Children of the Storm

Carter, you might think that it isn't necessary to call for me-so long as another member of the staff is with you and the children. I want you to understand that no one else can take my place in this respect. You must always call for me, no matter who on the staff offers to accompany you in my place. And if, for some reason, I am not available-should it be my day off, or should I be on the mainland for some other reason, you must cancel your plans and remain with the children in the house.”
        She felt that chill along her backbone again, like a fingernail of ice slicing her flesh.
        “Do you understand?” he asked.
        “Yes.”
        “I would appreciate it if you didn't tell the rest of the staff what I have just told you.”
        Quietly, her voice nearly a whisper, though she had not meant for it to be so low, Sonya said, “Then you don't trust them?”
        “No.”
        “None of them?”
        “None.”
        “Then you think that those threats might have been made by someone within the household?”
        Saine stood up with fluid grace, like an uncurling cat despite all his muscles. He towered over her, and he looked capable of handling anyone who might try to harm the children.
        He said, “Perhaps.”
        She said, “Is there anyone you suspect especially?”
        “Everyone.”
        “Even me?”
        “You too.”
        She said, “But I didn't even know the Doughertys when they were having all this trouble.”
        He said nothing.
        She was determined to press the issue. “Well? How can you think I might be the guilty one?”
        “I did not say I could show how all the suspects came to be suspects in my mind. My personal form of judgment does not operate according to the normal standards of law, Miss Carter. In my personal, private, mental court, everyone is guilty until proven innocent.”
        “I see.”
        He went to the door, opened it, turned and looked at her with those piercingly blue, blue eyes. “Since you will be nearly as responsible for the children as me, Miss Carter, I suggest that you adopt my own pessimism. Trust no one but yourself.”
        “Not even you?”
        “Not even me,” he said.
        He stepped into the corridor, closed the door and walked quietly away, the deep-pile carpet soaking up his footsteps.
        Sonya had lost her enthusiasm for unpacking.

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    THREE
        
        The front dining room was fully forty feet long and twenty wide, containing an enormous china closet, the longest dining table that Sonya ever had seen, and a liberal sprinkling of objets d'art - paintings, metal sculptures, glass and marble figurines in both exquisite miniatures and larger sizes, elaborately hand-carved candlestick holders in various dark woods-which somehow made the place seem cozier and less formal than its heroic dimensions might otherwise have made it. The table was set with expensive wedgewood china and decorated with fresh floral centerpieces-miniature pompoms, blood roses, chrysanthemums- all against a royal blue linen tablecloth that gave the place settings a cool, relaxed feeling.
        Eight diners, well-spaced from one another, sat around the large table, four members of the staff and four of the family. Bill Peterson, Rudolph Saine, Leroy Mills and Sonya sat along both sides of the table, in company with Alex and Tina Dougherty, the two children. Joe Dougherty and his wife, Helen, sat at opposite ends of the table, for an effect, Sonya thought, that was almost baronial, despite the friendly atmosphere and all that was done to make her feel at ease.
        Joe Dougherty was a tall, lanky, easy-going man, with a deep voice that would have made him a natural for the voice-over in almost any television commercial. He had sandy-red hair that was full over his ears and curling at his collar, a splash of freckles across his nose and cheeks. His smile had made her feel welcome immediately.
        The fact that Sonya had never even met her new employer before accepting the position and making arrangements for the journey to the Doughertys' private island was the single thing that Lynda Spaulding, her roommate, had found the most irksome. “How can you go that far to work for people you've never even seen, never even talked to on the telephone, never written to? How in the world do you know if you're going to like them? You probably won't like them. And even if you find that