The Key to Midnight

steps, listening intently, and at last descended to the ground floor.
        A corpse lay in the hallway. Even in the poor light and from a distance, Joanna could see that it was Ursula Zaitsev.
        Several doors led off the hall. She didn't want to open any of them, but she would have to search the place if she had any hope of finding Alex.
        The nearest door was ajar. She eased it open, hesitated, crossed the threshold - and her father stepped in front of her.
        Tom Chelgrin was ashen. His hair was streaked with blood, and his face was spotted with it. His left hand was pressed over what must have been a bullet wound in his chest, for his shirt was soaked with blood as dark as burgundy. He swayed, almost fell, took one step toward her, and put his bloody hand on her shoulder.

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    79
        
        On the snow-swept slope, less than a hundred yards from the house, above the storm-dimmed lights of Saint Moritz, Alex and Peterson stared at each other for a long, uncertain moment.
        Alex couldn't speak clearly or without pain, because his mouth was swollen and sore from the punch he'd taken, but he had questions and he wanted answers. 'Why didn't I kill you when I killed Paz and Chelgrin?'
        'You weren't supposed to,' said the fat man. 'Where's Carrera?'
        'Dead.'
        'But you didn't have a gun,' Peterson said incredulously.
        'No gun,' Alex agreed. He was weary. His eyes watered from the stinging cold. The fat man shimmered like a mirage in the night.
        'It's hard to believe you could kill that mean bastard without a gun.'
        Alex spat blood onto the snow. 'I didn't say it was easy.'
        Peterson let out a short bray of laughter.
        'All right,' Alex said, 'all right, get it over with. I killed him, now you kill me.'
        'Oh, heavens, no! No, no,' Peterson said. 'You've got it all wrong, all backward, dear boy. You and I - we're on the same team.'

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    80
        
        Chelgrin had been dead in London. Dead on a hotel-room floor. Now he was here in Switzerland, dying again.
        The sight of the blood-smeared specter immobilized Joanna. She stood in shock, every muscle locked, while the senator clung to her shoulder.
        'I'm weak,' he said shakily. 'Can't stand up any more. Don't let me… fall. Please. Help me… down easy. Let's go down easy.'
        Joanna put one hand on the door jamb to brace herself. She dropped slowly to her knees, and the senator used her for support. At last he was sitting with his back against the wall, pressing his left hand against the chest wound, and she was kneeling at his side.
        'Daughter,' he said, gazing at her wonderingly. 'My baby.'
        She couldn't accept him as her father. She thought of the long years of programmed loneliness, the attacks of claustrophobia when she'd dared to consider building a life with someone, the nightmares, the fear that might have been defeated if it could have been defined. She thought of how Rotenhausen had repeatedly raped her during her first stay in this place - and how he had tried to use her again this very night. Worse: If Alex was dead, Tom Chelgrin had directly or indirectly pulled the trigger. She had no room in her heart for this man. Maybe it was unfair of her to freeze him out before she knew his reasons for doing what he'd done; perhaps her inability to forgive her own father was itself unforgivable. Nevertheless, she felt no guilt whatsoever and knew that she never would. She despised him.
        'My little girl,' he said, but his voice seemed colored more by self-pitying sentimentality than by genuine love or remorse.
        'No,' she said, denying him.
        'You are. You're my daughter.'
        'No.'
        'Lisa.'
        'Joanna. My name's Joanna Rand.'
        He wheezed and cleared his throat. His speech was slurred. 'You hate me… don't you?'
        'Yes.'
        'But you don't understand.'
        'I understand enough.'
        'No. No, you don't. You've got to listen to me.'
        'Nothing you have to say could make me want to be your daughter. Lisa Chelgrin is dead. Forever.'
        The senator closed his eyes. A fierce wave of pain swept through him. He grimaced and bent forward.
        She made no move to comfort him.
        When the attack passed, he sat up straight again and opened his eyes. 'I've got to tell you about it. You've got to give me a chance to explain. You have to