Ampersand Limited: A Novel of Suspense

PROLOGUE

Blinks. Her keepers soon discovered she could communicate with eye blinks. One blink yes, two blinks no, and they played the game for years. Mary could hear and understand every word, but she could only move her eyes and eyelids. A sadistic monster could not design a more grotesque prison. But then a sadistic monster did design it!

Mary lay rigidly on the maple and metal hospital bed. The outlines of the silvery plastic tubes that entered and exited her body could be seen at the edge of the plaid blanket that was draped over her like a shroud on a casket. Her mind was fuzzy, bordering on vacant, but at times random, grotesque flashbacks blasted through the haze like guided missiles and terrified her.

Thirty-five years ago when she arrived at Pine Knoll that same mind was alert, but the body was still paralyzed. They called it hysterical catatonia. The place of her internment was selected with care and the cost, two hundred and forty-five dollars a day, put it beyond the reach of all but the truly affluent. It’s worth every penny, Smith the director, an unctuous and solicitous man, assured her husband that lovely autumn day when he stoically committed her.

Mary’s endless day began with fastidious grooming, then dressing, then absolutely nothing. For years she screamed her mute scream. No one visited; no one called; no one cared. Mary did not endure. She did not persevere. Mary simply existed: A blinking way station for tubes.

In her other life she was cheery and delightful; a good friend, wife and mother. Now she was like a ripe dandelion a breeze could blow away. She desperately wished it would.

Suddenly, a flashback siezed her. A small boy in the backyard of a country house was rampantly trampling an obviously well-tended and carefully laid out flower garden. Colorful long stemmed flowers and lusciously verdant plants were uprooted from the fecund soil and flung helter skelter onto the manicured, vibrantly green lawn. An elegant marble birdbath and several expensive ornamental statues were wrenched from their sites and overturned. Whoops of joy bounced off the stucco house as the child, in minutes, reduced the garden to shambles. He was having a grand ol’ time! Then abruptly, the scene vanished.

Chapter ONE

The peninsula was washed by an indifferent full moon the night Arthur’s car wouldn’t start.

Shit, he thought, the battery’s practically brand new.

Arthur was Arthur Chace Flemming, a member of a high powered staff of thirty engineers/architects that worked for H.D. Smalley International. Residential construction was his forte.

He was tall, six-three, dark complexioned with thick brown hair and eyebrows. His expressive eyes were large and also brown. They were deep-set in a lean chiseled face. He was unmarried as well as Hollywood-handsome.

Jesus, Florida was hot in August, he said to himself, his shirt sticking to his back like static-cling. Living in New England he was used to muggy weather, but this was something else. Arthur stood outside his car, waiting for a jump-start or a ride to a gas station. A while ago, driving through Key Largo heading north on Route 1, he stopped to water a tree. He had shut off the ignition, but left the headlights on when he hustled off into the bushes. Now the car wouldn’t start. Several attempts at starting it resulted in the clicking sounds every motorist dreads.

The time was two-twenty a.m. and traffic was a misnomer—extinct, closer. He was sorry he didn’t take the time to use the bathroom before leaving the party, but prudence was not one of Arthur’s strong suits. Company parties fit in there somewhere as well. He only went because Joyce had asked him.

Women, on the other hand, were among his strong suits. He had been dating Joyce a little over four months—a lifetime. Smalley had a company policy: no fraternizing, gender notwithstanding. Period. Arthur obviously ignored it. The plan was to leave the party early and return later and spend the night. Joyce never disappointed. Fat chance of that now.

The stalled car, a silver 1969 Porsche Cabriolet was in pristine condition. It had never failed him in the five years he had owned it. His father once had the exact same car, and Arthur had learned to drive on it. Driving was one of his passions, and he was good at it. The car’s odometer registered seventy-three thousand miles, and Arthur was uncertain how many times the odometer had cycled. He was certain, however, all the equipment, save the black top, was original. Like everyone who’s hooked on driving, he loved the handling, suspension and ride peculiar to that magnificent European driving machine.

As he sat and waited, his thoughts strayed to the people at the party, especially Farrell. Frank Farrell was his boss, chief rival and burr under his sadle. That unpleasant, obnoxious bastard practically molested every woman there, especially Joyce. The man’s uncouth behavior galled him, and it took all of Arthur’s willpower to keep from punching his lights out.

Time hung heavy as he sat on the fender waiting—miles from nowhere. Suddenly he felt the urge to smoke a cigarette. He was up to three packs a day before he quit, cold turkey, sixteen months ago. Thankfully these sudden urges were becoming less frequent and easier to deal with. As he mulled this, headlights appeared in the distance. He pushed off the fender, rushed to the roadside and frantically waved with both arms.

What luck, he thought, it’s a police car; the driver had put the flashers on when he saw the whirling dervish. The car stopped several feet behind Arthur’s vehicle and the lone occupant got out and walked toward him.

Good evening, sir, he said . What’s the problem?

My car won’t start," Arthur replied, relief in his voice.

Battery?

I guess. Only thing is, it’s practically brand new.

Could be your alternator.

Could be. But the alternator wasn’t invented when they made this car. It’s called a generator.

Wise-ass, the cop thought, but he said, I’ll call a tow truck for ya.

The statement brought a sigh of relief from the stranded architect.

Be here in about twenty minutes, the officer said, when he returned. Mind my askin’ what you’re doin’ out so late? was thrown in casually as he got closer to Arthur.

I got out to check a tire a few hours ago, and when I got back in the car wouldn’t start. All I got was that damn clicking noise.

Uh huh. Where’re you coming from?

Key West. Company party. I’m an architect.

Hmmmm, the trooper hummed, his eyes narrowing with pricked interest. Mind telling me the name of the people giving the party?

Not at all. H. D. Smalley, Arthur answered, proudly.

Wasn’t a boat ride part of the party?

As a matter of fact it was. How did you know that?

I’ll ask the questions, he threw at him, the trooper’s eyes narrowing further.

Arthur held his tongue, surprised at the man’s sudden change in attitude.

Why didn’t you go with the rest of ‘em on the boat?

I get seasick, he lied. When the boat came to get them, I left.

Lemme see your license and registration.

Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.

I’ll be the judge of that. License and registration, he repeated. His voice now heavy with authority.

Arthur handed them over, forcibly blowing his breath out of his nose to show he was getting exasperated with all this police hocus-pocus.

You the only one didn’t get on that boat? the officer asked when he returned from his car.

Far as I know. Then Arthur exploded. What the hell’s goin’ on?

Turn around, place your hands on the car roof and spread your legs, the trooper ordered.

What?

Shut-up and do as your told.

Arthur did. He was frisked, handcuffed and told to get in the back seat of the cruiser. He sputtered and complained, but he obeyed. The hand on Arthur’s ducked head, and gentle shove onto the back seat, particularly annoyed him. After the trooper got in behind the wheel, he read him his Miranda rights.

Now wait a goddamned minute, Arthur bellowed. Whatever you think I’ve done, I haven’t.

What time did you leave that party? the trooper continued, ignoring the plea.

Arthur didn’t answer immediately. He was trying to figure out where all this was going. Finally he said, I don’t have to answer any questions without a lawyer present. You just told me I have the right to remain silent.

You do.

So why are you asking me questions?

If you’re innocent, won’t matter. If you’re guilty, you could always deny you said anything.

Couple a hours ago, I guess… . Why?

Couple a hours ago all the people on that party boat died in an explosion. Horrible. Worst disaster ever happened around here. You want to tell me anything about that?

Holy Jesus, he said slowly, in disbelief. Everyone? Then softly, Counting the Captain, that’s ten people. He put his hands to his head and rocked from side to side, staring incoherently through the wire mesh at the back of the trooper’s neck. His thinking process short circuited.

You think I had something to do with that? he said through hands on the sides of his head that looked like blinders on a horse.

So far you’re the only one we know was at the scene, and we didn’t know that until just now.

Where are you taking me? Arthur asked, visibly shaking.

You’re goin’ back ta Key West. You can make your call when you get there. You’ll be booked as a material witness for now. That could change at any time, though.

They rode in silence the rest of the way as Arthur tried to get a handle on the Kafkaesque scenario he was suddenly involved in. Maybe this is a nightmare he silently hoped, and I’m gonna wake up any minute.

Chapter TWO

The beach house Joyce Masters had requisitioned was one of several company owned facilities used to entertain clients. In addition to the house, a custom-built fifty-four foot sport-fishing boat with twin Cummins diesel engines and an on-call Captain was moored at a near-by marina. This night the boat was to be used for an employee appreciation cruise.

H.D. Smalley International, headquartered at Ten State Street, Boston, Massachusetts, employed in excess of two hundred and fifty people worldwide. In addition to State Street, there were offices in Miami, London, Rome and Zurich. The company was privately held, and had slightly more than two hundred and fifty million dollars in building contracts the year of Arthur’s unfortunate car incident.

It was founded in 1930 by a twenty-one year old energetic, newly graduated architect, Henry David Smalley of the Lowell, Massachusetts textile Smalleys, and young Henry needed every dollar of that old money behind him during the ensuing depression-lean years.

Hitler, Pearl Harbor and World War II changed everything. When Roosevelt initiated the lend-lease program, transport ships were in great demand. Henry hired Stanley Burns, a Naval architect, hoping that Burns would steer some of the lucrative Navy contracts Henry’s way. Burns succeeded beyond anything Henry envisioned: Smalley & Company was inundated with orders. The firm exploded to twenty employees, and Stanley Burns was made a full partner. Today, at age eighty-six, H.D. Smalley is listed as President and Chairman of the Board. His partner, Stanley Burns, having died in 1986.

The group was presently in Miami to confer on a large condominium project considered for Marathon Key. Counting John Hoover, a visiting architect from Rome there were nine people working on the project. This team approach was a Smalley trademark, and the boss often boasted the company offered more degrees per buck than any other competitor.

Arthur had been with the firm for ten years, recruited right at the Cornell campus by Frank Farrell, by then a four year veteran. Frank told Arthur his interest in the residential area would put him on the fast track at Smalley’s and it did. The only problem was that Fenway Frank, as they called him, was always there, just one step ahead of Arthur at the finish line. Now Farrell was vice-president and head of his department. At least he was until his abrupt demise.

Ampersand Limited, Smalley’s best and most demanding client, had been bombarding Boston with commissions recently. So it was with reluctance that the top echelon Boston employees pulled up stakes and headed for Florida, but H.D. had insisted they go, and that was that.

Hoover, his first year with the firm, was a visiting fireman on a learning expedition, trying to find his niche. He was a bright fellow with a promising future. It was just at the end of the day, that Friday, when Joy asked, Hey paisan, why don’t you join us poor Americans down at Smalley Key West for a pizza and a few cold ones on a late night cruise?

John accepted.

The moon had sneaked behind a large billowy cloud, but the house needed no external illumination—it was ablaze with its own energy. The edifice could only be described as sprawling and opulent. It was nicely nestled in a hidden cove on the north side of the Key. A teak deck, dotted with white plastic pipe furniture covered with striped Florida cloth cushions, surrounded three sides of the house. Inside there were four bedrooms, a dining room, a cathedral ceiling great room and a state of the art kitchen. It was widely known that a Smalley guest wanted for nothing!

Most of them had arrived in a party-mood by nine forty-five. Steve Reilly and his date arrived soon after. The affair wasn’t three minutes old when Frank Farrell, married with three children, pounced on Sue, Reilly’s date.

Hi there, he said to her. Haven’t we met somewhere before?

Frank Farrell was forty-one years old, short, pasty-complexioned with thin, faded red hair that always flopped unattractively onto his forehead. He was overweight, and his pot-belly hung well out in front of his stooped shoulders. Frank was a vociferous supporter of the Boston Red Sox, hence the Fenway prefix. But Fenway Frank was also famous in his own right: he had traffic-stopping halitosis.

I don’t think so, sir, the twenty-five year old beauty answered. I’m not from around here.

Oh, where are you from? And the name’s Frank, he winked conspiratorially.

Tuskegee, Alabama, sir, she replied, lying and slightly smiling.

Gee. You don’t have a Southern accent.

I haven’t been home for a while, sir.

Cut the sir crap, will ya? What do ya all do?

Are you from the South?

No. Cleveland originally. What did you say you did? he said, dropping the atrocious Southern drawl.

I didn’t. But I teach school. High school English.

Boy, I don’t know how those kids can concentrate on their books with your bod.

Oh, they manage. Excuse me please, I must powder my nose, she said, as she slipped under his corralling arm.

What an asshole, Susan said to Steve Rielly on her way to the bathroom.

Very perceptive, Steve answered, smiling.

Having struck out with Susan Mann, but unaware of it, Frank next attacked Jane Good who was engaged in a serious conversation with her fellow Maimi engineer Marty Cook.

Hi, Jane. I haven’t seen you since Switzerland. What a blast.

Yeah, she replied, and abruptly offered her back to him.

What was that all about? Marty asked after Frank left, headed for Barbara.

Jesus, he was on my case at the company party last year. I thought H.D. would shit a brick but Frank just ignored the old bastard. What Frank lacks in brains he more than makes up for in balls.

And breath, Marty offered.

Right on, bro.

Arthur, ever the dispassionate observer, sipped his drink and took everything in. As far as he was concerned a company party was just another form of work that he could do without.

Why so quiet? Joyce said to him.

She was pert, bright and sociable and had been with Smalley International for four years. She was also very much in love with Arthur. Was from the first. She was also aware the affair was hopeless. Optimistic by nature, Joyce figured she had nothing to lose by hanging in. It was also a hell of a lot of fun.

It’s incredible, Arthur replied, but Fenway gets more obnoxious every year. I know that sounds impossible, but he’s done it.

Didn’t you say he recruited you? she inquired, her brow wrinkled in concentration.

Don’t remind me. That son of a bitch has cut me off at every promotion from day one . Now it’s too late. He’s number one and I’m number two. In more ways than one, if you get my drift.

I get it, but don’t agree, lover.

Look at that bastard go after the landscaper, Barbara, is it?

It is, and yes, I see him. He must be blowing it in her face. Look how she’s wrinkling her nose and backing up. After a short pause she added, He’s disgusting.

Look Joy, I can’t take any more of this. I’m gonna cut out and come back after the boat ride when they’ve all gone home.

God willing, she replied as he left.

* * *

The Archimedes (the name Smalley himself had given the boat) was seldom used but meticulously maintained by the local marina staff. At least it was until yesterday when two men dressed in work clothes, a red logo of a boat prominently displayed on their shirt pockets, showed up at three a.m. in a small, white van. In seven minutes the full propane tank was replaced with an empty one. The tubing leading from the tank to the galley was also replaced with one that was adapted to their purpose. In addition, they hid a plastic-wrapped package near a supporting strut in the center of the bilge.

The same two men returned the following evening dressed in street clothes and waited in a stolen, black Ford sedan near the Smalley beach house. When the last guest got aboard the Archimedes the passenger in the car smiled at his companion and casually pressed a button on the face of a small hand-held electronic device which activated