Son of Stone

by Stuart Woods

  Karen held up a calming hand. “Take it easy. If you feel strongly about it, we’ll leave it as it is. Knowing our readership, we may get some letters to the editor about the matter, but we can deal with that when it happens.”

  “Thank you,” Kelli said, opening her laptop. “If I can use the edge of your desk, I’ll make your corrections now.”

  “Great. We’re going to press tonight.”

  Kelli opened her laptop and went to work.

  Peter was staring blankly at a magazine when Hattie came through a door and sat beside him.

  “All done?” he asked.

  “No, I’m afraid not. They’ve examined me and told me I can have the procedure in ten minutes. Apparently, another girl had second thoughts and canceled her appointment. If I don’t do it now, I’ll have to wait another two weeks before they have an opening, and I don’t want to do that.”

  Peter thought about it for a few seconds. “That’s fine. Just call your mother and tell them you want to do dinner and a double feature with me, and you’ll be home by eleven.”

  “All right,” she said. “With the rest period, this will take about four hours. Why don’t you go to a movie or something, then come back for me?”

  “All right,” he replied.

  “Wish me luck.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  They kissed, and she went back through the door.

  Peter sat, a little breathless, and planned how they were going to do this. He checked his watch, then he left and walked down to the multiplex cinema on East Eighty-sixth Street. He had half an hour’s wait before the movie he wanted to see started, so he had a snack nearby, then returned for the film.

  When Peter came out of the movie it was dark, and he still had another hour before Hattie could leave the clinic, so he walked slowly back in that direction, window-shopping, taking his time.

  When he arrived at the clinic he sat down in the waiting room. A woman opened a glass partition. “You’re Ms. Springer’s friend, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “I’m afraid there’s been a complication, and she’s been taken to the emergency room.”

  Peter’s heart jumped into his throat. “Where?”

  “She’s at Lenox Hill Hospital,” the woman replied.

  Peter ran down the stairs and looked desperately for a cab. It had started to rain, and there were none.

  He began to run. Lenox Hill was in the upper Seventies, he wasn’t sure which street. He alternately sprinted, jogged, and walked, and the sweat was coming through his clothes.

  He asked a cop for directions and got them, then he stood and caught his breath for a minute and called home.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Dad.”

  “Peter? Where are you? I was expecting you home from school.”

  “Hattie and I went to a movie, and we want to go to a double feature now, so I’ll grab a bite between movies.”

  “Is that all right with her parents?”

  “Yes, she’s already talked to them.”

  “All right, I’ll see you later.”

  Peter ended the call and began to run again. He still had two blocks to go.

  59

  Tim Rutledge stood in the rain across the street from Stone Barrington’s house and huddled under the flimsy umbrella he had paid a street vendor ten dollars for. As he watched, the light in a street-level window went off, and a woman emerged from the adjacent door and locked it. She put up her umbrella and hurried up the block toward Third Avenue.

  Rutledge waited for her to disappear around the corner, then he crossed the street, went down a couple of steps, and peered through the window where the light had gone off. There were two or three pieces of office equipment with small screens that gave off enough of a glow for him to make out a desk, filing cabinets, and a pair of chairs. The woman must be Barrington’s secretary, because his residence and office addresses were the same, with an A added to the office street number. He tried the door, but it was securely locked.

  Rutledge looked up the block and saw a police car coming, so he ducked under the steps to the upstairs residence until it had passed. On the other side of the steps was a garage door that, apparently, belonged to the house. He stepped back to the sidewalk and looked at the first-floor windows. Lights were on somewhere to the rear of the house, but he saw no sign of life. A light burned over the front door.

  Turtle Bay, he knew, had a common garden, surrounded on two sides by rows of houses. The Second Avenue side was made up of a row of shops, and the Third Avenue side was taken up by an office building.

  Rutledge walked around the block until he stood at a point even with the rear of Barrington’s house. Some of these common gardens had an entrance opening to the street, and he walked down the block slowly, looking for one. He found a heavy, wrought-iron gate and could see a corner of the gardens through that, but it was locked, and he knew nothing about picking locks. He walked down to Second Avenue, then up Barrington’s street again. He was going to have to catch him entering or leaving his house, but he had no way of knowing when that might be.

  He finally gave up and went down to Second Avenue to find someplace to eat.

  Peter found the emergency room entrance to the hospital and went inside. The waiting area was packed with people waiting for treatment, many of them wet. He went to the admitting desk, and a woman in scrubs looked up from her desk. “May I help you?”

  “Yes, please. I’m looking for a young woman who was brought in by ambulance.”

  “Name?”

  “Springer.”

  The woman consulted her computer screen. “I’m sorry, we don’t have a patient named Springer.”

  “Try Patrick.”

  The woman looked at him oddly. “She has two names?”

  “She might have used either.”

  The woman checked her computer again. “First name?”

  “Hattie.”

  “Yes, she came in about two hours ago and is being seen by a doctor.”

  “May I see her?”

  “Not until she’s admitted,” the woman replied.

  “Will she be admitted? Will she have to stay overnight?”

  “I won’t know that until the doctor who is seeing her makes his report on her condition.”

  “May I visit her before she’s admitted?”

  “You’ll have to wait until I get her chart back and see if there’s an admitting order. Have a seat, and I’ll call you. What’s your name?”

  “Peter,” he said.

  “Last name?”

  “Just Peter.” He went and found an empty seat, one that allowed him to look down a hallway. He had been there for five minutes when a large double door opened, and two ambulance drivers wheeled in a patient on a gurney, pushing it down the hallway and taking a right turn.

  Peter got up and followed the gurney. He found himself looking through a window in a pair of double doors at a row of treatment tables, some of them occupied by patients. Behind the treatment tables was a row of cubicles, most with patients on tables, some with curtains drawn. As he watched, a man on an examining table sat up, and an orderly brought over a wheelchair. The patient got into the chair, and the orderly took his chart from the foot of the table and put it in the man’s lap. Peter stood back to let them pass through the double doors. Apparently, the man was being discharged.

  He pushed open the door and walked briskly into the room, wanting to appear as if he knew where he was going. He walked along the row of cubicles and, four or five down, found Hattie, lying on a table, half sitting up. She looked relieved when she saw him.

  He went and stood next to her. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. I was bleeding, but it stopped over an hour ago.

  The doctor said he would discharge me in a few minutes, and that was half an hour ago.”

  Peter pulled up a chair. “I was scared,” he said. “I came back from the movie, and they said you were in the
emergency room.”

  “I wanted to call you, but they took my bag away when they put me in the ambulance, and when I got here they wouldn’t let me use my cell phone.”

  A very young man in scrubs and a white coat walked into the cubicle. “How are you feeling?” he asked Hattie.

  “Just fine, thank you. I’d like to go home.”

  He picked up her chart, made some notations, and signed it. “I’ll find an orderly and have you wheeled out.”

  “I can do that,” Peter said.

  “Okay.” He left and came back with a wheelchair. Hattie got into it, and the doctor handed Peter her chart. “Stop at the discharge window and check out with them, then take her all the way to the street in the chair. You can leave it there. You, young lady, are to go home and rest. If there’s any recurrence of the bleeding, you’re to call an ambulance and return here. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, Doctor.”

  “You should be okay to go to school tomorrow,” he said. “Good night.”

  Peter pushed the chair into the waiting room and got her checked out. Hattie wrote a check for her bill. “I didn’t want to use my parents’ insurance card,” she said, as Peter pushed her toward the exit.

  The rain had let up a lot. “I’ll get us a cab,” Peter said.

  “I don’t want to go home yet,” Hattie said. “I’m hungry. Let’s get something to eat.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” she said, standing up and taking his hand. “And I’m not pregnant anymore.”

  60

  David Rutledge looked at the first copy of his magazine’s new issue and thought the Virginia shoot had turned out very well. As he scanned the piece he felt a pang of conscience. He had not done the right thing, and he regretted it. What had he been thinking?

  He picked up the phone and dialed 411. A minute or so later he was talking to the sheriff of Albemarle County.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Rutledge? Are you related to Tim Rutledge?”

  “Yes, I am,” David replied. “He’s my cousin.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me about his whereabouts?”

  “Yes. He’s in New York.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He called me from a bar near my home in the city, and I met him for a drink.”

  “And when was this?”

  “The night before last.”

  “And why didn’t you call me immediately?”

  “I don’t think I was seeing the situation clearly; I reacted as a family member, and not as a citizen. I’m sorry for that.”

  “Do you have any idea where he is now?”

  “From our conversation I believe he might have moved into a hotel somewhere uptown.”

  “I don’t know your geography there,” the sheriff said. “What do you mean by ‘uptown’?”

  “Uptown from where I live. I live downtown.”

  “That doesn’t help me a lot. Do you have an address?”

  “No. He asked to stay at my place, but I declined to have him do that. He asked me to recommend a hotel, and I declined to do that, too. My impression was that he wanted to be uptown somewhere.”

  “Perhaps near where Mr. Stone Barrington lives?”

  “Perhaps; that name didn’t come up. He did say he had something to do in the city, though.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  “Our theory of this case is that he shot Mrs. Barrington because he was jealous, a jilted lover. Apparently, Mr. Rutledge and Mrs. Barrington had some sort of relationship before she was married, while he was working on her house.”

  “I see. I didn’t know anything about that relationship. Before the housewarming I hadn’t seen Tim since last summer.”

  “Do you know how Mr. Rutledge traveled to New York?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “He didn’t say anything about having a car?”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “All right, Mr. Rutledge, thank you for your help in this matter. Will you please call me immediately if you see or hear from your cousin again? You might be saving a life.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  “And if you do speak to him, try to find out where he’s staying.”

  “All right.” The sheriff hung up, and so did David.

  Stone was at his desk when Dino called. “How you doing?” he asked.

  “I’m okay, I guess.”

  “I just got some news you need to hear.”

  “Tell me.”

  “The sheriff down in Virginia called the chief’s office and told him he’d had a tip that Tim Rutledge, the suspect, is in New York. I just got the e-mail.”

  Stone sat up straight. “What else?”

  “Nothing else. He may be staying in a hotel. That’s all the informant had.”

  “Thank you for letting me know,” Stone said.

  “I think you should go armed for a while.”

  “I think you’re right,” Stone said.

  “What time does Peter get out of school?”

  “Usually between three and five, depending on what he’s doing there.”

  “You want me to send a car for him?” Dino asked.

  “Thanks, Dino, I’d appreciate that.” He glanced at his watch; it was nearly four o’clock. “I’ll call him and let him know.” He gave Dino Peter’s cell number.

  “Consider it done.”

  “You’re a good friend.” They both hung up, and Stone called Peter’s cell and got voice mail. “Peter, it’s Dad. I’ve heard from the police that Tim Rutledge may be in New York, and I don’t want you on the street until that’s been dealt with. Dino is sending a police car to bring you home from school. They’ll call your cell when they’re outside. Don’t leave the building until then.” Stone hung up. He felt something he’d never felt before: worry about his child’s safety. He resisted the impulse to go to the school himself.

  Joan came in with something for him to sign. “You look funny,” she said.

  “Tim Rutledge is apparently in the city.”

  “Jesus, I thought he’d be in Mexico, like you said.”

  “I was wrong, apparently. Dino is sending a car to pick up Peter at school.”

  “That’s good.”

  Stone picked up the phone and called Mike Freeman at Strategic Services.

  “Hi, Stone, how are you?”

  “A little worried, Mike,” Stone said.

  “What’s wrong?”

  Stone explained. “I think I’d like someone armed to be with Peter for a few days.”

  “Certainly. Do you want him picked up at school?”

  “Dino’s sending a police car for him. Could you have someone here tomorrow morning at seven-thirty to drive him to school? He can use my car.”

  “Of course. There’ll be two men, and they’ll be our best.”

  “Thank you, Mike.”

  “Did Sean Patrick call you about Arrington’s G-III?”

  “Yes, he did. We sent him copies of everything we had on the airplane, and he’s sending someone down to Virginia to look at it and interview the crew.”

  “That would be Milt Kaplan. I recommended him, and he’ll see the worth of the airplane immediately. If Sean turns out not to want it, we could lease it from you until it sells.”

  “That’s a nice thought, but as a board member, I wouldn’t want you to spend all that money when you already have two airplanes.”

  Mike laughed. “All right, I’ll take your advice.” They chatted for a moment, then said good-bye.

  Joan buzzed him. “Peter’s on line two,” she said.

  “Peter?”

  “Yes, Dad. I got your message. There’s a police car outside right now.”

  “Good. Get in it and come home.”

  “Can I drop Hattie off on the way?”

  “Sure, that’s fine.”

  “I’ll be home in half an hour or so.”

  Stone hun
g up feeling relieved.

  61

  At half past four Peter came into Stone’s office, shucking off his coat. “Anything new about Rutledge?”

  “No,” Stone replied. “Don’t be too worried about this.”

  “Dad, if you’re not too worried, what am I doing traveling in a police car? I’ll never hear the end of this at school.”

  “Well, from tomorrow, you’ll be traveling in the Bentley, and you’ll get still more guff about that, I’m sure. Two of Mike Freeman’s men will be riding with you. And yes, you can pick up Hattie on the way to school and take her home after that.”

  “Thanks, Dad. There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

  Stone walked over to the leather sofa and sat down. “Take a pew and tell me about it.”

  Peter fished in his bag and came up with a bundle of DVDs, secured with a rubber band. “My movie is finished; the titles and Hattie’s score are in. It’s called Autumn Kill.”

  “Intriguing title,” Stone said.

  “That’s what I was going for. I’ve thought about this a lot, and I don’t want to wait a year or two to try and get it released. I want to do it now.”

  Stone shook his head. “Peter, I’ve already explained why I think you should wait.”

  “I know, and I’ve considered your points very carefully. The thing is, I’ll be at Yale by the time the film is in theaters, and that will give me some insulation. Also, I can just decline to talk about it. I’m concerned that if I wait, some other similar film might come along that could lessen its chances for success.”

  “You mean with a similar plot?”

  “I mean something as simple as another film that takes place at a prep school. I have something original, and I don’t want to have it look like a copycat because some other filmmaker does something that looks like it.”