Beyond Eden (6 page)

“Is he dead?”

“Dead? He should be, I shot him twice.” She looked at the prince's sprawled naked body. “I shot him,” she said again. “I shot the bastard twice.”

Suddenly Sydney sank to her knees. She rocked back and forth, back and forth, a strange keening noise coming from her throat. The pistol fell from her fingers onto the carpet.

It was the sight of her sister—perfect Sydney, brilliant and beautiful Sydney—looking like a crazed woman that gave Lindsay a focus. It gave her a notion of reality and what it was they now faced.

She scrambled off the bed and onto the floor next to her sister. She didn't look at the prince. He didn't matter right now. She was unaware of her nightgown flapping around her body.

She grabbed her sister's shoulders and shook her. “We've got to do something! Stop it, Sydney, for God's sake, stop it, get hold of yourself!”

“I murdered him. There's nothing to do. I murdered him and everything's over now.”

She raised her face from her hands then and stared blindly at Lindsay. “Our daddy's a judge. Isn't that something, Lindsay? He's a fucking judge!”

“No, no, listen to me, you saved me. He was raping me and you saved me! It was self-defense. We'll be all right. I swear it, Sydney.”

Sydney merely stared at her, shaking her head slowly back and forth, so pale Lindsay thought she would faint. But she didn't.

Sydney said, even as she shook her head as if in denial, “You stupid little idiot.” Her voice was now strong and hard, her eyes dark and wild. “You fool girl, you let him think you wanted this. He's not normal. He took your silly infatuation for sexual overtures. For two years you've let him get you ready for this. What did he do, write you his titillating little postcards? Show you how caring and tender he was? How much he appreciated you, a very young girl? No, don't bother saying anything. It's far too late now. I know, you see, he never changes his routine, there's never been any need to, because I let him have his fun. No choice really, once I figured out what he was all about. Don't you know why he married me, Lindsay? Jesus, of course you don't know. He married me for my future inheritance! The interest from my trust fund doesn't begin to satisfy him. And there you are, gawking at him like he's God. You came running, didn't you? He loves young girls, haven't you figured that out yet? He thinks I'm old. He thought I was too old when we got married. Eighteen is really his limit. He had to wait for you because he couldn't get to you before. I'll just bet he was dying, wondering if he could get to you before an American boy had taken your virginity. Oh, it doesn't matter. I would have killed him anyway, whether or not he was raping you. You stupid little fool, Jesus, stupid, stupid.”

Sydney began crying into her hands, harsh ugly cries. Lindsay watched her, unable to move, unable to think, her half-sister's words dinning in her mind. No, no time to think about this, it was time to act.

Lindsay shrugged off her shredded nightgown. She felt the awful stickiness between her legs, felt the vague stinging inside her. Her face throbbed from his blows. She wanted to vomit. She was eighteen years old, too young, too young, and yet there was no one else to help her. She might as well have been alone with a dead man.

What to do?

She managed to rise. She felt herself begin to tremble, knew she was about to lose control, just as Sydney had. She couldn't allow it. She walked to the ornate telephone and picked it up. She stared at it, wondering how to ask for the police in French. Her hand shook; she stopped it. She drew a deep breath. She got a good grip on herself, and said when the operator came onto the line,
“Les gendarmes, s'il vous plât. C'est tre`s important.”

Suddenly the prince groaned.

The Aftermath

 

Lindsay was on her knees vomiting into the toilet when the police came running into the suite. She staggered to her feet, clutching a blanket around her. Her mouth tasted bitter and dry. Sydney was standing now, pale and still, the .32-caliber pistol in her hand again, and she was staring down at her husband, who was still lying nude on the bedroom carpet, covered with blood, moaning.

Lindsay was aware of men staring at her, at Sydney, at the prince, taking it in. She pulled the blanket more tightly around her. Her face hurt, her insides burned, and her stomach was roiling. She couldn't speak, just stared back at them. She heard Sydney sobbing, saw two more men carry in a collapsible gurney. They put the prince on it, covered him, and wheeled him out. Lindsay's last view of him was of a man with a gray face, black hair plastered with sweat to his head, and he was moaning. There was a man from the hotel, obviously, because he was very nearly distraught, chattering wildly, wringing his hands.

One of the policemen, a young man with thick black hair and a huge mustache, strode toward Lindsay. She backed away, one hand in front of
her to ward him away. It was instinctive. He slowed, spoke to her, his voice low, but she couldn't understand his words. She couldn't understand anything. One of the other men said in English, “You are too ill to walk. He will carry you,
mademoiselle.
He will not pain you. I promise, everything will be okay now.”

Okay? That was crazy. Said with a thick French accent it sounded even crazier. She closed her eyes when the man picked her up and carried her to the elevator, through the lavish lobby of the George V, to the police car whose front tires sat on the sidewalk in front of the hotel. She lay against him, aware of the siren, aware of the low talk between him and the two men in the front seat. There were avid faces pressing against the police-car windows and there were loud voices. She turned her face inward. This was reality and she couldn't bear it. She wondered where Sydney was. She felt the pain building inside her, the horror of what had happened to her, of what she had allowed to happen to her. She couldn't seem to stop shivering, but she knew she wasn't cold. The man who was holding her continued to speak quietly. She heard his words, but she saw the prince's ghastly gray face, saw the people's greedy faces as they'd tried to get closer.

The police officer carried her into the emergency room of St. Catherine's Hospital—she saw the huge sign—and then into one of the small curtained cubicles. He laid her onto an examining table. She was shaking, her teeth chattering, clutching the blanket to her like a lifeline, clutching now at him. He spoke more, then pulled her arms away from him. He left. A nurse leaned over her and she understood the word
americaine
but nothing more. Then
two men were there, standing over her, both in white coats, and they looked harried and impatient. They were tugging the blanket off her. But she was naked, she knew she was naked, and the prince's sperm was on her thighs, still wet and runny, and there was her blood as well, and it was too much. She fought them, yelling at them to leave her alone, tears streaming down her face.

But it didn't help. One of the men just held her down. The other man jerked off the blanket and tossed it to the floor. Then he was bending her legs and pushing them back toward her chest. They were speaking to her, both of them, but she didn't understand.

Lindsay reared up, sent her fist into the doctor's jaw, and sent him staggering back, flailing his arms to keep his balance, knocking over an instrument tray. She tried to grab the blanket, but it was out of her reach. Suddenly there was another man, and the three of them held her down. Her legs were pushed back again and one of the men was holding them back and apart. The nurse was beside her again, her hand lightly stroking her cheek, trying to quiet her. But Lindsay saw those men, and all three of them were looking at her between the legs and touching her and then one of them suddenly stuck two fingers inside her and she felt raw pain rip through her and she screamed and tried to jerk back on the cold table. Then she felt his fingers curling deep inside her. She screamed and screamed but he didn't stop. He scooped her out and she was watching his face, seeing him nod to the other doctor as he looked down at the fingers that had been in her body.

The nurse looked angry and she said something sharp to the men. One of them said something sharp
back to her even as he pushed a long instrument into Lindsay's vagina.

The probing went on and on, an instrument inserted and withdrawn, cold and hard and thick, and the talk between the men with an occasional curt word from the nurse. Lindsay saw their frowns and their nods through a haze of pain and humiliation. She felt it burning deep into her. She felt a needle slide into her hip. It felt cold. One of the men patted her thigh as if she was some sort of pet or child. Then she felt nothing else.

She awoke alone in a private room. She was naked from the waist down, her legs sprawled. She cried out, lurching up, but the men weren't here, only a nurse, who was washing her with warm soapy water.

The woman was young and pretty and she smiled and lightly patted Lindsay's stomach, her fingers damp and warm. She said in very clear, unaccented English, “No, please don't be afraid. Just hold still, yes, that's it. Lie back. They said I could finally clean you up. The doctors got all the evidence they needed and made certain you weren't hurt internally. I'm so sorry, but I'll give you another shot in a minute, after I'm done washing you and you've taken your pills. We don't want you to get pregnant from this. That's right, just hold still. No, no more crying. You're still suffering from shock, which is completely natural. Ah, those damned doctors, they scared you badly, didn't they? Stupid men, and after what had happened to you! Giselle said they didn't go easy with you. They have no understanding of what you've been through and they were so very busy.”

Lindsay thought: I'm lying here naked and a stranger is washing me and I've been raped and
Sydney shot her husband and he's dead. It was simply too much. She closed her eyes, wishing she could also close out all the vicious and bloody images burned into her memory. The woman continued to speak, telling her about how they'd had to deal with her along with a three-car accident and this handsome young man—an American, just like she was—and his poor broken arm. The doctors really hadn't meant to be so rough, but there had been so little time and others were hurt far worse than she was.

Yes, a crushed body from a car accident was far worse than a simple rape. The nurse gave Lindsay the pills and another shot in her hip. She stayed with her, holding her hand until she slept. She spoke softly, hypnotically, “I'm from Kansas City, you know. My name is Ann O'Conner. I've lived here in Paris for eleven years now. I was glad I could be here when they brought you in. Now you have someone you can communicate with. Even the nurses can be short with foreigners. It's too bad, but it's true. Your face is badly bruised, but no broken bones. The bruises will fade in a couple of days. Go to sleep now. You'll feel much better when you wake up. And I'll be back, I promise you.”

And she did as Nurse O'Conner said. When Lindsay next awoke, it was light outside, the sun high in the sky. Near noon, she thought vaguely, startled, for it had been in the dark of the night when the prince—For several minutes she didn't know where she was. She focused on the sunlight, unconsciously leaning toward it, welcoming it into her. She remembered then, everything, though her mind fought against it. She started crying, like a faucet coming on without her permission, but she simply
couldn't stop it. Her throat was clogged and it hurt to swallow, and as much as she gulped and wiped her eyes, she couldn't make the tears stop. She finally decided it didn't matter. She was alone. Thankfully, she was alone. Her face hurt dreadfully, and she felt as though someone had battered her insides.

The door opened quietly. She kept her head turned away. She didn't want to see anyone. Maybe it was one of those horrible doctors who had hurt her so badly, who hadn't cared when they'd shoved things into her, who had shamed her to her soul.

A man's voice said very gently, “
Mademoiselle
? You are awake, are you not?”

His English was accented, unlike Nurse O'Conner's, but perfectly understandable. Still, she didn't move, said nothing. Maybe he'd go away. Please let him go away.

“I'm sorry to intrude upon you after what happened, but I must. I am Inspector Galvain with the Paris Sûreté. They sent me because I speak English passably well. I hope you will bear with my efforts.
Mademoiselle?
Please, you must speak to me. I am sorry, but it is so. I have no choice and neither do you.”

She turned her head slowly on the pillow. She saw the surprise on his face and the flash of pity before he checked it. She raised her hand and touched her fingers to her bruised cheek and jaw. The prince had struck her many times, hard, with his fist.

“Is he dead?”

The inspector didn't hesitate, and his voice was matter-of-fact. “No, he isn't dead. Your sister's aim wasn't that good. Prince di Contini will live. He won't feel particularly well for a week or two, but he will
live. But I do not wish to speak of him at the moment. My concern is with you. Please, you must tell me exactly what happened.”

Lindsay shook her head. More tears spilled over and she swallowed. Where were they coming from? Her throat hurt so badly.

“Please, compose yourself. That is better. Take your time, there is no hurry. All so difficult, I know,
petite.
Just take your time.”

“You will get nothing reasonable out of her. I will tell you exactly what happened, Inspector.”

It was Royce Foxe and he was standing in the doorway, looking strong and sure and confident. Lindsay couldn't believe her eyes. Her father had come to her the moment he'd found what had happened to her. He'd come to her now because it was urgent that he be here for her. He had realized that and he'd come. Relief and love and forgiveness for his past indifference, his past cruelties, flowed through her. Lindsay tried to sit up but was too weak. It didn't matter because her father was here for her. She smiled at him, raising her hand, and whispered, “Daddy.”

Her father looked at her, then quickly away. He continued before the inspector could say anything, waving a hand toward Lindsay, “This stupid girl fell in love with Prince Alessandro di Contini nearly two years ago when she was only sixteen, at the wedding between the prince and her older sister, Sydney. She led him on. She worshiped him and showered him with all these silly feelings. She treated him like he was a god, and what was he to do? He is a man, after all. He invited her here, paid for her to come, and she came willingly, never doubt that, Inspector, never doubt that. When he decided to take what she'd been offering, she
changed her mind and fought him. My poor older daughter had to protect her. She was forced to shoot her own husband.” He turned to Lindsay then and said in a very soft voice, “You are a pathetic little slut. Just look at you—I can't believe any man would even want to touch you. And now just see what you've brought down upon us.”

“
Monsieur! C'est assez!
That is quite enough!”

Royce backed away. He was breathing hard, so angry that he tasted the raw harshness of it. The damned girl had come very close to ruining Sydney's life. Now she was trying to climb out of the bed and she was crying and shaking as she tugged at her ridiculous hospital nightgown that couldn't cover those ridiculously long legs of hers, whispering between gasping breaths, “That isn't true, Daddy, you know it isn't true! Sydney said he liked girls, girls younger than me even, that he didn't like her because she was too old even when they got married. She said he had to wait for me because he couldn't get to me before. She said he was sick, that she came as soon as she discovered what he was planning to do—”

“Shut up, you damned little fool!” Royce turned the full force of his authority on her, and his voice turned low and vicious. “Don't you lie to me, Lindsay. You agreed to have an affair with him. When he got a little crude, slapped you up a little bit, you yelled rape and your sister was forced to help you. God, I never thought the time would come when I'd have to protect Sydney from you! Just look what you've done! You've ruined your sister's life!”

Inspector Galvain stepped between father and daughter. He couldn't believe the unbelievable spite of this man. It had taken him so off-guard that he'd found himself tongue-tied. God in heaven,
what had the daughter done to deserve it? He said smoothly, very formally, “You will please leave now, Monsieur Foxe. The doctors have told me your daughter is still suffering from shock. This is quite understandable if you would but pause a moment to think about it. She is also still in pain. The prince struck her very hard, as you can see from the bruises on her face. Also she is hurt internally. I would say that ‘crude' is somewhat of an understatement. I would say that you need to reassess what has happened. The prince was brutal; he was an animal. I will attend you later,
monsieur.
”

Royce wanted to tell the fool inspector to go fuck himself, but he realized, even in his rage, that it wouldn't be smart. The inspector could cause him trouble. It was his country and Royce had no authority here. He stared at the man who looked so ineffective, so damned unlike an inspector should—short and slight, with a nearly bald head and sad brown eyes. Jesus, this was a policeman? Even his voice lacked authority and command. His attempt at stiff formality was absurd. Royce then thought of his sweet Sydney waiting for him downstairs in the car he'd hired, tired and bereft and silent as a ghost, in far worse shape than this little bitch, lying there, staring at him as if struck dumb by what he'd said. Sydney needed him to tell her what needed to be done, needed him to make things right again. He was her father; he loved her. He would take care of everything for her. He nodded to the inspector.