Legitimate Lies

by Cosgrove, Julie B;

  “I know.”

  She twisted back to me. “Right.”

  She slipped on her shoes and I did the same. Half-way down the hall, we slid inside into the dark room.

  “Gran?” Niamh whispered. She tiptoed over and crawled up onto the massive mahogany post bed. In it stretched a frail little woman swallowed by laced sheets and pillows. A dimmed bedside lamp glowed against the hollowed cheeks of her wrinkled face.

  Niamh curled her legs under her and stroked her palm over the woman’s forehead. “Gran?”

  The woman’s eyes shot open, and she gasped. Niamh placed her hand over the toothless mouth and raised her finger to her lips. Though she kept her eyes fixed on her grandmother, she motioned me over with her other hand.

  “Gran, don’t scream. You are not hallucinating. It’s me, Niamh. Really.” She softly removed her grasp over the lady’s mouth.

  “Niamh? My Niamh?” The old baroness’s voice sounded shaky and raspy.

  “They lied to you, Gran. I’m not dead. They’ve kept me locked away. But, with her help”—she pointed to me with her head—“I’ve escaped.”

  The lady blinked and stared at me. Her hollow eyes shone with fear.

  “It’s okay. I’m the one you’ve been noticing around the house.” I pointed to my chest and drawled in my strongest Texas accent. “They dressed me up to look like her to make you think you were losing your mind. But as you can see, I’m not. So”—I shrugged—“You’re not.”

  Niamh giggled and smiled warmly at me. Her eyes fell back onto her grandmother. She stroked her cheek. “Oh, Gran.” Her voice cracked. “I’ve missed you terribly.”

  The prodigal granddaughter curled herself onto her grandmother’s chest. Slowly, blue veined arms encased her. Recognition gleamed in the tired old eyes. “Niamh. My dear, dear child.”

  Together, the two sobbed inside each other’s embrace.

  I stood there like a third thumb, tears streaming down as well.

  * * *

  After a few minutes, Niamh pulled away and dabbed her eyes with a corner of the sheets. “It’s okay, Gran. We’ve brought the, uh, police. They will find that horrible man who has mesmerized Andrew into doing his bidding.”

  Gran wiped away her own tears and blew into a hankie she had tucked into her nightgown sleeve. “Awful gentleman. Greek, I think. Shady people. Smugglers and the like, you know. Helped Mussolini I’m told.”

  Niamh gave her a weak smile. Prejudice had been a product of her grandmother’s time and age, when the Brits didn’t trust anyone else in Europe. War can do that to your perspective on others.

  The dowager lifted one eyebrow and focused in on me. “And who are you, now?”

  I sat on the edge of the bed. “Another victim. The shady Greek is unfortunately my husband.”

  She clicked her tongue. “Poor child. Well, he is persuasive. We all make mistakes, now don’t we?”

  This woman appeared lucid. Not demented in the least. I glanced at her side table stacked with liquids and pills. Hatred for Dr. Wilson grew in my gut. “Don’t take any more of those, please.”

  She gave me a smirk. “Some of it I have to, dear.” She pointed to her chest. “My ticker isn’t spry.”

  Niamh stroked her shoulder. “When this is over, we are going into Bath. You are going to be examined by a real doctor and given a full physical.”

  The woman cocked her head. “My dear, Dr. Wilson has been our household physician since…well, before you were born.”

  Niamh shook her head. “Never you mind. You’re safe now. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  The old woman’s face became child-like. “Where have you been?”

  Niamh shot me a wide-eyed glare I took to mean to be quiet. Her cheeks flamed. She turned her attention back to her gran. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here now. And I am not leaving you again.” She fell into the arms of the one person she knew cherished her.

  Serenity spread across the dowager’s time-worn face as shaky, gnarl-knuckled hands patted her granddaughter’s back.

  The bang jolted us all. The door made a loud thunk against the wall. In the stream of light stood Robert, his fists pumped.

  “Ha. Found ya, Niamh. And my dear wife as a bonus. Must be my lucky day.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

  A low growl crescendoed into a banshee scream. Niamh leapt off the bed, her arms extended and nails aimed at Robert’s throat. She rushed towards him, but his stance remained set.

  With one sweep of his back hand, he sent her sailing to the floor. Just as he’d done to me at the hotel. “Slut.”

  The baroness groaned. Niamh wiped the trickling blood from her mouth. But, she stayed to the floor. Robert’s eyes turned towards me. For a split second, I thought they softened. But the hardened evil in them returned, like a devil’s glow. “Did you come back for her”—he nodded to the dowager—“or for me?”

  My lower lip tucked between my teeth. I reached for the old woman’s hand and held it. I whispered in her direction. “If you are a praying woman, now would be a good time.”

  The woman laced her fingers through mine.

  A strong male voice hissed from the hallway. “I’m the one who’s come back for you.”

  Tom. Robert let out a battle moan and swung to meet his nemesis and once best friend head on. The two collided like rams in rut. A vase on a marble stand crashed to the floor. Legs and fists tangled as the two rolled together over the floor. Then, Robert drew a blade and slashed across Tom’s upper arm. A spray of crimson splattered the wallpaper in an arc.

  Niamh screamed.

  I clasped my hands to my face. “Robert, stop.”

  Robert rose to his feet as Tom coiled. I rushed to Tom and held his arm tightly to stop the bleeding. Red seeped through my fingers. He winced. “Let me go, Jen.”

  Robert cackled. “Ain’t love grand. Well, she’s mine, Tom. You can’t have her.” Though his cheek began to redden from Tom’s blows, his eyes flashed as his teeth set with intent. He lunged again with a growl, like a wounded panther.

  Tom swirled me to the side and stood to meet his attacker. Robert tossed down the knife. “Bring it, lover boy. Fight me for her.”

  Together they interlaced, muscle to muscle, strength to strength. Their feet shuffled further into the hall. I heard a smack, followed by the sound of oomph and another blow. Niamh and I leaned out the door jamb to watch the boxing match. Tom threw Robert against a table. A crystal bowl of faux grapes tumbled to the carpet. Robert bounced off the furniture with a forward thrust. His head slammed into Tom’s gut. Tom fell against a marble stand with the carved bust of some neo-Greek goddess on it. It wobbled back and forth in a slow spin.

  The warning spurted from my mouth too late. “Watch out.”

  As Tom folded to the side in pain, the bust plunged downward. It thudded across the back of Robert’s head and neck. The crack echoed through the corridor into my ears.

  My mind wanted to scream, but only silence escaped from my mouth. I raised my hands to my face. Niamh grabbed my arm.

  Tom rolled away to the left, clasping his shoulder as blood spurt anew through his fingers.

  Robert let out a deep, guttural groan and, with a shudder, his body limped. He lay sprawled on his face. Not a muscle moved.

  “Is he knocked out?” Niamh whispered.

  I rushed over and turned Robert to his side. His pupils fogged over as if he’d suddenly contracted glaucoma. His breaths spouted in short, halted gasps.

  The warm oozing of his blood spread into my hands as I cradled his head in my lap. The vicious, pathetic monster melted into a helpless blob.

  “Jen.” He gulped for air. His gaze faded to some distant place. He didn’t blink. Bubbles foamed at the corner of his mouth.

  I stroked his brow. “Ssshh. Niamh, call for help.” I looked up at her. “Please.”

  Robert gave a shallow cough. His words rasped in a forced breath. “For…forgive.”

  I leaned over him. “I do.”<
br />
  His eyes lit from within. Just for a second. Then they dimmed as if someone turned off a kerosene lamp. One contact lens slid out in a tear. A long sigh exhaled the last bit of life from his lungs. His head slung to the side, mouth gaped.

  Men’s feet thundered up the stairs and down the hall toward us.

  Tom knelt next to me, one hand still clasping his wounded arm.

  Through shimmery eyes I noticed one of the agents press two fingers to Robert’s neck, only to shake his head.

  I gasped. “Are you sure?”

  Tom placed his other hand over Robert’s eyes and closed them. His voice came out in a croak. “May our Lord have mercy on his soul.”

  With blurred tears and a boulder in my gut, I whispered the response, “Amen.”

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  I stared at my hands, upturned in my lap, covered in blood. Some from Tom, more from Robert. But which was which? My focus folded into a soft fuzziness as sobs erupted from deep within me.

  Strong hands turned me toward a muscled chest. I smelt his familiar aftershave and manliness. Tom’s good arm encased me as he kissed the crown of my head. I buried my face in his warmth and sobbed.

  Men’s voices, footsteps, and Mary’s scream muddled my brain. Someone else lifted me from Tom’s grip, folded me into their arms, and carried me off. Tom’s word filtered into my brain. “Take care of her.”

  “We will. Let’s look at that arm.” I think Dr. Wilson said it.

  I sat in a loveseat off to the side further down the hallway. Red and blue lights flashed across the beveled glass windows over the stairwell. Sirens pulsated their wails as the gravel crackled and spat under high-speed tires.

  Thuds sounded on the stairs. Men’s loud chatter filled the hall. People rushed back and forth. Confusion blurred together as I gazed at the clump on the floor which once had been the man I had loved, married, hated, and forgiven.

  Malcolm led the police investigators to the hallway. They scattered like mice, each to his assigned duty. Chaos buzzed about me, yet I became sucked into a vacuum. I picked up bits and pieces of sentences but my brain wouldn’t process much of it. Niamh comforted her grandmother. Jane groaned and Mary sobbed. Charles barked orders not to touch anything. Tom told someone he was okay, but to check on me.

  It all seemed surreal. As if I watched some TV crime drama on a monitor with poor reception. My brain switched to me being like the camera person shooting the scene—detached yet a part of it. Two men appeared in my line of vision. One wore a tweed suit and had graying temples. The other appeared younger, also in a suit. Two uniformed policeman hung a pace behind them.

  The tweed-suited man grunted to his underling. “Name of the vic?”

  “Robert Westlaw, a.k.a. Roberto Juarez, a.k.a. Edward Manning, sir. Wanted in the States and by Interpol per that man.” He nodded to Tom. “Says this Robert’s a CIA operative gone rogue. Drug and sex trafficking.”

  “Humph. The ring leader, eh? That means NCA will be here soon enough.”

  The other one responded with a scoff. “Already here, sir. Before us.”

  The officer got down on his haunches and bent over the body. “Blow to the back of a head is my guess.” He glanced at the toppled marble bust. “There’s the cause, eh?”

  Another man in white shirt with a black case knelt as well. He put on blue surgical gloves and a disposable jumpsuit. “Blunt trauma to the brain stem most likely. I’ll determine more when I can get him back to the lab.”

  The younger man straddled over Robert’s feet. He had a small pocket notebook. “Witnesses said they were fighting. The vic and the federal agent. The bust landed on top of him.” He nodded to me. “That’s the vic’s wife. She witnessed it as did those two ladies.”

  The Detective Chief Inspector eyed me, and cocked his head to study Niamh as she caressed her grandmother, now in a wheelchair and speaking with another policeman. The DCI scrunched his eyebrows and returned his gaze to his underling.

  The other detective nodded. “Yeah, they look alike. But he”—he motioned to Tom—“says they aren’t related.”

  “Right. We’ll sort that one out later.” He lifted his chin. “Doc? Does he need an ambulance?”

  Dr. Wilson held Tom’s arm. “No. Not deep. Didn’t lose much blood.”

  “Humph. Guess this did it?” The DCI pointed to the bloody knife near the doorway of the baroness’ room. He motioned to one of the policemen. “Bag that. Get samples of the blood. Dust for prints. You know the drill.”

  They spoke so matter of fact. I guess they saw things like this every day. As they stood chatting over the lifeless form of my husband, I wanted to scream, “Stop. At least cover him up, please.” Instead I chose not to look in that direction anymore.

  My eyes scanned until they fell onto Tom. He sat bare-chested, Dr. Wilson’s handiwork winding from his shoulder to his elbow in a sling. One of the agents who’d come through the tunnels bent to talk into his ear. Tom nodded.

  The DCI tilted his head and scanned Robert’s body one more time. He turned to his subordinate. “What do the ladies say happened?”

  “Scuffle. The vic pulled the knife, slashed the CIA asset. Evidently, he’s been tracking the vic for some time. Thus all these agents running around.” He panned the hallway. “The two rumbled, and the vic head-butted the asset, who fell against the bust. It came down on the vic’s neck.”

  “Anything else?”

  The other detective noted something in his black notebook, and slapped it closed. “No, sir. Not having to do with us.”

  “Right. Looks cut and dry, then. You can have him, Ed.” He addressed the man in the white shirt, who I gathered was the coroner, also clothed in a disposable jumpsuit.

  “We’ll take him to the lab in Bath. I’ll do the initial and call you with the results. But yes, seems obvious it was an accident.” He motioned to Tom. “And self-defense.”

  The DCI turned to the other uniformed men behind him. “Get more statements. Tag the scene, take some shots, and then bag him. Give the bloke the vic struggled with over there a charge sheet. He can come down to the station in the morning. Post a man tonight at each entrance. No one leaves, got it? Not even the servants.”

  The two officers appeared to almost click their heels. They moved off to don disposable jumpsuits as well. Yellow tape laced the hallway. Markers placed near the bust, the doorway, the floor where the knife had lain. More photos taken. The flashes hit my pupils. The hall haloed in rainbows. I squeezed my eyelids together as the ribbons of color danced.

  A mechanical squeak made me open them again. Two men lowered a gurney as the coroner zipped Robert into a large plastic bag. Next, they flopped him onto the transport like a sack of flour, and covered his corpse with a sheet.

  A million invisible ants with icy feet danced over my skin. I began to shudder. Was he really dead? Was this all over at last? Should I feel sad, relieved, happy? Do I wear black?

  One of the attendants pressed a glass of cool water to my lips. I sputtered and dribbled it down my blouse, tried another swallow. His voice blared in my ear. Yet he sounded far away. “I think she’s in shock, sir.”

  Someone draped a blanket around my shoulders.

  “For the love of Christ, get her out of here. Go, take her to one of the bedrooms. Lie her down.” The man in tweed barked the commands. “But get her out of that bloody blouse and bag it.”

  “Tom?” My own voice sounded as if I stood in the tunnels under the manor. “Tom.”

  His face fuzzed in front of me as his hand squeezed my shoulder. “I’m here, hon. I’m fine. Go lie down. I’ll be in to check on you in a while.”

  My brain numbed again. I squinted my eyes. “Okay.”

  “Good, girl.”

  With the assistance of one of the Interpol agents, I rose to my feet and wobbled down the hall. A buzz emitted from his earpiece as he lifted me onto a bed. He looked and pulled mine from my ear.

  I sat still as a statue, my legs dangling off t
he edge.

  “We have her, now. You can leave.” Mary ordered as she scrubbed my hands with a hot, soapy washcloth. Jane removed my blouse and pushed me gently down as Mary swiveled my legs around and took off my shoes. I shivered uncontrollably. A soft, down comforter enveloped my back as she draped a blanket over me up to my shoulders. “You better take that blouse to the bobbies, Jane. Here, the washcloth, too.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jane leaned over me and shot me a sweet smile. “You’re okay, now.”

  Mary tucked the covers around my hips and legs. She repositioned the pillow behind my head. “Rest, ma’am. We’ll be right here.”

  “This will help her cope.” Dr. Wilson stood over me. I turned to see the glisten of the syringe. I wanted to fight him, but I couldn’t muster the energy. A sharp prick hit my arm. The room shrunk into a black veil. Again.

  My final cognitive thought was a prayer that this would be the last time anyone drugged me. Ever.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  The next morning, Mary brought me toast and hot tea. I scanned the room. Not Niamh’s. I guess she was in it instead of me. “Where am I?”

  Mary set the tray down. “In one of the finer guest rooms, dear. For dignitaries and close friends.”

  The mahogany canopy bed appeared massive. The room had been decorated in patterns of navy and beige, in a unisex fashion blending classic with modern. English landscapes hung on the wall and a flat screen TV perched on an Edwardian lowboy. A computer monitor sat at an angle on the Victorian curved desk. A humped Queen Anne style couch, upholstered in soft tan, crouched in the bay window. Two navy, maroon and tan patterned chairs flanked it around a claw-foot oval coffee table.

  She placed the palm of her hand on each hip. “Well, looks like your version of the tale was right after all.”

  I flipped to one side and curled my knees to my chest under the covers. “And telling you put you in danger. Dr. Wilson said after they took me to the hospital, you’d be sent on a long vacation. That’s why I refused to leave.” I gave her a sheepish grin. “Well, until later, of course. On my own.”