But it didn’t help. One of the men just held her down. The other man jerked off the blanket and tossed it to the floor. Then he was bending her legs and pushing them back toward her chest. They were speaking to her, both of them, but she didn’t understand.
Lindsay reared up, sent her fist into the doctor’s jaw, and sent him staggering back, flailing his arms to keep his balance, knocking over an instrument tray. She tried to grab the blanket, but it was out of her reach. Suddenly there was another man, and the three of them held her down. Her legs were pushed back again and one of the men was holding them back and apart. The nurse was beside her again, her hand lightly stroking her cheek, trying to quiet her. But Lindsay saw those men, and all three of them were looking at her between the legs and touching her and then one of them suddenly stuck two fingers inside her and she felt raw pain rip through her and she screamed and tried to jerk back on the cold table. Then she felt his fingers curling deep inside her. She screamed and screamed but he didn’t stop. He scooped her out and she was watching his face, seeing him nod to the other doctor as he looked down at the fingers that had been in her body.
The nurse looked angry and she said something sharp to the men. One of them said something sharp back to her even as he pushed a long instrument into Lindsay’s vagina.
The probing went on and on, an instrument inserted and withdrawn, cold and hard and thick, and the talk between the men with an occasional curt word from the nurse. Lindsay saw their frowns and their nods through a haze of pain and humiliation. She felt it burning deep into her. She felt a needle slide into her hip. It felt cold. One of the men patted her thigh as if she was some sort of pet or child. Then she felt nothing else.
She awoke alone in a private room. She was naked from the waist down, her legs sprawled. She cried out, lurching up, but the men weren’t here, only a nurse, who was washing her with warm soapy water.
The woman was young and pretty and she smiled and lightly patted Lindsay’s stomach, her fingers damp and warm. She said in very clear, unaccented English, “No, please don’t be afraid. Just hold still, yes, that’s it. Lie back. They said I could finally clean you up. The doctors got all the evidence they needed and made certain you weren’t hurt internally. I’m so sorry, but I’ll give you another shot in a minute, after I’m done washing you and you’ve taken your pills. We don’t want you to get pregnant from this. That’s right, just hold still. No, no more crying. You’re still suffering from shock, which is completely natural. Ah, those damned doctors, they scared you badly, didn’t they? Stupid men, and after what had happened to you! Giselle said they didn’t go easy with you. They have no understanding of what you’ve been through and they were so very busy.”
Lindsay thought: I’m lying here naked and a stranger is washing me and I’ve been raped and Sydney shot her husband and he’s dead. It was simply too much. She closed her eyes, wishing she could also close out all the vicious and bloody images burned into her memory. The woman continued to speak, telling her about how they’d had to deal with her along with a three-car accident and this handsome young man—an American, just like she was—and his poor broken arm. The doctors really hadn’t meant to be so rough, but there had been so little time and others were hurt far worse than she was.
Yes, a crushed body from a car accident was far worse than a simple rape. The nurse gave Lindsay the pills and another shot in her hip. She stayed with her, holding her hand until she slept. She spoke softly, hypnotically, “I’m from Kansas City, you know. My name is Ann O’Conner. I’ve lived here in Paris for eleven years now. I was glad I could be here when they brought you in. Now you have someone you can communicate with. Even the nurses can be short with foreigners. It’s too bad, but it’s true. Your face is badly bruised, but no broken bones. The bruises will fade in a couple of days. Go to sleep now. You’ll feel much better when you wake up. And I’ll be back, I promise you.”
And she did as Nurse O’Conner said. When Lindsay next awoke, it was light outside, the sun high in the sky. Near noon, she thought vaguely, startled, for it had been in the dark of the night when the prince—For several minutes she didn’t know where she was. She focused on the sunlight, unconsciously leaning toward it, welcoming it into her. She remembered then, everything, though her mind fought against it. She started crying, like a faucet coming on without her permission, but she simply couldn’t stop it. Her throat was clogged and it hurt to swallow, and as much as she gulped and wiped her eyes, she couldn’t make the tears stop. She finally decided it didn’t matter. She was alone. Thankfully, she was alone. Her face hurt dreadfully, and she felt as though someone had battered her insides.
The door opened quietly. She kept her head turned away. She didn’t want to see anyone. Maybe it was one of those horrible doctors who had hurt her so badly, who hadn’t cared when they’d shoved things into her, who had shamed her to her soul.
A man’s voice said very gently, “Mademoiselle? You are awake, are you not?”
His English was accented, unlike Nurse O’Conner’s, but perfectly understandable. Still, she didn’t move, said nothing. Maybe he’d go away. Please let him go away.
“I’m sorry to intrude upon you after what happened, but I must. I am Inspector Galvain with the Paris Sûreté. They sent me because I speak English passably well. I hope you will bear with my efforts. Mademoiselle? Please, you must speak to me. I am sorry, but it is so. I have no choice and neither do you.”
She turned her head slowly on the pillow. She saw the surprise on his face and the flash of pity before he checked it. She raised her hand and touched her fingers to her bruised cheek and jaw. The prince had struck her many times, hard, with his fist.
“Is he dead?”
The inspector didn’t hesitate, and his voice was matter-of-fact. “No, he isn’t dead. Your sister’s aim wasn’t that good. Prince di Contini will live. He won’t feel particularly well for a week or two, but he will live. But I do not wish to speak of him at the moment. My concern is with you. Please, you must tell me exactly what happened.”
Lindsay shook her head. More tears spilled over and she swallowed. Where were they coming from? Her throat hurt so badly.
“Please, compose yourself. That is better. Take your time, there is no hurry. All so difficult, I know, petite. Just take your time.”
“You will get nothing reasonable out of her. I will tell you exactly what happened, Inspector.”
It was Royce Foxe and he was standing in the doorway, looking strong and sure and confident. Lindsay couldn’t believe her eyes. Her father had come to her the moment he’d found what had happened to her. He’d come to her now because it was urgent that he be here for her. He had realized that and he’d come. Relief and love and forgiveness for his past indifference, his past cruelties, flowed through her. Lindsay tried to sit up but was too weak. It didn’t matter because her father was here for her. She smiled at him, raising her hand, and whispered, “Daddy.”
Her father looked at her, then quickly away. He continued before the inspector could say anything, waving a hand toward Lindsay, “This stupid girl fell in love with Prince Alessandro di Contini nearly two years ago when she was only sixteen, at the wedding between the prince and her older sister, Sydney. She led him on. She worshiped him and showered him with all these silly feelings. She treated him like he was a god, and what was he to do? He is a man, after all. He invited her here, paid for her to come, and she came willingly, never doubt that, Inspector, never doubt that. When he decided to take what she’d been offering, she changed her mind and fought him. My poor older daughter had to protect her. She was forced to shoot her own husband.” He turned to Lindsay then and said in a very soft voice, “You are a pathetic little slut. Just look at you—I can’t believe any man would even want to touch you. And now just see what you’ve brought down upon us.”
“Monsieur! C’est assez! That is quite enough!”
Royce backed away. He was breathing hard, so angry that he tasted the raw harshness of i
t. The damned girl had come very close to ruining Sydney’s life. Now she was trying to climb out of the bed and she was crying and shaking as she tugged at her ridiculous hospital nightgown that couldn’t cover those ridiculously long legs of hers, whispering between gasping breaths, “That isn’t true, Daddy, you know it isn’t true! Sydney said he liked girls, girls younger than me even, that he didn’t like her because she was too old even when they got married. She said he had to wait for me because he couldn’t get to me before. She said he was sick, that she came as soon as she discovered what he was planning to do—”
“Shut up, you damned little fool!” Royce turned the full force of his authority on her, and his voice turned low and vicious. “Don’t you lie to me, Lindsay. You agreed to have an affair with him. When he got a little crude, slapped you up a little bit, you yelled rape and your sister was forced to help you. God, I never thought the time would come when I’d have to protect Sydney from you! Just look what you’ve done! You’ve ruined your sister’s life!”
Inspector Galvain stepped between father and daughter. He couldn’t believe the unbelievable spite of this man. It had taken him so off-guard that he’d found himself tongue-tied. God in heaven, what had the daughter done to deserve it? He said smoothly, very formally, “You will please leave now, Monsieur Foxe. The doctors have told me your daughter is still suffering from shock. This is quite understandable if you would but pause a moment to think about it. She is also still in pain. The prince struck her very hard, as you can see from the bruises on her face. Also she is hurt internally. I would say that ‘crude’ is somewhat of an understatement. I would say that you need to reassess what has happened. The prince was brutal; he was an animal. I will attend you later, monsieur.”
Royce wanted to tell the fool inspector to go fuck himself, but he realized, even in his rage, that it wouldn’t be smart. The inspector could cause him trouble. It was his country and Royce had no authority here. He stared at the man who looked so ineffective, so damned unlike an inspector should—short and slight, with a nearly bald head and sad brown eyes. Jesus, this was a policeman? Even his voice lacked authority and command. His attempt at stiff formality was absurd. Royce then thought of his sweet Sydney waiting for him downstairs in the car he’d hired, tired and bereft and silent as a ghost, in far worse shape than this little bitch, lying there, staring at him as if struck dumb by what he’d said. Sydney needed him to tell her what needed to be done, needed him to make things right again. He was her father; he loved her. He would take care of everything for her. He nodded to the inspector.
After all, Royce had said what was true; he’d said what he wanted to say, what had needed to be said. He didn’t look again at Lindsay, merely turned on his heel and left the room.
The inspector was silent as he looked down at Lindsay. He felt very sorry for her. He’d wanted to slug Royce Foxe in the face. Instead, he said in his soft voice, resisting the impulse to hold her hand and soothe her, “I have a daughter who is just your age. Just like you, mademoiselle. Her name is Felice. Last year she got this crush—that’s the American slang, isn’t it?—yes, this crush on an older man and she acted so foolish and so silly that we all of us were equally annoyed and despairing. But this man, he was a normal adult, you see, with no sickness in his mind, and thus it was that he understood she was merely a young girl in the agony of infatuation. He was kind to her, but nothing more. He didn’t take advantage of her. No normal man would. Do you understand?”
She stared up at him, her eyes dull, not caring about his wretched daughter. “Yes, I understand.”
“Good. Now, tell me exactly what happened.”
Her voice was as dull as her eyes, and it worried him. “My father told you what happened. It’s true what he said, only it isn’t, not really. The prince wrote to me that both he and Sydney wanted me to visit them here in Paris. I wanted to see him, it’s true. I thought he was the most wonderful man in the world. I worshiped him. I thought my stepsister wasn’t right for him, wasn’t worthy of him—”
“Ah, and you, mademoiselle, were the only one who was right for him?”
“Yes. I believed she mistreated him, that she didn’t give him what he needed, what he wanted, what he deserved. Of course he told me of the bad things she’d done to him.”
“So you stayed when you saw your sister wasn’t there?”
“Yes. It seemed so natural, you see. He told me Sydney didn’t like him and had left. He told me not to blame myself. I felt so badly for him. I was so angry at my sister for hurting him. He was wonderful and so nice and he took me everywhere, showed me all through Montmartre, told me old stories. It was just like all my daydreams coming true. And then that night, he came in my bedroom and started asking me questions about what I let boys do to me and he told me he wanted to teach me all those things. He told me how he’d had to wait for me. And then I really saw him. He wasn’t handsome anymore or charming or kind. I was so afraid of him, and then, finally, I realized that he wasn’t what I’d believed him to be. He hurt me but I fought him, and I screamed and screamed like they taught me to do in my self-defense classes, and then he hit me and hit me and then—”
The inspector waited. He saw she couldn’t get the words out and said gently, “Then your sister came and she shot him. He had already ejaculated in you?”
She looked at him.
Galvain searched his mind for another word, saying finally, “He came inside you? He had come?”
She nodded, a spasm shaking her body.
“Your sister fired the gun again?”
“Yes, she had to. To protect me. He fell off me onto the floor. We thought he was dead, but then he groaned.”
Galvain patted her hand, unable to keep himself from making this bit of human contact with her. He wasn’t particularly surprised when she jerked away. Poor girl, he thought, poor girl. “You rest now, mademoiselle, and you get yourself strong again. All this will fade, you will see.” He prayed it would be true, but he doubted it. Fade, yes, but she would never forget, never. He wondered what she would be like in five years, in ten. He added, “Your father has hired two guards to keep the paparazzi away from you, those vultures, and the other media people as well. They will lose interest soon enough. I will talk to you again. Rest, petite.”
Royce Foxe’s voice was heavy with fatigue, his eyes rheumy and burning with grit as he opened the suite door. He stared at the same inspector who’d been in Lindsay’s room at the hospital. “What the hell do you want? Is it the damned prince again? I thought you said he was improving by the hour?” Royce hadn’t slept much during the past three days. Even now he knew there was much to do. And now this French police inspector was here again, at Royce’s suite, this calm little man Royce was beginning to reassess. Perhaps the little man wasn’t quite so insignificant after all. But nonetheless, he didn’t stand a chance with him, with Judge Royce Foxe. “I’ve been assured that my daughter won’t be charged with attempted murder. She won’t be charged with anything. She acted in defense of her sister. I’m an attorney and an American federal judge, and surely you must know that you can’t prey on my ignorance, because I don’t have any.”
“Yes, I know you are a judge, monsieur.”
“The bastard will live. So what do you want now?”
“It is a relief,” Galvain said, looking around. “No, your daughter won’t be charged with attempted murder. That has never been an issue. That is not why I’m here, monsieur. I want to know if the young mademoiselle Lindsay Foxe will be pressing charges against the man. The hospital told me you’d brought her here yesterday.”
“What did you say?”
The inspector remained calm and still and patient, saying, “The Prince di Contini raped her. He brutalized her. Is your daughter here, monsieur? I must speak with her.”
“No, you won’t speak to her, there’s no need. Do you think I’m mad? There will be no charges against the prince. Good day, Inspector.”
“I must hear this from mademoise
lle.”
Royce didn’t know what to do. Damned little man with the power of the police behind him. Royce hadn’t, quite simply, thought through the consequences. “I will have my daughter get in touch with you tomorrow, Inspector. I thought you were so concerned about her health. Well, prove it, and go away. She is resting now.”
“No, I’m awake.” Lindsay came slowly into the living room, wearing a nightgown and bathrobe, her feet in soft flat slippers. Her curly hair was tangled around her face, thick and wavy. She looked sixteen years old, except when one noticed the fading bruises and the weary eyes that held too much knowledge for a young girl of her age.
“Go back to bed, Lindsay,” Royce said. “Now. You’re not needed here.”
Inspector Galvain was pleased when she turned to him, ignoring her father. “Hello, Inspector. Is everything all right? Sydney isn’t in trouble, is she?”
“No, there is nothing to worry about with your sister.”
“Her concern for her sister comes a little late, I should say.”
Galvain watched the girl shrink away at the blast of her father’s words. The damned bastard, as cold and brutal as the prince had been. Words or fists, it didn’t matter. The soul was still shattered. Inspector Galvain wished he could take her home with him, to his wife, Lisse, who would smother her with love and reassure her that she hadn’t been to blame.
He said to her now, formality deepening his voice, “I must ask you a question, mademoiselle. I must know if you will press charges against the prince.”
Her face went slack.
“I told you, Inspector, she won’t!”
“Mademoiselle?” Even as he looked at her, his expression as neutral as he could make it, he knew it was impossible for her. But he wanted to try. He wanted to see what the girl was made of. If only he could get her father out of the room, but then, the man would still have a chance at her, to batter her even more than the prince had, only his abuse would be emotional, and the good Lord knew that he’d had years upon years to build weapons for his arsenal.
Beyond Eden Page 6