Beyond Eden (43 page)

Taylor very quietly opened the thick mahogany double doors. They parted soundlessly inward. The room was at least thirty feet long, carpeted in pale cream Berber, wainscoted with dark stained wood. Built-in bookshelves lined the far short wall. The long wall was all windows, covered at the moment with thick pale baize draperies. A long table stood in the center of the room. Silver water carafes sat on silver trays at intervals down the table. A crystal glass stood in front of each person. There was Uncle Bandy, Mr. Brandon Waymer Ashcroft, standing at the head of the table, holding a pointer in one hand, speaking about a chart that was on a stand behind him.

There were ten people seated in the plush chairs that surrounded the table. Only six of them were old men. There were three women, all over fifty, richly dressed, and one younger black man. All the men looked affluent, conservative, serious about what they were doing.

Taylor quickly saw that Ashcroft's right hand was at his side. Lindsay had shot him in the right wrist.

“May I?” Taylor asked Barry.

“He's all yours, lad.”

Taylor cleared his throat. One by one, all the board members turned to face him. Their faces held only mild interest. Ashcroft, on the other hand, stepped back and turned pale.

“I'm terribly sorry to interrupt your meeting, gentlemen, ladies. This is Sergeant Barry Kinsley. I'm S. C. Taylor. We're here to arrest Mr. Ashcroft for attempted murder.”

There were gasps.

“. . . what the devil is this?”

“Brandon, what's going on here?”

“Who the hell are these men, Ash?”

Taylor waited for their disbelief to dissipate. Ashcroft remained quiet; he remained pale as death. Taylor said, “I suppose most of you know about the attempted murder of the model Eden in an explosion in Washington Square? Well, Uncle Bandy here—Brandon or Ash—paid a man named Oswald to kill her. When Oswald failed twice, he came to the hospital not three hours ago to do the job himself. Unfortunately his victim is smarter than he is, and braver, and she shot him in his right wrist. Would you like to raise your right arm, Uncle Bandy?”

All the board members were now facing the man at the head of the table, staring at him as if at a stranger, some sort of alien being they'd suddenly realized they didn't understand or even want to.

Brandon Waymer Ashcroft raised his chin. “This is all a ludicrous mistake, gentlemen. As for a wounded hand, that's even more absurd. Now, if you would like to go into my office, I can spare a few minutes to straighten out this ridiculous mistake.”

Taylor merely shook his head and addressed the members. “Would you like to know why he was trying to have her killed? Well, let me tell you. A few years ago I was a cop and I came across a fourteen-year-old girl who was bleeding badly after being raped. Her Uncle Bandy had raped her; he'd been sexually abusing her since she was ten, maybe even younger. To make it short and sweet, Uncle Bandy here got off, his little niece killed herself, and I beat him up. His only punishment. He promised he'd get even with me. He tried to kill my
fiancée, but he's failed. It's all over now and this time justice will come through.”

“You're crazy! Get the fuck out of my office!”

“Another thing,” Taylor continued easily, “ Lindsay Foxe, or Eden, which is her professional name, has a photographic memory for faces. She described you right down to the ear hairs that stick out in a group of three from low in your right ear.”

There were more gasps, more astounded speculation, huffs of indignation, murmurs of doubt.

“I suspect, sir,” Barry said, stepping forward now, “that we'll find a nice bullet wound in your right wrist. Also, we even have the sketch the police artist drew from Lindsay Foxe's description.” Barry pulled a rolled piece of paper from his breast pocket. He unfurled it and handed it to the elderly gentleman who was sitting nearest him.

The old gentleman stared at the drawing. He said nothing. He handed it to the woman next to him.

“It's you, Ash,” she said in the most emotionless voice Taylor had ever heard, and passed it on.

Taylor and Barry waited until each person at the table had looked at the sketch.

The black man was the last to look at the sketch. He stared down at it for a long time. He raised his head and said, “He's right about the hairs sticking out of your right ear. I've always thought you should have them clipped.”

There was a nervous laugh.

“Now, how about a vote,” Taylor said. “All of you who recognized Mr. Ashcroft from the drawing, please raise your hands.”

The room was utterly silent. There wasn't a sound. One old gentleman made a disgusted kind of sound and his hand shot up. It was followed by
another and then another. All ten board members finally had their arms up.

“Are you ready, Uncle Bandy?” Taylor said.

“This is stupid, crazy. I'm not going anywhere with you fools!”

“Sorry, sir, but you are. Indeed you are.” Barry walked around the table toward Brandon Ashcroft. He pulled a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket.

“Do you want to do it the easy way or shall I rough you up just a little bit so you'll know I'm serious?”

“Get away from me, you fucking moron! Damn you. You'll see, Taylor, you'll see. I'll be out of custody in less time than it took me last time! You hear me? And then I'll get that bitch, you'll see!”

“Yes, I hear you,” Taylor said. He watched Barry grasp Ashcroft's arms behind him. The man grunted in pain. Barry clapped on the handcuffs, then, smiling gently, leaned close to Ashcroft's ear and whispered, “Now, boyo, you ready to have those nice manicured fingers of yours all blackened with fingerprint ink? Are you ready for a nice big burly guard to strip you down, have you bend over, and make sure you don't have any coke stashed anywhere? I know this one guard who loves his job. Only problem, he's old, not a young girl who's helpless.”

Ashcroft broke. He tried to pull loose of Barry. He was frantic, crazy, cursing. “Damn you, Taylor! It's your fault, all your fault! You pig, murderer—you butchered my little Ellie, you made her so unhappy that she couldn't bear things anymore, you made her jump, you're responsible for her death! God, I wanted to get you, and then you beat me up—me! I swore then I'd get you, I'd make you pay by hurting someone you loved, but you were
so slow about finding yourself a woman you really cared about. Then you got that bimbo model.”

It all came spewing out, filling the heavy silence of the huge boardroom, chilling the air, making the listeners ill and disgusted.

Taylor merely stared at Uncle Bandy, watching as Barry pulled him thrashing and panting through the doors. Ashcroft shouted over his shoulder, “I'll be out soon enough, Taylor! And I'll get you, you damned bastard! Next time I'll get you, and after you're dead, I'll get that damned broad!”

Taylor smiled at the ten board members. “She's not a broad. She's my wife.”

“It's all over now, Lindsay. The jury brought in the guilty verdict and Uncle Bandy will be out of the way for so long we'll be able to die and reincarnate at least twice and still be free of him.”

“Thank God. It's taken so long, Taylor, so long.”

She was right about that. Nearly nine months before he'd gone on trial and two more weeks before the case had gone to the jury. Lindsay had held up well on the witness stand, and he had as well. Taylor scratched his belly and felt relief flood through him. He was naked and still damp from his shower. He felt great. He looked at his wife, at her beautiful face and thick wavy hair. She wasn't quite so thin now, but she was still modeling and it seemed to suit her.

He picked up the TV remote and switched it off. He said, “The media will have a ball for another couple of weeks, sweetheart, and then you and I, Lindsay Taylor, will become nothing more than one of the madding crowd.”

She snuggled next to him.

“I was thinking,” he said as he stroked his hand down her bare back to cup around her bottom. “How 'bout you and I flying to Hawaii for a week or two? We can hide out on the beach, let the
press forget all about us, and make love until we can't walk.”

“That sounds okay.” She sighed, moving closer. Her hand was flat on his belly. He wished her fingers would go lower and knew that they would. She always liked to take her time, and it drove him mad and then blissfully happy.

“What do you want if not Maui? It's a long trip, but if you like, we could stop off for a few days in L.A.”

She rose on her elbow and looked down at him. “No, it's not that.”

“What is it?”

“I want you to show me France.”

He stared at her. He couldn't believe it. “France?”

“Yeah, I don't think I gave it a chance to impress me.”

“France,” he said again. It had been over a year since his last trip there. He felt his blood stir. They'd ride his motorcycle through every inch of the Loire Valley. He'd take her to see the dolmans in Brittany, the Merchants' Table at Locmariaquer, he'd show her the Knights' Hall in the Abbey of Mont St. Michel, ah, so very very much to show her—

“How about next Tuesday?”

“France,” he said again, then, “Tuesday?”

“Yes, but first things first.” Her fingers wrapped around him and he sighed, pleasure flowing through him.

“I don't have much packing to do. We want to travel real light, and—”

She squeezed just a bit, making him groan before he grinned up at her. “You're a hard woman. Let's do it.”

Lindsay felt soft and fluid as water. It was Taylor
who was hard as a stone. She knew him well now, and if a fire chanced to start in the apartment, they'd both be in dire straits.

She remembered then and said, “Our wedding night has come and gone.”

“Sad but true. However, I'm not complaining.”

“You shouldn't. Don't you remember, Taylor? You promised you'd tell me what the S.C. meant on our wedding night.”

“Your memory is appalling.”

“Well? Come on, Taylor, you know all my secrets.”

That was certainly true, he thought. He also knew secrets she might never know, particularly the one about the man who wasn't her father, the man to whom neither of them had spoken since that long-ago time in the hospital. Lindsay had signed over the Foxe mansion not to him, but to Holly. She'd grinned and chortled and rubbed her hands together as she'd done it, and Taylor had been very pleased, not that he thought Holly was such a fine human being, but that Royce Foxe would grind his teeth every time he walked into the mansion that never would belong to him, ever. Also, if he divorced Holly, or if she divorced him, why, then, he'd be out of the mansion on his ear. It was fitting retribution. It had a certain sweet justice to it. Taylor wondered if Royce Foxe still dared to screw around on his wife. Yes, it had a certain pleasant irony to it. The man had never said a word about Lindsay or her mother. Neither had Sydney. Ah, Sydney, she was more famous this year than last. She was seen everywhere with everyone important; she was feted; she was admired; paparazzi followed her. Taylor hoped she was miserable, regardless of all the outward trappings, but in objective
moments, he doubted it. As for the prince, he was still in Italy and he was still what he was. Some justice there—he was dependent on his wife for every penny.

Taylor kissed his wife and said, “My real name, huh? All right. A promise is a promise. The S.C. stands for Samuel Clemens. As in Mark Twain.”

She didn't say anything for the longest time.

Finally she said, her voice deep and soft, “That's wonderful. Have I married a man whose mother wanted him to be a literary giant? Did you know that Clemens was in San Francisco for a while, way back in the beginning. I thought the S.C. was going to be something ridiculous like Santa Claus.”

She giggled against his shoulder. “Did you know his middle name was Langhorne? I learned that in a sophomore lit class.”

“So I could have been an S.L.C. Thank God my mom didn't completely lose it.”

“What was your mom's name?”

“Her maiden name was Rebecca Thatcher.”

“That's grand, Taylor. And what did she name your sister?”

“Ann Marie Taylor.”

“After whom?”

“I was the only kid tortured. So you really want to give France a try?”

“Yep. Tuesday. You'll show me everything?”

“Everything,” he said, and kissed her.