Part 15 (1/2)
She groped for them a final time, clenched them in her fist; and the fist was out from under the mattress and slamming into his back.
He bellowed with pain. The twin blades dug deeply below the left shoulderblade. His grip was suddenly gone from around her throat. She coughed painfully. He bent back and tried to get off her. But she stabbed the shears even deeper into his left side.
She had hurt him. Badly. He arched back, straddling her, and looked as if he were trying to reach the open wound in his back. He looked at her with crazed eyes, not comprehending how a naked woman could harm him.
She threw her arm forward a final time. He curled forward on the bed and struggled for life. . . .
It grew quiet in Thomas Daniels's office.
”There's not much more to say. Whoever he was, he died. His ident.i.ty was false. My only regret was that it hadn't been my father. Arthur Sandler escaped again. It was the last time I saw him.”
”What about-?”
”The police in Switzerland?”
”Yes he said.
”It was taken care of. My foster parents flew home from Majorca immediately. They contacted London. My foster father had, shall we say, friends in the usual places. The British Consulate in Geneva straightened things with the Swiss. But I had to leave the country. My ident.i.ty was worthless. And besides, the Swiss don't like people who import trouble.”
”Of course,” he said in a low voice.
”I had a British pa.s.sport, so I used it. I relocated to Canada, where I continued my education. Before I left, my foster father gave me the Bible and the letters. Said they'd been given to him to hold for me until the proper time. I guess that was the proper time.”
She shrugged.
”That brings us to the present, actually.”
She fell silent. Thomas searched for the words.
”You don't look like someone who's actually killed a man,” he said.
”Don't deceive yourself, Mr. Daniels” she warned.
”I'm not helpless.”
”I can see that” She paused. She s.h.i.+fted her position slightly and seemed to try a tack that was almost totally contradictory, almost as if a different person were speaking.
”Look,” she said,
”I'm coming across all wrong.” Her manner was sweeter now, less abrasive, less harsh.
”You can see what I've contended with all my life. I do value human life, just as much as any other civilised person. But I want to live without fear. And I can't do that with uncertainty.”
”Uncertainty. . . ?”
”About my father. I want to know that he's dead. He dealt with your firm. You must have had records Thomas glanced toward the charred remains of the files, but said nothing. Facts. All the facts were gone, he thought. Destroyed.
Where else could they be found?
”What if I find your father?” he asked.