"Mary?"
"Among other things. Her condition has deteriorated. She's due to be admitted for more tests. Mostly it's De Witt."
"What has he done? Seduced a patient."
"In a way."
"You're being cryptic."
"And that's the way it will stay. You know how Joe feels about gossip. If anyone heard what's going down, he'd blame me. I'm worried about the money, that's all."
Had Joe Barclay given the money to Barbara? Leila needed to discover the truth. Her fears made her appear fragile enough to shatter. "How did Barbara learn about you and Joe?"
Leila picked up the tray. "She may have known for years. I'm not sure what betrayed us. What really scares me is that the police will learn. Barbara's threats gave both of us a motive for her death."
"How would the police learn? I've never heard you and Joe linked by gossip."
"If she knew, there could be others. What if the wrong question sends me into hysterics and I let things slip?"
Susan walked to the door. "You're not the only jumpy person around here. Julie and Trish are so nervous they infect me. I'm glad they're off tonight."
"That kind of behavior will be the norm until the case is solved." Leila followed Susan to the door. "I need a favor for the weekend."
"Just ask."
"My new car wasn't delivered yesterday. Could I borrow yours? Mine is fine for local driving, but I'm afraid it will die in the mountains."
Susan frowned. "I thought you and Joe were going away."
"Separate cars. We usually travel that way. My idea."
"No problem. What time tomorrow do you want to meet."
"Why not make the exchange tonight? That way I can pack when I get home and you won't have to rush in the morning. I have to be away be eight thirty to follow Joe."
Susan opened the door. "The parking lot at eleven thirty. If I finish early, will you give me permission to leave."
Leila laughed. "How many times in the past year has that happened?"
"Twice."
"I've a better idea. I'll come down at eleven and let my presence act as a goad."
Susan chuckled. "Sounds good. See you then."
* * *
He stood at the window and stared at the street. A dark blue sedan with a MD license plate was parked at the curb across the street. Moments later, he saw Susan's sporty white sedan pull behind the other. For a moment, he hoped she had come to see him. His hopes were smashed when the doctor left his car and walked to Susan's.
A growl escaped. He knew the doctor. Mommy had liked him, but like Susan, the doctor had failed to protect Mommy. On the night Mommy had died, the doctor had stayed at home while those others had killed her. He watched the scene across the street and felt anger build. The doctor was married. So was Susan. Why would Susan want to be with a married mad? Susan was like Mommy. Mommy would never have done a thing like that. After Daddy died, there had been no other men. The watcher smiled. Just me.
The cars pulled from the curb. Where were they going? He heard Mommy's voice. "Every Thanksgiving, Dr. Barclay goes to his hunting cabin, just like Daddy used to go. His place is just a mile from Daddy's."
Why was Susan going? She didn't like guns. Mommy didn't either.
They must have met by accident. Maybe Susan wanted to tell him about a patient. As he locked the door and strode to his car, he held tightly to that idea.
Slowly, he drove past Susan's house and peered into the driveway. Susan's car was gone. So was the other one. His anger changed to rage. How could she do this to him? She should know better. He had to think, to plan, to act but not yet. He knew where they would be but it was too soon to go.
After deciding he needed to practice, he drove to the shooting range. There, he chose a target, loaded and aimed his rifle. Instead of the circles, he saw Susan. A head shot. One to the body. Twenty-five rounds later, he examined the target. He was hot.
"That was some shooting. Do you ever miss?"
He turned and faced a large black man. "Very seldom, Detective Davies."
"Some of my buddies on the force could use your eye."
"Thanks". He strode to the car and fitted the rifle into its case.
"See you around," the police officer called. "Good hunting."
Tonight, he thought. Good hunting, indeed. Tonight he would find Susan and he would be free.
* * *
Susan slumped on the couch in Patrick's living room. Bags and boxes littered the room. She rested her feet on a hassock and listened to the twins' report about the shopping expedition. They related every moment, except what presents they had bought.
"Burgers and fries for lunch," Adam said.
"Mom never lets us have them," Robin said. "She's always pushing salads. They're healthy."
"We can't have soda either. ‘You have to watch your weight.'" Adam sat on the floor near the hassock. "I'll never be big enough for football if Mom has her way."
"We had sundaes," Robin said. "All gooey with hot fudge and caramel..."
"And topped with whipped cream." Adam rubbed his stomach. "It's been months since we've had ice cream. Mom's always dieting. She..."
"Thinks we should eat the way she and Rob do," Robin finished.
"I can't see that you've suffered," Patrick said. Susan opened her eyes. He winked. "You're spoiling them."
"And they're ruining me. I'm more tired than after working a double shift."
"Better you than me. Are you ready for dinner?"
Adam laughed. "Guess what Aunt Susan had for lunch?"
"A turkey sandwich," Robin said. "She threw it away and had a burger."
Patrick paused in the doorway. "Dinner is in fifteen minutes and no one's throwing their turkey away. I rented some moves for later."
"Scary ones." Robin and Adam spoke as one.
"What else?"
Susan decided to go to the grocery store after dinner. Scary reminded her of the hospital. She was glad she didn't have to be there this evening.
* * *
He walked from the first tier of the parking lot to the third and checked every car. Susan's car was missing. He chewed on the inside of his lower lip. He had prayed she would be here. He didn't want to be angry with her. He smacked his fist against the hood of the last car and stumbled over the chain that formed the boundary of the cemetery.
A light rain misted on his face. When he reached Mommy's grave, he crouched and touched the tombstone.
"Help me, Mommy. Tell me what to do. She didn't come to work tonight and I know where she is. You told me. She's doing something you would never do."
He waited for an answer. No comfort came from the silent grave. He fled, nearly falling over the tombstones. He reached his car and sat behind the wheel.
He could go home but being alone wasn't what he wanted. Susan, he had to find her. He drove from the hospital to her house. Her side of the large house was dark. How could she do this to him?
He drove past unlit stores and past houses where lights revealed glimpses of people who weren't alone. The lawns broadened. Stone walls hid houses from view. He reached the dead end of the street and parked behind the statue at the end of the road.
Low-lying fog rolled from the river and hid the path to the Overlook. He strode into the mist and used the metal railing as a guide. On the day of Daddy's funeral, he and Mommy had come here. They had eaten lunch at one of the picnic tables. She had made her promise. That had been the best day of his life.
He emerged from the fog. Behind those bushes, grown taller now, two naked bodies had thrashed and grunted. Not fair. They shouldn't have ruined his special place.
The rising wind rustled leaves that clung to near barren trees. He paused beside the table where he and Mommy had eaten lunch. He closed his eyes and saw her. She shook her head, but he couldn't listen to her pleas.
He strode across the frost-killed grass until he reached the railing that guarded the edge of the sheer cliff that plunged hundreds of feet to the river. A
million broken moons reflected from the dark water. The shifting patterns became the broken promise on which he had built his life.
"I'll never leave you. They'll have to kill me first. What will happen to you if I'm not here?"
"Tell me what to do."
He turned and raced across the grass. As he dashed down the steps, his left hand slid along the railing. At the car, he paused to catch his breath.
When he reached home, he climbed the stairs to Mommy's room. He paused beside the dresser and set the alarm for three A.M. That would give him time. Then he walked to the bed. Mommy's perfume bottle stood on the bedside table. He pressed the atomizer. The scent of roses enveloped him.
He lay on the bed. One hand kneaded the satin comforter. The other rubbed his hair. Rays of moonlight slipped between the slats of the Venetian blinds. As he closed his eyes, he caught a shimmer of Mommy's presence. He reached for her.
* * *
At five after twelve, Julie parked her car on the street near Larry's river front apartment. She stared at the low-lying fog that slithered across the flagstone walk leading to the terrace entrance.
"Use the terrace door." Larry had whispered just before he left the unit. On Wednesday, she had forgotten. A long lecture about how he hated her to use the front entrance where a security guard made her sign the guest book had been her punishment.
"I don't want my visitors treated like they're visiting a jail. No one needs to know whom I've been seeing."
"If privacy's so important, why not buy a house or a condo?" she had asked.
"Money. First I need the partnership. Don't fret, little bird. There'll always be a nest for you."
He meant marriage, didn't he? Doubt tickled her thoughts. She slumped against the car. He had to mean marriage. What would she do if he didn't? She couldn't stay away from him. A month ago, for three miserable days, she had tried and failed.
The fog shifted. As she slipped on the slick flagstones, she grasped the handrail. The river lapped against the retaining wall with a lulling sound. She reached the terrace and stared at the glass door.
Larry stood at the bar and tossed off a drink. She frowned. For the past month, his intake of alcohol had increased and he had refused to discuss the reasons. She walked toward the door.
Low slung jeans hugged his hips and thighs. He wore no shirt. When he replaced the decanter on the glass and chrome bar, his back muscles rippled.
Entranced by his movements, she traced his reflection on the glass. After a short time, she knocked. He turned and strode to the door. She ached to touch the blond curls that tapered to disappear beneath the waist of his jeans. He opened the door. The rhythmic beat of "Bolero" played softly in the background.
"You're late." He sipped his drink.
Julie unbuttoned her coat. "Narcotic count was off. Trish forgot to record a Valium." She frowned. Why the startled look so quickly masked? Was he worried about Trish? I'm not jealous, she silently repeated several times.
Larry set his drink on the glass and chrome table near the terrace doors. Julie kicked off her shoes and curled her toes into the deep pile of the carpet.
He slid her coat from her shoulders and pulled her into an embrace. His mouth met hers, explored and demanded. The rhythmic music changed to a soft and plaintive melody.
Larry released her. "Wine?"
She nodded. "Half a glass. I'm beat."
He picked up his drink and drained it. After crossing to the bar, he poured white wine for her and another drink for himself. She took the goblet and touched hers to his. "To us."
"To an affair destined to last longer than Uncle Joe's and Leila Vernon's."
"Ms. Vernon." Wine splashed on the pewter gray carpet. "What are you talking about?"
His eyes danced with a kind of excitement that made her wary. "Uncle Joe and Leila have been lovers for years."
"I don't believe you."
"I couldn't have learned at a better time. The partnership's assured."
Julie put her glass on the end table. "What do you mean?"
"Not for you to worry about, little bird."
"Is this part of what's been bothering you for weeks?"
He grinned. "I have no worries."
"Then why have you been drinking so much?"
He laughed. "Have I? Let's just say I have proof of this affair."
"Did Barbara tell you? I wouldn't trust a thing she said."
"She wasn't my source." He took her hand. "Don't worry your pretty self about anything." He pulled her closer. "When I tell him what I know, he'll give me a fifty-fifty split instead of the usual thirty-seventy for the first two years."
Julie stiffened. "That sounds like blackmail."
"Just a mutual secret-keeping agreement. Aunt Mary would be devastated to learn he's taken Leila to his hunting cabin for the weekend. I might just do a little hunting myself."
His smile caused a shiver to run down her spine. "Larry, please don't do this."
His mouth covered hers. Moments later, he led her to the bedroom.
Bright rays of sunlight struck Julie's eyes. She wiggled across the bed seeking Larry's warmth. Peering from under half-hooded eyes, she discovered she was alone.
"Larry," she called.
She slipped to the edge of the bed. Her naked body was reflected from a half dozen mirrors. She reached for the robe slung over the foot of the bed and padded to the living room. "Larry, where are you?"
A glance at the clock told her it was just seven A.M. and a Saturday. Larry seldom rose early on weekends. She called again.
No answer. She frowned and crossed to the room he used as a study. She opened the door. Her lips curled in distaste. The walls, decorated with hunting trophies and guns, both new and antique, seemed to contradict the passionate lover she knew. Feeling like Bluebeard's wife, she crossed to the desk. A rifle was missing from the wall where it usually hung between two deer heads.
With a thud, she sat on the chair behind the desk. The chill that raised gooseflesh on her arms was part fear, part anger. Where was he? Why had he taken a rifle?
A stack of charts sat on a corner of the desk. Idly, she turned them over. Trish Fallon. The name seemed engraved in bright letters. As though she had brushed a snake, her hand flew back. Relief and curiosity mingled in her thoughts. Why was Trish Larry's patient? Though tempted, she pushed the chart away. As she left the room, she turned to stare at the empty rifle rack on the wall.
Chapter 5
Sunlight streamed through the French doors into the dining room and warmed Susan's back. A stack of paid bills sat in front of her. She slipped the last check into the envelope.
When she put the pen down, her gaze strayed to the basket of chrysanthemums. She plucked a dead bloom from the arrangement. What was she going to do about Patrick? Her emotions bounced like a volleyed tennis ball. She enjoyed his company and valued his friendship, but she feared losing both if they moved beyond what they now shared.
The shrill sound of the doorbell broke into her thoughts. The bell sounded with staccato peals. As she crossed the room, she wondered who could be in such a rush. She opened the door and stared at Leila's blotched and swollen face.
"What's wrong?"
As though her name had been a signal for action, Leila brushed past Susan and collapsed on the couch. "He... Oh, Lord, Susan...he..." A paroxysm of wild sobbing cut off her words.
Susan closed the door. What was wrong? Just the other day, her friend had mentioned a quarrel with her lover. Had it erupted again? "You don't need him."
Leila looked up. "No...no..." Her wail rose in pitch.
The loud noise beat against Susan's eardrums. She stared at her friend. Leila was always calm and in control. The hysterical cries shocked Susan. Her hands curled into fists. If Joe Barclay had appeared, she would have slammed the door in his face. "Take deep breaths and tell me what happened."
Leila responded with a fresh outburst of weeping. Her slender body curled on itself.
Susan hur
ried to the kitchen and wet a paper towel. What had Joe Barclay done to devastate Leila so completely? Susan returned to the living room and handed the towel to her friend.
"I'm sorry if he let you down," Susan said. "I know it's hard, but there are other men."
Leila shuddered. "You don't understand."
"How can I when you haven't told me what happened."
"Joe's dead." Body-racking sobs followed the words. Leila leaned against the back of the couch.
For a moment, Susan had difficulty grasping the meaning of her friend's words. "Dead, oh, Leila." She sat on the couch and reached for her friend's hand. "Dead... How? The car? A heart attack?"
Leila clutched the paper towel. "Joe's dead." Her wail rose like an infant's protest at being born. "How can I live with this?"
Susan frowned. Was Leila saying she was responsible? Susan couldn't imagine any situation that would drive her friend to violent action.
"How did he die?"
"He..." Leila's body sank deeper into the cushions of the couch. She inhaled several times. "Give me a minute. I have to think...Oh lord, what am I going to do?" She rose and began to pace. "What am I going to do?"
In an attempt to penetrate the fog of repetition, Susan shouted. "What happened to Joe?"
"He's dead."
"How? Where? When?" An image of the doctor's body slumped in the passenger's seat of her car flashed in Susan's thoughts.
"In the woods behind the cabin." Leila fumbled with the buttons on her red coat. Like a splotch of fresh blood, the coat landed on the brown carpet. "He gave me this." She held out her left arm.
Susan glanced at the gold watch and shook her head. How could she break through Leila's disjointed talk? Susan wanted to know about Joe, not admire his latest present.
"Tell me about Joe."
Her friend paced from the living room to the dining room and back in a series of abrupt stops and turns. "This morning, he left to go hunting. He never tries to kill the deer. Larry does. Joe had his camera." She paused at the French doors and stared into the yard.
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