Faces of Fear (27 page)

Was he happier down here, mourning at this memorial to his dead wife, than upstairs in the company of his warm, loving,
living
wife?

A terrible aching feeling of helplessness and hopelessness came over Risa as she gazed around the room once more. How could she ever compete with Margot's beauty and grace?

Her eyes glistened with tears, tears she had no strength to fight, but just as they were about to overwhelm her, she remembered the night just over a year ago when Michael Shaw had told her their marriage was over, and why.

She had cried that night. Not so much because she'd lost Michael, but because there was no way to fight for him.

But Conrad was different.

Conrad wasn't gay.

And suddenly Risa felt her strength flooding back into her, and she gazed up at Margot again, this time seeing her in a whole new light.

"You're dead," she whispered. "You're dead and buried and no longer a part of our life.
And you will not claim my husband.
"

Margot was dead, and no matter how much time Conrad spent down here with his memories, Margot could not seduce him any longer.

Not the way she herself could.

And would.

Starting tonight.

Snatching one of Margot's peignoirs off the clothes rack, a peignoir that was far more beautiful—and expensive—than anything she would have bought for herself, Risa left the basement room, closing the door firmly behind her.

By the end of this evening, she resolved, Conrad would never want to come back here again.

The fingers played over the keyboard with the deftness of Van Cliburn racing through Tchaikovsky's First Piano Concerto. At the top left-hand corner of the computer screen there was a photograph of a mousy young woman named Molly Roberts—whose name was of no more interest to the mind than the names of any of its previous subjects.

The eyes gazed steadily at the screen as the facial-recognition software measured every aspect of the nose that was enlarged in the center of the screen.

Molly Roberts's nose.

A nose whose perfection the eyes had perceived at once, and which was now being confirmed by the utterly objective code running in the brain of the computer.

And then the measurements were done, and as the mind had expected, the dimensions and ratios were perfect right down to a single millimeter.

The computer had finally finished its most difficult job and was now assembling all the puzzle pieces it had been gathering over the past year.

At the top right-hand corner of the screen was a photograph of Margot Dunn.

The goal must never be forgotten.

When Molly Roberts's medical records popped up in the center of the screen, the right hand manipulated the mouse, and in only a second or two the medical records shrank to fit into the lower left-hand corner of the monitor.

The forefinger of the right hand worked the wheel on the mouse, and the pages of the medical record began to flow by the window.

The blood type was a perfect match.

An attorney's office served as next of kin.

The fingers picked up a pen and scribbled the address and phone number on a Post-it.

Google Maps pinpointed the location of Molly Roberts's apartment.

But the medical records were voluminous. Why?

And then the eyes saw it: Molly Roberts suffered from agoraphobia. She was a shut-in.

A silent curse formed on the lips, and the small dog that was sleeping in his bed next to the desk stirred, as if sensing his master's fury.

Agoraphobia.

That could make this more difficult than the mind had anticipated.

White-hot rage began to build behind the eyes as they scanned the medical records over and over again.

This was the final piece—the last payment! It should be simple. But now it wouldn't be.

The chair creaked as the eyes closed and the body leaned back. The head rotated gently on the neck to reduce tension.

The mind ordered the body to relax, and slowly the body obeyed. After all, this was but a minor inconvenience, and given that this was to be the final payment of the old debt, whatever inconvenience was involved would be worth the extra effort. Soon it would all be over.

The eyes opened as a sigh escaped the lips, and once again the fingers began to fly over the keyboard, seeking avenues of access.

The girl had no next of kin. She lived alone.

Ah, but wait! Here was something: she ran a website for other agoraphobics.

The fingers moved more rapidly, and the browser opened a fresh window filled with information on the website. The masthead showed two miniature dachshunds. A quick check on the chat section of the site showed that Molly Roberts, logged in as MollyAtHome, posted more often than anyone else, and that she was constantly talking about her two elderly dogs and the mobile vet who came to the house to care for them.

An idea began to take root, sprout, and quickly grow.

The right hand manipulated the mouse, and one by one the windows closed.

The screen went dark.

The vow came back to mind: "I will do whatever it takes."

"Come here, Mr. Bojangles. Come here, sweetheart."

The teacup schnauzer got up from his bed, stretched, then clicked his nails on the hardwood floor and jumped up into his mistress's lap.

"I have a big job for you, yes I do," she cooed to him, stroking his soft fur. After a moment, when the dog was settled, Danielle DeLorian snapped its neck and felt it die in her lap.

THE LAST THING Risa expected when she walked into Alison's room at Le Chateau at eight o'clock that evening was to find her daughter sitting up in bed, the TV on and tuned to one of their favorite shows. As she came over to the bed, her daughter grinned at her.

"Can you believe it?" Alison asked. "All that stuff Conrad gave me really worked. I thought I'd be feeling terrible, but nothing hurts at all."

Risa cocked her head and gazed at Alison, barely able to believe that she'd been under anesthesia only a few hours ago; indeed, when she'd called Le Chateau an hour ago, she was told that Alison was still in recovery. But now here she was, in a room far more beautiful than any hospital room Risa had ever seen, and looking as comfortable as if she were in the hotel suite the room resembled.

Unable to stop herself, Risa laid her wrist against Alison's forehead, but felt no fever at all.

Nor did Alison look even slightly pale.

"So," she finally said, dropping into a large overstuffed chair placed so it faced Alison, "I guess I wasted a lot of time worrying for nothing, huh?"

"Not as much as I did," Alison replied. "I can't believe it—I really thought all Conrad was doing was trying to get me to stop worrying!"

"And where, exactly,
is
Conrad?" Risa asked, doing her best to keep her voice as cheerful as Alison's. For the last two hours she'd been worrying about what the strange shrine in the basement was all about. But she wasn't about to mention it to Alison.

Or anyone else.

Not, at least, until she knew the results of what she'd planned for this evening.

But something in her voice must have given Alison a hint that something wasn't right, because her smile had faded.

"Didn't he go home?" her daughter asked. "He was here half an hour ago, and said he'd see me in the morning. I thought he was done for the day."

"And so I was," Conrad himself said, coming through the doorway. He crossed over to Risa, kissed her on the cheek, then took Alison's wrist to check her pulse. "Until Teresa told me your mother was on her way over." He fell silent for a few seconds, counting the beats of Alison's heart, then dropped her wrist back onto the bed. "So I figured I'd wait around, see you one more time, and make sure your mother lets you go to sleep."

"Except I'm not sleepy," Alison challenged.

"You will be," Conrad said placidly. "Everyone always wakes up feeling great, then crashes a few hours later. But it won't be bad, and I expect you'll still be going home in the morning. But I want you to sleep in, all right? I'm giving orders that you aren't to be woken up until nine. The nurses can check on you, but they can't wake you up. Okay?"

"This place really isn't like a hospital, is it?" Risa said. "Every time I've been in one, they wake you up to give you sleeping pills."

"Obviously you've been going to the wrong hospitals," Conrad told her. "And the nine o'clock do-not-disturb applies to you, too," he added. "Think you can keep away that long?"

"Can't I even come in and sit with her?" Risa countered.

"You'd never be able to do that. You'd start poking her to make sure she was still breathing."

"I wouldn't!"

"You would, too, Mom." Alison yawned.

"Aha!" Conrad said. "See? You're about to pass out for the night. What do you say I take your mother home for dinner, and leave you to sleep?"

Alison shrugged. "Actually, you're right—I think I am starting to poop out. Don't you have any more of those miracle pills you gave me?"

"Not to keep you awake. Not tonight. Tonight, all I want you to do is sleep." He gently drew Risa to her feet. "So what do you think? Is it okay if I take your mother home?"

"Sure—I'll be fine. Besides, Dad and Scott are coming by. Dad said they'd be here at eight-thirty."

"And they'll be gone by nine," Conrad instructed. Then, at the look on Alison's face, he relented. "All right, nine-thirty. But no later, understand?"

"Okay," Alison grumbled. She tried to hold up her arms but failed. Risa bent down to kiss her gently on the cheek, careful to put no pressure on her, but Alison pulled her close. "Love you, Mom," she whispered.

"I love you, too," Risa replied. "See you in the morning."

"But not too early," Alison said before Conrad could repeat the admonition.

Risa, though, didn't need the admonition repeated.

If everything went according to her plan, neither Conrad nor she would want to be getting up early tomorrow morning.

* * *

"I'M GOING UPSTAIRS," Risa said, putting a hand on top of Conrad's and glancing at the clock. It was almost ten. "Finish your wine and then come join me?"

"Sure," he replied. "I've got a stack of journals to get caught up on. Might as well do it in comfort."

"Not tonight," Risa said, sliding her chair back from the dining room table. "I have a surprise for you."

Catching the faintly seductive note in her voice, Conrad eyed her speculatively. "Oh?" He picked up his wineglass, drained it, and started to move his own chair back.

"I need five minutes," Risa said, smiling at him. "But don't make me wait too long."

"I'm liking where this is going," Conrad said, taking her hand and kissing her fingers as she passed behind his chair.

"I'll see you in bed," she said, pulling her fingers free and disappearing through the dining room door.

As she hurried up the stairs, Risa felt much, much better. Tonight was going to be their real honeymoon night—the night she had imagined so often, the two of them alone, pleasing each other until they were exhausted, then falling asleep in each other's arms just before sunrise. That it would happen here instead of in Paris was fine. In fact, the whole day was turning out fine; much finer, indeed, than she'd expected this morning. The surgery had gone every bit as well as Conrad had promised, and though Alison had gotten a little sleepy when she visited her at Le Chateau, she clearly was doing even better than he'd expected.

And since she wasn't allowed to see Alison until nine, they could sleep in.

So she and Conrad deserved the night she was determined to give them, and though they might have had a little too much wine at dinner—Dom Perignon to begin, then a bottle of Montrachet, and a split of Chateau d'Yquem to finish—being a tiny bit tipsy never hurt when it came to making love.

Moving quickly, Risa lit all the candles she had carefully arranged in the bedroom, dimmed the lights, put a second bottle of Dom Perignon in an ice bucket, set two glasses on Conrad's nightstand, then went into her dressing room and closed the door. The peignoir she had found hanging downstairs on one of the racks in Margot's room fit her almost perfectly, and she dabbed on a touch of the perfume from Margot's vanity at all her pulse points: behind her ears, behind her knees, and at her wrists.