Starcrossed Hearts

by Star Crossed Hearts (lit)

  "Can we leave it here for a couple of hours?"

  "Sure, it’s not illegally parked. I wouldn’t leave a car like that around here, but, suit yourself."

  Leaving both the BMW and truck, the two men crossed the highway and entered a coffee shop. It was several minutes before either spoke, long after their coffee had arrived. Dane reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a small packet.

  "I borrowed these last night." He spread several photographs on the table, Solitaire style, before Mac. "I know you’re not real fond of these," he said, a smirk on his face. "But there just might be something here."

  Mac frowned, examining each in turn. "Most of these seem to be taken at the same time…somewhere at the beach. Look, here’s Roxie, too."

  Dane nodded. "I spent a good part of the night looking at them myself."

  "What’s this?" Mac pointed to a long structure in the background of two of the photos.

  "You’re not from around here, are you?" Dane grinned at him.

  "Minneapolis. No beaches."

  "It’s Channel Islands Pier."

  "Where is it?"

  "About ten minutes from here."

  Mac’s eyes widened. The two stared at each other momentarily. "Let’s call Roxie first. I called her right before I left to pick you up, and she promised to stay by the phone. She may remember some details about this trip," Mac decided. He stood, feeling his pockets for loose change. "I can’t believe neither of us brought a cell phone. Couple of idiots." He went to the pay telephone.

  Soon, he returned. "The line was busy. It’s a long shot anyway; and I need another cup of coffee."

  ~ * ~

  Roxie stood in the kitchen making coffee, as Tom sat reading the front page story of the Times concerning Jessica’s disappearance. The phone’s ring caused them both to jump and Roxie grabbed the instrument with trembling hands.

  "Hello?"

  "Roxie? It’s me." Jessie’s voice was artificially calm.

  "Jessie? Are you all right? Where are you?"

  Tom was immediately on his feet, and reached to press the "record" button on the machine connected to the telephone.

  "I- I’m fine, Rox. Is Mac there, by any chance?" Her voice was small and steady, as if she was talking to a child.

  "No honey, not right now, but I can reach him…did you try his house?"

  "I need to talk to Mac," she repeated.

  "Jessica, listen to me. Are you with Wesley?"

  "Yes, it’s been raining here. When do you expect him back?"

  "Has he hurt you?"

  "No, no problems, I just need to talk to him. I need some money for a vacation; like ‘last summer--’"

  At this comment Wesley grabbed the phone and back-handed Jessie hard across the face, sending her tumbling to the floor.

  "Roxanne, this is Wes. How ya doin’, sweetheart? Long time, huh? Hey, I got a message for good old Doctor Jim. You tell the pretty boy I want…a hundred thousand dollars, in unmarked, old bills, if he wants his little tramp back. And tell him she’ll know some new tricks when she gets back, so it’ll be worth the money. I’m going to teach her a new trick for each moment he delays. And she’s going to teach me a few of his." Wesley chuckled. "Hey, and no police. Jessie doesn’t like getting smacked around, know what I mean? I’ll call again later. Make sure he’s there."

  Roxie grasped her stomach. "Wesley, don’t do this. Jessica hasn’t done anything wrong…let us help you, Wes, oh, please, don’t hurt her…" But the line was dead. Roxie crumbled to the floor in a tearful, anguished ball.

  "This is good, Roxie, at least we know she’s okay. I don’t think he’ll really hurt her. Since we can’t get in touch with Mac, I think we should call the police." Tom lifted her up to the couch. "We’ll just have to wait for Mac to call us again."

  "Tom, he said no police!"

  He went to the phone and searched the counter for the card the investigator had left the night before. Before he could lift the receiver, the phone rang again.

  "Hi Tom, it’s Mac. We’re in Santa Paula, and--"

  "Thank God, Mac. Jessica just called here looking for you." Tom carefully detailed out the conversation, even playing back the tape so that Mac could hear it over the phone. Mac squeezed his eyes tightly shut and leaned his forehead weakly against the pay phone. Across the restaurant Dane watched Mac’s actions with alert eyes.

  "Tom," Mac’s voice was almost a whisper. "Let me talk to Roxie."

  "I’m here, Mac," she said softly on the extension, her voice choked with pain.

  "The photos you brought out last night; several are taken on the beach near Channel Islands Pier. Do you remember anything about that day?"

  "Well,Wesley’s uncle had a beach house there, back then. In high school, we used to cut class in our senior year once in awhile, and we’d go out there and fool around. You know, we’d get beer and stuff, and just…fool around. Jessie and Wes got a little…too involved there once…In fact, she used to say we were all like that old movie Last Summer, with Barbara Hershey and Richard Thomas." Roxie paused, then exclaimed, "That’s where she is! That’s what she meant by mentioning ‘last summer’!"

  "Where is it? Can you remember how to get there?" Mac’s voice was tight. He couldn’t breathe.

  "Gosh, it was right on the beach. It was a blue house, then…with a double car garage facing the street. It had a sun deck on the roof, but a lot of them did." She wracked her brain. "Oh! It had this funny little weather vane shaped like a pig. That’s all I remember, Mac, sorry."

  "That’s plenty, Roxie. Stay by the phone, okay? And Tom, go ahead and call the police. They probably won’t do anything anyway."

  Back at the table, Mac threw down three dollars. "Let’s go."

  "Where to?"

  "The beach."

  In the truck, Mac filled Dane in on the phone call from Wesley. Dane flushed with anger. "Does he have a weapon?"

  "I don’t know. We’d better assume that he does."

  In minutes they were cruising the small community of Channel Islands. There were few streets with houses right on the beach, and these they drove down slowly and carefully, watching for any sign of something amiss. Roxie had been right; most of these houses looked just alike, and none had a pig on the roof, although several did have weather vanes.

  The gray clouds were parting and sunshine began peeking out. People walked on the sand, children ran about with their dogs. Mac parked the truck mid-block and struck the steering wheel with the palm of his hand. "Damn!"

  "Did you expect to see ol’ Wesley sitting on the porch holding an M-80 or something? Come on, Mac. Drive down the street once more."

  Mac sighed and eased out the clutch. The truck balked, and expelled a loud bang out the back. Dane laughed good-naturedly.

  Jessica heard a familiar sound in the street. Her cheek swollen and her lip bleeding, she tried to see out the front window unnoticed. She kept her face expressionless as her eyes lit on the truck driving slowly past the house. Her heart leaped and her pulse quickened, but she kept her eyes dull and uninterested.

  Wesley was dragging in a knapsack from the garage, which he dumped on the floor before her. Maps, trash, granola bars. And a semi-automatic handgun.

  This he picked up, the obvious target of his search.

  Jessica’s eyes now grew round. In college, she and Wesley had demonstrated against guns. She felt faint. She had had no doubt that Mac could overcome Wesley if necessary, if he managed to discover where she was, but a gun? How could she warn him?

  "You…never…liked guns, Wes."

  "That’s another thing I learned on the street. The only thing that has more power than money, is a gun."

  Outside, the faded vanilla Ford was parked across the street.

  "Wait a minute." Mac was thinking again. He looked up and down the street, squinting to focus on each rooftop. "No pigs, but there are two houses without weather vanes at all. The one on the end, and this one. And the one on the end has no sundeck."


  Dane looked to verify his finding. "Wow. That’s telling."

  Mac gave Dane a hostile look. "It’s possible, isn’t it? Let’s knock on the door."

  "Let’s not knock on the door…are you nuts? If he is in there, and he’s probably dangerous, he isn’t going to want to see your face OR my face at his front door. Right?"

  Mac looked back toward the house in question.

  "Am I right, Mackey, old boy?" Dane turned to face him and leaned back against the door. "So, we wait. And watch."

  "Not me, man. I’m gone." Mac reached behind his seat and pulled out a baseball cap. Dane watched with interest as he first tied his hair into a rubber banded ponytail, removed his outer shirt and pulled on the cap. Putting his sunglasses in place, he opened the door.

  "Now how do you do that? Mine just won’t behave…" Dane tried comically to pull enough of his hair together to make a queue. "So Mac, where’re you going, all dressed up?" Dane asked.

  "To the beach, man, gotta work on my tan. Watch the truck for me, dude." He tossed the keys to Dane. "And the house. The horn does work, by the way; don’t be afraid to use it, if you know what I mean."

  Inside the house, Wesley was drinking from the mouth of a cheap, gallon bottle of wine. He took a long draught and turned on the radio, his impatient fingers spinning the dial in search of something to suit his mood. Finally opting for a romantic instrumental, a familiar tune once attached to a long-forgotten movie, he began to hum along. He untied the bonds on Jessie’s wrists, then pulled her up and forced her to dance with him. He wrapped his arms around her neck, the revolver close to one ear, his lips against the other.

  "Always... always my own..."

  Jessica shuddered as the moist heat of his off-key song engulfed her ear. "Remember how we used to dance, kitten? Allll...ways..."

  Outside, Mac was cruising the beach.

  ~ * ~

  Mac caught a Frisbee and tossed it back to some children playing on the beach. Sauntering casually down the sand, he slowed his pace as he neared the house he suspected of being Jessica’s prison. He nonchalantly picked up a few stones and began skipping them into the surf, glancing over his shoulder periodically. When he was reasonably certain no one was watching, he crept closer to the house and stealthily climbed onto the patio facing the sea.

  Breathing hard, he kept a watchful eye on the beach for anyone who might find his behavior suspicious. He was in luck. He pressed his back to the house between two windows, then turned slightly to peer inside.

  There were sheers hanging in this particular window, but there was no mistaking the figures inside; Jessica, dancing with Wesley, looking either drugged or dazed or both. And Wesley, a deranged smile on his lips and a gun to Jessica’s head. Mac’s heart convulsed painfully at the sight; he quickly turned back around and flattened himself against the house.

  "I’ll kill him," Mac whispered to himself.

  He craftily made his way back to the sand, unseen by anyone and turned to stare at the house again. His eyes were trained on the roof, his mind working fast.

  Quickly he jogged back down the beach, cutting across the street farther down and returning to the truck. Panting, he got in and turned to Dane.

  "She’s in there." His chest was heaving hard, more from emotion than exertion.

  Dane’s eyebrows lifted. "Son of a bitch; you were right! What do we do next, Doc?"

  "We have to move carefully. He has an automatic pistol against her head."

  Dane colored noticeably. "We need a SWAT team. Hell, we need a damned militia! Where are the police?"

  "We’re going to smoke him out." Mac said in a low voice. Cold. Deadly. Dane looked at him in surprise.

  "You’re serious."

  "Damned right. Every moment Jessie is in there, he could be hurting her. Killing her. You want to wait around for Dudley Do-Right?"

  "I was thinking maybe the IRS." Dane murmured, getting out of the truck with Mac, who went to the truck bed and opened a built-in tool chest. He pulled out a pair of wire cutters. Dane watched with curiosity as Mac also drew out a pair of work gloves. "What, pray tell, are you going to do now?"

  "He’s going to call Roxie back, right? But if the phone’s dead, he has to leave the house to make the call."

  "He might, but he won’t leave Jess there."

  "We don’t know that. In any case, we have to get him to move, or catch him off guard. Dane," he stopped and peered directly into Dane’s eyes. "I’m prepared to walk into that house and beat the shit out of him, gun and all, if I have to. I’d just rather not get shot at. So I need you to spot me while I go up on the roof and cut the cables."

  Dane nodded and they retraced Mac’s path to the water side of the house.

  The patio he’d watched from was actually a deck, raised off the sand, and they temporarily hid beneath it. Once assured that no one was watching, they slipped around to the side of the house, stopping before the electrical breaker box. The tiny padlock on the box door was thick with rusty corrosion from the salt air. Quickly Mac cut through the worn lock and opened the door, deftly finding and switching the main breaker to "off." The faint sound of the music inside died away

  Back on the deck, they made themselves hidden from the occupants of the house. Mac pushed the clippers into his hip pocket and on signal from Dane, began climbing to the corner of the roof by pulling himself up a steel pipe bolted to the corner of the house. Dane scowled up at him in the bright sunlight, peeking into the house periodically and nodding at Mac.

  Wesley had stopped dancing and was picking up the radio, shaking it before thrusting it against the wall in anger. On the roof, Mac systematically cut the wires to the phone, then edged his way back down the pipe. "What are they doing now?" he whispered.

  "He’s making her sit on the couch." Dane frowned. Mac joined him to watch as Wesley seemed to be making overtures to Jessica on the couch. The couch was facing perpendicular to the back windows, and Wesley’s back was to them.

  ~ * ~

  Jessica was weak from fear, lack of food and sleep; she felt she would drift away at any time. The sleepless night spent in Wesley’s car and the sheer terror of the ordeal had taken its toll. She decided she had hallucinated the sight of Mac’s truck passing by. Her mind was spinning dizzily.

  "I’m hungry," she said dully.

  "You should’ve said that when I was making sandwiches," Wesley responded, his fingers gliding delicately down her arm. He leaned closer and licked her ear, the gun still held close to the other side of her head.

  "I need to eat," Jessica repeated, stiffly trying to remain coherent. The smell of his alcohol laden breath only served to make her feel more ill.

  With a sigh of disgust, Wesley went to the kitchen.

  "I’m going in," Mac started, and Dane grabbed his shoulder.

  "Not yet, man. Stay cool. He’ll be right back…If we can wait this out, he’ll either go for a phone, or he’ll pass out. He’s guzzling wine. He’ll get sloppy."

  "Okay. But if he touches her, I’m going in."

  Dane nodded. "Everybody loves dead heroes."

  They sat down on the deck and leaned against the house, just under the curtained window. They waited several minutes.

  "Do you think Jarrick got a hold of the police? Maybe we should go for a phone?" Dane asked nervously. Mac stared out at the sea, frowning behind the dark glasses.

  "I’m sure Tom called them, but I’m afraid if Elliot sees a patrol car, he’ll go berserk. I wish we could get this over with before that happens. Let’s just wait awhile longer."

  "Here." Wesley handed Jessica a sandwich. She took it, moving in slow motion. She took a bite but could taste nothing. Slowly she chewed, and swallowed, and took another bite as Wesley paced nervously about the room. "It’s time to call again," he decided. He picked up the phone next to the couch, listened, then impatiently pounded buttons trying to get a dial tone. Finally, he slammed the receiver down, in fury.

  "What is happening to me?" he screame
d, his anguished fingers again clawing through his tangled hair. The gun had been tucked into the waist of his pants and was partially hidden by the rumpled Hawaiian shirt he wore loosely buttoned. "I need to get to a phone."

  Jessica rose weakly to her feet and hesitantly moved slowly across the room.

  "Where are you going?" he shouted at her.

  "I’m sick," she murmured, making her way toward the bathroom.

  Wesley’s face showed confusion and he began pacing again.

  "We’ve got to get out of here. I can’t…I can’t think here. But…we need the money, the money, that’s right. We gotta get the money from the punk with the car. Yeah…"

  Jessica reached the bathroom just in time to empty the contents of her stomach into the bowl. She stared blankly into the mirror. She didn’t see the purple bruises on her face nor the dried blood on her cheek. Her mind took her back to the Caribbean, the day she’d left the small clinic after her collapse. "Your blood sugar is unstable, Miss Taylor. I’d have your regular physician do a thorough test when you get back to the States," the doctor had warned her. She had neglected to see her own doctor, of course. Well, I guess I’ve been a bit busy. A bit busy…she laughed, a shrill, hollow laugh borne of her disengagement with real life.

  She emerged from the bathroom to find Wesley hurriedly re-packing the bag he’d dumped out. "C’mon--we’re leaving."

  "No," she moaned softly. "I need to lie down."

  "Gimme a break. You can lay down in the car."

  While he fussed with the bag, she walked to the back windows and stared out at the ocean. Still nauseous, she held her arms across her stomach and leaned tiredly into the window frame. Suddenly, movement outside caught her eye. Someone was on the deck. Her eyes widened and she peered down, leaning close to the sheer curtain. She saw nothing. Just her imagination again.

  "Come on!" Wesley called to her, and they left by the kitchen door to the Cougar in the garage.

  "She was right here," Mac groaned. "I could have touched her."

  "They’re leaving. We have to hurry."

  The two raced to the truck, unseen by Wesley who was already steering the Cougar down the block. They followed a short distance behind, and in a few blocks, parked behind the small convenience store where Wesley had stopped.