Dear Irene (29 page)

“A clerk knew him by name?”

“No. He just remembered that he sold a slingshot to a customer of his who also bought a lot of archery equipment. The detectives remembered that Edgerton taught archery at the college. They brought out a set of photos and the clerk pointed to Edgerton in nothing flat. They got search warrants for his house and office. Guess what they found in his desk drawer at the school?”

“The hammer that killed Edna Blaylock?”

“No. One of those synthesizers for disguising a voice over the phone.”

“Good Lord.” I sat down again, trembling. But as I thought about what he had said, something puzzled me. “Why would Edgerton keep those things in an office? Why not at home, where he has two Dobermans to stand watch?”

“I don’t know. Could be he doesn’t think the house is all that secure, even with the dogs. But his office at the college is very secure. And it has one of those special electronic locks on it.”

Pete had told me about the electronic locks on the campus. It occurred to me that I had seen that type of lock several times in recent days.

“He’s got all kinds of sports equipment stored there,” Mark went on, “including a lot of his own personal equipment.”

“Wait a minute! Now that you mention it, I realize we never saw bows and arrows or fencing gear at his house. Just the photos and the computer.” I shuddered. “Maybe that’s what he was doing with the computer — wiping out some records at Mercury that would have told us more.”

“Maybe. But we didn’t see the whole house. Besides, the damning evidence is the slingshot and the synthesizer, not the computer. Lots of people have access to a computer. Even Howard Parker, right?”

“I guess it doesn’t matter now. Don Edgerton. That sonofabitch. When I think of what he’s done…” I drew a deep breath and tried to calm down. “So now the problem is finding the link. The why.”

“I’m going down to police headquarters and see if they’ll let me talk to him. Want to come along?”

The phone rang before I could answer his question.

“Kelly,” I answered.

“Cassandra.”

Mark took one look at my face and picked up the extension. I couldn’t make myself answer. I couldn’t even see the room. All I could see was Steven Kincaid’s bleeding face.

“Why so quiet, my love?” the voice said. “Surely Hyacinthus didn’t mean so much to you?”

I tried to will my own voice to be steady and calm. “You’re blowing it, Thanatos. You’re either screwing up an effort to pin something on someone else or you’re wasting your phone call from jail—”

He laughed. “Believe me, I’m not calling from jail. I just needed to keep your friends busy for a while.”

“You screwed up anyway. You missed with Icarus. And you didn’t do such a great job on Hyacinthus, either. He isn’t dead.”

“Not yet.”

I felt a white-hot fury rising in me. “You’re going to be the first to go. I swear you will.”

“Not likely. I say Kincaid, Harriman, and then — well, who knows?”

“I’m Cassandra, remember? And I say it’s going to be you. You’re getting sloppy. You’re forcing it now — going to extremes — like this business with the Mercury computers.” I glanced over at Mark, who was frantically shaking his head at me.

“That was not at all difficult for me,” Thanatos said. “Keep that in mind.”

“Like I said, I’m Cassandra. It doesn’t matter if you believe me or not. It will happen. You’re next.”

He laughed, then stopped suddenly. When he spoke, his voice was menacing. “You disappoint me.”

“Pauline would have been disappointed in you, Jimmy.”

“You—” he hissed angrily. “You’re no better than the others!” He hung up.

Mark Baker looked like he was in shock. “Do you think that was wise?”

I was shaking. “No, it wasn’t.”

He came over and put a hand on my shoulder. “Look, I’m sorry. You’ve had a lot to cope with lately.”

I didn’t say anything.

“We better call Harriman.”

I still didn’t say anything, so he dialed the number and asked for Frank. I sat and listened while he told Frank about the conversation. Mark was quiet on his end for a while, then said, “Look, Frank—” but was apparently interrupted. He reluctantly handed the phone to me. “He wants to talk to you.”

I took it from him. “Yeah?”

“Irene? What the hell has gotten into you? Goddamn it, do you think you’re invincible? You drive me nuts when you pull shit like this!”

“Good-bye, Frank. Call me back when you cool off.” I hung up. Mark looked like he was going to be ill. “Frank and I will be fine, Mark. It happens all the time.”

He didn’t look convinced. My phone started ringing again. I didn’t want to talk to Thanatos or anyone else. It was probably Frank, but I knew he hadn’t had enough time to get back under control yet. I ignored it and left. I needed some air.

S
T
. A
NNE’S IS
a short walk from the paper, but I got soaked anyway. I didn’t have any trouble getting past the guard at Steven’s door. When I came in, Steven was sleeping. He roused himself a little, looked at me, and smiled. “Hi.”

“Hello. How are you feeling?”

“Better.”

He had a smaller bandage on now, and his forehead had a large, dark bruise on it. The edges of stitches showed, making me wince.

“Irene? Would you call my parents?”

“Sure. You want me to call them now?”

“If you wouldn’t mind. Maybe you could do most of the talking. Don’t scare them, okay?” He was still pretty out of it, but apparently this had been troubling him. I reassured him and dialed the number he gave me.

“What are their names?” I asked as it rang.

“Mike and Margaret Kincaid.”

A man answered the phone. I explained that I was one of Steven’s friends and that I was calling at his request. “Steven has suffered a head injury. He wants me to assure you that he’s okay, but he’s in the hospital recovering. He wants to talk to you to let you know that he’s all right.”

“The hospital?” There was a second of silence, and then he yelled, “Maggie! Pick up the extension! Excuse me, Miss—?”

“Kelly.”

“Miss Kelly.” There was a click of the other phone being picked up. “Miss Kelly, would you please repeat that for Steven’s mother?”

I did. After he calmed his wife a little, Mike Kincaid asked me to put Steven on.

I listened to Steven’s half of the conversation. He reached up and took my hand when I started to move away to allow him some privacy.

“No, Mom, don’t cry. I’m fine.”

He listened.

“It’s okay, Mom… Look, I’m going to let Irene talk to you… No, no, she’s not. She’s a friend.”

He handed the phone over and I reassured them once again that he was recovering and would be fine. “He just tires easily…. Travel out here to see him?”Steven looked a little panicked and shook his head no. “No, I wouldn’t come out just yet.” He relaxed. “Yes, he’ll call again soon.” I said good-bye and hung up.

“Thank you,” he said.

“No problem.”

A nurse came in and saw us holding hands and gave me one of the dirtiest looks I’ve had in some time. Steven looked at me knowingly and smiled a little. I couldn’t resist. I bent over and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Good-bye, darling. Get some rest. I can’t wait to meet your parents.”

Steven’s smile widened a bit and he squeezed my hand. He closed his eyes, still smiling, and said sleepily, “I’ll dream about you.”

God, how I enjoyed that.

I was striding down the hall, feeling my oats, when I happened to look up in one of those round mirrors that are sometimes placed at the intersection of two hallways. I saw the reflection of one very angry Frank Harriman making his way purposefully in my direction. I was fairly certain he hadn’t seen me yet, and I didn’t feel like facing his wrath. I looked to my left and saw a door marked “Chapel.” I ducked inside.

It was dark and quiet in the small room. There were about six short pews and an altar with a large flower arrangement on it. Beyond the altar, a section of the wall held a large, stained glass crucifix, which was illuminated by a lamp of some kind behind it. To one side was a statue of St. Anne, Mary’s mother, a set of votive candles flickering below it. I lit one for old times’ sake, or perhaps for the comfort of ritual. I strolled over to the altar and read the tag on the flowers: Donated by Bettina Anderson. I’d have to tell Barbara about this.

Hey, Barbara-Babs-Kelly-O’Connor, I just happened to see Lizzy-Betty-Bettina-Zanowyk-Anderson’s flowers while I was cowering in the chapel at St. Anne’s.

That’s one thing about being an Irene, I thought. They can sing that old song to you every time they say good night, but Irene is Irene. Sort of elemental. Not like Bettina-Elizabeth or, say, like Steven’s mom, Peggy — no, Maggie-Margaret.

Something nagged at me then, and it wasn’t just guilt over the fact that I was hiding from my fiancé. I sat down.

Was it something I had heard earlier in the day? Or in the conversation with Steven’s parents? But when I started thinking of the Kincaids, I grew distracted, wondering if they would fly out to California anyway. A stranger’s reassurance that Steven was all right probably wouldn’t count for much against a mother’s worry.

I sat stewing over that and Thanatos and Frank and — well, yes, religion. I can’t go into a church or chapel without trying to pin myself down on exactly where I stand on the subject. I’m not an atheist. Being an atheist takes more faith than I’ll ever have in any religion. It was also too late to make a good agnostic out of me — too much faith for that. And I wasn’t sure I could really count myself in or out as a Catholic. I wasn’t much at home in Catholicism anymore.

But when you grow up in a religion that allows a day to honor someone named “St. Christina the Astonishing,” it’s just not easy to make yourself feel at home any other place, either. I thought of all the Greek mythology I had been reading. Were there lapsed pagans in those days? Did they falter in their faith? Maybe faith was based on something different in ancient Greece and Rome.

If one could base one’s faith on gratitude for unexpected help, appreciation for all life’s narrow misses and a sense that too much undeserved good had come your way, I supposed that I did have faith.

“Hello, Cassandra,” a voice said behind me.

And it was going to be tested immediately.

“H
ELLO
, J
IMMY
,” I said without turning around. I made myself stare at St. Anne’s beatific plaster smile; focused on that while I talked myself into not showing him how afraid I really felt.

He reached up and touched my hair. I felt a shudder pass through me, but suppressed any other reaction. I thought of Edna Blaylock and Rosie Thayer and Alex Havens. I thought of Steven Kincaid and Johnny Smith and Rita Havens.

He moved closer to me and whispered into my ear, speaking too low for me to recognize his unsynthesized voice. “I’m almost sorry that it has come to this, Cassandra. I had other ideas. You are the daughter of a champion of justice, and for his sake, I wanted more for you.”

I was trying to think of how he had decided that I was the daughter of a champion of justice, when he solved it for me. “Oh, I know you weren’t his daughter by birth, but you might as well have been, you know. Your tributes to him — the articles you wrote about him after he was murdered — it was clear to me that no one else loved him as you did. I so appreciated it when you avenged Mr. O’Connor’s death. You really are Irene O’Connor in some ways. That’s why I thought you’d understand.”

“What was O’Connor to you?”

“Oh, so you don’t know everything after all, do you, Cassandra?”

I didn’t answer. He laughed.

“One of his very first stories was about my mother’s murder. Unlike those who just reported a ‘killing of a female inmate,’ he told her story. He knew how unfair it had all been. I saved it.” I heard a rustling sound and a fragile, yellow clipping was extended over my shoulder. It had O’Connor’s byline on it, all right. I couldn’t resist taking it from him. I read it, feeling Thanatos’ eyes on me as I did.

He must have been very young when he wrote it, but O’Connor had owned a moving style of writing from the day he first walked on the job. He painted Pauline Grant as a young woman to whom fate had been overly harsh. “Somewhere a young boy has been praying for the day when his mother will come back home to him. Who will explain to him what has become of her? As he grows to manhood, what faith will he have in justice and mercy?”

O’Connor, I thought to myself, you were the real Cassandra. You saw this coming, and no one paid heed. I handed the clipping back over my shoulder. I set aside the kind of aching longing I could so easily feel for O’Connor; I set aside a fleeting sense of hopelessness.

But as if he knew what I was feeling, he said, “Ah, you do miss him still. I understand. Time doesn’t heal every wound. Not the loss of a mother to a son or a father to a daughter.”

His daughter. I was chosen for Cassandra because Jimmy Grant thought of me as Irene O’Connor. “I happen to be proud of the man who gave me the Kelly name,” I said. “But what’s in a name?”

Saying it made me realize what had nagged at me about the conversation with Steven’s parents. Margaret-Maggie. Margaret-Peggy. I had heard the same names from the women at Fielding’s Nursing Home.

Margaret Robinson — Peggy Davis. Margaret Robinson whose profile at Mercury didn’t quite match the others. Who lost a child and then took another as a repayment. And whose journey to the River Lethe had, perhaps, allowed her adopted son to begin his long-awaited revenge.

“Did I tell you my father was a war hero?” the voice behind me was saying. He was speaking louder now; I was sure I already knew who he was. “I want you to understand. My mother loved my father. He was killed at Pearl Harbor. He was trapped in the hold of one of those ships, but he helped other men escape before he died. My mother was only nineteen when I was born, and she was widowed by the time I was five. But she was the best mother in the world.”

We heard sounds out in the hallway. “It’s time to go,” he said. “Look at me.”