Don't Say a Word

by Andrew Klavan

  With a swift, agile movement, he lowered himself onto the stairs. He climbed down until only his head still showed above the opening.

  Then he paused. He grinned.

  “Remember,” he said. “Wait five minutes. Until nine-fifteen. By the clock.”

  Alone, Conrad remained motionless. Stared at the place where Sport had gone.

  I’m scared, Daddy.

  He listened to the hum of the clock, the sound of his own breathing.

  I don’t want to stay here. I’m scared.

  Minutes passed and he didn’t move, just stood, just stared.

  Daddy?

  He shuddered convulsively. He blinked, looked up, looked around him. For a moment, he thought there were tears on his cheek. He raised his hand to wipe them away. But it was just the place where Sport’s spittle had hit him. He could still feel it, though it was gone now.

  He watched the hands of the big clock. Seen from behind like that, the clockface was reversed. The minute hand moved counterclockwise down toward the Roman three. It seemed to move slowly.

  Daddy, I’m scared.

  “Jessie,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

  The minute hand touched the three. Conrad turned away. He went to the stairway. He started down.

  He had decided to call the police.

  If they had really followed him, why had Sport checked in with Sachs? If they had really followed him, why hadn’t Sport known about Elizabeth—that she was out, that she had come here with him?

  Conrad limped down the shadowed hall. He stood at the elevator, resting against the wall, waiting for a car.

  And if they weren’t really following him, he had to call the cops. He had to. It was the only way he might still save her. He could not handle this alone.

  As he rode down in the elevator, he stared at the red lighted numbers. The numbers kept blurring. Conrad had to keep wiping his eyes. The door opened and let him out into the lobby. He walked under the marble staircases. He pushed out onto Leonard Street, into the night.

  They did not know about Elizabeth, he repeated to himself. And since they did not know, they must not be watching him. And since they weren’t watching him, he had to call the police.

  I’m scared, Daddy.

  He had to. He had to help her somehow.

  He went hobbling around the corner, breathing hard, glancing around to see if he was being pursued. He saw no one. He came up Lafayette where the traffic sped by, the lights blinding. He kept moving. He could feel the dampness of the air on his face, the cold of it on that same spot on his cheek. He grit his teeth. He turned onto Franklin. He worked his way into the quiet under the courthouse’s black wall.

  The Corsica was parked just where it had been. It still sat dark and silent on the dark and silent street. He hurried across to it. He had to call them. He had to risk it. And they had to save her. Someone had to. If they didn’t, if no one did, if she died … oh, Christ, if she died … then Aggie and he and everything … everything would be …

  He stopped in the middle of the pavement. He let out a small, miserable little noise.

  He saw that the car was empty.

  Staring—gaping—he stepped forward, stepped stiffly. He stepped to the door, shoved the key in.

  “Oh … ,” he whispered.

  The door swung open. Conrad stared. He saw blood—a a long swath of blood—running down the back of the passenger seat. He turned. He saw something lying on the dash. His eyes moved over it. It was long seconds before he could comprehend what it was.

  It was paper; a crumpled piece of notebook paper. He stared and stared at it until he understood.

  There were words on it. Words written in red ink:

  We are still watching you. Go to your office. Wait.

  PART THREE

  Ten

  Sparrows and chickadees were singing in the ivy. Agatha was in the kitchen, at the stove. She was wearing an orange-and-white apron, the one her mother used to wear. She was stirring a bowl of batter with a wooden spoon. She was humming, smiling to herself. The birds seemed almost to sing along.

  Outside, though, the white carnation was lost in a field of wildflowers. The thought of it nagged at her. Finally, she set the bowl down and went to the cottage door. She stepped outside into the field.

  Very quickly, she was in the midst of it. The cottage was far behind her. The wildflowers were thick around her everywhere. She could feel their soft petals tickle her instep, their cool stems beneath her toes. She wished she had not left the house, that the house was not so far away.

  Then, there was the white carnation. At her feet, just beneath her. She was frightened because she had almost stepped on it. She reached down to pick it up …

  But as she did, the white carnation turned pink. The color seemed to rise up from within it. The pink darkened to red, and then to scarlet. And then the scarlet thickened, and as Aggie watched, horrified, the thick scarlet began to drip from the carnation’s petals, falling to the earth below, seeping into the earth, which seemed already choked with red, gagging the red back up in viscous pools …

  “Jessie!” Aggie sat up on the sofa. She looked around her with wide eyes. Her daughter’s teddy bear lay on its side next to her. “Jesus,” she whispered. She had fallen asleep. How could she have fallen … ?

  She looked quickly at her watch. It was nine-fifty. Only for a minute … She had only dozed off for a minute. She turned her head, looked around the long room. Her worktable by the door, the dinner table against the wall, the empty playspace … Nothing had happened, nothing had changed. No one had come in, the phone had not rung.

  But why didn’t it? Why didn’t the phone ring?

  Aggie rubbed her eyes. She shook her head quickly to clear it. She had to get up, move around. She had been sitting on the couch, sitting still for a long time. Ever since D’Annunzio left—the man she thought was Detective D’Annunzio—ever since he’d left about ninety minutes ago, she’d been trying to keep her movements to a minimum. She was afraid she might do something that would somehow arouse the kidnappers’ suspicion. She was afraid she might make some gesture of hope or eagerness or anticipation. Do something that would make them suspect that the plumber—D’Annunzio—had really been a cop; that she had managed, right under their noses, to notify the police; that now the police were out there, after them.

  It was a sweet—a comforting—image: the police, on the job. Their army of professionals. Out there. They know what they’re doing, she told herself.

  But why didn’t … ?

  She forced the irritating little voice down. She stood. She ran her hand up through her hair. She was still a little foggy.

  She went into the kitchen. A city kitchen, narrow, white. Still, it brought part of her dream back to her. She had been in the kitchen wearing her mother’s apron … She could not remember the rest of it.

  She filled a glass with water from the tap. She stood pressed to the sink, drinking it down.

  Why didn’t the phone ring? When D’Annunzio was here? Why didn’t it ring the way it did with Billy Price?

  She gasped out of the water. She shut her eyes tight.

  Stop it, she told herself. It’s going to be all right now. The police are out there. Detective D’Annunzio. He’s out there. All his tough detective friends. Come on, guys—she could hear their deep voices—let’s find that kid. That’s what they were saying. She could imagine their chairs scraping as they pushed them back. She could see them purposefully jamming their pistols in their shoulder holsters.

  She set the glass down on the countertop. It clattered against the vinyl as it shook in her shaking hand.

  But why didn’t … ?

  Freeze! She could hear their tough, their manly, voices. Blam! Blam! The kidnappers reeled back, their jaws slack, their eyes hollow. Rescue! said the headline of tomorrow’s Daily News. And there was a photo on the front page of Aggie on her knees, Jessica in her arms, Jessica clasped tight in her arms, the small, living war
mth of Jessica pressed against her breasts, sheltered in her arms and …

  Agatha sobbed. She raised her trembling hand to her mouth, wiped her lips slowly.

  Yeah, but, excuse me? Excuse me—Mrs. C? Uh—why didn’t the telephone ring?

  “Shut up,” she muttered.

  She started out of the kitchen. The kitchen had begun to seem too close, too tight. She walked quickly into the living room. She paced across it to a bookcase. She turned to pace back—but then stopped.

  Stand still … Don’t let them see any … Don’t …

  She stood where she was. The thing that wanted to pace was still moving in her, jumping around, pushing at her. She took a deep breath, trying to quiet it.

  It’s just that they weren’t watching, that’s all, she thought. That’s why the goddamned phone didn’t ring. They weren’t home when D’Annunzio came. They’d stepped out, they were glomming some tube, I don’t know. Or the cameras malfunctioned. Or they didn’t get suspicious about a plumber. That’s why. There are plenty of reasons, good reasons why they didn’t call, why they didn’t threaten me like they did with Billy Price …

  Like, you mean, that D’Annunzio’s not a cop at all? Like, for instance, that D’Annunzio is really one of them? That Price—maybe Price—is also one of them?

  She brought her hand to her temple, massaged it. Her head hurt. Where was Nathan? He was supposed to meet the kidnappers at nine. Why hadn’t he come home? Why didn’t he bring Jessica home?

  Good questions. And another thing, since we happen to be on the subject: Why didn’t the goddamn phone ring?

  “Oh … ,” she said.

  The thing that wanted to pace jumped and babbled and ricocheted off her insides like that Mexican mouse in the cartoons Jessie watched. Aggie wanted to hit at her stomach to stop it. She wanted to tear at her hair. She wanted to tear the little questions out of herself. D’Annunzio’s out there, she repeated. He’s out there with the other detectives. They’re going to rescue my baby. Freeze, they’re going to shout. Blam.

  She stood shakily by the bookcase. She tried not to cry. She didn’t want them to see her cry. She was getting hysterical, she thought. She had to focus. She tried to think about D’Annunzio. His youthful, intelligent face. His watchful, trustworthy eyes. His cop’s voice, his cop’s questions.

  What’s Jessica look like? How old is she? How about the kidnapper? Anything that indicates where they might be? A noise on the line? A slip of the …

  “Tongue,” Agatha whispered aloud.

  How had he known her name was Jessica?

  There was a flutter in her stomach. Her knees went soft. She reached out and grabbed hold of a bookshelf.

  Had she told him Jessica’s name? She couldn’t remember. No. No. Or maybe yes, maybe she had, she couldn’t remember. Maybe she had told Billy Price. Yes, of course, that was it. She had told Billy Price only … only she hadn’t, not just now, not as she was pushing him to the door. She had been in too much of a panic to think of it.

  My daughter’s been kidnapped. My apartment’s being watched. Call the police.

  No, but … Agatha thought frantically.

  Yes, she thought. Yes, of course. Price had met Jessica by the elevator. She had introduced them. This is my daughter, Jessica, Aggie had said. Sure. That’s it. And when Price called D’Annunzio, D’Annunzio would’ve asked, “And what’s the child’s name?” And Price would’ve said, “Let me see. She’s told me once before … Oh, yes: Jessica. That’s right. Her name is Jessica.”

  But wouldn’t D’Annunzio have asked her too? Wouldn’t he have confirmed it with her? Wouldn’t he have said, And her name is Jessica, is that right? Wouldn’t he?

  And hey, that brings up another interesting question: Why didn’t the fucking phone ring while he was here?

  The thing that wanted to pace was going wild inside her. Agatha couldn’t stand still any longer. She started walking, as slowly as she could. She walked toward the bedroom. Her eyes flicked from place to place as she walked: the table, the standing lamp, the door, the phone …

  “Nathan,” she said softly as she walked.

  Where was he? Why hadn’t he come back? He was supposed to meet with them at nine. He was supposed to tell them what they wanted at nine and then they were going to …

  Freeze! Blam.

  … they were going to give him back her baby. That should’ve happened by now. He should’ve been back by now. It was almost … She looked down at her watch. It was almost …

  Agatha stopped walking.

  She was standing at the entrance to the hallway. Before her were two doorways: the bedroom to her right and to her left …

  Ten, she thought. It was almost ten. Almost ten o’clock. Ten o’clock even now, the minute hand moving up to the twelve.

  Agatha started down the hall. She tried to go steadily. One step, two steps, don’t run … Any minute now.

  She turned left. Into the bathroom. She flicked on the light, stood before the sink. She stood before the sink and she … She had to do something. Something so they wouldn’t be suspicious. She took a washcloth from the rack on the wall. She ran some water on it, dampened a corner of it. Any minute now. She looked up at herself in the mirror.

  Jesus, she thought.

  Her face was drawn, almost ashen. Her auburn hair hung down around it in sweat-damp tangles. Her round cheeks looked splotchy and sunken. Her lips were almost white.

  Like a fever victim, she thought. Like I’ve been sick for weeks with fever.

  With a trembling hand, she began to wash her face. She concentrated on a corner of her eye, as if something were irritating her there. She worked the spot carefully. She had to take time, enough time until …

  Come on, she thought. Come on. It’s just about right. It’s just about now.

  She worked the washcloth around her eye. She leaned into the mirror and studied the spot. Come on, she thought. Come on. She worked the washcloth around the spot carefully.

  And then she heard it. It was right on the button: 10:01.

  It started as a low, wet rumbling. Next came a series of thick, phlegmy hawks. Finally he spat—she could hear him through the heating grate. He spat and the thick gob splashed into the toilet bowl.

  She closed her eyes with relief. “The ten-o’clock cheh,” she whispered. She had to choke down her wild laughter.

  Mr. Plotkin was starting up again. A groan came through the heating duct followed by more of that low, wet rumbling.

  Agatha kept washing her eye, kept washing that spot at the corner of her eye.

  “Mr. Plotkin,” she said aloud.

  He was hawking again: cheh, cheh, cheh. That third time he got it up. Spat. She heard the splash in the toilet water.

  She suppressed a giggle. “Mr. Plotkin,” she said. The washcloth trembled at the corner of her eye.

  Again, the old man was rumbling away. “A-chah-chah-chah … hanh? Hanh?” he said. “What?”

  Aggie took a deep breath. Her hand shook so violently she had to lay it down on the sink. “Mr. Plotkin …” She swallowed. Her voice was shaking too.

  “Hello? Hello? What?” came the answer from the grate.

  “Mr. Plotkin, can you hear me?” Aggie said. There was a long silence. She forced herself to lift the washcloth again. She brought it to her lips. “Can you hear me?” she repeated more loudly.

  “Can I hear you? What is this, a test of the emergency communications system?” The old man’s raspy voice had lost its Yiddish accent, but the old intonations were still there. “I can hear you. You can hear me. We can listen to each other in the bathroom. Who is this?”

  Aggie let her breath out. She felt she had been holding it for minutes on end. She stared at herself in the mirror, at her glassy, frightened eyes.

  “Hello?” said Mr. Plotkin. “Hello?”

  “This is Aggie Conrad,” she said.

  There was another pause. Then: “Oh.” It was a flat, hard sound. It called the old man’s round, hairle
ss face to her mind. The way he stood in silence when they met in the elevator. The thin smile he spared Jessica when she said hello to him. “What? You’re going to bother an old man because he spits? Believe me, Mrs. What’s-your-name, it’s no fun for me either.”

  “Mr. Plotkin,” Aggie said. “I need help.” Tears sprang to her eyes. She dabbed them away with the washcloth. “I need help. Please.”

  The old man’s tone changed on the instant. “What? Are you sick? What’s the matter? You can’t get to the phone, you need a doctor? What?”

  “I need the police,” Aggie said. The tears came more quickly now. She covered her eyes with the cloth. “Call Detective D’Annunzio, at Midtown South. Please. If he’s not there, ask for someone else. My daughter’s been kidnapped. The kidnappers are watching my apartment. Tell Detective D’Annunzio I have to talk to him … he may already know, I’m not … Just … Tell him not to come here, tell him to come to your place, to talk to me through the duct like this … And Mr. Plotkin …” She had to stop for a moment as she cried into the washcloth. “Mr. Plotkin, be careful, all right, because I don’t know what’s happening, I don’t know who to trust, and these are dangerous … men, they’re …”

  She couldn’t go on. She cried into the washcloth. No answer came from above her, from the grate. It seemed to her as if whole minutes passed in silence while she cried.

  Then, she lifted her face. She raised her eyes to the high corner of the white-tiled wall. Tears were streaming down her cheeks now. She gazed through them, up at the grate. She gazed at the darkness beyond the gray checkerboard of metal. She peered into the darkness, as if trying to see the old man on the other side.

  Finally, she heard him speaking to her. He murmured to her softly, gently.

  “Hold on, Ag-ela,” he said. “Help is on the way.”

  Prince of the City

  Detective Doug D’Annunzio leaned back from his typewriter. His swivel chair screaked with his weight. D’Annunzio tilted his big body to one side and squeezed out a fart. Goddamn fives, he thought.