Act of Darkness(36)

She checked out Patchen Rawls one more time, then made her choice for Dan, who was at least someone she understood. As she came up on the patio, he turned in her direction, thinking of something else. When he saw her, he blinked. Then he looked down the beach at Patchen Rawls and blinked again.

“Oh, dear Jesus Christ,” he said.

Janet sat down on a deck chair, sideways, without stretching out her legs. “Never mind about Jesus Christ,” she told him. “What about Gregor Demarkian? What did he say?”

“He didn’t say anything. He asked a lot of questions.”

“Were you disappointed?”

Dan shrugged. “I should have expected it. I didn’t give him much of anything but questions. He wants to talk to Stephen.”

“Of course he does.”

“You don’t seem to realize how dangerous that could be, Janet. I haven’t let Stephen talk to anyone in weeks,”

“Except Patchen Rawls.”

Dan Chester flushed brick red, then paled just as quickly. “Speaking of Patchen Rawls,” he said, “she’s down there. Don’t you think you ought to take care of that, before the party starts?”

“Is there going to be a party?”

Dan cast a baleful look in the direction of the de Broden place, even though he couldn’t see it. He liked the de Brodens even less than she did. “If it were up to me,” he said, “we’d have a brass band out here playing Hurray for Hollywood.

Then he spun away from her and went stalking back to the house, presumably in the direction of something political to do.

Janet plucked at her hairpins, fussed with her hair knot, rubbed her face. Then she turned toward the beach and sighed a little. It was time she did a little stalking of her own, although it wasn’t in character. She headed across the sand to the water.

When she got to the wet pack at the edge of the tide, she put her hand on Patchen’s shoulder and said, “Miss Rawls?”

Patchen Rawls looked up. “You shouldn’t do that to someone who’s meditating,” she said. “It could be dangerous. You could have pulled me out of a trance state. I could have been lost in a time crack.”

“I see.”

“I don’t think you have very good karma,” Patchen Rawls said. “You must have been a mass murderer in your previous life. That’s the only thing I can think of to explain you.”

Janet sat down on the sand. “Listen,” she said, thinking of Stephanie, thinking of the children at the Emiliani School. She found it impossible to think about Patchen Rawls.

“Listen,” she said again. “It’s time we had a good long talk.”





[2]


Victoria Harte had been standing at the sliding glass doors in her main-floor bedroom when Janet went down to talk to Patchen Rawls, and now, half an hour later, she was still standing there. Of course, Janet was still talking to Patchen Rawls. Victoria wondered what they were saying. Janet, as always, was being reasonable. That was Janet’s great talent. And Patchen was losing her self-control. That was Patchen’s great talent. How she could ever have been impressed with that woman, Victoria didn’t know. She must have been going through a divorce.

Victoria watched as Janet stood up, brushed off the back of her beach dress, and headed toward the house. Patchen Rawls sat where she had been, looking, even at a distance, frustrated and angry. Victoria had a sudden and vivid image of Janet at the age of twelve, calmly explaining to the daughter of the most important producer in Hollywood why they weren’t going to be friends anymore. The daughter of the producer had been left with exactly the same look on her face that Patchen Rawls wore now: utter incredulity sliding into fury, because she was not the sort of person people did things like that to.

Victoria turned away from her window, went to her door, and waited. When she heard Janet come in at the end of the hall, she stuck her head out.

“Janet.”

“Hello, Mother.”

“I saw you out on the beach. Talking to that woman.”

Janet smiled, in a tired, almost cynical way—but only almost, because Janet was not capable of being really cynical. “I don’t know if I’d call it talking. It was a very odd conversation.”

“She probably tried to sell you on crystal healing. Or poltergeists.”

“Not exactly. She’s a strange woman. I don’t think she has any practical sense at all. And she certainly doesn’t know men.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I couldn’t get it across to her that Stephen would do anything for sex except jeopardize his chance at the presidency. I couldn’t get it across to her that he’d never leave me. He won’t leave me, will he, Mother?”