From the floor of the entry hall, Nicole stared out at the inferno. She could feel its heat, its ferocious hunger as it consumed the small black Renault. The hot point of the blaze, its very source, appeared to be the spot where Mr. McGiever had been sitting. There was no longer any sign of him. The fire had taken over the driver’s seat. The explosion had blown out the car’s windows, and brilliant streamers of flame reached through them to flap against the roof. It was inconceivable that anyone inside could have survived.
That poor, sweet old man.
People began to gather across the street. They kept their distance but seemed to be drawn to the blaze, as hypnotized by it as she was. She wondered if anyone would approach and try to pull him out. Clearly, it was too late. Beneath the acrid smell of burning metal and plastic was a more organic stench she knew instinctively as death, the reek of burning flesh.
Oh, God, she thought. It’s all my fault. If only I hadn’t asked him to start the car.
Then she realized what would have happened if he hadn’t taken her place at the wheel, if she hadn’t chosen that very moment to go back into the house. A dull numbness took over. She was sprawled in the entry hall, lying on one side with her knees drawn up. From this vantage point, she stared through the open doorway, no longer taking in the scene before her. Although she felt the heat of the fire, she couldn’t seem to stop shivering.
Eventually police cars, fire trucks and an ambulance arrived, their approach heralded by a shrieking chorus of sirens. As men in uniforms appeared and began to dash about, she stirred and struggled to her feet. The movement made her vision crack and break into hundreds of tiny pieces. When they slowly reassembled themselves, the floor was tilted at an unfamiliar angle, and she had to lean against the wall to keep from falling.
Then two ambulance attendants were standing there. They had a compact bundle that unfolded into a stretcher. After they set it up, one of them turned and spoke to her, his words lost against the ringing in her ears. From his gestures, she could guess what he was saying. He seemed to be under the impression that she was hurt and should go to Emergency. She explained that she was fine. She had no intention of being carted off like a dead horse. It was Mr. McGiever who needed help.
Perhaps she wasn’t making sense, for the two exchanged a glance, an almost imperceptible nod. Then they refolded the stretcher, linked their arms in hers and, with gentle insistence, led her down the steps. To avoid the fire, they cut across the yard to a far corner; they hoisted Nicole over the low picket fence before climbing it themselves. The ambulance was several doors down, parked in front of a neighbor’s house.
The firemen swarming around the blaze, the ever-arriving police cars, the curious onlookers, the row of houses—all tilted and swam as the paramedics pulled her along. Nicole took stock of herself. She was somewhat surprised to discover that she had her purse, its strap slung over her shoulder. She didn’t think she was bleeding anywhere, and her arms and legs seemed to work. Yet she felt injured in some indiscernible way. She seemed to remember hitting her head; perhaps that explained why she was so dizzy. The dizziness and the loud ringing in her ears made it hard to think. Even so, she felt the need to protest. “I’m not hurt,” she told them. “You can’t take me to the hospital without my consent. Not even if I’m dying.”
Neither attendant answered. They seemed to think they had every right to carry her off whether she agreed or not.
As they were opening the back of the ambulance, a battered Volkswagen careened around the corner and screeched to a stop a few feet away. The door burst open, and a rather objectionable looking young man jumped out and pointed a camera at them.
“Looky ’ere,” he said.
But they were already looking. The ambulance attendants and Nicole gawked opened-mouthed as he snapped a few pictures, then continued clicking the shutter, approaching them in a practiced zigzag that seemed calculated to vary his camera angle.
One of the attendants waved dismissively. “Aw, it’s just the bloody tabloids.” He and his partner gripped Nicole’s arms and lifted her into the ambulance. By now, she’d given up any thought of resistance. It was a relief to lie down on the narrow cot that occupied the rear of the vehicle.
While they were strapping her in, the man with the camera stuck his head in the door. He had greasy hair and needed a shave. “Wot’s your name, lady?” he said. Then, when there was no response: “Know who bought it over there?” Shrugging and raising his hands in a conciliatory gesture, he added, “I’ve got me job to do. Doesn’t cost noffink to be civil.” The questions stopped when the paramedics pulled the man away from the door and slammed it shut.
As the ambulance started up and the siren began to wail, Nicole’s indignation resurfaced. Being dragged away in an ambulance with its siren screaming was humiliating and unnecessary. Then she remembered Mr. McGiever, and a wave of terrible grief swept over her. She was aware of the siren and the motion of the vehicle as it maneuvered through the traffic, yet her mind was quiet, utterly empty of thought.
At some point the ride ended and, after a long wait on a gurney in a crowded hallway, someone examined her. She was given a couple of pills and a glass of water. A nurse helped her out of her clothes into a short white gown and into bed. The smooth, cool sheets felt unimaginably good against her skin. She slept.
She opened her eyes, and Brad was there. He was sitting forward in his seat, resting his chin on the backs of his hands, staring at her. She’d never seen him look so miserable.
When he saw she was awake, he came over to the bed and put his arms around her. “Oh, God, Nick,” he said. “I never dreamed… If anything had happened to you, I couldn’t… I just…” His voice trailed off.
She could feel him tremble. His cheek was hot against hers, almost feverish. Only when he made a funny gulping sound did she realize he was crying. She’d never known him to cry, and his grief mystified her. She herself felt nothing.
As he held her, she remembered about Brenda—the fact that Brad had taken her to Liverpool. And yet the terrible emptiness she felt rendered Brenda, and even Brad, irrelevant.
She had the most dreadful feeling that nothing mattered, nothing at all. Then it all came rushing back. The car, the explosion, the fact that it could have been her.
“Mr. McGiever? ” she said.
“Dead, poor old buzzard,” Brad said. “I heard about that bomb threat on the news. But I never dreamed it could —that you…” His embrace tightened, and he made another gulping sound.
She wondered what he was talking about. Then she remembered the newscast she’d heard in the hotel room, the bomb threat that had closed the railway stations.
She pulled away from him and said, “Listen, you’ve got it wrong. It wasn’t terrorists.” As clearly as she could, she explained about the two men who’d followed her, the way the fat one had insisted he knew her “old man” and had threatened him.
As he listened, Brad shook his head. She could tell from his expression that he didn’t believe her. Her voice trailed off and—to her own surprise—she began to cry in great, heaving sobs of frustration and anger. As she wept, she had the feeling of observing herself from across the room and wondering why she was making such a fuss.
Just then a nurse walked in carrying a tray with miniature paper cups lined up in rows. She handed Nicole one of the cups. It held two white pills that looked like aspirin.
While the nurse poured water into a glass, she turned to Brad. “We mustn’t sit on the bed, sir. And we mustn’t upset the patient. She’s had a bad shock. In fact, it might be better if we came back later.” She spoke in a sharp tone, like a parent upbraiding a naughty child.
“No, no! I’m not upsetting her.” He stood up and backed away from the bed, patting the air as if to demonstrate how agreeable he was.
The nurse propped the door open and shot Brad a warning look before rushing off.
The rebuke was lost on Brad, who immediately sat on the bed again and renewed his argument. “Look, Nick, it’s natural for you to be a little mixed up—I mean, after all you’ve been through. But the cops think it was terrorists. It’s got terrorist written all over it.”
Although she hadn’t asked, he went into detail about the way he’d heard about the explosion. “I called the house and your cell a number of times from Liverpool,” he said. “I was getting pretty worried because you didn’t answer.”
He paused and looked at her, as if expecting an answer, but Nicole glanced away. He was lying about the phone calls. If he’d called her cell, she would have seen the missed calls. But she wasn’t going to point this out. Nor was she going to tell him she’d gone to a hotel. He’d want to know why, and she didn’t have the energy to explain. The rage and jealousy that had driven her out of the house had completely evaporated.
“This morning,” he went on, “when I was getting ready to catch the train back to London, I decided to give it one more try. You can’t imagine how I felt when a cop answered the phone and told me about the bomb. He said they’d taken you to the hospital. He paused before continuing, “The bottom line is London’s too dangerous for tourists right now. They’ve even got a cop stationed outside your door. Oh, man—the minute you’re on your feet again, I’m putting you on the first flight to L.A.”
Still trembling, he took her hand and planted a kiss on it. His emotion seemed real enough. Yet Nicole could see he was taking advantage of the situation, using it as an excuse to send her home. She understood there was a flaw in his logic, but her dizziness made it hard to sort out. Then it came to her. If the bomb was a random act of terrorism, as he insisted, that would mean she was no longer in danger. In the whole history of terrorism, who’d ever gotten in the way of two car bombs?
He was just trying to get rid of her so he could pursue his sordid little affair. It was what he’d wanted all along. The odd part was that she no longer cared. What did it matter if he spent the summer sleeping with Brenda?
There was a tapping sound, and, from the doorway, a woman’s voice called out, “Pardon me!” D.C. Keaton, the lady of smiles, was standing in the doorway. Today, she was wearing a red and black print dress with a red linen blazer, a black silk carnation in the lapel. The red of the jacket, combined with the dark lipstick, gave her a brittle, sallow look.
“I apologize for bursting in like this, but I wonder if I might come in,” she said. Without waiting for a reply, she headed directly for Brad, smiling broadly and reaching out to shake his hand. “I’m Detective Constable Keaton,” she said. “You must be Mr. Graves.” She released his hand but held onto the smile. “Would you mind if I speak to your wife in private? Later, perhaps you’d be kind enough to answer a few questions.”
Clearly puzzled, Brad stared at her for a moment before nodding his assent. As he made his way to the door, Nicole studied the way his shoulders sagged, the rumpled state of his suit. The curls he always took so much care to straighten with the blow dryer were in complete rebellion. He threw Nicole a last unhappy glance, before Keaton shut the door and sat down next to the bed
“I know you’re not well,” she began, “so I’ll only take a moment. I just want to assure you that we’re searching for the men who accosted you at the National Gallery.”
“Then you heard…”
“Indeed I did,” Keaton said. “I’ve read the police report. I also received your telephone messages, and I did try to reach you. But there was no answer.” She looked at Nicole a long moment and shook her head. “Then, sometime before yesterday evening someone planted a bomb in the Lowrys’ car. It was on a timer, apparently set to go off at 6:00 p.m. A terrible coincidence, the way everything hit you at once.”
“But it wasn’t a coincidence,” Nicole said. She explained about the assailants’ threat and their 6:00 pm deadline.
“Oh, I see,” the detective said. “You think those men were responsible.” The detective was silent for a long moment, chewing the inside of her lip. “Well, I can understand why you might come to such a conclusion, and it is a possibility — but not the only one. We’ve received a rash of bomb threats in the last few days. We have a bomb squad that makes a science of this sort of thing, and they have reason to believe the explosion was the work of a terrorist group — although we’re not entirely sure which one.” She shook her head. “Yes, it’s a bit of a muddle, I’m afraid. We’re looking at Al Qaeda tie-ins, but other groups as well, such as ALF.”
“ALF?”
Keaton nodded. “The Animal Liberation Front. Opposed to blood sports and any animal testing. They often go after large corporations. I wonder if your husband’s company might be a target.”
Nicole thought of the animal rights groups at home. They were crazy all right, but she’d never heard of them throwing bombs around. “SoftPac is a computer software firm,” she said. “They don’t use laboratory animals.”
“I see. That makes it all the more puzzling, doesn’t it?” Keaton gave another of her smiles. “Well, no one has ever accused these people of being very precise in picking their targets. But the truth is that it might not have been terrorists at all. That’s why we have to keep an open mind and look into all the possibilities.”
Keaton paused before continuing, “May I be completely candid?”
Nicole nodded, but her stomach had gone funny. She didn’t want to hear what the woman had to say.
“We’ve spoken to several people who work in your husband’s London office.” Keaton’s face was sober. No hint of a smile now. “Someone told us, that is, he mentioned certain rumors that have been circulating about your husband…” Her voice trailed off. For the first time, she seemed at a loss for words.
“Just say it,” Nicole said.
“This person said your husband appears to be having an affair with a young woman who works for him. I’m dreadfully sorry to bring this up when I have no way of verifying it. But I must ask.”
Nicole hesitated. She could see where this line of questioning was headed, but it was ridiculous. “Even if it were true,” she replied, “I don’t see what it could possibly have to do with the car bomb.”
“Forgive me,” the detective said. “But in the vast majority of murder attempts, the perpetrator is the spouse or a close relative. So, when an apparent attempt is made on a woman’s life, the first person the police question is the husband.”
Nicole stared at her. “You can’t possibly imagine he’s trying to kill me.”
“Well, I’m terribly sorry,” Keaton said. “But you must see that we have to look into it. And one last thing; Several people, not just the one individual but three or four others, mentioned that your husband has a criminal record back in the U.S.”
“That was a computer prank when he was a kid, and he paid dearly for it,” she said. “I know who planted that car bomb, and it wasn’t Brad or any terrorist organization.” Tears of anger filled her eyes. She blinked them away. “Only, you’ve made up your mind, haven’t you? You aren’t the least bit interested in what I have to say.”
Keaton reached out and took Nicole’s hand. “Oh, Mrs. Graves, nothing could be further from the truth,” she said. “As soon as I get back to my office, I’m going to ask for an increase in the number of officers searching for the men who are stalking you. Now, I thought you might want to see this …” She pulled the neatly-folded page of a newspaper from her purse and, unfolding it, placed it on the bed. “Of course, the paper misidentified you. Perhaps one of the neighbors told the photographer that the house and car belonged to the Lowrys.”
It was an inside page containing several photos. Nicole picked it up, her eyes drawn to a picture of a blackened, burned-out hulk she recognized as the Lowrys’ car. Next to it, another photo showed paramedics hustling a rumpled-looking blonde into the back of an ambulance. It was a dreadful picture. Her mouth was hanging open; she looked dazed and slightly demented.
She read the caption: “Mrs. Muriel Lowry, Chiswick resident injured in yesterday’s bomb blast, shown as she was taken to hospital.”
As Nicole reread the words, trying to make sense of them, her eyes kept closing. She remembered the pills the nurse had given her and realized they must have been some kind of sedative.
“Now, I’m afraid I must take your husband away to ask him some questions,” Keaton said softly. “We’ll bring him back to you presently.”
With enormous effort, Nicole opened her eyes. “You can’t hold him,” she said. “The American Embassy …”
She couldn’t complete the sentence, but Keaton seemed to understand. “I’m afraid your embassy won’t be much help,” she said gently. “With a bombing like this, we have a right to hold your husband up to seven days for questioning under the Prevention of Terrorism Act.”
Nicole’s eyes opened then closed again, “You can’t possibly …” she managed to say.
“Don’t worry. We’ll release him later today, tomorrow morning at the latest. Look at it from our point of view: Mr. Graves might have heard or seen something.“
Nicole wanted to argue, but sleep was already carrying her away.