“He can’t go to the hospital right now.”
“So I’m aware.” He began with the injections: tetanus, pain-killer to numb the area, and a dose of antibiotics. When the arm was anesthetized he cleaned the wound, irrigated it with a saline solution, and applied more antiseptic and a bulky bandage. “Help me get him to the bedroom. He needs rest.”
Martin, with their assistance, stumbled toward the bedroom, collapsed onto the bed, and fell into an immediate sleep. Sara and Strickland removed his clothing and covered him with a blanket.
“I’ve done all I can for him,” Strickland said, “but in four days you’ll have to get him to a doctor for a secondary closing.”
“I will, and thanks for helping.”
“Drink?”
“God, yes,” she replied.
“Martini?”
She nodded. “Anything would help and that includes hemlock.”
“Been out of hemlock for weeks,” he said as he stirred the martinis carefully and poured two cocktail glasses full. He handed her a drink and watched as she grasped the glass with both hands and bent to sip from the rim. “You could use some help yourself. You’re in rough shape.”
“I had a bad day at the office,” she said bitterly.
He sat across from her and slowly sipped his martini. “You stood me up.”
“I was fired and had to leave the house.”
“You know, I bought your story about his gunshot wound. What is it this time? Sadistic roller skaters who knifed him?”
“It’s a long story.”
“I bet it is.”
She finished her drink and poured herself another. Her fluttering hands seemed to calm.
“Suppose we have a couple more of these,” he said. “Then I’ll make us a steak before I call the State Police.”
“The police? Maybe you had better tell me what you think you know.”
“I know the woman’s alive because she’s a patient of mine. If the shot pattern had been a couple of inches to the right, she would have died.”
“The red-haired woman?”
“Yes. Her name’s Wilson by the way.”
“Wilson? She called herself Wainwright once. Martin thought he had killed her. He’ll be glad to know she’s alive. When will she be well enough to be arraigned?”
“Arraigned?”
“Arrested or whatever they do on a murder charge.”
Strickland looked puzzled. “Murder of who?”
“Ray Heath, of course.”
“Are you really not aware of what’s going on?”
Sara felt a cold stab of fear in her abdomen. They had panicked and run. The redheaded woman had regained consciousness and snared them. “What about the little man? He was on the grass outside the window. I know he was dead.”
“There was no little man. Only Heath’s body and the wounded woman were there when the police arrived.”
“And now they want Martin and me for Ray’s murder.”
“And attempted murder of Heath’s girl friend.”
“Didn’t they find the recording? The letters we were writing?” He shook his head negatively. “No, of course they didn’t. She destroyed them.” Sara jumped to her feet, spilling her drink. “How dumb can you get? We ran like terrified rabbits and left them everything they needed to frame us.”
He regarded her dispassionately. “You didn’t kill Heath?”
She whirled to face him angrily. “Of course not! Ray and I were … were lovers.”
“They said he had to fire you.”
“Technically that’s true, but it was on orders from the superintendant. And that was all tied in with …” She paused.
“With what?”
“Camp Mohawk and all that’s happened to Martin.”
“The retarded man in there?” He gestured toward the bedroom.
“He’s not retarded.”
“The papers said he’d been at the training school for over twenty years.”
“Well, that’s true, but …” She sank onto the couch and put her hands to her face. “My God, what’s the use. Every way we turn they seem to have us in another corner. It’s a goddamn maze and I can’t see how to get out.”
“The Wilson woman told the police that she was Ray’s friend.”
“And I seduced Martin and enlisted him as my accomplice in nefarious undertakings?”
“That seems to be her scenario,” he answered quietly. “I’m sure everything can be straightened out once you talk to the proper authorities.”
He noticed that in order to control her tremors, her fists were balled into lumps on her lap. Her body was rigid, and he detected an undercurrent of hysteria within her, only barely held in by sheer force of will.
“I want to tell you what we found out,” Sara said. Her voice rose and fell with inflections she was unaware of. “Ray did some work with Martin and then placed him into hypnotherapy. It has to do with Camp Mohawk and where all of this started.…”
Senator Rutledge G. Baxter snorted at the ringing phone and leaned over to snap on the bedside lamp with one hand while snatching the receiver from its cradle with the other.
“Baxter here.” His voice was authoritative and without a trace of sleep lethargy.
“It’s Althea.”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“Can you talk?”
“This phone only rings in my bedroom and the downstairs study. Martha sleeps in her own room. What is it, Althea?” he asked with irritation. “I read the papers about the incident up there. You covered yourself well, but what in hell happened to Billie?”
“Fowler killed him.”
“Damn!” He looked over at the blonde woman on the other side of the bed. There was a slither of silk against satin, and she half-rose to pick up and light a cigarette. She arched an eyebrow as she watched him pace the room as he spoke on the phone.
“You’re still in the hospital?” he asked.
“A few more days. I’ll have the plastic surgery done in New York.”
“I hope you’re not damn fool enough to put this call through the bedside phone.”
“Of course not. That would go through the switchboard. I’m at a pay phone in the visitor’s room.”
“There really isn’t much to talk about, Althea. The local and State Police up there are looking for Fowler. They’ll catch him eventually.”
“I think they need help. Fowler isn’t what I expected … he’s different.”
Rutledge stared at the darkened window. “Perhaps you’re right. I’ll bring in some federal forces—call it national security matters and all that. If we’re lucky, he’ll be killed when they arrest him. I’ll see you after your surgery.”
“Come to New York, Rutledge. I want you with me.”
He stared at the phone receiver in disbelief. The request was unlike her, far afield from the strong-willed woman he thought he knew. “You know I can’t do that.”
“I’ll be at the St. Regis in two days. Please come up, if only for a few hours.”
“I’ll try and arrange it.” He purposely softened his voice. “You know how much I appreciate all you’ve done. You’ve made a great sacrifice for my cause and it won’t be forgotten.”
“I’m sorry it’s not over, Rutledge.”
“It’s not your fault, darling.” He glanced over at the woman in bed and saw her arch her eyebrow even higher. “Get some rest and get to New York as soon as you can.”
“I will, darling,” The phone clicked dead.
Rutledge walked slowly back across the room and thoughtfully replaced the receiver on its cradle.
“Althea?” his wife asked.
“Yes. It hardly sounded like her. It’s almost as if she’s lost her nerve.” He looked toward the window again.
“Come back to bed.”
“Yes.” He turned to face her. “I’m worried about her.”
“You should. It would seem that little Red Riding Hood has goofed—a couple of times. You kno
w, Rut, I don’t like to meddle in your affairs, but you should seriously consider doing something about Althea. I think your relationship with her has been as productive as it’s ever going to be.”
He yawned and climbed back into bed. “I think you’re right as usual, Martha. I’ll tend to it in the morning.”
Althea Remington replaced the phone and felt the stinging pain start again on the side of her face. She left the visitor’s lounge, walked back down the hall to her room, and then into the small bathroom, where she stood before the mirror. A certain quality in the senator’s voice had not been lost on her. She stood quietly for a moment, rationalizing the vague sense of alarm she felt by attempting to convince herself that she had awakened him in the middle of the night. His faculties would not be sharp—he was discombobulated.
She gave a snort of derision. Rutledge was always alert. Always.
She looked at her reflection. One half of her face was as it always had been—the other swathed in bandages.
She reached up with both hands and tore the dressings away from her wounded face.
“Miss Wilson,” an aide said in alarm from the doorway, “what are you doing?”
Althea stared at the scarred and mangled side of her face and slowly turned to see a look of horror and revulsion on the aide’s face.
“They did this to me,” she said hoarsely. “All of them.”
Martin walked gingerly out of the bedroom into the main room of the A-frame. They were both sound asleep—Sara on the couch, her body curled like a small child, and Dr. Strickland, stretched out on the carpeting near her.
He stood looking down at Sara and Dr. Strickland while wondering if anything had happened between them. He finally decided it hadn’t. With the exception of their shoes, they were both fully clothed and appeared to have fallen asleep after a long discussion. He recalled awakening during the night and hearing the drone of their voices. The words had been too indistinct for him to make out what they were saying.
He felt better. The sleep had helped and the dull throbbing in his arm had begun to diminish. The kitchen area was to the rear of the A-frame and he began to prepare breakfast, favoring his wounded arm and making do with one hand.
He put nearly a pound of bacon into a large frying pan and separated the pieces as it slowly fried. When he was satisfied with its progress, he attempted to one-handedly break eggs into a bowl. He had watched the cook at school do this effortlessly a hundred times, but now found that it was more difficult than it looked.
“Scrambled eggs will have to do,” he said aloud. He took a loaf of French bread from the breadbox and searched in a utility drawer until he found a long serrated knife.
There was a noise like a groan from the main room of the A-frame. Martin went toward the sound to investigate.
Don Strickland turned uncomfortably on the carpet, sat up, and rubbed a crick in his neck.
Martin stood over him with a worried look on his face, and the serrated bread knife clenched in his good hand.
“No! Please!” Strickland looked at Martin with fear and scrabbled across the floor.
Sara sat up in alarm. “Martin!”
Martin turned in confusion. “What’s the matter?”
“The knife …”
Don Strickland scrambled to his feet and threw himself at Martin’s back. Martin moaned as the man’s bear-hug pressed against his wounded shoulder. He automatically half-turned and shrugged the doctor off his hip in a throw that tumbled Strickland against the wall.
“Stop it you two!” Sara rushed to the fallen Strickland and helped him to his feet. “What in the world’s going on?”
“That knife … he came at me with that knife.”
“I’m making breakfast,” Martin answered. He looked down at the bread knife as if he had never seen the implement before. “I heard groaning and came in to see what was the matter.”
“Oh.” Strickland’s voice indicated a deep chagrin. “Sorry. I thought …”
Martin turned to go back into the kitchen. “I know what you thought, and you were wrong. Breakfast will be ready in a couple of minutes.”
They ate bacon and scrambled eggs hungrily and in silence. Strickland still seemed embarrassed by his misreading of Martin’s intent. He finished half a cup of instant coffee and pushed back his chair. “You know, you two have some story to tell.”
“It’s all true,” Sara replied.
“Oh, I’m sure it is. But I know you. How in the world you’re going to get other people to believe in this massive conspiracy is beyond me.”
“Martin has some very specific information. We thought that if it was released to the media, it would stop Operation Barbados.”
“What do you think happened to the letters you wrote but never had a chance to mail?” Strickland asked.
“She destroyed them,” Martin answered. “The red-haired woman.”
Strickland nodded. “Probably, since she destroyed all the other evidence you talk about. There is one thing, though, that bothers me.”
“What?”
“I treated Wilson when she was first brought to the hospital. She was in pretty bad condition, but according to your account, she was carting bodies off, destroying letters, and God only knows what else.”
“She had enough time.”
“But did she have enough strength?”
“Either that or she had help,” Sara answered.
“All right, be that as it will, I think you both should go to Washington and make contact with J.J. Sperry. His column is carried nationwide, and if he puts his investigators on this thing, he’s bound to turn up something.”
Sara sighed. “We drove Ray’s car here. Surely the police have an alert out for it by now. We don’t have any money, and I’m chasing around in clothes that can walk around by themselves.”
“You can take my Ford,” Strickland said as he reached for his wallet and counted out bills. “And I have about two hundred in cash. That ought to be enough to get you there. As for clothes, we ought to be able to scare up a change for you both.”
She put her hand on his arm. “We’ll pay you back as soon as we can.”
Strickland smiled his most professional smile and squeezed her fingers. “Of course you will.”
Strickland changed Martin’s dressing, gave him another injection of antibiotics, and told him to carry his arm in a sling. “You don’t really need it, but I’d like to keep the arm immobile for a few days.” He handed the car keys to Sara. “You can leave it in Washington and call to tell me where it is.”
“I can’t tell you how much we appreciate this.”
He smiled at her. “It’s for a good cause, right?”
“Right. How much gas is in it?”
“Nearly full. Now you two had better get going.”
Sara leaned over and kissed him on the forehead. “Thanks for everything, doc. I’ll never forget it.”
“Get to Sperry. He’ll get this whole thing out in the open.”
“We will,” she said as they walked out of the A-frame to the jeep.
Sara drove, and they both turned and waved as the Ford pulled away from the small dwelling.
Dr. Donald Strickland looked at the vehicle as it disappeared around a wooded bend, turned, and went slowly back into the A-frame. He stood in the center of the living room a moment, undecided, and then walked over to the phone on the small table in the corner and dialed.
“Lt. Amston Wellfleet, please … Dr. Donald. Strickland calling. Tell him it’s important. I have some information concerning his suspects in the Heath murder … yes, I’ll wait,” he said as he tapped the phone receiver impatiently.
Chapter Fifteen
Dr. Don Strickland clenched the phone receiver as he waited. He thought of the tremendous effort it had taken for him to receive his medical license: four years of undergraduate work with a 3.7 grade point average, volunteer work in hospitals and labs to get the precious recommendations needed to gain the all-important interviews for
admission to medical school. There were also the cut-throat labs with fellow grinds, hours waiting outside faculty members’ offices to peer anxiously at grade postings after crucial examinations.
It wasn’t worth risking over a crazy story told by a woman fired for alcoholism and an imaginative retarded man.
“Lt. Wellfleet, here. Who’s this?”
“Strickland, Lieutenant, Don Strickland—from the hospital. I’ve had a visit from Sara Bucknell and Martin Fowler. They’ve taken my Ford wagon, marker number MD 3415, and are heading toward New York City on the Adirondack Northway. If you put a roadblock on the southbound lane by Warrensburg, you should catch them.”
“This solid info, doc?”
“The solidest you’ll get.”
“I’ll call you back as soon as I talk to my units.” The phone clicked dead and Strickland slowly hung up. He imagined the State Police had all the necessary radio equipment at the Horton Barracks. Within seconds, the lieutenant’s call would go out to mobile units and the roadblock would be in place. They would be caught.
A hand snaked around his arm and yanked the phone cord from the wall.
“What the hell!” Strickland whirled to face Martin.
“I thought you would call. I never trusted you.”
“I had to. I gave medical aid to a man who is wanted by the authorities.”
“You didn’t have to lie to us.”
“You would have killed me. Is that what you’re going to do now?” He took a few steps backward, trying to remember where he had placed the .22 rifle he sometimes used for plinking.
Martin picked up the serrated knife he had used earlier in the day to cut the bread. He held it before him, ready for an upward thrust, like Billy Bamburg had taught him.
“I helped you, Fowler.” Strickland’s voice cracked. “When you needed treatment I …”
“We’re not going to hurt you,” Sara said from the doorway. “Did he call anyone?”
“The police. He told them to set up roadblocks on the highway.”
“Tie him up. They’ll come looking for you, doctor, but we should be well away by then.”
James Jefferies Sperry was a passionate hater of disorder, corruption and malfeasance in high places, inefficiency, women in politics, and exercise. He had awakened in a sweaty temper. The night’s dream was still vivid: a frustrating incident from the days when he was legman for another syndicated columnist and had been forced to hurry around the city during its almost tropical heatwaves. Reality returned and he gingerly pushed away from the bed and shuffled to the bathroom to adjust the shower.
The Man Who Heard Too Much Page 15
