fear. He had a dispassionate ability to take apart and analyze human needs as if they were furniture pieces in a factory. But it was a fact of life: If she wanted to succeed, Austrian would have to get used to the terror and stress. If she wanted to survive.
"Tell me more about this conversion disorder of yours." He was giving her something other than their danger on which to focus.
She spread the blanket across her knees. "Conversion disorder is like a body language—a form of expression—for people who've repressed some kind of trauma. I've apparently healed enough so I can see again without needing to remember exactly what happened." Then she recalled Orion's warning. "But Orion told me until I could figure out what initially caused it, I still run the risk of going blind again. Apparently the trigger for me is the ring my grandfather gave me to celebrate my debut. That's why I think something must've happened that night to cause my conversion disorder."
His forehead wrinkled, and she noticed again the groove between his eyebrows. She liked the hard planes of his face and the blond whiskers that were just beginning to emerge along his jawline.
He said, "I remember reading about a similar incident back around 1993 in Japan. The press was directing a lot of criticism at the empress. Apparently as a result, she lost her voice and didn't speak for something like three months." He paused, considering. Then it came back to him: "The official Japanese Household Agency described it this way: 'It is possible for a person who suffers some strong feelings of distress to develop a symptom in which the person temporarily cannot utter words.'"
Julia nodded sympathetically. "Yes, very possible. Poor woman. Sounds like conversion disorder. You notice they didn't give it a name."
"True. Why do you think that was?"
"The stigma. Mental diagnoses attract suspicion. That's one of the reasons the American Psychiatric Association no longer calls what I have conversion hysteria. Hysteria is a hot-button word. Today no one wants to be called hysterical, even though it used to be a perfectly legitimate description of neurosis and didn't mean 'hysterical' in the sense people use it now."
Sam said, "So you get a double whammy over this. Not only were you blind, I'll bet some people didn't believe the psychological diagnosis was real. People think a physical diagnosis is legitimate, but a psychological one is, well . . ."
"Illegitimate."
He looked at her. "I was going to say crazy."
She gave a small smile. The car jostled, and her leg touched the Browning 9mm. Warily she felt it with her fingertips, glad she'd switched the safety back on.
Sam said suddenly, "I know the safety's on."
"How—"
"I saw you do it. You thought I was concentrating on the traffic, but years ago I learned the wisdom of multitasking."
She was alert. "Just what do you do in the Company, Keeline?"
But Sam was peering through the windshield. "Here we go. Our tollbooth is straight ahead."
She told herself to breathe. She pulled the blanket up over her head and pressed herself down against the floor. She clasped her hands to her heart, forced their pulsing pain from her mind. "Am I covered?" she asked.
He glanced down at the stadium blanket. "Looks good." He surveyed the area. Vehicles slowed, their taillights red and bright. The sharp noises of traffic filled the night. Lines of vehicles crept toward the automatic ticket dispensers. No state police cars or patrolmen. There was nothing out of the ordinary.
"What's going on?" Julia's voice was muffled.
Sam let out a long stream of air. "We're safe for the moment." He grabbed a ticket from the automatic dispenser and headed onto the New Jersey Turnpike.
Weary and grateful, Julia climbed back up onto the seat. She looked around and felt a temporary sense of security descend over her. Before she'd lost her sight, she'd traveled much of Europe and Asia, and now as she peered out she knew she could be nowhere else but home. Turnpikes were quintessentially American, and the New Jersey Turnpike was perhaps most American of all: Insane drivers paid high tolls for cars that gulped unseemly amounts of gas on the straightest, longest, most infamous speedway on the continent. In fact, any driver who didn't slam her brakes at the sight of a state police car was probably already parked or dead.
As Sam turned the car southwest toward Newark and ultimately Alexandria, Julia laid the pistol on her lap. She started to drop the blanket into the back when she realized it smelled of perfume. She buried her nose in it. It wasn't a man's cologne.
"Chanel No. Five." She raised her brows. A classic perfume beloved by First Ladies and movie stars. "Is that one of your regular scents?"
Sam didn't blink. "Absolutely. Splash it on after every bath. Copiously."
She dumped the blanket over her shoulder. So he had a wife. Or a girlfriend. She realized with a shock she'd felt a twinge of jealousy.
Sam drove them through the industrial hub of New Jersey with its oil refineries and stinging stench of sulfur. For a long time they were silent as they scrutinized the turnpike, watching intensely for state police cars or any other vehicle that seemed too interested. At last, as the Durango rushed on, she told him about the theft and awful murders of her mother and the taximan in London, her agreement with the chief superintendent to keep what she'd seen secret, her hypnosis session with Orion Grapolis and his tragic death, and how the killer—Maya Stern—became her companion.
As they approached the Pennsylvania border, she said, "That brings us to now. To the two packets you and Mom received, which seem to link us. When you called earlier to make an appointment, you said my grandfather Austrian would've wanted you to see me. How true is that?"
He had a way of holding his head very straight, as if he faced the world head-on, but now he tilted it slightly, gave a wry smile, and said, "Confession time."
She frowned. "Tell me."
"I think Daniel Austrian may have known something about the Amber Room. I talked to him about it a dozen years ago when I'd found some new information. I hoped he'd be willing to give me more now, but with his death that seemed to end."
"You're sure you mean my Austrian grandfather, not my Redmond one?"
Sam squinted, his deep-set gray eyes suddenly suspicious. "Why?"
"Because my Redmond grandfather lives in a nursing home out in the countryside between Armonk and Mount Kisco. When my mother saw the packet—the handwriting and the postmark—she thought it might be from him."
Sam shook his head. "I don't know anything about the Redmond side of your family. Maybe we should talk to him."
Julia sighed sadly. "My grandfather's senile. We visited
him three or four times in the past year, but he never even recognized us. He used to be such an energetic man. Mom said he was a rabble-rouser in his time. By the time I knew him, he could be incredibly charming or so outspoken he'd infuriate my uncles. But he was always wonderful with me and Mom. Then he developed Alzheimer's. When Mom and I visited him in the nursing home, he babbled and fell asleep. Considering how debilitated he is, I really have to think Mom was wrong that he'd gotten better. I can't imagine he has the capacity to figure out my performing schedule and then address a package to the Albert Hall, or to you at Company headquarters, for that matter."
Sam was disappointed. "Too bad. It seemed logical."
"Let's get back to me. You said you came to a dead end with my grandfather Austrian a dozen years ago. He had no information to give you about the Amber Room. So why did you bother to come to see me?"
Sam switched lanes, driving carefully in the middle at the speed of the rest of the traffic. "When the packet arrived, I thought about him because he was the closest. I'd ever come to solving the riddle, and I was never fully satisfied with his claims that he knew nothing about the Amber Room. When I discovered he was dead, I checked for family members. You turned out to be it. I wanted to run my story past you. See whether you had any ideas. For instance, maybe you have his papers. Or maybe he said something once that made no sense at the time but might strike you now since I've told you what I'm looking for."
"Mother has . . . had his papers. There weren't that many. He lived in the present and didn't keep much from the past.I remember her reading through them, but she never mentioned anything about the Amber Room."
He was excited. "Where are they now?"
"She said she saw no reason to keep them. A couple of years after he died, she threw them out."
He grimaced. "What about your father's papers?"
"Mother had those, too. But again, she would've known whatever he knew, and probably I would've known, too." Her voice caught. "We were very close."
