THE FBI THRILLERS COLLECTION Books 1-5 (112 page)

“Well, you look tired yourself, Mac. It’s been a long day. You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. Why don’t you have the doctors here check you out?”

I declined and sent Paul home. He looked ready to pitch forward onto his face. I’d nail him about Laura tomorrow. I wanted to know about the damned party on Tuesday night, the same night Jilly drove her Porsche off the cliff.

I realized that I didn’t have to know any more about anything right now. Who cared what Paul had told me, what Laura had told me? It didn’t matter. Jilly would live. She was the only reason I was here.

I was so tired my eyes hurt but I was too restless to
sleep. I ended up wandering the hospital corridors, looking into every room that had windows, except for the morgue in the basement. I had a tough time dealing with the morgue anytime, but now, not a chance.

I went back to Jilly’s room a little after one
A
.
M
., still wide awake, still restless. I sat down at the small table in front of the window, pulled out my notebook, and began to write. I wrote down what people had told me. I wrote down some of the questions I still had.

I laid down my pen. I shook my head. My written questions sounded like a soap opera.
Was Jilly sleeping with some other guy? Who is Laura Scott, really?

I wrote one final question:
Jilly’s awake. What the hell am I still doing here?

When Jilly awoke at two
A
.
M
. I was in a semi-stupor, feeling a strong pull from my cracked ribs because I was stretched out in a long deep chair pulled from the doctors’ lounge, alongside her bed. I was holding her hand.

“Ford?”

It was her voice and it sounded to me like old knotted threads, ready to unravel at the first pull. She spoke again, and I knew she’d heard the weakness in her own voice and was concentrating on sounding stronger. “Ford?”

I gave her a big smile, which I didn’t know if she could even see because the room was shadowy, with only a lamp in the far corner of the room lowered to dim. But my eyes were used to it. I could see her clearly. “Jilly, hi.” I squeezed her hand, leaned up and kissed her forehead.

“You stayed with me?”

“Yeah. Paul looked ready to drop so I sent him on home. You want me to call the nurse?”

“Oh, no, I just want to lie here and be alive and start to believe it. The headache’s gone. I just feel sort of weak, nothing more.”

I gave her more water and rubbed my knuckles over her smooth cheek. “I was with you, Jilly. I was with you when you went over the cliff, when you hit the water. I felt that huge impact.”

She said nothing, just looked up at me, waiting.

“I was in the hospital myself, remember?”

She nodded. “The car bomb explosion, in Tunisia.”

“Yes. That dream or vision—whatever—was more than real. I came awake and I couldn’t breathe. It scared me shitless, Jilly. What I can’t figure out is why you hooked up with me. How you were able to connect to my mind. Were you thinking about me at all at the time?”

She shook her head. “You told me about this already, Ford. I heard you clearly, that first time you came to see me. Do you believe me?”

“Of course I believe you. I’d be pretty stupid if I didn’t, since I was with you in the Porsche, going over that bloody cliff.”

“It’s all very confusing, Ford.”

“Jilly, the truth now. Were you thinking about Laura?”

I thought she’d pass out. She turned utterly white, her breath wheezed out, and she was shaking her head back and forth on the pillow. “You brought her here. She was with you. I saw her as clearly as I always saw you. No one else, Ford, just you. And then Laura was with you, and I saw her clearly too. And I started screaming—”

“And you came out of the coma screaming,” I said slowly, my eyes never leaving her face. “You saw Laura and you couldn’t bear to have her here, and then you woke up. Was she the one who brought you out of it?”

I didn’t think she was going to answer me, then she whispered, “I had to get away from her, that’s all I know. I just couldn’t believe she was still here. What were you doing with her?”

Only the truth, I thought, but what was the truth? There were so many lies swirling about that I couldn’t be certain exactly where the truth lay, but I could at least tell her what I thought of things. “When I was here yesterday, I fell asleep holding your hand.”

“I know. I saw you.”

“We’ll talk more about that later. I awoke suddenly and heard you saying that Laura had betrayed you. At dinner last night I asked Paul about Laura, said that you’d told me about her. It took a while, but he finally admitted that he’d had an affair with her, once he admitted that she actually existed. Then he said he’d broken it off. He told me she wasn’t important. He didn’t believe that you knew about it. But you see, I knew that you had at least heard her name. I wanted to see her, so I went to the public library in Salem.”

Suddenly, Jilly was nearly gasping for breath. She was wheezing. “Ford, you’ve got to believe me. Stay away from her. She’s very dangerous.”

And I was thinking:
I’ve never met anyone less dangerous in my life.
What was going on here?

“Did she sleep with Paul?”

Jilly shook her head, her skin so pale I thought she would faint. Then she nodded. Was it a yes or a no or just more confusion? In any case, she was tired, upset, and I backed off. I patted her hand and covered her with a light blanket. I stood and felt my body creak. “You’re exhausted. It’s very late. I’ll let you rest awhile. Let me get the nurse.”

I watched her for a moment, seeing the waves of fatigue wash over her, dragging her under into oblivion. The nurse could wait. All my questions could wait. She needed sleep. I turned to see Nurse Himmel standing in the open doorway.

“Don’t worry. I won’t wake her up again. That’s what you were coming to tell me, wasn’t it?”

I nodded and stepped back so she could come into the room. I liked Nurse Himmel. She was short, built solid as a Humvee, and she’d always been kind to me, and to Jilly. Like Midge, Mrs. Himmel would have brought me a beer.

“She’s sleeping, Mr. MacDougal,” Mrs. Himmel said quietly as she gently pulled the blanket up to Jilly’s neck. “She’s just fine. Her pulse and oxygen level are normal. Goodness, it’s wonderful to see a recovery like this. She’ll be up and walking around soon. Now you should go home and sleep in your bed. You’re looking just a bit slack in the jaw.”

“You’re right, my jaw could use a rest.”

She just smiled at me.

Whatever. I knew she was right. It was just that there was so much Jilly had to tell me. It could wait. It would be stupid if I got myself laid flat again. The people I called friends would never let me live it down. I could hear Quinlan, another FBI agent, calling me a wimp in that easy dark voice of his. I drove into Paul and Jilly’s driveway twenty minutes later. I shucked off my clothes, down to my boxer shorts, and was in bed only five minutes after that.

I dreamed I was a waiter in a nightclub, with a white towel over my arm, carrying a tray of drinks, but I couldn’t remember who had ordered them. I just kept walking around this huge room, looking and looking, not knowing, and I was getting frantic. There were dozens of customer drink-tables, all of them circular, people crowded around them. There was Jilly, tap-dancing from one table to the next. She was dancing like a pro. People were whistling and clapping. She was also stark naked
except for her black tap shoes. A man whose face I couldn’t see clearly was running after her, holding a long cloak toward her, waving it at her actually.

When I woke up it was nearly nine o’clock the next morning. I hadn’t slept so soundly since before I’d been blasted in Tunisia. For the first time I felt nearly back to normal. I stretched, flexed my muscles, even smiled at myself while I shaved. I didn’t look like oatmeal anymore, thank God.

Paul wasn’t home. I imagined he’d gone to the hospital to be with Jilly. I could speak to him there.

I was at the hospital a half hour later.

A
s I was turning the corner to the third-floor waiting room, I heard Maggie Sheffield’s voice. “I can only tell you, Cotter, that someone hit Charlie Duck over the head and he died shortly after he managed to crawl over to Doc Lambert’s house.”

“You’ve got no clues? Nothing?”

“I’ll just tell you that it’s the damnedest thing, this murder of a harmless old man. It’s not like this is Salem or Portland, for God’s sake. This is Edgerton, small-town USA. I don’t know if a murder has ever happened here before, but someone killed Charlie Duck and then ransacked his house.”

I came into the waiting room to see the sheriff speaking to a young man I’d never seen before. He was about my age, on the short side, built like a bull—obviously a weightlifter—with a manner and look that were dangerous. Strange that a guy would think that, but it was true. I disliked him on sight.

“Cotter Tarcher,” the man said and nodded to me. “You’re Jilly’s brother?”

“That’s right. Ford MacDougal. And you’re Cal’s brother?”

“Yes. I forgot you met Cal. She went over to Paul’s house and caught all of you there. You’re coming to the party tonight? It’s Miss Geraldine’s birthday and we always celebrate every year. My folks decided that we’d go ahead, despite Charlie Duck’s death.”

“It was murder, Cotter,” Maggie said.

“To be honest, I forgot all about it,” I said. “Jilly’s awake. I’ve been thinking about her.” Cotter Tarcher looked dark from his dirt-black hair to the heavy growth of beard on his cheeks. I bet that women sensed danger in him and were drawn to it. At the same time they’d be wary, if they had half a brain. Cal had said that he let the women he dated do the driving, to make them feel like they had the power. It was a smart move on his part, the prick. He would need to mellow them out. I remembered that Jilly didn’t like him either.

“Of course,” Cotter said easily. “I saw Jilly just a little while ago. She’s looking really good. She got one of the nurse’s aides to wash her hair. She looks normal. It’s amazing.”

I said to Maggie, “I heard you talking about Charlie Duck. It really is a shock for a little town like Edgerton. Did you bring in the crime-lab people from Portland? They’re top-notch. The medical examiner—Ted Leppra—is one of the best M.E.s on the West Coast.”

She shook her head. “I know how he died. He got bashed on the head, his brain filled up with blood and smashed bone, and that was the end of him. I don’t see any need for an M.E. to translate that for me in medicalese—it’s a waste of time.

“Poor old Charlie. He’s been here for at least fifteen
years. The funeral’s on Tuesday. Everyone will be there at the League’s Christian church.”

“The League?” I asked.

Maggie said, “The BITEASS League, remember? Since everyone in town is a member, the League keeps up one central place of worship. Different religions can have the building at different times. In the case of funerals, it’s an interdenominational service. Representatives from all the religious groups will take a few moments to speak. Since old Charlie was an agnostic, everyone will get equal time. If he’d been a Baptist, say, they’d get the lion’s share of the time. Come if you can, Mac. You can meet the rest of the folk in town.

“Or are you heading back to Washington? Since Jilly’s awake again, there’s no reason for you to stay, is there? Has she told you about what happened Tuesday night? Does it match your dream?”

“I’m going to speak to her about it right now,” I said, wishing Maggie hadn’t said anything about it in front of Cotter Tarcher. But in the long run I couldn’t see that it would make any difference. Who cared if anybody thought I was nuts? As for Tarcher, he hadn’t acted like an ass, at least not yet.

“I hope she’ll talk to you,” Maggie said to me. “When I was in there this morning, she claimed she didn’t remember a thing. She acted shocked when I told her we were worried because it looked to Rob like she’d driven over the cliff on purpose. She didn’t say another word. If there’s something more, maybe she’ll tell you, Mac.”

I said, “Maybe nothing’s going on, Maggie.”

“I hope you’re right. I’m just worried she might try to hurt herself again.”

Cotter looked back and forth at each of us. “Try to drop by tonight, Mac. My parents would like to meet
you.” He shook my hand, harder than necessary, nodded to Maggie, gave me a look that said he could whip my ass anytime, and left. He was easy to dislike, on spec.

“Maggie,” I said. “Were you invited over to Paul and Jilly’s house on Tuesday night?”

“No. Why?”

“Laura Scott told me Paul and Jilly were expecting other people. She had to leave early, so she didn’t know how many people or who they were.”

Why did I have to know? It didn’t matter. What mattered was speaking to Jilly, making sure that she was okay now, that she wasn’t depressed or bent on trying to kill herself again.

I thought about Laura, about how I’d never before met a woman who drew me instantly as she had. No, I wasn’t going back to Washington just yet. There was the Tarcher party tonight. It should prove interesting.

“Mac, before you go see Jilly, there’s something else about Charlie Duck’s murder, something that’s really weird. I didn’t want to say anything about it in front of Cotter, but hey, you’re a cop too.”

“You know something?”

“Yeah, but I don’t know if it means anything. Someone killed Charlie, then ransacked his house. I’ve had my guy dust for fingerprints. I’ve made a search myself. I didn’t find anything, nothing that might have been of interest to anyone. Whatever the murderer was looking for, he probably found it. He took the murder weapon with him.”

She drew a deep breath. “Maybe you can help me figure this out. After Doc Lambert called me, he said that Charlie regained consciousness just a moment before he died.”

My heart speeded up, I don’t know why. I waited.

“Doc Lambert said Charlie was real frantic, mumbled
a whole lot of stuff, but the only thing he could really make out was ‘a big wallop, too much, then they got me.’ Doc Lambert said he died then. Does that make any sense to you?”

“Have the M.E. in Portland do an autopsy,” I said. “Do it right now.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve got this feeling, a real burning in my gut, that this wasn’t a random killing and burglary. Charlie Duck wanted to speak to you. He wanted to speak to me. I wish he’d done it yesterday, but he didn’t, obviously because he didn’t think he was in any danger. But he was. Someone walloped him, it was too much, then they killed him.”

“Mac, you make it sound like some sort of B movie. You know, the murdered guy trying to tell someone who it was who killed him? It doesn’t happen like that in real life.”

“Who was Charlie Duck?”

“He was a retired cop from Chicago. More than fifteen years ago.”

My heart speeded up again. “Look, Maggie, Jilly goes over a cliff. Someone murders a retired cop. Maybe the two don’t have anything to do with each other, but I’d rather know for sure than guess about it.”

“Surely his death can’t have anything to do with Jilly driving off that cliff. It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Have the M.E. do an autopsy. His name’s Ted Leppra. Call him now, Maggie. Get it done.”

A big wallop, too much, then they got me.

What was going on here?

Jilly was alone. She was reading a newspaper. When she saw me, she grew very still. I was at her side in two big steps. “What’s wrong?”

She smiled up at me and laid the newspaper aside. “Nothing at all, Ford. I’m looking human again, don’t you think? Did you come to tell me good-bye?”

“No, I came to talk to you.”

Again she grew still, as if she didn’t want to see me, didn’t want to talk to me. Why?

“Jilly, you’re my sister. I’ve known you all my life. I love you. If you tried to commit suicide, just tell me why. I’ll do what I can to help. I want to help. Please talk to me.”

I knew her well enough to see the lie in her eyes and quickly added, “No, don’t tell me you can’t remember, like you told Maggie. Tell me the truth. Did you try to kill yourself, Jilly?”

“No, Ford, I’d never try to do such a ridiculous thing. Truth of it was that I lost control of my Porsche. I was singing as loud as I could, driving much too fast, and I lost control coming around a corner. That’s it, Ford, I swear.”

“Rob Morrison said you speeded up when you drove toward that cliff.”

“He’s wrong,” Jilly said. “Absolutely wrong. I lost control. Maybe I hit the gas when I went through the railing, I don’t remember. I suppose it’s possible.

“Ford, I’m all right, truly. Go home now. You’re still not back to one hundred percent. Better yet, take another week off and go down to Lake Tahoe and get some fishing in. You know you’d really like that.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Well, if I don’t see you again, take care of yourself. You, Kevin, Gwen, and I—we’ll get together at Gwen’s in New York at Christmas.”

It was a tradition, one we’d missed this past year and thus the get-together in February. I leaned down and hugged her hard against me. “I love you, Jilly,” I said.

“I love you too, Ford. Don’t worry about me anymore. Be sure to call Kevin and Gwen, tell them everything is all right.”

The Tarcher house sat on a cul-de-sac at the end of Brooklyn Heights Avenue. It clearly dominated the other three or four pretenders set far apart from one another, separated by spruce and hemlock. The mansion was a good three times larger than Paul and Jilly’s place, and looked like an honest-to-God Victorian transplant straight from San Francisco. Its basic color was cream, but there were another four or five accent colors used on the various window frames and sills, door frames, balcony railings, arches, cornices, and various other whimsical things whose names I didn’t know. It looked like a huge, fascinating, over-the-edge birthday cake. It had been designed by people with lots of money and an equal amount of imagination.

Four young guys dressed in red shirts and black pants were valeting all the guests’ cars. By the time Paul and I pulled up in his Ford Explorer, there must have been thirty cars parked all along both sides of the winding avenue. It looked like the whole town had turned out for the event.

Jilly had wanted to come. She wanted everyone to see she was back in action again, even though her Porsche wasn’t. She told me she’d already gotten a towing service to figure out if they could get her Porsche out of the ocean. I’d said fine, you can come if you can walk without assistance from here to the end of the hall. She made eight steps and drooped. But she was fine, according to all the tests Dr. Coates had done on her since early that morning. I’d asked him if he was coming to the Tarchers’ party and he’d said he wouldn’t miss it unless a set of
triplets was ready to slip out. My sister Gwen, who’d had three kids, none of whom, I was sure, had just slipped out, would have slugged him.

I turned to Paul as we stepped out of the Explorer in front of the Tarcher house. “Tell me about Tarcher, Paul.”

“His full name’s Alyssum Tarcher, and don’t ask me where he got the weird name. He’s been here some thirty years and he’s filthy rich. I wouldn’t be surprised if he owns half the state. Everybody here owes him, probably without exception. Nothing happens in this town that isn’t run by him first. The mayor, Miss Geraldine, is at his beck and call. She’ll do anything he wants. Actually, most of us will.”

“Did you have to ask his permission to move back out here from Pennsylvania?”

“As a matter of fact, he helped me come back,” Paul said, all cool and formal. “No secret there. He’s invested in my current project. He sold Jilly and me our house.”

“Ah,” I said. So that’s how he and Jilly were surviving. But that beautiful house and Jilly’s Porsche were far above the survival line. “This is the fountain of youth formula?”

“Good try,” Paul said, slamming his door. “Jesus, Mac, I’m so relieved that Jilly lost control of the Porsche. If she’d tried to kill herself, I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Me either.”

One of the young valets dashed up, out of breath, gave Paul a big purple ticket, and drove the Explorer away. “Some house, huh?”

“Incredible,” I said, climbing up the deep half-dozen front steps. Lights and mellow chamber music poured out of the house. When we walked into the huge vestibule, I paused a moment, just breathing in the incredible smell
of the house. It smelled like standing in the middle of a deep forest with a sliver of sunlight on your face—a hint of flowers, of water-drenched moss, of trees and light, pure air. I inhaled deeply as I turned to see a tall, hawknosed man walk toward us. It was, I had no doubt, Alyssum Tarcher, the patriarch of Edgerton, Oregon.

I am six feet, two inches tall, one hundred eighty-five pounds before the car bombing. He was at least two inches taller than me but not any heavier. He was probably around sixty years old, his hair thick, mixed black and white. He was a strong, vigorous man, no paunch, no softness on him. He looked potent. His son, Cotter, was standing behind him—thick-necked and dark, he looked like a thug. It was quite a contrast. He’d probably just shaved, but there was a hint of dark growth on his cheeks. He cracked his knuckles, his eyes studying my face.

“Ford MacDougal?”