He was outside Kate’s bedroom door.
Open the door
, the voice commanded.
Tony opened the door. Kate was dressing in front of a mirror when she heard the door open.
“Tony! What on earth—”
He carefully aimed the gun at her and began squeezing the trigger.
The right of primogeniture—the claim of the first-born to a family title or estate—is deeply rooted in history. Among royal families in Europe a high official is present at every birth of a possible heir to a queen or princess so that should twins be born, the right of succession will not be in dispute. Dr. Mattson was careful to note which twin had been delivered first.
Everyone agreed that the Blackwell twins were the most beautiful babies they had ever seen. They were healthy and unusually lively, and the nurses at the hospital kept finding excuses to go in and look at them. Part of the fascination, although none of the nurses would have admitted it, was the mysterious stories that were circulating about the twins’ family. Their mother had died during childbirth. The twins’ father had disappeared, and there were rumors he had murdered his mother, but no one was able to substantiate the reports. There was nothing about it in the newspapers, save for a brief item that Tony Blackwell had suffered a nervous breakdown over the death of his wife and was in seclusion. When the press tried to question Dr. Harley, he gave them a brusque, “No comment.”
The past few days had been hell for John Harley. As long as
he lived, he would remember the scene when he reached Kate Blackwell’s bedroom after a frantic phone call from the butler. Kate was lying on the floor in a coma, bullet wounds in her neck and chest, her blood spilling onto the white rug. Tony was going through her closets, slashing his mother’s clothes to shreds with a pair of scissors.
Dr. Harley took one quick look at Kate and hurriedly telephoned for an ambulance. He knelt at Kate’s side and felt her pulse. It was weak and thready, and her face was turning blue. She was going into shock. He swiftly gave her an injection of adrenaline and sodium bicarbonate.
“What happened?” Dr. Harley asked.
The butler was soaked in perspiration. “I—I don’t know. Mr. Blackwell asked me to make him some coffee. I was in the kitchen when I heard the sound of gunfire. I ran upstairs and found Mrs. Blackwell on the floor, like this. Mr. Blackwell was standing over her, saying, “It can’t hurt you anymore, Mother. I killed it.’ And he went into the closet and started cutting her dresses.”
Dr. Harley turned to Tony. “What are you doing, Tony?”
A savage slash. “I’m helping Mother. I’m destroying the company. It killed Marianne, you know.” He continued slashing at the dresses in Kate’s closet.
Kate was rushed to the emergency ward of a midtown private hospital owned by Kruger-Brent, Ltd. She was given four blood transfusions during the operation to remove the bullets.
It took three male nurses to force Tony into an ambulance, and it was only after Dr. Harley gave him an injection that Tony was quiet. A police unit had responded to the ambulance call, and Dr. Harley summoned Brad Rogers to deal with them. Through means that Dr. Harley did not understand, there was no mention in the media of the shooting.
Dr. Harley went to the hospital to visit Kate in intensive care. Her first words were a whispered, “Where’s my son?”
“He’s being taken care of, Kate. He’s all right.”
Tony had been taken to a private sanitarium in Connecticut.
“John, why did he try to kill me? Why?” The anguish in her voice was unbearable.
“He blames you for Marianne’s death.”
“That’s insane!”
John Harley made no comment.
He blames you for Marianne’s death
.
Long after Dr. Harley had left, Kate lay there, refusing to accept those words. She had loved Marianne because she made Tony happy.
Everything I have done has been for you, my son. All my dreams were for you. How could you not know that?
And he hated her so much he had tried to kill her. She was filled with such a deep agony that she wanted to die. But she would not let herself die. She had done what was right. They were wrong. Tony was a weakling. They had all been weaklings. Her father had been too weak to face his son’s death. Her mother had been too weak to face life alone.
But I am not weak
, Kate thought.
I can face this. I can face anything. I’m going to live. I’ll survive. The company will survive
.
Kate recuperated at Dark Harbor, letting the sun and the sea heal her.
Tony was in a private asylum, where he could get the best care possible. Kate had psychiatrists flown in from Paris, Vienna and Berlin, but when all the examinations and tests had been completed, the diagnosis was the same: Her son was a homicidal schizophrenic and paranoiac.
“He doesn’t respond to drugs or psychiatric treatment, and he’s violent. We have to keep him under restraint.”
“What kind of restraint?” Kate asked.
“He’s in a padded cell. Most of the time we have to keep him in a straitjacket.”
“Is that necessary?”
“Without it, Mrs. Blackwell, he would kill anyone who got near him.”
She closed her eyes in pain. This was not her sweet, gentle Tony they were talking about. It was a stranger, someone possessed. She opened her eyes. “Is there nothing that can be done?”
“Not if we can’t reach his mind. We’re keeping him on drugs,
but the moment they wear off, he gets manic again. We can’t continue this treatment indefinitely.”
Kate stood very straight. “What do you suggest, Doctor?”
“In similar cases, we’ve found that removing a small portion of the brain has produced remarkable results.”
Kate swallowed. “A lobotomy?”
“That is correct. Your son will still be able to function in every way, except that he will no longer have any strong dysfunctional emotions.”
Kate sat there, her mind and body chilled. Dr. Morris, a young doctor from the Menninger Clinic, broke the silence. “I know how difficult this must be for you, Mrs. Blackwell. If you’d like to think about—”
“If that’s the only thing that will stop his torment,” Kate said, “do it.”
Frederick Hoffman wanted his granddaughters. “I will take them back to Germany with me.”
It seemed to Kate that he had aged twenty years since Marianne’s death. Kate felt sorry for him, but she had no intention of giving up Tony’s children. “They need a woman’s care, Frederick. Marianne would have wanted them brought up here. You’ll come and visit them often.”
And he was finally persuaded.
The twins were moved into Kate’s home, and a nursery suite was set up for them. Kate interviewed governesses, and finally hired a young French woman named Solange Dunas.
Kate named the first-born Eve, and her twin, Alexandra. They were identical—impossible to tell apart. Seeing them together was like looking at an image in a mirror, and Kate marveled at the double miracle that her son and Marianne had created. They were both bright babies, quick and responsive, but even after a few weeks, Eve seemed more mature than Alexandra. Eve was the first to crawl and talk and walk. Alexandra followed quickly, but from the beginning it was Eve who was the leader. Alexandra adored her sister and tried to
imitate everything she did. Kate spent as much time with her granddaughters as possible. They made her feel young. And Kate began to dream again.
One day, when I’m old and ready to retire
…
On the twins’ first birthday, Kate gave them a party. They each had an identical birthday cake, and there were dozens of presents from friends, company employees and the household staff. Their second birthday party seemed to follow almost immediately. Kate could not believe how rapidly the time went by and how quickly the twins were growing. She was able to discern even more clearly the differences in their personalities: Eve, the stronger, was more daring, Alexandra was softer, content to follow her sister’s lead.
With no mother or father
, Kate thought repeatedly,
it’s a blessing that they have each other and love each other so much
.
The night before their fifth birthday, Eve tried to murder Alexandra.
It is written in Genesis 25: 22-23:
And the children struggled together within her…
And the Lord said unto her, Two [nations] are in thy womb, and two manner of people shall be separated from thy bowels; and the one [people] shall be stronger than the other [people]; and the elder shall serve the younger.
In the case of Eve and Alexandra, Eve had no intention of serving her younger sister.
Eve had hated her sister for as long as she could remember. She went into a silent rage when someone picked up Alexandra, or petted her or gave her a present. Eve felt she was being cheated. She wanted it all for herself—all the love and the beautiful things that surrounded the two of them. She could not have even a birthday of her own. She hated Alexandra for looking like her, dressing like her, stealing the part of her grandmother’s love that belonged to her. Alexandra adored Eve, and Eve despised her for that. Alexandra was generous, eager to
give up her toys and dolls, and that filled Eve with still more contempt. Eve shared nothing. What was hers belonged to her, but it was not enough. She wanted everything Alexandra had. At night, under the watchful eye of Solange Dunas, both girls would say their prayers aloud, but Eve always added a silent prayer begging God to strike Alexandra dead. When the prayer went unanswered, Eve decided she would have to take care of it herself. Their fifth birthday was only a few days away, and Eve could not bear the thought of sharing another party with Alexandra. They were
her
friends, and
her
gifts that her sister was stealing from her. She had to kill Alexandra soon.
On the night before their birthday, Eve lay in her bed, wide awake. When she was sure the household was asleep, she went over to Alexandra’s bed and awakened her. “Alex,” she whispered, “let’s go down to the kitchen and see our birthday cakes.”
Alexandra said sleepily, “Everybody’s sleeping.”
“We won’t wake anyone up.”
“Mademoiselle Dunas won’t like it. Why don’t we look at the cakes in the morning?”
“Because I want to look at them now. Are you coming or not?”
Alexandra rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. She had no interest in seeing the birthday cakes, but she did not want to hurt her sister’s feelings. “I’m coming,” she said.
Alexandra got out of bed and put on a pair of slippers. Both girls wore pink nylon nightgowns.
“Come on,” Eve said. “And don’t make any noise.”
“I won’t,” Alexandra promised.
They tiptoed out of their bedroom, into the long corridor, past the closed door of Mademoiselle Dunas’s bedroom, down the steep back stairs that led to the kitchen. It was an enormous kitchen, with two large gas stoves, six ovens, three refrigerators and a walk-in freezer.
In the refrigerator Eve found the birthday cakes that the cook,
Mrs. Tyler, had made. One of them said Happy Birthday, Alexandra. The other said Happy Birthday, Eve.
Next year
, Eve thought happily,
there will only be one
.
Eve took Alexandra’s cake out of the refrigerator and placed it on the wooden chopping block in the middle of the kitchen. She opened a drawer and took out a package of brightly colored candles.
“What are you doing?” Alexandra asked.
“I want to see how it looks with the candles all lighted.” Eve began pressing the candles into the icing of the cake.
“I don’t think you should do that, Eve. You’ll ruin the cake. Mrs. Tyler is going to be angry.”
“She won’t mind.” Eve opened another drawer and took out two large boxes of kitchen matches. “Come on, help me.”
“I want to go back to bed.”
Eve turned on her angrily. “All right. Go back to bed, scaredy cat. I’ll do it alone.”
Alexandra hesitated. “What do you want me to do?”
Eve handed her one of the boxes of matches. “Start lighting the candles.”
Alexandra was afraid of fire. Both girls had been warned again and again about the danger of playing with matches. They knew the horror stories about children who had disobeyed that rule. But Alexandra did not want to disappoint Eve, and so she obediently began lighting the candles.
Eve watched her a moment. “You’re leaving out the ones on the other side, silly,” she said.
Alexandra leaned over to reach the candles at the far side of the cake, her back to Eve. Quickly, Eve struck a match and touched it to the matches in the box she was holding. As they burst into flames, Eve dropped the box at Alexandra’s feet, so that the bottom of Alexandra’s nightgown caught fire. It was an instant before Alexandra was aware of what was happening. When she felt the first agonizing pain against her legs, she looked down and screamed, “Help! Help me!”
Eve stared at the flaming nightgown a moment, awed by the
extent of her success. Alexandra was standing there, petrified, frozen with fear.
“Don’t move!” Eve said. “I’ll get a bucket of water.” She hurried off to the butler’s pantry, her heart pounding with a fearful joy.
It was a horror movie that saved Alexandra’s life. Mrs. Tyler, the Blackwells’ cook, had been escorted to the cinema by a police sergeant whose bed she shared from time to time. On this particular evening, the motion-picture screen was so filled with dead and mutilated bodies that finally Mrs. Tyler could bear it no longer. In the middle of a beheading, she said, “This may all be in a day’s work for you, Richard, but I’ve had enough.”
Sergeant Richard Dougherty reluctantly followed her out of the theater.
They arrived back at the Blackwell mansion an hour earlier than they had expected to, and as Mrs. Tyler opened the back door, she heard Alexandra’s screams coming from the kitchen. Mrs. Tyler and Sergeant Dougherty rushed in, took one horrified look at the scene before them and went into action. The sergeant leaped at Alexandra and ripped off her flaming nightgown. Her legs and hips were blistered, but the flames had not reached her hair or the front of her body. Alexandra fell to the floor, unconscious. Mrs. Tyler filled a large pot with water and poured it over the flames licking at the floor.
“Call an ambulance,” Sergeant Dougherty ordered. “Is Mrs. Blackwell home?”
“She should be upstairs asleep.”
“Wake her up.”
As Mrs. Tyler finished phoning for an ambulance, there was a cry from the butler’s pantry, and Eve ran in carrying a pan of water, sobbing hysterically. “Is Alexandra dead?” Eve screamed. “Is she dead?”
Mrs. Tyler took Eve in her arms to soothe her. “No, darling, she’s all right. She’s going to be just fine.”
“It was my fault,” Eve sobbed. “She wanted to light the candles on her birthday cake. I shouldn’t have let her do it.”
Mrs. Tyler stroked Eve’s back. “It’s all right. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
“The m-matches fell out of my hand, and Alex caught on fire. It was t-terrible.”
Sergeant Dougherty looked at Eve and said sympathetically, “Poor child.”
“Alexandra has second-degree burns on her legs and back,” Dr. Harley told Kate, “but she’s going to be fine. We can do amazing things with burns these days. Believe me, this could have been a terrible tragedy.”
“I know,” Kate said. She had seen Alexandra’s burns, and they had filled her with horror. She hesitated a moment. “John, I think I’m even more concerned about Eve.”
“Was Eve hurt?”
“Not physically, but the poor child blames herself for the accident. She’s having terrible nightmares. The last three nights I’ve had to go in and hold her in my arms before she could go back to sleep. I don’t want this to become more traumatic. Eve is very sensitive.”
“Kids get over things pretty quickly, Kate. If there’s any problem, let me know, and I’ll recommend a child therapist.”
“Thank you,” Kate said gratefully.
Eve
was
terribly upset. The birthday party had been canceled.
Alexandra cheated me out of that
, Eve thought bitterly.
Alexandra healed perfectly, with no signs of scars. Eve got over her feelings of guilt with remarkable ease. As Kate assured her, “Accidents can happen to anybody, darling. You mustn’t blame yourself.”
Eve didn’t. She blamed Mrs. Tyler. Why did she have to come home and spoil everything? It had been a perfect plan.
The sanitarium where Tony was confined was in a peaceful, wooded area in Connecticut. Kate was driven out to see him once a month. The lobotomy had been successful. There was no longer the slightest sign of aggression in Tony. He recognized
Kate and he always politely asked about Eve and Alexandra, but he showed no interest in seeing them. He showed very little interest in anything. He seemed happy.
No, not happy
, Kate corrected herself.
Content. But content
—
to do what?
Kate asked Mr. Burger, the superintendent of the asylum, “Doesn’t my son
do
anything all day?”
“Oh, yes, Mrs. Blackwell. He sits by the hour and paints.”
Her son, who could have owned the world, sat and painted all day. Kate tried not to think of the waste, that brilliant mind gone forever. “What does he paint?”
The man was embarrassed. “No one can quite figure it out.”