Escape the Night (48 page)

“It would be ironic if she died, as did your father and uncle, as part of John Carey's terrible legacy. I doubt you could preserve your sanity, Peter.”

Carey aimed at the sound of his voice. “How do I know you won't kill her now?”

“Peter, Peter—I could have let this man kill
you
, or shot you myself. Instead I've extended our balance of terror. You don't wish to die, and I've an incentive to avoid further gunfire. While it's unlikely that
you
could kill
me
, two extra bodies—even an extra bullet fired from a second gun—require more cerebration than I care for the police to give this. And, should you so much as wound me, whatever medical care I require might connect me to this scene.

“I don't propose to let that happen.

“What I propose is that we vanish, leaving Barth as the killer of your uncle, Levy and this man.”

Carey gazed out from the circle of light. “How is that possible?”

Englehardt slowly drew the second revolver from the desk and pointed it at Noelle. Almost casually, he slid the gun he had been holding across the desk, so that it dropped at Barth's side. He spoke into the echo of its fall.

“That, Peter, is the same revolver which
Barth
used to kill all three men, and then himself. His fingerprints are even on it, and the man whose body lies in front of you will be discovered to have been on his payroll. So it's as good as done, really. All that
I
require is a graceful way to leave, and two million dollars of
your
money—a rebate, you might say.”

Carey looked incredulous. “There's no way you can …”

“
We
, you mean?” Englehardt paused for effect. “Not one name or scrap of paper connects me to these men or to this place; neither of you knows my name or has even seen my face. I can utterly disappear, and there will be nothing but your word to say that I exist.

“You've no reason to insist on that.

“You've been avenged for your father's death, and your firm has been restored to you. By leaving, you can spare yourself involvement with tonight's untidy incident and let Barth solve your considerable problems with the police, all the while preparing to discharge your substantial debt of gratitude to me. As its measure, all that I require is the sum of two million dollars to help me continue my career elsewhere. As banking hours have passed, I'll accept your promise to pay me in cash, at a time and place of my choosing; retaining Barth's check as collateral. Upon receiving the money, I'll destroy the check for you, and the firm will be indubitably yours.” Englehardt's voice chilled. “Most important, you'll both still be alive.

“With these two men dead,
you're
the only living witnesses who could conceivably link me to this time or place. By sparing you now, I leave you able to repay me. Any time you wonder who I am, consider keeping my two million dollars, or perceive some further reason to regret our deal, remember that I could find and kill you both with infinitely greater speed and certainty than you could ever help anyone find me. That expressly goes for Miss Ciano: the money I ask is little enough to pay for what she brings to you, let alone clear title to John Carey's firm. Now, Peter, I need your answer.”

Carey did not speak.

As seconds passed, Englehardt felt the scene erode his calm: two men with revolvers, the first framed in light, the second cloaked in darkness, pointing a gun at the woman.

Carey stared at her. Her face sought the sound of his voice.

“Well, Peter?”

Carey stood, holding the gun, and looked back toward Englehardt with his father's cobalt eyes.

“Let her go first,” he said.

CHAPTER 19

Englehardt wished that he could read Carey's eyes more closely. “What do you propose?”

“I want Noelle to leave here safely, now.”

“You don't have that much leverage.”

“
You
want to leave, and then be paid for it.” Carey's voice was tight. “I'm giving you a way.”

He stood behind Martin's crumpled body, aiming the gun. Englehardt gauged the distance between them. Still forty feet …

“How, exactly?”

Carey hesitated. “Is that a telephone on the desk?”

“Yes.”

“Let her call a taxi.”

The absurdity made him angry. “Peter, we're wasting time.”

“Untie her hands—she won't turn around. As soon as she gets in the cab and drives away, you can leave.”

Noelle leaned forward. Aiming at her head, Englehardt felt his arm grow weary. “How will we know when she's left?”

“She'll have the driver honk.” Carey's gun had begun wavering. “We can hear it from the gallery.”

“That's rather clever, Peter, in a self-serving way. With one of you free, you'd diminish the odds of my killing the one who remains.”

“I thought you were trying to avoid killing anyone.”

He even sounds like Charles Carey
, Englehardt thought. He had meant the tape to destroy Peter's reason; instead, functioning on instinct, Peter had adapted—as if, like himself, Peter had some hidden agenda …

“If you have something further in mind, Peter, recall that I killed the man in front of you with just one shot.”

“Untie her,” Carey said. “
I'll
stay with you until the end.”

The loft fell silent.

Slowly, the shadow vanished behind Noelle's chair. “Don't move,” the voice said.

Carey watched. His gun arm ached. The stranger bled at his feet. As if in an eerie dream, Noelle's hands appeared in the light near Barth's head, and then the shadow rose, removing her blindfold.

She gasped at Barth. “Don't look,” Carey called.

She turned to his voice, real again, a face …

“There's a telephone next to your right hand. Pick it up.”

She looked back at him, an animal blinded by light. Her lips parted. The gun moved to her temple. “Pick it up,” Carey repeated.

Turning slowly, she grasped the telephone.

“Call Yellow Cab. Don't think, just do it.”

She hesitated, and then the shadow spoke a telephone number.

Stiffly, she dialed.

“Ask for a cab that's en route.” Carey looked from Noelle toward the shadow, gun pointed. “We're at the corner of Greene Street and Broome. Get a taxi number and a description of the driver. Tell him ten minutes …”

Noelle began repeating his instructions into the telephone. Each word she spoke echoed through the loft. Carey kept watching the shadow.

He saw Noelle's hand move at the corner of his eye, heard the telephone click. “They'll be here?” he asked.

She nodded.

The voice came from behind her. “You've less than ten minutes, Peter. Tell me, how will you get us from here to the gallery.”

Carey hesitated. “The elevator.”

“I can't let you see me, Peter. It's time that I name my conditions. First,
you'll
go to the gallery, alone.”

Carey looked at Noelle. “You'd kill her.”

“You'll have to trust me, as I'm now trusting you to wait while I follow with Miss Ciano. When we arrive, you'll be standing by the door to the gallery. I'll release Miss Ciano. She will slowly walk from the elevator, toward the door. You can aim your revolver at me; mine will be pointed at the base of her spine. If you do nothing foolish, she will pass through the door, alive.” The voice paused. “You've less than nine minutes, Peter.”

Noelle stood. “Don't …”

The gun moved to her temple.

“Well, Peter?”

Carey's eyes locked with Noelle's. “How will you leave?” he asked the shadow softly.

“Upon hearing the taxi's horn, you're to step to the far side of the gallery. I'll begin edging through the statuary, toward the door. If you so much as move, I'll shoot you. If not, I'll leave as I came.”

Carey stared through the darkness: at the man at his feet; at Barth's bloody head; at the faceless shadow, holding the gun to Noelle's temple.

“Seven minutes, Peter.”

Carey felt Noelle's face, pleading and stunned, freeze in his memory.

“If she dies,” he said quietly, “I'll kill you. You've got sixty seconds from the time I get down.”

Seventeen …

Alone in the gallery, Carey watched the door to the elevator.

Twenty-one, twenty-two …

Each second, flashing on the luminous dial of his wristwatch, ticked in his brain.

Quickly, he glanced through the window behind him. The street was empty.

Twenty-seven, twenty-eight …

The elevator kept groaning upward: stepping out, he had pushed the button marked “three.”

Thirty-one, thirty-two …

Reaching in his pocket, he touched a different button on the cassette recorder.

Thirty-six, thirty-seven …

The elevator stopped.

Crouching by the coiled dragon, Carey listened.

Forty-five …

The shadow could walk free. He had taken the psychiatrist's tape from the drawer, wiping Noelle's fingerprints from the telephone as Carey backed to the elevator.

Silence.

Statues watched him, becoming shadows. Still he heard no sound.

Fifty-two, fifty-three …

“
Phillip's quite dead
—
your memory killed him
.”

Sixty.

Noelle was dead.

He stood, starting toward the elevator.

Cables groaned above his head.

The elevator started down.

Backing up to the dragon, Carey heard the elevator coming closer.

The shadow, crouched and alone, would shoot him as its doors parted.

Carey knelt, aiming his revolver at the door.

The doors opened.

Noelle and the shadow appeared in a square of light.

Half rising, Carey crouched behind the dragon.

The shadow had no face. It stood close behind Noelle, gun angled to one side of her head. Its arms and shoulders framed hers in a double image. Her face concealed his.

“Well?” the voice asked.

Carey watched Noelle. Her face was white, immobile, as if in shock.

He stood. “Let her go.”

The shadow nudged her two steps forward, and then the elevator closed behind them.

Noelle became a second shadow in the darkness, merging with the other as if in eclipse. “If you move,” the voice said, “I'll shoot her in the spine. You do understand that?”

Carey nodded, then realized that his nod could not be seen. “Yes,” he said softly.

Slowly, Noelle's shadow separated from the one standing behind her.

She took one step forward, then another, toward Carey.

The two men were still as the statues surrounding them. Only Noelle, crossing the thirty feet between them, moved. There was no sound beyond the creaking of her steps.

Carey could not see her face.

Each step was slow, measured. Carey looked past her at the shadow; its gun hand seemed to follow her …

Slowly, her shadow grew larger, clearer; blocking the other. Carey leaned slightly right, to see the stranger's shadow …

Floorboards groaned. He winced; the shadow stiffened, did not shoot …

Noelle became a form darker than the darkness which surrounded her, coming closer.

Carey heard the sound of rubber whining on the cobblestones, a car slowing. Noelle came nearer.

The car stopped …

Her face appeared, five feet away.

Her eyes were glistening. They looked not at the street, but at him.

He aimed the revolver past her head.

Her face moved slowly closer. Carey prayed that the taxi would not leave.

She reached him, began passing to his right. When she stopped their faces were so close that he could feel the softness of her breath. Their shoulders brushed.

“Keep going,” he murmured.

She looked into his eyes.

Carey stared past her, aiming at the shadow.

Noelle began moving.

He could not see her now, only hear her close behind him, stepping toward the door. The shadow's arm moved with her.

Carey strained to hear the taxi.

The door clicked, opened …

Cold air hit Carey's neck. “Let her go,” he whispered to the shadow. “Please, let her go.”

He heard her footsteps stop, sliding, as if she had turned back. His jaw tightened.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Carey faced the shadow, arm raised to shoot.

The shadow's gun moved toward Carey. He forced himself to listen.

A door slammed in the street.

Carey closed his eyes.

There were two quick blasts of a horn. Wheels began moving, a motor roared and then slowly faded, and she was gone.

He and the shadow were alone.

“All right, Peter.” The shadow's voice was quiet, almost tender. “It's become my turn to leave you.”

They watched each other. Silent, Carey began backing from the door, and then the shadow started toward it.

Gun aimed at Carey, he glided among the statues in a half-crouch. Knees tensed, Carey backed from statue to statue; he felt them become two marionettes, moving across a puppet stage.

The shadow kept edging toward the door; Carey, along the window facing Greene Street, backing into a corner. The distance between them slowly widened until only the floor, creaking, told him that the shadow was still there.

Carey reached into his pocket.

In the dim light from the street, the shadow reappeared, ten feet from the door.

Carey felt the space behind him shrinking. Soon he would reach the corner between two windows; then the only movement possible would be to his left, in front of the second window.

The shadow, moving, passed the last shadow that was still.

Carey's back touched the corner.

Stepping to his left, he knelt behind the statue of a serpent. The shadow kept moving.

Carey took the cassette recorder from his pocket, resting it on the serpent's tail.