Twice Dead (69 page)

“Get out or I'll call the sheriff!”

Lily laughed, couldn't help it. “Sheriff Bozo?”

Elcott Frasier yelled, “His name is Scanlan, not Bozo!” Then he nearly ran to the door, jerked it open, and left them staring after him. Simon said to Lily as he helped her to her feet, “It's been quite a morning, first Abe and now your soon-to-be-ex-father-in-law, both of them leaving us in their lairs and stalking off. But everyone is shook up now, Lily. We've stirred the pot as much as we can. Now we wait to see who does what. Maybe old man Frasier will decide to cut a deal. Now, you ready for a light lunch, maybe Mexican?”

“There isn't a Mexican restaurant in Hemlock Bay. We'll have to go to Ferndale.”

Loralee Carmichael looked them over very carefully as they left the reception area. Simon wiggled his fingers in good-bye to her. There was no sign of Elcott Frasier.

He said carefully, as he walked slowly beside her to the elevator, “I want you to consider leaving the rest of this to me. Can I talk you into going back to Washington?”

“No, don't even try, Simon.”

“I had to try. When bad men are afraid, Lily, they do things that aren't necessarily smart, but are, many times, deadly.”

“Yes. We will be very careful.”

He sighed and gave it up. “Over tacos we can discuss our next foray.”

“Do you really think Olaf Jorgenson set this whole thing up?”

“When you think about it, he's the one with all the contacts and the expertise, unless our Mr. Monk knows more about the illegal side of the business than we're aware of yet. I'm sure Frasier will be speaking to Mr. Monk if he hasn't already. I can't wait to hear what this guy with his bedroom eyes has to say.”

 

SIMON paused a moment, switched his cell phone to his other ear, then said, “That's all of it, Savich, every gnarly detail.”

He waited for Savich to ask him questions, but Savich didn't say anything. Simon could practically hear him sorting through possible scenarios.

Simon said, “Lily did really good, Savich. She's tired, but she's hanging in. I've tried to talk her into going back to Washington, but she won't hear of it. I swear I'll keep her safe.”

“I know you will,” Savich said finally. “Just to let you know, Clark Hoyt, the SAC in the Eureka FBI office, is going to provide you backup. I figured you guys would stir everything up and that could be very dangerous. I don't want you to be on your own. If you happen to see a couple of guys following you, they're there to keep you safe. If you have any concerns, give Clark Hoyt a call. Now, you make Lily rest. How many tacos did she get down?”

“Three ground beef tacos, a basketful of chips, and an entire bowl of hot salsa. We're going to hole up now, then see Mr. Monk in the morning. By then, they'll all have spoken together, examined their options, made plans. I can't wait to see what they'll do. Give my love to Sherlock, and let Sean teethe on your thumb. Any word on Tammy Tuttle?”

“No.”

“I'll call you after we've seen Mr. Monk tomorrow.”

“Clark told me they've got a line on Morrie Jones. It shouldn't be long before he's in the local jail.”

“I'll call the cops in Eureka and find out.” He paused, then added, “I'm not planning on letting Lily out of my sight.”

SEVENTEEN

 

Lily was deeply asleep, dreaming, and in that dream, she was terrified. There was something wrong, but she didn't know what. Then she saw her daughter, and she knew Beth was crying, sobbing, but Lily didn't know why. Suddenly, Beth was far away, her sobs still loud, but Lily couldn't get to her. She called and called, and then Beth simply wasn't there and Lily was alone, only she wasn't really. She knew there was something wrong, but she didn't know what.

Lily jerked up in bed, drenched with sweat, and groaned with the sharp ache the abrupt movement brought to her belly. She grabbed her stomach and tried to breathe in deeply.

When she did, she smelled smoke. Yes, it was smoke and it was in her room. That was what was wrong, what had brought her out of the nightmare. The smell of smoke, acrid, stronger now than just a moment before. Then she saw it billowing up around the curtains in the window, black and thick, the curtains just catching fire.

Dear God, the bed-and-breakfast was on fire. She hauled herself out of the high tester bed with its drapey gauze hangings and hit the floor running.

Her door was locked. Where was the key? Not in the door, not on the dresser. She ran to the bathroom, wet a towel, and pressed it against her face.

She ran to the phone, dialed 911. The phone was dead. Someone had set the fire and cut the phone lines. Or had the fire knocked out the lines? Didn't matter, she had to get out. Flames now, in the bedroom, licking up around the edges of the rug beneath that window with its light and gauzy draperies. She raced, bowed over, to the wall and began banging on it. “Simon! Simon!”

She heard him then, shouting back to her. “Lily, get the hell out of there, now!”

“My door's locked. I can't get it open!”

“I'm coming! Stay low to the floor.”

But Lily couldn't just lie down and wait to be rescued. She was too scared. She ran back to the door and pulled and tugged the doorknob. She picked up a chair and smashed it hard into the door. The chair nearly bounced off it. It didn't matter, anything to loosen it from its frame. The door did shudder a bit. She realized the door wasn't hollow. It was old-fashioned and solid wood. She heard Simon jerk his door open, heard him knocking on doors, yelling. Thank God he hadn't been locked in like she was.

Then he was at her door, and she quickly moved back. She heard him kick it, saw it shudder. Then he kicked it hard again, and the door slammed inward. “You okay?”

“Yes. We've got to warn everyone.” She began coughing, doubled over, and he didn't hesitate. He picked her up in his arms and carried her down the wide mahogany staircase.

Mrs. Blade was in the lobby, and she was helping out a very old lady who was sobbing quietly.

“It's Mrs. Nast. She's a permanent resident. I tried to call nine-one-one but the line's dead, of all things. There are people on the third floor, Mr. Russo. Please get them.”

“I've already called nine-one-one on my cell phone. They're on their way.” Simon set Lily down and ran back up the stairs. He heard her hacking cough as he ran.

He didn't get to the top of the stairs alone. Beside him at the last minute were firemen, all garbed up and yelling for him to get back downstairs and out of the building.

He nodded, then saw a young woman struggling with two children, coughing, trying to pull them down the corridor. The two firemen had their hands full with other guests. Simon simply grabbed all three of them up in his arms and carried them downstairs. They were all coughing by the time they got out the front door, the kids crying and the mother holding herself together, comforting them, thanking him again and again until he put his hand over her mouth. “It's okay. Take care of your kids.”

They saved a lot of The Mermaid's Tail, and all of the ten people staying there. No serious injuries, only some smoke inhalation.

Colin Smith, the agent sent over by Clark Hoyt to maintain an overnight watch on the bed-and-breakfast, told them he'd seen two men sneaking around, followed and lost them, turned back to see the smoke billowing up, and immediately called the fire department. That was why most of The Mermaid's Tail was still standing.

Agent Smith left them, after making certain they were okay, to repeat his story to the fire chief and the arson investigator, who'd just arrived.

Simon was holding Lily close to him. She was barefoot, wearing a long white flannel nightgown that came to her ankles, and her hair was straggling around her shoulders. He'd managed to scramble into jeans and a sweater and sneakers before he'd left his bedroom. He blew out, but didn't see his breath. It was cold, probably just below fifty degrees, and the firemen were distributing coats and blankets to all the victims. Neighbors were coming out with more blankets and coffee, even some rolls to eat.

Simon said, “You okay, Lily?”

She nodded. “We're alive. That's all that matters. The bastards. I can't believe they set the entire place on fire. So many people could have been hurt, even killed.”

“Your brother realized before I did they'd probably try something. You met Agent Colin Smith. Your brother got the SAC here in Eureka to send him to watch over us.”

She sighed. She was exhausted, doubted that any part of her would move, even if she begged. “Yeah, I realized he was a guard for us. I sure wish he'd caught them before they set the fire.”

“He does, too. He's really beating himself up. He was calling in his boss, Clark Hoyt, last time I saw him. Hoyt will probably be here soon. I'll bet you he's already called Savich.”

“At four o'clock in the morning?”

“Good point.”

“It's really cold, Simon.”

He was sitting on a lawn chair that a neighbor had brought over. He pulled her onto his lap, wrapping the blankets around both of them. “Better?”

She nodded against his shoulder and whispered, “This really sucks.”

He laughed.

“You know, Simon, even Remus wouldn't go so far as to do this sort of thing. Someone so desperate, so malevolent, they don't care how many people they kill? That's really scary.”

“Yes,” he said slowly, “it is. I didn't expect anything like this.”

“You got mugged in New York so soon after you left Washington. These people work really fast. I'm beginning to think it's Olaf Jorgenson behind all this, not the Frasiers, like you said. How would the Frasiers have even known about you or where you were?”

“I agree. But you know, the guy didn't try to kill me, at least I don't think he did.”

“Probably a warning.”

“I guess. This wasn't a warning. This was for real. We're in pretty deep now, Lily. I'll bet you Clark Hoyt isn't going to let us out of his sight for as long as we're in his neck of the woods.”

“At this point I'm glad. No, Simon, don't say it. I'm not about to leave you alone now.” She fell silent, and for a little while he thought she'd finally given out. Then she said, “Simon, did I ever tell you that Jeff MacNelly was my biggest influence for Remus?”

Who was Jeff MacNelly? He shook his head slowly, fascinated.

“Yes, he was. I admired him tremendously.” When she realized he didn't have a clue, she added, “Jeff MacNelly was a very famous and talented cartoonist. He won three Pulitzer Prizes skewering politicos. But he never once said that they were evil. He died in June of 2000. I really miss him. It upsets me that I never told him how much he meant to me, and to Remus.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, Lily.” He realized then she was teetering on the edge of shock, so he pulled another blanket around her. It was too much even for her. Her life had flown out of control when she'd married Tennyson Frasier. He couldn't imagine what she'd gone through when her daughter had been killed and she'd managed to survive months of depression. And then all this.

Lily said, “Jeff MacNelly said that ‘when it comes to humor, there's no substitute for reality and politicians.' I don't like this reality part, Simon, I really don't.”

“I don't either.”

 

Savich slowly hung up the phone, stared out his window a moment, then lowered his face to his hands.

He heard Sherlock say, “What is it, Dillon? What's happened?” Her competent hands were massaging his shoulders, her breath was warm on his temple.

He raised his head to look up at her. “I should have killed her, Sherlock, should have shot her cleanly in the head, like I did Tommy Tuttle. This is all my fault—that boy's death in Chevy Chase, and now this.”

“She's killed again?”

He nodded, and she hated the despair in his eyes, the pain that radiated from him. “In Road Town, Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands.”

“Tell me.”

“That was Jimmy Maitland. He said the police commissioner received all our reports, alerted his local officers, waited, and then a local pharmacist was murdered, his throat cut. The place was trashed, impossible to tell what drugs were taken, but we know what was stolen—pain meds and antibiotics. They don't have any leads, but they're combing the island for a one-armed woman who's not in good shape. No sign of her yet. Not even a whiff. Tortola isn't like Saint Thomas. It's far more primitive, less populated, more places to hide, and the bottom line is there's no way to get to and from the island except by boat.”

“I'm very sorry it happened. You know she's gotten ahold of a boat. By now she's probably long gone from Tortola, to another island.”

“It's hard to believe that no one's reported a boat stolen.”

“It's late,” Sherlock said. “E-mail all the other islands, then let it go for a while. Let's go home, play with Sean, then head over to the gym. You need a really hard workout, Dillon.”

He rose slowly. “Okay, first I've got to talk to all the local cops down there, make sure they know what's happened on Tortola, tell them again how dangerous she is.” He kissed her, hugged her tightly, and said against her temple, “Go home and start playing with Sean. I'll be there in a while. Have him gum some graham crackers for me.”