And he laughed, actually laughed.
Gothenburg, Sweden
Bloated clouds hung low, blotting out the moon and stars. They would bring rain, perhaps even snow, before the night was over.
Simon was sitting low in a small boat, his hands tied behind him. Alpo was rowing and Nikki was beside him, the gun pressed against his side. In a boat trailing them were Ian Jorgenson and a small man Simon hadn’t seen before who was rowing.
The canal was wide, the town of Gothenburg on either side casting ghostly shadows in the dark light. There was just the rippling of the oars going through the water, smooth and nearly soundless.
The canal twisted to the right, and the buildings became fewer. There were no people that Simon could see.
He very nearly had the knot on his hands pulled loose. Just a few more minutes and his hands would be free, and a little more time after that to get circulation back into his hands and fingers.
If he had just a bit more time, he had a chance. But the buildings were thinning out too much. They could kill him at any time without worry.
He worked the knot, rubbing his wrists raw, but that didn’t matter. His blood helped loosen the strands of hemp.
“Stop!”
It was Ian Jorgenson. His small boat pulled up beside theirs.
“Here. This is fine. Give me the gun, Nikki, I want to put a bullet through this bastard. Then you can put him in that bag and sink him to the bottom.”
Simon could feel Nikki leaning toward Ian to give him the gun. It was his last chance. Simon jumped up, slammed against Alpo, and dove at the small man in the other boat. Both boats careened wildly, the men shouting and cursing. As Simon hit the water, he heard a splash behind him, then another.
God, there was nothing colder on earth than this damned water. What did he expect? He was in Sweden in November, for God’s sake. He wondered how long he had before hypothermia set in and he died. He didn’t fight it, just let himself sink, quickly, quietly, trying not to think of how cold he was, how numb his legs felt. He had to get free or he would die, from the frigid water or from a bullet, it didn’t matter. He worked his hands until he hit the bottom of the canal, twisted away from where he thought the other men were. He swam as best he could with only his feet in the opposite direction, back down the canal, veering toward the side, back to where there was more shelter and a way to climb out of the water.
He was running out of breath and he was freezing. There wasn’t much more time. There was no hope for it. He kicked upward until his head broke the surface. He saw Nikki and Ian both in the water, speaking, but softly, listening for him. Damn, his hands weren’t free yet.
He heard a shout. They’d spotted him. He saw Alpo rowing frantically toward him. He didn’t stop to get Ian or Nikki out of the water, just came straight toward Simon.
At last his hands slipped free from the frayed hemp. He felt his blood slimy on his wrists, mixing with the water. It should have stung like a bitch, but he didn’t feel much of anything. His hands were numb.
He dove just as he saw Alpo raise a gun and fire. The frigid water splashed up in Simon’s face, close. Too close. He dove at least ten feet down and swam with all his strength toward the side of the canal.
When he came up, his lungs on fire, the boat was nearly on him. The second boat was behind him and now all the men were in it, searching the black water for a sign of him.
Ian shouted, “There he is! Get him!”
Gunshots split the water around him.
Then he heard the sirens, at least three of them.
He went under again, deeper this time, and changed direction to swim toward the sound of those sirens. It was so cold his teeth hurt.
When he couldn’t hold his breath for another second, simply couldn’t bear the water any longer, he came up as slowly as he could, his head quietly breaking the surface.
He just couldn’t believe what he was seeing. A half dozen police cars screeched to a stop on the edge of the canal, not ten feet from him. Guns were drawn, men were shouting in Swedish, flashing lights on Ian and his crew.
A man reached out his hand and pulled Simon out of the canal. “Mr. Russo, I believe?”
27
Lily walked beside Olaf’s wheelchair back to the main entrance hall with its huge black-and-white marble chessboard, its three-foot-tall pieces lining opposite sides of the board, in correct position, ready to be moved.
He motioned for a manservant to leave his chair right in the middle of the chessboard, squarely on the white king five square. He looked at Lily, who stood beside the white king, then glanced down at the watch on his veined wrist and said, “You didn’t eat much dinner, Lily.”
“No,” she said.
“He’s dead by now. Accept it.”
Lily looked down at the white queen. She wondered how heavy the chess piece was. Could she heft it up and hurl it at that evil old man? She looked toward the silent manservant, dressed all in white like a hospital orderly, and said, “Why don’t you get an electric wheelchair? It’s ridiculous for him to push you everywhere.”
Olaf said again, his voice sharper now, not quite so gentle, “He’s dead, Lily.”
She looked at him now and said, “No, I don’t believe he is, but you soon will be, won’t you?”
“When you speak like that, I know you aren’t at all like your grandmother, despite your look of her. Don’t be disrespectful and mean-spirited, Lily. I don’t like it. I’m quite willing to present you the Frasiers’ heads on platters. What more can I offer you?”
“You can let Simon and me leave with my grandmother’s paintings.”
“Don’t be a child. Listen to me, for this is important. In a wife I require obedience. Ian, I’m sure, will help me teach you manners, teach you to curb your tongue.”
“It’s a new millennium, Olaf, and you’re a very old man. Even if you died within the week, I would refuse to remain here.”
He banged his fist on the wheelchair hard, making it lurch. “Dammit, you will do what you’re told. Do you need to see your lover’s body before you will let go of him? Before you accept that he really is dead?”
“He’s not my lover. He just wants to be my consultant.”
“Not your lover? I don’t believe you. You spoke of him as if he were some sort of hero, able to overcome any obstacle. That is nonsense.”
“Not in Simon’s case.” She wished that she really did believe him capable of just about anything, even if it was nonsense. But she was hoping frantically that Simon wasn’t dead. He’d promised her, and he wouldn’t break his word. When they’d taken him but two hours before, he’d lightly cupped her face in his hands and whispered, “I will be all right. Count on it, Lily.”
And she’d licked her dry lips, felt fear for him moving deep and hard inside her, and whispered back, “I’ve been thinking about those new criteria, Simon. I admit I sure do need help when it comes to men.”
He patted her cheek. “You got it.”
She’d watched the three men take him out of that beautiful grand mansion, watched the door close behind them, heard the smooth wheels of Olaf Jorgenson’s chair across the huge chessboard foyer.
Olaf brought her back, saying, “You will forget him. I will see to it.”
She glanced at the two bodyguards, standing utterly silent. They’d both come with them from the dining room.
“Do you know I have an incredible brother? His name is Dillon Savich. He doesn’t paint like our grandmother; he whittles. He creates beautiful pieces.”
“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 foun
d 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 just 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 just 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 that 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?”
“Damn you, 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! My God, 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, thank God. 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 flat
tened 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 damned 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 that she just 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.
Hemlock Bay Page 28
