Razzamatazz

by Sandra Scoppettone

  Mark. Oh, why hadn't she trusted him? Okay, he was wrong about Colin, but he wasn't there to hurt her. Mark had been such a good friend, always there when she needed support, love. How could she have thought he was a killer? And her fleeting doubts about Colin. It was her basic distrust of people, Bob dying, leaving her alone. But that was over now. She had herself, and if she got out of this she was going to love again, take the risk. She simply couldn't go on the way she had. Look where mistrust had gotten her. Oh, funny, Annie, really funny! She couldn't look: Another piece of sheet covered her eyes.

  He'd taken over the wheel after ordering her to pull into Stuart Lane. The first thing he'd done was to tell her to move to the passenger side, then he carefully climbed over the seat and slipped in behind the wheel. It was then that he'd pulled out the two pieces of dirty sheet, one for the gag, the other to blindfold her. Then he'd bound her wrists with rope.

  For a moment she'd considered leaping from the car. But even if she'd managed to get the door handle open, jump, what good would it do her? He'd stop the car and drag her back; she was helpless with no hands, no vision.

  They'd driven for about ten minutes and then stopped. She'd heard him get out. Then her door was opened. She'd felt his hand on her arm, heard him ordering her to get out. Rain slashed at her face. He'd told her to hurry, and guided her across the gravel driveway. She'd stumbled several times, her ankle growing more painful every moment. "We're going up some steps," he'd said.

  She'd figured it was his place; she'd been there two or three times. The climb had tortured her, the ankle feeling as though it would crack. He'd opened a door, the hinges squealing, then closed it behind them. They moved along a wooden floor. Another door opened and he'd shoved her inside. Untying her wrists, he'd roughly pushed her into a chair and tied her hands behind her. Then he'd left, shutting the door.

  Now she tried to move her wrists, but with each movement the rope tightened, scraping her skin. She was unable to free herself. The only possible chance she had was if he untied her. She couldn't believe that this was the way her life would end. If only he'd take the gag from her mouth so she could talk to him, she might persuade him to let her go. But that was arrogant, she thought. None of the others had succeeded; why should she?

  No, this was how it was going to end. But why? What had he meant when he'd said Razzamatazz? Did he mean the club her father had played in all those years ago? Funny, she and Colin had just been talking about it.

  A blast of rock music cut off her thoughts. The door opened and closed. His footsteps approached. Annie began to pray.

  – -

  It was hell waiting. What was taking Hallock so long? Jesus, what if Schufeldt arrested him for something? He wouldn't put it past that guy. Colin slapped his pockets looking for a cigarette he might have missed. Nothing.

  If he thought he could get to his car without being seen, he'd try it. But then what? He hadn't the slightest idea where to look for Annie. Still, driving around would feel better than sitting here, helpless. Driving around. He thought about what was ahead, going in the car with Hallock. He mustn't start the fears now. What had Dr. Safier told him? Put yourself in a safe place, create an atmosphere in your mind, stay there. Colin's place was a darkened movie theater, his chair soft luxurious leather. While they drove he'd tell Hallock not to talk to him. He'd keep the panic down by going to his theater.

  But that wasn't going to help him now. He paced the dark room, listening to the rain. If Hallock didn't come back in fifteen minutes he'd leave him a note and make a try for his car. He had to do something. The one thing he couldn't be was helpless. If Annie died because he hadn't given it his all, he didn't think he'd survive. He knew he wouldn't.

  Hallock walked into the emergency room. A nurse was wheeling an old man down the corridor. "Excuse me, miss." When she looked up at him, Hallock saw that it was Mary Lee Larson, his neighbor. He asked about Griffing.

  Mary Lee said, "He left about fifteen minutes ago."

  "You know if he was driving?"

  "I wouldn't know… no, wait a minute. Doctor asked him if he wanted someone to call his wife to pick him up and he said he had his car."

  "Was he going home?"

  She shrugged. "I don't think he was going out dancing. He had to have eight stitches and his cheek was burned, too. Somebody was sure mad at him."

  He thanked her and ran back to his car. It took him four minutes to get to the Griffing house. There were lights on but no sign of Griffing's car. He rang the bell. Sarah came to the door. She looked odd, as though she knew something she shouldn't.

  "Sorry to just drop by this way, Sarah, but I need to speak to Mark."

  "He's not home," she said crisply. "Anything I can do?"

  "No, 'fraid not. Know where he is?" He hated asking her, putting her on the spot. She seemed so frail.

  "I don't. Sorry." She forced a smile. "He didn't come home from the paper. Have you tried there?"

  "I'll go there next," he said truthfully.

  "If you see him, Waldo, tell him it might be nice to call his wife." Her mouth turned down in bitterness. "No. Don't. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."

  He wanted to reach out, give her a hug, tell her it was going to be okay. But he, of all people, couldn't reassure her. He was trying to pin five murders on her husband. "You all right, Sarah?"

  "I'm fine. Just tired."

  He nodded as if to say he knew that kind of tiredness. "Well, thanks." He started to go back down the steps when she called to him.

  "Please, don't… don't say anything to anyone, will you, Waldo?"

  "Don't worry," he assured her.

  "Sometimes being the wife of a newspaper publisher gets lonely. He's so busy, has so many commitments. You can't blame him for forgetting to call his wife to say he'll be late. I mean, when you think of what he has on his mind-"

  "Sure, I understand," he said, cutting her off. He wanted her to stop justifying Griffing to him; it was none of his business and it was humiliating for her. "Take care, Sarah." He started toward the car, then stopped. Why not ask her? Turning back to her he saw she was still watching him, standing in the doorway, a waiflike figure. "I wonder if you could tell me something."

  "Depends what it is."

  He nodded. "Mark's mother. She died a long time ago, right?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you know how she died?"

  "Cancer," she said. "His mother died of cancer when he was ten. Why?"

  Hallock felt stunned. "Oh, just something I needed to clear up in my mind." It made no sense but he wasn't going to explain it now.

  Sarah didn't pursue it, just said goodnight and closed the door.

  As he drove to the motel to pick up Maguire, he experienced a sense of dread, of impending doom. Something he hadn't considered was a definite possibility: Griffing wasn't the killer after all. And Annie Winters was missing. He didn't need to go back to second- grade math to figure this one out: One and one made two. The Razzamatazz killer was somebody else. And he didn't have a clue who it was.

  LOOKING BACK-50 YEARS AGO

  Frank (Kid) Edwards of Seaville, an Alaskan "Sourdough," on Wednesday of this week identified Thomas R Jensen as "Blueberry Tom," wanted for the murder of three prospectors in a battle over $9,000 worth of gold in Alaska in 1916. Edwards, who is 46 years old, has been a resident of Seaville for a number of years. He was in Alaska during the gold rush and personally knew the three murdered prospectors who were killed near Fairbanks, Alaska.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  Hallock jammed his foot on the brake. The car skidded, and this time he drove into the skid, avoiding trouble. He backed up, turned in close to the curb. Rain continued to fall, making visibility almost impossible. Still, he thought he recognized the car. Big Cherokee, black and white. Hard to miss. And he knew whose driveway it was parked in, too.

  He doused the lights, left the car running, jumped out, and ran across the lawn to the side of the house. In those twenty seconds he found him
self wet to the skin as if he'd just taken a swim. Streams of water ran down his face from his hair. Crouching, he slowly rose up until he was eye-level with the partially opened window.

  First he saw her. She strode across the room. When she turned toward the window saying, "Do you want another drink?" Hallock felt a blade of fear go through him. He'd had the momentary illusion that Julia Dorman was speaking to him. A man's voice answered, "I shouldn't be drinking at all."

  Hallock knew the voice at once: Mark Griffing.

  Julia said, "Come over to the couch, darling." She reached out both hands.

  Griffing's hands met hers and he rose up, back to Hallock, and walked across the room. When they sat on the couch, Griffing immediately stretched out and put his head in Julia's lap. A bandage spanned his head from hairline to midway down his face.

  Now Hallock understood why Julia had done him in, and who was behind it. Well, he'd seen enough. As he ran back to his car, he recalled Maguire's tale of Griffing's unexplained whereabouts on the morning of Joe Carroll's murder. Hallock was sure he knew now where Griffing had been. Feeling the way he did about Julia Dorman and that bastard, Griffing, a part of him wanted to broadcast their little romance. But the other part, the part that cared for Sarah, knew he'd say nothing except to Maguire. Poor Sarah, he thought as he got into the car, poor old gal.

  – -

  When he took the gag out of her mouth she said, "Are you going to kill me?"

  "What do you think?"

  "I think you are."

  He was silent.

  "Are you?"

  He didn't answer.

  "At least tell me, okay?" Annie wondered why she wanted to know.

  "What will it do for you if I tell you?" he asked.

  "I don't know," she said truthfully. "I just want you to tell me. And how about taking off the blindfold?"

  "You want to see yourself die?"

  Her stomach muscles tightened as if she'd been struck. He'd answered her after all. "Please take off the blindfold," she begged.

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I said."

  Annie felt powerless, as though she'd been made a child again. She tried a different tack. "Why are you doing this?"

  "I can't believe you don't know."

  "Razzamatazz?" she ventured.

  "Razzamatazz. Right."

  "I don't know what that means."

  "The hell you don't."

  She felt something sharp and cold at her neck, knew it was his knife. "What I mean," she said carefully, "is that I don't know what it has to do with me."

  "But you remember?"

  "Remember?"

  "The club?"

  "Yes." If only he would take off the blindfold she would have a better chance, she thought. As though sight would give her power.

  "Your father played the trumpet in that club."

  She said nothing, deciding on a strategy.

  "Did you hear me?"

  Frightened, she remained silent.

  "Did you hear me?" he asked again.

  She refused to answer, and then she felt the knife break her skin, felt blood dribble down her neck. Still she kept silent.

  "What is it with you?"

  "I want you to take off the blindfold."

  "Why?"

  "Why do I have to keep it on is more to the point."

  "I'm running things here, not you."

  She believed he wanted to talk to her, tell her what it was all about. It was important to make him believe the removal of the blindfold was essential to her responding to him. "I can't talk with this damn thing on."

  "You don't have to see to talk."

  "I do."

  "You'll talk if I say so."

  "No. You're going to kill me anyway, so I'll do what I choose, and I choose not to speak to you if I can't see you." It might have been the biggest gamble she'd taken in her life. And maybe the last.

  After a moment he said, "Are you telling me you won't talk unless I take that thing off?"

  "Yes."

  "What if I say if you don't talk I'll slit your throat?"

  "I just explained that. Go ahead. It makes no difference to me if I die now or later. But I'm not talking anymore with this blindfold on." These could be my last moments on earth, she told herself. It was an odd feeling, like the seconds before skiing downhill or the moment before the rollercoaster is released-suspended time, a slap in death's face.

  He said nothing.

  She could hear him breathing, feel the point of the knife at her throat. And then he moved. She held her breath.

  "Okay," he said. "But don't get smart."

  The first round was over and she had won.

  – -

  Colin opened the door on the passenger side of Hallock's rented tan Camaro. He got in, didn't quite close the door. "You okay?" Hallock asked.

  "Yeah." But he wasn't. Far from it. He shut the door. "I'm going to start the car now."

  "Okay. Go ahead." There was a low roaring in his ears and then he heard Safier's voice: "You are never really trapped, Colin. There is always a way out of any situation." And it was true. At any time he could tell Hallock to stop. Get out, walk to the Gazette building. Sure he could! Safier hadn't counted on time being of the essence. He had had no way of knowing that his patient would one day be fighting the clock, mixed up once again in murder. Jesus, he thought, maybe it's me. Maybe I'm a jinx. "Stop being the center of the universe," Safier had said. And, "Take a positive view." What the hell could be positive about this? A second chance. He was being given a second chance. Oh, God, he thought, this time I mustn't fail.

  "You tell me, Maguire, if you want me to stop or anything."

  "Thanks, Waldo." His voice sounded odd, he thought, like someone with a cold.

  Hallock turned the key. The motor sprang to life.

  Pain shot through Colin's arms, down his legs. He'd had this before, but familiarity didn't ease his discomfort. Grabbing the leather handgrip, he squeezed, and pressed his feet against the floor.

  Hallock eased the car along the road, pebbles spraying the undersides. The wipers groaned under the onslaught of rain.

  Colin closed his eyes. The last time he'd driven in a car with another person had been with his family. The day before they died. Nancy'd been driving, and the kids were in the back in car seats. He saw himself turn toward Todd, his three-year-old face chocolate- spotted, dark eyes glistening with life, the lashes long, thick.

  "Daddy? What's Alicia doing?" Todd always asked what everyone was doing, his way of understanding the complexities of personality.

  "She's sleeping," Colin answered.

  "Could I be sleeping, too?"

  "Just close your eyes, honey."

  "Okay."

  Nancy said, "You know something, Colly, you've got a way with kids." She smiled at him, touched his knee.

  "Maybe I should have more," he declared.

  "Over my dead body," she said.

  Colin groaned.

  "Want me to stop?" Hallock asked.

  "No. No, it's okay. I was just remembering something." He felt as if he couldn't breathe. "I've got to open the window."

  "Go ahead."

  He rolled down the window and stuck out his head. The rain pelted his face, soaking his hair. He opened his mouth, felt the drops hit his tongue.

  At the end of the road Hallock put on his signal and opened his window to see. "Anything coming that way, Maguire?"

  "No, go ahead.

  Hallock turned onto the main road, rolled up his window.

  Colin wondered why he'd never remembered that before, Nancy saying, "Over my dead body." What would Safier have made of that? The wind and rain were making it harder for him to breathe. He pulled in his head. Water rolled down his face and neck, soaking his shirt front. A touch of nausea made him gulp and swallow air.

  "How you doing there, Maguire?"

  "I'm hanging in," he whispered.

  "Be there before you can say
Jack Robinson."

  "Jack Robinson," Colin said, turning to look at Hallock. "Liar."

  They both laughed.

  Hallock said, "No kidding, we're almost there."

  "I know." To get to the Gazette building without becoming hysterical was all he asked. Even as he thought this, his mind swirled in dizzying circles, nausea growing.

  "Another mile, Maguire, that's all."

  He couldn't speak, just grunted, hoping the sound indicated that he understood. If only he could remember some of the tricks Safier had introduced him to. But everything he'd learned eluded him. His mind was as empty as if his brain had been vacuumed. Balling his hands into fists, he suddenly remembered Safier's toe-clenching trick. "If you begin to feel you are going out of control, clench and unclench your toes. Concentrate on that."

  Colin obeyed his unseen doctor. He focused on his toes, clenched, unclenched, clenched, unclenched. It wasn't working. He tried something else. This is for Annie, he said to himself. This is for Annie. Over and over. Thinking of nothing else, his panic receded some, his breathing returned to an almost normal rate, the dizziness vanished.

  "Here we are, Maguire." Hallock pulled into a side street, killed the motor. "Can't park in front. Even Schufeldt might think it's suspicious. You okay?"

  "I'm okay." And he was. He hadn't passed out, hadn't died.

  "We're going to get plenty wet between here and there. Let's head for that big tree on the corner, then we'll case the street, make sure it's empty. You ready?"

  Colin nodded.

  Both men opened their doors, jumped out, and made a dash for the large oak. They were drenched at once. The wind, in a relentlessly battering fury, pushed them against the trunk of the tree.

  Shouting, Hallock said, "It looks all clear, nobody around. Make a run for the door."

  Heading into the wind, they ran, ankle-deep water slowing their progress. Once there, Colin dug in his windbreaker pocket for his key but came up empty. "Jesus," he yelled over the storm, "the key's gone."

  "What d'you mean, 'gone'?"