The Blackstone Chronicles (19 page)

When he appeared in the doorway, she forced a smile that managed to mask the many emotions that had been churning through her all day. “I’ve fixed all your favorites,” she said, moving toward Jules to take his arm and draw him into the room. When he pulled away from her, she chose to ignore it, and pulled his chair out for him. “Filet mignon, just on the medium side of medium rare, a baked potato with all the things that are bad for you, green beans with almonds, and a Caesar salad. And I broke out a Pauillac, one of the ’eighty-fives.”

Jules eyed the table carefully, as if searching for something that might be ready to strike out at him, and for a moment Madeline was afraid he was going to bolt from the room. But then he moved away from his chair and seated himself in her own. He looked up at her, his eyes glinting in the candlelight. “Suppose I sit in your chair tonight?” he asked, a strange smile twisting his lips—one that seemed to Madeline to be oddly triumphant, as if he’d just won some kind of victory over her. “Would that be all right with you?”

“Of course,” she replied, immediately settling herself into what was ordinarily Jules’s place at the table. It felt distinctly odd, but if this was what it would take to soothe her husband, so be it. She picked up her knife and fork, cut off a small portion of the steak, and put it in her mouth.

Jules abruptly stood up. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ll sit there after all.”

Her jaw tightening, but saying nothing, Madeline stood and picked up the plate in front of her.

“Leave it there,” Jules commanded.

Celeste, who until now had said nothing at all, finally broke her silence. “For heaven’s sake, Daddy, what are you doing? Did you think Mother poisoned your food or something? It’s as if …” Celeste’s words died away as her father’s eyes bored into her, glowing with a feverish light she’d never seen in them before. She quickly shifted her own gaze to her mother, who shook her head just enough for Celeste to understand that she would do well to change the subject. “Maybe we could talk about the wedding,” she began, realizing the moment the words were out of her mouth that she’d made a mistake.

“And what wedding would that be?” her father demanded, his voice ice cold.

“M-mine and Andrew’s,” Celeste stammered, her words barely audible.

Jules’s gaze pierced her. “Really, Celeste, how stupid do you think I am?” Once again Celeste glanced at her mother, but this time her father saw the movement of her eyes. “Don’t look at her, Celeste. She can’t help you this time. I’m on to her, and I’m on to Andrew. I’m even on to you.”

Celeste set down her fork. She had begun to tremble. “Why are you doing this, Daddy? Why are you talking like everyone’s out to get you? Why are—”

“Aren’t they?” Jules suddenly bellowed, slamming his fist down on the table so hard his wineglass fell over. A dark stain spread like blood from a wound. “There won’t be a wedding, Celeste! Not to that bastard Andrew Sterling, anyway. And as of tomorrow morning, he’ll be out of the Bank. Do you understand? How dare he think he can take over my own Bank! And how dare you even think of marrying him! Don’t you understand? He wants everything I have. My Bank, my wife, my daughter—
everything! Well, he won’t get it! None of it! None of it, goddamn it!”

Bursting into tears, Celeste fled from the table. Madeline rose as if to follow her daughter, but as she heard Celeste’s feet pounding up the stairs, she turned back to face her husband, her own eyes now almost as angry as his. “Have you gone out of your mind, Jules?” she demanded. “I called Dr. Margolis earlier, and I’m going to call him again in the morning. In the meantime, I suggest—”

“You’ll suggest nothing!” Jules stood, plunging his right hand deep into the pocket of his pants. “What are you planning to do, put me in the Asylum? Well, you won’t get away with it, Madeline! When I tell people what you’ve been up to—you and Andrew, and Celeste too—you’ll all be in jail! Or have you got everyone else in the plot too?” His eyes narrowed to tiny, suspicious slits. “You’d better tell me what you’re planning, Madeline. I’ll find out, you know. One way or another, I’ll find out everything.”

He edged toward her, but Madeline turned and strode from the breakfast room. By the time he’d moved through the dining room and the small parlor, she had reached the foot of the broad staircase.

“I’m going upstairs, Jules,” she told him, her eyes fixed steadily on him, her voice calm. “I’m not having an affair with anyone, and I’m not out to ruin your life, and neither are Celeste and Andrew. We all love you, and we all want to help you.” She paused, then spoke again, using the soothing tones that had always calmed Celeste when she was a child. “It’s going to be all right, Jules. Whatever is wrong, I’m going to fix. Right now, I’m going to go up and take care of our daughter. Then, in a few minutes, I’ll be back downstairs, and you and I can figure it all out.” When he made no reply, she turned and hurried up the stairs.

Jules, clutching the locket tightly in his right hand,
watched her disappear onto the second floor. Take care of Celeste, indeed! He could almost hear them, whispering together in Celeste’s room, scheming against him.

Scheming what?

Would Madeline really call Margolis and have him locked away in the Asylum?

Of course she would! She’d do anything to get rid of him, so she and Andrew could take over the Bank.

And Celeste was part of it too, of course!

How stupid he’d been not to have seen it coming months ago! But of course that had been the genius of their plot—Celeste would pretend to be in love with Andrew so he’d never suspect what Andrew and Madeline were up to! But he’d figured it out in time.

And he’d stop it too.

He was at the foot of the stairs; suddenly, one of the lights on the telephone went on.

They were trying to call someone! One of their coconspirators, no doubt!

He started up the stairs, intent on stopping them, then realized they’d have locked Celeste’s door against him.

The phones!

He could tear out the phones!

Instead of going up, he dashed back through the dining room and into the kitchen, then down the back stairs to the basement. Groping in the dark, he found the light switch. The bright glare of a naked bulb pierced the darkness around him.

The laundry room.

That’s where the main electrical box was, and he was almost sure that’s where they’d put the box for the new phone system he’d had installed last year.

He darted into the laundry room, felt for the light switch, and a moment later found the telephone’s control box right where he remembered it.

Dozens of wires sprouted from the connector boards that were mounted on the wall next to the controller, and
Jules, after staring at them for a split second, began indiscriminately jerking them loose.

Through nothing more than pure chance, the very first wires he tore free from the boards were the lines coming in from the outside. Though he kept tearing at the wires, the phones throughout the house had already gone dead.

T
he last wire jerked free from the panel next to the control unit. Jules Hartwick stepped back, breathing hard, staring at his handiwork, listening to the silence that had descended on the house.

What had they thought he’d do? How big a fool did they take him for? Even as he sat in his den all day, he’d been able to hear them. Hear them as clearly in his own mind as if they’d been in the room with him.

Talking about him.

Laughing at him.

Plotting against him.

But he’d outsmarted them. Now he was in control, and they had no one to talk to but each other.

Who had they been calling?

The traitor, Andrew Sterling?

The quack, Philip Margolis?

Or someone else?

There were so many of them out there.

Enemies.

They weren’t just in his home and in his Bank.

They were all over town. Watching him. Whispering about him.

And plotting. Always plotting.

How long had it been going on? How long had they all been able to fool him, making him think they were his friends? Well, it was all over now. Everything was
crystal clear, and finally he was in control of his own life again. And it would stay that way.

Jules left the laundry room, careful not to turn off the lights, not to offer his enemies any darkness in which to hide. He moved through the basement, turning on every light until the warren of dusty rooms beneath the house was free from any shadows in which his enemies might lurk. Then, satisfied that no lights remained unlit, he went back up to the kitchen. There, too, he turned on every light, filling the room with a brilliant glow.

From the huge rack above the carving counter, he chose a knife with a ten-inch blade, honed to razor sharpness by years of perfect care. Its smooth haft, carved from ebony nearly a century earlier, fit perfectly in his hand, and as his fingers tightened on it he felt the strength of the hardwood seep from the weapon into his body. Fingering it now as he’d fingered the locket a few minutes earlier, he left the kitchen and moved through the butler’s pantry and into the dining room, still turning on every light he found, washing the house free of any dark corners in which his enemies might conceal themselves.

Moving as silently as a wraith, Jules Hartwick prowled the main floor of his house, banishing the darkness from its rooms as the locket he carried with him had banished reason from his mind.

Madeline and Celeste listened to the silence of the house.

When the phone had suddenly gone dead in Madeline’s hand while she was waiting for Philip Margolis’s answering service to come back on the line, she’d assumed that the connection had merely been lost by the service itself. But when she pressed the redial button and nothing happened, her impatience with the incompetence of the answering service gave way to fear. Surely she was wrong!

Jules was upset, but he wouldn’t cut the phone lines—would he?

She stabbed at the buttons that should have connected to one of the other lines that came into the house. None of the lights came on. There was a deadness to the silence in the receiver that told her the phones were no longer working at all. She slammed the handset back onto its cradle. Her thoughts darted first one way then another, like mice in a maze.

Raise the window and call for help?

She cringed at the mere thought of the kind of talk that would cause. If the problems at the bank were bad now, they’d be ten times worse by tomorrow, when everyone in town would know that Jules had gone—

She cut herself off, refusing to use the word “insane” even in the privacy of her own mind. Jules was under a strain—a severe strain—but he was
not
insane! Therefore, whatever had upset him could be dealt with.
She
could deal with it. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she turned to Celeste. “Stay here,” she instructed her daughter. “I’m going downstairs to talk to your father.”

“Are you crazy?” Celeste asked. “Mother, he’s cut off the phones! You don’t know what he’ll do next.”

Madeline steeled herself against the fear that was creeping through her, knowing that if she gave in to it even for a moment she would lose her courage entirely. “Your father won’t hurt me,” she said. “We’ve been married for twenty-five years, and there’s never been a hint of violence in him. I don’t think he’s going to start now.” She started toward the door.

“I’m coming with you,” Celeste told her.

Madeline was tempted to argue, but as she remembered the look she’d seen in Jules’s eyes as he glared at her from the foot of the stairs, she changed her mind. Opening the door to Celeste’s bedroom, she stepped out into the hall.

The house was as silent as a tomb.

Unconsciously taking her daughter’s hand in her own, Madeline moved to the head of the stairs. She was just about to peer over the banister to the entry hall below when the silence was shattered by the gong of the grandfather clock striking the half hour. As both Madeline and Celeste jumped at the noise, all the other clocks in the house began sounding as well, the rooms resonating with a cacophony of chimes and bells.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over, and once more a shroud of silence dropped over them.

“Where is he?” Celeste whispered. “What’s he doing?”

Before Madeline could answer, Jules appeared at the bottom of the stairs. His hands behind his back, he glowered up at them.

“Stay here,” Madeline instructed Celeste firmly. “I’m going to try to talk to him. If anything happens, lock yourself in your room. You’ll be safe in there.”

“Mother, don’t,” Celeste pleaded, but Madeline was already starting slowly down the long flight of stairs, her eyes fixed on her husband.

Do not be afraid of him, she told herself. He won’t hurt you.

From her room in the house next door, Rebecca Morrison watched curiously as every window on the main floor of the Hartwicks’ house blossomed into light.

Were the Hartwicks going to have another party?

Surely not—no catering truck had arrived, nor had she seen any of the waiters Madeline always hired when she was having a big party. And it was already seven-thirty, long after the time the parties next door invariably began.