Precipice

by Tom Savage

  Thank God, he thought the moment he saw it. Thank God thank God thank God.

  Then he was straining to grasp the life preserver, and strong hands were reaching down for the terrified girl, and Adam Prescott was hauling them into the Boston Whaler.

  When he saw that she was all right, Adam relaxed again. It had been close: the boom had struck her with a tremendous force, and she had been in the cold water for nearly fifteen minutes.

  That stupid young man had acted quickly. Idiotically, but quickly. Adam grimaced, acknowledging reluctantly that he really ought to be grateful for Bob Taylor’s bravery.

  No. He was grateful for nothing, beholden to no one. If Taylor had not leapt to her rescue, he himself would have delivered her.

  He smiled through the interminable dinner at the restaurant, picking at his lobster and pushing the second birthday cake around on his plate. He kept up his end of the conversation, with everyone’s concern for Diana being the main topic. He watched her across the table. She laughed and shook her head, dismissing the whole incident as being over and done with. There was a slight bruise on her left temple, but the doctor at the club had examined her and Taylor and pronounced them none the worse for their ordeal.

  The young man was making much too much of it. He clung to Diana, patting her arm and pouring her wine and practically cutting up her food for her. Adam cringed inwardly as he watched the jerk reach over to pull a single red rose from the centerpiece and present it to her. What a horse’s ass the man was!

  Stupid girl, to jump to Kay’s defense like that. If anything had happened to Kay, he could have lived with it. Labor Day would no longer have been necessary; true, it would not have been half as exciting, but it would have been a genuine accident. He would rather that nothing happen to Diana, however. Not before Labor Day, when she would at last feel free to come to him. Not before he’d had her, made love to her.

  After that, well . . .

  “Thank you,” the young woman said.

  Robin smiled and squeezed her hand. Then he watched as she got into the Land Rover with the Prescotts and drove away.

  He took his time driving back across the waterfront to his hotel. Along the way, he gazed around at the thousand tiny lights that shone so brilliantly against the black shapes of the town on his left, the harbor on his right, and the hills that rose up, up above everything. There was a nearly full moon, and its reflection in the water added to the fairy-tale quality of the view. He had the impression that he was infinitesimally small, a minute being traveling slowly across the bottom of a velvet-lined jewel box. Tropical evening, he thought, smiling to himself. St. Thomas at night.

  The events of the afternoon seemed somehow ludicrous, melodramatic, when seen from this remote, romantic perspective. Thrashing around in the violent ocean, holding her up, both of them nearly drowning: had that really happened? It was so far away, already forgotten.

  Almost. There was something else, nagging at the corner of his consciousness. What was it? Something had happened that should not have happened, that would never have occurred if it hadn’t been for the bizarre accident. He had the distinct feeling that he’d made a mistake somewhere during the day, committed some error.

  He would have to call Margaret Barclay and report everything, relive for her the whole crazy day. He would shrug it off, put her mind at ease. They knew where the girl was now, and what she was doing. She was all right. That was the important thing, wasn’t it?

  As he pulled into the parking lot at Bolongo, he made a conscious decision not to tell Miss Barclay that he was in love with her niece.

  The young woman filled the glass from her bathroom with water, set it on the table next to her bed, and placed the rose in it. She lay back on the bed, gazing up at the ceiling, recalling every moment, every detail of the day.

  Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Somewhere in that strange, terrifying series of events, one specific thing had happened that endangered her. Adam. The plan. Everything.

  She’d got through the rest of the party, assuring Kay and Trish and the others that she was fine.

  But she was not fine.

  She reached up with her left hand and gingerly touched the bruise on her forehead. No, that wasn’t. It was tender, but the slight pain would be gone in a day or so, just as the scar had vanished from her palm almost overnight. What bothered her, hurt her, about the bruise on her temple was not the pain itself, but what it reminded her of. Something that had nothing to do with now. . . .

  The photographs. Bob Taylor had taken pictures of them all, all but Adam. She didn’t like having her picture taken: cameras told too much. Oh, how she knew that! She didn’t even care for the snapshots of her early life, the ones in the scrapbook in her desk at home. She kept them only to remind herself that once, long ago, her life had been safe and sane and comfortable. It was important for her to remember that. No, not the photographs.

  Saving Kay Prescott. Another tie, another emotional link to the woman, like the amethyst.

  Don’t be silly, she thought. That certainly wasn’t it. Kay Prescott deserves what’s coming to her. I can still go through with the plan without batting an eye. No, it wasn’t Kay Prescott.

  What was it? Why this sudden anxiety, this foreboding?

  She sat up and glanced over at the bedside alarm clock. Midnight. Then her gaze traveled from the clock to the red rose in the glass next to it. She almost realized then. Almost.

  There was a moment of confusion, of something being not quite right. She stared at the blood-red petals, remembering the handsome, desperate face as he reached out for her in the water. She had been barely conscious. The shock of the blow and the falling and the angry, bottomless water had dulled her faculties. She couldn’t remember much of it clearly, but she was certain that something was wrong. Somewhere, in the boat or the water or the restaurant, something had happened that should not have happened.

  She shook her head to clear away the nagging thoughts. She stood up and walked over to the window to look out at the silent, moon-flecked water. Beautiful moon, she thought. A circle of icy silver in the dark Atlantic night.

  If she’d had more experience with love, she might have recognized the symptoms. But she had never really loved anyone, not the boys in school or Clem, the father of her almost-child, or Warren Burton, her married lover at Harvard. She had loved only one man in her life, and she thought about him now.

  Adam.

  With a long sigh, she left the window, turned off the lamp, and fell across the bed. Her sleep, when it finally came, was fitful.

  It was late in the evening in the quiet house on the quiet street in Garden City, Long Island. The only light came from the little lamp on the desk in Dr. Stein’s office.

  He’d made his way slowly and carefully through the scrapbook, from cover to cover. The Hamilton had been easier: she’d highlighted the relevant pages. What he’d concluded was disturbing because it wasn’t a conclusion at all. Just a series of random, seemingly disparate facts. He had no idea what they all added up to, if anything.

  He did not understand the young woman.

  The grandfather clock in the living room across the hall chimed for the first hour of the morning. He removed his glasses, rubbed his bleary eyes, and took a long sip of club soda. Europe in just a few days, he reminded himself. But now, this.

  The yellow legal pad stared up at him. He stared back. After a while he picked up the black felt-tipped pen next to it and began to write, referring to both books. By two o’clock he had discovered a pattern.

  He did not sleep that night.

  ELEVEN

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 23

  THE OLD MAN moved slowly, methodically down the beach, poking and sifting the sand in front of him with a stick. Every time he arrived at a fresh patch, he would lean forward and scrutinize it with his sharp eyes, then carefully rake the sand, watching for anything unusual that might rise to the surface. When he was satisfied that the area had been thoroughly examined, he would
step forward to the next.

  The sun had risen about forty-five minutes before: this was the perfect time of day for his work. The beaches were deserted at this early hour, and this particular cove was rarely populated even at midday. Few on the island ever ventured here. Teenagers, lovers, the occasional adventurous tourist: just enough to make the sand interesting, if not a potential goldmine, like the strips of beach in front of the resort hotels. Of course, the problem with the more famous beaches was that somebody was always chasing him off them. But nobody would bother him here, he thought. Too isolated, and too damn early. With a sense of satisfaction and anticipation, he continued on his quest.

  So great was his concentration that he didn’t see the little pile of clothes until it had arrived at his feet, materializing like manna in the barren earth before him. He stared down at the trove, feeling the excitement grow within him. A white blouse, a pair of sandals half buried in the sand, and a large straw bag, the kind sold in all the gift shops downtown. A design of flowers wove into the sides, and “St. Thomas, Virgin Islands” written beneath it. He wanted very much to see what was inside the bag.

  He stood there in the sand about ten feet from the little mound, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible. He went so far as to pretend for several minutes that he had taken a sudden, passionate interest in scanning the distant horizon, all the while keeping watch on his discovery out of the corner of his eye.

  At last, when he could stand it no longer, and one more quick check revealed a still-empty beach, he closed in. Walking directly up to the pile and dropping to his knees, he dipped both hands down into the bag, scooping up its contents with his long, bony fingers.

  The glossy magazines were accorded a cursory glance and immediately discarded. Likewise the compact, perfume atomizer, chewing gum, tampons, Kleenex, and envelope.

  The little red leather wallet was at the very bottom, under a layer of discarded tissues with lipstick smears on them. A swift search revealed a driver’s license with writing but no picture, several photographs of old people and babies, and what appeared to be a library card. The billfold section held what he’d really been looking for: three twenties, a ten, and six singles. Seventy-six dollars!

  With another quick glance around the beach, he pocketed the bills. He was about to rise and run from the scene of his crime when he noticed something interesting. The wrinkled, medium-size manila envelope lying next to the magazines was covered with writing. He picked it up and examined it, felt its overstuffed bulk. He shook it tentatively. Nothing: it was obviously filled with paper. He held the envelope up close to his bloodshot eyes and worked his way slowly, laboriously through the writing on its surface.

  First there was a name, written in large capitals with a drippy fountain pen. “D-I-A-N-A M-E-I-S-S-E-N—B-O-L-O-N-G-O.” This was followed by seven numerals, obviously a phone number. Under that, smaller letters read “N-o-t h-e-r r-e-a-1 n-a-m-e. L-a-b-e-1 s-e-w-n i-n p-u-r-s-e.” Next to these words was an arrow pointing to the right, where more words were written on three lines, one below another. The first word of the top lines was illegible, the fountain pen having dripped and smeared across it. The second and third words were “P-E-T-E-R-S-E-N B-A-R-C-L-A-Y.” The second line read “1-3-6 S-h-o-r-e R-o-a-d.” Under that was written “G-l-e-n C-o-v-e, N.-Y. 1-1-5-4-2.”

  It was the names and the address that reminded him. This bag and these clothes belonged to someone, someone who had placed them here and was not here now. Someone who might be in trouble. He looked down at the little pile, then out over the smooth, empty surface of the water.

  He had a quarter in one of his pockets, and there was a pay phone up by the main road. He would call the police. Then he’d come back here and keep an eye on the stuff until they arrived. Who knows? he thought. Maybe there’d be some kind of reward.

  “I think I know what ‘Diana’ means,” the doctor said.

  Margaret looked up from the roses to see him standing over her. He had arrived in her garden unannounced, but she wasn’t particularly surprised to see him. The first thing she noticed about him was that he apparently had not had much sleep. Then she saw the scrapbook and the Mythology under his arm.

  He reached down and helped her to her feet. They stood facing each other for a moment.

  “Well, then,” she said. She turned around, walked immediately over to the wrought-iron table on the patio, and dropped into a seat. “Perhaps you’d care to join me for lunch.”

  They waited while Mrs. O’Rourke produced sandwiches and iced tea. As soon as the food was on the table and the housekeeper had returned to the kitchen, Dr. Stein leaned forward and tapped the books with his finger.

  “Are you familiar with Greek and Roman mythology?” he asked.

  Margaret glanced over at the Hamilton and shrugged. “Working knowledge. I certainly read that somewhere along the way. Is this going to be a quiz?”

  He smiled and opened the book to a page at which he’d inserted a bookmark.

  “Diana is a common enough name,” he began, settling back on the wrought-iron patio chair. “It would mean nothing if we didn’t know two other things: she loves mythology, and she loves word games. Scrabble, anagrams, crosswords, and that word-association game that probably has a thousand names—I seem to remember that in my neighborhood we called it Botticelli. Don’t ask me why. So we know the way her mind works.”

  “She’s always been rather melodramatic,” Margaret observed.

  He nodded. “Exactly. ‘Diana’ could mean anything, until you consider the other alias, Selena Chase. I think the second name is fairly easy: Barclay, Chase—they’re both banks. But it’s a double entendre as well, just like ‘Selena.’”

  Margaret stared. “What on earth are you talking about?”

  The doctor pointed down at the open book. The yellow highlight markings covered most of the page.

  “ ‘The Goddess with Three Forms,’ ” he read. “Artemis/Diana, goddess of the hunt, or chase. Twin of Apollo, god of the sun, and known sometimes as Selena or Luna, goddess of the moon. Diana, Selena: two names for the same divinity.”

  “And where,” Margaret asked, “did she come up with ‘Meissen’?”

  He looked away. “I’m not so sure about that. She obviously isn’t referring to expensive china. The only thing I could find in any reference books at home that was even close is some valley in Germany. Meisen, with only one s. A steel center at one time, apparently. The unusual thing about it was its role in World War Two. There was a prison there—”

  “You mean a camp?”

  He shook his head. “No. It was for German officers, Nazis accused of betraying the cause. Many were detained at Meisen for the duration of the war, and several never left. I don’t know if that has any kind of psychological connotation for her. . . .”

  Margaret pushed away her untouched plate and leaned forward.

  “This is all very interesting, I’m sure,” she said. “But there’s one thing you haven’t mentioned.”

  Dr. Stein nodded, second-guessing her.

  “Why?” he said. “Yes, that’s the vital question. What could all this possibly mean? I had no idea, Margaret, until about two o’clock this morning. I was reading through this.” He tapped a finger on the album. “Here’s what I noticed. First of all, let me relieve your mind on one count. As I was leaving here the other day, you mentioned what the child said to the mailman on the morning after the murder: ‘Mommy’s dead. I killed her.’ All these years, you’ve wondered if a six-year-old could do something like that.”

  Margaret lowered her eyes from his piercing gaze. When she spoke, her voice was barely a whisper. “It’s just that, well, she’s so strange sometimes. No, I never really believed it was possible, any more than the police did.” She raised her face again. “But that isn’t what you wanted to tell me. You’ve found something that bothers you. What is it?”

  The doctor nodded. “It isn’t about what anybody said. It’s about what they didn’t say. I can’t t
ell you what went on in my sessions with her, but I’ll go so far as to say that neither of you, in relating to me the story of the tragedy when she was six, ever mentioned a young woman named Karen Lawrence.”

  Margaret stared at him. Karen Lawrence. She slumped back in her chair and closed her eyes. Oh, God, she thought. I never expected to hear that name again. The newspapers—of course. It would all be in the clippings. The girl must know as well. Several moments passed before she became aware that the doctor was speaking.

  “. . . away from the house that night. He told the police he was at sea on a merchant vessel, but a routine inquiry shot a hole in his alibi. For a while there, they suspected that Bert had returned to the house and murdered his wife. Then a woman named Karen Lawrence came forward and admitted that Bert had been with her during the time in question. They’d been having a casual affair, she said, for several months.”

  Margaret nodded wearily. “She used to baby-sit for them. She testified at the initial inquest, before they found that suspect. The man with the robbery record. When he turned up, they lost interest in Bert and Karen Lawrence and focused on him. I can’t say I wasn’t relieved. They let him go for lack of evidence, but I’ve always assumed he was the—”

  Dr. Stein raised a hand, cutting her off.

  “Yes,” he said. “I know what you assumed. But neither of you ever mentioned that your brother-in-law, her father, had been unfaithful to his wife.”

  She stood up then. She moved quickly, almost automatically, in the direction of her rosebushes. Her comfort, her pride . . .

  “He’s dead, Dr. Stein. Madeleine was not a—a very passionate woman. . . . Oh, well, I’m not going to defend the man! But his daughter adored him, and he had nothing to do with—what happened. He was with her—with Karen Lawrence. I can’t imagine his remorse, what he must have gone through in those next six months before he . . He started drinking. I heard he went to Atlantic City and gambled away half the inheritance. He apparently couldn’t face the child; she came to stay with me. And then, finally, he went out in his sailboat, and . . .”