Natalie immediately noticed there was no video phone, however.
“The bathroom is right here,” Mrs. Jerome said, standing in the doorway.
Natalie joined her and looked in at a bathroom adapted for the disabled with railings around the tub and the toilet.
“We have sound sensors in here as well as around the bed, so if you need anything, you merely have to call out,” Mrs. Jerome said. She went to the cabinet above the bathroom sink and opened it.
“Anything you require is in here—soaps, toothpaste, whatever,” she said.
“I see there is no phone in the room,” Natalie said.
Mrs. Jerome smiled. “Of course not, dear. First, we don’t want any of our people disturbed, and, second, we have certain security procedures we must follow.”
“But how do I speak with my husband?”
“We’ll let you know when he calls you, and you can speak with him in the parlor. Why don’t you make yourself comfortable? I’ll bring up some hot food, and then, when you’re ready, we’ll tour the house, if you like. Dr. Prudential won’t be here until early this evening.”
She leaned toward Natalie to add, “It’s really a voluntary service he provides. He has a regular practice elsewhere, of course. You’ll like him. I’ve seen him in action many times. He has what they used to call good bedside manner.”
She went to the closet and took out a hospital gown.
“If you’ll just take everything off and put this on for your doctor’s examination later,” she said, laying the gown over the bed. “There, now. You’re all set, dear.”
She turned to leave. The chauffeur had long since left the building.
“Am I the only one here at the moment?” Natalie asked. She was still taken with the silence in the house.
“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Mrs. Jerome said. “We don’t have all that many clients anymore. But don’t let that depress you. Think of it this way, all our attention will be focused on little old you,” she said, smiled again, and left, closing the door softly behind her.
Natalie stood there a moment, turning slowly to look at the room again. Why did they need a hospital bed in here? If they had put a nice bed in the room, it wouldn’t seem so…so functional.
She was tired. She had underestimated the emotional drain all this had taken on her body. The suddenness of it, the dreary ride, and this strangely Gothic house with all the prescribed security precautions weighed on her brow like a sky of brooding dark clouds.
She opened her suitcase and started to unpack, putting things in the dresser first. Then she went to the closet to hang up some garments. Turning, she gazed at the aseptic hospital gown spread over the bed. It put a little chill in her. There was no need for a hospital gown, she thought, and realized what it was that bothered her about all this.
She was being treated like someone who was sick…hospital bed, rest, hot food, a doctor’s visit…
I’m not sick, she thought.
I’m pregnant.
These people above any others should realize that I’m in a state of perfect health. My body is doing what it was designed by God to do.
I’m in a sea of paranoia, incarcerated first in a limousine turned into a moving coffin, delivered into a world of security procedures and screened phone calls. There should be laughter and music and real flowers, not silence and rules.
How sad, she thought, and for a moment felt sorrier for everyone else than she did for herself.
At least, through her mother, she had known what full motherhood was like. She had tasted the natural beauty. That, above anything else, sustained her.
I’ll be all right, she thought.
They won’t be.
She continued to put away her things and then lay down for just a few minutes to rest and fell into a deep sleep. She thought she heard the sound of someone crying and woke abruptly, but all she heard was that same deep silence. Groggy, she ordered the bed into a sitting position before she attempted to stand.
She couldn’t believe how wobbly she felt.
There was a knock on her door, and then it opened, and Mrs. Jerome came in with a tray.
“Time for something to eat,” she announced. “I was here earlier, but you were sleeping so soundly I couldn’t bear to wake you. You can consider this an early dinner. I know you’re going to like it. We have a rather good chef. She works at a local gourmet restaurant and helps us on a part-time voluntary basis.”
She rolled the serving table toward the bed.
“I felt so weak and tired before and still do,” Natalie remarked.
“Of course. All this is quite an undertaking, a very draining experience, my dear.”
She uncovered the main dish.
“This is chicken Kiev,” she declared, smiling and leaning toward Natalie, “which we know is one of your favorite dishes, correct?”
“Yes, but how did you know?”
“Your husband told us, and we assured him we had it ready for you.”
“When?”
Mrs. Jerome held her smile, but it looked like a mask suddenly, a smile without the accompanying warm feeling behind it.
“While you were resting, of course,” she replied.
“He called? Preston called?”
“Certainly. He wanted to see if you had arrived all right and how you were doing.”
“Why didn’t you call me to the phone?”
“Oh, I came to fetch you, but, as I explained, you were in a deep sleep, dear. I didn’t have the heart to wake you. He’ll call again.”
“Or I can call him,” she said quickly.
“We’d rather you didn’t,” Mrs. Jerome said, her face a bit severe.
“What?”
“There’s reason to be concerned when someone goes off like you have, despite the good cover story provided. You never know if your phones are tapped. Those damn baby squads. It’s better your husband calls you from a safe phone. It’s prescribed procedure.
“But don’t be concerned about any baby squad while you’re here. You have nothing to worry about now. You’re safe with us,” Mrs. Jerome added. “Enjoy your food. The doctor will be here in an hour or so, and then, if you’re up to it, I’ll show you the rest of the house. Okay? Don’t forget to change into the hospital gown, dear.”
Natalie just stared.
“You don’t want to let your dinner get cold, dear. I know how good it is, and I know it tastes so much better warm, don’t you?”
She took off the cover and placed it beside the plate, smiled again, and started out.
“Enjoy,” she said.
She closed the door.
Natalie gazed at the food. It did look good, and it smelled wonderful.
I suppose she’s right, Natalie thought as she lifted the knife and fork and began to cut into the chicken. I’m safe now, and that is all that matters.
Eleven
Stocker moved about Natalie Ross’s bedroom like someone in a museum, first studying everything without touching anything, and then, suddenly emboldened by her confidence, she began exploring and experimenting with hands on. She sat at Natalie’s vanity table and began to put on her makeup. She rarely had worn much more than lipstick, but she was aware of it all, reading the same style magazines most of the girls in school read.
Like the fable of the fox and the grapes, in which the fox who couldn’t reach the grapes decided they were sour anyway, she often mocked the other girls in school for their obsession with their own beauty, style, and clothes. Brave enough to get into anyone’s face, she was a coward when it came to experimenting with her own appearance, especially in public. There was no question, however, that deep in her heart, she wanted to be more attractive. There wasn’t a boy she knew or cared to know who took a second look at her. It was almost as if she weren’t there.
Mrs. Ross was one of the most beautiful women in the community. Being in her bedroom was like being in the boudoir of a princess. Her picture was often on the society pages of the county m
agazine and in the newspapers. She could easily be a model or a movie star. Stocker gazed into Mrs. Ross’s vanity mirror as if the glass possessed magical powers, a result of reflecting so beautiful a face for so long. It would show her how to make herself more attractive. Maybe it was child’s make-believe, but she couldn’t help it.
She tested a different base, put on eye shadow and tints, changed lipstick a half dozen times before concluding the mirror had worked. She was actually taken with her own face. I do have good qualities. I can be beautiful, she thought. Heartened by what she saw as her successful attempt to improve her appearance, she went to Natalie’s closet and found her wigs.
With her face now fully made up, she tried on different styles and settled on the wing-bone-length blond wig. Amused at herself, she decided to try on one of the dresses, even though she was not even close to the same size as Natalie Ross. Her arms and shoulders were too big, and her waist was too thick, not to mention that she was at least two inches shorter than the woman. Nevertheless, she found one of Natalie’s gowns that she could squeeze into if she didn’t zip up the back. The bodice was low cut, and her puffy little breasts looked quite seductive, she thought, when she turned and postured in the full-length mirrors that took up most of the south wall. She powdered her cleavage and tried to force her feet into a pair of Natalie’s high-heeled shoes. One pair actually tore apart, but another gave way enough for her to parade around the bedroom.
She really did look good, she thought. She decided she had been foolish to neglect herself, especially out of fear of being mocked by the mannequins, for that’s all they were: mindless, dressed-up bodies parading through the hallways and giggling in one note. Why couldn’t she compete with them?
Once she had money of her own, she would buy herself more glamorous clothing. She might even buy a wig, or maybe…maybe she would just take this one. Why not? Why not take anything she wanted? She scurried about, filling one of the carry-on bags she located in the walk-in closet. She shoved in some beautiful cashmere sweaters, makeup, gobs of costume jewelry, the wig, luxurious bubble baths and oils, and expensive skin creams.
Feeling like a child in a candy store with carte blanche, she even scooped up the small gold-plated cuckoo clock on the nightstand. Then she turned around and around in the room, considering everything else in it. Maybe she had enough. It was going to be hard enough to explain what she had to her parents, although she had no doubt she could fabricate whatever story needed to be created. Like any child, especially a modern-day teenager, she knew that her parents wanted to believe her. What parent wanted to suspect his or her own child of evildoing? It was like admitting their own failure, and with review boards scrutinizing their abilities to parent a child, it was not good to admit to even the smallest failures.
Growing a bit impatient now, she carried the bag and the flashlight downstairs. She wanted to get this over with and be gone. Still dressed in Natalie’s wig and clothes and still overly made up, she located a box of imported English toffee, let herself sink down on the settee in front of the television set, and flipped through the satellite channels until she found a very gross pornographic station coming from eastern Europe. What she saw was disgusting even to her—sex with animals, women peeing on each other, scooping ejaculated semen into ice cream cones.
“Ugh,” she cried, but then laughed and continued to watch. The parade of male genitals eventually did arouse her. She decided to masturbate and slipped her hand under the skirt of the dress. She was so engrossed in it, in fact, that she didn’t hear the front door open and close. Her own moans drowned out the sound of footsteps.
The light flowing through the windows high up in the walls to catch the late-afternoon and early-evening dwindling sun suddenly threw a shadow over the cabinet containing the wide-screen digital television. It gave Stocker some pause, and she started to sit up and turn when the plastic bag was dropped over her face. The rope around the base of it was tightened with such power and speed it nearly snapped her neck. What it did was pull her back against the small settee and with such force kept her from moving forward. She was soon gasping.
She reached up to claw it away from her neck, but she couldn’t get her fingers under the rope, and the plastic was too thick to tear. It distorted and clouded her vision as well. All she saw was the silhouette of someone leaning over her, holding her up like a puppet on a string. She tried to scream, but her voice was instantly muffled, and when she opened her mouth, the plastic rushed in under her teeth, making her gag as well.
She fought as hard as she could. The rope continued to tighten and tighten. She wet herself and brought such pain to her stomach her legs seemed to fall away from the rest of her body. She made a final attempt to grasp at the wrists and pull the hands apart, but that was like moving steel bars. Her strength diminished, her effort barely anything now. The darkness came rushing in like water, like the time she had tripped down at the beach in Atlantic City and gotten picked up by a wave. She remembered how impossible it was to claw her way back to shore and raise her head from the water. She had to close her eyes and wait, and finally, finally, she felt some solid ground beneath her and was able to stand, gasping, crying, rushing up the beach to her mother and father, who were talking with friends. They hadn’t noticed anything.
She stood there crying until they looked at her.
“What’s wrong?” her mother asked.
“I nearly drowned!” she shouted at them as if it was their fault.
Her father looked annoyed. “Well, you didn’t, did you?” he charged, as if she had made a mistake surviving. “Now, go play, or I’ll take you back to the room and leave you there,” he threatened.
“I couldn’t breathe!” she cried, the tears streaming down her face, indistinguishable from the salt water streaking out of her hair. She had sand in her ears, too.
“Well, you’re breathing now,” her father said.
She stopped gasping.
I should have died, she thought. That would have taught them a good lesson.
That’s what they’ll learn now, she concluded as the darkness thickened and completely took over her eyes.
They’ll be sorry.
Even standing on death’s doormat, she could think only how someone else would suffer more. She was happy about that.
Her last breath gave her the strength for that last thought, that last tidbit of self-satisfaction.
It died on her smothered lips like the remnants of foam from her favorite frozen mocha drink, tiny bubbles popping along her descent through some seemingly endless tunnel to a place outside herself.
She slumped forward, but, because of how much she had perspired, she still wore the bag which seemed stuck on her face, a grotesque mask of death.
“How long have you been working for Mr. and Mrs. Ross?” Ryan asked Esther Robinson. He came directly to the point the moment they all had taken seats in her living room.
The stout woman looked at McCalester as if she needed his permission to answer. It wasn’t a gesture lost on Ryan.
“As you know, Mrs. Robinson, and as Chief McCalester can verify, this is a state investigation now. Anyone withholding evidence or information will be charged with stage one felonies,” Ryan emphasized.
“Shouldn’t I have an attorney present?” she fired back. Her eyes were wide and inflamed with great concern and anxiety. “I mean, I don’t want to say anything about anyone that I shouldn’t say and get myself into any trouble.”
“You are not a target of my investigation, Mrs. Robinson. I have no intention of seeking to arrest you or your husband, for that matter.”
Ryan deliberately left out her daughter, something that she didn’t miss.
“Where is Stocker?” she asked, almost in a rhetorical tone. She gazed at the clock on the mantel and then at McCalester.
“We’ve got a full-blown search under way, Esther. She’ll turn up.”
“How long have you worked for the Rosses?” Ryan repeated more firmly.
&nb
sp; “Six years or nearly that much.”
“Is Mrs. Ross there when you are working in her house?” Ryan continued.
“Sometimes. Most times, no,” Esther said. “They trust me, and I have given them no reason to do otherwise. Most of my clients leave me in their homes.”
“Some provide you with a key or access to one?” Ryan followed.
“Yes.”
“The Rosses do, correct?”
Once again, she looked at McCalester. He stared at her without indicating his pleasure or displeasure in her responses.
“I don’t know that it’s anyone’s business if they do or not,” she replied.
“I’m not an insurance investigator, Mrs. Robinson, seeking to place blame on them for lack of security. I’m a criminal investigator investigating a murder in your community. Should you refuse to answer a question I ask and I find out later that you did indeed know the answer, I will have you charged with impeding a murder investigation. Then you will become a target of this investigation,” he threatened.
She looked away a moment and then at Ryan.
“Yes, they’ve told me where I can find a key to their home when they are not there at the time I arrive. I haven’t told a soul about it and certainly not where it is located.”
“The last time you worked at the Rosses’ house was six days ago. Is that true?” Ryan asked.
“Yes.”
“You’re due to go back tomorrow?”
“I am. What does this have to do with the murder of that poor girl?” she cried in frustration. “And what does it have to do with my daughter’s disappearing from school?”
Ryan stared at her. She didn’t know anything about her daughter’s clandestine activities, he concluded.
“How often did your daughter accompany you when you worked in the Rosses’ home?” he asked.
“How often? Hardly ever,” Esther replied quickly.
“When was the last time?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could it have been as recently as last week?”
The Baby Squad Page 16