The Divided Child (55 page)

           
"But
if Michael returns to
Ithaki
, he'll be in danger from Spiro."

           
"And
if he
doesn't
return, Geoffrey's in danger of being charged with
abduction, even murder, and you're in danger of being charged as his
accomplice.
 
Please,
Christine.
 
Someone has to approach
this rationally.
 
Geoffrey is too
caught up in emotion to think things through.
 
As long as Mavros has an excuse to believe Geoffrey guilty,
he’ll ignore any evidence that points to Skouras's guilt.
 
The danger to Michael will only grow,
and when Geoffrey is arrested, what protection will Michael have then?"

           
I
didn't answer.
 
There was no
answer.

           
We
drove in silence the few remaining blocks.
 
When we finally pulled up in front of the Hotel Kerkyra,
Robert made no move to get out.
 
Instead, he turned to me and taking my hands in his, flashed me a look
that was at once stern and beseeching.
 
"Christine, I'm not the enemy.
 
All I wish to do is help.
 
I’ve already lost William.
 
I don’t want to stand helplessly by while Geoffrey and
William’s son are lost as well.
  
I think I can still salvage the situation, but only if you're willing to
trust me."

           
I
was tempted.
 
I was sorely tempted.
 
But I'd made a promise to Geoffrey, and
I had to hope that he knew what he was doing.
 
I said in a tone of finality, "I'm sorry, Robert.
 
You may be right, Michael may be with
Geoffrey, but I have no idea where they are."

           
"Very
well, Christine," he said wearily, running a hand through his hair in a
gesture that reminded me painfully of Geoffrey.
 
“I believe you.
 
I had hoped I was right, for then at least the boy would be safe, but I
can’t believe Geoffrey would take Michael without confiding in you.”
 
He gave me a rueful look.
 
“Mavros must be on the wrong track, and
Skouras has the boy after all.”
 
He
shook himself and straightened in his seat.
 
“I shall have to see what I can do.
 
I have connections on the island.
 
Perhaps I can get another officer
assigned to the case -- an officer who will take the search for Michael more
seriously.”

           
He
came around and opened my door, but appeared distracted and made no move to
accompany me upstairs.
 
I thanked
him and let him go, and it was only later, when I was ensconced in my room and
my two police guards were installed outside the door, that I remembered I'd
never gotten around to telling him what I'd meant to tell him outside the
police station: that Mrs. Baxter was in the hospital with a bullet in her chest
intended for me.
 
Feeling a pang of
guilt, I decided to go visit her myself that afternoon.

*
                                 
*
                                 
*

           
The
peeling paint was depressingly familiar, and Mrs. Baxter, wan and
fragile-looking, didn’t open her eyes when I entered the room.
 
"Despite appearances, she is doing
very well," a deep voice murmured in my ear.
 
I turned to find a short, heavy-set man with graying hair
and large brown eyes regarding me with a tired smile.
 

           
"You're
her doctor?"

           
He
nodded and held out his hand.
 
"Dr. Kedros.
 
She is
still sleepy from the medicine we have given her for the pain, but you need not
worry about her.
 
Despite her small
size, she has the constitution of an ox, and, as I told her friend this
morning, I have every confidence she will make a complete recovery."

           
"Her
friend?"

           
"The
English gentleman.
 
What was his
name?
 
It is like the English
nursery rhyme -- Humpties, Dumpties, something like this."

           
"Humphreys?
 
Robert Humphreys?"
 

           
The
doctor nodded.
 
He was here
yesterday and again this morning."
 
He paused, regarding me inquiringly.
 
"Excuse me, you are a relative?
 
Perhaps the lady's daughter?"

           
I
shook my head distractedly, wondering how Robert had known Mrs. Baxter was in
the hospital.
 
Had Mavros mentioned
her name when he told Robert of the shooting?
 
But why would he if he didn’t know the connection between
them?
 
"No, just another
friend I'm afraid.
 
I don't think
she has any family here at the moment.
 
She's on vacation, you see."

           
"Ah,
I see.
 
That is too bad.
 
Still, by tomorrow she will be more alert
and able to appreciate these visits by her friends.
 
You will come back then?"

           
I
told him I would.

           
"Good.
 
Now I'm afraid you must excuse me, for
I must see to my other patients."

*
                                 
*
                                 
*

           
The
rest of the day dragged interminably.
 
I wanted to be out doing something, helping somehow to bring this whole
miserable business to an end.
 
Instead I paced around my hotel room -- avoiding the balcony at the
request of my guards -- and waited for the telephone to ring.

           
Around
eight-thirty it did.
 
Heart racing,
I ran to pick it up, but it was only Robert calling to invite me out to
dinner.
 
Sick of being cooped up in
that room with my thoughts whirling endlessly, I said yes.

           
He
arrived promptly at nine and waited politely in the hall while I rushed to
change into something more appropriate for dining with a man in an exquisitely
tailored dinner jacket than jeans and a top.
 
When I opened the door to let him know I was ready, he was
standing with his back to me talking with the two policemen, and for a moment
he looked so much like Geoffrey had the night we'd first had dinner together
that my heart skipped a beat.
 
Then
he turned and faced me and the illusion was gone.

           
"Ready?"
he asked with a smile.

           
"Yes,"
I said, trying not to let my disappointment show.

           
"It
will do you good to have a decent meal, I should think," he said as we
started downstairs.
 
"Though I
hope you're not frightened about going out?"

           
"To
be honest, I'm getting rather stir-crazy, and in any case, I think we're safe
enough with them around." I glanced back at the two well-armed policeman
trotting along behind us.

           
His
lips tightened in a slight but eloquent expression of disdain, but all he said
was, "How does perfectly-cooked Chateaubriand sound to you?"

           
"It
sounds delicious, but where on earth --"

           
He
held out his arm.
 
"Why don't
I show you?"

           
The
restaurant was small and quiet and the food was sort of a Hellenized French and
delicious.
 
Robert avoided all
mention of Michael's whereabouts and gallantly carried the brunt of the
mealtime conversation, keeping me entertained with stories of his childhood and
growing up with the Redfields.

           
"Not
that I knew Geoffrey all that well, then," he commented after dinner, as
we sat sipping brandy and listening to the distant murmur of the sea.
 
"He was simply the quiet little
boy who always tried to tag along after William and me.
 
He didn’t succeed often, however;
William rarely had patience to play nursemaid."

           
"I
know he's dead and I'm sorry, but I don't think I would have liked William
much.
 
He never seems to have
thought of anyone but himself."

           
His
eyebrows rose slightly.
 
"No,
I suppose he didn't.
 
But then,
truly successful people rarely do, do they?"

           
I
wanted to contradict him, but then I thought of my father, and my arguments
stuck in my throat.

           
"Perhaps,"
he continued, "it comes of always having things go one's way, of
accumulating more than one's fair share of good fortune.
 
After all, there's little need to
consider the wishes of others when you can obtain anything you need or want by
yourself."
 
His mouth twisted
into a slightly bitter smile.
 
"That was certainly true for William. As a boy, everything came
easily to him; as a man, everything he touched turned to gold."
 

           
And
you envied him for it, didn't you?
 
I thought, surprised.

           
Robert
lifted his glass and swirled the amber Metaxa around and around, then downed it
in a single gulp and rose to his feet.
 
"Excuse me, Christine, but I think I'd best go speak with the
proprietor about our friends' bill.
 
The prices here are a bit steep if you're on a policeman's
wage."
 
He disappeared toward
the front of the restaurant, past the two policeman who sat at a far table
consuming thick slices of roast lamb, and as I watched his receding back I was
once again struck by the superficial resemblance to Geoffrey.
 
For some reason it bothered me, but I
couldn't think why.

           
Robert
was gone for a surprisingly long time.
 
When he reappeared he stopped by the policemen's table and murmured
something which made the two men smile and nod their heads gratefully.
 
Returning to our table he said,
"That's taken care of.
 
No,
don't get up.
 
There's no hurry to
leave.
 
You haven't yet had
dessert; the specialty of the house is hazelnut torte."

           
Half-an-hour
later, sated with torte and more Metaxa brandy than I had meant to drink, I
sank back into the cool leather seat of the car and gazed up at the star-filled
sky, feeling detached and vaguely melancholy.
 
Robert briefly conferred with my two police guards and then
slid into the seat beside me and started up the engine, smoothly slipping it
into gear.
 
The car glided out onto
the highway.
 
My glance drifted to
the side mirror and I watched the slightly skewed headlight beams of the
policemen's Citroen flash to life and swivel about to follow us.

           
The
Metaxa had made me drowsy.
 
The
car's lulling vibrations and the velvety darkness of the night finished the
job, and after a few miles I began to drift off to sleep.

           
A
sudden sound jarred me awake.
 
"What was that?" I squawked, disoriented.

           
Robert
replied calmly, "What was what?"

           
"I
don't know.
 
Something -- some
sound -- it scared me."

           
He
glanced at me sideways.
 
"I'm
afraid I didn't hear anything.
 
We
hit a bit of a bump back there.
 
Perhaps that was it?"

           
"I
don't know.
 
I don't think
so."
 
My gaze flicked to the
side mirror and I let out a small gasp.
 
There was nothing behind us but blackness.
 
"The Citroen!
 
It's gone!"

           
He
glanced up at the rear-view mirror.
 
"It's probably just hidden from view by a curve."
 
For a moment the blackness continued,
then a pair of headlights swivelled around a bend in the road and dutifully
fell into line behind us.
 
I could
sense him relax.
 
"See?
 
There it is."

           
I
turned to look, and with a sinking feeling said, "That's not it."

           
"What
do you mean?
 
Of course it
is."

           
"The
headlights aren't the same,” I said.
 
“Didn't you notice?
 
The
headlights on the Citroen were crooked.
 
One veered off to the right."