CHAPTER ONE
KIRSTY was dying.
Karen knew it even as she struggled into consciousness. Shock jerked her upright in bed. It was not a nightmare. She didn't know how she could be so sure, yet she was. It was a truth as implacable as ... as a law of the universe. Inescapable.
And, just as relentless as that truth, came the second wave of shock, harder and more jolting than the first. Kirsty was dying in pain--terrible pain. And she was somewhere on the other side of the world in the Middle East ... Syria, Lebanon, Israel?
Karen scrambled out of bed, compelled to move, to do something. She wrenched her mind out of shock and tried to grasp a line of purpose. Hold on, Kirsty! Hold on! I'll get there somehow. Please God, let her hold on. I've got to see her, be with her. She can't die yet.
Frantic eyes darted a glance at the clock. Two seventeen. What could she do at this hour? It was the middle of the night. Ring the airport, get a seat. But to where? Where exactly was Kirsty?
The force of her need to reach her sister pushed back the panic that was scrambling Karen's mind. An answer flashed into it. Kirsty was with Hal--Hal Chissolm--and Hal's father would know where they were. She ran out to the family room, snapping on the light switch as she flew past. She snatched the telephone book from the shelf below the kitchen bar. Her hands fumbled through the pages in desperate haste. Chissolm ... Chissolm ...
Her finger was running down the page when the sense of loss hit her. An awareness of pain shut off, a cold emptiness that glazed her eyes and froze her finger to the page. No ... no ... no! her mind screamed. You can't die like that! You can't! Not without me, Kirsty. Oh God, please ... please ... don't do that to Kirsty. Not Kirsty.
She shook her head, refusing to believe. It wasn't happening. It hadn't happened. It was only a nightmare--it had to be. But she could not dispel the dreadful certainty. Kirsty was dead.
No use questioning it; no use doubting it. The knowledge was there in the loneliness of her mind, in the emptiness of her heart. The togetherness she had known all her life, the special togetherness that only identical twins knew and shared, was gone.
Why had it happened? Why? Kirsty was so young, so vital. The need to know drove Karen's finger on down the page. Owen Chissolm could find out faster than anyone; he had the power and the contacts. She found the number and dialled. It was an agonising length of time before her call was answered, and then she could barely drag out the necessary words.
'My name is Karen Aylward and I'm Kirsty Balfour's sister. I need to speak to Mr Owen Chissolm, please.'
'I'm sorry, madam. Mr Chissolm is unavailable. If you would telephone the television studio after nine o'clock, his secretary .. .'
Unavailable. The word rang hollowly around Karen's mind. 'I have to speak to him!' she cried in protest.
'I'm sorry, madam, that's not possible,' came the firm reply. 'If you'd like to leave a message .. .'
What could she say? If she blurted out that Kirsty was dead they would think it was a crank call. Impossible to explain how she knew. And no one was going to wake Owen Chissolm up at this hour of the night to deal with a crank call. It was futile even trying. Everything was futile. There was nothing she could do to help Kirsty now.
A raw, primitive cry broke from her throat as she put the telephone down. She wrapped her arms around her chest, holding in, wildly clinging on, every instinct clawing to keep what had been lost. Come back ... come back ... come back... The mindless chant went on and on and she rocked herself in timeto it. A beat of terrible need, unanswered.
Tears streamed down her cheeks, but her chest was tight with an agony that no tears could expel. She couldn't bear it--couldn't bear the loss, the loneliness, the emptiness, the pain. Nothing in her life had been as bad as this, not even the death of their parents. She and Kirsty had still had each other then. And when Barry had walked out on her marriage, it was Kirsty who had supported her then too. But Kirsty wasn't with her any more, and never would be again.
Karen had no awareness of walking through the house to David's room. The need to hold someone was compelling. Gently she lifted the bed-covers away from his body and picked him up, hugging him closely, cradling him against her shoulder as she wrapped a blanket around him.
'Mummy .. .' he complained drowsily.
SHe forced out soothing words. 'Hush, darling, it's all right. Mummy's got you.'
She carried him over to the rocking-chair and sat down. He snuggled around on her lap until he settled comfortably. The softness and warmth of his beautiful little body and the gentle rise and fall of his breathing somehow eased the pain of her loss to a tolerable level. But the tears kept coming, welling out of the black chasm which Kirsty had left behind.
And rage swelled out of Karen's grief. Why had Kirsty died? Where had Hal been when Kirsty had needed help? Why hadn't he been there to saveher?
And with all the force of her devastating loss a wave of hatred crested the rage. Six years Kirsty had given him, loving him and sharing his life, but Hal Chissolm had never offered her any protection or security. A man who loved a woman should look after her. The only permanence Kirsty had got from him was death. Damn him! Damn him to hell!
Karen's feet automatically set the chair rocking.
This was how she had nursed David to sleep when he was a new baby, and in the same way she had nursed him through hurts and upsets and sickness for three years. So now she nursed him through the long, dark hours of her grief, taking back from him the comfort she had always given.
Kirsty was dead, but Karen kept her alive in her mind, remembering. The daredevil tomboy, game for all manner of scrapes ... the schoolgirl stirring rebellion for the fun of it ... the university student throwing herself into every worthy cause on campus ... the globetrotting reporter who had to be where it was all happening ... her exciting sister, her adventurous sister, her beloved sister.
Some time before dawn Karen's tears dried up.
Her body was stiff from sitting in the one position and her arms ached from holding the child so closely to her. But she rocked on until the light of morning filtered through the curtains. Then quietly and smoothly she laid David back into his bed and walked out of his room. To stand alone.
She wondered if she could get some news from a radio station or a newspaper office, but common sense told her that Owen Chissolm would get the facts first. Hal would report back home, she thought bitterly, as the hatred surged back, gorging her throat. Hal Chissolm, the headline-maker, sending his stories back to Australia from all the trouble spots in the world. Kirsty would probably only be another headline to him-the hard, callous bastard!
Nine o'clock would come soon enough. She would wait. And she would insist on speaking to Owen Chissolm personally. After all, he was Kirsty's employer--had been Kirsty's employer, Karen corrected herself, gritting her teeth as another wave of grief hit her.