The plastic surgeon's incision healed. Libby's pubic hair grew back and concealed the fine, tiny scar.
Libby had stone 588 and its righting power all to herself for as long as she hved. She was virtually guaranteed that she would never suffer a sick day.
Only Wintersgill knew she had it.
Now his fingers dug in and plucked the stone from her opened flesh. For a moment he gazed at it, saw in it the means by which he would regain the wealth and prestige that had once belonged to the Wintersgill line. He wouldn't sell the stone outright, as the fool Townsend had, nor would he keep it to himself like the vain, selfish Libby. He would control the stone, dole out its power. The wealthy sick would plead to pay him vast sums.
Hurrying footsteps out in the hall.
Wintersgill stood up as—
The bedroom door was opened by Audrey. Springer was with her.
Wintersgill's mind said his eyes were mistaken. Springer and Audrey were supposed to be dead and somewhere never to be found. There couldn 't be anyone left alive who would have reason to come after him, who would cause him to put more locks on all his doors.
Springer and Audrey were stopped, stunned into immobility by the gruesome sight: Libby on the bed, so obviously dead, her face bashed in, raw, her blood everywhere. Wintersgill was splattered with it. Her blood was on his hands.
Wintersgill stood there, caught in the ghastly tableau.
And the next moment he was not there, had disappeared like a phantom. He'd taken advantage of Springer's and Audrey's state of shock, had been no more than a blur to them when he dashed out through the French doors to the balcony and, without hesitating, went over the balustrade into the black of the night.
Springer and Audrey hurried out onto the balcony. With their pistols in hand they peered down, but by then Wintersgill was part of the thick, pervasive darkness. He was not even as much as a shadow or movement.
Wintersgill landed in the bed of alyssum fifteen feet below. The soft loam there cushioned his drop. He kept to the flower bed, ran along the south side of the house for a short way before taking to the lawn. Within five strides on the lawn he had set off one of the external security systems of the house: an undetectable, ten-foot-wide pressure grid beneath the sod, which electronically responded whenever weight in excess of a hundred pounds attempted to move across it. The grid was continuous, circumscribing the house like a reassuring moat.
Activated by the pressure of Wintersgill's weight, the grid automatically switched on numerous powerful floodlights.
Wintersgill was revealed out on the open lawn. He was sixty-some feet away and running.
Springer and Audrey brought their pistols up, simultaneously aimed, simultaneously squeezed the slack from their triggers. It would take an exceptional shot at that distance.
Wintersgill's arms flew up as if he were saying hallelujah. His upper torso twisted, and it appeared that he'd tripped over his own feet. He stumbled, lunged, went down, convulsed a couple of times, and lay motionless.
Was it Springer's or Audrey's shot that had felled him?
Neither.
Neither Springer nor Audrey had fired.
Audrey climbed up over the balustrade, hung from the lower edge of it, and dropped to the alyssum bed. It was something she'd done many times years ago from a similar balcony outside her own second-floor bedroom when she hadn't wanted to take the long way to the outside. She reached Wintersgill before Springer. Wintersgill was lying face up in a contorted position. He looked dead. He was dead. But who had killed him?
Wintersgill's right arm was doubled beneath him. His right hand was a loose fist.
Audrey spotted something.
A shiny hint of something protruded ever so slightly from the cranny formed by Wintersgill's fist. She felt influenced to know what it was. She pried open the dead fist enough to get at it. She straightened up and then Springer was next to her and she was about to tell him that she had stone 588 — when a voice from behind them, intimidating in its clipped gruffness, told them, "Right there!"
Springer and Audrey did as told, remained in place and motionless.
Fred Pugh and Jack Blayney came out from between a row of euonymus shrubs. Blayney had a big revolver, a .44 magnum, with a silencer making it look all the bigger.
Springer assumed that was the gun that had so surely killed Wintersgill.
Blayney kept the .44 pointed while Pugh took the pistols from Springer and Audrey and frisked them for any additional weapons. "Just so no one gets hurt who doesn't deserve it," Pugh explained.
A reassurance and a warning, Springer thought.
Blayney put away the revolver. He'd killed Wintersgill because Pugh had officially told him to. Simple as that. He'd also kill these two if Pugh gave him the word.
Pugh knelt and searched Wintersgill's body. First found was the straight razor. It puzzled Pugh momentarily. He confiscated it. Then he found the twelve Russian diamonds. They didn't puzzle him at all. Counting them more than examining them, he dropped them back into the drawstring pouch and put them in his pocket.
Springer surmised that the diamonds had had something to do with the murderous rampage of Wintersgill. And that they were what these men were after, what they'd killed Wintersgill for. These two were probably Wintersgill men turned disloyal, making the best of an opportunity. What else?
Pugh continued to search Wintersgill's body. He was very thorough about it, practically stripped the clothes off. He removed Wintersgill's shoes and felt inside them, peeled Wintersgill's socks off and turned them inside out, even went so far as to stick a finger into Wintersgill's mouth and probe around between the cheeks and gums.
Finally, Pugh stood up. Apparently he was a bit confounded. He considered Springer and Audrey for a moment, then Wintersgill's body, then Springer and Audrey again. "Let's go over there where we can sit down," he suggested.
They went across the lawn and down the slope a way to the terrace inset among the willows, the same terrace where Springer had met Libby that first afternoon. The furniture had white sheetlike covers to protect it from getting damp. Blayney uncovered a couple of bergdres and a settee, arranged them so they were facing and close enough. He and Pugh took the bergdres, Springer and Audrey the settee.
Pugh pinched an itch from his nostrils, stretched his nose, sniffed once and began. "I figured this would be the windup." He gestured in the general direction of Wintersgill's body. "I figured he'd end up with the stone. Either him or, somehow . . . you."
"What stone?" Springer asked.
"Don't give me that," Pugh said, squinching up his face. "You're in no position to give me that."
"No position," Blayney echoed.
"Are you talking about stone five eighty-eight?" Springer asked.
"I don't know about any numbers," Pugh said. "Is that the stone that's supposed to heal? If it is, that's the one."
Springer was puzzled. How did these guys know about stone 588? Who were they to be after it? He asked.
"State Department," Pugh told him.
They didn't look like diplomats to Springer. There was nothing tactful about that big .44 revolver.
Pugh read Springer's skepticism. He took out his over-sat-on wallet and flipped to the acetate sleeve that contained his laminated State identification. He insisted that Springer take a good long look at it.
It seemed authentic, but Springer was only three quarters convinced. He recalled Danny having told him about a place in Queens where for as little as fifty bucks one could get anything from a car title to a Harvard Medical School diploma. "How do you know about stone five eighty-eight?" Springer asked.
Pugh told him. Anyway, enough of it for Springer to gather that somehow, through Norman, particulars about the stone had leaked out. It didn't matter to Springer. He told Pugh, "I don't have the stone. I wish to God I did."
"We've all got problems," Pugh said with the appropriate degree of sympathy. "One of yours right now, I must point out, is Blayney here. All I have
to do is tell him and he kills you. He's like that."
Springer believed Pugh.
Audrey asked, "Say we do have the stone, just say. And say we handed it over to you. Would that satisfy you? Would you allow us to walk away and that would be the end of it?"
"I'm not soft," Pugh replied, "but the way I see it everybody who deserved to be dead is already dead."
Springer glanced up to the house. Through the lacy droops of willow he saw the lights of Libby's second-story bedroom. The old time-fighter had lost, he thought regretfully. Audrey seemed to be taking it well. Probably the reality of it hadn't yet hit her.
Audrey did a loud, submitting sigh and told Springer, "Give them the stone, darling."
"Huh?"
"Let them have it. To hell with it," she said.
"But . . ."
"I'm not about to suffer another scratch, much less give up living, for any stupid phony stone," she said.
Pugh got the phony. All along it had been his own unexpressed opinion that this fuss about a stone that could heal people was just a lot of wishful jerking off. Still, an assignment was an assignment. It was his obligation to bring the stone back to Washington to George Gurney. The Department could test it out. If it didn't work, it wouldn't be his ass. As for the twelve Russian diamonds, they'd be his and Blayney's unmentioned fringe benefit. They were entitled.
"Give the man the stone," Audrey told Springer impatiently.
"I don't have it," Springer said, trying to understand the tack she was on.
"I gave it to you," Audrey said.
"You didn't," Springer said.
"It's right there in your jacket pocket," Audrey claimed. "Don't be so stubborn."
Just going along with it. Springer reached into that pocket. His fingers were surprised to feel some sort of stone. It felt about right. On their way over here to the terrace Audrey must have slipped it into his pocket. But where had she gotten it?
Before Springer could say anything, Audrey ricocheted a little self-inflicted slap off her forehead. "Whatever am I thinking of?" she exclaimed. "I didn't give it to you. I only thought I ought to give it to you." She stood in order to dig into the pocket of her slacks. She brought out her pendulum.
"That's not it," Pugh said. He had a general idea of what the stone looked like, its size and all. A third-hand description.
"Of course it isn't," Audrey said and kept digging in the pocket. She brought out a rough diamond of fifty-some carts. It was what she called her "similar" stone, the one she'd taken as a souvenir of the Townsend burglary. Something had told her to carry it around for luck. She handed it over to Pugh.
He examined it, held it up, and turned it every which way. A smile and nod conveyed his acceptance.
Springer hung his head, feigning defeat.
Audrey raised her chin and looked away, acting vindicated.
At that moment someone was coming down the floodlighted slope. It was Hinch. He paused at Wintersgill's body, then stepped over it and proceeded to the terrace. He addressed Audrey. "Please pardon me for interrupting, Miss Hull, but I was wondering if anyone would care for some refreshment."
Springer was astonished by Hinch's thick-skinned composure, even more so by the flexibility of his loyalty. Hinch, evidently, had done a body count and knew Audrey was now on top of the Hull heap. He wasn't just offering refreshments, he was offering to continue on in her service.
"Nothing for me, Hinch," Audrey told him. "But perhaps these gentlemen . . ."
"I'll have a rye and Seven," Blayney said.
Springer declined.
Pugh ordered a frozen banana daiquiri. "What's your name?" he asked Hinch.
Hinch told him, spelled it for him.
"We had a terrible thing occur here tonight, didn't we, Hinch?" Pugh said.
"Yes sir, we did."
"A robbery."
"A robbery," Hinch concurred.
"The three thieves who broke in . . there were three, weren't there?" Pugh said.
"Three."
"Who broke in and killed Mrs. Hull and Mr. Wintersgill ... but you weren't able to get a good look at them, were you?" Pugh said, leading.
"No, sir."
"Why not?"
"They had nylon stockings pulled over their heads so their features were compressed beyond recognition." Hinch said. "I couldn't even determine the color of their hair."
"What were they wearing?"
"Black coveralls and leather gloves."
"They held you at gunpoint."
"Yes, indeed. The shorter of the three kept a gun on myself and another servant while the other two went through the house."
"Did they take anything?"
"I'm certain they did. At least a few valuable things that Mrs. Hull had around," Hinch said. "I'll have to see exactly what."
"You do that."
"Yes, sir. Mrs. Hull must have refused to reveal the combination to the vault. And Mr. Wintersgill must have tried to defend her. Such a valiant gentleman, Mr. Wintersgill."
"We all agree on that," Pugh said.
A couple of pros cleaning things up. Springer thought.
Hinch looked to Audrey again. "Miss Hull, may I inquire whether you and Mr. Springer will be spending the night here or going into town?"
"We're going into town," Audrey said.
Hinch, with an absolutely straight matter-of-fact face, told her, "Groat is waiting to drive you if you wish."
Chapter 39
"You don't have to creep. I hear you."
"I thought you were asleep."
"I was just lying here thinking. What time is it?"
"Going on twelve."
Jake switched on his bedside lamp and squinted at Springer. "I had a feeling you might drop by tonight," he said sitting up, punching his pillows and placing them against the headboard. He had on pajama bottoms. Before his leg got sick he'd worn only the tops, but he didn't want Gayle and everyone always taking looks at his leg hoping to see some sign that it was better. "Did Audrey come with you?" Jake asked.
"She just dropped me off. She had to go home."
Audrey had thought it best that Springer take care of this alone. But her heart and hope would be there with him, she'd said. "She sent you her love," Springer told Jake.
"How much of it?"
"A bunch."
"What in?"
"A hug, for one thing."
"Well, give it to me."
Springer sat on the edge of the bed so he could put his arms around his
boy. Hold him close. Jake's desperation was like a radiance that passed into his own body. Springer kept holding, wanting to absorb all of it.
Gayle came in bringing the coffee Springer had requested. Strong and black. Along with two slices of the pecan chocolate pound cake from Greenberg's that she knew he liked as much as Jake did. Gayle looked harried but seemed stronger than ever, not just persevering but prepared to fight the long fight. She placed the small tray on the table next to the chintz-covered armchair she'd moved in from her bedroom. She spent a lot of time in that chair by Jake's bed, the precious time. "If you need anything more I'll be in my room reading," she said pleasantly and went out, closing the door after her.
"Want a hunk of this cake?" Springer asked Jake.
Jake burped, pardoned himself, and said he wasn't hungry. He broke off a corner of one of the slices of cake, just to share. "I'm sure tired of taking soda bicarb," he said. "All I do is burp. In the last month I must have said a couple of million pardon-mes." Jake's intake of soda bicarbonate was essential. His system had to be kept alkaline to offset the toxicity of the chemotherapy.
"Can I use your bathroom?" Springer asked.
"Don't forget to lift the seat." Jake playfully mocked Gayle.
Springer went in, took only one look at himself in the mirror, realized he hadn't seen himself since early that morning. He thought the image that looked back at him was a bit glary-eyed. He removed his jacket, rolled up his shirt sleeves, and splashed double handfu
ls of cold water on his face. That helped him feel fresher. He got stone 588 from his jacket pocket. He noticed now that it was partially coated with blood dried a reddish brown. Winters-gill's blood, he thought, or possibly Libby's by way of Wintersgill's hands. Springer ran warm water over the stone. The blood adhered stubbornly to it. He used a fingernail brush to scrub the blood away. He dried the stone with a kleenex tissue. When he held it up to the light, it appeared restored and he felt better about it. He put it into his shirt pocket and, leaving his jacket off, went out to Jake.
"Your coffee's getting cold," Jake said.
"You stuck your finger in it?"
"My toe." Jake grinned.
Springer sat in the armchair, ate the cake, and drank the coffee while he and Jake talked about anything . . . except tomorrow. Springer knew how much Jake dreaded having to go back into Sloan-Kettering for more chemotherapy and all its distressing side-effects. He was waiting for Jake to fall asleep.
Jake yawned. "I'm sleepy," he said, "but I just can't seem to let myself fall into it."
"We all have those kind of nights," Springer said.
"I'm going to die, I think," Jake said, right at Springer. It was the first time he'd expressed the fear in words.
"No you're not."
"They're going to give me chemotherapy for as long as they can, then they're going to have to cut off my leg, and eventually I'll die anyway . . . in ten years or so."
"Who told you that?"
"I read about it in some medical books Mom got. She didn't show them to me. I sneaked a peek at them when she wasn't around. She had the places all marked and everything. I know."
"Well, you're not going to die."
"Why not?"
"Because we're going to do everything within our power to make sure that you don't."
Stone 588 Page 45
