Beyond Eden (40 page)

She fell to her knees and pulled open the cabinet beneath the sink. Cleaning supplies. A toilet brush, sponges, one green and one yellow, both shrunk from a lot of use, a can of Ajax, a roll of toilet paper, several toiletries bags for traveling, and a bottle of Pine Sol—oh, yes—but it was nearly empty. She flung it onto the floor. Oh, God, there, in the very back, was a can of Lysol bathroom spray. Basin, tile, and tub cleaner—it was foamy, and it came out in wild, thick spurts. She picked up the can and started shaking it. It was nearly full. She pressed down her finger and out poured the foam. Stop, stop, she had to have enough for him.

She heard his voice not three feet away from her; he was pressing his face close to the door.

“Little sweetie? I'm right here and I don't have a lot more time to spend on you. You know? I cut the phone wires, and no telling how long it will be before someone from the phone company shows up. And I'd hate to have to hurt your little nurse with the big tits. Now, you gonna open that door for me? If you do, I'll make it real quick, you won't
feel a thing. Otherwise—” He let his voice trail off, hoping to terrify her, but she was smiling now, terror at bay.

She was holding the bottle of Lysol. What to do? How to get to him?

Slowly Lindsay rose, smiling a ghastly smile, and walked to the door, careful not to stand directly in front of it in case he fired through it.

“Come on, now,” Oswald said again. He sounded cajoling, wheedling. Good Lord, she thought, was he so stupid as to think she'd let him in?

A sharp retort, and a bullet slammed through the wood and came into the bathroom, hitting the tile over the bathtub. Shards of tile splintered and flew outward. She felt some strike her, sharp little bites, but didn't really notice.

It was time. She knew it was time.

She inched over to the door. She stretched out her right hand toward the latch. She saw the blood soaking through the flannel of her gown, lots of blood, but it didn't concern her at the moment. It just looked odd, so ugly and wet and red against the soft white material of her gown. There was no pain. Just when he fired again, through the doorknob, Lindsay clicked the lock open. Another one—yes, just one more.

He fired again, cursing loudly now, furious now, and she grasped the doorknob and jerked open the door, flinging it back.

He held the gun limply in his hand. The door struck him and he went careening back. But he still had the gun and he wasn't slow, but he was surprised, and that gave her a second.

He grunted, trying to react, but Lindsay was faster. She brought up the can of Lysol, shoved it
into his face, and pressed down. Thick white foam went directly into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, foaming thicker and thicker.

He screamed and the foam filled his mouth, overflowing now. He dropped the gun, falling back, his hands on his face, his fingers digging out the foam in his mouth, out of his eyes. Lindsay dropped the can. She leaned forward and hit him as hard as she could with her fist in his belly. Then she stepped back, raised her leg, and kicked him in the balls. He yowled and fell to his knees. She raised her right leg and kicked him in the neck.

He was screaming now, lying on the floor on his side, holding his belly. He looked rabid with all the foam coming out of his mouth. She was panting now, and he was looking up at her and there was such pain and fury in his eyes that she felt the paralyzing fear come over her again. She backed up. There was that smell again, that fear smell, and it wasn't coming from her any longer. It was coming from him.

“I'm gonna hurt you bad,” Oswald gasped. “God, are you gonna hurt.” He was on his knees, trying to stand. He saw his gun on the floor and went flying forward to get it.

Lindsay raised her leg and brought her foot down on his kidneys. He fell flat on his face, screaming.

Taylor came through the front door, two policemen behind him, and all of them froze for a millisecond at the horrible screams they heard.

Taylor crashed against the bullet-ridden bedroom door and flung himself into the bedroom. He stopped. He stared. He watched Lindsay kick the man in the kidneys, and now he fell backward onto the floor, curling up immediately into the fetal
position, yelling, bawling. She raised her foot again and he shouted, “Enough! Lindsay, that's enough.”

The power surged through her, pulsed through her, making her invincible, making her strong. It was monstrous and it was splendid and she wanted to kill this little worm. She would kill him, now.

She raised her foot to hit him in the head, but Taylor caught her leg, jerking her toward him. He caught her in his arms and pulled her against him. He felt the fierce pounding of her heart, felt the rippling and tensing of her muscles and understood what was happening to her.

“You got him,” he said over and over. “You got him and he's very sorry now. You hurt him bad, Lindsay. It's over now, sweetheart. Over.”

She was so stiff, so far away from him, from herself. It took several more minutes before the tension eased out of her.

Lindsay looked up at him. “Lysol cleaner,” she said. “Foam. I surprised him and got him with the Lysol not an inch from his face. He looks like a rabid dog with all that foam in his mouth.” She laughed, a creaky, ugly sound. “Or like a meringue pie. He kept trying to dig it out with his fingers. I don't know if it burned his eyes, though.” Then, just as suddenly, she squeaked, “My arm.”

Then she stared at the blood-soaked flannel, saw drops fall to the floor. She was very silent, trying to take it in, trying to understand. She blanched, stared vaguely up at her husband, and fainted for the first time in her life.

“Oh, God! Don't do it, you asshole!”

Taylor whipped around. Oswald had grabbed for his gun. One of the officers already had his in his hand. He yelled for Oswald to stop, not to be a fool. “Drop the gun, damn you!”

Oswald, dumb with pain, focused his fury on the source and raised the gun toward Lindsay.

The officer fired.

Oswald made a small mewling sound. He turned his head in the direction of the officer, tried to say something, then fell onto his side.

“I think,” Taylor said, “we need two ambulances.” He was profoundly grateful that Lindsay hadn't seen this part of it.

He picked her up and laid her on the bed, ripping her flannel sleeve as he said, “Is Oswald dead?”

“No, but he's hurt bad. Dave got him in the head, but not a death wound, at least I hope to God not.”

“Good. We've got to keep him alive long enough to find out who hired him.”

“How's Mrs. Taylor?”

Taylor bared her upper arm. “The bullet went through the fleshy part, thank God. She's bleeding like stink, but she'll be all right.” He looked down at her messed-up face. He smiled. “She saved herself. She probably would have killed Oswald if we hadn't come in time to save his filthy hide. Just keep him alive, guys.”

The officer was wrapping a towel around his head.

Taylor leaned down. “I love you,” he said, and kissed her mouth.

He heard one of the officers say, “I hope she doesn't ever get mad at me. Just look what she did to this guy.”

 

“It's a media circus,” Demos said, panting as he came into the hospital room. “They nearly got me, but Glen pulled me into the service elevator just in time.”

“Yeah, a feeding frenzy,” Taylor said. And all of it would come out now, he thought, looking down at Lindsay, who was awake but so doped up that she was nearly insensible.

“Taylor, I hate to tell you this, but—”

“What is it, Demos?”

“It's her father, the judge. He's down there and it looks like he's going to be a pain in the ass again.”

Taylor just stared at Demos. “The bastard. What is he saying?”

“Glen is down there listening to him, waiting for us. I just heard him mumbling something about how she always liked publicity even when she was only eighteen and in Paris after she'd seduced her brother-in-law. She loves to show herself off—she's a model, isn't she—always taking off her clothes for everyone to see her. And bad things happen when she's around. Jesus, you'd think she shot herself! I don't know if he's talking now to the reporters. He probably is by now.”

Taylor very slowly rose from his chair beside her bed. He smiled at Demos. “That settles it. It's really enough. Father or no father, I'm going to bash his head in.”

Demos didn't try to stop him. He wanted to assist him if Taylor would only let him.

Another police officer stood outside the door. “Don't move a muscle, Dempsey. And don't you even consider letting God or any of his angels in, you got that?”

“Yes, sir.” Dempsey had heard about what Fogel had done. Jesus, a fly wouldn't get close to the lady as long as he was here.

Taylor felt calm. He would do what he had to. This hatred of the father for the daughter. He
simply couldn't comprehend it. Now he didn't care. He would stop the man once and for all. When he reached the lobby, it was pandemonium. Reporters were yelling questions, cameras were everywhere. And there, in the middle of all the chaos, stood Judge Royce Foxe, dapper and handsome, looking every inch the stalwart judge, which he was, but now he wasn't saying a thing. Sydney stood next to him, her chin high, looking gorgeous and determined. She was pulling him through the throng now, just smiling, her jaw set, looking straight ahead. She saw Taylor and nodded. She said something sharp to her father.

Without a word, Taylor followed her, weaving in and out of the pushing and shoving reporters, just keeping her in sight. It took only a few seconds for a reporter to recognize him, then the pack was on his back. He said nothing, merely kept shoving them from his path. If he'd been a woman, he wouldn't have had a chance. They were merciless. Sydney was headed to the administration section of the hospital. He slipped inside the CEO's office after her and Royce Foxe, Demos behind him. Some bright assistant slammed and locked the door in the reporters' faces.

“Thank you,” Sydney said to the three hospital administrators. “Please leave me now with my father. He hasn't been well and I must speak to him.”

The men didn't look happy. Taylor said, “Yes, you're needed out there before the media tear up the hospital, and don't think they won't.”

That hadn't occurred as a possibility, and the three men were quickly gone. This time Demos locked the door after them.

Sydney said, looking up at her brother-in-law, “It's all right, Taylor. Nothing he said hit the
reporters' ears. Just Demos and Glen heard him, and a couple of hospital employees. I stopped him in time. It's all right. Now, I need to get him to the airport and back to California. Demos, you want to help me?”

As Sydney left, Taylor said, “Why did you stop him? Why, Sydney?”

“Because he's mad with hate and . . .”

Taylor stared at her. “And?”

She just shook her head.

“Oh, yeah, Sydney, if he'd opened his trap to the media, he would have ruined all chances of getting any of Lindsay's money, right? That's why you stopped him.”

“No!”

“So you were afraid for yourself, afraid that the scandal would hurt you this time, not Lindsay. God, lady, you are a piece of work.”

She slapped him hard.

He didn't move. He just smiled down at her. “Take him out of here before I beat him into ground meat.”

“God, I hope she kicks you out!”

Taylor just smiled, shaking his head.

 

Lindsay sat up in bed, staring toward the darkened windows, thinking about how lucky she was. Her face, after additional CT scans ordered by Dr. Perry, who had been scared into the hiccups, had turned out all right. There were three strips of tape over the suture lines, pulling the skin tight, after her violent exertion. Her ribs hadn't made out quite so well, but they would mend. The bullet wound wasn't bad but she'd lost a goodly amount of blood. It turned out that Taylor had the same type and had donated.

She wasn't in shock, which surprised everyone. She'd come around, stared down at the stitched-up hole in her arm, and simply said to Taylor, “Oh, dear, will I have a scar?”

And he'd laughed. He still was laughing when the nurse had bandaged the wound. She was in a private room. Not the same one as before, but it could have been, except this one faced the river. This one had a Degas print on the wall opposite the bed.

“Let's keep her here overnight.” That was Dr. Shantel speaking to Taylor near the door. Why not to her? Lindsay wondered. She wasn't a Victorian maiden to swoon. She nearly crossed her eyes. She had swooned. It was rather a shock to know that her body could simply give out on her like that.

“It's been a series of traumas,” she heard Dr. Shantel tell Taylor in a much-lowered voice. “ Perhaps I can recommend a good psychiatrist, you know, the type of doctor who can help her get over this.”

“I don't need a shrink,” Lindsay said in a loud voice. “What I need is to know who hired Oswald. If we don't find that out soon, then I will go into shock and I'll go directly to Bellevue.”

“She's right,” Taylor said. “Look, Dr. Shantel, I'll keep a close eye on her. She's got grit and she can be as mean as Satan, and she's not stupid. She'll tell me if things get shaky. Don't worry. Even if she doesn't, I'm not stupid. Okay?”

When they were finally alone, for the first time since the attack in their apartment, Taylor said, “I just spoke to Barry. Oswald's in surgery. His chances are fifty-fifty. No, it wasn't any of your blows, it was the bullet in the head fired by the officer. Now, sweetheart, how are you doing?”

“Can I get combat pay?”

He was immensely pleased. He wondered how much of her smart-ass talk was bravado, but realized it didn't matter. She was holding up and showing him clearly that she was holding up. That meant a great deal to both of them. He lay down on the bed beside her, turning on his side to face her. “Your face isn't going to fall off. Dr. Perry is relieved. He says the swelling will hang around awhile longer and to keep these three little strips of tape over the suture lines. You got it?”