The Wild Side

by Isabel Sharpe

  “I’m desperate. I can’t reach a friend of mine. His line is busy and I can’t be sure how long I can talk safely.” Her words tumbled out in a rough, rushed whisper. “Amanda’s not home, either, and I didn’t want to leave a message on her tape. You’re the only other person I trust.”

  Melissa nodded wearily. Sure. Trust. Easy to come by. “Where are you?”

  “In Maine. I’ve been kidnapped. I want you to call this friend of mine and tell him where I am.”

  Kidnapped? “Rose, you should call 9-1-1.”

  “No. It’s his word against mine. I came willingly at first, before I realized. He’d tell the police I’m hysterical or mad at him or something—I can’t take that chance. This guy could convince you your name was wrong.”

  Melissa winced. “Actually, I know what you mean.”

  “My friend will believe me. He’ll send help. Can you do this? Please?”

  Melissa let her head bonk wearily against the bed, uncomfortably aware that Captain Watson had instructed her to pass on any information she got concerning Rose. If Melissa agreed to help, she’d be honor bound to do it. Which meant she’d be betraying Rose’s trust. But if she didn’t pass along whatever she found out, she could be obstructing justice.

  She let out a huge, painful sigh. Whatever happened to easy decisions, like what should I wear today? Or is it okay or not to put cheese on seafood pasta?

  “Please. You’re my only hope.”

  Melissa struggled to her feet. Rose’s weakness for men had finally gotten her in serious trouble. Amazing it hadn’t happened sooner. But the poor woman did sound genuinely desperate. How could Melissa ignore a personal appeal from someone who might be in danger? She couldn’t. Especially because right about now she could too easily see their positions reversed.

  Okay. But after this was over she was moving to a Buddhist commune to spend the rest of her life in quiet meditation.

  “Yes. Sure. I’ll do what I can.”

  “Oh, Melissa, thanks so much. Hurry and write this down. I’m not absolutely certain of the directions, but this is close.”

  Melissa fumbled on her nightstand for pen and paper and jotted down Rose’s whispered directions and the phone number of her friend.

  “Okay. Got it. I’ll call right—”

  Rose gave a sudden gasp. “I think he’s coming back.” The line clicked off.

  Oh, geez. Melissa dialed the number Rose had given her as quickly as her shaky fingers would let her. What the hell was she going to say? Hi, um, you don’t know me but your friend has been kidnapped, and…

  The line clicked, then a busy signal sounded. She sighed, hung up, paced the room for a few minutes and tried again. Still busy. This was insane. This was getting to be like As Melissa’s World Turns. She couldn’t take much more. But she had to help Rose. If it really had been Rose on the phone. If she really had been kidnapped. If Rose really was her name. If the sky really was blue and the sun would keep coming up every day. How could you be sure of anything?

  Melissa dialed the number a third time and froze, startled, when it rang. A deep male voice with a foreign accent answered. Probably another of Rose’s Royal Majesties. Melissa took a deep breath and explained the situation succinctly, trying to sound rational and calm.

  There was a long silence.

  “I’m…sorry for her trouble. Truly. But unfortunately, my energies are all engaged at the moment. Please tell Miss Rose I wish her well.”

  Click.

  Melissa stared at the receiver in her hand, unable to believe anyone could respond to a desperate plea for help as if he’d been unable to attend an impromptu dinner party. With friends like that, Rose was probably better off kidnapped.

  Unfortunately, his response left all rescue efforts squarely on Melissa’s totally inadequate shoulders. Which left her only one option: Captain Watson, Lizard Man.

  She dialed his cell phone number, lip curled in distaste. Maybe it was just his strangely colored eyes, but the guy gave her the creeps. Which put her in contact with supreme irony, not trusting this man because of his eye color and longing for Riley even though he could be sitting at his house right now, planning to strangle her.

  “Watson here.” His voice was thick with sleep.

  “It’s Melissa Rogers. Rose just called me. She was kidnapped. She wasn’t sure of the directions, but…she told me where she is.”

  Captain Watson gave a bloodthirsty shout of triumph that did nothing to make Melissa feel better. She read the directions numbly over the phone; he repeated them back, practically salivating in his eagerness.

  “Fabulous. I’ll get on it right away. You did the right thing coming to me.”

  Melissa hung up and sank back on the bed, trying to agree with him. She did do the right thing, didn’t she? Of course. How many times had she read a book or watched TV or a movie and wanted to scream at the characters, Don’t go up to investigate the ominous noise in the attic when someone is stalking you, you idiot. Call the police! Well, she’d done that. Followed her own advice. Put matters that concerned the law into the law’s hands.

  She stood and moved to the window, parted the curtains and looked out at the enviably peaceful nighttime view of Concord Street. She needed to relax. Maybe take a shower. A long, soothing stand in nice warm water.

  Then maybe she could wash away the overwhelming feeling that she should have called Riley instead.

  RILEY WORKED HIS HANDS, trying to loosen the ropes restraining him, as he’d been trying for God knew how long. He moved the wrong way and the pain shot through him again, made him yell behind the tape on his mouth and hang his head, teeth clenched, panting. He was pretty sure he had a lump the size of Kansas on his head. Pretty sure his nose was not a lovely sight. Pretty sure he’d not feel like dancing for at least a week or two.

  Allston’s men. Had to be. Three of them, very determined, had called him a double-crosser. They must have found out something. That he was working with the FBI? That he hadn’t been meeting Rose? Was Watson onto him? Riley couldn’t think clearly. Everything confused him.

  Melissa.

  He moved in an agony of impatience and grimaced at the wave of dizzy nausea that washed over him. He had to warn her. In case Watson found her. In case they thought she knew something. He had to.

  A rat peered cautiously at him from the semidarkness of the warehouse he’d been investigating for an insurance fraud case. His phone lay under some shelving, where he’d shoved it when they jumped him. Had to get to it before the battery died. Or before the men came back and he died.

  Hey, rodent. Hand me my phone. The rat scampered off.

  Riley closed his eyes and worked the ropes. Worked the ropes. Worked the ropes…

  His eyes shot open. Some give, a slight loosening. He worked his hands harder, ignored the pain, the chafing skin.

  Melissa.

  He was free.

  He tore off the tape; untied the rest of the ropes; slowly, painfully, rubbed some circulation back into his limbs. Dragged himself over to the metal shelves, sat leaning against them and grabbed the phone, grunting from the effort.

  Thank God, the battery still worked. He struggled to dial. Damn phone pad had too many numbers; he had too many fingers. Must have a concussion. He’d been in and out a few times already.

  Busy. He searched for the redial button and managed to nail it.

  Busy. What the hell was she doing on the phone at this hour?

  His hands shook over the keypad; his head whirled. Answer, damn it.

  Busy again.

  He felt like crying. Why didn’t she get off the phone? He was going to pass out. He could feel it coming, like a hungry black hole, sucking him closer. He had to reach her, had to warn her, had to…he had to…

  He opened his eyes with a jolt. Had he been out? For how long?

  Melissa.

  Call her. One more time. He got the redial button on the second try. The phone rang. Rang. Rang. No answer. Her machine picked up. He waite
d impatiently, fighting off the blackness.

  Please leave a message after the beep. Beeeep.

  “Melissa.” He put his hand to his head. Steady. Steady. Just get through the message. He had to hang on, tell her about the men, about Watson, keep her safe.

  The blackness entered his head and turned into white swirling patterns.

  “Be careful… Don’t let men in… Watson… Don’t want you…hurt.”

  He felt the phone slip out of his hands, felt his lips forming a curse, then slid slowly down and let the black hole take him.

  13

  MELISSA STOOD, still wrapped in a towel, staring at the blinking light on her answering machine. Who had left a message? And how long ago? She’d been in the shower forever, then had watched some late night TV without bothering to dress. Rose again? Her parents? Penny?

  She bit her lip, face twisted in an uncomfortable combination of dismay and hope.

  …Riley?

  She stepped forward carefully, as if someone might have planted land mines under her carpet, and pushed the playback button.

  Click. Whir.

  Riley’s voice came over the tape, hoarse and barely recognizable. Be careful…

  Melissa gasped and stepped back. That was it. He was going to kill her.

  Don’t let men in…

  She shook her head, tears of terror springing to her eyes. He was warning her. She shouldn’t have let him in, shouldn’t have started something with a stranger. She was dead.

  Watson…

  Melissa stopped a sob in its tracks and stared at the machine. Watson? What— How did Riley—

  Don’t want you…hurt.

  Concern in his voice…and pain. Had something awful happened to him? Was he injured? She couldn’t bear to think of him suffering. She couldn’t bear that she might be abandoning him when he needed her. She couldn’t bear that because of Watson she was too afraid to try and find out where Riley was, to see if he needed help.

  The machine clicked. Beeped four times to show the message was complete. Clicked again. Silence.

  Melissa sprang forward and rewound the tape for a fraction of a second. Don’t want you…hurt.

  He was warning her about something, or someone. Watson?

  Or himself?

  Maybe he hated who he was, hated that he wanted to hurt her. Maybe he was warning her to keep her safe. Penny said some killers wanted to be caught; they hated what they were compelled to do.

  Maybe.

  Or Watson. She liked that version a lot better. If Watson was the crooked one, then Riley would be warning her against doing exactly what she’d done. Betraying Riley. Betraying Rose.

  She closed her eyes and clutched the towel in tight fists against her chest. How was she supposed to know what was true? She found herself wanting to call Bill, to explain this whole horrible situation and get his always rational, detached, emotion-free take, delivered in his trademark monotone. He’d comfort her, chide her gently, give her solid, caring advice. Except he wouldn’t be able to get past the part where she’d wanted to have a no-strings fling. Why would she want to do something so out of character? That didn’t sound like the Melissa he knew. He could have told her there’d be trouble.

  Don’t want you…hurt.

  Riley. The ache came on hard and strong. Such tenderness in that weak, strained voice. As if he really cared for her underneath it all. She wanted to weep, but the tears came out in frustrated painful drops, not easy rolling relief.

  How was she supposed to know what was true?

  She dropped the towel and went over to her dresser, pulled out underwear, a bra, a T-shirt and shorts, not really sure what she wanted to do, only knowing her restless body craved action, not sleep.

  She dressed, walked to her front door and peered out, still undecided. Rose’s door beckoned across the hall. The riotous red room. The place where everything had started.

  Melissa slipped back into her apartment and retrieved the key from her panty hose drawer, went into the hall with quick quiet steps and opened Rose’s door.

  Streetlight spilled in from outside, illuminating the garish paint to a dark brick color. Melissa flicked on a floor lamp with a muted red shade. A warm pink light lit up the room, making it look more like a bordello than it already did.

  She walked through, touching now-familiar objects, remembering the excitement, the passion. How had her fantasy become such a nightmare?

  She patted the tin-can giraffe, its nose, its painted aluminum body. Randstetler had been in the news recently, for chaining himself to the fence of a cosmetic company that tested on animals.

  Weird sculpture. Weird guy. Weird world. She moved toward the window and bumped the giraffe’s nose with her elbow. The animal teetered despite her clumsy attempts to right it, and tipped forward with a horrible metallic crash to rest flat on its tinny nose. One can popped out of its rear and rolled toward her in a funny, haphazard way, as if it had a weight inside.

  Strange. She picked the can up. This one wasn’t neatly painted like the others; color had been smeared on in large sloppy swatches. Very messy. You could even see the label through the yellow. Melissa squinted. B-E-E-F…

  Her eyebrows shot up. Beefarini? Randstetler used a can a cow had died for? Not likely. She peered more closely. The top, instead of being neatly welded shut like the others, had been taped and crudely painted over. She shook the can gently, not surprised at the faint thud inside. Had Rose hidden something in there? Drugs? Jewelry? Whatever it was, unless they could get Randstetler to fix it, the future value of the sculpture was—

  Melissa’s heart skipped a beat. Riley. Going through Rose’s drawers. Searching the apartment. Was this what he’d been after?

  She tore off the tape, gently pried open the lid and withdrew a tiny bundle, carefully wrapped in cotton and gauze. What the hell? Heart pounding, feeling like a kid playing pirate at the beach who’d actually dug up some treasure, she undid the wrapping. And caught her breath.

  A stunning miniature portrait, its frame laden with colorful precious stones—diamonds, emeralds and rubies in a fabulous glittering pattern. The familiar, but strangely aged features of Queen Elizabeth I stared sternly, as if chiding Melissa for allowing the monarch of England to be so closely associated with a giraffe’s privates.

  Melissa stroked the tiny jewels, gently brushed the glass surface. Exquisite. This must be the Hilliard portrait Penny’s cop brother was—

  A noise sounded behind her. A swish. Like air being displaced by a moving object. Like the door to Rose’s apartment being pushed gently open.

  Oh God, hadn’t she closed it completely? Melissa’s breath ratcheted up into her chest; the blood began draining from her head. She shoved Queen Elizabeth into her shirt pocket, turned and gave a short, choked scream.

  Riley.

  Looking like someone had run into him with a truck. Blood stained his upper lip and shirt in an ugly swath, as if it had been pouring out of his nose; his left eye was puffy and bruised, his right cheek purple and swollen. Red rings of raw skin circled his wrists, as if he’d been brutally bound.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you.” The voice was the same hoarse rasp that haunted her on her answering machine. He came forward clumsily, as if it hurt him to move, squinting in the soft light of the apartment, his good eye concentrating hard on her, but in and out of focus, as if he couldn’t quite control it, as if he weren’t quite himself.

  She stood her ground, a seashell rushing noise in her ears, not sure if she was brave or paralyzed by fear, not sure whether to run to him or far away.

  “Thank God you’re okay.” He put a hand to his head as if it pained him to speak. “I was afraid they’d come after you.”

  Who? Her lips formed the word, but she wasn’t sure sound had actually come out.

  “Allston’s men.” He lowered himself into Rose’s burgundy wing chair with a grunt that made Melissa wince. “They were annoyed with me.”

  “Oh.” Who was All
ston? She didn’t know. And if this was what he did when he was annoyed, she didn’t want to know. All she cared about was that Riley was hurt, and that getting him medical help meant getting him out of here and into a public setting where she could feel safe while she tried to understand what was going on.

  “Riley, you should go to the hospital. I’ll call an ambulance.” She moved by him to get to the phone.

  “No.” His hand clamped onto her wrist. She cried out and yanked away, holding her hand as if his touch had burned her.

  Riley lifted his head. With an obvious effort, he focused on her face.

  “My God, Melissa.” His voice sank to an incredulous whisper. “You’re afraid of me.”

  She stared back, unable to explain, to confess her horrible fear, to admit what she’d been told and how far she’d gone toward believing it.

  “Is it the face? Does this scare you?”

  She nodded. That much at least was the truth. The idea that thugs had attacked Riley, that they’d beaten him, that he could have died made her sick with horror. Worse, he appeared to view this shocking violence as all in a day’s work. How could anyone ever get used to that?

  He stared at her with a measuring look, as if he were trying to read her mind, to find out how much she knew. “That’s not all. There’s something else. What is it? What’s happened?”

  She gripped the arm of Rose’s rocker and reminded herself to breathe, afraid she was going to faint in front of him.

  “Watson.” The name came out under a weight of tremendous contempt. “What did he tell you?”

  How did he know? She opened her mouth and emitted a strangled croak. How could she tell him? What could she say? What would he do if she told him?

  “Melissa.”

  God help her.

  “He said you’re a sociopath.” The words came out in a flat, lifeless stream, as if she were responding to a question with her name, rank and serial number. “That you seduce women and kill them.”

  His face crumpled into incredulity. “And you believed him?”

  A tear rolled down Melissa’s cheek. This hurt. All of it. Everything she thought, everything she said, how he looked, how he looked at her… She was a mass of raw, overstimulated nerve endings. He deserved an answer, an explanation, but she couldn’t say a thing that wouldn’t hurt them both more. So she stood there and waited.