“Talk to her husband about what?” asked the husband.
John Krestinski jumped in before Bob Gold could respond, “Preston Sturgis was just the visible part of an iceberg whose size we can only guess. We need your help to get to the bottom of it.”
“You kept us away from that house as though it had the plague,” said Hudson.
The FBI man chewed his lip.
“That’s it? Sturgis had Bubonic Plague?”
“No. He died peacefully.”
“Like Jim Evans people,” said Cilla.
“What do you mean `Evan’s people’?”
“A young girl took sick at the ski area and died in the hospital. Afterwards Jim said he’d had some other deaths that were similar.”
“How similar?”
“They all died peacefully - his word - with their mouths open as though they were ready to speak.”
“Shit. Were any of them in contact with Sturgis?”
“No,” said Wally.
“You can be certain of that?”
“Yes. There were no signs he’d been more than a few steps from the cabin until he went to the Stang house.”
“What’s the matter, John?” asked Cilla. The FBI man had closed his eyes, and leaned back in his chair.
After a few seconds he apparently reached a decision. He studied his listeners. “This has nothing to do with why we’re here. At least it didn’t; now I don’t know. What I’m about to discuss is to go no further than this room. Is that understood? If anyone disagrees, the conversation stops here.”
The wind had come up and drove snow against the windows, making little pit-pat sounds, and dancing the flames in the fireplace. Krestinski looked at each of the three, then, apparently satisfied, nodded and continued. “Do you remember reading about a town in Massachusetts named Stewart?”
“Sure,” said Hudson, “they had an outbreak of sickness there. Last fall. You saying we’ve got that here? I thought they caught it before it spread.”
“I’d hoped Stewart was the end of it. Just an isolated occurrence. They tell me they happen periodically; a small group of people comes down with something unfamiliar, something doctors try to treat, but with no effect. And after a while it’s over, and everyone holds their breath for a long time afterwards. Stewart was in October. Since then there have been no other cases. Until now, if this happens to be the same.”
“They die the same way?”
“Everyone uses almost the same words you have to describe it. Peaceful, mouth open as though about to speak. Sturgis might have been in Stewart. But how would the others here catch it?” He looked at Hudson with unseeing eyes.
“Do they know how this whatever-it-is is transmitted?” asked Cilla.
“Is it a virus or bacteria?” added Hudson.
Krestinski gave a small shake of his head. “We’re not sure it’s either one.”
“Hasn’t it got to be?” Cilla frowned.
“There are chemicals,” began the FBI agent, “but I’m way out of my field.”
“So what’s this about needing our help. Sounds to me like a CDC problem. Jim Evans said he was going to contact them.”
“It isn’t about the bug. Or it wasn’t. There’s something else happening. The Sturgis business is a whole other story.”
“Sturgis dead, end of story,” said Wally.
“I don’t plan to announce his death,” said Krestinski.
“What?” Wally might have bitten into a sour apple.
“With the permission of all of you, of course, since there is still a certain amount of peril.”
“A certain amount! Hudson’s house has been invaded!”
“Wally, as soon as this storm is over I’ll have six agents on Swallow Hill Road. They’ll be watching both houses. No one’s going to get through.” He looked around at the others. “Listen, I’m new to the Sturgis situation, too, but Frances and the others who’ve been working it have done an excellent job with its links. Let me explain that. They didn’t confine their investigation to just the main character. They looked at the supporting cast and backdrops. They found that the cleaning woman who did Sturgis’s apartment building died in the early morning hours of the day after the bombing. Her fingernails had been pulled out, which apparently brought on a heart attack.
“During the weeks immediately before he disappeared, Sturgis took most of his dinners at the Onyx Club. The day after his apartment was bombed, the doorman at the club was found dead in his home. He had also been tortured. Someone was trying to obtain information. Whatever it was they didn’t care what they had to do to get it. The only way to uncover these people is if they think Sturgis is still alive. We
“Cilla’s being one. Is that what we’re talking about?” asked Hudson.
“Frances Ingalls will stay with her day and night.”
“Ah...” Hudson began.
“In a guest bedroom, of course. She can cook, stack wood or set a broken leg.”
“And organize,” said Cilla.
“Why didn’t you say something before about Cilla’s resemblance to Sturgis’s daughter?” asked Hudson.
“I never saw her,” replied the FBI man. “I wasn’t aware of the Alexandra situation until your call. Frances has been filling me in.”
“It sounds to me as though we don’t have much choice. Even if we publicly announce that Cilla’s not related to Sturgis, there’s Wally’s connection as his former attorney,” said Hudson. “Whoever these people are, they’ll assume Sturgis passed what he knew along to one or the other of them.” He looked at Krestinski. “There’s also…” His voice faded.
“So what’s the battle plan,” broke in Bob Gold.
“Bob, will you move in with Wally?”
“Sure. Shouldn’t I be here though? I thought Cilla was the one in danger.”
“Agent Ingalls is in charge,” said Krestinski. “It’s her call.”
“How about it, Ingalls? Can you handle it here?” asked Gold.
“Yes. This house will be secure. Can you say the same about Mr. Carver’s?”
“You better believe it.”
“Do you have a weapon?”
“A knife. And my hands. Want to check them out?”
“No.” She turned to Wally. “Does that suit you, Mr. Carver?”
“I can get along with Bob.”
There was a knock at the door. It was one of the crew that had been going over the house where Sturgis had been found. He had a weekly newspaper in his gloved hand. Krestinski took it.
“This come from the house? Last week’s.” He peered more closely. “Some pencil marks on it. `19?”
“Or `17. We haven’t been able to decide. It was the only piece of paper of any kind in the house.”
“Did Sturgis own a gun?” Krestinski asked Frances Ingalls.
“No, none has turned up.”
“All right.” He turned to the man who’d brought the paper. “Anything else?”
The man shook his head. “We’re not done yet. Storm’s getting worse, though. I won’t be making it up this road again; just hope I can get down.”
Krestinski dismissed him with a wave. “Let me use the phone in your kitchen, Cilla. I want to talk with your Doctor Evans.” He took Frances Ingalls by the arm and went through the swinging door to the kitchen, on what was usually the view side of the house.
“She reminds me of a supply sergeant I knew, Little Rose of San Diego,” said Gold.
“Frances isn’t short,” said Cilla.
“Neither was Little Rose. It was the name we gave her; she was more thorn than flower. `This house will be
