Beyond Eden (39 page)

The girl looked toward Dr. Gruska, her eyes large with fright and doubt, but he wasn't paying any more attention to her. She fled without another word.

Maybe they'd saved one, Taylor thought.

Taylor said, “Lindsay is going to be all right. Someone tried to murder her, that's true. We'd like
to ask where you were at the time of the explosion, on Monday, at noon.”

“Me?”
Gruska simply stared at them, shaking his head back and forth. “You think I could have been involved? I wouldn't hurt Lindsay. I love her, I've loved her for years. My father loves her too. I want to take care of her. She needs me, you know, needs me very much. Only I can help her, but she won't let me. Please, take me to her.”

“Not much furniture in his living room,” Barry said under his breath.

“Perhaps you can tell us where you were, Dr. Gruska?” Taylor asked again. “Monday, at noon.”

Gruska waved his hand around. “I was here all day, I was here with these bloody idiot students. You saw one of them—idiots, all! Take me to her now.”

“Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt her?” Barry asked, patient as a bishop.

“No one. She's shy, always has been because she was so very hurt by her brother-in-law. When I found out what had happened to her—she was a student in my senior seminar—I tried to help her but she was too afraid. She wouldn't let me. No one could want to hurt her, no one except maybe a man who tried to have sex with her and she turned him down. Revenge maybe, by some man she wouldn't sleep with.”

“Do you know of any such man, Dr. Gruska?”

“No, no. So shy—she was always so shy, so withdrawn, always trying to protect herself.”

Barry said, “Do you know a man named Oswald? Bert Oswald?”

Dr. Gruska looked at him blankly. “You mean like the guy who shot Kennedy?”

“Same last name, sure enough.” Barry sighed
and turned to Taylor, who said, “Thank you, Dr. Gruska, for your time. As to where Lindsay is, we aren't allowed to disclose that information, not until we apprehend the person responsible. However, it's best you forget her now because she's found someone to help her. She's married and she's very happy. No more problems, I promise you.”

“Married? Oh, no, that's impossible.” The man looked panicked, his hands shaking. “No, no, you've got to be wrong. I know her. She wouldn't let a man get near her, no way.”

Taylor said very calmly, “She's married to me, Dr. Gruska, and I assure you that she has changed quite remarkably. She loves me and she trusts me. She is no longer the Lindsay Foxe you knew. Now I suggest you forget her.”

They left Dr. Gruska standing by his desk, staring at nothing in particular. He looked like a man who had lost his bearings.

“I've met lots of nuts,” Barry said. “He's right up there with the best of them. Ain't it comforting to know he's passing on his store of knowledge to the younger generation?”

“Yeah, comforting. And we're not a bit closer to finding out who's behind this. Not old Gruska, that's for sure. And you know something, Barry, deep down, I just can't buy it that one of the family or all of them are responsible. They're pretty disgusting, but not murderers. At least, I don't think they could have come up with the idea to murder her so quickly after the will had been read. It took thought and planning. It took knowing someone to hire to do the job.”

“Judge Foxe is bound to know all sorts of talented scum, Taylor. West coast and east coast.”

“Yeah, I agree, but the time frame is just too
short for them to act so quickly. You see, someone would have had to say it aloud, ‘Let's kill Lindsay. Then we'll have her money and we'll be all right.' Then all of them would have had to agree. Then the judge would have to get hold of someone to do it. Not enough time to get it done.”

Barry sighed. “Unfortunately, I think you're right. Who, then, Taylor, who?”

“Bloody hell, I don't know.”

“Where are you off to?”

Taylor smiled then. “To see my bride.”

“Hold very still, Mrs. Taylor. That's it, just a few more snips.”

Mrs. Taylor.
How odd it sounded. Lindsay tried to focus on her husband, on herself as a wife, but she couldn't. She was tense as a stick. She was afraid. She knew Taylor knew it too because he was holding her hand, squeezing her fingers.

“It's going to be fine,” he said, watching Dr. Perry slowly remove the bandages.

He'd asked him earlier in the hallway, “Will you know when you take off the bandages this time what the result will be?”

“Close enough. There will still be swelling and bruising, and that will look strange, but that's temporary. Yes, we'll know this time.
I'll
know this time. Don't worry, Mr. Taylor. I'm really very good.”

Her hair was matted down to her head. She'd lost ten pounds and it showed on her face. Her flesh was pale where there was no bruising. She looked like she'd been very ill, which she had. The stitches looked obscene, black thread woven in and out of her flesh. The hair over her right ear had been shaved off and it showed. A small bald spot that made her look so vulnerable he wanted to cry. He looked more closely, along with a silent Dr. Perry.
Her eyes were closed and Taylor knew she wouldn't open them until she had to.

There was still the swelling Dr. Perry had spoken about, only it wasn't symmetrical, rather it was lumpy, and the bruising gave her the look of the Italian flag. She looked pretty bad, truth be told, at least to a layman. It was impossible for Taylor to tell how it would turn out. He said now, without hesitation, “You're gorgeous.”

“He's right,” Dr. Perry said matter-of-factly. “I'm just about the greatest. I hope you've got good insurance because I cost a bundle.”

“Really?” Lindsay opened her eyes and looked straight at Taylor. She searched his face. She saw no distaste there, no revulsion. She heard no lie in his voice. She gave him a tentative smile. “Can I have the mirror Dr. Perry gave me?”

“Not yet,” Dr. Perry said. “First I want the stitches out, then a bit of alcohol to get rid of all the dried blood. Now, hold very still. This will sting just a little bit.”

“Sting” wasn't the right word for it, Lindsay thought, but she kept herself as still as a stone. She closed her eyes again when he was dabbing alcohol against each of the three suture lines on her face. “There won't be any scarring,” Dr. Perry said. “Not that I expected any, of course. Good thing you don't smoke, because if you did, that would be out. Also, no vitamin C for three months. That can make scarring. I'll give you a list of all foods to avoid as well. Otherwise, you just need to rest and lie around for the next two weeks. No strenuous activity, no running, nothing but having your husband wait on you. Gain back some weight. Now, Dr. Shantel tells me that your ribs are coming along
fine, but all my orders apply to your ribs too. At least two more weeks, okay, Lindsay?”

She touched her fingertips to her face. She felt the cool flesh, strange to her touch, and jerked her fingers back.

“Now, before you look in the mirror, understand that you've still got swelling here and there and the bruising has faded quite a bit, but it looks pretty god-awful. However, your husband has pronounced you gorgeous and you will be in about another week or so. Here, take a look.”

She wasn't so sure she wanted to look, given all his disclaimers. She held the antique mirror up and forced herself to look into the glass. She swallowed, forcing herself to focus only on her face. She studied the three suture lines, the curious swelling that made her look like a lumpy frog, particularly around her right eye. It was the strange pale green and sunflower-yellow bruises that finally made her smile. She looked ridiculous. She looked like a prisoner of war. How could Taylor not look at her and fall on the floor with laughter? She was silent for the longest time, merely looking at herself.

Taylor became restive.

Dr. Perry looked ready to gnaw his fingernails.

Lindsay said finally, a small laugh in her voice, “I'm so beautiful I think I'll call Demos to set up a photo session for this afternoon.”

“Wash your hair first,” Taylor said, leaned down, and kissed her. “Here I was halfway hoping for a little Igor to help me with all my storm and electrical experiments, and you have to go and disappoint me.”

Dr. Perry, grinning, said, “I've already spoken to your private nurse on how to get you cleaned up. She knows what to do. Tonight you and Taylor
need to have your first regular meal. Demos is having it delivered here from La Viande.” He shook Lindsay's hand. “I just thought I should warn you.”

“Can I go home tomorrow?”

Taylor said quickly, “Yes. Missy is coming along. We'll put her in the third bedroom. I don't want you alone, sweetheart, not yet. Also Barry is sending Officer Fogel. He'll probably give all his attention to Missy, but there's at least safety in numbers. I don't ever want you alone, not until we find out who's behind all this.”

“It isn't Dr. Gruska.”

“No.”

“It isn't my family either.”

“Probably not. Not enough time for the planning of it.”

Lindsay sighed. Who, then? She turned and gave her hand to Dr. Perry. “Thank you. When will I see you again?”

They set up an appointment for the following Monday. Taylor would bring her to his office on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-first Street. “Third floor, suite 306.”

When they were alone, Lindsay said, “Please, Taylor, you don't have to pretend that I look great.”

“Okay,” he said, and grinned at her. “But you know, I really enjoy the Mutant Ninja Turtles on TV. I can now relate.”

“You're thin.”

“So are you.”

“If I wear a bag over my head, will you sleep with me when we get home?”

He wondered if she meant sleep, pure and simple sleep, or sex, not so pure, nor so simple, but loads more fun. “Maybe I'll wear the bag,” he said. “You
know, Lindsay, we need to get a start on that huge box of supergigantic condoms the nurses gave you.”

She hadn't meant sex; he saw that quickly enough. But she was thinking about it now and he looked at her closely, studying the myriad expressions that came across her face. “Okay,” she said, and then yawned.

“I just hope they'll be big enough,” she added after he'd turned, closing her eyes.

He started, jerking around and looking down at her. He saw a tiny smile quiver on her lips. He saw himself slipping on a condom, saw her smiling at him as he did it, her legs spread for him, and he nearly came right there.

“I've got to go get a drink of water,” he said.

 

Taylor took her home the following morning. She wore sunglasses, at her fervent request, but her hair was soft and shining, so filled with deep waves he wanted to bury his hands and his face in the thick masses.

Fogel brought Missy to the apartment in a patrol car, which, he'd confided to Taylor, tended to make women horny.

To Lindsay's astonishment and chagrin, by the time she was standing in her own bedroom, she was exhausted.

“No complaints about bed, huh?”

She shook her head. “This is stupid.”

“No, this is recuperation, babe.”

“But what about our wedding night?”

“Our what? Oh, that. I'd forgotten all about it.”

She smacked her fist in his belly.

She slept away the morning and into the afternoon. When she woke, Missy brought her lunch. Taylor wasn't there, Missy told her, but Fogel was
sitting in the living room. He was probably contemplating seduction strategies for Missy.

At two o'clock the phone rang. Missy answered, then called out to Fogel.

Lindsay heard his voice from the living room, but not the words. He came into the bedroom a moment later, grinning, relief flooding his boyish features. “That was Captain Brooks. He says they caught that Oswald creep and I should come on back in now.”

As if this were the first time he realized the meaning of the words, Fogel suddenly sounded very depressed. He looked at Missy and said “Shit” under his breath. “They need me,” he added. He shuffled a moment, then said to Missy, “You want to walk me to the patrol car?”

“Just a moment,” Lindsay said. “Didn't this Captain Brooks tell you anything else? Who hired Oswald?”

“He didn't say, Mrs. Taylor. Would you like me to call him back?”

Lindsay saw that Missy was fully prepared to give Officer Fogel quite a treat. She smiled and shook her head. “No, give me the number and I'll call him. Thank you for your help, and good luck.”

He gave Lindsay the number, then he and Missy wrapped up in coats and left the apartment, arms entwined.

Lindsay dialed. The phone rang once, twice. It was picked up on the third ring, and a man said, “Twelfth Precinct, Johnson here.”

“May I please speak to Captain Brooks?”

“Just a moment.”

She waited. Her breathing quickened. They'd caught him! They'd caught Oswald. Thank God. Now, who had hired him? Soon it would be over,
soon Oswald would tell them. Her palms felt wet and cold. Soon, very soon now, she'd know who wanted her dead. Soon now.

Another man came onto the line.

“Hello? I hear you want Captain Brooks.”

“Yes, please.”

“He's been on vacation for the past four days, ma'am. He won't be back until Monday week. You a friend of his?”

Oh, God, a lie, a diversion to get Officer Fogel out of the apartment. “I'm Lindsay Foxe Taylor. Captain Brooks just called here to say that Oswald had been caught. He asked Fogel to come back to the station.”

Silence.

Then a sudden explosion of recognition. “Oh, damn! Listen, Mrs. Taylor, you make sure your door's locked and bolted. I'll have some men over there in—!”

“What? You mean that—? What's going on?”

The phone was dead. Completely and suddenly very dead. No dial tone, just silence, deep silence.

Lindsay eased it away from her ear, held it out in front of her, and just stared at it. Then she knew the man hadn't hung up on her. He hadn't dropped the phone. Someone had cut the wire. She swallowed and stared toward the doorway. She had to lock the front door. She knew that Missy would have left it unlocked when she'd left with Fogel. Had she even left it open? Was she even now kissing Fogel in his squad car?

Oh, Jesus.

She got up, felt her ribs protest with a vicious prod, but ignored it. Fear made adrenaline flood through her. She ran from the bedroom, her long
flannel nightgown nearly making her trip, ran as fast as she could toward the front door.

It opened.

She skidded to a stop, her eyes glued to the now-opening door. She couldn't move. She could only stare and pray and stare some more.

She wasn't surprised when the man slipped inside. She wasn't really surprised that he was holding a gun and aiming it at her. It was the same man from the commercial shoot. He smiled when he saw her standing there, her face bruised, wearing a granny gown, looking white and ill and terrified.

“Hi,” he said. “You're still around, sweetie, more's the pity. Lucky little bitch, aren't you?” He locked the door behind him. “Oh, don't worry about the girl with the huge tits. She ain't coming back for a while yet. She's too busy fucking that cop down in the patrol car. The little gentleman pulled it in an alley so they wouldn't be disturbed. Who says cops ain't got no sensitivity? It's just you and me now. Lord, do you ever look like an ugly duck now. Wouldn't you rather have died than look like you do now?”

Lindsay felt her insides twisting, heard her heart pounding. Why couldn't he hear it? Did he hear it, did he smell her fear? It was heavy, metallic. She wanted to gag with the smell of her own fear. Did he enjoy it? Seeing her terror? She heard a voice that was deep and small and it asked, “But why? Why do you want to kill me? What did I ever do to you?”

Bert Oswald just shrugged. “It's too bad you look like a freak, or you and me could have a little fun before I have to ice you down but good this time. Hey, I'm sorry, lady, but I kinda have to hurry, you know? From the way that cop was
moving out of here with that gal, I'd say he'll probably get his rocks off pretty quick now. Of course, I could have some fun with her when she got back here.”

Lindsay turned and ran. She heard a hard pinging sound. Wood splintered into the wall not six inches from her head. She heard him running after her now, heard another sharp pinging sound—oh, God, it was a bullet—and this one struck her in the arm. She felt a searing streak of iciness, then nothing, blank numbness. She made it to the bedroom, slammed the door, and turned the lock. Because she'd watched lots of television and violent movies, she quickly moved away from the door. It was lucky she did. A bullet struck the door and came flying through, spewing out splinters in all directions.

She plastered herself against the wall, wheezing with fear. She knew she had to think, to act, but dear God, she couldn't even bring herself to move. How long before he shot the lock off the door? How long before he came in and shot her?

How long did she have?

She opened her eyes and stared sightlessly around the bedroom. Something inside her recognized there was nothing in here to help her. Without hesitation, she ran to the bathroom. Another lock, more protection. But once he got in here, she was trapped and it would be over.

She slammed the bathroom door and turned the lock. It was thicker than the bedroom door, not hollow. She cursed then, wishing she'd moved some furniture in front of the bedroom door to buy her some more time. Too late, too late. She switched on the bathroom light. She saw herself in the
mirror and didn't recognize the wild-eyed woman who looked as if she'd stared Satan right in the eye.

A weapon. She needed a weapon. When he came through the bathroom door she wasn't going to just stand here and let him kill her. What? She pulled open the medicine cabinet. She flung bottles off the shelves. The racket dinned around her as bottles hit the tile floor, breaking, shattering, rolling. She heard the bedroom door crash against the wall. He was in the bedroom now. He was looking around. In another second he'd know she'd come in here. Thank God the bathroom was old-fashioned, high ceiling, large. She had some room. There was nothing to help her in the medicine cabinet.