“Hey, Doctor. I don’t think you get this. What you want doesn’t matter. What you want is shit.”
“Well, I understand that you feel that way, Sport. But all the same—”
And suddenly Sport was shrieking. “Don’t give me that headshrinker shit, you cock-sucking fuck, that power shit, I’ll cut her belly open like a fish, I’ll gut her like a fish, you hear me, Dr. Fuckhead! You hear me?”
Conrad could hardly speak at all now. His mouth opened but only a faint, wordless noise came out. He closed his mouth. He grit his teeth. He forced the words through. “If I don’t … If I don’t talk to her … Sport … I’ll assume she’s dead.”
Aggie let out a little cry. Conrad pushed on.
“And if she’s dead, I go to the police.”
“Yeah, horseshit, little man, let me tell you what you just bought for—”
Nathan hung up the phone.
He stood there, his hand still on the receiver. He stood and stared at it. I have to let go now, he thought. They’re watching. I have to let it go. His hand slowly opened. He pulled it away from the phone.
“Nathan!” Aggie finally found her voice. “Nathan, my God, what’ve you …”
“Listen.” He turned to her, gripped her shoulders hard. He looked hard into her wild eyes.
“Nathan, my God, my God …” She was babbling in a shrill half-whisper.
Conrad spoke loudly and clearly. He wanted to make sure Sport could hear. “Listen, Aggie. We’re going to the police. We have to go to the police.”
Ring! he thought. You son of a bitch! Call me back! Ring!
He had had nearly eleven hours to think about this. He had decided what he had to do. Whoever they were, they had done something desperate. Whatever they wanted, they must want it desperately. Drugs … money … a doctor’s attention … something he had, something they had to get from him. Whatever it was, it was his one bargaining chip. If he didn’t use it, if he didn’t insist on talking to Jessica—what reason would they have to keep her alive?
“We’ve got to go to the police,” he repeated.
The phone remained silent. Aggie looked up at him, shaking her head: no, no …
“We’ve got to.” He let her go. He started walking to the door.
The phone rang.
Conrad stopped. He turned slowly. The phone rang again. Aggie stood staring down at it.
Conrad walked back to her. Just as the phone began to ring a third time, he picked it up. He shoved one shaking hand back into his pocket.
“What,” he said.
The silence on the other end seemed to him like a Texas highway: it seemed as if it would never change, never end. Then, low at first, slowly growing louder, Sport began to laugh again. That malevolent, fluid chuckle.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, tough. Tough doctor. Tough Daddy. Oh, yeah. How about I bring her to the phone and let you hear her scream? How would that be?”
“No,” Conrad said. Smooth and calm. “Whatever it is you want, you won’t get it if you hurt her.”
Sport kept laughing. “I hear you. I hear you, I get the whole picture. You’re a tough little Dr. Dad, you are.” There was a pause. “You know, I like that actually,” he went on then. “I mean it, really. That’s the kind of thing I like: it reminds me of myself. You know? I mean, you and I would probably get along under other circumstances.”
The hand in Conrad’s pocket closed into a fist. Got him, he thought.
“Okay,” Sport said. “Hold on, tough guy.”
There was a click, and then a low hum. Conrad listened hard but there was no other sound.
“Nathan … ,” Aggie whispered. “What’s happening?”
He turned to her, put his hand on her shoulder. Her face was pale and lined, her eyes were still hectic. Her hair hung down around her cheeks in tangles. He smiled at her.
There was a click on the phone. “Daddy?”
“Jess?”
“Daddy.” She started to cry. “I’m scared, Daddy.”
The tears returned to Conrad’s eyes. “I know, baby. It’s all right.”
“I don’t want to stay here, Daddy. They’re bad men. Why can’t I come home? I want to come home.”
“It’s gonna be all right, Jessie. You’ll be home very soon.” He shut his eyes tight.
“Oh, God, Nathan, please …” Aggie reached for the phone with both hands.
But Conrad kept it away from her. Already, he could hear Jessica crying out, “No! I wanna talk to my mommy. I want my mommy. Please. Please … Daddy!” And then her wordless sobbing grew fainter as she was carried away from the phone.
“Now,” said Sport a moment later, “here is what you are going to do, Doctor.”
Conrad covered his eyes with his hand. He knew they were watching him, he knew he was on camera, but he couldn’t help it. A tremor went through his body as he wiped the tears away.
“You are going to visit one of your patients,” Sport was saying. “A woman named Elizabeth Burrows …”
One Simple Question
You are going to be followed. Every moment, you are going to be watched.
Conrad slipped his trench coat on. He walked with Agatha to the door.
I’ll kill her if you stop. I’ll kill her if you turn in the wrong direction. If you make a play, if you make a noise, if you make a mistake … she’ll be dead.
At the door, Agatha looked up at him. She did not ask him if it was going to be all right. She just looked up at him. Her eyes seemed vast and dark. He touched her cheek. He leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.
“Don’t let them see you cry, Aggie,” he said.
She smiled tightly. Shook her head. “No.”
“Don’t open the door for anyone.”
She couldn’t speak.
“I’ll be back.”
She nodded, her eyes swimming.
He took a deep breath and stepped out into the hall. He heard the apartment door close behind him.
There’ll be someone behind you every step of the way, Sport had told him. Who knows, right? Could be your doorman, could be your best friend. Could be the butcher or the baker. But there’ll be someone there.
Conrad walked slowly to the elevator. He pressed the button. The light above the door started moving down from the penthouse: 12 … 11 … 10 … Conrad stood before the door and looked up and down the hall. No one else was there. His eyes came to rest on the door to apartment 5C. His neighbors’ door. Scott and Joan Howard were behind that door; a retired jeweler and his wife. The door seemed to pull Conrad toward it. “Call the police, Scott.” He could hear himself saying it. He even leaned toward the door as he stood before the elevator.
But then his hand went up to his throat.
That’s a very nice shirt you have on. Orange suits you.
And behind him, another door opened. Conrad spun around. Billy Price came out of his apartment, carrying a box in each hand. Conrad remembered meeting him in the elevator: his new neighbor; the Wall Street type with the stale sense of humor.
The young man flashed his shy smile. “Hey, Doc. How’s it going?”
Conrad smiled and nodded once.
“Another Saturday shot to hell,” Price said. He opened the door to the garbage room, held it open with his shoulder. “Can you believe I’m still unpacking boxes?” He tossed the boxes inside.
Conrad watched him. No, he thought. No, I’m not sure I can believe that. He kept smiling.
“Where’s the little girl today?” Price asked.
Conrad tried not to gape at him. “Uh … out, she’s … out with friends …”
“Oh,” said Price. “Well. I’ll be seeing you. Right?” He winked and started walking slowly back to his apartment.
The elevator door opened. Conrad stepped quickly inside.
“Right,” he said.
There’ll be someone behind you every step of the way. Could be your doorman, could be your best friend. Could be the butcher or the baker. There’ll be som
eone there.
Alone in the elevator, Conrad watched the light move over the door: 5 … 4 … 3 … If someone was watching on the outside, they would know if he stopped the elevator, if he got off.
He didn’t. He rode down to the lobby.
He got out and walked toward the doorman. It was Ernie tonight. A tall, thin Hispanic with a broad, white, friendly smile. Ernie pulled the glass door open. As Conrad went by, Ernie smiled and winked at him.
“Seeya, Doc,” he said.
Conrad smiled back.
Outside, the night was cold and faintly damp. A thin mist hung over the facade of the Morgan Library across the street. The spotlights trained on it brought its friezes into relief, sent its niches into darker shadow. The outglow from the spotlights hung in the sycamores, in their dying yellow leaves.
People were passing under the trees. A black man in a leather jacket, a girl on his arm, laughing; a silver-haired man in a dark suit; an old woman with dyed-red hair walking her cocker spaniel. A young homeless man was sitting on the library steps, his head bowed to his raised knees.
Conrad paused a moment and looked at them. He felt sweat gather at his temples. A drop rolled down his cheek, down his jaw.
I’ll kill her if you stop. I’ll kill her if you turn in the wrong direction. If you make a play, if you make a noise, if you make a mistake … she’ll be dead.
He started walking again, toward the garage next door.
“Howya doin,’ Doc? Time to fire up the old Rolls?”
Conrad looked into the face of the garage attendant, Lar. It was a familiar face; pug nose, shiny Santa Claus cheeks. Lar worked here most nights. He always saluted Agatha when he saw her. And when he saw Jessie, he pretended he was going to steal her nose. Now, as Conrad looked into his small, squinty eyes, the eyes shone right back at him, like black marbles.
“That’d be great,” Conrad said.
Lar saluted and waddled off into the garage.
Conrad waited, his hands in his trench-coat pockets.
Nervously, he glanced over his shoulder. His heart gave two quick beats.
Across the street, just beside a frail ginkgo, a figure stood, looking at him. Conrad’s mouth opened. He stared at the figure.
Slowly, casually, the figure turned and strolled away.
With a screech of tires, Conrad’s silver-blue Corsica came shooting up from the garage depths. It stopped short in front of him. The attendant climbed out.
“Thanks, Lar,” Conrad said hoarsely. He slipped behind the wheel of the car.
Now, Doctor, this is what you are going to do. It’s seven oh five now. As soon as you hang up the phone, you are going to put on your coat and walk out the door. You’re going to drive out to the Impellitteri crazy house. The drive ought to take you twenty—twenty-five minutes, tops.
The Corsica traveled slowly across Thirty-sixth Street toward the Midtown Tunnel. At the corner of Lexington, Conrad stopped at a light. A green Grand Am pulled up alongside him. Its engine grumbled. Conrad glanced over and saw a muscular young man behind the wheel. The young man had a crew cut and wore a white T-shirt. He looked over at Conrad and smirked. He gunned the engine, made it roar.
Conrad swallowed hard and turned away. He glanced up in the rearview mirror. He could not see the driver of the car in back of him. Just a pair of headlights … and the silhouette of a head, looking at him.
The light changed. He pressed the gas. Cruised toward the tunnel.
Okay, Sport had said. So now it’s seven-thirty. You go into the crazy house and you go see Elizabeth. Go right in. Don’t talk to anyone, don’t waste any time. You haven’t got any time, Doctor, you understand what I’m telling you? Just go see Elizabeth. Talk to her. Just like you usually do. No drugs, that doesn’t work, her mind’s gotta be clear. Just talk to her, get her to relax. Get her chatting with you. I’m giving you maybe a half hour for that, maybe even forty five minutes if you want to cut it close. Okay, so now it’s eight-fifteen. She’s talking, she’s relaxed, she trusts you. Right then, just when it’s good, you know? Right then, I want you to ask her one simple question.
Several roads joined and dipped down toward the mouth of the tunnel. The Corsica entered the swift stream of converging cars. In another moment, Conrad was squinting against the underground glare of lights. Tunnel lights on the filthy yellow tile of the walls. Headlights coming at him from the opposite lane. Red taillights and flashing red brake lights in front of him.
A transit worker strolled along the walkway to his right; he glanced over at Conrad’s car as it passed. A Coca-Cola truck bore down on Conrad from behind. Up ahead, the man driving the blue Chevy looked up into his rearview mirror; Conrad could see his eyes.
“Elizabeth, what is the number?” That’s the question. That’s all you have to say. That’s all you have to ask her. Once you’ve got her going, once she’s talking to you, all you have to do is lean over, you know, being friendly and shrinklike and say, “Elizabeth, what is the number?” Nothing to it. Simple as that.
He emerged from the tunnel into the misty night. Edged forward in the cramped line of cars to the tollbooth. Passed through the gate onto the Long Island Expressway.
He gripped the wheel hard. He could feel the sweat coming through his shirt now, on his back, under his arms. The Corsica sailed forward over the wide highway. Surrounded by cars. Cars passing him. Falling behind him. Pulling up alongside. Dark silhouettes behind their wheels.
Headlights like eyes.
It was seven thirty-five when he pulled into the Impellitteri parking lot. He was five minutes behind Sport’s schedule.
Nine o’clock. That’s when you have to be back. Not a minute after nine. Not a second. I won’t wait one second, Doctor. Nine o’clock and you’re through, your daughter’s through. Remember that.
Conrad parked the car in the reserved space right under the building’s wall. He tapped the inside pocket of his trench coat, felt the cassette recorder in there. He had brought it along to make sure everything looked normal to her.
Elizabeth, what is the number? Just one simple question.
He slipped out of the car and shut the door.
Out here, away from Manhattan’s sheltering buildings, the night was cold. The mist chilled his skin, his sweat-damp hair. He shivered.
He stood where he was a second, trying to compose himself. His hands were shaking badly now. He couldn’t catch his breath. Slowly, licking his lips, he raised his eyes to look at Impellitteri.
The clocktower. That’s what Sport had told him. After she gives you the number, come to the clocktower on Leonard Street. Do you know it? It’s way the hell downtown so leave yourself at least a half hour to get there. That means you’ve got to be out of Impellitteri by eight-thirty at the latest. Get the number and get out by eight-thirty. That’ll just give you time. Nine o’clock. That’s when you have to be back. Not a minute after nine. Not a second.
Breathing hard, Conrad gazed at the stark stone cube gleaming gray in the night The thin mist drifted over it. Droplets of the mist danced and fell in the beams of its spotlights. Where there was light behind the windows, it etched the wire grates that laced the glass. Where there was no light, the windows stared down at him lifelessly.
I don’t want to stay here, Daddy. They’re bad men. Why can’t I come home? I want to come home.
“Oh, God,” Conrad whispered. She was so afraid.
Why can’t I come home, Daddy?
She was so afraid and he didn’t know anything. He didn’t know who had taken her or why. He didn’t even understand what they wanted.
I don’t want to stay here, Daddy.
My baby, he thought. My little girl.
And then he forced the thought away. He had to concentrate. Calm, professional, competent. The Doctor is in. He pressed his hands to his sides to stop their trembling.
Elizabeth, he thought, what is the number?
One simple question. That was all he needed to know.
He walk
ed into the hospital.
The lobby was sunk in shadow.
In the ceiling, the purple fluorescents sputtered and hummed. The nurse behind the reception desk, the security guard at the hall entrance—both were figures in silhouette.
Don’t talk to anyone. Don’t waste any time.
Conrad took out his hospital ID card. Held it up to the reception nurse as he went past. She nodded at him without smiling. Watched him as he walked by. He clipped the card to his trench-coat lapel. It gave him something to do as he walked under the eyes of the security guard.
He came to the elevator, the wide silver door. Pressed the button.
“Yo.” A voice shouted from down the dimly lighted hall. “Yo, Nate.”
Shit! Conrad thought. He didn’t turn. The elevator door opened. He stepped inside.
“Nate. Hey, Nate-o! Wait up!”
Don’t talk to anyone …
Conrad needed his master key to take the elevator to the fourth floor. He fumbled with his key chain, trying to find it. Come on, he thought. Come on.
Don’t waste any time.
Jerry Sachs’s voice grew louder as he came down the hall.
“Nath-an! Hold the ’vator.”
The elevator door slid shut. Conrad put the key in the slot and turned it. He looked up at the lighted numbers.
Then the elevator door opened again. Jerry Sachs stepped in.
The big man was painfully out of breath. Sweat was gleaming on his high pink pate. The front of his pink shirt was dark with it. So were the underarms of his pea-green suit.
“Jesus, Nathan. Didn’t you hear me? Get three for me, willya? Whew!” He wiped his broad face with a broad hand.
“Sorry, Jerry. I was …” Conrad’s voice trailed off. He pressed the button to three. The elevator shut again. It started up.
Conrad studied the lighted numbers as they moved slowly: L … 2 … Sachs looked down at him jovially.
“So,” he said. “Saturday night out, huh? A late date with Nate. I bet you Central Park West types aren’t used to these doctor’s hours.” He guffawed.
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