WHEN SHE’D BEGUN, HE’D immediately gone to the door of the study and closed it. When she’d finished—finally exhausted by her own emotions—he asked quietly, “Is there anyone else in the house? Any servants?”
“As soon as I got back,” Millicent answered, “I sent them home.” Adding bitterly: “I know how you hate for anyone to witness our periodic little scenes.”
“Okay. Now, can I say something? Will you listen to me, while I say something?” Daniels spoke quietly, trying to calm her with his voice, trying to steady her with his eyes. Arms folded, at bay, still breathing deeply, raggedly, she stood with her back to the wall of books that were the backdrop for his desk. Selected by a renowned bibliophile, the books were old and valuable and beautifully bound. His father’s study had been lined with books like these—most of them read.
Surprised by the wayward thought, the instant’s image of his father’s study flashing across his consciousness, he frowned. All day—all week, all month—random images had materialized, fragments of the past, many of them centered on his father, that stern, silent man, that disapproving stranger who stood so tall and imposing, arms folded, his eyes slightly narrowed: the eternal judge, looking down, passing sentence.
But the images were a distraction, therefore dangerous. Requiring that he now refocus his thoughts as he ventured a single step closer to her. Saying: “I’m terribly sorry about Diane, Millicent. And I won’t pretend that I don’t feel guilty. I never gave her a chance. Never. I—I always saw her as the price I had to pay, to get you. And I—”
“Don’t, Preston.” As if to push him away, defend herself against him, she raised her hands. “Don’t patronize me. Don’t insult me. I—I’ll call Chief Farnsworth, I swear I will, before I’ll let you patronize me.”
“Millicent, you should recognize that—”
“I blame myself, Preston. I don’t blame you. You laid it all out for me. You wanted me, and you’d take Diane, too, if that’s what it took to make the deal. But you asked me to leave Diane in San Francisco. I refused, of course. I thought—I actually thought—that I was a loving mother. I believed—really deluded myself into believing—that Diane would be better off in New York, with me. After all, how many teenagers were driven to school by chauffeurs? How many—” Suddenly her voice caught. Eyes closed, blindly, she shook her head.
“Millicent—” He advanced another step.
“Don’t touch me. I’m warning you, Preston. Don’t touch me.” She was gasping for breath. Her eyes were blazing, filled with hatred. But, God, she was beautiful. Never had she aroused him more than at this moment. If he could touch her, he could calm her. As if he were approaching a dangerous animal, he extended his hand, to make contact.
“Preston—” It was a shriek: Millicent, suddenly gone wild. Involuntarily, he stepped back.
“I’ll call Chief Farnsworth.”
Once more, she’d said it. Signifying fixation, determination. Bernhardt had talked to Millicent, and Millicent would talk to Farnsworth. Sooner or later, Millicent would talk to Farnsworth. He could see it in her eyes, hear it in her voice.
“Millicent, you—you’ve got to listen to me. You’ve got to listen to reason.” As he spoke, he watched her carefully. The next moments—the next words—would decide everything. With a few words, a sentence, she could bring it all down, destroy everything. The female, aroused. The mother, avenging the death of her young. This was the power that drove her, that had lit the manic fire in her eyes. An irresistible force. Implacable.
Yet, ultimately, controllable. His specialty. His particular gift.
But time was required. He must have time to calm her, time to regain control, to bring her back from the edge.
Time and money, the two constants, the eternal verities. For himself, for Millicent, nothing more mattered. If he could bring her back, he could—
“—next, Preston?” she was asking. “Who’ll die next? Is it Bernhardt? Is he next?”
Bernhardt.
The faceless presence, suddenly the ultimate threat.
Bernhardt alive represented danger.
But Bernhardt dead could represent disaster. Because Millicent, when she learned of Bernhardt’s death, would go to Farnsworth. She would tell Farnsworth that Paul Cutler, attorney at law, officer of the court, father of Diane, had hired Bernhardt to come to the Cape.
And Farnsworth, that obscene, corrupted guardian of the law, would put in the call to Boston. Farnsworth would save his own oversize skin.
And then the jackals, always out there, would begin to circle. Reporters at their keyboards. Editors holding the presses.
“Millicent—” With the single word he tried to reach her, this one last time. “Millicent, I’ve—there’s something I’ve got to do. It’s—it’s about this, all this. Can I—I’ve got to—” He broke off, shook his head, began again: “Will you stay here, until I come back? Will you do that?”
Her face was expressionless now, as if hatred had frozen it forever.
An endless moment passed—and another, her eyes locked with his, a wordless, soundless struggle. Finally, very deliberately, she nodded.
Then, without speaking, she turned, went to the door, opened it, walked out of the room. Behind her, the door closed with a single click.
Instantly, he took his keys from his pocket, unlocked the desk, opened the right-hand top drawer—the drawer that held his revolver and ammunition, nothing else.