Wherever Lynn Goes (25 page)

It was working. He wanted to talk about it. He wanted to relive each moment. Talking about what he had done made him feel powerful. I realized that, and I knew I had to play upon it. I was alone, helpless, and he had the map now, but there was no hurry. He could take his time, enjoy his triumph to the full.

“You killed Colonel March, too,” I whispered.

“Yeah, that was a clever stroke, a real clever stroke. I was hidin' in the woods, waitin', and the bastard got into the house without me seein' him. He knew somethin' was wrong, see, and he'd come on foot, sneakin' up quietly. I heard him shout, and then I heard a car comin' up the drive. He came streakin' out of the house right in front of the headlights and went tearin' into the woods. I didn't know who was in the car, but I knew they'd think he'd murdered the old bitch. I still had the knife with me, see, I hadn't even wiped it off. So I followed him home. He heard me and took his gun out—” He paused, chuckling, dark eyes alight with satisfaction as he recalled his cleverness.

“So you shot him,” I said.

“He was blusterin' like a real military hero, makin' threats, wavin' the gun in my face. I took it away from him—it was like takin' a toy away from a child. He passed out. I think it must've been shock. The rest was easy. I was wearin' gloves, see, no danger of leavin' fingerprints, so I wrapped his hand around the knife and left his prints on it and placed it at his side. Then I wrapped his fingers around the gun, aimed it, made him shoot himself. It was simple.” He nodded, a wide grin curling his heavy lips. “Everyone thought it was a murder and a suicide, just like I planned.”

“Not quite everyone,” I told him.

“You're talkin' about the whore, aren't you? I thought I heard someone when I was leavin' the cottage that night, but I couldn't be sure. I forgot all about it. I have you to thank for leadin' me to her. If that little tramp had talked, if she'd given out my description, every cop in the country would've swarmed into the area.”

“You followed me into the woods.”

He nodded, still grinning. “When you left London I was right behind you. Someone had to keep an eye on you, in case you discovered something. I've been hangin' around, watchin' the house, keepin' my eye on you. When you headed into the woods yesterday, I was sure you'd found somethin' or you were going after the jewels. I was disappointed, I don't mind admittin', but when I heard that girl blabbin' I realized it was a lucky break. If she'd talked …” He frowned, and then he looked down at his hands, flexing the fingers, admiring them. “You should've seen the fight she put up. Even when I had her down on her knees, chokin' the life out of her, she fought.”

He stared at his leather-gloved hands. I felt my nerves stretch, jangle. The black clouds were forming again, and I knew I couldn't hold on much longer. The panic was fighting to break free, and I was screaming inside. Sheppard looked up at me, rubbed his hands along his thighs, the smile broadening. His eyes burned with anticipation.

“You gonna fight?” he asked.

“My—my father tricked you,” I said quickly. “He took the jewels and buried them. You didn't—didn't know where they were. He was the only one, and—and he wouldn't talk.”

I had sidetracked him, anger temporarily taking the place of anticipation, my own murder forestalled, if only for moments. Moments were priceless. They could mean the difference between life and death. I had to keep him talking … It was my only hope.

“He double-crossed me, the bastard. The cops thought he'd handed 'em over to someone else, but I knew better. They belonged to me. I planned everything. I needed a second man. I called him in at the last minute. It was my idea, my plan. I did all the work. I killed that clerk. Morgan stole into my room while I was asleep and took the jewels, so when the cops came, the jewels were gone. They never found 'em, but I knew I'd find 'em once I got out. It's taken me all this time—”

“He never told anyone where they were,” I said, the words catching in my throat. “He—he must have known he had a heart condition. He must have known he was going to die. He made the box in the craft shop, put the map inside the lid, wrote a cryptic message, hoping I'd understand. All those years it was there—”

“It's over now,” Sheppard said harshly. “It worked out just like the lad said it would. I thought he was crazy—all these weeks passin', the cops lookin' for me, the risk—but he was right Brilliant lad. I got to hand it to him. Psychology, he said. The old bitch didn't know nothin'.
You
didn't know nothin'. There was no one else, so we had to play the game, make the calls, jostle your memory, wait. It worked just like he said it would. I was gettin' pretty impatient—”

“You—you won't get away with it,” I stammered. “The police will—”

“The police are goin' around in circles. We've seen to that. A fellow claimed he saw me in Liverpool, couple of weeks later I was reported seen in Bristol. Now they think I'm in Wales. We threw up a nice smokescreen. The lad thought of that. He's shrewd, real shrewd. I got to hand it to him. He figured this whole thing out. A brilliant mind—”

I had thought the puzzle complete, but I knew now that one piece was missing, the one that tied everything together. I shook my head, refusing to admit it, refusing to allow the final truth to dawn. No. No.
It couldn't be
. I was mistaken.
It couldn't be
. I pushed the image back, shaken by that brief glimpse, knowing I couldn't even consider it, for my last ray of hope would be gone, and I had to cling to it.

Sheppard reached into his pocket and pulled out the map. Unfolding it, he held it with both hands and studied it, chin lowered, brows furrowed, oblivious to me. I took a cautious step backward … another. He looked up, then let the map drop to the table. It drifted like a withered leaf, landing on top of the letters beside the broken box. He looked at me. He looked down at his hands, and that fiendish anticipation burned in his eyes again. I couldn't stall him off any longer. He ran the tip of his tongue around his thick lips. He chuckled. His eyes held mine, and I was paralyzed with terror.

“It's time, Lynn baby. You realize that, don't you?”

“No,” I whispered hoarsely. “No—”

“You've been doomed for weeks. You just didn't know it. Relax. Make it easy on yourself.”

Slowly, he moved toward me, savoring my terror, savoring his power.

Both of us heard the car at the same time, the sound quite distinct in spite of the deluge of rain. Sheppard paused, not more than four yards away from me. He turned his head, listening. I saw the tall porcelain vase on the table at my side. Summoning every ounce of strength, I threw off the paralysis. A car door slammed outside. Sheppard turned back to me.

“I was worried there for a minute, then I realized who it must be. He said he was comin'. I'd better get this over with quickly. He might not want me to kill you, and I ain't gonna be cheated.”

He raised his hands, curled his fingers, grinning. I seized the vase, smashing it across his forehead with all my might. He let out a yell and staggered backward. Bright red blood poured down over his eyes. I turned. I ran, stumbling, knocking over a table, as he lunged after me. I reached the hall, my heart pounding, threatening to burst, my legs giving way. I ran blindly up the stairs. My foot slipped, and I fell against the wall, halfway up. Sheppard tore into the hall. He saw me. He clambered up the stairs toward me, the steps creaking under his weight, his face a mask of maniacal rage. I watched, limp, slipping down the wall, darkness clouding my mind.

A deafening explosion rang in my ears, and I saw the look of total incredulity spread over Sheppard's face. His shoulder seemed to splinter. He grabbed at it with both hands. His knees folded, and he tumbled backward, landing with a heavy thud in almost exactly the same spot where Aunt Daphne had died.

Strong, familiar arms pulled me up, supported me, held me tightly, as I looked up, half unconscious.

“I just winged him good,” Bart said casually. “He isn't dead.”

“How—”

“You were never in danger,” he said, “not for a moment. I've been here all along.”

“I don't under—”

“Hush, love. It's not quite over yet.”

Holding me up, Bart wrapped one arm tightly about my waist. Confused, bewildered, disbelieving, I fought back the waves of blackness skirting over the surface of my mind. As though in a dream, I saw Lloyd step into the hall and point a gun directly at us.

“Drop it!” he said harshly.

“Certainly,” Bart replied.

He dropped the gun. It clattered down the steps with a series of loud metallic thumps, finally coming to rest a few steps from the bottom. Lloyd made no effort to get it. Without expression, he looked at Sheppard's unconscious body lying like a giant rag doll at his feet, blood gushing from the left shoulder. Lifting his eyes, the man I had never known stared up at us, his face as hard as granite. The dark brown eyes were level, and the hand holding the gun was very steady. His coppery hair was wet, his dark tan corduroy overcoat speckled with raindrops. I noticed that the hand at his side clutched the map. He must have picked it up as he came through the parlor.

“Lloyd,” I whispered.

“Surprised?” Bart asked.

“It can't be—”

“Oh, but it is,” Bart said airily. “We haven't met, Raymond, but I'm sure you know who I am.”

“I know,” Lloyd said.

“Lynn's told me quite a lot about you, old chap. Raved about you, in fact. I kept telling her she was making a mistake, that I was the only man for her, but she simply wouldn't listen.”

Bart seemed totally unaware of any danger, paying no heed whatsoever to the gun Lloyd held with such a steady grip. From Bart's manner, we might have been standing on the stairs at a party, making idle chitchat with another guest. As I stared at Lloyd, the shock wore off, and I was amazed that I hadn't suspected sooner. He was a stranger. He had always been. Even when it had seemed we were closest, there had been a remoteness, a wall between us.

“Let's face it, Lynn,” Bart continued in the same chatty vein, “you're a rotten judge of character. You thought he was a paragon, thought I was a cad. You're a bright, lovable girl, but when it comes to men you're extremely naive. Let this be a lesson.”

“Why?” I asked, looking into Lloyd's eyes.

“For this,” he replied, holding up the map, keeping the gun leveled at us. “There's a fortune in uncut gems. I intend to have them. I've been planning this for a long time.”

“I was just a—a tool?”

“You were part of the plan.”

“You—you made those phone calls?”

He nodded brusquely.

“I don't believe it.” I paused, looking at that cold, hard face and trying to find some sign of the Lloyd I had known. “How could you be associated with an animal like that?”

“Blood is thicker than water,” Bart said breezily. “Lloyd is a very devoted nephew—at least, he became one after he grew up and discovered that Uncle Herb took part in a spectacular robbery twenty years ago and that a fortune in uncut jewels was still missing. He made several dutiful visits to Uncle in prison, and when Uncle broke out it was only natural he should make a beeline for his devoted nephew.”

“You seem to know quite a lot,” Lloyd remarked.

“Oh, I know it all. Rest assured. You gave Uncle Herb a hiding place. Kept him in your own flat, didn't you? Who'd ever think of looking for a hardened criminal in the flat of such an ultra-respectable lawyer, a nephew who told the police he was mortified by the relationship, feared it would wreck his career if it ever came out? Right? Right. First thing Herbie did after he found a safe place to hide was drive to Devon to see the sister of his old friend and colleague. When he was convinced that she knew nothing about the missing jewels, he thought about killing her but was afraid it would call attention to the past, so he merely terrorized her. He went back to nephew Lloyd, bewildered. It seemed
no
one knew where the jewels were—and then he remembered the little girl, the daughter who was six years old at the time.”

Bart paused dramatically, clearly enjoying himself. Lloyd stood at the foot of the stairs with the gun in his hand, his hard, handsome face a stony mask. I knew that he was as dangerous as Sheppard, coldly determined to kill us now that he had the map. Bart seemed totally unconcerned. Blithe, chatty, confident, audacious, he wrapped his other arm around my waist, peering over my shoulder at Lloyd. This might all be a jolly lark, a party game the three of us were playing.

“This is where it gets interesting,” he said. “Complicated, too. Your noble hero here made a point of meeting you, overwhelming you with his sincerity and sober charm. He soon discovered you knew nothing, at least not consciously, but he knew quite a lot about psychology. You believed your father had gone to Australia, but there was a chance that he might have said something to you when you were a child, something you'd long since forgotten. So Lloyd devised his plan. It would take time, and it would take a lot of patience, but a fortune was at stake. He couldn't come right out and
ask
you anything—that would give the whole show away—so he started making the phone calls. After each one, he talked to you, questioned you about your father, hoping against hope you'd dredge up some memory that would lead him to the jewels. Am I right, Raymond?”

“Right.”

“It might have gone on indefinitely, but Herbie got anxious. Lloyd might be willing to bide his time, but not Herbie. He came back here, and when Daphne got out of hand he murdered her. Actually, it was a stroke of luck, for if you hadn't come here and remembered the box, the jewels might never have been located. They'd been missing for two decades. Experts had failed to find them. After your father died, not a living soul knew where they were. Lloyd's idea was brilliant—rather farfetched, and complicated as hell—but it bloody well worked.”