Sorry it's taken me so long to update this. No excuse, I just forgot.

Chapter 12: Family Plan

Office of the Boston Constabulary

Chief Constable Mark Powers studied the telegram for the thirteenth time and found it still didn't make any sense.

He stopped a constable emerging from the cellblock.

"Is Lancer awake, yet?"

"He was when I passed, sir," the young man said.

"Then I'd better ask him what this means," Powers muttered to himself.

As he reached for the keys, however, he was interrupted by the entrance of three ladies — one elderly, one young and one very young.

"We'd like to see Mr. Johnny Lancer, please," the white-haired, matronly woman said.

Powers, a widower, noticed she had a pleasant face with laugh lines around her firm mouth and shrewd eyes.

"The prisoners may only be visited by their families and their lawyers, ma'am," he said respectfully.

Annabell didn't miss the admiration in the chief constable's eyes, but she didn't pay any attention to it, either.

"You know perfectly well that all Johnny's family is either in California or in Boston City Hospital. You might class us as cousin's -in-law, however," she said with a winning smile. "My name is Annabell Garrett. This is Laura Garrett and her sister Lisa. We brought Johnny some food and a change of clothing."

The girls held out the baskets they were carrying. Powers inspected them solemnly.

"Very well, I'll allow you to see your 'cousin-in-law'," he said, suppressing a grin.

Johnny lay on the bunk in the cell, his forearm across his eyes. He was tired. His spirit as much as his body craved healing sleep; but his mind wouldn't cooperate. He'd slept like the dead at first, claimed by exhaustion; but in a short time, he sleep became troubled by nightmares. They were nightmares of fear and frustration. He tried to protect his brother, only to shoot Scott himself. He fought to get to Scott's side, only to be held back by hordes of accusing Garretts. And, in the worst one, blood poured from a wound, poured through his fingers and he tried in vain to stop it.

The last was the worst, because it was closest to reality.

So he tried to sleep, only to wake in a sweat of fear, until, finally, he was afraid to sleep at all.

So he tried to think, to figure out who had tried to kill Scott and why. But all he could picture was Scott lying corpselike on the operating table and all he could remember was the last pleading look on his brother's face and all he could feel was the slippery warmth of blood on his hands …

"Johnny?"

He started out of the nightmare doze at the sound of his name.

Annabell took an involuntary step backward. The younger Lancer looked fairly corpselike himself. He managed a ghastly smile and rubbed a little life into his face.

"You'll have to forgive the way I look, ladies," he said. "The last couple days have been pretty rough. Any word on Scott?" It wasn't a question so much as a plea.

"No change, I'm afraid. Johnny, you can't go on like this. You're worrying yourself sick," Annabell said in concern. His worn appearance shocked her.

"It's tearing me up, Annabell," Johnny said hoarsely. "I want to be with Scott until he wakes up. Then I want to track down the man who tried to kill him. But I can't do anything but worry while I'm locked up here. Annabell, the man who tried to kill Scott is still out there! Maybe he'll try again. And — I — can't — do — anything — to — stop — him!"

Johnny beat on his leg for emphasis, his voice rising until it cracked; then he forced himself to sit still, so still he quivered.

Little Lisa couldn't stand it.

"Don't be sad, Cousin Johnny," she begged, as she threw herself into his arms. "Please don't cry."

So, of course he did.

He buried his face on the child's shoulder and shook the both of them with the force of his tears.

It was only a moment, but when he again looked up, some of the tension was gone. Worry still lurked at the back of his eyes, but fear no longer ruled.

"Thanks, that helped a lot," he said to Lisa, as he set her gently on the floor. She hugged him again, then remembered her shyness and fled back to her sister.

Annabell patted Johnny's knee. "Getting so wound up won't help Scott," she said mildly. "Try not to worry."

"Easy to say. Hard to do."

"At least, don't worry about the killer taking a second shot at Scott. Your Constable Wesley seems to have thought of that. We went to the hospital before coming here. They wouldn't let us in to see Scott, and there was a constable stationed in his room to guard him and to write down anything he might say." Annabell said.

"Doctor MacGregor sends his regards," Laura put in, hoping to cheer Johnny up. "He said for you to take care of yourself, and he'll take care of Scott. And he said, if you worry, it's a sign you don't trust him and he'll be mortally offended."

Laura's story was rewarded with a small smile, which encouraged her to try another.

"The doctor is so funny. Practically everyone's been to see Scott, everyone but Cousin Harlan, of course. My mother and father went, and Cousin Frederick, Cousin Gerald, even Cousin Gary and his mother went; but the doctor would only let us peek through the door. He wouldn't even let Dr. Fraser in. He said no one disturbs his patient. It was funny. Dr. Fraser said he was the family doctor and should be allowed to examine his patient. Dr. MacGregor said Scott was his patient until he or you said otherwise," the girl told Johnny. "Dr. Fraser started to argue, but Dr. MacGregor turned his back. He said," Laura dropped her voice as low as she could and attempted a cold Scottish accent. "'I've been arguin' wi' Garretts all morning. I'll no spend my afternoon arguin' wi' a runny-nosed upstart who claims to be a doctor.'"

Johnny chuckled. Annabell laughed ruefully.

"I shouldn't laugh at Dr. Fraser. — he saved Harlan's life after that awful heart attack — but the man is just so stuffy," she said.

"I like that Dr. MacGregor, and I guess I trust him, so what am I worrying about?" Johnny said, attempting gaiety that never touched his eyes.

"Maybe these will make you feel better," Annabell said.

The ladies gave him his presents, including his "Treasury of Fiction for Young Readers." Lisa gave him another hug goodbye and Laura pecked him demurely on the cheek. Annabell raised his chin and looked him squarely in the eye.

"I've known Scott a lot longer than you have, Johnny Lancer. I know he's a survivor. He'll be all right, you'll see."

The simple conviction in her voice did a lot to ease Johnny's fears.

"Thanks," he said.

"De nada," she replied, showing off her Spanish with a grin. "You know," she added as she was about to leave. "I think Hodges is right. You're much better than Chester Lee."

When Powers let them out of the cellblock, Laura turned on him.

"You're wrong about him," she said fiercely.

"I don't think so," Powers replied.

"He's not a killer! I don't care what anyone says!"

"Miss, if I thought he was a killer, do you think I would let three ladies into his cell alone?"

Laura was startled.

"Then why are you keeping him locked up?"

"Because a lot of people have been demanding that I keep him locked up, including your father."

"Daddy! Daddy wouldn't …" the girl's voice trailed into a whisper.

"He has," Powers said gently. "Maybe the others pressed him to it, though."

"Which others?" Annabell demanded. "The Desmonds?"

Powers nodded, "And Mrs. Winifred Masters and Mr. Frederick Garrett."

"Frederick! I can't believe …" But then she did. Better that the killer be Johnny, a stranger, than Gerald, his only surviving son.

Annabell felt sick as she hustled the children to the carriage. Just arriving, Wes held the door for them politely.

"I haven't got much to report," he told his superior. "That is, I have a lot to tell you, but I don't know what any of it means."

He told Powers about his interviews, ending with the Desmonds.

"Mrs. Desmond says she checked her son's room as soon as she heard the shot. I find that rather suspicious in itself. Why would she run to check on him? Anyway, she swears he was fast asleep, when she looked in on him.

"Even if she's telling the truth— which I doubt — the hall is short enough that anyone could have fired the shot from Johnny's room and gotten back to his own room before the rest woke up.

"The couples all alibi each other, but you know what that's worth. I don't see how we can find a killer without finding a motive first, and the only motives I see are the obvious ones."

"Johnny Lancer or Harlan Garrett — money, Gary Desmond — revenge, Gerald Garrett — jealousy," powers listed.

Wes nodded. "One thing worth asking about. Miss Annabell thought there was something about the fight at the club that Johnny and Scott weren't talking about."

"Hmm, I'd trust that lady's judgment. She's a sharp one," Powers remembered with admiration. "Let's go talk to Lancer again. I have to ask him about this telegram, anyway."

"What telegram?" Wes asked.

CHIEF CONSTABLE, BOSTON CONSTABULARY

ARRIVING FRIDAY WITH IMPORTANT EVIDENCE STOP SUGGEST YOU TALK TO JUSTIN MICHAELSON FOOTMAN FOR HARLAN GARRETT REGARDING OVERHEAD THREATS STOP TELL JOHNNY AM ON MY WAY STOP

MURDOCH LANCER

PROMONTORY POINT UTAH

Johnny handed the telegram back to Powers. The prisoner leaned back against the wall and drew his feet up on the bunk. He relaxed, not completely, but perceptibly. He even managed a smile that the constables, both trained observers, believed was genuine.

"I don't know what his evidence is, or why he's halfway here already when you only wired him this morning," Johnny said. "But I do know why Wes missed talking to Michaelson. The man's dead, killed in a street accident a week ago."

Powers' sense of order was outraged. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?" he complained.

"Don't ask me," Johnny replied. "I'm new in town."

"Curioser and curioser," Wes quoted under his breath.

In the days that passed, everyone seemed to mark time, waiting for Murdoch's arrival.

The constables heard Johnny's story of the fight at the club. For the first time learned that Gary Desmond had tried to shoot Scott in the back, a fact that Scott had wanted to keep from Harlan.

The story was easily confirmed by talking to the bartender, the club manager and half a dozen witnesses.

It made Gary the constable's prime suspect. They brought in Desmond for intense questioning. They hammered at him throughout the night, but he stubbornly clung to his simple story, that he was asleep when the shot was fired. Gary sweated a lot, but he didn't crack.

The constables couldn't keep him long without hard evidence. The Desmonds raised a stink, backed by the mayor whose campaign they had supported heavily.

They got Gary released, but had less success with their crusade to bring formal charges against Johnny. Pressure from the mayor's office was countered by pressure to free Johnny that came from the governor. The Boston mayor and the Massachusetts governor had never gotten along. Soon the politicians were squabbling with each other, leaving the constables pretty much alone.

Powers was grateful for the peace, but it roused his insatiable curiosity. He couldn't figure out how the governor came into it, until Johnny opined that it might be another of Murdoch's telegrams paying fruit. Murdoch was a good friend of the lieutenant governor of California.

While Johnny languished and anguished in the jail, Scott's fever soared. Worried, Dr. MacGregor spent two sleepless nights at the bedside of his experimental patient, draining the suppurating wound and fighting the fever with cold packs.

The patient teetered on a knife-edge for three days, until his fever finally broke late Thursday.

Scott fell into a deep, healing sleep, which example the satisfied MacGregor quickly followed.

Murdoch bided his time, having set as much in motion as possible. Willing the ground to rush past faster, he stared out the window and fingered the letter he hoped would catch an attempted murderer.

On Friday morning, Wes was getting ready to go meet Murdoch's train, when a young Negro entered the jail.

"Mr. Wesley?" he guessed correctly. "Dr. MacGregor sent me to fetch you, sir."

"Now?"

"Immediately, he said, sir." MacGregor's servant flashed a grin. "I'd mortally hate to go back without you."

"I don't blame you," Wes said, remembering the doctor's stony behavior to him. "I'd hate to have him angry with me."

"Yes sir! He can be a Tartar," the Negro agreed, but not as if he really minded.

"Well, boss?" Wes asked Powers.

"Go," Powers answered. "Lancer will turn up."

Wes went.

Murdoch was off the train before it stopped moving, looking for the lawyer his Stockton attorney had telegraphed. A neatly groomed young man in a conservative, gray pinstripe suit, stepped forward.

"Mr. Lancer?"

Murdoch took the hand the lawyer extended.

"Jarrod said you'd be on this train, sir," the young man said. "Judge Abbott is expecting us. We can go now, if that's all right with you?"

Murdoch hesitated, the acquiesced. Truth to tell, he was glad to have his mind made up for him. He'd been torn, wondering which son to see to first.

Like Johnny, his heart ached to be with Scott, but he knew there was nothing he could do at the hospital. If he freed Johnny, they could go to the hospital together.

He let the lawyer, Todd Wingate, lead the way.

Boston City Hospital

"You wanted to see me, doctor?"

MacGregor looked up from his desk impatiently.

"No, you wanted to see my patient, didn't you?"

Wes brightened. "Is Scott awake?"

"He was when I sent for you," MacGregor said pointedly. He relented at Wes' crestfallen expression. The doctor had gone through a hard week, but he'd had a very good day. Now that his experiment had proved itself a success, he was willing to forgive Wes his past offenses.

"He will not sleep long," the doctor said. "I saw him earlier, only for a few seconds, just long enough to be sure he understood his condition. I reassured him that his grandfather was all right and informed him that someone had tried to kill him. I think he remembered that. He nodded and didn't seem to be surprised.

"He is very weak and he will not stay awake for long at a time. If he falls asleep, even in the middle of a word, don't worry about it and … don't … wake … him … up!"

MacGregor shook his finger at the constable, emphasizing the last point.

Wes raised his hands in protest.

"Scott Lancer's a friend of mine, doctor. The last thing I want to do is hurt him."

MacGregor nodded once in agreement, then showed Wes out of his office. The constable went gladly, feeling lighter than he had for a week.

The sight of Scott, so pale and so still in the darkened room, reduced his euphoria to a more manageable level. But he relied on MacGregor's assurance that his old friend would be all right.

Wes dismissed the constable on duty in Scott's room and settled himself for a long wait. It wasn't ten minutes when, without another movement, Scott opened his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling blankly, until sluggish memory prodded awareness into his eyes. He raised an arm to rub his tired eyes, but let it drop with a gasp, the gesture incomplete. The stab of pain cleared his mind, however.

Scott let his gaze wander around the room until, inevitably, it fell on Wes who was leaning forward eagerly, but remaining silent as ordered.

Scott swallowed and, in a voice thick with cobwebs, whispered his friend's name.

"Scott, how do you feel?" Wes asked gently.

"Pretty bad," Scott confessed. He'd cleared away some of the cobwebs, but his long-disused voice was still hesitant.

Scott's eyes continued to roam restlessly around the room, gradually taking on a worried air.

"Wes," he said, before the constable could remove the lump from his throat. "Where's Johnny?"

Wes looked away. How could he tell Scott that Johnny was under arrest on his orders. He hesitated and was shocked by the bleak look that swept into Scott's eyes.

"Is … is he dead?" Scott asked, closing his eyes as if afraid to look on the answer.

"My God, Scott! No!" His shocked sincerity was unquestionable.

The fear went out of Scott's eyes, but puzzlement remained.

"Why would you think he's dead?" Wes asked, his investigative instincts getting the best of him.

Scott had to laugh, however much it hurt. In twelve years, Wes the Curious hadn't changed a speck.

"Well, why?" Wes challenged smiling.

Scott took his time with his answers. It was hard work.

"Because Johnny would be here if he could." he began with absolute certainty. "Because he would have tried to help me when I was shot, and he wasn't armed. And because you're afraid to tell me where he is." He tossed the challenge back at his friend.

Wes stuck on an earlier point.

"What do you mean, he wasn't armed? Are you sure?"

Scott lay back, his strength already fading.

"Of course, I'm sure. I saw it upstairs when we went down."

"You're sure he couldn't have taken it with him?"

"And kept it in his pocket all during breakfast?" Scott said scornfully. "Wes, did you think Johnny shot me?"

"Yes," the constable answered simply.

"You have him in jail?" Scott was fading, but fighting it.

"Uh huh."

Scott shook his head gently. "The shot came from upstairs. Couldn't see who, Sun shining on the windows. Wasn't Johnny. He was in the dining room. Want me to swear?"

There was the ghost of a smile on his pale face.

"I think we can take the victim's word," Wes said lightly.

"Good," Scott breathed. "Johnny hates to be cooped up."

The patient's eyes closed against his will.

"I'll take care of it," Wes promised quietly, though he knew Scott was already asleep.

He didn't move for a while. He sat watching Scott's breathing even out in slumber. Wes was glad his last, lingering doubts about Johnny had been set to rest. He was glad they finally had a concrete piece in this slippery puzzle.

He wondered whether Murdoch's evidence would add another solid piece, or just send them chasing white rabbits.

Just as he decided there was no point wondering when he could go see for himself, he heard the door creak open behind him.

"Shh, he's asleep," Wes warned softly, without turning.

A gasp answered him. The constable jumped and turned, to see the door swinging shut. He dashed out and stepped on something soft that skidded out from under his foot. He saved his head from hitting the polished wooden floor, but the jar made his teeth clash and his muscles ache. By the time he retrieved his jarred wits and looked around, the hall was empty.

Wes lifted his protesting body to its feet and picked up the cause of his downfall. He looked at the object that the mysterious intruder must have dropped. His blood chilled.

He had never realized that a fluffy pillow could look so ominous.

To Be Continued