"Yes, what he did was wrong, but —"
“Wrong?" William whirled on Alex, stuck his face inches from hers and screamed, "Wrong, you say! He raped his own daughter. Made her pregnant. Then threw her out like garbage. That man was my father. Not only did he deny me his name—a name that was rightfully mine — he wanted nothing to do with me.”
"No. My father wouldn't do anything that sick. Oh God, he wouldn't . . . couldn't have . . " Dear God, Alex prayed, don't let it be true. But, staring at him, she couldn't deny it. She understood why he had looked familiar. She saw both her father and Lora in his scarred, twisted face. He had her father's gray-green eyes. Her own eyes.
Before her sat the man who was not only the son of her loved and long-lost sister—her nephew—but he was also the result of rape by her father, which made him biologically her brother. The brother she had always wanted. She shuddered. The emotional impact of such knowledge was utterly devastating.
Her own father . .. with her sister .. .
"How many times did he crawl into your bed, Allie?"
The blood left Alex's face. She shook her head violently.
"He kept you pure. But he had my mother to use in his dirty, filthy way until he knocked her up. Then he washed his hands of her. He didn't want us around to remind him of what a sick, perverted pig he was."
"Where is Lora now?"
"Dead."
A heaviness moved over Alex. She could only nod. The realization of her sister's death hung back, reluctant to sink into her shocked mind. It wasn't true. None of this was true.
"How?" she asked.
"He killed her."
"My father?"
"He took her to that terrible house and left her there alone, knowing what kind of a place it was. Knowing we couldn't leave unless he came for us. He was the only one who could show us the safe way out. He left her there to die. And you helped him."
She shook her head.
"I have proof, big sister." Reaching behind him, he pulled an envelope from his pocket and shook it in her face. "Right here — proof that you didn't care what happened to us. Proof that you knew."
With a violent motion he grabbed Alex's hands, made slack in the belt, and roughly pulled her hands free. The buckle clinked against the headboard, its empty noose swaying back and forth across the brass with a sad mewling sound.
"Read it. Go on, read it."
Alex winced as he grabbed a leaden hand and savagely shoved the letter into it. Awkwardly turning the envelope over, she read the name on the face of it. Mrs. L. Hunter.
"My sister's name is Bently."
"He made her use her mother's maiden name," Hunter said bitterly. "He told her he had given her his name and he could take it back. Read."
The envelope was dirty, crumpled. She slid out the single sheet of paper. It was limp, stained, split in places along the folded seams. The letter had been handled over and over.
April 21
Miss Hunter,
As you can see, I have taken back my surname. I forbid you to ever again use it. From this day on your letters to Alex and me will be returned to you unopened. Believe me when I say Alex wants nothing to do with you. She reads your letters, then throws them away in disgust.
If you continue in your effort to foist your shame and disgrace on either of us, I will be forced to cut off all financial support.
I can find no pity or forgiveness for one such as you. You taunted me with your eyes, your voice, your body. You flaunted your sex, your infidelity, sneaking off at night to bed down with one scum after another, while denying me my rights as your husband. For that, my whoring wife, I renounce you as you renounced me.
The letter was unsigned, but Alex recognized the large sprawling writing as that of her father.
Crazy. He had actually been crazy. Weaving in and out of sanity for years. Lora, poor Lora, had been forced to become surrogate wife to the man she thought was her father. And because of his own shame and guilt and hate, he had, after mentally transforming her into his perfidious spouse, physically put her out of his life.
An invisible ice pick stabbed at Alex's heart. The rage within her erupted. It blossomed, growing and fanning out in all directions until everything inside her seemed coated with a suffocating blackness.
He had lied about her. He had put the blame for his perverted black heart at her feet. And he had
lied to Alex about Lora, letting her think her sister had run away without the least concern for those who loved her. Lora's life must have been a living hell. Alone, with a baby, and . . . and some horrible fear that kept her from leaving the house to which he had exiled her.
William Bently had destroyed two lives, coolly, dispassionately; and had been about to alter her life when the waters of Lake Pyramid had reached out to claim him.
Something that Alex had blocked from her mind for years came suddenly into sharp focus. Not long after Lora had disappeared, Alex had begun to notice her father staring at her. His gaze had seemed to wander appraisingly over her body. More than once he had mistakenly called her by her mother's name. At night, after she had gone to bed, she would hear him enter her room. His breathing, as he tucked the blankets in around her and smoothed her hair, had been heavy. She had lain quietly, pretending to be asleep.
The week before he'd died, he had come up to her as she was brushing her hair at the vanity. With a concentrated gesture, his expression an ambiguous mask, he had buried his fingers into her hair and lifted it. Looking into her eyes in the mirror, he had said, "Wear your hair up tonight, my darling. That was how you had it the day we met. Remember?" Alex had known, at that moment, that she would marry Joe as soon as possible, with or without her father's blessing.
Despite the wind and sleet, Justin made the drive in twelve minutes, passing the two squad cars as he pulled up to his gated driveway.
The four uniformed police stepped from the patrol cars and approached Justin as he jumped out of the pickup. Ice crystals bit into the skin of their hands and face.
"Look, guys, this may be a wild-goose chase, and I hope to hell it is, but let's go in on cat feet . . . just in case. Cohane, Olinski, come with me. Baker, Novak, cover the front and back."
The five men ran silently across the lawn toward the dark house. Upon reaching the gravel driveway, they slowed, then walked over the loose stones as if treading on chunks of glass. Five guns appeared simultaneously.
Two of the policeman followed Justin up the back steps. He took his house key, inserted it in the lock, and turned the knob. The door refused to open. With their shoulders to the door, Justin and Baker pushed, shoving aside whatever it was that had barricaded the entrance. Justin stepped in and nearly fell on something at his feet. His heart leapt into his throat. Dropping down, he turned a limp body over. He ran his hand over the head, feeling curly hair, matted with blood. He felt her neck for a pulse. "It's Capucci," he whispered. "She's alive. Baker, stay with her."
Moving fast now, his heart thumping wildly in his chest, Justin headed for the master bedroom with Olinski on his heels. He ran into the first obstacle in the dining-room.
"What the . . . ?" Justin said under his breath. He took the pen light from his pocket, played the pencil-thin beam over the two rooms. "Shit," he whispered when he saw the maze of furniture clumped haphazardly in the middle of the living room, and the hole in the window. Keeping the light low, Justin and Olinski worked their way around the furniture as quietly as possible.
Hunter cocked his head to one side and listened. He grabbed Alex's hands, again forcing them through the dangling noose of the belt. He picked up the kerosene lamp and pried off the chimney and wick.
"He lied about me," Alex said, tensing as panic rose. Her breathing was labored. "I didn't know about any of this. It's not true. He lied.”
"Everyone lies.”
Hunter held the upper portion of the lamp to one side, the wick continued to burn as he poised the bottom portion, the portion with the clear kerosene, over her body.
"For twelve years my mother lied to me. 'He'll come for us’ she said.”
He tipped the fuel bowl. Alex felt the kerosene hitting her feet, running down to the spread.
"My father was supposed to come and take us out of that house. Monsters lived underneath it. He was the only one who knew the way out."
It was on her legs, dry and cold.
"He never came.”
Her stomach muscles clenched when he poured it over her hips and chest.
"He never came because you wanted him all to yourself," Hunter said.
Her nipples hardened. She trembled.
"You'll burn, sister Allie. But you won't burn up like my momma did. The heat will burst the water bed and the water will put out the fire. But you will burn. I want you to live, Allie. Live like I've had to live — scarred and ugly and in fear. I'll always be there, wherever you are, to keep the fear alive. And you'll be alone. No one will have you. No one will want to look at you. But they'll look. Oh yes, they'll stare and point and then turn away in disgust. Are you ready, Allie? Ready to share my life?"
And then it was in her hair, running down her face.
Alex gasped, choked, closed her eyes to keep it from blinding her. As she thrashed wildly on the bed, she felt the fluid eating into the cuts and scratches on her hands and arms. Hot. Stinging. Burning. In her mind's eye, the skin on her body puckered, blistered, turned dark like the scorched paper on the photograph.
She opened her mouth and screamed and screamed.
Midway down the hallway, Justin heard Alex's first scream. He charged down the passage and into the bedroom.
When he saw the man, a burning wick in one hand, the other pouring kerosene over Alex's body, Justin didn't even slow down.
"Don't shoot. Don't shoot!" Justin yelled at Olinski as he dove at Hunter, knocking the burning wick aside. His service revolver flew out of his hand. The wick went out. Both men tumbled to the floor.
Justin, enraged, punched and kicked. A fist slashed into his ear, his stomach. But he felt no pain, didn't care if he felt anything except muscle and bone under his own fists. He grabbed at the man, got only a handful of material before a hard-soled shoe caught him on the side of the face. He grabbed at the foot, got hold of it as dancing lights exploded in his head. He twisted it, heard a thud as Hunter again crashed to the floor. Justin lunged forward, falling on his adversary. As his fingers grasped a handful of hair, a knee shot up into his groin. He gasped, let go of the hair, doubled over.
The pain was excruciating. He felt as though he'd never catch his breath. But he sucked in air again when he heard a click and saw the flame. Hunter held a lighter in a trembling hand. The butane flame had been turned to max. It rose a good three inches, hissing like a welding torch, illuminating the cocky smile on Hunter's face and the gun in his other hand.
Justin had seen Olinski crossing the room to come to his aid. But halfway to him, the policeman had stopped, gun wavering in his hand, his expression uncertain. Justin was crouched between both guns. Olinski didn't dare fire a round for fear of hitting the wrong man.
The pain in Justin's groin was forgotten as he threw himself at Hunter, trying to block both flame and gun with his body. At that same instant Hunter charged upward in an attempt to go over the top of Justin to the kerosene-drenched bed. Justin heard the hissing of the lighter above and behind his head. It had to be only inches from Alex, he thought as an image of her body engulfed in flames flashed into his head. With lightning speed, he reached up and, feeling the heat, closed his fingers over the flame. The hissing went on, but the flame died.
Hunter screamed. Fired the gun.
A burning pain seared along the side of Justin's neck.
Before Hunter could flick the lighter again, Justin wrenched it out of his hand. Then he grabbed the muzzle of the gun and pulled it away.
Hunter screamed again.
Justin moved blindly, wanting to silence the screeching forever. His fingers, finding the mouth, were bitten savagely. With sheer animal strength, Hunter broke away and lunged for the bed, his hands like claws. Justin brought the gun up, but before he could fire, he heard two shots in rapid succession. Hunter came down on Alex, his hands at her throat. Justin was behind Hunter in a second. With his arm around Hunter's neck, he jerked back savagely. On his knees, Justin squeezed. The man in his arms, limp, head lolling on his shoulder, did not resist. Still Justin squeezed.
Hands worked at his arm, pulling. "C'mon, Sarge, he's had it. Let go. Let go. I hit him with a couple rounds. I think he's dead."
Justin released the man, pushing him away. He rose abruptly.
Alex!
Jerking the belt off her hands, he lifted her from the bed. He half carried, half dragged her to the bathroom, then pulled her into the shower stall with him, turned the tap on full blast, and held her under the spray. She gasped and sputtered, her eyes still closed. Holding her tight from behind, he rubbed at her hair and clothes. "Open your eyes, honey, let the water wash them out.” Alex was struggling, sobbing, whipping her head back and forth, trying to get out from beneath the powerful blast of water. "Alex, don't fight me. Let me wash it off. Please, honey, don't fight me.”
She stopped struggling and leaned against him. He turned around to face her. The stinging spray plastered their hair to their heads, their clothes to their bodies, and coursed down their faces. Blood from his grazed neck seeped out to mix with the kerosene and water in a pinkish, oily whirlpool at their feet.
"Try to open your eyes." He tilted her head back out of the spray. "C'mon, open your eyes.”
She opened them, blinking.
"Look at me. Can you see me?" Her eyes came up and stared blankly at his face.
Alex shook her head.
My God, he thought, she's blind.
"You're bleeding," she said ruefully, reaching a hand to his neck.
He hugged her to him and laughed with relief, thankful that she could see, that she was alive and in his arms where she belonged. Through the relentless spray of the water he kissed her eyes, her face, her mouth.
Alex sat on Justin's couch, wrapped tightly in a down comforter, staring at the blazing logs in the fireplace. Several hours had passed since Beverly Capucci had been taken to the hospital and the body of William Hunter had been carried out.
Justin handed her a snifter of cognac and sat beside her. She touched the torn skin just under his ear. "I'm sorry," she said. "He could have killed you.”
"He could've killed you. I should have taken you with me.”
"It's over now," she said. "Beverly?"
"I think she'll be all right. She was spitting mad. That's a good sign.”
Justin lifted her hand, studied the palm minutely. "He blamed you for his mother's death and for all the misery your father caused."
Alex nodded. She had already told Justin everything Hunter had said.
"The pistols," she said, "he felt they were rightfully his. And they were. Through two generations they'd been passed down to the firstborn son. He was that.”
"Something else had been passed down through the years. The monsters," Justin said. "You thought Lora hadn't been fazed by your father's monsters-in-the-night stories. She had. It just took some bizarre circumstances to bring that out.”
"How did she die?"
"Alex . . . I . . ."
"Please. I have to know."
Justin turned the ring on her little finger around and around. "First though, you should know that she was very sick, most likely dying. If William hadn't killed her, cirrhosis and pneumonia would have." Alex gripped his hand tightly. "He just went berserk. The monsters, Alex, were a part of his life, too."
The tears came at last. She cried hard, not even trying to mask her anguish and pain. The horror of what had happened to her and to her sister, and to the boy who had been her brother, rained down around her like debris from a collapsing building. Could she ever lead a normal life knowing what Lora and her son had had to endure for all those years?
She rocked gently in Justin's arms. "Lora. Poor Lora. She wanted so much to live like normal people. To have a family. Her dream was to marry and have lots of kids and live on a big farm where she could enjoy the wide open spaces. She got her farm, all right, a nightmare place where— Oh, if only I'd known."
"Alex . . .”
"She was the strong one, the rebel. All those years I thought . . . thought she had escaped and I was the prisoner. It was the other way around, wasn't it? Justin," she turned to face him, her eyes beseeching, "do you think she believed I turned my back on her? Oh God, if she thought that .. .”
"I think she knew your father was crazy and that he lied to her."
"Lies. Everything about my father was a lie." Alex sighed. "So much has happened. The awful way they were forced to live. My sister's death. That man—my brother. He killed . . . would have killed — no, would have made me into something ugly, horrible. Dying was too good for me. Oh God—Lora, Klump, Winnie —I should've known . . . should've suspected .. ."
Justin's arms tightened around her. "You couldn't know. It's not your fault, none of it is. You have a lot to deal with, to sort out. But it's not the end, Alex. It's a beginning. A new beginning."
"I don't know if I can deal with it."
"Yes, you can. And I hope you'll let me help."
"After all you've been through, I can't believe you still want to have anything to do with me."
"I love you."
She looked up at him. The firelight made his eyes bluer than ever.
"Allie, I love you."
Alex felt a surge of exhilaration that surprised even her. She realized just how much she had wanted to hear him say those words. And they sounded as wonderful as she'd imagined they would. She squeezed his hand.
"My father used to say that to me. ’Allie, I love you.’ I thought there was something the matter with the words. They felt . . . wrong, ugly almost. But, you know what?" Justin shook his head slowly. "When you say them, they feel right. They feel. . . special."
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