"Please do."
"And what," the distant voice inquired, with casual brightness, "did you say to the Phoenix police about me?"
Kate had moved. She was facing Joe now, and at least one of her baby-blue eyes was open, regarding him over a mound of pillow as she waited calmly to find out what was going on. Maybe she had already heard enough to know, or guess, who he was talking to.
Still watching Kate, Joe cleared his throat. "I told them that a man calling himself Thorn sometimes phones me and gives me information. That I had no idea of this Thorn's real name or where he lives or where he calls me from. That's not as crazy as it might sound. There actually are informants who behave like that, and sometimes they give useful information."
When the other end of the line remained silent, Joe went on: "Of course the next thing they asked was what you had been calling me about from Phoenix." He paused again here, thinking carefully. If ever it should come to a choice between getting himself into legal trouble, police trouble, and making an enemy out of the man now on the phone, he knew which choice he'd have to make. Kate's family could afford the best in legal help, but a lot of good that would do him if—"I said you'd talked to me about a possible lead on the missing painting that's been in the news, but that you hadn't given me anything definite on it at all. Is that all right?"
"Yes, Joe, that is quite all right." A soothing tone.
"Of course they quickly discovered that there isn't any Oak Tree, Illinois. And since your home address was a fake they'll probably assume that the name Thorn's a fake too. So most likely they're stuck as to where to look for you next. Since your body wasn't found with the car, they'll assume you weren't in it. Maybe they think you planted the bomb yourself. By the way, there were parts of a pair of men's shoes, pretty well destroyed, found in the wreckage."
"I am not surprised to hear it. Brandreth's shoes fit me tolerably well."
"They thought the woman's body was lying on the wrong side of the vehicle for her to have been in the driver's seat. It was the Mary Rogers you were asking about, I assume you know that. Say, was she a friend of yours? If so, I'm sorry."
The long-distance hum of equipment. "We had not grown to know each other well," Thorn replied at last. "Still, I think a certain rapport was beginning to grow between us. We might have become good friends. One has few good friends even in a long life, and one loses even them. Yes, her death grieves me."
Kate reached out to touch Joe's arm with one finger. When he looked at her, her lips formed a silent, one-word question: Judy?
Joe shook his head minimally. He had no reason to think as yet that Judy had come into it at all. Then he asked the telephone: "What about that O'Grandison you were asking about, is he connected with this in any way? None of my contacts here seem to know where he is. They say they haven't seen him for a while. Have you reached him yet?"
"I have not. I know no more about him now than when I spoke with you last."
"Okay. Do you want me to tell Phoenix that I've heard from you again? That you blame the bombing on Gliddon and this Brandreth or whoever he is?"
Thorn took a moment before answering. "If in return, when you hear anything about the whereabouts of Gliddon, you are willing to tell me—then yes, you may tell them that."
"On second thought I guess I won't have to mention Brandreth. But I'll tell them that you called again, and that you claim Gliddon's still alive. How's that?"
"That will be fine . . . Joseph."
"What?"
"Do not worry, about me. I mean that I am an old friend of Kate's family, which is now yours. I know that you are my friend, and mean well. And I am not all that greatly concerned about what you tell or do not tell the police in Phoenix or anywhere else. Trouble with the law does not mean much to me, ultimately. Take care of Kate, and of yourself."
And with a distant click the line went dead. Joe had the vague sensation that his ears were burning. As if he had been caught out in cowardice.
Slowly he hung up the phone, and looked at Kate. He said: "I was going to tell you. I did call your little sister, earlier, trying to warn her not to get involved in this. She got a little angry at me, but I think she knows I'm right."
Kate looked doubtful at first. Then she looked worse than doubtful. "I don't know, Joe. You say you made her angry? Were you issuing orders?"
"Come on, give me credit for a little more sense than that."
"Still, I don't know. She's quite grown up now. Maybe even suggesting what she ought to do was a mistake."
"I figured she must have heard in the news about the bombing. I don't know if she knows that now he's calling himself Thorn. I don't have any idea when they've seen each other last, to tell the truth."
"I don't know either." Kate sighed. "Maybe it's all over. And her school is at least five hundred miles away from Phoenix."
"I don't think it's all over for her. She got angry. But as far as I could tell she wasn't really planning to do anything, like go to Arizona. She's anything but a wild kid, usually." Then Joe paused, listening to his own words, what he was saying about a girl who had had an affair with a vampire, however brief.
Husband and wife lay looking at each other, exchanging hopeful and supportive thoughts. At least Joe was trying to make the exchange hopeful, and he could see that Kate was doing the same.
"Well," Joe added at last, "we could call her again in the morning, and tell her that we know for sure now that he's still alive."
"She must know that much at least," Kate said positively. "There's still at least that much contact between them, if there's any relationship left at all."
"Yeah, I suppose. That's spooky." Joe knew that Kate knew more about the subject than he did.
"Give me a hug, Joey."
Joe rolled away from Kate to turn the light off. Then he rolled back again. Kate hugged his face against her bare breasts.
The telephone rang again.
For a moment, as he floundered his way back over the quaking mattress to pick up the receiver, Joe's imagination flickered with a truly horrible suggestion. Suppose, just suppose, that Thorn had been deranged somehow by the bomb's concussion, and turned into a crank phone caller. To imagine him gone mad, driven out of the state that with him passed for normality . . .
"Hello, who is this?"
In the next moment, puzzlement and fear had a new tangent. It was a woman's voice on the phone, one that Joe had never heard before. It sounded young, and, of all things, vaguely British. "Yes. Am I speaking to Mr. Joseph Keogh?"
"Lieutenant Keogh. Yes. Who is this?" It didn't sound like long-distance this time.
"Sorry, lieutenant, of course, of the police department. I don't suppose you would recognize my name. I should like to communicate with Mr. Jonathan Thorn. Have you any idea at what number I could reach him quickly?"
Chapter Sixteen
Pat O'Grandison was heading west again. From northern Indiana he thumbed his way through Chicago and right on, following Route 66, or Interstate 55 as they called it now. His intention was to find Annie, the girl he really liked.
He had missed Annie, he had to admit it to himself, more than he could remember ever missing anyone before. They had met—well, never mind where they had first met, but they had spent days together in Chicago some months back. Then Annie had dropped out of sight and Pat had just assumed that she was gone for good, like everything else good that had ever happened to him. Then bang, gosh, one night in Calumet City, Indiana, she had shown up again out of nowhere. At least Pat was almost sure she had. Not really absolutely sure, because next morning he had been having a bad time with his mind again, and the morning after that he woke up in the looney bin again.