by John Lutz
After the police had taken her statement, then David’s, they talked to Chumley again. And they listened again to Deirdre’s message on the answering machine, then confiscated the cassette and slid it into a yellow evidence envelope. Another detective, who seemed to outrank Salter and Marrivale, arrived and was given the photograph of Michael that Molly had taken that summer in Riverside Park. He stared intently at it, then handed it back to Salter, who left to talk to Julia at Small Business.
Then they’d instructed Molly and David. At least one of them was to remain in their room at the Wharman. The police would be watching the apartment building. A policeman would be stationed inside their apartment, in case Deirdre returned there. He would also be monitoring and recording all phone conversations; any calls would be patched through, without the caller’s knowledge, to the room in the Wharman. Molly and David were told to agree to any demands and terms for ransom money, and to ask to talk to Michael.
So after packing two more suitcases, they’d returned to the hotel room, which seemed to become smaller and more confining with every hour.
There was a ghost in the flat, reflecting window, pacing behind Molly. David, four paces one way, four the other, back to his starting point. She saw his reflection stand still and slam a fist into its palm, heard the impact of flesh on flesh behind her.
David resumed pacing.
“She’ll know the police are watching the apartment building,” Molly said in a flat, exhausted monotone. “She won’t go back there. She’s too smart. She was smarter all along than any of us thought. Scheming and smart and evil.”
“The cops will find her,” David said with more assurance than he could possibly feel. “They’ll find Michael. If she calls the apartment, the cop there will listen in. They’re ready for a phone call. They might be able to trace it.”
“She won’t phone,” Molly said.
“She might demand ransom.”
Molly laughed sadly, a broken expression of hopelessness. “Ransom! You still don’t understand. It isn’t ransom that she wants.”
“What, then?” David asked.
“Didn’t you read those newspaper clippings, David? Didn’t you listen to Chumley? She’s insane. She’s dangerous. She’s homicidal. And she has our son!”
David stopped pacing and stood in the center of the room. He appeared to try returning the gaze of her reflection in the dark windowpane, but there wasn’t enough substance there and he turned away.
“Even insane people have their own kind of unique logic,” he said. “It’s only a matter of figuring out how she thinks.”
“She thinks like an animal. A cunning, predatory animal that concentrates all of itself on getting what it wants.”
“And you think she wants Michael?”
“He’s only part of it,” Molly said. “She wants you, David. She wants to become me. In some psychotic way, she wants to live my life.”
He said nothing. Instead he walked over and stood behind her, then began massaging her shoulders. When she didn’t respond, he bent over and kissed her cheek. She still didn’t respond, watching the scene in the windowpane as if it were theater and didn’t involve her.
He stopped massaging, lowered his arms to his sides, and sighed. “You’re trembling, Mol. It’s been a long time since we’ve eaten. You need something to keep your strength up.”
She shook her head no. Dread filled her; she wasn’t remotely hungry.
“You should at least have something to drink,” he insisted. “I’m going to get some ice and try to find a soda machine. What do you want me to bring you?”
“Nothing.”
“You’ve got to have something, Mol. Soda. A bag of pretzels or potato chips from a machine. Anything”
When she didn’t answer, he went to the dresser, picked up the plastic ice bucket, and walked to the door.
She saw his reflection turn to face her.
“The door will lock behind me, Mol. I’ll let myself back in with my key. I won’t knock. If anyone knocks, don’t go to the door. Promise me.”
She remained silent. She simply had nothing to say to him, though she knew he was frustrated, near losing his temper.
“Dammit, Mol! This isn’t helping Michael. Isn’t helping you. Or me. We need you. Haven’t you figured that out? We need you!”
She found herself standing up despite her great weariness. She looked at him, smiled feebly, and nodded.
He smiled back, looking immensely relieved. “Better, Mol. Much better.”
Still carrying the ice bucket, he came to her and held her close. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and he kissed her forehead. His lips felt cool and dry as death.
“Gonna be okay here alone?” he asked.
She nodded, near tears. He was right. He did need her. Michael needed her. “Sure,” she said. “Don’t worry. Go ahead.”
She watched him walk to the door, look back at her, then leave. He pulled the door tightly closed behind him so that the lock clicking metallically into place was loud and definite.
Molly stood still for a moment, then went to the dresser and studied her image in the mirror.
She shook her head in dismay. Her complexion was chalky, as if she’d suffered a long illness. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Her hair was in wild disarray.
She attempted to rearrange her hair with her fingers, but it was futile. It simply sprang back up where she tried to smooth it down, and lay lank and lifeless where she tried to fluff it up. She opened the top dresser drawer, got out her cosmetic kit, and felt around inside it for a comb.
There was none. She and David had packed too hurriedly to remember everything they’d need. She wished now she’d asked him to go down to the lobby and see if he could borrow a comb from the desk. They probably kept a supply of courtesy toiletries for forgetful guests. If they had none, he might have gone to the drugstore down the street to buy a comb.
She glanced over at their empty suitcases stacked on a folding stand. It was possible that there was a comb in one of them from a previous trip. When they traveled, they were always buying things they’d forgotten, sometimes tucking them away in pockets or zippered compartments for the return trip then not remembering to unpack them.
She went to the stack of softsided luggage and checked inside the top suitcase. Found nothing.
Then she unzipped an outer compartment on the stiff fabric side of the second suitcase and reached inside.
Her groping fingers felt plastic, but it wasn’t a comb.
51
David managed to wrestle two Pepsi-Cola cans and a bag of pretzels from the vending machines on the floor below. The ice machine was in an alcove across the hall. It gurgled and clunked as he approached, as if it had been waiting and was producing ice just for him.
After scooping ice into the plastic bucket, he managed to juggle everything so he could carry it, then walked toward the elevator.
He wasn’t really worried about Deirdre learning where they were and showing up there. There was no way she could find out which hotel they’d chosen. Only the police knew.
He broke stride for a moment. And Julia? Did Julia know?
Well, it probably wouldn’t matter. Still, he’d have to ask Molly if she’d talked to Julia, told her their location. Molly was right: Deirdre had the cunning and intensity of a carnivore on the hunt. If she decided to try locating them, she’d do anything.
He only hoped she wouldn’t hurt Michael. That was something David told himself over and over wouldn’t happen. God knew, he was aware of her kinkiness. She could enjoy inflicting pain. But he hadn’t seen that kind of sadism in her, the inclination to harm a child.
He rode the elevator up a floor and got out. Balancing soda cans and pretzel bag in one hand, the ice bucket in the other, he made his way down the hall to the room.
Clutching the bucket under his arm and using his key, he entered, pushing open the door with his hip, his back to the room. He used his foot to close the door,
turning around as he did so.
He dropped the ice bucket, unaware of it bouncing off his toe, or of the small, cylindrical chunks of ice scattering over the carpet. The shock of what he saw hit him with a palpable force that winded him.
Molly was sitting in the chair by the window again, hunched over and hugging her stomach. But now she was watching television.
The VCR’s red light was glowing. Moans were coming from the TV. On the screen, David was on top of Deirdre. Her legs were locked around his waist, her fingers clutching his back like talons sunk into prey. She turned to face the camera and smiled wildly, the corruption of her madness gleaming in her eyes.
Dropping everything else he was carrying, David ran across the room and fumbled with the unfamiliar VCR controls.
Finally he found the power switch and the screen went blank. Then he ejected the cassette. He stooped and picked up a soda can, laid the cassette on top of the TV, and bashed it again and again with the can.
All his effort had little effect other than to crack the black plastic casing.
He tossed the can aside, then picked up the cassette and brought it down repeatedly and with all his strength on the edge of the dresser. The case separated, then shattered. David grabbed the tape and unreeled it, yanking it out until it draped in twisted ribbons to the floor. He bunched it all together between his hands, along with what was left of the cassette, and hurled everything into a nearby wastebasket.
He stood trembling, out of breath. What he’d feared for so long had finally happened. His world was as irreparably smashed as the videocassette. Gone from him and out of reach. Destiny. The harsh sounds of his struggle for air filled the room.
Then, standing there and staring at the broken cassette and the tangle of tape overflowing the wastebasket, his face flushed with abrupt realization.
He turned to confront Molly.
“Mol, I know where she is! I know where she’s taken him!”
She was standing now, still hunched over, glaring up at him through her tears. She might collapse. She might fly into a rage. She might become physically ill. He knew she was balanced on a fine edge.
She said nothing.
He stared at her in dismay. “Listen, Mol, please!”
“You bastard! Liar! Liar! Liar!”
She suddenly hurled herself at him, slamming him with her fists, kicking him, scratching at his eyes. One of the blows caught him on the forehead, momentarily dazing him. He reached out and pulled her in close, smothering her charge and hugging her tight, restricting her movements.
“I’m sorry, Mol! Jesus, I’m sorry! But I think I know where he is! I know where she’s taken Michael!”
Her arms went limp. She stopped struggling and stepped back, looking at him as if he were a stranger who didn’t interest her. The outburst and attack had left her mind and body exhausted. Her eyes seemed to stare at him from inside a final sanctuary where pain could no longer penetrate. He knew he’d done this to her, reduced her to this. He had to make it up to her and he could!
“Come on!” he implored. “I’ll show you! Please, Mol. come with me!”
She continued to stare vacantly at him, emotionally and physically spent.
He gripped her arm just above the elbow and moved toward the door. She didn’t resist, but he almost had to drag her as she accompanied him zombielike downstairs to the lobby, then out into the street.
He saw a taxi pass at the corner with its rooflight on and raised an arm, but it drove by without the driver seeing him.
Then a cab turned at the opposite corner and came toward them, rooflight glowing. Still with a grip on Molly’s arm, supporting her, David waved his free arm wildly and saw the taxi swerve and coast toward them.
Salter saw the Joneses get into the cab. The husband seemed to be in a frenzy, the wife as calm as if she were drugged.
He started his unmarked car and steered it into the flow of traffic, staying well back of the cab but keeping it in sight. He was good at tailing cars; that’s why Benning had assigned him to watch the hotel. The parents were always suspects when a child disappeared, so what had just happened wasn’t a complete surprise.
It was, in fact, the kind of move Salter had been expecting. He was a twenty-five-year veteran and had developed the kind of radar for deception that only a gray and grizzled longtime cop possessed. He was fifty-seven and damn near too fat for the job, but his brain was better than when he was thirty-seven. It had struck him from the beginning that Mom and Dad were hiding something-especially Dad. The Joneses’ instructions had been for at least one of them to stay in their hotel room at all times so they could field a ransom call if it came in and was patched through to them. Now here they were hightailing it away from the hotel together, Salter suspected to meet their partner or partners in the phony kidnapping.
He skillfully maneuvered the unmarked through traffic, then at a red light used the cellular to get in touch with Benning. It was always a possibility that the players on the other side were monitoring the regular police radio bands.
As the light went green and traffic pulled away, Benning came on the line.
Salter explained what had just occurred.
“Stay with them,” Benning said. “There’s been another development. A woman from where the father works was found dead in her apartment. Deep penetration puncture wounds made by a large instrument.”
“God help the kid,” Salter said.
“There might not be a connection,” Benning cautioned him.
“Yes, sir,” Salter said, knowing better. People in less extreme circumstances than the Joneses had murdered their own children. Or maybe whoever they were in this with-
“When they reach their destination, let me know,” Benning told him, interrupting his thoughts. “If this is a phony snatch, we want them all in a neat bundle and we try to keep the kid from getting hurt.”
“If he’s alive,” Salter said, tapping the brake, then cutting off another cab to round a corner and keep the Joneses’ cab in sight. The cabbie behind him leaned on the horn. Salter wished he’d lay off; he didn’t want to attract attention.
“Keep the line open,” Benning told him. “I want to know what’s going on, understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
Salter said again, “God help the kid.”
But softer this time, so Benning wouldn’t hear.
52
They sat in the back of the cab, not touching each other, the varicolored light from outside playing over their faces in patterns of brightness and shadow created by motion. Something in the trunk rattled each time they hit a bump. There was a strong, spearmint scent in the cab, as if the previous passenger had been chewing gum.
On the other side of the cab’s windows, heavy traffic, bright lights, flashed past rapidly in the night. David’s face was tight with strain. Molly’s was an emotional blank; she’d had more than she could bear and her system had shut down.
Tires screeched and a horn blared. The cab rocked as it veered, but it didn’t slow. Momentary fear passed like a shadow over Molly’s face.
Traffic at the next intersection was lodged in gridlock. The taxi reduced speed, then threaded its way through the maze of barely moving cars and miraculously found the clearance to accelerate with a roar as it jounced in a back-breaking race over the pot-holed pavement.
Salter pushed with all his might on the horn buttons, but the horn was silent.
“Piece of crap!” he said loudly. “Fucking city budget!” Too many of the unmarkeds were junk.
He cranked down the window. “Police! Out of the way!”
The well-dressed guy driving the Mercedes that had cut him off merely stared at him.
“Police!” Salter screamed again, and made a motion as if to flash his badge.
Now the guy in the Mercedes nodded and rolled down his own window. “I thought you said ‘Please,’” he explained, before slowly driving into a narrow space between a truck and the curb and allowing Salter to pass.
<
br /> Salter hit the accelerator and peered through the wind-shield at the street ahead, but he couldn’t see the cab. The driver must be Mario Andretti or some such whiz.
“Shit!” Salter said, slapping the dashboard hard enough so that something broke loose inside it and tinkled down to make a sound like a coin revolving lopsided on a hard surface. The FBI was slated to enter this case in the morning. They’d love to hear about how the missing kid’s parents got in a cab and disappeared.
He noticed there was noise coming from the cellular and picked it up.
“What the hell’s happening?” Benning asked.
“They’re gone. Jumped ahead of me in heavy traffic and I lost sight of them.”
Salter expected to hear curses on the other end of the line, but Benning was silent. Maybe thinking about the FBI.
“I got the hack number,” Salter said. “We can get the cab company to contact the driver.”
“No,” Benning said immediately. “Not yet. We don’t want anything to happen that might spook these people while they’re in the cab. We’ll give them time to reach their destination, then have the cab company contact their driver and we can learn where he dropped them. Give me the cab’s number.”
Salter did, then said, “Still want this line kept open?”
“Why? So you can give me more bad news?”
Salter thought he’d better not say anything else.
He broke the connection and continued driving in the direction the cab had been going when it disappeared.
David gripped the back of the front seat and leaned forward to speak through the opening in the Plexiglas panel. “Faster! Can’t you go faster?”
The driver, a swarthy man with a bizarre haircut bunched mostly on the top of his head, ignored him. In the strobe-light effect of passing lights playing over his face, there was an ominous glint in his eyes.
“Faster!” David urged again.