BERNHARDT EASED THE DOOR of her apartment open, stepped inside, softly closed the door, and bolted it. He went to the small living room, then stood motionless, listening. It was a small apartment, only one bedroom, a bath, a large living room with a dining table at one end, and a small kitchen that opened on a counter. The building had originally been a Victorian mansion, in later years divided into four apartments. The coved ceilings were high, the woodwork was intricately carved, the fireplace was framed and mantled in marble. Two of the windows in the living room were curved glass, with stained glass at the top. Paula came from a life of privilege. An only child, both her parents were college professors; her father was a nationally recognized economist. The furnishings she’d chosen for the apartment reflected her background: impeccably restrained taste, a good eye for proportion—and money in the bank.
“Alan … ?” From behind the half-open bedroom door, her voice was blurred by sleep. Or was it exhaustion?
“Yes.” He went to the bedroom door, pushed it open. She lay on the far side of the double bed, her knees drawn up. She was facing him. Her hands on the counterpane were tightly clenched. Her brown hair was tousled. In her pale, drawn face the dark eyes were abnormally large: waif’s eyes. Without speaking, he sat on the bed, stroked her hair back from her forehead. The time was five o’clock. After he’d taken Louise and Angela to their home, the end of his responsibility, he’d brought Paula here, to her own place. He’d waited while she’d taken a long, hot shower and got into bed. She’d taken an over-the-counter sleeping pill. When they’d gotten into bed together and he’d held her close, he’d whispered the same endearments a parent would whisper to a child, trying to make the memory of something terrible go away. Before she finally went to sleep in his arms, he’d whispered that he would have to leave her for a few minutes, once she’d fallen to sleep. In reply, she’d murmured something unintelligible.
“How’d you sleep?”
She tried to smile: a small, wan, wistful attempt that quickly faded. “I’m not sure I did sleep.”
“Did you hear me go out?”
“No.”
“Then you slept.”
“What time is it?”
“A little after five.”
“Can you stay here tonight?”
“Sure. Of course.” Once more stroking her hair, smiling into her eyes, he swung his legs up on the bed to lie beside her, on top of the bed clothing.
“How’s Crusher?” she asked.
“He’ll be all right. He’s at the vet’s for at least tonight.”
“Poor Crusher. He’s the only one who was really hurt.”
“I’m glad to hear you say it.”
She tried another smile as her eyes began to close.
“Listen,” he said, “I’ve got to go out again in a few minutes. There’s a call I have to take.”
Her eyes came heavily open. “Can’t you take it here?”
“No. But I’ve just got to go around the corner. Then I’ll be right back.” As he spoke, he glanced at his watch. In sixteen minutes, exactly, he must be ready to take the call.
Watching him, her eyes came into sharper focus. She began to frown, an expression of suspicion. “Alan …” She let the rest go meaningfully unsaid. Signifying that she suspected why he must leave her.
“Before I go—” It was a tentative, elusive beginning. “I want to ask you about the Chinese guy who did the talking. Can you describe him?”
“Alan, for God’s sake, don’t go after them. You—my God—you and C.B., you wouldn’t stand a chance against this man. It—it’s creepy, how much power he projects, how much evil. He never raises his voice, but everything he says is menacing. And he’s got an organization. Last night, it was like a military operation.”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty-five to forty-five, I’d say.” Then, as he’d taught her, she recited the rest of it: “A handsome man, very urbane. Medium build, probably a hundred sixty, no more. Good dresser. Very intelligent. And very vain, I think.”
“He’s got to be the one I talked to on the phone. If I had to pick one word, ‘urbane’ would be it. Smooth talking, never raises his voice, even when—” About to repeat what the voice on the phone had threatened, he broke off.
But in a low, hushed voice, she finished it: “Even when he was threatening to cut off my fingers, he never raised his voice. Is that what you were going to say, Alan?” As she spoke, the terror remembered returned in a rush, once more haunting the shadows deep in her eyes. But then, just as quickly, her eyes cleared. She set her small jaw, drew a deep breath, then spoke fervently, furiously: “The bastard. The goddam smooth-talking bastard.”
He smiled. On the road back, Paula had made the first turn.
The lady’s got guts, Tate had said.
Yes, the lady did indeed have guts.
Bernhardt moved close, kissed her once, hard. Then, exclaiming as he looked at his watch, he rolled off the bed. “I’ll lock the door. Back soon—a half hour, no more.”
“Alan …”
“Gotta go.” He waved, strode quickly to the door.