Night Moves : Dream Man/After the Night by Linda Howard
He reached for the telephone, but it wasn’t there. Dimly he remembered throwing it earlier, and glanced at the window that was now boarded over, awaiting new panes. He got up and walked out into the hallway, to the phone on the table at the foot of the stairs. Monica trailed after him, still silent but plainly resenting the restriction.
He called Alex first. Alex answered the phone on the first ring. “No letter,” Gray said briefly. “See what you can do about getting power of attorney for me, or anything else that will shore up my position.” Power of attorney was a long shot, but maybe a few strings could be pulled.
“I’ve already started,” Alex said quietly.
Next Gray called his broker. His instructions were brief, and explicit. If worst came to worst, he would need every bit of ready cash he could scrape together.
Now for the hardest part. Monica was staring at him, her big, dark eyes filled with alarm. “Something’s wrong, isn’t it?” she asked.
He mentally braced himself, then took Monica’s hand in his. “Let’s go talk to Mother,” he said.
She started to ask something else, but he shook his head. “I can only say it once,” he said, his voice rough.
Noelle was enjoying her last cup of tea as she read the society section of the New Orleans newspaper. Prescott had its own small weekly paper, in which she was regularly mentioned, but being in the New Orleans paper was what really counted. Her name was listed there often enough to make her the envy of the rest of the parish society. She was dressed in her favorite white, with her sleek dark hair pulled back into a French twist. Her makeup was minimal but perfect, her jewelry expensive but understated. There was nothing gaudy or frivolous about Noelle, not one bow or ruffle or jarring bit of color, just clean, classic lines. Even her nails never wore anything but clear polish.
She looked up as Gray and Monica entered the breakfast parlor, and her gaze flicked briefly to their clasped hands. She didn’t comment on it, though, for that would express personal interest, and perhaps invite the same. “Good morning, Gray,” she greeted him, her voice perfectly composed as always. Noelle could violently hate someone, but the person would never be able to tell by her voice; it never revealed warmth, affection, anger, or any other emotion. Such a display would be common, and Noelle allowed nothing about herself to sink to that low standard. “Shall I call for another pot of tea?”
“No, thank you, Mother. I need to talk to you and Monica; something serious has happened.” He felt Monica’s hand tremble in his, and squeezed it reassuringly.
Noelle put aside the newspaper. “Should we be more private?” she asked, concerned that one of the servants would overhear them discussing a personal matter.
“There’s no need.” Gray pulled out a chair for Monica, then stood behind her with one hand on her shoulder. Noelle would be upset because of the social nuances, the embarrassment of it, but Monica’s pain would be worse. “I don’t know of any way to make this easier. He didn’t leave a note or anything like that, but Dad seems to have left town with Renee Devlin. They’re both gone.”
Noelle’s slender hand fluttered toward her throat. Monica was motionless, not even breathing.
“I’m sure he wouldn’t take a woman like that on a business trip,” Noelle said with calm certainty. “Think how it would look.”
“Mother—” Gray cut himself off, stifling his impatience. “He isn’t on a business trip. Dad and Renee Devlin have run away together. He won’t be coming back.”
Monica gave a thin cry, and pressed both hands to her mouth to cut off the sound. Noelle’s face lost its color, but her movements were precise as she placed her teacup in the center of the saucer. “I’m sure you’re mistaken, dear. Your father wouldn’t risk his social position for—”
“For God’s sake, Mother!” Gray snapped, his tenuous control on his patience snapping like a thread. “Dad doesn’t give a rat’s ass about his social position. You’re the one it’s important to, not him!”
“Grayson, it isn’t necessary to be vulgar.”
He ground his teeth together. It was typical of her to ignore something she found unpleasant and focus on the trivial. “Dad’s gone,” he said, deliberately emphasizing the words. “He’s left you for Renee. They’ve run away together, and he won’t be coming back. No one else knows it yet, but it’ll probably be all over the parish by tomorrow morning.”
Her eyes widened at that last sentence, and horror filled them as she realized the humiliation of her position. “No,” she whispered. “He couldn’t do that to me.”
“He did. It’s done.”
Blindly she got to her feet, shaking her head. “He—he’s really gone?” she asked in a faint murmur. “He left me for that . . . that—” Unable to finish, she walked quickly from the room, almost as if she were fleeing.
As soon as Noelle was gone, as soon as she was no longer there to frown at unseemly displays, Monica wilted onto the table, falling forward to bury her face against her arm. Harsh sobs tore up from her throat and shook her slim body. Almost as angry at Noelle as he was at Guy, Gray knelt beside his sister and put his arms around her.
“It’s going to be tough,” he said, “but we’ll get through this. I’m going to be really busy the next few days, getting our finances under control, but I’ll be here if you need me.” He couldn’t bring himself to tell her that financial disaster was looming. “I know it hurts now, but we’ll make it all right.”
“I hate him,” Monica sobbed, her voice muffled. “He left us for that . . . that whore! I hope he doesn’t come back. I hate him, I never want to see him again!” Abruptly she tore away from him, overturning her chair as she shoved it back from the table. She was still sobbing as she ran from the parlor, and he heard the harsh, gulping sounds continue all the way up the stairs. A moment later the slam of her bedroom door echoed through the house.
Gray wanted to bury his own face in his hands. He wanted to punch something, preferably his father’s nose. He wanted to roar his rage to the heavens. The situation was bad enough as it was; why did Noelle have to make it worse by being concerned only with what her friends would say? For once, why couldn’t she give some support to her daughter? Couldn’t she see how much Monica needed her now? But she had never been there for them, so why should that change now? Unlike Guy, Noelle was at least constant.
He needed a drink, a stiff one. He left the breakfast parlor and went back to the study, to the bottle of Scotch that Guy always kept in the liquor cabinet behind his desk. Oriane, their longtime housekeeper, was going up the stairs with an armload of towels, and she gave him a curious look. Not being deaf, of course, she had heard some of the uproar. The speculation between Oriane, her husband, Garron, who took care of the grounds, and Delfina, the cook, would be rampant. They would have to be told, of course, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it right then. Maybe after he had that drink of Scotch.
He opened the cabinet and took out the bottle, and splashed a couple of inches of the amber liquid into a glass. The smoky, biting flavor was sharp on his tongue as he took the first sip, then threw the rest of it back with a neat, stiff motion of his wrist. He needed the sedative effect, not the taste. He had just poured himself a second drink when a shrill scream from upstairs pierced the air, followed by Oriane shrieking his name, over and over.
Monica. As soon as he heard Oriane scream, Gray knew. Dread congealed in his chest as he bolted from the study and took the stairs three at a time, his long, powerful legs propelling him upward. Oriane rushed down the hall toward him, her eyes wide with panic. “She’s cut herself, bad! Ohmigod, ohmigod, there’s blood all over the place—”
Gray pushed past her and ran into Monica’s bedroom. She wasn’t there, but the door to her bathroom was open, and he threw himself toward it, only to stop, frozen, in the doorway.
Monica had decorated her bedroom and bath herself, in delicate pinks and pearly whites that looked absurdly little-girlish. Normally Gray was reminded of cotton candy, but now the p
“I’m sorry for the commotion,” she said in an eerily remote little voice. “I didn’t expect Oriane to bring up clean towels.”
“Jesus,” he groaned, and snatched up the towels Oriane had dropped. He went down on one knee beside Monica and grabbed her left wrist. “Damn it, Monica, I ought to tan your ass!” He wrapped one towel around her wrist, then tied another one around it as tightly as he could.
“Just leave me alone,” she whispered, trying to tug her arm away from him, but she was already frighteningly weak.
“Shut up!” he barked, taking her right wrist and repeating the procedure. “Goddamn it, how could you do something this stupid?” This, on top of everything else he had gone through that day, was almost more than he could bear. Fear and rage mingled in his chest and swelled until he thought he would choke. “Did you stop to think about anyone but yourself? Did you think that maybe I could use your help, that this is as hard on everyone else as it is on you?” He ground the words out between clenched teeth as he snatched her up against his chest and ran, past Noelle, who was simply standing in the hallway with a dazed expression on her bloodless face, down the stairs, and past Oriane and Delfina clutching each other in the foyer.
“Call the clinic and let Dr. Bogarde know we’re on the way,” he ordered as he carried Monica out the front door and down the steps, to the Corvette parked there.
“I’ll get blood in your car,” Monica protested feebly.
“I told you to shut up,” he snapped. “Don’t talk unless you have something sensible to say.” Probably he was supposed to be more sensitive with someone who had just attempted suicide, but this was his sister, and he was damned if he would let her take her own life. He was in a towering rage, the fury just barely controlled. It seemed as if his life had gone to hell in just the past few hours, and he was fed up with the people he loved doing stupid things.
He didn’t bother opening the door of the Corvette, but simply leaned over and deposited her in the seat, then vaulted over her into the driver’s seat. He started the engine, let out the clutch, and left rubber on the driveway as he pushed the powerful motor to the limit. Monica slumped weakly against the passenger door, her eyes closed. He shot her a panicked glance, but didn’t risk taking the time to stop. She was deathly white, and there was a faint bluish tinge forming around her mouth. Blood was already seeping through the towels, the bright red garish against the white fabric. He had seen the cuts; they hadn’t been shallow slices, gestures made more to frighten and gain attention than seriously threaten a life. No, Monica had been very serious about the attempt. His sister might die because his father couldn’t resist chasing after that redheaded Devlin whore.
He made the fifteen-mile trip to the clinic in just under ten minutes. The parking lot was full, but he pulled around to the back door of the one-story brick building and blew the horn, then leaped out to lift Monica into his arms again. She was totally limp, her head lolling against his shoulder, and hot tears seared his eyelids.
The back door opened and Dr. Bogarde rushed out, followed by both his nurses. “Put her in the first room on the right,” he said, and Gray turned sideways to get her through the doorway. Sadie Lee Fanchier, the senior nurse, held the door to the examining room open and he carried Monica inside, then gently deposited her on the narrow table, the sheet-covered vinyl creaking as it took her weight.
Sadie Lee was wrapping a blood pressure cuff around Monica’s arm even as Dr. Bogarde was untying Gray’s first-aid efforts. Quickly she pumped it up, then listened through the stethoscope pressed to the inside of Monica’s elbow. “Seventy-five over forty.”
“Start an IV,” Dr. Bogarde ordered. “Glucose.” The other nurse, Kitty, moved to follow his instructions.
Dr. Bogarde kept his eyes on Monica’s wrists as he worked. “She needs blood,” he said. “Fast. We have to get her to the hospital in Baton Rouge, because I can’t do it here. She’ll need a vascular specialist to repair her veins, too. I can stabilize her, Gray, but I can’t do any more than that.”
Kitty hung the clear bag of glucose on the metal rack and deftly inserted the IV needle in Monica’s arm. “We don’t have time to get an ambulance here,” the doctor continued. “We’ll take her ourselves, in my car. You okay to drive?” he asked Gray, shooting him a sharp glance.
“Yes.” The answer was flat, unequivocal.
Dr. Bogarde tightly taped Monica’s wrists. “Okay, that’s got the bleeding stopped. Kitty, I need a couple of blankets. Put one over the backseat of my car, and tuck the other one over Monica. Gray, pick her up again, and be careful of that IV line. Sadie Lee, call the hospital and let ’em know we’re on the way, and then give a call to the sheriff’s department so they can clear the roads a mite.”
Gently Gray lifted his sister. Dr. Bogarde took the glucose bag in one hand and his medical bag in the other, and trotted at Gray’s side as he carried Monica out to the doctor’s four-door Chrysler. The doctor climbed in first, then helped Gray carefully maneuver Monica onto the backseat. Dr. Bogarde hooked the glucose bag on the garment hanger over the side window, and took up a position on his knees on the floorboard.
“Don’t go slamming us around,” he instructed as Gray squeezed his long frame under the steering wheel. Dr. Bogarde was barely five foot five, so the seat was so close to the steering wheel that Gray’s chest was brushing it. He couldn’t let the seat back, though, with Dr. Bogarde on the back floorboard. “Keep it at a steady speed and we’ll make better time. And put on the emergency lights.”
Gray had a violent thought about backseat drivers, but he kept it to himself. Following orders, he left the clinic more sedately than he had arrived, though his instincts were screaming at him to push the gas pedal to the floorboard and keep it there. Only the knowledge that the roomy sedan, built more for comfort than road handling, would likely straighten out a curve if he pushed it the way he did the Corvette kept him at a reasonable speed.
“How’d this happen?” Dr. Bogarde asked.
Gray glanced at him in the rearview mirror. The doctor was a small, dapper man with shrewd blue eyes. Despite his name, he was neither Creole nor Cajun; he had to be in his mid-fifties, with graying, sandy blond hair. Gray had known him all of his life. Noelle had never gone to him, preferring an urbane physician in New Orleans, but everyone else in the family had been to see him with everything from childhood cuts to influenza to the broken arm Gray had received in spring practice when he was fifteen.
Gray didn’t want to tell him everything, preferring to keep the details quiet for a while longer until his broker had had time to sell and Alex had done his legal maneuvers, but it wouldn’t be possible to completely stifle the news. He gave Dr. Bogarde the central fact, the only one that mattered. “Dad and Mother have separated. Monica . . .” He hesitated.
Dr. Bogarde sighed. “I see.” Everyone in the parish knew how Monica doted on Guy.
Gray concentrated on his driving. The Chrysler’s suspension evened out the bumpy roads, and the tires sang on the pavement. The sense of unreality he’d experienced earlier returned. The sun poured hotly through the window, burning his jean-clad leg, and the tall pines flashed by. The sky overhead was a deep, pure blue. It was high summer, and everything was as familiar as his own face. That was what was strange. How could it all be so unchanged, when his world had crashed around him today?
Behind him, Dr. Bogarde checked Monica’s pulse and blood pressure again. “Gray,” he said quietly. “You’d better go faster.”
Five
It was ten-thirty that night when Gray and Dr. Bogarde left the hospital in Baton Rouge. Gray’s eyes burned with fatigue, and he was numb from the emotional roller co
All that mattered to Gray was that she was going to live. She had awakened briefly when she was transferred from recovery to the private room he’d gotten for her, and had groggily murmured, “I’m sorry, Gray,” when she had seen him. He didn’t know if she’d meant she was sorry she’d tried to kill herself, sorry that she hadn’t succeeded, or sorry that she had caused him so much worry. He chose to believe she meant the first possibility, because he couldn’t handle the thought that she might try again.
“I’ll drive,” Dr. Bogarde said, reaching up to slap him on the shoulder. “You look like hell.”
“I feel like hell,” Gray rumbled. “I need a cup of coffee.” He was just as glad to let Doc drive. His brain felt like a wasteland; it probably wouldn’t be safe for him to do the driving, and it was the doc’s car. His knees would still be sticking up under his chin, but at least he’d have room to breathe.
“I can manage that. There’s a McDonald’s a few blocks from here.”
Gray folded and inserted himself, and thanked God that the Chrysler had a padded dashboard. If it hadn’t, his shins would have been black and blue.
Fifteen minutes later, with a large polystyrene cup of coffee gently steaming in his hand, he watched the streetlights of Baton Rouge slide past. Some of the happiest years of his life had been spent here, at LSU. He had prowled all over this city, a wild, energetic, perpetually horny kid on the hunt for action, and there was plenty of it. No one knew how to have more fun than a Cajun, and Baton Rouge was full of coon-asses. His four years here had been a ball.