Heart of the Night

by Barbara Delinsky

  Susan was climbing into the car. “You go with Will,” she told Savannah. “You’re better with him than I am.”

  Hank had already pushed Will over to the passenger’s side. Savannah ran to the rear door and climbed in. Her door was barely shut when they were off.

  The drive seemed endless. If Savannah had been able to tell Will that Megan had been the one on the phone, things would have been better. But Megan hadn’t called. The voice had been the same as the one that morning, this time offering nothing more than an address. Megan’s condition was still unknown. And given that, every doubt, every fear of the past two days surfaced.

  Hank followed Sam, who was given detailed directions by radio. Will sat stiffly in the passenger’s seat, staring at the road. Savannah was grateful to be alone in back.

  When they crossed into Warwick, they were met by a local cruiser. Given the day and hour, lights and sirens were unnecessary. But the escort was a help, showing them the fastest way to the commercial district, then the telephone booth that stood at the designated spot.

  A ring of police cars were already there. Sam and Hank pulled up quickly. Will was out of the car and running almost before they’d stopped. The others were close behind.

  At first Savannah saw nothing but police officers. Several stood clustered around the phone booth, several knelt by its door. They parted for Will, who came to an abrupt halt. Two steps behind him, Savannah did the same, then caught her breath.

  Megan was huddled in a corner of the phone booth floor, looking as though she had seen the far side of hell.

  CHAPTER 9

  Savannah remembered the first time she had seen Megan as though it had been fifteen hours, rather than fifteen years earlier. They’d been starting their sophomore year in high school. She and Susan had arrived at the academy old hands at knowing what to do and what not to do, and, along with their friends, had taken pleasure watching the new girls arrive. As veterans, they felt cocky; the initial fear of leaving home, looking right, fitting in was a thing of the past. They smirked at the girl who arrived in a stretch limo trying to impress someone, smiled warmly at the one whose gorgeous older brother was helping her move in, laughed at the one who came laden with every electrical appliance imaginable since there were only two outlets per room.

  Megan had been one of the last to arrive, and she had been different from the rest in every regard. Her clothes were not chic, her nails were not painted, her hair was not carelessly arranged, and if those things hadn’t given her away, her mother would have. The woman drove an old Ford and was as unadorned as the headmistress’s secretary.

  Megan was clearly on scholarship, which wasn’t unusual at the academy. What was unusual about Megan was her sense of dignity. Her eyes held fear of the unknown, yet she went about the business of unpacking and settling in as though she intended to do as fine a job at that as she would at everything else. For a girl who had come from modest means at best, her poise was remarkable.

  Her mother was equally remarkable. Though plain, she was incredibly warm. Savannah and Susan, who had lost their own mother three years before, gravitated toward her.

  And they adored Megan. She liked the music they liked, hated the teachers they hated, and was always ready to try something new with them. She was the third Musketeer. The fact that she looked like Savannah, far more than Susan did, was a constant source of amusement, but she complemented them in other ways, too. When they were impractical, she was down to earth. When they acted spoiled, she was sparing. When they opened her eyes to certain pleasures in life, she reflected those pleasures back with fresh insight.

  Savannah had always know that, of the three of them, Megan was the brightest. Her grades were consistently the highest. She was imaginative, hard-working, and street-smart in ways that Savannah and Susan, for all their travels, never were. And she always had a smile, which made her a joy to be with.

  Savannah saw nothing remotely joyous about the woman huddled on the floor of that phone booth. When Will called her name in a broken voice and reached for her, she shrank into the corner. Her eyes were forbidding as she looked up at him. Without a sound uttered, everything about her screamed, “Don’t come near!” The Megan who had always been eminently approachable didn’t want to be touched.

  “It’s me, Meggie,” Will cried brokenly. “It’s over. Thank God, it’s over.” He tried to touch her arm, and she flinched, crowding into her little corner with her legs drawn in ever tighter. “No one’s going to hurt you. I’ve come to take you home.” Again he reached out. She made a faint sound, gave a short, harsh shake of her head.

  Frantic, Will looked up at Savannah. “What’s wrong with her? Jesus, what have they done?”

  Savannah didn’t know. Megan’s eyes were hollow, her face ashen, but there were no bruises to suggest she’d been beaten. She looked dirty—her face, her hair, her hands—though her robe was as fresh and clean as ever.

  “Meggie?” Savannah said in a voice that was soft and far steadier than her insides were just then. She crouched beside Will. “We want to take you home, Meggie. It’s cold here. Your robe isn’t heavy enough, and your feet are bare. Can we take you home?”

  The same hollow eyes that had stared at Will turned on her.

  Savannah tried to soothe her. “Everything’s going to be okay. You’re safe. It’s all over.” She extended a hand. “Let’s get you out of here. They’re gone now. They can’t do anything more to you.”

  Lowering her head, Megan pressed her eyes to her knees.

  Savannah reached back for Sam, who was quickly beside her. Her fingers dug into his arm. “We need a doctor,” she whispered. “Something’s very wrong.”

  Will was trying again, sounding more frightened by the minute. “Talk to me, Meggie. You know who I am. I’ve been waiting so long for you to come home. Look at me, Meggie. Talk to me.”

  Easing Savannah aside, Sam hunkered down in her place. He held up a hand to quiet Will, inched closer to Megan, whose face was still buried, and said in a very low, very gentle voice, “My name is Sam Craig, Megan. We’ve never met, but I’ve been wanting you home, too. I know that this is overwhelming—all the police cars and lights and strange men standing around. We can take you away from this as soon as you want. It’s up to you to say the word.”

  He touched her hair. When she didn’t object, he began to lightly stroke it.

  “You’ve been through so much,” he continued on in that same soothing voice. “You need a rest. A warm bed. Something hot to drink. I can get you all that. Come with me, Megan?”

  She didn’t answer. Nor did she pull away from the hand that was gently, gently stroking her hair.

  “I’m going to come a little closer,” he said, matching the act to the words. “I’m going to pick you up and take you back to my car.” As he carefully lifted her, he said, “Will and Savannah will be with us. Susan, too. We’ve all been very worried.” She buried her face against his chest as he started toward the car.

  His eyes gave commands to the others as he walked, and all the while he talked softly into Megan’s ear. “You feel chilled. You’ll be warmer in the car. Everything’s going to be fine, Megan, just fine. When was the last time you ate? Are you hungry?” He slid her in past the steering wheel of his car and slid in right after her. Savannah took up her other side, Will and Susan climbed into the back. Putting an arm around her shoulders, Sam said, “Lean against me, Megan. You must be exhausted. Sleep if you want. I’m going to take you to see the doctor. Then I’ll take you home. Everything’s going to be fine now. Everything’s going to be just fine.”

  His words were highly optimistic. Megan remained silent during the drive to the hospital. Looking frightened and frail, she didn’t move, not even to take back her hand when Savannah held it gently. It was as though she despaired of something which none of them quite understood.

  The hours that followed were long and tense. Megan was examined by doctors and counselors trained to handle crisis situations. The verdic
t was that she had been abused for nearly three days. Megan wasn’t offering any details herself, though. She nodded or shook her head, even occasionally murmured a word or two in response to questions, but she had to be carefully led to each answer and she didn’t volunteer a thing.

  Over Will’s objections, but at the doctors’ insistence, she was admitted to the hospital. It was nearly two in the morning before the physical and mental prodding was done, nearly three before she was taken to a private room, nearly four before she’d been bathed and made comfortable, nearly five before she fell asleep, and then only under sedation.

  When Will finally left to go home for several hours, Savannah stayed to talk with Sam, Hank, and the other law enforcement people they had finally been able to bring into the case. It was after six when she punched out the number that was written on the slip of paper she’d pushed into the pocket of her coat.

  The voice that came through the receiver was as good as a lifeline. “Yes?”

  “Jared?”

  There was a moment’s silence, then a deep and relieved, “I’ve been worried. Is everything all right?”

  Eyes closed, she concentrated on the low, sandy sound that soothed her so. It was the sanest thing she’d heard all night.

  “Savannah?”

  “I’m at the hospital,” she said quietly.

  “Is Megan back?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “I don’t know.” She took an unsteady breath. “I’m so tired. I want to go home, but I don’t have my car.”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “I’ll be right there.”

  Within ten minutes he was at the hospital entrance. Savannah left the step she’d been sitting on and by the time she reached the Pathfinder, he’d leaned across the seat and opened the door. Climbing up, she pulled the door shut, put her head back against the seat, and closed her eyes.

  “Get me away from here,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Jared didn’t have to do more than glance at her face to see how upset she was. Her skin was pale, her features tinged with an anguish that was muted only by fatigue.

  Without a word, he left the hospital and headed for the center of town. Worried, he looked at her often. She didn’t move, didn’t open her eyes, didn’t speak. He was beginning to wonder if she’d fallen asleep when, just as he pulled up at her townhouse, she raised her head.

  He didn’t ask whether he could come in. By the time she found her keys in her briefcase, he was helping her out of the car. Taking the keys from her hand, he unlocked her front door and pushed it open, then stood back while she disengaged the burglar alarm. When she closed the door, he was inside.

  Dropping her briefcase on the floor of the foyer, she looked up at him, but he had no idea what she saw. Her eyes were distant. “I’m—I think I’ll take a bath,” she murmured. Without another word, she turned and started up the front stairs.

  Jared looked after her until she’d rounded the railing on top and disappeared into what he assumed was her bedroom. For a split second he considered following. She seemed so out of it. He would gladly have run her bath, helped her in, brought her a glass of wine, bathed her—with no sexual thoughts in mind.

  But she hadn’t asked him to follow. Much as he craved her need for him, she was still an independent woman. She hadn’t invited him up; he couldn’t go.

  Ten minutes later, he thought differently. The house was too quiet. He hadn’t heard a sound—not footsteps or the creak of the wood floors, not the open or close of a drawer or a closet, not the faintest trickle of running water.

  He wouldn’t have been surprised if she had passed out. She’d been going for nearly twenty-four hours under intense stress. He was worried.

  Knowing that he couldn’t just sit and wait, he went quietly up the stairs. There were three doors at the top, two open and one partially closed. The open ones led to a bathroom and a bedroom. Both rooms were empty. He went to the third and knocked lightly.

  “Savannah?” He pushed the door open. The room was dim, with only the pale light of dawn filtering through the window. It was enough to light her slim frame. She was curled sideways in a large wing chair. Her cheek was pressed to the leather, her arms wrapped tightly around her middle. She was shaking all over. The sight wrenched his insides.

  Crossing the carpet, he knelt down by the chair and whispered, “Savannah?” He touched her face with the backs of his fingers. “What is it, babe?”

  She shook her head and held up a hand to tell him she’d be fine in a minute, but he closed his large hand around hers and took it to his neck. The warmth of his skin contrasted so sharply with the chill of her own that she greedily opened her hand. She needed more of that warmth.

  Her eyes opened and told him so. He didn’t need to be told twice. Drawing her down to where he knelt, he settled her between his legs and wrapped her in his arms. The same cheek that had been pressed to leather was now pressed to his chest.

  Still she trembled.

  “It’s okay,” he whispered, tightening his arms around her. “It’s okay. Just try to relax. It’s okay.” He rubbed his chin against her hair, massaged her back with his hand. All the while his heart beat rapidly. He worried about her, but mixed with the worry was a kind of pleasure. She was such a strong woman, yet she still had her moments of weakness. And in this one she needed him.

  He looked down at her face, brushed his lips to her brow. It was damp, clammy. He held her head flush to his chest, wishing he could do more, knowing instinctively that nothing more would help. She just needed to be held.

  So he held her while she trembled, murmured soft words of encouragement from time to time, rubbed her back, stroked her hair, absorbed her shivers until gradually they lessened. She took longer breaths, then deeper breaths. At last, flattening a hand on his chest, she eased herself back.

  Reluctantly he let her go. As she stood, she nudged her knit skirt down to where it belonged just above her knees. Her head was bowed, her eyes on the floor, her voice paper-thin.

  “I’d like that bath now.”

  “Can I wait here?”

  She nodded. Then, in her stockinged feet, since her shoes lay where she’d kicked them by the side of the chair, she padded out of the den.

  This time, Jared heard sounds. He could monitor her activity by listening—to the whine of the closet door, the rattle of hangers, the slide of a drawer. She was not deliberately broadcasting what she was doing, but his ears were well trained in the art of detection.

  There had been many nights in that elegant home in Seattle when he had listened to the prominent woman who was his wife dress for one political affair after another. He had listened to her undress later. He had even listened to her work, to the sound of her pencil rasping across the paper as she plotted her latest brilliant trial tactic. He hadn’t listened hard enough or long enough, or he’d have known when she’d called her lover.

  He had been trusting. He had been a fool.

  Of course, he had known that Elise was a scrambler. He had known that she had ambitions in life. All of Seattle had known that. And it wasn’t as though he was an innocent entering the marriage. He had ambitions of his own, into which Elise fit nicely. When she cheated on him, those ambitions became tainted.

  The sound of running water snapped him from the wave of memory, and he smiled. Savannah was taking her bath.

  He trusted Savannah. He didn’t wonder how or why, he just did. Perhaps it was arrogance on his part, but he didn’t think she could look him in the eye and lie. If anything, the reverse was true. When she looked him in the eye, she opened up—reluctantly and unintentionally, perhaps, but he wasn’t complaining.

  Shifting on his heels, he looked around the room. It was den, library, and office combined, and was small, cozy, and charming, none of which he had noticed when he’d first entered the room. He had only seen Savannah trembling then.

  She was quiet n
ow. The occasional ripple of water told him just where she was. He pictured her, but this time he didn’t smile. She wasn’t happy. Whatever had happened to Megan had spread its ugliness to Savannah, too.

  Rising from the floor, he went to the window and stood looking out over the awakening city until he heard the water begin to drain from the tub. Seconds later, Savannah rose from the water.

  The water continued to drain. Then all was silent.

  He waited, unsure of where she was or what she expected of him. Unable to wait longer, when images of her slim body trembling filled his mind’s eye, he went out, through the hall to her bedroom. She wasn’t there, but the adjoining bathroom door was ajar. Knocking softly, he called her name. When she didn’t answer, he cautiously opened the door.

  She was sitting on the rim of the tub, her hands clasping its porcelain lip on either side of her hips. She wore a soft, white, knee-length nightgown with a scooped neck and long sleeves. Her bangs were damp and brushed to the side, while the rest of her hair fell over one shoulder, not quite reaching her breasts.

  Jared felt as though he’d been punched in the gut. He swallowed hard, then swallowed again when she looked up at him. Her eyes were glazed, and when she spoke, her voice trembled.

  “We found her crumpled up in a phone booth. She wouldn’t respond to Will or to me. It was like she refused to make the connection between what she used to be and what she’d become. Sammy was a stranger. He managed to get through to her enough so we could get her into the car and to the hospital.”

  She paused, swallowed, looked unseeingly at the tiles on the floor while her knuckles went white. “I held her hand in the car. It was so cold and lifeless. We hadn’t seen any marks on her at first, but there in the car I could see marks around her wrists, rope burns.” Her voice grew weaker. “And she was filthy—her hair, her face, her hands and feet—but her robe was immaculate.” Her voice fell to a whisper. “No wonder. She hadn’t worn the robe for three days. The entire time they’d kept her naked—tied to the bed—her hands over her head—” she faltered and flinched, “her legs spread.”