Stillwatch

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POCKET BOOKS
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New York

POCKET BOOKS
London Toronto Sydney

Singapore

Books by Mary Higgins Clark

Before I Say Good-ByeWe’ll Meet AgainAll Through The NightYou Belong To MePretend You Don’t See HerMy Gal SundayMoonlight Becomes YouSilent NightLet Me Call You SweetheartThe Lottery WinnerRemember MeI’ll Be Seeing YouAll Around The TownLoves Music, Loves To DanceThe Anastasia Syndrome And Other StoriesWhile My Pretty Ones SleepsWeep No More, My LadyStillwatchA Cry In The NightThe Cradle Will FallA Stranger Is WatchingWhere Are The Children?

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For information on how individual consumers can place orders,please writeto Mail Order Department, Simon & Schuster Inc.,100 Front Street, River-side, NJ 08075.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents areproducts of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resem-blance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coin-cidental.

POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & SchusterInc. 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020

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ISBN: 0-7432-0615-0

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To Pat Myrer, my agentandMichael V. Korda, my editor

For their inestimable expertise, support,help and encouragement I joyfully offer“ the still small voice of gratitude. ”

Table of Contents

Chapter 01Chapter 02
Chapter 03
Chapter 04Chapter 05Chapter 06Chapter 07Chapter 08Chapter 09Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28
Chapter 29Chapter 30Chapter 31Chapter 32Chapter 33

Chapter 34Chapter 35Chapter 36Chapter 37Chapter 38Chapter 39Chapter 40Chapter 41Chapter 42Chapter 43

Pat drove slowly, her eyes scanning the narrow Georgetown streets.The cloud-filled sky was dark; streetlights blended with the carriagelamps that flanked doorways; Christmas decorations gleamed againstice-crusted snow. The effect was one of Early American tranquillity.She turned onto N Street, drove one more block, still searching forhouse numbers, and crossed the intersection. That must be it, shethought—the corner house. Home Sweet Home.She sat for a while at the curb, studying the house. It was the onlyone on the street that was unlighted, and its graceful lines were barelydiscernible. The long front windows were half-hidden by shrubberythat had been allowed to grow.After the nine-hour drive from Concord her body ached every timeshe moved, but she found herself putting off the moment when sheopened the front door and went inside. It’s that damn phone call, shethought. I’ve let it get to me.A few days before she’d left her job at the cable station in Boston,the switchboard operator had buzzed her. “Some kind of weirdo insistson talking to you. Do you want me to stay on the line?”“Yes.” She had picked up the receiver, identified herself and listenedas a soft but distinctly masculine voice murmured, “Patricia Traymore,you must not come to Washington. You must not produce a programglorifying Senator Jennings. And you must not live in
that
house.”She had heard the audible gasp of the operator. “Who is this?” sheasked sharply.The answer, delivered in the same syrupy murmur, made her handsunpleasantly moist. “I am an angel of mercy, of deliverance—and ofvengeance.”Pat had tried to dismiss the event as one of the many crank callsreceived at television stations, but it was impossible not to be troubled.

The announcement of her move to Potomac Cable Network to do aseries called
Women in Government
had appeared in many television-news columns. She had read all of them to see if there was any mentionof the address where she would live, but there had been none.
The Washington Tribune
had carried the most detailed story:“Auburn-haired Patricia Traymore, with her husky voice andsympathetic brown eyes, will be an attractive addition to PotomacCable Network. Her profiles of celebrities on Boston Cable have twicebeen nominated for Emmys. Pat has the magical gift of getting peopleto reveal themselves with remarkable candor. Her first subject willbe Abigail Jennings, the very private senior Senator from Virginia.According to Luther Pelham, news director and anchorman ofPotomac Cable, the program will include highlights of the Senator ’sprivate and public life. Washington is breathlessly waiting to see ifPat Traymore can penetrate the beautiful Senator ’s icy reserve.”The thought of the call nagged at Pat. It was the cadence of thevoice, the way he had said “
that
house.”Who was it who knew about the house?The car was cold. Pat realized the engine had been off for minutes.A man with a briefcase hurried past, paused when he observed hersitting there, then went on his way. I’d better get moving before hecalls the cops and reports a loiterer, she thought.The iron gates in front of the driveway were open. She stoppedthe car at the stone path that led to the front door and fumbled throughher purse for the house key.She paused at the doorstep, trying to analyze her feelings. She’danticipated a momentous reaction. Instead, she simply wanted to getinside, lug the suitcases from the car, fix coffee and a sandwich. Sheturned the key, pushed the door open, found the light switch.The house seemed very clean. The smooth brick floor of the foyerhad a soft patina; the chandelier was sparkling. A second glanceshowed fading paint and scuff marks near the baseboards. Most ofthe furniture would probably need to be discarded or refinished. Thegood pieces stored in the attic of the Concord house would be deliveredtomorrow.She walked slowly through the first floor. The formal dining room,large and pleasant, was on the left. When she was sixteen and on aschool trip to Washington, she had walked past this house but hadn’t

realized how spacious the rooms were. From the outside the houseseemed narrow.The table was scarred, the sideboard badly marked, as if hot servingdishes had been laid directly on the wood. But she knew the handsome,elaborately carved Jacobean set was family furniture and worthwhatever it would cost to restore.She glanced into the kitchen and library but deliberately keptwalking. All the news stories had described the layout of the house inminute detail. The living room was the last room on the right. Shefelt her throat tighten as she approached it. Was she crazy to be doingthis—returning here, trying to recapture a memory best forgotten?The living-room door was closed. She put her hand on the knoband turned it hesitantly. The door swung open. She fumbled and foundthe wall switch. The room was large and beautiful, with a high ceiling,a delicate mantel above the white brick fireplace, a recessed windowseat. It was empty except for a concert grand piano, a massive expanseof dark mahogany in the alcove to the right of the fireplace.The fireplace.She started to walk toward it.Her arms and legs began to tremble. Perspiration started from herforehead and palms. She could not swallow. The room was movingaround her. She rushed to the French doors at the far end of the leftwall, fumbled with the lock, yanked both doors open and stumbledonto the snow-banked patio.The frosty air seared her lungs as she gulped in short, nervousbreaths. A violent shudder made her hug her arms around her body.She began to sway and needed to lean against the house to keep fromfalling. Light-headedness made the dark outlines of the leafless treesseem to sway with her.The snow was ankle-deep. She could feel the wetness seep throughher boots, but she would not go back in until the dizziness receded.Minutes passed before she could trust herself to return to the room.Carefully she closed and double-locked the doors, hesitated and thendeliberately turned around and with slow, reluctant steps walked tothe fireplace. Tentatively she ran her hand down the roughwhitewashed brick.For a long time now, bits and pieces of memory had intruded on

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