Facets. Part 13

"I don't think so," John said, ignoring her to answer his father. He drew himself slowly up on the bed. "I'm the one who's been holding things together both at the office and here, while you've been playing pool and poker with the guys up in Timiny Cove. You owe me."

"Seems to me," Eugene said with the briefest of glances at Patricia, "you've been paid."

"Not enough."

"John, explain it to him," Patricia pleaded.

But John wasn't listening to her. What was happening, what had happened, was between him and his father more than it had ever related to her. Wrapping the sheet around his waist, he rose from the bed. "I want more. If you want me out of this house, I'll go. I'll even resign from the company. But it'll cost you."

"You get nothing," Eugene barked.

"It'll cost you a lot. I want money."

"You get s.h.i.+t."

"If I leave, I'll take most of the management with me. I haven't been twiddling my thumbs all these years. You may have bent over backward to treat the miners like gold, but I'm the one who took the time to see that the movers and shakers around the office were greased. They'll come with me. One word and you'll lose them. There's your chain"-he snapped his fingers-"broken in a minute. It'll take you a while to get it fixed."

"By G.o.d, you're arrogant as ever. Well, it won't work this time," Eugene informed him, flushed with rage. "If anyone wants to leave, I'll give him a push out the door. I place loyalty above lots of other things. If their loyalty's to you, you can have them." His jaw grew even tighter. "I'm going out now. By the time I get back, I want you gone."

"Gene, you can't-" Patricia began, running after him.

"It's done!"

John didn't move, couldn't move, but listened while Patricia tried to stop Eugene. She followed him down the stairs, her voice growing frantic in a way that mirrored the feeling in John's stomach. He heard the slamming of doors-once, twice, again-interspersed with Patricia's pleas and Eugene's terse replies. Still John didn't move, not even when there was a final loud slam and then total silence. For an interminable time he stood there in his father's bedroom wearing nothing but a sheet, fighting the panic that brought a cold sweat to his lip.

There was a feeling of deja vu in it-the panic, the fear, the sense of having the floor knocked out from under his feet. He'd felt that way when his mother died, and he hadn't intended ever to feel it again. But there it was. His future hung in a limbo that was the ant.i.thesis of the satisfaction he'd expected.

Stunned, he let the sheet slip to the floor and reached for his clothes. He was pulling on his pants when he heard the first of the sirens. Life in the city was filled with sirens, and since he was embroiled in an emergency of his own, he ignored them.

With his s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.toned, though hanging loose, he scooped his tie and jacket from the floor, drove a hand through his hair, and went to his own room long enough to drop his things. He needed a drink. He couldn't think straight. He had to decide whether to stay or go, what to say or do, how to handle Eugene. It wasn't possible that his father had meant all he'd said. He was angry and upset. A man didn't just write off his son-his vice president-that way.

Mired in confusion, he was halfway down the stairs before he felt the draft from the door. Marcy had opened it and was leaning out, looking down Mt. Vernon in the direction of Charles. The sirens were louder than ever.

John wasn't sure what drew him to the door, whether it was a premonition, a need for diversion, or simple curiosity. But he found himself looking over Marcy's shoulder at a jumble of blinking red lights.

"Fire?" he asked.

Marcy shook her head. It was a minute before she said, "The lights are in the middle of the street. Looks more like an accident."

John felt odd. "Where's Patricia?"

In the pause that followed he was convinced that Marcy knew precisely what had been going on behind her mistress's closed doors so many afternoons and evenings. But he was past the point of caring. "Is she in the living room?"

Eyes on the blinking lights, Marcy shook her head.

"The kitchen?"

"Isn't she with your father?"

"I don't know. Is she?"

"I heard them talkin', then they were gone. Maybe they're down there stuck in that mess."

John's heart was pounding again, not so loudly, but heavily. "Where's Pam?"

"At her friend Cindy's. She'll be home b'fore long."

He turned back into the house and called, "Patricia?" When there was no answer, he went to the foot of the stairs. He was sure he'd have known if she'd gone back up after Eugene had left, but he had to check. "Patricia?" The only answer was another siren.

Swearing softly, he grabbed his coat from the closet and threw it on as he trotted down the stone steps outside.

The closer John got to the lights, the faster he walked. There was something too familiar about the blue of the car that was crushed between the Mack truck that had rammed it and the unyielding brick wall of the corner drugstore.

"Jesus," he breathed as he wove through the emergency vehicles. "Jesus."

"Hey, fella," the police officer called, "better stay back."

"I know them," he managed to say. Breathing hard, he watched as the truck was hauled back from the wall.

"You know who they are?" the policeman asked, but John couldn't take his eyes from the mess that had once been his father's car.

"What happened?" he whispered.

"Looks like they came barreling down Mt. Vernon and either skidded into the intersection or ran a red. Who are they?"

"John!" came a breathless cry from a short distance away. He looked over to see Pam running up, her eyes wide and curious. "Cindy's parents dropped me two blocks down so they could turn off before they hit this. What happened?" She leaned sideways, then stood on her tiptoes in an attempt to see past the police cars and ambulances.

Swallowing hard, John put an arm around her shoulder. It was the first time he had ever touched her in what could have been called a protective way. Turning her away, he began to lead her quickly up the hill.

"Hey, bud," the policeman called, "we need an ID."

John ignored him. He held Pam's shoulder, squeezing tightly each time she tried to look back. He wasn't sure why he was protecting her; she had to know sooner or later. But later seemed better, when things were cleaned up and he knew who was hurt and how badly.

She tried to look back again, but he forced her forward. He didn't have to look back to see the crush of that car against the wall; it was a vivid picture etched in his mind. If he could save Pam that, it would go a long way toward easing his guilt.

"What happened there?" she asked, suddenly more frightened than curious.

"An accident. You don't want to see. I'll take you up to the house, then go back. I'll tell you about it later."

Pam didn't argue, but she must have known that his behavior was strange. Once more she tried to look back over her shoulder. When he wouldn't allow it, she asked, "Is my mother home?"

"I don't think so."

"Is Daddy?"

"No."

In a tone that was as unsteady as any he'd ever heard from her, she asked, "Do you know where they are?"

"I'm not sure. I'll find out." He quickened his step and hers along with it. Marcy was still at the door, too far away to see the car or its color or, mercifully, its contents. "Take her inside," he ordered, then jogged back down the street.

He arrived in time to see Patricia's broken body being put into an ambulance for a short, high-speed ride to the hospital. It was a while before Eugene was freed from the wreck. He too was put into an ambulance, but the ride was less rushed. He had died the instant the car hit the wall.

Chapter 9.

New York, May 1990 HILLARY GLANCED AT PAM, who walked at a smart pace beside her along Fifth Avenue. Her hair was tucked up under a floppy hat, she wore a nondescript jersey and jumper, tights and ballet flats, and she carried a canvas bag with I LOVE NY stamped on its front. The effect was supposed to be tacky, but Hillary thought she looked adorable. Large dark gla.s.ses s.h.i.+elded her eyes, not so much from the glare of the sun as from recognition. She needed anonymity. They were on a spy mission, one of Pam's infamous incognito adventures into the world of New York jewelers. It was the first they had taken since Brendan fell ill, and though Pam was hesitant about leaving him, she needed the day away.

Hillary had often accompanied her on these jaunts in the past, simply because Pam was her friend and she enjoyed being with her. This time her motive was more pointed.

They had just left David Webb's showroom on Fifty-seventh Street and were headed for Tiffany's. Quite conveniently, Pam liked to talk while she was looking at what the compet.i.tion had produced. She wanted to appear nonchalant, even a little disinterested. As fate would have it, coming in from the airport on this day she had pa.s.sed the scene of an automobile accident, and while the particulars were different from the accident twenty-one years before, the blinking lights had stirred memories. They had talked of these memories through lunch at the Polo Lounge at the Westbury and now continued talking as they walked.

"I knew John had the germs of compa.s.sion in him," Hillary commented after Pam had relived the details of those terrible days.

Pam shot her a dry look from behind the dark gla.s.ses. "No doubt they've all atrophied by now. But he was decent back then. I have to admit it. For about three days-between the time of the accident and the funeral-he was decent. He played the grieving son and the concerned brother. No doubt it was all for show."

"Give credit where credit is due."

"Okay. Three days. I'll give him three days."

"Generous," Hillary remarked, but her thoughts were on something Pam had said in the course of another talk they'd had, two weeks before when Hillary had flown to Boston. "Speaking of generosity, what happened to Cutter's bequest? He's never said a word to me about it, and the more I think of it, the more odd that seems. When he first came to New York he had his life savings in a bank note in his pocket. He had no intention of ever returning to Timiny Cove."

Pam didn't answer. Hillary suspected that she was thinking back to the circ.u.mstances preceding Cutter's arrival in New York. She was sure the memory brought pain.

But Hillary wanted to know about the bequest. "If he had owned Little Lincoln, he wouldn't have been so down about things. That would have given him confidence-not to mention money. Little Lincoln was developed within a year after Eugene's death." She had learned that while moseying around in Timiny Cove the week before.

"He never got Little Lincoln."

"Why not?"

They stopped at a light, pressed close together in the crowd waiting for it to change. Hillary felt Pam's shrug.

"Why not?" she repeated.

"Your guess is as good as mine."

"What's your guess?"

The light changed. They moved on. "John changed the will."

"He couldn't do that. A will is a legal doc.u.ment."

"More than one legal doc.u.ment has been tampered with."

"He wouldn't do that."

The look that came from beneath the floppy hat and dark gla.s.ses was facetious this time.

"He wouldn't, Pam. That's illegal. John wouldn't have risked his career that way, much less his reputation. Changing a will is premeditated. It's a blatant violation of the law. Are you sure, Pam?"

"I was there when the will was read," Pam insisted.

"And there was no mention of Cutter?"

"No."

"Or of Little Lincoln?"

"No."

Still Hillary resisted. She didn't want to think of John as a felon. "Maybe that part of the will was handled privately. Maybe Eugene had instructed that the bequest should be between the lawyer and Cutter. Maybe he got Little Lincoln and turned right around and sold it." The eventual development had been done by St. George Mining. "John must have bought him out."

"Sorry, Hillary."

"Are you sure?"

"Cutter didn't get anything. I know."

"Maybe there wasn't a bequest to begin with."

"I heard them talking. Clear as day that time in Maine, I heard it. Daddy was firm. It wasn't something they were discussing for discussion's sake. It was a fait accompli, and nothing happened after that that would have changed Daddy's mind. He and Cutter were on the best of terms right to the end."

They walked on in silence for several minutes before Hillary murmured, "The b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Uh-huh."

Several days later, Hillary went to see Arlan McGregor. He was her editor, the man she had worked with on two previous books, and a friend. Looking up to find her at the door of his office, he flipped the gla.s.ses from his nose, sat back in his chair, folded his hands over a middle that had grown some of late, and grinned.

"Glad to see me?" she asked with a grin of her own. She had forgotten how much Arlan liked her, but the reminder was spreading from his grin to his eyes. No look could have been more welcome.

"d.a.m.n glad. I was beginning to think you'd dropped off the face of the earth. Or moved from New York. I've missed you something fierce."

"Uh-huh."

"I have. But a guy can only deal with unrequited love for so long." He gave her an appreciative once-over. "You're looking good, Hillie."

If there was one thing John had taught her, it was to project herself as she wanted to be perceived. She was wearing a chic, man-tailored suit that was all business. She wanted to look competent, confident, and in control.

"Thanks, friend," she said, then paused. Something was different. Something smelled different. Then it hit her. "No smoke?"

"Gave it up."

"Good for you, Arlan! I'm proud of you!"