"Can we come in?" Detective Johnson said. "I think it would be better if we spoke inside."
I nodded, opened the door wider, and stepped back to let them enter the apartment. DeMarco closed the door.
Sarah, who had been hovering in the background, said, "I'm Sarah Thomas, an old friend of Mrs. Keswick's, a friend of the family, actually."
Detective Johnson nodded, and Detective DeMarco murmured, "Ms. Thomas," and inclined his head, scrupulously polite.
I led them into the living room and said, "Is there some sort of problem? My husband's late getting home. I, we, that is, Sarah and I, have been a bit worried. He's not been in an accident, has he?"
"Let's sit down, Mrs. Keswick," DeMarco said.
I shook my head. "Just tell me what's wrong, please."
DeMarco cleared his throat and began, "Something tragic has happened. I think we should sit down."
"Tell me." My voice quavered as I spoke, and a dreadful trembling took hold of me. Sudden fear surged through my body, and reaching out, I gripped the top of the wing chair to steady myself.
"We found your husband's Mercedes on Park Avenue at One Hundred Nineteenth Street. Your husband was hurt-"
"Oh, my God! Is he badly injured? Where is he? Oh, God, my children! Are they all right? Where are they? Where's my husband?"
My heart was racing. Filled with a mixture of panic and dread, I moved forward and grasped DeMarco's arm. Urgently, I said, "Why didn't you bring my children home? Which hospital is my husband in? The twins must be frightened. Take me to them, please."
Gasping, fighting my tears, I swung to Sarah and cried, "Come on, Sash, let's go! We must go to the twins and Andrew. Come on! They need me."
"Mrs. Keswick, Ms. Thomas, just a minute," DeMarco said.
I stopped, looked at him. There was something odd in his voice. My stomach lurched. He was going to say something awful, something I didn't want to hear. I knew it instinctively.
He said, "I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. Keswick, but your husband has been shot. He's-"
My eyes opened wide. "Shot! Who shot him? Why?" The blood was draining out of me; my legs had gone weak.
My eyes flew to Sarah. Her face had turned the color of bleached bone. In an unusually high voice, she exclaimed, "I thought the car was in some sort of accident."
I stood staring at her; somehow I had thought the same thing.
"No, Ms. Thomas," DeMarco said.
"He's not badly hurt, is he?" Sarah asked, endeavoring to speak in a more controlled voice.
"Where are my children?" I demanded before either of the detectives could answer her. "I want to go to my children and my husband."
"They're all at Bellevue," Detective DeMarco said. "And so is your dog. I'm very sorry to have to tell you this, but your-"
"My children… are… all right… aren't they?" I interrupted, speaking very slowly, fearfully.
Detective Johnson shook his head. He looked dour.
DeMarco said, "No, Mrs. Keswick. Your husband, your children, and your dog were all fatally shot this afternoon. We're very sorry."
"No! No! Not Andrew! Not the twins! Not Jamie and Lissa! It's not possible! It can't be true," I cried, gaping at DeMarco, uncomprehending. I began to shake.
I heard Sarah saying over and over again, "Oh, my God, my God!"
I stepped away from DeMarco, stepped away from the chair, and went lurching across the room to the entrance hall, shaking my head from side to side, denying, denying. Blindly I reached out, grabbing at air, at emptiness.
I had to get out of here.
Get to Bellevue.
Bellevue.
That's where they were.
My husband.
Get to Andrew.
To Lissa and Jamie.
Get to my children.
My children needed me.
My husband needed me.
My little Trixy needed me.
He'd said they were dead.
All dead.
The four of them.
NO!
The room became very bright, and it began to sway and move.
I heard it then. The noise.
It was a terrible, piercing scream that went ripping right through me. A bone-chilling scream rising higher and higher. It sounded like the scream of an animal being tortured, of an animal in torment.
It grew louder and louder until it filled my mind absolutely. And it deafened me.
As the floor came up to hit me in the face, I knew that it was I who was screaming.
CHAPTER TWENTY
When I regained consciousness, I was lying on one of the sofas in the living room.
As I opened my eyes, it was Sarah's face I saw. She sat in a chair next to me.
"Mal," she whispered, reaching out, taking hold of my hand. "Oh, Mal, darling." Her voice broke, and tears welled in her dark, compassionate eyes. I saw the pain on her face.
I grasped her hand tightly, pinning her with an intense gaze. "Tell me it's not true, Sash," I pleaded tearfully. "Tell me it's not. They're all right, aren't they? It's been a horrible mistake, hasn't it?"
"Oh, Mal," was all she could say, in a muffled voice. She was unable to continue speaking, and tears trickled down her strained white face.
I saw him then.
Detective DeMarco.
He was standing near the living room window, looking across at me. Fleetingly, a look of pity washed over his face and was instantly gone; but I knew without a doubt that it was true.
It had happened.
It was not a bad dream from which I had just awakened.
It was real, this nightmare.
My eyes shifted. Through my tears I could see his partner, Johnson. The older detective was standing by the small antique desk in front of the window overlooking Seventy-second Street. He was speaking on the phone. I heard him say, "Yes, that's correct."
I shouted in a shrill, angry voice, "I want to go to my husband and my children. I want my family. I want my dog. I want to be with them." I tried to struggle off the sofa, but Sarah put her arms around me, held me still, endeavored to soothe me.
"I want my babies," I shouted through my wracking sobs. "I want my family. I'm going to them now." I continued to struggle against Sarah, but she held me tightly.
"Yes, we are going, Mal, in a few minutes." Sarah's voice was low, drained. She went on. "The detectives are going to take us to the mor-to Bellevue. I just gave Detective Johnson your mother's number. He's been talking to her and David. They're coming now; they'll be here in a couple of minutes."
I clung to Sarah, sobbing against her shoulder. I wanted Andrew, I wanted the twins. What had happened this afternoon? I didn't understand. Who had shot my family? And why? Why had this happened to us? Why would anybody shoot a decent man like Andrew? Shoot innocent little children and a dog? Why?
Suddenly I heard the front door and my mother's voice exclaiming, "Where's my daughter? Where's Mrs. Keswick? I'm Mrs. Nelson, her mother."
I pulled away from Sarah. My mother was rushing toward me across the living room. Her face was stricken, ashen, her eyes full of horror and disbelief.
"Oh, Mom!" I cried out. "Oh, Momma! Andrew and the twins have been shot. And Trixy. Why, Mom? I don't understand."
My mother sank down heavily on the sofa, wrapped her arms around me, and held me close to her. "It doesn't make sense," she whispered, and she kept repeating this like a litany. She began to weep, and we held on to each other desperately, struggling with our pain and heartbreak.
Between sobs, my mother said, "I don't know how to help you, Mal, but I'm here for you, darling. Oh, God, how can anybody help you? This is too much for anyone to bear." She rocked me in her arms, weeping, and whispered in a cracking voice, "I can't believe it. Lissa and Jamie gone, Andrew gone. It doesn't make any sense. What has this world come to? It's godless. Godless."
After a few minutes, David left the detectives and came over to the sofa, knelt down on the floor in front of us, and put his arms around my mother and me.