by Rebecca York
But not even thoughts of Jessica could hold reality at bay. The air in his prison was getting thicker. Every breath was becoming an effort.
Jessica, Jessica, Jessica. Despite his conviction that the effort was probably useless, he called out to her in silent entreaty. That was the only hope he had to cling to.
* * *
HUGH DEVINE POUNDED on the door to the caretaker’s cottage, wondering if the cemetery custodian was as dead as everybody else around there. Finally Luke Gillespie appeared at the door in a gray chenille robe. His eyes were half closed, but the lieutenant’s police badge woke him up in a hurry.
“We need to find plot 105 on the double,” Devine explained.
“There was a fellow around here earlier looking for that plot. Young guy.”
Quickly Jessica described Michael.
“Yeah, that’s him, but he said he’d leave the grounds before I closed up.”
“Was there anyone else around?” Devine questioned.
“Mourners, you know.”
The fear that they were wasting precious time clawed at the inside of Jessica’s chest. Why were they standing there talking? She peered into the darkened cemetery, wanting to charge off in search of Michael. She’d never find her way by herself.
“We need to find the black angel,” she said.
Devine shot her a quizzical look. What was she talking about?
But she had already turned to the old man in the bathrobe. “Do you know a grave that has a statue of an angel carved from black stone?”
Gillespie’s wrinkled brow creased even more deeply. “Let me think about that. Angels are pretty popular around here. But most of them are white marble or granite. I do recollect an onyx one, though.”
Jessica wanted to shake his bony shoulders. “Where?”
He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “It’s in that section.” He pointed toward the northwest.
“Do you have a flashlight?” she asked.
“Sure do. A good one. Sometimes we need it when we have vandals around here at night,” the old man said, turning back towards his little cottage.
“Bring a crowbar too,” Devine called out.
In a few moments the man had returned with the required items.
Jessica snapped the powerful torch on and moved it experimentally back and forth. The beam cast a strong stream of brilliance into the eerie darkness, illuminating the rows of little structures that made up the necropolis.
Devine sighed. Logic argued that they check plot 105 first. But he’d seen what had happened to Jessica back in Michael’s room. Maybe she was operating on something stronger than logic. Even without supporting evidence, it was almost impossible to discount the sense of conviction she conveyed.
“I can show you the quickest way,” Gillespie volunteered.
“Thank you.”
They started off at a much brisker pace than would have been possible on their own. It wasn’t hard to keep up with the old man, yet Jessica found her breath coming in short pants.
“Ms. Duval, are you all right?” Devine questioned.
“I don’t know. Michael isn’t.” Please keep him alive, she prayed silently.
Though it seemed as if they tramped through the darkness for hours, it couldn’t have been more than minutes. Finally the caretaker swung the light, illuminating the angel. Still panting, Jessica stared at it and then around at the nearby crypts. They were in the area of the cemetery she had seen in her vision, but she hadn’t a clue in which direction to turn.
“Michael,” she called. “Michael, can you hear me? Where are you?”
There was no answer in the silent graveyard.
* * *
GOD, DID HE HEAR HER calling him, or was that just lack of oxygen making his thoughts giddy? Jessica, Jessica. No sound came out of his mouth. But could he move somehow? Give her a signal? With every bit of strength he could muster, he struggled to lift his foot. The heel of his shoe scraped against rough stone.
* * *
“HE’S SOMEWHERE over there.” Jessica pointed to the right of the angel. “He needs me. Right now.”
Devine moved in that direction. A faint scraping noise caught his attention. “Rome, if that’s you, do that again.”
They strained their ears. For long moments there was only silence. Finally the noise was repeated, but more faintly.
“It’s this one,” Devine shouted, slapping the granite wall of a Gothic tomb.
Jessica was at Devine’s side, flattening her hands against the cold stone. Somehow it was like a direct connection to Michael. She could feel the life slipping out of his body. “He’s barely alive. We’ve got to get the vault open.” Seeking closer contact, she pressed her cheek against the granite. “Michael, hold on. We’re here. We’ll get you out.”
Gillespie offered the crowbar. “We have to open these things every time there’s a funeral. There’s a notch at the bottom of the slab. I’ll show you where to put it, but my back’s too weak to do you any good. It usually takes two men.”
Devine swore under his breath. A few inches of stone separated him from the trapped man, but if he couldn’t move it, it might as well be a mile.
Wielding the instrument as directed, he pressed his 250 pounds of weight down. In the light of the torch, Jessica could see his muscles bulge and perspiration break out on his wide forehead. The heavy slab groaned but didn’t move. Putting his foot on the bar, the officer pressed down with all his strength. The stone still didn’t give.
Jessica sprang to his side and added her weight to the lever. The slab protested and then fell forward. Both Jessica and Devine instinctively jumped out of the way. The massive rectangle broke as it hit the steps in front of the vault. Before the dust settled, Devine was pushing his shoulders inside the opening. He began to cough, but at the same time he pulled the slab forward. Michael tumbled out onto the ground.
Jessica knelt over him, listening for the sound of his breathing and feeling the pulse in his neck. Thank God, she thought, he was alive.
She looked at his face. His lips were blue from the cold and lack of oxygen. His eyes were open and staring at her.
“Are you all right?” she whispered.
His lids closed for a second and then reopened. She could see that he was straining to move his lips.
“It’s all right. Don’t talk,” she reassured him. “You’re safe now.”
Devine knelt on the other side of the man they’d literally snatched from the grave. She followed his hands as they made a quick assessment of injury, checking for broken bones or wounds.
“He’s in one piece. Nothing broken,” the officer reported. “My guess is he’s been drugged. It looks as though they’ve given him a paralytic.”
Michael’s lips formed the word phenodryl but neither one of them knew what he was trying to say.
Devine took off his jacket and laid it across Michael’s chest.
Jessica pushed back his matted hair and uncovered an abrasion. Her fingers stroked tenderly down his cheek. His gaze was focused on her face, and she smiled reassuringly.
“Do you want me to call an ambulance?” Gillespie questioned.
“Please.” She threaded her fingers through Michael’s, pressing them tightly, trying to give him her warmth and comfort. Was it her imagination, or did he return the pressure?
It was a joy to be able to touch him and know that he was alive. Thank God they’d been in time! Tears glistened in her eyes. She’d been through some terrifying experiences, but she’d never been more afraid than when she’d thought she wasn’t going to find Michael Rome.
Chapter Twelve
“How are we feeling this evening, Mr. Prentiss?” the solicitous voice asked.
So it hadn’t been a nightmare. The man was real. Cautiously Jed opened his eyes. It was still an effort. The lids felt as if they’d been glued down. He found himself staring at a tall white-haired man dressed in a linen suit. His face was carefully neutral, yet Jed detected an edgy look around
the eyes that made him wary.
“Do you remember meeting me when you were first brought here? I’m Dr. Talifero.”
When Jed tried to answer, his voice came out in a harsh growl.
“It may be a bit rusty at first, but that’s to be expected in these cases,” the doctor reassured.
“What...am...I...doing here?” Jed managed.
“I explained all that before, but a section of your memory has apparently been distorted. In addition to your bruised ribs, you’ve had a stroke. But I won’t be able to tell how much brain damage you’ve suffered until we can do an evaluation.”
Brain damage? The man in the bed struggled to sit up and fell back. The IV tube connected to his arm swayed dangerously. Glucose, or something more potent?
Talifero came to his side, steadying the plastic line. “Just take it easy. I’ll get the nurse to come in and crank up your bed in a few moments. But since you’re awake, I’d like to talk now.”
Jed nodded cautiously. He tried to shift his position but every move made his chest ache more.
“I’ve found with cases like yours that the last forty-eight hours preceding the cerebral accident are sometimes wiped out or even replaced with false memories. What I’d like you to do is tell me what you recollect from that period. If it will help, you can even start with what you remember before you came to Royale Verde.”
The patient licked his lips. His recent memories were very clear now. If they were accurate, telling them to Talifero would be suicidal. But suppose the man was speaking the truth? Then what? The effort to puzzle it out made his head throb. Brain damage? Or the effect of a drug?
“Mr. Prentiss, I can’t help you if you’re not willing to help yourself,” Talifero said encouragingly, yet there was an element in his voice that suggested this interview held considerable importance to him.
It would certainly be a novel interrogation technique to convince an agent that he’d had a stroke and get him to spill his guts in the name of therapy, Jed thought. But was he an agent? Or was that some fantasy his injured mind had glommed on to as a way to stave off reality? He’d just have to try and play for time until he could sort the truth from the fiction. “I was on vacation—fishing—when I got lost in the dark.”
Talifero’s jaw tightened. “I’m afraid that may not be entirely accurate. My contacts in town report that you were asking rather probing questions for a casual tourist.”
“I’m thinking about buying beach property down here,” Jed clarified.
“Let’s try another approach. Can you remember any of your friends or relatives? Is there anyone we should notify about your accident?”
The question was probably a trap, but was there some way he could use it to contact the Falcon? There was the dead-drop post-office box that Peregrine used. But until he knew the situation better here, he didn’t even dare try that. “No one,” he answered.
The doctor gave him a thoughtful look. “Mr. Prentiss, I’m glad you were planning on a long stay in the area. However, I’m not sure you realize it, but this is a psychiatric sanitarium, and I have the absolute power to keep patients here as long as I feel it necessary. If you can’t provide us any clues to your real purpose on Royale Verde, you’re not going to get any better, and I’ll have no option but to transfer you to the disturbed wing where the care is, of necessity, a little less gentle. Why don’t you see if that prospect will jog your memory? We’ll talk again later.”
Before the patient could answer, he turned on his Italian leather heels and left the room.
* * *
IT WAS FOUR in the morning before the resident who had examined Michael was willing to release him. The doctor wanted to keep him in the hospital for twenty-four hours for observation, but Michael flatly refused.
“With phenodryl there might be some aftereffects, like muscle spasms, headache, or dizziness,” the intern argued. “And I can’t take responsibility for letting you leave unless someone else will agree to stay with you for at least the next twelve hours.”
Jessica, who had been waiting outside the curtained-off cubicle, heard Michael swear.
“You can sign him out to me,” she volunteered.
The doctor parted the curtains, and she noted that Michael was back in his somewhat-the-worse-for-wear street clothes. He looked up as she entered. “I want to be alone.” God, he’d been buried alive. That was bad enough, but he’d been stupid enough to walk into a trap and then lose the man who was the key to solving this damn case.
“Staying by yourself is completely unacceptable,” the resident insisted.
Michael sighed. “All right then, just let me out of here. And don’t order a wheelchair to take me to the door. I can walk.”
After hours of lying in the tomb and then on this damn examining table, he wanted to move around. But an orderly had to help him off the table and he could only lift his legs enough to shuffle as he made his way down the deserted corridor.
As Jessica slowed her pace to match his, she ached to take his arm and steady him. But she understood he was too independent to accept any help. She’d been elated at his quick physical recovery, yet the physician’s efforts to get him to talk about the ordeal had been rebuffed. He was like a clam whose shell snapped closed every time its vulnerable interior was probed. She suspected that meant the experience had been traumatic even for someone as calloused as Michael Rome.
In the cab, he moved to the corner near the window and turned his head away from her. When they drew up in front of the hotel, he opened the door and got out as quickly as possible. “Okay, you’ve done your duty. Go home.”
She gave him an incredulous look. “You’ve got to be kidding.” After stuffing some bills into the driver’s hand, she hopped out and slammed the door behind her.
His look was thunderous as he started off toward the dimly lit lobby. Even in the last twenty minutes he could feel that his physical strength had increased. But mentally he’d been barely holding himself together for hours, and he didn’t know how much longer he could do it. He certainly didn’t want an audience if he came unglued.
However, Jessica was right beside him as he inserted the key in the lock. If his reflexes had been up to par, he would have closed the door before she could get inside. Instead, she came into the sitting room.
“Can’t you leave me alone!” he rasped.
She put a gentle hand on his arm. “You’ve been through a horrible ordeal. It’s all right to need help.”
“Don’t touch me!”
“Why not?”
“I’ve been in a grave, for God’s sake. All I want to do is stand under the shower and scrub the stench of death off.”
She put her arms around him and he started to shake. Her embrace tightened. For long minutes she simply held him, willing him to accept what comfort she could give. But he was still fighting himself and couldn’t accept the solace she offered. “Jessica, get out of here,” he tried one more time. But the note of conviction in his voice was missing.
“Let’s get you into the shower.”
“I’m a big boy. I can do it by myself.”
“Okay, but if you need me, I’ll be right outside.”
“Suit yourself.”
The bathroom was in a little hall off the sitting room.
“Don’t lock the door.”
He didn’t answer, but he didn’t snap the catch either.
Jessica sat down on the couch. She was exhausted from the mental anguish of trying to find him and the waiting at the hospital. She listened for the sound of the water, but he hadn’t turned it on.
“Are you all right?”
The muffled reply could have been either yes or no.
Tentatively she turned the knob and peered inside. Michael had taken off his shoes and shirt and unzipped his pants, but he was leaning against the wall, his wide shoulders and head pressed backward as if he needed the contact with something solid. Her eyes took in the familiar expanse of his naked chest and then traveled back to his
half-closed eyes. His face was drained of color.
“Michael, what’s wrong?”
“Dizzy. It’s going away.”
“Maybe a shower isn’t such a good idea right now.”
“Don’t you understand, damn it? I’ve got to get clean!”
“Yes, I understand.” She reached behind the curtain and turned on the water, adjusting the temperature. Then she turned back to Michael. “Let me help you finish getting undressed.”
Before he could object, she hooked her thumbs in the belt loops of his pants and pulled them down. After a moment’s hesitation she did the same with his briefs, being careful to appear as impersonal as the doctor who had examined him in the emergency room. Yet she was vividly aware of every muscle in his strong, trim body. There was a bruise at his waist and another on his ribs.
Turning quickly away, she held the curtain aside and waited while he stepped under the spray of water. She could see more bruises on his back. So they’d roughed him up before they’d shoved him in that crypt. Remembering the way he’d fought in Lonnie’s living room, she wondered how many men it had taken to overpower him.
But he wasn’t in fighting shape now. His foot slipped and he caught himself by grabbing the shower head. Reaching inside, she steadied his shoulder. She should never have let him get in there. He might fall and hit his head.
When his body hit the side of the shower, she winced. This was ridiculous, she thought, reaching for the buttons of her own shirt. Stripping down to her bra and panties, she stepped behind the curtain.
Water was streaming down Michael’s face, but his half-closed eyes snapped open. “What the hell are you doing?”
