Forever (16 page)

A hint of a frown crossed Vinette's face.
Would it be rude to telephone him? she wondered.

She ruminated about it for a while, and then
came to a decision. It wouldn't be rude to call, she thought. On
the contrary. It would be bad manners not to. Yes. She'd telephone
and tell him how much she appreciated his offer of help, but that
it really wasn't necessary, praise Jesus! And she would share with
him the good news that CRY was seriously looking for Jowanda . . .
that it was only a matter of time before the two of them would be
reunited . . .

Walking purposefully over to the telephone,
she picked up the receiver, dialled for an outside line, and
squinted her eyes to read the telephone number on the card.

The bedside phone shrilled, reaching down
through the layers of sleep. Momentarily disoriented, Stephanie
blinked awake and automatically groped for the receiver.' 'Lo?' she
mumbled into it.

A woman's voice came on the line. 'May I
speak to Mr Merlin, please?'

Stephanie drew an annoyed breath, wondering
if this was somebody's idea of a cruel joke, and for a moment
almost snapped that there were no telephones in coffins - not
unless you were Mary Baker Eddy. But something stifled her tart
reply. Perhaps it was the shyness of the woman's voice? The
solemnity of her tone? Or the extraordinary, soft-spoken
politeness? Whatever it was, she found herself asking, 'Who is
this?'

'My name is Vinette Jones,' the woman said
quietly, 'and I happen to be in town for a day or so. Mr Merlin and
I recently met at the CRY facility down in Washington, D.C.'

'The what?' Stephanie asked, frowning, and
thought: What on earth is this woman talking about?

'You know,' Vinette said, 'Children's Relief
Year-Round?'

'Oooooh . . . ' said Stephanie.

'Anyway, Mr Merlin was down there doing some
sort of research or other,' Vinette was explaining, 'and I was
trying to find my baby, which CRY apparently'd lost. That's how we
met. If you could kindly tell him that, I'm sure he'll remember
me.'

Stephanie rubbed her eyes, willing her fuzzy
brain to uncloud. 'Ms Jones,' she said slowly, 'you wouldn't, by
any chance, happen to know what he was doing at the CRY facility in
Washington, would you?'

'No,' Vinette said, 'I'm afraid not. When I
asked him, Mr Merlin says, "I'm researching a project I'm working
on." That's all he said.'

'I see.' Stephanie struggled to concentrate.
What she really needed, she knew, was a good, long, uninterrupted
sleep, a rejuvenating sleep that would clear the cobwebs in her
mind and let her think sharply and concisely. The kind of sleep she
hadn't had in days. 'Let me get this straight, Ms Jones,' she said
curiously. 'You did say that you were there because they'd . . .
lost . . . your baby?'

'Yes, ma'am!' Vinette's voice turned
indignant. 'And neither Mr Merlin nor me was getting to base one,
which is what got us talking in the first place . . . You know how
it is when people wait in a long supermarket checkout line with a
slow cashier? Or in a gov'ment office where you have to wait for
hours?'

Stephanie said she did.

'Anyhow, that's how we got started talking.
And Mr Merlin, he was kind enough to give me his card. He says, "If
you get much more of a runaround, maybe I can be of some help, or
at least steer you to someone who can." I thanked him kindly, and
he said, "Feel free to call anytime." '

'And that's all he told you?' Stephanie
pressed, switching on the bedside lamp and blinking against the
sudden brightness.

'Let me see,' Vinette said, pausing to
search her mind. 'We talked about the runaround we were both
getting, how it was raining cats and dogs, how drugs was ruining
D.C. He bought me a cup of coffee . . . Oh. Come to think of it,'
she said reflectively, 'he did mention something about how his
research and their losing my baby might somehow be connected.'

Stephanie, feeling a quickening of her
pulse, asked, 'Did he happen to say how?'

'No, he didn't. And see, I didn't think to
ask, because at the time I was so upset, them losing my baby, and
all.'

Suddenly, despite her fatigue, Stephanie
snapped wide awake.

First, foremost, and always a journalist,
her professional antennae had gone on full alert. She couldn't say
what, precisely, had triggered it - it was more of an instinctive
feeling, a mere ripple of an intuition - but she got the distinct
feeling that there was more . . . much, much more to this than met
the eye. It was the kind of feeling she'd long ago learned to put
her trust in, and, more often than not, had resulted in her
breaking the biggest stories of her career.

But this time, what galvanised her was not a
potential story, but something far closer to her heart: trying to
discover what had really happened to her grandfather. Perhaps with
Vinette Jones's help, she'd be able to start piecing together
Carleton Merlin's last few weeks - and prove that he hadn't killed
himself.

Why? she asked herself now. Why had his
research taken him, of all places, to Children's Relief Year-Round?
He wasn't - hadn't been, she corrected herself, having to get used
to the idea of thinking of him in the past tense - an investigative
reporter. No. Her grandfather had been a biographer. Specifically,
he'd been researching the life of one Lili Schneider.

Which brought her to the $64,000 question.
What in the world, she wondered, trying in vain to think of a
connection, could a long-dead diva and an organisation like CRY
have in common?

It just didn't add up.

In her hotel suite, Vinette curled the coils
of the telephone cord nervously around her index finger. 'The
reason I'm calling,' she was telling Stephanie, 'is I wanted to
thank Mr Merlin personally for offering his help, even though I
won't be needing it now, praise the Lord. What Mr Kleinfelder at
CRY's doing, he's finding Jowanda by computer. Imagine!' She added
meekly, 'I'm not catching Mr Merlin at a bad moment, am I?'

'I can assure you that you're not.'
Stephanie's voice held more than a hint of dry irony.

Vinette didn't catch it. 'Oh, I'm so glad,'
she said with audible relief. 'If you'll pardon my asking, you
don't happen to be Mrs Merlin?'

'No. I'm his granddaughter. Stephanie.'

Vinette smiled to herself. Stephanie. What a
pretty name.

Vinette said warmly, 'You sound like a very
nice young lady, Ms Mer - ' Suddenly she stopped in mid-sentence
and cocked her head.

'Ms Jones?' Stephanie was asking.

Vinette glanced over her shoulder towards
the door. She said, 'I'm sorry. Could you hold on a minute? I think
somebody's at the door. I'd better go check and see who it is. It
could be about my baby.'

'Sure,' Stephanie told her, 'go right
ahead.'

Vinette put down the receiver and smoothed
her dress as she hurried to the door. The knocking came again, this
time a little louder.

She wondered who it might be. Mr
Kleinfelder, perhaps? Or . . . Good heavens! she thought, her heart
starting to pump madly. It might even be somebody bringing me my
darling Jowanda! My own little baby could be right outside in the
hall, waiting in somebody's arms -

Swiftly she unlocked the door and yanked it
wide.

Instantly, her shining face dulled. It
wasn't Mr Kleinfelder, nor was it someone with Jowanda. It was a
uniformed hotel employee with one of those small room-service carts
with drop leaves which fold out into tables. Its white draped
surface was laid with a place setting for one.

'Y-yes?' Vinette asked in confusion.

The employee smiled. 'Room service,
ma'am.'

'There must be some mistake. I didn't order
-'

'Compliments of the management, ma'am.'

'Oh!' Flustered, Vinette stepped aside. 'I'm
sorry. Please.' She gestured. 'Do come on in.'

'Thank you, ma'am,' said The Ghost.

New York City

The Ghost rolled the cart carefully into the
suite and closed the door, surreptitiously locking it so that
Vinette had no inkling she had suddenly become a prisoner.

'Ma'am? How about if I set the table up
right here, by the sofa? That all right with you?'

Startled, Vinette half turned and bobbed her
head. 'That'll be just fine,' she said. She was standing back, out
of the way. Uncomfortably watching the efficient dinner
preparations and fidgeting as if - as if she felt she should be
doing the serving!

Flipping up the drop leaves, The Ghost
caught sight of Vinette glancing at the telephone receiver lying on
the end table. Obviously she'd been on the horn and had somebody
waiting.

Eyewitnesses were one thing; The Ghost
avoided them like the plague. But sharing a kill with someone who
wasn't present - especially someone who didn't have an inkling as
to what was going on - added a delicious kind of spice. Gave a kill
that extra little thrill, gave it Style with a capital'S'.

'Be out of your hair in a moment, ma'am.'
The Ghost only said that to keep Vinette from picking up the
receiver and talking to whoever she had on hold. 'I hope blanquette
de veau is to your liking?' The Ghost was looking at her with an
arched brow, one hand on the handle of the larger of two domed
lids.

'Oh, I'm sure it will be!' Vinette said.

'Please, ma'am. If you'll just take a look,
then I can be on my way.'

Vinette came over to the table and, quick as
lightning, The Ghost slid a .44 Magnum out from under the lid and
brought it up, the muzzle of the perforated silencer pressing
against her forehead.

Vinette let out a surprised cry, as if a
rabbit had been produced out of a hat.

'Easy, little mama. Eeeeeasy does it ...
'

The surprise left Vinette's face, to be
replaced by dawning horror. She let out a cry as the hammer was
cocked.

'Hope you're not gonna be stupid, little
mama. Don't want to have to pull this trigger unless I have to.
Sure'd make a mess if I did. See, this baby'11 take out a truck
engine. Or blow your head apart like a watermelon.'

The smile broadened, displaying perfect
white Chiclets.

Waiting for Vinette to come back on the
line, Stephanie could hear faint snatches of muted conversation,
but it was too distant and indistinct to make out what was being
said. Then she thought she heard -

What had it been? A cry? A . . . sob?

Stephanie frowned. 'Ms Jones?' she said
tentatively.

There was no reply.

Gripping the receiver with her hand, she
said louder: 'Ms Jones? Are you there? Is everything all
right?'

But her queries were met by silence.

W - what . . .?

For a moment, Vinette's mind simply blanked
out. The room, the city, the entire universe seemed suddenly
compacted, condensed into the few cubic feet of atoms their two
bodies occupied. She was conscious of nothing but the here and now:
the gun, the assailant, and the chill steel pressing against her
skull; conscious, too, of the sheer fragility of life, of how
easily it could be snuffed out.

Cold sweat drenched her, made her reek of
her own fear. She could feel herself losing it. Coming apart at the
seams like a sweater when you pull at a piece of wool and it just
keeps on unravelling and unravelling. Vinette sensed more than saw
The Ghost's other hand moving.

Without stirring a muscle of her
shock-frozen body, she lowered her bulging eyes, following the
hand. Watching. Waiting. Not daring to breathe as the second domed
lid was lifted.

She let out a sharp cry.

On the platter, laid out with surgical
precision, were all the accoutrements of - - a junkie!

Why? The question burned in her mind. Why
the length of rubber, the bent, flame-blackened spoon, the syringe
and matches, the tiny foil packet?

Now fear loosened her bladder, but she was
barely conscious of the urine soaking her panties and trickling
down her thighs. She was praying silently but feverishly,
beseeching God to deliver her from this evil, from every evil! -
and all the while, her mind was shrieking the same outraged
question over and over - Why. . . ? Why why why why why . . .?

Stephanie listened intently.

She could hear her own breathing echoing off
the mouthpiece and then the hairs at the nape of her neck rose, and
shivery tingles swept up and down her arms, legs, and spine.

Something was not right. She could sense it.
She hadn't been able to make out any of Vinette's words, but even
across the open telephone line, danger reared its ugly head. Seemed
to hiss and growl and snap its jaws.

'Ms Jones?' Stephanie called urgently into
the receiver. 'Ms Jones? If you can hear me, tell me where you are!
Please! I can send for help!'

But the silence crackled malevolently.

The Ghost was standing behind her, oblivious
to the squawks emitting from the telephone.

Vinette was seated now, rigid on the
straight-backed chair which had been brought out from the bedroom.
Her left sleeve was rolled up, and her trembling forearm rested on
the tabletop, her skin a dark, rich shade of chocolate against the
thick white damask cloth. The crook of her elbow was facing up.

In the junkie's classic shoot-up
position.

Which she'd been told to assume.

Sobbing, trying to see what she was doing
through a blur of tears, she fumbled with the length of rubber,
holding one end of it between her teeth, and the other in her right
hand. Winding it around her left wrist. Trying to find a vein in
her hand, because those in her arms had all collapsed from years of
shooting up, before finding Jesus.

'Well?' The Ghost's voice, coming from
behind her, was a sibilant hiss. 'You waitin' for Christmas?' She
felt the silencer thump lightly against the back of her skull.
'Rather I blow your head all to pieces? Kill you like that?'