Mistress of the Game

by Sidney Sheldon

  Oh, Daddy! I knew you’d come.

  That was when it hit her.

  The silence.

  Her mouth was shaping words. She could feel the sound of them in her chest, feel her breath pushing them out into the room. But she couldn’t hear them. With slow dawning horror, she realized that she couldn’t hear anything.

  Dad.

  She tried the word again.

  Daddy!

  She started to panic. It was the same feeling of terror she had waking up in the kidnappers’ car. Dizzyness, racing heart, nausea. Her mind flashed back to the mill. She was in her bed in the cell. The door creaked open. The pig! He was moving toward her.

  One word and I will slit your throat.

  Lexi threw back her head and screamed.

  “What’s happening?” Peter panicked. The noise Lexi was making was earsplitting, bloodcurdling, like nothing he’d ever heard before. Like an animal being slaughtered. “For God’s sake, somebody help her!”

  The woman doctor moved toward them, but Lexi wouldn’t let her near, clinging to Peter like a baby chimpanzee to its mother. Her screams got louder. Her nails were digging into Peter’s shoulder. Blood seeped onto his shirt.

  “Do something!”

  The doctor filled a syringe, but it was difficult. The child was wriggling uncontrollably. Pulling aside Lexi’s hospital gown, she made a lunge, sinking the needle into her thigh.

  Lexi’s eyes widened with shock. Then suddenly her small body relaxed. She was a rag doll in Peter’s arms.

  Peter laid her down softly on the bed. He was shaking.

  “What the hell was all that about?”

  “It could be any number of things,” the doctor explained. “Please. Sit down.”

  Mindlessly Peter pushed the teddies onto the floor and sank into the visitors’ chair.

  “We need to run some more tests. Your daughter…there are signs of…mistreatment.”

  Peter looked blank. He noticed that the doctor had hazel eyes that matched her hair and a smattering of freckles on the bridge of her nose.

  “There’s no easy way to say this, I’m afraid. But we believe Lexi may have been sexually assaulted, Dr. Templeton. In addition to the trauma of her abduction, there are signs…”

  The doctor’s voice trailed off. She may still have been speaking, but Peter heard nothing except a low ringing in his ears. The ringing turned into a rumble, then a clatter, like a train gaining speed as it hurtled down the track:

  Sexual assault, sexual assault, sexual assault…

  He put his hands over his ears.

  “Dr. Templeton? Are you all right?”

  “She’s eight years old. She’s a baby.”

  Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  “I know it’s a lot to take in.” The doctor’s hands were on his, warm, sympathetic. “Try to hold on to the fact that she’s alive. No burns, no serious injury, other than her hearing, of course. Agent Edwards saved her life.”

  “Her hearing?”

  “That’s what I’ve been telling you, Dr. Templeton. We need to run some more tests. But you should try to prepare yourself for the worst. There’s a strong chance that your daughter may never be able to hear again.”

  ELEVEN

  GABE MCGREGOR HAD TOLD HIS MOTHER HE COULD TAKE care of himself. But he proved to be a poor prophet.

  Although by no means stupid, Gabe was dyslexic and easily bored. As a result, he had left school at sixteen without any qualifications, despite being naturally good with numbers. He arrived in London with nothing but his good looks, optimism and fifty pounds in cash in his back pocket. Work was scarce.

  “I’m a hard worker. I know I’ll have to start at the bottom. What about the mail room?”

  He was sitting opposite the head of human resources at May & Lorriman, an investment bank in the city.

  “I’m sorry, son, but this isn’t a Michael J. Fox movie. Even our mail boys have a minimum of five GCSEs-General Certificates of Secondary Education.”

  The head of human resources felt sorry for Gabe, but there was nothing she could do. Rules were rules. She’d only agreed to see him because he’d shown up at the office every morning for the past week, begging for an interview.

  Undaunted, Gabe set off down Moorgate, determined not to leave the City, London’s famous financial district, till he had a foot in the door. But it was the same story everywhere.

  “You’ll have to submit a written application,” said Merrill Lynch.

  “Three A-levels or equivalent is our minimum qualification for back office,” said Goldman Sachs.

  “We don’t hire casual workers,” said Deutsche Bank.

  Gabe was baffled.

  The banks all claim to want “entrepreneurs.” Applicants who can “think outside the box,” that’s what their brochures say. But show a bit of entrepreneurial spirit and they slam the door in your face.

  Next he tried the real-estate agencies. There was plenty of money in property, and at the end of the day it was a sales job. I can do that. Foxtons, Douglas & Gordon, Knight Frank, Allsop’s. Gabe tried them all, knocking on doors, tramping the streets of London from Kensington to Kensal Rise till his feet ached and his head throbbed.

  I don’t need a salary. I’ll work on commission.

  All I’m asking for is a chance.

  I’m sorry, son.

  You need A-levels.

  Go back to school.

  Depressed and defeated, Gabe finally began looking for manual work, but even that was tough. The Irish had a stranglehold on construction in the capital and were loath to dole out work to a Scot with no friends to recommend him.

  Have you worked on a site before, lad?

  No.

  What’s your trade, jock? Electrician?

  No.

  Plumber?

  No.

  You must have some skills?

  Gabe sat on the single bed in his dirty council flat in Walworth. He was hungry, tired, lonely and broke.

  You must have some skills. He’s right. I must. What are my skills? What the hell am I good at?

  For twenty minutes, Gabe stared at the wall, his mind a blank. Then it came to him:

  Women. He was good with women.

  Women loved Gabe McGregor. They always had. At school, Gabe regularly charmed his way out of trouble with women teachers, and got the bright girls in his class to do his homework for him. With his broken nose and rugby player’s physique, he was not classically handsome. But one look into his playful, spirited gray eyes and grown women had been known to go weak at the knees. Gabe was a natural flirt, a bad boy who needed mothering. It was a lethally attractive combination to the opposite sex.

  How the hell do I make money out of that?

  Gabe took a shower and changed into his one clean pair of pants and a white linen shirt. Grabbing his last few pounds in change, he walked down to the Elephant and Castle and caught a bus to Knightsbridge.

  Thirty minutes later he was standing on Sloane Street. It was six o’clock on a warm July evening, and the stores and bars were still busy. All around him Gabe saw rich, beautifully dressed women. They poured out of Chanel and Ungaro in their Gucci heels and diamonds, flicking their expensively dyed hair as they strode past. Often they were in groups, chatting and laughing as they swung their Harrods shopping bags, sipping flutes of champagne on the sidewalk cafés. Sometimes they were alone. Never, or almost never, were they with a man.

  Where are all the husbands? Still at the office in Goldman Sachs, with their A-levels and degrees from sodding Harvard, earning the money to pay for all this designer clobber.

  More fool them.

  One woman caught Gabe’s eye. Brunette, attractive, in her late thirties or early forties, she was standing outside Harvey Nichols, glancing impatiently at her expensive Patek Philippe watch. Whoever was meeting her was evidently late. Irritated, she stuck out her arm to hail a cab, then thought better of it, instead disappearing back into the store.

  Gabe ran a
fter her. The driver of a Jaguar E-type beeped at him furiously as he stepped blindly into the traffic.

  “Wanker! Have you got a bloody death wish or something?”

  But Gabe didn’t hear. Plunging through the double doors into Harvey Nichols, he caught up with the woman just as she was stepping into the elevator.

  “You’re in a hurry.” She laughed as the doors whooshed closed. Gabe realized he was panting, he’d been running so fast. “Thirsty?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I said you must be thirsty. This lift goes directly to the fifth-floor bar. Is that what you wanted?”

  Gabe grinned. Up close she looked older, perhaps midforties, but she had good legs and the sort of naughty, mischievous smile that boded well for what he had in mind.

  “Absolutely.”

  Her name was Claire, and Gabe lived with her-lived off her-for a month, till she finally decided enough was enough.

  “You’re lovely, darling, you know you are. But I can’t spend the rest of my life with a boy young enough to be my son.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’s exhausting! This morning I fell asleep in the middle of a deposition. I’m a partner in a law firm, Gabe, I’m not Maggie May. Besides, it’s time you found yourself something to do.”

  Gabe found himself something to do the next morning. Her name was Angela.

  After Angela came Caitlin, Naomi, Fiona and Thérèse. For the first year, life was good. He still had no security. No savings. But he moved from one luxury West End apartment to the next, wore clothes that were not made of polyester and did not scratch, dined at London’s finest restaurants, enjoyed regular sex with a string of grateful, well-preserved older women, and had access to more first-class cocaine than he knew what to do with.

  At first the coke was under control. Gabe enjoyed the odd line at parties and that was it. But as the boredom and emptiness of his days began to bite (there were only so many times you could go to the gym or go shopping while your girlfriend went to work) the charlie became a lunchtime habit, too. Pretty soon he was getting high at breakfast. That was when the trouble started.

  Fiona, a divorced Internet entrepreneur with a stunning Chelsea town house, kicked Gabe out when she came home early from work and caught him snorting drugs off her Conran walnut coffee table with her fourteen-year-old daughter.

  Thérèse called it a day after money started going missing from her purse.

  “That’s funny. I’m sure I had a hundred in my wallet. Didn’t I stop at the Lloyds cash point last night?”

  “Christ, babe, I don’t know. What am I, your mother?”

  It was Gabe’s anger that raised her suspicions. Convinced she was being paranoid, but scared of being burned again, Thérèse waited till Gabe was away in St. Tropez for the weekend and had surveillance cameras secretly installed in the bedroom.

  Two weeks later, Gabe was out on the street.

  He wasn’t a bad kid at heart. But the drugs took all the decent sides of his personality-the humor, the warmth, the loyalty-and swallowed them whole. He moved on from coke to heroin. Soon all that was left was a husk, a physical shell. Then even that began to crumble. Gabe lost weight. His teeth began to discolor. Without knowing how he got there, he found himself sleeping in doorways and shoplifting to be able to buy food.

  He had always had a vivid, active imagination. Now, as his reality became grimmer and grimmer, he retreated ever more into the fantasy world he created for himself. He was a banker, a lawyer, a success. He was rich and respected. His mother was proud.

  The house was a grand Victorian mansion. Walthamstow was a rough area, but good transport links to the City meant that the nicer streets had become gentrified. Quite a few young, professional families were moving there, priced out of West London by the Arabs and the Russians. You got more house for your money, but you also got some unsavory neighbors.

  Gabe was staying at a homeless shelter a few blocks away. He had next to no memory of that night. A few images, half-remembered dreams. His hand, bleeding. The sound of the sirens. Everything else he’d heard from the police the morning after.

  He broke in at around one A.M., high as Mount Kilimanjaro. The police assumed his intention was burglary, although he may simply have been confused and looking for shelter. In any event, he never got the chance to steal anything. The owner of the house, a father of three in his late thirties, heard a noise downstairs and confronted Gabe, swinging at him with a lamp. Gabe picked up the poker from the fireplace and proceeded to “defend himself,” hitting the guy repeatedly in the head and upper body. He beat him so appallingly that when the wife came downstairs, she thought her husband was dead.

  The police arrested Gabe at the scene. He made no attempt to flee, largely because he didn’t know where he was, or what he was supposed to have done.

  “Will the defendant please rise.”

  Gabe was staring into space, lost in thought. He was in a Plexiglas box in the corner of the courtroom. Michael Wilmott, his lawyer, had told him it was bulletproof. Only defendants who were considered a danger to the magistrates or court officials were placed behind the Plexiglas walls.

  They think I’m dangerous. A dangerous criminal.

  “Stand up, please, Mr. McGregor.”

  Gabe stood up.

  “Due to the serious nature of this offense, to which you have wisely pleaded guilty, I am obliged to refer your case to the crown court for sentencing.”

  Refer? Gabe looked at his lawyer hopefully. Does that mean they’re letting me out? He hadn’t had a hit in three days and was beginning to feel desperate. The Plexiglas was making him claustrophobic.

  “Your request for bail is denied. You will be remanded in custody until the date of your next hearing, provisionally set for October fourth. Presentence reports…”

  Gabe wasn’t listening.

  You will be remanded in custody.

  His gray eyes pleaded with the magistrate. She was a woman after all. But she looked at him impassively, turned and left the room. His lawyer’s hand was on his arm.

  “Keep your head down,” Michael Wilmott muttered. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Then he, too, was gone. Two armed police escorted Gabe toward the cells. Later, he would be transferred to prison.

  Prison! No! I can’t! I have to get out of here!

  No one heard the voices. They were all in his head.

  TWELVE

  “BUT WHY DO WE HAVE TO GO?” MAX WEBSTER SWUNG HIS legs impatiently, kicking the back of the chauffeur’s seat. “We hate the Templetons.”

  “Nonsense, Max,” Keith Webster said firmly. “We don’t hate anyone. Especially not family.”

  Max was traveling across town with his parents to visit his cousin, Lexi in the hospital. Three weeks after her dramatic rescue, she was finally allowed visitors. Keith Webster had insisted to Eve that they should be the first.

  By now the whole of America knew about Lexi’s kidnap ordeal. Miraculously, Agent Edwards had persuaded the media to hold fire on the story while Lexi was missing. Any press coverage might have put her life in jeopardy, and neither Rupert Murdoch nor Ted Turner wanted Blackwell blood on their hands. But after the debacle at the New Jersey mill, it was open season on the juiciest story to hit the headlines in a generation:

  EIGHT-YEAR-OLD HEIRESS KIDNAPPED, DEAFENED IN BUNGLED RESCUE

  KRUGER-BRENT CHILD MUTE AFTER TRAUMA

  FBI HERO FIGHTS FOR LIFE

  BLACKWELL KIDNAPPERS STILL AT LARGE

  Rumors that Lexi had been abused, or even raped, reverberated around Manhattan high society, adding a delicious frisson of excitement to the summer’s party circuit.

  Peter heard none of the whispers and read none of the headlines. He had not left the hospital since Lexi was admitted. At night, he kept a constant vigil at her bedside. During the days, he held her hand through the battery of tests, treatments and therapy sessions that had become the new normality for both of them. His hopes had soared when the docto
rs told him that cochlear implants might restore Lexi’s hearing. But after a severe allergic reaction to the first device, Peter refused to put her through any more operations. “She’s already been through so much.” He did not ask the doctors when they thought Lexi would be able to come home. The prospect terrified him. He dreaded the day when the comforting routine of Mount Sinai would be snatched away and he would be left to care for Lexi alone.

  What if he couldn’t do it? What if he failed her again?

  The thought brought tears to his eyes.

  In New Orleans, Robbie watched the news reports of his sister’s progress on television. He was staying at the apartment of a man he’d met in a piano bar the night he arrived in the city: Tony. Tony was in his midthirties, a writer, and though he was neither particularly attractive nor wildly dynamic, he was kind and reliable. Tony’s apartment was a run-down two-bedroom perched above a restaurant that sold nothing but Cajun chicken. The smell of grease, salt and chicken fat had seeped into everything, from the curtains to the carpets, couch and sheets.

  Dom Dellal had chickened out at the last moment and decided to stay in New York, but Robbie wasn’t sorry. He needed a fresh start. Tony had given him one.

  “What are you watching?”

  Tony’s voice drifted in from the kitchen, but Robbie didn’t reply. His eyes were glued to the screen and the Asian reporter standing outside Mount Sinai Medical Center.

  “Eight-year-old Alexandra Templeton was admitted here in the early hours of this morning, along with an adult male said to be in critical condition.”

  They cut to footage of firefighters battling thirty-foot walls of flame in what looked like an old factory.

  “The story just breaking is one of the most dramatic, if not the most dramatic, to involve the celebrated Blackwell family. It appears that the child, Alexandra, known as Lexi, was abducted from her home more than two weeks ago by persons unknown, and that a ransom of ten million dollars was demanded. Last night, a top secret rescue operation was launched involving both the FBI and the Marine Corps. All we know right now is that the little girl, Alexandra Templeton, is alive. A number of other individuals involved in last night’s operation are reported to have died in the fire. More on this incredible story as we get it…”