“Jim, don’t try to move!”
But he jerked away with a retching cry of pain, only succeeding in turning onto his back with a floundering lurch, and he offered no resistance when Conan eased his head down. He lay staring at the ceiling, silenced by some dreadful realization.
Conan looked up at Sean. She was standing behind Catharine, wary and ready, the gun in her hand, but Catharine only sagged into the chair, weeping soundlessly. She didn’t even look at the man who appeared suddenly at the door, and Isadora didn’t recognize him until Conan spoke to him.
“Carl, tell Steve to send an ambulance.”
He went out without a word. Carl Berg, wearing a black wig. She understood now. He’d been Conan’s sleeping stand-in.
When she moved, every muscle was stiff, resisting her commands. She pushed back the disarrayed covers, her steps unsteady as she crossed the short distance to kneel beside Conan at Jim’s side.
He wasn’t dead. He was in pain and mortally afraid, but not of anyone or anything in this room.
CHAPTER 25
Conan sat cross-legged on the floor beside Jim Canfield wondering vaguely how his hands could still be shaking when his muscles were flaccid with weariness. They were alone. He’d sent Isadora and Catharine downstairs with Sean and Carl; Catharine with her cheeks drowned in silent tears, Isadora still dry-eyed, mercifully numbed, asking, “Why can’t I remember, Conan? I still can’t remember.”
It didn’t matter now. She hadn’t been the only witness to her father’s death.
Jim could move his arms; his hands were clenched in the blanket Conan had covered him with. There was in his face a kind of mute beauty; pale, translucent skin drawn tight over the finely structured bones. Early Michelangelo in polished Carrara marble.
“How much longer?”
Conan knew what he meant. The sirens were audible in the distance.
“A few minutes.”
“Mother’s a lousy shot.” He tried to laugh, but it turned into a grimace of pain.
“I didn’t think she’d use that gun. Not on you.”
“I didn’t think she would, either. There’s probably a moral in that. In this house, there’s always a moral.” He stopped to listen to the sirens, then laughed raggedly. “Tell them to give me a shot of morphine, will you?”
Conan only nodded. “Jim, what did you mean by calling yourself a ‘love child’?”
His lips curled with a mocking smile.
“How about
bastard
? Ask Mother. It’s too late to ask the old man, and he’d have denied it on a stack of Bibles. The Great White Father in the West stepping out on his ever-beloved and ever-bombed Anna? He didn’t like to think about that.”
“He adopted you, Jim; gave you his name.”
“Sure, he did. Because Mother wouldn’t get off his back. You know, when she married him—that was even before I found out—I used to think…
”
His eyes clouded out of focus. “Funny, I got so hung up on…on fishing. I used to think a father was supposed to take his kid fishing, like in the TV commercials. But he never did…” Then a wry grin. “Maybe I used the wrong toothpaste.”
“When did you find out he was your father?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I do. I was sixteen. I heard the servants talking back in the pantry, then I started checking a few records. And pictures. You ever see a picture of the old man when he was a kid?” A cold laugh. “I’m his spittin’ image.”
“Your mother didn’t tell you?”
His head moved back and forth jerkily.
“And I never told her I knew. Family tradition, you know. Secrets. Always…secrets.”
“He never recognized you as his son even in private?”
“Hell, no. I told you, he didn’t like to think about—I was just some sort of extra baggage Mother dragged in.” His face twisted with pain or rage, or both. “Why did he ever marry her? He never really loved her. But, you know, she
did
love him; it went way back. I think the only thing she ever really wanted in this life was John Canfield.”
“Is that why you killed him, his rejection of you and your mother?”
He looked at Conan and laughed.
“No. Because he was about to foul everything up. He finally caught on to Mother’s little game.”
“Foul what up?”
“Everything. The will. When he found out Mother had conned him all these years—well, he couldn’t take that. Off with our heads. The vorpal blade went snicker snack, and…what’s the rest of it?” He sighed, eyelids fluttering, nearly closing. “He was going to cut us out; Mother and her scruffy offspring. And ol’ C. Bob, too. I just made up my mind I’d get my fair share one way or another.”
“What about Carleton?”
“Well, C. Bob had the same idea, you know. Figured he and Mother’d ride off into the sunset hand in hand with the old man’s money. But he was…useful.” A sardonic smile flickered on his lips. “I kept him around; thought I’d let him put my father’s house in order before…
”
“Before you took over?”
He nodded slowly and closed his eyes, but opened them when Conan pressed his fingers under his jaw to check
his
pulse.
“I’m still here. Hey, are you—are you really going to marry Dore?”
“No.”
“Just part of the game, huh? Okay. I’ve anted enough to see your hand. You set me up tonight. How…why me?”
Conan settled back, sorting the mixed threads of the sirens, resting one elbow on his upraised knee.
“Maybe because I knew something about LSD, Jim, and because Dore had two more ‘attacks’ the first week she was in Morningdell, and you were the only member of the family to visit her there. That was risky, too, but I suppose you had to reinforce the bad set and make sure the amnesia was holding. Then there were your electives in psychology and that chemistry course. You dropped it, but I’m sure you made some fruitful contacts in the chemistry department.”
Jim laughed, his features contracting.
“You—you really did some research. Keep talking. Please. Just…keep talking.”
Conan’s mouth was dry, and it was an effort not to turn away from that pain-ravaged face.
“Yes, I did some research. I found out you’d almost been caught on a drug rap, and drugs were part of your entertainment, along with parlor hypnosis. That probably helped create the bad set for Dore and contributed to the amnesia. And I learned you had a talent for imitating voices. That’s how you set Carleton up with Worth and Milly Weaver, and set Dore up with that call for help from Jenny. Then there was your choice in books. The blueprint for Canfield’s murder is in
The Executioners
.”
He stopped. Jim wasn’t hearing him any more; he was listening to the sirens, so close the old house echoed with their wails.
When they died, Jim took a long, rasping breath. “They’re here.”
“Yes.”
“What’d she have, anyway? Some damn pop-gun?” His words were getting slurred.
“A little .22. Saturday night special.”
“Where’d she…” Then he shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. You have
her
set up tonight, too?”
“No. I wasn’t expecting her. I gave her a choice this afternoon, and she threw Bob Carleton to the wolves without a second thought. Jim, how much of an accomplice was she?”
His attempt at a smile produced a wracked grimace.
“A lousy one. Didn’t want her in on it—the old man, I mean. Always took sleeping pills. But that night, she…she came downstairs. That wasn’t so bad, but then Dore—I had to do
something.
She walked right in while—oh, damn, why’d she have to come home then? I…never wanted to—to hurt her.”
“And Jenny?”
At first, Conan wondered if Jim had heard him; his eyes were fixed on nothing, dull and glazed.
“Oh, Jen—she…she’d have spilled everything. I know her—I
knew
…
she…”
A rattling thud of multiple footsteps was on the stairs, but Conan didn’t look up from Jim’s grief-harried face.
“Doesn’t even make sense now,” he murmured. “Maybe—maybe Mother’s right…about the fear. You get so…oh, God help me, I didn’t mean to kill her. No, I
meant
to, but afterward…” He had no words for afterward.
“It was Jenny who really pointed the finger at you.” That wasn’t salt in the wounds of guilt; it was a salve of sorts because he was capable of guilt.
Jim’s haunted eyes came into focus on him.
“The…painting.”
“Yes. She didn’t intend it as an accusation. It was only a random reflection of what she was thinking of at the time. You; her supplier. The Greek letters lambda delta.”
Jim nodded with a painful, jerking intake of breath. The footsteps reached the door, but Jim didn’t look around. His eyes were closed. Two white-uniformed ambulance attendants came into the room, moving with grim efficiency. Steve Travers leaned against the doorjamb, equally grim.
Conan rose stiffly, watching the attendants.
“Be careful; he has a back injury. And for God’s sake, give him something for—some morphine.”
* * *
Steve Travers stopped at the top of the stairs. The foyer was glaring with light, swarming with policemen and relentless activity.
“How bad is it, Conan? I mean, Jim.”
“I don’t know. I doubt he’ll ever walk again.”
After a brief silence, Travers started down the stairs. “The ladies are in the parlor.”
Conan followed him, flinching inwardly at the glare and noise. But inside the parlor, it was quiet; an irrational quiet that defied the open doors.
Across the room, Sean Kelly sat waiting and watching, clothed in slacks and a sweater, the role of domestic put aside. Catharine was sitting near the door, motionless and expressionless. He found Isadora standing at the front window, the bright yellow of her robe seeming incongruous. When he put his arm around her, she rested her head on his shoulder. Still dry-eyed, he saw; still numbed.
“Conan, how is he?”
“He’ll live, Dore.”
Travers began reading the litany of rights to Catharine, and Isadora turned, regarding her with no hostility; only an uncomprehending sadness.
“Will he ask her what happened?”
“Yes, I think so.”
He took her hand, listening with her as Travers questioned Catharine. She seemed totally indifferent to both the questions and her answers, spelling out the story with no elaboration, nor any attempt at rationalization. It was a long recital, but the only time she showed any emotional reaction was when Jim was brought downstairs. She turned to watch the stretcher carried out, but asked no questions.
Finally, Travers said, “I guess that’s all, Mrs. Canfield. Conan, anything else?”
“Yes. Two items you didn’t cover, Steve.” He waited until she turned, gazing at him with eyes that seemed truly sightless now. “Why did Carleton have Dore under surveillance? Whose idea was that?”
“Bob’s. He was always so…anxious.”
“But why was he worried about her? How much did he know about your husband’s death?”
Her blind eyes shifted downward, fixing on the carved arm of the couch.
“Nothing. He was only worried about the notes John made on changing his will. They’d have left the will open to contest. Bob had my interests in mind, as well as his own; a contest would probably mean an investigation into his handling of certain trust funds, and he couldn’t risk that. He was afraid Isadora had seen the notes, that John might even have said something to her about them before he died. Bob knew she wouldn’t tell Jenny if she recovered her memory. He thought if she talked to the police or Hendricks, we’d at least have some warning.”
“Did Carleton destroy those notes?”
“Yes, but all three of us were part of that.”
“But not Jenny?”
“No,” she said dully, “she wasn’t part of any of it.”
“Did your husband know Jim was actually his son?” Isadora tensed at that, but he was intent on Catharine, seeing a mordant regret in her lifeless eyes.
“No. Not until the day he…died.”
“Why didn’t you tell him before?”
She paused, her gaze shifting, and it was to Isadora the answer was directed, not Conan.
“At first, because I loved him. I hope you never have to learn the kind of hatred love turns into, Isadora. Hell hath no fury—and no agony. Jim was the result of a very brief…interlude. John loved your mother so much, I can’t believe he was ever unfaithful to her before or after, and he was so consumed with guilt about it. That’s why I didn’t tell him; that and my own pride. Even when we were married, I couldn’t tell him; not with Anna so recently dead. Then when our marriage began to go sour, I guess I was saving it as a sort of ultimate weapon. The day he…we had a confrontation that afternoon; he found out I wasn’t blind. I told him about Jim, threw it in his face, but it only made him despise me more. It was too late. But I didn’t realize Jim knew—what it did to him all these years. I didn’t
know
…
”
The words trailed off into an aching silence.
Finally, Travers glanced up at one of the policemen waiting at the door, then said quietly, “Mrs. Canfield, Lieutenant Sims will take you to headquarters.”
She nodded and pulled herself to her feet hesitantly, as if she weren’t sure she could walk.
“I’ll go upstairs and get dressed.”
Sean rose, sending Conan a quick, anxious glance. “Maybe I should go up and help you, Mrs. Canfield.”
Catharine knew who she was now, but there was no rancor in her reply; no emotion at all.
“Thank you, but I need no help, and I’ve no intention of trying to escape.” Then she turned to Conan, and what he read in her gray-green eyes, so much like Jenny’s, chilled him. A message; a plea she expected him to understand.