Silent Treatment (19 page)

Harry froze. There was a sound in the hallway, outside the door. He was certain of it. Someone was pressed up
against the door, listening. He set the papers down where they had been, tiptoed to one of the windows, and carefully raised the shade. There was a fire escape, and below that an alley. But the window and the one next to it were protected by a grate of iron bars secured with a padlock. Harry returned to the table where he had set down Evie’s keys and was soundlessly picking through them when there were two gentle taps on the door. He moved a few steps forward, then stopped. There was a second pair of raps, this time more insistent. He looked about him at Desiree’s papers. There was no way he could hide everything.

“Who is it?” he heard himself rasp. He moved closer to hear the reply.

“It’s Thorvald. Paladin Thorvald,” the man said in a forced whisper. “I got to speak to you.”

“How did you get in here?”

“Please, it’s very important.”

Harry glanced about him again. Then, with a shrug, he undid the dead bolt. As soon as he turned the knob, two men in dark windbreakers barged in. One was tall and built like a professional wrestler. The other was much shorter but cinder-block chunky. Both had nylon stockings pulled over their faces.

“I lied,” the taller one growled, shoving Harry back into the apartment.

Harry’s reaction was pure reflex. He slammed his fist into the center of the taller man’s face, sending him reeling back heavily against the wall by the door. Then he lashed out with his foot at the other one, connecting solidly with the side of his knee. The man dropped onto his side, cursing. Harry charged past him toward the open doorway, but the taller man whipped his leg across, sending him sprawling into the hall.

“Help!” Harry cried, scrambling to his feet.

Before he could push off, the huge man tackled him by the ankles. Harry cried out again as he struggled to free himself. He was a hundred and eighty pounds, but the gargantuan man handled him like a puppet. His face, beneath the stocking mask, was smeared with blood.

“Get the stuff out, for chrissakes!” he snapped, dragging Harry back into the apartment. “This guy’s fucking crazy!”

Harry freed one foot and snapped it up against the man’s jaw. His grip loosened just enough far Harry to break free once again. The stockier man, unsteady but on his feet, tried pinning Harry’s arms to his sides. But Harry was possessed. He drove his elbow viciously into the man’s throat, following through in a dervishlike three-sixty turn that would have made Baryshnikov proud. Once again the blocky man went down.

Harry stumbled as he headed toward the door. The hesitation was just enough for the giant to get hold of him again. But Harry’s arms were still free. As he braced himself and twisted to take a roundhouse swing, excruciating pain shot through his chest and around to his back. It was the same electroshock sensation he had experienced on the track at the hospital, but magnitudes more severe. He felt his knees buckle. His vision blurred. And in an instant, both men were on him, pinning him to the carpet.

“The stuff,” one snapped.

“Okay, okay, I’ve got it. I’ve got it.”

Through the sweaty, dull haze of intolerable pain, Harry smelled the sickly sweet aroma of chloroform. A moment later, a cloth soaked with the rapidly acting anesthetic was pressed tightly over his nose and mouth. The dreadful ache in his chest kept him from all but token resistance. And in fact, as his consciousness began to fade, he sensed some relief that the pain was fading as well. He fought for a time the only way he could, by refusing to inhale. But with several hundred pounds pressing down on him, his tenacity was short lived.

I wonder what it feels like to be dead
, was the last thing he thought before he took a single, deep breath.

The questions floated through the pitch blackness like feathers, brushing against Harry’s consciousness, then drifting away.

The voice, a man’s, was soft, patient, and not at all demanding. But Harry felt powerless to resist answering. The questions, droning over and over, were interspersed with slow, thick answers in a voice that was his, and yet was not a human voice at all.

Harry was flat on his back, somehow tied to a bed. Cotton batting had been taped tightly over each eye. He could move his hands, but not his arms; his feet, but not his legs; his head, but not his shoulders.

“Let me up,” he heard himself growl.

“When I am convinced you have told me everything that you have to tell me, you will be freed. May I please have some more Pentothal?”

Harry’s brain had begun to clear. The horrible pain in his chest was gone, and he hadn’t died—at least he didn’t think so.

“Just hold still, Harry. Stop trying to move your arm. You’ll feel much better in a moment.”

The voice of his inquisitor was cultured and intelligent—not that of either of the men who had assaulted him. The other two were there, though. Harry could hear them breathing. He tried to picture the three of them standing by the bed, staring down at him.

“I’ll need even more than that,” the cultured voice said, “and fill half of that syringe with that ketamine over there. I don’t believe he has anything more to tell us, but we shall see.”

Harry sensed the movement by his left arm, and suddenly knew there was an intravenous line there.
You’re him, aren’t you
, his mind screamed.
You’re the doctor on Alexander 9!

A pleasant warmth washed over the darkness. Harry felt himself beginning to drift. And once again, the questions and his own answers began to float past him.

*   *   *

From the depths of a warm, impenetrably dark sea, Harry sensed himself rise. His head felt swollen, his chest was a balloon. Bubbles swirled about him as bit by bit, word by word, his encounter with the two thugs and subsequent inquisition by the man with the soft voice drew into focus in his mind. He was tied to a bed and … 
Wait!
Gingerly, he lifted first one arm, then the other. The bonds were gone. His legs, too, were free. He reached up and touched the adhesive tape over his eyes. Slowly, uncomfortably, he pulled the thick patches off. The room was pitch-black. Fighting a sudden wave of nausea, he pushed off the side of the bed and raised the window shade. Midmorning sun . exploded into his eyes. He buried his face in his arm and waited.

Finally, he was able to look around. He was in Desiree’s bedroom. He was fully clothed, although his shoes were on
the floor by the bed. His watch was gone. There was a small, closed puncture wound on the skin inside his left elbow—almost certainly an intravenous site. Except for the furniture, the room was empty. No clothes in the closet. No perfume on the bureau. Nothing. The bathroom and living room had been similarly swept of Evie’s belongings. The computer was gone, the bathroom vanity drawer emptied of its depressing contents. The medicine cabinet was bare. Evie’s keys had been taken, although his own keys and wallet were on the table.

Harry sank onto the couch, aware now of a pounding headache that he suspected would not be gone soon. He picked up the telephone and called his office. Mary Tobin was immensely relieved to hear from him.

“Dr. Corbett, I’ve called everywhere,” she said. “Even the police.”

“What time is it?”

“Pardon?”

“The time, Mary.”

“Noon. Almost noon. Where on earth are you?”

“I’ll explain when I see you. I need to go home. I won’t be in until three. Can you juggle people? I’ll make up the time Saturday.”

“Are you okay?”

“Let’s just say I’ve been better. I’ll speak to you later.”

Harry retrieved his shoes, made one final, fruitless check of the apartment, and headed home. The answers had been right there in his hands. By not being more careful, he had blown the chance to save himself. But he did have much more insight into just who Evie DellaRosa really was. And he also had a voice … a gentle, cultured voice with just the hint of a British accent.

Although it was only five in the morning, Kevin Loomis was already dressed for work. He made his way quietly to the kitchen and eased the door closed. Just because he couldn’t sleep was no reason to wake Nancy or the kids. He had crawled into bed after midnight and had not drifted off for at least another hour. That made a total of about ten hours of real sleep in the days since he had first noticed the picture of Evelyn DellaRosa in the
Times
obituary section. One moment he was certain the woman in the photo was Desiree. The next moment he was certain she wasn’t. There were undeniable similarities, but the woman in the photo looked younger and yet not as attractive as Desiree.

He nuked a cup of yesterday’s coffee in the microwave and took it down to his basement office, a tiny space he had set up amid the boxes, out-of-season sporting equipment, heating ducts, and cinder blocks. He hadn’t spent much time there since his promotion but it was still a good place to hide out and think. Besides, he thought now, it wouldn’t
be too much longer before the makeshift study that had served him so well was a thing of his past. Their house, a small three-bedroom on a tree-lined street in Queens, had a
Sale Pending
sign on the front lawn. It was under offer to a plumber and his wife. As soon as that sale went through, the offer Nancy and he had made on a fabulous place in Port Chester would become final. Twelve rooms, three fireplaces, and four baths on an acre and a half. It was the dream house they had thought would never be more than a dream.

New job, new car, new house, new associates, new secrets … it was all happening so fast. Maybe that was what was bothering him. Not the business with Desiree or Kelly or The Roundtable, but the business with Kevin Loomis. No matter how hard he tried to feel otherwise, he couldn’t shake the sensation that somehow he was in over his head.

“Most of the knights have been in executive positions for years,” Burt Dreiser had said on the day he finally made the offer that had so changed Kevin’s life. “And they’ve forged a unique bond as members of The Roundtable. At first you’re going to feel intimidated by them. But you needn’t be. I’ve been watching you work around here for a long time now, and I would never have tapped you to take my place if I didn’t have complete confidence in you. As long as you believe in what The Roundtable stands for—as long as you believe that our cause justifies our approach to solving problems—that’s all that matters.”

Kevin couldn’t recall his precise response, but it had obviously been the right one. It had also been the truth. Throughout his life he had often cut corners—legal, moral, and otherwise—for things he wanted or causes he believed in. There was nothing about The Roundtable or its various programs that he couldn’t accept, especially with so much at stake for his company and himself. Everything would be perfect, absolutely perfect’, if only he just felt a little more at ease with the whole thing.

He smoothed Evelyn DellaRosa’s obituary on his desk and reread it. Consumer editor for
Manhattan Woman
magazine fit well enough with what they knew of Desiree, but certainly not the part about her being a doctor’s wife. Although she hadn’t actually had sex with Kevin, she certainly had seemed ready and willing to. Gawaine had also admitted to some pretty intimate contact. He denied having intercourse with her, but Kevin always had the notion he was lying about that. Things like doctors’ wives becoming call girls happened, for sure. Who hadn’t read articles about suburban sex rings or watched the reports on
Hard Copy?
But Kevin certainly never thought he would find himself in the middle of such a thing. He read on.

 … 
died suddenly in a Manhattan hospital
 …

Died suddenly. What did that mean?

He wondered if he should say anything to Galahad and the others. Perhaps. At the next meeting, he decided. Perhaps he should.

“What difference does it make?” he asked himself out loud.

Even if Desiree
was
Evelyn DellaRosa, what of it? There was nothing to suggest that her death had anything to do with The Roundtable. Nothing at all. Kevin’s efforts to convince himself of that had almost succeeded when he fixed on the final exchange of the last meeting—the one between Galahad and Merlin.

We’ve come too far to let anyone threaten our work
.

Wasn’t that what Galahad said? It was definitely something like that, he thought. And what had Merlin responded?

Don’t do anything rash.… At least not until you’re certain she’s not a policyholder with one of our companies
.

Not an exact quote, perhaps, but close enough. Even at the time, Kevin had felt there was something creepy about Merlin’s comment. Not the words, but the inflection, maybe … and the expression on his face. It was as if he and Galahad were enjoying an inside joke.

And now a woman who might be Desiree was dead … suddenly … in a hospital
 …

Kevin was badly startled when the phone began ringing. He snatched up the receiver.

“Kevin, Burt here. Hope I didn’t wake you. Listen, something’s come up that I think we should talk about. Nothing serious, and nothing for you to worry about. But I wonder if you could meet me at my boat at, say, seven-thirty?”