“But there was one time when the poison could have been given to Sir Adrian.” Dani lifted her head and stared down the table. “At the dining table—after the champagne was served.
Goldman hesitated, not sure of her meaning. “You mean you think Sir Adrian put the poison in his champagne glass—that it didn’t take effect until the next scene?”
Dani said slowly and emphatically, “I will never believe that Sir Adrian Lockridge killed himself. For personal reasons—” She faltered here, then caught herself, “He was, at the end, a man who was filled with peace, perhaps for the first time in his life. Even if he knew he was going to die, I think he had the courage to face death. That is my opinion of him. What do you think, Victoria?”
Victoria Lockridge had been listening carefully to Dani. Now she said, “Yes, I think you are right.” Then she smiled across at Dani—a strange smile, Goldman thought. “But how did he get the poison in his glass?”
Dani said evenly, holding her gaze, “There was one point in that dining scene when every eye was drawn to Ringo Jordan, who was at the opposite end of the table. At that moment, it would have been possible for someone sitting at Sir Adrian’s left hand to have switched glasses with him.”
“He was left-handed, and I was at his left,” Victoria commented. “It wouldn’t have been difficult at all, especially with everyone’s attention on someone else. But why would I switch glasses with him?”
Dani said as if the words were forced from her, “Because you had already put the poison in your own glass.”
“How would I manage that, Danielle?” Lady Lockridge asked. She looked more interested in the conversation than anything else, as though she and the young woman facing her were playing some sort of word game.
“From—the small flask you wear on your wrist. The one you’re wearing now.”
“From this?” Victoria held her left hand up, catching the tiny flask in her right. “What would make you think that?”
“Because the flask was filled with red wine—from your wedding. Now it’s empty.”
Lady Victoria lifted her arm and stared at the tiny container. Then she added in a conversational tone, “Yes, the wine is gone.” She lowered her arm. “We’ve had the poison for a long time. It was something Adrian’s brother brought back from India, when he was stationed there. I hated it, but Adrian found it fascinating. It worked, just as they told Trevor it would—in a matter of five minutes or so. The rest of it is still in the specimen case at home. I couldn’t bear to clean this out.”
Goldman gave a start and moved impulsively toward Lady Lockridge, as though she would bolt out of the room. But she did no such thing. Instead she removed the bracelet from her wrist and handed it to Goldman. He took out a handkerchief, let her lay it in the folds, then put it in his breast pocket.
“He hated hospitals and being sick,” Lady Victoria explained quietly. Her eyes were dreamy, as though she were seeing something pleasant in her mind. “It would have been torture for him, having to be cared for by others, watching himself waste away.” She opened her eyes and said, “Danielle, he said to me not long before the last, ‘I wish men were like animals, that they could just crawl away and die alone—not be fussed over by everyone.’ I knew him better than anyone. And I loved him—always. That’s why I couldn’t stand to see him suffer!”
She spoke no more, and every person in the room sat as if frozen. Then Lady Lockridge rose from her seat. She came around the table and stood before Dani. She seemed much smaller than usual and had to reach up to touch Dani’s cheek gently. “You must not grieve, my dear! You must not! I could not have kept it in. Sooner or later, I would have had to testify that Adrian was no coward, to take his own life!”
She suddenly put her arms around Dani and hugged her fiercely. Dani stood there, stiff as a post, and Victoria looked up into the younger woman’s face, then moved to wipe away the tears that flowed freely down Dani’s cheeks. “No! No! You gave him life, dear. I saw it with my own eyes. He was never the same after you came to him with your faith—and somehow you were able to pass it on to him! And I thank you for that! Adrian and I—we both thank you!”
Then she kissed Danielle and turned to face Goldman. “Lieutenant, I’m ready now.”
“Yes, Lady Victoria.” Goldman looked as if he had been struck in the pit of the stomach. He moved falteringly around the table and put out his arm. “I’ll go with you,” he murmured.
Together they walked through the door in complete silence. Framed by the high doorway, Victoria turned and smiled, not just with her lips, but with her eyes. “Don’t ever grieve, Danielle—because you gave him life!”
Then she passed through the door, which swung closed with a sibilant sigh, shutting her off from view.
19
Bayou Fugitive
* * *
Savage left New Orleans at eight, but the April heat was already rising out of the earth, moist and thick. The Toll Causeway was mostly clear, so he set the cruise control on sixty-five. Lake Pontchartrain lapped at the concrete pillars supporting the highway; shimmering heat waves already blurred the blue-gray surface. A flight of white egrets scored the steel-gray sky, and his eyes followed them until they dropped down into a reedy sandbank. Crossing Interstate 12, he caught State Highway 90, and held his speed until he passed through Houma. He had to slow down for the lights, so he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and studied the map that Daniel Ross had drawn.
“Go through Houma,” he’d said, tracing the route on the map. “But watch out for the road marked Highway 57—it’s a gravel road that bears left. Go through a one-horse burg, Dulac. Nothing much there but a store and a gas station. Watch your odometer. Exactly six and three-tenths of a mile, there’ll be a dirt road on your right, between two live-oak trees. It’s easy to miss. Take that road till it plays out.”
“What then?” Ben had asked.
“Walk about half a mile down a trail. You can’t miss it, because it’s the only thing that’s out of the water this time of year. You’ll find a pirogue tied there. Get in it, follow the white flags, and you’ll get to the cabin.”
Most of that went well, for he found the road between the two trees, and since there the road played out, that was simple. Pulling a knapsack out of the backseat, he locked the car and set off down the path, which wound around huge cypress trees. It should have been cooler in the shade, but the heat seemed to be trapped by the bulk of the trees. By the time he had gone fifty yards, Ben was soaked with sweat. The path narrowed, and ten minutes later played out completely.
He stared at the pirogue tied by a frayed cotton line and shook his head but moved toward it. The small dugout was not much over eight feet long, not wider than three feet, and very shallow. He had seen the Cajuns stand up in them, skimming over the water like waterbugs, in what they called their pee-row. But when he put the knapsack in the bow and gingerly lowered himself, the flimsy craft almost rolled over.
Ben caught his balance, knelt on the hard floor, and shoved off with the short-handled paddle. The boat tilted alarmingly, but soon he was able to paddle the craft along. “Thing moves easy enough,” he murmured to himself. “Easiest thing to paddle I ever was in.”
By now he was accustomed to the heat, but the rising hum of mosquitoes and gnats sang in his ears. He slapped at his neck, almost falling out of the boat, looked at the bloody mark on his hand, then shook his head and threw his back into the work. As the pirogue skimmed along, he became aware of this world’s silence. Not a sound, save the drone of insects and the noise of his paddle gurgling through the murky black water. A dirty, weather-stained white rag caught his eye, and he steered the boat into what seemed to be a large canal. The sun flickered through the limbs of the cypress trees, like latticework, and he batted his eyes, watching for the next flag.
He missed it, for it was water dyed almost brown. Back-paddling, he awkwardly made his way through a still-narrower channel—so narrow that he could touch the banks wit
h his paddle. This lasted only a few yards, for he emerged into a body of open water, a small lake that must have covered thirty acres or more. Sweeping the far shore with his gaze, he saw a cabin sitting on stilts, with a thin ribbon of white smoke rising out of a round smokestack.
“Well, I didn’t get lost, anyway.” He grunted. Dead cypress trees weathered to tall splinters poked at the sky like dead men’s fingers, and he had to steer the craft carefully between them. Once he put out his paddle to shove off on a large black branch as big around as his arm—and the branch turned into a cottonmouth moccasin. He felt the tip of the paddle prod the firm flesh, saw the amazing white of the widespread jaws, and jerked the paddle back, making a club out of it. But the snake slid into the water and disappeared with a swirl beneath its black depths.
With a hand that was not entirely steady, Savage wiped the sweat from his face. “I’ll be seeing you, old boy, in every little ripple in this blasted swamp.” He was almost to the little finger of dry land that reached out into the main body, when he made the mistake of standing up. He was coming in smoothly, and it was like riding water skis, which he did well. But the pirogue hit something that seemed to rise to the surface, and even as Savage fell into the water the thought screamed through his mind: Alligator!
He hit the water full length. Though his legs churned like mad, his feet sank into the yeasty bottom, which seemed to suck him down. A mindless shout escaped him; he jerked his feet loose and, in a desperate effort that was half swimming and half crawling, reached the shore. He could almost feel the teeth closing on him, so he got to his feet, made an enormous lunge—and fell facedown in the black gumbo mud.
A calm voice greeted him, “Why, hello, Ben.”
He looked up, wiped the mud from his face, and saw Dani sitting in a lawn chair under the raised cabin. She was wearing denim shorts, a man’s blue shirt, tied in front, and a pair of dark glasses.
He stared at her, then waved back at the water. “Hit an alligator!” he gasped. “He nearly got me!”
Dani got up out of her chair, walked over in front of him, and looked at his mud-blackened face, then at the water.
“That’s a log,” she pointed out calmly and walked back to take her seat.
Savage twisted his head and noticed a half-sunken log gently bobbing beside the pirogue. He hated to turn his head again and had the impulse to get in the pirogue and leave. But he got up, waded out to the boat, picked up the knapsack, shook it off, then dragged the boat to shore, dropping it With a thud.
The knapsack was dripping wet, and he was sure that everything was spoiled. He refused to face her, but moved to dry land and began to unpack the contents.
She watched as he shook the water off the groceries and pulled out a pack of sodas. “What are you doing here, Ben?” she finally asked.
He shook water from a package of Snicker bars, then looked at her. “Oh, I was just passing by, you know? Thought I might as well say hello.”
She stared at him. “There’s a cold-water shower. Wash the mud off your face,” she ordered. “You look like one of the old-time minstrels.”
He glared at her, stomped over to the shower, a ten-gallon bucket with holes punched in the bottom, and pulled the chain that let fresh water fill it up. He washed the black mud off his face and hands, took off his tee shirt and wrung it out, but let the pants and shoes go.
She had her back turned to him. “Have you had breakfast?” she threw over her shoulder.
“No.”
“I’ll fix something.”
Thirty minutes later they were sitting at the small table inside the cabin. The sides were mostly open but screened. He took a bite of ham and chewed it, watching the sun hit the bayou. Little streaks of fire seemed to run across it, and once a huge fish broke water, sending a shower of silver drops in a circular pattern. He ate the ham and eggs and put preserves on three pieces of toast. Dani sat and watched him, saying nothing. Finally he finished the coffee.
“Dad sent you, I suppose.”
“Yep.”
“I’m not going back.”
“All right.”
She stared at him. “I mean it, Ben!”
“Okay.” He leaned back in his chair and stared out the screen. “After you go through the Lost World to get here, this place is pretty nice.”
“Ben—I’m not kidding,” she said. Her skin was brown from the sun, but she looked thinner.
“So you’re not kidding. So you’re not going back.” He shrugged his thick shoulders. “I’m not going to drag you back by the hair. And I’m not kidding about that!”
She held his eyes, her shoulders very straight. A pelican flapped lazily across in front of the screen, and Savage watched with admiration as the bird suddenly folded his wings, made a dive, and came up with the silvery tail of a fish flopping wildly in his pouch.
“All right then,” Dani agreed. She got up and washed his dishes. When she was finished, she commented, “I’m going fishing.”
“I’ll clean them.” He nodded, not taking his eyes off the bayou.
She watched him through half-shut eyes, then turned and left the cabin. He pulled her chair over and put his feet on it. Lowering his chin on his chest, he went promptly to sleep.
“That was good fish,” Savage complimented Dani. “What kind was it?”
“Sacalait,” she told him. “What some people call white perch or crappie.” She had stayed away from the cabin most of the day, hoping he’d be gone when she returned. But she found him reading her copy of Pride and Prejudice.
He had cooked the fish on the gasoline stove, talking cheerfully, and appearing not to notice her silence. Now, she said, “I take it you’re spending the night?”
“Why, I thought I might, Dani.” He nodded.
“You can have that bunk,” she ordered. “I’ll take the bedroom.” Dani walked out onto the small deck that projected out over the front of the cabin and stood there, holding her arms around her breasts. The odors of the swamp, mysterious and rank, floated up to her, and she felt at once when he came outside to stand beside her.
A hoarse, wild grunting noise erupted from the ground to their left. Savage turned sharply. “What was that?” he wanted to know.
“Bull gator.”
He asked cautiously, “Can those things climb ladders?”
She opened her eyes and dropped her arms. “Ben, I know you’re worried about me, that my family is worried about me. I’m sorry for it—but you can’t help me.” She turned to face the bayou, whispering, “Nobody can.”
“God is dead, huh?” he demanded.
His reply angered her. “Don’t you start on me, Ben Savage! You’ve always laughed at my faith.”
“That’s a lie,” he said calmly. “I’ve always admired it—up until now.”
Suddenly the guilt that had borne down on her spirit like a vast weight seemed to grow even more dense. She clenched her teeth, shut her eyes, and hugged herself again. A moan escaped her lips, “What am I going to do? What am I going to do?” He said nothing, and she pressed her fists against her teeth until her lips hurt, trying to stop the words that rose. Finally she lifted her fists and struck the rail, crying out, “I did it, all by myself! Oh, what a clever girl! How very wonderful you are!”
Still Savage stood in silence, watching her carefully. She held his gaze, then suddenly she lifted her fists and struck him in the chest, blindly, her voice rising, “You don’t know! I’m the one who put her in prison for the rest of her life! She trusted me—loved me—and—and—” Her voice was choked with grief, and all the pent-up guilt and self-hatred erupted in a torrent of tears. Without knowing it, she leaned against him, and he put his arm around her. She grasped his shirt with her fists, burying her face against his shoulder. Great waves of grief rose and fell, and she swayed in his grasp, would have fallen if he had not held her upright.
An owl floated across the sky, was framed in the full moon that seemed tangled in the branches of the cypress. His flight was no
iseless, and so was the world he looked down on, except for the sobs of the woman, which floated over the bayou in a ghostly fashion.
Finally she grew still and realized he was holding her. Pulling back, she drew a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her face. “What’s happened to all of them, Ben?”
He told her slowly, “Jonathan Ainsley is making a mint. The play is sold out through the millennium, and he’ll star in the movie version. He sent a whopping big check to the agency. He’s not very sorry about the thing, but he’s paying all the legal bills for Victoria. Trask will do maybe a year, with time off, Carmen less. The rest are doing their roles.”
She said quietly, “You know whom I mean.”
“Trial is set for next month. Lots of sympathy for her. The old mercy-killing crowd is in full cry. Others want to see her die, but the governor will never hear of the death penalty in his state, so you don’t need to worry about that.”
His words still sent a shiver down her back, and she looked at him quickly. “Ben, what will happen?”
He said slowly, “Depends on her friends, I’d say.” Then he gave her the tough look she knew so well. “And her friends hiding out in a swamp aren’t going to be much help, are they, Boss?”
She shut her eyes and turned away from him. But after a few moments, she asked in a small voice, “What could I do, Ben? I’m the one who put her in jail!”
“No, you’re not the one who put her in jail,” he responded evenly. “She did it—and as she said at the hearing, she’d never have kept quiet about it. And as for helping her, I can’t think of anyone who could help more. It would be pretty tough for a prosecuting attorney to handle—the woman who took her in begging for her.” He let that sink in, then added, conversationally, “She sends you her love.”
“What!”
“You heard me. I’ve talked with her three or four times. She always says, ‘Give Danielle my love.’”
Dani stood absolutely still. Then a ragged cry escaped her lips, “Oh, Ben—I feel so rotten!”
The Final Curtain Page 26
