Beyond Eden (35 page)

He was cold with rage. “And what did you say, Sydney?”

Sydney laughed. “Why, I told him I would call him back, naturally.”

“Her plastic surgeon is a Dr. Perry. Her other doctor is named Shantel. You may want to speak directly to Perry and to her. Lindsay will live, Sydney. She's got broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and her face—I understand the bones were crushed but she'll be all right. Be sure to tell her father that, won't you? Tell the bastard for me that he can fuck his legalities. Tell him for me that if he comes near her, I'll flatten him.”

“You don't care for me much, do you, Taylor?”

“No.”

“You really shouldn't hate her father. You don't know him.”

“I don't want to know him. He's a shit.”

“You cared for Valerie, didn't you? You were with her for three months?”

He said brutally, “I enjoyed fucking her, but only for a while. She was too possessive, too selfish. She had no control over herself. She was like a spoiled child who wanted everything her own way. I met Lindsay, and Valerie ceased to exist. I told Lindsay you reminded me of Valerie.”

Sydney picked up her coat and slipped her arms into it. She strode toward the door, her hand out for the knob, when she turned and said, “What happened to Lindsay's face?”

“A falling beam struck her directly.”

She looked at him curiously. “Valerie told me how you enjoyed just looking at her because she was so beautiful. Lindsay isn't in her league. What does she have now to hold you?”

“You seemed to think her money would hold anyone.”

“Perhaps, but it didn't work for Valerie.”

“No.”

“Well, then?”

He went still, deeply and utterly silent.

She smiled. “Ah, perhaps it's pity for the sparrow with the broken wing? Don't you think so, Taylor? That fades, pathetic things always do, and all that's left is the damned sparrow and it still has a broken wing. And your guilt because you aren't interested anymore.”

Surprisingly, Taylor smiled back at her, a smile cold and taunting as hers. “I find you amazing, Sydney. I find your father amazing. You know something else? The real pity is that none of us can choose who our relatives are. I'd say that Lindsay got all the black cards in the deck.” He turned back to Lindsay then, and didn't move until he heard the door close.

 

It was ten o'clock the following morning. Lindsay was awake and in pain. Taylor was going crazy watching her trying to control it. Finally the nurse gave her more medication. She fell into a light sleep. The nurse told him it was the facial swelling that was causing most of the pain.

He was on the point of going to their apartment to shower and change clothes when Sergeant Barry Kinsley of Manhattan South walked into the room.

“Jesus,” Taylor said, staring at his old sergeant. “What the blazes are you doing here?”

“Taylor? A shock, my boy, but at my age there shouldn't be any more shocks. Why are you here? You know the lady?”

“She's my fiancée. She's sleeping right now. What are you doing here, Barry?”

“Official, Taylor, very official. Someone tried to kill the lady. The explosion wasn't an accident, it was a bomb, one of those neat little plastic numbers, and it was detonated from about twenty yards away. She was right there, leaning against that ski lift, when someone detonated the explosive. No one else was anywhere near. A setup, straightforward, no muss, no fuss. Clean, sweet.”

Taylor saw red. “Excuse me a minute, Barry.” He ran out of the room.

Demos had left Lindsay's room just two minutes before. Taylor ran down the hospital corridor. He saw Demos standing in front of the elevator banks and yelled, “You goddamned little worm! You filthy little bastard! Don't you move!”

Demos turned, horror turning his skin pasty, as Taylor bore down on him. He didn't hesitate. He poked frantically at the elevator button. Taylor grabbed him by his knotted tie and lifted him off his feet, pinning him against the wall.

“You damned little pervert!” He smashed his head into the wall. “That was no accident, that was a bomb, and it was meant for Lindsay! You didn't even bother to warn me this time. Why not? Jesus, she's lying in there because you're a filthy scum and don't pay your gambling debts!”

Taylor slugged him hard in the stomach and then in the jaw. And still he held him up, cursing him and punctuating his curses by banging him against the wall.

Taylor heard nurses yelling, saw people running toward him, saw some, terrified, running away. A patient came out of his room carrying a bedpan and dropped it. Urine splashed upward onto the linoleum floor. Taylor suddenly felt arms trying to
pull him off Demos, but he didn't let go. He wanted to kill the damned bastard.

“Taylor, my boy, stop it!”

Barry Kinsley was built like a bull. He was fifty-five, balding, five-foot-ten, and had a chest the size of a pork barrel. He was still one of the strongest men on the New York police force. He'd been one of Taylor's instructors at the police academy and he'd taken him on the wrestling mat every time they'd gone at it. He'd tried to talk Taylor out of leaving the force. He'd remained a friend, distant, but always there, over the past few years.

He pulled Taylor off Demos, grunting with the effort—Jesus, he thought, he was getting too old for this shit—and Demos slid to the floor. He wasn't unconscious; he looked up at Taylor, whimpered, and drew his legs to his chest in the fetal position.

“I didn't do anything, Taylor, I swear it to you.”

“You miserable liar! Barry, let me go, damn you! I'll beat the truth out of this little prick in no time.”

“Nope, Taylor. Now, boy, hold yourself still or I'll have to rearrange that sexy face of yours. The ladies won't like that, boyo. That's right, deep breaths, get control of yourself, and tell Papa Barry what gives here.”

Taylor was trying to slow his breathing, trying to get back his control. It was tough. Barry loosened his grip just a bit. Taylor didn't try to escape him.

“Good, now behave, Taylor. I'm going to help this little fellow here get to his feet, and then we're all going back to your fiancée's room. Seems to me that's the safest place for Demos here. You wouldn't want to disturb her now, would you, Taylor?”

“He deserves to have his belly ripped out.”

“Possibly,” Barry said, eyeing Demos up and
down. “Yeah, just possibly. Come along, let's get back to the lady's room.” He looked up to see the sea of shocked and scared faces. “Show's over, folks. Go about your business now. Hey, what's that smell?”

Taylor walked on one side of Sergeant Kinsley, Demos, still bent over, on the other side.

“I didn't do anything, Taylor,” Demos said, feeling safer with Kinsley between them.

“Just hold your horses, sir,” Barry said easily. “Just wait until we get in the lady's room. Then I know Taylor won't rip your throat out.”

“Oh, God,” Demos said.

“Now, sir, trust me. I'm an officer of the law.”

“Oh, God,” Demos said again.

Once in Lindsay's room, Taylor immediately went to her bedside. She was deeply asleep. There was only the hissing sound of the lung machine.

He turned back to Barry. “In early November Demos hired me to keep an eye on her—she's called Eden, and she's a model—because he was into the New Jersey boys for a big amount of bucks. He hadn't paid so they threatened to take out some of his players, not just him, more's the pity. I told him to pay because if anything happened to her he'd be responsible and I'd call the cops. Do you remember that man who was found beaten up in his car trunk near the Lincoln Tunnel? Well, that was the boys' demonstration. It was the director of the commercial shoot Eden was in. The guy recovered, lucky for birdbrain here. Demos then swore to me he'd paid up and he'd never do it again. Now, you little scum, who's coming down on you this time? Who has your balls in a vise now? How much are you in for?”

Demos was finally standing straight. He'd
regained some sense of himself. He looked Taylor straight in the eye, Lindsay's hospital bed between them, ignored the sergeant, and said, “I kept my word, Taylor. Do you think I would ever take a chance again on having Eden hurt? My God, she's so—”

“Trusting?”

“Yeah, that and—”

“Gentle? Vulnerable?”

“Maybe, but I'd say she's just plain nice and caring. I love her, man. Oh, not like you do, because she's a woman after all, but I feel spiritual love for her.” That sounded like a crock, and Demos quickly retrenched. “What I mean is that I care about her. So does Glen. Look at her. I wouldn't be responsible for that. Never, I swear it.”

He started to cry.

“Jesus,” Taylor said. He looked at Barry. He sighed. “He's telling the truth, damn him.”

“You should be pleased,” Demos said, wiping his eyes and looking embarrassed. “You hurt me, Taylor.” He rubbed his head and his stomach.

“Well, I'm not at all pleased,” Sergeant Kinsley said. “Don't you two dimwits see what this means? The lady's got an enemy, lads, a real live one, one who had no qualms about using explosives with lots of folk around who could have been hurt. No one was, which means he was being a bit careful. Now, let's talk. I need to know who could possibly have it in for her.”

“No one,” Demos said positively. “Not even—ah, no.” He broke off and stared at Taylor.

Taylor was stroking the black stubble on his jaw. He said thoughtfully, “She just inherited a fortune—literally—from her grandmother and her mother. Both were killed in a car accident a week
and a half ago. She inherited everything from her mother and most everything from her grandmother. She's very rich. Her half-sister's pissed and so is her father. He thinks he should have all the money.”

“You're saying La Principessa could be involved?” Demos asked, appalled. “But I thought—” He broke off, wise enough now to keep his mouth shut.

“Who's that?” Barry asked.

Demos said slowly, “That's her half-sister, Princess Sydney di Contini. She's also a model. She, ah, well, she and Lindsay/Eden don't get along. It goes way back, way, way back.”

“Let's call her Lindsay,” Barry said. “Okay, from all her paperwork here, I see her full name is Lindsay Foxe. Where's all this family live, Taylor?”

“In San Francisco. They're evidently old wealth, old power. Lots of both, and all the greedy instincts in the world to go along with it.”

“Is her daddy that federal judge, Royce Foxe?”

“I don't know,” Taylor said. “Is he, Demos?”

“That's him. Smart bastard, from what Sydney says. Real smart, and that's where she got all her brains. She's a lawyer, you know, Harvard Law School, then she married this Italian prince who raped Lindsay in Paris a real long time ago when she was just a kid.”

“Whoa!” Barry stared from one man to the other. “This is for real? She was raped by her brother-in-law?”

There was a knock on the door, then it was pushed open. Enoch's head came around. “Oh,” he said. “Hi, Sarge. What are you doing here? Did Taylor call you for some reason?”

“Well, if it ain't old Enoch Sackett. Still skinny as a post, I see. Doesn't Sheila ever feed you?”

“All the time. It's my metabolism. Hey, Taylor—”

Enoch fell silent. He looked toward Lindsay, whose head was swathed in white bandages. He swallowed and looked back toward Taylor.

“She's going to be okay?”

Taylor nodded. He said to Barry, “Let me speak to Enoch for a minute, okay?”

“Why don't we just have Enoch spill what he knows right here, right now?”

“It's not about the case. It's personal. I'm not lying.”

Sergeant Kinsley looked unconvinced. He looked toward the sleeping woman, wincing unconsciously. He waved Taylor out of the room.

“I heard about the accident on the radio. Why's Barry Kinsley here?”

“It wasn't an accident. It was plastic explosives and meant only for Lindsay.”

“Jesus, man—What are you going to do?”

Taylor looked very tired, as tired as he felt. He needed sleep, a shower, and a good-size meal. His head felt heavy. “I don't know,” he said finally. “Thanks for getting this stuff, Enoch.”

“I downloaded five different French newspapers and tabloids about the rape. Taylor, she was eighteen years old and she was butchered by the press! Another thing—none of them agree. Some come right out and say that she seduced her brother-in-law, others say that her half-sister tried to kill her husband in cold blood and the rape was staged so she could murder him, and one even goes so far as to say that the prince was sleeping with both sisters at the same time and his wife got pissed and shot him. Whatever the explanation, she was an eighteen-year-old Lolita. You go figure.”

Taylor couldn't figure anything at the moment.

“Oh, yes, they even have an overheard comment
supposedly made by the father. He says the daughter is a slut, basically, and that the person who really suffered in the entire matter was Sydney, the wife. This man sounds like a real winner.”

Silence fell between them.

Finally Taylor pulled himself upright. “ Everything okay at the office?”

Enoch nodded. “Not to worry.”

“I'll call you later, then, Enoch. Thanks for all your help.”

When he entered the room, his eyes immediately went to Lindsay. She was still sleeping.

Barry said, his voice pitched deep and soft, “Demos can't come up with any suspects for me, Taylor, other than the family. How about you?”

He looked at the woman he loved, the woman who could be dead, killed by an unknown man or woman. He felt so goddamned helpless. It tasted bitter in his mouth, this helplessness.

“Let me think about it. Lindsay has a good friend—I'll speak to her. Another thing, Barry, what about protection for her here in the hospital?”

“I've got two young guys coming down to keep guard. Both of them on the bitter edge of burnout. But they're good, Taylor, so don't frown at me or give me any of your smart lip. Now, I do need to speak to the lady. I'm going to hunt up her doctor and find out when she'll be with it enough to talk to me. See you later.”

Demos said, “Do you think she saw anything?”

“I don't know. You can believe that Barry will speak to each and every one of the folk on the shoot. Pray to God someone remembers something.”

*     *     *

Lindsay was awake. Her eyes were still closed. She was holding very still. She could hear the soft hissing of the lung machine on the nightstand beside her. Her ribs hurt, a thudding, prodding sort of pain that was with her every moment, and her face felt like she had two tons of concrete pressing down on it. At least she could breathe; at least she was alive. The other she could bear.

She could control the pain. She could and would because she had to think about what had happened. She'd heard this man, this policeman, speaking to Taylor and Demos. What had happened wasn't an accident.

Someone had tried to kill her.

Control the pain. Yes, she had to control the pain because she had to think. But it made no sense. Who? She had no enemies, as far as she knew. Who? She felt fingers on her bare forearm, lightly stroking, making contact, giving her a connection.

“It's all right, sweetheart.”

Taylor's voice—soft and calm. She hadn't realized he was here. He was wiping some Kleenex across her eyes. She hadn't realized she was crying. Then he kissed her, gentle as a soft beam of moonlight.

“It's all right. I'm here. Do you have much pain?”

“I can handle it.” It was so hard to speak. It hurt her face dreadfully. “Water.”

He slipped the straw into her mouth and she sucked on it, feeling shocks of pain as she did so.

He wiped away the tears on her cheeks.

“If you need some painkiller, just press this button here. It's hooked up to your IV. The nurse did that just a couple of hours ago. She said you could take as much as you needed. That's it. Give
yourself a couple of licks. Good. No reason to put up with pain if you don't have to.”

Taylor fell silent, waiting for the pain medication to kick in. He continued to stroke her arm, a habit now, probably one he would keep the rest of his life. He finally felt the tension begin to leave her body. Finally. “Now, you just lie here a minute, and I'll fetch your nurse. She wanted to know when you woke up. You've got two doctors, not just one, and both of them want to see you.”

She closed her eyes, feeling the pain recede, leaving a strange sort of lethargy and numbness in their wake. She remembered thinking how miraculous it was when her grandmother had showed her how she could get as much painkiller as she wanted by just pressing a button. Now she was in the same position. She could still feel the immense weight, the pounding and heaviness of her face, but the pain was removed. Odd, but it was true.

Dr. Perry arrived first. She remembered him and tried to smile. “You're doing just fine,” he said first thing.

“My face feels like it weighs two tons.”

“I know. It's the swelling from the blow you took, combined with the swelling from the surgery. You'll need pretty heavy-duty painkillers for another couple of days. Then it will ease and feel more normal by the day. Tomorrow we'll change the bandages. We don't want to take any chances with infection. The stitches come out in about nine days. We'll be able to tell then, pretty much, the results of my handiwork.”