Chapter 11
It was 9:45 when she woke the following morning, and the knowledge that she was going to be late performing Jacob's morning checkup helped to keep her mind occupied and held the previous nights terror at bay. When she had showered and dressed and applied what little makeup she required, she found herself hesitant to unbolt the door. But, because she was late and because she was-above all else-professional in the performance of her duties, she overcame that hesitancy in short order.
The corridor was empty; the house was quiet
She unlocked Jacob's door and entered his room to find him sitting over the remnants of his breakfast, perusing the morning paper.
Ah, he said, good morning! As always, you look charming.
Thank you, she said, a bit embarrassed, as she always was when anyone complimented her. I hope your locked door wasn't the cause of any trouble. I should have been up earlier, but-
Nothing to it, nothing to it, he said, waving away any apology or excuse she had prepared. Bess unlocked it and locked it after herself.
Well, shall we go through the ritual?
Get out your infernal devices, he scowled in mock perturbation. See if I'm alive or not.
When everything checked out as well as they might have expected, she said, Is Lee home this morning?
He and Gordon are in the city on business again. If I'd worked myself as hard as they do when I was young, I'd never have lived to earn a pretty nurse!
She could not understand his cheerfulness or why he had decided to take last night's incident so lightly. He did not appear-except for his insistence that the door remain locked-to fear anyone or anything.
She had hoped to find out what she wanted to know and unburden herself to Lee Matherly. If he was not at home, the next best sympathetic ear was Jacob's.
Have the police talked to Celia yet? she asked, watching the old man carefully.
Yes, he said.
Then that is why he's relieved, she thought. The girl must have positively identified her assailant as a stranger. Yet, why should he still want his door locked if that were the case?
What did she tell them?
Jacob pretended to want to return to his paper, but he did manage an answer for her. She can't remember it at all. It was too much of a shock to her, poor child. Those last few minutes, from the moment she turned into the driveway, are blank. No memory of them.
She did not say anything as she considered the consequences of Celia's hysterical memory loss.
Her doctor is bringing in a psychiatrist to see if he can make her relive those missing minutes, Jacob explained.
Do they think he can do that?
He uses hypnosis to cause age-regression in his patients, to make them remember traumatic episodes in their childhood. He should be able to regress Celia to the time of the attack. He peered over the rims of his glasses at a story on the sports page.
When? she asked.
Excuse me? He looked up, quizzical, as if he had become so quickly immersed in the story that he had forgotten their train of conversation. It was clear that he did not want to consider the subject and that he was putting on an act he hoped would dissuade her from questioning him about it.
When will the psychiatrist treat Celia?
Today, perhaps.
Perhaps?
Or tomorrow, he said.
And Captain Rand is just going to wait?
What else should he do? Jacob asked, finally putting the paper down, convinced his ruse was worthless.
Have you told him what happened last night?
Nothing happened, he said.
She was so surprised by his statement that she could not speak.
We'll know soon enough, Jacob said. When the psychiatrist gets Celia to describe the hitchhiker, they'll round him up in no time.
Last night, you didn't think it was a hitchhiker, she said.
I had a bad dream last night.
It was more than that.
No, he said. A nightmare.
She realized that, again, the old man was fighting against the acceptance of the truth. He wavered between rationality and an almost absurd degree of head-in-the-sand ecscapism. Right now, he was playing his ostrich role.
She decided that it would be useless to tell him about the nightlight bulb having been unscrewed. And he would probably flatly refuse to accept her story about the man who was trying to pry open her door with the blade of a knife. He didn't want to believe, and therefore, he would not She would have to wait for Lee Matherly and tell him everything. He would know what to do. He would, most likely, call Captain Rand at once.
Well, Elaine said, I think I'll see if Bess has anything to serve a late breakfaster.
You run along, he said. I'll be just fine.
I'll check in on you after lunch.
As she opened the door, he leaned forward in his chair, folding the paper haphazardly against his lap. Lock the door, please.
She turned and faced him, wondering if his facade of cheerfulness was about to break down. Why?
I'd feel better.
Why?
The old man looked pained, as if he were confronted with a child he loved, but a child intent on being nasty with him. His face was drawn tight, holding back a flood of emotions. His eyes were filled to brimming with a sadness that had been nurtured for a long, long time, a sadness that had become as deep as his soul. He clearly could not bear to offer her another reason. And if he were forced to tell the truth, to explain the nature of the fears he wished to deny, he would break down and he would cry-and he might very well suffer another attack of his crippling illness.
She felt that she was his friend, which meant she could not permit the tears. And as his nurse, she could not permit the attack of angina.
All right, she said.
She closed the door and locked it, tested the knob, then hurried down the steps and along the narrow first floor corridor toward the kitchen.
As she pushed open the kitchen door, Bess wailed as if she had been struck; a short, sharp wail of pain.