Stone 588 (56 page)

Wintersgill pinched it in several places, poked at it with the tips of his fingers.

Using the razor again he cut into the flesh of her mons, made an incision about two inches long. The outer skin and the underlying vascular tissue parted like a lipless mouth and pooled with blood. The blood obscured the honed edge of the blade, but Wintersgill knew almost exactly where to cut, and anyway it didn't matter if he made a mess of it.

He felt a change in the resistance under the blade.

He cut deeper.

As though it were something animate, eager for liberation, it emerged, slipped up and out from between the folds of the fatty tissue that had comfortably nestled it.

Stone 588.

That it had come into Libby's possession was a coincidence to begin with. It merely happened to be among the goods stolen from the Springer & Springer safe. The thieves had acted on their own, unaware that this stone was special. As far as they were concemed, what they had stolen were just diamonds, all good, some better. The thieves sold the entire package of swag to Townsend for a million and a half. He wasn't altogether sure that what he'd bought were the goods of Springer & Springer. He'd heard of that robbery, of course, and because of the coinciding timing, rather surmised that firm had been the source, but in keeping with the code of stealer and buyer he hadn't inquired.

While sorting through the package Townsend had come upon the stone. He recognized it immediately, from having examined it that night after dinner in Libby's library.

Townsend, in one respect, knew what he had, and in another he didn't know. He didn't know the veracity of the stone, its power, nor did he take the time to determine that. Maybe he felt so certain it was a hoax that he didn't want to weaken his bargaining muscle by proving he was right. What he did know he had was something Libby believed in and would pay plenty for. He knew her.

With Wintersgill acting as intermediary, Townsend struck a deal with Libby for the stone. She agreed to the first price Townsend asked: two hundred million. To be paid in substantial installments out of Hull Foundation funds over the next two years.

Twenty-five million sealed the deal.

Stone 588 went to Libby.

The very next day Libby flew to Madrid, where, under an assumed name, she had the stone implanted in the adipose tissue of her mons. Wintersgill took care of all the arrangements. The young plastic surgeon who performed the simple operation was already acclimated to eccentrics. He was told the reason Libby wanted the stone implanted, particularly there, had something to do with her Mephistophelian religious beliefs. The plastic surgeon was fascinated to the point of doing a little research for precedent cases and discovered the little-known fact that Burmese warriors used to implant rubies beneath their skin, believing they would protect their blood from the poison of enemy arrows.

The plastic surgeon's incision healed. Libby's pubic hair grew back and concealed the fine, tiny scar.

Libby had stone 588 and its righting power all to herself for as long as she hved. She was virtually guaranteed that she would never suffer a sick day.

Only Wintersgill knew she had it.

Now his fingers dug in and plucked the stone from her opened flesh. For a moment he gazed at it, saw in it the means by which he would regain the wealth and prestige that had once belonged to the Wintersgill line. He wouldn't sell the stone outright, as the fool Townsend had, nor would he keep it to himself like the vain, selfish Libby. He would control the stone, dole out its power. The wealthy sick would plead to pay him vast sums.

Hurrying footsteps out in the hall.

Wintersgill stood up as—

The bedroom door was opened by Audrey. Springer was with her.

Wintersgill's mind said his eyes were mistaken. Springer and Audrey were supposed to be dead and somewhere never to be found. There couldn 't be anyone left alive who would have reason to come after him, who would cause him to put more locks on all his doors.

Springer and Audrey were stopped, stunned into immobility by the gruesome sight: Libby on the bed, so obviously dead, her face bashed in, raw, her blood everywhere. Wintersgill was splattered with it. Her blood was on his hands.

Wintersgill stood there, caught in the ghastly tableau.

And the next moment he was not there, had disappeared like a phantom. He'd taken advantage of Springer's and Audrey's state of shock, had been no more than a blur to them when he dashed out through the French doors to the balcony and, without hesitating, went over the balustrade into the black of the night.

Springer and Audrey hurried out onto the balcony. With their pistols in hand they peered down, but by then Wintersgill was part of the thick, pervasive darkness. He was not even as much as a shadow or movement.

Wintersgill landed in the bed of alyssum fifteen feet below. The soft loam there cushioned his drop. He kept to the flower bed, ran along the south side of the house for a short way before taking to the lawn. Within five strides on the lawn he had set off one of the external security systems of the house: an undetectable, ten-foot-wide pressure grid beneath the sod, which electronically responded whenever weight in excess of a hundred pounds attempted to move across it. The grid was continuous, circumscribing the house like a reassuring moat.

Activated by the pressure of Wintersgill's weight, the grid automatically switched on numerous powerful floodlights.

Wintersgill was revealed out on the open lawn. He was sixty-some feet away and running.

Springer and Audrey brought their pistols up, simultaneously aimed, simultaneously squeezed the slack from their triggers. It would take an exceptional shot at that distance.

Wintersgill's arms flew up as if he were saying hallelujah. His upper torso twisted, and it appeared that he'd tripped over his own feet. He stumbled, lunged, went down, convulsed a couple of times, and lay motionless.

Was it Springer's or Audrey's shot that had felled him?

Neither.

Neither Springer nor Audrey had fired.

Audrey climbed up over the balustrade, hung from the lower edge of it, and dropped to the alyssum bed. It was something she'd done many times years ago from a similar balcony outside her own second-floor bedroom when she hadn't wanted to take the long way to the outside. She reached Wintersgill before Springer. Wintersgill was lying face up in a contorted position. He looked dead. He was dead. But who had killed him?

Wintersgill's right arm was doubled beneath him. His right hand was a loose fist.

Audrey spotted something.

A shiny hint of something protruded ever so slightly from the cranny formed by Wintersgill's fist. She felt influenced to know what it was. She pried open the dead fist enough to get at it. She straightened up and then Springer was next to her and she was about to tell him that she had stone 588 — when a voice from behind them, intimidating in its clipped gruffness, told them, "Right there!"

Springer and Audrey did as told, remained in place and motionless.

Fred Pugh and Jack Blayney came out from between a row of euonymus shrubs. Blayney had a big revolver, a .44 magnum, with a silencer making it look all the bigger.

Springer assumed that was the gun that had so surely killed Wintersgill.

Blayney kept the .44 pointed while Pugh took the pistols from Springer and Audrey and frisked them for any additional weapons. "Just so no one gets hurt who doesn't deserve it," Pugh explained.

A reassurance and a warning, Springer thought.

Blayney put away the revolver. He'd killed Wintersgill because Pugh had officially told him to. Simple as that. He'd also kill these two if Pugh gave him the word.

Pugh knelt and searched Wintersgill's body. First found was the straight razor. It puzzled Pugh momentarily. He confiscated it. Then he found the twelve Russian diamonds. They didn't puzzle him at all. Counting them more than examining them, he dropped them back into the drawstring pouch and put them in his pocket.

Springer surmised that the diamonds had had something to do with the murderous rampage of Wintersgill. And that they were what these men were after, what they'd killed Wintersgill for. These two were probably Wintersgill men turned disloyal, making the best of an opportunity. What else?

Pugh continued to search Wintersgill's body. He was very thorough about it, practically stripped the clothes off. He removed Wintersgill's shoes and felt inside them, peeled Wintersgill's socks off and turned them inside out, even went so far as to stick a finger into Wintersgill's mouth and probe around between the cheeks and gums.

Finally, Pugh stood up. Apparently he was a bit confounded. He considered Springer and Audrey for a moment, then Wintersgill's body, then Springer and Audrey again. "Let's go over there where we can sit down," he suggested.

They went across the lawn and down the slope a way to the terrace inset among the willows, the same terrace where Springer had met Libby that first afternoon. The furniture had white sheetlike covers to protect it from getting damp. Blayney uncovered a couple of bergdres and a settee, arranged them so they were facing and close enough. He and Pugh took the bergdres, Springer and Audrey the settee.

Pugh pinched an itch from his nostrils, stretched his nose, sniffed once and began. "I figured this would be the windup." He gestured in the general direction of Wintersgill's body. "I figured he'd end up with the stone. Either him or, somehow . . . you."

"What stone?" Springer asked.

"Don't give me that," Pugh said, squinching up his face. "You're in no position to give me that."

"No position," Blayney echoed.

"Are you talking about stone five eighty-eight?" Springer asked.

"I don't know about any numbers," Pugh said. "Is that the stone that's supposed to heal? If it is, that's the one."

Springer was puzzled. How did these guys know about stone 588? Who were they to be after it? He asked.

"State Department," Pugh told him.

They didn't look like diplomats to Springer. There was nothing tactful about that big .44 revolver.

Pugh read Springer's skepticism. He took out his over-sat-on wallet and flipped to the acetate sleeve that contained his laminated State identification. He insisted that Springer take a good long look at it.

It seemed authentic, but Springer was only three quarters convinced. He recalled Danny having told him about a place in Queens where for as little as fifty bucks one could get anything from a car title to a Harvard Medical School diploma. "How do you know about stone five eighty-eight?" Springer asked.

Pugh told him. Anyway, enough of it for Springer to gather that somehow, through Norman, particulars about the stone had leaked out. It didn't matter to Springer. He told Pugh, "I don't have the stone. I wish to God I did."

"We've all got problems," Pugh said with the appropriate degree of sympathy. "One of yours right now, I must point out, is Blayney here. All I have to do is tell him and he kills you. He's like that."

Springer believed Pugh.

Audrey asked, "Say we do have the stone, just say. And say we handed it over to you. Would that satisfy you? Would you allow us to walk away and that would be the end of it?"

"I'm not soft," Pugh replied, "but the way I see it everybody who deserved to be dead is already dead."

Springer glanced up to the house. Through the lacy droops of willow he saw the lights of Libby's second-story bedroom. The old time-fighter had lost, he thought regretfully. Audrey seemed to be taking it well. Probably the reality of it hadn't yet hit her.

Audrey did a loud, submitting sigh and told Springer, "Give them the stone, darling."

"Huh?"

"Let them have it. To hell with it," she said.

"But . . ."

"I'm not about to suffer another scratch, much less give up living, for any stupid phony stone," she said.

Pugh got the phony. All along it had been his own unexpressed opinion that this fuss about a stone that could heal people was just a lot of wishful jerking off. Still, an assignment was an assignment. It was his obligation to bring the stone back to Washington to George Gurney. The Department could test it out. If it didn't work, it wouldn't be his ass. As for the twelve Russian diamonds, they'd be his and Blayney's unmentioned fringe benefit. They were entitled.

"Give the man the stone," Audrey told Springer impatiently.

"I don't have it," Springer said, trying to understand the tack she was on.

"I gave it to you," Audrey said.

"You didn't," Springer said.

"It's right there in your jacket pocket," Audrey claimed. "Don't be so stubborn."

Just going along with it. Springer reached into that pocket. His fingers were surprised to feel some sort of stone. It felt about right. On their way over here to the terrace Audrey must have slipped it into his pocket. But where had she gotten it?

Before Springer could say anything, Audrey ricocheted a little self-inflicted slap off her forehead. "Whatever am I thinking of?" she exclaimed. "I didn't give it to you. I only thought I ought to give it to you." She stood in order to dig into the pocket of her slacks. She brought out her pendulum.

"That's not it," Pugh said. He had a general idea of what the stone looked like, its size and all. A third-hand description.

"Of course it isn't," Audrey said and kept digging in the pocket. She brought out a rough diamond of fifty-some carts. It was what she called her "similar" stone, the one she'd taken as a souvenir of the Townsend burglary. Something had told her to carry it around for luck. She handed it over to Pugh.

He examined it, held it up, and turned it every which way. A smile and nod conveyed his acceptance.

Springer hung his head, feigning defeat.

Audrey raised her chin and looked away, acting vindicated.

At that moment someone was coming down the floodlighted slope. It was Hinch. He paused at Wintersgill's body, then stepped over it and proceeded to the terrace. He addressed Audrey. "Please pardon me for interrupting, Miss Hull, but I was wondering if anyone would care for some refreshment."