Free Krysalis: Krysalis by John Tranhaile Page A

the music. But what about him, his best interests?
    There’d be interrogation. She’d tell them about the sixteen years of on-and-off psychotherapy. In other words, about
him.
Then, suppose she admitted to hearing voices,
a
voice? What if, under someone’s hypnosis, she identified that voice?
    She wanted to run away. She’d persuaded herself that that was the only course. It was pointless to try and influence her further. A few moments ago he’d felt he was facing disaster. But now he thought that fortune might be presenting him with the kind of once-in-a-lifetime prize that leaves a man breathless. If only he could stay cool enough to plan the next move….
    He became aware that Anna had stopped speaking and was looking at him expectantly. He dithered a moment.
    It was the need in her eyes that finally decided him. “You’re right,” he said. “It’s best if you get away for a while. But I’m not taking you to Hampstead.”
    “Why not?”
    “Because if they find you there—and by God! but they’ll be looking hard—they can take you on the spot, won’t even need a warrant. Abroad’s different. And didn’t you say you were planning a trip to … where was it, Paris? So that would be the first place he’d think you’d gone…. I have a villa in Greece. They won’t find you there, not easily.” His voice had grown steadily more decisive, until at this point he was all but issuing orders. “And I can treat you, while I prepare a report on your mental condition.”
    “That makes sense to me. If you set everything out, the … the history …”
    “Give David a chance to adjust, without pressure.”
    She smiled at him. For the first time he noticed a tic at the corner of her mouth. “I knew you’d understand.”
    “I want you to think back. Who knows about us? Who could trace you, through me?”
    “No one.”
    “Think.
Of course there’s someone—who first referred you to me?”
    “My doctor. But that was years ago, he’s dead.”
    “There’d be no record of your consulting me since that time, because you never had another referral. Is there anything informal, say a diary entry, a—”
    “Nothing. I never told anyone about us.”
    “Except Robyn.”
    “She’s in America. I haven’t seen her for two years.”
    “All right. Now listen. I want you to get your things together …”
    Gerhard looked at his watch. Nearly nine o’clock,
shit!
It seemed ages before Anna came back upstairs, carrying a suitcase.
    “Do you have your passport?” he asked her.
    “In the study.”
    “Let’s get it.”
    “The file …?”
    He picked it up from the desk. “I’ll leave it on top of the safe.” Wonderful, he thought, how convincingly a man can lie when he has to. “Here, give me that case. And for God’s sake, hurry!”
    They’d got as far as the door to the second story study, when down below they heard keys jangle on the pavement, followed by the sound of one being inserted in the lock.
    “Darling,” a voice cried. “I’m home.”
    Gerhard eased the study door shut and held a finger to his lips.
    As Anna looked at him she felt queasy. She could risk telling David everything, throw herself on his mercy; it was not too late. Tell him that she had been in and out of therapy, describe the horrors that had led her to Kleist. But
no, she couldn’t, not about the awful thing she’d tried to do to baby Juliet, no, no, no …
    Gerhard, mastering his terror, put his mouth close to her ear. “Get the passport,” he whispered. Anna obeyed. When she returned from the desk, Gerhard held her close. “Stay here until he goes upstairs,” he breathed. “Then, you go out. Here are my car keys … wait for me
inside
the car, where he won’t see you.”
    “What will you be—”
    His face contorted into a scowl.
“Ssh!”
    Footsteps were approaching. David tramped past the study on his way upstairs. Gerhard waited until he could no longer hear him, then looked out. The landing was empty.