Twist of Fate (6 page)

“In somewhat the same shape as Accelerated Design; down but not out. Please go away, Mr. Cage. I have written you off as a lost cause. Furthermore, you are not on my doctor's list of therapeutic exercises.” Once again she hung up the phone.

This time Gideon didn't redial. Instead he sat staring out at the distant mountains and wondered why he was feeling vaguely disappointed that Hannah had so easily given up trying to save him. She had seemed so earnest about the matter a couple of days earlier. Then he reflected on how she might have received his call if he'd actually let her deflect him from his real goal.

He was behaving erratically. Vegas was no good to him in his present mood. He wouldn't be able to concentrate on the cards or the dice. That was where he worked out the few unpredictable quirks left in his nature, but even when gambling, Gideon never allowed himself to become too unpredictable. Habits.
Survival habits
. He might as well go back to Tucson.

He got up from his chair and opened a bureau drawer. Inside was the deck of cards he'd lifted from Hannah's purse when he'd helped her to the door of her hotel room. He removed the pack and fanned it out on the table, his fingers moving lightly over the slightly frayed edges that marked a few of the higher cards. He had felt those faintly tagged cards the night he'd shuffled them in front of Hannah. It had amused him to realize that she intended to cheat. She just didn't look the type. He'd actually experienced a twinge of admiration. The lady had guts. Very few people had the nerve to try cheating him these days.

Gideon was aware of a distinctly self-righteous sensation when he told himself he hoped Hannah Jessett had learned a lesson. Unfortunately, the feeling wasn't any more satisfying than the easy killing he'd made on Accelerated Design.

Hollow victories. Hannah had been wrong when she'd guessed that they had grown progressively unsatisfying over the years. The truth was they had been unsatisfying from the beginning. A career built on revenge was probably fated to lack much in the way of real intellectual and emotional satisfaction. Ambition, as a motivator, could probably be moderated. Revenge could not. It was either an all-consuming drive or it didn't warrant the label of revenge. Gideon entertained himself with the whimsical notion of giving Hugh Ballantine that piece of advice.

But it wouldn't do much good. Nine years ago, Gideon knew, he wouldn't have listened to such advice himself. Nothing burned more fiercely than the white hot fire of revenge. And after it burnt itself out there was nothing left but to keep going in the same direction.

Besides, Gideon thought as he restacked the cards and put them back in the drawer, there was no reason to stop doing what he did for a living. After all, he was damn good at it. The final analysis of the profits he had made on Accelerated Design proved it.

Gideon went to stand at the window, staring out at the broiling landscape from the safety of his air-conditioned room. He needed Vegas, but he wasn't in the mood to stay there any longer. He'd go back to Tucson for a few weeks and then try Las Vegas again.

After all, he usually made two trips each summer.

Habit.

 

T
HE WALK DOWN
the stairs to the apartment house mailbox had been painful but manageable. Hannah felt a distinct sense of triumph as she opened the box in the charmingly ornate alcove that served as an entrance hall for the old red brick apartment building. It only went to show that triumph, like everything else in the world, was relative, she decided philosophically. Two months ago she hadn't thought twice about the freedom with which she went up and down stairs.

She'd gotten rid of the crutches after being home from the hospital for a week. Now she was back on the cane, but this time around it was a sign of progress. Dr. Englehardt had been pleased.

“How long until I can get around without the cane?” Hannah had demanded the last time she saw him.

“Patience, Hannah. You're moving along very rapidly. Don't rush things. I'm very pleased with the results. Very pleased, indeed. Dr. Adams, who assisted me, agreed that the damage was rather extensive.” Dr. Englehardt was in his late forties and had the usual surgeon's ego. Hannah forgave him, because he was short and pudgy and quite brilliant. Also, she was objective enough to realize that Dr. Englehardt probably wouldn't have been a good surgeon without his oversize ego. Surgeons were similar to fighter pilots: they needed the right stuff. The
right stuff
implied style as well as intelligence and courage. Style implied an ego. Dr. Englehardt had put her back on her feet. He was entitled to a little stroking.

“I saw the X rays.” She'd smiled warmly, quite willing to offer his ego the petting it needed. “You did a fantastic job. I can't thank you enough.”

He'd beamed. “Why, thank you, Hannah.”

“But I still want to know how much longer I'll be on this cane.”

Englehardt had sighed. “Probably a couple of months.”

“Damn.”

But here she was three weeks later hobbling around fairly well. Mustn't complain, Hannah told herself bracingly as she withdrew the contents of her mailbox. A positive outlook was important. And nobody liked a whiner. Too bad. She had a hunch she could get very proficient at whining and complaining.

The round-trip airline ticket to Santa Inez Island had arrived. Hannah propped her cane against the shelf in front of the mailboxes and leaned back to steady herself. Quickly she zipped open the envelope from the travel agent. Then she smiled. She would be on her way to the sunny Caribbean in less than two weeks. Visions of strengthening her left leg with long walks on the sandy beach in front of her aunt's home danced through her mind. Hannah decided she would buy a new bikini. She needed one. She didn't do a lot of swimming there in Seattle.

“Hannah!”

Closing the mailbox, Hannah glanced around. Through the iron gate that served as a security door she saw Drake and Victoria Armitage hailing her from the other side of the tree-lined street. They were jogging in full regalia. Victoria's mane of burnished copper hair was held away from her classic face with a green sweatband that coordinated beautifully with her designer jogging pants. She wore a sleek, emerald green tank top that emphasized the new style of well-developed feminine musculature. Good pecs, Nick had observed. Also good lats and triceps, Hannah decided as the familiar, ambivalent mood that Victoria engendered settled on her. She stepped outside onto the sidewalk, idly holding open the security gate.

Drake's outfit was black and white, right down to his black-and-white wristbands. He was a good-looking man with blue eyes and light brown hair that was styled, not cut, and just the proper amount of dynamic assertiveness in his jaw. An excellent foil for his wife.

Fashionable Nike sport shoes made virtually no sound on the pavement as Drake and Vicky advanced at a quick, disciplined speed. Handsome faces gleamed with sweat even though the June day was quite brisk.

They weren't alone in their athletic endeavors that morning. Several other joggers had already gone past Hannah's Capitol Hill apartment house. The whole world seemed to be going fitness crazy. She watched Drake and Victoria approach, trying to remember what one offered a jogger in the way of refreshment.

“Good morning,” she said politely as they slowed to a halt in front of her. Somehow she felt obliged to be polite. It was a small penance she paid for her irrational ambivalence. “Can you come in for a glass of mineral water or something?” Was mineral water still in for the fitness set? Hannah wasn't sure. These things changed so quickly.

“Sounds great,” Drake enthused, dashing the sweat off the back of his neck with his hand. “I think we've put in enough mileage today, haven't we, Vicky?”

“Definitely.” Vicky stopped, hands on hips, inhaling deeply. “How's the leg doing, Hannah?”

“Much better, thank you.” Nobody likes a whiner. Hannah forced a broader smile. “Come on up.” She had a vision of their sweat-soaked bodies on her living room sofa and added brightly, “We can go out on the deck.”

“Here, let me give you a hand.” Drake put his fingers under her arm and propelled her forcibly back through the alcove and up the first three steps. The cane came off the ground entirely and Hannah grabbed for the rail.

“No, thanks! Please, I'm fine.” Hastily she broke free of the grip before he could launch her to the top of the staircase. Not wanting to seem ungrateful she went on in a hurried mumble, “The doctor wants me to get as much exercise as possible.”

“Maybe you should come down to the club,” Victoria suggested, loping easily up the stairs ahead of Hannah. “We could get you in on a visitor's pass. Or your brother could arrange it, for that matter. You could work out on the equipment. Probably be great therapy.”

“Uh, I don't think I'm quite ready for that.” Hannah pushed open the door of her airy one-bedroom apartment and gestured toward the tiny scrap of a balcony. “Have a seat.”

She watched them move through the tropical setting of her living room and could almost read their thoughts. Nick referred to the conglomeration of wicker, rattan, and ferns as Neo Import Shop. The South Seas look was out, he'd informed her and had probably never really been in except among people who shopped at discount import shops on the wharf. But Hannah loved islands almost as much as Elizabeth Nord had loved them. She'd had no compunction at all about ignoring the trend toward Italian design in interiors in favor of maintaining her artificial island cottage.

Drake and Victoria Armitage contrasted sharply with what Hannah thought of as the island charm of her apartment. Two more Yuppies in a world that seemed to be filling up with the genus. Drake and Vicky were of the species
academia
. It was a relatively small but highly evolved example of the basic group. This species prided itself on being clever enough to see the subtle humor of ordering an expensive California zinfandel with roasted red pepper fettuccini. This species could also wage esoteric, academic, and totally irrelevant arguments while consuming both the zinfandel and the fettuccini.

Hannah saw Drake and Vicky quickly and expertly scan the heavily laden shelves of her bookcase. She knew they weren't terribly impressed. Her collection of books was highly eclectic, to put it mildly. It was unfocused, covering in uneven depth everything from the history of magic to basket weaving. Her personal library represented the kind of interests the academic world finds most amusing: a
layman
's interests.

Hannah was still idly putting together her mental construct of Drake and Vicky Armitage. Most of the pieces were in place. Drake, she sensed, was going to make it up the academic ladder because he was good at handling academic politics. He got himself on the right faculty committees, went to the right teas, and managed to make himself useful at the right levels. He knew instinctively who held power in his world and he knew how to get close to those people.

Vicky, on the other hand, would climb the academic ladder using real brilliance. She would be the one whose publishing record would eventually guarantee her a slot on any faculty.

The marriage between Drake and Vicky, Hannah figured, would last as long as they were useful to each other. At this point Drake found that some of the gleam of his wife's intellectual abilities rubbed off on him in faculty meetings. His name had appeared alongside hers on a couple of monographs, although Hannah privately wondered how much he'd really contributed. Vicky, on the other hand, found Drake's understanding of how the faculty bureaucracy functioned extremely useful. It was an alliance made in academic heaven and would probably fall apart with little regret on either side the day they were offered good positions at opposite ends of the country. Hannah wondered who would get custody of the Armitage's wine collection.

“I'll help you with the drinks,” Vicky said amiably, half way to the balcony. She swung around and came toward the kitchen. “You've got your hands full there. Here, I'll handle the mail for you.”

She removed the letters from Hannah's fingers before a protest could be made. “Going on a trip?” Vicky indicated the tickets.

“Down to the Caribbean. I'm going to close up my aunt's house.” Hannah opened the refrigerator and was relieved to find two bottles of mineral water that her brother must have left behind on his last visit. She couldn't stand the stuff herself.

“Oh, that's right. I remember you said something about it a few weeks ago.” Vicky plucked the bottles from Hannah's arm and opened drawers at random in the white-tiled kitchen until she found an opener. “What a fantastic opportunity.”

“Opportunity?”

Vicky shook her head in wonder. “Just think, the chance to see Elizabeth Nord's private library. All her notes and records; the books that she read and maybe even drafts of the ones she wrote. There might even be some unfinished work that hasn't yet been published. God, what I wouldn't give for that opportunity. What a shame she didn't leave it all to an academic library. I wonder why not?”

Hannah shrugged, watching in resignation as Vicky Armitage made herself at home in the kitchen. Short of tripping Vicky with the cane, there wasn't any way of stopping her. “She said in her will that she wanted me to have the stuff.”