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

sighed and looked at Miller as if asking to be forgiven. “Something that I know I’ve never talked about to anyone but Helen.”

      “But that Helen might have talked about,” said Thorn.

      “Well…”

      Thorn went on: “The girl on the phone said ‘he’ would try to kill her again if she came back.”

      Neither of the others wanted to comment. There was a short pause. Then Miller said: “She— whoever it was—said something else that I thought was strange. About being put into ‘real movies’, if I heard it right.”

      “You did,” said Thorn. “And mentioned reunion with someone she had thought ‘lost forever.’ Who had Helen lost forever, Mary?”

      Mary did not reply at once. Miller had put away his pipe and was massaging the back of her neck, her shoulders. She leaned back in the chair, yielding to the motion. “I don’t know,” she murmured at last. “She’s run off … it’ll be a rerun of last time, I’m afraid.”

      Thorn asked patiently: “What happened last time?”

      She looked up at him, her head bobbing with the rhythm of the continuing massage. “Helen ran away and got as far as Chicago. Some jerk there had her acting in porn movies. She wasn’t basically like that at all.”

      “I see. And do you think that this jerk, as you call him, is the long-lost lover she has now rejoined?”

      “Oh no. Not him, never. She doesn’t hate herself that much. But she did talk to me about someone else she met on the road, a boy who meant something to her. She told me his name was Pat. I don’t know if he was involved in the porn factory thing or not, but she must have known him at about the same time.”

      “Pat was a runaway too?”

      Mary thought. “I got the impression from Helen that he was older, a little older anyway. Not a runaway any more, an independent adult. No, independent is not the right word for what adults are like when they’ve grown up that way, on the road. I’ve seen a bunch of them. Lost, usually. Isolated. That’s what they tend to be like when they manage to grow up at all.”

      Miller said: “Come to think of it, I do seem to remember hearing Helen once mention someone called Pat. With a kind of wistful look in her eye.”

      “O’Grandison, that was his last name!” Mary had suddenly come up with it. “Oh, Rob, that must have been Helen on the phone. Oh, my poor baby. I remember now. She used to say Pat had talked to her about making good films, wishing he could help make them, something like that.”

      And here, unexpected by either man, came tears. Miller, still rubbing Mary’s neck tenderly, tried to react lightly. “Mother Mary,” he joked.

      “Don’t laugh at me.”

      “I’m not.” He squeezed her neck muscles firmly again and looked at Thorn. “What do you think?”

      “I think,” said Thorn, “that in the matter of making vile films in Chicago, and in the matter of this Mr. O’Grandison, I may be able to learn something. I repeat that I am not an official investigator of any kind, but in the course of an active life one forms connections.”

Chapter Eight

      My Medici connection was going to be of no direct help in learning whether the woman I sought was in fact within the walls of the palazzo Boccalini. In fact if the alliance became known to the Boccalini it would have the opposite effect, for the two families were rivals, at odds in all sorts of Florentine affairs. My friends the Medici were of course the stronger, but I could not expect them to use their power too nakedly. Their rule in the city was a subtle thing, based on the maintenance of harmony among factions; and although King Matthias’s gratitude would mean much to them as traders, it would not be worth upsetting a Florentine political balance already teetering with the impact of Cosimo’s recent death. Lorenzo assured me of his family’s continued help, but also made sure that I understood its limits. If I was willing to be patient, in a few days a Boccalini servant could doubtless be bribed, a spy perhaps planted in their household.

      But my nature was impatient to begin with, and anyway it did not seem to me that I had time to spare. If Helen was not after all with the Boccalini, I was wasting tune; on the other hand, if she was, not only might her life be in peril but her identity could be exposed at any time. In view of this I told Lorenzo that speed was necessary; and, within a few hours of leaving Verrocchio’s workshop, my young benefactor and I had agreed upon another scheme.

      At that time there was in Florence—I think the building may be still standing, near the Mercato Vecchio—an inn known as the Tavern of the Snail. This snail was much frequented by the adventurous young bloods of the leading families, the Boccalini in particular. Therefore we felt safe in gambling that one or two Boccalini youth would approach the place that very night, or at worst within the next few evenings. As events turned out, our most optimistic hopes were justified.

      Lorenzo had three or four reliable men stationed in ambush, along the route our game would most probably take. The scion of the Medici did not, of course, place himself among the ambushers. He could not afford to have his involvement in the affair discovered, and in any case his skills were not those of physical violence. My own part was to wait as patiently as possible in concealment nearby. As soon as the pretended robbers had sprung their trap I was to bound out, crying for the watch, and rush upon them with drawn sword.

      As I have said, we were lucky on the first night, and carried it off well enough. One of the paid ruffians, playing his part with cheeky skill—there is nothing easier than to ruin a plan of this kind by a