The Marital Corporation Ch. 13

Doc sighed. "I wish I knew," he said. "Sometimes, I think I'm getting too old for this sort of thing. Go away. I want to take a nap." He closed his eyes.

Marge and Peter left the hospital in the middle of rush hour, and debated whether to go home or return to the boat. Peter craved a night in his own bed, so they drove back to Queen Anne hill.

Apart from the obscene paint that looked like a white scar on the brick facade next to the door, things seemed normal. Peter put the car in the garage. Marge waited on the front porch while he opened the house from the garage. After scooping up the mail that had accumulated on the floor beneath the mail drop during their absence, Marge flicked the TV on to get the evening news.

"Hey, Pete," she called, "you're on TV!"

He hurried into the room just in time to see his image say, " . . .the shelter, warmth and love that is every child's birthright. This was my main purpose in pressing forward with the family corporation idea. Does that answer your question?"

And this was going to be a quiet evening.

Three minutes later, the phone began to ring. It was Connie. She had not seen the news broadcast, but she had read the newspaper account about Doc being shot.

"People in the office have been talking about you and your ideas all day," she said. "Most seem to think you're mildly crazy, but get this: Your old secretary, Miss Perkins, came to see me and confidentially asked me for a job. When I pointed out that she would most likely lose her retirement pension, she simply said, 'I just knew Mr. Baylis would amount to something,' is the way she put it." Connie paused, then with a throaty chuckle, added, "Maybe she's also interested in joining the Baylis ménage."

Then she asked after Doc, and if the police had any leads or suspects in mind. Wondering if his phone had also been tapped, Peter was careful to tell her only what he had already told the police.

As soon as Peter replaced the phone in its cradle, it rang a second time. He answered.

A woman's voice, obviously disguised, snarled, "Opened your mail yet? If Sam doesn't show up by seven in the morning, we'll have another surprise for you! And remember, that pretty house of yours won't look so good at the bottom of the hill!"

Peter flinched at the sudden crash as the caller violently slammed the receiver down.

He felt suddenly nauseous. His knees seemed unwilling to bear his weight, and he collapsed into a nearby chair, feeling faint and clammy. Peter could feel his heart race and beads of nervous perspiration trickled from his armpits down his rib cage.

"What's the matter, Pete?" Marge's voice seemed to come from a great distance, but she was standing over him. "Are you ill? Should I call a doctor?"

Peter managed to shake his head, trying at the same time to organize his thoughts, and suppress the panic that was struggling like a wild beast to take control of his chest.

Frantically, he began to sift through the pile of catalogs, bills and junk mail that Marge had piled on the table. A small cardboard box sealed with heavy tape and addressed simply to Mr. & Mrs. Baylis was at the bottom of the pile. There was no return address or stamp. This package had been hand delivered.

Intuitively, Peter knew his fate lay in that box. With shaking fingers, he attempted to break the tape and open the box. Marge stopped him.

"Peter. Maybe we shouldn't open this. Remember the Unabomber! It could be a bomb!"

Peter blinked and mentally cursed himself. Marge was right! What had he been thinking of? The police would know how to deal with this . . .

Almost as suddenly, he realized that questions about the box and possible clues such as fingerprints would almost invariably lead to questions he wasn't prepared to answer, because that would mean confessing that he had committed obstruction of justice by withholding knowledge of a major felony; Sam's apparent abduction. Peter knew that if this became a formal matter, he would almost certainly be disbarred, and perhaps even face a prison sentence. Where else could he turn?

Longingly, he thought of the simple life he, Gordon, and Kenny had enjoyed aboard Love Boat II on her delivery cruise, and for one panicky instant actually thought of calling Gordon, offering to trade his house for the boat and enough cash to keep them going for a year or two. Resolutely, he thrust that seductive thought from his mind. Instead, he turned to Marge, pausing until he was sure his voice was under control.

"I don't know what to do, Marge," he said hoarsely, his shoulders drooping in defeat. Peter then repeated the gist of the woman's message. "I don't know what's in that box any more than you do, but somehow we're going to have to find out. The hell of it is," he continued, "we seem to be in a corner. Doc's out of commission, I can't see putting Gordon in harm's way by asking him for help, I think Mining and his people have used us for their own purposes, and if we go to the police, I'll lose my license, and possibly even go to jail. Got any ideas?"

Any question in his mind which of the sexes was the stronger, was instantly dispelled as Marge calmly took charge. After listening to Peter's nearly hysterical recital of the awful imaginables, she asked for Ted Mining's telephone number.

"I can't believe that you, of all people, would think so little of people who are trying to protect us," she said reproachfully. "Mr. Mining has been straight with us right from the beginning. I think it would be better if I talked to him instead of you, since you obviously aren't feeling well."

Silently relieved that someone else was making the decisions, Peter stood and went shakily into his study. He pulled the relevant card from his Rolodex, and silently handed it to her.

She dialed Mining's number, and listened intently as his phone rang. Meanwhile, Peter had another thought, and raced back to the study for a legal pad and a pencil. Marge smiled. Hello, is this Mr. Mining? This is Marge Baylis, Mr. Mining . . .

He held up a hastily scrawled message: "Remember, our phone may be tapped. Be careful what you say!"

Marge then asked Mining if he had seen Peter's performance on the evening news? She listened to his answer for a moment, then said, The reason I'm calling is because I think it's vitally important for us to get together this evening. She listened again. If it's incon- venient for you, perhaps we could meet you somewhere . . . There was another pause. Yes, we think it's that important. . . Good . . yes, we'll look for you about nine."

She put the phone down. "He's coming over at nine," she said. "Why don't you drive down to Shilshole and close the boat up while we're waiting? That'll give you something to do, besides sitting here and fretting. I wonder where Kenny is?"

Peter heard the scream of emergency sirens and saw a dull red glow against the skyline while he was still blocks away from the marina. With gut wrenching certainty, he knew Love Boat II was on fire!

Sick with worry, he fell in behind and followed a fire truck racing toward Shilshole. His attention was riveted on the speeding engine. Therefore, he was surprised after they reached the entrance to the marina, that the fire truck continued north on Seaview Avenue.

The fire was two blocks north of the marina. Peter quickly signaled a left turn and wheeled into the marina parking lot, where he stopped, drawing several deep shuddering breaths. As he waited for the pulse that he could feel beating in his throat to subside, a detached part of his mind wondered if he was destined to flee from shadows for the rest of his life!

To be continued. By the way, I'd appreciate some feedback/