He could break her with ease.
His eyes moved down her body. He watched silently as her ribs rose and fell in an ever-slowing rhythm. The tidal movement as she gave herself over to sleep was unconsciously hypnotic.
How trusting she was, to slumber with a stranger.
Her defenselessness seemed to be speaking to him, demanding something of him—but he didn’t know how to answer its requests. He had never looked at a woman and thought of her in terms of her beautiful fragility. The feelings her weakness stirred in him were vaguely frightening, partly because he didn’t understand them. It was as though some part of his brain was making a secret plan that the rest of him was unaware of. Surely it was telling him that he must defend her innocence. He couldn’t be thinking anything else.
Rory gave a mental shrug. He would reflect on this later; the present was too beguiling to waste on self-examination. Much too beguiling! He smiled slightly, pleased at finding the right word for the moment.
He rose onto an elbow and blew lightly on Chloe’s nape, stirring the nearly invisible wisps that curled there. The soft disturbance made her grumble and wiggle down deeper into the bed.
He laughed silently. He should be feeling sad that MacGregor was likely dying.
Probably he would be sad, but later. For the moment he had other, better things to feel—other bonds that needed tending. In some ways, it was all very simple. He either had to make this women completely his, or he had to get rid of her. It was the only way to be safe. Rory knew which he would prefer.
He leaned over and ran a finger down Chloe’s exposed cheek.
“Wake up, sleepy-head,” he said softly, and then lowered his lips to the dainty ridge of collarbone that seemed to ask for his touch. He bit lightly.
“Hmmm?” Her lashes fluttered and her eyes opened. The irises looked black in the moonlight.
“I knew you were going to be greedy,” she complained, closing those sleepy eyes. But in spite of her words, she rolled over to take him into her arms.
Rory buried his face in her hair, hiding his triumphant smile. Somehow, he didn’t think that Chloe would like it. Women almost never cared for the triumph of naked aggression over gentler caring.
I am going to seek a great perhaps.
—the last words of Francois Rabelais
Chapter Twelve
Chloe awoke the next morning alone in Rory’s bed. A quick look about the room told her that though she may have been thoroughly ravished, she had not been thoughtlessly abandoned. Her sundress had been picked up from the rug—a breathtaking confection of antique jeweled silk threads, which she hadn’t had time to appreciate the night before—and draped neatly over the back of a chair upholstered in faded but beautiful tapestry. Her sandals were precisely paired on the floor beside the seat. There was no sign of her underwear on the chair or rug, but she hoped her panties were tucked somewhere in the folds of her skirt. One thing was for sure, she couldn’t leave the room until they were found! She could just imagine Morag sucking them up into the vacuum and having to call for a repairman to unwind the elastic and lace from the motor.
Chloe shuddered. It was the kind of thing that got immortalized as dating legend disasters. She’d rather die than face Morag without her panties.
A quick glance at the clock told her that the hour was early, so there was hope that she could return to her own room before anyone noticed that she hadn’t spent the night there. It wasn’t that there was anything wrong with her sleeping with Rory—in fact, she suspected that MacGregor would heartily approve—but having Rory’s ancient, puritanical relation know about their affair was rather embarrassing.
In fact, even without proof of her final fall from grace being discovered by Morag, Chloe decided that she would forgo breakfast that morning and just grab something quick at the hospital. She would miss the eggs Benedict and scones with clotted cream, but there was no need for Oleander to go to the bother of preparing a meal just for her when she was too nervous to eat alone under Morag’s basilisk stare.
The thought of MacGregor in the hospital, deprived of both good food and company, was another spur to be up and doing. That had Chloe bouncing out of bed and wrapping herself in her sundress, which fortunately did have her underwear tucked neatly into a pocket. Shoes in hand, she dashed down the hall toward the wing where her own bedroom was, leaping from rug to rug so her feet wouldn’t squeak on the glossy wood floor.
Rory had likely left for the hospital as soon as it was light, she decided while taking an extra-long jump and nearly ending up on the floor when the landing rug skidded into the wall. He had considerately not awakened her—which was very unselfish of him. She just wished that he had roused her long enough to say goodbye. Waking up alone in his bed was slightly disconcerting.
It was childish and spoke of unpleasant insecurities, but she wanted to see him in the light of the morning after—to reassure herself that all was well—and perhaps, if he didn’t mind, she would even sneak in to see his father. This morning she felt very close to MacGregor as well as to Rory. It was as though the Patricks had imprinted themselves upon her in the night, embedded themselves in her brain and heart, and even in her eyes, which seemed to look at the world in a different way.
Or maybe she was just romanticizing things, she thought with a moment of self-derision. If there was ever a place that could induce romantic fantasies, it was Riverview. The place was like a contagion to the susceptible brain.
Nevertheless, she still wanted to see MacGregor, so she was going to find a way past the nurse’s station.
A quick shower and a dash of makeup served as a restorative, and she managed to get out of the residence without being tagged with a scarlet A.
As she had expected, the van was gone from the front of the house. Fortunately, she had the keys to her car and knew where it was parked. It was a little tight backing out between the supports of the carriage house, but there was no serious damage to either party, so she went on her way without stopping to see if she had actually left some paint behind on the old wood post.
Riverview Hospital looked less menacing than it had the night before, but it still managed to cast a pall over Chloe’s spirits. This cold, characterless building was no place for MacGregor!
Chloe walked briskly to the ICU, hoping to find Rory, but as she’d expected, the waiting room was empty at that early hour.
Her next stop was the nurses’ station. Chloe had made up her mind that if no one was there, she would simply walk down to 306 and let herself into MacGregor’s room. However, being an intensive care unit, there was a nurse on duty, so Chloe was forced to stop and practice her best smile and wheedling skills.
“I am here to see MacGregor Patrick in three-oh-six,” she said politely but firmly.
“Would you be his new daughter-in-law, Chloe?”
She never even blinked at the lie. It was wonderful that Rory had done this for her. He had guessed what she would want and arranged this for her. It was better than flowers.
“Yes, I am.”
“Then you can go right in. The doctor still isn’t allowing any reporters or police in, but extended family is fine and Mr. Patrick has been calling for you.”
Reporters? She had almost forgotten about Isaac’s murder. Of course the media vultures would be circling.
“Have there been many reporters about?”
“Just one.” The nurse frowned. “But he has been annoyingly persistent.”
“This isn’t good. MacGregor will have fits if he sees a reporter.”
“It certainly isn’t good! Mr. Patrick is a very sick man. But don’t worry. No one gets past this station without checking in first.” The nurse’s militant expression smoothed. “But don’t you be nervous about seeing your daddy-in-law. Just remember to keep the visit short and don’t do anything to excite Mr. Patrick.” The nurse hesitated a moment and then added: “He has been wandering in his wits a little, so don’t be surprised if he is slightly incoherent and testy.”
Poor MacGregor, left all alone to deal with the real world. He was probably fuming.
Chloe smiled reassuringly.
“I understand. MacGregor won’t upset me—or visa versa,” she assured the nurse.
“Good. I’ll send your husband in when he comes.”
Chloe paused for a second, about to ask if Rory had been there already that morning, but changed her mind. A real wife would probably know these things.
She walked rapidly down the hall and pulled aside the privacy curtain that functioned as a door to the 306. The lights in MacGregor’s room were dimmed, the monitors’ beeping and blinking unobtrusive. Probably, given MacGregor’s feistiness, they hoped to let him sleep as much as possible. Other than the hiss of oxygen from the tube in his nose and the IV stuck in his arm, MacGregor looked rather like his usual self.
It was only when she neared the bed that Chloe could see how sunken and bruised the flesh around his eyes and nose was. He looked so old—so ill. All his joyful vitality had drained away in the hours of darkness. The change was shocking and made her unutterably sad. Much of her lingering pleasure from the night before drained away.
Sensing her presence, MacGregor’s eyes snapped open. They were bloodshot and slightly jaundiced, but they still had their usual animation.
“Hello, girl. Have you come to see your love?” he whispered, smiling a welcome whose beauty nearly broke her heart when she realized that it wasn’t for her, but for his dead wife. “I’ve been waitin’ for you, Nancy.”
So this was what the nurse had meant by wandering in his wits. Chloe said nothing, hoping that in silhouette she would continue to pass for Nancy Patrick. She slipped her hand into MacGregor’s palm and forced herself to smile even as she turned her face away from the soft lights and let her hair veil her.
“I’m here,” she said softly.
“Love, I’ve been needin’ to talk to you. I did a horrible thing. It was Claude, Nancy. Rory and I . . .” He trailed off with a small shake of his head. “We had to, love. The heathens were going to desecrate the family’s resting place—our home.”
Chloe didn’t move her hand, but she felt herself begin to go cold. She didn’t know what distressed her more, MacGregor bringing up the unpleasant subject of Claude and Isaac, or hearing him talk about the cemetery as his home.
“Don’t talk,” she whispered, afraid of stirring up her own ghosts. Her imagination had been blessedly silent all night and morning. She wanted the nightmares to keep sleeping. “I understand. Please don’t say anything. You don’t need to think about this.”
“I won’t say a word, love. I’ll never tell a soul. Wish Rory’s little girl hadn’t found the body. That shouldn’t have happened. Never meant for her to get involved. I told the nurse she was my daughter-in-law. Maybe she’ll come see us too. You’d like her.”
Rory’s girl. So MacGregor did know about them. Perhaps Rory had said something that morning. If he had been there. It seemed it was MacGregor and not Rory who had promoted her to family member so the nurses would let her in. A suspicion flitted by and concealed itself between two rational thoughts. Chloe considered tracking it down but was unsure she wanted any confrontations with her mind.
She swallowed and said again: “Don’t talk. Everything is all right. Chloe’s all right. She’ll come see you later.”
“Rory’s a good boy. He knows where Claude is—he must. I told him, I’m sure. And he’ll see he stays hidden. That’s where Claude belongs, hidden away. He’s a Patrick—it’s only right that he be with family. Rory will see to everything. I did all I could.” MacGregor’s whisper was almost lost in the hiss of oxygen.
“Yes, Rory will see to everything. Don’t worry,” she whispered.
MacGregor tightened his grip until his fingers bit into her hand.
“You understand, Nancy, don’t you?”
Chloe didn’t really understand, but Nancy would. She forced herself to answer soothingly.
“Yes. Don’t worry. It’s all right,” she repeated, unable to think of any new words.
“I had to do it,” MacGregor murmured. “My father told me when I was young, I had to protect the family, no matter what. And Rory . . . He’s my son. He’ll always do what’s right for the family. The law wouldn’t understand about Rory, but we do. I would do anything to protect my son.”
The room felt very close, and for some reason Chloe was having trouble breathing. It was as though the smell of disinfectant had clogged her nose and even the pores of her skin, which were beginning to ooze an unpleasant, nervous sweat. She knew that it was foolish to be shocked by MacGregor’s words. Hadn’t she suspected all along that MacGregor and Rory knew more about Claude’s disappearance than they were telling the police? This penitence for not going to Sheriff Bell didn’t mean anything—didn’t change anything. It was out of character for him to be so contrite, but MacGregor was ill—near death—and he just wanted to square the books. That’s all it meant. There was no need to feel like the world was about to implode.
MacGregor mumbled something else indistinct, but Chloe didn’t ask him to repeat it. As soon as MacGregor’s eyes closed and he returned to sleep, she pulled her hand away and left the room.
Chloe smiled automatically at the nurse on her way out, but didn’t stop to talk. She wanted to be away from the hospital before she met up with Rory. She needed a few moments to compose herself. It was one thing to have suspicions about them hiding Claude, but quite another to have them confirmed. MacGregor’s words made it all real. Rory was hiding a murderer.
It was a shock to pull up in front of the house and see Rory’s van there. It disturbed her to see that gray brown moths had lined up on the sunny side as orderly as hieroglyphs in a pharaoh’s tomb. They didn’t so much as flutter as she passed by.
Still unprepared to talk with him or face Morag, Chloe slipped from her car and, leaving her purse behind, set off on foot for the river. That should be a safe and private location for a bit of meditation.
She tramped through the rough for a quarter mile or so, determinedly not thinking, just following her nose, which told her that some of the wild mentha Rory had mentioned was growing nearby.
As she strolled, she began to have a physical sensation that she was at a slight material distance from her own body, having an out-of-body experience without dying, or, more accurately, that she was being pushed aside because something else wanted to see out of her eyes. She noted this but was not alarmed. It wasn’t the first time it had happened, though she hadn’t opened herself up since her mother died. Her grandmother called this spirit-riding.
Chloe had chosen her walk seemingly at random, but for some reason, the longer she walked, the more this goal of finding the mint became important to her. There was no thought of turning back toward the house, even when she came to a long stretch of dried, chest-high grass that had to be forded with brute strength. A dozen feet in, something grabbed at her shoulder. She shrugged off a limb of a fallen oak whose leafless claws were curled in menacing fists that made her think of Disney’s movie of Snow White.
Things rustled and scurried away, and the thought of ticks intruded on the edge of her consciousness, but it never crossed her mind to abandon her search. A sort of dreamy déjà vu moved her on. She knew this place . . . from somewhere.
Chloe only stopped walking when she reached a giant hedge that completely blocked the river. A closer look showed her that the hedge was held together with ancient barbed wire whose teeth were now dulled with corrosion and probably tetanus. Annoyed, but still blindly determined, she turned left at the green wall and started searching for a break in the dense shrubbery.
Go left. Here.
She turned. The smell of mint and water grew stronger and she followed the invisible trail, pausing once in a while to sniff the air like a bloodhound after prey. Through the silence there came a sharp snap of breaking wood that echoed through the air like a gunshot. Chloe froze in place and the sense of dreamy detachment left h
er, chased off by that one sound. She fell back into her body.
“So, what do you think? Do we try to pull her out? If we don’t get her now the next rain will carry her away,” a male voice said suddenly from inside the small, bank-side copse.
Chloe remained still. Though no longer wandering on autopilot, frustration at being thwarted so close to her goal rose in her like a wave. The feeling seemed more foreign now, definitely not her own.
Someone else answered, the words indistinct.
Damn! Her hands clenched. It was one of the Munson brothers speaking, and at the sound of his voice a flock of starlings took wing and disappeared into the sky, taking their twitters and shrill songs with them. The feeling that something else was riding around with her left.
The sound of the birds’ cries also broke through the last of her preoccupation.
What the hell was she doing in this tick-infested grass?
Chloe stood unmoving, one foot still lifted. She felt the remains of fear. Her mouth was dry, her body shaking. It was ridiculous, but for some reason she was anxious that the Munsons would hear her footsteps in the sudden silence following the pessimistic meteorological prediction. They might come looking for her. And though the Munsons had always been helpful and polite, it never crossed her mind to make her presence known and ask the way to the other side of the hedge.
A very strange thought presented itself to her. What she needed to do at the river required privacy. Even secrecy. She pushed back against this thought.
“They say rain by mid-week,” the younger Munson added, breaking some more sticks as he shifted his weight. “Storm’s comin’ up from the south. Gonna be a big one.”
Chloe was suddenly aware of how warm the morning had grown, and that she was slightly dizzy and breathless with the sun beating down on her unprotected head. Her lungs were laboring from her overland scramble and there were deep V’s of sweat in the valley between her breast and in the small of her back.
Writ on Water Page 20
