ndian Meadows, January 1989

I was alone. My husband was dead. My children were dead.

My little pet, Trixy, was dead.

I should be dead too.

And I would have been if I had come with them to Indian Meadows that weekend in December. But I had stayed in the city to give the shower for Alicia Munroe, and because of that I was alive.

I didn't want to be alive. I had nothing to live for now, no reason for being.

A life without Andrew had no value.

A life without my children had no meaning.

I did not know what to do without them; I did not know how to cope with the business of everyday living, or how to function properly.

It seemed to me that I walked around like a zombie, doing everything automatically, by rote. I got up in the morning, showered, dressed, and drank a cup of coffee or tea. I made my bed and attended to chores in the house, helping Nora as I always had.

Sometimes I visited Anna and the horses in the stables; I spoke on the phone to my mother and Sarah. Several times a week I called Diana, or she called me, and my father was more in touch with me than he had ever been, phoning me constantly.

But for the most part I did nothing. I had no strength, no initiative; I was filled with apathy.

Occasionally I did come to my small office at the back of the house, where I sat now, trying to answer some of the condolence letters I had received. There were hundreds of them, but I could face only a few at a time, they were so harrowing to deal with.

Frequently I sat upstairs in my sitting room, thinking about Andrew, Lissa, and Jamie, grieving for them and for Trixy. My little Bichon Frise had been my constant companion before the children were born, forever at my heels, following me everywhere. She had been a genuine little presence.

I could not understand why this terrible thing had happened to us. What had we done to deserve it? Why had God allowed them to be murdered? Had I done something to offend Him? Had we all done something wrong? Something which displeased Him?

Or was there no God?

Was there only evil in this world?

Evil was man's invention, not God's. It had existed since the beginning of time and would continue to exist until this planet blew itself up, which it would, because man was evil and destructive, intent on killing and destroying.

My life, our lives, had been touched by evil when that animal had pulled the trigger, wiping out two innocent children, a little puppy, and a decent man who had never done any harm to anyone in his forty-one years.

Andrew had been cut down in the prime of his life, my children at the beginning of their lives, and it made no sense to me. Some of my friends had told me that it was God's will, and that we should never question Him. Or ask why He did certain things, that we must accept them, however painful.

How could I accept the deaths of my husband and my children? And so I kept on asking why. I wanted to understand why it had happened. I needed to know why God permitted the human race to commit the crimes it did. Did God want us to suffer? Was that it? I did not know. I had no answers for myself. Or for anyone else.

Perhaps there were no answers; perhaps there was no God, which was something I'd been pondering for five weeks. My mother said we lived in a godless world, and she might just be right.

We knew now from the ballistics report that the gun used to shoot my family had been a nine-millimeter semiautomatic handgun, which carried seventeen or eighteen bullets in the clip and did not have to be reloaded. DeMarco had told David this, explaining that it could be bought on the streets quite easily, adding that it was the gun of choice.

Gun of choice.

What had we come to? Had we learned nothing over the centuries?

According to DeMarco, the same type of bullet had killed all of my family, so he and Johnson were fairly certain there had been only one gunman. But that did not rule out an attack by a gang, DeMarco had told David. Unfortunately, there were still no suspects. And no witnesses had come forward.

Nothing was happening, as far as I knew, despite the intense media coverage, which still continued. The shooting of my family, the funeral service, and the police investigation had attracted the media in droves; it had become a circus in the end, with newspaper and television reporters hounding us on a daily basis. Even the British press had descended on us, much to our distress.

I no longer read the newspapers or watched the television news. I did not want to get caught by surprise by something about me or mine. Certainly I no longer cared what was happening in the world. The world was irrelevant.

I had fled to Indian Meadows.

I had also wanted to escape the apartment and New York, which I now loathed. The city filled me with disgust and fear.

David had told me not to be too disdainful of the media and their constant coverage of this tragedy.

"They're keeping the pressure on the police," he had pointed out again just the other day. "Be glad about that, Mal. The N.Y.P.D. doesn't want to get roasted alive. They'll only intensify their efforts to find the perp." After a pause, he had thought to add, "Mind you, DeMarco and Johnson are hell-bent on solving this crime, and DeMarco especially has made it a personal crusade."

Everything David said was true. And DeMarco did seem to be very personally committed. Yet I doubted that the monster who had so cold-bloodedly taken the lives of my family would ever be tracked down.

He was long gone with his lethal weapon.

He was free.

Free to live his evil life. And kill again, if the whim took him.

And I was left to grieve.

I grieved for my husband and my children, grieved for the lives they would never lead, grieved for the future which had been stolen from them, grieved for all that might have been and never would be now.

I wanted to die.

And I was going to die.

Soon. Very soon.

I had been unable to kill myself up until now because I had not been left alone for a moment. There was always someone with me.

Did they all suspect my intentions?

I had been surrounded since the day after the funeral, when I had driven up to Sharon with Diana and my father. Sarah had followed with my mother and David, and they had stayed for days.

They had given me love. And they had tried to comfort me, as I had endeavored to console them. But none of us had succeeded. The loss was too great, the pain too excruciating. It lingered deep inside, never beginning to fade.

Eventually they had all left, although some of them only temporarily, such as my mother, David, and Sarah. She had had to go to work at Bergman's, David to his law office. But they were all back within a few days, and Nora and Anna were never far from my side. Even Eric, Nora's husband, seemed to hover constantly when he was not at work.

Diana had decided to return to London toward the end of December. She had wanted to stay with me here, at least to help get me through the holidays, as had my father. I had pointed out that my mother, David, and Sarah would be coming to Indian Meadows for Christmas, and that they should go, should try to get on with their lives as best they could.

"Perhaps you're right, Mal," Diana had said. "You and I will only feed on each other's pain and grief if I remain here." It struck me she was only saying this to help me feel better. Certainly I knew it was heart-wrenching for her to leave me. In fact, at the last minute, just before she and my father had set out for Kennedy, she had begged me to quickly pack a bag and go with her to London, then up to Yorkshire.

My father had also pleaded with me to accompany them. He had asked me to spend Christmas with him, Diana, and Gwenny at Kilgram Chase, or, if I felt that that was impossible, he would take us all away. We could go somewhere in France, he had said.

But there was nothing for me in London or Yorkshire or France or anywhere else for that matter. I was no longer comfortable on this earth. I craved another, distant place.

And so I had shaken my head, kissed them both good-bye, and sent them on their way. I wanted to be here with my memories. And I wanted to make my plans for my death.

There was another reason why I had not done it yet. I was waiting for something to be delivered. It had not arrived. But once it did, I would kill myself and join my husband and babies. We would be together, and the pain would end.

I glanced at today's date in my engagement book. It was Tuesday, January 17. The package was due to arrive tomorrow, the eighteenth.

There was no doubt in my mind that I would do it on the nineteenth.

So be it.

I got up and walked out of the office, down the corridor to the coatroom, where I kept boots and raincoats. Earlier this morning Anna had asked me to go down to the stables, and now seemed as good a time as any. Before I reached the coatroom I ran into the ever-present Nora carrying a tray.

"Mal! I was just bringing you this bowl of soup."

"I don't really want it, Nora, I'm not hungry. Thanks. Anyway, I'm going out."

"No, you're not," she said, blocking my way. "Not until you've got something inside you." She stared me down. "You've not eaten a thing for days. Tea, coffee, a slice of toast. What good is that going to do you? You're going to have this soup."

"All right," I said. I couldn't be bothered to argue with her. Anyway, she had that obdurate look in her eyes, which lately I had come to know only too well. Also, it occurred to me that she might physically prevent me from going outside unless I ate the soup.

She softened a bit. "Where do you want it?"

"In the kitchen," I said.

Without saying anything, she turned on her heels and went in the direction of the long gallery, which in turn led into the kitchen.

I could tell from the way she held herself that she was annoyed with me, hurt even, and this troubled me. I wouldn't offend Nora for the world. She was a good woman, and she too was grief-stricken and sorrowing. She had adored the twins to the point of distraction and had cared deeply for Andrew. She, Eric, and Anna had come to New York for the funeral service, and they had been devastated ever since.

Wanting to make amends for my curtness, I said as I sat down, "I'm sorry, Nora. I didn't mean to speak so crossly to you."

She placed the tray on the kitchen table in front of me and put her hand on my shoulder. She began to speak, but there was a catch in her throat, and she hurried away before I could say another word.

Even though it was the middle of January, it was not very cold, and so far this year there had been little snow. A light dusting of it covered the flat ground near the house, but it was not particularly deep on the lawns, only on the hill which sloped down to the barns, the pastures, and the pond.

Eric had cleared a path through the snowdrifts which covered the hill and had put down sand and salt. I followed this path, heading for Anna's cottage. I was almost there when she came out of the stables, turned, saw me, and waved.

I waved back and increased my pace.

After greeting me affectionately, as she always did, she said, "It's about… the ponies, Mal. You told me to do what I wanted about them, and… well, I have a customer."

I frowned. "A customer? What do you mean, Anna?" I asked, staring hard at her.

"I have someone who wants to buy them," she answered quickly, and there was a baffled expression in her soft brown eyes.

"Oh, I couldn't sell them!" I exclaimed. "Never."

My voice must have sounded harsh, for she colored and stammered, "I guess I misunderstood." put my hand out, touched her arm reassuringly. "No, no, you didn't misunderstand, Anna. I didn't make myself clear. And I'm sorry if I spoke harshly just now. When I told you to do what you wanted about the ponies, I meant that you should give them away. I could never sell Pippa and Punchinella."

Her face broke into a smile. "I have this friend who wants them. She'll take good care of them, Mal, and her children will, too. It's a lovely gift, thank you."

I nodded. "Is there anything else you wanted to talk about?"

"No, that was it," Anna replied.

"I think I'll go in and look at the ponies, say good-bye to them," I muttered half to myself as I walked across to the stables.

Anna had the good grace not to follow me.

I went to the stalls and pulled a carrot out of my pocket for Punchinella, then another one for Pippa. After feeding them, patting their heads, and nuzzling them, I whispered, "Go off to a new home. And be sure you give two other children the same pleasure you gave mine."

Slowly I walked back up the hill to the house.

When I reached the top I sat down on the seat under the apple tree. It looked so bare, so bereft at this time of year, but in the spring and summer it was leafy and filled with delicate white blossoms. A beautiful tree, I have always thought.

This was one of my favorite spots at Indian Meadows. Andrew had called it Mommy's Place, for whenever I had a moment or two to spare I would come here—to relax, to think, to read, occasionally to paint, and very often just to sit and daydream. Eventually it had become theirs, too, the children's and Andrew's. If ever I was missing for a while, it was here they usually found me, and they always wanted to stay, to share this place.

Underneath this tree I had told the twins fairy tales and read to them, and sometimes we had had picnics on the grass. It was never anything but cool and shady even on the hottest of summer days, and it was one of the prettiest spots I had ever known.

And it was here that Andrew and I had come just to be alone, especially on warm nights when the sky was inky and bright with stars. Enfolded in each other's arms, we had sat together quietly talking about the future, or not talking, if we didn't want to, always at peace here.

How we had all loved it beneath the old apple tree.

I closed my eyes, shutting out the powder-blue sky and the January sunlight, squeezing back my tears.