Stillwatch, page 1
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Books by Mary Higgins Clark
Before I Say Good-ByeWe’ll Meet AgainAll Through The NightYou Belong To MePretend You Don’t See HerMy Gal SundayMoonlight Becomes YouSilent NightLet Me Call You SweetheartThe Lottery WinnerRemember MeI’ll Be Seeing YouAll Around The TownLoves Music, Loves To DanceThe Anastasia Syndrome And Other StoriesWhile My Pretty Ones SleepsWeep No More, My LadyStillwatchA Cry In The NightThe Cradle Will FallA Stranger Is WatchingWhere Are The Children?
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents areproducts of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resem-blance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coin-cidental.
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Copyright © 1984 by Mary Higgins Clark
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Table of Contents
Chapter 01Chapter 02 Chapter 03 Chapter 04Chapter 05Chapter 06Chapter 07Chapter 08Chapter 09Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23 Chapter 24 Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28 Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33
Chapter 34Chapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38Chapter 39Chapter 40Chapter 41Chapter 42Chapter 43
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Pat drove slowly, her eyes scanning the narrow Georgetown streets.The cloud-filled sky was dark; streetlights blended with the carriagelamps that flanked doorways; Christmas decorations gleamed againstice-crusted snow. The effect was one of Early American tranquillity.She turned onto N Street, drove one more block, still searching forhouse numbers, and crossed the intersection. That must be it, shethought—the corner house. Home Sweet Home.She sat for a while at the curb, studying the house. It was the onlyone on the street that was unlighted, and its graceful lines were barelydiscernible. The long front windows were half-hidden by shrubberythat had been allowed to grow.After the nine-hour drive from Concord her body ached every timeshe moved, but she found herself putting off the moment when sheopened the front door and went inside. It’s that damn phone call, shethought. I’ve let it get to me.A few days before she’d left her job at the cable station in Boston,the switchboard operator had buzzed her. “Some kind of weirdo insistson talking to you. Do you want me to stay on the line?”“Yes.” She had picked up the receiver, identified herself and listenedas a soft but distinctly masculine voice murmured, “Patricia Traymore,you must not come to Washington. You must not produce a programglorifying Senator Jennings. And you must not live in that house.”She had heard the audible gasp of the operator. “Who is this?” sheasked sharply.The answer, delivered in the same syrupy murmur, made her handsunpleasantly moist. “I am an angel of mercy, of deliverance—and ofvengeance.”Pat had tried to dismiss the event as one of the many crank callsreceived at television stations, but it was impossible not to be troubled.
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The announcement of her move to Potomac Cable Network to do aseries called Women in Government had appeared in many television-news columns. She had read all of them to see if there was any mentionof the address where she would live, but there had been none. The Washington Tribune had carried the most detailed story:“Auburn-haired Patricia Traymore, with her husky voice andsympathetic brown eyes, will be an attractive addition to PotomacCable Network. Her profiles of celebrities on Boston Cable have twicebeen nominated for Emmys. Pat has the magical gift of getting peopleto reveal themselves with remarkable candor. Her first subject willbe Abigail Jennings, the very private senior Senator from Virginia.According to Luther Pelham, news director and anchorman ofPotomac Cable, the program will include highlights of the Senator ’sprivate and public life. Washington is breathlessly waiting to see ifPat Traymore can penetrate the beautiful Senator ’s icy reserve.”The thought of the call nagged at Pat. It was the cadence of thevoice, the way he had said “ that house.”Who was it who knew about the house?The car was cold. Pat realized the engine had been off for minutes.A man with a briefcase hurried past, paused when he observed hersitting there, then went on his way. I’d better get moving before hecalls the cops and reports a loiterer, she thought.The iron gates in front of the driveway were open. She stoppedthe car at the stone path that led to the front door and fumbled throughher purse for the house key.She paused at the doorstep, trying to analyze her feelings. She’danticipated a momentous reaction. Instead, she simply wanted to getinside, lug the suitcases from the car, fix coffee and a sandwich. Sheturned the key, pushed the door open, found the light switch.The house seemed very clean. The smooth brick floor of the foyerhad a soft patina; the chandelier was sparkling. A second glanceshowed fading paint and scuff marks near the baseboards. Most ofthe furniture would probably need to be discarded or refinished. Thegood pieces stored in the attic of the Concord house would be deliveredtomorrow.She walked slowly through the first floor. The formal dining room,large and pleasant, was on the left. When she was sixteen and on aschool trip to Washington, she had walked past this house but hadn’t
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realized how spacious the rooms were. From the outside the houseseemed narrow.The table was scarred, the sideboard badly marked, as if hot servingdishes had been laid directly on the wood. But she knew the handsome,elaborately carved Jacobean set was family furniture and worthwhatever it would cost to restore.She glanced into the kitchen and library but deliberately keptwalking. All the news stories had described the layout of the house inminute detail. The living room was the last room on the right. Shefelt her throat tighten as she approached it. Was she crazy to be doingthis—returning here, trying to recapture a memory best forgotten?The living-room door was closed. She put her hand on the knoband turned it hesitantly. The door swung open. She fumbled and foundthe wall switch. The room was large and beautiful, with a high ceiling,a delicate mantel above the white brick fireplace, a recessed windowseat. It was empty except for a concert grand piano, a massive expanseof dark mahogany in the alcove to the right of the fireplace.The fireplace.She started to walk toward it.Her arms and legs began to tremble. Perspiration started from herforehead and palms. She could not swallow. The room was movingaround her. She rushed to the French doors at the far end of the leftwall, fumbled with the lock, yanked both doors open and stumbledonto the snow-banked patio.The frosty air seared her lungs as she gulped in short, nervousbreaths. A violent shudder made her hug her arms around her body.She began to sway and needed to lean against the house to keep fromfalling. Light-headedness made the dark outlines of the leafless treesseem to sway with her.The snow was ankle-deep. She could feel the wetness seep throughher boots, but she would not go back in until the dizziness receded.Minutes passed before she could trust herself to return to the room.Carefully she closed and double-locked the doors, hesitated and thendeliberately turned around and with slow, reluctant steps walked tothe fireplace. Tentatively she ran her hand down the roughwhitewashed brick.For a long time now, bits and pieces of memory had intruded on
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her like wreckage from a ship. In the past year she had persistentlydreamed of being a small child again in this house. Invariably shewould awaken in an agony of fear, trying to scream, unable to utter asound. But coupled with the fear was a pervading sense of loss. Thetruth is in this house, she thought.
It was here that it had happened. The lurid headlines, gleaned fromnewspaper archives, flashed through her mind. “WISCONSINCONGRESSMAN DEAN ADAMS MURDERS BEAUTIFULSOCIALITE WIFE AND KILLS SELF. THREE-YEAR-OLDDAUGHTER FIGHTS FOR LIFE.”She had read the stories so many times, she knew them by heart.“A sorrowful Senator John F. Kennedy commented, ‘I simply don’tunderstand. Dean was one of my best friends. Nothing about himever suggested pent-up violence.’”What had driven the popular Congressman to murder and suicide?There had been rumors that he and his wife were on the verge ofdivorce. Had Dean Adams snapped when his wife made an irrevocabledecision to leave him? They must have wrestled for the gun. Boththeir fingerprints, smudged and overlapping, were found on it. Theirthree-year-old daughter had been found lying against the fireplace,her skull fractured, her right leg shattered.Veronica and Charles Traymore had told her that she was adopted.Not until she was in high school and wanted to trace her ancestry hadshe been given the whole truth. Shocked, she learned that her moth
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don’t risk it by raking up the past! You’ll be meeting people whoknew you as a child. Somebody might put two and two together.”Veronica’s thin lips tightened when Pat insisted.“We did everything humanly possible to give you a fresh start. Goahead, if you insist, but don’t say we didn’t warn you.”In the end they had hugged each other, both shaken and upset.“Come on,” Pat pleaded. “My job is digging for the truth. If I hunt forthe good and bad in other people’s lives, how can I ever have anypeace if I don’t do it in my own?”
Now she went into the kitchen and picked up the telephone. Evenas a child she had referred to Veronica and Charles by their first names,and in the past few years had virtually stopped calling them Motherand Dad. But she suspected that that annoyed and hurt them.Veronica answered on the first ring. “Hi, Mother.I’m here safe and sound; the traffic was light all the way.”“Where is here? ”“At the house in Georgetown.” Veronica had wanted her to stay ata hotel until the furniture arrived. Without giving her a chance toremonstrate, Pat rushed on. “It’s really better this way. I’ll have achance to set up my equipment in the library and get my head togetherfor my interview with Senator Jennings tomorrow.”“You’re not nervous there?”“Not at all.” She could visualize Veronica’s thin, worried face.“Forget about me and get ready for your cruise. Are you all packed?”“Of course. Pat, I don’t like your being alone for Christmas.”“I’ll be too busy getting this program together even to think aboutit. Anyway, we had a wonderful early Christmas together. Look, I’dbetter unload the car. Love to both of you. Pretend you’re on a secondhoneymoon and let Charles make mad love to you.”“ Pat! ” Disapproval and amusement mingled in her voice. But shemanaged one more piece of advice before hanging up. “Keep thedouble locks on!”Buttoning her jacket, Pat ventured out into the chilly evening, andfor the next ten minutes she tugged and hauled the luggage and cartons.The box of linens and blankets was heavy and ungainly; she had torest every few steps on the way to the second floor. Whenever she
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tried to carry anything heavy her right leg felt as though it might giveway. The carton with dishes and pans and groceries had to be hoistedup to the kitchen counter. I should have trusted the movers to arrivetomorrow on time, she thought—but she had learned to be skepticalof “firm” delivery dates. She had just finished hanging up her clothesand making coffee when the phone rang.The sound seemed to explode in the quiet of the house. Pat jumpedand winced as a few drops of coffee touched her hand. Quickly sheput the cup on the counter and reached for the phone. “Pat Traymore.”“Hello, Pat.”She clutched the receiver, willing her voice to sound only friendly.“Hello, Sam.”Samuel Kingsley, Congressman from the 26th District ofPennsylvania, the man she loved with all her heart—the other reasonshe had decided to come to Washington.
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Forty minutes later Pat was struggling with the clasp of her necklacewhen the peal of the door chimes announced Sam’s arrival. She hadchanged to a hunter green wool dress with satin braiding. Sam hadonce told her that green brought out the red in her hair.The doorbell rang again. Her fingers were trembling too much tofasten the catch. Grabbing her purse, she dropped the necklace intoit. As she hurried down the stairs she tried to force herself to be calm.She reminded herself that during the eight months since Sam’s wife,Janice, had died Sam hadn’t called once.On the last step she realized that she was again favoring her rightleg. It was Sam’s insistence that she consult a specialist about thelimp that had finally forced her to tell him the truth about the injury.She hesitated momentarily in the foyer, then slowly opened the door.Sam nearly filled the doorway. The outside light caught the silverstrands in his dark brown hair. Under unruly brows, his hazel eyeslooked wary and quizzical. There were unfamiliar lines around them.But the smile when he looked at her was the same, warm and all-embracing.They stood awkwardly, each waiting for the other to make thefirst move, to set the tone for the reunion. Sam was carrying a broom.Solemnly he handed it to her. “The Amish people are in my district.One of their customs is to carry a new broom and salt into a newhome.” He reached into his pocket for a salt cellar. “Courtesy of theHouse dining room.” Stepping inside, he put his hands on hershoulders and leaned down to kiss her cheek. “Welcome to our town,Pat. It’s good to have you here.”So this is the greeting, Pat thought. Old friends getting together.Washington is too small a town to try to duck someone from the past,
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so meet her head on and establish the rules. Not on your life, shethought. It’s a whole new ball game, Sam, and this time I plan to win.She kissed him, deliberately, leaving her lips against his just longenough to sense the intensity gathering in him, then stepped backand smiled easily.“How did you know I was here?” she asked. “Have you got theplace bugged?”“Not quite. Abigail told me you were going to be in her officetomorrow. I called Potomac Cable for your phone number.”“I see.” There was something intimate in the way Sam soundedwhen he mentioned Senator Jennings. Pat felt her heart give a queertwist and looked down, not wanting Sam to see the expression on herface. She made a business of fishing in her purse for her necklace.“This thing has a clasp that Houdini couldn’t figure out. Will you?”She handed it to him.He slipped it around her neck and she felt the warmth of his fingersas he fastened it. For a moment his fingers lingered against her skin.Then he said, “Okay, that should stay put. Do I get the Cook’sTour of the house?”“There’s nothing to see yet. The moving van delivers tomorrow.This place will have a whole new look in a few days. Besides, I’mstarving.”“As I remember, you always were.” Now Sam’s eyes betrayedgenuine amusement. “How a little thing like you can put away hot-fudge sundaes and buttered biscuits and still not put on an ounce . . .”Very smooth, Sam, Pat thought as she reached into the closet forher coat. You’ve managed to ticket me as a little thing with a bigappetite. “Where are we going?” she asked.“I made a reservation at Maison Blanche. It’s always good.”She handed him her jacket. “Do they have a children’s menu?”she asked sweetly.“ What? Oh, I see. Sorry —I thought I was paying you acompliment.”Sam had parked in the driveway behind her car.They walked down the path, his hand lightly under her arm. “Pat,are you favoring your right leg again?” There was concern in his tone.
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“Just a touch. I’m stiff from the drive.”“Stop me if I’m wrong. But isn’t this the house you own?”She had told him about her parents the one night they had spenttogether. Now she nodded distractedly. She had often relived thatnight in the Ebb Tide Motel on Cape Cod. All she needed was thescent of the ocean, or the sight of two people in a restaurant, theirfingers linked across the table, smiling the secret smile of lovers.And that one night had ended their relationship. In the morning, quietand sad at breakfast, on their way to separate planes, they had talkedit out and agreed they had no right to each other. Sam’s wife, alreadyconfined to a wheelchair with multiple sclerosis, didn’t deserve theadded pain of sensing that her husband was involved with anotherwoman. “And she’d know,” Sam had said.Pat forced herself back to the present and tried to change thesubject. “Isn’t this a great street? It reminds me of a painting on aChristmas card.”“Almost any street in Georgetown looks like a Christmas card atthis time of year,” Sam rejoined. “It’s a lousy idea for you to try todredge up the past, Pat. Let go of it.”They were at the car. He opened the door and she slipped in. Shewaited until he was in the driver ’s seat and pulling away before shesaid, “I can’t. There’s something that keeps nagging me, Sam. I’mnot going to have any peace until I know what it is.”Sam slowed for the stop sign at the end of the block. “Pat, don’tyou know what you’re trying to do? You want to rewrite history,remember that night and decide it was all a terrible accident, thatyour father didn’t mean to hurt you or kill your mother. You’re justmaking it harder for yourself.”She glanced over and studied his profile. His features, a shade toostrong, a hairbreadth too irregular for classic good looks, wereimmensely endearing. She had to conquer the impulse to slide overand feel the fine wool of his overcoat against her cheek.“Sam, have you ever been seasick?” she asked.“Once or twice. I’m usually a pretty good sailor.”“So am I. But I remember coming back on the QE 2 with Veronicaand Charles one summer. We hit a storm and for some reason I lostmy sea legs. I don’t ever remember being so miserable. I kept wishing
