Goldengirl

by Peter Lovesey

  “Not money,” insisted Serafin. “Dryden can confirm that. The consortium was necessary to provide the facilities you needed, but for me the money wasn’t important. I didn’t trade your health for profit, Goldine. For a principle. To demonstrate a scientific truth.”

  Goldine suddenly started to laugh, a shrill peal of laughter verging on hysteria. She tossed back her head, showing her white teeth, and then rocked forward till her long hair cascaded over her shoulders. The others in the small bedroom watched with petrifying unease. “Oh, Christ,” she said when she had recovered herself enough, “it’s just incredible! Fifteen years creating your six-foot-two-inch scientific truth, and what happens? Four weeks before the big demonstration it goes down with diabetes. The bones are great, the bodywork is okay, but the inside’s seized up. You pathetic little man! You proved your theory, but nobody will know. There isn’t a medical institute in the world that would publish it, knowing how it left me. You just have the bills to pick up, and the job of telling the consortium what happened to their multimillion-dollar ripoff.”

  She was close to tears, but her words were shaped in the white heat of her new knowledge. They were razor-edged.

  Serafin stood in silence, spastically stretching and clenching his fingers, suffering, Dryden suspected, more from the destruction of his dream than shame at what he had inflicted on Goldine.

  Of those present, Dryden had least reason to feel emotionally involved. He had engineered this confrontation, anticipated what Serafin would say.

  But he had not anticipated Goldine’s reaction.

  He had watched her and listened in genuine surprise turning to admiration. For it took courage to speak like that to Serafin, her virtual slavemaster for fifteen years. Maybe it was an isolated outburst of defiance, but it showed she was no automaton. Her own personality had survived and was struggling to be free.

  And Dryden cared.

  There would be no Goldengirl. No triumph at the Olympics. Nothing in it for Dryden Merchandising. But stumbling toward him out of this wreckage was the girl who had been Dean Hofmann.

  Yes, he cared passionately.

  Jack Dryden in love? Crazy. It couldn’t happen.

  He approached and put a hand gently on her arm. This was not the time to analyze his feelings. She needed to know he was going to help. “We must get you out of here,” he told her. “Out of Cleveland. I’ll find you a good doctor, a specialist, in New York.”

  She stared at him in surprise and frowned. “I figured now that I’m out of the Olympics …”

  “… you need help more than ever,” said Dryden. “I take it, after what you said, that you want to get as far away from this skunk as you can. Okay, I have an office in New York. I can get you into a clinic with the best medical treatment.”

  “You’ll do that for me?” She caught her breath in disbelief. “I don’t understand.”

  “But you’ll come?” said Dryden. “You trust me?”

  Her eyes moistened. She was shaping to reply when Serafin interrupted.

  “You think you can take her away from me, Dryden? You think she’ll go with you?” His voice was pitched manically high. “It’s a delusion. Goldengirl is mine. I made her what she is. You can’t alter that.”

  “He’s off his rocker,” said Melody. “Ignore him.”

  Goldine wasn’t letting it pass. “What do you mean by that? You figure you have a claim on me, like I’m some possession?” She stood up and advanced on Serafin with such menace that he put up an arm to shield his face. “Understand this, Doc. I despise you. I’ve hated you for years. The only reason I never walked out of your life before is that I wanted to collect those medals. Hell, I earned them. They were going to make some sense out of the mess my life has been up to now. Yes, you’re right — you made me what I am. And by God I mean to change it.”

  “You won’t,” said Serafin with a quick uncanny laugh. “You’re Goldengirl.”

  “Let’s get out of here,” Melody appealed to Dryden.

  “There’s no Goldengirl any more,” Goldine told Serafin, stressing each word with categorical force. “You created her and you destroyed, her. All that’s left is bitterness and this wreck of a body I have to drag around. I guess I’ll make out, but I don’t ever want to see you or hear from you again.” She turned away from him and told Dryden, “I’ll need to get dressed.”

  “We’ll wait downstairs.”

  “Before you go, there’s something you may wish to know. All of you.” Serafin spoke more slowly, with an effort to regenerate authority. “You make the mistake of assuming Goldine’s diabetes is incapacitating. There are degrees of this condition, and hers is actually quite mild — so mild, in fact, that I doubt if it would have been diagnosed if she had not made heavy demands on her body as an athlete.”

  “Look, this doesn’t help,” Dryden said. “Salve your conscience any way you want. We don’t wish to hear it.”

  “But you will,” said Serafin more urgently. “Despise me if you like, but respect my knowledge of medicine. I brought Goldine here to check the extent of the diabetes and bring it under control with insulin.”

  “What are you trying to say?” asked Goldine.

  “The injections I’ve been giving you supply the insulin your body requires, but no longer produces in sufficient quantity. Already you have regained most of the weight you lost. With regular insulin and dieting you can lead a normal life.” Serafin took a step toward her. “Do you sec what this means? There is nothing to stop you competing in the Olympics. I’ve stabilized the insulin requirement. We’ll have to make adjustments to allow for the blood sugar you burn up in exercise, but it can be done.”

  “You’re saying I have diabetes, but I can still run in the Olympics?” said Goldine, floundering through the medical jargon.

  “Why not? It’s nothing unusual for diabetics to reach the top in sports. There are international tennis players, swimmers —”

  “Just what are you up to?” Dryden angrily broke in. “Goldine has accepted it’s all over. God knows she has problems enough trying to rebuild a life for herself without you poisoning her mind with false hopes.”

  “Wait, Jack,” said Goldine in a calm voice. “I must hear this out. He can’t hurt me any more.”

  Dryden looked into her eyes and understood. He had thought she was free, but she was not. The idea of being Goldengirl still possessed her. That was what Serafin had meant.

  “You must go to Moscow,” Serafin was saying. “You won your place on the team. It’s your right.”

  “What about her health?” demanded Dryden, refusing to let go. “You say the diabetes is mild. If competing in Eugene set this thing off, couldn’t the Olympics make it worse?”

  “That doesn’t follow at all,” Serafin answered. “I have it under control now. I will monitor her blood-sugar level from race to race.”

  Dryden shook his head. “The Russians will scream drugs the first time you take a blood sample.”

  “Nobody would ban a diabetic athlete from the Olympics,” Serafin stated emphatically. “Insulin isn’t on the list of prohibited drugs. It simply allows a diabetic to function normally. It gives them no unfair advantage. When Goldine competed in the finals at Eugene she was suffering from an insulin deficiency. With an injection she might have beaten world records.”

  “That was why the four hundred was so tough?” said Goldine, the excitement rising in her voice. “It was the diabetes that beat me?” She wheeled round toward Dryden, eyes shining. “You see — I could have won that race.”

  “Of course you could!” crowed Serafin. “You exhibited your symptoms early in the Trials. Klugman reported them. But undue tiredness and a dry throat can result from a dozen different causes. Even if I had recognized the condition at once, it is doubtful if I could have helped you through the remaining races. It takes time to check the insulin requirement. It’s a very fine balance that varies from one individual to another. Yours is stabilized now, but it’s taken nearly two
weeks.”

  “You mean I could get back to training at once?” asked Goldine.

  Dryden put his hand on her arm. “I know how much this means to you, but it isn’t wise. Even if you limit yourself to one event in Moscow, what use will it be if you go out in Round One? Isn’t it better to be remembered as a winner than someone who failed in the Olympics?”

  “Why should she fail?” Serafin hotly demanded. “She is the finest woman athlete in the world.”

  “How much training has she missed?” said Dryden. “Twelve, fourteen days? No Olympic athlete can afford to lay up like that before the Games.”

  “Never mind!” Goldine cut in. “You can bet he’ll think of someone who did and won a gold medal. He has a story for every situation you could name. Before we go into that, has it occurred to any of you that I might decide to make up my own mind about running?” She paused challengingly. “Obviously not. You’re not accustomed to Goldengirl having ideas of her own. She isn’t programed to think. You’d better understand, all of you, that as of now, that’s changing. These last two weeks have taught me a lot, about myself, and the people around me. What you just told me underscores my principal conclusion — that it’s crazy letting any of you take charge of my life. Thanks, I’ll pick up the bits and see what I can do with them myself.”

  Dryden had lost. What Goldine was talking about wasn’t freedom. That had beckoned briefly and gone. Goldengirl had taken possession again.

  “But you will run,” said Serafin, sensing what Dryden had. “You can’t pass up the chance now you know it’s possible. You will do it, you know. You’re going for gold.”

  If Serafin was expecting a good response, he didn’t get it. Goldine ran her eyes over him and said with contempt, “Would you get out of my sight? Don’t you understand it’s all over for you, whatever I do? I don’t need you any more. Like Jack said, there are other doctors.”

  “But you’ll run,” Serafin persisted with fanatical certitude, “and you’ll prove that you can beat the world. I’ll publish your case history. Oh no, Goldengirl, it’s not all over for me! It’s the summit of my professional career. The public will never hear about the diabetes. Shall I tell you why? Because it would tarnish your commercial image. Ask Dryden.” He held up his hand. “All right, I’ll go. I’ll even keep out of your sight if that’s what you want. But you won’t totally shut me out. You’re still my adopted daughter, and the police and press believe you were kidnaped on the way to your U.S. team medical. I don’t think you realize how much media interest there is in this story.” He smiled and lowered his voice. “What would you like me to tell them?”

  She breathed the one word, “Bastard!” and looked for help from Dryden.

  He knew he must give it. Her bid for self-determination had not lasted long.

  *

  Next morning, Sunday, August 3, the press were called to a midday conference at the Metropolitan Hotel, Cleveland Heights, where Serafin read the following statement:

  “I am pleased to announce that my daughter Goldine, who has been missing since Wednesday, was this morning reunited with me. She is physically unharmed but suffering from shock and nervous exhaustion. She is at present under sedation, and will not be making any formal statement to the press. Remembering that the U.S. Olympic team leaves for Moscow three days from now, I ask for your forbearance in giving Goldine the chance to recover from her ordeal. I am not able to state at this stage whether she will be fit enough to travel with the team or, indeed, to compete at all.

  “The circumstances of her release from captivity were as follows. Yesterday morning, a business associate of mine in Los Angeles received a telephone call from a spokesman for Goldine’s abductors, demanding a ransom in dollar bills. A condition was stipulated that the news of the ransom demand should not be communicated to me or the police until the transaction was made. So, unknown to me, my associate raised the money with the help of a consortium of business colleagues interested in America’s representation in the Olympic Games. I have no knowledge of the amount of the ransom, but I should like publicly to express my appreciation of their generosity.

  “Goldine was released at six o’clock this morning on Shore Boulevard, East Cleveland, and phoned me at once. When I picked her up, she was extremely tired and in a state of shock. She was unable to say much about her kidnapers, as she had been kept blindfolded or under sedation throughout the four days and nights of her abduction. Otherwise, she appears to have been treated well. I informed the police of Goldine’s safe return, and she has made a statement to them. She is now resting at an address I shall not disclose, for reasons already stated. As soon as a decision is reached about her participation in the Olympic Games, I shall be in touch with the U.S. Olympic Committee, and a further statement will be issued to the press.”

  “Could we have the name of the guy in Los Angeles?” asked a reporter.

  “And the others?” added a second.

  “What were the arrangements for the pickup?”

  “Gentlemen, I have made my statement,” said Serafin. “There is nothing I can usefully add. These last few days have been something of a strain for me, so I must ask you to bear with me when I insist on leaving it at that.”

  *

  Whatever Serafin insisted, the press had a job to do. In the next three hours, Cleveland’s transient accommodations — from plush hotels on Euclid Avenue to seedy bed-sitting-rooms downtown — were thoroughly checked for a new arrival. Hospitals, sanitariums and nursing homes were visited. Caradock Lodge, which some bystander had seen Serafin leaving the day before, came in for special attention, but Nurse Piper insisted nobody was staying there, and finally got rid of reporters by allowing them to make their own examination of the rooms. Jefferson College, too, was combed. It was known Goldine had stayed there prior to the kidnaping — a local paper had established that on Thursday — and that Serafin, Klugman, a red-headed secretary, and an unidentified Chinese had been in the party, but none of them could now be traced. By late afternoon, newsmen were talking of a professional coverup. It was thought the police might have taken a hand, but they denied it, seeming put out about the whole affair.

  In fact, Goldine and Klugman had left Cleveland in a privately chartered helicopter an hour before the press conference began. In a little over two hours they landed in New York City, where they were met by a senior executive of the Dryden organization and driven to his home. That afternoon, while Cleveland was being scoured, Goldine was walking an Afghan hound in Central Park.

  Dryden, with Melody in tow, took the scheduled flight from Cleveland Hopkins Airport at 2:10 P.M. He had masterminded the entire operation. This kind of exercise he performed automatically, laying on a press conference, fixing flight schedules, arranging accommodations. The others had seen the sense of co-operating when he had outlined the plan last evening in Jefferson College. Goldine, convinced she had achieved independence of action, and determined to preserve it, coolly consented to the arrangements so long as they committed her to nothing more than a flight to New York. Serafin, no less convinced that she would run in Moscow, had agreed to go through with the press conference as the best way of resolving the complications of the “kidnap” story. Dryden had written the statement and waited to hear that Serafin read it and didn’t get drawn into questions. Nothing had gone wrong: Serafin was still fanatically interested in the success of Project Goldengirl.

  Secure in the plane, Dryden might have been excused for congratulating himself on a smooth operation. In reality, he felt distinctly uneasy. Till yesterday, he had been scrupulous in keeping his participation in the project on a professional basis, avoiding any involvement in what happened to Goldine prior to the Olympics. There were huge risks even in that, but if things got hot before the Games, he had reckoned on pulling out without irreparable damage to the agency’s reputation.

  Not now. He was caught up in it with the rest of them. He had conspired to issue a false statement to the police and — potentially more damag
ing — he had hoodwinked the press. The alternative had been the inevitable collapse of the project. Nothing would have saved it if newsmen had talked to Goldine or Serafin on Saturday.

  Then, why hadn’t he washed his hands of it as he had always intended if things went wrong? He could have walked out of Caradock Lodge, taken the first plane to New York and started calling his business contacts in Los Angeles to tell them the deal was off. Instead, he had organized this salvage operation. Why?

  It was because he cared deeply now what happened to Goldine. He couldn’t abandon her.

  There had been a moment in that grim showdown with Serafin in Caradock Lodge when Goldine had believed the diabetes had put an end to her brief career as a track star. Ended everything her upbringing had prepared her for. As her world collapsed, he had offered to take her to New York and asked her to trust him and she had answered with her eyes. Nothing of significance had been said. There had just been this spark of understanding that passed between them, but it meant more than anything they had said to each other before, in the Sierras, on La Jolla Beach or in Eugene.

  Then Serafin had let slip the shattering possibility that Goldine might, after all, compete, and the moment had gone. She was going for gold. The impulse was too powerful to resist. She had found the strength to reject Serafin, but she couldn’t reject the idea he had nurtured in her. She had convinced herself she was free to decide her own future, but she had no choice at all. It was settled.

  “Thinking about her, huh?” said Melody.

  He nodded.

  “I guessed it,” said Melody. “Do you figure she’ll win in Moscow?”

  “She has to get there first.”

  Melody smiled. “Listen, I know Goldengirl, lover boy, and I know what three gold gongs mean to her. She’ll be on that plane for Moscow, take it from me.”

  “Even if she decides to go, she’ll have to get medical backing,” said Dryden. “Can you see the Olympic Committee letting her compete so soon after the onset of diabetes?”