All Around the Town

by Mary Higgins Clark

  19

  AT ELEVEN O’CLOCK on Monday evening, Professor Allan Grant stretched out on his bed and switched on the night table lamp. The long bedroom window was partially open, but the room was not cool enough for his taste. Karen, his wife, used to teasingly tell him that in a previous incarnation he must have been a polar bear. Karen hated a cold bedroom. Not that she was around much to joke about it anymore, he thought as he threw back the blanket and swung his feet onto the carpet.

  For the last three years, Karen had been working at a travel agency in the Madison Arms Hotel in Manhattan. At first she’d stayed overnight in New York only occasionally. Then more and more often she’d phone in late afternoon. “Sweetie, we’re so busy, and I’ve got stacks of paperwork. Can you fend for yourself?”

  He’d fended for himself for thirty-four years before he’d met her six years ago on a tour of Italy. Getting back in the habit wasn’t that hard. Karen now had an apartment in the hotel and usually stayed there most of the week. She did come home weekends.

  Grant padded across the room and cranked the window wide open. The curtains billowed in, followed by an eminently satisfying blast of chilly air. He hurried toward the bed but hesitated and turned in the direction of the hallway. It was no use. He was not sleepy. Another bizarre letter had come in his office mail today. Who the hell was Leona? He had no students by that name, had never had.

  The house was a comfortable-size ranch model. Allan had bought it before he and Karen were married. For a time she’d seemed interested in decorating it and replacing shabby or dull furniture, but now it was beginning to look as it had in his bachelor days.

  Scratching his head and yanking up pajama bottoms, which always seemed to settle around his hips, Grant walked down the hallway past the guest bedrooms, across the center hall, past the kitchen, living and dining rooms, and into the den. He turned on the overhead lights. After rummaging successfully for the key to the top drawer of his desk, he opened it, got out the letters and began to reread them.

  The first one had come two weeks ago: “Darling Allan, I’m reliving now the glorious hours we spent together last night. It’s hard to believe that we haven’t always been madly in love, but maybe it’s because no other time counts for us, does it? Do you know how hard it is for me not to shout from the rooftops that I’m crazy about you? I know you feel the same way. We have to hide what we are to each other. I understand that. Just keep on loving me and wanting me the way you do now. Leona.”

  All the letters were in the same vein. One arrived every other day, each talking about wild love scenes with him in his office or this house.

  He’d had enough informal workshops here that any number of students knew the layout. Some of the letters referred to the shabby brown leather chair in the den. But never once had he had a student alone in the house. He wasn’t that much of a fool.

  Grant studied the letters carefully. They were obviously typed on an old machine. The o and the w were broken. He’d gone through his student files, but no one used a machine like that. He also did not recognize the scrawled signature.

  Once again he agonized about whether to show them to Karen and to the administration. It would be hard to predict how Karen would react. He didn’t want to upset her. Neither did he want her to decide to give up her job and stay home. Maybe he would have wanted that a few years ago, but not now. He had a big decision to make.

  The administration. He’d bring the Dean of Student Affairs in on this the minute he found out who was sending them. The trouble was he simply didn’t have a clue, and if anyone believed they contained an iota of truth, he could kiss his future at this college goodbye.

  He read the letters once more, searching for a writing style, phrases or expressions that might bring one of his students to mind. Nothing. Finally he replaced them in the drawer, locked it, stretched and realized that he was dead tired. And chilly. It was one thing to sleep in a cold room under warm blankets, another to be in the path of a direct draft when you’re sitting there in cotton pajamas. Where the heck was the draft coming from?

  Karen always closed the draperies when she was home but he never bothered. He realized that the sliding glass door from the den to the patio was open a few inches. The door was heavy and slow to move on the track. He probably hadn’t closed it completely the last time he went out. The lock was a pain in the neck too. Half the time it didn’t catch. He walked over, shoved the door closed, snapped the lock and without bothering to see if it had caught, turned out the light and went back to bed.

  He hunched under the covers in the now satisfyingly cold bedroom, closed his eyes and promptly fell asleep. In his wildest dreams he could not have imagined that half an hour ago a slender figure with long blond hair had been curled up in his brown leather chair and had only slipped away at the sound of his approaching footsteps.

  20

  FIFTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD private investigator Daniel O’Toole was known in New Jersey as Danny the Spouse Hunter. Under his hard-drinking, hail-fellow-well-met exterior, he was a remarkably thorough worker and quietly discreet in compiling information.

  Danny was used to people using false names when they hired him to check on possibly erring husbands or wives. It didn’t bother him. As long as he received his retainer and follow-up bills were paid promptly, his clients could call themselves anything they pleased.

  Even so it was a bit surprising when a woman identifying herself as Jane Graves phoned his Hackensack office Tuesday morning, hinting at a possible insurance claim and engaging him to investigate the activities of the Kenyon sisters. Was the older sister working at her job? Was the younger sister back in college, completing her studies? Did she come home often? How were they reacting to the death of their parents? Were there any signs of breakdown? Very important, was either young woman seeing a psychiatrist?

  Danny sensed something fishy. He had met Sarah Kenyon a few times in court. The accident that killed the parents had been caused by a speeding chartered bus with failed brakes. It was entirely possible that there was a suit pending against the bus company, but insurance companies usually had their own investigators. Still a job was a job, and because of the recession the divorce business was lousy. Breaking up was really hard to do when money was tight.

  Taking a gamble, Danny doubled his usual retainer and was told the check would be in the mail immediately. He was instructed to send his reports and further bills to a private post office box in New York.

  Smiling broadly, Danny replaced the receiver.

  21

  SARAH DROVE into New York after work on Tuesday evening. She was on time for the six o’clock appointment with Dr. Justin Donnelly, but when she entered his reception area he was hurrying out of his office.

  With a quick apology he explained that he had an emergency and asked her to wait. She had an impression of height and breadth, dark hair and keen blue eyes—then he was gone.

  The receptionist had obviously gone home. The phones were quiet. After ten minutes of scanning a news magazine and registering nothing, Sarah put it down and sat quietly absorbed in her own thoughts.

  It was after seven o’clock when Dr. Donnelly returned. “I’m very sorry,” he said simply as he brought her into his office.

  Sarah smiled faintly, trying to ignore her hunger pangs and the unmistakable beginning of a headache. It had been a long time since noon when she’d gulped a ham on rye and coffee.

  The doctor indicated the chair across from his desk. She sat there, aware that he was studying her, and got to the point immediately.

  “Dr. Donnelly, I had my secretary go to the library and copy material on multiple personality disorder. I’d only known about it vaguely, but what I read today frightens me.”

  He waited.

  “If what I understand is accurate, a primary cause is childhood trauma, particularly sexual abuse over a prolonged period. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Laurie certainly had the trauma of being kidnapped and hel
d captive away from home for two years when she was a small child. The doctors who examined her when she was found believe she was abused.”

  “Is it okay if I call you Sarah?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “All right then, Sarah. If Laurie has become a multiple personality, it probably started back at the time of her abduction. Assuming she was abused, she must have been so frightened, so terrified, that one small human being couldn’t absorb everything that was happening. At that point, there was a shattering. Psychologically Laurie, the child as you knew her, withdrew from the pain and fear and alter personalities came to help her. The memory of those years is locked away in them. It would seem that the other personalities have not been apparent until now. From what I understand, after Laurie came home at age six she gradually returned to pretty much her old self except for a recurring nightmare. Now, in the death of your parents, she’s experienced another terrible trauma, and Dr. Carpenter has seen distinct personality changes in her during her recent sessions with him. The reason he came to me so quickly is that he’s afraid she might be suicidal.”

  “He didn’t tell me that.” Sarah felt her mouth go dry. “Laurie’s been depressed, of course, but . . . Oh God, surely you don’t think that’s possible?” She bit her lip to keep it from quivering.

  “Sarah, can you persuade Laurie to see me?”

  She shook her head. “It’s a job to make her see Dr. Carpenter. My parents were wonderful human beings but they had no use for psychiatry. Mother used to quote one of her college teachers. According to him there are three types of people: the ones who go for therapy when they’re under stress; the ones who talk out their troubles with a friend or a cabdriver or bartender, the ones who hug their problems to themselves. The teacher claimed that the rate of recovery is exactly the same in all three types. Laurie grew up listening to that.”

  Justin Donnelly smiled. “I’m not sure that opinion isn’t shared by quite a lot of people.”

  “I know Laurie needs professional help,” Sarah said. “The problem is she doesn’t want to open up to Dr. Carpenter. It’s as though she’s afraid of what he might find out about her.”

  “Then at least for now it’s important to work around her. I’ve reread her file and made some notes.”

  At eight o’clock, observing Sarah’s drawn, tired face, Dr. Donnelly said, “I think we’d better stop here. Sarah, listen for any reference to suicide, no matter how offhand it might seem, and report it to Dr. Carpenter and me. I’m going to be perfectly honest. I’d like to stay involved in Laurie’s case. My work is research into multiple personality disorder and it’s not often we catch a patient at the beginning of the emergence of alter personalities. I’ll be discussing Laurie with Dr. Carpenter after her next several sessions with him. Unless there’s a radical change, I have a hunch that we’ll get more information from you than from Laurie. Be very observant.”

  Sarah hesitated then asked, “Doctor, isn’t it a fact that until Laurie unlocks those lost years, she’ll never really be well?”

  “Think of it this way, Sarah. My mother broke her nail down to the quick once and an infection developed. A few days later the whole finger was swollen and throbbing. She kept doctoring it herself because she was afraid to have it lanced. When she finally went to the emergency room she had a red streak up her arm and was on the verge of blood poisoning. You see, she had ignored the warning signs because she didn’t want the immediate pain of treatment.”

  “And Laurie is exhibiting warning signs of psychological infection?”

  “Yes.”

  They walked together through the long corridor to the front door. The security guard let them out. There was no wind but the October evening had an unmistakable bite in the air. Sarah started to say good night.

  “Is your car nearby?” Donnelly asked.

  “Miracle of miracles, I found a parking spot right down the block.”

  He walked her to it. “Keep in touch.”

  What a nice guy, Sarah thought as she drove away. She tried to analyze her own feelings. If anything she was more worried now about Laurie than she had been before she saw Dr. Donnelly, but at least now she had a sense of solid help available to her.

  She drove across Ninety-sixth Street past Madison and Park avenues, heading for the FDR Drive. At Lexington Avenue she impulsively turned right and headed downtown. She was famished, and Nicola’s was only a dozen blocks away.

  Ten minutes later she was being ushered to a small table. “Gee, it’s great to see you again, Sarah,” Lou, Nicola’s longtime waiter, told her.

  The restaurant was always cheery, and the delectable sight of steaming pasta being carried from the kitchen lifted Sarah’s spirits. “I know what I want, Lou.”

  “Asparagus vinaigrette, linguine with white clam sauce, Pellegrino, a glass of wine,” he rattled off.

  “You’ve got it.”

  She reached into the bread basket for a warm crusty roll. Ten minutes later, just after the asparagus was served, the small table to her left was taken. She heard a familiar voice say, “Perfect, Lou. Thanks. I’m starving.”

  Sarah glanced up quickly and found herself looking into the surprised then obviously pleased face of Dr. Justin Donnelly.

  22

  SEVENTY-EIGHT-YEAR-OLD Rutland Garrison had known from the time he was a boy that he was called to the ministry. In 1947 he had been inspired to recognize the potential reach of television and persuaded the Dumont station in New York to allocate time on Sunday mornings for a “Church of the Airways” religious hour. He had been preaching the Lord’s word ever since.

  Now his heart was quite simply wearing out and his doctor had warned him to retire immediately. “You’ve done enough in your lifetime for a dozen men, Reverend Garrison,” he’d said. “You’ve built a Bible college, a hospital, nursing homes, retirement communities. Now be good to yourself.”

  Garrison knew more than anyone how vast sums could be diverted from worthy causes to greedy pockets. He did not intend that his ministry fall into the hands of anyone of that ilk.

  He also knew that by its very nature a television ministry needed a man in the pulpit who could not only inspire and lead his flock but also preach a rousing good sermon.

  “We must choose a man with showmanship but not a showman,” Garrison cautioned the members of the Church of the Airways Council. Nevertheless in late October, after Reverend Bobby Hawkins’s third appearance as guest preacher, the council voted to invite him to accept the pulpit.

  Garrison had the power of veto over council decisions. “I am not sure of that man,” he told the members angrily. “There’s something about him that troubles me. There’s no need to rush into a commitment.”

  “He has a messianic quality,” one of them protested.

  “The Messiah Himself was the one who warned us to beware of false prophets.” Rutland Garrison saw from the tolerant but somewhat irritated expressions on the faces of the men around him that they all believed his objections were based solely on his unwillingness to retire. He got up. “Do what you want,” he said wearily. “I’m going home.”

  That night Reverend Rutland Garrison died in his sleep.

  23

  BIC HAD BEEN edgy since the last time he’d preached in New York. “That old man has it in for me, Opal,” he told her. “Jealous because of all the calls and letters they’re getting about me. I called one of those council members to see why I haven’t heard from them again and that’s the reason.”

  “Maybe it’s better if we stay here in Georgia, Bic,” Opal suggested. She turned away from his scornful glance. She was at the dining room table, surrounded by stacks of envelopes.

  “How were the donations this week?”

  “Very good.” Every Thursday on his local program and when he spoke at meetings, Bic made appeals for different overseas charities. Opal and he were the only ones allowed to touch the donations.

  “They’re not good compared to what the ‘Church of the Ai
rways’ takes in whenever I speak.”

  * * *

  On October 28 a call came from New York. When Bic hung up the phone he stared at Opal, his face and eyes luminescent. “Garrison died last night. I’m invited to become the pastor of the Church of the Airways. They want us to move permanently to New York as soon as possible. They want us to stay at the Wyndham until we select a residence.”

  Opal started to run to him, then stopped. The look on his face warned her to leave him alone. He went into his study and closed the door. A few minutes later she heard the faint sounds of music and knew that once again he had taken out Lee’s music box. She tiptoed over to the door and listened as high-pitched voices sang, “All around the town . . . Boys and girls together . . .”

  24

  IT WAS so hard to keep Sarah from realizing how afraid she was. Laurie stopped telling Sarah and Dr. Carpenter when she had the knife dream. There was no use talking about it. Nobody, not even Sarah, could understand that the knife was getting closer and closer.

  Dr. Carpenter wanted to help her, but she had to be so careful. Sometimes the hour with him went by so swiftly, and Laurie knew she had told him things she didn’t remember talking about.

  She was always so tired. Even though almost every night she stayed in her room and studied, she was always struggling to keep up with assignments. Sometimes she’d find them finished on her desk and not remember having done them.

  She was getting so many loud thoughts that pounded in her head like people shouting in an echo chamber. One of the voices told her she was a wimp and stupid and caused trouble for everyone and to shut her mouth around Dr. Carpenter. Other times a little kid kept crying inside Laurie’s mind. Sometimes the child cried very softly, sometimes she sobbed and wailed. Another voice, lower and sultry, talked like a porno queen.