Spellbinders Collection

by Molly Cochran

  "Hal Woczniak," he said, extending his hand.

  She shook it. "Emily Blessing."

  "Vacation?"

  "Yes," she answered. Too quickly, Hal thought.

  She was about to scurry back to her own seat when the bus suddenly veered off the road into the parking lot of a country inn with two small, old-fashioned gasoline pumps outside. Emily thumped back onto the seat next to Hal.

  "Oil light's on," the driver called out with a sigh. "It won't take but a few minutes to set things right." He pulled up to the rear of the old stone building, turned off the engine, and rose. "Sorry for the inconvenience," he said, "but we want to assure your safety. Go on inside for a cup of tea if you like. I'll let you know when we can be off again."

  He dashed out before the passengers could start complaining. Slowly they stood up and stretched, murmuring in futile protest. Taliesin woke up, blinking.

  "I say. Has there been an accident?"

  "Oil leak, I think. The driver said to go inside."

  Taliesin looked out the window at the old stone building. "Oh, I say, the Inn of the Falcon. This is the place I told you about. It's quite nice inside."

  Hal turned back to Emily. "Will you join us?"

  "No, thanks. I don't want to wake Arthur. We'll just wait here."

  Hal and Taliesin followed the other passengers into the inn, where most of them made a beeline for the restrooms. The place was quaint but sweltering. Almost immediately Hal felt a thin trickle of sweat running down his back. Just his luck, he thought, to come to cool bonny England and run into a New York City-style heat wave.

  The old man seemed unaffected by the heat and chattered amiably about the structure of the place. Hal pulled up a chair at one of the small tables and waited for Taliesin to sit down.

  "Oh, my, no," Taliesin said. "We've been sitting for hours."

  "Sit down," Hal commanded.

  Taliesin complied, raising an eyebrow. "As you wish."

  "I want to know what the hell's going on," Hal said. "Right now."

  "What on earth . . ."He was visibly relieved by the appearance of the waitress and kept her attention for as long as possible, contemplating and rejecting a number of teas. He finally decided on Earl Gray, smiling as if he had made a momentous decision.

  Hal leaned back in his chair, his arms folded over his chest, his face dark and blank. When the waitress asked for his order, he only shook his head. His eyes never left the old man. "Start talking," he said once they were alone.

  "I'm sure I don't have the slightest idea . . ."

  "Cut it, Taliesin. The 'coincidence' theory isn't holding water any more. You wanted to meet me. You set it all up. I don't know how you did it, but you fixed the game show somehow, just like you somehow managed to have that taxi show up out of nowhere. This trip of mine is your doing. So's that boy outside who knows more about me than he should. I want to know why."

  "The boy? Which boy?"

  "The one who looks like a dead kid in New York . . . enough like him to be his brother. His picture was in all the papers. Mine, too. Don't say you didn't know who I was the minute you staged that pratfall in Manhattan."

  "You're speaking gibberish."

  "How's the kid involved?" Hal went on flatly.

  "Involved in what?" Taliesin asked.

  "The woman's a wreck. The kid's on Seconal. Exactly what is going on here?"

  "Hal, you really ought to hear yourself—"

  "And the cops ought to hear you. But I'm going to let you tell me first."

  The old man sputtered. When the waitress brought their order, he fairly melted in gratitude. He sipped his tea and smiled. "Now," he said at last. "Suppose we talk reasonably about your apprehensions."

  "Apprehensions, my aunt's fanny. You brought me on this trip for a reason, and I want to know . . ."

  His train of thought left him. The bus driver came in, his hands covered with oil. As he took his place at the end of the washroom queue, the swarthy man who had been sitting in the front of the bus rose slowly from his table and put on a jacket he'd been carrying. It was an innocuous piece of business, except that the air inside the inn was hot enough to explode dynamite. Why put on a jacket?

  The dark man placed some coins on the table, then casually walked out the front door.

  "This is utter nonsense," Taliesin said, but Hal had stopped listening to him.

  He stood up and followed the dark man outside, slowly and at some distance. The man walked quickly up to the bus and climbed aboard. Instinctively Hal reached for his gun. It wasn't there. He hadn't carried a gun for more than a year. For the first time in all the liquor-soaked months since his resignation, he felt afraid.

  He cast about for a weapon. The best he could come up with was one of the fist-sized decorative rocks around the juniper bushes that lined the inn's foundation. He wrapped his fingers around it and ran in a crouch to the side of the bus.

  The dark man was slowly making his way up the aisle, toward Emily and Arthur Blessing. Emily saw him and stiffened. When the man slid a gun out of his jacket, she moaned.

  "Take it," she said. "It's on the seat, in the red lunch box." She pointed to the seat she had occupied.

  The man looked over at the place she'd indicated, then back to her. The movement took less than two seconds, but during those two seconds Hal understood worlds. He knew the man was going to kill Emily Blessing, and probably the boy, too, whether or not he got what he wanted. He also knew that he was not in a strong position to stop him. If Hal shouted, the gunman would shoot him first, then go after the woman. If he tried to storm the bus, he would be giving the man even more time.

  All he had was the rock. That, and the good fortune of a bus without air-conditioning. The open windows gave him a chance, if he could find a line of sight. But the man's head was above the window edge. No matter how well he threw, Hal wouldn't be able to do any real damage. A tap to the man's gigantic upper arm would have all the effect of a feather.

  "Please don't kill us," Emily pleaded.

  The man straightened up to fire, and Hal threw the rock.

  It was as good a shot as he could have hoped for, hitting square on the man's elbow. The gunman leaped in surprise. His gun fired. By the time he got his bearings, Hal was in the bus, hurling himself up the aisle as Emily screamed in terror.

  He kicked the weapon out of the man's hand. Then, using the counterforce of the same movement, he yanked on the gunman's leg to send him toppling onto the rubber mat of the aisle.

  Hal planned none of his moves. They had all been drilled into him for so many years that they came as automatically as breathing. Once the man was down, Hal slammed him on the underside of his jaw, kneed him in the groin, then swarmed over him to pull one of the hugely muscled arms into a hammerlock.

  "Are you all right?" he asked Emily. She nodded and he said, "Yell to someone to call the police."

  She bobbed her head but did not move. Next to her, Arthur started to pull himself out of a deep, drug-induced sleep. Suddenly, Emily's eyes widened as she looked toward Hal.

  "My God, what are you doing? He's turning blue."

  The gunman began to convulse in Hal's arms. Immediately Hal switched the position of his arms to span the man's wide chest and jerked on his solar plexus with his fists in the Heimlich maneuver, hoping the man would spit out whatever was choking him. But the dark man's seizure worsened. Within seconds, his chest bucked feverishly and his eyes were bulging.

  "Give me something to prop his mouth open!" Hal yelled. Emily handed him a pen. He shoved it sideways into the man's mouth, then reached in with two fingers to get at whatever obstruction was in his throat. He could find nothing. The man made a rattling sound. His body quieted and stilled. By the time the police siren could be heard, the dark man was dead.

  The local constable and a doctor arrived first. The constable was a young man in his twenties who swaggered up to the bus with a self-important air.

  "Please remain where you are," he ordered
the passengers who were gathered around the scene. He pointed to Hal, Emily, and Arthur. "You. Out."

  Ten to one the guy's never seen a stiff before, Hal thought, rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. The dead man's jaw had been like a rock. Hal had hit him hard, he knew, but not hard enough to kill him. Not even hard enough to break his jaw.

  The policeman emerged a few minutes later with the gun in an evidence bag and placed it in his car.

  "Now then," he said, turning back to the crowd. His lips were white.

  "You feeling okay?" Hal asked.

  "You'll have your chance to speak," the young officer snapped.

  While the doctor examined the body in the bus, the constable worked his way around the crowd of passengers, all of whom had run out of the inn in time to watch the man expire.

  "It was the left hook to the jaw what done it," an elderly man volunteered.

  "The big Yank tore him limb from limb."

  "He had a gun. I seen it."

  "Oh, there was a gun, sure enough. We all heard it go off."

  "All right, all right," the constable said officiously. "I'll hear you one at a time."

  "And when'll the bus be leaving, officer?"

  "We'll be keeping it at least overnight."

  There was a collective groan from the passengers.

  "But you'll not be detained that long. Another bus is being routed here. You'll be on your way soon."

  The constable interviewed each of the witnesses in turn, beginning with Emily Blessing.

  "I never saw him before we left London," she said. "My nephew and I were waiting in the bus. He was asleep, and I didn't want to disturb him. And then that man got on, and pointed a gun at me."

  "Was he attempting to rob you, ma'am?" the officer asked.

  "No. I don't know what he wanted."

  Hal had been looking around at the crowd. At Emily's blatant lie, he turned around in disbelief. Her cheeks were bright red.

  She's the worst liar I ever saw, Hal thought. And this dickhead cop isn't even looking at her.

  "Did he make any move to attack you physically?"

  She shook her head. "No. That is, I don't think so. He didn't have a chance. This gentleman stopped him." She indicated Hal. "He threw a rock through the window. The gun went off, then he got on the bus and the two of them started fighting."

  "Thank you, ma'am," the policeman said. "A CID—a detective—is on his way from Bournemouth. He'll want to speak with you as well, if you don't mind."

  "Of course."

  He turned to Hal with a completely different demeanor. "How is it you happened by the bus when you did?" he asked, hooking his thumbs into his belt.

  "Oh, brother," he muttered.

  "What was that?"

  "Officer . . . Constable . . . I just didn't like the guy's looks. I followed him outside."

  "You didn't like his looks, you say."

  Hal sighed. "That's right. Now, when's the detective coming?"

  "I don't see what that's got to do with you."

  It was going to be a long, long day.

  "Now suppose you tell me what happened after you allegedly removed the weapon from the victim."

  "The victim? He was going to shoot the lady!" Hal shouted.

  "Are you forcing me to use restraints on you, sir?"

  "Oh, Jesus."

  He was rescued by the doctor, who emerged from the bus and came straight for them.

  "Gunshot?" the constable asked.

  The doctor shook his head and gently pulled the constable away from Hal and the witnesses.

  "Broken neck, then," the constable suggested.

  "Cyanide."

  "What?" The policeman made a face and stared at Hal accusingly.

  "There's a metal capsule inside a tooth. I've left it in place for the M.E., of course. He'll confirm it."

  "Are you saying he was poisoned?"

  The doctor made a facial equivalent of a shrug. "The postmortem will determine the cause of death, of course, but the cyanide capsule had been recently broken. The odor of the poison is still in the fellow's mouth."

  "Could the bloke who hit him be responsible?"

  "It's possible. The seal may have been accidentally opened during the brawl, but it's unlikely. My guess is that the pathologist is going to rule this death a suicide."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  It was late when Hal got back to the Inn of the Falcon. Emily and Taliesin were waiting for him in the small downstairs lounge.

  "You should have left with the bus," he growled at the old man.

  "The castle's only a few miles distant. And I wouldn't just go off and leave you alone here," Taliesin said.

  "Why not? Think I might find out what you're up to?"

  "Now, really, Hal—"

  "What happened?" Emily interrupted irritably.

  Hal looked at her for a long moment. "The guy killed himself."

  "What?"

  "The M.E. just phoned in the autopsy report. That's why they let me go. They gave me back my passport. They'll bring yours in the morning."

  "Why would he kill himself?" Taliesin asked.

  Hal laughed. "I guess you'd know the answer to that better than I would."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Nothing. Forget it."

  "Mr. Woczniak . . ."

  "Look, whatever you've got going is none of my business, okay? I want to keep it that way. When's the next bus back to London?"

  "Tomorrow morning," Taliesin said.

  "You've got to be kidding. Tomorrow?"

  The old man shrugged. "It comes by once a day. I've taken the liberty of renting a room for you here."

  "Thanks, but I'd just as soon get as far away from both of you as I can. Where's the next-closest hotel?"

  Taliesin's eyebrows raised. "There isn't one. This isn't America, you know."

  "Great," Hal sighed, plopping down on a sofa. "Just great."

  "Mr. Woczniak, what's wrong with you?" Emily demanded.

  "Oh, nothing. I get into a punching match with a guy who's got a cyanide capsule in his teeth, I spend all day at the police station, I haven't had anything to eat in twenty-four hours, my fist feels like a bag of broken bones, and I come back to you two lying sacks of sewage. Everything's just fine."

  Emily stood up in outrage, cheeks blazing, but she was interrupted by the high-pitched scream of a child in an upper room.

  "Arthur!"

  Hal's heart started pounding immediately. "Which room?" he shouted as they ran for the stairs.

  "Number Eight," she said breathlessly.

  He took the stairs three at a time.

  The boy screamed again.

  Just a second, Jeff, just hold on . . .

  He was sure the railing was going to collapse and a shard of window glass was going to come down out of the sky to cut open his cheek and inside the boy would be waiting for him, tied to a chair, tied down and not breathing . . .

  He kicked open the door.

  The red-haired kid leaped out of his nightmare with a gasp.

  Hal could only stand and stare, speechless. There was no chair. No smoke. The kid was sitting up in bed, rubbing his eyes.

  Emily ran past Hal to take the boy in her arms. "We heard you screaming," she said.

  Taliesin brought up the rear. "Everything all right here?" he asked gently.

  "I guess I had a bad dream."

  Hal turned away, sickened with relief.

  "It's all right," Emily said.

  "No, it's not. They're still after us. They're still—"

  "Arthur, stop it."

  His thin shoulders shook.

  "Who's after you?" Hal asked quietly.

  "No one," Emily said. "Arthur's just—"

  "I asked the kid."

  Emily put a restraining hand on Arthur, but the boy only stared at Hal. "He's all right, Em," he said. "He fought the man with the gun."

  "But we don't even—"

  "He's come to protect me." The bi
g blue eyes passed from Hal to the old man. "They both have."

  "You don't know what you're—"

  "Who's after you?" Hal repeated.

  The boy wet his lips. "We don't know who they are. But the man today was one of them."

  "How do you know?"

  "They look the same. They all have the same eyes."

  "What do they want?"

  Emily stiffened.

  "I'll tell him," Arthur said quietly. "I'll tell him alone."

  Taliesin nodded and touched Emily's elbow.

  "Arthur, don't . . ." she began.

  "We have to trust someone," the boy said. "I choose him."

  When they were alone, the boy bent under the bed and took out a red plastic lunch box. He opened it and sifted through his childish treasures.

  "How long have you known the old man?" Hal asked as casually as possible. "Taliesin. Or Goldberg. You called him Goldberg."

  "He isn't Mr. Goldberg," Arthur said, not looking up. "Mr. Goldberg's dead." He stopped what he was doing for a moment, then rubbed his pajama sleeve across his nose. "Mr. Taliesin reminded me of him. He reminds me of a lot of people."

  "Like who?"

  Arthur sat back, leaning thoughtfully against the wall beside the bed.

  He's a little kid, Hal thought. Except for the eyes. His eyes are old.

  "Like when we were in Pittsburgh. Two men tried to shoot us."

  "Tried to shoot you and your aunt?"

  The boy nodded slowly. "But they couldn't, because someone fell in front of us. The police said he jumped from a window in the building we were walking in front of. They said if we'd taken three steps forward, he would have landed on top of us."

  "So the guys with the guns ran away before they could shoot."

  "They did shoot. The bullets hit the guy who fell out the window."

  Hal took a deep breath.

  "I won't tell you more if you refuse to believe me," Arthur said. The old eyes were somber.

  "That's a tall order," Hal said.

  "I know. That's when I started not being able to sleep. But it's the truth."

  "Okay. I'm trying."

  "Well, here's the strange part. The guy—the dead guy—looked just like Mr. Taliesin."

  Hal stood up. "Is this some kind of joke?" he asked angrily.