Now You See Him(64)

The door between their rooms was unlocked. She pushed it open, calling his name softly. The room was dark, the blinds pulled against the bright Mediterranean sunlight, the sunlight Francey couldn't get enough of. "Daniel," she called again, her eyes growing used to the dimness.

He was lying stretched out on the bed, his ghostly pallor distinguishable even in the shadows. His eyes were open, just focusing on her, and his voice was a mere thread of sound.

"Get Elmore," he whispered.

"Daniel, you need a hospital," she protested, panic filling her. She'd lost too much in the past few months, the past few days. She couldn't lose Daniel, too.

"I wouldn't trust the witch doctors around here," Daniel wheezed. "Get me Elmore. He should be in the hotel somewhere. He'll have what I need, or he can get it for me. He's a…damned fine…doctor when he isn't following orders."

"I'll find him. Otherwise…"

"There's no otherwise," Daniel said, firm despite the faintness in his voice. "I don't trust anyone else. This old ticker of mine likes to give me a scare now and then, and with my luck, it's chosen today. By tomorrow I'll feel right as rain."

"I'll find Elmore," Francey promised, keeping the panic from her voice.

It was easier said than done. Elmore was registered, all right, but he was nowhere in the small, elegant hotel. A phone call ascertained that he hadn't been back to the True Blue, and even when Francey asked about other doctors in the area, the concierge refused to oblige. "Mr. Travers wouldn't see another doctor," the elegantly suited gentleman insisted in an annoyingly paternal manner. "Let me make a few more phone calls, and I'm certain I can track the good doctor down."

"I'm not sure how much time my cousin has." For the first time in almost a month an edge of hysteria was creeping into Francey's voice, and she clamped down on it. If she lost control now, she might never regain it, and she imagined a Maltese mental hospital wasn't far removed from a Spanish prison.

The concierge allowed a faint frown of irritation to cross his brow. Obviously he considered her to be a hysteric of the first order, but just as obviously he didn't want to risk having a dead rich American in one of his suites. "The British embassy," he said abruptly, before he could change his mind. "I expect Dr. Brady is somewhere at the embassy. He usually checks in there when he comes to the island."

"But he's not British."

The concierge lifted his hands in a dismissive gesture. "I have no idea why he goes, Miss Neeley. I only know that he does. Let me see if I can find him for you. The telephones are a bit unreliable on the island, but if you'll just be patient…"

"I'll go myself." She practically sprinted across the lobby to the glassed-in front doors, almost knocking over a well-dressed matron in her haste. The concierge handed her into the waiting cab, issued a few unintelligible orders to the driver, and they were off, barreling through the crowded downtown streets.

They arrived at the embassy an agonizing twenty minutes later, stopping at a nondescript white building that Francey was certain they'd passed at least twice during their travels. When she questioned the driver he merely raised his hands and shrugged, and not for a moment did she believe he couldn't speak English.

By the time she stepped inside the cool, air-conditioned halls of the small embassy outpost she was ready to scream. Collaring the first bureaucrat she could find, an earnest young man in Bermuda shorts and an impeccable tie, she demanded that he produce Dr. Elmore Brady.

She half expected the response. "I'm sorry, Miss, never heard of him."

Francey took his perfect tie in her hand and yanked his head down to her level. "Then the ambassador will have to do. Maybe his memory is better than yours. And if you don't take me to see him immediately, I'll cause a scene that will be remembered throughout history. I have had enough, and I'm not willing to be fobbed off with any more excuses. My cousin could be dying, and I'm damned well not going to wait for an appointment or trust anyone less than the ambassador himself."

The young man had paled at the very mention of the word "scene," and her hand on his tie, choking him just slightly, was sufficient motivation. "Right this way, Miss…"

"Neeley. Frances Neeley," Francey said with deceptive affability, loosening her stranglehold on his school tie. Just slightly.

But the young man had obviously had the fear of God, or American womanhood on a rampage, put into him. Within two minutes Francey was being ushered into the elegant, walnut-paneled offices of Sir Henry Chapin as the ambassador himself raised his ponderous bulk from his leather chair and beamed at her.