Kissing the Beehive (27 page)

"Who are they from?"

"Dunno."

Back inside, I unwrapped the flowers and searched inside the arrangement until I found the card.

"Hi, Sam! Don't worry about Cassandra. I know where they are and will take care of everything.

Just keep working on my book."

First I called the store and asked where the flowers had come from. I was given the number of a New York florist. After much hemming and hawing, New York admitted the sender -- a young, nice-looking Indian man -- had paid in cash, given his name as David Cadmus, and used Veronica's address.

When I called and told McCabe, he gave a long whistle. "I would not want to be Veronica Lake today. The killer's probably been watching her a long time. And now she pissed him off. Taking Cass keeps you from concentrating on his book. Notice how he called it 'my'? We gotta find them fast."

Durant went ballistic. I'd never heard him so angry. "She should have _known_ he'd have her watched! Didn't she understand that after being beaten up?"

"How does it change things, Edward?"

"I don't know. Maybe it's good. But I don't like unpredictables and now we've got two of them to deal with."

Because there was nothing else to do while waiting, I paced the house. I wanted to leave so badly. Get up and walk out into the world where I might be able to _do_

something. Not stay stuck and helpless in a stale house that exuded only tension and fear. But the damned phone was there and I didn't dare stray from it.

I ended up back in the study, staring at the manuscript. I didn't touch it; I didn't _want_ to touch it.

If I had never begun the book, David Cadmus would still be alive.

Cassandra would not be in danger now. The trouble between Veronica and me began when she decided we should collaborate on the story. From that point, everything went bad.

While I was zoned out thinking about all this, the phone rang again. I picked it up but wasn't really clearheaded when I said hello.

"Hi, Sam!"

"Where is my daughter?"

"She's with me. She's safe."

"Where _is_ she, Veronica, God damn it! Don't tell me she's safe. You kidnapped her. If you have problems with me, okay, but let _her_ go. Tell me right now where she is and don't fuck around anymore." I was horrified at my demanding voice and wished to God I could have taken
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it all back the moment I

said it.

"I will, I promise you I will. But there are things I have to tell you first. They're so important! I know you don't believe me, but just even for a few minutes . . . Sam, this is _so_ important for you."

"I don't want to hear it! Just tell me where Cass is and then get away from us."

There was a silence followed by a scraping sound. Cassandra came on the line. "Dad?"

My body froze with joy and relief. "Cass! Honey, are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine. Dad, don't worry. Everything is okay. Please do what Veronica asks. She won't tell me what it is, but I know it's important. She says there was no other way you'd talk to her and that's why she took me. But I'm okay. I'm fine. Really!

"Dad, we've been talking and talking. I was so wrong about her! She's led the most _incredible_

life! I mean, I've been sitting here the whole time, listening, with my jaw hanging down. She's made documentaries, she's lived all over the world, she was in the Malda Vale awhile . . . She's done so much. She

_knows_ so much. It's amazing.

"I was really mad at her at first, but not anymore. And she loves you, she loves you _so_ much.

You've got to do this one thing for her. If not for her, then do it for me. She wasn't going to call you yet because she's so afraid, but I made her. Please meet her and then everything will be all right.

I know it. I'm sure of it."

"Cass? One two three?"

"Yes, absolutely. One two three."

It was our secret code. We had worked it out when she was a child. It was our way of asking if everything was all right without having to say it, in case the wrong ears were listening.

"I'll meet her. But you don't know what she wants to talk about?"

She giggled. It was the most extraordinary thing. In the middle of all that anxiety and dread came the holy sound of my daughter's silly laugh. I

knew then for sure she really was okay.

"Veronica won't tell me! You still won't tell, will you?" From somewhere nearby, I heard Veronica say, "Nope," and _both_ of them laughed. Like two girls jammed into a phone booth together sharing the phone while talking to some boys.

"All right, put her back on. But Cass, for God's sake be careful. No matter how much you like her, she gets unbalanced sometimes. I love you. More than life. I'm so glad to know you're all right."

"I'm fine, Dad. I swear! One two three."

The phone changed hands again on their side, wherever the hell that was.

"Sam?"

"Where do you want to meet?"

"At the Tyndall house in Crane's View. Can you make it in two hours?"

"Yes. Veronica, don't you _dare_ do anything to her."

"Never. She's a special girl. But don't bring anyone, Sam. _Don't_ tell anyone." Abruptly the phone went dead. That was all right though because I

couldn't catch my breath.

Snow began to fall ten minutes after I got on the road. Luckily most of the drive to Crane's View was on the parkway because the stuff was beginning to stick with a vengeance.

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Clutching the steering wheel as tightly as I could, my head locked in one position, I glared through the windshield and tried not to crash into everything. A mighty sixteen-wheel trailer truck bombed by in the fast lane, the jolt from its airstream slamming my car. I wanted to be that truck driver then. Oblivious to the weather, sure that my tons of truck and cargo would keep me glued to any road. The guy probably had country-and-western music howling from ten cranked-up speakers in his cab. He was probably singing

"Goodnight Irene" and steering with only one hand.

I hated Veronica for seducing a young, trusting woman into believing her love, that foul black soup, was really ambrosia she would willingly fill my cup with until she died. I pictured the two of them sitting in a grimy roadside diner somewhere, working on their fourth cups of thin coffee while

Veronica hung her head and spun magnificent lies about what went wrong with our love. Cass, the great listener, would sit very still, but there would be tears in her eyes. When Veronica finished on some triumphantly tragic note, my

converted daughter would reach over and tightly squeeze the other's lifeless hand.

Luckily my car hit a patch of ice and for a few blood-freezing seconds slid left, right, back to center. My mind burned clean of all Veronica thoughts. First get there. Concentrate on the road.

Get there.

Snow was flying wildly all around when I drove into Crane's View. The scene would have been beautiful, worth a stop and a long look round, if the day had been different. As it was, I barely kept control of the car. Every few minutes it decided to ice-skate, so I had to keep the speed down to a crawl.

The day was already full of too many highs and lows but looking back now, one of the images that stays most firmly in my mind was driving down

Elizabeth Street. A mile or so from the Tyndall house, I saw a lone figure trudging through the snow like a soldier on winter maneuvers. Hup hup hup.

There was nothing else around -- no cars, no people, the only sign of life a traffic light forlornly blinking its yellow warning to no one. Just this one person and what the hell was he doing, out walking in this blizzard? I

couldn't help slowing even further to have a look at the hearty goof. Johnny Petangles. Wearing only a white dress shirt and black trousers, bare hands and a Boston Red Sox baseball cap pulled down low. I loved him. Thank God for something normal today. Loony Johnny out on his daily rounds in the middle of a Yukon blow. His mouth was moving. I wondered what television advertisement he was repeating, what song he was singing to the wind and snow and arctic emptiness around us. Just Johnny and me out in the swirl. If I stopped to offer him a ride he would only look at me blankly and shake his head.

There were no cars on the street when I pulled up in front of the Tyndall house. The driveway went up at a slight angle and I didn't want to risk getting stuck so I parked directly in front.

When I got out the wind gusted snow into my face and made me close my eyes. I locked the car door and turned toward the house. Lights were on in the ground-floor rooms. I stood there, hoping to see something inside. Hoping to see my daughter standing at the window.

A scraping down the street announced a snowplow was on the way. It was so quiet otherwise that the sound of the blade on the pavement was remarkably loud and reassuring. Like Johnny out on his march, the snowplow doing its job said, when this is all over, beyond this hour's fear, is your everyday and soon you can have it back again. I waited until the truck had passed and was ridiculously happy when the driver gave me a wave as he rumbled by.

I took a deep breath, made fists and started for the house. The fresh snow crunched beneath my boots. I was so hot from worry I could feel myself sweating beneath the heavy coat. I said to
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myself, be calm. Hold your temper.

Just go in there and get her back. Just get her back. Just get her back.

The brass doorknob turned smoothly in my hand.

I walked into the house and closed the door gently behind me. The hall floors shone with wax, the house was so cold my breath came out in plumes.

"Veronica?"

"In here."

Her voice came from the living room. The room where they'd pissed on Johnny Petangles, the room where Pauline had carved on the wall. I walked in.

Sitting on the floor in the middle of the room was Pauline Ostrova.

Same red hair, same face, same clothes I had seen her wearing in an old photograph I kept framed on the wall in front of my desk. For a few seconds a hundred years long, everything I had known, lived, thought about for the last months went up in smoke. Everything I believed was wrong. _She was alive_!

I was so overwhelmed by the apparition that it took more seconds to realize it wasn't Pauline, but Veronica made-up so perfectly that she could have fooled anyone into believing it -- for a short while.

She clapped her hands like a child and laughed. "It worked! I can't wait to tell Cass! She said you'd never fall for it but you did. You thought I was her!"

I wanted to strangle her. "Where is my daughter, Veronica?"

"Oh come on, give me some credit, Sam. For two seconds I had you. Did you see this?" She jumped up and ran over to the wall where Pauline had done her artwork. "Look! Pauline did it

--"

"I know, Veronica. I saw it. Is that what this is about? Is that why I'm here, so you can show me some letters cut into a goddamned _wall_?"

She turned away and touched the words. Her hand slid slowly down the white wall and dropped to her side. It was the most defeated gesture I had ever seen. She stood there, motionless. "No, that's not why. But I didn't know you'd already seen it. It was going to be a little extra surprise for you."

She walked back to where she had been sitting and dropped to the floor again.

"I have to tell you what I discovered. It's going to change your whole book, Sam. Do you know about John LePoint?"

I could barely contain myself and was just able to ask, "No, who is he?"

"Edward Durant's cellmate at Sing Sing. He's still alive. I found him for you. He lives in Power, Maine. You have to talk to him. You _have_ to."

"I don't give a shit about the book, Veronica! I want my daughter. Just tell me where she is. Tell me and I won't say anything to anyone. No cops, nothing. _Where is she_?"

She dropped her head to her chest so I could only see the lush red hair spilling down, covering everything. Another wig, another trick. "Why can't you ever just be yourself, Veronica? Why do you always have to lie or pretend you're another person?" Looking at her bent over like that, repentant again for yet another awful act, my anger took precedence over everything else.

Her head rose slowly and she looked at me with a crooked smile that gave away nothing. When she spoke, her voice was cool and distant. "Because you were _the_ one. The person I have loved and admired most. It began a long time ago and then for a little while it was happening.

We got so close I could smell it, I could feel it in the palm of my hand! God God God!" She shuddered and closed her eyes.

"When I realized I'd done it all wrong, _again_, I thought maybe I could be someone else you'd love. But I kept getting that wrong too, didn't I?" She shook her head and shrugged, defeated. "I met Cass's mother. I followed her around one day and struck up a conversation in
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Bloomingdale's. What a loser, Sam. What a stupid, vacuous loser she is! All Armani and half a brain. But you married _her_ didn't you?" She slammed her open hands on the floor. The slap echoed throughout the cavernous room. The jolt to her body caused a small revolver to jump out of a dress pocket and fall onto the floor.

I took a step backward. Mustering my courage, I managed to whisper, "Where is my daughter?

Please."

She picked up the pistol and put it in her lap. Then she took a deep breath and let it out, her cheeks ballooning. "At the Holiday Inn in Amerling.

Room 113. I would never hurt her, Sam. _Never_. But it was the only way you'd talk to me. I saw it in your eyes the last time we were together. I thought, okay, I'll leave him alone. But then I found out about LePoint and I knew we had to talk again, just once. So I --" She tried to say something more, but the words died on the cold air.

Amerling was only two miles away. I could be there in ten minutes. I took a step toward the door. She stood up so quickly that I didn't have a change to take step two. The gun was in her hand, pointed at my head.

"Don't move! You _have_ to listen to this! I've been looking and looking. I wanted to help you so much that I stopped everything else. All I've been doing is research. And I found it! I found everything, Sam! Everything you need for your book. Talk to John LePoint. That's all I'm asking.