Act of Darkness(60)

“Wait,” Gregor said. He was, he realized, too tired to be having this conversation. His head felt stuffed with facts that wouldn’t sort themselves out. “I thought your daughter gave birth to a retarded child—”

“Years ago,” Victoria said.

“But it was also Stephen Fox’s child?”

“Oh, yes. That’s the way Dan has it playing in the press, of course. It’s perfect. Stephen’s great personal tragedy. It’s also nonsense.”

“Why?”

“Because it wasn’t as if Stephen were broken up when Stephanie died. I don’t think he felt anything at all. He looked at her, and saw she was damaged, and in his addled little brain she simply ceased to exist. As for Dan Chester, I think he was relieved.”

“Relieved? Why?”

“Because it would have slowed Janet down,” Victoria said. “Dan knew she’d never agree to put Stephanie into an institution and leave her there. Janet isn’t like that. It takes a lot of work to bring up a child with Down syndrome and make a good job of it. They need constant stimulation. Janet couldn’t have done that and gone traipsing around the political cocktail circuit at the same time.”

“And that would have mattered?”

Victoria nodded. “In those days, it would have mattered a great deal. It would matter even now. There’s something I’ve learned about politicians, Mr. Demarkian. They all—and I do mean all, left or right—like to do a lot of talking about how concerned they are with the weak and the sick and the feebleminded. There isn’t an elected official in the District of Columbia who would come out against compassion if you offered him the Kingdom of Heaven. They do not, however, have any patience with the kind of compassion that would interfere with somebody’s professional life.”

“They don’t have any respect for people like Mother Teresa?”

“Mother Teresa doesn’t have a professional life. Washington people look on her as a charming crank who has the uncharming habit of making Nobel Prize speeches against abortion. Is there anything else you want to know?”

Actually, there was a great deal more that Gregor wanted to know. Victoria was practically purring at him, and that was a very bad sign. A purring Victoria was a Victoria who had just put something over on someone—and there was no one here for her to put anything over on but him.

His coffee cup was still half full. He thought it would be bad manners to leave it that way for the maid. He got up and poured it into the drain underneath the urn.

“It’s raining,” he said.

“It’s been raining since three o’clock this morning,” Victoria said, “and it’s going to rain some more before it stops. Before you came in, I was sitting here praying for it to go on raining all weekend.”

“It would put a crimp in the Fourth-of-July celebrations.”

“It might empty out the motels. Then I could send all these people away from here. Are you all right, Mr. Demarkian? You’re listing.”

“I’m tired,” Gregor said. “Maybe I should go up and lie down in bed.”

“Maybe you should.” Victoria put her chin on her hand and frowned down the length of the table, looking suddenly tired and old and resigned, and not like a movie star at all. “It’s all silliness anyway,” she said. “It’s just wishful thinking. Tourists are even worse than politicians. It wouldn’t matter if a hurricane hit the island this weekend. They’d still expect to get their celebration, and they still wouldn’t go away.”





FIVE


[1]


THE PHONES AT GREAT Expectations, like most of the furniture, had been custom-made. Instead of ringing the way they were supposed to, they brred. Gregor heard the brring through the sleep he had fallen into as soon as he got upstairs from breakfast. It went on and on and seemed to be located in one of the outer folds of his left ear. He turned over to get away from it, but that didn’t work. It was very loud.

Outside, the rain was thrown against his windows by fits of wind. It pounded against the skylight and sounded as hard as hail. He turned over again, back in the direction of the brr, and opened his eyes. He saw the bedspread in a pile on the floor. He saw the base of his lamp. Finally, he saw the telephone. It not only didn’t sound much like a telephone, it didn’t look much like one, either. It reminded him of what the Golden Arches would have looked like if they’d been especially resilient and run over by a truck. He sat up and reached for it.

He found that he had managed to pick up, but not to pick up. He held the instrument away from him and stared at it. It was dead. There had to be a switch or a—