It's got to be."
That night, at exactly three o'clock in the morning, a blustery night with high winds but no rain, something brought Sally awake. She lay there a moment. Then she heard a soft tap on the window. At least it wasn't a woman screaming.
A branch from a tree, she thought, turning over and pulling the blanket up to her nose. Just a tree branch.
Tap.
She gave up and slid out of bed.
Tap.
She didn't remember that there wasn't a tree high enough until she'd pulled back the curtain and stared into her father's ghastly white, grinning face.
Amabel found her on her knees in the middle of the floor, her arms wrapped around herself, the window open, the curtains billowing outward, pulled by the wind, screaming and screaming until her throat closed and no sound came from her mouth.
Quinlan made a decision then and there. "I'm taking her back to Thelma's. She'll stay with me. If something else happens, I'll be there to deal with it."
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She'd called him thirty minutes before, gasping out her words, begging him to come and make her father leave her alone. He'd heard Amabel in the background telling her she was in no shape to be on the phone to anybody, much less to that man she didn't even know, to put down the phone, she was just excited, there hadn't been anyone there, it had just been her imagination. Just look at all she'd been through.
And she was still saying it, ignoring Quinlan. "Baby, just think. You were sound asleep when you heard the wind making strange noises against the window. You were dreaming, just like those other times. I'll bet you weren't even awake when you pulled the curtains back."
"I wasn't asleep," Sally said. "The wind had awakened me. I was lying there. And then came the tapping."
"Baby-"
"It doesn't matter," Quinlan said, impatient now, knowing that Sally would soon think that she was crazy, that she'd imagined it all. He prayed to God that she hadn't. But she had been in that sanitarium, for six months. She'd been paranoid, that's what was in the file. She'd also been depressed and suicidal. They'd been worried that she would harm herself. Her doctor hadn't wanted her released. Her husband had agreed. They wanted her back. Her husband was first in line. He wondered about the legalities of getting a person committed if that person didn't volunteer.
Why hadn't Sally's parents done anything about it? Had they believed her to be nuts too? But she was a person with legal rights. He had to check on how they'd gotten around it.
He said now, "Amabel, could you please pack Sally's things? I'd like all of us to get some sleep before morning."
Amabel had pursed her lips. "She's a married woman. She shouldn't be going off with you."
Sally started laughing, a low, hoarse, very ugly laugh.
Amabel was so startled that she didn't say anything more. She went upstairs to pack the duffel bag.
Thirty minutes later, after four o'clock in the morning, Quinlan let Sally into his tower room.
"Thank you, James," she said. "I'm so tired. Thank you for coming for me."
He'd come for her, all right. He'd been off like a shot to get her. Damnation, why couldn't anything turn out the way it was supposed to, the way he'd planned? He was in the middle of a puzzle, and all he had was scattered pieces that didn't look like they would ever fit together. He put her to bed, tucked the covers around her, and without thinking about it, kissed her lightly on the mouth.
She didn't respond, just looked up at him.
"Go to sleep," he said, gently pushing her hair back from her face. He pulled the string on the bedside lamp. "We'll work it all out. Just don't worry anymore."
That was a promise and a half. It scared the hell out of him.
"That's what he said on the phone, that he was coming for me. Soon, he said, very soon. He didn't lie, did he? He's here, James."
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"Someone's here. We'll deal with it tomorrow. Go to sleep. I'm sure as hell here, and I won't leave you alone, not anymore."
She was usually alone. At the beginning some of the patients had tried to talk to her, in their way, but she'd turned away from them. It didn't matter really, because most of the time her brain was fuzzy, so completely disconnected from anything she could identify either outside herself or inside that she was as good as lost in a deep cave. Or she was floating up in the ether. There was no reality here, no getting up at six in the morning to run up Exeter Street over to Concord Avenue, covering a good two miles, then run home, jump in the shower, and think about all she had to do that day while she washed her hair.
Senator Bainbridge went to the White House at least twice a week. Many times she was with him, keeping together all his notes for the topics to be discussed. It was easy for her to do that, since she'd written most of the notes and knew more than he did about his stands on his committee projects. She'd done so much, been involved in so many things-press releases, huddling with staff and the senator when a hot story broke and they tried to determine the best position for the senator to take.
There were always fund-raisers, press parties, embassy parties, political parties. So much, and she'd loved it, even when she would fall exhausted into bed.
At first Scott had told her how proud he was of her. He'd seemed excited to be invited to all the parties, to meet all the important players. At first.
Now she did nothing. Someone washed her hair twice a week. She scarcely noticed unless they let water run down her neck. She didn't have any muscles anymore, even though someone took her for long walks every day, just like a dog. She'd wanted to run once, just run and feel the wind against her face, feel her face chapping, but they didn't let her. After that they gave her more drugs so she wouldn't want to run again.
And he came, at least twice a week, sometimes more. The nurses adored him, saying behind their hands how devoted he was. He would sit with her in the common room a few minutes, then take her hand and lead her back to her room. It was a stark white room with nothing in it to use in attempting suicide-nothing sharp, no belts.
He had furnished it for her, she'd heard once, with the advice of Dr. Beadermeyer. It was a metal bed covered with fake wood, fake so that it wouldn't splinter so she could stick a fragment through her own heart. Not that such a thing would ever occur to her, but he talked about it and laughed, saying as he cupped her face in his hand that he would take care of her for a very long time.
Then he'd strip off her clothes and make her lie on her back on the bed. He would walk around the bed, looking at her, talking to her about his day, his work, about the woman he was currently sleeping with.
Then he'd unzip his trousers and show her himself, tell her how lucky she was to get to see him, that he would let her touch him but he didn't quite trust her yet.
He'd touch her all over. He'd rub himself. Just before he came, he'd hit her at least once, usually in the ribs.
Once when his head was thrown back in his orgasm, she saw through the fog in her eyes that there were two people at the window opening in the door, staring at them, talking even as they looked. She'd tried to push him away, but it hadn't worked. She had so little strength. He'd finished, then leaned down, seen the hatred in her eyes, and struck her face. It was the only time he had ever hit her in the face.
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She remembered once how he'd turned her onto her belly, pulling her back toward him and how he'd said that maybe one day he'd let her have him, let her feel him going into her, deep, and it would hurt because he was big, didn't she agree? But no, she didn't deserve him yet. And who cared? They had years ahead of them, years to do all sorts of things. And he'd told her about when he finally allowed his mistresses to have him and what they did to please him.