Defense for the Devil (46 page)

She didn’t speak or move. He was leaning against the mantel, alert and watchful, and she realized that he was studying the room in swift appraising glances, taking his eyes off her only for a second or two at a time, fully aware each time she moved a finger.

“The lines I had imagined for you now,” he said, “are the platitudinous cries of desperation: you are mad, or, you can’t get away with this. I underestimated you. Instead, you’re trying desperately to think what you can do to thwart my little playlet, not wasting time with foolishness. I admire that. I truly admire you, Ms. Holloway.”

She visualized the space behind the couch, a long narrow table that held the cognac bottle on a tray with several glasses, a lovely crystal candy bowl that had never been used for anything but special Christmas mints, cut flowers in a vase, a lamp…. All behind her, out of reach. At both ends of the couch were tables with lamps, a few books, out of reach. Pillows on the end of the couch, out of reach. Palmer was eight feet away, still at the mantel, and equally distant were three easy chairs and other end tables, out of reach. The Christmas tree in the corner had not been turned on; in the shadows it appeared strangely menacing, out of place here.

The fire crackled, and outside there was the sound of continuing fireworks. She became aware that Thing One was no longer as relaxed as pudding but felt tense under her hand, as if she had communicated her own fear and tension. Then both cats lifted their heads again, listening, and this time they both rose and trotted from the room. She realized that they, and she, had heard Frank’s soft whistle. More fireworks exploded closer.

Palmer raised the gun again, also listening.

“Firecrackers spook them,” she said.

“It’s time to reset the stage,” Palmer said, his voice no longer easy. “I think you’ll be more comfortable in the middle chair, over there. Move.”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Don’t start being tiresome now,” he said in a hard, flat voice. He reached under his sweater and brought out a blackjack with a leather strap, which he slipped over his wrist. He took a step away from the fireplace; the gun now pointed at her legs.

She tensed, ready to spring up and away. He planned to tie her to the heavy chair, she understood, one she couldn’t turn over, couldn’t move. She slid closer to the edge of the couch as he took another step toward her.

Then he stopped, listening again. There was the unmistakable sound of a door being unlocked.

“Bobby, you still up? It’s me,” Frank said at the front door. At that moment the lights went out.

She twisted and rolled even as Palmer closed the space between them. She grasped a pillow and flung it toward him, continued to roll to the floor, and felt the sweep of air as the blackjack whirred past her head.

She scrambled to the end of the couch, around it; the fireworks had entered the house, not with great explosive booms, but with pops and a compression of air. She raised her head to see
a man’s shadow in the doorway; behind her she heard a gasp and then the sound of Palmer falling heavily.

“Bobby! Are you all right? Bobby!”

Frank was on his knees at her side, examining her face by firelight, and she shuddered and grabbed him hard. “All right,” she gasped. “I’m okay.” She realized that someone else had entered the room and she stiffened. “Who’s there?”

“Carter Heilbronner,” Frank said, holding her. “It’s all right.”

The lights came on again, and she could see
the FBI agent.

They sat in the study, where Frank put a glass of brandy in her hand; his hands were shaking more than hers. She told him all of it, and they sat in silence afterward.

Burned into her retinas, into her mind was the last image of Palmer she had seen, black from head to foot, a shadow outlined by firelight, leaping toward her, rising from the flames.

Much later Carter joined them. He accepted brandy gratefully and sank down into a chair, and Barbara told him what she had already told Frank. Her hands were no longer shaking, but her voice wavered now and then as she spoke, and once it failed her altogether.

“I get the picture,” Carter Heilbronner said. “We had him under surveillance, of course, and we knew when he made the switch in San Francisco. He flew in, went to the men’s room and changed clothes. Another man, dressed like him, walked out and got into a limo and left. Our man in San Francisco called the office here to say Palmer had boarded a plane to Eugene. He got in at eleven-twenty; there was a car waiting for him in the short-term lot, and he drove off in it, with a tail. He left the car near the train station and came the rest of the way on foot, and my guy was trying to locate me for instructions. When I got here, we decided to wait until Frank showed up. We thought Palmer might be waiting for him to get home to do anything, and we were afraid if we rushed the place, he’d shoot you. It wasn’t the easiest of calls.”

Carter said he had an agent wave down Frank when he rounded the corner coming home, and the agent told him to keep driving on past the house, not to pull into the driveway, in case Palmer was watching. Then they huddled. They had to call off the security company, get in through a window, and let Carter get to the dark dining room. He did that part because he was familiar with the house, he said. Frank whistled for the cats, to alert Barbara that she was not alone any longer, to prepare her to act, and so the cats wouldn’t give it away that someone had entered the house. As soon as Frank opened the front door, called out, an agent pulled the main light switch, and Carter moved in from the dining room.

“And so it ends,” Carter said heavily. “Sometimes you have to step on them, after all.” He drained his glass but did not yet stand up. “Frank, Barbara, we’ve removed the body, and we’ll clean up your place tomorrow—today. I’m afraid he shot up the couch a little. You deflected his aim with that pillow just fine, by the way. Anyway, nothing happened here tonight. One day next week, or the week after that, the body of an unidentified man will wash ashore somewhere on the coast; meanwhile Mr. Palmer is enjoying a holiday with friends in California. No doubt, in New York there will be meetings and discussions about what to do with the business, the outstanding contracts. We would like very much for those meetings to go forward. Without Palmer the web will disintegrate and blow away in the wind, but before it’s gone, we’d like to pick up as many of the pieces as we can. We believe some very important people are involved, some important projects are still in the works, and we’d appreciate the opportunity to gather in the tatters and remnants. We need your cooperation to do that. No one knows that the FBI is interested in the activities of the Palmer Company, so there’s still the chance to go forward with our investigation. No one will know where Palmer is, what happened to him, and our guess is that they will try to continue with business as usual while they wait for his return.”

Barbara moistened her lips. “Where’s Trassi?”

“He had a fatal boating accident off the Virgin Islands.”

She closed her eyes. “They’re all dead,” she whispered. “All of them.” Death angel.

“Not all; the web spinner is dead, but those who are left don’t know that yet. Will you cooperate?”

She nodded, then said huskily, “Yes.”

“Carter,” Frank said, his voice almost as husky as Barbara’s, “when you take the couch and rug away, don’t bring them back.”

Carter Heilbronner nodded. “We’re all pretty exhausted. I’ll be off.” He stood up and walked to the door, where he paused to say to Barbara, “It’s really over. No one else is going to bother with you; they’ll have too many other things on their mind.”

She stands at her window in the dark upstairs bedroom and watches the city lights through the rain as they glitter, fade and brighten, then go out one by one.

Dawn comes very late in January in a process that is so gradual, it is hardly distinguishable. Shades of gray, interchangeable. She is thinking how it started with a monstrous lie, and ended with an equally monstrous lie. Thinking:
death angel,
he was the angel of death, he, Palmer. All he touched withered and died.

And now she believes in evil, believes in the devil; he touched her and changed her. He knew her fear and cherished it, played with it, nurtured it.

She remembers what John said: she got obsessed with her cases, put everything on the line. A year ago it was John’s life on the line, and together they won. Strange that he didn’t mention that, that she gambled with his life, won. And she can never mention it, never refer to it in any way, but it was strange that he didn’t. Would he read about this case, know that she gambled and won again? The dragon’s dead, she thinks, I killed the dragon. She presses her forehead on the cool window.

“But the price is too high,” she whispers to the gray dawn, the gray room. She feels as if she has crossed a threshold that she never suspected was in her path, that on this side of it she has become as ageless as the death angel, that she can never grow older or more alone than she is at this moment.

* * *

To purchase Kate Wilhelm’s titles on ebook, go to:

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Other books by Kate Wilhelm now available:

Barbara Holloway Mysteries

• By Stone, By Blade, By Fire —
NEW!
—

• Death Qualified: A Mystery of Chaos

— the first Barbara Holloway mystery

• No Defense

• Defense for the Devil

Charlie Meiklejohn & Constance Leidl Mysteries

• Seven Kinds Of Death

• All For One

• Smart House

• Sister Angel

• Sweet, Sweet Poison

• The Gorgon Field

• The Dark Door

• Torch Song

• The Hamlet Trap

• With Thimbles, With Forks, And Hope

•Whisper Her Name —
NEW!
—

Collections

•
Music Makers
, including:

“Music Makers”

“Shadows On The Wall Of The Cave”

“
Mockingbird”

“The Late Night Train”

“An Ordinary Day With Jason”

•
The Bird Cage
, including:

“The Bird Cage”

“Changing The World”

“The Fountain Of Neptune”

“Rules Of The Game”

Other Fiction

• Don’t Get Caught —
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Kate Wilhelm Biography

Kate Wilhelm’s first short story, “The Pint-Sized Genie” was published in
Fantastic Stories
in 1956. Her first novel,
More Bitter Than Death
, a mystery, was published in 1963. Over the span of her career, her writing has crossed over the genres of science fiction, speculative fiction, fantasy and magical realism, psychological suspense, mimetic, comic, family sagas, a multimedia stage production, and radio plays. She has recently returned to writing mysteries with her Barbara Holloway and the Charlie Meiklejohn and Constance Leidl Mysteries novels. Her works have been adapted for television, theater, and movies in the United States, England, and Germany. Wilhelm’s novels and stories have been translated to more than a dozen languages. She has contributed to
Redbook, Quark, Orbit, The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, Locus, Amazing, Asimov’s Science Fiction, Ellery Queen’s Mysteries, Fantastic Stories, Omni
and many others.

Kate and her husband, Damon Knight (1922-2002), also provided invaluable assistance to numerous other writers over the years. Their teaching careers covered a span of several decades, and hundreds of students, many of whom are famous names in the field today. Kate and Damon helped to establish the Clarion Writer’s Workshop and the Milford Writer’s Conference. They have lectured together at universities in North and South America and Asia. They have been the guests of honor and panelists at numerous conventions around the world. Kate continues to host monthly workshops, as well as teach at other events. She is an avid supporter of local libraries.

Kate Wilhelm lives in Eugene, Oregon.