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

came. He must be careful, very careful now. He could be no more concrete about it than that. But the danger was vital. A trap, whether consciously set for him or not, lay there, not far ahead, and he had to identify it, move around it somehow, before he could advance. The phantom tripwire held him back, prevented his approaching Stephanie, prevented also his returning to the adjoining room and bluntly, brutally interrogating Seabright about the missing painting.

      He waited long minutes in Stephanie’s room, invisible, watching, waiting for a sign. Until weariness and vodka overcame her, and she clothed herself again in the rich robe that lay on the floor, and fell back, weeping, into her solitary bed.

* * *

      Now, in his own solitary room at the hotel, Thorn played and replayed in memory the singularly unrewarding visit. Thoughts came and went, all of them discouragingly unpractical. He had watched and listened to the news, and there was no word yet on the missing plane. A massive search was underway but everyone knew success was doubtful.

      The tripwire was still there, he could feel it. Immunity to personal fear often made personal danger stand out with precise cold clarity when it came. And danger there was, in the near future, though just where and when he would encounter it he did not know.

      Or could the instincts of half a thousand years be wrong for once, and he was confronting nothing but shadows? If a painted image could wring tears out of his eyes…

      When the phone rang at last, Thorn roused from reverie with a quite human start. Outside the high windows the fires of day had dimmed considerably. Looking at his watch, he saw that hours had passed.

      He lifted the instrument. “Thorn here.”

      Joe Keogh’s voice said: “I found out from the archdiocese that Mary Rogers did work here in Chicago as you described. She’s never had anything in the way of a criminal record in this state or any other. We’d know if she did, because she was so heavily investigated after the Phoenix killings. Everyone connected with that affair was. And you asked about Idaho; she did live out there in a convent for a couple of months, about two years ago. That’s all I’ve been able to find out.”

      “I see. Thank you. And Mr. O’Grandison?”

      “Well, he’s something else, not exactly what you’d call a winner. He does have a record here in Illinois: marijuana user, cocaine user, no evidence that he’s ever done any dealing. He’s twenty-one now, according to our records; been in and out of juvenile homes and mental hospitals since he was twelve. No connection with illegal porn is shown; doesn’t mean there couldn’t be one, of course. Six months ago he was charged with contributing to delinquency—girl about fifteen years old who gave the name of Annie Chapman. But this girl disappeared from a detention home somehow before the case came to court, so it had to be dropped.”

      “Annie Chapman.”

      “You know her?”

      “I do not think so, Joe.” A girl named Annie, just a runaway. She didn’t count. “Pray continue.” The tone of Joe’s voice had suggested to Thorn that news of importance was still to come.

      “All right. I’ve talked to an officer on the force here who remembers O’Grandison. And he says O’Grandison was in the right time and place to have met Helen Seabright when she was here on her runaway. No evidence that he actually did, but he was on the scene or very near it.”

      “Annie Chapman too?”

      “We don’t know where she came from, what she might have been involved in, or where she went. There was some mixup at that juvenile home, evidently; they just let her walk out.”

      “Joe, you are sounding interested. Almost excited.”

      “That’s a very big case out there, the Seabright thing, and now the missing treasure. I hope you meant it about giving me a tip when you can.”

      “Hmm. And where is Patrick O’Grandison now?”

      Caution returned. “Why do you want to talk to him?”

      “Joe, Joe, I have said that I mean him no harm.” Thorn smiled, very slightly. “Have I ever told you a lie?”

      “Yes, goddam it, you have. Don’t treat me like a kid.”

      The smile went away. “Have I ever lied, after pledging my solemn word?”

      There was a sigh in the distance. “No, I’ll give you that. Also I know you saved my life once, and Kate’s … all right. My informant said he thought little Pat was still in town here. Are you coming after him?”

      “Perhaps later, Joe; not immediately. Consider my word pledged on that much, if you like. I am busy with other matters.”

      “Listen.” Joe’s voice had altered. “Kate’s told me that Judy’s out there in the Southwest, for a summer school or camp or whatever they call it, near Santa Fe. Mountains, horseback, opera under the stars, and so on. I mention the fact only because I assume you know all about it already. I don’t suppose there’s any use my trying to talk to you about Judy, how young she is.”

      She had, as a matter of fact, recently turned eighteen; Thorn had sent a discreet birthday gift. (Ah, Mina, you must understand. He could do no less, seeing the family resemblance over four generations, seeing so much of you in her.)

      “You are a truly moral man, Joseph.” Thorn called him Joseph only rarely. “Thank you, you have been most helpful.”

      He hung up the phone. What Joe, like many other breathing people, failed to appreciate was how young all breathing women were—those utterly enticing creatures!—when seen from the viewpoint of an age of five hundred plus. Certainly differences exist between eighteen, say, and thirty-six, and again between thirty-six and seventy-two. But they are not really such great differences as breathing males seem to think. Delightfully subtle dissimilarities, rather, with the elder blood having its own bouquet, the blood of full womanhood its own of course, and of course in the young the sweet elixir of youth itself…

      Still, Thorn thought dutifully, looking out