Jericho's Fall Read Online Free

dropped by her home or office, never calling first,although occasionally they apologized. Once, they surprised her during lunch on a Caribbean cruise. Another time they had showed up at a pub in Edinburgh. Beck had trouble believing that every ex-girlfriend of every ex-Director was treated this way, and now and then she asked them what made her special.
    Their pitying smiles were the only answer she ever received.
    “Yes,” said Pamela, still behind her. “He’s been asking for you.”
    “I should go see him.”
    “It’s late.”
    Beck turned her head, trying to make peace. Pamela was halfway to the kitchen. “Still. I should see if he’s awake. I won’t keep him long, I promise.”
    “Fine.” Her voice was crisp, in charge, even satisfied, as if she had cinched a deal: for Pamela, who used to make indie films, now coproduced disaster movies with her husband, and lived in Beverly Hills. She pointed toward the balustrade. “Dad’s in the master suite. I’m sure you remember where it is. Audrey and I are on the main floor. I’ve put you in the back.”
    What Jericho used to call the grandchildren’s suite. Coincidence or insult? With Pamela you could never tell.
    “Thank you.”
    “I hate this place,” said Pamela, arms crossed over her sweater, rubbing her own biceps. “I never lived here. It was never my house, Rebecca. Never Audrey’s, never my mom’s. We grew up in Virginia. This place—well, this place was his.” A pause. And yours , Pamela was saying, wordlessly. “Dad should have sold it long ago.”
    Again memory teased her. “Does he still booby-trap the doors after dark?”
    “Not that I know of.”
    They shared a laugh, tinny and forced.
    Pamela cocked her head, the two women listening to the same sound. “Damn helicopter,” she muttered. “It’s been buzzing us all night.”
    “The press—”
    “Like hell. It’s just a troublemaker. We’ve had all these people up here, the ones who used to do the protests everywhere Dad spoke? They’re ready to dance on his grave.”
    Rebecca glanced at the window, the floodlit grounds. “In a helicopter?”
    “Any way they can. You should see what’s on the Internet.”
    “I probably shouldn’t.”
    Beck was climbing the curving uncarpeted stairs, hand on the rail, when she heard Pamela’s voice behind her, unexpectedly sad. “Rebecca, look.” She never used the nickname. “My father doesn’t have much time.”
    “I understand.”
    “I’m not sure you do, Rebecca. It’s just the three of us. Audrey and Dad and me. Sean’s not coming. There’s no nurse. Dad keeps firing them. He thinks they’re spying on him. Besides”—again she seemed to wrestle—“well, there’s not much a nurse can do at this point.”
    “I see,” said Beck, over her shoulder.
    “Dad knows he doesn’t have much time left. Aunt Maggie’s been here and gone. She’s not coming back. Dad’s office in Denver is closed. Mrs. Blumen died last year.” Jericho’s longtime assistant. “There’s nobody else.”
    “I said I understand, Pamela.”
    “What I’m saying is, I don’t know how he’ll react to your being here, Rebecca. Please try not to disrupt things again.”
    This, finally, was too much. But when Beck rounded on her old adversary, ready to tussle, Pamela had vanished into the kitchen. She seemed to be the only one who knew how to walk Jericho’s creaky floors without making a sound. As Beck climbed the stairs, her phone rang again. Unknown number, and a digital whine. But by this time she was no longer surprised: when she checked the bars, she had no service.

CHAPTER 3

The Sickroom
    (i)
    Like the rest of the house, the second floor was brightly lighted, so that Jericho could see the bad guys when they came. Beck stood at the top of the stairs. The balcony ran along the three main bedchambers, including the master suite and her own old room, now occupied by Pamela. The hallway ran to Jericho’s study in the back of the house, then