Black-Eyed Stranger (22 page)

Authors: Charlotte Armstrong

BOOK: Black-Eyed Stranger

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“Don't wait,” she said.

“But I will say this. If Lynch recovers, before you leap,
you
wait, Katherine. Consider his age and his background. A more unsuitable matchâ”

“
Match!
” she cried. “Did you think we'd m
arry?
Sam and I? I wouldn't think of it. Neither would he. It isn't â¦ That isn't it.”

Alan said, “Don't be a fool. That's
always
it. Putting it nicely. Whatever innocent girlish idea you may now have â¦ of a platonic type of thing â¦”

Her face flushed. “You have a name for all types of things, don't you, Alan?” She looked at her hands. “I don't especially want you to be right. Nor would he. It would certainly be a crazy match. A perfectly wild thing. But you may be right. Sam says you always are.”

He said, very gently, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't try to talk, today. You've been upset. I don't blame you. You can't help it, of course.”

She thought, a wooden piece.

“Pretend I haven't spoken. Nothing was said. Just try to wait, and think â¦”

She said, gravely, “Yes, I'm waiting. I'm thinking. I have been upset. But I won't marry you, Alan. Did you
hear me?
”

“I would say we had all better wait and see,” he murmured. “And so I will, dear.” He went away. She watched him go.

Charles Salisbury drove her, himself. He insisted that Reilly must go along, too. He declared she must not be without protection.

They passed through a group of men, downstairs, to the car. “Good morning, Mr. Reilly. Daddy, aren't you locking the barn door?” Kay tried to smile.

“Never mind.” Her father looked stubborn. “It's a slippery world.”

“You're looking good, Miss Salisbury,” Reilly said.

“Mr. Reilly, if he lives, what will happen?”

“He'll be all right. He could write a book.”

Salisbury said, “You know he may not. You are prepared for that?”

“I just must go.”

“I won't go in,” he said, “but Reilly must walk with you. I think I understand. You feel you must go. He did a brave thing for you.”

“He isn't brave,” she said. “He's not a hero. That made it harder.”

Salisbury said, “I see. I see.”

It was just a big old house, this private hospital, painted white, charming among green trees. Three men with cameras took her picture, but she walked in, and Reilly followed, and inside there was only one woman in white behind a desk.

“I came to see Mr. Lynch.”

The woman looked serene, but grave. “No visitors, I'm sorry. Mr. Lynch is on the critical list. We can't allow him any visitors.”

“You can't tell me whether â¦?”

“No one can tell.”

“Or how long?” The woman shook her head. Kay stood still, and her senses examined the air. “Is he awake?”

“I don't believe he's been conscious at all.”

“Is the doctor â¦?”

“He isn't here, at the moment. Everything is being done.”

“Will Mr. Lynch â¦ wake before he dies?”

“No one can tell, my dear.” The woman was gentle and serene. “Are you a relation?”

“There's a relationship,” Kay said.

“It's not wise to wait here. We can call you. It would be better.” The woman's eyes were kind.

“Please. Do call me.” Kay gave her number. “If he should wake, can you give him a message? Say, Katherine â¦”

“Katherine â¦” She had a pencil.

“No. Don't say Katherine. Say â¦” Her throat hurt, her eyes stung. “Put it this way. Say, sister â¦”

Pencil wrote
Mr. L.'s young sister.

“It's very important. Will you please give him my respects?”

“We'll give him your love,” the woman said soothingly.

Kay began to correct her. But then she murmured, “Maybe it's all the same.”

She turned. The place was so clean and serene. She sent her senses out again to examine this air. She couldn't feel death around. Not here. Not in the morning. She said to herself, we must wait and see. Alan is right about that, too. Wait and see, about everything. It's a slippery world.

She began to walk toward the door. Reilly joined her with the question on his face. Kay shook her head in the motion that means
unknown.

She walked out into the sun.

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This edition published in 2012 by
MysteriousPress.com
/Open Road Integrated Media

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New York, NY 10014

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