Keeping Watch: Heart of the Night\Accidental Bodyguard (2 page)

“What about the six in between? Besides, the law those two practiced was poles apart. Apparently Draper had a hole-in-the-wall practice, mostly wills and simple divorces. And he wasn’t born with a silver spoon in his mouth.”

“Just because we haven’t
found
the link between Jack’s victims doesn’t mean there isn’t one,” Kate said. This wasn’t a new argument. The cops’ idea that the bomber ran his finger down the pages of a phone book to choose the next recipient of his package had never made much sense to her. Other serial killers might be forced to depend on opportunity. Because of his method, Jack wasn’t limited by that. He chose his own victims, and Kate was convinced they were chosen for a reason.

“Random selection,” Lew said. “You know that’s the usual rule. You just think your theory makes for a better story.”

“Makes more sense, you mean. You think he’ll talk to me?” she asked, keeping her voice casual. It took a second for Lew to sort through the possible
he’s,
but he was bright, and of course, he knew Kate very well.

“Barrington? You think Barrington’s going to talk to a reporter?”

“Yeah. Maybe,” she amended. “Under the right conditions. Maybe the bombing today brought something back, triggered some feelings. Maybe I’ll get lucky and catch him in a moment of weakness. You never know until you ask.”

“Trust me,” Lew said, “Barrington’s not going to talk to the press. Today is only going to drive him a little further into that shell he crawled into. He doesn’t see anybody. Not since the bomb. He didn’t even go to his father’s funeral last year.”

“Was he disfigured?” It was a question that had bothered her since she’d begun the series, one there had been no information about. There was not a whisper about Barrington’s injuries in the published reports. Only a lot of money could buy
that
kind of privacy.

“He’d have access to the finest plastic surgeons in the world, and it’s been three years. Surely by now,
whatever
injuries he sustained…” Lew shrugged.

“Then why? Why disappear?”

“How would you react to someone trying to blow you up? Especially someone who has succeeded in blowing up everybody else he’s targeted.”

“Jack’s only failure. You think he’s afraid the bomber will try again?” Kate asked. She had become fascinated with the Tripper case and the cast of characters she’d studied so carefully during the past four months. And, she admitted, especially fascinated with Thorne Barrington.

“He hasn’t changed his address. He hasn’t run.” Lew shrugged. “He’s just…”

“Stopped living,” she said. “More than three years ago.”

“How would you react?” Lew asked again. “How can any of us know how we’d react to something like what happened to Barrington?”

The same thing that had happened again today in Tucson, Kate thought. Another human tragedy, its humanity lost, somehow, in the familiarity of its violence. By the national telecasts tonight, she knew and accepted, the coverage of the bombing would have been reduced to a four-minute segment, complete, if possible, with a glimpse of members of the grieving family, the real cost of today’s events etched starkly in their faces—providing, of course, that the local affiliate came through with the tape.

A
FTER SHE LEFT
the office that night, Kate was reluctant to go home, too keyed up by the events of the day, by thinking about Jack and the series she was doing on the bombings. So she found herself heading once more in a now familiar direction. During the last three months she must have driven by the Barrington mansion a thousand times.

It was in a section of Atlanta that had been the city’s most exclusive before the turn of the century. Only the Barringtons had never moved out, refusing to give in to the urban decay that had slowly surrounded the house during the last fifty years. This is where the Barringtons had chosen to live, and to hell with anyone who believed they had made a bad decision. The irony was that the area was coming back. The homes that were left, huge and hard to maintain, expensive to heat and cool, were being snapped up and renovated into exclusive apartments.

She slowed as she approached the house, only its shape and size visible, the distinctive Victorian tower and irregular roof lines jutting against the night sky. The one concession to the changing neighborhood that the family had made some time in the last thirty years was the high, wrought iron fence that surrounded its narrow grounds, the gate always securely locked against intruders. There were lights visible deep within the house, their glow diffuse and distant.

As she held the Mazda to a crawl along the street that paralleled the grounds, she saw that the front gate was standing open. That was unprecedented, and on today of all days, it seemed almost bizarre. Kate pulled the car up to the curb.

A golden retriever sat forlornly near the open gate. She could see the light-colored lead securing him to one of the tall spikes of the fence. There seemed to be no one around, and as Kate watched, the dog lifted his head and howled. The aching misery of the cry raised the small hairs on the back of her neck. She cut off the engine, but it took another plaintive wail before she opened the door and stepped out onto the street in front of the mansion.

The dog strained toward her, whimpering in his frenzy to free himself and to once again secure the safety of human companionship. It was obvious that he had not been placed here to serve as a watchdog. He was far too glad to see her, a stranger appearing out of the night, to be effective at that.

The retriever was almost beside himself by the time she knelt down to smooth her hands over his head, scratching behind the silky ears and eventually cuddling the reaching nose against her chest. Despite his size, she could tell he was still young, just an overgrown puppy.

Apparently someone had begun the dog’s evening walk and then returned to the mansion, leaving the gate open. The only problem with that reasonable scenario was what she knew about Thorne Barrington’s obsession for privacy.

Was it possible that the retriever had been brought out here deliberately to get him out of the way? she wondered suddenly. That idea was melodramatic, perhaps, but why was the gate standing open? Today of all days. Against her will, Kate again remembered the room in Austin and before she could talk herself out of it, she reached to release the puppy’s lead from the fence.

As soon as it was loosened, the leather loop was pulled out of her fingers, and the dog, trailing the lead, disappeared into the darkness inside the fence, far more eager to escape her company than she could have imagined based on his previous delight. Kate hesitated a moment, and then, following the retriever, she entered the grounds through the gate she had not ever, in all her trips by the house, seen standing open.

Trespassing,
she reminded herself, climbing the stairs to the front porch.
This is trespassing.
She had no right to be here, no logical explanation for the compulsion she felt to investigate.

The front door stood ajar. There was a faint light from inside, dimly visible through its heavy beveled glass panels. She put her palm against it and the door swung inward, almost inviting her to enter.
Breaking and entering
flashed into her head, but she ignored the mental warning because her sense that something was very wrong, a feeling that had begun before she’d ever gotten out of her car, was now too strong to deny.

The crystal tears in the chandelier overhead tinkled softly in the draft from the open door, and hearing them, she automatically stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

The faint light she had seen from the porch seemed to be coming from the back of the house, from behind the massive staircase that climbed to the upper stories. She walked to the foot of the stairs, and looked up, her gaze following their rise. Four stories of railings spiraled upward, like some Escher drawing, into the darkness at the top of the house.

It was as still as death except for the faintest strain of music drifting into the foyer like fog. Even the sounds from the street had disappeared behind the thickness of the materials that had been used in the mansion’s construction.

“Hello,” she called, her voice too tentative to reach the back of the house or upstairs, the most likely places to find the inhabitants. Still she waited, listening. Even the crystal teardrops were silent now.

“Is there anyone here?” she called again, holding her breath. She had wanted to meet Thorne Barrington, but somehow, despite her legitimate concerns about the deserted puppy and the open door, she knew this was a bad idea. She had invaded his privacy on the flimsiest of excuses: his front gate was open on a day that Jack the Tripper had claimed another victim, more than a thousand miles away.

It would be better to leave and call 911 from her car phone. The police could come and check. An anonymous call from a concerned citizen who had seen the dog and the opened gate. She wondered if they’d send a car if she refused to give her name. Or better than that, she should call Detective Kahler, who would certainly understand the strangeness of the situation. Kahler had been the officer in charge on the Barrington case, long before anyone had realized they were dealing with a madman.

Instead of following any of those sensible avenues, she found herself surveying her surroundings. There were four sets of closed double doors, two on each side of the long entrance hall. She crossed the foyer to stand before the first set on the right. She fumbled for a knob in the dimness, realizing finally there was none. What her fingers discovered was an indentation by which the door could be pushed open. The half of the door that she touched slid almost noiselessly to disappear into the wall beside it.

Through the opening created by the sliding door, she saw an empty ballroom, lights from the cross street behind the tall sweep of windows providing enough illumination to allow her to determine, without any doubt, the room’s purpose. Both sets of doors on this side led into this ballroom. In the stillness, she could almost visualize couples swaying on the floor that still gleamed softly, as if awaiting their return.

She stood a moment, caught by the ghosts her mind had created, and eventually she realized that the faint echo of melody was not part of the fantasy. The music was very real and had been there from the first, softly whispering into the darkness. Leaving the ballroom doors open, she moved back across the foyer to those on the opposite side.

The doors there operated the same way, sliding just as noiselessly to hide themselves in the wall. The design was such, she realized, that all four sets could be opened at once to create an enormous space, encompassing the wide foyer and the rooms on both sides, suitable for the lavish entertainments the Barringtons had been famous for. Now the house itself was as lonely as the man who inhabited it. So different from its past. So different now from his.

The music originated from this room, much louder now than the eerie whisper it had been before. She stepped into what had obviously been the downstairs parlor, the familiar shapes of the Victorian furniture indicating that it had stayed unchanged from the century before. In the dimness she couldn’t see the fabrics that covered the scattered chairs and couches, but she could imagine their richness.

Despite her fear, despite the sense of urgency that had compelled her to enter tonight, she had been caught by the house’s timelessness. Thinking only about the slow, deliberate gentility of the life that had been lived in these rooms, she was totally unprepared for the voice which spoke from the shadows gathered thickly to the left of the fireplace.

“What the hell are you doing in my house?” Thorne Barrington demanded.

Kate could see nothing of his features. Her eyes had not adjusted to the gloom after the faint light of the hallway. She doubted, even when they did, that she would be able to distinguish details about the man who sat in the darkest part of the room. There were no streetlights on this side of the mansion to provide even the faint glow that had unveiled the splendor of the long-deserted ballroom.

There was something, however, in the deep voice, an authority bred from generations of privilege, that made her very sure the questioner was Barrington himself.

“The gate was open,” Kate said. It was why she’d stopped, but as she said it, she knew it didn’t begin to answer his question.

“Obviously,” Thorne Barrington said. “I asked why you’re in my house.”

“I saw the dog. He was tied to the fence, but he was upset, and then I found the front door wasn’t closed. I thought something was wrong. I was worried…” She hesitated, considering all the things she couldn’t tell him. All the real reasons she was here.
Because I know the gate shouldn’t have been open, that it never is. Because…because I know all about you.

“Where’s Elliot?” asked the voice from the shadows.

“I don’t know,” she said. Who was Elliot? Did he expect her to know that? “There was no one here. I called, but no one answered, so I thought something must have happened.”

“Because the gate was open?” The question was derisive.

“Because of the dog. The front door,” she added, trying to sound convincing. It was the truth, and she wondered why it sounded so specious.

“Who are you?” Thorne asked.

Kate hesitated, but she knew she had no choice but to tell him. He might ask to see an ID and besides, she doubted he’d recognize her name. People read a thousand stories without ever looking at the byline.

“My name is Kathrine August.”

“August. I should have known,” Barrington said, his soft laughter sardonic. “Don’t you ghouls ever give up? Feeding off other people’s pain like vampires. Doesn’t what you do keep you awake at night?”

There wasn’t much doubt after
that,
Kate thought, that he had recognized her name. So much for playing a long shot. “People have a right to the news, Judge Barrington,” she argued, fighting to keep emotion out of her explanation—one she truly believed. “You know that. It’s one of the most fundamental rights in this democracy.”