Precipice

by Tom Savage

  “Hi, kids. Having fun?”

  They both whirled from the railing. Adam Prescott stood in the doorway, grinning, holding out a silver tray.

  “Coffee’s being served in the living room,” he said.

  The moment he saw Prescott, Robin knew that there was something peculiar going on. They had just eaten dinner, and Jerry Flynn had already gone home. They’d have coffee now, and then Robin would leave as well. Prescott was at the end, not the beginning, of his duties as host. So why, Robin wondered, had the man changed his clothes? He’d removed the suit he’d been wearing; now he was clad in jeans, sweater, and sneakers. And there was something else. . . .

  As they followed Prescott inside, the girl spoke up. “Bob is taking me out sailing on Labor Day, Adam. Isn’t that nice of him?”

  Prescott set the tray down on the coffee table and straightened, facing the two of them. Robin felt the involuntary discomfort as the unnervingly handsome blond giant raked him up and down with the gaze of his washed-out blue eyes. Then he looked from Robin to the girl. “Oh? Labor Day, you say?”

  “Yes,” she replied, meeting Prescott’s gaze with her own. “Labor Day.”

  He smiled, and his too-white teeth glistened. “Excellent!”

  He glanced over at his wife, who was still on the phone in the corner. Then he leaned down to pour. He handed a cup to the girl and filled another. As he approached with the coffee, Robin realized what it was that he’d noticed on the deck moments before and found to be so odd: Prescott fairly reeked of freshly applied bay rum. Robin studied his face as he leaned toward him. Yes, he thought, very strange. Not only has the man changed his clothes; he’s shaved as well. Now, why would any man change clothes and shave at ten o’clock in the evening? Why would I do such a thing? Only one reason.

  They sat in a semicircle around the table. As he added cream to his cup, Robin noticed the strained, rather intense exchange of glances between Prescott and the girl. Prescott grinned, and the girl blushed. Robin put down the creamer and reached for the sugar bowl, thinking suddenly, incongruously, of Margaret Barclay.

  She sent me here for information, he thought as he stirred the coffee. It never occurred to me until this moment that maybe—just maybe—that information is something I’d rather not know.

  Kay hung up the phone and went over to join the others.

  “Trish says hello,” she announced, sitting next to her husband and accepting the cup he extended to her. “Thanks, darling. She’s feeling much better, but she can’t see through all those bandages. The doctor says they’ll come off in about three days, and she may actually be out of the hospital on Tuesday. Let’s see, that’s the day after Labor Day. . . . I’ll bring her straight here, of course.” She smiled proudly around at everyone.

  Her husband reached over and slowly, lovingly, began twirling a lock of her bright-red hair between his large fingers.

  “Diana,” she cried, alarmed by the odd look that had suddenly appeared on the young woman’s face. “Are you all right?”

  “What? Oh, yes. Yes, I’m fine,” the girl whispered, and she slowly raised her cup.

  Robin was halfway down the drive to the main road when his curiosity got the better of him. His curiosity, yes—and something else. Of course, he could justify what he was about to do by convincing himself that it was part of his job. But he knew better.

  Pausing to analyze it was not a good idea, he knew, even as he noticed the little dirt turnoff in the beam of the headlights. It was this track branching off among the trees that really swayed him, made his idea a reality. He swung the car off the drive, parked in the turnaround at the end of the track, and left the car. Moving quickly and as silently as possible, keeping out of sight among the trees that lined the main drive, he walked back up the hill toward Cliffhanger.

  He emerged from the trees at the end of the lawn. The huge tamarind in the center of the circle shone silver in the moonlight. Checking to be sure there was nobody at any of the lit windows of the house, he crouched and ran as swiftly as he could across the open ground. He made it to the base of the tree in seconds and flattened himself against the enormous trunk. In the absolute darkness beneath the thick fruit-laden branches, he waited.

  Adam waited until he was certain that Kay was asleep. It didn’t take long: the past three days of worrying about Trish Manning had taken their toll on her nerves, and as far as sleep was concerned, she had a lot of catching up to do.

  Just to be sure, he had earlier stolen two sleeping capsules from her medicine cabinet and mixed the contents in the cups of coffee he’d handed her and Diana. The moment Bob Taylor had departed, Diana had disappeared upstairs and Kay had come into the room and fallen into bed. Now her breathing was deep and steady.

  Excellent.

  He switched off the lights and left the room.

  The young woman waited in the shadows of the darkened upstairs hallway, listening for sounds elsewhere in the house. She’d left the bedroom door ajar in case the need arose for a quick retreat, and for the past thirty minutes she’d been standing here, straining her ears to detect any noise below. She leaned back against the cool white stucco, peering out through the wall of glass before her at the moonlit front lawn. Her vision blurred from time to time. At one point a few minutes ago, she’d fancied she saw something moving among the shadows under the tamarind tree. Then she’d blinked, and the night had once again been still. Why was she suddenly so tired?

  Her mind was working more efficiently than her other faculties. Behind her heavy eyelids, her thoughts were racing. How would she follow him if he took the car, which he was almost certain to do? The keys to the Land Rover would be in Kay’s purse, wherever that was. Her bedroom, presumably: that was no good. And where the hell was he going, anyway? She knew he was up to something: the change of clothing and the shave immediately after dinner had tipped her off. Kay, of course, hadn’t noticed. She’d been too busy worrying about her friend and about Adam and Lisa’s impending trip to the States.

  Her sudden, inexplicable fatigue was apparently stronger than her anxiety. And she was anxious, not only about Adam but about Bob Taylor. For the second time in a week, Bob had made her feel uneasy, wary. What was it about the man that so disturbed her? He’d saved her from drowning; she should be grateful. He was certainly attractive, even sexy; that should prompt certain responses from her, too. Yet she was aware only of being uncomfortable whenever he was around.

  Tonight, for the second time, he’d confused her. That remark about Philip Barry: even people in show business didn’t remember him. But this young real-estate broker certainly did. It had made her feel odd, as she had felt last week after the birthday party. Something he’d said or done during the birthday party. Something not right.

  Her eyes were blurring again, and she stifled a yawn. Wake up! she commanded, remembering the coffee she’d barely touched and wishing she’d drunk it all. Fighting off the weariness that threatened to overcome her, she made a decision. She would wait here in the hallway to see if and when he departed. That was all she could do. She’d have to trust him after that: tonight’s activities could very well be part of the plan. She wished, not for the first time, that he’d told her more of his agenda. But of course, that would have required his telling her about Sandra and Nancy and Trish before the fact. Perhaps it was better to play by his rules after all.

  To calm herself—and to keep awake at her post—she concentrated on the scrapbook. She did this whenever she felt frightened or began to lose her resolve. She had only to conjure the yellowed pages with their screaming text and grainy photographs, and she was immediately filled with a renewed sense of purpose.

  She’d only photocopied the first twenty-eight pages for the second scrapbook, the duplicate she’d brought to St. Thomas. The original, locked safely away in the grandmother’s escritoire in her bedroom at home, contained an entire second section that, while comforting to her, was not pertinent. Random cases, from all over America, of people in situation
s similar to hers. Now, pressed against the wall of the upstairs hallway at Cliffhanger, she thought only of those first twenty-eight pages. Her baby pictures, and her mother and father, and the woman in Hawaii. . . .

  The sudden sound broke through her reverie. Somewhere just below her a door quietly opened and closed. Then she heard the muffled sound of rubber-soled shoes padding lightly, carefully, across the living room to the foyer. The front door now, slowly opening and softly shut. She stepped forward toward the glass wall, looking down. Adam came into view below her, moving quickly away from the house, toward the two vehicles parked in the drive. She glanced down at her watch: eleven-thirty.

  She was just about to turn around and go back into her bedroom when Adam did something extraordinary. Just as he reached the drive where the Nissan stood waiting, he turned and walked off across the lawn toward . . . toward . . .

  She ducked into the bedroom, kicked off her high-heeled pumps, and fumbled in the darkness for her sneakers. Finding them under the bed and tying the laces cost her several minutes, but at least she knew he was on foot, and where he was obviously going. She pulled on a dark sweater over her white blouse and ran back out into the hall. In a flash she was down the stairs and heading for the front door, her mysterious lethargy instantly forgotten.

  Robin crouched behind the tamarind, watching Adam Prescott stride across the lawn and into a gap between the trees near the edge of the cliff. He did not hesitate for a single moment. Silent as the shadows to which he clung, he moved forward to follow.

  There was a path at the place where Prescott had disappeared, parts of which were dimly illuminated by the moon. He could just make out the shape of the other man moving through the foliage ahead. The wind whistled through the leaves, strong enough to muffle any slight sound he might make. His quarry was bolder now that he was a safe distance from the house. He strode purposefully—and rather noisily—down the hill.

  Robin kept back, maintaining a distance of some fifty yards. As they made their way farther down, the roll of the surf grew stronger. By the time Robin’s shoes left hard earth and sank into sand, the sound of the nearby breakers was surprisingly loud.

  He stood quite still at the end of the path, listening for sounds ahead of him in the darkness. His eyes had adjusted somewhat, and the moonlight here on the open beach was strong. He caught a brief glimpse of a large, dark shadow leaving the sand and entering the trees about halfway along the beach. He heard the heavy footsteps crunching on what must, by the sound of it, be fallen palm fronds dried by the sun.

  Then he saw the light. The strong nighttime trade wind suddenly rustled the trees between him and Prescott, and among the moving branches he noticed a flicker of brightness, as of a lamp or candle. Prescott was obviously heading toward it.

  He heard the distinct sound of a door opening on a rusty hinge, and the light grew. It emanated, he now saw, from some kind of small building set back in the trees behind the beach. Slowly, carefully, holding his breath, he moved closer to the light.

  Prescott was standing outside the open doorway, looking into the room. The sound of his low-pitched laughter traveled through the trees, and after a moment he entered, closing the door behind him. The soft light continued to gleam through the gaping cracks between the vertical boards that formed the walls.

  Robin was just beginning to steel himself, to actually contemplate the prospect of moving closer to the hut, when he became aware of the faint sound behind him. He froze, listening intently. Then, when he realized what it was, he moved silently, instinctively to his right, away from the base of the path, deeper into the shrubbery, and ducked down behind a trunk.

  Someone else was coming down the path to the beach.

  He watched from his secret vantage place as she came by. She was looking straight ahead of her, heading toward the light that shone dimly through the forest. Her hands were clutching her upper arms as if she were cold, despite the heavy sweater she wore. He could not see her face from this angle, but he heard her soft, ragged breathing.

  She came to a halt at the bottom of the path, not twelve feet from where he was concealed. He fancied he could almost hear her thinking. After a long moment, she apparently came to some sort of decision and stepped cautiously forward into the trees.

  He risked rising to a standing position, the better to observe her. She neared the boathouse, slowing even more as she reached the place where the dead, dried fronds barred her way. She bowed her head and stepped carefully through them, peering down into the darkness at her feet. She glided across the final distance and directly up to the side of the building.

  As he watched, she bent forward and looked through a crack between the boards. She stood there, frozen, for one full minute. Then she turned around and faced in his direction, her back to the boathouse. She raised a hand to cover her mouth, slowly shaking her head from side to side. At last she lowered her hand and, with one swift backward glance, retraced her steps through the trees to the base of the path, gaining speed as she put distance between her and the little hut. By the time she passed his hiding place, she was running. She flew by him, a blur of dark sweater and dark hair and pale white face, and up the path toward Cliffhanger. Even with her frantic pace, he had not failed to see the expression in her eyes, or the tears that streamed down her bloodless cheeks.

  He knelt in the darkness behind the bushes, watching her go, wondering why the sight of her desolate face should move him as it did. And why was the chilly seaside forest suddenly so warm? He could feel the heat as she ran by, almost as if it emanated from her body, sending a wave of warmth outward into the night air. He watched her, squinting into the gloom, straining to see her until that last possible moment when the forest and the darkness enshrouded her.

  He waited until the sound of her headlong flight had faded away up the hill. Then he stepped out of the shadows and walked silently, cautiously through the trees to the wall of the boathouse. Holding his breath, he leaned forward and peered inside.

  Well well well, he thought, staring. What do you know?

  Kay was awakened by the slamming of the front door. Her sleep had been fitful, and as her mind struggled up from its deep stupor she realized, with a vague sense of alarm, that she was drenched in sweat. She had the impression that she’d been dreaming, and that the dream had not been pleasant, but she could not remember a single detail of it. She lay between the moist sheets, gradually becoming aware of the sound of running footsteps. She heard them flying across the living room and up the stairs. By the time she forced herself to rise from the bed and stagger out into the hall, the only thing left to hear was the shutting and locking of a bedroom door above her.

  She stood in the center of the dark living room, gazing up, wondering if she should investigate. The cold floor shocked the soles of her bare feet, and her gauzy nightgown flapped in the draft that gushed through the open doors to the deck. Her mind was unaccountably fuzzy, and her arms hung heavily at her sides. If she didn’t know better, she would swear she’d taken a sleeping pill. No, she would certainly remember if she had.

  Where had Diana been at this hour? And why had she come running into the house like that? Kay thought she’d gone to bed when Bob Taylor left.

  Bob Taylor.

  A slow, knowing smile came to her lips. So, she thought. A rendezvous, arranged previously—perhaps when they were alone together after dinner, when she went to call Trish.

  She raised a hand to her parched throat as another wave of weariness washed over her. She must get a drink of water and return to bed. She would have to be up early tomorrow, to see Adam and Lisa off at the airport.

  Adam.

  She looked around the dark, empty room, wondering where her husband could be. He apparently wasn’t in the house. He must have gone out somewhere, to meet Jerry or Jack Breen or some of his buddies from the club and hoist a few on the eve of his trip to Florida. One of those mandatory, all-male send-offs to the Day after Labor Day Regatta. My, she thought, I certainly miss
ed a lot when I fell asleep so quickly tonight.

  Even in her exhausted state, that line of reasoning bothered her. Adam didn’t seem to have buddies, really . . . . Oh, well. Maybe he’s making an effort. Good for him. And Diana is apparendy making an effort as well. Good for her.

  Had she been another kind of woman, Kay Prescott might have suspected something. She might have gone to the front window and seen the Nissan parked behind the Land Rover in the driveway. She might even have gone so far as to ask her husband, the next morning, where he had been the night before. But she did none of these things. She was an honest, trusting woman who loved her husband as well as she could, though not as well as she had loved the man who instilled such trust in her in the first place. If innocence can be regarded as a fault, it was Kay Prescott’s only one.

  With a yawn and a shake of her heavy, drug-tinged head, she went back to bed—thus, in an odd way, setting the stage for the final act of the tragedy. The scandal. That Cliffhanger business.

  SIXTEEN

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 31

  MARGARET CAME OUT of the house into dazzling sunlight and walked briskly toward the garage. Lovely day, she thought, inhaling deeply as she fiddled with the remote control device. The heavy garage door shuddered into its long, slow ascent with a small shriek of rusty protest. She made a mental note to ask Mrs. O’Rourke to get her husband to come over someday soon and attend to it.

  My mind is wandering again, she realized as she got into the gray BMW. Funny how it does that whenever I’m worried, when I’m trying not to think about something. The overload, no doubt: the surfeit of worries that suddenly seems to be laying siege to my life.

  She smiled ruefully as she drove in the direction of the Long Island Expressway. Perhaps I’ll go mad, she thought. Perhaps my terrors will rise up and choke what’s left of my mind. Someone—as if I don’t know who!—will put me in a place, some glorified hospital not unlike the one I’m visiting today. Then I’ll be out of it, and it will all be somebody else’s problem.