There was a lot of car door banging and loud spurts of music. Philip, who wanted to ride with Gregory, was fooling around with his stereo. At last both cars drove off, and Ivy stood alone, cherishing the silence. The afternoon was warm and still, and only the trees, the very tops of them, rustled dryly. It was one of the few moments of real peace that she had felt since Tristan's death.
She went inside and grabbed a book, one that Beth had given her, so it was sure to be a torrid romance.
Beth had sent it via Suzanne with a note of apology, afraid to face Ivy and afraid to call her up. Ivy had telephoned Beth to let her know she wasn't angry anymore.
She was still mystified, however. It was such an odd thing for Beth to have done — creating computer messages from "Tristan." Beth was usually so sensitive to other people's feelings. Well. she had thought that Will was sensitive, too, and look what he had done: put a pair of wings on Tristan.
In spite of the pain of that memory. Ivy smiled a little. What would Tristan have thought about Will turning him into an angel?
She read for more than an hour and a half up in. the tree house, occasionally gazing out through the branches at the distant glittering strip that was the river. Then she stuck the book in the waistband of her jeans and swung down on die rope. In the mood for a walk. Ivy circled around the front of the house and headed down the winding drive. She quickened her pace, and kept it up as she climbed the hill again, returning to the top, sweaty and exhilarated.
Maybe she could finally play "Liebestraum," she thought. With all this quiet around her, maybe she'd play up a storm, and work all the way through the love song. She had been practicing for the festival every day but hadn't been able to get to the end of the piece. At some point the memories always came back to her, a slow tide turning in her, and washed out all her music. Maybe that day she could hold on to the notes.
Ivy grabbed a soda from the kitchen and hurried upstairs to take a shower. Halfway through it, she wondered if she should have locked the back door. Don't be silly, she told herself. No one ever comes up on this hill. She intended to enjoy these days of peace and wouldn't let the worrying of Suzanne, Beth, and Gregory put her on edge.
When Ivy climbed the steps to her music room, Ella scooted ahead of her and leaped up onto the piano bench.
Ivy smiled. "You're practicing for the festival, too?"
She thought about the triplets of notes that Ella had "played" the week before, then pushed it out of her mind; the song would make her start thinking of Tristan.
Ivy began her warm-ups, then played melodies that were Philip's favorites, and finally began "Liebestraum." She was pleased by her playing, her fingers flying over the keys, caught up completely in the vibrant cadenza. Just before she returned to the opening theme, in the moment she paused to turn die page, she heard a noise.
Immediately she thought of glass shattering. Her flesh turned to goose bumps, but she fought against her fear. She reminded herself that breaking glass was a sound from her nightmares. If anyone really wanted to get in, all the person had to do was open the back door. The noise wasn't a window breaking, she told herself. A tree branch fell against the house, or something had blown over downstairs.
Still, Ivy felt uneasy. She glanced around the room and saw that Ella was gone. Maybe the cat had knocked over something. The best thing to do would be to investigate and prove to herself that it was nothing. Ivy went to the top of the attic stairs and listened.
She thought the noise had come from the west wing, by Andrew's office. Maybe it was Andrew, out of his meeting early, stopping by the house to pick up something.
Ivy crept down the steps to her bedroom and stopped just inside the door that led to the hall. She wished Ella were with her; the cat could warn her with a prick of her ears or a twitch of her tail. The house seemed suddenly huge, twice its real size, pocked with a hundred hiding places and far away from anyone who could hear her scream. Ivy stepped back and picked up the telephone in her room, then put it down.
Get ahold of yourself, she thought. You can't drag the police all the way out here for nothing. "Andrew?"
she called. "Andrew, is that you?" No answer.
"Ella, come here. Where are you, Ella?" The house was deafeningly silent. Ivy tiptoed into the hall and decided to go down the center stairway rather than the narrower one that led into the west wing. There was a phone on die table in the lower hall. If she noticed that anything had been disturbed, she'd immediately make a call from there.
At the bottom of the stairs Ivy looked quickly left and right. Maybe she should just run out the front door, she thought.
And then what? Let someone take what he wanted? Or better yet, let him find a snug spot to lie in wait for her?
Don't let your imagination run away with you, she chided herself.
The rooms on the east side of the house — the living room, library, and solarium — were closed up, still shuttered against the early sunlight. Ivy turned the other way, peeking around the corner into the dining room. She walked through it, tensing at the creak of old boards, and pushed open the door to the kitchen. Across from her was the door she had left unlocked, still closed. After quickly checking two closets, she locked the outside door.
But what about the basement? She bolted the door on the kitchen side. She could check the outside entrance to it later, she thought, then headed into the family room. Nothing had been disturbed.
Just as she stepped into the gallery that led to Andrew's office, Ella came trotting toward her.
"Ella!" Ivy breathed out with relief. "What have you been up to?"
Ella swished her tail fiercely back and forth. "First it was his chair," Ivy said, shaking her finger at the cat, though she was gasping with relief. "Now what, a Waterford vase?"
She marched into the room and stopped. A windowpane was smashed in, the door next to it ajar. Ivy stepped back.
She stepped into him. "Wha-?" Before she could turn around, a sack was pulled over her head. Ivy screamed and fought to get free, ripping at the sack with her hands, clawing it like a cat. The more she yanked at the cloth, the tighter it was pulled around her. She felt as if she were suffocating.
She fought to keep herself from panicking, struggling against someone much stronger than she. Think!
Think! she told herself.
Her feet were still free. But she knew that if she kicked and lost her balance, he'd have her. She began to use her weight, swinging her whole body from side to side. She swung hard. He lost his grip, and Ivy spun away.
Then he grabbed her again. He was pushing her now, toward a wall or a corner, she thought. She couldn't see a thing inside the dark bag and had lost track of where she was. Even if she could get free of him, she didn't know which way to run.
The sack was so rough that each time he pulled it the threads burned against her face. She wanted to lift her hands and claw her way through so she could see her attacker's face.
He made no sound. She felt him shift his grip, holding her now with just one arm. Then she felt it, something pressed against her head, something hard and round — like the barrel of a gun.
She began to kick and kick, and shriek.
Then she heard a pounding sound from somewhere else in the house. Someone was pounding and calling, "Ivy! Ivy!"
She tried to answer.
She was hurtled forward and could not stop herself from falling. She slammed against something as hard as rock and slid down it. Metal things tumbled and clattered around her. Then everything went black.
"Ivy! Ivy!" Tristan called.