by Victoria Fox
55
The man swerved his van, the steering wheel spinning in his hands before he pulled himself together and regained control. Easy, he told himself. Easy does it.
It was hard not to get carried away, to press a little firmer on the gas; try to replicate in the external world the racing adrenalin that flickered through his blood. Crash this baby and it’s over. Kaput. No, he had to be careful. He had planned his whole life for this and finally it was here, this night, the night of his vengeance.
The night when her world came crashing down, never to be reassembled.
The man pulled up at a red light. His fingers were shaking. It wasn’t like him to freak out—normally he was so composed. Everyone at work said it. The IT department where he kept himself to himself, nervous and timid, the sweet, crisp-collared data genius who was never late, who never failed to complete a task, who all the girls wanted to look after because he was so thin and pale and afraid.
Tonight, I’m invincible. You should see me tonight.
Marissa—that was the name of the girl he liked.
The man closed his eyes and inhaled sharply, imagining her next to him, urging him on. Marissa never glanced his way; she was too pretty to notice him. This worked in his favour because it meant he could follow her home—just like he had been following Tess Geddes—and watch from the gloom as she undressed for a shower, spying her naked body; a taste was enough to make him tremble and shudder. He would stagger home, exhilarated and excited, his underpants damp.
After tonight, Marissa would notice him. Yes, she would. She would call him a hero. She would climb on top of him in front of everyone and fuck his brains out.
The beep of car horns shook him from his reverie.
The lights turned green.
His van sped forward with a squeal. The man clocked a police car lurking on a corner and slowed, sweat breaking out on his brow. Now the outcome was close enough to touch, he could risk nothing in pursuit of glory. The last thing he needed was a cop pulling him over and checking his history.
Under the radar, that was his motto. Stay hidden.
For the hundredth time, he checked he had everything. The plan. The gloves. The rag soaked in chloroform. Everything down to the voice he would use.
Almost there.
You’re mine now, Tess Geddes. You’re a dead woman.
Snow whirled violently against the windscreen, diamond flakes from a dark, dark sky.
56
Calida joined the downtown traffic. Now she was actually doing it, now that the moment was here, she felt unexpectedly calm. Her sister’s hideout had been easy to find. Calida had hired an agency and within twenty-four hours they delivered the address.
Who else could have found it?
Could Scarlet have found it?
Astrid had called from Sweden. ‘Scarlet’s plotting something. I don’t know what. We have to act.’
The thought of Vittorio’s ex-wife wasn’t what terrified Calida. Somehow she couldn’t picture Scarlet exacting revenge; she was too frail, too wounded. It was more the thought of a hired pair of hands, some gangster deployed by Scarlet’s family, or some maniacal fan wanting to act on Scarlet’s behalf, his fingers closing around her twin’s purple, swollen throat. Every face Calida passed sent a current up her spine.
For a while, she became convinced there was a car following her.
Don’t be silly. Why would anyone be following you?
But she sped up to lose them all the same.
When she reached her sister’s building, she was astonished at how ordinary it looked. Where was her security? Where were the gates and wires and spot bulbs? Was this even the right place? But the address confirmed it was. Admittedly, it drew zero attention, but how was Teresita sleeping at night? Her sister had hated the dark when they were little, scared of the monsters and shadows that hid in the corners of their simple dwelling. In some way, Teresita had returned to that simplicity. She had cast off the rich sparkle of her Hollywood life and come back to her youth.
Calida climbed out of the car and on to the abandoned street. Somewhere, a dog barked. Snow came down hard, giant flakes sweeping through the tunnel of street lamps, skimming and settling on the road. With disappointment, she realised her sister’s house was deserted. The lights were off. It was still, quiet, dark.
A whistling funnel of wind howled a ghostly cry.
Calida watched the empty windows, staring back at her like unseeing eyes.
Checking behind, making sure she was alone, Calida scaled the fence. She dropped down the other side, stealthy as a cat, and felt a rush at finally being on her sister’s territory. So close … but where was Teresita?
A horrid thought overtook her that someone had beaten her to it.
Be OK. Please be OK.
The same thought she’d had as when they had raced to Diego’s death—but this wouldn’t end like that. This couldn’t. Calida would know if something bad had happened. She would feel it. She would know.
There was only one option. Calida lifted a rock and hurled it through the window. The glass smashed. She braced herself for the whine of an alarm—but none came. Breathing heavily, she advanced to the window and climbed through.
57
In the hall was a clock that had stopped. Its second hand ticked uselessly on the spot, the same instant repeated and repeated. Nine p.m. Friday, 19 December.
Calida went into the bedroom, careful not to put any lights on, and quickly her eyes adjusted to the dark. Teresita had decorated sparingly. On the dresser was a photo frame, turned down. Calida lifted it and met Simone Geddes, smiling back at her. There was a pebble on her sister’s bedside cabinet. Calida picked it up and held it in the palm of her hand. Without needing confirmation, she knew it was from home.
A sound. She jumped.
But it was only the snow hitting the window, and the cool, icy gust coming from the hall, where she had broken in. The slushy rush of car tyres passing …
Calida pulled open the closet. Inside, it was scant, most of the hangers bare, as if Tess had left in a hurry. She reached in and let a fabric dress slide off its mooring.
Holding it to her face, she inhaled its scent. Washing powder on top of something else, something deeper and more obscure; a fundamental scent that belonged in Teresita’s hair, behind her ears and in the hot, clinging arms that locked around Calida’s waist when they hugged good night.
In the dark, Calida could almost have been her twin. Her hair had grown out, about the same length as Tess’s, curling round her shoulders and down her back. Their figures were the same, their faces similar.
Without knowing why, Calida peeled off her clothes and dropped the dress over her head. She wanted to wear Tess for a moment. See how it felt in her skin.
58
The man parked out of sight.
From the glove compartment, he seized his binoculars, held them up to his face. He cursed the snow that swirled in his vision, obscuring the apartment from view. Lights all off. Fuck. Was she out? He would hang tight.
What were another few minutes, after decades of hate, after years spent hunting her down?
Cunt.
His fingers tingled with the anticipation of touching her. Perhaps he would have some fun first—he hadn’t decided. She was very pretty. Prettier than Marissa, even … Before Tess Geddes gave her life, she would give her body. Willingly. She would want it. It had been so long since he’d had a woman. He imagined her breasts and what they would feel like. Cupping them in his hands …
Before he slit her throat.
An involuntary gasp escaped the man’s lips. Shaking, he lowered the binoculars. The anticipation was too much to bear.
Hold on. Patience.
He would catch her. It was like fishing. Endurance. Calm.
Hook her in and bring her aboard, flailing, helpless, bright-eyed with panic. He couldn’t sit still with the adrenalin; his whole body was tense.
Then, there was movement. A swell of light
; a door opening, a shape …
Caught off-guard, the man fumbled for his kit. There was no time to think, no time to prepare, but that was OK—he had practised this a thousand times.
He unlocked the cab and swung down on to the street.
59
The light startled Calida. On opening the front door, she must have flicked a switch, illuminating the porch. At first she panicked that a siren was preparing to shriek, but there was nothing. Just silence. A second later, the light died.
She had come away with a lead. A number scrawled on a piece of paper, found in her sister’s room among a jumble of keys and notes:
Calida tucked the number in her pocket and crossed the street to return to her car.
As she did so, she noticed an old man struggling to get a parcel into the back of his van. He was heaving, fighting to lift it, and stopped to lean on the tailgate.
‘Are you all right?’ she asked, approaching him in the dark. Her street smarts prickled but then she saw his face—it was honest and open, hopeful.
‘Would you help me?’ the man asked.
His voice struck an odd chord, like a flat note in a piano piece.
He was old. That was all.
In the gloom, Calida tried to make out how old. It was hard. He was hunched, almost farcically so, like a dame in a pantomime. He wore a long and heavy coat.
‘Of course,’ she said.
It was Christmas. If she couldn’t help someone at Christmas, when could she?
‘Let me take this end.’ Calida heaved under the weight of the box; it was several feet long and heavy. ‘What have you got in here?’ she joked.
‘Christmas presents.’
‘For your family?’
His face was now completely engulfed by dark.
She wondered how clearly he could see her. Not very, she suspected.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘For my family.’
The man lifted the other end and stood in front of her. Calida’s back was to the open van and it made sense for her to step inside. A tinge of unease told her not to, but she quashed it: the evening had set her on edge, and little wonder. This man was a kindly father wishing to get his kids’ toys home to put under the tree.
She backed into the van.
‘There,’ she said, setting it down, ‘got it.’
‘Could you push in a little further?’ the man called. He put a hand to his lower spine, as if it was hurting. ‘Right in there … That’s it.’
She only turned for a moment. He must have moved like a gazelle. That heavy, unambiguous tread as his foot descended on the suspension, the bulk of his presence behind her. Then the smell … The cloying smell …
A cloth was jammed to her nose and mouth. He held her to him in an iron-vice grip and his breath was sour in her ear. ‘There, there,’ he groaned. ‘That’s the way …’
Calida collapsed. The world vanished in a pinch of absolute black.
60
Five blocks away, Daniel quit his car and wandered the streets on foot. He cursed himself for having lost Calida. She drove like the wind, weaving in and out of traffic; it had been all he could do to keep himself on the road.
Now what was he going to do?
He was beginning to lose hope when, a little way down the street, he saw a face he recognised. It was so out of context in this strange new city that Daniel did a double take, and even then thought he must be mistaken.
But, he wasn’t. The face recognised him too.
‘Señor Cabrera?’
The American began walking towards him.
Up close, he was just as surprised as Daniel was.
‘What are you doing here?’ asked the American.
The last time Daniel had seen this man was when he had sold him their farm. He had thought of the stranger so many times, sent like an angel into their lives, and now he was here, standing in front of him, a kind, inquisitive expression on his face.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ said Daniel.
‘That makes two of us,’ said the American.
Daniel wished he could remember his name—but then he didn’t need to, because the American held out his hand and offered it up.
‘Alex Dalton,’ he said. ‘Pleased to meet you again.’
61
NYchronicle.com/News/US-News/Tess-Geddes-disappearance
Live Feed, 10.31AM:
Concerns are mounting over the disappearance two nights ago of Hollywood superstar Tess Geddes. Ms Geddes was last seen leaving her New York home at 21:00 on Friday 19 December and no contact has been made with her since. The vanishing is described as ‘out of character’, despite the actress’s turbulent history. Friend and co-star Natalie Portis released this short statement yesterday: ‘Tess is a fighter. We knew she’d suffered the year from hell—but she knows better than that. She wouldn’t do anything stupid.’
It emerged this morning that Ms Geddes was accompanied by an unidentified female companion on the night of her disappearance. Police are now engaged in a hunt for this person, and witnesses are urged to come forward.
62
Calida was aware of movement. The road dashed beneath them, slick and wet, and she thought of melting snow, a running engine, rumbling and final.
Her head felt heavy and there was a strange, metallic smell. She couldn’t move. Panic fluttered, fast and hectic in her ribcage like a trapped bird. Up front, a shape was hunched, a horrid set to his shoulders of uncompromising intent—and more: pleasure. Exhilaration. He could not wait to reach the place he was going. He had longish hair; she could see it against the light coming through the windshield.
Who are you? Where am I?
Calida could feel the phone in her pocket, on autopilot fumbled for it and desperately tried 911. It bleeped the disconnection. Then she remembered the other digits, the ones she had taken down as she had left Tess’s place.
Easy to find, even through her addled brain. Recent additions.
Bingo.
She felt the phone spring to life.
Mia. Whoever you are, please pick up. Please pick up. Please.
Calida groaned. She tasted chemicals at the back of her throat, and retched.
He heard her. Too quick, too sudden, he reached into the back and a hard object slammed into her head. The black world consumed her whole.
63
Barcelona
In a top-floor studio off La Rambla, Tess and Mia disappeared off the face of the earth. Tess disconnected her phone, ignored the Wi-Fi and avoided going online.
Just the getaway they’d sought.
Barcelona was magical, shot through with dazzling lights. The women got lost in the teeming crowds that bustled through the city. They visited the Sagrada Familia and saw a show at the Gran Teatre del Liceu. They climbed Montjuïc and ate in late-night tapas bars, and listened to live music until the sun came up.
One morning, as the women stumbled home, Mia couldn’t stop talking about a Spanish painter she had met called Gabriel. Tess said, ‘You like him, don’t you?’
Mia couldn’t suppress the glint in her eye. ‘Do you think Alex has moved on?’ she asked, but it was more an appeal for permission than an enquiry.
‘I don’t know,’ said Tess, the words leaden in her throat.
The thought of Alex moving on made her ache, the same ache she had felt when she’d seen him at her wedding, when he’d held her before her car accident, when he’d become engaged to her best friend. It was stupid. She was drunk.
Alex wasn’t interested in her any more. The Vittorio scandal would have put paid to that. Pirate, you’re not the girl I thought you were …
Alex’s smile darted into her head. The firmness of his chest when she had first met him, bumping into him and spilling her drink down his shirt. Their journey back to Madame Comtois and the jacket he had left behind. She still had that jacket somewhere; it had never occurred to her to part with it.
‘I do like Gabriel,’ Mia confessed, unable to keep the smile off her fa
ce. ‘We talked all night. You know when you meet someone and it’s so easy to be yourself? Easier than you thought it could be. There must be a word for that.’
‘Soul mates.’
She remembered what Alex had said to her at her wedding to Steven Krakowski. She had been so mad with him then, but the reason she’d been mad was because he spoke the truth. He spoke to something inside that no one else could see.
You can’t deny where you came from. It’s inside you.
It’s part of you.
All this time, Tess had thought she was unable. That she would never love a man—she was too damaged. Love was a trap only fools fell into.
Then she guessed that made her a fool. Because the men had been wrong so far, not her. She had met the love of her life when she was fifteen.
Mia elbowed her. ‘Don’t be dumb.’ But she was grinning.
The women fell asleep around six, and didn’t get up until midday.
Mia had resurrected her phone short-term while she hoped that Gabriel would call. Next door, ringing silent and on the last bar of its power, it flickered to life, an unidentified number flashing across the screen.
64
New York
Usually, when Simone Geddes felt as downright abysmal as this, she would check into rehab. Now, she couldn’t check into rehab. Nowhere could numb the pain.
Tess was lost.
Her daughter had vanished. Every place, every corner, was demonic.
‘Simone, how are you coping? Have you heard anything?’ Reporters harassed her everywhere she went—and none worse than when she touched down at JFK.
I don’t know! Simone wanted to yell. Stay away from me!
It occurred to her what they wanted to hear: that Tess was dead. That would satisfy them, wouldn’t it—the hungry, circling vultures, their appetites sated until a fresher story came along? They had driven Tess to this. They had ruined her.