“He doesn’t have a gun,” I said.
Julian didn’t seem to hear me; he only regarded Arthur for a few seconds, opaque and thorough, eyes narrowed. Then, without any change in expression, he drew open his suit jacket and reached inside. His hand, when it emerged, held a small dark object that caught the light from the bare hallway bulb with a dull gleam.
He began walking up the steps toward us. “Oh my God! You had a gun on you?” I said.
He didn’t reply, didn’t even look at me. His eyes remained locked with Arthur’s.
“Slowly,” Arthur repeated. “Your word of honor, remember.”
Julian stopped two steps below us, his face a perfect mask, but I could see the steady rise and fall of his chest, slightly faster than usual, and the quick tick of his pulse at his throat. He placed the gun in Arthur’s empty left hand and backed down three steps, precise and measured, one foot resting watchfully on the step above.
Arthur shoved the gun in his left outside pocket and looked over at Geoff. “Well, Geoffrey?” he asked brusquely. “Give me a hand?”
And Geoff, the Judas, the filthy betraying mongrel, walked up the stairs, past Julian, and took me by the arm. “Come along. I’ll walk you outside.”
“You bastard,” I hissed. “How can you do this to him?”
He looked at me coldly and didn’t answer, only pulled me down the steps with him. I kicked out, trying to break his grip, but his arms only tightened around mine, until he was practically carrying me.
“Julian, no!” I said, as we passed him on the stairs. “This is ridiculous! He’ll try to kill you! He’s nuts!”
He paused. His hand reached out to my cheek. “Trust me, Kate,” he said. “Go home. Wait for me. Promise you’ll wait. I’ll be back, I swear it. Promise you’ll wait. Don’t go anywhere.”
“He’ll kill you!” Geoff was dragging me to the bottom of the steps, like the strongman in some stupid action movie. “He’s crazy, Julian!”
Geoff dragged me to the corner of the lobby and turned around, locking me in his arms. I kicked and struggled, fighting him.
Arthur was saying something to Julian; Julian nodded and turned around, walking down the stairs. Arthur followed him, the gun lowered now.
“Where are you taking him?”
“Where he should have been all along,” Arthur muttered.
Julian walked by me without even a glance; Geoff jerked me behind them, through the doors and onto the sidewalk. Cars drove by; no one noticed us. This was New York, after all. Weird stuff happened. You just pretended you didn’t see it.
Arthur opened the rear door of his car with a cordial air, and motioned Julian inside. My husband started to climb in, and then seemed to remember me; he turned his head over his shoulder and looked at me intently. Then he ducked into the car, his golden head disappearing from view, and Arthur followed him and slammed the door shut.
I turned to Geoff. “You asshole! You freaking asshole! I love him!”
“Not as much as he loves you,” he said angrily. “A Blighty one,” he added, in a harsh mutter. He let me go, so suddenly I stumbled to my knees, and strode across the sidewalk to Arthur’s car, where he flung open the front passenger seat and jumped inside. The car leapt ahead, and something flew at me from Geoff’s window, before the black mass accelerated down the block toward the river and the FDR Drive.
I stared after them, not quite believing it. Then I looked down at the sidewalk to see what Geoff had thrown me.
A set of car keys. For the Maserati.
26.
I thought for an instant about following them. I had Julian’s car, after all. It was more than a match for Arthur’s sedan.
But I’d already lost the taillights in the traffic, and Manhattan crawled with anonymous black sedans, ferrying the affluent around town. And what did I know about car chases, anyway? I’d get lost somewhere in the South Bronx in a hundred-thousand-dollar sports car, and what use would I be then?
Trust me, Julian had said. Go home. Wait for me.
I bent down to pick up the car keys. My fingers had gone numb; my whole body teetered on the brink of shock. What had happened? Was it a dream? I’d just gotten married, the happiest day of my life; Julian had kissed these lips, these fingers; we were supposed to be leaving for our honeymoon.
Now Julian was gone. Driven away in a black sedan with a man who quite possibly wanted to kill him.
Nausea coiled around me; I placed my hand over my belly. Our baby. Julian’s baby. I went around to the driver’s side and got in and started the engine. The seat, my God, the seat was still warm. Julian’s warmth.
I thrust down the clutch and put the car in gear and merged into traffic, crossing First Avenue, which went uptown, and then turning down York. I cruised without even thinking, stopping automatically at the red lights, my brain just shutting down. Shutting everything out.
Somewhere in the Seventies my hands began to shake. I pulled over to the curb. Trust me. Trust me. Go home. Wait for me.
Julian, I can’t. I can’t just wait. Wait for how long? What if you never come back? The shaking intensified, crawling up my arms to my torso.
Okay, think. Be calm. Stop panicking. Think this through. Every problem has a solution. Who might know where they’d gone?
The answer came quickly: Hollander. The world’s leading expert on Julian Ashford. I pulled away from the curb and drove back across the avenues to Park, turned onto Julian’s street, and pulled into the garage, where I left the keys in the ignition for the attendant and hurried across the street to Julian’s house. Our house.
Eric stood on the steps, with his cell phone glued to his ear. He saw me and hung up and went forward to grab me by the arms. “Mrs. Laurence! What happened?”
“Everything’s okay,” I said brightly. “Mr. Haverton… got sick downstairs. I was just helping him back to his apartment. I’m so sorry you all were worried. Is everyone inside?”
His eyes narrowed. “Where’s Mr. Laurence?”
“Mr. Laurence thought it might be best to take him to the ER. They’re there now.” The lies ran easily off my tongue. One thing I knew for certain: I couldn’t tell anyone other than Hollander what had happened, at least for now. Because what would happen if everyone knew the truth?
Eric knew I was lying; I could see it in his face. They probably taught that kind of thing in bodyguard school. But he just nodded and opened the door for me. “Everyone’s inside,” he told me. “I’ll be waiting here.”
“Thanks, Eric. I’ll let you know if we need you.”
“You do that, Mrs. L.”
The living room was full of our dinner guests, and they all looked up when I walked in. “Honey!” Mom called out, and ran toward me. “What happened? Julian and Geoff just got up and ran out the door, and the next thing…”
“Oh, everything’s fine!” I said. “So sorry to worry you. Arthur just got completely sick on his way to the bathroom. Vomiting blood and everything. Horrible. Like a House episode. So instead of waiting for an ambulance, I just jumped in the car with him to Lenox Hill and called up Julian. Of course he freaked.” I laughed. “Anyway, they’re all there right now, waiting for a doctor to see him. Total drama.”
“Blimey,” said Paulson.
“Oh, dear,” Mom said, studying me. “Are you going to miss your flight?”
“No, Mom. It’s a private jet. They’ll wait. We can’t just go off on our honeymoon with poor Arthur…” My voice caught, not on purpose.
“Wow,” Charlie said. “Wish I’d seen it. Vomiting blood. Awesome. Hope he’s okay.”
“Yeah, apparently it’s more common than you think. Stomach bug.” I yawned.
“Would you like us to stay with you, honey?” my mom asked.
“Stay with me? Aren’t you staying here anyway?”
“No, we’re flying back tonight,” my father said. “Work tomorrow.”
“Oh, of course. I’m sorry. Kind of forgot it was a Monday.”
 
; Kyle snorted. “Yeah, well, we’re not all married to billionaires, you know.”
I rolled my eyes valiantly, unable to form the words to respond.
“We’ll get going, then, honey,” Mom said. “But congratulations. We’re just so happy. And as soon as you get back from your honeymoon, I want to start planning your real wedding. Home in Wisconsin. I can’t wait to show off that son-in-law of mine.” She leaned forward and hugged me.
“Yeah.” I forced back the tears as I returned her hug. “I’ll bet he can’t wait to be shown off.”
Everyone passed by with hugs and good-byes and congratulations, and somehow I kept my composure, kept the panic from rising up into my face. “Is everything all right, Mrs. L?” asked Andrew Paulson, as he leaned in against my cheek.
“Not exactly,” I said, in a low murmur, smiling brightly. “But I’m sure it will all work out.”
“Goes without saying, of course, if you need anything…” He pressed my hand.
“Of course. I know. Thank you.”
Dr. Hollander came last, probably by design. He’d been watching me closely throughout; I’d felt his eyes, needle sharp against my face. Now he came up, just as Charlie disappeared around the corner to the entrance hall, and took my hands. “My dear,” he began.
“Wait,” I hissed. “Don’t go yet.”
I moved into the hall and waved good-bye at Charlie and Michelle, who were laughing together, walking out the door. “Bye!” I called. “I’ll e-mail!”
“Yeah, yeah!” Charlie guffawed. “Like you’ll have any fucking time for e-mail!” He shut the door behind them.
I turned to Hollander. “You’ve got to help me,” I said, and burst at last into tears.
THE SOBS DIDN’T LAST LONG. I gathered myself, seeing Hollander’s panicked expression, remembering Eric stood just outside the door, and wiped the tears away with swift, impatient fists.
“Come into the library,” I managed, taking the professor’s hand and dragging him with me.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“They’ve got him. Geoff and Arthur. They took Julian with them. I was just the bait, to get Julian out of there, to get him to go along with them. They had a gun, Professor! They’ll kill him! You’ve got to help me!”
He dropped my hand and halted, there in the center of the library rug. “Kidnapped him? Kidnapped Julian?”
“Yes!” I said, agonized. “Took him away in a black sedan, toward the FDR! Where would they be taking him? What’s going on?”
Hollander lowered his tall frame on the library sofa, his blue irises surrounded by the shocked whites of his eyes. His head sank into his hands. “It’s my fault,” he whispered. “I couldn’t let it lie. My God. What have I done?”
“What do you mean? Where have they taken him?’
He looked up at me. “Is it about Miss Hamilton? Is that what this was about?”
“Yes,” I said, pacing across the room to stare down at the small paved garden in the rear. “But it’s more than that. Arthur’s gone crazy. It’s like he’s been at a slow simmer, all these years, and the wedding just… and Geoff’s gone with him… Oh my God! Maybe they’ve killed him already! Dumped his body in the river!” I jumped up, thinking of Julian’s face, still and cold and bloody. Bobbing in the river. Gone. Dead.
“Calm down!” Hollander said sharply. “They wouldn’t kill him, I’m sure of it. They were the best of friends. Are the best of friends. There’s no question of killing.”
“How do you know? He was crazy, Professor. Crazy! Talking about vile lust and…” I shook my head. “He loves Julian, Professor. Maybe he’s even in love with him; I don’t know. I don’t even think he knows.”
Hollander rose to his feet with an impatient fling of his hand. “No, no. You’re mistaking him, projecting your modern ideas onto his. The sentimental convention of the time encouraged affectionate, even passionate friendship. Of course he loves Julian; he idolized him. Surely you didn’t suggest to him…”
“I guess I did. But it wouldn’t have made any difference. He just hates the modern world, the people in it. I think he was sort of living vicariously through Flora before, basking in Julian’s feelings for her, and it’s like Julian’s rejected him now.” I thought of Arthur’s expression on the stairs, the arctic hatred in his eyes. “I think he wants him dead.”
He shot me a contemptuous look. “Or himself. I suppose you’re aware that Arthur Hamilton had himself transferred to a front-line unit shortly after Julian’s disappearance. Suicide, in effect.”
“So what does that mean? He’s going to try to finish the job? Make Julian watch? But why would Geoff go along with that?”
Hollander put his fingers to his temples and began rubbing as he paced the room. “Not sure. Not sure. Where would he take them? Where would they go?” He snapped his fingers and turned to me. “The airplane. For your honeymoon.”
“Oh no!” I jumped up. “But I don’t know where it was heading. I don’t even know which airport. No, wait,” I said, thinking, “probably Teterboro, right? That’s where all the private planes take off from. Or Westchester. I can call NetJets, right? I’m his wife. They’ll tell me.” I went to Julian’s desk. “Allegra made the arrangements, I’m sure, but maybe he’s at least got the account information here somewhere.” I flung open drawers, looking for something, anything.
“Try the computer.”
“Good idea.” I reached for Julian’s laptop, flipped it open, pressed the power button. This was good. This was doing something. I knew all about doing something, about keeping busy to stave off panic. Just one small task at a time. Stay focused.
Julian’s MacBook booted up in four rapid seconds and then paused to ask me for a password. I knew where Julian kept them. He’d shown me early on, in case I needed to find something, trusting me with heartbreaking thoroughness. I went to the bookshelf and found his worn dog-eared copy of Graham and Dodd’s Security Analysis and lifted the back flap. Tucked inside was a list of passwords, one for each month.
The MacBook made a satisfied noise and unfolded the desktop for me. Julian kept it tidy, no loose files. I clicked on the e-mail icon and without the smallest tinge of conscience entered “NetJets” in the search field.
Bingo. He, or Allegra, had made the reservation yesterday evening; the confirmation lay before me, account number and flight code and everything. Taking off from Teterboro Airport, expected time of departure 10 p.m.
I checked my watch. Ten-fifteen. Where was my phone? “Shoot,” I said, turning to Hollander. “Did anyone bring my handbag back from the restaurant?”
“Your handbag?” As if he’d never heard the word in his life.
“Of course you don’t know. I’ll ask Eric.” I got up and crossed through the living room, but before I reached the door I saw my black satin handbag hanging by its chain from the newel post at the bottom of the stairs. Something, at least, where it should be.
I drew out my BlackBerry, ran back to the library, and dialed the NetJets number. “Hello.” I put on my calm professional voice, gave them the account number. “This is Mr. Laurence’s office. I just wanted to verify his flight departed on time.”
“Just a moment, please,” answered a friendly female customer-service voice, balanced exquisitely between intimacy and courtesy: the voice of someone who knew just how much her company’s clients were ponying up to ride its airplanes.
I tapped my fingers against the desk, waiting, watching Hollander. He stared back, without blinking, his forehead furrowed with deep anxious lines. I tried to smile. I was feeling a little better. I was doing something now; I was finding my husband.
The voice reappeared in my ear. “Thank you for holding. Yes, I have a departure confirmation for that flight, leaving Teterboro at nine fifty-eight p.m.”
I let out my breath in a gust of relief. Or anxiety: I wasn’t quite sure whether this was good news or bad. But at least I knew they’d taken him somewhere and not just killed him outright. “Than
k you. Oh yes, and one more thing. Mr. Laurence indicated he was considering a last-minute change of destination. Can you confirm whether the flight was headed for”—I looked back at the computer screen—“Marrakech?” I choked at the word. I’d never have guessed Morocco.
“Just a moment, please.” Hold music. I chewed my lip ferociously, trying not to imagine myself cruising over the Atlantic with Julian in a private airplane. The voice, mercifully, returned before my will broke down. “Thank you for holding. No, according to the final flight plan, the destination was changed to Manchester Airport in England.”
“Manchester, England. As I thought. Thank you so much.” I hung up the phone and looked at Hollander. “So? Manchester?”
“Southfield,” he said, staring at the floor. “They’re going to Southfield.”
For a moment, the word confused me. Julian’s firm was headquartered only a few blocks away, in a wide limestone townhouse on Sixty-third Street, a discreet brass plaque engraved Southfield Associates affixed to the right of the door: a site of abomination, probably, to Hollander. And then understanding burst upon me. “Southfield? Do you mean Julian’s family estate?”
He looked back up at me and made a helpless shrug of his shoulders. “It couldn’t be anything else.”
“But why Southfield? What does that have to do with Florence Hamilton?”
He sat down on the edge of the desk and folded his arms. “If you’d read my book,” he said, dry and professorial, “you’d know that, according to her last will and testament, she requested the honor of burial on the Southfield estate. She had maintained a friendship with the eventual heirs, and they acquiesced. One doesn’t refuse Florence Hamilton, even after her death.”
“The nerve. Julian must have been furious when he found that out.”
“Yes, that was the greatest surprise of all, for me. Finding out the truth of the Hamilton affair. She’d done such a thorough job, you see, of constructing her narrative.”
“Yeah, okay. But why would Arthur and Geoff take Julian there? You don’t think…” A shaft of coldness split my heart. “You don’t think they meant to kill him and bury him with her…”