Thorn

Chapter Eleven

'It's nice of you to help out,' said Mary Rogers, her blue eyes looking up trustfully at Thorn as he unlocked and opened for her the right-side door of his rented Blazer. Her strong legs in worn blue jeans swung her athletically up into the vehicle. 'Robby had to take the Ford,' she added, when Thorn had gone round to his own doorway on the driver's side and was climbing in.

'I understand.' Thorn first secured his seat belt properly—his sometimes ferocious conflicts with machinery were never his fault—and then put the key into the ignition. Presently he was driving down the swooping ramp from the hotel garage, squinting through sunglasses as he pulled into the city street awash with the molten daylight of late afternoon. The sun itself, he had made sure, was safely behind some buildings. It would not be getting any higher today. Robinson Miller, whose more-or-less gainful employment was with the local Public Defender's office, was working late this evening, visiting on his own time with clients said to be in great need. And a couple of hours ago Mary had received a phone call from the Seabright house. A woman on the staff there, a Mrs. Dorlan, who Mary had apparently got to know during her residence at the mansion, had told her that her remaining belongings were ready to be picked up.

'She sounded sort of in a hurry. Why they're all of a sudden in such a hurry to get rid of the stuff, I don't know. Cleaning house, I guess. But I feel more comfortable going over there if I have someone with me. And you did volunteer earlier.'

'I assuredly did.' That of course had been before his first visit to the mansion, when he was still looking for an invitation of some kind, any kind, to let him cross the Seabright threshold. But now he welcomed any good reason to be alone with Mary.

She said: 'I suppose they'll just have the stuff piled out on the porch. There isn't very much.'

Thorn snarled faintly at an errant Volkswagen. 'I take it you have not yet told Helen's mother of that strange telephone call?'

'Stephanie's not much of a mother. A nasty thing to say but it's true. Anyway I don't think she'd talk to me. I could write her a note about the call but she'd never believe it.'

Thorn did not argue that. 'Then I suppose you have not informed the police, either.'

Mary was studying him. 'No, we haven't. You said something about an official connection that you have. I'd like to know what you found out through that.'

'Not much. Confirmation of things you had already told me. No hint that Helen might be still alive.' The last sentence seemed to echo in his mind when he had spoken it. But he had settled that.

'Damn.' She was obviously disappointed. And worried. 'Well. Whoever it was, she didn't sound like she was in any immediate danger. So if it was Helen, I guess she can call home for herself any time she wants to. If it wasn't . . . I can't imagine who it might have been. Or why they'd want to play such a trick.'

The rest of the ride out to the wealthy suburbs passed for the most part in silence. This evening no one was manning the mansion's great iron gates. But still the gates were locked.

'I don't understand. They knew I was coming out tonight.'

Half a minute of intermittent horn-blowing at last produced a smallish man, in yardworker's clothes, hurrying over the lawns from the direction of the tree-screened house.

'Oh,' Mary said. 'It's Dorlan.' She waved to him through the gate.

The little man, peering from inside, seemed to know Mary too, though he offered no real greeting. 'Didn't recognize the car,' he mumbled, and set about unlocking the gate and rolling it open by hand.

'Mr. Dorlan, this is Mr. Thorn, a friend of mine. He just came along to give me a hand with the things.'

Dorlan, who had not been visible on either of Thorn's previous visits, nodded grudgingly. 'I'll just ride up to the house with you and let you in.'

'Let us in?' Mary echoed in an uncertain voice.

'They've all moved out,' replied Dorlan. There was a kind of grim shyness in his manner, and he did not look directly at either of his visitors. He left them momentarily to shut and lock the gate again, after Thorn had driven the Blazer in.

'Moved out?' Mary asked him blankly when he came back.

'Me and the Missus are the only ones left. We're leaving in the morning. The rest of the staff all got paid off. Mr. and Mrs. Seabright are gone to Santa Fe.'

Thorn made a faint hissing noise, almost a sigh. Otherwise he made no comment. The Blazer rolled along the graveled drive with Dorlan perched in the small rear seat. Mary looked vacantly at the house as it appeared from behind the screens of palms and citrus. The portico was empty. 'My things?'

'Still inside, up in your old room. They told me to get 'em out on the porch before you come, but I ain't had time.'

Thorn stopped near the front of the house. Sunset was still lingering in the second floor's west windows. 'The move is permanent?' he asked.

'Far as I know. They want all their mail forwarded. This place is being closed up. Though I hear Ellison's the owner now.'

Mary opened the door and hopped out briskly. 'Well, I'm just as glad. I don't want to look at him again. At any of them.'

Thorn got out too, followed by Dorlan, who was now looking intently at the taller man, as if fascinated despite himself. Dorlan yawned suddenly. 'Damn tired,' he complained. 'Worked all day. No friggin' air conditioning this afternoon. Power's off in the main house already.'

'Very tiring,' agreed Thorn. 'You will be glad to get to sleep.' He extended a hand, palm up, while Mary watched in growing puzzlement.

'I'll say.' Dorlan fumbled a set of keys loose from a chain at his belt, and handed them over. He yawned again, and tottered to the portico, where he leaned against one of its imitation Doric columns. A moment later he sat down. His eyes had closed.

'Oh dear,' said Mary, and fell silent, forgetting whatever comment she had been about to make. A large mastiff had just appeared at the corner of the house. From her days in residence she remembered the beast as an unpleasant and dangerous watchdog. It was staring at them intently and a low vibration of warning issued from its throat.

'Quiet,' said Thorn softly. Mary had no doubt that he was talking to her, but instantly the dog's growling trailed off. It leaned forward, as if about to charge, or topple, in their direction. Then somehow there was a change of plan. The great head, ears askew, turned away from them. The dog sniffed the gathering dusk. Then it turned round twice in place, scratched at an ear, and lay down peacefully.

A faint snore arose from Dorlan, who sat leaning against his post. Mary looked from one phenomenon to the other, and seemed to be trying to think of some suitable comment. She was evidently unable.

Keys jingled briskly in Thorn's fingers. 'Come. I should like to see the room you occupied.' He unlocked the great front door and pushed it open, and like some old courtier bowed Mary in ahead of him. She found herself accepting the bow as something perfectly natural.

The house was filled with what felt like an unnatural heat—it was only the day's heat that had crept in through fallen defenses, Mary realized, but it felt strange in rooms where she had never known anything but cool comfort. Out of habit she flicked a light switch in the cavernous great hall—nothing happened, of course. But enough daylight remained to see that a start had been made at covering up furniture, getting the place ready for some extended period of inoccupancy.

With Thorn at her side Mary crossed the great, silent hall, heading away from the study and the elevator, toward the foot of the broad main stairway. But when she reached the stair she stopped. 'I haven't been back here since—that night. Oh, I came back once with the police, re-enacting what I could remember for them. But . . .'

'But it all comes back to you much more strongly now.'

'Yes, you're right, it does.' She shivered.

'Good. Very good. Shall we go up?'