The clock chimed again; the half hour. She
had
been asleep this time but the dreams…
She stiffened, fear striking from some inner ambush.
The door was opening. It formed a rectangle of pale yellow; framed a dark figure that for a long time didn’t move; that became almost an abstraction, shadow on light.
At length, the head turned, looking back into the hallway. She was only aware of how intense her fear had been when it disappeared.
Conan.
He’d changed his clothes; black pants, black sweater with a high neck and long sleeves. When his face was turned away from the light, he was only a shadow.
Then she closed her eyes, grateful for the dim light because of the rush of heat to her cheeks. The sedative. She hadn’t taken it, and now she was embarrassed. He expected her to be soundly asleep.
Well, then she would be, or at least, seem to be.
A faint click. She opened her eyes into darkness, wondering if he’d gone. Then a few seconds later, another slightly different click, and she saw him kneeling by the wall near the door, saw him in the pale glow of night light in the electric outlet. He must have brought it with him; it hadn’t been there before.
Then she closed her eyes again; he was coming toward her, and it seemed impossible that he wouldn’t see the renewed flush of embarrassment in spite of the dim light. It was ridiculous, really, and when he left, she
would
take the pill.
For some time she heard nothing, then startlingly close, a soft rustling. How could he move so quietly? She had an impulse to laugh. That must be the Nez Percé coming to the fore. Or more likely, the G-2 training.
She felt a light touch on her hair, but didn’t move. Now, she thought, he was sure she was asleep and he’d leave.
The next sound she heard wasn’t the click of the door, but a faint thump directly behind her. Then a squeak; a familiar sound, and she knew exactly which of the two Queen Anne side chairs made it.
And she knew what it meant. Conan didn’t intend to leave at all. He had settled himself to watch over her, hidden in the shadows behind the canopy curtain, and the only alternatives left her were to admit her deceit, or to make the best of it and try to go back to sleep without the sedative.
She was smiling to herself; he couldn’t see her face. Perhaps she could sleep now with Conan watching over her. That should stave off the nightmares…
She was dreaming. Something about Jim. Yes, Jim wearing a pair of Catharine’s sunglasses. There was a light, but it couldn’t be morning. The night light.
The memory came into focus as she came awake. Conan was leaving. It wasn’t the night light she saw, but the open door, the glowing rectangle broken by a silhouette.
But it
wasn’t
Conan.
It was Catharine, wearing a floor-length robe of pale blue that had a spectral silver cast in the soft light.
Isadora shut her eyes. Hold on; just hold on. This is why Conan wanted her asleep, so he could be sure she wouldn’t—what? Betray him somehow?
She concentrated on her breathing, and the anger seemed ironic in the context of the smothering fear. Anger at her body because the trembling was so hard to control; anger that she found it necessary to control it against all reason; and anger at Conan because somehow he was responsible for all this.
And he was. He had expected it, had prepared for it, even offering live bait. It all made sense now. Everything, including her release from Morningdell and this “homecoming,” was carefully calculated. It was a trap, a trap for a killer, and she was the bait, supposedly lying in sedated helplessness, while he watched from behind…
What if he weren’t there? She’d been asleep; he might have left the room, and she wouldn’t have heard him.
No. He’d be there.
He might make her the bait for a trap, but not a sacrificial lamb. And if his trap needed a helpless, sleeping victim as bait, then that’s what she’d be. She’d be anything to help him trap this killer.
She opened her eyes just enough to see between her lashes. Catharine was still at the door; this wrestling with fear and anger had occupied only a few seconds.
The anger wasn’t entirely gone, but it was cold and subtle. The person who sprang Conan’s trap would be her father’s killer. Catharine. Was that something out of her memory? She watched her take a few hesitant steps toward her. No, there was no memory; still no memory.
What did she expect of a killer? Should a killer seem so wraith-like, so suddenly aged, every movement constrained as if it were painful, like an old woman leaning on…
Her eyes squeezed shut, head pounding with her pulse, the blackness turning around her.
The cane.
Where was the cane? And the dark glasses?
In all the years since the accident, she’d never once seen Catharine without dark glasses, never heard her footsteps without the tapping of the cane.
She listened now to her footsteps, muted by the carpet; listened to the rustle of her robe, like dry grasses in a wind. When it stopped, she knew Catharine was standing by the bed; standing there
looking
down at her,
seeing
her.
It was an act of raw will to remain still, to play at sleep when the fear was so stifling she couldn’t breathe. If Catharine didn’t move, if something didn’t happen soon, in the next few seconds…
The rustling again, the footsteps moving away, and she was as stunned by that retreat as by the sense of imminent threat. But Catharine didn’t leave the room when she reached the door. She only closed it, and ghost-like in the wan glow of the night light, sat down in a chair near the door, folding her hands in her lap, and Isadora realized with a dull shock that she intended to stay there; to wait.
But for what?
She heard something behind her; a stirring, or a whisper of a breath. Perhaps it was only something she felt. But Conan was there. She knew it as surely as if he’d spoken to her.
And across the room, Catharine waited and watched. All these years she’d been watching behind the dark glasses, and Isadora wondered at her own indifference to that. Emotional shock, perhaps. Real comprehension would come later for this whole paradoxical scene. Two people occupying the silent shadows of this room while she lay pretending sleep. Later she might even be able to laugh at that.
The clock struck. One o’clock and all’s…
Hold on. She marshaled her mental resources, knowing she was close to weeping, and somehow she must find the strength to be still, to seem asleep until—what?
What was Catharine waiting for?
The chimes sounded twice more, the quarter and half hours, and she was grateful for their tangible demarcation of time; her own time sense had failed her.
She heard the click of the door, watched it open. It would be Jim. That was probably a logical conclusion. Who else could it be? Yet it hadn’t occurred to her.
Catharine didn’t move except to turn her head and look up at him. She
looked
,
and that still seemed incomprehensible.
“Mother?” Jim’s voice, a hiss of chagrin. “What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for you.”
She wasn’t whispering, but the words were soft, barely audible, making Jim’s reply seem harshly sibilant.
“Are you out of your mind?” Then a quick glance toward Isadora.
“She won’t hear you; she’s thoroughly asleep. I suppose you’ve made sure Mr. Flagg won’t…interfere.”
Jim was still looking toward the bed, his response absent, nearly disinterested.
“Sure. Dore left her sweetheart a bottle of sherry by his bed. I just checked. The bottle’s half empty, and he’s dead to the world.”
Isadora felt herself sinking into vertigo. That didn’t make sense. It was like a nightmare, and she could almost believe it was only that, or an insane delusion, except for Jim’s voice, a grating whisper, like a serrated blade.
“Mother, get back to your room.”
“No. Not this time.”
“Look, you’re in this thing up to your matching sunglasses. Now, get out of here and let me take care of it.”
“No.”
“Then stay out of my way.”
She asked softly, “What’s that, Jim? Another ‘tranquilizer’ to make her forget?”
There was something in his hand; he looked down at it. “Yes.”
“And that’s all it is, just like the other time? You didn’t understand the violent reactions; that was only shock and grief. Nothing to do with that drug or you. Jim, I’m a fool, but not such an ignorant one now. It can cause true insanity, can’t it? Enough of it can destroy the mind. That’s what you’re hoping for.”
He seemed to loom over her, to emanate a dark chill. “Get back to your room, Mother.”
“No. I made myself your accomplice once because I was afraid, and because I knew myself capable of what you’d done, but I can’t let you go any further.”
“You can’t let
me
go any further? Listen, you’re on this train, too.”
“I didn’t get on the train that ran Jenny down.”
There was a brief, taut silence spaced by the sound of his breathing, and Isadora choked back a sick cry. Not Jenny; he couldn’t. Not Jenny.
“You’d better talk to Bob about that train, Mother.”
“How long did you have her—what do they call it? Hooked?—with the morphine? Since her illness? Is that when you got her addicted, because of the pain?”
“You’re out of your skull if you think I had anything to do with Jenny’s death. For God’s sake, I was here in town. Chet can vouch for me.”
“I suppose he’s also one of your—your customers.” Another strained silence. When Jim made no response, she went on wearily, “Guilt engenders fear; I know because I lived with both so many years. If you hadn’t been so afraid, you’d have known Jenny would never betray you.”
“
Bob
killed her—I didn’t!” Then realizing he’d let his voice get out of control, he looked over at Isadora, and she closed her eyes, shivering, listening in frozen dread to Catharine’s calm, dead calm, voice.
“Bob didn’t kill her. He couldn’t have.”
A hesitation, then, “What do you mean?”
“Bob was here that night. We had a meeting; one he didn’t want you to find out about because it was you he wanted to discuss. I lied to the police.”
“Then you’d better keep on lying.”
“Or what?” A laugh full of sadness. “Or you’ll kill me, too? That’s the fear, Jim. You’re sick with it.”
“And what are
you
?
You nearly hung yourself playing your idiot game with dear old Dad, and you’re going to hang us both whimpering around about Jenny. There’s no way off this train till you get to the end of the line.”
Isadora stared at him, too stunned for pretense, remaining still only because she was incapable of moving. The light caught on the object in his hand. It was small and transparent, but she didn’t recognize it. She only knew there was terror in it; the same terror that was in his rasping whisper.
“And there’s something else you’d better get straight, Mother. Dore’s going to
remember.
I heard her down in the foyer tonight. With Kerr and Flagg working on her, she’s going to remember what happened unless I do something about it. If you’re too squeamish to watch, get the hell out.”
“No.” That quiet, yet obdurate syllable again, and Jim straightened abruptly.
“You haven’t heard a word I’ve said. You’re so—”
“Oh, Jim, I’ve heard every word and understood it.
You
don’t understand. You learned ambition from poverty and from me; especially from me. But I won’t let you destroy Isadora. Jim, it’s finished.
This
is the end of the line.”
“What are you going to do? Call the cops? True confession time?”
“There’ll be no police and no confessions.”
“Keep it in the family, huh?” He’d forgotten entirely to keep his voice down; there was a fevered, acidly cynical undercurrent in it. “So, how do you intend to stop me, mother mine?”
“With this, if I must.”
She reached into the pocket of her robe; there was a brief, metallic flash as her hand came up. When Isadora realized it was a gun, she couldn’t believe it was real. And Jim only laughed.
“Sure. You’re going to put a hole in me, right? In
me,
your one and only love child. Oh, Mother, you’re too—”
“My…what?” For the first time, there was fear in her voice.
“Never mind.” He laughed again. “Damn, you missed your calling. You should’ve tried Hollywood.”
“Jim! Don’t—please!
Jim!
”
But he turned his back on her, and finally Isadora recognized what was in his hand. A syringe. And her last hold on sanity slipped.
Not again…not again…not again…not again…
The next split second she saw in a pulsing blur, apprehending it as perpetual, and the terror had a name now, madness, and it was contained in that looming shadow, the shadow that glowed incandescent red, shimmering, amorphous…
The explosion was blue-white, and the sheer agony of it made her scream.
Yet it drove off the encroaching madness, and when she found herself crouched against the headboard in a room suddenly filled with light and footsteps and voices, she could call it a recurrence and know what it meant; could recognize Conan and Sean Kelly and know why they were here.
But she couldn’t comprehend Jim, lying face down on the floor, trying to brace himself on his elbows, head raised, strangely like an infant in its crib; there was a shining red smear on his back. Then Conan was bending over him.