“So what do I do?” Kara asked, barely aware that she’d spoken out loud.
“Come to my house,” Patrick decided, speaking before he even thought about it. Seeing Kara about to protest, he held up a hand. “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it in the first place,” he said, then grinned. “But of course, I did. I just didn’t suggest it, and I know exactly why I didn’t do that, either. After all, what would people think? What would the neighbors say? What would Claire say? Worst of all, what would Neville Cavanaugh say?”
“Neville? But he’s like your butler or something, isn’t he? Why would you care what he says?”
“It’s not really so much what he’d say. It’s the way he’d look.” Patrick twisted his face into an exaggerated parody of the expression of an extremely disapproving servant. “Neville wouldn’t actually say anything. He’d imply. There would be a distinct chill in the air. You have no idea what it’s like—staff can be far worse than parents. They have ways of letting you know how much they disapprove without ever being anything less than perfectly respectful. Which I’m sure you’ll see in about fifteen minutes. Go get your bag.”
“Patrick, I can’t!”
“Of course you can. What you can’t do is stay here. Not yet. Not by yourself. Now stop arguing and go get your bag.”
Less than fifteen minutes later Patrick pulled his Mercedes to a stop in front of Cragmont. Leaving her bag in the trunk of the car, he led Kara up the steps, pushed the huge oaken door open, and ushered her the full length of the main hall and into the library.
“First, let’s fix you a drink,” he said. “Something hot, I think, with plenty of brandy in it.” But instead of going to the bar that was sunk into one wall, he pressed a button on the wall, then lowered himself into one of the wingback chairs opposite the sofa on which Kara was perched as her eyes darted around the large book-lined room. A small smile played around his lips. “Will you just relax?” he said. “This isn’t some kind of museum, despite the way it looks. It’s where I live. In fact,” he went on, his voice taking on a wry note, “I was sleeping on that very sofa until the last week or so.”
As Kara leaned back, Neville Cavanaugh appeared at the library door. His eyes fixed inquiringly on Patrick for a moment, but when he noticed that his employer was not alone, his demeanor instantly changed. The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees, and Kara pulled a cashmere throw onto her lap.
“A hot Grand Marnier toddy for Mrs. Marshall, please, Neville. And perhaps just a touch of brandy with some water for me.” As Neville silently began fixing the drinks, Patrick turned his attention back to Kara. “I still think I ought to have a word with Summers,” he began, but Kara was already shaking her head.
“It’s not that they did anything so terrible. The thing is, when the doorbell rang, I actually thought they’d found Lindsay.” Her eyes began to glisten. “Isn’t that stupid? I actually thought it was Sergeant Grant coming to tell me they’d found her.”
Patrick leaned forward and took her hand. “It isn’t funny—it’s perfectly natural. I don’t know how many nights I sat right here in this room, waiting. Just waiting for someone to come home. Listening for the door to open and Renee or one of the kids to call out in the hall.” He shifted his weight in the chair. “Have you been watching the news this afternoon?”
Something in his voice made Kara’s heart skip a beat. “The news?” she echoed. “No, I—”
“It appears there was a third girl. Taken a month ago from Mill Creek.”
Kara stared at him. “Open house?”
Patrick nodded as Neville turned away from the bar and a moment later set a tray with two glasses on the coffee table. Patrick picked up the steaming one and handed it to Kara, then took a sip from the other.
“H-Have they found her?” Kara asked, her tone making her meaning crystal clear.
Patrick shook his head. “But at least the police can’t keep pretending that Lindsay just ran away. Not with three people gone, and one of them having left a small child. And now there are two more places to look for clues. He must have left something behind.”
As Neville turned and left the room, Kara drained half her drink. “I feel like I ought to call Sergeant Grant.”
“There’s a phone on the desk,” Patrick said, his eyes on the closed door through which Neville Cavanaugh had just passed. “Go ahead and use it if you want. I’ll be right back.” He followed Neville into the foyer.
“Neville?” he called, but his servant had already disappeared into the kitchen wing of the house. When Patrick caught up with him, he was standing at the large island in the center of the room, upon which stood a half-frosted cake. As the kitchen door swung closed behind Patrick, Neville turned, his eyes widening as he saw his employer. Patrick frowned uncertainly as his own eyes shifted from his servant to the cake, then back to the man. “I hope that’s not a birthday cake,” he said. “Never liked that stuff.”
“For Mrs. McGinn’s grandson,” Neville said. “At Beech House,” he added as Patrick’s frown deepened. Then: “Is there something I can do for you, sir?”
“Mrs. Marshall’s bag is in the trunk of the Mercedes. Put it in one of the guest rooms.”
Neville’s left eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch. “Here?”
“Where else?” Patrick countered, his gaze fixing on the servant.
Neville hesitated. “If I may say, sir—” he began, but Patrick cut him off.
“You may not.”
Turning away from Neville’s cold disapproval, Patrick returned to the library and closed the doors.
Kara stifled a yawn as Patrick reached for the Grand Marnier. As he lifted the bottle and held it toward her glass, she shook her head. “No, thanks—no more for me. I don’t usually drink anything except a glass of wine or two, and never this late.”
“One more will help you sleep,” Patrick replied, pouring a generous shot into the snifter that sat next to her empty dessert plate. It had been hours since he’d picked her up, hours during which they’d done little more than sit in front of the fire Patrick had lit on the hearth in the library, eating off TV trays when Kara said she didn’t want to leave the warmth of the mahogany paneled room even for supper. Now, as the last note of the clock striking ten faded away, he smiled at her. “You need a good rest. And believe me,” he added wryly, “I know how much this can help, even if it’s nothing more than blunting the pain during the darkest hours.”
“I don’t think anything will help,” she said. “And after last night, I’m not even sure I want to sleep.” Still, she sipped the liqueur, then gazed at the flames through the clear amber liquid. Despite her words, she felt the alcohol taking the edge off the most painful of her roiling emotions, and even thought it might be starting to warm that spot in her soul that had grown so cold these past two weeks. Or, if not thaw it, at least it felt as if the freeze were no longer spreading. “This is good,” she sighed, taking another sip and actually managing a smile. “I just hope you’re not giving me a brandy habit.”
A faintly sardonic smile passed over Patrick’s lips. “There are worse habits.”
“I suppose.” She set the snifter down and stretched. “I think it’s bedtime for me.”
“Neville’s set up one of the guest rooms. I’ll show you.”
She took his hand and let him help her to her feet, feeling woozy as she stood. Reading her dizziness, he steadied her with an arm around her waist. “Are you all right?”
She nodded, hoping she wasn’t too drunk to negotiate the stairs. But once steadied, she had no problem following him out of the library, through the foyer, and up the grand staircase.
Patrick paused at a closed door. “This was my daughter Chrissie’s room,” he said. “It’s still hard for me to look inside.” He fell silent, his eyes fixed on the door. “But ‘hard’ is no excuse for not facing things, is it?” He opened the door and switched on the light.
Kara gazed into a room that looked for all the
world as if its occupant would be back at any moment; a pair of shoes were under the desk, obviously kicked off and forgotten, and a jacket lay on the bed as if waiting to be hung in its proper place. “How old was Chrissie?” she asked as the silence grew uncomfortable.
“Nineteen. Home from Oxford for the holidays.”
Kara bit her lip as she saw the suitcase on a luggage rack and the pile of textbooks on the desk. This is how Lindsay’s room would look in two more years, she thought. Her toys behind her and her future in front of her.
The pain the thought brought must have been clear in her face, because Patrick took her elbow and drew her gently away. “You look absolutely exhausted. Come on.” He clicked off the light and closed the door behind them. “This was the girls’ bath,” he said as they passed another closed door, “and this was Jenna’s room.” He touched the door with his fingertips, but instead of opening it, opened the door across the hall. “I hope this will be all right for you.”
The room was at least twice as big as the master bedroom in her own house, with two overstuffed chairs upholstered in flowered chintz flanking a large fireplace. A fire had been lit, and a robe laid out on the end of the bed. “This is beautiful,” Kara said, moving to one of the four large windows. Moonlight illuminated the lawn that flowed down to the shore of the Sound, and sparkled on the water. “May I open a window?”
“Of course.”
She lifted the heavy casement and breathed in the fresh salt air. “Heaven,” she sighed as her head cleared and she began to feel a little better.
“I’m just down the hall if you need anything in the night,” Patrick said. “Don’t hesitate. Really.”
“I’ll be fine.”
His eyes fixed on her for a moment, as if he was assessing the truth of her words. “Then I’ll say good night,” he finally said.
A moment later the door softly closed behind him.
Alone, Kara turned back to the window for another breath of the sweet, fresh air flowing in from the Sound, and though the last of the brandy-induced haze lifted, exhaustion began to close in on her again. Don’t think about it, she told herself. For tonight, just don’t think about any of it. Leaving the window wide open, she started toward the door to the adjoining bathroom, but before she’d taken more than half a dozen steps there was a soft rapping at the bedroom door.
“Come in,” she called, certain it was Patrick coming back to tell her something. “I haven’t even started changing yet.” When the only response to her words was another discreet tapping, she went to the door, opened it, and found Neville Cavanaugh holding a small tray. It held a cup of what looked for all the world like the hot milk her grandmother used to make her when she was a child.
“To help you sleep,” he said, echoing the exact words her grandmother used to say.
Kara opened the door wide and he set the tray on her nightstand. “How thoughtful. Thank you.”
The servant straightened up and regarded her with a serious face. “I’m so very sorry about your husband and daughter.” His eyes seemed to bore into her for a moment, and then, abruptly, he turned away. “Sleep well,” he said. A moment later he had vanished from the room and closed the door.
Alone again, Kara took off her clothes, put on the robe that had been left on the bed, and went to the bathroom. Everything she could possibly need was laid out on the marble counter that surrounded the sink, right down to a fresh toothbrush, still in its box. But as she began to brush her teeth, Neville Cavanaugh’s words kept echoing in her mind.
I’m so very sorry about your husband and daughter.
Perfectly normal words that she must have heard a hundred times in the last week.
I’m so very sorry about your husband and daughter.
The same words almost everyone she’d seen had spoken in one form or another.
I’m so very sorry about your husband and daughter.
Then what was it about Neville Cavanaugh’s words that bothered her?
I’m so very sorry about your husband and daughter.
She climbed into bed.
I’m so very sorry about your husband and daughter.
She reached for the cup of warm milk.
I’m so very sorry about your husband and daughter.
She picked up the cup.
I’m so very sorry—
And then it came to her.
It wasn’t the words at all.
It was the way he’d said them.
Neville Cavanaugh had spoken the right words, but he hadn’t sounded sorry at all. Instead, he’d simply spoken the words he knew he’d be expected to say.
Kara raised the cup to her lips.
I’m so very sorry—
As Neville Cavanaugh’s cold voice came back again, Kara Marshall put the cup back on the nightstand, untouched.
Chapter Forty-eight
Paralyzed!
She was paralyzed, and she couldn’t breathe, and she was blind!
A wave of panic rose inside Lindsay, and she instinctively opened her mouth to scream, but instead of hearing her terror erupt in a howling cry, her mouth filled with air and her head felt like it was going to explode.
Then she began to choke.
Now the wave of panic towered higher, and as she struggled to control the choking and regain her breath, her gorge began to rise and her mouth was filled with the bitter taste of bile.
She was going to drown!
She was going to throw up, and choke on her own vomit, and drown!
The thought triggered a reserve of energy buried deep inside her, and she made herself swallow, made herself force the contents of her stomach back down through her esophagus. But even as the bile receded from her throat, her body began to tingle from lack of oxygen.
Why couldn’t she breathe?
Tape!
There was tape over her mouth.
She focused her mind, willed herself to banish the panic, drove away any thought but the need to breathe and slowly released the air in her mouth through her nostrils and sucked a fresh breath in through her nose, down her throat, into her lungs.
The wave of terror that had all but killed her subsided.
She took a second breath, then a third.
Her mind began to function again.
Not blind, she told herself. Just in the dark.
And not paralyzed, either.
Just taped to the chair—her arms to its arms, her legs to its legs. But at least the burning pain she’d felt earlier—the pain she’d thought she couldn’t bear at all—was gone.
But she had borne the pain, and was still alive, and could still think, and—
A faint sound, nearly inaudible, slithered into her consciousness, and for a moment she wondered if she’d heard it at all. But then she heard it again, and knew what it was.
The door at the far end of the tunnel was opening.
Approaching footsteps, clearly audible, moving closer.
Asleep, Lindsay told herself. Pretend to be asleep and he’ll leave you alone.
Then, out of the darkness, she had what seemed a vision—no, not a vision, she realized, but a memory.
Of Shannon, unconscious, sprawled on the floor.
Sprawled on the floor, and being kicked—kicked until her neck was broken, and her head slammed against the wall like a rag doll in the hands of a furious child.
And if she pretended to be asleep now, it would happen to her, too. So she would be awake, and face whatever new chapter in her torture was about to begin. But her mouth was so dry her tongue had swollen and felt like a wad of cotton, and every time she blinked, her eyes felt as if they were coated with sand.
Maybe, after all, it would be better to die.
He was coming up the stairs now, and once again the terrible panic to which she had awakened only a few moments ago threatened to overwhelm her.
No, she silently cried out to herself. Be strong. Be stronger than Shannon. Be stronger than him!
Again the panic receded, bu
t the cold terror in Lindsay’s soul only tightened its grip as first a beam of light and then the dark form of her tormentor rose out of the trapdoor in the floor.
“Good morning,” he said, the softness of his voice carrying a menace that made Lindsay’s heart falter.
Now she saw that he’d brought a large box with him.
“It’s a special day,” he said as he set it on the table. “A special day for all of us!” He ripped the tape from Lindsay’s mouth, and she gasped in pain, but choked off the accompanying cry that might give her captor satisfaction.
The flashlight went out, and a moment later he began to light candles, until the chamber was filled with flickering illumination. As the light grew brighter, Lindsay saw Shannon’s body, still lying on the floor, her head in a pool of dried blood. A cry rose in her throat, and she squelched it before any sound could escape, and turning away from Shannon, caught sight of Ellen Fine.
Ellen’s eyes were fixed on her, boring into her, and though her mouth was still covered with tape, Lindsay understood the message Ellen was trying to convey as clearly as if she’d spoken it aloud.
The plan, Ellen’s eyes were saying. Don’t forget. Give him what he wants, and wait.
Forcing herself to act against every instinct inside her, Lindsay twisted her lips into a smile and whispered a single word through her parched lips. “Please?” The man’s eyes fixed on her, and she managed to utter three more words. “I’m so thirsty.”
“This isn’t your party,” he said, his voice hard. “This is my celebration.”
Lindsay glanced at Ellen, whose eyes were open and watching.
When the room was lit by nearly two dozen candles, the man opened the box and began removing its contents, carefully placing each object on the tiny table.