by kps
There was no one else but the two of them and the struggle between them under the hot blue sky, and some instinct as primitive as the merciless sun that beat down on her head drove her now. There was a knife in his belt, and she grabbed for it without thinking. The knife was a silver flash in the sunlight that almost blinded her as she struck out wildly with it, the bone handle feeling heavy and unfamiliar in her grasp ...
"Cut!" Pleydel shouted, trying to make himself heard over the startled cries of some of the bystanders. "Anne! Merde, have you gone crazy with the sun? You were not supposed to ..."
She didn't hear. Her arm felt shattered and nerveless from the wrist up, and she knew she'd dropped the knife only when Webb gave her wrist a second, savage twist, making her cry out with pain.
"Holy shitl She stabbed him for real!"
She heard the words from somewhere off in the distance, but they didn't register.
Webb's eyes held hers-as yellow as the sunlight and just as harsh. There was the warm stickiness of blood, running down his fingers, dripping onto her skirt to mix with the sweat that still poured from her pores. Why was he standing there looking at her?
And then he dropped her wrist, and she flinched instinctively when she saw his hand go up, knowing that he was going to strike her again. But he was touching his arm gingerly, still looking down at her without having said a single word. It was only then that reality came flooding back, engulfing her.
Chapter Thirty
"I DIDN'T . . . I don't know what happened! It's like a some kind of dream .. ."
Hal Brightman put a soothing hand on Anne's arm.
"Listen, it was one of those things! A freak accident-you just got caught up in the role you were playing. In any case, it was only a scratch-you heard Carnahan say so himself."
"But-but I wanted to kill him! Don't you see? I kept thinking 'Webb' instead of 'Jason,'
and I was trying to kill him, and I might have ... I killed my grandfather, too, did you know that? And maybe Violet as well, because if not for me .. ."
"Anne, be calm. You haven't killed anyone. If you were the cold-blooded murderess you try to make yourself out to be, you wouldn't be so upset! Relax now, I'm going to give you a shot of something that will help you and make you see things in their proper perspective. But understand-you haven't killed anybody."
She hardly felt the needleprick-she was sobbing now, trying to get words past the constriction in her throat. "You don't know about my grandfather? He had the heart attack when I told him-because i
told him. He had been asleep when I came running up from the beach, and his face ..
."
"Anne!"
"And Violet-if I hadn't been with Webb that night ... it was me they were after, I know it! If I hadn't ... if I hadn't .. ."
The sodium Pentothal began to take effect and her words became slurred. Her head fell back, and Brightman held her pulse, keeping his voice low and soothing.
"It's all right, Anne. Everything's going to be fine. You're going to forget about Violet and about your grandfather and go back to long before-to when you were a little girl.
You're going back now, Anne. To the time before the beginning of the bad dreams.
And this time you're not going to be afraid to talk about it, because when you do, the Dream will go away and you'll be free of it forever. Do you understand?"
Free. Running backwards down passages of time that turned almost imperceptibly into the caves. Forbidden. But she'd grown bored and tired of minding, and there was her curiosity as well, her resentment at being left behind on the nicest days while her mother went down to the beach alone. Well, not always ... She wanted to giggle, but not for long. It wasn't fair, why shouldn't she go, too?
She was running towards the light now; she didn't really like the damp darkness of the caves, they were scary, even to an Indian princess. And then she saw the shadows that partly blocked out the light, and heard angry voices. Voices ... What was he doing back? 'Why did he have to come? She didn't want to go away again, back to the cold and that big old house that was too quiet and dull and .. ..
He didn't really love them, and that was why he stayed away so much. She'd heard Mommy saying so, crying. Mommy only laughed these days when she was down on the beach with her nice friend that Anne wasn't supposed to know about. He didn't want them to be happy, and she didn't really like him-oh, why did he have to come?
The voices beat against her ears, and even covering them didn't help. They seemed to come out of her head now, for all that she tried to shut them out.
"How long has this been going on? These clandestine meetings on the beach?
Damnit, don't try to evade me-never mind how I heard! Who is he, Helen? What's his name? Do
I know his face, this secret lover of yours? Tell me, damn you!"
When Mommy laughed this time it wasn't like the other times. It was a shrill, funny-sounding laugh like the sound of beating your hands on a piano without looking at the notes.
"You mean that something I do can really get under your skin?" More hurting laughter. "Well, why don't you try and find out, Richard dear? Not that it makes any difference at this point, because I'm going to divorce you. Yes, I am, and you can't stop me! My God, I've finally found a real man who wants me and treats me like a woman, instead of a-a commodity, and I just might go away with him, do you hear? I don't give a damn about your precious job or the scandal you worry about or-or you, either! Yes! At least he's helped me find out what you are. Not even a ... a ..."
'What happened then?"
"I don't want to tell!"
"You must. For your own sake. What did you see or hear after that?"
"I don't know, I'm not sure, really! They were shouting so, and I was so scared! I-I think he hit her, and she made a funny noise and I saw her fall-and then I ran! I thought he might hit me, too, I guess-only I was so scared I forgot the way back and got lost, and that was more scary even than the beach, so I-went back. And that's when I ..."
"That's what started the nightmares, isn't it? But you're not going to have them anymore. No more guilt. You're not to blame for anything, Anne, and now that you've been able to talk about it, all the fears are going to go away. You'll remember that when you wake up. You'll remember only that you're among friends who want to help you, who care about you. And you're going to be a great actress. Never mind today
..."
The voice went on and on, very gentle, very quiet, sinking into the suddenly empty space inside her mind before she drifted into a peaceful sleep.
Dr. Harold Brightman tried to hide his elation as he stored the little cassettes away carefully. Breakthrough at last! And he'd done what other psychiatrists hadn't been able to do over years-although, of course, it had taken a traumatic shock to lower the barriers thrown up so long ago by her subconscious mind. But he'd done it, just as he'd made her an actress. Right up to the moment she'd actually stabbed Webb Carnahan on the set in front of a hundred watching eyes, it had been a perfect take-she'd reacted perfectly, without a flaw in her performance!
He frowned slightly. He'd hoped it wouldn't take the sodium pentothal to do it.
However, she wouldn't remember, he'd made sure of that. And he'd got rid of her nightmares for good. She'd wake up feeling fine. His method always worked.
He allowed the feeling of satisfaction to seep through him as he stretched, looking down at the sleeping girl with traces of the tears she'd shed still etched against her cheeks. In spite of the tear stains and the ripped, blood-spotted clothes she hadn't had time to change out of, she was beautiful. There was a kind of purity about her, and yet at the same time, in costume, she was Glory-every man's fantasy woman.
With difficulty, Brightman brushed away his own forbidden thoughts, superimposing the image of his wife and children smiling back at him from the photograph he always kept on his desk.
Sighing, he sat down and began to write, forcing himself to concentrate on adding to the detailed notes he had k
ept making. But even while his pen moved doggedly over paper he found his mind going back. "The Mallory House Tragedy," the newspapers had labeled it. He remembered his mother reading aloud in a hushed, pitying voice.
"How terrible for that poor little child! Can you imagine ... ?"
Strange that that same child should be Anne, and that he should be the one to finally discover the secret she'd carried locked away in the deepest caves of her mind.
Thoughtfully, he tapped the end of his pen against his teeth. Of course, there were the implications. Her father-wasn't he someone very important in government circles?
And how much, even with changing names and locales, could he actually incorporate in his new book? And then he went back to writing again. Harris Phelps would know, and advise him. And Harris had a special interest in Anne Mallory. As soon as he finished with his notes, he must go and talk to Harris.
Harris Phelps was still sweating, Randall noticed, in spite of the air conditioning. But Randall himself was too elated, in view of what they'd just witnessed and heard, to pay it too much attention. He expelled his breath heavily, lighting up another cigar.
"Jesus Christ! If we needed a final ace, that should be it, huh? That goddamned sanctimonious bastard ..."
Harris shrugged, and except for the beads of sweat on his forehead, he showed no emotion as he carefully put away the videotapes.
"It won't pay to underestimate Reardon, in spite of that." He nodded towards the screen. "However, it should help, no doubt of that. I'll see that these are stored away in the vault at once."
"How about Brightman?"
"Hal is very sincere, of course. And very cautious. I'm sure he'll come to me with his little dilemma, and naturally, I'll give him the right advice."
Randall said abruptly, "I wonder what made her do it? Go for him like a hellcat with that knife, I mean. She didn't strike me as the type. Jealousy? Didn't I hear rumors that there used to be something between them?"
He was a man who prided himself on his observation of people, and now, without seeming to do so, he watched his companion's face narrowly.
Harris Phelps's fingers went up in a characteristic gesture to touch his mustache, but apart from that he showed no real emotion. "Oh, there was something to the rumors-for a time. But I think Anne's seen through him. No woman enjoys being lied to, after all."
"Huh!" Randall sounded doubtful, although he didn't pursue the subject, switching instead to another. "What about Carnahan? You hear anything yet? Think we ought to know for sure where he stands."
This time Harris allowed himself a smile. "I don't think that really matters at this point, do you? He doesn't know about this" -his fingers tapped the videotapes-"and these, along with the movie when it's released, should be all we need. Webb Carnahan's an actor, no matter what his connections, past and present, might be-and a cocksman.
Leave it to Anna-Maria to find out anything else there is to find out about him."
His arm had begun to hurt like hell only after Dr. Brightman's offhandedly solicitous ministrations.
"We won't need more than three or four stitches, and the scar should go away in time." Obvious that Brightman was in a hurry to get back to his other patient. Anne-surprising him first, and then shocking him with her reactions. She had appeared to be in some kind of trance, and for a few moments back there, so had he. Until she'd pulled that cute little ad lib with the knife. Bitch! But what the fuck had gotten into her? Some kind of brainwashing?
Webb didn't like the thought that he was actually making excuses for her. He ought to face the thought that she was, after all, Dick Reardon's daughter, a chip off the old block. And there was Ria, coming out of seclusion, to comfort him. His considerate little wife ... Christ, was she still his wife? Did it matter? He refused to remember the image he'd carried in his mind all these years-the laughing, innocent child- bride he'd loved and even wept for. She was a familiar, dangerous stranger, and he had learned caution.
"Oh Webb! I was trying to stay out of your way, but when I heard .. ."
"Does Espinoza know you're here?"
She shook her head at him, and he could have sworn, if he hadn't know better, that the tears gathering in her eyes were real.
"I've tried to tell you-he understands! We have a-a relationship, we know each other, there is no jealousy in it. I want to be honest with you, can't you hear me?" And then, in a lower voice: "Can't you forgive me?"
His arm throbbed like hell in-spite of the pain pills the good doctor had so thoughtfully provided him with; and he looked at her and saw a familiar image that he recalled pulling out of his mind a million times before-almost the same, but different in some indefinable way. Difference between real and fake. Or, hell, maybe it had all been in his own mind.
Like Annie-breath of cool fresh air. Girl-image running down a snowy hill, arms outspread for balance. Annie laughing, Annie hating. In a killing rage this afternoon-and for Christ's sake, why? She'd been acting, surprising him, taking him off guard.
And then, the bit with the knife. Mere reaction or calculated? And that brought him full circle back to why. Had he been set up? Or maybe he was just becoming paranoid.
Webb felt the brush of Ria's hair against his face, and deliberately closed his eyes, wishing he could close off his mind as easily.
"Webb, why won't you talk to me? Don't you see that we have to talk? I beg of you-please ... I"
He let his eyes open again, squinting them at her, seeing her as a blurred shape, still bending over him. Let his voice come out tired, just the way he was feeling.
"Okay, damn it, okay. But not now. Sorry, baby, but I hurt like hell right now and those pills make me feel real sleepy. Thanks for coming, anyhow. That was real thoughtful of you."
He caught a flash of her Cuban temper then, as she sprang to her feet.
"Maybe you shouldn't fuck around so much-you wouldn't have jealous women sticking knives in you then! And just remember ..." Through half-closed eyes he saw her pause and bite her lip. Letting the pause run into a sigh. "I'm sorry. We are both different now, aren't we? But when you are ready to listen, let me know. Because there are several reasons why we must speak with each other."
When he gave her no reaction, she left the room, showing enough control to close the door quietly behind her. Some women would have slammed it. Claudia, Carol.
Anne, who had gone one step further.
In the mirror of his mind Webb saw her face, drenched with sweat and tears. Hal Brightman's arm tightening comfortingly over her shoulders as he led her away. And superimposed on that, like a transparency, Lucy's face as he had seen her last.
Smiling up at him, brown eyes loving. Dammit, it was Lucy he had -to think of first, and his promise-both to Vito and himself. Find Anne. Maybe she was the key and the solution. Because she was obviously part of whatever was happening behind the scenes.
She was floating back, quite comfortably, to the surface of an ocean that shone like an iridescent turquoise above her. Hadn't the Voice told her she need no longer be frightened of the ocean? She wasn't drowning any longer, she could breathe naturally, even underwater. And there was nothing more she had to worry about-nothing at all ...
Until she felt herself shaken violently, taking her away from her pleasant dream to unpleasant reality. For a few moments, it seemed quite natural to see Webb's dark, angry face looming over her. Webb-hadn't he been part of the dream? And then, like the click of a switch, Anne
came completely back to the present, staring up at him as her eyes came back into focus. Remembrance rushed back in a series of jumbled images turned flame-hot by the sun and the lights and the surprising anger that had burned inside her, driving her to do what she had done. Had he come to take his revenge? She noticed that he wore a white bandage about his upper arm, and had his shirtsleeves tied around his neck like a cape. He looked dangerous, like a stalking tiger, with his narrowed, yellow-gold eyes fixed on hers.
Anne shrank back instinctively, her eyes dartin
g about the room as if looking for rescue. It was unfamiliar, and yet now-and then she recalled that Hal had brought her in here. Afterwards ... But where was Hal, and what was Webb doing here?
His look traced the outline of her face and her exposed breasts, and she couldn't know what he was thinking, or that he had waited until he saw Dr. Brightman hurrying past his window toward the main house, carrying his little briefcase.
As fast asleep as she had been, she didn't know that Webb had searched the room either-reading the notes Brightman had left lying carelessly in his desk drawer.
Right now Webb didn't know why he had bothered to wake her up. He had learned plenty, and he should have left her just the way she was, lying half-naked in Dr.
Brightman'S bed -marks of tears still staining her face. Anne Mallory Reardon. That at one time Reardon had been human enough to react like an ordinary man might be useful to know-or dangerous. But Anne herself was the key, and what in hell should he do about her or with her, for that matter?
"Webb what are you doing here?" She didn't like the way he was staring at her as if he were almost looking through her; nor the strange, sarcastic half-smile that twisted his lips for a moment, only to be wiped away as his actor's mask came back on.
He sat beside her on the bed, ignoring her instinctive wincing away. There was fear mixed with righteous anger in her eyes, and he would have liked to have smacked her hard, leaving another bruise to match the one that purpled her cheekbone.
"What are you doing here, Annie? Where's your faithful guru?"
Angry color flamed in her face. "That's really none of your-"
He leaned towards her slightly, and her eyes were drawn unwillingly to the bandage that showed up white against the .sun-darkened skin of his upper arm. "Hey ... ! You stabbed me, baby, remember? You were really out for blood, and it's goddamned well my business to find out why. Were you set up to do it? Or did you just want another co-star?"