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

      “Okay, I have a couple of ideas. Sometimes I talk shop with a friend of mine who’s on the Bomb Squad. It’s possible to use a detonator that doesn’t function until the second or third time the starter’s used. Or to use a timer. A timer could be set for a specific time, or else not to start running until the engine did.”

      “I see. Yes, that confirms what I have been told. Thank you.”

      Joe glanced again at Kate. She hadn’t moved, and he thought it probable that she was still asleep. He said: “The Phoenix police told me on the phone that it looked like a real professional job. See, your hotel there had a record of a call from your room to my number at the station here in Chicago. So naturally one of the first things Phoenix did in their investigation was to call me.”

      “Naturally. I suppose they named no suspects? Did the name of Ellison Seabright arise at all in your conversation?”

      “No it didn’t. I wouldn’t have expected them to name me suspects even if they had some. You think he was involved too?”

      “Gliddon works for the Seabright family. Or he did. Much is still obscure to me. And there are matters involved that I find personally troubling. I want to be certain about Ellison before I move against him.”

      “Please do.”

      “And what,” the distant voice inquired, with casual brightness, “did you say to the Phoenix police about me?”

      Kate had moved. She was facing Joe now, and at least one of her baby-blue eyes was open, regarding him over a mound of pillow as she waited calmly to find out what was going on. Maybe she had already heard enough to know, or guess, who he was talking to.

      Still watching Kate, Joe cleared his throat. “I told them that a man calling himself Thorn sometimes phones me and gives me information. That I had no idea of this Thorn’s real name or where he lives or where he calls me from. That’s not as crazy as it might sound. There actually are informants who behave like that, and sometimes they give useful information.”

      When the other end of the line remained silent, Joe went on: “Of course the next thing they asked was what you had been calling me about from Phoenix.” He paused again here, thinking carefully. If ever it should come to a choice between getting himself into legal trouble, police trouble, and making an enemy out of the man now on the phone, he knew which choice he’d have to make. Kate’s family could afford the best in legal help, but a lot of good that would do him if— “I said you’d talked to me about a possible lead on the missing painting that’s been in the news, but that you hadn’t given me anything definite on it at all. Is that all right?”

      “Yes, Joe, that is quite all right.” A soothing tone.

      “Of course they quickly discovered that there isn’t any Oak Tree, Illinois. And since your home address was a fake they’ll probably assume that the name Thorn’s a fake too. So most likely they’re stuck as to where to look for you next. Since your body wasn’t found with the car, they’ll assume you weren’t in it. Maybe they think you planted the bomb yourself. By the way, there were parts of a pair of man’s shoes, pretty well destroyed, found in the wreckage.”

      “I am not surprised to hear it. Brandreth’s shoes fit me tolerably well.”

      “They thought the woman’s body was lying on the wrong side of the vehicle for her to have been in the driver’s seat. It was the Mary Rogers you were asking about, I assume you know that. Say, was she a friend of yours? If so, I’m sorry.”

      The long-distance hum of equipment. “We had not grown to know each other well,” Thorn replied at last. “Still, I think a certain rapport was beginning to grow between us. We might have become good friends. One has few good friends even in a long life, and one loses even them. Yes, her death grieves me.”

      Kate reached out to touch Joe’s arm with one finger. When he looked at her, her lips formed a silent, one-word question: Judy?

      Joe shook his head minimally. He had no reason to think as yet that Judy had come into it at all. Then he asked the telephone: “What about that O’Grandison you were asking about, is he connected with this in any way? None of my contacts here seem to know where he is. They say they haven’t seen him for a while. Have you reached him yet?”

      “I have not. I know no more about him now than when I spoke with you last.”

      “Okay. Do you want me to tell Phoenix that I’ve heard from you again? That you blame the bombing on Gliddon and this Brandreth or whoever he is?’

      Thorn took a moment before answering. “If in return, when you hear anything about the whereabouts of Gliddon, you are willing to tell me— then yes, you may tell them that.”

      “On second thought I guess I won’t have to mention Brandreth. But I’ll tell them that you called again, and that you claim Gliddon’s still alive. How’s that?”

      “That will be fine … Joseph.”

      “What?”

      “Do not worry, about me. I mean that I am an old friend of Kate’s family, which is now yours. I know that you are my friend, and mean well. And I am not all that greatly concerned about what you tell or do not tell the police in Phoenix or anywhere else. Trouble with the law does not mean much to me, ultimately. Take care of Kate, and of yourself.”

      And with a distant click the line went dead. Joe had the vague sensation that his ears were burning. As if he had been caught out in cowardice.

      Slowly he hung up the phone, and looked at Kate. He said: “I was going to tell you. I did