Hide and Seek Page 10

  “When’s the baby due? My God, tell me everything, Maggie.”

  “Five months, twelve days. Doctor Gamache didn’t specify the hour.”

  He was smiling very broadly now. He held both my hands. “Boy or girl?”

  “A boy, according to the amniocentesis. Allie? Do you like that name?”

  “It’s a lovely name.” He shook his head in wonder. “I’m very happy about it, Maggie. I couldn’t possibly be happier. Have I told you lately how much I love you?” He continued to grin.

  “Yes,” I whispered, “but tell me again. I never get tired of hearing it.”

  And that night, with a vividness I thought had long ago disappeared, I remembered. I remembered him.

  Phillip returned to try and spoil everything.

  He was drunk, as he often was. He could barely walk. He barged in the front door, yelling my name, and I cowered in the kitchen, not answering him, even when he was only a few feet away.

  He had been so different when we’d first met in New-burgh. He’d been an officer and a gentleman, a scholar as well. He had swept me off my nineteen-year-old feet. I had been so needy, so alone. How could I have known that his role as professor frustrated him; that he’d joined the army to fight, but had been ordered to teach instead. He had to follow those orders, and was determined that I follow his.

  “When I call you, you say, ‘Yes, Phillip,’ ” he pronounced with a superior smirk.

  “Not when you’re like this. No, Phillip. Not with me. Not ever.”

  The back of his hand slashed across my mouth. “Whenever I call, you say, Yes, Phillip,’ ” he repeated.

  I said nothing. His wire-rimmed glasses were crooked on his nose. He looked like the effete snob that he was so afraid of being.

  “Maggie,” he said softly, ominously.

  I didn’t answer. His hand rose again, this time a fist. He wasn’t powerfully built, but he outweighed me by sixty pounds.

  “Yes, Phillip, fuck you,” I said. I don’t swear like that, but I did then.

  “What? What did you say, woman? What the hell did I just hear?”

  “You heard me.”

  He stood stock-still. Then he leered. “Okay,” he said, “let’s fuck”

  He lunged for me, swaying drunkenly. I ran up the back stairs to the attic, and slammed the door in his face.

  Phillip kept guns up there. There were guns everywhere in the good soldier’s house. I took one and cocked it. I pointed it at the attic door, waiting until his wild, angry face appeared.

  “Take another step and I’ll shoot, I will, Phillip.” I was surprised at how calm I sounded, though I didn’t feel calm.

  He stared at me, tried to stare me down, but he didn’t move. Then he began to laugh, a monstrous cackle.

  “Oh, sweetheart,” he said when he could control himself. “Sweetheart, sweetheart. You’ve won this round. But you’ll live to regret it.”

  I was still regretting it, after all these years.

  CHAPTER 40

  ON A PROMISING blue-skied morning, an uncharacteristically nervous and nonplussed Patrick had to rush me to the Northern Westchester Hospital in Mount Kisco, New York. He was so distraught, so unlike himself, it was charming and funny. Jennie came with us, and she was by far in the best shape, in the most control of the three of us.

  As Patrick’s car hurtled down narrow, pine-wooded roads, I couldn’t keep dark thoughts from my mind though. Think of the baby, I told myself, but instead I remembered newspaper and magazine stories that had been tormenting me ever since my pregnancy became public:

  “MAGGIE BRADFORD’S GREATEST LOVE SONG: Inside Story of the Not-So-Secret Hold Maggie Has Over Patrick.”

  How could our beautiful relationship be made to sound so shameful? Who wrote stories like these? Who wanted to read them? I had told Patrick I didn’t care what anybody said, but the media could be so cruel. I felt wounded, humiliated.

  Of course—at the time—I had no idea of how really savage they could be.

  “Patrick, I know you’re hurrying … but please, go a little faster if you can. Please?”

  Dr. Lewis Gamache was waiting for us at the hospital.

  “Hi there, Mom.” He squinted from behind silver-framed bifocals. I had found him months before in the village of Chappaqua. He was a general practitioner who specialized in obstetrics, and I trusted him more than the far more famous doctors who had offered their services in New York.

  “Hello, Lewis. I feel kind of shitty.” I tried to smile, but felt I was going to faint.

  “That’s fine. It means you’re almost there.” He led me to a wheelchair, and I was taken inside.

  Almost there, indeed! At eleven o’clock that night, two nurses in white tunics sped me down bright hospital corridors to the operating room. My body was soaked with perspiration. My hair was matted and looked almost brown. I felt clammy and cold. The pain was unbearable, twice what I remembered while having Jennie.

  Dr. Gamache was waiting in the operating room. He was his usual wide-eyed and enthusiastic self.

  “Hello, Maggie. What took you so long?”

  “Ooohh.” I shut my eyes as a contraction came again. “I was having too much fun in labor.”

  “Let’s rock and roll,” he said. I got the joke, but I didn’t laugh.

  At 11:19 in the morning, Dr. Gamache said, “Maggie, you’ve got yourself a little boy,” and laid the baby beside me so I could look at him. He seemed to be yawning. Bored already with planet Earth? But he was such a beauty.

  He received the classic rear-end slap, rather than the foot flick. I could hear his thin, barely perceptible cry.

  “I don’t think he’s got your lungs,” Dr. Gamache said. “Nurse, put the baby on the table warmer, please.”

  “His name is Allen,” I said, and promptly passed out.

  CHAPTER 41

  PATRICK NEARLY FLEW into my hospital room. He was beaming. He hurried to my bed, and we kissed. He was Paul Newman, and Spencer Tracy—all wrapped in one. He really was so wonderful: thoughtful, compassionate, tender, caring. Patrick wanted to marry me—he’d already asked, but something about “marriage,” and my experience with Phillip, had made me ask him to wait. Patrick said that he understood. I hoped he did. I also hoped he would ask again—soon.

  Something crunched in his sport jacket pocket as he hugged me. Curious, I reached inside.

  “You’ve gone too far this time, buster,” I said and smiled and rolled my eyes. “Cigars? How corny can you get?”

  “I’m a corny guy.” Patrick shrugged. “The cigars are for my friends. I bought Irish whiskey for the unwed father.”

  “Did you see Allie yet?”

  “You bet. The testicles on him. Bigger than his feet. I’m so impressed.”

  I laughed. “That would interest you.”

  “I thought it might interest his mother just a little.”

  “To know that her son is well equipped for the world.”

  “Exactly right, and very well put.”

  Patrick reached out and held me gently against his chest. I could feel his heart beating. I loved that feeling, more and more so each day.

  I can’t think of a better father, I thought.

  Then I said it aloud for Patrick to hear. I had never been happier in my life. I would marry Patrick soon, I knew. We were already a family though, and happier than most that I knew.

  That night, I sang for little Allie for the first time.

  CHAPTER 42

  THIS IS HOW it happened, dear readers. The third murder you’ve heard so many horrifying rumors about on TV and in the press. This is my confession, and it’s never been printed anywhere before.

  Patrick loved his work, the grand hotels he had built; I was sure that he loved Allie, Jennie, and me; and he loved the sea, loved to sail. The only trouble in his life was the continuing fights with his son, Peter, over control of his company, and particularly The Cornelia Hotel. In the process, Peter also made it clear that he despised me
. Patrick and I decided we had to live with Peter’s attacks. So be it.

  I will never forget that day in early May. It was the first sail of the new spring: some time together for the two of us.

  We were dressed early that morning, sharing hot chocolate by five. My new and absolutely wonderful live-in, Mrs. Leigh, appeared and wished us a happy day off. “Don’t worry about anything here, Mrs. Bradford.” With Mrs. Leigh, I didn’t have to. She had brought up two beautiful children of her own, and she was already part of our family.

  Patrick and I drove out to Port Washington on Long Island. We had a whole day off to be together. What a special treat that was!

  By six-thirty, we were sauntering down the sun-spotted deck of the proud, Victorian Manhasset Bay Yacht Club. The air was cool, but the morning promised pleasure and relaxation. I stopped Patrick halfway down the walkway and gave him a hug and a kiss. I couldn’t resist.

  “I love you,” I whispered. “Simple and uncomplicated as that might sound.”

  “Hard to come by,” he smiled, “but so spectacular once you find it. I love you too, Maggie.”

  We reached the Rebellion a moment or two later. We would be sailing due east, Patrick told me, “into the sun, away from the earth.”

  “The storm last week beat the hell out of these boats, ours included,” Patrick said, as he began a quick inspection. “Still water in here. Motor battery’s probably dead. Antenna for the ship-to-shore broken. Shit. Remind me never to build a luxury liner. It’d be another Titanic.”

  The Rebellion made it out of the yacht club around quarter past seven. We were on our bright and merry way. As much as I loved spending nearly every waking moment with Allie, as much as I missed him already, I needed a morning off. I had been missing Patrick.

  It was a blue-skied morning, the kind of day that automatically made me feel good. I could see Patrick relax at the helm. On the horizon, a forty-eight-foot ketch moved slowly, probably toward the Caribbean.

  By noon, our boat was gliding through tiny whitecaps, miles away from the madness of New York. The hotel, Peter O’Malley, even Jennie and Allie, were forgotten. We were together on the privacy of the sea. I wondered if this was the day Patrick would ask me to marry him again.

  Smoky, soot-black clouds appeared suddenly from the northwest: a storm, rushing toward us rapidly. The temperature fell at least ten degrees within five minutes.

  “Oh shit,” I said. “Plan a parade, right? Boo, hiss! I can’t stand it.”

  Patrick looked at the clouds with anxious eyes. “I’ll call the Coast Guard for a weather check. Maybe we can wait this out.”

  He walked toward the cabin, then stopped in midstride. “Hell, I can’t call. Ship-to-shore’s busted. Guess that means we head back in. Take the wheel, Maggie. Hold on tight.”

  “Aye, aye.”

  I wrestled with, the steering wheel while Patrick reefed the mainsail. The pull was still too heavy at the helm. Patrick decided to change to a smaller storm jib from the sail locker. As a last resort, he’d take the jib down and motor back to Manhasset.

  Then the storm hit! A chilling fog curved around the high-peaked sailboat, and rain poured down, soaking us. The wind howled. Seawater splashed across the deck like a flash flood. The frightening power and force of nature were in evidence everywhere.

  My hand slipped on the wheel, and I had to fight to keep us on course. There was an exhilaration in the action, but beneath it, like a coiled snake ready to strike, fear had begun to lurk. This wasn’t fun anymore.

  Patrick cursed loudly, then he really cursed. He ran, slipping and sliding, to where a loosened sail flapped like a wet bed sheet.

  He seemed to hesitate as he reached the sail, and drag his left leg. That was the impression I had, of his leg dragging.

  He paused, as if he’d forgotten something, then fell to his knees, as though someone had hit him on the back of his head.

  “Patrick!” I called out.

  He tried to stand. I saw him raise his hand to his chest. Then he collapsed.

  “Patrick!”

  I rushed across the slippery deck to his side. His face was as white as the mainsail, and his breathing was irregular. He lay on his side, and winced in pain as I moved him onto his back. Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe. A tight fist clenched in the pit of my stomach.

  I found wool blankets and a strip of greenish trap. I covered Patrick as well as I could. I took his hand in mine. I was having trouble focusing my eyes.

  “You went away,” he whispered. “Please don’t do it again. Let me look at you, Maggie.”

  I tried to keep his body quiet as waves rolled over us, soaking us.

  “I’m here. And don’t you go away either. Everything will be fine. You’re going to be all right.”

  I believed it, at least part of me did, but the fear-snake inside me uncoiled, and I had to turn my face away so he wouldn’t see it. Then I looked back at him.

  Patrick’s face had turned an ashen gray. Beads of perspiration appeared on his forehead and upper lip, though the wind was cold. Oh please, God. Oh please, I kept thinking. I love him so much. Please don’t do this.

  “Just in case I’m not around for last call,” he said, “I want you to be happy. And make our son Allie happy, which I know you will. And make sure Jennie doesn’t marry an Irishman. Promise,” he whispered in the voice I loved so.

  “I promise,” I finally whispered, fighting back the tears.

  “I love you, sweet one,” he said. “I love you, Maggie. You are the best.”

  Patrick had that familiar, wry look in his eyes, but suddenly they changed. He stared past me.

  Then a strange sound rose up from deep inside his chest. He let go of my hand. He just let go of me. Simple and uncomplicated, as our love had been. I screamed as I stared into Patrick’s eyes. Oh, God, please don’t let him die.

  I held him tightly and began to cry. I put my head on his chest, now silent and still.

  Oh please… please, don’t let this happen. Whoever’s in charge, show us mercy.

  Patrick couldn’t hear me. He was gone. As swiftly as the storm that swirled about us had come up.

  CHAPTER 43

  I MUST HAVE held him for an hour, not caring what would happen to me or to the floundering boat that bore us.

  The storm had traveled due east, and the waters were calm again, though I barely noticed. A feeble sun cast streaks of amber light on lapping caps of grayish-green water.

  I sat helpless beside him on the lonely, quietly rocking deck. I thought of the times we had shared together, and each time I did, I started to cry again.

  Don’t go away. Let me look at you.

  Don’t go away, Patrick. Don’t go away and leave me … oh, Padriac, oh, Patrizio, I moaned.

  Sailors from the Coast Guard found me drifting at the reddish edge of sunset. I was still cradling Patrick in my arms.

  So there you have it—that’s how I killed him. That’s my confession.

  Book Three

  Will

  CHAPTER 44

  WHEN WILL HEARD loud and persistent knocking at the door of his suite in the Rio Hilton, he shivered. He staggered from his bed, and hid himself in the bathroom.

  He was barely able to navigate the few steps without falling. Go away, whoever you are. Get the hell away from here!

  He heard the front door of the suite open and the sound of voices. A maid, and someone else.

  Jesus Christ, they can’t come in here—whoever it is. Not now!

  “Thanks for letting me in,” the voice said. “I can manage from here.”

  Palmer!

  Who in hell invited him?

  Nobody can be here—not even my brother Palmer! I’m out of control and I don’t know if I can ever get it back!

  Palmer Shepherd’s eyes took in details of the puzzle: the closed bathroom door; the mirror laid flat on the night table bearing a razor, a rolled up hundred dollar bill, the remnants of God knows how much cocaine. An empty bottle of tequi
la on the floor. A half-full glass of a red liquid on the other night table. Port? Cinzano?

  But where was Will? Where in hell had Will gone to?

  Here I am, little brother!

  With the howl of a werewolf, a naked Will was on him, wrestling him to the ground, pinning his arms. Then Will was sitting on his stomach as he had when they were boys.

  “You lose. I win!”

  Only this time Will’s eyes were scarily wild, and his body—God, his body!—was covered with blood.

  Palmer stared up at his brother in disbelief and horror. “Jesus, Will, what in hell did you do to yourself?”

  Will laughed loudly, manically. “Cut myself shaving.”

  Will sprang off him and appeared to dance across the room. He picked up the half-full glass and offered it to his brother. “Cut her shaving too. Blood actually goes with tequila. Taste?”

  “You cut who shaving? What the hell happened here? What are you on?”

  “Angelita. I’ve got her body in the bathroom. She’s just a whore.” Once more he held out the glass of dark red liquid. “I’m afraid I drank most of it myself. Breakfast of champions.”

  “You didn’t,” Palmer whispered. He rose to his feet on unsteady legs. “You couldn’t have.”

  “Didn’t what? Couldn’t have what?”

  “Kill her.”

  “Well, I don’t know.” Will’s eyes were easily as large as silver dollars. Mad eyes. “Let’s find out. Let’s have a look.”

  Will opened the bathroom door, and shared his secret life with his brother.

  “What’s the verdict, little brother? Did I, or did I not? Are you going to help me this time?”

  CHAPTER 45

  FOR ONCE THE outrageous stories in the fan magazines were mostly accurate and true, and maybe even understated. Will knew this, and so did his brother.

  Will was dangerous, even more dangerous than the tabloids suspected. He had spent six weeks in a private New York hospital, recovering from a “breakdown.” There had been a “substance problem” in Rio.