Night Whispers

by Judith McNaught

  Sloan stood there, her hands in her pockets, listening to the bleak refrain, and it sent her back to her house even though she knew she wouldn’t be able to escape it there either.

  She cut across the street at an angle, head bent, tortured with memories, followed by the sad, urgent whispers. She was so preoccupied that she’d nearly reached the back door before she looked up and realized her house was dark at the back. Since she’d returned from Palm Beach, she’d started leaving a light on in the kitchen and one in the living room so she wouldn’t walk into a dark emptiness. She’d turned the kitchen light on earlier; she was sure of it.

  Wondering how she could specifically remember doing something that she obviously hadn’t done at all, Sloan reached for the back door; then she saw the small broken pane of glass and jerked her hand back. She whirled, flattening herself against the house; then she ducked into a crouch.

  Keeping below window level, she made her way toward the front of the house, noticing the living room lamp was still on. She did a swift calculation of probabilities and appropriate responses: she had absolutely no way of knowing if there was someone still in there or why they’d broken in. Thieves broke in quickly and got out quickly, but they wouldn’t normally turn out some of the lights.

  She had a house key with her but no car key and no weapon. Her Glock was still in the custody of the Palm Beach police, her loaner-replacement was in her purse in the bedroom. Her thirty-eight was in the desk in the living room. If there was anyone in her house, the sensible thing to do was leave, go to a neighbor’s, and call for assistance.

  That was her plan until she rounded the front corner of the house and saw a familiar Jaguar convertible parked on the street. Paris’s car. Had Paris broken into the house and left her car right there in plain view? The idea was so bizarre it felt eerie.

  Sloan quietly retraced her steps to the rear of the house and moved to the back door, silently turning the knob while she automatically stood to one side out of the line of fire. She heard something inside then. A movement? A whimper? A word?

  She stole a quick glance into the darkened kitchen through the broken window and was pretty sure that the room was empty, the swinging door that connected it to the living room closed.

  Her senses were alive now, tuned to any nuance of sound as she stole into the kitchen and carefully pried the swinging door open with a finger.

  Paris was sitting at the desk in the living room facing the kitchen, white-faced with terror, while a man with his back to Sloan held a gun pointed at her. Praying there was only one man, Sloan pulled the door open a little further.

  Paris saw her, and on a desperate impulse she started talking, trying to distract everyone, trying to give Sloan a clue. “Sloan won’t write a confession that she killed my great-grandmother just to get my father off the hook. She’ll know you intend to kill her as soon as she does.”

  “Shut up!” the man hissed at her. “Or you won’t live long enough to find out if you’re right!”

  “I don’t see why it takes three of you with guns to try to kill one woman!” She knew at that moment that Sloan and she were going to die; she sensed it with a terrifying fatalism.

  “Now that you’ve showed up,” the man to the left of the kitchen door told Paris softly, “it’s going to be two women.”

  Paris assumed Sloan would retreat, but what she actually did was so ghastly to watch it was unthinkable. Sloan opened the door further into the kitchen, held up her hands palms up to show she wasn’t holding anything, and stepped into the living room. “Let her go,” she said calmly. “It’s me you want.”

  Paris screamed, the man at the desk whirled around, and the other two grabbed Sloan’s arms and slammed her into the wall, each holding a weapon at her head. “Well, well, welcome home!” one of them said.

  “Let her go, and I’ll do whatever you want,” Sloan said so calmly that Paris couldn’t believe it.

  “You’ll do what we want or we’ll kill her while you watch,” the one by Paris said as he moved around to her side of the desk. He grabbed her by the collar and dragged her up off the chair, shoving her toward one of the men with Sloan. “You,” he said, pointing his gun at Sloan, “get over here. You’re going to write a letter.”

  “I’ll write,” Sloan said as she was shoved forward with enough force to make her stumble. “But you’re making a mistake.”

  “You made the mistake when you walked in the door,” the gunman by the desk said as he grabbed her and yanked her into the chair.

  “If you want to go on living when you leave here,” Sloan warned, “you’ll pick up that phone and call whoever sent you.”

  He pressed the barrel of his gun to her head. “Shut the fuck up and start writing.”

  “Okay. Let me get some paper out of the desk, but listen to me—my sister has nothing to do with this. No— don’t shove that gun into my head any harder. I know you’re going to kill me. But you’re not supposed to kill her. Call your boss and ask.”

  To her left, Sloan noticed a shadow move in the hallway that led from her bedroom, and she felt sweat break out on her forehead as her adrenaline escalated. She babbled harder, faster, trying to distract her captor so he wouldn’t see the shadow. “She’s the one they’re trying to protect by killing me. Tell your boss—”

  The thug grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head back. He shoved the gun against her mouth. “Say another word and I’ll pull this trigger.”

  She nodded slowly, and he moved the gun away and released her hair.

  “What do you want me to write on this paper?” she asked, opening the drawer slowly. With her right hand Sloan pulled out a tablet, while her left hand closed around the butt of the thirty-eight. Using the tablet for cover, she got the gun into her lap and slid closer to the desk to hide it.

  “What do I write?” she repeated.

  He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket and slapped it in front of her on the desk.

  In Paris’s mind—just before everything went black— the slap of the paper coincided with simultaneous explosions from every direction and a sudden sharp pain in her head. The last thing she saw before she slipped into a pit of darkness was Paul Richardson’s face, and it was contorted with fury.

  52

  The atmosphere at Bell Harbor General Hospital was distinctly festive, despite the fact that the little hospital was under siege by the same frenzied media that had descended on Palm Beach to cover the murder of Edith Reynolds. The attempted murder of Sloan and Paris Reynolds the night before had caused an uproar of grim conjecture and wild theory.

  The local TV stations preferred to credit Detective Sloan Reynolds and Officer Jess Jessup with all the acts of courage and daring that night, and to overlook the heroics of two FBI agents who’d participated in the raid that night.

  The national media found it very curious, and very exciting, that one of those FBI agents had made headlines only days before during the search and seizure of Noah Maitland’s yachts.

  The announcement a few minutes ago, shortly after dawn, that Paris Reynolds had regained consciousness signaled the beginning of a celebratory mood. And—it was hoped by the hospital staff—the departure of the throngs of reporters at their doors.

  “Mr. Richardson?” A smiling nurse stepped into a private waiting room on the third floor. Lowering her voice so she wouldn’t wake up Kimberly and Sloan she said, “Miss Reynolds is awake. If you’d like to see her alone for a few minutes, this is your chance.”

  Paul stood up. After waiting at the hospital, hour after hour, for Paris to regain consciousness, he suddenly had no idea what to say to her.

  He panicked a little when he saw that her eyes were closed, but as he sat down beside her bed, he realized her breathing was strong and even and her color was vastly improved.

  He took her hand in his. Her eyes opened, and he watched her register who he was. Now he waited for her to remember what he was—the bastard who had doubted every honest, decent thing she’
d done and then committed the final, vicious injustice of accusing her of murdering the great-grandmother she had loved. He felt he deserved the same treatment he received the night she slapped him and slammed the door in his face.

  She looked at him, her confusion disappearing completely. She swallowed and made her first effort to speak in two days, and Paul braced himself. Her voice was barely a whisper. “What took you so long?” she asked with the barest trace of one of her smiles.

  He gave a hoarse laugh and tightened his hand on hers.

  “Was I shot?” she asked.

  He nodded, remembering the gruesome way it had looked to him when a stray shot ricocheted off something and grazed her head.

  “Who shot me?”

  Paul leaned his forehead on their clasped hands, closed his eyes, and told her the truth. “I think I did.”

  She was very still, and then she began to shake with laughter. “I should have guessed that.”

  Paul looked into her eyes and tried to smile. “I love you,” he said.

  53

  Paris left the hospital at the end of the week and went to her mother’s house to recuperate. Paul took vacation days to be with her, Kimberly hovered over her, and Sloan came over every day to visit.

  Kimberly and Paris seemed to be thriving, but Sloan was growing thinner and paler by the day, and Paul knew it was because of Maitland.

  Since Paul felt the breach was entirely his own fault, he was more than willing to try to heal it for her, despite the fact that he’d been told to stay away from Maitland. What prevented him from doing it was that Maitland refused to see him. Paul had called him twice to ask for a meeting, and the man wouldn’t take his calls or reply to the request.

  Paul was thinking about all that while Paris, Sloan, and Kimberly were chatting in Kimberly’s living room on a sunny afternoon, two weeks after Edith’s death.

  The doorbell rang, and since no one else seemed to hear it, Paul got up and opened the front door. Staring back at him with narrowed eyes was Courtney Maitland.

  “We came to see Paris,” she informed him. “What are you doing here? Trying to confiscate the china?”

  Paul looked over her shoulder and saw Douglas getting out of the car, and the framework of a fragile idea took shape.

  “I’d like to talk to you both privately before you go in to see Paris,” he said, stepping outside and forcing Courtney to back up. He closed the door behind him so they couldn’t brush past him. While Courtney glared and Douglas glowered, Paul said simply, “I did your family a grave injustice, and I did the same thing to Sloan. I would like to try to make it right with everyone if you’ll help me.”

  Courtney sniffed. “Why don’t you just wave your FBI badge and mumble incantations. Isn’t that how you make things happen?”

  Again, Paul ignored her and addressed Douglas. “Sloan had absolutely no knowledge of what I intended to do with those yachts, Douglas. She had absolutely no idea I was interested in Noah for any reason whatsoever. When she agreed to go to Palm Beach with me, Sloan knew only that we suspected Carter Reynolds of illegal activities. You’ve read the newspapers. You know he’s confessed to everything and that we have Dishler in custody. Dishler is talking his head off.”

  He paused, trying to gauge their reactions, but he couldn’t tell what they felt, so he pressed on: “I was right about Carter. I was wrong about Noah. What matters is that you weren’t wrong about Sloan when you thought she cared about all of you. You’ve heard about what she did—she risked her life to save Paris’s. She trusted me, and I betrayed that trust, but I did it out of duty and in the belief she was wrong about Noah and I was right.”

  He paused again, and Douglas looked at Courtney, as if to see what she thought.

  “Courtney,” Paul said, “she talks about you to her mother and Paris all the time. She misses you.”

  “Why should we believe anything you say?” Courtney asked stubbornly.

  Paul shoved his hands in his pockets. “Why on earth should I lie about it?”

  “Because you’re a jerk?” Courtney suggested, but without force.

  “I’m obviously wasting my time with all this,” Paul said curtly, reaching for the door to open it. “None of you care about Sloan. Just forget it. I’m tired of trying to make amends to people who aren’t interested.”

  He opened the door to go inside, but Courtney put her hand on his sleeve. “How much does Sloan miss us?”

  He turned back. “Unbelievably. How much does your brother miss her?” he fired back.

  She looked down, her loyalties at war inside her head; then she looked up. “He misses her badly enough to be leaving for Saint Martin today, which he doesn’t like, and when he’s there, he’s going to join a bunch of people he doesn’t like. Then he’s going back to San Francisco to stay.”

  “Get me in to see him, and I’ll try to make him listen.”

  “He’ll throw you out,” Courtney predicted delightedly. “He’s not in love with you. We need to make him see Sloan, and it has to be somewhere he can’t throw her right out.”

  They looked at each other, arrived at the same conclusion, and walked into the house.

  “Hi, everyone,” Courtney called.

  Her voice made Sloan whirl around in disbelief. “We can’t stay long,” Courtney continued, hurrying forward to kiss Paris on the cheek. “Cool bandage, Paris.”

  Sloan looked past her to Douglas, who opened his arms. He hugged her and whispered, “Courtney’s going to take you and Paul to Noah. Go with her. If you wait, Noah will be gone. He’s leaving in a few hours.” He trailed off distractedly, looking over her shoulder, and dropped his arms. “Who on earth is that?”

  Sloan was so anxious to leave and so afraid of the outcome that she had to study her mother before she could answer. “My mother. Would you like to meet her?”

  “My dear,” he said with a slow smile, “I would like nothing more.”

  54

  Noah slid the last sheaf of papers into a briefcase and carried it downstairs to the foyer where his suitcases were waiting to be loaded into the car by his chauffeur.

  He stood in the foyer, his hands thrust into his pockets, taking a last look around. He had designed this house himself. He loved the shapes and forms of its rooms, its soaring ceilings and panoramic views. Now, he was glad to be leaving for a while. Wherever he went in the house, memories appeared of Sloan and his gullible obsession with her; they greeted him in its rooms and followed him down its hallways.

  He glanced into the living room and saw Sloan there on the sofa, worried about being arrested.

  Noah’s footsteps echoed on the polished wood floors as he wandered from room to room.

  He went through the kitchen doorway and she was there, making late-night omelettes: He who does not help with the cooking does not get to help with the eating, she’d warned.

  “Give me an assignment. Make it a tough one.”

  She’d handed him a knife and a green pepper.

  “I had something more macho in mind,” he’d explained.

  She’d given him the onion.

  Noah opened the back door and walked out on the terrace, standing there. On his left was the umbrella table where she ate breakfast with Courtney and Douglas and himself for the first time. Courtney had been demanding the details of the evening before when Noah “crashed and burned,” and Sloan had burst into infectious laughter. I don’t know the first thing about flirting. . . . If I’d had a telephone, I’d have called my friend Sara from the dance floor and asked her what to say.

  Noah tore his gaze from the table and looked straight ahead. She’d met him there on the lawn near the terrace, late at night, after her party, looking like a barefoot angel with her sandals in her hand. “With respect to . . . those sorts of relationships . . . I haven’t had what you . . . what some people might consider much experience. Actually, I’ve only had two of those relationships.”

  “Only two? What a pity. Dare I hope they were both very shor
t and completely meaningless?”

  “Yes,” she’d whispered, laying her hand on his cheek. “They really were.”

  They’d ended up on the chaise lounge on his right that night, where he had behaved like a teenager, necking and petting. The beach stretched out in front of him. He’d met her on the beach the night Edith died; he’d come back from Miami early because he missed her. He’d walked her home after she made him help with the cooking. “I’m crazy about you.” He had meant “I love you.” Thank God he hadn’t said that. It would be one more idiotic thing he’d have to berate himself for now.

  Noah turned back and walked into the house. Of all the women he’d known, he wondered what streak of mental instability, what fluke of human chemistry, could have made her the one woman he’d wanted above all others.

  He could not understand how he could have been so damned naïve. He would have bet everything he had that she was as in love with him as he had been with her. Actually, he had bet on her and in the end, she’d cost him a damned fortune. The unsavory publicity resulting from the FBI’s search of his boats had damaged his reputation and, even though the FBI hadn’t found anything, the mere fact that they’d suspected him would linger in people’s minds for years to come.

  Sloan Reynolds was as delicate and beautiful as an orchid; she was Mata Hari in a ponytail.

  He stopped in the doorway of the family room and looked at the videotape sticking out of the VCR. For days after Paris and she were nearly killed, the television news programs had had a field day running film footage they’d gotten of Sloan doing her job as a cop. Even though Courtney regarded Sloan as a complete traitor, she’d been fascinated with what she saw on television and, with typical innocent insensitivity, she’d taped everything she saw and then badgered Noah to watch it.