“A boy’s hobby, not worth much of anything to anyone with sophistication and discrimination. And you spend your time drawing cartoons. What is the name? Remus?”
“Yes, I draw political cartoons. His name is No Wrinkles Remus. He’s utterly immoral, like you, but I’ve never yet seen him want to murder someone.” She paused for a moment, smiled at the motionless manservant. “I’m really quite good at cartooning. Isn’t it interesting the way Grandmother’s talent found new ways to come out in us, her grandchildren?”
“Sarah Elliott was unique. There will never be another like her.”
“I agree. There will never be another cartoonist like me either. I’m unique, too. And what are you, Olaf? Other than an obsessed old man who has had too much money and power for far too long? Tell me, have you ever done anything worthwhile in your blighted life?”
His face turned red; his breathing became labored. The manservant looked frightened. The two bodyguards stood straighter and tensed, their eyes darting from Lily to their boss.
She couldn’t stop herself. Rage and impotence roiled inside her, and she hated this wretched monster. Yes, let him burst a vessel with his rage; let him stroke out. It was payback for all that he’d done to her, to Simon. “I know what you are—you’re one of those artists manqué, one of those pathetically sad people who were just never good enough, who could only be hangers-on, always on the outside looking in. You weren’t even good enough to be a pale imitation, were you? I’ll bet my grandmother thought you were pitiful, yes, pathetic. I’ll bet she told you what she thought of you, didn’t she?”
“Shut up!” He began cursing her, but it was in Swedish and she couldn’t understand. The bodyguards were even more on edge now, surprised at what the old man, their boss, was yelling, the spittle spewing out of his mouth.
Lily didn’t shut up. She talked over him, yelled louder than he was yelling, “What did she say to you that last day when she left with my grandfather? Because you went to her, didn’t you? Begged her to marry you instead of Emerson, but she refused, didn’t she? Did she laugh at you? Did she tell you she would even take that woman-hating Picasso before you? That you had the talent of a slug and you disgusted her, all your pretenses, your affectations? What did she say to you, Olaf?”
“She said I was a spoiled little boy who had too much money and would always be a shallow, selfish man!” He was wheezing, nearly incoherent, flinging himself from side to side.
Lily stared at him. “You even remember the exact words my grandmother said to you? That was more than sixty-five years ago! You were pathetic then, and you’re beyond that now. You’re frightening.”
“Shut up!” Olaf seemed feverish now, his frail, veined hands clutching the arms of the wheelchair, his bent and twisted fingers showing white from the strain.
The manservant was leaning over him now, speaking urgently in his ear. She could hear the words, but he spoke in Swedish.
Olaf ignored him, shook him off. Lily said, smiling, “Do you know that Sarah loved Emerson so much she was always painting him? That there are six of his portraits in our mother’s private collection?”
“I knew,” he screamed at her, “of course I knew! You think I would ever want a portrait of that philistine? That damned fool knew nothing of what she was. He couldn’t have understood or appreciated what she was! I could, but she left me. I begged her, on my knees in front of her, but it didn’t matter—she left me!”
He was trembling so badly she thought he would fall from his wheelchair.
Suddenly, Olaf yelled something in Swedish to his manservant. The man grabbed the handles and began pushing the wheelchair across the huge chessboard.
“Hey, Olaf, why are you running away from me? Don’t you like hearing what I have to say? I’ll bet it’s only the second time anyone’s told you the truth. Don’t you want to marry me anymore?”
She heard him yelling, but she couldn’t make out the words; they were garbled, incoherent, some English, some Swedish. He sounded like a mad old man, beyond control. What was he going to do? Why had he left? She stood on the king one square, leaning against the beautifully carved heavy piece, shuddering with reaction, wondering what she’d driven him to with her contempt, her ridicule. She couldn’t run because she didn’t doubt the two bodyguards would stop her.
Where was the manservant taking him? What had he said to him? The two bodyguards were speaking low, so she couldn’t really hear them. They stared at her again, and she saw bewilderment in their eyes. She wouldn’t get three steps before they were on her.
Lily’s rage wilted away and was replaced with a god-awful fear. But she’d held her own. She thought of her grandmother and wondered how like her she was. They’d both faced down this man, and she was proud of what they’d done.
She stood there, her brain squirreling madly about, wondering what to do now. She didn’t have time to think about it. She heard the smooth wheelchair wheels rolling across the marble floor and saw Olaf coming toward her. This time he was pushing himself, his gnarled, trembling hands on the cushioned wheel pads. His two bodyguards took a step forward. He shook his head, not even looking at them. He was staring at Lily, and there was memory in his eyes, memory of that other woman, painfully clear and vivid. She knew that what had happened that day had struck him to his very soul, maimed him, destroyed what he’d seen himself as being and becoming. And now he saw what he had become after that day so very long ago.
Lily saw madness in his eyes; it was beyond hatred, and it was aimed at her. At her and her grandmother, who was dead and beyond his vengeance. Everything that had driven him, the decades of obsession with her grandmother as the single perfect woman, all of it had exploded when Lily had pushed him to remember the events as they’d really happened, forced him to see the truth of that day Sarah Elliott told him she was leaving with another man.
He came up to within six feet of her and stopped pushing the wheels. She wondered if he could make out her outline. Or was she a vague shadow?
He spoke, his voice low and steady as he said, “I’ve decided I won’t marry you. I have seen clearly now that you don’t deserve my devotion or my admiration. You are nothing like Sarah, nothing at all.” He lifted a small derringer from his lap and pointed it at her.
“The Frasiers are dead. They weren’t worth anything to me alive. And now, you aren’t either.”
The bodyguards took a step forward, in unison.
He’d had the Frasiers killed?
Lily ran at the wheelchair, smashed into it as hard as she could and sent it over onto its side, scraping against the marble floor. Olaf was flung from the chair.
Lily didn’t hesitate. She ran as fast as she could, to fall flat behind the white king. She heard two rapid shots. The king’s head shattered and fragments of marble flew everywhere.
She heard Olaf yell at the bodyguards, heard their loud running steps. She stayed flat on the floor. Several shards of marble had struck her, and she felt pricks of pain, felt the sticky flow of blood down her arm, rolling beneath her bra, staining the white dress.
She heard Olaf cursing, still helpless on the floor. He was screaming at his bodyguards to tell him if he’d killed her yet.
The bodyguards shouted something, but again it was in Swedish so she didn’t understand. They didn’t come after her, evidently because he wanted to have this pleasure all for himself, and they knew it.
She began moving on her elbows, behind the queen now, toward the great front door, behind the bishop. She looked out toward Olaf. One of his bodyguards was bending over him, handing him his own gun.
The bodyguard picked Olaf up and set him again in his wheelchair, then turned the chair toward her. And now Olaf aimed that gun right at her.
She rolled behind the knight. She wasn’t any farther than ten feet from the front doors.
“I like this game,” Olaf shouted and fired. The bishop toppled, shattering as it fell, falling over her ankles. She felt a stab of pain, but she could still move
her feet. She moved solidly behind the knight and stilled.
Olaf shouted again. Then he laughed. Another shot, obscenely loud in the silence, and she saw a huge chunk of marble floor, not three feet from her, spew in all directions. He fired again and again, sending the white king careening into the queen.
Lily was on her knees behind the rook now, close to the front door.
Another shot whistled past her ear, and she flattened herself. One of the bodyguards yelled and ran toward her. Why?
Then she heard more shots, at least six of them, but they weren’t from Olaf or the bodyguard; they were coming through the front door. She heard yelling, men’s voices, and pounding on the door until it crashed inward.
Olaf and the bodyguards were shooting toward the door.
Lily lurched to her feet, lifted a huge shard of the bishop’s white miter, ran toward Olaf, and hurled it at his wheelchair.
It hit him. Olaf, his gun firing wildly, straight up now, went over backward. His bodyguards ran as policemen fired at them from the open front door.
More gunfire. So much shouting, so much noise, too much. Simon was there, just behind the third policeman. He was alive.
There was sudden silence. The gun storm was over. Lily ran to Simon, hurled herself against him. His arms tightened around her.
She raised her head and smiled up at him. “I’m glad you came when you did. It was pretty dicey there for a while.”
She heard Olaf screaming, spewing profanity. Then he was quiet.
Simon said in her ear, “It’s over, Lily, all over. Olaf isn’t going anywhere. It’s time to worry about yourself. You’re bleeding a little. I want you to hold still; there’s an ambulance coming.”
“I’m all right. It’s just cuts from the flying marble. You’re wet, Simon,” she said. “Why are you wet?”
“I was careless. Be still.”
“No, tell me. How did you get away from them? What happened?”
He realized she couldn’t let it go, and he slowed himself, keeping his voice calm and low. “I dove into the canal to get away, but I couldn’t. Then there were all sorts of cops there to pull me out of the canal and take care of Alpo, Nikki, and Ian. Nobody was killed. They’re all in the local lockup. It was your brother, Lily. He called a friend in Stockholm who happened to have two brothers living here in Gothenburg. The police were watching the mansion, saw Ian and the boys stuff me in the car, called backup, and followed.”
“I want to meet those brothers,” she said. For the first time, she felt like smiling, and so she did, a lovely smile that was filled with hope.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Washington, D.C.
Late Saturday night, it was colder in Washington than it had been in Stockholm. The temperature had plummeted early in the day and the skies had opened up and sprinkled a dusting of snow all over the East Coast. Lily was finally in bed, her shoulder and back no longer throbbing from the shards of marble that had struck her. “Nothing important here—all surface pain,” the Swedish doctor had said, and she’d wanted to slug him. Now she would probably have more scars.
When she’d said this on a sigh to Simon, he’d said, as he’d eased some pillows around her on the roomy first-class seat, that he liked banged-up women. The scars showed character.
“No,” Lily had said as she let him ease a thin airplane blanket to her chin, “what it shows is that the woman has bad judgment.”
He’d laughed as he’d kissed her. Then he’d smoothed the hair off her forehead and kissed her again, not laughing this time.
Then Simon had cupped her face in his palm and said very quietly, since the movie was over and everyone was trying to sleep in the dimly lit cabin, “I think we’re going to make a fine team, Lily. You, me, and No Wrinkles Remus.”
Lily snuggled down under the comforter. She hoped Simon was doing better than she was. Like her, he’d been ready to fall flat on his face from exhaustion. She hoped he was sleeping.
Actually, Simon was turning slowly over in the too-short cot, not wanting to roll himself accidentally off onto the floor. He had managed to get the blanket carefully wrapped around his feet, no easy thing, since his feet were off the cot and on the big side. He’d taken up temporary residence in Sean’s room, down the hall from Lily, since the baby was still with Mrs. Savich. A precaution, Dillon had said as he’d helped Dane Carver, a new special agent in his unit, carry in the narrow army cot that would be Simon’s bed. He’d announced to both men that he didn’t care if he had to fit himself into Sean’s crib, if that’s what it took to get to sleep.
Simon knew she was okay, just down the hall. Not near enough to him for the time being, but Simon had plans to change that. He could easily picture her in his brownstone, could picture how he’d redo one of those large upstairs bedrooms to make it her workroom. Great light in that room, exactly right for her.
Simon was smiling as he breathed in the scent of Sean. Nice scent, but he would have preferred to be in the guest room with Lily, in her bed. He’d always been a patient man, which, he supposed, was a good thing, since he’d only known Lily for a little more than two weeks.
As for Lily, she didn’t know why she couldn’t sleep. It was after midnight in Washington, morning in Sweden. But she and Simon had been in Sweden such a short time, her body had no clue what time of day it was. She was beyond exhaustion, yet she couldn’t sleep.
She was still very worried about her brother. Tammy Tuttle hadn’t shown up, hadn’t come after Dillon, and both her brother and Sherlock were frustrated and on edge, at their wits’ end.
On Friday afternoon, as announced, Dillon had taken a taxi to the airport and checked in for a flight to Texas. Then, at the last minute, he’d deplaned and slipped back into the house in Georgetown.
Now it was Saturday night, well beyond the deadline, and Lily knew there were still agents covering the house. Jimmy Maitland wasn’t taking any chances, and the very sophisticated house alarm was set.
Lily hoped Dillon and Sherlock were sleeping better than she was. She knew they missed Sean. When they’d all come up to bed, they’d automatically turned to go to Sean’s room.
She rolled onto her side and sucked in her breath at a sudden jab of pain. She didn’t want to take any more pain pills. She closed her eyes and saw that huge room again, its walls covered with her grandmother’s paintings. So many to be returned to museums all over the world. Olaf Jorgenson and his son would not be able to stop it. Ian would be in jail for a very long time. Olaf was in the hospital, in very bad shape.
After a good deal of time, she was finally floating toward sleep, when her brain clicked on full alert and her eyes flew open. She’d heard something. Not Simon or Dillon or Sherlock moving around, something that wasn’t right.
Maybe it was nothing at all, a phantom whisper from her exhausted brain or only a puff of wind that had sent a branch sweeping against the bedroom window. Yes, the sound was outside, not in her bedroom. Maybe it was in Simon’s bedroom. Had he awakened?
Lily continued to wait, gritty eyes staring around the dark room, listening.
She started to relax again when she heard a creak. A slight pressure on the oak floor could cause a creak, but it was there and it was close. In the air, no longer heard, but she still felt it. Lily waited, straining to hear, her heart pounding now.
The scattered carpets covering the oak floors would mask any creaks, make someone walking hard to hear.
Lily lurched upright, straining to see. Too late, she saw a shadow, moving fast, and something coming down at her. She felt a deadening pain like a sharp knife driving into her skull.
She fell back onto the pillow. Before she passed out, she saw a face over her, a woman’s face, and she knew whose face it was. The mouth whispered, “Hi, little sister.”
SHERLOCK couldn’t sleep. Dillon’s arm was heavy over her chest, and he was close and warm, his familiar scent in the air she breathed, but it didn’t help. Her brain wouldn’t turn off; it just kept moving, going over
and over what they knew about Tammy, what they imagined but didn’t know.
When she couldn’t stand it anymore, Sherlock eased away from him, got out of bed, and pulled on her old blue wool robe. She wore socks to keep her feet warm against the oak floor.
She had to check the house again, though she’d already checked it three times, and Dillon had checked probably another three. She had to be sure. It was early Sunday morning, it was snowing, and Sean was at his grandmother’s, safe. When would she feel secure enough to bring him home? Ever? It had to end. Tammy had to do something; it had to end, sometime.
She hoped the four agents outside weren’t freezing their butts off. At least she knew they had hot coffee; she’d taken them a huge thermos about ten o’clock.
She got to the end of the hall and paused for a moment, feeling the house warm around her, breathing in its comforting smells. It took a moment, but Sherlock realized that something was different.
It was quiet in a way she wasn’t used to. Too quiet. She realized that the alarm was off, the very low hum you could barely hear wasn’t there. Panic lurched up into her throat.
She turned to look down the beautifully carved oak staircase. She saw dim light pooling at the bottom from the glass arch above the front door, snowflakes drifting lazily down. She took one step, then another, when a hand hit her square in the middle of the back. She screamed, or at least she thought she did, as she went head over heels down the stairs. Someone passed by her as she lay there facedown on a thick Persian carpet, the breath knocked out of her, barely hanging on to consciousness. She’d struck her head, struck everything on her body, and she could hardly move.
She thought she heard a moan, and then the figure was gone. The front door opened as she stared at it, yes, she was sure it was open, now fully open, because she felt a slice of cold air reach her face, and she shivered.
The front door stayed open. Only an instant passed before she realized what had happened. Someone had shoved her down the stairs. Someone had just gone out through the front door.
Twice Dead Page 62
