Pursued by Shadows (17 page)

“It looks awful.”

“It used to be worse.”

“What in the name of God were you doing in Lebanon? Vacationing in a war zone for the hell of it?”

“I was a Marine,” he said, startled, “hanging around Beirut—1983. Pretending to guard the Lebanese with weapons we weren't supposed to use.” He sat up and reached for his shirt. “Maybe up in Canada you didn't hear about that little episode.”

Jane shook her head. “It sounds vaguely familiar. I'm sure people heard about it, but in those days I was a self-centered little drifter with problems of my own. I wouldn't have noticed if the Lebanese had invaded Canada. Sorry.”

“Don't worry about it.” He gave her that curious, lopsided grin, and his guarded eyes relaxed and crinkled in amusement for a moment. “I like it. Around here, everybody knows everything about everybody else, and you're the first person I've met in years who's never heard about my heroic defense of that rock. They've been feeling sorry for me ever since.” He sat up. “It's kind of nice to meet someone who needs sympathy more than I do.”

“Does it still hurt?”

“Physically? Or spiritually?”

“Physically.”

“Sometimes. When the weather changes. It's a lot better now,” he added softly. “And there are moments when I don't feel it at all.” He reached over and kissed her. “What's the matter?” he asked, looking into her troubled eyes. “I know. I found myself a beautiful girl who's clever and can cook and she turns out to be anti-military.”

“Oh no,” said Jane, staring up at the ceiling. “I never actually met enough people in the military to build up any feelings about them one way or the other. I don't know what the matter is. Or if I do, I don't know how to explain it.”

“Try.”

“I feel so safe and happy lying here more or less in the middle of a lake. As if I could be like this forever. As if this was life. It seems so impossible—so wrong—when I know that I'm running away from the real me, who has more problems than she has time to think about them. And what are you running away from, lying here?”

“Nothing. I got over worrying about that a long time ago. When I came back here after Beirut I decided I wanted to escape from real life. Then I started making things to have something to do so I wouldn't go crazy while I was escaping and do you know what? They were real, the things I made. And so was living here. Do you see what I mean? Now it's my life—my working life, anyway. And besides, I think the person that lets potatoes overcook because she'd rather fall into bed with me is real. Not the person who keeps worrying about who the real her is.”

“Good God! The potatoes.” Jane, who was losing the thread of his argument anyway, leaped to her feet and ran over to the stove, drained the potatoes, and dumped them in a bowl with the chopped parsley and butter that she had standing there ready. “Then how do we know who we are?” she asked, turning back to him.

“Well—I didn't say it was easy. Where are you going?”

“To put clothes on. Dinner's ready.”

They were halfway through their simple braised chicken and very soggy potatoes when the call came. “It's for you,” said Amos, handing the telephone over to Jane, and walking to the window.

Jane listened intently, her face expressionless, for what seemed to be an endless time. At last she said, “Yes. Her sister. Jane Sinclair.” There was another pause. “No—nothing valuable as far as I know. She doesn't wear expensive jewelry. Just the money and credit cards in her purse.” Amos could hear a grumbling complaint from New York. “Oh, really? Sorry. Lesley was always careless about things like that. I'll get in touch with our parents and I'll be down as soon as I can get there.” The answering voice expostulated for a moment. “Then tomorrow. I'll leave tomorrow morning. Thank you for calling me.”

“That was the police in New York. Lesley's in the hospital. She's been attacked,” she said, her face white and her voice shaky. “This morning. It took them till now to find her hotel and get my message. Thank God they called me and not Mum,” she said distractedly. “But they couldn't have, could they? They didn't have Mum's number. Lesley's driver's license still has an old Toronto address on it—she hasn't lived in Toronto for ages.” She sat down at the table again, heavily, as if her legs had suddenly caved in.

“Is she all right?” He was perched on the low windowsill, his arms crossed, looking at her.

Jane shook her head. “I can't tell. The man said she had several superficial stab wounds, nothing to worry about, but that she doesn't seem able to remember who she is. Actually that's not true. He said that she hasn't spoken since they brought her into the hospital.” Her forehead was taut with worry. “Which he explained as amnesia. I said I'd leave right away, but he said that they wouldn't let me in to see her in the middle of the night. He's probably right, but I still think I'd better get down there.” She jumped up again, and began pacing the length of the room. “I have to get the car. Will you drive me over there?”

“Jane,” said Amos gently, “stop and think before you do anything. Have you forgotten why you're here? If someone attacked your sister because she's your sister—and it wasn't just some crazy who picks them at random—you're even less safe out there than you were. Do they know if it was a random attack?”

“The mugger—or whatever he was—grabbed at the attaché case but she struggled and he dropped it again. She still has it. They said they didn't think it was a deliberate thing. Against her, I mean. They looked in the case and said there was nothing in there but some old documents.”

“They don't know anything, in other words.” He stood upright again and walked over to intercept her restless movements, seizing her hands to stop her. “I'll go get her. Write a letter or something for me so they'll release her from the hospital and I'll have her back in no time.”

“I can't do that.”

“For chrissake, Jane, don't be stupid.”

“It's not that.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “She'd never walk out of the hospital room with you. She'd certainly never get into a car with you. She's terrified of men. Any men. No matter how nice they are. Or how beautiful,” she added, with a tiny smile that disappeared at once. “I didn't think. I was so involved in working out the details that it never really occurred to me that she'd be in danger. That was unforgivably stupid. I don't know why I thought she'd be safe where I wasn't. God knows what this is going to do to her. I have to go.”

“Wait and listen to me,” he said, releasing her hands and pulling her against the solid comfort of his chest. “It's not much more than five hours to New York. And you're not going alone. We'll go over and get the car tonight and leave tomorrow morning before six. We'll be at the hospital by eleven—they probably won't want to see us much before then, anyway—and even if there's a massive amount of paperwork we'll be back here by six.”

“I can't bring her here,” said Jane in a panicky voice.

“Where else are you going to take her?”

Harriet stumbled out of bed on Thursday morning, pulled her terry cloth robe around her, and stepped out into the hall. She stubbed her toe on the tripod that lay directly in her path, swore and blinked her eyes open. There it all sat, every piece of her equipment, right where she had set it down the night before. Late, when she had finished with the interior of the old furniture warehouse that was now home to one of Toronto's most expensive and trendiest legal firms. And by the front door, where she was sure to trip over it.

She had arrived the day before at six in the morning, just as the sun was beginning to behave satisfactorily, creating the right sort of light for the exposed brick and thick ornamental glass; done as much as she could with the empty building before the movers got in her way; and then found herself a pleasant, brightly lit corner of the reception area. She sat for hours on her cooler full of film, reading a paperback and watching the fun, while the movers, hours behind schedule, tried to create some order out of the existing chaos. The charts prepared for them by the lessees of the premises bore little resemblance to the floor plan of the offices as they existed in real time; the flustered administrative assistant who finally appeared on the scene made two or three snap decisions and destroyed the last vestiges of order. It was, in short, a perfectly normal situation. Which was why Harriet had a thermos of coffee, a bag of muffins, and a book with her. She had mildly regretted refusing John's offer of help—not because she needed him to carry things about, but because life would have been more interesting with someone other than the increasingly irritated moving men to talk to. At a point when the movers were occupied with some very large pieces of furniture from the back of the first truck, the administrative assistant squeaked something about an urgent appointment and fled.

“Okay, lady,” said the head of the crew to Harriet, by now the only other person around. “Where do you want this?” The “this” in question was a very large green leather chesterfield, clearly of presidential quality.

“Why don't we put it here?” said Harriet maliciously, pointing to the reception area. “With those nice plants. It'll make a terrific shot.”

“Beats going up to the second floor with it,” he said. “There are a couple of matching chairs, too. They'd look good right there,” he added, “across from the couch.”

And thus between the two of them, they created weeks of chaos for Turnbull and Gow, barristers and solicitors, but a very pleasing set of photographs for Loewenthal and Harrison, architects.

Harriet stepped over her equipment and looked at her watch. It was nine o'clock. The administrative assistant should be walking into the office right about now, discovering the triumph of art over laziness. She almost wished she were there to see it. Then the smell of coffee eased its way down from the kitchen. “What lust-maddened rapist has broken into my apartment and made coffee?” she called before disappearing into the bathroom.

Harriet sat on the deck, a cup of coffee in her hand, and her damp hair spread out in the sunshine. “Now if only some little elf would creep in and process all that film and put everything away for me, life would be perfect.”

“Do you want me—”

“Keep your hands off my equipment, John Sanders. You'd probably break all my lenses and expose every inch of film I wrested out of an agonizing situation yesterday.”

“It sounds to me as if you had a hell of a good time, screwing up everyone's well-thought-out plans,” John said.

“Exactly. It was a lot of work.” She smiled lazily and shut her eyes again. “Tell me what I missed. I feel as if I dropped out of time for twenty-four hours.”

“You did. Ed went over and bearded your friend Nina at her gallery.”

“Brave man,” said Harriet.

“He was impressed.”

“With Nina?”

“Mostly with her ability to make money. He thinks she's very shrewd. His general opinion of her is that she's a fraud, but a very expert one. Well trained.”

“Nina? Trained?” Harriet opened her eyes. “Not that I ever heard. She has an instinct that works sometimes, but you know, she wasn't brought up in the business, and she certainly never went to an art college or anything approaching it. She buys her expertise.”

“Who from?”

“There are heaps of people around,” said Harriet, waving one arm around to indicate the prevalence of experts for sale. “She used to use her own artists, ones like Guy, and Peter, I suppose, who had taken a lot of courses in art, because she got them for free, but she was even willing to hire expensive experts if she needed them.” She sank into partial somnolence again. “Always willing to spend money if it was going to bring in a small fortune, our Nina is,” she added with a yawn.

“Harriet—” said John firmly, suddenly knowing that this was the moment for forging a commitment, and reaching out a hand to touch her.

It was too late. She was asleep.

There were four people shelved away in the hospital room in New York when Jane walked in, two old ladies with inquisitive eyes, an indefinable lump under the covers with her back to the world and its misery, and Lesley. Her sister lay flat, staring up at the ceiling, her face white and masklike.

“She's been like that ever since they brought her onto the floor,” said the nurse. She looked tired and discouraged, as if her feet hurt and her own world was fragmenting at its edges. “I've tried talking to her, sitting with her, everything, but I have other patients. She doesn't seem to know who she is, even.”

“How bad were her injuries?” asked Jane.

The response was predictable. “You'll have to ask the doctor about that,” she said. “But just between the two of us,” she added quietly, “they're not
this
bad. And no head injuries at all. It's not that.”

“Can I—”

“Go right ahead. I'll be down the hall if you need me.”

“Lesley,” said Jane quietly, standing beside her bed. “Lesley, sweetheart, can you hear me?”

The still head on the pillow turned. Lesley blinked twice, and her eyes began to fill with tears. “Oh, Jane,” she said, struggling to a sitting position. “Jane, they were real. That was what I had to tell you. The footsteps were real. There was someone there. But it's all right. He's gone. I got rid of him.” She wrapped her arms around her sister's neck and wept into her shoulder.

A tired-looking resident was standing at the foot of the bed when Jane looked up. He smiled. “Do you know what she's talking about?”

“She's had problems,” said Jane. “Her doctor thought she could cope, but she's been under extra stress lately.” Jane paused, wondering whether to explain the nature of the stress. “She went back to school this year and seemed okay—”