Today, as she had nearly every day since the affair had begun a month ago, she’d driven up the hill to offer her services. She had talked to some of the patients, read a story to an odd little boy, played cards with a sad-eyed old man. All the time waiting for her lover to appear. Then, there he was, taking her gently by the arm, escorting her through the corridors until finally, a little while ago, they’d come into this room, which was empty save for the woman in the chair.
“She doesn’t even know we’re here,” he assured her, slipping his arms around her and pulling her toward him, his lips nuzzling at her throat. Despite the thrill of excitement that ran through her body, the woman pulled away from him, her eyes flicking toward the patient in the chair.
“What’s wrong with her?” she asked. “Why doesn’t she move?”
“She’s delusional.” He glanced at the patient. “She thinks if she holds still, her ‘enemies’ can’t see her.” Reaching into the pocket of his white coat, he pulled out a small box. “I have something for you.” He put the box into her hands. “Something to celebrate our being together.”
The woman gazed at the pale blue box, recognizing its origin immediately. Her heart beating a little faster, she undid the white silk ribbon and lifted off the lid. Inside there was a soft velvet pouch; inside the pouch was a tiny locket.
In the shape of a heart, it was covered with silver filigree, and when she pressed on the tiny catch to open it, the woman found a lock of hair pressed under the glass where a picture could have gone.
Taking the locket from the woman’s hands, the doctor unhooked its chain and, as she turned around, placed the chain around her neck and fastened it. As she turned back to face him, he leaned down and pressed his lips against her neck.
A flush of heat coursed through her body; the woman closed her eyes.
Lorena watched it all—watched them whisper to each other, watched them glance at her, then watched them whisper again. She watched the woman open the box and take out the locket; watched her open it. As the “doctor” put it around the woman’s neck, Lorena suddenly knew what was contained inside the silver heart.
Lies.
The locket was filled with lies about her, lies that the woman would carry out and spread among her enemies.
As the “doctor” bent down once more to whisper into the woman’s ear, Lorena leaped from the chair and scuttled across the room, her fingers already extended so that before the woman could turn away, Lorena had already snatched the locket from her neck, the thin silver chain breaking.
She backed away, the locket clutched in her hand, her wary eyes watching to see what they would do.
The “doctor” moved toward her. “Give it to me,” he said quietly, holding out his hand.
Lorena backed farther away, her fingers clenched on the tiny locket.
“What’s she going to do with it?” she heard the woman ask.
As the “doctor” moved toward her once again, Lorena edged backward until the wall stopped her, then scrabbled crabwise along the wall until she could go no farther. Cornered, she watched the “doctor” move closer to her. Her eyes flicked over the room, searching for some means of escape, but there was none. The “doctor” reached toward her once again, but Lorena, far more clever than he, had already figured out what to do.
Before his hand could close on her wrist, then pry her fingers loose from the tiny piece of jewelry, her own hand went to her mouth.
In an instant, she swallowed the locket.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” she heard the “doctor” say, but it didn’t matter, because now the locket was safely out of his reach.
Lorena, knowing she’d won, began to laugh. Her laughter built, filling the room with a raucous sound that didn’t die away until three “orderlies” came in and circled around her. Then Lorena’s laughter suddenly became a scream of terror.
* * *
They were in a room in the basement of the Asylum. It was equipped with a metal table. Above the table a bright light was suspended.
The orderlies, having strapped the patient to the table, had disappeared. Now, as the woman gazed at the patient’s terrified eyes, she wished she’d never come here today.
Indeed, she wished she’d never met the doctor at all.
“Perhaps you should wait outside,” he said.
Making no reply, the woman started out of the room, but before she passed through the doorway, she turned around and glanced back.
A scalpel glimmered in her lover’s hand.
Stepping quickly out of the room, the woman pulled the door closed behind her as if the act alone could shut what she’d just seen out of her mind. But the scream she heard a moment later seared the scene into her memory forever.
The first scream was followed by another, and then another, and for just an instant the woman was certain that someone would appear, would burst from the stairs at the end of the corridor to stop whatever was happening behind the closed door.
But no one came. Slowly, the screams died away, to be replaced by a deathly silence.
At last, when she thought she could take it no more, the door opened and the doctor stepped out. Before he pulled the door closed behind him, the woman caught a glimpse of the room beyond.
The patient, her face gray, still lay strapped to the operating table.
Her eyes, open and lifeless, seemed to be staring at the woman.
Blood oozed from her eviscerated belly, and crimson threads were strung from the edge of the table to the scarlet pool on the floor.
The door closed.
The doctor pressed the locket into the woman’s hand, still warm with the heat of the patient’s body.
The woman gazed at it for a second, then dropped it to the floor. Turning, she staggered toward the stairs, not looking back.
When she was gone, the doctor picked the locket up, wiped it clean, and dropped it in his pocket.
Chapter 1
There was nothing about the First National Bank of Blackstone that Jules Hartwick didn’t love. It was a passion that had begun when he was a very small boy and his father brought him down to the Bank for the first time. The memory of that first visit remained vividly sharp through the half century that had since passed. Even now Jules could recall the awe with which, as a child of three, he had first beheld the gleaming polished walnut of the desks and the great slabs of green-veined marble that topped all the counters.
But the brightest memory of that day—brighter than any other memory he had—was of the fascination that came over him when he’d seen the great door to the vault standing open, the intricate works of its locking mechanism clearly visible through a glass plate on the inside of the door. Every shiny piece of brass had captivated him, and over and over he’d begged Miss Schmidt, who had been his father’s secretary right up until the day she died, to work the combination yet again so he could watch the tumblers fall, the levers work, and the huge pins that held the enormous door fast in its frame move in and out.
Half a century later, nothing had changed. The Bank (somehow, Jules always capitalized the word in his own mind) was no different now than it had been back then. Some of the marble showed a few chips, and there were some nicks in the walnut, but the tellers’ cages were still fronted by the same flimsy brass grills that offered little in the way of security but a great deal in the way of atmosphere, and the huge vault door still stood open all day, allowing the Bank’s customers to enjoy the beauty of its inner workings as much as Jules had on that long-ago day. Had he been forced to make a choice, Jules would have been hard put to say which he could live better without: his wife, or the Bank. Not that he’d thought of it much, until the last few weeks, when the auditors from the Federal Reserve had begun to raise disconcerting questions about the Bank’s lending practices.
Now, as he sat in his office with Ed Becker, trying to concentrate on what his attorney was saying, his eyes fell on the desk calendar and the small notation in the box marking off this entire
evening: “Dinner Party for Celeste and Andrew.”
It was a party he’d been looking forward to for weeks, ever since Andrew Sterling had formally requested permission to marry his daughter. To ask for Celeste’s hand in marriage was exactly the kind of endearingly anachronistic gesture Jules had come to expect of Andrew, who had been working at the Bank for almost five years, rising from teller to Chief Loan Officer not only on the merit of his work—which was considerable—but because Andrew, like Jules himself, preferred the old-fashioned way of banking.
“I know it’s an idea the business schools don’t approve of,” he’d told Jules when they were discussing his promotion to the job he now held, “but I think there are far better ways to judge a man’s worth than by his credit application.”
It was precisely the philosophy upon which the Hartwicks had founded the Blackstone bank, and it confirmed Jules’s judgment that Andrew, though only five years out of college, was perfectly qualified for the loan officer’s job.
Now, the engagement of Andrew and Celeste was to be formally announced that night, though Jules suspected there were few people in Blackstone who weren’t already aware of it. The bethrothal of his only daughter to this upstanding young man was the frosting on Jules’s cake: a few more years and he might be able to consider the possibility of retirement, knowing the Bank would be in Andrew’s capable hands, and that Andrew would be part of the family.
The continuity of First National of Blackstone would be ensured.
“Jules?”
Ed Becker’s voice jerked the banker out of his reverie. When Jules shifted his eyes back from the calendar to his attorney, he saw the lawyer looking at him with a worried frown.
“Are you all right, Jules?”
“I’d be a lot lighter if this audit were behind us,” Hartwick replied, leaning forward. “Going to be some party tonight, isn’t it? It should be one of the happiest nights of my life, and now I have this ruining it.” He gestured to the stack of papers in front of them. The auditors were questioning nearly one hundred loans—and they were still at work. Jules could see no end in sight.
“But it’s nothing more than a nuisance, when you get right down to it,” Ed Becker said. “I’ve been over every one of these loans, and I haven’t found anything illegal in any of them.”
“And you won’t,” Jules Hartwick replied. He leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands on his desk. “Maybe,” he said with a smile, “you were down there in Boston a little too long.”
Becker grinned. “About five years too long, at least,” he agreed. “But who knew I was going to get sick of—what did you used to call them?”
“ ‘Slimeballs,’ ” Jules Hartwick instantly replied. “And that’s what they were, Ed. Murderers and rapists and gangsters. I’ll never understand how—”
Ed Becker held up a hand in protest. “I know, I know. But everyone deserves a defense, no matter what we might think of him. And I did get fed up with the whole thing, remember? I quit. I came back home to set up a nice quiet little practice, with nothing messier than the occasional divorce to deal with. But Jules, you probably know more than I do about business law. Sue me, or educate me. Why are you so worried about this? If there really isn’t anything illegal about any of these loans, why are you making yourself sick over this?”
A brief and hollow chuckle emerged from Jules Hartwick. “If this weren’t an independent bank, it wouldn’t matter a damn,” he said. “And maybe I’ve been wrong all these years. Maybe I should have sold out to one of the big interstate banks. God knows, it would have made Madeline and me far richer than we are today.”
“I’ve seen your accounts, Jules, remember?” the lawyer put in archly. “You’re not exactly suffering.”
“And I haven’t cashed out for a few hundred million like a lot of other bankers I won’t name,” Hartwick replied, the last trace of good humor vanishing from his voice. “I’ve always felt that this is more than just a bank, Ed. To me, and to my father, and to my grandfather, this bank has been a trust. We never thought it existed just for us. It’s not just a business, like any other. This bank has always been part of the community. A vital, life-giving part. And to keep Blackstone alive over the years, I’ve made a lot of loans that a lot of other bankers might not have made. But I know the people I loan money to, Ed.” He picked up one of the stacks of papers from his desk.
“These are not bad loans.”
The lawyer’s eyes met those of the banker. “Then you have nothing to worry about, do you? It sounds like you should give the auditors what they’re asking for before they start issuing subpoenas.”
Hartwick’s face paled slightly. “They’re talking about subpoenas?”
“Of course they are.”
Hartwick stood up. “I’ll think about it,” he said, but the reluctance was evident in his voice. The material the auditors wanted would show no criminal behavior on his part, but certainly it could be used by anyone who wished to make a case that his banking methods did not always conform to the standards that were currently considered prudent. That, he knew, could easily shift the balance on his Board of Directors, a majority of whom might finally be convinced that it was time that First National of Blackstone—like practically every other little bank in the country—sold out to one of the interstates.
If that happened, rich though he may be, he would no longer be in possession of the one thing he loved most.
Under no circumstances would Jules Hartwick allow that to happen.
He would find a way to keep his bank—and his life—intact.
Oliver Metcalf checked himself in the mirror one last time. It had been years since the last time he’d put on a necktie for dinner—only the very fanciest restaurants down in Boston and New York still required them—but Madeline Hartwick had been very specific. Tonight’s dinner was going to be a throwback to days gone by—all the women were dressing, and all the men were expected to wear jackets and ties. Since he knew as well as everyone else that this was the night Celeste Hartwick and Andrew Sterling were announcing their engagement, he’d been more than happy to comply. His tie—the only one he owned—was more than a little out of date, and even his jacket—a tweed affair that had struck him as very “editorial” when he’d bought it—was starting to look just a bit shabby, now that it was entering its twentieth year. Still, it should all pass muster, and if Madeline began needling him about how a wife might be able to do wonders with his wardrobe, he’d simply smile and threaten to woo Celeste away from Andrew.
Leaving the house, he considered whether it was too cold to walk across the Asylum grounds and follow the path that wound through the woods down to the top of Harvard Street, where the Hartwicks lived. Then, remembering that he’d left the gift he’d found for Celeste and Andrew in his office, he abandoned any idea of walking and got into his car—a Volvo almost as ancient as his tweed jacket.
Five minutes later he slid the car into an empty slot in front of the Blackstone Chronicle and left the engine idling while he dashed inside to pick up the antique silver tray he’d come across last weekend, and which Lois Martin had insisted on rewrapping for him this afternoon. Peering into the large shopping bag where Lois left the tray, Oliver had to admit she’d done a far better job than he: the leftover red and green Christmas paper he’d used had been replaced with a silver and blue design printed with wedding bells, and no ragged edges showed anywhere, despite the cumbersome oval shape of the tray. Scribbling a quick thank-you note that Lois would find first thing in the morning, he relocked the office door, got back in his car, and headed toward Harvard Street. As he slowed to make at least a pretense of obeying the stop sign at the next corner, he saw Rebecca Morrison coming out of the library, and pulled over to the curb.
“Give you a lift?” he asked.
Rebecca seemed almost startled by the offer, but came over to the car. “Oh, Oliver, it’s so far out of your way. I can walk.”
“It’s not out of my way at all,” Oliver told
her, reaching over and pushing the passenger door open. “I’m going up to the Hartwicks’.”
Rebecca got into the car. “Are you going to the dinner?”
Oliver nodded. “You too?”
“Oh, no,” Rebecca said quickly. “Aunt Martha says I mustn’t go to things like that. She says I might say the wrong thing.”
Oliver glanced over at Rebecca, whose face, softly illuminated by the streetlights, seemed utterly serene, despite the less than kind words she was repeating about herself.
“What does Martha want you to do?” Oliver asked. “Spend the rest of your life at home with her?”
“Aunt Martha’s been very good to me since Mother and Father died,” Rebecca replied. Though she had neatly sidestepped his question, he still failed to hear even the slightest note of discontent in her voice.
“You still have a life to live,” Oliver said.
Rebecca’s gentle smile returned. “I have a wonderful life, Oliver. I have my job at the library, and I have Aunt Martha for company. I count my blessings every day.”
“Which is what Aunt Martha told you to do, right?” Oliver asked. Martha Ward, whose younger sister had been Rebecca’s mother, had retreated deep into her religion on the day her husband moved out twenty-five years earlier. Her only child, Andrea, had left home on her eighteenth birthday. It had been just a few months after Andrea’s departure that Rebecca’s parents died in the automobile accident that nearly killed Rebecca as well. Aunt Martha had promptly taken her young niece in. And there, twelve years later, Rebecca remained.
There were even a few skeptical souls in Blackstone who thought that the accident had occurred in answer to Martha Ward’s own prayers. “After all,” Oliver once heard someone say, “first Fred Ward got out, and Andrea left as soon as she could. And since the accident, Rebecca hasn’t been quite right in the head, so Martha has someone to pray over, and Rebecca has a place to live.”