bitter or resentful in his attitude. Pierce on the other hand was still crushed; he wore a look of inconsolable grief. It was doubtful he was hearing Michael’s words, or should even be here.
Aaron too had been devastated by Gifford’s death. He had taken Bea under his wing, and comforted her throughout the ordeal of the Metairie funeral parlor, and cemetery and mausoleum. He was worn and tired, and fairly miserable, and no amount of British decorum could hide it any longer. Then there had been Alicia, hysterical and hospitalized at last; Aaron had helped with that too, side by side with Ryan as he broke the news to Patrick that Alicia was malnourished and sick and must be cared for. Patrick had tried to hit Ryan. And Bea had made no secret anymore of her developing affection for Aaron; she had found a man she could depend upon, she said quietly to Michael as they drove home.
But now it all fell on this man, Ryan Mayfair, this lawyer who managed every little detail for everyone-and he didn’t have Gifford at his side anymore, to argue with him, to believe in him, to help him. And he was already back at work. It was too soon to know how bad it was going to be, Michael reasoned. It was too soon for this man to be really afraid.
“I gotta go,” Michael said. “It’s that simple. What should I know? Where am I headed? What’s the latest info we have on Rowan? What are our best leads?”
A silence fell. Mona came into the room, a white bow drooping appropriately over her locks, and dressed in a simple white cotton frock, the proper thing for children at a time of death. She shut the door to the hall behind her. She did not speak to anyone, and no one looked at her, and no one seemed to notice or care that she took the leather chair against the far wall, and that she looked across the dusty span of the room at Michael. Michael could not stop for this, and really, it didn’t matter. There was nothing going on that Mona didn’t know, or couldn’t hear. And for that matter, there was this secret between them that was a bond. The child fascinated him as much as she made him feel guilty; she was part and parcel of the excitement of his recovery and what he had to do now.
He had not woken up the morning after with the feeling “Who is the strange child in my bed?” Quite to the contrary. He sort of knew who she was, and knew that she knew him.
“You can’t go,” said Aaron.
The firmness of his voice caught Michael off guard. He realized he’d been drifting, back to Mona, and Mona’s caresses and the dreamy appearance of Ancient Evelyn in the street.
“You don’t know the full picture,” said Aaron.
“What full picture?”
“We didn’t feel we should tell you everything,” said Ryan, “but before we proceed, let me explain. We don’t really know where Rowan is, and we don’t know what’s happened to her. I’m not saying that anything bad has happened to her. That’s what I want you to understand.”
“Have you spoken to your doctor?” asked Pierce, suddenly coming alert and joining in, as if he meant to do business. “Does he say your convalescence is over?”
“Gentlemen, it’s over. I’m going to find my wife. Now tell me who’s heading the investigation to find Rowan. Who has the File on Rowan Mayfair?”
Aaron cleared his throat in eloquent British style, a soft traditional preamble to a speech, and then began.
“The Talamasca and the Mayfair family have been unable to find her,” said Aaron. “That is to say, a considerable amount of investigation and expense has resulted in frustration.”
“I see.”
“This is what we know. Rowan left here with a tall dark-haired man. As we told you, she was seen with him on the plane to New York. She was definitely in Zurich at the end of the year, and from there she went to Paris, and from Paris to Scotland. Later on she was in Geneva. From Geneva, she might have gone back to New York. We are not certain.”
“You mean she could be in this country again.”
“She could,” said Ryan. “We don’t know.” Ryan paused as though this was all he had to say, or simply to gather his thoughts.
“She and this man,” said Aaron, “were seen in Donnelaith, Scotland. There seems no doubt of that. In Geneva, eyewitness testimony isn’t as conclusive. We know she was in Zurich only because of the banking transactions she performed; in Paris, because she ran certain medical tests there which she later sent to Dr. Samuel Larkin in California. Geneva, because that is the city from which she called the doctor on the phone and from which she sent him the medical information. She ran tests at a clinic there, and those too were forwarded to Dr. Larkin.”
“She called this doctor? He actually spoke to her?”
This should have given him hope; this should have been something other than the sting it was. But he knew that his face was reddening. She called, but she did not call me. She called her old doctor friend in San Francisco. He tried to look tranquil, appreciative, open-minded.
“Yes,” said Aaron, “she called Dr. Larkin on February twelfth. She was brief. She told him she was sending a shipment of medical tests, specimens, samples, et cetera, that he was to take them to the Keplinger Institute for analysis. She told him she would contact him. That this was confidential. She indicated she might be interrupted at any time. She sounded as if she was in danger.”
Michael sat quiet, trying simply to process this, to realize what it meant. One moment his beloved wife had been making phone calls to another man. Now the picture was entirely different.
“This is what you didn’t want to tell me,” he said.
“Yes,” said Aaron. “And that the people we interviewed in Geneva and in Donnelaith indicated she might have been under coercion. Ryan’s detectives drew the same inference from these witnesses, though none of the people themselves actually used the word
“I see. But she was alive and well when she spoke to Samuel Larkin. And that was February twelfth!” said Michael.
“Yes…”
“OK, what did these people see? What did the people at these medical clinics see?”
“No one at any of the clinics noticed anything. But we are talking about enormous institutions, you must realize. There seems little doubt that Rowan and Lasher slipped in, with Rowan impersonating a staff doctor or a technician as the situation required. She completed various tests and left before anyone in any of these places was the wiser.”
“And this you know from the material she sent this Dr. Larkin?”
“Yes.”
“Amazing, but a doctor could do that, couldn’t she?” Michael said. He tried to keep his voice steady. He didn’t want anyone taking his pulse. “Last proof that she was alive was February twelfth,” he said again. He was trying to calculate the date, the number of days. His mind went blank.
“There has been one other small bit of intelligence,” said Ryan. “And one which we do not like.”
“So tell me.”
“Rowan made huge bank transfers while she was in Europe. Huge transfers through banks in France and in Switzerland. But the transfers stopped at the end of January, and thereafter, only two simple checks were cashed in New York, on February fourteenth. We know now the signatures on these checks were forgeries.”
“Ah.” Michael sat back. “He’s keeping her prisoner. He forged the checks.”
Aaron sighed. “We don’t know…for certain. She was described by those in Donnelaith-and those in Geneva-as being pale, sickly. Her companion was said to have been very attentive; indeed, she was never seen when not in his company.”
“I see,” Michael whispered. “What else did they say? Tell me everything.”
“Donnelaith is an archaeological site now,” said Aaron.
“Yes, I knew that, I believe,” said Michael. He looked at Ryan. “You’ve read the Mayfair History?”
“If you mean the file from the Talamasca, yes, I did examine it but I think our concern here is simply this: where is Rowan and how can we reach her?”
“Go on about Donnelaith,” said Michael to Aaron.
“Apparently Rowan and Lasher had a suite in the inn there for four days. They spent considerable time exploring the ruins of the castle, the Cathedral and the village. Lasher talked to many, many people.”
“Must you call him by that name?” asked Ryan. “The legal name he used was different.”
