“Murphy, wake up. Where’s Ryan?” Mary K shouted. She’s not in her bed.”
“The bathroom—”
“I looked. She’s not here.”
My heart ricocheted against my ribs.
Mary K dialed the front desk. “Yes, this is the penthouse. Have you seen Ryan Bloom tonight? She’s almost seven years old, but tall for her age. Pale skin. Dark, curly hair.” I searched her face for clues to the answer from the other end of the phone.
“How long ago?”
Another pause. I could hear my own blood surging through my eardrums. Bile rose in my throat. I prayed to no one in particular. Please, please, please.
“Thanks,” Mary K said, hanging up the phone.
I searched for my shoes. “Where is she?”
“They saw her leave around eleven. With Jake.”
For a millisecond her words disintegrated first into syllables, then into a jumble of unintelligible sounds. “Ryan would never leave without telling me. How did Jake get in here?” I jammed my feet into sneakers.
“We’re in the fucking BLOOM Tower, Murphy,” Mary K spat. “I think they’d let Jake Bloom into the penthouse where his wife and child are staying, don’t you?”
The next seconds were a blur. Mary K called Burt, and then the police, who told her they could do nothing if the child was with her father. “Motherfuckers!” she shouted as she slammed down the phone.
I grabbed Ryan’s jacket from a nearby chair. I held it to my lips, taking in the fragrance of baby shampoo. I allowed myself only the hastiest glance around the room—a few heartbeats to gather my thoughts. Her suitcase rested on the floor, garments strewn as she’d left them. Sketches of princesses and white horses lay on the writing desk, pencils and markers scattered on top. The rumpled sheets and pillow bore the impression of her but they were cool to my touch. The only thing missing, besides Ryan herself, was her love-worn stuffed lamb.
“Come on,” Mary K called from the entrance. “Let’s go! We’ve got to see what they know downstairs.” Her jaw was set and her eyes squinted into a warrior’s expression.
Fending off the greetings from doormen and desk staff, Mary K and I sped through the lobby. I’d fallen asleep in my clothes, or I’d have fled in my pajamas. The concierge tipped his head as we approached. “A night outing, Mrs. Bloom? Can I get you a car?”
Mary K spoke up when words failed me. “No. Thank you. We’re meeting Mr. Bloom.” Her eyes dipped to take in the gold nametag on the lapel of young man’s navy blazer. “Byron, did you happen to notice if they took a cab or remained on foot?”
Oh God. My brain was too addled to come up with such a cogent question. Give me a patient in cardiac arrest, an emergency C-section, or a compound fracture, and I’d know how to respond. But with Ryan in the balance, hysteria nearly erupted in me.
The eyes of the concierge darted between us. “It seems that Mr. Bloom and Ryan were going for a walk as well.”
I wanted to pound him with questions. Was she okay? Did she seem scared? Was she crying? Did Jake seem crazed, high—dangerous? Instead, I wrangled my voice from the dusty column of my throat. “Did you notice which way they were going?”
“A little nighttime scavenger hunt,” Mary K said, turning her full attention to the doorman. “Help us get a jump, will you? And might we borrow a flashlight?”
Nothing in the young man’s face said he was buying the ruse. “I believe they crossed the street and proceeded toward the park,” he said, pulling a flashlight from his drawer and handing it to Mary K. “It’s a beautiful night. Lots of moonlight. Mr. Bloom was carrying your daughter since she was sleepy and had forgotten her shoes.”
Shoes! Oh God, Ryan has no shoes. I thought of her pink feet stepping on sharp rocks. I silently wished for such small injuries.
I stilled myself and drew my first full breath. A single thought floated through the haze of my confusion. “I know where to find them,” I said, with a calm that surprised me.
As soon as we were out of the sight of the concerned concierge, we bolted toward the “Wounded Mother” exhibit. Breathless, head throbbing, I ran beside Mary K. Our path was awash in blue light, the glowing moon above us our beacon. Seconds seemed like days as images of my daughter broken or bleeding played as a movie in my mind. I huffed as my feet pounded the ground. Please, please, please.
When we arrived at the edge of the clearing, the silky labyrinth in the distance, its curtained border glowed with bright light emanating from deep within. We stopped, resting our hands on our knees and panting. After a few restoring breaths, we resumed our run toward the eerie glow.
At the entrance stood two night guards wearing Bloom Industries badges. Only then did I notice that guards patrolled the entire perimeter. A barrel-chested guard placed his body between us and the entry. “I’m sorry. Exhibit’s closed.”
I held my side. “I’m Katherine Murphy,” I panted. “Uh—Katherine Murphy Bloom. The wife of the artist. Is my husband in there with our daughter?”
My heart slid down into my belly while I waited for a reply. The security guard stepped up and held his hands wide, blocking our path. “Mr. Bloom insisted on privacy. He’s making modifications to the exhibit.”
Modifications. I thought I’d scream.
“Look,” Mary K barked. “Has he got a kid with him in there?” When he said nothing, she said, “I take that as a yes.”
Another, more portly, guard approached and began to confer with the first. Each second’s tick was an explosion of panic. “I’m going in!” I said, pushing my way past the guard’s outstretched arm. Mary K followed, and the guard grabbed her sleeve.
“Don’t touch me, asshole,” she said as she stepped beyond the width of the guard’s arms.
“My daughter’s in there!” I screamed. “She’s been missing for hours. We’re going in to see if she’s all right.”
“Have you got any ID?” the second guard asked.
“Fuck this,” Mary K said, grabbing my hand. “New York’s real cops will not be happy when they find out that a couple of rent-a-cops prevented a mother from protecting her kid. Move aside.”
We ran, leaving the two guards with their heads together. They mumbled amongst themselves and let us flee without chase. The beam of Mary K’s flashlight searched our course. The moon’s light illuminated the wounds that seemed even more grotesque in the shadows of night. My own voice pierced the darkness. “Ryan? RYAN?”
Mary K’s voice echoed mine.
As we made our way through the silk-banked hallway, the light we’d seen from the distance grew brighter. We wound through the maze.
Mary K stopped. She held her fingers to her lips. “Shh.”
From over the crest of a small hill came a soft and repetitious sound. Tch-shoosh. Tch-shoosh. Tch-shoosh. Mary K and I whispered and mimed our unified plan. I would step toward Jake alone to try to reason with him while Mary K would survey the scene and try to find Ryan. We slowed our pace, stepping lightly to avoid alerting Jake to our presence.
Mary K signaled to me from the perimeter of the huge meadow. She held her palm to her chest, a gesture that I knew meant she would stop at nothing to get to Ryan.
Jake stood at the center of the clearing, illuminated by searing white light from four floodlights. Shirtless and thrusting a slim spade into the ground, his shovel pierced the belly of the woman in repose, widening her wound with each thrust. He tossed soil into a wheelbarrow at her side, not a crumb of it mussing the pristine area that surrounded the incision he was making. Next to him, on a tarp on the ground, lay an enormous mound of moist, red pulp that resembled entrails and flesh. No. I would not let my imagination run wild. I had to stay calm. The only odors I could detect as I neared were those of newly turned earth and Jake’s perspiration, not the familiar tang of human blood.
I inched toward him, searching the lit area for Ryan. Glancing to my right, I saw Mary K, barely visible in the shadows.
The muscles of Jake’s sinewy body flexed wit
h his efforts. The lattice of scars on his torso glowed red and angry in the cruel light. Beads of sweat flew from his hair like discarded diamonds in the cruel, white light. Tch-shoosh. Tch-shoosh.
My skin tingled with fear. Still clutching Ryan’s jacket, I stepped close enough that I could reach out and touch Jake’s elbow. “Jake,” I whispered. He continued his digging. A little louder, “Jake.”
He froze.
“Jake, what are you doing?” I asked, forcing into soothing tones. I wanted to grab him, to scream, Where’s my baby? Instead I stepped slowly, no sudden moves.
His head swayed back and forth. He gripped and released the handle of the shovel.
“Where’s Ryan? It’s cold out. She forgot her coat.” The heat from the floodlights penetrated my scalp.
“She’s pure,” he groaned. “She can heal all the wounds.”
Acid rose to the back of my throat. “Where’s Ryan, Jake? Did you hurt her?”
He looked up at me for the first time, his irises fire-flecked with yellow-gold and icy green. “She’s perfect. Flawless. That’s why she can heal the wounds. Don’t you see it, Kat? It’s a cancer, all around us. Beauty is a distraction from all of the pain. It’s everywhere. Everything is diseased. I’ve tried and tried to heal it. I’ve looked for beauty, but now it’s taken over. It’s everywhere now. See?”
I had to keep him talking, keep his focus on me so that Mary K could find Ryan. With a jerk, Jake flung the shovel to the ground. “I’m so black inside.”
“That blackness is not you. That’s your illness. Where’s Ryan? We don’t want her to be up too late. You know how crabby she gets when she doesn’t sleep.” My words sounded absurd, but I had to keep talking or I’d explode into fragments.
Jake gestured down toward his feet. “She has to stay here. She has to go here, to heal this place.” I was close enough to look directly into the gash in the earth and see its hideous shape. Nestled in the belly of the woman, Jake had carved a hole—an unmistakable, life-sized, Ryan-shaped hole, her silhouette curled into the fetal position—an empty womb. Down to the profile of her upturned nose, the cavity’s likeness to my daughter was eerie. Perverse in its detail, the possible purpose of Jake’s sculpture sent a ripple down my spine.
Almost apelike, Jake lunged to the pulpy heap and sank his hands into the moist mass—its acrid odor finding its way to me. He leaned down and began to line the Ryan-shaped gap with the glistening ooze.
“You see. She will heal all of the ugliness that’s everywhere. She doesn’t have my blackness. She’s been spared.” Jake looked up at me like a child pleased with his creation, awaiting my approval.
Vomit threatened to rise in me. My heart pounded a new rhythm of panic as I scanned the clearing. What if we were too late? What if this grotesque gash was a grave for my already dead child? My ragged breaths became panting. From the inky distance came the sound of footfalls against the moist ground. More than one set of feet—Ryan’s?—no, too heavy for Ryan’s.
“Let’s take Ryan for a hot fudge sundae. She’d like that.” I was saying anything, trying to sound normal. Trying to reach the gentle daddy within the madman before me.
Jake’s head fell forward and he slipped down to his knees. He held his moist, red dripping hands in front of his face. “What have I done, Kat? What have I done?”
His plaints amplified my terror. In a sudden flurry, a dozen guards exploded from the edge of the darkness and surrounded Jake and me, guns drawn and aimed directly at Jake’s head. “Don’t move!” one shouted. Jake showed no startle response, he just knelt there, examining his hands.
“Jacob.” A rich, baritone voice floated from beyond the ring of light that surrounded us. When he stepped into the brightness, I recognized the distinguished form of Aaron Bloom as I’d seen it in newspaper photographs. Even with his slicked-back hair and precisely groomed goatee, I could see Jake’s features on the older man’s face. “Jacob, I’ve brought some people to help you,” he said in a voice both calm and commanding.
I looked into the eyes of the man who Jake had so reviled. In his features, so like Jake’s, I hoped to find compassion, kindness, love—all the emotions of which Jake always claimed his father was devoid. Instead I saw only steely determination and utter control.
Jake looked up at the pistols aimed at him. He held his arms out wide, closed his eyes, and leaned his head back. “Please,” he whispered. “Tell them to end this for me, Father. Tell them to free me from this horror. It’s my only way out. Make them shoot me. Please, please. For God’s sake.”
I was molten in the presence of Jake’s pleas; as though if I let myself, I would become nothing more than a warm puddle on the ground. I thought of the narcotics I had stored in a safe-deposit box—enough to end his agony. I looked up at Aaron Bloom. My voice was small and trembling. “Ryan. We have to find Ryan?”
Aaron Bloom stepped close to Jake and rested one hand on his son’s shoulder. With the slightest motion of his other hand, he directed the guards to remain where they stood. “Come now, Jacob. Tell us where the child is.”
Jake looked up into his father’s face, then back down at his hands. “Ryan. Oh, God. What have I done?”
I thought my heart would seize. My vision blurred at the edges, leaving only Jake and his father’s forms clearly in focus.
Piercing the darkness from beyond my view, Mary K’s voice rang loud and clear. “I’ve got her! I’ve got her!”
With the slightest jut of his jaw, Aaron Bloom directed his guards to grab Jake. Blinded by the floodlights but flung by another force, I sprinted toward Mary K’s voice. “Over here! I’ve got her!” Then I saw the beam of Mary K’s flashlight. My feet were thunder, pounding the ground until I reached them. Mary K gently transferred Ryan into my arms. All I could feel was the warmth of Ryan’s body next to mine and her steady pulse against my lips. I wanted to fall to my knees and weep, but knew that my daughter needed me to stand, strong enough to hold us both.
Mary K whispered as she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, “She’s all right, Murphy. Smart girl. Slipped away and hid when things got scary.”
I looked over Ryan’s shoulder at Aaron Bloom towering over Jake’s crumpled form. In his face, in his stiff-shouldered posture, I could see the older man’s revulsion for his son. As impassively as if he were directing them to sweep unwanted crumbs from a linen tablecloth, he directed his squadron to manage Jake. The security officers encircled Jake, guns still poised.
For a flicker of a second, the mythical mogul turned and his gaze caught mine. At first it was a cold stare—the look of a general overlooking his battlefield. This was the man who had warned me, tried to bribe me away from his son. Aaron Bloom, the great strategist, had achieved his success because of his ability to see many moves ahead of his competitors. So, too, he had seen this inevitability when I was too blinded by love to believe it.
He stepped toward us as the security guards carried Jake away. I tucked Ryan’s head into my shoulder. She wilted, allowing me to cradle her, clutching her lamb to her face.
As he neared, Aaron Bloom extended a hand toward Ryan. All I saw was Jake’s hand—the long, tapered fingers, gently curved—in his father’s gesture. The creases at the edge of his eyes softened as soon as he made contact with Ryan and a small tremor, barely visible, appeared at the corners of his mouth.
He rested his hand on Ryan’s heaving shoulder. Instantly, she was calmed to stillness, and she looked up into her grandfather’s face. As he touched her, he seemed to be trying, in this single contact, to absorb every moment of her life that he’d missed.
With Jake shouting nonsensically in the background, his father retracted his hand. He cleared his throat and his face returned to its former, stony expression. His voice was a piece of ramrod steel wrapped in billowy cotton. “We’ll take Jacob to the Beaumont Spa in Vermont, if that’s all right with you, Katherine.”
“Jake needs more than a spa.”
“Perhaps my euphemism isn’
t apt. Beaumont is a locked therapeutic facility. He’s been there before. In his youth. It’s restful, quiet, and completely discreet. Exceptionally qualified staff. I can assure you he’ll receive the best possible care.”
I nodded, unable to summon my voice.
“The bills will be managed, of course. I’ve arranged for helicopter transport from here so that the press can be avoided. I could arrange transport for you as well.”
“No,” I said. “I think we just need to get Ryan out of here.”
“Then at least allow my security staff to escort you back to the hotel.” As if calling for a sommelier to refill his champagne glass, he lifted his finger and three uniformed guards were at our sides. He reached into his hip pocket and retrieved a sleek platinum case. He withdrew a business card bearing only his name in embossed gold against glossy black and a telephone number, identical to the card I’d received and discarded nearly eight years before. “If you or the child needs anything, Katherine.” He said, extending the card toward me. He reached out once more and rested his hand on Ryan’s shoulder.
Though he had been right about Jake’s condition from the start, I saw no sense of triumph on this man’s face. He drew no joy from the spoils of battle.
I took one more look at the womanly mound of earth, my daughter’s silhouette her empty womb. A picture of Ryan, pale and lifeless, appeared in my mind. Then, mercifully sparing me from the worst horror of my imagination, Ryan curled her body, tucking her head more deeply into my caress, reminding me that my living, breathing daughter was safe in my arms. I rested my chin on her head and looked back. Beefy guards flanked Jake as they walked to where I supposed the helicopter would land. He turned toward me, his eyes pleading.
Without turning for another look, I carried Ryan out of the clearing, back toward the maze, guided by the beam of Mary K’s flashlight, her arm at my elbow steadying my steps. We exited, three guards at our sides, just as Burt arrived, his face an etching of every fear and pain I’d felt. He looked into the distance where Jake was being put into restraints, all the while ranting and screaming, “Help me! They’re going to take me away! Help me! You can see it! You can see it too! I know you can!”
Fire & Water Page 30
