The Swap

by Nancy Boyarsky

She stared at the black and blue mark, wondering if he’d managed to inflict some real harm. What would a man like that know about hygiene, much less administering shots? As soon as a doctor turned up, she’d ask for an antibiotic. She was lucky he hadn’t given her an overdose.

  Her attention shifted to the vase of baby roses. At first, she’d assumed the flowers in the room had come from a florist and that someone had sent them — her sister perhaps, or Brad. Up close, she saw that the blossoms, irregular in size and shape, were homegrown. Perhaps they’d come from the garden below.

  Her eyes strayed to the drawer in the vanity table. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled it open. Inside was an extensive assortment of makeup — lipsticks, pots of rouge, eye shadow and the like, arranged in neat rows.

  Someone lives here, she thought. This isn’t a hospital but someone’s home. She thought of her missing purse with her own makeup, and it struck her that the housekeeper had been lying. The people who ran this place — whoever they were — couldn’t have notified her family. Without her purse, they didn’t have her ID, much less the card with her emergency numbers. They wouldn’t even know who she was. It struck her as odd that the woman hadn’t asked any questions, hadn’t shown any curiosity about her at all.

  Nicole had begun to feel dizzy again, and it was hard to pull her thoughts together. She turned; leaning against the wall, she made her way to the huge armoire standing near the entryway and tried the handle, but it seemed to be locked.

  In the entryway, which was more of a short hallway than an alcove, she opened a door to her right. It led to a huge, old-fashioned bathroom, an immaculate expanse of peach and white tile with an enormous tub that sat on little clawed feet. After a quick look, she walked unsteadily to the last door, the one by which the housekeeper had left.

  She tried the doorknob. It was locked.

  She stood there a moment, confused and alarmed. Why would they lock her in? What kind of place was this?

  Something else was bothering her, but her head was spinning too much to sort it out. Her knees went weak, and she staggered forward, grabbing the bathroom doorway to keep from falling. It occurred to her that she’d feel better if she could lie down. She took a step and tumbled, rather than sat, on a fluffy peach rug. Then she stretched out and rested her cheek against the cool tile floor.

  When she woke, she was back in bed. Although she was still exhausted, her head was clear, and she knew exactly where she was. This house belonged to Alexander Hayes. He’d arranged for Chazz and Kevin to kidnap her and bring her here. She was his prisoner.

  What she needed was someone on the outside to negotiate her release. If only she hadn’t been so clever about covering her tracks. In the note she’d written Brad and the message she’d left for Detective Keaton, she’d taken care not to let on where she was going or when she’d be back. Now the joke was on her. By making all that effort to keep people from looking for her, she’d sealed her fate.

  She thought of the way she’d dodged Reinhardt at the Chiswick tube station. That was a fatal mistake—for both of them. She tried to imagine what would have happened if, instead of sneaking away, she’d simply walked up to him and asked him why he was following her. What would he have said?

  Reinhardt had managed to track her to Glasgow, but now he was completely out of the picture. Even if he’d escaped serious injury, he’d have no idea where to find her.

  Somewhere in the house, the loud mechanical hum of an elevator started up and after fifteen seconds or so, came to a stop. Alarmed, Nicole sat up and listened. It wasn’t long before a cart began to rattle along the hall.

  With a jangling of keys, the door opened and the woman pushed a tea cart into the room. She glanced over at Nicole and smiled, “Good morning.”

  “Morning?”

  “That’s right, dear. You slept straight through supper.” The woman turned to lock the door then wheeled the cart over to the bed. Tall and plump, she was at the point in life when her chin was dissolving into the folds of her neck. Her thin, graying brown hair was done in a frizzy perm that she wore tucked into a hairnet.

  As she placed the tray on Nicole’s lap, the woman glanced up and smiled. She seemed kind, and it was easy to imagine that she had no idea what sort of a man her employer was.

  When the woman was settled on the chair next to the bed, Nicole said, “You haven’t told me your name.”

  “It’s Catherine.”

  “Listen, Catherine. This house — it belongs to Alexander Hayes, doesn’t it?” She waited for the woman to nod, then said, “Do you know why he’s holding me prisoner?”

  Catherine straightened up and leaned forward in her chair. “No one’s holding you prisoner, you foolish girl. You’ve been ill. We’re looking after you until you’re well enough to go home.”

  Nicole held up her chafed wrists. “How do you think I got this?”

  Catherine gave the marks a cursory glance and looked away. “Why, you did that yourself.”

  “That’s crazy,” Nicole said, her voice rising. “How could I possibly do this to myself?” She rotated her wrists so the woman could see the extent of her injuries. “I was tied up, dumped in the trunk of a car, and brought here against my will. My life is in danger. You’ve got to help me.”

  Catherine stood up. “Well, I realize it’s your sickness talking,” she said, with some indignation, “but I won’t put up with that sort of thing. Mr. Hayes is doing your family a great favor letting you stay here. You can’t imagine the bother he’s gone to.”

  Nicole tried for a more reasonable tone. “If I’m not a prisoner, then why did you lock me in my room?”

  “Because of your illness,” Catherine said. “We don’t want you wandering off and doing more harm to yourself. And let’s not be getting out of bed without help or we’ll have to restrain you. Lucky you didn’t crack your head.”

  Nicole stared at her. “They told you I’m crazy to make sure you don’t listen to me. But you’ve got to. Alexander Hayes is an international criminal, a drug smuggler. Someone stole a large amount of money from him, and he thinks I know where it is. I’m in terrible danger.”

  “I won’t have any more of this,” Catherine said. “I haven’t worked in this house long, but anyone can see that Mr. Hayes is a good man. Look at all the expense he’s gone to, bringing me in to look after you.”

  She got up, grabbed a thick, woolly cloth from the bottom of the cart and began polishing the dresser as if to extract revenge from the glossy wood surface.

  As Nicole watched, a great weariness came over her. If only she could find the right words to make this woman believe her.

  Her attention shifted to the breakfast tray across her lap. It contained two plates, covered with clear glass domes. On the larger plate were fried eggs, sausages, and a broiled tomato. Next to it, a smaller dish held buttered toast. Despite the artful arrangement of the food, the sight of it repelled her; she couldn’t imagine ever feeling hungry again. She was thirsty, though, and coffee seemed like a good idea. She reached for the tall carafe and poured herself a cup. It smelled good — strong and rich.

  As Nicole began to sip the coffee, Catherine left off dusting and came over to the bed. “Try to eat a wee bit of your meal,” she said. “You need your nourishment.”

  “I can’t,” Nicole said.

  “Well, it doesn’t do any good to sulk. Here, at least take a bite of toast.” She pressed a piece into Nicole’s hand.

  Nicole took a bite and, when Catherine went into the bathroom, returned it to the plate. After a brief silence, she heard the sound of water filling the tub.

  After Nicole finished her second cup of coffee, she was hustled out of bed and into the bath. Then, when she was settled in the tub, Catherine explained that she had to change the sheets and disappeared into the bedroom.

  The water was billowing with fragrant bubbles. Lying back in the tub, she felt drowsy and relaxed. She was drifting in the water, half dozing, when Catherine touched her shoulder
and motioned for her to get out. The woman helped her up and wrapped her in a giant towel. Being pulled into a crisp, fresh nightgown made Nicole feel like a child again. She lay down on a chaise lounge and watched dreamily while Catherine finished making the bed.

  “I can’t imagine why I’m so sleepy,” she said as Catherine helped her back into bed.

  “Your body’s telling you something, isn’t it?” the woman said. “You need all the rest you can get. That’s how you heal yourself. Sleep and good, wholesome food.”

  Back in bed, Nicole dropped off immediately, waking only when she heard the cart rattling up the hallway again, announcing it was time for another meal.

  By the time afternoon tea arrived, Nicole had figured out the pattern. After each meal, the same thing would happen: She’d drink her coffee and nibble at the food. Then an irresistible drowsiness would take over and she’d sleep until the next meal.

  They were drugging her, putting something in her food.

  Then she remembered that she’d eaten nothing at some meals, but had taken coffee each time — lots of it, hoping it would wake her up. That, she decided, must be where they were putting the drugs.

  Why would they want to keep her asleep? It suggested some kind of holding action, a way of keeping her quiet while they waited for something to happen. But what?

  From the tray, she ate a piece of toast, reasoning that they wouldn’t risk weakening a drug by putting it in food that had to be baked. She poured herself some coffee. Instead of drinking it, she dumped it in the vase on her night table while Catherine was straightening the bathroom.

  When she was alone again, she got up and wandered around. She still felt tired and a little foggy, but no longer dizzy and confused. The door remained locked. The transom was open, but it was too high for Nicole to reach, even standing on a chair. The bedroom window appeared painted shut, and in any case, she was too far from the ground to consider jumping.

  Nicole was still at the window when she heard voices in low conversation somewhere down the hall. A vacuum cleaner started up, grew louder, and stopped near her room.

  When the machine was silent, the women resumed talking. Nicole moved closer to the door, trying to make out what they were saying. Then keys rattled on the other side, and she froze.

  A woman’s voice said, “No — not that one. That’s where they put her.”

  “The loony?” a second woman said.

  There was a loud shushing noise, some giggling, and the sound of a cart being hurried past the room. Nicole pressed her ear to the door.

  “They have to lock her up,” the first one said. “If we open the door and she runs off, we’ll get the sack, won’t we? No one goes in there unless Catherine is watching her. They say she went after a bloke with a razor.”

  “Why don’t they put her away then?”

  “They don’t do that anymore, do they?” the first one said. “They dose them up with tranquilizers. Her relations are thick with the guv. He tells them she can stay ‘til they get her medicine right. Old Mr. Heart of Gold. You know what he’s like.”

  “I wish I didn’t,” the other one said.

  They seemed to find this very amusing. When they stopped giggling, one of them gave a sniff. “It’s all very well for him to play the lord of the manor when the work falls on us. Just the thought of her in there …”

  “Wait …” the second woman interrupted. “Don’t you hear something? It’s that airplane of his, isn’t it?”

  Then Nicole heard it too — the buzz of a small plane overhead. It was growing louder.

  “Oh, God! Hurry! We’ve got to freshen up his room before he gets here.”

  Their footsteps began to retreat while Nicole, her face resting against the door, considered screaming for help. But what good would it do if they thought she was crazy?

  With a doomed feeling, she climbed back into bed. She lay there for what seemed like a long time, drifting on a tide of memory and regret.

  Then she heard the elevator start up again. Next came the approach of hurried footsteps and the sound of someone unlocking her door.

  Twenty-Three

  Catherine burst into the room. “Get dressed,” she said, placing a stack of neatly folded clothing on the bed. “The master wants you.” Nicole recognized the clothing as the outfit she’d been wearing when she was kidnapped. Clean and freshly ironed, her jeans and sweater looked like new. The walking shoes, freshly polished, were barely scuffed at all.

  Catherine gestured impatiently at the clothes. “Here now, put your things on and be quick about it. We mustn’t keep him waiting.”

  As Nicole pulled on her jeans, she considered ways to disable the woman — a palm thrust to the nose might do it or a thumb in the eye. But her instincts told her the timing was all wrong. First, she had to map out an escape route. It would be useless running away if she had no idea where she was going. She’d end up cornered; they’d lock her up again, and she’d never have another chance.

  Although her mind was clear enough to consider these matters, her hands were shaking so much that she was having trouble fastening her jeans. With a grunt of impatience, Catherine leaned forward and did it for her.

  Outside the room, Catherine pulled her along, firmly gripping her arm. Meanwhile, Nicole was looking around, taking careful note of each corridor they passed, the location of doors and windows. On the way back to her room, she told herself, an opportunity would open up, and she’d make a run for it.

  At the bottom of the stairs, they entered a large, wood-paneled vestibule, then stepped through an open doorway into a room that was almost dark in the waning afternoon. Once inside, Catherine pulled Nicole to a halt.

  The room’s only occupant was a man leaning against the fireplace, his head bent in thought. He had narrow shoulders and graying brown hair gathered into a ponytail at the nape of his neck.

  Only when Nicole heard the door click behind her did she realize that Catherine had left the room. At that moment, the man looked up and noticed her. There was something repellent about his appearance — the thin, bony face and protruding eyes. With his thick, rimless glasses, he had the look of an intelligent lizard.

  But when he saw her, his face lit up with a boyish smile that transformed him. He hurried over and held out his hand. Nicole didn’t offer hers, but he took it anyway, shaking it enthusiastically. Then, instead of releasing her hand, he turned it over to examine her bruised wrist. “My God,” he said, “look what they’ve done to you.” He picked up her left hand and studied that wrist, too. Then he released her, and his eyes met hers. He looked stricken.

  “I want to apologize for the way my people treated you,” he said. “Their behavior was unforgivable.” His British accent was soft and pleasing, the unmistakable product of a good education. “I gave my people strict orders to make sure no harm came to you, and they — well — they completely botched it.”

  Nicole stared at him, astonished not so much by the apology as by the assumptions behind it. He seemed to think it was all right for his goons to kidnap her, as long as they watched their manners and avoided leaving bruises.

  She didn’t say anything. It’s his move, she decided. Let him do the talking.

  Hayes was silent, too, apparently waiting for her response. Finally, he said, “I hope you’ll find it in your heart to forgive us…” He hesitated. “What would you like me to call you?”

  The question caught her by surprise. Who did he think she was? She still had the feeling Chazz and Kevin had mistaken her for Muriel Lowry. It was anyone’s guess what Hayes was thinking; his expression told her nothing.

  If he did think she was Muriel, he’d try to get her to tell him where the money was. But he could see that Freddy had left her behind. She could say he deserted her and left her with nothing. That she was a victim, as much as Hayes, of Lowry’s greed. She decided to take a gamble. “Why don’t you call me Muriel?” she said.

  “Excellent,” he said. “Muriel, then. Can you put all this unple
asantness out of your mind so we can make a fresh start?”

  “All right.”

  He motioned for her to sit down. She chose a comfortable-looking overstuffed chair, one of a matched pair in front of the fireplace. By now, her eyes had adjusted to the gloom. As she got settled in the chair, Hayes went to the table and reached into a cut-glass bowl for a piece of candy.

  “Like a mint, would you?” he said.

  “No, thank you.”

  He stood there, munching and regarding her with an enigmatic smile. The man was certainly creepy, and yet he seemed to be on his best behavior, even eager to please.

  His appearance was anything but threatening. He was slightly built and hunched his shoulders in a way that was almost self-mocking. His manner of dress was odd and, in Nicole’s opinion, a little pathetic for a man pushing fifty — a bolo tie, Indian tapestry vest, and faded Levis. His white shirt, which appeared to be silk, had full, oversized sleeves gathered into large cuffs. The vest was adorned with heavy gold embroidery and appliqués inset with mirrors.

  He tossed the candy wrapper into the fireplace, helped himself to another piece, and headed for the chair opposite hers. Meanwhile, Nicole glanced around the room. Books were everywhere — jammed untidily into shelves that ran from floor to ceiling. An overflow of volumes was stacked on the great library table, on the small round one next to her chair and on the floor. There was no desk in sight, nor any phone, fax, or computer. Clearly, this wasn’t the kind of study that doubled as an office, but a real library, a quiet place devoted to reading. Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t seen any surveillance cameras on the way downstairs. For an international crime ring, this was definitely a low-tech operation.

  By now, Hayes was seated. “I want you to know that Chazz and Kevin will be punished,” he said. “Suspended from their duties and sent down to London. If we do take them back, we’ll never trust them with any real responsibility. I abhor the idea of violence—won’t employ anyone who uses it.” He considered this for a moment, then added, “Except, of course, in self defense.”