“Shit,” he bolted from his cover, and ran toward the front of the auditorium. His previous caution, replaced by urgency, Barrett was in mortal danger, and his moment to act was racing away.
He flew up the stage steps and ran in the direction he’d seen them leave. An usher stood back in the wings, looking out at the room.
“Where did they go?” Ed asked.
“Gone,” the usher replied. “You think I should go out and tell them?”
Ignoring his question, “Which way?”
“Out, I guess. They really should have played an encore. They just bolted.”
“Which door?”
“There,” he said.
Ed sprinted through the side door and hurtled down a tight stairwell. As he went, passing exits to the second and first floors, he knew they’d gone. At the base of the steps he pushed the red handle of an emergency door that led out to 7th Avenue.
A blast of cool night air rushed in. He scanned north and south, looking for any trace of the Martins and Barrett. A cab pulled away from the sidewalk, at first he passed over it, but something pulled his attention. The driver was a blond, and as it accelerated downtown, he caught a glimpse of Jimmy Martin staring back through the rear window.
“Shit!” Ed’s heart sank.
He bolted across the street toward his parked, unmarked car, trying to hang on to a couple distinguishable features of the yellow cab, like the cracked taillight and crumpled right-rear fender. He yanked open the door, jammed the key in the ignition, and in the split-second his brain registered that his car door shouldn’t have been unlocked, he saw a flash of blue flame, the tank exploded and his world went black.
___
The euphoria from whatever drug Ellen had given her had vanished. Now she felt only panic, and fear. Barrett, her hands cuffed, searched for the handle of the cab door, all the time her eyes fixed on Jimmy, who stared back through the window. In the front seat Ellen sat rigid, her hands on the wheel, her eyes occasionally visible in the rear-view mirror, watching her.
“The door’s locked,” she said, observing Barrett’s attempts. “Just remember that if you try anything funny, your sister will die.”
“Why?” Barrett managed, her head pounding, her tongue thick in her mouth.
“Because he loves you,” she said, and the cab lurched to the left, as a loud explosion sounded behind them.
“What was that?” Barrett asked.
“Jimmy?” Ellen asked, “Did you see?”
“Yes,” he settled back in his seat, his eyes on Barrett. “No more detective Hobbs.”
“What?” Barrett shuddered, “Ed … what have you done?”
“You’re very popular,” Ellen commented. “What with the husband, the detective … any more suitors we should know about?”
“Your detective Hobbs,” Jimmy commented in his wheezy old-man voice, “just blew up. So sad, and I believe he had children, too.”
“No,” Barrett gasped, “Oh God, no.”
“We can’t be having other roosters in Jimbo’s hen house,” he cackled, his voice dripping with the sarcasm Barrett had learned to associate with the personality that claimed to be his father.
“And Barrett,” Ellen said, making eye contact through the rear-view mirror, “you need to know that from this moment forward your actions have consequence. Should you attempt to escape or to contact your mother, or any friends or coworkers, they’ll meet with fates similar to your detective and your poor, dead husband. Ralph, wasn’t it? By now, your mother will have received a letter from you, apologizing for this shameful behavior, but you’ve fallen in love and for the time being desperately need to be alone with your fiancé. In fact, you won’t be able to show your face at your husband’s funeral tomorrow.”
“She’ll never believe that,” Barrett said, her fear growing by the second.
“For her sake,” Ellen said flatly, “let’s hope she does. If not, how sad, and a bit of a cliché, the female bartender walking home late at night. So many bad things can happen in such a big city. And if you’re wondering about your colleagues and the good Dr. Fielding, by this time tomorrow he’ll have explained to the clinic the seriousness of your behavior. You will become an example of the most serious of ethical breaches—falling in love with a patient. They will be cautioned against having anything to do with you.”
“Anton would never believe …” but even as she spoke, she began to understand. “How did you get to him?”
“It’s not important,” Ellen said, “suffice it to say that Dr. Fielding is finally on the way to the tenure he so desperately desires.”
Barrett found it hard to catch her breath. Through the mirror she saw the faintest of smiles on Ellen’s painted lips. She thought about the board that oversaw Jimmy’s release from the hospital, and wondered how they’d respond to this bizarre piece of news. Certainly they’d investigate. But that thought was immediately followed by the realization that Anton, as a key member of the review board and the director of the forensic clinic, could easily sway the discussion in whichever direction suited his needs.
“So now, Chicky,” Jimmy’s wheezing father asked, “what’s on the menu?”
“Her,” Ellen replied, her voice tense.
“I assume you’ve worked through the indelicate details.”
“Of course,” she said. “Mother told me the two of you never had sex and that Dr. Jenson did the actual insemination. As for Little Jimmy, I don’t think he’s quite up to the task, and we’ve come too far to take the chance.”
“Very good, and will Dr. Jenson be officiating at tonight’s festivities?”
Ellen pressed a remote-control button on the dash as she turned onto 19th Street. “That won’t be necessary.” She eased the cab into the last bay door of the carriage house. “I’ve got everything under control.” And hitting the button again, the door shut behind them.
THIRTY-THREE
Barrett lay flat on her back, her hands manacled over her head, and her feet stretched to the corners of the bed. She was alone in a dark room. “Help me!” she screamed. But her ears, trained from an early age, recognized how her voice seemed encapsulated. It bounced from the ceiling and the walls; the room was soundproof. She thought that she was in the carriage house, but she couldn’t be certain. She didn’t know what had happened with Jimmy or Ellen; they’d left some time ago. At least it felt that way. She felt the soreness in her right shoulder, and remembered how they’d drugged her a second time … or maybe it had been more than that.
Think Barrett; how long have you been here?
She strained against padded leather cuffs, the same kind used in psychiatric hospitals. She tensed the muscles of her forearm and twisted her fingers in tight, feeling for any play. She pictured the straps and the locks; she slowed her breath, and fought against the panic. Where’s Justine? Her ears strained into the silence, wondering when they’d come back. “Justine? Are you there?”
Only silence. Time passed, as she tensed and relaxed her wrists, making tiny movements, and slowly creating give in the tight cuffs. “Come on,” she whispered, feeling her right wrist slip further back. “Come on.”
A door clicked; she froze. Then came a blinding light.
“So how are we doing?” Ellen asked.
Barrett peered through narrowed slits. What she saw was completely disorienting; it wasn’t possible. “Where? This can’t …”
“Nice, isn’t it?” Ellen remarked.
Barrett’s immediate thought was that this had to be a dream. Ellen Martin was dressed in a nurse’s uniform, and Barrett was manacled to her own bed in her own condo. The sheets were ones she’d picked out with Ralph, the Ikea furniture was hers, the books, the medical journals, a stack of annotated musical scores on Ralph’s bedside table. This has to be a dream.
“You must be getting tired of laying flat for so long,” Ellen commented. She reached down and checked the restraints.
Barrett couldn’t breathe, as Ellen inspected the t
ightness, and felt pulses in her wrists and ankles to ensure that the blood flow wasn’t being cut off.
“Not much longer,” Ellen said, as she pulled a syringe from a patch pocket on the front of her starched-white uniform.
“What is that?” Barrett managed, realizing this was no dream.
“Hormones,” Ellen replied, as she uncapped the syringe and tapped the tip with an elegantly manicured nail. “Want to get you off to a good start.”
Barrett felt a cool alcohol wipe over her throbbing shoulder.
“Just a little prick,” Ellen smiled, as the needle sank into her flesh. “There we go, and now it’s best for you to rest up. We’ve got quite a day ahead of us.”
“Where’s Justine?” Barrett managed, as she watched Ellen pull out a second loaded syringe.
“She’s safe … nearby. In fact, if you’re very good, I might let the two of you stay together. We’ll have to see. I think it might be nice, get you through those difficult months.”
As she spoke, Barrett noted inconsistencies in her carefully constructed cage. This wasn’t her condo, and the grand piano that she glimpsed through the opening into the living room was not hers. The bedspread that had fallen to the floor was the right pattern, but the parts that were supposed to be green were peach and vice versa. This wasn’t her condo, but a carefully constructed approximation.
“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble,” she managed, through a throat that was parched.
“No trouble at all,” Ellen answered, “now just one more shot.”
“Why?”
“To help you sleep.”
“No,” Barrett was trying to remember. “Why? Why are you doing this?”
“It’s not so strange,” Ellen said, gazing at Barrett. “Many couples have trouble conceiving.”
“God, no!”
“Best not to worry yourself. Stress is bad for the baby.”
“Please let me see my sister,” tears streamed down her face. Frustration welled, and then she felt the needle jab into her flesh.
“In time,” Ellen said. “Now rest, we’ve got a big night ahead of us.”
“Night?” Barrett croaked. “What day is it?”
“Monday,” Ellen said standing by the bed. “You’ve been sleeping, and soon … I’m so glad he picked you.” And with that, she leaned over and kissed Barrett on the forehead. “It’s going to be all right. You’ll see.”
Barrett struggled. As Ellen leaned over, she thought of her mother, tucking her and Justine into bed at night. The kiss, the feel of her lips, soft and maternal. A familiar feeling of weightlessness came over her, as the room darkened. It was okay, she was safe at home in her own bed, and this was all a dream. It wasn’t so bad, it was a dream about having a baby. She and Ralph had talked a lot about starting a family. It was time to do it, the clock was ticking. She felt the pull of sleep, the soothing languor and calming forgetfulness of whatever drug Ellen had just given her.
“No,” Barrett said into the darkness, the sound of her voice an anchor to something real. “Not a dream,” she managed. “Come on, it’s Monday. I’ve been asleep. Wake up. Please wake up.” She thought of Sifu. “Focus, Barrett. Don’t fall asleep.” She forced her eyes wide and stared into the darkness. “Come on.” She felt her hands and the restraints around her wrists and ankles. Ellen had missed the slack that she’d developed. The right wrist, “Come on, Barrett.” Pushing through the lull of the narcotic, she twisted her wrist, folding her fingers in tight. “Come on.” She visualized the tiny bones in her hand, and drew them in tight. The restraint scraped the skin of her hand as she drew it back, she felt the flesh slowly rip; she didn’t care. “Come on.” She pulled harder, and felt pain and blood. “Come on,” the cuff was all the way to the knuckle. Drawing back from her wrist, she pulled hard. The pain, even dulled by the drugs, sent a sheering jolt to her brain. She gasped, and yanked back hard. A scream flew from her lips as her hand, lubricated with blood, came free of the shackle.
She lay there, breathing hard. “Good,” she reached across her chest, twisting in the sheets, feeling for her left hand. She stretched with her cramped and bleeding hand, feeling down her left arm, her shoulder twisting painfully. Her fingers felt for the restraint, the tips moving over the leather, feeling for the buckle. Her heart sank when she realized that it was the type that required a key to open, and not the sort that just buckled. “No.” She sobbed, as she again tried to work away at her wrist, feeling for any play. Desperation welled, “No.” With every ounce of strength, she pushed through the pain as her fingers cramped, and her skin tore. She felt the cuff start to slip, as millimeter by millimeter she pulled back. And with a final painful tug, her left hand was free. She sat up in bed, her feet still bound. Her fingers throbbed, the knuckles wet with blood. She listened into the darkness, and heard the dull absence of sound, like being in a recording studio. She reached down to her ankles, and felt the straps. “Yes,” a surge of thankfulness as she realized that these buckled without a key. In a matter of seconds she’d removed the right and then the left.
As she swung her legs over the side of the bed, she didn’t want to think about what had been done to her—about what might have happened in those hours she couldn’t remember. She felt the sheer silky fabric that covered her, like a slip. They’d undressed her. And then a fierce cramping hit hard in her belly. She gasped and doubled over. She pictured Ellen in her nurse’s uniform, “God, no.” Barrett cried. They were giving her hormones, wanting to get her pregnant … or maybe … .It was Monday, at least a day had passed. A fresh wave of pain hit hard in her middle. She wrapped her belly in her arms and leaned over, waiting for it to pass. On shaky legs she touched her feet down on the floor. She felt the rug underfoot, and stood. Her head swam as the pain receded. Her eyes discerned the outlines of her furniture. “No, it’s not mine,” she whispered, “none of this is real.” A rumbling aftershock grabbed at her gut. That was real, and Barrett wondered what the hell Ellen and Jimmy had done to her as she’d slept. Had they raped her? And where exactly was she. This had to be the mansion, or had they taken her someplace else, someplace where no one would look for her. She thought of Hobbs, and then remembered—they’d done something to him. And Ralph, her sweet Ralph. And Justine. What would they do to her if they knew Barrett had gotten out of bed? They thought nothing of killing. Justine was just a pawn.
She staggered toward where her living room was supposed to be. That’s where Ellen had come from. With every step she stopped and listened. It was dead quiet. She headed toward the front door, and twisted the knob; it was locked. She felt the light switches to the right, her fingers lingered. If she turned on the lights would they see? Were they watching her now, maybe having some kind of night vision cameras trained on her? She felt for the deadbolt and turned, feeling it slide back. She tried the knob again … nothing. She was trapped. “Don’t panic.” She tried to calm herself, “she said she was coming back … but when.” She realized that they wouldn’t expect to find her out of bed, so maybe there was a chance. She’d need a weapon; she’d need to make them let her go, make them take her to Justine, to free them both.
She stared into the darkness, trying to inventory what in her apartment—or her pseudo apartment—could make a weapon. Feeling along the furniture, she walked into the galley kitchen and opened the drawer where the knives were kept. She felt in the plastic bins, but where she should have found steel, her fingers came upon plastic cutlery. She reached up into the cupboards, wanting her heavy enamel cookware, but that too was gone. Even the books were all paperbacks, the lamps bolted to the tables, and Barrett, weakened by the drugs, doubted her physical strength. She needed to find something. Stumbling back to the living room, her hip banged into the piano. Her hands felt over its hard surface. “Yes.” She lifted up the lid, and gingerly placed the brace in its groove. Her fingers reached inside and gently moved over the surface of the tautly stretched steel strings. She pictured the yards of cable in varying lengths and widths,
which created the different notes. As a child, Sophie had instructed her in the importance of learning how to tune her own piano. It was an exercise meant to create perfect pitch, but now another pearl from that lesson remained.
“In older pianos,” Sophie had told her, “it’s common to find a tuning key hidden underneath.” Sophie kept hers in the lift-up compartment of the bench.
Barrett felt over the surface of the piano, her fingers ran around the distant curve, and felt a patch of scarred wood. It was hers—inherited from Sophie. She cautiously edged back toward the keyboard. Her knee bumped up against the bench. She bent down, and opened it, feeling familiar volumes of Chopin, Czerny, Brahms, and Beethoven. The smell of it stopped her, the faint whiff of Jasmine—Sophie’s perfume. This was her piano. “Jesus,” she muttered, wondering what her neighbors would have said as movers had taken it away. Shouldn’t someone have asked where she was? As she stood, she remembered snippets of the concert with Jimmy. Jimmy had proposed—and she’d accepted—in front of a couple hundred people.
But what about her mother … and Justine … but Justine was gone, missing. And Ralph … dead. Hobbs, wasn’t there an explosion? “Your detective Hobbs is dead.” They’re all dead. She pictured Anton—he was involved in this. Jimmy should never have gotten out, yet Anton opened the cage. She remembered her conversation with Housmann. Jimmy was erotomanic. Beyond that, he had multiple personalities—at least three: the little boy who played cello and was Hansel to his sister’s Gretel, the scary father who’d done awful things, and a third adult Jimmy, who she’d only glimpsed for moments, who seemed a kind of ghost—the Jimmy that might have been, but never had the chance.
As she felt in the corner of the piano bench, her fingers found the L-shaped steel tuning wrench. Her mind flew over other cases where men had stalked and captured women. The ones she knew about, the ones where she’d evaluated the men after the fact, had all gone bad. The women—usually raped and murdered—spent their last days, and in one particular case, two-and-half years, in carefully constructed prisons. The preparation that had gone into their prisons often stretched over years. Sometimes the victims were random. But more often, as in her case, they’d been selected, carefully watched, and then … .
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