As he inched along the hallway he began to be able to see better, and he realized that the tiny red lights from the alarm system and the telephone box were beginning to light his way; then he saw that the doors to both boxes were open. Bingo, he said to himself, almost at the very moment that something crashed into the back of his neck. It seemed a long time afterward that his head, along with his consciousness, came to an abrupt stop against the hall floor.
The first thing he heard was a ringing in his head. Then the ringing seemed to float out of his body and into another place, while changing pitch upward. Finally it stopped and he heard his own voice: “This is Stone Barrington; please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you.” There followed an electronic beep, then a familiar voice.
“Stone, are you there? If you’re there, pick up.” A brief silence. “Please pick up, will you? I’ve got to talk to you right now!” Another silence. “Goddamnit, if you’re in the sack with somebody else, you’re in very big trouble!” There was a loud noise of a connection being broken.
Stone didn’t feel like moving just yet, since the floor seemed to be doing the moving for him. He lay there, his cheek against the cool oak, and tried to still it. Finally, hours later, it seemed, stillness arrived. He opened his eyes and blinked a few times. There was something inches from his nose, something tubular, and when he could move his head back and focus, he realized that it was the barrel of his own shotgun, lying on the floor in front of him.
He got to his hands and knees, then, using a coat rack for support, struggled to his feet, blinking rapidly to make the dizziness go away. That took a while. After a few more deep breaths to get some oxygen in his system, he turned and, leaning on the wall, went back toward his office. He found the switch that turned on the desk lamp, then moved around the desk and into his chair, resting his head on his hands against the desktop. He thought he had never had such a headache.
He forced himself to sit up and grope in a drawer for some aspirin, then swallowed four with some stale water from a carafe on his desk. That done, he sat up in his chair and tried to think. Somebody had just spoken to him. He looked down at the flashing red light on the answering machine, then pressed the replay button and listened to Arrington’s voice, an urgent voice. He struggled to remember her number, pressed the speaker button on the phone, dialed, and laid his head down beside it.
“Hello!” she said, sounding angry.
He tried to speak, cleared his throat, and tried again. “It’s Stone.”
“You’re trying to sound sleepy, aren’t you?” she cried. “You were there all the time.”
“Listen,” he said.
“You son of a bitch, you were there in bed with somebody, weren’t you? You got rid of her, and now you’re calling me back.”
“Arrington,” he said, as clearly as he could manage, “if you don’t shut up and listen I’m going to hang up.”
“All right,” she said, “I’m listening!”
“What time is it?”
“It’s eleven-thirty; lose your watch?”
“I’ve been out since, I don’t know, ten, ten-thirty.”
“Out of the house?”
“Out like a light.” He looked at his left wrist. “And, as a matter of fact, I did lose my watch.”
“You’re not making any sense.”
“I know.” His head began to swim again. “Will you call an ambulance, please? I think I…” He passed out again.
This time, he came awake in a hurry. Somebody was waving something horrible under his nose, and he pushed it away.
“How’re you feeling, pal?” a man’s voice asked.
Stone looked up and found a cop and a paramedic standing beside him; just beyond them was Arrington. His head seemed to be resting in a puddle of something.
“Let’s ease you back here,” the paramedic said, lifting him by the shoulders and sitting him up in the chair.
Stone wiped at his face. “What’s this?”
“Vomit. You threw up on the desk. Out, as you were, you’re lucky you didn’t choke on it.”
“Stone,” Arrington said, “I’m sorry I yelled at you.”
Stone nodded, and it hurt a lot.
“Let’s get you onto the stretcher,” the paramedic said. His partner appeared from somewhere, and they helped him onto the litter. “Just lie back and relax,” the man said. “We’ll have you checked out in no time.”
Stone drifted off again.
When he woke up he was in a curtained-off area. A woman in a green jacket was bending over him; Dino and Arrington were sitting beside the bed.
“How are you feeling?” the woman asked.
“Not so hot,” Stone responded.
“What’s your name?”
“Stone Barrington.”
“How many fingers do you see?”
“Three.”
“Good count.”
“How is he?” Arrington asked.
“He’s got a pretty good concussion, I think,” the doctor answered. She continued with a brief neurological examination. “I think we’ll admit him, at least for tonight.”
“Can I ask him some questions?” Dino asked.
“Make it brief,” the doctor replied, stepping back.
“You remember anything, Stone?” Dino asked.
“I heard a noise downstairs. Went down to check on it. That’s about it. My watch is gone.” He held up a wrist.
“Did you see the guy who hit you?”
“No; from behind, I think.”
“Right. Remember anything else?”
“The doors were open.”
“Yeah, the street door to your office was ajar.”
“No, the telephone and alarm doors.”
“Huh?”
“To the boxes in the hall.”
“I gotcha.”
“How did I get here?”
“You called Arrington, remember?”
“No. Yes. She’s mad at me.”
“No, I’m not, darling,” she said, bending over him and kissing him on the forehead.
“She called nine-one-one, and an ambulance and a cop showed up. The cop recognized you and called me.”
“That’s it,” the doctor said. “We need to get him to bed now.”
“Good idea,” Stone said, closing his eyes.
Chapter 32
Amanda looked into the mirror and was horrified at what she saw. God knew she had been under a lot of stress lately, if anger caused stress, but this was the absolute end! High on her left cheek was an irate, fiery-red pimple. A pimple! She had not had a pimple since high school!
She covered the protuberance with makeup as well as she could, then finished dressing and went to her office. Her staff of three was already hard at work as she entered. “Messages,” she said to Martha without so much as a good morning.
“Good morning, Amanda,” Martha said, handing her a stack of pink slips.
Amanda went into her office without a word and closed the door, tossing the messages onto her desk. Lately she had been operating at a high level of irritation, and at times she had had a very hard time to keep from losing her temper, something she never did. This DIRT business had gotten under her skin, and nearly two weeks had passed since she had hired Stone Barrington to get to the bottom of it, with no visible results. She picked up the phone and dialed his office number. His secretary answered.
“Good morning, Ms. Dart, how are you?”
“Terrible, thank you. Let me speak to Stone.”
“I’m afraid Stone won’t be at work today,” the woman said, “and possibly not tomorrow.”
“He’s taking a vacation?” Amanda spat. “On my time?”
“I beg your pardon?”
Amanda got hold of herself. “What I mean is, is Stone taking some time off?”
“He is ill at the moment.”
“I’ll? Then I’ll call his home number.”
“He’s not at home, Ms. Dart.”
“Where, then, is he? I want to speak to him immediately.”