by Margaret Way
Cecile felt bile rise to her throat. “Love?” she exploded, thinking she would be forever haunted by what Ellie had told her. “You mean you’ve been abusing her for a very, long time. You’re a sick man, Doctor Wheeler. But you couldn’t help yourself, could you? You will wind up in prison, though. I wouldn’t want to spend any time there; a man like you, a pedophile. A man who’s preyed on his own little daughter. The other prisoners will—”
“Shut your mouth!” Wheeler threw a savage punch, but Cecile was too quick for him. Adrenaline pumping, she ducked and picked up a vase, then hurled it as hard as she could—not at Wheeler but at the etched glass partition in the entrance hall. It broke into great shards with a loud shattering sound. The apartments were pretty soundproof, but someone might hear something and come to investigate. Cecile was thinking rapidly. Where was her mobile phone? Damn it, it was still in her bedroom, though she had taken it out of her bag. Joyce Walden, a widow in her early seventies, lived in the adjoining unit. Joyce was inclined to be nosy, which would help, though her sliding glass doors to the rear terrace would be shut with the television and the air-conditioning going full blast. She Wouldn’t want Joyce to be drawn into any danger, but she could shout, “Call the police!” should Joyce take it into her head to knock.
She began to yell, “Help!” at the top of her voice, but Wheeler sprang at her, a big strong man bent on shutting her up. And then what? Cecile thought. Would he kill her? How had he found out where she lived? Why hadn’t he already been picked up by the police?
“You stupid bitch!” His fierce open-handed slap connected just enough to send her sprawling backward. She fell onto a sofa, where he leaned threateningly over her. “Don’t try that again or I promise you you’ll be sorry.”
“Who told you where I lived?” She threw up her chin, determined not to show fear. He’d had enough of that from his wife and poor little Ellie.
“Easy,” he sneered. “I followed you to this building weeks ago. You were trouble right from the beginning. Ellie liked you. She’s never liked anyone else. Her bloody fool mother actually rang me to tell me to run. Can you beat that?”
“Your wife tipped you off?” Cecile thought of Marcie Wheeler with disgust and pity.
“She loves me, don’t you know?” he crowed with sickening triumph.
“Then she is indeed a bloody fool,” Cecile said with the utmost contempt.
His face turned to granite. “I told you to shut up. You can’t, can you? You’re the psychologist, trained to keep people talking. But this should do the trick.” With that weird smirk on his face, Wheeler withdrew a syringe from the inside pocket of his bomber jacket. Cecile saw it contained a colorless liquid.
Her throat went so dry she had difficulty speaking. “What do you think you’re going to do with that?”
“Shut you up of course. For good. Only fair, don’t you think? You ruin my life. I finish off yours.”
“Before you do, what I want to know is this. Indulge. me, can’t you? You have the upper hand. If your wife warned you, why didn’t you simply run? Make your getaway. You can still do it. Isn’t that more important than killing me? Getting away?” If she could keep him talking, humor him in some way, maybe she could make a break for it. He hadn’t locked the door to the apartment, only closed it, before moving into the living room.
“You want to see Ellie again, don’t you?” She hated using the child’s name, but that was the only connection she thought might work. “Can’t you tell me how this first happened? I want to hear. I’m used to listening. What destructive impulses drove you? Or were you forced into it? Were you so unhappy with your wife—the sex was so inadequate—you turned to the child? How did you keep your secret from your wife, or did she know? Evil is completely foreign to a moral man. Aren’t you a moral man, Dr. Wheeler? Were you the victim of sexual abuse? Please—help me to understand.”
He paused, his face twisted as though he really sought to pinpoint the time when his pedophilia began to manifest itself. He was as pale as a ghost and there was a small involuntary twitch on the left side of his mouth.
“It’s all right, you can trust me,” she said in a calm, quiet voice.
“I didn’t feel that way about other children, other little girls,” he said, a vein pulsing in his temple. “It was only Ellie. She was so affectionate with me, kissing me and sitting on my knee. You know all about what bloody Freud had to say. Fathers,‘ daughters, mothers, sons. I fell in love with her.”
“Didn’t that scare you out of your mind?” she asked with no vestige of pity.
“Yes. I hated myself, but I couldn’t stop it.”
“You didn’t seek treatment, a way of fighting back?”
“God Almighty, who could I tell? You? I have a reputation in this city. Who could I have gone to?”
“You know perfectly well the code of confidentiality. You could never have been at peace. What you were doing was a crime. It was your God-given duty to keep your child safe.”
“Damn it, I didn’t hurt her,” he shouted. “I loved her. I wanted her.”
“Pig!” Before Cecile could consider the lack of wisdom she spat out the word.
“Ah, I see.” He shook his finger. “You were playing for time.” He tumed away, holding the syringe up to the light.
“I’m a doctor, remember? I should know what you’re up to. You were hoping to make a dash for it. It won’t happen. You’ve destroyed me. I have no career anymore. And I’m a good doctor,” he declared with desperate pride. “My patients love me. When they wake up and read the newspapers they won’t believe it. There’s been some terrible mistake. Not Dr. Wheeler! It can’t possibly be him. There’s only one way out for men like me,” he said in quite a different voice.
“You plan to shoot yourself up, as well?” Cecile asked with contempt. “What is it in that syringe?”
He threw back his head and laughed. “A lethal dose. You have to be punished for making this happen. You understand that, don’t you? I’m not a natural-born killer.”
“You’re natural-born scum!” Cecile, who had been pretending the near paralysis of acceptance, was on her feet very fast indeed, screaming, “Police! Police!” Surely to God someone would hear her! Even if they didn’t, Wheeler had become very agitated, his bloodless skin blotched now with red.
Please God, let him forget me and run!
He didn’t. He came after her. Cecile picked up the stainless-steel coffeepot on the stove, prepared to throw it. He intended to kill her. In her own apartment, of all places, with its excellent security system. How could she have been so careless to open the door to anyone? Assumptions could be very dangerous. His voice had been distorted, the bouquet of flowers had all but covered his face. She wondered how many other women had been taken in by such a ploy. A lone woman should never be so trusting. She would never see her family again. She would never see the one man she had ever loved. Life was beyond her frail understanding.
The extent of the man’s breakdown was carved on his face. It resembled a devilish mask. He looked horrible, quite mad, worlds away from the calm, caring professional who had presented himself at her office.
The energy was draining out of her as the demands on her nervous system had to be met. She hurled the pot, realizing she could throw as many things as she could lay her hands on, but in the end he would overpower her and a terrible sequence of events would ensue.
Still, she had to fight. She didn’t have to sit down and wait. As a last resort, fearing the use of such a weapon, Cecile reached into a drawer and pulled out a wicked-looking carving knife, knowing he might Well end upusing the knife on her, instead of the syringe.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he chided, skidding on drops of water that had fallen from the coffee percolator and reaching for the counter to steady himself. “Put that down,”
“I’ll carve you up if you come near me,” Cecile gritted, her eyes glittering brilliantly.
“No one is coming to rescue you, my dear.” He laughed
. “It’s just you and me. It will be bloody easy just to end it!”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
ROLFE CHECKED into his Melbourne city hotel around 5:30 p.m. He had been traveling most of the day, so he had a quick shower and changed his clothes. It was coming up to a month since he had seen Cecile. A lifetime, when he missed her so badly. He had given her a breathing space, but the urge to come to Melbourne to confront her had been building so powerfully he had surrendered to its demand. He realized the very fact her grandfather had bought back the old Lockhart cattle holding and presented the deed to him would work against him. She would think of it as a continuing con, though he doubted a true con man could put anything over Joel Moreland. Joel knew a great deal of life. He had leamed even more from the revelations following the death of his wife, Frances. The discovery he had a grandson called Daniel had made him more deeply understanding of the way Frances Moreland had turned the cool ruthless eye of an enemy on his own family.
Cecile hadn’t even been born at the time all this was happening. She couldn’t know. She wasn’t ready to face it, anyway. It would seem too incredible to hen And why not?
From all accounts, Frances Moreland had been a loving grandmother to her. Cecile’s thinking would be that had he taken her into his confidence early, it would have validated any real feeling he had for her. Instead, by not doing so, he had grossly deceived her. On top of her broken engagement and her parents’ marriage breakup, little wonder she had retreated into her shell. Finding out he’d been born in the Northern Territory and not in Argentina would have come as an additional bolt from the blue. Nearly twenty years spent in that country and he could have fooled anyone. His Spanish was Ramon’s, the cultivated upper class.
Joel had advised him not to put pressure on Cecile, but he didn’t intend to make any demands. It was more she couldn’t be allowed to lock him out. That prospect was too grim. What they had shared had affected her as powerfully as it had him. He would stake his life on that. It was a miracle to find bliss in being with another human being. Having experienced that miraculous connection, he couldn’t bear to lose it. He had to convince her he was someone on whom she could depend. Someone who most deeply and truly loved her.
He had no intention of returning to Argentina except to visit. His life was here in the country of his birth. His life was with Cecile, if only they could talk through their problems and reach an understanding. He had hesitated about ringing her. He knew she wouldn’t answer, but at least she would hear his voice. Tonight he reasoned it would be better to simply arrive on her doorstep rather than alert her with a phone call. It was almost a pity it wasn’t pouring rain, though he had heard on the radio a late storm was forecast. She might feel sorry enough for him to let him in. Perhaps even the shock of having him on her doorstep would gain him access for a little while?
In the end, sick of indecisiveness, Rolfe took a cab to where she lived. Her address wasn’t listed in the phone book, but Joel had given it to him. Joel was playing Cupid even as he was trying to play negotiator in his daughter’s marital crisis. One way or another Joel was being kept very busy. A Rolfe was paying off the cab driver when he saw a messenger carrying a large bouquet of flowers approach the front entrance of the elegant, up-market building. For some reason, a hunch, he thought they might be for Cecile. Perhaps her ex-fiancé was trying to get back into her good graces. He waited at the curb for a few moments watching the messenger press one of the numbers, then say in a crackling sort of voice that carried on the still air, “Delivery for Ms. Moreland.”
For an instant Rolfe considered arriving with the flowers, then rejected that as not a good idea. He waited until the messenger was well inside the building before he made his own approach. He was lucky. Two attractive young women were on their way out. They greeted his arrival with bright faces and bold, assessing “Hi’s!” He smiled back, as though he found them equally interesting, then walked with cool confidence inside as though he was either a resident or visiting one. Obviously they hadn’t judged him any sort of a security risk.
The lift was sitting at the ground floor. Why hadn’t the guy delivering the flowers come down in it? He’d had ample time to hand over the bouquet. Rolfe stepped into the empty lift and pressed the button for Cecile’s floor, fully expecting to see the messenger up there waiting to get in. Instead an elderly lady was hovering in the quiet hallway, looking very agitated. When she caught sight of Rolfe, she pressed a finger to her lips indicating she wanted him to be quiet, then beckoned him to an alcove with a tall plate-glass window giving an expansive view over the park opposite.
Rolfe followed, though his reassuring smile had vanished. What was she going to tell him? His face tight, he looked down at her.
“Are you visiting Cecile?” she asked, pointing an arthritic hand at Cecile’s door.
“Yes. Is anything the matter?” He wanted her to get to the point.
“I don’t know,” the woman wavered. “I heard a crash. At least, I thought I heard a crash. My television is on. It’s one of ‘my favorite quiz shows, but it’s rather noisy. Then I thought I heard Cecile shouting.”
Rolfe waited for no more. Fear clamped into him like a steel claw. “Call the police,” he instructed. As the old woman scurried back to her apartment to do so, Rolfe considered his options. Knock? Call out her name? Instinct warned him against doing that. He had seen the messenger delivering flowers to her apartment. The messenger had come up. He hadn’t gone down. So where was he? Rolfe stood in absolute attention, his ear pressed to the heavy door.
No sound at all from inside. Very cautiously he gripped the doorknob, immensely relieved to feel it turn. What a godsend! He opened the door slowly, his nerves strained against making the slightest noise. One look at the shattered glass partition was enough to make his chest heave. Carefully he sidestepped the shards. Gladioli as red as blood had been tossed all over the floor.
So he was here! Kidnapper, rapist, psychopath? Rolfe suppressed a powerful urge to shout out a threat. The police might arrive soon but they would be too late to save anyone who had hurt Cecile from getting pulverized.
There was no one in the living room. He couldn’t as yet see into the kitchen. He dropped into a crouch to inch his way silently across the thick carpet to a position behind one of the sofas. Now that he had a clear view, he was able to see there was no one in the galley kitchen, either. Where had he taken her—the bedroom?
Rolfe’s blood ran cold. He stood upright, quietly removing the leather loafers he was wearing before moving cautiously down the hallway.
Still no sound, but he was absolutely certain he wasn’t alone in the apartment. He paused for long moments, not daring to draw breath, then he heard a man’s voice say tauntingly, “I don’t think your friend is coming, my dear. I don’t think anyone is coming.”
Aren’t I, you bastard! Rolfe swore in silent fury, his strong features compressed into granite. He had no fear of confronting another man, even a dangerous, violent man with a weapon. He just had to be very very careful and as silent as the mountain lions of Argentina. The one thing he didn’t have was the luxury of time. He wasn’t even certain Cecile’s elderly neighbor had done as he’d instructed. She’d looked almost too frightened to speak coherently over the phone. ‘
“Do you really think you’re going to get away with this?”
His heart leapt at the sound of Cecile’s voice. Thank God! His hope grew. She sounded quiet, controlled, even quite extraordinarily patient. Patient with a madman?
Then came the man’s laugh. An ugly unnatural sound. “Well, you’ll never know, my dear. Don’t struggle. It’s quite useless.” The voice became pleasant, even admiring. “I have to confess I’m rather impressed with you, Ms. Moreland-”
Rolfe waited no longer. His body poised to lunge, he inched his face around the bedroom door. The man’s back was to him. His right arm was raised. In his hand was a syringe filled with a clear liquid. .
Electrified, Rolfe lunged. He landed heavily
on the man’s back just as Cecile either fainted or slid deliberately to the floor.
“The police will be here soon.” Rolfe let out a loud menacing growl, putting all his strength into the lock on the man’s wrist. “But not soon enough for you, pal.” The man struggled ferociously. He was strong, but Rolfe was stronger. He was also fueled by fury. The syringe fell harmlessly to the floor. Rolfe twisted the man’s arm behind his back, increasing the pressure till the fake messenger cried out in pain.
“You’re pulling my arm out of its socket!”
“Is that so?” Rolfe allowed himself a harsh laugh. He wrestled the guy to the floor, straddling the man’s body, forcing him to lie still.
Cecile hadn’t fainted. She had engineered a way to get clear of the syringe. She was up in a crouch now, her face paper-white.
“We need something to tie him up, Cecile.” There was an urgent command in Rolfe’s voice. All of his considerable strength was given over to controlling her attacker, whose breath was hissing like a steam train as he struggled to get free of Rolfe’s hold. Rolfe banged the man’s head hard on the floor, just barely resisting the urge to keep going. That quietened the man a little, but soon he resumed his struggle.
Of all things, Cecile put a child’s skipping rope into his hands. She swiftly fell to her knees bending over the man’s head with a glass water jug. There was no water in it, so presumably she intended to clobber him with it if he got out of control.
“You know him?” Rolfe grunted, binding the messenger’s two hands very tightly. behind his back.
“Yes.” Cecile’s voice was ragged. “He’s the father of a patient.”
“Is he now?” Rolfe stood up, delivering one sharp kick to the ribs of the would-be murderer, who bleated piteously.