Chapter Twenty-one

There was the slightest incline of her head. "Why am I here?"
"Something happened," Mary said. "There was an acci­dent, but you'll be all right. You'll be fine."
"Oh-h-h, I hurt! I hurt!" Her voice was strident; now she frowned; now her eyes darted about wildly.
"Why can't I feel my legs? Did I—"
"No, no, darling, nothing like that. You just got hurt, but you're going to be back to normal soon. It wasn't
that bad."
She closed her eyes. Tears popped out from beneath the lids. "Was I raped?"
"Yes, honey, that's what happened."
She nodded. Silence fell.
"Hello, folks, how's our patient?"
Mary whirled around. "Mike!" He was standing there in his rumpled brown suit. Beside him was a natty
man of perhaps thirty-five.
"This is Lieutenant Maxwell of the Sex Crimes Unit. He's going to be questioning Patricia."
Mary glared at the two men.
"Do you want us to leave, Dad?"
"It might be best. In cases like this they usually concen­trate better when they're alone."
Jonathan withdrew his hand from Patricia's. "Jonathan!" Her voice was sharp, almost commanding.
When she lifted her fingers he understood and again took her hand.
"I'm here, honey."
"Stay!"
"I won't leave unless you want me to."
Mike leaned into her field of vision. "We have some police questions to ask you, sweetie. It's better if you
let Jonathan go for just five minutes—"
"No!"
Mary spoke. "What does it matter, Mike? Jonathan told me about the polygraph."
"Police questioning is confidential, ma'am," said the lieu­tenant.
Patricia's hand gripped Jonathan's hard. "You better stay, Johnny," Mike said. "She wants you, that's the
important thing."
"Thanks, Dad."
The lieutenant went around to the opposite side of the bed, turned on a large, old-fashioned cassette
recorder, and affixed the microphone to his lapel. "Miss Murray," he said in a surprisingly gentle voice, "I'm
awfully sorry to have to bother you now, but we find it's best to do this as early as possible so you can get
on with the business of getting well without us intruding."
"Who are you?"
"My name is Tom Maxwell. I'm a police officer."
"It hurts, Officer Maxwell."
Jonathan was aware that his mother had gotten another person to come into the room, a man with a
surgical smock thrown over his business suit and half-glasses on his face. Obviously he was Patricia's
doctor. "This patient has too many visitors," he said. "Perhaps it would be best if you left, Inspector
Banion."
"My associate wants to ask questions."
"He can stay."
"Miss Murray, do you remember anything at all about the man who raped you?" Maxwell asked his
question softly, gently. A sensitive man.
Patricia stared straight ahead, her eyes glazed with deep inner looking. "I was on the bed with Jonathan,"
she said. She met his eyes. "I had you in my arms . . ." Behind him Mike leaned forward, put his hand on
his stepson's shoulder.
The doctor spoke up again, directing his words to Mike. "Please, you really do have to leave."
"After that, what happened? Did Jonathan stay?"
"He . . ."
Jonathan's own mind flashed a violent, confused memory, like a door that opened and shut very quickly on
an explo­sion.
They had been sitting on her bed, and there had been some erotic play. He was so excited, he
remembered ... Then—a blast of light, a bad dream. Then he was being shaken awake by Mike.
"He left. I made him go home." She smiled at him. "You ought to marry me. Do you want to? I'm a good
girl." Tears appeared in her eyes. She was probably afraid the rape had made her undesirable.
"I'd marry you in a minute."