Weep No More, My Lady

Ted began to sob-deep, racking sounds that filled the room. His body twitched convulsively.

"Ted, who did that to her?"

"Hands. Just see hands. She's gone. It's my father." His words became broken. "Leila's dead. Daddy pushed her. Daddy killed her."

The psychiatrist looked at Scott. "You won't get any more now. Either that's all he knows or he still can't bring himself to face the entire truth."

"That's what I'm afraid of," Scott whispered. "How soon will he come out of it?"

"Pretty fast. He'd better rest awhile."

John Whitley stood up. "I want to look in on Mrs. Meehan. I'll be right back."

"I'd like to go with you." The cameraman was packing his equipment. "Drop the tape in my office," Scott told him. He turned to his deputy. "Stay here. Don't let Mr. Winters leave."

The head nurse in the ICU was visibly excited. "We were just about to send for you, Doctor. Mrs. Meehan seems to be coming out of the coma."

"She said 'voices' again." Willy Meehan's face was alive with hope. "Just as clear. I don't know what she meant, but she knew what she was trying to say."

"Does that mean she's out of danger?" Scott asked Dr. Whitley.

John Whitley studied the chart and reached for Alvirah's pulse. His answer was low enough that Willy Meehan could not hear him. "Not necessarily. But it sure is a good sign. Whatever prayers you know, start saying them now."

Alvirah's lids fluttered open. She was looking straight ahead, and as her eyes focused, they rested on Scott. A look of urgency came over her face. "Voices," she whispered. "Wasn't."

Scott bent over her. "Mrs. Meehan, I don't understand."

Alvirah felt the way she did when she used to clean old Mrs. Smythe's house. Mrs. Smythe was always telling her to push the piano out and get at the dust behind it. It was like trying to push the piano but so much more important. She wanted to tell them who had hurt her but she couldn't think of his name. She could see him plain as plain, but she couldn't remember his name. Desperately she tried to communicate with the sheriff. "Wasn't the doctor did that to me… wasn't his voice… Someone else…" She closed her eyes and felt herself slipping into sleep.

"She's getting better," Willy Meehan whispered exultantly. "She's trying to tell you something."

"Wasn't the doctor… wasn't his voice…" What the hell did she mean? Scott asked himself.

He rushed to the room where Ted was waiting. Ted was sitting up now in the small plastic armchair, his hands folded in front of him. "I opened the door," he said tonelessly. "Hands were holding Leila over the railing. I could just see the white satin billowing; her arms were flailing…"

"You couldn't see who was holding her?"

"It was so fast. I think I tried to call out, and then she was gone and whoever it was just disappeared. He must have run along the terrace."

"Have you any idea of his size?"

"No, it was as if I was watching my father when he did that to my mother. I even saw my father's face." He looked up at Scott. "And I haven't helped you, or myself, have I?"

"No, you haven't," Scott said bluntly. "I want a free association from you. 'Voices. 'Say the first thing that comes into your mind."

"Identification."

"Go on."

"Unique. Personal."

"Go on."

Ted shrugged. "Mrs. Meehan. She brought up the subject repeatedly. She apparently had some idea of taking elocution lessons and she got everyone into a discussion about accents and voices."

Scott thought of Alvirah's broken whisper. "Wasn't the doctor… wasn't his voice…" Mentally he reviewed the di

The Baron's voice on that last tape. He drew in his breath sharply. "Ted, do you remember what else Mrs. Meehan said about voices? Something about Craig imitating yours?"

Ted frowned. "She asked me about a story she'd read years ago in People-that Craig used to field my phone calls at the fraternity house and the girls couldn't tell the difference between our voices. I told her it was true. In school Craig used to bring down the house with his imitations."

"And she tried to make him demonstrate it for her, but he refused." Scott saw Ted's look of surprise and shook his head impatiently. "Never mind how I know. That's what Elizabeth wanted me to catch when I listened to those tapes."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Mrs. Meehan kept pestering Craig to imitate your voice. Don't you see? He didn't want anyone to think about his being a good mimic. Elizabeth 's testimony against you is based solely on hearing your voice. Elizabeth suspects him, but if she's tipped her hand he'll go after her."

A wild sense of urgency made him grab Ted's arm. "Come on!" he shouted. "We've got to get to the Spa." On the way out, he yelled instructions at the deputy: "Call Elizabeth Lange at the Cypress Point Spa. Tell her to stay in her room with her door locked. Send another car over there."

He ran through the lobby, Ted at his heels. In his car, Scott turned on the siren. It's too late for you, he thought as his mind filled with the image of the murderer. Killing Elizabeth won't help you anymore…

The car raced along the highway between Salinas and Pebble Beach. Scott fired instructions into the two-way radio. As Ted listened, the full impact of what he was hearing penetrated his consciousness; the hands that had held Leila over the terrace became arms, a shoulder, as familiar as his own, and the realization of Elizabeth 's danger made him jam his feet on the floor of the car in a futile effort to make contact with an imaginary accelerator.

Had she been toying with him? Of course she had. But like the others, she had underestimated him. And like the others, she would pay for it.

With methodical calm he stripped off his clothes and unlocked his suitcase. The mask was on top of the wet suit and tank. It amused him to remember how at the last moment Sammy had seen his eyes through the mask and known. When he'd called to her in Ted's voice, she had run to him. All the evidence hadn't in the end turned her against Ted. And all the overwhelming evidence he had so carefully laid out, even the new eyewitness he had planted, hadn't convinced Elizabeth .

The wet suit was cumbersome. When this was over, he'd get rid of all this equipment. Just in case anyone questioned Elizabeth 's death, it wouldn't be wise to have any visible reminder that he was an expert scuba diver. Ted, of course, should remember. But in all these months it hadn't crossed Ted's mind that he had the special ability to mimic him. Ted- so stupid, so naive. "I tried to phone you; I remember that distinctly." And so Ted had become his impeccable alibi. Until that nosy bitch Alvirah Meehan kept after him. "Let me hear you imitate Ted's voice. Just once. Please. Say anything at all." He'd wanted to throttle her, but then had had to wait until yesterday when he went ahead of her to treatment room C waited in the closet for her, the hypodermic needle in his hand. Too bad she didn't know she'd sampled his gift for mimicry when she thought she was listening to the Baron.

The wet suit was on. He strapped the tank to his back, turned off the lights and waited. It still chilled him to realize that last night he'd been within seconds of opening the door and confronting Ted. Ted had wanted to talk everything through. "I'm begi