The clatter of the helicopters pleased him. It reminded him of the last time, when everyone for miles around the University had fanned out looking for the children. He stared out of the front window overlooking the bay. The grey water was caked with ice near the jetty. Earlier the radio had spoken of gale warnings and sleet or rain mixed with snow. For once, the weatherman had been right. The wind was whipping the bay into angry whitecaps. He watched as a flock of gulls flew unsteadily in a futile effort to make headway against the wind.
He carefully consulted the indoor-outdoor thermometer. Twenty-eight degrees out there now – a drop of twenty degrees since the morning. The helicopters and search planes wouldn't be up much longer in this. There wouldn't be many searchers out on land either.
High tide was seven o'clock tonight. At that time he'd take the children up through the attic to the outer balcony they called the widow's walk. The water at high tide covered the beach below, broke furiously against the retaining wall and then, sucked by the violent undertow, rolled back to sea. That would be the time to drop the children… over… down… They might not be washed up for weeks… But even if they were found in a few days, he'd prepared for that. He'd given them only milk and cookies. He wouldn't be fool enough to feed them anything that would suggest that a person other than Nancy had fed them a real meal after breakfast. Of course, hopefully they'd be beyond analysis when they were found.
He chuckled. In the meantime, he had five hours: five long hours to look at the floodlights that were being set up near Nancy 's house and the lake; five hours to be with the children. Even the boy, come to think of it, was a beautiful child… such soft skin, and that perfectly formed body.
But it was the little girl. She looked so much like Nancy… that silky, beautiful hair and small, well-formed ears. He turned from the window abruptly. The children were lying together on the couch. The sedative he'd put in the milk had both of them sleeping. The boy's arm was protectively over his sister. But he didn't even stir when he picked up the little girl. He'd just take her inside and put her on the bed and undress her. She made no sound as he carefully carried her into the bedroom and laid her down. He went into the bathroom and turned on the faucets in the tub, testing the gushing water until it reached the temperature he wanted. When the tub had filled, he tested the water again with his elbow. A little hotter than it should be, but that was all right. It would cool in a few minutes.
He sucked in his breath. He was wasting time. Swiftly he opened the door of the medicine cabinet nd pulled out the can of baby powder he'd slipped into his coat pocket at Wiggins' Market this morning. As he was about to close the door, he noticed a little rubber duck poked back behind the shaving cream. He'd forgotten about that… why, it had been used the last time… how appropriate. Laughing softly, he reached for the duck; ran it under cold water, feeling the lack of elasticity and the cracking of the rubber; then tossed it into the tub. It was a good idea to distract children sometimes.
Grabbing the can of powder, he hurried back into the bedroom. Swiftly his fingers unbuttoned Missy's jacket and pulled it off. Easily, he slipped the turtleneck polo shirt over her head, bringing her undershirt with it. He sighed – a lingering, groaning sound – and picked up the little girl, hugging her limp body to him. Three years old. Just a beautiful age. She stirred and started to open her eyes. 'Mommy, mommy…' It was a weak, lazy cry – so dear, so precious.
The phone rang.
Angrily he tightened his grip on the child, and she began to wail – a hopeless, lethargic cry.
He'd let the phone ring. He never, never got calls. Why now? His eyes narrowed. It might be a call from the town, asking him to volunteer in the search. He'd better answer. It might be suspicious not to answer. He tossed Missy back on to the bed and closed the bedroom door securely before he picked up the phone in the sitting-room. 'Yes.' He made his voice sound formal and cold.
'Mr Parrish, I hope I haven't disturbed you. This is Dorothy Prentiss of Eldredge Realty. I'm sorry to give you such short notice, but I'll be bringing a prospective buyer for the house over in twenty minutes. Will you be there or shall I use my pass-key to show your apartment?'
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Lendon Miles turned right off Route 6A on to Paddock Path. All the way down on the trip from Boston he'd kept his radio at a news station, and most of the news was about Nancy Eldredge and the missing Eldredge children.
According to the bulletins, Maushop Lake had been divided into sections, but it would take divers at least three days to search it properly. Maushop Lake was filled with underwater ledges. Police Chief Coffin of Adams Port was quoted as explaining that at one point it was possible to walk half-way across the lake and still be in water only to the waist; a few yards away, only five feet from the shore, the water became forty feet deep. The underwater ledges caught and held objects and made the search hazardous and inconclusive…
The bulletins announced that helicopters, small seaplanes and ground search parties had been out, but gale warnings for the Cape were in effect and the air search was being called off.
At the news that Nancy Eldredge was expected to be taken to Police Headquarters for questioning, Lendon unconsciously accelerated the car. He felt a desperate urgency about getting to Nancy. But he quickly found that he had to reduce his speed. Sleet was glazing the windshield so rapidly that the defroster was having trouble melting the crusting ice.
When at last he turned into Paddock Path, he had no trouble finding the Eldredge home. There was no mistaking the centre of activity on the street. Half-way up the road, a television van was parked across the street from a house that had two police cars stationed in front of it. Private cars lined the road near the television van. Many bore special press identifications.
The entrance to the semi-circular driveway was blocked by one of the police cars. Lendon stopped and waited for a policeman to come over to him. When one did, his tone was brusque. 'State your business, please.'
Lendon had anticipated that question and was ready. He handed out his card with a note scrawled on it. 'Please take this to Mrs Eldredge.'
The policeman looked uncertain. 'If you'll wait here, Doctor… I'll have to check.' He returned promptly, his attitude subtly less hostile. 'I'll move the squad car out of the way. Park in the driveway and go into the house, sir.' From across the street, reporters had been watching the byplay, and then hurried over. One of them thrust a microphone in front of Lendon's face as he got out of the car.
'Dr Miles, may we ask you a few questions?' Without waiting for an answer, he went on quickly, 'Sir, you are a prominent psychiatrist on the staff of Harvard Medical School. Has the Eldredge family sent for you?' 'No one has sent for me,' Lendon replied sharply. 'I am a friend – was a friend – of Mrs Eldredge's mother. I have come here because of personal friendship and that alone.' He tried to pass, but was blocked by the microphone-holding reporter. 'You say you were a friend of Mrs Eldredge's mother. Will you tell us this: Was Nancy Harmon Eldredge ever a patient of yours?'
'Absolutely not!' Lendon literally shoved his way through the reporters and on to the porch. The front door was being held open by another policeman. 'Right in there,' the man said, indicating the room to the right.
Nancy Eldredge was standing at the fireplace next to a tall young man, undoubtedly her husband. Lendon would have known her anywhere. The finely chiselled nose, the large midnight-blue eyes that looked straight out from under thick lashes, the widow's peak at the hairline, the profile that was so like Priscilla's… Ignoring the openly hostile look of the police officer and the scrutiny of the craggy-faced man at the window, he went directly to Nancy. 'I should have come before,' he said.
The girl's eyes had a staring quality, but she knew what he meant. 'I thought you would come last time,' she told him – 'when Mother died. I was so sure you would come. And you didn't.'
Expertly, Lendon measured the symptoms of shock that he could see: the enlarged pupils; the rigidity of her body; the low, monotone quality of her voice. He turned to Ray. 'I want to help if there's any possible way,' he said.
Ray studied him intently and instinctively liked what he saw. 'Then as a doctor, try to persuade the Chief here that it would be a disaster to take Nancy to the police station,' he said flatly.
Nancy stared into Lendon's face. She felt so detached -as though each minute she were slipping farther and
