Death Under the Lilacs Read Online Free Page A

hope that he hangs around the area of the phone booth for a few minutes.”
    â€œHow much time?” Rocco asked.
    â€œWe’ll know something in five minutes.”
    It was an interminable wait, and the room was silent except for an occasional cough or movement by one of the waiting officers. The room seemed frozen in a silent tableau, and only Lyon moved as he paced back and forth and finally walked out onto the patio.
    The two conversing officers who had sat on the edge of the parapet earlier were now gone, and the patio was empty and dark under a leaden sky.
    Lyon sat down heavily on the edge of the stone wall and tried to look down at the river that flowed below. It was a moonless night, and it seemed to enclose the lighted house in a cocoon of silence. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Rocco standing nearby with one foot propped on the wall, a long cigar in his hand.
    â€œWe know there’s a good chance she’s alive,” Rocco said. “We know it probably isn’t some sex nut who kills wantonly.”
    â€œI have the feeling that somehow he knows us, Rocco.”
    Rocco turned to look at him with professional interest. “You recognized a voice through that damn machine?”
    â€œNo, not a particular voice. Perhaps it was a speech pattern, or something else that’s subliminal. I just have this feeling that I know him—or did know him.”
    â€œBut nothing you can definitely place your finger on.”
    â€œI wish to God I could.”
    The phone rang in the living room and both men simultaneously turned and hurried inside. Norbert had the receiver in his hand, muttered an acknowledgment, and slowly hung up.
    â€œThey made the phone booth,” the state police captain said. “There wasn’t a car or pedestrian in the vicinity.”
    A sigh of disappointment filled the room.
    â€œThere was one thing,” the captain continued. “Whoever it is left a note.”
    â€œA note? Ransom instructions?” one of the FBI agents asked with interest as his first comment of the evening.
    â€œNot quite,” Norbert said as he glanced down at his note pad. “It reads, in sum total, ‘Ha-ha.’”
    Bea Wentworth was more than frightened; dredged from some depth within her, originating in a primitive survival mechanism, was an all-consuming sense of terror.
    She had awakened once in the van. She had involuntarily moaned when she found herself strapped to a board-like frame. The van had slowed, evidently pulled off onto the shoulder of the road, and the driver had thrown open the rear doors. The hand with the chloroform-soaked cheesecloth had descended once again.
    She had writhed under the tight straps and turned her head violently back and forth. The cloth had pressed down over her mouth and nostrils and been held firmly until she gasped for breath and again drifted into unconsciousness.
    It was dark. A deep, unrelieved darkness, and she felt chilled. There was a dank, musty smell to the place where she was confined, but outside of that there was nothing else to indicate where she was held. She strained against the straps that bound her, and although her wrists could lift two or three inches, her ankles were immobile. The surface she lay on was stiff and unyielding.
    â€œIs there anyone there?” Her voice seemed to echo, but there was no response. “Please! Is there anyone there?”
    She strained to hear, but a faint drip of water several feet away was the only thing she could hear. The darkness engulfed her without relief.
    Where was she and why? She tried to overcome panic and think about what had befallen her. She forced herself to remember the final moments in the shopping-center lot. He had worn a ski mask, and they had fought until she had fallen unconscious. Nothing else; even her remembrance of his physical size was vague.
    She had to control herself. She had to fight back the terror and hysteria that began to