Grace thought about the grinding days at Bedford Hills. About living hand to mouth, on the run from the law, knowing the entire world was prejudiced against her, that not a soul on earth knew the truth. She thought about fighting off rapists, of bleeding half to death from a self-induced abortion, of slashing her wrists with the pin of a brooch. What do I know about suffering? You'd be surprised.
Lenny went on. "You were the American princess. Life handed you everything on a plate and you took it, accepted it as your due, as your right. You never asked where it came from. You didn't care! So don't stand there and try to take the moral high ground with me. I'm sorry that you suffered, Grace. But someone had to. Maybe it was your turn."
My turn.
"Yes. Don't look so horrified, darling. You made it out, didn't you? You learned to survive, yourself. I'm proud of you. You're here, you're alive, you're free. We all are. You wanted the truth and now you've got it. What more do you want?"
And that's when Grace knew for sure.
"Vengeance, Lenny. I want vengeance."
The shot rang out, its echo bouncing off the high stone walls. Lenny touched his chest. Blood seeped through his fingers, soaking his white linen shirt. He looked up at Grace, surprised. John Merrivale screamed, "NO!"
Another shot was fired, then another.
"Grace!"
Grace turned. Mitch Connors was running through the drawing room toward the garden, his blond hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, his gun drawn. "Stop!" But she couldn't stop. John Merrivale had run into the house. Grace swung back to face Lenny but he was gone, too. No! Then she saw him, crawling toward the summerhouse on his hands and knees, a thick trail of blood staining the ground behind him. Grace took aim again. She raised her arm to shoot, but Mitch Connors ran past her, throwing his arms wide to make a human shield between Grace and Lenny.
"It's over, sweetheart. Stop, please. Put the gun down."
Grace screamed, "Get out of my way, Mitch. MOVE!"
"No. This isn't right, Grace. I know you want justice, but this isn't the way."
Lenny was getting away. She couldn't bear it.
"Move, Mitch, I swear to God! I'll shoot."
She heard a commotion inside the house. Doors slamming. Men running. Through Mitch's legs she saw Lenny had almost reached the safety of the summerhouse. Out of the corner of her eye she saw John Merrivale running out of the house screaming, waving a shotgun. The footsteps behind her grew louder. "Police! Drop your weapons!" It was now or never.
Grace fired her gun for the last time. She watched in horror as Mitch pirouetted on the grass, the bullet tearing through his flesh. Mitch! She screamed but no sound came out. The razors were tearing at her, too, her side, her arms, her legs. She was on the grass, bleeding. Sound faded. Grace opened her eyes to a silent ballet of running feet. Mitch was still, slumped on the lawn. She looked for Lenny but she couldn't see him, only the red haze of her own blood, blotting out the sun and the sky and the trees, falling, falling, heavy like thick velvet on the theater stage: her final curtain.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
NEW YORK, ONE MONTH LATER
THE WOMAN IN THE HOSPITAL WAITING room whispered to her daughter.
"Is it her?"
The daughter shook her head. "I don't think so." Normally she wouldn't have been so hesitant. She was a great one for all the gossip magazines and prided herself on being able to spot a celebrity from fifty yards. Sunglasses and head scarves didn't fool her. But in this case...The woman did look a bit like her. A lot like her, if you broke down her face feature by feature. The cupid's-bow lips, the childlike dimple in the chin, the wide-set eyes and the delicate line of the nose. Yet somehow, put them all together, and her face looked...less. Less beautiful, less striking, less special. Combine this effect with the woman's drab clothes, the gray wool skirt and simple white blouse, and...no. No, it wasn't her.
"Mrs. Richards?"
The girl's mother looked up. "Yes?"
"You can go in now. Your husband's awake."
Mother and daughter filed out of the waiting room. As they passed the look-alike woman, both stole surreptitious glances. Close up she looked even smaller. It was almost as if she projected anonymity, the same way that other people, stars, gave off charisma or sex appeal. "Poor thing," said the mother. "She's like a little mouse. I wonder who she's visiting?"
GRACE WAS GLAD WHEN THE WOMEN LEFT. It was still only seven in the morning. She'd expected, and hoped, to find the waiting room empty. It was getting harder to be around people. Any people. Soon she would leave America for good. Find somewhere peaceful, a retreat where nobody knew or cared about her past. A monastery perhaps, in Spain or Greece, if they'd have her. They'll have me. That's what they do, isn't it? Offer sanctuary to sinners, to criminals and the poor. I qualify on all three counts. According to her new lawyer, she'd be entitled to federal compensation eventually. "It could be a considerable sum of money. Not as much as you've been used to, perhaps, but certainly seven figures."
Grace wasn't interested. Whatever the government gave her, she would send directly to Karen Willis and Cora Budds. She owed them her freedom, a debt that no amount of money could hope to repay. Besides, Grace had no use for money. All she wanted was to get away. But she couldn't leave yet. Not till she knew he was all right. Not till she had a chance to explain.
She touched the scar on her arm, from where the bullet had sliced into her. She had four similar scars, all on her right side, on her leg, hip and shoulder. Lucky to be alive, that's what the doctors said. And Grace had smiled and wondered, Am I? Am I lucky? It was amazing how quickly the body could heal. But the spirit was not so resilient.