A ruling passion : a novel (85 page)

"Rumors! Lies! You've got no proof!"

"We've had an accountant go over your books. I imagine—"

"You're lying. There's no way —"

"We did it, Sybille. I imagine you'll be hearing fi-om the IRS one of these days. And Bob Targus is coming to Valerie's tonight to tape his statement for us. If you have anything to say—if people have lied to us and we don't know it—tell me. Don't just accuse Bob of being a liar; tell me how all these things happened. You've got to defend yourself, or help with the investigation; otherwise, no one can help you."

"You son of a bitch. You want to force me to crawl. I'd rather lose everything I have."

Nick gazed at her. She was like a dark statue, the only sign of life her pale-blue eyes blazing in the shadows. "You may," he said. He suddenly was aware of how cold he was. He had turned down his shirtsleeves sometime back, but it was not enough. "If you change your mind, you can call me. I'll be at Valerie's, or at home."

"Get out of here!" She watched him leave, closing the door behind him. She stood where she was, leaning against the chair, breathing harshly.

Fll be at Valerie's, or at home.

She picked up a marble bookend and hurled it the length of the room. It crashed into the glass doors of her gun cabinet, flinging shards of glass over the dark carpet. They gleamed dully in the dim light that filtered through the closed drapes. When the sound died away, the room was silent except for the faint hissing of cold air, and Sybille's rasping breath.

No one came. They had been told too often to leave her alone. It had always been enough for her to know there were others in the house; she did not want them too close. She stood still until her breathing slowed. Sometime later the buder asked if she would be dining at home. "No," Sybille said. He cast a quick glance at the gun cabinet, adjusted one of the draperies that was letting in a sliver of sunlight, and left the room. Still, she did not move.

Nick was lying when he said there'd be no story on television. She knew he was. He was lying about the accountant too; no stranger could get past the security guard. She hadn't known Nick was such a liar. But no matter how flimsy or wrong his information was, he'd make some kind of show with it. That's what Sybille had always done; that's what anybody would do. She couldn't stop that; she'd just have to wait it out, and fight whatever they put on.

Lies and guesswork. The Foundation could survive those. They'd have to make some changes, though. Lars Olssen would have to become president; they needed his absolute purity to get through this. Floyd would go quiedy; he always did what she told him. The buder said he'd called that morning, while she was working; she'd call him back tomorrow and tell him he'd have to resign as president.

But the Foundation isn't the real danger.

Slowly, she slid down until she was sitting on the floor, leaning forward, her arms folded tight against her breasts. She knew what the real danger was.

Bob Targus. She'd kept him on her payroll for years, given him bonuses, trusted him with some sensitive jobs... and now that weak-willed, disloyal son of a bitch was the real danger. All this time he'd kept his mouth shut, and then, out of the blue, to tell someone...

She had to stop him, prevent him from taping it. If there was no proof, if it was only his word against hers—a nothing pilot versus Sybille Enderby—who'd believe him? He'd be dead in the water.

Dead.

Of course. What else could she do? How else could she be sure he

wouldn't find someone else to blab to? She couldn't stop Nick from doing whatever he wanted about Graceville, but she could stop Targus from talking.

She stood stiffly and went to the gun cabinet, stepping between the shards of glass. She opened the shattered door, and took out a rifle. She had not done any skeet shooting or hunting in some time, but she was not worried: she never missed. I've missed hunting, though, she thought, enjoying her own joke. It's about time I got back to it.

Bob Tarfius is comin0 to Valerie's tonight to tape his statement for us. How stupid of Nick to tell her that; you'd think he would have known her better. They'd been married, after all; lived together, raised a son together... Didn't he ever learn?

I learn, Sybille thought. That's how I survive.

She took a handfril of bullets, and left the house through the door to the garage. She chose the nearest car: sleek and fast, a Testarossa, one of her first purchases with her new wealth from the Foundation. But as she backed out of the garage, she realized she had no idea where Valerie lived. That son of a bitch, she filmed; why didn't he give me her address, while he was at it? Leaving the gun in the car, she went back to the library and looked for Valerie's name in the telephone directory.

She found the name and address. Falls Church, she thought; fancy place for somebody who'd supposedly lost all her money. She probably had some hidden and never told Carl about it; God, what a dishonest bitch. Then she went back to the car, and drove to Falls Church.

The traffic was heavy as she came closer to the Washington orbit, and she dodged cars and pedestrians, feeling a sudden urgency. Tardus is comin0 toni£fht. What did tonight mean? It was eight-thirty; the sun was down, but the heat clung, rising in waves from the pavement and blown by a hot steady wind. When did it stop being evening and start to be night? Eight o'clock? Nine? Ten? Midnight? She raced to the address, and then slowed as she saw it ahead: a small house surrounded by empty lots. Across the street was a park thick with sumac and horsechestnut trees. Sybille felt a thrill of satisfaction when she saw it. Made to order.

Nick's car was parked near the house, at the edge of a circle of light cast by a bulb over the front door. Not too bright, but enough, Sybille exulted. Just fine. And no other car was near Nick's. Targus wasn't there. She was in time.

She parked as far as she could from the nearest streetlamp and, holding the rifle against her body, walked to a nearby clump of sumac

trees. It was not as fine as she had thought: the wind was high, tossing the thin sumac branches and blocking her vision. It won't last, she thought; it will die down. She rested the rifle beside a tree trunk, and stood perfectly still, waiting.

Once she saw movement through a window of the house; someone walking across the room. Otherwise the windows were blank, secretive, making her an outsider. She visualized Nick moving about inside, perched on the arm of a chair, biting into an apple, opening a newspaper. Before she could stop herself, she imagined him in bed with Valerie. Damn it! She smashed their image in her mind. Maybe Fll kill him too. And her. They deserve it.

A car pulled up and she tensed, but it belonged to someone in another house. He took a bag of charcoal from the trunk and went inside. In a few minutes, the acrid smell of kerosene wafted to her in her hiding place, and then the smell of burning coals. She visualized a family, having a barbecue. She was not at all hungry.

A woman walked by with a dog on a leash; a child rode a tricycle, with her father walking behind. Teenagers crossed the street, giggling. They'd better stay out of my way, Sybille thought angrily. And then another car drove up, and parked beside Nick's, and she watched Targus get out.

She raised her rifle, aiming at his broad back as he slammed the car door and walked up the front walk. But the wind was still high, whipping the branches in front of her. Angered, she shoved them away with the gun. He was ringing the doorbell; she was almost out of time. The door opened. She aimed again at his back. The branches tossed in front of her, but there was nothing she could do about them. She fired.

She heard a scream as Targus fell, and she saw him try to raise himself Enraged because her aim had been off"—the damned wind!— she fired again. But in that second, no longer than a heartbeat, Lily had rushed forward to help Targus, and she was the one whom Sy-bille's second bullet struck.

"^Lily!" Sybille screamed. Nick and Valerie pulled the two bodies into the house and slammed the door. Sybille stood for a moment, frozen. And then she fled.

Chapter 30

m M \ ^ ^^^ dawn when Nick reached home, bringing

1 ^J Valerie and Rosemary with him. He took Rose-

.^ ^^r^ mary to the third-floor suite, carrying the small

i^ ^W bag she had packed before they left. She had been

I I trembling uncontrollably after the shooting, saying

she could not sleep in that house that night, she had to go somewhere else, and Nick said it was very simple: she and Valerie would come home with him, for as long as they wanted.

He settled her on the third floor, made sure she was comfortable, and went to his own room. Valerie was in bed when he got there, and when he joined her they clung together in silence, wanting comfort and the closeness of knowing they were together, and would be, from then on. They slept that way, in each other's arms, until, an hour later, they woke at the same moment.

"We should call the hospital," Valerie said.

Nick was already reaching for the telephone. He dialed the intensive-care unit. "Lily Grace," he said. "She had surgery a couple of hours ago; we'd like to know how she is. This is Nick Fielding." He

held Valerie close with one arm. "Not a relative, no; she has none. But she lives with us; we're responsible for her."

'Tes, I remember now," said the nurse. "She's stable, Mr. Fielding. We won't know more than that for some time. If you want to call back in two or three hours..."

"Thanks," Nick said. "We'll be there by then." He lay on his side, bringing Valerie with him, her legs between his, her breasts crushed against his chest, her lips soft and open below his. "I love you," he said, kissing her with slow kisses. "I've dreamed of waking up with you. This isn't the kind of morning I dreamed of, but it's infinitely better because you're here. I want us to be married; did I tell you that yesterday?"

She smiled. "I took it for granted. Probably because it's what I want, too." They moved together, desire briefly holding at bay the memory of the night before. Slowly, Valerie moved her legs so they were no longer between Nick's, but encircling them, and very simply, as if continuing their talk, he came into her, smoothly, deeply, filling her as she opened to him. Lying on their sides, embracing, they smiled at each other with a look that was both somber and joyous, a promise that this was what they would always bring to each other: love and gladness to buoy them even in the midst of tragedy, warmth and closeness to sustain them in bleak or fearfiil times.

They lay almost still, yet their bodies moved in an imperceptible rhythm that brought them to a climax all the more explosive for being so quiet. They kissed again, and lay still in the quiet house. Home, Valerie thought. Wherever we're together. She smiled to herself, thinking of the passion for pleasure that had once ruled her life, and how it had expanded and changed. It was not that she loved pleasure any less, it was that her passion now was for living well and ftilly. She had lived only partially, she thought drowsily, never discovering all the things she could do: that she could work, and work well; that she could love, and love well; that she could give of herself, and do it well. I should tell Lily; she^d understand. All her sermons have been about believing in ourselves, and what we can be, that we can be better than we think we are, better than others think we are...

She stirred, thinking of Lily, and of all the loose ends she and Nick had to take care of "I love you," she murmured, her lips on Nick's heart, "and I wish we could stay here all day, but we really have to get up."

He smiled. "One of these days we'll stay here as long as we want.

and have trains of servants bring us food and drink, and play soft music in the next room."

"And take all our telephone calls." Valerie laughed. "I like your fantasies."

"I have more. But right now we have to think about Chad, and then Lily. And Bob."

'We should bring him something," Valerie said, reluctandy sitting up. "Books? Food? Magazines? What do you think?"

"Probably all of the above. I can't think of anything that will make him happy right now, can you?"

"No. He doesn't have a lot to look forward to." She shook her head slowly. "It's so terrible. So hard to comprehend, and so awfiil..." She stood for a moment, the memories coming back, then shook her head again. "I'll just be a few minutes." And she went to take a shower, leaving Nick sitting up in bed with his own memories of the night before.

The police had been all over the neighborhood. By the time they arrived, three minutes after Nick's call, it was too late to cordon off the park, or any streets, but they searched everywhere while three of them went to Valerie's house. Nick fended them off". 'We'll be at the hospital; we have to know about Lily. You can talk to us there." Then he and Rosemary and Valerie followed the ambulance carrying Lily and Targus to the hospital.

Two other emergencies had been brought in ahead of them, and the emergency room looked to Nick like unmanageable chaos, but somehow the doctors and nurses sorted it out. Targus, who was not critical, with a bullet wound in his shoulder, was taken to a room. Lily was taken immediately to surgery.

Valerie and Nick and Rosemary waited in an alcove off the main corridor, fiirnished with foam-padded ftirniture, steel floor lamps, and magazine racks. The magazines were ragged, with the covers falling off and advertisements and recipes torn out; the crossword puzzles were half finished. Rosemary deliberated, then took two and sat in an armchair. "I have to," she said almost apologetically. "I can't bear to think about Lily, or what happened. It's impossible. Nothing like that ever..." Her voice trailed away, and for the next few hours she alternately read and dozed.

Nick and Valerie sat on a narrow couch and held hands. "The police will be here," Valerie said. "We have to tell them we recognized Sy-bille's voice, don't we?"

He nodded. "There's no way we can avoid it. We'll talk to Chad

before any reporters get the story. Good God, what can we tell him? There's too much..."