Beyond Eden

22

“Hold very still, Mrs. Taylor. That’s it, just a few more snips.”

Mrs. Taylor. How odd it sounded. Lindsay tried to focus on her husband, on herself as a wife, but she couldn’t. She was tense as a stick. She was afraid. She knew Taylor knew it too because he was holding her hand, squeezing her fingers.

“It’s going to be fine,” he said, watching Dr. Perry slowly remove the bandages.

He’d asked him earlier in the hallway, “Will you know when you take off the bandages this time what the result will be?”

“Close enough. There will still be swelling and bruising, and that will look strange, but that’s temporary. Yes, we’ll know this time. I’ll know this time. Don’t worry, Mr. Taylor. I’m really very good.”

Her hair was matted down to her head. She’d lost ten pounds and it showed on her face. Her flesh was pale where there was no bruising. She looked like she’d been very ill, which she had. The stitches looked obscene, black thread woven in and out of her flesh. The hair over her right ear had been shaved off and it showed. A small bald spot that made her look so vulnerable he wanted to cry. He looked more closely, along with a silent Dr. Perry. Her eyes were closed and Taylor knew she wouldn’t open them until she had to.

There was still the swelling Dr. Perry had spoken about, only it wasn’t symmetrical, rather it was lumpy, and the bruising gave her the look of the Italian flag. She looked pretty bad, truth be told, at least to a layman. It was impossible for Taylor to tell how it would turn out. He said now, without hesitation, “You’re gorgeous.”

“He’s right,” Dr. Perry said matter-of-factly. “I’m just about the greatest. I hope you’ve got good insurance because I cost a bundle.”

“Really?” Lindsay opened her eyes and looked straight at Taylor. She searched his face. She saw no distaste there, no revulsion. She heard no lie in his voice. She gave him a tentative smile. “Can I have the mirror Dr. Perry gave me?”

“Not yet,” Dr. Perry said. “First I want the stitches out, then a bit of alcohol to get rid of all the dried blood. Now, hold very still. This will sting just a little bit.”

“Sting” wasn’t the right word for it, Lindsay thought, but she kept herself as still as a stone. She closed her eyes again when he was dabbing alcohol against each of the three suture lines on her face. “There won’t be any scarring,” Dr. Perry said. “Not that I expected any, of course. Good thing you don’t smoke, because if you did, that would be out. Also, no vitamin C for three months. That can make scarring. I’ll give you a list of all foods to avoid as well. Otherwise, you just need to rest and lie around for the next two weeks. No strenuous activity, no running, nothing but having your husband wait on you. Gain back some weight. Now, Dr. Shantel tells me that your ribs are coming along fine, but all my orders apply to your ribs too. At least two more weeks, okay, Lindsay?”

She touched her fingertips to her face. She felt the cool flesh, strange to her touch, and jerked her fingers back.

“Now, before you look in the mirror, understand that you’ve still got swelling here and there and the bruising has faded quite a bit, but it looks pretty god-awful. However, your husband has pronounced you gorgeous and you will be in about another week or so. Here, take a look.”

She wasn’t so sure she wanted to look, given all his disclaimers. She held the antique mirror up and forced herself to look into the glass. She swallowed, forcing herself to focus only on her face. She studied the three suture lines, the curious swelling that made her look like a lumpy frog, particularly around her right eye. It was the strange pale green and sunflower-yellow bruises that finally made her smile. She looked ridiculous. She looked like a prisoner of war. How could Taylor not look at her and fall on the floor with laughter? She was silent for the longest time, merely looking at herself.

Taylor became restive.

Dr. Perry looked ready to gnaw his fingernails.

Lindsay said finally, a small laugh in her voice, “I’m so beautiful I think I’ll call Demos to set up a photo session for this afternoon.”

“Wash your hair first,” Taylor said, leaned down, and kissed her. “Here I was halfway hoping for a little Igor to help me with all my storm and electrical experiments, and you have to go and disappoint me.”

Dr. Perry, grinning, said, “I’ve already spoken to your private nurse on how to get you cleaned up. She knows what to do. Tonight you and Taylor need to have your first regular meal. Demos is having it delivered here from La Viande.” He shook Lindsay’s hand. “I just thought I should warn you.”

“Can I go home tomorrow?”

Taylor said quickly, “Yes. Missy is coming along. We’ll put her in the third bedroom. I don’t want you alone, sweetheart, not yet. Also Barry is sending Officer Fogel. He’ll probably give all his attention to Missy, but there’s at least safety in numbers. I don’t ever want you alone, not until we find out who’s behind all this.”

“It isn’t Dr. Gruska.”

“No.”

“It isn’t my family either.”

“Probably not. Not enough time for the planning of it.”

Lindsay sighed. Who, then? She turned and gave her hand to Dr. Perry. “Thank you. When will I see you again?”

They set up an appointment for the following Monday. Taylor would bring her to his office on Fifth Avenue at Fifty-first Street. “Third floor, suite 306.”

When they were alone, Lindsay said, “Please, Taylor, you don’t have to pretend that I look great.”

“Okay,” he said, and grinned at her. “But you know, I really enjoy the Mutant Ninja Turtles on TV. I can now relate.”

“You’re thin.”

“So are you.”

“If I wear a bag over my head, will you sleep with me when we get home?”

He wondered if she meant sleep, pure and simple sleep, or sex, not so pure, nor so simple, but loads more fun. “Maybe I’ll wear the bag,” he said. “You know, Lindsay, we need to get a start on that huge box of supergigantic condoms the nurses gave you.”

She hadn’t meant sex; he saw that quickly enough. But she was thinking about it now and he looked at her closely, studying the myriad expressions that came across her face. “Okay,” she said, and then yawned.

“I just hope they’ll be big enough,” she added after he’d turned, closing her eyes.

He started, jerking around and looking down at her. He saw a tiny smile quiver on her lips. He saw himself slipping on a condom, saw her smiling at him as he did it, her legs spread for him, and he nearly came right there.

“I’ve got to go get a drink of water,” he said.

Taylor took her home the following morning. She wore sunglasses, at her fervent request, but her hair was soft and shining, so filled with deep waves he wanted to bury his hands and his face in the thick masses.

Fogel brought Missy to the apartment in a patrol car, which, he’d confided to Taylor, tended to make women horny.

To Lindsay’s astonishment and chagrin, by the time she was standing in her own bedroom, she was exhausted.

“No complaints about bed, huh?”

She shook her head. “This is stupid.”

“No, this is recuperation, babe.”

“But what about our wedding night?”

“Our what? Oh, that. I’d forgotten all about it.”

She smacked her fist in his belly.

She slept away the morning and into the afternoon. When she woke, Missy brought her lunch. Taylor wasn’t there, Missy told her, but Fogel was sitting in the living room. He was probably contemplating seduction strategies for Missy.

At two o’clock the phone rang. Missy answered, then called out to Fogel.

Lindsay heard his voice from the living room, but not the words. He came into the bedroom a moment later, grinning, relief flooding his boyish features. “That was Captain Brooks. He says they caught that Oswald creep and I should come on back in now.”

As if this were the first time he realized the meaning of the words, Fogel suddenly sounded very depressed. He looked at Missy and said “Shit” under his breath. “They need me,” he added. He shuffled a moment, then said to Missy, “You want to walk me to the patrol car?”

“Just a moment,” Lindsay said. “Didn’t this Captain Brooks tell you anything else? Who hired Oswald?”

“He didn’t say, Mrs. Taylor. Would you like me to call him back?”

Lindsay saw that Missy was fully prepared to give Officer Fogel quite a treat. She smiled and shook her head. “No, give me the number and I’ll call him. Thank you for your help, and good luck.”

He gave Lindsay the number, then he and Missy wrapped up in coats and left the apartment, arms entwined.

Lindsay dialed. The phone rang once, twice. It was picked up on the third ring, and a man said, “Twelfth Precinct, Johnson here.”

“May I please speak to Captain Brooks?”

“Just a moment.”

She waited. Her breathing quickened. They’d caught him! They’d caught Oswald. Thank God. Now, who had hired him? Soon it would be over, soon Oswald would tell them. Her palms felt wet and cold. Soon, very soon now, she’d know who wanted her dead. Soon now.

Another man came onto the line.

“Hello? I hear you want Captain Brooks.”

“Yes, please.”

“He’s been on vacation for the past four days, ma’am. He won’t be back until Monday week. You a friend of his?”

Oh, God, a lie, a diversion to get Officer Fogel out of the apartment. “I’m Lindsay Foxe Taylor. Captain Brooks just called here to say that Oswald had been caught. He asked Fogel to come back to the station.”

Silence.

Then a sudden explosion of recognition. “Oh, damn! Listen, Mrs. Taylor, you make sure your door’s locked and bolted. I’ll have some men over there in—!”

“What? You mean that—? What’s going on?”

The phone was dead. Completely and suddenly very dead. No dial tone, just silence, deep silence.

Lindsay eased it away from her ear, held it out in front of her, and just stared at it. Then she knew the man hadn’t hung up on her. He hadn’t dropped the phone. Someone had cut the wire. She swallowed and stared toward the doorway. She had to lock the front door. She knew that Missy would have left it unlocked when she’d left with Fogel. Had she even left it open? Was she even now kissing Fogel in his squad car?

Oh, Jesus.

She got up, felt her ribs protest with a vicious prod, but ignored it. Fear made adrenaline flood through her. She ran from the bedroom, her long flannel nightgown nearly making her trip, ran as fast as she could toward the front door.

It opened.

She skidded to a stop, her eyes glued to the now-opening door. She couldn’t move. She could only stare and pray and stare some more.

She wasn’t surprised when the man slipped inside. She wasn’t really surprised that he was holding a gun and aiming it at her. It was the same man from the commercial shoot. He smiled when he saw her standing there, her face bruised, wearing a granny gown, looking white and ill and terrified.

“Hi,” he said. “You’re still around, sweetie, more’s the pity. Lucky little bitch, aren’t you?” He locked the door behind him. “Oh, don’t worry about the girl with the huge tits. She ain’t coming back for a while yet. She’s too busy fucking that cop down in the patrol car. The little gentleman pulled it in an alley so they wouldn’t be disturbed. Who says cops ain’t got no sensitivity? It’s just you and me now. Lord, do you ever look like an ugly duck now. Wouldn’t you rather have died than look like you do now?”

Lindsay felt her insides twisting, heard her heart pounding. Why couldn’t he hear it? Did he hear it, did he smell her fear? It was heavy, metallic. She wanted to gag with the smell of her own fear. Did he enjoy it? Seeing her terror? She heard a voice that was deep and small and it asked, “But why? Why do you want to kill me? What did I ever do to you?”

Bert Oswald just shrugged. “It’s too bad you look like a freak, or you and me could have a little fun before I have to ice you down but good this time. Hey, I’m sorry, lady, but I kinda have to hurry, you know? From the way that cop was moving out of here with that gal, I’d say he’ll probably get his rocks off pretty quick now. Of course, I could have some fun with her when she got back here.”

Lindsay turned and ran. She heard a hard pinging sound. Wood splintered into the wall not six inches from her head. She heard him running after her now, heard another sharp pinging sound—oh, God, it was a bullet—and this one struck her in the arm. She felt a searing streak of iciness, then nothing, blank numbness. She made it to the bedroom, slammed the door, and turned the lock. Because she’d watched lots of television and violent movies, she quickly moved away from the door. It was lucky she did. A bullet struck the door and came flying through, spewing out splinters in all directions.

She plastered herself against the wall, wheezing with fear. She knew she had to think, to act, but dear God, she couldn’t even bring herself to move. How long before he shot the lock off the door? How long before he came in and shot her?

How long did she have?

She opened her eyes and stared sightlessly around the bedroom. Something inside her recognized there was nothing in here to help her. Without hesitation, she ran to the bathroom. Another lock, more protection. But once he got in here, she was trapped and it would be over.

She slammed the bathroom door and turned the lock. It was thicker than the bedroom door, not hollow. She cursed then, wishing she’d moved some furniture in front of the bedroom door to buy her some more time. Too late, too late. She switched on the bathroom light. She saw herself in the mirror and didn’t recognize the wild-eyed woman who looked as if she’d stared Satan right in the eye.

A weapon. She needed a weapon. When he came through the bathroom door she wasn’t going to just stand here and let him kill her. What? She pulled open the medicine cabinet. She flung bottles off the shelves. The racket dinned around her as bottles hit the tile floor, breaking, shattering, rolling. She heard the bedroom door crash against the wall. He was in the bedroom now. He was looking around. In another second he’d know she’d come in here. Thank God the bathroom was old-fashioned, high ceiling, large. She had some room. There was nothing to help her in the medicine cabinet.

She fell to her knees and pulled open the cabinet beneath the sink. Cleaning supplies. A toilet brush, sponges, one green and one yellow, both shrunk from a lot of use, a can of Ajax, a roll of toilet paper, several toiletries bags for traveling, and a bottle of Pine Sol—oh, yes—but it was nearly empty. She flung it onto the floor. Oh, God, there, in the very back, was a can of Lysol bathroom spray. Basin, tile, and tub cleaner—it was foamy, and it came out in wild, thick spurts. She picked up the can and started shaking it. It was nearly full. She pressed down her finger and out poured the foam. Stop, stop, she had to have enough for him.

She heard his voice not three feet away from her; he was pressing his face close to the door.

“Little sweetie? I’m right here and I don’t have a lot more time to spend on you. You know? I cut the phone wires, and no telling how long it will be before someone from the phone company shows up. And I’d hate to have to hurt your little nurse with the big tits. Now, you gonna open that door for me? If you do, I’ll make it real quick, you won’t feel a thing. Otherwise—” He let his voice trail off, hoping to terrify her, but she was smiling now, terror at bay.

She was holding the bottle of Lysol. What to do? How to get to him?

Slowly Lindsay rose, smiling a ghastly smile, and walked to the door, careful not to stand directly in front of it in case he fired through it.

“Come on, now,” Oswald said again. He sounded cajoling, wheedling. Good Lord, she thought, was he so stupid as to think she’d let him in?

A sharp retort, and a bullet slammed through the wood and came into the bathroom, hitting the tile over the bathtub. Shards of tile splintered and flew outward. She felt some strike her, sharp little bites, but didn’t really notice.

It was time. She knew it was time.

She inched over to the door. She stretched out her right hand toward the latch. She saw the blood soaking through the flannel of her gown, lots of blood, but it didn’t concern her at the moment. It just looked odd, so ugly and wet and red against the soft white material of her gown. There was no pain. Just when he fired again, through the doorknob, Lindsay clicked the lock open. Another one—yes, just one more.

He fired again, cursing loudly now, furious now, and she grasped the doorknob and jerked open the door, flinging it back.

He held the gun limply in his hand. The door struck him and he went careening back. But he still had the gun and he wasn’t slow, but he was surprised, and that gave her a second.

He grunted, trying to react, but Lindsay was faster. She brought up the can of Lysol, shoved it into his face, and pressed down. Thick white foam went directly into his eyes, his nose, his mouth, foaming thicker and thicker.

He screamed and the foam filled his mouth, overflowing now. He dropped the gun, falling back, his hands on his face, his fingers digging out the foam in his mouth, out of his eyes. Lindsay dropped the can. She leaned forward and hit him as hard as she could with her fist in his belly. Then she stepped back, raised her leg, and kicked him in the balls. He yowled and fell to his knees. She raised her right leg and kicked him in the neck.

He was screaming now, lying on the floor on his side, holding his belly. He looked rabid with all the foam coming out of his mouth. She was panting now, and he was looking up at her and there was such pain and fury in his eyes that she felt the paralyzing fear come over her again. She backed up. There was that smell again, that fear smell, and it wasn’t coming from her any longer. It was coming from him.

“I’m gonna hurt you bad,” Oswald gasped. “God, are you gonna hurt.” He was on his knees, trying to stand. He saw his gun on the floor and went flying forward to get it.

Lindsay raised her leg and brought her foot down on his kidneys. He fell flat on his face, screaming.

Taylor came through the front door, two policemen behind him, and all of them froze for a millisecond at the horrible screams they heard.

Taylor crashed against the bullet-ridden bedroom door and flung himself into the bedroom. He stopped. He stared. He watched Lindsay kick the man in the kidneys, and now he fell backward onto the floor, curling up immediately into the fetal position, yelling, bawling. She raised her foot again and he shouted, “Enough! Lindsay, that’s enough.”

The power surged through her, pulsed through her, making her invincible, making her strong. It was monstrous and it was splendid and she wanted to kill this little worm. She would kill him, now.

She raised her foot to hit him in the head, but Taylor caught her leg, jerking her toward him. He caught her in his arms and pulled her against him. He felt the fierce pounding of her heart, felt the rippling and tensing of her muscles and understood what was happening to her.

“You got him,” he said over and over. “You got him and he’s very sorry now. You hurt him bad, Lindsay. It’s over now, sweetheart. Over.”

She was so stiff, so far away from him, from herself. It took several more minutes before the tension eased out of her.

Lindsay looked up at him. “Lysol cleaner,” she said. “Foam. I surprised him and got him with the Lysol not an inch from his face. He looks like a rabid dog with all that foam in his mouth.” She laughed, a creaky, ugly sound. “Or like a meringue pie. He kept trying to dig it out with his fingers. I don’t know if it burned his eyes, though.” Then, just as suddenly, she squeaked, “My arm.”

Then she stared at the blood-soaked flannel, saw drops fall to the floor. She was very silent, trying to take it in, trying to understand. She blanched, stared vaguely up at her husband, and fainted for the first time in her life.

“Oh, God! Don’t do it, you asshole!”

Taylor whipped around. Oswald had grabbed for his gun. One of the officers already had his in his hand. He yelled for Oswald to stop, not to be a fool. “Drop the gun, damn you!”

Oswald, dumb with pain, focused his fury on the source and raised the gun toward Lindsay.

The officer fired.

Oswald made a small mewling sound. He turned his head in the direction of the officer, tried to say something, then fell onto his side.

“I think,” Taylor said, “we need two ambulances.” He was profoundly grateful that Lindsay hadn’t seen this part of it.

He picked her up and laid her on the bed, ripping her flannel sleeve as he said, “Is Oswald dead?”

“No, but he’s hurt bad. Dave got him in the head, but not a death wound, at least I hope to God not.”

“Good. We’ve got to keep him alive long enough to find out who hired him.”

“How’s Mrs. Taylor?”

Taylor bared her upper arm. “The bullet went through the fleshy part, thank God. She’s bleeding like stink, but she’ll be all right.” He looked down at her messed-up face. He smiled. “She saved herself. She probably would have killed Oswald if we hadn’t come in time to save his filthy hide. Just keep him alive, guys.”

The officer was wrapping a towel around his head.

Taylor leaned down. “I love you,” he said, and kissed her mouth.

He heard one of the officers say, “I hope she doesn’t ever get mad at me. Just look what she did to this guy.”

“It’s a media circus,” Demos said, panting as he came into the hospital room. “They nearly got me, but Glen pulled me into the service elevator just in time.”

“Yeah, a feeding frenzy,” Taylor said. And all of it would come out now, he thought, looking down at Lindsay, who was awake but so doped up that she was nearly insensible.

“Taylor, I hate to tell you this, but—”

“What is it, Demos?”

“It’s her father, the judge. He’s down there and it looks like he’s going to be a pain in the ass again.”

Taylor just stared at Demos. “The bastard. What is he saying?”

“Glen is down there listening to him, waiting for us. I just heard him mumbling something about how she always liked publicity even when she was only eighteen and in Paris after she’d seduced her brother-in-law. She loves to show herself off—she’s a model, isn’t she—always taking off her clothes for everyone to see her. And bad things happen when she’s around. Jesus, you’d think she shot herself! I don’t know if he’s talking now to the reporters. He probably is by now.”

Taylor very slowly rose from his chair beside her bed. He smiled at Demos. “That settles it. It’s really enough. Father or no father, I’m going to bash his head in.”

Demos didn’t try to stop him. He wanted to assist him if Taylor would only let him.

Another police officer stood outside the door. “Don’t move a muscle, Dempsey. And don’t you even consider letting God or any of his angels in, you got that?”

“Yes, sir.” Dempsey had heard about what Fogel had done. Jesus, a fly wouldn’t get close to the lady as long as he was here.

Taylor felt calm. He would do what he had to. This hatred of the father for the daughter. He simply couldn’t comprehend it. Now he didn’t care. He would stop the man once and for all. When he reached the lobby, it was pandemonium. Reporters were yelling questions, cameras were everywhere. And there, in the middle of all the chaos, stood Judge Royce Foxe, dapper and handsome, looking every inch the stalwart judge, which he was, but now he wasn’t saying a thing. Sydney stood next to him, her chin high, looking gorgeous and determined. She was pulling him through the throng now, just smiling, her jaw set, looking straight ahead. She saw Taylor and nodded. She said something sharp to her father.

Without a word, Taylor followed her, weaving in and out of the pushing and shoving reporters, just keeping her in sight. It took only a few seconds for a reporter to recognize him, then the pack was on his back. He said nothing, merely kept shoving them from his path. If he’d been a woman, he wouldn’t have had a chance. They were merciless. Sydney was headed to the administration section of the hospital. He slipped inside the CEO’s office after her and Royce Foxe, Demos behind him. Some bright assistant slammed and locked the door in the reporters’ faces.

“Thank you,” Sydney said to the three hospital administrators. “Please leave me now with my father. He hasn’t been well and I must speak to him.”

The men didn’t look happy. Taylor said, “Yes, you’re needed out there before the media tear up the hospital, and don’t think they won’t.”

That hadn’t occurred as a possibility, and the three men were quickly gone. This time Demos locked the door after them.

Sydney said, looking up at her brother-in-law, “It’s all right, Taylor. Nothing he said hit the reporters’ ears. Just Demos and Glen heard him, and a couple of hospital employees. I stopped him in time. It’s all right. Now, I need to get him to the airport and back to California. Demos, you want to help me?”

As Sydney left, Taylor said, “Why did you stop him? Why, Sydney?”

“Because he’s mad with hate and…”

Taylor stared at her. “And?”

She just shook her head.

“Oh, yeah, Sydney, if he’d opened his trap to the media, he would have ruined all chances of getting any of Lindsay’s money, right? That’s why you stopped him.”

“No!”

“So you were afraid for yourself, afraid that the scandal would hurt you this time, not Lindsay. God, lady, you are a piece of work.”

She slapped him hard.

He didn’t move. He just smiled down at her. “Take him out of here before I beat him into ground meat.”

“God, I hope she kicks you out!”

Taylor just smiled, shaking his head.

Lindsay sat up in bed, staring toward the darkened windows, thinking about how lucky she was. Her face, after additional CT scans ordered by Dr. Perry, who had been scared into the hiccups, had turned out all right. There were three strips of tape over the suture lines, pulling the skin tight, after her violent exertion. Her ribs hadn’t made out quite so well, but they would mend. The bullet wound wasn’t bad but she’d lost a goodly amount of blood. It turned out that Taylor had the same type and had donated.

She wasn’t in shock, which surprised everyone. She’d come around, stared down at the stitched-up hole in her arm, and simply said to Taylor, “Oh, dear, will I have a scar?”

And he’d laughed. He still was laughing when the nurse had bandaged the wound. She was in a private room. Not the same one as before, but it could have been, except this one faced the river. This one had a Degas print on the wall opposite the bed.

“Let’s keep her here overnight.” That was Dr. Shantel speaking to Taylor near the door. Why not to her? Lindsay wondered. She wasn’t a Victorian maiden to swoon. She nearly crossed her eyes. She had swooned. It was rather a shock to know that her body could simply give out on her like that.

“It’s been a series of traumas,” she heard Dr. Shantel tell Taylor in a much-lowered voice. “ Perhaps I can recommend a good psychiatrist, you know, the type of doctor who can help her get over this.”

“I don’t need a shrink,” Lindsay said in a loud voice. “What I need is to know who hired Oswald. If we don’t find that out soon, then I will go into shock and I’ll go directly to Bellevue.”

“She’s right,” Taylor said. “Look, Dr. Shantel, I’ll keep a close eye on her. She’s got grit and she can be as mean as Satan, and she’s not stupid. She’ll tell me if things get shaky. Don’t worry. Even if she doesn’t, I’m not stupid. Okay?”

When they were finally alone, for the first time since the attack in their apartment, Taylor said, “I just spoke to Barry. Oswald’s in surgery. His chances are fifty-fifty. No, it wasn’t any of your blows, it was the bullet in the head fired by the officer. Now, sweetheart, how are you doing?”

“Can I get combat pay?”

He was immensely pleased. He wondered how much of her smart-ass talk was bravado, but realized it didn’t matter. She was holding up and showing him clearly that she was holding up. That meant a great deal to both of them. He lay down on the bed beside her, turning on his side to face her. “Your face isn’t going to fall off. Dr. Perry is relieved. He says the swelling will hang around awhile longer and to keep these three little strips of tape over the suture lines. You got it?”

She nodded. “It’s a relief to me too. Do I look really gruesome?”

“Yes, but I’m somewhat nearsighted so it doesn’t bother me all that much.”

“Do you know something, Taylor?”

He was nuzzling her neck. “What?”

“I haven’t been bored since I met you. On the other hand, I don’t know if my body can keep mending itself in time for you to come up with new diversions.”

He suddenly became very quiet in mid-kiss.

“Taylor?”

He raised himself on his elbow and looked down at her. He said very slowly, “I think that you’ve just hit on something.”

She just looked up at him, saying nothing. Her arm burned, but it wasn’t important. She scarcely even noticed it.

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of this before. Maybe we’ve been looking at this from the wrong end. You just said I’m the one coming up with new diversions. What if these attacks on you aren’t directed at you but at me?”

She stared at him. “Is that possible?”

“I’ve made enemies. I was a cop for a good number of years. Yeah, maybe we’ve been staring in the wrong end of the kaleidoscope. Let me get Barry over here fast.”

Barry would be over after he’d finished his dinner. Didn’t the two of them ever think about food?

“Now,” Taylor said, easing down on the bed beside her again, “I want to ask you a question.”

“Shoot.”

“Not that, Lindsay. Tell me why your father hates you.”

She gave him a clear, honest look. “I don’t know, I truly don’t. I’ve wondered and wondered and tried to figure it out over the years. I asked my mother, my grandmother, but they always told me it was my imagination or that my father was just under a great deal of stress. Finally my grandmother did admit that he loved Sydney more than he loved anyone else in the world. He was, she said, a man who couldn’t seem to love more than one person. It’s like he’s almost obsessed with her.”

“Did he always treat you badly?”

She shook her head. “No, it started sometime before Sydney’s wedding, before I was sixteen, I think. He simply drew back from me. Everything went to Sydney and she wasn’t even there most of the time. Now that I think about it, that’s when the troubles started between him and my mom too. She gained lots of weight and started drinking too much, just like Holly is now.”

“Sydney is nine years older than you.”

“Yes. So she would have been in law school when it began. Not even in San Francisco all that much. She was at Harvard.”

“You can’t remember anything that could have precipitated this behavior of his? This viciousness?”

“No. What are you thinking, Taylor?”

He kissed her. “I’m thinking that we’re going to have some answers, finally. Another thing, sweetheart, old Oswald is going to sing like a yellow canary once he’s out of surgery. Not to worry.”

“Why worry?” she said, and smiled up at him. “I’ve got another good arm to donate.”