“Yes?”
“Kelly, too. I gave her a yellow one. Because she was wearing a yellow dress.”
“Yes, and then?”
“Then I let my balloon go. After a while, the other kids did the same thing. The balloons were all going up into the air.”
“Where was Kelly all this time?”
“Standing there. I thought. I mean … why shouldn’t she be there? Where would she go?”
“And then?”
“And then the crowd thinned out. The balloons were gone, and the children went too. There was hardly anybody left.”
“And no sign of Kelly?”
“No! She just wasn’t there!”
“We must call the police,” Felipe said excitedly.
“Wait, let me think.”
“But Senor — ”
“Just let me be for a minute or two.” Steve’s face was pale under his tan. “I have to think, damn it.”
“Si, Senor, but even in Seville …”
“Shove it,” Steve said savagely. “Let me think, for Christ’s sake.”
Richard stood there, stunned. Kelly had been there one minute, holding her balloon, a canary yellow, a smile on her face. And then, in the next moment, she had been gone.
He bit his lip. It wouldn’t do any good to bawl. That wouldn’t help Kelly.
But who would want to hurt her?
“Please, Steve,” he said. “Can’t you think of something?”
CHAPTER 14
First of all she was conscious of sweat drenching her. Coming to, slowly and painfully, she felt the moisture on her forehead, between her breasts; the hair on the back of her neck was plastered down.
It was so hot.
Then the pain came creeping back.
Piecemeal, she remembered. The hard object in her ribs … and then the whack on the side of her head. The movement of the strange car …
She came to all at once and, as she lifted her head, agony shot through her and once more she went under.
The next conscious moment was when the movement of the car stopped. Suddenly there was utter quiet; the throbbing of the motor ceased, and she opened her eyes to hear the twitter of a bird. Next, there was a faint rustling of leaves and after that, a voice saying, “Let’s get her inside, Pablo.”
There was country quiet; she was being lifted out through the car door, in a man’s arms. A huge tree, its leafy branches trembling in a sprightly gust, was a green blot; she saw the blue of the sky, some powdery clouds, and heard the bird sing again.
“Where am I?” she asked, through dry lips.
“Shall I hit her again?” she heard someone say in Spanish. She drew into herself, waiting for the blow. Please, she thought. Not again …
“No perdio el control …”
No blow came. How grateful she was for that, and for the stern adjuration of the second man to his friend. “Don’t lose your cool,” was what he had substantially said.
Everything was taken in stride. Why? It didn’t matter. What was happening didn’t matter … for the moment. She simply didn’t want to be hurt again. She would be good. Just as long as they didn’t hurt her.
“Can you walk?” a voice asked, in English.
“I’ll try,” she said.
She was set down on her feet. Unsteadily, she stood and shook, but yes, she could walk. “So, good,” the good voice said, and a hand went under both of her arms, as if she were recovering from an operation and a nurse was helping her down the corridor. She believed that for a moment. So she had undergone surgery. And now was ambulatory …
She put one foot in front of the other, like a good girl, and heard the bad voice say, “Kick her in the ribs; give her something to remember you by.”
It wasn’t a hospital. Reality flooded back. And fear with it.
Who were these people? What had happened?
Richard!
The balloons, the white doves, the —
And now her faculties began to gather together. She peered around. “Richard,” she said. “Where’s Richard?”
“Shut up,” the good voice said quietly.
The steps, four of them, were difficult to negotiate. “All right, one more,” the good voice said, urging her on. “That’s it.”
The cool, dark interior of wherever they were helped. She wanted to dry the back of her neck with her hand, but someone slapped it away.
“Quiet, now, and you won’t be hurt.”
“Please … where is this?”
“Sit down and shut up.”
She was lowered into a chair. She sat there obediently, the headache claiming almost all of her attention. It hurts so much, she thought gravely.
“Could I have an aspirin?” she asked.
How thick her voice sounded. How craven. How unlike her …
Was this the end of the line?
An inner voice asked the question. The turbulence of her thoughts was due to pain, shock and the sheer surprise of the attack on the … street corner … with the balloons … the crowds … the childish laughter …
She couldn’t think.
Couldn’t think straight.
The perspiration poured down her neck, forehead, upper lip. Her dress stuck to her. She couldn’t seem to sit straight, either; the man was almost holding her up. His touch was not ungentle, but she was conscious of the dark gaze from someone else … the other man, the one with the bad voice. Her eyes saw what he was like. Swarthy, disgusting, sweaty and like an animal in a zoo.
That man had wanted to hit her again.
She shuddered, feeling the bile coming up into her throat. The pain lessened as the nausea grew. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, felt faint again, and started to slide down in the chair.
“Jola …”
The man holding her up put both arms around her. She smelled his rank odor, gagged. I’m going out again, she thought, and then heard another voice. Blinking, she recognized it.
“Ah, so,” the other voice said, and she knew someone else had come into the room.
Her eyes opened again; amazement stunned her. If she had been almost out of it a second before, the surprise of the familiar voice brought her back to consciousness. It was a croupy, emphysematic voice, the familiar voice of Senor Nascimento.
“So, very good,” he said, and then, after a sudden, shocking silence, there was a sharp expletive.
“Merdia …”
She waited, looking up with blurred eyes into the gaunt face of the man on the plane. His expression was unbelieving. Their glances locked.
“Por Dios …” he said, almost hissing it.
There was another brief silence and then an explosion. “But this is not the mother!” Senor Nascimento cried. “What is this that you have done?”
The mother? What did that mean …
Suddenly the South American started screeching. “Stupid! The wrong woman … stupid … infructuoso imbecile … loco … malo …”
Dimly, it started to make sense. The wrong woman. This is not the mother.
Why, it was Richard’s mother these people had meant to kidnap. Richard’s pathetic mother.
There was a garble of excited Spanish. Raised voices. Screams, imprecations. “Stupid, stupid,” Senor Nascimento kept shrieking. “Now what to do, you louse.”
She sat there patiently, and she knew. These men had made a mistake. It was supposed to have been Lisa Comstock but instead they had snatched her.
And now what?
Now, well, what else? She would have to be silenced. Cold, craven terror surged through her. She would never be allowed to leave this place alive. My head, she thought, but it was compensation. Her head didn’t hurt as badly as all that, but it was a substitute for cowardly, sick fear. They’ll kill me. Just to shut me up. They’ll kill me and bury me in a ditch somewhere.
The voices faded away, and she still sat there, numbed. The light, filtering through a slatted blind, hurt her eyes. She put a hand over them and then, like a rag doll, slid d
own in the chair. Another hand went out to ward off the floor that was coming up at her, and she felt the soft pile of carpet between her fingers.
Laughing helplessly, with tears seeping through the laughter, her head came to rest on the cool tile between the scatter rugs.
This can’t be real, she thought.
She must be dreaming.
There were thirty-odd hospitals in Madrid and the outlying districts and Steve called them all. The answer was always the same.
“No, Senor. There is no one by that name here.”
“She might be. I have to point out that she might not know anything. It’s possible she could be a victim of amnesia.”
But it was no good. No amnesiac, epileptic, heart patient, traffic victim or autistic personality had been logged in in the past twenty-four hours.
“The police,” Felipe kept insisting.
“Not yet.”
“But why, Senor?”
“Because,” Steve sat down and put a hand over his eyes, “I’m not sure. But I’m afraid to bring them in on this thing.”
“For what reason?” The desk clerk was incredulous.
“I’m not sure,” Steve said wretchedly. “But believe me, Felipe, I have my reasons, even though I’m not too clear about them myself.”
“Something must be done,” the clerk said, wringing his hands. “That beautiful girl …”
“Just give me a little while longer.”
It was about seven in the morning when the call came through from Madrid.
It was a woman’s voice, sounding very far away, on a poor connection with a feedback.
“Senor Connaught?”
Steve pressed the receiver to his ear. “Yes, who’s this?”
“This is Joia.” The old woman’s voice was raspy. “You’re there, Senor?”
“Yes, Joia. What is it?”
“Senora Comstock … they have taken her, si? I can tell you where.”
“Senora Comstock?” He took the receiver away from his ear, looked at it in astonishment and then put it back. “What are you talking about, Joia? There’s nothing wrong with Richard’s mother. Kelly’s gone. I can’t seem to trace her whereabouts. It’s Kelly. What are you trying to say?”
There was the sound of an indrawn breath. Then, “The Senorita? I don’t understand …”
“Kelly’s disappeared,” Steve said rapidly. “What is all this about Senora — ”
There was an abrupt silence, as if she had gone away. Then a weird, choked sound, a gasp, and the phone went dead.
“Joia,” Steve said, then said it again. “Joia? Are you there?”
But he knew she wasn’t. You could tell when there was a blank line.
He had been cut off.
He called operator.
“I was talking to Madrid,” he said. “My line was disconnected.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” The correct voice was formal. “Please give me the number you called, sir.”
“I didn’t call them, they called me. It’s Paseo de la Castellana, Madrid. Can you get them for me, please. It’s urgent.”
“Yes, sir. Please stand by.”
She rang back a few minutes later. “I am sorry, sir, but there is no answer when I ring the Madrid number.”
“But there has to be,” he shouted. “There are about a dozen servants, and … there has to be! Keep trying.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now what?” Richard asked, wearing down his fingernails.
“The American consul, that’s the only thing I can think of. Christ, how can someone disappear just like that?”
“It was my fault,” Richard said miserably. “I should have taken better care of her.”
Steve brushed his hand across the child’s head. “You stupid kid. It wasn’t your fault,” he said harshly. “Stop scarifying yourself. If it was anybody’s fault it was mine. There was something screwy all along. I should have realized it.”
CHAPTER 15
The soft green of trees, the broad sweep of grass … it was so lovely, so lovely. There was the stern fortress, its crenellated walls rising high, formidable, impregnable. But outside the forbidding walls sunlight swept across the moat and the foliaged compound outside. There were soft clouds in the sky.
Kelly was lying on the grass, quiet, happy, with the fortress walls behind her. It was long ago, she thought. Way, way back people had been incarcerated and tortured in those deep, dark dungeons of the castle. Avila, in the twentieth century, was liberated. There were no more racks, no wheels, no Iron Maidens. Just the same she was glad she was outside the fortress, on the green grass at its foot.
She was glad to be free.
She was looking, with eyes still badly focussed, at an etching of the Palacio de Avila. It was on the south side of the wall, beside her brass bed, and what seemed at first to be a realistic scene was only a picture on the wall.
Solemnly, she stared at the picture, came back to earth.
I’m a prisoner, she thought.
She raised herself. Instantly, the thread of pain that shot through her mounted, sent her reeling back again. They hit me with something hard, she thought, almost laughing with the insanity of it. They had hit her, knocked her out and then …
And then Senor Nascimento had said they’d taken the wrong woman.
They hadn’t wanted her. But they’d taken her. And now they’d never let her go … that was, not alive.
She leaned on an elbow. Standing peacefully in a small, lovely park, watching the balloons rise into the sky. Such a lovely day … and the children laughing …
Richard laughing …
Oh, my God, she thought. I can’t believe this! That I’m here …
She sprang up, falling instantly, weak and uncoordinated, sprawling on the floor.
How could such a thing be, she asked herself, and was immobilized with fear, dread and frustration. I can’t stand being here, she thought, hysterical. Why should this happen to me?
Painfully, she got to her feet, stood, wobbly, holding on to the edge of the bed. I can’t believe it, she thought somberly. That this hideous thing should happen to me.
The door was firmly closed.
She hobbled over and tried it. It didn’t do any good. It was bolted from the outside.
Wanting to pound on it, she knew better. She didn’t want another blow on the head. She walked unsteadily over to the window. It wasn’t barred. But it was so far above the courtyard level that, were she to jump, she would surely break a leg, an arm, or very possibly her neck.
She turned away and circled the room, feeling out the boundaries of her prison. There was only the brass bed, a low chest of drawers, an armoire. And then she saw the other door that led into a small bathroom. Inside was a toilet and a sink.
There was no medicine chest, no mirror.
She used the toilet, found a cracked, dry bar of soap in a niche, dried her hands with tissue from her handbag. And then walked around the room again, looking for something that could be a weapon.
But there was nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She sat on the edge of the bed, blank-eyed. Her fate was sealed. There had been a mistake, a ridiculous mistake, but they would now have to cover up. They would never let her go.
She fantasied. In a ditch, covered over with leaves. Bloodied, dead, left to the changing seasons, until her remains were only bones. She would lie, in some gully, for years upon years. She would rot there.
Desperate, uncomprehending, she looked up at the picture of the Avila fortress, at the green grass and the beautiful leafy trees, the wide open spaces outside the grim fortress. And then stood up, an idea forming in her mind. She went to the picture, felt it, dragged it off its hook. It was about seventeen by twenty inches, and it was heavy, heavy …
The picture was a weapon. This could kill someone … if you hit him at the base of the skull.
She hefted it, feeling its weight. If you were to catch someone unaware, bring it down with all your might, you co
uld incapacitate your victim.
The idea jelled in her mind.
What else was there? This, at least, was a kind of defense. There was nothing else she could think of.
And then she recoiled from the thought. To break a person’s skull.
And if she tried, and failed, they’d hurt her. They could do terrible things to her.
This was what solitary confinement could do to a person. Turn them into a coward, into a quivering mass of jelly. I won’t be like that, she thought, gritting her teeth. I won’t fall to pieces. I won’t.
She went over and took the picture off the wall again.
It was very heavy and yes, it was a perfect weapon.
She hung it up again.
And at last, exhausted, got into bed again.
Eyes blurred, looking up at the picture of the Avila fortress, she longed for the green grass and the beautiful, leafy trees, the wide open spaces outside the grim fortress.
Let me be free, she thought, winding her arms around herself. Please, God, let me be free.
• • •
Darkness.
Waking, instantly apprehensive, Kelly tensed. There was a sound.
She lay there, cringing.
A scrape of the key in the lock. The door opened. A beam of light met her blind eyes. Then there was a lamp flicked on in the room.
It hurt her eyes, and she shaded them. Only it wasn’t a lamp, it was a flashlight.
Someone came into the room.
“Senorita?” It was the good voice.
“Yes,” she said carefully.
“Your supper. Eat.”
He came over to the bed with a tray. “Your supper,” he said, and set a tray down on the floor.
She didn’t say anything, and he went on. “Good food. Rice. Lobster and beef. Please. Eat.”
He went to the door again.
Framed there, he said, “Is there anything you want?”
“Oh, yes. Aspirin. My head hurts.”
“Very good. In a few minutes.”
He went out again. The door closed behind him.
She looked at the contents of the tray. The man had left the flashlight on the floor. It was the only light. The food smelled tantalizing. How could you have an appetite when you were in such a ghastly situation?
Classic Love: 7 Vintage Romances Page 63