Lucid Intervals

by Stuart Woods

  “Does their enmity for Whitestone date to that weekend in the country?”

  “I suppose you could say that in that weekend lay the germ of their enmity.”

  “What happened there?”

  Hackett sighed. “All right, here goes. Pay attention. Palmer had a daughter, a beautiful and brilliant girl, who was a doctoral candidate at Cambridge. She was twenty-four.”

  “How does she come into this?”

  “In spite of the age difference, she and Whitestone were drawn to each other, and an affair ensued.”

  “Are you telling me that this whole business hinges on a May-September affair?”

  “It went further than that,” Hackett said. “The girl found herself pregnant, as the British like to say.”

  “And Whitestone was the father?”

  “He was the only candidate,” Hackett said. He was gazing out the window at Penobscot Bay now.

  “Wouldn’t he marry her?”

  “Alas, he was already married, and a divorce would have taken two years to achieve, assuming his wife was agreeable to the split.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Things became more complicated,” Hackett said.

  52

  They sat quietly for a moment while the housekeeper cleared away their lunch dishes. When she had finished, Stone asked, “Complicated? How?”

  “Part of what I have to tell you was not directly known by Whitestone; he figured it out later.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Palmer’s daughter-Penelope-told Whitestone she wanted to have the child, that she would wait for him to get a divorce and marry her.”

  “And how did Whitestone feel about that?”

  “He was very willing, and he told her so in no uncertain terms.”

  “Is that what happened?”

  “Alas, no. Penelope was terribly frightened of what her father would do if he found out about her pregnancy, and, of course, she could hardly conceal it for long.”

  “So she had an abortion?”

  “Abortion was legal at the time, but she was afraid to go to a clinic, for fear that the gutter press would find out. She knew her father was planning a political career, and she was afraid the news would ruin his chances. He was going to run for a Conservative seat in the district where his country home was. It was a very conservative district-with a small C-you see.”

  “So, what did she do?”

  “She had a friend who was a medical student, and she confided in him. He had seen a D & C performed, and even though he had not performed one himself, he agreed to do the procedure. A bank holiday weekend was coming up, and they borrowed a country cottage outside Cambridge. He brought the necessary instruments and performed the abortion on Friday evening, then stayed with her through the night to be sure she was all right.

  “The following morning, after she assured him that she was fine, he left her and went back to London to see his boyfriend-he was gay. As it turned out, he had perforated her uterus, and an infection ensued. She grew very ill, and he had not left her with an antibiotic-a stupid omission on his part.

  “The boy returned on Sunday evening to find her in extremis. He took her to a casualty ward at the nearest hospital and told the physician there what had happened, but she died later that night. That incident is what informed Palmer’s hatred of Whitestone.”

  “I can understand that,” Stone said, “but why is Prior involved?”

  “The boy was thrown out of medical school and arrested and tried for manslaughter. He received a light sentence-two years-but, of course, his future as a physician was ruined. Then he was raped and murdered in prison.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yes. I don’t believe I mentioned that the boy was Prior’s son.”

  Stone hardly knew what to say.

  “So,” Hackett added, “there were two bereaved and aggrieved fathers who blamed Whitestone for the loss of their children.”

  “But he had no part in the girl’s decision to seek an abortion?”

  “None whatever. He was as stricken as the two fathers. Palmer was his senior at MI-6, and influential. Whitestone left, unceremoniously, and disappeared.”

  “Is that when Lord Wight came into the story?”

  “Yes. Whitestone was a friend of Wight’s daughter, a painter, and had previously impressed Wight, who took him in, so to speak. Whitestone took to business very quickly, and the relationship turned out to be very profitable for both of them.”

  “So why has all this come up twelve years later?”

  “Because both Palmer and Prior were later elected to Parliament, and two years ago, with a Conservative victory in the election, both received cabinet posts, Foreign Office and Home Office. They have become the two most powerful cabinet secretaries in this government and, one might say, drunk with power. They were now able to use their positions to avenge the loss of those two young people.”

  “But first,” Stone said, “they had to find Stanley Whitestone, and they enlisted Felicity Devonshire.”

  “Yes,” Hackett said, “but it’s uncertain if she ever knew why.”

  “She knew how serious they were, though,” Stone said, “and she did everything she could to stop them.”

  “How did she, at last, stop it?” Hackett asked.

  “I believe she threatened to give someone in the press the story, if it wasn’t stopped.”

  “God, that was brave of her,” Hackett said.

  “She risked being removed from her post,” Stone agreed.

  “No, not that; if they’d sacked her she could still have talked to a reporter,” Hackett said. “My guess is, had they managed to kill Whitestone, they would have killed her, too.”

  Hackett picked up the half-empty bottle of wine and his glass. “Come on, let’s finish this on the porch; it’s such a lovely day.”

  Stone picked up his glass and followed him outside.

  “Oh,” Hackett said, “given the favorable course of events, we can return to New York tomorrow morning. I’ll fly back with you.”

  “Fine with me,” Stone said, taking a rocker and sipping his wine.

  Hackett walked to the porch railing and leaned against it, facing Stone.

  Stone looked past him out over the water. It was a perfectly windless day, so much so that the towering cumulus clouds were reflected on the water. The boats in the harbor floated with their mooring lines slack.

  Hackett took a sip of his wine. “Something I’d like you to know, Stone: except for that business about the Whitestone grave in the Somersville churchyard, I never lied to you about anything.”

  Stone was about to reply when there was a noise, a thud, and Hackett made a peculiar jerking motion. He looked down at his chest, surprised, where a hole the size of a golf ball had appeared, then he sank to his knees, dropping his wineglass, and fell forward onto his face. There was another hole, smaller and neater, in his back.

  Stone hit the deck, which was splattered with Hackett’s blood. He waited for more shots, but none came. He felt Hackett’s neck for a pulse, but there was nothing.

  With no wind, it was deathly quiet for a moment-then Stone heard an engine start in the distance and raised his head from the floor long enough to see a boat leaving the harbor, seemingly in no particular hurry.

  Stone clawed at his cell phone.

  53

  Felicity was working in her temporary office on Sutton Place when her cell phone went off. “Excuse me,” she said to her agent, Smith, who sat across her desk with some files. “Yes?”

  “It’s Stone. Are you alone?”

  “No.”

  “Get away from whomever you’re with, right now,” he said.

  She took the phone away from her ear. “Smith, will you excuse me for a few minutes? I have a personal call to take.” She watched him until he had closed the door behind him and then went back to the phone. “What’s going on?” she asked.

  “I’m in Maine. Hackett is dead.”

  She wa
s alarmed. “How?”

  “Bullet through the chest-sniper.”

  “Good God.”

  “Hackett told me that if they got Whitestone, they’d go after you, too.”

  “They?”

  “Palmer and Prior. Now listen to me very carefully.”

  “All right, I’m listening.”

  “Can you get out of your building without being seen?”

  “Probably,” she said.

  “Do you have any cash?”

  “A few hundred dollars and some pounds and euros.”

  “I want you to do exactly as I say,” he said.

  “Well, maybe. What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to leave your building without being seen, find a cab and go directly to my house. Make sure you’re not being followed. You can’t trust your own people, so be careful.”

  “Why do you think I will be safe at your house?”

  “You probably won’t be for long. I want you to pack a bag and leave the house by the rear door. Walk across the common garden; you’ll find a corner exit to the street, one block over. Take a cab to Teterboro, to Jet Aviation, and take a seat in the pilot’s lounge, not the passenger lounge. I’ll have a man named Dan Phelan meet you there and bring you to me.”

  “Bring me where?”

  “To the place we went where you worried about landing.”

  “All right.”

  “Are you armed?”

  “I can be.”

  “Good. Also, go into my dressing room and find my safe, behind a picture.” He gave her the combination. “Bring me the little.45, an extra magazine and a box of cartridges.”

  “All right.”

  “Any questions?”

  “How long will we be there?”

  “Not long, I hope.”

  “I’m on my way,” she said. She hung up and buzzed her secretary. “Send Smith back in,” she said.

  Smith returned and took his seat. She spent ten minutes going through the remainder of the files and then sent him back to his own office with a task to perform. As soon as the door closed she got her coat, took a pistol from her desk drawer, put it into her handbag and left her office by a rear door that opened into a stairway. Moments later, she was in a cab, looking over her shoulder.

  STONE LOOKED FOR Dan Phelan’s number in his cell phone and then dialed it.

  “Phelan.”

  “Dan, it’s Stone Barrington. Where are you?”

  “Hi, Stone. I’m at Teterboro. I just finished with a student.”

  “I have a serious emergency, and there’s something I hope you can do for me.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Have you flown a JetProp?”

  “A couple of times.”

  “There’s a woman on her way to Jet Aviation now. Her name is Felicity Devonshire. She’s a tall redhead. Wait for her in the pilot’s lounge. While you’re waiting, file a flight plan for a little airport in Maine called Islesboro, identifier five-seven-bravo.”

  “Yes.”

  “The desk at Jet Aviation has a key. I’ll tell them to give it to you. While you’re waiting for Felicity, see that it’s refueled. Call me just before you start your engine. You have my cell number?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll meet her at the runway in Islesboro. You’ll have enough fuel for the round-trip.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  “Send me a bill.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  Stone hung up and called about the key, then he found the number for the Maine State Police in Augusta and called his old acquaintance, Captain Scott Smith.

  “Hello, Stone. How are you?”

  “Not well, Scott,” Stone said. “I’ve just witnessed a murder on Islesboro, the house next door to mine. Can you get a team out here?”

  “Of course. Tell me about the murder.”

  “Sniper, firing from a boat in the harbor, I’m pretty sure. Immediately after the shot, the boat motored slowly away.”

  “Description?”

  “Thirty, thirty-five feet, blue or black hull, white superstructure.”

  “That describes hundreds if not thousands of boats in Maine.”

  “It seemed to be headed east, but it could have gone anywhere. My guess is there’s an airplane waiting for the shooter somewhere, Rockland, maybe, or wherever else is close.”

  “I’ll get an airplane over Penobscot Bay now to look for the boat, and we’ll cover the nearby airports. I’m going to chopper over there with my people. I have two men and a car on the island now on another case, so no need to meet us. I’ll be there in, say, an hour. Who’s the victim?”

  “James Hackett, head of Strategic Services. Know the name?”

  “Of course. I’ve heard him lecture on protection operations. How do you know him?”

  “He was my client. I’ll meet you at the house. At some point I’ll have to go to the airport to meet a friend who’s flying up in my airplane.”

  “How did you get there?”

  “In Hackett’s airplane, a Cessna Mustang.”

  “I’ll see you soon.” Smith hung up.

  Stone got up off the porch floor for the first time. There was blood on his clothes. He called Felicity.

  “Yes?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Just getting to your house. The coast seems to be clear.”

  “Phelan is waiting for you at Teterboro. You’ll be here in two, maybe three hours. Don’t forget my weapon.”

  “That’s the last thing I would forget,” she said. “I’m inside the house now and hurrying.”

  “Keep hurrying.” He hung up and called Strategic Services and asked for Mike Freeman.

  “Stone?”

  “Mike, you know where Jim is, don’t you?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “I’m with him, and he’s dead. A sniper got him no more than ten minutes ago, and I’ve already called the state police. Can you get into a cab without being seen?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “My airplane is at Teterboro, where Jim kept his. Felicity Devonshire is being flown up here. If you get there in a hurry, you can come with her. She’ll be in the crew lounge with the pilot, whose name is Dan Phelan.”

  “Will do.”

  “Watch your ass-these people may not be finished.”

  “Will certainly do.”

  Stone called Felicity and told her to wait for Freeman; then he hung up and looked at Jim Hackett’s corpse. It shouldn’t have ended this way, he thought.

  54

  The state police had been there for an hour when Captain Scott Smith came out of the house and onto the porch, where Stone was waiting. Hackett’s body was being removed.

  Smith held up a small, plastic bag with a slug in it. “This went through Hackett’s body, right past your head as you were rocking”-he pointed at the hole next to Stone’s chair-“through the exterior wall of the house and ended up imbedded in a plaster wall in the living room.”

  “Wow.”

  “It’s a 30-06, probably a special load, given the velocity and penetration. A pro’s weapon. Who do you think did this?”

  “I don’t know,” Stone said. “Hackett had just begun to talk to me about his situation when he was hit. He was up here because he feared for his life.”

  “Did he tell you whom he feared?”

  “He didn’t have time,” Stone lied. His cell phone rang. “Excuse me. Yes?”

  “It’s Dan Phelan. We’re rolling with two passengers.”

  “Thanks, Dan.” He hung up. “I have a couple of guests arriving here by airplane in an hour or so; I’ll need to meet them at the airfield.”

  Captain Smith nodded. “Might these people have anything to do with Hackett?”

  “One of them, Mike Freeman, works with him, but I don’t think he knows anything about this. I talked with him before he got here.”

  “Be sure you come back here; I’m not finished with you yet.”

  “All r
ight. We’ll go to my house, next door.”

  “I’ll come over there when I’m finished here.” He looked Stone up and down. “You might want to change those clothes.”

  “I’ll do that now,” Stone said, and then went upstairs. After he showered and changed, he called his caretaker and informed him of guests to come. He put his bloody clothes in the liner of the room’s wastebasket and then took it downstairs. “You want these clothes?” he asked Captain Smith.

  “Thanks,” Smith said, taking the bag and handing it to a subordinate. “Log this,” he said. “Mark it ‘clothing of the witness.’ ”

  “Have you had any luck finding the boat?” Stone asked.

  “No, and no luck with an airplane out of place at any local airfield. If I were the killer, I’d have dumped the rifle in the bay, motored to a cove nearby and anchored for the night, maybe longer. We’re not going to find him, unless we get very, very lucky.”

  Stone packed his bag and put it into Hackett’s car, then drove to the airfield. He preferred waiting there to waiting at the house, where he was only in the way. He sat in the car, numb, wondering how this had happened and if the fault somehow lay with him. He didn’t see his airplane until it whooshed in over the trees and settled onto the runway. Phelan taxied over to where he was parked and shut down the engine.

  Stone opened the airplane’s door and helped Felicity down the air stair. Mike Freeman was right behind her, and he shook Stone’s hand. Stone went to the luggage compartment and began removing their bags, and Freeman followed him.

  “Where’s Jim’s body?” he asked.

  “The police removed it from the house more than an hour ago. It will be on the mainland and on the way to the morgue in Augusta by now.”

  “Any sign of the perpetrator?”

  “I think he was in a boat moored in the harbor, maybe two fifty, three hundred yards away. Not a difficult shot in no wind and with the right weapon, scope and ammo.”

  Freeman nodded. “Where are we going now?”

  “To my house, next door to where Jim was staying.”

  “I’ve got a hundred phone calls to make to clients before they hear about this on the news,” Freeman said.