Intrigued, Barrett waited.

Ellen looked at her, "They wanted Jimmy locked away forever. When I was twenty-one, I tried to hire a lawyer to review his case, my father blocked me, said it was none of my business."

"Why would he do that?"

Ellen gave a bitter laugh, "You don't know how hard I've tried to come up with rational explanations for the things my father did; it's useless. One minute he'd shower us with gifts, and the next ..." She stopped and reached back for the curtain, "excuse me, but I'm going to need more liquor to get through this." She signaled for the waitress with her empty gla.s.s and then turned back to Barrett. "I think my father was clinically insane, and mother wasn't much better."

"Insane how?"

"Erratic, paranoid, addicted to pain pills ... s.a.d.i.s.tic. You need more?"

"Toward you?"

"Yes. But mostly toward Jimmy; he got the worst of it."

"Physical abuse?"

"Yes, but that's nothing compared with the way he'd play with our minds. Our childhood was like some gruesome fairy tale. If anyone had known what was going on in that house ... we should have been taken out of there. All of which is easy to say, but when you're a kid, you think the stuff your parents do is normal. You have no way of knowing how sick it is. And to an outsider, things probably looked pretty good. Our family is very wealthy and has been connected in New York society for over a hundred years. My great-great grandfather was one of the founders of the Knickerbocker Club. And a couple years back I gifted our Newport cottage to the Historical Society; it's now a museum. People see our kind of wealth and privilege and can't imagine children being tortured inside such a beautiful home."

"Was there s.e.xual abuse?" Barrett gently asked, while thinking of her own financial straits, and wondering what it might be like to donate a mansion, or to own an oceanfront mansion and call it a cottage.

Ellen paused as the waitress reappeared with drinks and fresh delicacies. As the curtain closed behind her, she resumed, "Yes, and I don't know how much. We were both exposed to my mother's indiscretions. She had a string of chauffeurs who were little more than male prost.i.tutes. She and father slept in different rooms ... different worlds, actually. I often wonder how they managed to conceive the two of us. When we were kids, and this is pretty sick, we'd sometimes spy on her in the carriage house. We used to think it was funny. Now, it just makes me sad."

"There's more, isn't there?"

"Tons, but there's stuff I can't remember. I even went to a therapist a few times to try and get the memories back; it made things worse, like I was about to fall apart. So I stopped going, figured my brain knew what was best for me by just blocking stuff out. You see," she said catching Barrett's eye, "work is my therapy ... But back to your question ... I don't think my father molested me ... I don't think so. But he did stuff to Jimmy."

"From what age?"

"Young ... you asked me why my parents didn't want Jimmy going to trial?"

"Yes."

"I think the real reason is they were petrified of what would happen if any of this came out. In their twisted way they decided better to lock their son away, than for people to know what kind of sick f.u.c.ks they were!" Ellen looked up, "I'm sorry, I hadn't intended to get into all of this. I've never told this stuff to anyone ... it can't go anywhere."

"Of course," Barrett said, finding herself with a newfound sympathy for Jimmy Martin, and his elegant sister.

Ellen reached down and grabbed a crispy duck roll. "So Jimmy ends up spending half his life locked up, and I take over the company after my parents' death. Although fortunately for the shareholders, I got father to let me handle much of the business prior to the accident."

"How long ago was that?" Barrett, asked, recalling something in the chart about an off-site supervised visit when Jimmy was allowed to attend a funeral.

"Three years," Ellen said.

"And that's how you were able to get him out?"

Ellen looked up, and gave Barrett a questioning look.

"I mean," Barrett said, "with your parents dead you were able to work on getting your brother out."

"Yes," she said, "I took over, had the lawyers make me his legal conservator, and lobbied for his release. He's my only family ... unless you count a few second cousins who're licking their chops over the fact that neither Jimmy nor I will ever have kids."

"Because?"

"Boy, you're good at this," Ellen commented. "I used to think that after what my parents did to us, there was no way in h.e.l.l I'd ever reproduce-that I'd never take that risk. But when I turned thirty I ... s.h.i.t! I'm sorry ..." Ellen swigged her c.o.c.ktail, "When I was thirty, my thinking shifted and I found myself really wanting to have a child. After all of those years of throwing myself into work; I began to think-what for? And all I could focus on was that I wanted a child." Ellen glanced at Barrett. "Does this make any sense, or have I had one too many?"

Barrett met her gaze, "No, it makes perfect sense."

"I thought that maybe if I had a child, I'd get it right. And give this kid all of the love we never had, raise a little person that could take over the business-or not-if they didn't want to ... but then I started to get all sorts of weird symptoms ... headaches, hot flashes." Her mouth twisted in a wistful smile. "I guess you can figure where this is going?"

Barrett nodded.

"Early menopause," Ellen shrugged. "Apparently it runs in the family. As for Jimmy, I don't see him as the marrying type. I'd also be worried with him around kids."

"Has he ever done anything like that?"

"Pedophilia?" Ellen asked, "G.o.d, I hope not. But I'm a realist. I know my brother has problems. I don't think having him around kids is a good idea."

"How has he dealt with being out? After eighteen years that's quite a transition."

"Yes and no. He's not really free, is he?"

"No," Barrett agreed, having read through the stringent rules confining him.

"Certainly he's happier, and he's playing cello again, and considering his time away from it, he sounds great."

"Cello?" Barrett perked, remembering some mention of it in the histories.

"Yes, music is probably the only thing that kept us halfway sane growing up."

"You play, as well?"

"I did...very little now ... piano. Jimmy was always the star. My brother was a child prodigy. My playing was more in the range of competent accompanist."

"Did you do compet.i.tions?" she asked, flashing on an old memory of two beautiful blond children, the boy on cello, his sister on piano.

"Yes," Ellen met her gaze, and smiled. "That's where we know each other, isn't it?"

"Oh my, G.o.d. That's it!" But the three-hundred-pound Jimmy that Barrett had seen that one time at Croton bore no resemblance to the cherubic blond boy who invariably took first prize in the music compet.i.tions that had been such a major part of her childhood.

"You play piano, don't you?" Ellen asked.

"Yes, but like you, it's hard to find the time to practice."

"But you were good. You won some compet.i.tions, didn't you?"

Barrett's cheeks flushed.

" ... yet you went into medicine. You could have had a concert career."

"Long story, and not terribly interesting. Was that what Jimmy wanted to do?"

"Yes, and I think a part of him wonders if it's too late now. He had a recording contract, and the horrible irony is that two days before his arrest he won the Dubrovnik cello compet.i.tion."

"Really! That's impressive."

"I know, and the one thing that gave him any comfort-his music-was taken away for eighteen years. I think more than the things father did to him, or some of the horrible stuff that happened at Croton, not having his cello broke him."

Barrett resisted the urge to reach across the table and take Ellen's hand, to try and comfort her. "You really love him."

"I do," she stated, struggling to keep her emotions in check. "I guess for me it boils down to there are two loves in my life, Martin Industries, which my father nearly ran into the ground, and my brother." Draining her drink, she added, "In a way they're kind of similar, they both need a lot of work, but they both have incredible potential."

___.

Two hours later, Barrett parted with Ellen outside the restaurant.

"Can I give you a lift,? Ellen asked, easing into the backseat of a waiting black Lincoln.

"No, thanks."

She was about to say more when Ellen added, "I'm so happy that you decided to work with Jimmy. I've got a good feeling about this, and who knows," she said, harking back to one of their many topics of discussion, "maybe cello playing can be his way back. I guess it comes down to whether or not he's still good enough for the concert stage."

Barrett watched as the limo pulled away. Her head felt light, but good. Three c.o.c.ktails and a sumptuous meal had been what the doctor ordered. And the conversation, she had to admit, was one of the most interesting ever. She hadn't come prepared to like Ellen Martin, but there was something heroic about the CEO who had endured and overcome the horrors of her childhood, and was now in the driver's seat of a Fortune 500 corporation that ran the gamut from high-rise real estate to breakfast cereal. And their joint history of having done the kiddie concert circuit was an odd connection. Piano playing for Barrett had been the ticket to many things, but fifteen years ago she had turned down a full Juilliard scholarship to pursue medicine. As she had reminisced with Ellen about the weird world of child prodigies, she discovered that her childhood dream of one day playing major concert halls still smoldered. So many memories, the warmth of the spotlight, of walking toward the conductor, of her feet making first contact with the pedals, her fingers poised over the keys, her wrists in perfect alignment, Sophie's Polish accent reminding her to breathe.

Lost in thought, she wandered the four blocks north to her condo. There had been other parts of the conversation, however, that had left Barrett unsettled. As always, when hearing stories about cruelty to children, her heart went out to the victims-to Ellen and Jimmy. But her life in forensics, and her research into the development of sociopaths, had shown that children who've had those experiences never leave them behind. She saw it in Ellen, as she had talked about what the abuse had done to her, and how she had sublimated those feelings into funding a charitable foundation that aided battered women and their children. Her ears had perked when Ellen mentioned her spotty memory and brief stab at therapy. Maybe it was nothing, but it carried the diagnostic whiff of a traumatized child who walls off bad periods of time, maybe to recover the memories as an adult, and maybe not. But for Jimmy, who by Ellen's account had endured far worse, she suspected that his coping had not been so adaptive. There were clinical terms for it, reaction formation, identification with the aggressor, but it came down to a couple of things; abused children grow up to either become the exact opposite of their abusers-such as Ellen-or, as was more common in men, they turned into their abusers, perpetuating the cycle.

She glanced at her watch, and was surprised to see that it was after ten. Normally she'd push herself to the kung fu studio for a workout, but Sifu Henry Li closed up around eleven, so there'd be little point. As she rounded her block, her eyes fell on a familiar man's silhouette on her front stoop. Her heart quickened, as she approached. At least he hadn't keyed into the condo.

He stood as she approached. "Barrett."

"What are you doing here, Ralph?" And realizing the hour she added, "and how long have you been here?"

"I called out sick," he said, with a half smile. "I'm not sure that was a lie. I miss you so much, Barrett. I'm not sleeping, I'm not eating."

She saw sincerity in his eyes, he seemed so unhappy. "Ralph."

"Barrett, there's got to be something I can do to make this right."

"I don't know, Ralph," she admitted, feeling a tingle up her spine as he took her hand.

"Please," he brought her fingers to his lips, his coa.r.s.e stubble against her knuckles, his warm breath on her skin. "Can't we talk?"

Her knees felt weak, it has to be the alcohol, she told herself as her mouth, seemingly disconnected from her better senses, said, "Okay, you can come up, but just for five minutes."

"Thank you." He followed her up the stairs.

She felt his every footfall as they rounded the landings, and then, outside their condo door, his presence close, his hand on the small of her back, a gesture so familiar, and so missed. She fumbled with the key.

"Here," his hands on hers, steadying them, twisting the k.n.o.b.

The warm smell of home washed over them. She turned toward him, struggling for resolve, wanting to say, "just five minutes." But before the words could come, his deep-brown eyes were on hers, his expression sad ... tender. He was pleading, wanting another chance. And in that moment, Barrett surrendered. She didn't care, the ache in her chest and tightness in her throat cried for relief.

"Okay," she whispered, as his arms wrapped around her, drawing her in.

The touch of his full lips on hers was electric. She pressed against him, needing to feel his length against hers. She closed her eyes, and felt the floor give way, as he swept her up, and carried her toward the bedroom. A tiny voice tried to remind her that she was mad at him, that he'd betrayed her with another woman ... again. In that moment, she didn't care, she was floating in his arms, and then on the soft down of their quilted comforter. Her hands snaked under his shirt, feeling his hard muscles, the flatness of his belly. She grabbed at his belt and pulled him toward her.

"Thank you," he mouthed, his lips finding hers, his musician's hands quickly working at the b.u.t.tons of her blouse. "I love you," his mouth on hers. "I love you."

Two hours later, Barrett lay flat in bed, her thoughts dreamy. Ralph was fast asleep, exhausted from their lovemaking that had ended in the shower. "Getting clean and getting dirty all at the same time," he'd whispered while holding her tight under the spray.

Now, the sound of his breathing and the sweet, soapy smell of him were like a soothing drug. She gently touched the smooth skin of his back. Why? she thought. Why did you have to do that?-thinking simultaneously of his infidelity with Carol and the beauty of what they'd just shared. She rolled away and swung her long legs over the side of the bed. She picked up his b.u.t.ton-down shirt, threw it on and moved quietly toward the door, closing it behind her. Padding silently across the living room,she sat down at her piano. With her left foot damping down on the soft pedal, she let her fingers fall on the keys, and without preparation drifted into a Chopin Nocturne, letting the vibrations of the wistful music fill her. As that ended-perhaps fueled by the conversation with Ellen-she launched into the Revolutionary etude, amazed that her fingers remembered. Images of Sophie and recitals long past flashed before her, as dizzying runs spilled from the Mason and Hamlin. She pictured the Martin twins-so beautiful-a pair of blond angels sparkling in the spotlights. How sad, she thought, moving seamlessly from Chopin to Erik Satie's dreamy Trois Gymnopedies, and wondering-hoping-that she'd be able to help the tortured child-now a man-that Ellen Martin had described.

___.

Two miles away, on the Upper East Side, Ellen Martin's limo pulled into the garage of the Georgian townhouse that had belonged to her great-great grandfather, James Cyrus Martin. She felt exhilarated and realized that despite her initial reticence, Jimmy had finally gotten it right. Barrett Conyors was perfect. She was beautiful-even though she tried to play that down with her ill-fitting suit and near absence of make-up. Her intelligence was impossible to deny-which gave Ellen pause-and she'd been more than modest about her skill as a pianist. And the accent she tried to hide ... just like Nicole ... just like Maylene all those many years ago. A whiff of something dangerous from her past bubbled up; and she felt the shiver of a very bad thing that, try as she might, she could not remember.

As the chauffeur held the door, Ellen's mind raced through all that had to be done. Jimmy might have made the right selection, but as she well knew, his talents did not extend far beyond his cello. She could almost hear her father's hissing voice, "Chicky's the one that makes things happen."

Yes, she thought, punching in the code to let her into the house. She had many plans to make and they'd have to be very careful-Dr. Conyors would not be easily led-but after their dinner, she knew that it would be worth the effort.

FIVE.

Jimmy's powerful fingers attacked the Allegro with razor-sharp precision, while Ellen's soaring accompaniment spilled from the stereo; it was a recording of their Carnegie Hall debut at the age of twelve. He glanced up at the ma.s.sive Bosendorfer and imagined Ellen there, instead of Fred the cat curled in a ball, watching him.

His blond bangs fell across his face, as his bow hand arced and plunged, pulling soulful phrases from his eighteenth-century cello. One with the music, the room slipped away and a fantasy emerged, fueled by the heartbreaking melodies of the only piece Chopin ever wrote for cello. He felt the heat of the lights as the vibrations filled his body. He'd be in tails and the woman at the piano was no longer his sister. She was Barrett, dressed in black satin with a single strand of l.u.s.trous pearls encircling her throat. Her gray eyes would sparkle as she'd challenge him to ever-greater virtuosity. He'd look up, and there she'd be, loving him, wanting him.

For half an hour he ran from movement to movement, the allegro moderato, the scherzo, the mournful largo, and the release of the finale. As he drew the final chord across the strings his head sagged, and he imagined a stunned silence in the auditorium, and then the first tentative applause, which would blossom and explode into a standing ovation. There'd be shouts for an encore, and with sweat dripping down his face he'd turn to his beautiful Barrett. Their eyes would lock and the emotion would be more powerful than words.

The turntable skipped and the needle scratched. Startled, Jimmy put down his cello and switched off the player. He gingerly lifted the decades-old vinyl and replaced it in its sleeve. He ran the tips of his long fingers over the photograph on the front. In the picture, he was facing forward and Ellen, in profile, was looking at him. He traced the outline of her cheek. He'd been hard with her on the telephone, he knew that she meant well, but in the end, she'd see he was right. "Chicky." His raspy voice whispered Ellen's childhood nickname.

He put the alb.u.m away and looked at his cello, feeling a familiar emptiness. He glanced at his bracelet as it sparked its fifteen-second reminder. The urge to go out was fierce. His tongue flicked at his bottom lip as he thought of the cool night air, and pictured her building, knowing which windows were hers, knowing the lock on the security door was broken. He pictured the black and white tile of her downstairs hallway, the worn treads on the wooden steps, the creak of his weight, as he moved closer toward her ...

He walked to the fibergla.s.s cello case Ellen had had custom made in Sweden, its velvet interior perfectly fitted to contain the Amati that Father had purchased at Sotheby's. He reached in and released a hidden catch in the bottom. A panel clicked open and he retrieved another one of Ellen's gifts-an electronic key. Sitting on the edge of a damask sofa he crossed his bracelet-encircled ankle over his left knee. Aiming the metal key at the release, he waited for the red light. Quickly inserting it, he depressed the catch, nothing happened. He tried again, and still nothing. The light blinked. He pulled out the key and wiped the magnetic strip against his pants. He checked the lithium battery, but knew that it was still good; he'd just replaced it. He waited for the light and reinserted it. Jamming his thumb hard against the b.u.t.ton, he strained to hear the sound of the catch, the sound of freedom. "Come on," he pressed it again and again, carelessly ignoring the flash of red. Ellen had warned him not to release the security bracelet when it was transmitting; if he did so, a malfunction reading would occur and within minutes a monitor from the forensic center would come knocking at his door. "Come on." He took the key out and, holding it under the light, examined its every surface. Sweat beaded his forehead, his breath quickened as he tried a third time-it still wouldn't work. Ignoring Ellen's warning, he pushed it in and out. Frustration mounted, rage surged, and before he could think, he hurled the key across the room. "s.h.i.t!"

The cat leapt from his perch and raced under a table as Jimmy watched the malfunctioning key fly through the air. For a moment he thought it would land safely on the rug, instead, it cracked against the white-marble fireplace.

"No!" He ran over and looked down. The plastic casing had shattered, revealing its complicated electronic guts. He picked up the biggest piece, tears welling.

A familiar voice whispered in his ear, "Stupid boy. Such a stupid boy."

"No," he tried to block out Father's voice.