"We have to call an ambulance,** Laura said.
"I will; you stay with him.** Ben went to the desk in the library and dialed 911. Laura could hear his low voice beneath Clay*s ragged breathing.
"What's Ben doing here?** Clay asked. "Didn*t know you even talked to him . . .**
She was taking off his dark cap and his shoes. He was dressed all in black; she tried not to think of that. "It just happened; so much has happened. . . . Clay, you shouldn*t have run off— "*
Ben was kneeling beside them again. "Where did it happen?** he asked Clay brusquely.
"Uptown.**
He looked at Laura. "If he*s come this far, it probably won*t hurt to move him to the couch. Can you take his feet?**
"I can walk.*' Clay struggled to sit up.
"Shut 1^5 and lie still." They carried him into the library and laid him on the couch. "I need a scissors," Ben said.
Laura brought it to him from the desk, and he cut open Clay's sweater from bottom to top. A blood-soaked shirt was wadded against his back near his side. Laura brought a pile of clean towels from the guest bathroom, and Ben folded one of them and pressed it against the wound. "I don't know a damn thing about bullet wounds. I don't know whether any organs were hit or if he's just losing too much blood. Or both."
"Are they sending an ambulance? When will it be here?"
*They said a few minutes.*'
"Ambulance!** Clay cried. "No, danm it, no ambulance ... the police will know . . . don*t call— **
"I already did,** Ben said shortly. "You think we*re going to sit here and watch you bleed to death?**
"Fuck you! Oh, shit, Laura, it hurts, it hurts so much. . . .**
"Ben, help me,** she said. "I want to hold him.'* Ben raised
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Clay's upper body so Laura could sit at the end of the couch and take him into her arms. She cradled him, his weight heavy against her breasts. "Clay, we have to get you to a hospital.*'
He shook his head. "Stay right here." He closed his eyes. "So sleepy. Feels so good here. Maybe . . . take a nap. How 'bout a kiss? Please?"
She bent her head and kissed his forehead and his closed eyes, smoothing back his hair with her hand. "Where were you. Clay?"
She meant where had he gone when he fled nearly two weeks earlier, but he misunderstood her. He opened his eyes and started to tell her about his great excursion to Felix's house, but then he remembered he'd decided something else when he was waiting on the roof. He frowned. It was hard to remember everything, but he knew he shouldn't tell her; for some reason, he'd decided not to. "Coming to say good-bye," he said. "Kiss you good-bye. Going somewhere. Mexico, Europe, somewhere. Haven't decided."
Ben had pulled a hassock close to the couch. "At four in the morning you weren't coming to see Laura. You were doing a job."
"No! Not stealing a goddam fucking thing. Wasn't. Walking around, uh, thinking."
"Then how did you get shot?"
"Oh. Mugged. Somebody robbed me. How 'bout that? And I fought him and ... he shot."
"In the back," Ben said flatly.
"Saw the gun and ran." Clay grinned crookedly. "You'd do the same, right, old buddy? Couple smart brothers, good team, know when to run?"
"Right," Ben said, feeling himself respond to Clay's charm. Even now he had it. "But I don't believe you."
"Christ's sake!" Clay yelled, then grimaced in pain.
"Ben, let it go," Laura said. "What difference does it make?"
"Good," said Clay. He took a few short breaths. "Listen, I have to tell you . . . God, Laura, I'm sleepy. You know? Can't stay awake. Funny. Never bothered me before. Staying up late. Listen, I wanted to tell you . . . Could I have something to drink? Awfiil thirsty."
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"I'll get it," said Ben. He went through the doorway to the dining room and on to the kitchen.
Clay's eyes were closed again. "Sorry. That's what I came to say. Sorry for what I did. Really fucked up . . . Got you in trouble. Didn't mean to. Sorry . . ." The word came out in a sigh. 'Tried to quit. You know? But I . . . couldn't."
"Clay," Laura said, taking the glass Ben handed her. "Can you drink this?"
She held the glass to his lips and he drank avidly. "God, that's good." He opened his eyes for a moment but, heavy-lidded, they fell closed again. "Good old Ben. How are you, buddy? Been a long time, hasn't it? Go away now . . . I'm talking to my sister. Laura? You know I love you? Don't want you to think ..." The word faded away. "Tried to quit. Poker, stealing, all of it. But it was like dying. Can you understand? Oh, shit, you can't, you can't— "
He was trying to sit up, and Laura held him more tightly. "Hush, Clay, I understand. Don't get up, I'm right here."
"Listen! You Ustening? Never meant to hurt you!" He opened his eyes; they were bright with excitement, and his words came faster. "Have to understand that. Never thought anybody'd figure it out. Thought you were out of it. Wouldn't have done it if I thought . . . you'd get stuck. Worst part— " He began to laugh, grimacing as he did. "Worst part. I wanted to tell you about it. How great it was. Too good to pass up. But you wouldn't love me if you knew, would you? Poor litde Laura. Wanted a family so bad she put her money on Clay. Bad choice. But, goddam, I loved you for it. Sticking by me, thinking nice things about me. Must have been hard sometimes." He smiled wistfully and his hand came up, making vague motions until Laura took it in hers. "I wanted a family, too. But I guess ... not enough. See—listen, Laura, you've gotta get this—/ tried to quit! But I couldn't do it. I'd go all empty, you know? Like I'd dried up. Empty, dead, hollow. No more Clay. And then I'd plan a new job, and everything'd Ught up. Danger, excitement, and I'd be alive. Fantastic! Up there on his roof . . . King of the—^"
"Whose roof?" Ben asked sharply.
"Just . . . roof. Anybody's. King of the world. Remember when we were kids we'd cUmb high up and feel— " He started
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to laugh again. "Backfired, didn't it? Wanted to feel alive. But maybe Fll die instead. Laura? You think I'm going to die?"
"No, you can't, you'll start again . . ." Laura was crying. For the first time since Felix had told her to leave Owen's house, she let the tears come. Ben was sitting on the arm of the couch, and she lay her head on his 1^ and cried because Clay wanted so much to be alive.
"Hey, don't. Don't cry," Clay said. "Can't stand it. You've got to be happy, not crying. Can't stand it if I thought I made you cry. Probably won't die. Too lucky. Just going to sleep awhile ... so sleepy ..."
He lay still. Laura's weeping was the only sound. "Wait,** Clay said suddenly. "Shit, almost forgot. Listen, get Felix. Get him to open his safe. People there. Okay?"
"What are you talking about?"
"Owen's letter. In there."
"Owen*s letter? In Fehx's safe? But that's impossible. Clay, how do you know? How did it get there? Did you . . . my God, did you have something to do with it?"
"No, no, no, no. Wrong." His breathing was coming faster, and his hands made clutching motions at the air. "Saw it in the safe. When I stole Rouaults." He felt her stiffen. "Sorry, sorry, sorry. Doesn't matter now. The safe! Damn it, listen! Trying to tell you. Important. Get Felix to open it. In front of people. Okay?"
Laura looked at Ben. "I don't see what good it will do. He wrote it years ago."
"Lawyer," Clay said desperately. "Get one. Can't tell you why ... too sleepy. Fucking lucky shot. Almost made it, but not quite . . . Felix! Promise about Felix! Promise!"
"I promise," Laura said. "Don't worry. Clay. I promise.'*
He sighed. "Good. That's good." A smile flickered on his pale lips beneath the brave mustache. "I was going to write. Tell you all this. Never thought I'd be ... in your lap. Crazy, right? Love you, Laura. Wanted you to love me and ... be proud of me . . ." The word trailed off in a long breath that g^ew thinner and thinner and then was gone.
"Clay!" Laura cried through the tears that had started again. They filled her eyes and spilled over, and wh
en she held her face close to Clay's they wet a dirt smudge along the side of
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his face. "Clay, you'll be all right! We're going to take care of you, you'll get well and start again. You will, you will, everybody can start again! There's so much good in you, I know there is! Clay, you'll start again and this time . . ."
The words were lost in her tears. She cried for all their hopes and dreams, and the wrong turnings they had made, and the beauty all around them that was so fragile it would break if they did not cherish and protect it. She cried for Clay, whom she had loved and tried to take care of, and had never really known. Her body shook with the force of her tears, because it was too late for so much, and there would not be enough time for so much more.
"Laura," Ben said. His voice was very gentle. "Let me help you up."
She shook her head. "I don't want to. I want to hold him." But then she raised her head and looked at Clay, and she knew what Ben meant. "Oh, no! No, no . . ." The words were a shuddering cry. She kissed Clay's cheeks and forehead, wet with her tears, and lay her fingers on his lips. "Poor Clay," she whispered. "Poor, sweet Clay. Always so proud of yourself, so happy and excited when . . . when you thought you were a big man. . . . Oh, God, I'm so sorry," she wept. "I thought you'd be all right, I thought you had plenty of time to grow up, and now you won't, ever. ... He can't be dead!" she cried to Ben. "He can't be! He's so young!"
There were tears in Ben's eyes. He caressed Laura's head. "He was very young," he said softly. Laura put her head on his lap, and they wept for Clay. And that was how the ambulance driver found them when he arrived: the three of them, together for the first time since they had had dinner together on a wharf on Cape Cod, eleven years before.
Chapter 34
COLBY was wadting in front of Laura's house when they returned from the cemetery. The first one he saw was Paul, with his arm around Laura. What the hell, Colby thought. So that's why he changed his film. He saw Laura's eyes widen in surprise as she saw him. "I'm sony to intrude. Miss Fairchild— '*
"God damn it, Sam," Paul said furiously, "couldn't you wait a day or two? Laura isn't the one you're looking for. We'll tell you the whole story later; just believe me: it wasn't Laura."
"I know it wasn't," Colby said calmly. "Just hold your horses. I wouldn't intrude if it wasn't important. I'd like to talk to Miss Fairchild, if we could go inside."
"Not now, damn it! We're expected at a friend's house for lunch, and you can damn well wait until tomorrow or the next day."
Laura put her hand on his. "It's all ri^t, Paul. Ginny won't mind if we're a litde late." She turned and unlocked her door, and the three of them went into the library. "What is it, Mr. Colbyr
StUl standing, since no one had invited him to sit, Colby said, "Rrst, may I extend my condolences. Miss Fairchild. I know you and your brother were close and worked together. It's a real loss for you, and I'm sorry. Terrible shock, too, the way it h^^ned; it isn't too often that someone is shot during a mugging, but when it does happen, it's a real tragedy."
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Laura was silent, and if Colby expected her to revise the story she had given the police of how Clay was shot, he was disappointed.
"But what I mainly came for," he went on, "is to tell you that your brother wrote to me."
Laura stared at him. "What?"
"I received a letter from him late yesterday; it was mailed in Manhattan, but it was sent to me in care of the Daily News, so it took a while to get to me. I'd like to talk to you about it and then ask you a favor."
Involuntarily Laura glanced at the couch draped with an afghan to hide the bloodstains. She shivered and turned back to Colby. "Fm sorry; please sit down."
He sat on the edge of an armchair. Laura and Paul were on the couch, close together, his arm around her shoulders. "Your brother sent me the keys to five homes. I don't know where the sixth is, the one to the Salinger house on Fifty-first Street, but the others are labeled with the names of the five people whose robberies I've been investigating; you know who they are." Laura was watching him intently. She had frowned at the mention of the Salingers, but that was all; Colby was willing to swear she didn't know where the key was or whether her brother had used it more than once. "He told me in his letter how he'd made copies of keys, security codes, travel schedules, and so on when guests were in your hotels, and how he broke into their homes when he knew they'd be away. And he sent me two fifteenth-century prints that he had kept for himself because, he said, he liked them. He said everything else he stole was for a broker who had clients wiUing to commission the theft of the art they wanted."
Laura shook her head. "A broker? How did he meet him? It sounds so organized, so professional—Clay always seemed so young and casual about things."
"He wasn't casual about these jobs. He was clever and careful. And smart."
A small laugh that was almost a sob broke from her. "He would have loved to hear you say that."
Colby shrugged, then caught himself; he shouldn't act casual when somebody'd just died. Not that she seemed prostrate with grief, but her eyes were red and she had a kind of
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dazed look, like she was holding herself tight together, walking around and talking and doing everything normal, but not really connecting with any of it. She hasn't taken it all in yet, Colby thought; lots of things she hasn't really grasped. Involuntarily, he lowered his voice and spoke in a gentle way quite unlike him. "Based on the keys and the prints, and your brother's letter, I'm completely satisfied that he was behind these robberies I've been working on. I have no proof that the two of you weren't working together, but I trust my instincts, and they tell me you didn't know a thing about it. You're in the clear, and I apologize for any inconvenience I've caused you. Of course I had nothing to do with the story getting to the press, and the problems in your hotels, which I sincerely hope are resolved very soon. In fact I hope I can be of some assistance there."
Paul looked at him sharply. "How? You're not ready to go to the press with this story."
"Right. I'm not ready. But if you remember, I said I had a favor to ask. The reason I'm not ready to go to the press is that my investigation isn't over. The thief wasn't my real target, you know. I woric for insurance companies, and the sad truth is, they're less concerned with thieves than with recovering what was stolen. That's my real job, because if I don't get back those artworks, my bosses pay out hefty sums, which of course they'd rather not do. So I'm still working on this case. I'll be searching your brother's apartment in SoHo, but first I wonder if you'd allow me to go through what he had on him when he came here."
Laura frowned. "You're looking for the name of his broker."
"Right." Colby beamed; it was wonderful when someone understood him. "He told me he'd been dealing with one, but he didn't tell me the name. I assume he wanted to continue working with him in the future. . . ."He saw Laura's face freeze. "Well, we won't go into that. But I do need that name. It might mean I could wrap up the whole affair in a few days; I can't be sure, but it's a possibility. In that case, of course, I'd go to the press with the information, and it might be of great interest to people who stay in your hotels."
*The press," Laura said numbly, thinking of Clay's name spread in all the newspapers and television news reports.
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"It*s going to happen eventually," Colby said as gently as he could. "One way or another, it's going to come out. From what I understand, you might have to do it yourself, to convince people your hotels are okay. If I announce the name of the broker, that might be what people remember. Now, I'm sure your brother had the name and telephone number memorized, but even so, he most likely wrote it down at some point and maybe tucked it away. That's my hope, my best lead. So it's very important, and I'd be very grateftil—"
"I'll be right back," Laura said, and left the room.
Colby gave Paul a sidelong look. "She's lucky to have such a good friend at such a trying time."
/>
Paul smiled. "Sam, you're fishing. This has nothing to do with your investigation."
"True. But it might affect my film. If you're too busy with her, when do you get me on television?"
"I don't know yet. It won't be the network; that fell through. But I'm going to finish the fibn and either sell it to cable or try to get it distributed to theaters. One way or another, we'll make you famous, Sam."
"It's not for me, you know," Colby said eamesdy. "It's for my grandchildren. They'd get such a kick out of it."
Paul chuckled. "Of course they would."
They heard Laura's footsteps on the stairs. "Clay had nothing with him but his wallet," she said, coming into the room. "The police went through it and didn't find anything except a key to a locker at the airport. There was an overnight bag there, and a return ticket to Mexico City. We didn't even know he'd been there. ..." She shook her head slightiy. "They have the overnight bag; I'll have it tomorrow, if you need it."
"I won't know until I see the wallet." He held out his hand.
"As long as you look at it here. You can't take it away."
*That's fine. By the way, if I find something, could I ask you to keep it quiet until I've made my move? In other words, no press conferences or answering questions from reporters until you hear from me. Can you do that?"
"How long will it be?"
"I don't know. I hope no more than a few days."
She nodded. "I can wait a few days."
**Thanks," he said, and, from habit, turned his back as he
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went through the wallet. Amid lists and notes, a picture of Laura, and live hundred dollars in cash, he found a folded paper with a list of ten- and thirteen-digit telephone numbers. New York, Colby noted; Geneva, Paris, Rome, London. He sent up a prayer. Stick with me, God. We've hung in this long; if I can hit it with one of these numbers, we're home free.
He returned everything but the folded paper to the wallet and handed it to Laura. 'Thank you. Miss Fairchild."
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