Read Stillwatch Online

Authors: Mary Higgins Clark

Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Anthologies (Multiple Authors)

Stillwatch (5 page)

 

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maneuvered into the right lane ahead of a station wagon beforeanswering. “Well, not exactly that. All the kids in Apple Junction goto the same school—’cept, of course, if they go to parochial school.But she was two years ahead of me, so we were never in the sameclasses. Then when I was fifteen I started doing yard work in the richpart of town. I guess Abby told you she lived in the Saunders house.”“Yes, she did.”“I worked for the people about four places away. One day I heardAbby screaming. The old guy who lived opposite the Saunderses’had taken in his head he needed a watchdog and bought a Germanshepherd. Talk about vicious! Anyway, the old guy left the gate openand the dog got out just as Abby was coming down the street. Madestraight for her.”“And you saved her?”“I sure did. I started shouting and distracted him. Bad luck for meI’d dropped my rake, ‘cause I got half chewed to rags before I got agrip on his neck. And then”—Toby’s voice filled with pride—”andthen, no more watchdog.”With one hand, Pat slipped her tape recorder out of her shoulderbag and turned it on. “I can see why the Senator must feel prettystrongly about you,” she commented. “The Japanese believe that ifyou save someone’s life you become somehow responsible for them.Do you suppose that happened to you? It sounds to me as though youfeel responsible for the Senator.”“Well, I don’t know. Maybe that did happen, or maybe she stuckher neck out for me when we were kids.” The car stopped. “Sorry,Miss Traymore. We should a made that light, but the jerk ahead ofme is reading street signs.”“It doesn’t matter. I’m not in any hurry. The Senator stuck herneck out for you?”“I said
maybe
she did. Look, forget it. The Senator doesn’t likeme to talk about Apple Junction.”“I’ll bet she talks about how you helped her,” Pat mused. “I canimagine how
I’d
feel if an attack dog was charging at me and someonethrew himself in between.”“Oh, Abby was grateful, all right. My arm was bleeding, and shewrapped her sweater around it, then insisted on coming to theemergency room with me and even wanted to sit in while they sewedit. After that we were friends for life.”

 

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Toby looked over his shoulder. “
Friends,
” he repeatedemphatically, “not boyfriend-girlfriend. Abby’s out of my league. Idon’t have to tell you that. There was no question of any of that stuff.But sometimes in the afternoon she’d come over and talk while I wasworking around the yard. She hated Apple Junction as much as I did.And when I was flunking English, she tutored me. I never did haveany head for books. Show me a piece of machinery and I’ll take itapart and put it together in two minutes, but don’t ask me to diagrama sentence.“Anyhow, Abby went off to college and I drifted down to New Yorkand got married and it didn’t take. And I took a job running numbersfor some bookies and ended up in hot water. After that I startedchauffeuring for some fruitcake on Long Island. By then Abby wasmarried and her husband was the Congressman and I read that she’dbeen in an automobile accident because her chauffeur had been drinking.So I thought, What the hell. I wrote to her and two weeks later herhusband hired me and that was going on twenty-five years ago. Say,Miss Traymore, what number are you? We’re on N Street now.”“Three thousand,” Pat said. “It’s the corner house on the next block.”“
That
house?” Too late, Toby tried to cover the shock in his voice.“Yes. Why?”“I used to drive Abby and Willard Jennings to that house for parties.Used to be owned by a Congressman named Dean Adams. Did theytell you about him killing his wife and committing suicide?”Pat hoped her voice was calm. “My father ’s lawyer arranged therental. He mentioned there had been a tragedy here many years ago,but he didn’t go into it.” Toby pulled up to the curb. “Just as well toforget it. He even tried to kill his kid—she died later on. Cute littlething. Her name was Kerry, I remember. What can you do?” He shookhis head. “I’ll just park by the hydrant for a minute. Cops won’t botheras long as I don’t hang around.”Pat reached for the handle of the door, but Toby was too quick forher. In an instant he was out the driver ’s side, around the car andholding the door open, putting a hand under her arm. “Be careful,Miss Traymore. Plenty icy here.”“Yes, I see that. Thank you.” She was grateful for the early dusk,

 

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afraid that her expression might send some signal to Toby. He mightnot have a head for books but she sensed he was extremely perceptive.She had thought of this house only in the context of that one night.Of course there had been parties here. Abigail Jennings was fifty-six.Willard Jennings had been eight or nine years her senior. Pat’s fatherwould have been in his early sixties now. They had beencontemporaries in those Washington days.Toby was reaching into the trunk. She longed to ask him aboutDean and Renée Adams, about “the cute little kid, Kerry.” But notnow, she cautioned herself.Toby followed her into the house, two large cartons in his arms.Pat could see that they were heavy, but he carried them easily. Sheled him into the library and indicated the area next to the boxes fromthe store-room. She blessed the instinct that had made her scrape offthe labels with her father ’s name.But Toby barely glanced at the boxes. “I’d better be off, MissTraymore. This box”—he pointed—”has press clippings, photoalbums, that sort of thing. The other one has letters from constituents—the personal kind, where you can see the sort of help Abby givesthem. It had some home movies too, mostly of when her husbandwas alive. The usual stuff, I guess. I’ll be glad to run the movies foryou anytime and tell you who’s in them and what was going on.”“Let me sort them out and I’ll get back to you. Thanks, Toby. I’msure you’re going to be a big help in this project. Maybe between us,we’ll put together something the Senator will be happy about.”“If she’s not, we’ll both know it.” Toby’s beefy face lit up in agenial smile. “Good night, Miss Traymore.”“Why not make it ‘Pat’? After all, you do call the Senator ‘Abby.’”“I’m the only one who can call her that. She hates it. But whoknows? Maybe I’ll get a chance to save your life too.”“Don’t hesitate for a minute if the opportunity comes your way.”Pat reached out her hand and watched it disappear into his.When he had left, she stood in the doorway, lost in thought. Shewould have to learn not to show any emotion when Dean Adams wasmentioned. She had been lucky that Toby had brought up his namewhile she was still in the protective darkness of the car.

 

From the shadow of the house directly opposite, another observer

 

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watched Toby drive away. With angry curiosity he studied Pat as shestood in the doorway. His hands were thrust into the pockets of hisskimpy overcoat. White cotton pants, white socks and white rubber-soles blended into the snow that was banked against the house. Hisbony wrists tightened as he closed his fingers into fists, and tensionrippled through the muscles in his arms. He was a tall, gaunt manwith a stiff, tense stance and a habit of holding his head unnaturallyback. His hair, a silvery gray that seemed incongruous over a peculiarlyunlined face, was combed forward over his forehead.She was here. He had seen her unloading her car last night. Inspite of his warnings, she was going ahead with that program. Thatwas the Senator ’s car, and those boxes probably had some kind ofrecords in them. And she was going to stay in that house.The memory of that long-ago morning sprang into his mind: theman lying on his back, wedged between the coffee table and sofa; thewoman’s eyes, staring, unfocused; the little girl’s hair matted withdried blood . . .He stood there silently, long after Pat had closed the door, as if hewere unable to tear himself away.Pat was in the kitchen broiling a chop when the phone began toring. She didn’t expect to hear from Sam but . . . With a quick smileshe reached for the receiver. “Hello.”A whisper. “Patricia Traymore.”“Yes. Who is this?” But she knew that syrupy, whispering voice.“Did you get my letter?”She tried to make her voice calm and coaxing. “I don’t know whyyou’re upset. Tell me about it.”“Forget your program on the Senator, Miss Traymore. I don’t wantto punish you. Don’t make me do it. But you must remember theLord said, ‘Whoever harms one of these my little ones, better amillstone be put around his neck and he be drowned in the depth ofthe sea.’”The connection went dead.

 

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5

 

 

 

It was only a crank call—some wacko who probably thought womenbelonged in the kitchen, not in public office. Pat recalled the characterin New York who used to parade on Fifth Avenue with signs quotingScripture about women’s duty to obey their husbands. He had beenharmless. So was this caller. She wouldn’t believe it was anythingmore than that.She brought a tray into the library and ate dinner while she sortedout Abigail’s records. Her admiration for the Senator increased withevery line she read. Abigail Jennings had meant it when she said shewas married to her job. Her constituents
are
her family, Pat thought.Pat had an appointment with Pelham at the network in the morning.At midnight she went to bed. The master bedroom suite of the houseconsisted of a large bedroom, a dressing room and bath. TheChippendale furniture with its delicate inlays of fruitwood had beeneasy to place. It was obvious that it had been purchased for this house.The highboy fitted between the closets; the mirrored dresser belongedin the alcove, the bed with its elaborately carved headboard on thelong wall facing the windows.Veronica had sent a new spring and mattress, and the bed feltwonderfully comfortable. But the trips to the basement to clean thefiling cabinets had taken their toll on her leg. The familiar naggingpain was more acute than usual, and even though she was very tiredit was hard to fall asleep. Think about something pleasant, she toldherself as she stirred restlessly and turned on her side. Then in thedark she smiled wryly. She’d think about Sam.

 

The offices and studio of the Potomac Cable Network were justoff Farragut Square. As she went in, Pat remembered what the newsdirector at the Boston station had told her: “There’s no question you

 

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should take the job, Pat. Working for Luther Pelham is a once-in-a-lifetime break. When he left CBS for Potomac, it was the biggestupset in the industry.”At the lunch with Luther in Boston, she’d been astonished at thefrank stares of everyone in the dining room. She had become used tobeing recognized in the Boston area and having people come to hertable for autographs. But the way virtually every pair of eyes wasabsolutely riveted on Luther Pelham was something else. “Can yougo anywhere without being the center of attention?” she’d asked him.“Not too many places, I’m happy to say. But you’ll find out foryourself. Six months from now, people will be following
you
whenyou walk down the street and half the young women in America willbe imitating that throaty voice of yours.”Exaggerated, of course, but certainly flattering. After the secondtime she called him “Mr. Pelham,” he’d said, “Pat, you’re on theteam. I have a first name. Use it.”Luther Pelham had certainly been charming, but on that occasionhe had been offering her a job. Now he was her boss.When she was announced, Luther came to the reception area togreet her. His manner was effusively cordial, the familiar well-modulated voice exuding hearty warmth: “Great to have you here,Pat. I want you to meet the gang.” He took her around the newsroomand introduced her. Behind the pleasantries, she sensed the curiosityand speculation in the eyes of her new co-workers. She could guesswhat they were thinking. Would she be able to cut the mustard? Butshe liked her immediate impressions. Potomac was rapidly becomingone of the largest cable networks in the country, and the newsroomwhirred with activity. A young woman was giving on-the-hourheadlines live from her desk; a military expert was taping his bi-weekly segment; staff writers were editing copy from the wire services.She well knew that the apparently calm exterior of the personnel wasa necessary ploy. Everyone in the business lived with constantunderlying tension, always on guard, waiting for something to happen,fearful that somehow a big story might be fumbled.Luther had already agreed that she could write and edit at homeuntil they were ready for actual taping. He pointed out the cubiclethat had been reserved for her, then led her into his private office, alarge oak-paneled corner room.

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