Eye Sleuth (22 page)

“What’s wrong, Yoko?” Horrie asked. “You’re shaking, are you all right?” He stared after the departing coach then back at me. “Did you know that man?”

“Yes, that is, I mean no, I don’t know him but I’ve seen him before and….” I took a deep breath as I thought back to my sensation of being watched during my time in England. So my reactions
had
been to something external, not nerves or jet lag. So he was here and knew I was here and now he’s leaving. I felt enormous relief and knew that as soon as I got back to New York, I’d find out who the man was and then––yes, then––I’d contact the police. No way would I try to track down the attacker by myself. Now I had more than suspicions.

“He was in the exhibit hall,” Horrie said. “I don’t remember which vendor, but he was one of the two reps for a company that always comes to OEPF conferences.”

“I need to find out the name of that company,” I told Horrie, “if you think of it, let me know.” As we walked to Bournemouth Square, I told him about the bizarre events that had started with the warning of danger from Mary Sakamoto.

“I just don’t understand what connection there can be between the shooting on the street, then the attack on my godmother and the mugging.”

Horrie stared ahead, considering what I’d told him. “I don’t know about connections,” he said slowly. “But is it too much of a stretch to ask whether the prototypes Fred Anders developed might be the cause for the attacks? You know there’s talk of government interest in them?”

“That’s true,” I said. And who knows who else might want be interested in the equipment.

“You’re going home tomorrow, it’d be a good idea to talk to the police when you’re back in New York,” Horrie added.

“Yes,” I said and this time I meant it, I’d give Dan Riley a call. Even if I hadn’t been able to uncover any real clues, finally I had more than suspicions. I’d be able to find out who the man was, either Horrie would remember or I’d ask Bob Williams at the OEP Foundation. He was sure to have a list of all the vendors. My satisfaction was mixed with resolution––what a difference from the weeks of mayhem and mystery when I’d worried and wondered and not found any answers mostly because I didn’t now where to start.

We found an empty taxi at Bournemouth Square without any trouble and by the time we reached Christchurch, it was late afternoon. The taxi dropped us a few blocks from the priory and as we walked along the main street, the cloud cover lifted.

Small shops, bakeries and cafes lined High Street, so different from Bournemouth with its large department stores and trendy boutiques. Sidewalk stalls were piled with fruit and vegetables, clothes, toys and souvenirs. It was casual and gay and crowded, less than ten physical miles but light years away from Bournemouth’s cool sophistication. Cars, busses and bikes streamed by in a nonstop flow. That changed when we reached the street to the priory grounds. The thirty yards of the cobblestones leading to the open gates was too narrow for cars and we walked through the massive gates on to a wide flagstone path that wound through a tranquil graveyard to the priory.

Inside, sunlight deepened the vivid colors of the magnificent stained glass windows. I dropped coins in a box for a pamphlet, “The Priory Church,” and flipped through it. “The eleventh-century priory took four and a half centuries to build,” I read to Horrie. “Do you feel like climbing seventy-five steps to the museum in St. Michael’s Loft? It was a school for novice monks. Or we could take one hundred and seventy-six steps up a spiral staircase to the top of the bell tower and look over the town and harbor.”

Horrie rolled his eyes. “The last OEP conference I attended was in France and someone bet I couldn’t climb the bell tower in Notre Dame. I won the bet but my legs were sore for days. Why don’t we walk to the harbor?”

We retraced our steps and took High Street to the right, away from the town center. The entrance to Abbot’s Walk was a broad sandy path that meandered along beside the shallow river. When we reached the harbor, it was deserted, the cafes closed and the car park empty. A few sailboats were dropping anchor, joining the boats already moored. We walked leisurely round the bay then returned the way we’d come. The round trip took less than thirty minutes, a peaceful walk marred only by my uneasy sense that we were being watched. I shook myself mentally, I’d seen Lanny’s attacker drive off. I almost asked Horrie if he had the same feeling but held my tongue. Didn’t want him to think I was a space cadet.

Ten

The sun was low in the sky but we had time, the dark of summer nights comes leisurely in the south of England, far later than in New York. Horrie and I walked slowly in the gathering dusk, the murmur of the stream a soothing background to the gravel that crunched under our feet. We’d reached the High Street when I remembered the roses.

“Let’s take a quick detour. Beth said the entrance is just past the lawn bowling club building.”

Horrie nodded his agreement and we retraced our steps and found the entrance.

The rose garden was larger than I expected. Oblong beds of roses were surrounded by neatly cut grass that was in turn circled by a wide sandy path. Benches were evenly spaced along the path. The priory loomed, an aloof, austere backdrop on a crest of high land immediately behind the garden. Stepping onto the grass, I walked to the nearest flowerbed. The dozen bushes in it were covered in half-open roses, petals luminous in the growing shadows. Leaning close, I sniffed the delicate fragrance.

“These smell heavenly,” I said, turning to Horrie, who stood on the path. Dusk had drifted in but I could see him clearly, relaxed and smiling. With equal, awful clarity, I saw a man moving stealthily towards Horrie.

It was Lanny’s attacker right here in the rose garden––he hadn’t left after all. The man raised his arm high, some sort of thick stick in his hand.

“No!” I screamed and lunged forward.

Horrie, oblivious to the danger behind him, was startled by my mad rush and stood staring at me. Before I could reach Horrie, the stick crashed down on the back of his head and he dropped to the ground without a sound.

Now I was face-to-face with the attacker. I kicked out, deliberately aiming for the man’s groin but missed. He swung the stick at me. I twisted to one side and the blow landed on my shoulder with painful force. I danced wildly to avoid another blow and kicked at his knees. Yes, contact! I heard a gasping grunt but I hadn’t slowed him down. The stick swung again and smashed onto the side of my head. My legs buckled. Through the pain I registered that the eyes of Lanny’s attacker were the chilling gray of cold slate. The resemblance to Matt Wahr was striking. Why hadn’t he left? I slid away from that puzzling thought into nothing.

When I came round, velvety darkness was complete. A leather strap gagged me and my hands and feet were bound tight. My hands were tied in front of me and I was able to reach up and feel my head to check for damage where the blow had landed. The blood around the bump was a sticky trickle, not quite dry, so I hadn’t been out long. I didn’t have a headache, so I didn’t think the blow was serious. What was serious was the situation. I was wedged on my side against the grassy edge of the rose bed. I took inventory. The first blow had been glancing and my shoulder hurt a little, the other blow landed with some force, but nothing was broken, I didn’t have a headache and I was thinking clearly. What about Horrie? The nauseating sound when he was hit worried me.

Now I’d seen Slate Eyes clearly, one fact was clear: he looked too much like Matt Wahr for it to be a coincidence. Too old to be a son, perhaps a brother? Horrie thought he was a rep with a company that made vision therapy equipment, so that was one puzzling question answered and it explained why he was at the conference. But what possible connection could there be to Lanny? Why had she been attacked? Obviously, something in this man’s mind linked Lanny to Gus Forkiotis, tenuous perhaps but there again was the optometric angle and the conference that Lanny had asked Gus to address. Horrie and I had been deliberately ambushed. The attack on me had to be because I’d seen Slate Eyes at the National Arts Club. Was Horrie attacked because he was in the wrong place at the right time? Mary Sakamoto’s warning of danger echoed in my mind. The why was still ever elusive but her prediction of trouble had come true over and over.

I lay staring at my side view of the night sky. My stomach heaved now and then. God, I hoped I wasn’t about to throw up. In a movie, I’d have wriggled free of bonds by now. Welcome to the real world, Yoko. I lay on the damp earth longing to hug Lanny one more time and to tell Auntie Ai she was the best Auntie anyone ever had. Someone bent over me. I shut my eyes.

“You and your buddy Forkiotis, who’s calling the shots now?” A kick landed on my side. Nasty but not lethal. “You optometrists think you’re so smart. Put your pants on one leg at a time, don’t you? Who does Forkiotis think he is, giving evidence at court cases? It’s bogus, all of it.”

The bitter words brought a staggering answer to part of the puzzle. At last, clarity about some links. Dr. Forkiotis, wearing his Expert Witness hat in some court, had roused this devil. Gus traveled all over the U.S. at the request of state prosecuting attorneys so it was hard to know where the offending case had been prosecuted. A second kick landed. Dazzling lights burst behind my eyes and the world vanished.

When I regained consciousness, I was jolting sack-like over the man’s shoulder, flopping against his back. The leather gag was sodden with saliva, a real gourmet treat. I wasn’t dead but escape was a fragile concept. Where were the lovers out for a moonlight stroll in the garden? Better yet, how about a policeman making rounds? I couldn’t remember if the rose garden had gates at the entrance. If it did, someone might come to lock up and spot what was happening.

We didn’t go far. I was dropped carelessly on the ground. Swiveling my eyes a fraction, I could see rose bushes close by but tree branches blotted out much of the night sky but at least I knew we hadn’t left the garden. When Horrie and I had arrived, I’d noticed a hut flanked by trees at the far side of the enclosure. Was it a public lavatory? No lack of them in Bournemouth.

“Don’t go anywhere.” The voice mocked, gloating at the control, the license to hurt.

The sound of his footsteps faded into silence. I strained to look around, hoping to see Horrie. No sign of him. Twisting and tugging at the bonds on my hands and ankles got me nowhere. My hotel room card with my wallet was in the zippered pocket of my light jacket, half a Larabar in the other pocket. That was it. No knives or files. I had folding scissors in my bag but the bag was in my hotel room. I heard a trundling noise. Slate Eyes returned but didn’t speak, just hoisted me up and roughly bundled me into a wheelchair. That explained the trundling sound but where had he found a wheelchair? If he stole it from the car park, would someone miss it and call the police?

A hat was jammed on my head and a blanket draped round me. Insane perhaps, but this man was also resourceful. My vision was blocked by the hat, which he’d pulled low over my face. He tucked the blanket up round my chin to complete the picture of an invalid protected from the night air. Off we went. What if I threw myself out of the chair? If people were around… I felt a sharp prick at the back of my neck.

“Keep still and real quiet or I’ll cut your throat.”

I promptly discarded the idea of creating a commotion. Where were we going? We reached Christchurch High Street. Streetlights were on but we didn’t meet anyone walking. Cars drove by. They’d see a man pushing some poor soul in a wheelchair. We covered the few yards to the entrance of Abbot’s Walk and turned in, heading to the harbor. Had he taken Horrie there already? I shivered. We didn’t pass anyone and when we got to the bay area it was deserted. Boats neat under canvas covers bobbed at their moorings. None had lights on to show people were aboard.

The voice was not solicitous, the face was that of a predator. The wheelchair was pushed to stone steps that led down to a small wooden dock where a rowboat rocked gently. I was hauled out of the wheelchair and carried down the steps. If anyone was watching, it would appear reasonably normal. He hadn’t thrown me over his shoulder this time, not wanting to look suspicious. He dumped me in the rowboat with a thud that rattled my teeth. I landed up against a hard, unyielding mass that felt suspiciously like bricks. Next to it I felt something larger, softer. I wriggled myself about until I could look. It was Horrie, silent and unmoving. Slate Eyes clambered in, settling on the seat across the middle of the small boat. He fiddled with the oars until they slotted into the oarlocks then untied the mooring rope. The rowboat moved slowly away from the dock, oars plish-plashing.

“Nice night for a swim.” His voice was breathless from the rowing.

I strained against the bonds on my hands and feet but they stayed tight. I wanted to know why this was happening. If he’d only take the gag out of my mouth, I’d ask. Horrie and I were crammed in the front of the boat and I couldn’t see Slate Eyes. The soft rocking of the boat would have been soothing if I wasn’t on a deadly sailing trip with a madman. Cool water dribbled over me as the oars rattled free of the oarlocks and clattered into the bottom of the boat. Had we reached our destination?