Stillwatch by Mary Higgins Clark Read Free Book Online Page B

to avoid a sprayof dirty slush. But I am damaged. My leg is the least of it. I hate myfather for what he did. He killed my mother and he tried to kill me.She had come here thinking she only wanted to understand whathad caused him to crack up. Now she knew better. She had to facethe anger she had been denying all these years.It was a quarter to one when she got home. It seemed to her thatthe house was taking on a certain comfortable aura. The antique marbletable and Serapi rug in the foyer made the faded paint seeminsignificant. The kitchen counters were cheerful now with canisters;the oval wrought-iron table and matching soda-parlor chairs fittedexactly into the area beneath the windows and made it easy to ignorethe worn spots on the aging tiles.Quickly she fixed a sandwich and tea while phoning for a plane
     
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reservation. She was fully seven minutes on “hold” listening to aparticularly poor selection of canned music before a clerk finally cameon the line. She arranged for a four-forty flight to Albany and a rental car.She decided to use the few hours before flight time to begin goingthrough her father ’s effects.Slowly she pulled aside the flaps of the first box and found herselfstaring down at the dust-covered picture of a tall, laughing man witha child on one shoulder. The child’s eyes were wide with delight; hermouth half-open and smiling. Her palms were facing each other asthough she might have just clapped them. Both man and child werein swimsuits by the water ’s edge. A wave was crashing behind them.It was late afternoon. Their shadows on the sand were elongated.Daddy’s little girl, Pat thought bitterly. She had seen children ontheir fathers’ shoulders, hanging on to their necks or even twiningtheir fingers in their hair. Fear of falling was a basic instinct. But thechild in this picture, the child she had been, clearly had trusted theman holding her, trusted him not to let her fall. She laid the pictureon the floor and continued emptying the box.When she had finished, the carpet was covered with memorabiliafrom the private office of Congressman Dean Adams. A formal portraitof her mother at the piano. She was beautiful, Pat thought—I resemblehim more. There was a collage of snapshots of Pat as a baby andtoddler that must have hung on his office wall; his appointment diary,dark green leather with his initials in gold; his silver desk set, now soterribly tarnished; the framed diploma from the University ofWisconsin, a B.A. in English with high honors; his law-school degreefrom the University of Michigan, proclaiming him an LL.B; a citationfrom the Episcopal Bishops’ Conference for generous and unstintingwork for minorities; a Man of the Year plaque from the Madison,Wisconsin, Rotary Club. He must have been fond of seascapes. Therewere several excellent old prints of sailing vessels, billowing overturbulent waters.She opened the appointment book. He had been a doodler; almostevery page contained swirls and geometric figures. So that’s where Igot the habit, Pat thought.Her eyes kept returning to the picture of herself and her father.
     
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She looked so blissfully happy. Her father was looking up at her withso much love. His grip on her arm was so firm.The telephone broke the spell. She scrambled to her feet, alarmedto realize that it was getting late, that she’d have to put all this awayand pack a few things in a bag.“Pat.”It was Sam.“Hi.” She bit her lip.“Pat, I’m on the run as usual. I’ve got a committee meeting in fiveminutes. There’s a dinner at the White House Friday night honoringthe new Canadian Prime Minister. Would you like to go with me? I’llhave to phone your name in to the White House.”“The White House! That would be wonderful. I’d love to go.” Sheswallowed fiercely, trying to suppress the quiver in her voice.Sam’s tone changed. “Pat, is anything wrong? You sound upset.You’re not crying, are you?”At last she could control the tremor in