Читать книгу: «Echoes in the Dark»

Chapter One

“I‘m sorry, but she’s extremely insistent. She has something she wants to show you, something she’s sure you’ll want to see.”

The secretary watched the ironic smile of his employer, but he knew better than to apologize. That was the unforgivable sin—to apologize for the references one made quite naturally, and so he hurried on with his story.

“We’ve all tried, but she’ll speak to no one but you. She says it’s personal. She’s clutching some sort of package wrapped in brown paper, and she won’t budge. Short of having her thrown out bodily, I don’t know what else to do.”

The man seated behind the massive desk could hear the frustration. His secretary didn’t deal well with unexpected interruptions to his schedule. He sometimes wondered who was really in charge here, but because he cared so little, he let his staff’s efficiency carry him effortlessly through the long days. There was no longer any challenge in running the businesses he had pulled from bankruptcy only three years ago. Everything in his life was too well-ordered, the wheels all turning smoothly, oiled by his efficient employees, his soft-spoken servants and, most of all, by his money. At least the old woman offered a break from the routine. That, of course, was why Charles was so annoyed.

“There’s nothing that can’t be put off the few minutes it will take to listen to whatever she has to say. Ask Rachelle to bring in a tea tray. And if it’s private, there’s no need for you to remain. Show her in when the tea arrives.”

“But—”

“That will be all, Charles. Thank you for attempting to handle this. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

He waited until the door had closed behind the retreating secretary. Only then did he remove his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose and then briefly massaging his temples. He could feel the beginnings of a headache. He hoped that Rachelle would include his afternoon coffee with the tea. He closed his eyes and rested his head on his hands, elbows propped against the gleaming mahogany desk.

When he heard the door, he opened his eyes and put the glasses back on, standing up to turn toward his visitor. Her hesitation was obvious, but Rachelle’s friendly voice urged her forward, and finally they advanced across the parquet floor, their footsteps echoing hollowly in the quiet elegance of the room. When Rachelle had seated her in the chair before his desk, he, too, sat down and waited. It was not until she had been provided with a cup of tea, his own coffee poured and placed, fragrantly steaming, on his desk, and the door closed behind Rachelle that he spoke.

“They tell me that you have something to show me,” he said softly, working to keep the amusement out of his voice.

She rustled the package in her lap, until, with trembling hands, she succeeded in freeing whatever it contained from the wrappings. As he waited for her to speak, the silence stretched too long between them. Finally her voice quavered into the sunlight of his expensive office.

“Then you don’t recognize it? The jeweler assured me it belonged to you. I tried to sell it, but he wouldn’t buy it. He said it belonged to the Duc d’Aumont and that you would perhaps pay me more than its value to recover it,” she suggested hesitantly. “He said it’s very old.”

“They didn’t tell you,” he said softly, and she sensed somehow that it was a question.

“I don’t understand. Tell me what?”

“If you are showing me something I’m expected to recognize, we’re both doomed to failure,” he said gently. “You see, I’m blind.” He could say it quite naturally now, after all these years. He could even smile to reassure her.

“Of course.” Her voice was relieved. His lack of response was not a lack of recognition. “I should have known from the glasses, but they didn’t tell me. It’s so bright in here, I didn’t think. I suppose I envied you their protection against the glare.”

He laughed easily and stood to adjust the shade behind him, dimming the painful brightness. There was no fumbling in his movements, so that she found herself watching those sure fingers in amazement.

“They won’t complain. They think that would remind me that I can’t see,” he said, smiling at her. He could hear the answering laughter from across the desk and, judging his movements carefully by that sound, he reached across its expanse and held his palm open before her. She laid the locket she had guarded these years against the outstretched hand, and the long, dark fingers closed around the delicate golden chain.

He sat down, carefully examining the object she had placed in his hand. As his fingers traced the shape of the entwined hearts and then the roughness of the faceted emeralds that outlined them, she could almost read his emotions by the play of the muscles in his jaw, by the involuntary tightening of his lips and the effort to swallow against the sudden constriction of his throat.

She wished she could see his eyes. She needed so desperately to know if he would be willing to pay what she intended to ask, but the dark glasses were a barrier she couldn’t penetrate.

“Where did you get this? My God, how did you—” he asked finally, his hands no longer deftly examining the locket, but one locked hard around it. She could see only a small fragment of the gleaming links between those clenched fingers.

“I intended to tell you that she gave it to me, but that’s not the truth. I stole it. I didn’t think there was any reason... She didn’t need it. I thought someone should have some good of it, and we had nothing. But then I was frightened. I was afraid that if I tried to sell it, someone would know I’d stolen it. She was dying. Stealing from a dying woman—that’s something God won’t forgive me for, although I’ve prayed for her soul every day. And for the baby. I thought that might make up for the wrong I did,” she said piously, hoping to convince him of her remorse.

She looked up to read his reaction, and at the look on those handsome features, she was really frightened for the first time. She had decided years ago that she was going to hell for what she had done, but this man looked as if he might already have been there, might already have tasted that punishment. She wondered if he would have her arrested, imprisoned, and all this long journey would have been for nothing.

“It’s my grandson. Maybe that’s a punishment for what I did, but it’s too hard. He’s just a little boy, a baby.” She knew she was making no sense, but his stillness was confusing her. She had expected anger, was ready to deal with that, but not this terrifying stillness.

“Where was she when you took this?” he asked, calmly enough, but she was somehow aware of the effort it took him to achieve that control.

“With the nuns, the Sisters of the Sacred Heart,” she said. She had thought he might have known that, but she could see its impact on his face and knew the information was a surprise. “I helped deliver the baby. It was too early and she was— I don’t know what she was. She never said anything, not even during the labor. Most women cry or scream, but she...there was nothing there, behind her eyes. The baby was too small, so fragile. The nuns and I did what we could, but when I left, I knew he wouldn’t live.

“They left me alone with her while they went to get the doctor and while they worked with the baby, but she just lay there. They couldn’t stop the bleeding. I knew she was going to die. I’ve seen too many like that. The doctor couldn’t have gotten there in time to stop it. I took the locket. I’m not a thief, but she was dying. I thought...”

Her voice whispered into silence. She waited for him to speak and finally he did.

“Your grandson?”

“Cancer—and the doctor bills are so high. Perhaps if there’s money, they’ll do something for him. He’s only a baby.”

“How much?” he asked. She watched his hand reach for the button that would summon his secretary.

“The jeweler said it was very old. I thought—” But the opening door and the secretary interrupted whatever she intended to ask for.

“Get her out of here,” he said softly from across the desk. “Give her whatever she wants, but get her the hell out of here and find my brother. I don’t give a damn where he is or what he’s doing. You tell him I want him here now. Tell him he has some questions to answer. Some questions about my wife. And my son.”

The old woman was as frightened by the cold voice as she had been when she thought he might call the police. She realized suddenly that the olive complexion of the hovering secretary had blanched to a sickly gray. She knew he would be obeyed, and in spite of her fear, she began to recalculate what she would ask. Whatever she wants, he had said. She was already going to hell. What did it matter? Her mind was busily reconsidering her request as the secretary hurried her from the office, wiping his brow with the handkerchief he had pulled from his pocket. She hardly noticed how much his hands shook. She was too elated by the success of her morning’s work. It had all been so easy.

* * *

“I DON’T WANT another lie. I want to know why you told me she died in that car. Why you’ve let me think all these years that if I had only reached her sooner, if I had been a little quicker— You’ve let me live with that. Now I find she didn’t die there. She died at the convent. She died, giving birth to my son, alone. She bled to death, alone.”

His cold voice paused to bank the emotions that were clearly threatening the icy control. “Why was she carried to the convent? My God, one of the finest medical facilities in the region was only a few miles away. I was carried there and lived, despite...” He stopped because they both knew what his condition had been.

“I want an explanation for this entire pack of lies you’ve fed me all this time, and damn you, Andre, it had better be a good one. I swear, I could kill you for letting me believe I let them die.”

“I thought that would be easier than the truth,” his brother’s voice spoke quietly. Julien could hear the bitter resignation behind the calm answer. “I knew how much it would hurt you to know the truth.”

“Hurt more than the belief that I let my wife and son burn to death? What truth could have twisted my guts all these years more than that?”

“No one blamed you for her death. No one could believe you’d even reached the car in your condition. The idea that you’d failed her was only in your head. She was the one driving, too fast, as she always did. Everyone at the reception had seen the beginnings of that tantrum, and, of course, she’d been drinking.”

“She didn’t drink. She was pregnant.”

“Maybe that’s what she told you, but she had. Too many people saw her. Several came forward at the inquiry. She was drunk and angry and she killed her child and almost killed you. The only fault is hers. I never knew you blamed yourself. If I had known, I would have told you a long time ago, but I thought it would be kinder to have you believe—”

“Kinder to believe that she burned to death? My God, Andre, what could have been worse than that?”

“That she killed her son, blinded you and then walked away. She chose to leave. At least—”

“Are you telling me she wasn’t injured?” he interrupted. “Are you trying to tell me she just walked away from the wreck?”

“She tried to get help,” his brother’s voice said, attempting, he thought, to be fair. “She tried to flag down a car, but they thought she was drunk. Someone found her wandering down the road. She had a head injury. She was disoriented. She thought you were dead. They brought her to the hospital, but when she found out you were alive and so badly hurt, and that she’d left you there... She was so frantic that they thought, for the baby’s sake, she should be taken somewhere where she could be cared for. I don’t know who thought of the convent, but it seemed the best solution. She didn’t want to leave you, and she was in no condition to wait through the hours of surgery. She needed to be under observation, but when they tried to make her leave you, she got hysterical. Finally they gave her a shot, a sedative, and she was taken to the convent. Perhaps that was a mistake—”

Andre paused, took a deep breath and then admitted, “As it turned out, it was, of course, a terrible mistake, but everything was so confused, and she’d shown no signs of going into labor. It was far too early. Moving her seemed to make sense at the time.”

Andre stopped. Julien could hear the sigh, but he had to know it all.

“Go on,” he said bitterly into the silence. “Tell me about my son’s death. Explain that lie.”

“The baby was born prematurely. There at the convent. By the time the doctor arrived... He said it wouldn’t have mattered. Even if they had been in hospital, they couldn’t have saved the baby. It was too early. The baby was stillborn. I swear to you that’s the truth.”

“And then? Did my wife bleed to death there where you’d sent her? Is that what you’ve been afraid to tell me all these years. That she died because she wasn’t where she could get medical attention? Was that your decision, Andre?”

There was no answer for a long time and he waited, impassive now. Was it less painful to believe that the fault had not been his? Less painful to picture her gradually sinking deeper into a bloodless lethargy from which not even the doctor, when he arrived, could save her? Better than the images of the fire and the smell of the gasoline?

Even now he couldn’t stand the smell. It was like the smell of a hospital. He couldn’t enter one. It brought it all back again: the agony of the burn tank, the struggle to walk again, to cope with the blackness of his world that had threatened so often to drown him in its dark depression.

“She didn’t die.”

The words interrupted his return to the hell of those memories, and he felt his heart take a great leap as he realized what Andre had just said. He forced himself into stillness and waited, and finally his brother continued.

“She recovered. I don’t know where the old woman got the idea that she was dying. She recovered more rapidly than anyone believed possible, but she was very young and strong. She came to the hospital to see you as soon as she was able. I’ll give her that. She had good intentions, but...I suppose the shock was too great. You were so terribly hurt, and there was no response for so long. When the doctors told us the full extent of the injuries, she blamed herself, of course. She damn well should have,” Andre said harshly. “That stupid bitch and her everlasting tantrums. She put you there, and as soon as the doctors told us the truth about your condition...that you were blind and probably would never walk again. That you—”

“I know what the doctors said,” Julien interrupted. He allowed himself to ask only when the angry voice had been silent a long time, “And when she knew?”

“She left. She left the note on your bed, in an envelope with my name on it. She couldn’t live with what she’d done. She couldn’t live with you as you were going to be. As soon as you came out of the coma, she realized that you were going to live, to know what she’d done. I could have killed her, Julien. I swear if I’d found her, I would have. The damned coward did what she did and then left you to—”

“So you let me believe she died?” the passionless voice interrupted again.

“You woke up convinced she was dead. All your questions were about her death, about whether she’d suffered. The doctors were so concerned about you, not just the physical injuries, but— I didn’t know what to do, what would be kinder to do, so I just said nothing. I’m guilty of that, and I admit it. I chose to let you believe that she died, rather than to know that she blinded you, killed your son and then walked away. All those months I watched you struggle through the pain, I hated her. I never tried to find her because I knew I’d kill her. I could kill her now.”