Fear Familiar Bundle (17 page)

The murmur of voices came to her from inside. Inching forward, she strained to hear. A coil of rope nearly tripped her, but she recovered and eased around the deck toward the windows. Peering through the glass, she saw a group of eight people evenly split between men and women. They didn't appear to be desperadoes. Instead, they were earnestly listening to a tall, distinguished woman who was standing at a blackboard.

Eleanor crept closer and pressed her fingers to the windowsill. By holding her breath she could hear.

"Since Magdalena couldn't be here tonight, we'll delay the plans on deciding about the Behavioral Institute. As you know, she was strongly in favor of additional action."

Eleanor slipped down the window and huddled in a small bundle against the wall. Magdalena had lied to her all along. No wonder no one believed her innocence when she proclaimed it! Magdalena, her new acquaintance, was in the thick of everything!

The voices were an indistinguishable rumble, and she had to force herself back to the windowsill. To hear, she had to squat on her toes and cling to the wooden frame with all of her might. She pressed her body to the task, holding her breath once again.

"She's positively identified him," the woman said. There was pride and concern in her voice. "After nearly fifteen years, we have a good chance of bringing him to justice."

"Here in Washington?" a man asked. When his question was met with an affirmative nod, he added caustically, "He has nerve."

"I'm not so certain we should trust this to the authorities," another man said.

Eleanor felt her fingertips begin to tear loose from her hands. She was in terrible pain, but couldn't afford to stop listening.

She sucked in a lungful of air.

"No bombs!" the woman leading the discussion insisted. "I'm sure if Magdalena were here, she'd agree with me. No human, not even him, should be hurt."

"But if we don't stop him, he'll continue with his experiments. No one else will even try to put an end to it. He's working for the government, after all!" There was frustration in the man's voice.

"I know," the woman replied, and there were murmurs of agreement from the other people. "It would give me great satisfaction to know that Evans is permanently…incapacitated. But so much better for us is the idea of a trial and public exposure. Think of it that way. He must survive, so that we can use him to educate the public to the cruel and inhuman treatment one scientist without morality can inflict on helpless creatures."

In the round of applause the woman's words gathered, Eleanor finally had to let her grasp go. She sank to the deck in a huddle, nursing her sore hands, bursting lungs and strained legs. She'd heard plenty.

As soon as she could breath normally, she started inching her way back to the pier. The coil of rope caught her again, sending her flailing to the hard deck. Cursing silently to herself, she scurried back to her feet and aimed for the gangplank.

Movement along the pier caught her eye. She ducked behind a metal cylinder, praying that it was someone late for the meeting. They'd be more interested in getting inside than snooping around the deck.

Chancing another look, she moved so that she could see the figure on the dock. It took something from its coat, a small bundle, examined it for a moment, then leaned back and pitched it toward the houseboat.

To Eleanor's horror, the object landed beside her with a thud, then bounced several feet away. Some primitive instinct for survival shot through her. She knew what it was without even taking the time to look. Crawling toward where she'd heard it fall, she frantically searched the deck. Her hands banged on metal cleats and polished wood, but she felt nothing. She moved forward, fanning her hands in front of her, praying a wordless prayer for deliverance.

Her fingers closed on the bundle. It seemed to be tape and plastic. Nothing much. Surely not a bomb. Stifling a scream that welled unexpectedly in her throat, she threw the object as far into the river as she could. With the sound of the splash, she dropped instinctively to the deck and covered her head with her hands.

The explosion seemed to rumble from beneath the dark water, creating a wave that washed over the deck and sent the boat rocking furiously.

Eleanor grabbed the coil of rope and clung. The deck tipped, and the force of the water tried to suck her over the side. Her hands stubbornly held to the thick rope, and she kicked her legs against the pull of the water.

The boat rocked viciously from side to side several times, and then settled down to a mild keeling.

There was no time to waste. Eleanor scrambled to her knees, then regained her feet. The pier was empty, the figure long gone. A sudden fury gave her legs the needed energy, and she ran across the wet and slippery deck to the pier. Almost jumping the gangplank, she raced toward Peter and the car.

Lights were coming on as other river residents left their craft to see what had happened. Someone would call an ambulance if people were injured. Eleanor didn't have time. She had to catch the person on the pier. He or she was the missing link that would solve the acts of violence that seemed to surround her. With Peter's help she could catch the culprit.

"Hurry!" she panted as she threw herself into the passenger seat.

Peter was leaning back, his head resting against the driver's door.

She touched his shoulder. "Wake up, Peter!" She couldn't believe he'd slept through the explosion. "Peter?"

She reached to touch his face and her hand slipped in the sticky wetness of blood.

"Oh, no!" She gently felt his face, fingers seeking the wound. On the far side of his head she found the gash where he'd been struck.

Near the water the residents of the boats were beginning to create a bigger and bigger commotion. In the distance the wail of sirens split the dark night into fragments of danger. Scanning the waterfront, Eleanor saw that no fires had broken out along the river. She turned her attention back to Peter. He was moaning softly and beginning to move.

"Peter," she whispered, slipping out of the car and dashing around to the driver's side. With a great deal of effort she was able to move him enough so that she could get behind the wheel. The car started with no problem, and she carefully drove away from the pier. She had no desire to be caught in the questioning of authorities, especially not when she'd have to admit that she'd been trespassing and once again in the shadow of some group involving animals.

Peter stirred, sitting up and touching his head.

"Where are you going?"

"The hospital."

"Make it my clinic. I'm not hurt."

"There's blood all over you." She didn't feel in the mood to argue. She wasn't trained to gauge the possible complications of a blow to the head.

"No hospital."

There was no arguing with his tone, so Eleanor changed the subject as she charted a course toward Washington.

"What happened?" she asked.

"I heard an explosion, and I was getting out of the car to go to you when something struck my head. I didn't see the guy until it was too late."

"Did you see him?" Eleanor felt a surge of excitement. "He was tall. He threw the bomb onto the houseboat where the meeting was."

"He what?" Peter's jerking reaction made him touch his head again. "What are you talking about?"

"I was coming back to tell you what I heard, when I saw the man on the pier. He threw something on the houseboat, and somehow I knew it was a bomb. I picked it up and threw it into the water."

"A bomb?" Peter heard the words, but the full meaning hadn't yet registered. One hand gripped the dashboard and the other touched her shoulder. "Are you hurt? You're dripping wet."

"There was a big wave, but I don't think anyone was really hurt. It couldn't have been a very big bomb." She had to make light of it. Peter was frightening her with the way he was acting. In all of the confusion, she'd never considered that she might actually have died.

"You saved those people's lives," Peter said.

"Only by chance."

Peter's hand tightened on her shoulder. The full implication of what had occurred struck him. Eleanor had been set up, and she could have died. "Was the bomb intended for them— or for you?"

Eleanor felt the wheel wrenched from her hand as the car slipped off the edge of the pavement onto the shoulder. She jerked it back onto the road, but her heart was hammering as the words Magdalena had spoken only a few hours earlier came back to her. The man had said he was going to kill his wife.

"Peter," she whispered, her voice breaking.

"It isn't your 'dead' husband. If he did this, he's very much alive. And whatever he wants, it has something to do with that cat. Let's go see Familiar. I checked him thoroughly, but there may be the chance that something is hidden on him. We'll take X rays."

"I never considered such a thing," Eleanor admitted.

"And all of this has begun since Familiar came into your life." Peter's own excitement began to rise. "The key is Familiar. If only we can decipher what it is he has, or is connected to, that everyone seems perfectly willing to kill for."

"This has all seemed such a hopeless muddle to me," Eleanor confessed. "But who would want to kill a boat full of people whose biggest interest is to protect animals? That's insane!"

"I couldn't agree more," Peter said. "But there are a few insane people out there." His jaw tightened.

"Magdalena is a member of that group," Eleanor told him. She couldn't hide her sense of betrayal.

To her complete amazement, Peter laughed.

"That Magdalena, she's a sly fox. No wonder Charles Breck comes at her beck and call."

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "She as good as lied to me."

"She did lie to me, flatly," Peter said, but he laughed again. "It's just that she's learned to be very cautious."

"I don't find this very amusing. She dragged me down to that lab with her, and I was guilty by association!"

"In that instance she didn't do you any favors," Peter agreed. The humor was gone from his voice.

"She could have planted that flyer in my office."

Peter was silent for a long time. "She could have, but so could anyone else that got hold of it."

"Yeah, great. Did they want to invite me, frame me or blow me up?" Eleanor asked dryly.

Peter leaned over and kissed her cheek. "The first thing I loved about you was your sense of humor."

"Well, if this keeps up, that and everything else about me may get blown to bits."

She pulled into Peter's clinic. Under the bright light of an examining lamp, she could tell that the blow to his head wasn't as serious as it had first appeared. Once the blood was washed away, she was satisfied that he didn't need a doctor. They went straight to her apartment building.

"I can't wait to get out of these clothes," Eleanor said, tugging at the still-damp sweater. She pulled into an illegal parking zone. "Let them tow it tonight. I don't care."

"Look," Peter said, stepping onto the sidewalk and pointing to the doorway of her building. Two policemen were standing guard, and patrol cars were parked on the street.

"I hope there hasn't been an accident," Eleanor said. A sick feeling settled into her stomach. "It's gotten to the point that I can't see a policeman without thinking something else bad has happened around me."

"Paranoia," Peter said.

Dodging traffic, they ran across the street.

"Name and address." The biggest patrolman stepped forward to block their entrance to the building.

"Eleanor Duncan, 919. What's wrong?"

The policemen looked at each other. "The captain is waiting to see you, ma'am. Step this way."

"What is it?" Eleanor asked.

She and Peter found themselves escorted to the elevator. The policemen refused to even look at them as they rode to the ninth floor.

"What's going on?" Eleanor demanded.

"Officer, is there some trouble?" Peter asked.

"The captain will explain it," the patrolman said. He stepped aside so that they could walk down the corridor.

The confusion spilled out of Eleanor's apartment into the hall. Her neighbors were standing in their doorways, murmuring and watching. Plainclothes detectives came and went, and at last an older, grizzled man approached her.

"Detective Jones," he said, rubbing his chin.

"What happened?" Eleanor tried to look past the detective, but couldn't see anything inside her apartment except figures hurrying around.

"I'm afraid there's been a murder." He looked at her sharply. "You wouldn't know about that, would you?"

"Murder? Who?" Eleanor felt Peter's arm slip around her and hold her.

"We're not certain. Maybe you could identify the body for us." He rubbed his chin again. "Middle-aged man, short, wiry."

Eleanor shook her head. "No one should have been in my apartment. I left it locked."

Slowly she stepped toward the door. Peter touched the detective's sleeve.

"What happened?"

"The man was sitting on the sofa. Someone came in and shot him in the heart. Twice."

Eleanor pushed past the officers at the door and walked in.

"Rayburn!" she cried. "Rayburn!" She ran toward the body, which was still sitting on the sofa. "Oh, no!"

Peter hurried after her, crushing her against himself and drawing her away from the terrible sight.

"You'll have to come down to the precinct, Dr. Duncan," Winston Jones said. "Does this Rayburn have a last name?"

"Smith," she mumbled, dazed. "Rayburn Smith."

A stretcher was brought in to remove the body. Peter led Eleanor back to the hallway.

"He's been dead at least two hours," Jones said. "Shot with a .22 pistol, if my guess is correct."

"Familiar!" Eleanor roused herself and looked at Peter with widened eyes.

"Her cat," Peter explained.

"What have you done to my cat?" Eleanor demanded.

"We've poked in every nook and cranny of that apartment. There's no cat," Jones said.

Free at last, free at last. But not exactly the way I had it planned. This is not actually freedom, it's enforced escape. Where is Eleanor? Her pad is getting to be a regular Grand Central Station of disreputable characters crashing in and out. As we speak, there's some yo-yo parked in the middle of her sofa, acting as nervous as a man on a hot tin roof. He practically reeks of trouble. He doesn't seem to be the threatening type, at least not to my Eleanor. He's more the "I've got a big, bad secret" type of trouble. He didn't seem the friendly sort, and he left the door ajar. My instincts told me to strike while the iron was hot. Once an alley cat, always an alley cat. An open door is an invitation to adventure. Well, that was once true, but now it isn't necessarily so. I don't really want to leave her. It's a matter of principle. Right now, though, I've got to concentrate on this road and get across before I become a blot on the pavement of life. At least it's late. Traffic is much slower than it was the other day.