John Abbott - Scimitar

“From what we’ve been told,” Gregors said, “from people who were at that cocktail party — men and women alike, by the way — this was a very handsome person, that’s one thing they all agree on. You sometimes...”

She was wondering how her mother could’ve been so goddamn stupid .

“... get descriptions that vary, you know, depending on who’s doing the talking. You get brown eyes, you get blue eyes, you get green eyes, hazel eyes, whatever, this is the same person all these people are describing. What we’ve come up with, though, what the artist is working on now, is a male Hispanic — but a very educated one, no accent, nothing like that — in his late twenties, early thirties. Dark hair, light eyes, very handsome. Runs a cable television station in San Diego, by the way, we’re checking out there right this minute, see if there’s any paper on him. See if he’s got a record, that is.”

“When will you know?” Elita asked.

“Well, it isn’t morning there yet, but they should be getting back to us soon. Meanwhile, we’ll get these people back in to look at the drawing, fine tune it, you know, fix an eyebrow here, a nostril there, get it to look as much like the person as we can. We’re working on this, Miss Randall, don’t worry. You realize, of course...”

He hesitated.

She waited.

There was a crackling on the telephone wire. She wondered if a storm was on its way.

“There’s no indication yet that any foul play is involved here,” Gregors said at last. “Your mother was seen with this man at a party, but that doesn’t mean anything has happened to her, or if something did happen to her, it doesn’t mean this man is responsible for it. We’ll have cases where a person will go off and not tell anyone where she’s going and she’ll turn up safe and sound right around the corner. All I’m saying is that we’re working up the composite as a precautionary measure, in case we should need it in the future, but you mustn’t think we’re automatically assuming something has happened to your mother. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yes, I do. Thank you very much.”

“We’ll keep in touch,” Gregors said.

“Thank you,” she said again, and hung up.

The house seemed utterly still.

She looked at her watch.

A little past nine. She wondered if Geoffrey was at work yet. She hadn’t spoken to him since Wednesday night, hadn’t even called to thank him for what had been a truly wonderful time. By now, he had to be thinking she was the most ungrateful jerk imaginable. She looked for his number in her handbag, dialed it, got a woman telling her this was the British Consulate, asked for Mr. Turner, and was sure that the next woman who came on the line was the absurdly strident Lucy Phipps, to whom she did not identify herself. She asked for Mr. Turner again and was put straight through.

“Elita!” he said. “I’ve been worried sick about you! Where on earth are you?”

She told him where she was and told him why she’d come out here, and all at once she found herself bawling into the mouthpiece, sobbing out the whole story of not having been able to get her mother by phone...

“Do you remember my calling her from the Plaza?”

... and no one having seen her since Monday night, and the police interviewing people and getting a composite drawing made...

“Oh, Jesus,” she sobbed, “I don’t know what to do!”

“I’m sure she’s perfectly all right,” Geoffrey said. “Now listen to me, Elita. You can’t help the situation an iota by sitting out there all alone and waiting for the phone to ring. Did you drive out there?”

“No.”

“How did you get there?”

“By jitney.”

“Can you take one back to the city?”

“Yes, but I don’t think I should.”

“Why not?”

“Suppose they learn something?”

“I’m sure they’ll learn she’s fine. Just give them your number in New York, and they’ll...”

“Suppose she isn’t,” Elita said.

There was a silence on the line.

“Elita,” he said, “whatever the case, I think you need to be with someone who cares about you. What time is the next jitney?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to look at the schedule.”

“Look at it,” he said.

“All right,” she said.

“ Now , Elita. Look at it now , please.”

She blew her nose, found the schedule, and went back to the phone. Still sniffling, she told him that the next bus left at twelve twenty-five and arrived in Manhattan at two-fifteen.

“Where in Manhattan?” he asked.

“Thirty-ninth and Third. And then it makes stops...”

“I’ll be there to meet you at two-fifteen.”

“Geoffrey... I really think I should stay here.”

“Why?” he asked.

She could not think of a single reason why.

“Call the police and give them your number in New York,” he said.

“All right.”

“I’ll see you in a little while.”

“All right.”

“Elita?”

“Yes, Geoffrey.”

“I’m sure she’s fine.”

“All right, Geoffrey.”

“Elita, please stop crying. You’re breaking my heart.”

Which words, for some odd reason she couldn’t quite understand, almost broke hers. Or perhaps she’d just remembered what he’d said earlier. About her needing to be with someone who cared about her. That.

Arthur opened one of his desk drawers and removed from it a large manila clasp envelope. He unfastened the wing tips of the clasp, reached inside the envelope, and pulled out a thin rectangle of cardboard, somewhat longer than it was wide.

“According to your specifications,” he said.

There was thick block lettering on the sign, black on white.

“Okay?”

“Yes, perfect,” Sonny said, and then carefully put the sign back into the envelope. Arthur was still watching him.

“So,” he said.

“So,” Sonny said.

“All ready for tomorrow?”

“Almost.”

“Would it were day, hmm?” Arthur said, and smiled.

Sonny looked at him.

“’Will it never be morning?’” Arthur said.

Sonny kept looking at him.

“ Henry the Fifth ,” Arthur said. “‘Would it were day!’” he said, quoting again. “The French camp, near Agincourt.”

“Oh,” Sonny said.

“I still don’t know your plan,” Arthur said.

“I’ll be laying in,” Sonny said.

“I assumed. And when you surface?”

“I’ll blend in. Till it’s time.”

“Do you know when he’ll be speaking?”

“Twelve noon.”

“High noon, hmm?”

“High noon, yes.”

“Catch the West Coast, too.”

“Yes.”

“How will you do it?”

“From above. The level above him.”

“Using?”

“Sarin.”

Arthur raised his eyebrows appreciatively.

“Careful with that stuff,” he said.

“I will be.”

“Don’t want to get any on you.”

“No.”

“Or even breathe any of it.”

“I know how dangerous it is,” Sonny said.

“Should do the job nicely, though.”

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“Get away. If I can.”

“How?”

“A boomerang,” Sonny said.

“Ah. Yes. Good,” Arthur said. “Very good. And where will you go afterward? Back to Westhampton?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Where then?”

“The hotel, I think.”

“I’d like to know for certain.”

“I’ll call you,” Sonny said. “ If I get off the island.”

“Oh, I’m sure you will,” Arthur said. “Which is why I’d like to know where you’ll be, hmm? So we can help you with your future plans.”