Legacy Of Terror

Elaine told the police sergeant.
    “If someone else could help-”
    “Sorry,” she repeated.
    And she hung up.
    She turned around and, with a supreme effort she would never have guessed herself capable of, managed to smile at Dennis. She said, “I hear that you've finished the portrait of Celia that you were working on. I'd like to see it some time.”
    “It isn't quite finished,” he said. “Almost.”
    “How much do you have to-”
    He interrupted her, his voice lowered so that no one else could hear the exchange. “Was that the police?”
    She hesitated, fished for an answer, found that she simply could not find any reply.
    He frowned. The lines in his face gave it a curiously rubber look, cleft so deeply that one could never believe they were etched in flesh. He licked his lips and stared away from her, at the sofa, as if he were seeing something that her own eyes would not register, something more than a piece of furniture.
    He said, “Do you still think it was one of the family?”
    “No,” she said.
    “You do, though.”
    She did not answer this time.
    “Who do you suspect, Elaine?”
    “I don't know.”
    He looked away from the sofa, engaged her eyes again . His own gaze was so intense that she could not look away from him, and she thought this must be what it was like to let Dr. Carter hypnotize you.
    “Elaine, you must have some idea. There must be someone who has made you suspicious.”
    “No,” she said.
    “Tell me,” he insisted, taking a step towards her.
    “ I just don't know!” The vehement tone she had adopted was a surprise even to her.
    Dennis blinked, as if her tense, clipped reply had snapped him out of fantasy into reality, broken some daydream that had him bound in a spell. He backed away from her again, and he said, “You'll have to come up and see the painting tomorrow.”
    She could not reply. She was certain he could hear the heavy thumping of her heart and that he would understand-from that biological betrayal-who she most suspected. Him.
    “It'll be finished by then,” he said.
    She nodded her head.
    “Tomorrow, then,” he said. And he went away, quietly.
    For several minutes, she could not move. Her feet had fallen asleep and stung as if a thousand needles had been driven into them. The calves of her legs might have been molded from jelly, so weak were they and so regularly did they tremble. Her stomach was a knot which wouldn't come untied, and her chest was filled with lumps of dark, unmelting fear. She had to direct her thoughts to pleasant subjects, like the beautiful day which had just passed and the good meal she had just eaten and the kiss Gordon had bestowed upon her cheek. Then she could get up.
    She mounted the stairs, wary of the shadows that always lay on them, night and day. She intended to look in on Jacob, see him to bed if necessary, and then lock herself in her room and brace the door with a chair just as Gordon had recommended.
    It was going to be a long night.
    Longer than any that had come before it.
    And, something told her, it was going to be a bad night as well, a really terrible night.

Chapter 16
    Elaine did not immediately take notice of the book which someone had placed on the pillow at the head of her bed. The volume's cloth binding was a soft beige color which blended quite well with the bedspread; besides, she was far too intent on other things, when she entered her room, to be observant of details. She locked the oak door and tested the lock, found it unyielding. She took the straight-backed chair from the desk in the far corner and carried it to the door, braced the back of it under the knob so that it acted as a barricade against the opening of the door even if someone should manage to pick the lock without first alerting her. That done, she took a quick shower to wash away the weariness of the day, slipped into a pair of blue and yellow flowered pajamas, and turned on the television. She knew that she was not going to be able to sleep for a long time yet, if, indeed, she got any sleep at all this night. Walking to the bed, she sat down on the edge, satisfied herself that the picture on the set was clear enough and that the volume was properly adjusted, then reached out to stand her pillow against the headboard as a comfortable backrest. It was then that she found the book.
    For a moment, she thought it had been something she had been reading and which she had let lay there. But she could not remember it. Besides, all her books were inexpensive paperbacks.
    The