The Blackstone Chronicles - By John Saul Page 0,60
quite come out and said so, it had sounded to Oliver as if Jules was having a breakdown. “Here’s what I want you to do,” he told Rebecca now. “I want you to call Ed Becker. He’s Jules Hartwick’s lawyer. Tell him exactly what you’ve told me, and don’t worry about what he might think. Whatever’s happened at the Hartwicks’, he’ll help. All right?”
“But what if I’m wrong, Oliver?” Rebecca fretted. “Aunt Martha always says—”
“Don’t worry about what Martha says,” Oliver assured her. “If you’re wrong, no one but Ed and me will know, and all you’re trying to do is help. Just call Ed, and I’ll be there as soon as I can.” Finding Ed Becker’s telephone number on the Rolodex he kept on the kitchen counter, he repeated it twice for Rebecca. He was about to hang up when he heard something in the background. “Rebecca? Do I hear a siren?”
“There’s one coming up the street,” Rebecca told him. “Just a second.” He heard her put the phone down, then, increasingly clear, the wail of a siren. Then he heard Rebecca’s voice on the line again.
“It’s the police,” she said. “A police car just pulled up in front of the Hartwicks’.”
“All right,” Oliver said. “Call Ed Becker. I’m leaving right now. I’ll see you in a little while.”
Hanging up the phone, Oliver grabbed his parka from the hook by the door to the garage. He was pulling it on when the phone rang again. This time it was Lois Martin.
“Oliver,” she said, “Andrew Sterling and Celeste Hartwick just brought Madeline to the hospital. Apparently, Jules tried to kill her. Tried to slash her throat.”
“Oh, Jesus,” Oliver groaned. “Is she all right?”
“I hope so.” Lois sighed. “She’s lost a lot of blood and they don’t know yet about internal injuries, but they think she has a chance. The nurse called me. I’m going over now to see what else I can find out.”
“Good,” Oliver told her. “The police just arrived at the Hartwick house. I’m on my way there now. Talk to you later.”
Before the phone could ring yet again, he was in his car, turning the ignition key with one hand even as he pressed the remote control for the garage door with the other. He gunned the engine as the door slowly rolled open, sending a cloud of smoke and condensation billowing out of the exhaust pipe. Putting the car into reverse, he backed out, swinging around in the wide arc that would allow him to head straight down the driveway. But in midturn, as the headlights swept across the front of the Asylum, something caught his eye. He slammed on the brakes. The tires instantly lost their traction and the car swerved, leaving the building in darkness. Swearing under his breath, Oliver maneuvered the Volvo back around so that the headlights were once more shining on the building that loomed fifty yards farther up the hill.
Something—someone—was on the porch.
For an instant, just an instant, Oliver was confused. But then something in the figure’s right hand glinted in the glare of the headlights. Suddenly, he understood.
Jerking the parking brake on but leaving the engine running, Oliver scrambled out of the car and ran up the slope toward the Asylum. He lost his footing in the snow, stumbled, fell to his knees. As he struggled to get up, the figure on the porch raised the knife. “No!” Oliver yelled. “Jules, don’t!”
But it was too late. As Oliver watched helplessly, the knife arced downward, its blade plunging deep into Jules Hartwick’s belly.
Finally regaining his footing, Oliver charged through the snow. With every step, his feet seemed mired in mud; he hurled himself on, feeling trapped in some terrible nightmare. At last, he came to the porch.
Jules Hartwick, his clothes already soaked with his own blood, was slumped against the Asylum’s front door. As Oliver came close to him, his fingers tightened on the haft of the knife, and with a terrible effort he jerked it upward, laying his own belly open. As blood gushed from the gaping wound, he stared up at Oliver. His lips worked spasmodically, and then a sound gurgled from his throat.
“Evil …” he whispered. “All around us.” His eyes closed and he moaned softly, but then he fixed Oliver with a beseeching stare. “Stop it, Oliver. You have to stop it before it—” He took a gasping, rattling breath.“—before it kills us all.…” His body went rigid and his eyes rolled back into his head.