Thorn by Fred Saberhagen (reading like a writer TXT) 📕

      “Gliddon,” said Mary, and made a face. “I didn’t like him.” Still her dislike hardly seemed to make any difference in her concern over the pilot’s fate. “When I lived at the house he was always in and out, though I never knew what he did. It must have been some kind of work for Ellison.”

      Robinson Miller said to Thorn: “Do I understand you to mean that you think the plane didn’t really crash?”

      “Correct me if I am wrong,” said Thorn, “but I believe that the land between here and Santa Fe is somewhat sparsely populated?”

      Miller nodded. “Five hundred miles of nothing.”

      “Mountains, deserts, some forests,” Mary amended. “Late last spring two Air Force planes from the missile range at Alamogordo were lost. They crashed right out in the open and in spite of a big search it was months before the wreckage was found. At least it’s not winter now. I suppose if Gliddon survived a crash in the mountains he’s got a chance.”

      “Somehow,” said Thorn, “I have little doubt that he survived.”

      Mary looked puzzled; she didn’t get it yet. Miller said: “I suppose Seabright was having a fit. Though not over the missing man, of course.”

      Thorn nodded. “He was going through the motions of one who is, as you say, having a fit over some lost property. Barking orders, phoning hither and yon, demanding explanations, demanding action. But I … have had some opportunity of observing humanity under various kinds of stress. And I am sometimes able to see through efforts at deception. And—this is why I have come to talk to you tonight—I think Mr. Seabright was not truly surprised by the news that his masterpiece and his aircraft and its pilot were missing. Indeed, I suspect that one reason I was invited to his house tonight was to provide him with a neutral witness, able to testify to his surprise and his dismay.”

      Some of Mary’s old fierce delight quickly returned. She thumped the arm of the battered sofa. “I believe you!” she cried. “He’s pulled another trick! He’s getting away with it again!”

      But Miller was frowning, shaking his head. “The suggestion being, I suppose, that Seabright is somehow spiriting the painting away into hiding by faking a plane crash. But he’s just bought it and paid for it. Why the hell should he steal it from himself?”

      Thorn had his ideas on that subject. But he said nothing for the moment.

      “Insurance money!” Mary pounced.

      Her lawyer was still shaking his head. “No, I don’t think so. That kind of thing isn’t easy to get away with—”

      “Neither is murder, but he got away with killing Helen and Del.”

      “—and anyway, since the painting was being carried on his private aircraft I doubt that any insurance coverage on it would be in force.” Miller’s gaze focused suddenly on Thorn. “You’re not from some insurance company, are you?”

      “No,” Thorn said patiently. “I am a collector, as is Seabright.” A few feet away, in the kitchen, the telephone began to ring. Miller got up to answer it.

      “Mary.” Thorn looked at her intently. “Why did Delaunay give you that painting?”

      His gaze did not bother her. “Why? I told you. Out of gratitude, for my helping Helen. He was that kind of a guy, I guess. He knew I’d sell the painting, I’m sure. He just wanted me to have some money to use, helping other kids.”

      “You say you think Ellison knew about this gift? How can you be sure?”

      But Mary was looking toward the kitchen doorway. Miller was standing there, rather like some interviewer with a microphone, holding out toward Mary the yellow telephone receiver on its helixed cord. But the look on his face was that of a man in shock; and Thorn got to his feet.

      “Who? What?” asked Mary vaguely, standing also.

      Miller licked his bearded lips. “She says … she’s Helen.”

There was a pause in which no one did anything. Then Mary sprang forward. In a moment she was holding the phone pressed against her disheveled hair. “Who is this? If this is supposed to be some kind of a joke, it isn’t…”

      A feminine voice at the other end of the connection had begun to answer. It was a quiet voice, and its tones were mottled and distorted by an imperfect connection somewhere, and at first Mr. Thorn could not make out the words. But Mary could, and they had an immediate effect. Her face lost color, and her hand holding the receiver slumped a little. “What?” she asked weakly.

      The voice at the other end made itself louder. Now both men standing by in the kitchen could hear it well enough to distinguish words. “Mary, this isn’t any joke. It’s me. I can’t come back now, it’s too dangerous. Anyway, I don’t really want to. Everything’s fine for me the way things are. But I wanted to talk to you. You’re my best friend, Mary.” Mr. Thorn, listening hard, thought there was a certain dazed quality in the voice; a disconnection from present reality, as if it might be reciting lines learned for a play.

      “Helen? What do you mean, dangerous?” Mary’s own voice now sounded no less dazed. “Why? Where are you?”

      “You know why, Mary, if I come back he’s going to try to kill me again. Look, I wanted to tell you, Mary, I’m sorry about running away again, after all your work with me and all. But there was nothing else for me to do. Please don’t try to look for me again, this time I’m gone for good.”

      “Baby, if this is really you … you tell me not to look for you? How can you call me up like this and say a thing like that?”

      “You always said you wanted me to have a happy life someday. So now I’m going to be able to have a happy life. So let me alone.”

      Miller stood beside Mary where she sat in a kitchen chair. He was slowly bending over her, getting his ear closer and