Sleep of the Innocent (15 page)

“Yes, I knew about Carl's will.” She stared into the fire as she spoke. “We discussed it at some length. Rather heatedly, I must admit. He wanted to leave everything to Mark, but Marty Fielding convinced him not to. My husband was a rather authoritarian sort of male, you know. Thought that Mark would look after his mother—poor child.” She glanced over at Sanders. “Actually the real battle was over Alice. My sister. Carl wanted his mother—who hates children and hasn't been very well—to be Mark's guardian. And if she couldn't manage the responsibilities, then Marty Fielding. Can you imagine? Do you know him? He'd park him in a boarding school for the winter and a camp for the summer and never let him out.” Tears sprang up in her eyes, and Sanders remembered what Harriet had said about Lydia's maternal instincts. “I won that one. Alice's only disqualification was that she's rather hard up. I said if he left her some money, she wouldn't be. Eventually he saw it my way. I mean, he wanted what was best for Mark. He really was fond of him.”

“I gather he was going to take him to Florida for the March break.”

Lydia Neilson was now sitting erect and looking at Sanders with an expression of horror on her face. “To Florida! You're crazy. He wasn't taking Mark to Florida. Not out of the country. Not without me.”

“There were two tickets—”

“That doesn't mean anything. He went down there all the time. He owned a development firm down in Tampa. A subsidiary of NorthSea. He was probably taking someone from the office—or that, uh, some friend—with him. He never said anything about taking Mark.”

Sanders eased away from the topic. “What private papers did your husband keep at home?” he asked.

“Private papers?” Lydia Neilson's eyes slipped away from Sanders's face again, and she returned to her contemplation of the fire. “Not much, really. He had a safe here. I had to get the manufacturer to come in and open it in case there was something important in it.”

“Was there?”

She looked up, startled.

“Anything important in it?”

“Oh, things like life insurance policies. You're welcome to look at it. I don't know what you consider to be important. It's in his study.”

Carl Neilson's study resembled his office. The light and expensive furniture in it was almost lost in the sweeping space. There were few books, fewer comfortable chairs, and a general air of chill joylessness in the surroundings. Lydia Neilson walked across the room and opened a door into a closet. “It's in here,” she said, standing aside.

The door to the safe was swinging open. Dubinsky reached in, pulled out a tiny pile of documents and handed them to Sanders: house insurance, an insurance policy taken out on the life of Mrs. Neilson, a warranty on a recently installed furnace, and underneath it, a key to a safe-deposit box. Sanders took it and held it up in front of Lydia Neilson.

“I don't know,” she said. “I thought it was the key for our safe-deposit box in our local bank, but I found that in his desk drawer. I looked in that one. I don't know what used to be in it, but when I checked, it had been cleared out. I have no idea which box that would be.”

“Take it, Ed, will you? We'll have to try to track it down.” She shook her head helplessly. “Did your husband have any enemies?” Sanders added casually, handing her back the insurance policies.

Lydia Neilson looked at him for a long time and then sighed. She walked over to her husband's desk, set down the policies, opened the top drawer, pulled out two small, cheap envelopes, and handed them to Sanders. They were addressed to Carl Neilson at the Thornhill house, and each contained a single sheet of lined yellow paper with a few lines of writing on it. The script was unformed and messy-looking, and the words were chilling: “Your lawyer can protect you in court, Neilson,” the first one said, “but he won't help you once you step outside.” The second was messier and more chilling: “A wife for a wife, Neilson. I'm sorry you only have one child. That doesn't seem fair, does it? You owe me two children. How well will your house burn?” They were unsigned.

“How long have you known about these?” asked Sanders abruptly.

“I knew that the man whose house had burned down—you know about that, I suppose—had threatened Carl. He told me to be extra careful about Mark. But I always am. I didn't know specifically about these particular letters until yesterday, when the man came to open the safe. They were in there. They're sad, aren't they?” Her eyes filled up with tears, and she turned her face away. “I'm sorry, but every time I think about them, they make me cry. That poor man.”

“You never mentioned to anyone that your husband had received threats? That poor man might be the person who killed him,” said Sanders.

“I guess he might,” she replied. “I didn't say anything because I really didn't think the threats were anything more than the cries of a very unhappy man. You can't blame him for hating Carl. And I didn't want to sic the police on him. He's suffered enough already.”

“Jesus,” said Sanders. “There's turning the other cheek if I ever saw it.” He slipped the letters in his pocket.

She paid no attention. “Two children,” she said, shaking her head. “They were just eight months old and three, you know. It was horrible.”

“And his wife,” said Sanders.

“And his wife.”

“We need to track that man down,” said Sanders as they drove away.

“Can't be too hard,” said Dubinsky. “His picture was plastered all over the papers, television, you name it. Shouldn't take more than a couple of hours. Do you think he shot Neilson?”

“How do I know?” said Sanders. “He probably hated him enough. But would he know enough about him to track him down to the hotel?”

“Sure,” said Dubinsky. “There were lots of articles in the paper about other buildings that Neilson owned or built. Just to make the people who lived in them feel secure. You know, ‘Developer of fatal firetrap subdivision renovates famous downtown hotel.' That sort of thing. Neilson was probably about to be in big financial trouble. Would you want to move into one of his buildings?”

That day there was not even a pretense of anything for Rob Lucas to do. He walked around the woods again, checking back on Annie every thirty minutes or so, trying to convince himself that all she needed was more rest and she'd be fine. By six, he was dejected, tired, and cold. He picked up a grilled cheese sandwich to go and came back for the evening. Annie's eyes were bright and her cheeks pink. “Hi,” he said. “I have a disgusting grilled cheese sandwich here for you.”

She shook her head silently.

“In that case,” he said with false heartiness, “you can try some of the other delicacies.” He opened the back window and took in the yogurt and a can of ginger ale, set them down beside her with a spoon and some melba toast. “There,” he said triumphantly. “Dinner. Eat some of it.”

“I can't,” she said. “I just can't.”

He looked sharply at her. All that bright color didn't look very healthy anymore. “Well, then,” he said, “have something to drink.”

She took a minute swallow of the ginger ale and dropped her head back on the pillow. Lucas reached over and placed a hand on her forehead. It was burning; he felt her neck, her hands, her forearms. He walked over to the window and stared out into the gray parking lot. At last, he turned back to her, his decision made. “We're getting out of here.”

Tears sprang up in Annie's eyes. “Why?” she said at last. “I can't do it,” she added. “I can't move around anymore. I don't care if they kill me, Robin. I don't care anymore. Just let me stay here and rest.”

“To hell with that!” he exploded. “I haven't dragged you all over hell's half acre to have you fold up and die on me. Damn you, you're going to pull yourself together! And shut up.” He stalked into the bathroom and began to throw things into his bag. He picked up the sack of groceries, grabbed the unopened tins and bottles, and tumbled them back in. In minutes he had the trunk filled with their possessions. He came back in, wrapped Annie in the blankets he had brought from the cabin, picked up the pillow he had brought along with them, and settled her into the backseat again. “Watch your foot,” he snarled, still unreasonably angry. “Don't let it hit the side of the car.” And he pulled out.

Less than a minute down the road, he was stopped by a panicky and uncontrolled voice from the backseat. “The codeine. It's still beside the bed. I can't—I'll never manage without it.”

He swung around in a U-turn and headed furiously back to the motel. He had also forgotten to leave the room key. He patted his pocket to check that it was there and touched a plastic vial, just where he had put it. “I have them,” he said, “in my pocket.” His exploring fingers hit the room key in the same pocket. They were almost back at the motel. Might as well leave the key where someone could find it.

He slowed down and put on his turn indicator. As his hands began to swing the steering wheel toward the parking lot, he saw the crowd: two cruisers with flashing red lights and two unmarked cars, obviously containing more law, all converging on the space in front of their old room. He flicked off the indicator, put his foot back on the accelerator, and drove quietly past the scene at something very close to the speed limit.

“Where are we going?” asked Annie. Her voice slurred drunkenly.

He pulled over to the shoulder and turned to look carefully at her. “How do you feel?” he asked. “And for chrissake, don't tell me fine—you look like hell.”

“Worse,” she whispered. “I'm sorry, but . . .” Her voice drifted off.

He started the car again. “Let's go,” he said to himself.

“Where?”

“To visit an old friend of mine who ought to be able to help you,” said Lucas with an assurance he certainly didn't feel. “Get some sleep. It's a fair distance from here.”

“Oh,” she said, and sank back into her half-conscious feverish haze.

The fastest way to Mike Chalmers's house would be to go down to the expressway, drive east forty or fifty miles and head back north again, but Lucas was reluctant to take such a well-traveled road. He braked, turned left, and headed north. If he remembered this neck of the woods accurately, there was a lousy little secondary road that would take him there more or less directly, passing through thirty miles of dreary scrub forest and rock on its way. At least along there—in the isolated silence of early spring—if some other vehicle tried to hang on to his tail, he'd notice. He pushed the car five cautious miles into the darkness without meeting anything but one startled deer who hustled out of his way. Just beyond the deer crossing a small road snaked off to the right into nowhere. It had no name, no number, no road signs along it at all. The only indication that it might go somewhere of any significance lay in the indisputable fact that at least once in its long life it had been paved. With a silent prayer, he swung onto it, picking up speed, screeching and bouncing around the unbanked curves and over the steep hills, muttering apologies to Annie every time the car gave a sickening lurch sideways. He was beginning to feel doubts about his fantastic brain wave. He wasn't at all sure—now that he had had time to think about it—that Mike would or could help him, but the alternative wasn't good. In fact, there wasn't an alternative. He reckoned that any hospital that looked at her would insist on keeping her at least overnight for observation. And by that time, judging by the speed with which things had been happening, half the world would know where she was.

He crested a slight rise in the absolute darkness and down in front of him a pool of light signaled that he had finally reached a town. He slowed down for the intersection where this little road angled in to meet the main street, searching for a road sign that would announce where he was. There wasn't one. He had arrived here—wherever they were—by the unmarked back door. He stopped and looked carefully around him. The shabby gas station and slick grocery store that faced each other at the corner looked vaguely familiar. He cruised slowly down the street; it was garishly lit and empty. Here and there a cardboard coffee cup or a brightly colored paper bag from the local takeaway blew in front of him in the cold wind. Drugstores, hamburger joints, paint stores. It could be any town in North America north of Florida and south of the Bering Strait. Until at last his eye picked it out. A faded sign on the aged hardware store boasted the name of the town—Cedar Hill. He passed the commercial block and started searching for street signs.

He turned the corner down the peaceful little road where Mike Chalmers had his veterinary hospital, eased gently up the street, and pulled into the driveway with a surge of relief. Warm light glowed through the curtains in the Chalmerses' living room. They were home and still up. He jumped out of the car and in seconds was pounding on the front door.

A shadow passed .across the milky glass panel, an outside light flipped on, and Mike Chalmers's stocky frame filled the doorway. He peered into the darkness and then stepped back, startled. “Rob? Well I'll be damned. It's—”

Lucas cut short the traditional noises of surprise. “Look, Mike—sorry to barge in like this, but I brought you an emergency. I need your help.” He gestured in the direction of the car. “She's in there.”

“Accident? Badly hurt?” He nodded. “A car?”

“No,” he said. “Shot and—”

“Jesus,” he said in disgust. “Bastards. How big is she?”

Lucas blinked in surprise. “Not that big. Maybe a hundred and ten pounds—I don't know exactly.”

“That's big enough,” he said, raising one golden eyebrow. “Okay, carry her in by the door on the other side of the garage—I'll open it. I think we'd better take her straight into the operating room. No point in moving her back and forth, not a dog that size. I'll meet you there.”