The Blackstone Chronicles - By John Saul Page 0,59
the car disappear into the snow, Jules Hartwick let out one more bellow of rage. The fingers of his left hand closed on the locket, and then, with a howl of frustration, he hurled it after the departing car.
And as the locket left his fingers, his mind cleared.
The paranoia that had robbed him of his sanity drained away as suddenly as it had come over him.
But the memories of what he’d done did not.
Every word he had uttered, every accusation he had made, echoed in his mind. But what horrified him most was an image.
An image of Madeline, crumpled at the bottom of the basement stairs, her neck bleeding, her body broken.
Sobbing, Jules Hartwick staggered to his feet. He lurched down the driveway, the hand that had held the locket only a moment ago now reaching out as if to call back the car that was carrying away everything he’d ever loved. He stood in the street, watching until it completely disappeared, then turned and began walking the other way.
A moment later he too disappeared into the snowy night.
Chapter 9
“Liars! Prevaricators! I’ll kill you all! I swear, I’ll kill you all!”
Although muffled by the closed and curtained windows of Martha Ward’s chapel, the furious words still cut through the soft drone of Gregorian chants, startling Rebecca Morrison out of the reverie she’d fallen into as her aunt’s prayers droned on. Her knees protesting painfully as she rose from the kneeling position her aunt always insisted upon, Rebecca moved to the window and pulled the curtain aside just far enough to get a glimpse of the house next door.
Every light had been turned on; even the tiny dormers in the roof glowed brightly through the falling snow. A car—Rebecca was almost certain it was Andrew Sterling’s—was backing out of the driveway. For a moment Rebecca wasn’t quite sure from where the shouted words had come, but then Jules Hartwick suddenly appeared in the glare of the car’s headlights.
He was lurching down the driveway. Through the swirl of falling snow Rebecca could make out the contortions of his face.
And see the knife he held in his hand.
She watched, transfixed, as he stumbled toward the retreating car, then collapsed into the snow.
As he rose back up to his knees, howling like a wounded animal, then staggered away, Rebecca’s mind raced.
What had happened next door?
Had Mr. Hartwick killed someone?
Who had been in the car?
Call someone.
She had to call someone.
Her fingers releasing the edge of the curtain, she backed away from the window, only to find herself facing her aunt.
Martha, eyes shining with the rapture of her prayers, was glaring furiously at her. “How dare you!” the older woman said in a furious whisper. “How could you commit the very sin for which you were praying for forgiveness! And in the chapel!”
“But something’s wrong, Aunt Martha! Mr. Hartwick has a knife and—”
“Silence!” Martha commanded, holding her finger to her niece’s lips. “I will not have the chapel vilified by your gossip! I will not have—”
But Rebecca heard no more. Brushing her aunt’s hand away, she hurried out of the chapel and made her way to the front parlor on the other side of the foyer. Picking up the telephone, she was about to dial the emergency number when she hesitated.
What if she was wrong? Her mind echoed with everything she’d been told over the years, first by her aunt, then by librarian Germaine Wagner, then by almost everyone she knew:
“You don’t understand, Rebecca.”
“No one expects more of you than you can do, Rebecca.”
“It’s all right, Rebecca. Let someone else worry about it.”
“Now, Rebecca, you know you don’t always understand what’s happening.…”
“Just do as you’re told, Rebecca.”
“You don’t understand, Rebecca!”
But she knew what she’d seen! Mr. Hartwick had been holding a knife and—
“You don’t understand, Rebecca! You don’t understand.…”
Her hand hovered over the telephone. What if she was wrong? It wouldn’t just be Aunt Martha who would be angry with her, then. It would be the whole town! If she called the police and got Mr. Hartwick in trouble—
Oliver!
She could call Oliver! He never told her she didn’t understand, or shouldn’t worry about something, or treated her like a child. Picking up the telephone, she dialed his number. On the fourth ring she heard his voice. “Oliver? It’s Rebecca.”
Oliver Metcalf listened carefully as Rebecca told him what she’d seen. As she talked, he recalled Ed Becker’s visit to his office that morning, when the lawyer had hinted that Jules Hartwick was behaving strangely. Though Becker hadn’t