Читать книгу Conspiracy Thriller 4 E-Book Bundle - Scott Mariani - Страница 61

In a strange way, Wesley thought in a fleeting moment of relaxation as he contemplated the sea and stroked his beard, his being here, his being safely tucked away where nobody could ever find him or his treasure, was all thanks to Giselle.

Ah, Giselle. They’d lost contact long ago. He knew she was still appearing in movies, but he hadn’t seen any of them.

Looking back, Wesley and his fourth and last wife had been completely mismatched right from the start. She’d been too young for him, too impetuous, too absorbed in a burgeoning acting career that dominated her every move and decision, and, for the three and a half years the marriage had endured, limping on, Wesley’s every move and decision as well. For a man whose natural tendency was to shy away from the hubbub of the world, the constant prying of press hounds had been unbearable. Whenever Wesley opened the door, there was a camera poking into his face trying to steal a snap of the celebrity couple. He couldn’t go to the bathroom or undress for bed without fretting that he was being watched through a long-distance lens. As for trying to go anywhere or eat a quiet meal in a restaurant, forget it.

Giselle had adored the attention, of course, feeding off it like a butterfly on nectar. But to Wesley the intrusion into his hallowed privacy was the death of his very soul. The last straw had been when he’d found his dear wife conducting a guided tour of the Whitworth Mansion for journalists from Persona magazine.

That was when, driven to distraction, Wesley had made a secret bid on a (for him) modestly-sized, yet tolerably luxurious, beach hideaway on the island of Martha’s Vineyard, off Cape Cod. Through the remainder of his marriage to Giselle he’d escaped there whenever humanly possible, always on some flimsy excuse about making a business trip – Giselle had never cared that much where he was, anyway – and after the inevitable divorce had come and gone it had never once occurred to him to sell it. The deeds were held in the name of an obscure trust he’d set up decades earlier and never developed into anything, so that the real owner was quite untraceable.

Wesley so relished the serenity of his island bolt-hole that he’d always been very reticent about telling anyone about it. Not even his longtime lawyer, Bob Mooney, had any idea about the place. Coleman Nash had been in on it, and Wesley had also confided in Simeon Arundel once, after a few glasses of wine. The secret now rested with the dead.

The first thing Wesley had done on reaching the end of his terrifying journey had been to take the precious fibreglass case straight down to his vault. Built for storing artwork and other valuable items when he wasn’t around (there was no crime to speak of on the island, but you could never be too careful), the vault was buried ten feet beneath the foundations of the house within walls of reinforced concrete that could (according to the architects) withstand a nuclear blast. It was unshakeably secure, fire-proof, flood-proof, humidity-proof, fully air-conditioned, and a whole host of other fancy features for which Wesley had shelled out large amounts of cash and then duly pushed to the back of his mind.

Only when the sword had been safely stored away on Wesley’s arrival had he truly been able to relax, helped by a few tots of best Bourbon to restore his shattered nerves after the nightmare trek east. Calm down. You’re alive. Nobody knows you’re here. For a while he’d basked blissfully in the knowledge that he was safe. He had everything he needed, enough supplies and food to live comfortably for months without venturing near a town.

But now the pressure was returning, and so were the worries. Wesley was sporadically haunted by visions of death and carnage. Poor Coleman, and Hubert Clemm, and Abigail, and Kat the receptionist at the motel whose name he couldn’t even remember. All these people who’d been senselessly slaughtered. And the reality was that these ruthless killers were still out there, searching for Wesley while he sat on his ass doing nothing.

Why wasn’t Simeon answering his phone any more? Had something happened to him? In a moment of panicky insecurity, Wesley had taken a heavy cavalry sabre down from one of his wall displays. It had last seen action at Waterloo but the blade was still shaving sharp. The weapon was propped against a chair behind him now as he stood at the window, close to hand, just in case.

It was time to start planning his next move. He walked away from the window, picked up the sabre by its steel scabbard and carried it over to the old-fashioned Bakelite dial telephone. The mechanism whirred as Wesley carefully dialled in the prefix that would block his caller ID, followed by Bob Mooney’s direct line at his offices in Rochester.

The instant the lawyer heard Wesley’s voice, he exploded. ‘Jesus Christ, Wesley. Why haven’t you called? Where in hell are you?’

‘Best you don’t know. Somewhere far away.’

‘What’s going on? Everyone here is frantic with worry. The cops need to talk to you. In case you’d forgotten, there’s a murder investigation going on at your house. You can’t just up and disappear like this.’

‘Am I a suspect?’

‘Not that I’m aware of, but I know the way cops think and it doesn’t help that you run off like a fugitive and don’t tell anyone where you’re going.’

‘I have my reasons, Bob. You’ll find out soon enough. That’s not why I’m calling. There’s something I need you to do for me. Can I count on you for this? It’s important.’

Mooney sounded hurt. ‘Hey, how long have we known each other?’

‘Here’s what I want. Find out who’re the best personal protection team in the country. Whatever they charge, pay them double, triple, just make sure you hire them. I want the meanest, toughest sons of bitches you can dig up. I’ll contact you again in twenty-four hours and you give me the number to call.’

A moment’s appalled silence on the phone. ‘Wesley, if you’re in some kind of trouble here—’

‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘Why do you need protection?’

‘Will you do this for me or not?’

‘Naturally I will. Give me your number there so I can put these people in touch with you.’

‘No, Bob.’

‘I’ll know it anyway.’

‘I withheld it.’

Bob seemed amazed that Wesley should be savvy to such modern trickery. ‘Come on, Wes. You gotta give me something.’

‘When it’s the right time, I’ll tell you where I am.’

‘When will that be?’

‘Once everything’s in place. Then I’ll fill you in as best I can. Until then, I’m keeping my mouth shut.’

Mooney let out an exasperated sigh. ‘Is it serious trouble? Tell me that at least.’

‘Pretty serious.’

‘Does it have to do with what happened at the mansion?’

‘Uh-huh. And more besides.’

‘For Chrissakes, Wes, even I can’t hold back the tide for ever. You’ve got to come forward with this. As your lawyer I have to tell you that the weirder you act, the less you’re gonna look like the chief witness and more like the chief suspect. That’s how the cops, and everyone else, are going to see it.’

‘That can’t be helped for the moment,’ Wesley said. ‘I trust you, Bob. Talk to you tomorrow.’

Wesley hung up the phone, picked up his sabre and walked through the airy house to the kitchen to check on how his steak was defrosting. A bottle of 1993 Bordeaux was sitting opened on the side, nothing too ostentatious, a modest little hundred-dollar table wine to go with his dinner. Thinking he’d like to replay those Bach Goldberg Variations that he’d been listening to earlier, he turned back towards the living room.

A man he’d never seen before was standing in the hallway, looking right at him.

‘Wesley Holland?’ the man said.

Wesley sucked in a great lungful of air and felt his knees turn to jelly. He staggered back a step. ‘I’m not Holland. Who the hell are you?’

‘We spoke on the phone,’ the man said. ‘And I never forget a voice.’

‘You get away from me,’ Wesley rasped. He gripped the hilt of the sabre and rattled the weapon out of its steel scabbard.

‘I’m not here to hurt you,’ the man said, moving forward a step.

Wesley didn’t believe that, not for one moment. He could see the purposeful look in the stranger’s eye, and was ready to make a lunge with the blade and then run like hell for the vault. He’d lock himself in down there, even if it meant starving to death. Anything was preferable to what these people would do to him.

‘Another step closer and I’ll run you right through, mister. I mean it.’ His hand was shaking so badly he could barely grip the sabre hilt.

‘Why don’t you put that down, so we can talk?’ the stranger said.

‘Who are you?’ Wesley quavered. ‘What do you want from me?’

At that moment, another figure appeared in the hallway. He was a younger man of about twenty, with a shock of fair hair. Wesley peered at him. He could have sworn the young man looked familiar.

‘I’m Jude Arundel,’ he said. ‘You were a friend of my father’s.’