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slumped in his chair, groggy with shock, bathed in a cold sweat. His left arm
wouldn t work and his right felt as if the bones might be about to poke out
through his coat sleeve. He didn t want to know if they really were.  I
dunno. His voice was pitiful.  I never saw
Delaunay. Honest to God. Ellison s the one who hired me.
 And Gliddon?
 Gliddon was already working for the Seabrights. I take orders from Gliddon.
He passes on what . . . Ellison wants. Brandreth drew a deep, shuddering
breath. Once he had been seriously afraid of Gliddon. But now he understood
more fully what it could mean to be afraid.  Gliddon s supposed to be dead
now. But he s not.
 To be sure, Thorn said soothingly.  And it was Gliddon who sent you here to
get this film?
Brandreth nodded. He could feel another faint coming on now, and tried to
fight it back. He knew that if he fainted now he was going to be revived. But
he didn t know how.
 And what were you to do with it?
 Destroy it. The film and tape both. Just the ones in the little, hidden safe.
Gliddon said there were more in a big wall safe somewhere, the one you blew I
guess. But he didn t care about those. Why these are so important I don t
know. Something big is going on here that I don t know about . . . I don t ask
questions. I need help with this arm. Or
I m gonna pass out.
 Who helped you with the bombing?
 I . . . do all that on my own. Gliddon just told me to do it.
 Not Ellison Seabright?
 It was supposed to be what he wanted done. I dunno. I hardly ever talk to
Ellison. He s supposed to be in Santa
Fe now. As far as I know, he is.
Thorn turned away, to the projector. Brandreth let out a sighing groan. In the
next room, Robinson Miller mumbled something but did not wake up. Now the
screen darkened, then brightened again with a closeup of
Delaunay s face, talking.
 This will be Session Thirteen, Delaunay s bass voice said, addressing the
camera. He was filmed sitting in the laboratory. He was wearing a turtleneck
sweater under an expensive sport coat, and looked vastly more competent,
somehow, than his half-brother ever did.  Session Thirteen, on the fourth of
April. I think we made real progress yesterday, and I hope for more today.
Darkness again, and when the scene came back there were two people sitting in
the lab. In a soft reclining chair facing Delaunay and what was probably a
hidden camera sat a teenaged girl with brown hair, small and slight, demurely
dressed. Delaunay was also fully clothed, and it was soon apparent that both
participants were likely to remain that way.
The girl was gazing, dreamily, at a small instrument on Delaunay s desk that
sent a rhythmic, gentle, flashing light into her eyes.
  sleep, Del was intoning gently as the scene started.  Deep sleep. And you
will not wake up until I tell you.
You will be able to hear me perfectly, and follow my instructions, but you
will not awaken until I tell you . . . Helen?
Are you asleep?
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 Yes, the girl answered in a calm, remote voice. Her eyes were now closed.
Delaunay brought his hand out from under his desk, where it had perhaps been
on a hidden control that served to turn hidden recording devices off and on.
In Brandreth s ear Thorn whispered:  Who is the girl?
 It must be Helen Seabright. The one who was killed. It looks like her
pictures. I never saw her.
Thorn stood up straight, emitting a faint sigh.
 The last time we talked, Helen, Seabright was now saying, in the voice of a
chatty psychiatrist,  you told me that next time you d tell me why that
painting fascinates you so.
 I don t want to talk about that, Uncle Del. It was a prim, calm voice, the
voice of a young lady who knew her mind.
 But next time is now, Helen, Seabright prodded gently. When he got no
response he tried again.  I ll make a bargain with you, if you like. How s
this? I ll leave the painting where you can come and look at it anytime. And
in return what, Helen? The girl had said something, very low.
 I said, it was really Annie who liked the painting anyway.
 Oh yes, of course. But you can like it too.
 And Annie s dead now.
 No more Annie. That s quite right. And do you miss her?
Helen frowned.
Seabright said softly and with great certainty:  Annie was always running
away. She had no home, no family, no love. Always and forever on the run.
Don t you think it s really better that she s dead?
 I don t miss her, really. She s really better off . . . but sometimes . . .
 Yes. All right. Now, as I started to say, Helen, I ll leave the painting out
somewhere, where you can look at it.
And in return you, now don t frown, you don t have to talk about the painting
at all if you don t want to. Only about some other things, that happened to
you when you were . . . much younger than you are now. How does that kind of
bargain sound?
The girl was troubled. Frowning, she shook her head, and mumbled something.
 We don t necessarily have to go back very far in the things we talk about.
Not right away. Suppose we began with that night when, how shall I describe
it, that night when Annie was here for the first time? Would it bother
you I see it would. All right. All right. You needn t do anything that you
don t want to do. Not at all. Not for Uncle
Del. Would you rather talk to me about the painting, then? It s a nice,
fascinating old thing, isn t it?
 Yes. Oh yes, it is. And Helen s agitation, that had been growing, eased
somewhat.
 Who painted it, my dear? Who do you think did?
Brandreth, somewhat surprised at himself that he still hadn t passed out
again, heard a small, strange sound from somewhere nearby. From Thorn.
Delaunay Seabright s image explained:  You see, my dear, some people think it
may have been done, long years ago, by a famous painter called Verrocchio.
Have you heard of him?
 Yes.
 Now don t say you have, don t say anything just to please me. You really did
hear of Verrocchio, before I
mentioned him?
 Yes.
Seabright paused, as if hopeful that the girl might say more. When she did
not, he went on:  Others, on the other hand, think it barely possible that a
certain young boy did that painting. A boy who became quite famous in later
life.
Most authorities believe the boy was too young when this was painted, that he
hadn t yet started to work in Mr.
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Verrocchio s studio. Now I wasn t there myself and I don t know. But I d like
very much to find out. If 
The girl was toppling forward in her chair. Seabright moved quickly for all
his bulk, to catch her, ease her tenderly back into a sitting position. Her
face had gone completely pale, drained-looking.  All right, Helen. All right,
that s it for today. You are feeling fine. You are going to wake up soon, when
I tell you, as from a deep, refreshing sleep. It took another minute of
careful coaxing and urging to bring the girl back into what appeared to be her
original hypnotic state.
 I m going to wake you up soon, Helen. First, though, would you like to give
Uncle Del his big hug for the day?
The girl s eyes opened for a moment, then closed again. She arose, dutifully,
and walked to the man s chair to bend over him and hug him, gently, almost
formally, like some shy distant niece. The huge man patted her back with one
hand. His other hand went to the hidden control beneath his desk. The screen
went dark.
The ringing phone jarred Chicago police lieutenant Joe Keogh out of sleep. He
was lying in his and Kate s bedroom in their condominium apartment on the
North Side, just off Lake Shore Drive. This was not one of the supremely
expensive towers down close to Michigan Boulevard, but an older building of
modest height, somewhat farther north. The place had large rooms, from the [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]