He moved to the large window facing the lawn and silently cursed when he saw that Duffy was still on duty. Having shed the flak jacket, his holstered guns (and sizeable beer gut) were on full display now as he drank coffee and chatted with a new man who had appeared on the scene. From his advanced age and conservative dress Warren assumed the man was the county coroner. His suspicion was confirmed when he spotted men in hazmat suits wheeling two stretchers towards the west wing.
Assuming he’d be allowed to leave at his leisure, Warren went to his room to pack up the few personal items he’d brought with him. Despite the trauma of the past few days, he felt a positive energy return to his body (and mind) as he threw on a light jacket and headed outdoors.
Duffy met him with a hard look. “Well, Mr. Mancusi, you’re in luck, at least for the time being.”
“Oh, and why is that?” Some of the old sarcasm crept back into Warren’s voice despite his effort to control it
“Mr. Atkinson, the man whose truck you stole, has decided not to press charges against you.”
“Terrific. I will pay for any damages and inconveniences, of course.”
“I’ll let him know you said that,” Duffy said, his flat, colorless eyes burrowing into him.
Warren detached himself from Duffy’s stare and took in the scene. More police had arrived, along with a local television van.
Here it comes, he thought, the Karla machine will explode when this hits the airwaves, and I don’t want to be anywhere near it when it does.
Noticing a squad car about to leave, Warren addressed Duffy with forced civility. “If those men are going back to town, do you think I could get a ride to the hospital? I want to check on my sister…If you don’t need me for anything else, that is.”
Duffy squinted in the mid-morning sunlight. “Sure. That’ll be all right, if you stay at the hospital. I might have some more questions for you.”
Warren's curt nod concealed that he had no intention of sticking around a hospital. Once he knew Jenna was safe, he’d immediately rent a car and drive back to Manhattan. If Duffy needed to reach him, he’d know where to find him.
An officer held the back door open for him, and Warren climbed in. He had never been inside a police car before, never been arrested or even pulled over for speeding. It was an odd feeling. The back seat smelled of grease and desperation, unsuccessfully masked with pine air freshener. It was also hot as hell. He went to open the window but realized he couldn’t. Same thing with the door. He could see Duffy talking with the officers in whose car he sat. One pointed in his direction and said something that caused the other officer to laugh, a dumb-ass look on his face that Warren would have loved to smack away. He could tell Duffy didn’t fully believe his story, but Jenna would confirm it soon enough, and hopefully he’d be back in the city by suppertime. He missed Peter so much it hurt.
On the drive into town, Warren allowed himself to think about Casper Volpe. Will he be devastated by the news? Were he and Bianca close? Should I call him? No. He can find out like the rest of the world…through the tabloids.
The squad car passed several news vans, heading in the opposite direction, towards the soon to be notorious White Wolf Camp, a once quiet piece of paradise, now forever associated with mass murder orchestrated by the world’s most famous pop star. It was an outrageous story. No wonder that detective was doubtful, Warren thought.
The squad car pulled up in front of the main entrance and Warren, grateful there were no reporters in sight, waited while the cops took their sweet time, fiddling with the radio and such, before getting out and opening the door for him. While he waited, he experienced an unsettling deja vu, the same feeling of being trapped in the limousine that had brought him to White Wolf Camp as part of Karla’s nefarious scheme.
Warren never wanted to feel trapped again, and as he walked through the automatic doors with the two officers on his heels, he vowed to himself that he never would be.
He approached the information desk and asked the obese woman on duty where he could find Jenna’s room. She pointed a stubby finger towards a set of chairs along the wall and told him to wait. Warren sat down on the hard orange plastic and sighed. A TV set mounted to the wall in one corner of the room came to life with breaking news.
Christ! Here it comes, Warren thought. I need to see Jenna now, to be with her when this shit hits the fan.
He stood and approached the desk again. “Excuse me, Miss.” He practically hissed through clenched teeth. “Can you please tell me where I can find my sister, Jenna Mancusi? It’s urgent that I see her…now.”
“And you are?”
“I am her brother, Warren Mancusi. What is her room number…please?” His voice strained with forced patience.
“Just a second.” She picked up the phone, and began pressing buttons.
“Jesus,” Warren sighed, glancing at the television. A lady in pink floral scrubs turned up the volume, and a local anchorman began the story.
Breaking news this morning. White Wolf Camp is the scene of what initial reports are calling a mass murder. Our news correspondent, Jill Hallway, is at the scene, speaking to the head of the county homicide division, Robert Duffy, who says at least nine people were killed here, and that the main suspect, who hasn’t yet been officially charged, is now in police custody.
“Huh?” Warren gaped.
“Excuse me.” The woman tapped on the desk.
“Yes?” Warren turned.
“Jenna Mancusi checked out this morning.”
“What?” All the color drained from Warren’s face.
“She checked out this morning. She was picked up by…” She glanced at the clipboard on the desk. “Warren Mancusi.”
“I’m Warren Mancusi, you idiot!”
“Sir.” The woman raised up her bulk in the chair. “I will not tolerate…”
“Shut the fuck up!” Warren shouted. The police officers who had brought him to the hospital took a step towards him.
Duffy spoke from the television screen.
Three of the victims were found right here in the lake, a male who appears to have been killed recently, and two very decomposed bodies that have both been here for a long time.”
“Are you saying this could possibly be a dumping ground for other murder victims?” The reporter asked breathlessly.
“Possibly.” Duffy grunted.
Warren’s head began to swim. “Wait!” He shouted at the screen. “Three bodies in the lake? What about Karla?”
Another officer who had just arrived, an older one with gray hair and a no-bullshit swagger, thumbs looped through his belt, addressed the woman at the desk. “What’s the problem?”
“This gentleman…” the woman pointed her stubby fingers at Warren. “…says he’s a patient’s brother, but I told him she checked out this morning.” A nurse returning from a cigarette break stopped at the desk to see what was going on.
The obese woman ignored her ringing phone and handed the nurse a clipboard. “Didn’t her brother check her out this morning?”
The nurse scanned the paper on the clipboard and nodded. “Yeah. He picked her up in a limousine. Remembered that German guy? He went back to the limousine, and then she just ran out and hopped right in and off they went.”
“Oh no!” Warren shouted as he flew through the front doors. They opened automatically with a hiss. Feeling his legs move in slow motion, like he was in a dream—a nightmare—he ran to the parking lot, knowing it was useless, knowing the limousine that carried Jenna away that morning was long gone.
The cops reached him before he cleared the parking lot. Was he tased, kicked, shot even? He wasn’t sure. All he knew was he had eaten warm concrete, and tasted blood in his mouth as two rough hands pulled his arms behind his back and slapped metal clamps on his wrists.
Then, with a sound like frenetic gulls on a beach battling each other over the scraps from an abandoned picnic, the tabloid photographers moved in, pushing, shouting, taunting, flashing light
s.
In that moment Warren understood everything: Karla had won.
19
Jenna lay on the floor of the limousine heading for the small airport in Albany where Karla’s private jet waited. It had gotten clearance to fly using one of Karla’s many aliases. Extreme wealth had its privileges.
Jenna had indeed run to the limo, believing that Warren was inside and ready to whisk them both back to their respective personal universes and away from the media madness that was about to engulf the small community surrounding White Wolf Camp. They would find anonymity in the big city.
In her haste to return to her old life, her new life, she didn’t see the young German chauffeur in the driver’s seat, or that behind the limo’s tinted windows was another one of Karla’s men. One of the drivers who now wore a somber black suit. He was strong and with Jenna’s arm in a sling he had no trouble subduing her; the needle he jabbed into her neck assured she wouldn’t wake until they were well on their way.
When Jenna regained consciousness and found herself seated in the tan leather comfort of the jet’s plush interior, the shades drawn over the small windows, the lights inside the cabin amber and dim. They were flying over the ocean by then. Except for the hum of the engines, the air was silent and vacant till the sound of Karla’s voice punctured it, bringing Jenna to a strange present reality. Karla instructed one of the men to remove the zip ties on Jenna’s hands. He did so, roughly, letting her know by his actions that she was still a prisoner. Then he joined the other members of her crew in a separate cabin in the front of the plane. Karla wished to be alone with her sister.
It took a few seconds for her eyes to focus on Karla, to really see her. At first she thought she was in a dream because Karla looked so beautiful. Maybe she had really dreamed all of it. Her mind raced to make sense of it:
I was crossing Broadway in my Upper West Side neighborhood when a cab nearly hit me, I jumped out of the way, but fell and hit my head, and any minute with Warren playing Auntie Em to my Dorothy and we’ll both have a good laugh. Toto too!
But Jenna’s reality was stranger, and more frightening, than any dream or nightmare she ever had as Karla’s slender figure, fashionably clad in a black silk jumpsuit, came into sharp view. Her hair, or rather the new wig she wore over her own straggly locks, was long and falling past her shoulders in loose platinum waves. Her face appeared beautiful, perfect, until Jenna realized she was looking at a mask, another latex mask designed specifically for Karla by some of the finest artisans in Europe. The mask was an exact replica of Karla’s face at its most beautiful: a perfect oval of impeccably flawless flesh draped over finely sculpted cheekbones, offset with arched dark eyebrows, and a generous mouth—sensuous without being vulgar, the lips and cheeks lightly tinted red. The face didn’t move, but the unmistakable blue eyes shone with fierce intelligence through its slits. And when she finally spoke to her captive, the silky voice echoed from behind the mask with calm assurance.
“I’m a strong swimmer. You think that lake can conquer me? Think again, Jenna. I’ve worked hard on this body, and next…” Karla theatrically framed her masked face with her hands. “We’ll be at the clinic in Zurich by morning. Dr. Weiss’s team of specialists is still in in residence there. After I make a generous contribution to their research fund I’m sure they’ll understand.”
She leaned forward languidly, sizing Jenna up from head to toe. “You know Bianca was right about you. You are beautiful. I’m sorry it took me so long to see it. ” Her hand on the plane’s curved wall to steady herself, she sat down on the arm of tan leather chair, her arm draping over Jenna’s shoulder, pressing down slightly on the still aching wound. Jenna could feel the heat of Karla’s breath whistling through the small hole in the mask where the lips formed.
“And now, you’ll always be a part of me. You’ll be as famous as me, after all, Jenna. It’s what you always wanted. The world will see your face and worship it.” Jenna could feel the panic rising from her chest.
“And Karla?” Karla said, her hand reaching around to stroke Jenna’s cheek, “she will make a glorious comeback.”
Jenna couldn’t speak. A soft moan from her throat was all she could manage. She knew that Karla was grinning from behind the mask, a lipless skeletal grin. She knew her fate now, knew there was no fighting it. She could attempt an escape, bolt towards the emergency exit, but what was the point? Karla’s men would get to her, and hurt her, and she hadn’t the strength to fight. Her only hope now was for the end to come quickly, and without pain.
Her little dream of a new life evaporated like the clouds behind the window shades. Two small tears slid down her face, one for herself, and one for the new life she would never know.
Karla pulled the bottle of pain pills the hospital had prescribed for Jenna from the pocket of her silk jumpsuit. There was a bottle of Cristal champagne on ice on the coffee table. Karla poured Jenna a full glass. Placed two pills in her palm and instructed Jenna to take them.
“Like a good girl,” she cooed. Jenna complied, washing down the pills with the champagne. She waited for their effect, and hoped there would be more, but Karla put the pills back in her pocket. Always in control, she would dole out the medicine as she saw fit, a reward for good behavior and compliance from her captive. She noticed the tears and brushed them away with soft fingers.
“Poor darling, are you bored?” Karla picked up a remote control. “This will entertain you,” she said and pressed a button. With a soft buzz, a flat screen TV emerged from the ceiling. She pressed another button and Karla’s most famous video popped on the screen. Karla settled back in the chair to watch, her shoulders snug against Jenna’s as they sat like two kids staying up to watch the late show. Karla’s dark blue eyes, the color of fresh blueberries, lit up at the sight of her own image, forever preserved at the height of its youth, beauty, and power. Singing along to her own voice blaring from the TV, Karla croaked out the song in Jenna’s ear. Gonna get your body, body, gonna get your body, body. Gonna get your body, body, get your body all night long now.
20
“Warren’s case did not go to trial. With the help of an excellent lawyer, he was able to plea to one count of second degree murder, an astounding victory considering the number of victims. A few strings were pulled, and instead of ending up on Riker’s Island with hardened criminals he was allowed the distinction of living out the next forty-five years of his life in a state prison for non-violent offenders serving long sentences.
His cellmate, a jovial man named Stanford—married with two kids—was serving a twenty year sentence for running a hedge-fund Ponzi scheme that bilked some rich New Yorkers for millions. The two of them formed a fast friendship, and in recent months, an open romance. Most of the men were cool with it, and Warren was ready to take on anyone who wasn’t. Prison had honed his I don’t give a shit attitude to a sharp point. He would willingly fight to the death for just about anything that smacked of disrespect.
The stress and the distance eventually ended his relationship with Peter. After one particularly lengthy and painful letter that Warren just didn’t have the energy to answer, Peter stopped writing altogether. Warren was relieved in a way. Thinking about Peter and everything else he’d lost hurt too much. His life was here now, with Stanford, and as difficult as it was, he managed to whittle out a rich existence within a limited scope.
The food was terrible and his body aged quickly, but he adapted. He spent his days reading law books, and corresponding with the New York state branch of The Innocence Project about his case. Stanford believed him, telling him on many occasions that once some of his offshore accounts thawed out, he’d help Warren in any way he could. He hoped it would all work out one day, but in the meantime he had a life and he was living it day-by-day as best he could.
Friday nights the men from his cellblock were allowed to watch movies on TV in the common area. Warren had petitioned and won the job of program director, and from Wednesday through Friday afternoon he met
iculously planned the event. It took some of the men time to get used to the TCM movies Warren insisted they watch, but after a few screenings even the roughest among them admitted they were damn good, and much better than the action crap they were used to seeing. Warren enjoyed watching grown men weep at Stella Dallas and Dark Victory, and stand and cheer when Cagney shouted Top of the world! He and Stanford would giggle about it later, and at times he felt genuinely happy.
One Friday night, before TCM was about to screen Warren’s favorite film, Mildred Pierce, the TV host addressed the camera to introduce the program guest: usually an aging movie star most of the incarcerated men had never heard of. But this time when the curtains parted and the host began to speak, Stanford’s mouth fell open and he reached for Warren’s hand. One man lunged for the remote control to turn it off, but Warren screamed, “No!”
The common room of condemned men fell silent as Karla shimmied across the television studio stage in a form-fitting white sequined gown, her trademark platinum blond hair falling in soft waves around her face—an immaculate representation of her once youthful beauty. Something was slightly off in the way women of a certain age who’ve had a few minor nips and tucks appeared—different but still beautiful. Improved, refreshed, a second youth of smooth bright skin, preternaturally white teeth, and shining eyes—all polished to a high gloss with expertly applied make-up. The overall effect was wondrous—near perfect. It was Jenna’s face. Warren could see that immediately, only a smoothed out version of it.
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