By The Sea, Book Four: The Heirs (28 page)

Quinta did as she was instructed, dropping
down to the waterfront. She was disappointed to see that not much
was going on. The
Pegasus
was through practicing in
Newport's waters. The boat was hauled out and in the shed, where it
was being broken down for shipping to Australia. There was nothing
very glamorous about a boat out of the water, so, not surprisingly,
there wasn't a Beautiful Person in sight.

No demonstrators, either. Not at the gate,
not in the yard. Quinta found that very curious. Either they felt
their work was done on this side of the world, or they sensed that
they'd lost their audience. Maybe there was a story in that.
Feeling reckless, Quinta went up to the rented trailer that served
as the waterfront office for the
Pegasus
syndicate and poked
her head in.

A frazzled, middle-aged admin looked up from
her telephone. "What can I do for you?"

Quinta whispered, "Alan Seton?" and the
woman pointed through the window to another trailer nearby, a small
silver Airstream. Alan was inside, also on the telephone. Quinta
tapped at the door and waited on the step. After a minute or two
Alan hung up, then came outside.

"What's up?" he asked, and immediately she
realized that she'd presumed. He was flat-out busy, and she was
entertaining fantasies that he'd suggest a walk in the park. What
idiocy.

"I came by to check things out for a wind-up
piece," she quickly lied. "At my editor's behest."

"Everything okay at home?"

She liked the way he said "at home."

"The last I heard, my dad was trying to talk
Mr. Locklear into a game of Trivial Pursuit. I guess you've been
taking some heat over my photo," she added, determined to get that
behind her as well.

"You were just doing a job. But I wish you
wouldn't do it so damned well," he admitted. "Those people don't
need any encouragement. Still, between you and me and the
masthead—I think they've got a case. I'm uncomfortable with the
DeVrisch sponsorship, now that they've said they're shutting down
their U.S. factories and shipping the jobs overseas—and I'm putting
all the pressure I can on the executive committee to have them
withdraw their support. It wasn't that much, anyway. That is off
the record
,
Quinta, and I'll thank you not to come up with a
creative interpretation of my remarks."

Deep Throat he wasn't, she thought ruefully.
How maddening to have access to behind the scenes and not be able
to use it. "Where have the protesters all gone, anyway?"

"Damned if we can figure it out. Everyone's
sitting around waiting for a shoe to fall. On the other hand,
summer's winding down. You know as well as I do that college kids
begin to leave in droves this time of year; you can see the
help-wanted signs all over town. The kids want time for a last
fling before they start picking ivy from their teeth. It could be
the protesters have all split."

"Somehow I don't think so. They seemed more
committed than that to me."

Alan put his hands on her shoulders and said
quietly, "You're young, Quinta. For you, a commitment is keeping a
date on Saturday night. But to really follow something through, to
be really committed, there's a surprising amount of pain and—"

He seemed to be distancing himself from her,
and it hurt. "So who're you?" she said, annoyed. "Mr. Chips? You
may not realize it, but I know something about devotion." She
shrugged out of his grip, glowering at him, aware that she didn't
care about being called uncommitted nearly so much as being called
young.

"Ah. Your father. Of course. I'm sorry,
Quinta. While the rest of us are wandering through the woods after
the lost grail, you're—" He stopped, sighed, laughed at himself.
"What an ass I am."

"Your word, not mine."

He favored her with a heart-melting, crooked
smile. "Thank you, ma'am, for your restraint."

"And why do you keep calling me young? It
really is annoying. I have a degree, a job, another lined up. You
already know about the caregiving part."

He looked out at the harbor for a moment at
a sloop that was raising sail, then turned back to her. "I wish you
were
like others your age," he said quietly. "You're so
damn—" Then he checked himself. "Hey
,"
he said in another,
cheerier tone. "I'll see you and your father later. You like hot
and sour soup?"

"That'll be fine," she answered, confused
and annoyed by the contradictory signals he was sending her. "It'll
match my mood perfectly."

****

Quinta left the office early. She wanted to
be home once the afternoon paper came out; she wanted to be ready
and waiting for Cindy Seton. The answering machine that her father
had bought but never used was hooked up and ready to record phone
conversations. If only Cindy would call; if only she'd speak half a
dozen words. Then they could play it back for Alan and convince him
once and for all.

Because Quinta wasn't really sure that Alan
believed them. He was taking precautions as though he did, but she
couldn't shake the feeling that he was doing her father and her a
kindness, buying off a three-year-old guilt trip. Alan didn't care
if it was the man in the moon who was harassing them; he was just
determined to protect them both. That was the way she read his
motive.

When Quinta got home she found Mr. Locklear
just where she'd left him.

"I bought a newspaper from the machine," she
called to her father. "Couldn't stand the suspense." She threw
herself into the loveseat and started paging through the
classifieds.

Neil looked up from his magazine. "Don't ask
me how my day was or anything," he said testily.

"How was it, Dad?" she asked without looking
up. "Finish editing your book?"

"Against all possible odds," her father
answered in a growl.

"Good. I may need to use your computer for a
couple of hours before Alan—before supper. Here it is! My first
personal: 'C.S., we know you're out there.' Cheap ad," she said,
laughing.

"Why are you treating this as a joke?" Neil
demanded. "There's nothing funny about it. We have this ...
gentleman sitting in the middle of our privacy to prove it," he
added dryly.

Quinta stared at her father, surprised. His
face looked haggard; he was worrying, and it was wearing him down.
She put aside the paper. "I don't know why I'm so up lately," she
confessed. "Maybe I'm just tense. I'm not sure I'd know the
difference."

"I know happiness when I see it. We're about
to get our throats cut and the thought gives you great joy."

She handed him the paper. "That's an
exaggeration. Besides, we have a Catherine de Medici on our hands,
not a Jack the Ripper—incidentally, does Mr. Locklear test food as
part of his duties?" she said in a stage whisper, with a wink at
the bodyguard. All right, she couldn't help it: she was happy.
So sue me,
she thought. "Tea?"

"No."

She brewed a cup and sat down at her
father's bigger, faster computer, determined to bang out at least a
rough sketch of her next column: about the courage it took to get
back in the ring after a loss. Dennis Conner had it. Alan Seton had
it. It was turning out that her father had it. Youth could not
possibly have it, because youth saw life as limitless. Where was
the courage in that?

When the telephone rang half an hour later,
it split a pensive silence inside the house. Startled, Quinta ran
to the record button on the answering machine and pressed it; Neil
picked up the receiver as if it were wired for explosives. After
his hello, a pleasant, cultivated voice on the other end said, "Oh!
Who is this?"

"Neil Powers," he said sternly.

"Oh dear, do I have a wrong number?" She
gave it, and Neil said, "You do have it wrong." He hung up,
relieved.

"That was her! I'm sure it was her! That's
just how she should sound," cried Quinta.

He grimaced. "As if you could tell. We won't
know a damn thing until Alan gets here."

By the time Alan did arrive, both arms laden
with Chinese booty, Quinta was beside herself with suspense. She
grabbed him by his arm and dragged him over to the recording
machine.

"Listen!" she demanded triumphantly. She
pressed the play button, lip-synching the conversation, which she
knew by heart, while Alan smiled in bemusement.

"Not her. Not even close," he said when the
brief recording had played through.

Quinta's high spirits flipped sideways and
sank. "Are you sure? Listen again—"

"The shrimp get soggy when they get cold,"
Alan said in a voice so gentle he might have been telling her she
had less than a month to live.

"Don't humor her," snapped Neil. "It only
makes her worse."

He joined them at the table, where cartons
of take-out food were multiplying like little white rabbits. Quinta
was opening everything up haphazardly and sampling the contents,
and Alan was closing up the cartons after her and demanding
utensils and other tokens of civilization. The mood was relaxed,
familiar, completely at odds with the circumstances. Even Neil's
growling took on a bemused and rather shy softness.

Then the phone rang, for the second time
that evening, and the roof of the house seemed to blow away,
leaving the three of them at the mercy of sudden, torrential,
demoralizing rain.

"It's probably one of my sisters," Quinta
said quickly to Alan. "I'll get it, Dad. Leave your cordless in its
holster." She gave them both a tight smile and realized the folly
of her plan: Cindy Seton was never going to call, but they would
still end up spending the rest of their lives jumping to the sound
of the phone.

She pressed the record button, picked up the
phone, and said hello. There was a click and a dial tone.

"Hung up," she explained with forced
cheerfulness. "Good. Let's eat."

It wasn't the same as before the call, but
everyone seemed to be trying hard to bring back the mood, and that
in itself was rather heart-warming. Then the phone rang again.

"Dammit. I'll answer it this time," said
Neil. He pulled out the cordless phone from a side-saddle and said,
"Powers residence." A click and a dial tone.

"Maybe she wants Alan to answer," Quinta
said softly. There was no point in trying to pretend anymore; she
knew it was Cindy. "After all, she's after him too."

"You keep assuming it's Cindy," said Neil,
irritated. "Use your head, girl. That ad'll bring everyone out of
the woodwork. 'C.S. We know you're out there,'" he quoted, heavily
sarcastic. The phone began ringing in his hand. "That's probably
Carl Sagan calling right now."

"I'll take it," said Alan, reaching to take
the phone from Neil. He punched the talk button and waited without
saying anything. When no one hung up, he murmured, "This is Alan."
Click and a dial tone. "Okay, that's not the magic word either," he
told them with a wry look.

After that no one bothered much to eat; no
one bothered much to talk. They simply waited around for the phone
to ring, and it did: with teeth-grinding randomness, sometimes two
or three times in a row, at other times once every twenty minutes
or so. Then it stayed silent for almost an hour; by the end of that
stretch they were as strung out as addicts denied their fix.

After it rang just before eleven and the
caller hung up again, Quinta said, "I don't know about you two, but
I've been jerked around on a string long enough. Can't we turn all
the ringers off and go to bed? I say we've given her enough thrills
for the night."

"If
that's who it is," added
Neil.

"You're right, Quinta," said Alan, standing
up and letting himself have the luxury of a stretch and a yawn.
"Maybe if we deny her, she'll be more anxious to talk."

"If
that's who it is," repeated
Neil.

"Why do you keep saying that?" asked Quinta
sharply. "You're the one who saw her in the first place."

"If
that's who I saw." Neil Powers
was tense, and when he got tense, he got contrary. He pressed the
button on his remote; the television flickered to life. News at
eleven. Over the years he had developed the unvarying routine of a
recluse, and tonight had been anything but routine. He needed his
news.

Alan said good night, and Quinta walked him
to the door. Mr. Locklear was still sitting in the hall, so Quinta
stepped outside onto the porch with Alan. The porch light was
turned off. "Do you think she's watching us?" murmured Ouinta.

Alan shook his head in the dark. "She's too
busy dialing your number."

"Up until a little while ago, I really
didn't think you believed us," Quinta confessed, absurdly aware of
his nearness. The smell of late-blooming clematis from a nearby
trellis wafted over them, placing the moment in her senses forever.
"We still don't have much in the way of proof."

He flattened his hands on the back of his
head and pushed, a small isometric to ward off the fatigue of
sitting still. He was an outdoor man, a man of action; it must have
been hard for him to sit around their parlor all evening, waiting.
Almost as hard as for her father. And yet he seemed in no hurry now
to leave. "In retrospect," he said, "we do have proof."

She tiptoed up to his remark carefully, as
if it were a rare bird sitting on the bough of a pine tree; she
wanted to identify it before it flew away. "Have I missed
something?" she asked softly.

"Nothing that you knew about. My house was
burglarized not too long ago. Some things were taken that could
have no value—I see that now—for anyone but Cindy. She also threw
my pajama tops in the toilet. That sounds like Cindy," he added in
the quietly controlled voice that he used when he alluded to
her.

"How strange."

Quinta was wondering why he had married such
a woman at the exact moment he said, "You're wondering why I
married her. Because," he explained, "she told me she was pregnant
by me, and I wanted to do the right thing. The funny thing is, she
told me pretty quickly after we were married that she'd made it all
up. Well—not so funny, really, but in retrospect, I sure am glad
she
wasn't
pregnant."