Randall had been right. I felt happy, welcome; there were no awkward questions, no probing remarks. For the first time in I didn’t even know how long I had an overwhelming sense of belonging, of content. I could have been a part of his family all along. And from the gratified looks Randall gave both me and the rest of his family, I knew he was feeling the same way.
Before I knew it, however, the evening was over, all of us so torpid with food that Randall and I could barely muster the energy it took to drag ourselves out the front door. The hug Denise gave me in farewell was much more welcome than the one she had given me in greeting. It seemed she was very pleased with me, both for Randall’s sake and for my own, and I was inwardly relieved that I had made such a good impression on her.
The drive back to Pasadena was quiet, both Randall and I so full that even speech was an effort. He laid his right hand on mine for most of the trip, though, as he navigated the twisting Pasadena Freeway up through the arroyos and I listened to the soft melodies of a string quartet on the car radio. I felt at peace, drifting with the music and the slight lightheadedness caused by my last glass of wine, savoring the pressure of his hand on mine.
My street in Pasadena was quiet, the homes sleeping under a dreamy cloud-flecked night sky barely illuminated by a fingernail moon. We paused on the porch as I unlocked the front door and opened it, letting out a narrow bar of golden light from the lamp I had left on in the front room.
“I had a wonderful time,” I said, knowing that he was about to kiss me
“So did I,” he replied, and brought his mouth to mine, warm and welcome.
We stood like that for a long moment, until at last I broke away, still feeling the pressure of his lips.
“It’s late,” I said, knowing even then the words were inadequate.
“I know.” He reached out, traced the curve of my lower lip with his forefinger, then said, “I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I smiled, then gave him a second kiss, this time not as lingering but just as intense. “Good night.”
And with that I slid in through the open door, into the familiar shabbiness of my living room. The afterglow was still with me as I deposited my purse on the drop-leaf table and went on to wash my face and climb into a ratty but comfortable USC jersey and yoga pants, my usual sleeping attire during the cold months. Tired and full as I was, just a few moments passed before I dropped into dreamless sleep...only to be wakened either a few seconds or an eternity later by a pair of dark forms that seemed to coalesce from the blackness to place implacable hands on my throat and mouth. I bucked up in my bed, at first not sure whether I was experiencing a very realistic nightmare, and then there was a sudden sharp pain as a needle pricked my arm, and I fell again into blackness, swirling down into nothingness.
There was so much that could have gone wrong, even though he and Jerome had tried to plan for every contingency. So many things that could have disrupted his careful plots, but, in the end, all his worries were for naught. Even Jerome said it had been absolutely textbook.
As much as Erik had wanted to be the one to take Christine from her bed, he knew that it was utter folly to risk himself in that way, and so had allowed the task to be carried out by the men Jerome had hired, men who had been paid extremely well to execute the kidnapping and then disappear afterward.
They had waited until a little after two in the morning, a time when Christine’s neighbor had long since departed for his graveyard shift and the rest of the street slept, unaware of the crime taking place in the shabby little bungalow at number 572. An unexpected piece of good luck had come their way when the two girls who lived next to Christine on the other side of her home had packed up late Wednesday night and departed for destinations unknown. Really, it would have required men with less expertise than those he had hired to pull into the alley behind her bungalow with their phony cable television van, pick the lock on her back door, then drug her and disappear out that same door, all in less than two minutes. For all his and Jerome’s precautions, there were no watching eyes to record what had happened to Christine Daly.
Erik did not know the kidnappers’ names. “The less you know, the better,” Jerome had said, and Erik knew he was right. Just as he knew very little about the drug they’d administered to Christine, save that it would knock her out immediately and keep her out for some hours, during which time she would gradually slip into normal sleep.
“No real side effects,” Jerome replied in answer to Erik’s anxious questions. “She might feel a little pukey in the morning—some people do—but she’ll be up and walking around in no time.”
The ersatz cable van had come nowhere near Erik’s home. Jerome met the kidnappers at a deserted construction site, had them transfer her to the back seat of his anonymous rented compact car, paid them the balance of their fees in cash, and then drove her himself on a winding route through Pasadena before finally arriving with her a little after three in the morning.
Now she lay in her elegant canopied bed, an unexpected fairy-tale princess with her pale face and faded red and gold USC jersey. He stood there in the half-darkness, watching as the soft golden light from her bedside lamp gently illumined her face. It would be easy, so easy to reach out and touch her, to lay his lips against the curve of her delicate cheek. Lost in the darkness of her drugged sleep, she would never know.
With a low moan he turned, the ache of his desire for her like a cramping pain through his body. Instead, he placed on the night stand his first gift to her, a bouquet of white roses, wondering if she would notice that amongst all the white, one red rose bloomed—one red rose for the love he hoped would prove triumphant....
Chapter 12
In my dreams I was drowning, struggling through a black sea to a dim shore that seemed to recede even as I reached out toward it. The waves broke over my head, and I slipped down, gasping, choking...
With a cough, I rolled over in bed and opened my eyes. For a few seconds I stared at the canopy of rose-hued silk without really focusing on it, and then I blinked and reopened my eyes. At first I thought this was just a bizarre continuation of my dream, but it looked real enough. Slowly I pushed myself up, groggy and just the slightest bit nauseated. I had to take several deep breaths before I felt sufficiently recovered to look around me.
I was lying in a huge four-poster bed, its canopy draped with a lush rose-colored material with the sheen and luster of silk. The room in which the bed was situated was equally huge; you could have put my entire bungalow in there with room to spare. Directly opposite the bed were three tall mullioned window that let in the soft light of a cloudy morning. Each window was hung with elegant brocade drapes in soft tones of rose, blue, and cream, shades echoed in the enormous Persian rug that covered the entire floor, with only the faintest hint of hardwood appearing at each of its edges.
Memory started to return—the dark figures in my room last night, the sting of a needle. I found the tender spot on my upper left arm with the index finger of my right hand. Yes, it was real, as was the elegant room around me.
I was immeasurably relieved to find that I still had on the shabby USC jersey and yoga pants I’d worn to bed the night before. As far as I could tell, the only ill effects I’d suffered from the kidnapping were the tenderness of my arm and a faint lingering nausea —no doubt the lingering remnants of whatever drug they had given me. And although I wasn’t exactly sure what to look for, I was fairly sure that I had not been touched or molested in any way. That, apparently, had not been the motive.
With a faint moan I lowered myself from the bed—it was much higher than the narrow daybed I slept on at home—and stood, taking stock of my surroundings. The far wall to my left had been painted with an exquisite mural of what looked like an enchanted countryside of gently rolling hills, fields of flowers, and an Italian villa in the distance, all under a dreamy sky worked with billowy clouds that were faintly touched with pink. A beautifully carved table flanked by a pair of rose-upholstered chairs stood against
the mural. On the table was an elegant gold-leafed lamp and one of those expensive little Bose radios. From it I could faintly hear the sound of a violin concerto.
Past the table an arched doorway opened into another room; I made my way over to it and peered inside. It was a charming little sitting room, outfitted with a comfortable-looking armchair and matching footstool, and several tall carved bookcases filled with books. In here was another mullioned window.
Feeling bolder now, I stepped up to the window and looked out. Any thoughts I might have had of picking up the footstool or some other easily hefted piece of furniture and using it to break the glass vanished immediately. The window was fitted with narrow bars that didn’t do much to block the view but were obviously very capable of keeping me trapped in here. And as far as I could tell, breaking the glass just so I could scream for help probably wouldn’t do me any good, either.
The window overlooked a marble-paved loggia edged with a carved stone balustrade. To one side a set of wide, shallow steps led down to a formal rose garden, with some late blooms still lifting their heads to the halfhearted November light. After the rose garden came wide green lawns that stretched as far as I could see to either side until they were finally met with a tall edging of pine trees and Italian cypress. To my left a smaller path ended somewhere near a reflecting pool, around which weeping willows trailed their narrow branches down to the water. Directly ahead but at least several hundred yards away was some sort of gazebo or summerhouse in gray stone, almost hidden in a stand of gray-barked trees that lifted their elegant bare arms to the half-clouded sky.
It should have been a beautiful scene, but all I could do was look at it in despair. This place—whatever and wherever it was—seemed so isolated, so closed in on itself. I saw no evidence of any nearby streets or neighbors, no one who could hear my cries for help even if I did break the windows.
As I reentered the main bedroom area, I noticed for the first time the bouquet of white roses that stood on one of the carved marble-topped night stands. Moving closer, I reached out to touch one velvety petal. What sort of kidnapper would leave a vase full of roses for his victim? There had to be at least three dozen of them in the crystal urn-shaped vase, some still tightly shut, a few just beginning to open. Almost hidden amongst the sea of white buds and green accent leaves was one dark red rose, opening its brave petals like a crimson kiss.
Wondering, I stood looking at it for a long moment. I knew that red roses signified true love, while white roses could indicate reverence or humility, or love that still lay sleeping. Was this offering a message? Who could have possibly taken such desperate measures, just to leave me a bouquet of roses that stirred only questions?
Swallowing hard, trying to ignore the pounding of my heart in my breast, I looked past the roses to see another arched opening in the wall. I walked through and saw that I was in a little antechamber decorated only with a gilt mirror and matching long-legged table, on which stood a delicate orchid in a beautifully painted oriental pot. More importantly, however, I saw that opposite the mirror was a heavy wooden door with carved panels.
I pounced on the handle and tried to turn it. Locked, of course. Then I noticed that it was shut with a very businesslike deadbolt, the kind that needs a key on either side to lock it.
At last I let the panic and anger I had kept carefully in check over the past few minutes burst out, and I pounded on the door, not caring that my fists soon ached from the punishment of beating on the unyielding surface.
“Hey!” I screamed, facing the door, wondering if my unknown captor stood outside the door, listening to me carry on. The thought fueled my rage even further. “You can’t do this! This is America, for Chrissake!”
Silence, of course. What had I been expecting—for someone to open the door immediately, issue an apology, and call me a cab?
“Listen, you bastards! You’re committing a felony!”
Again the unanswering quiet. If anyone was listening, apparently the fact that they had committed a federal offense was not a source of huge worry.
Finally I stopped pounding on the door. My fists hurt and so did my throat. It was quite obvious that I could stand here and scream all day, and no one would heed my cries. Had I been locked in here and then abandoned?
Defeated for the moment, I turned back into the bedroom and went on to open a door on the other side of the room, a door that opened into a private bathroom.
“Bathroom,” however, seemed too prosaic a word to apply to the opulent chamber which greeted me, a chamber that bore about as much resemblance to the cramped cubicle at my bungalow as a Rolls Royce did to a Yugo. It was easily the size of my living room at home, the walls, floors, and counters covered with a soft rosy marble with faint cream veining. Soft cream-colored rugs were placed strategically beside the sunken bathtub and the separate shower stall; a mirrored tray on the counter held a bottle of Évian water and a crystal glass. From the back of the door hung a plush-looking robe in a deep sapphire blue.
Despite myself, I couldn’t help letting out a nervous little laugh. Help, I’m being held captive at the Ritz-Carlton! I thought, moving to open the bottle of Évian. I figured it was safe, since the bottle was still sealed, and besides, I was thirsty, my voice raw from shouting. Taking a few much-needed sips of water, I looked around again.
Along the ledge that ran the length of the bath was a series of potted ferns, while just above them was another window, this one of frosted glass. I could make out the shadow of more bars beyond the window—no escape that way, either. At the foot of the bath were several jars of expensive-looking bath salts and a cube of lavender-scented soap in a porcelain dish. I found all this preparation ironic, since I had never been much of a bath person. I never could see the point of soaking for hours and hours the way some women apparently did, but that might have been because I had just never had time for that kind of luxury.
I set down the crystal water glass and opened one door of the enormous Venetian glass medicine cabinet that hung over the sink. Inside were a toothbrush still in its wrapping, a new box of toothpaste, a new package of dental floss, a few other personal-care items, and apparently the full line of facial products from an extremely expensive designer. The rest of the cabinet was empty—apparently my captor wasn’t about to trust me with any analgesics or other over-the-counter remedies. Curious, I opened the drawer on one side of the sink and found an assortment of new cosmetics, still in their original packaging, all from the same designer brand. Someone had obviously gone to a lot of trouble and expense to make sure I was provided for while I was here—never mind that I usually ran out the door with only mascara and lip gloss for makeup, unless I was going to work.
At the far side of the bathroom was another door. I put my hand on the knob, thinking it must be locked—what else could there be in the elegant suite that comprised my prison? But instead the doorknob turned easily, opening into the biggest walk-in closet I had ever seen. There was a light switch next to the door, and I flicked it on, bringing to life a delicate crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling in the center of the closet.
I say “closet,” but it was really a small room, complete with a compact rose-upholstered chaise lounge in the center—for reclining upon while trying to decide what to wear, I presumed. It looked like something out of a magazine, one of those glossy spreads where you were given a guided tour of the wardrobes of some of the world’s richest and most spoiled women. At that moment I had to count myself among their ranks, because the room was full of clothes, all carefully organized according to color and type; one wall was made up entirely of shoes, each pair placed in its own little cedar cubbyhole. At random I pulled a chic bouclé jacket from one rack, peering inside at the label. I didn’t know much about clothes—with my budget, the most designer I usually got was the clearance rack at the local discount store—but even I recognized the name of Chanel. A little awed, I hung the jacket back in its place, then looked around me again.
Placed be
neath the rack that held jackets, blouses, and other shorter items was a pretty little dresser that matched the other furniture in the bedroom. I assumed it held lingerie or sweaters, items that needed to be folded. But when I pulled out the drawer, it was all I could do to keep from gasping out loud. Inside was a black velvet inset with carefully molded compartments, and against the velvet glittered a constellation of jewels.
I knew even less about gems than I knew about clothes, but I knew enough to recognize emeralds, sapphires, rubies...all set with diamonds, in improbably intricate necklaces and earrings and rings, all so glorious that at first I thought they couldn’t possibly be real. I didn’t want them to be real. If they were, how many hundreds of thousands—or even millions—of dollars glimmered up at me from that drawer? What kind of resources could my captor have, to conjure all this glory just for me?
My hands were shaking. I closed the drawer carefully, fearful of the treasures within. It was too much. Trying to stay calm, I told myself that at least immediate dismemberment or worse didn’t seem to be on the agenda; I couldn’t imagine the worst psychopath furnishing a luxurious suite with such riches if the victim weren’t going to be around to enjoy them for a while. Whatever was planned for me, death didn’t seem to be it, at least for now.
What I really wanted was a hot shower and a change of clothes, and since both amenities had been prepared so amply for me, I decided to go ahead and take care of myself. After a quick check of the bathroom for any obvious cameras—feeling foolish, I couldn’t find any—I turned on the water and stepped into the luxury of a shower where the water pressure was just right and the hot water apparently inexhaustible. Some high-end shampoo and conditioner especially designed for curly hair had been left in the shower for me; apparently my captor had thought of everything to keep me comfortable for an extended period of time.
No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale Page 12