“Anna also took a look at another option.”
“Abortion?”
“Apparently she visited the clinic.”
Royce stared and then blew through his closed lips. His eyes brightened.
“You mean something similar has happened someplace else, then? Is that why the FBI is so interested?”
“Has to be off the record,” McShane said.
“Quid pro quo.”
“Yes, apparently so. So,” he continued, “you can see why it’s important for me to determine if this is part of it all or an isolated incident. I’d just like to look over this couple, maybe observe them, just to see.”
“If they have Anna Gold locked up someplace?”
“Got to do something,” McShane said.
Royce thought.
“It’s going to be hard observing them. They live kind of out of the way.”
“I’m a former successful Peeping Tom.”
Royce laughed. He thought and then he stood up.
“I’m going to write down the name of a street, put down a couple of X’ s, and circle one which indicates a residence. I’m relying on you being discreet.”
“Good enough.”
“Of course, I’d like to be kept informed.”
“Quid pro quo. You’ve got my card. If anything comes to mind or you hear anything…”
Royce nodded and went to his desk. He wrote and drew on a slip of paper and then he handed it to McShane, who stood up.
“Thanks.”
“I’m kind of caught in between two hopes,” Royce said as he escorted him to the door. “That you don’t find anything suspicious, and yet, you do find Anna Gold.”
“I understand.”
After Royce opened the door and McShane stepped out, he said, “One more thing.”
“Yes?”
“If anything suspicious involving my clients proves true, I want the opportunity to make a statement to the press before the district attorney gets his face in the papers.”
“My first concern is Anna Gold,” McShane said dryly.
“Of course. It’s mine too,” Royce replied, smiled, and then closed the door.
McShane gazed at the slip of paper in his hand and then hurried to his car to pursue what he felt might very well be the solution to the case.
Won’t Cookie be proud of me? he thought.
But it won’t bring her back, his alter ego pointed out.
20
She had taken great pains to make their dinner special. She was a good cook, a very good cook. Growing up in a home where love was rarely expressed and especially very rarely expressed to her, she felt like Cinderella before the prince had arrived with the glass slipper. Even though her sister was older, her mother made her help in the kitchen and insisted that she learn how to prepare food.
“It’s probably the only way you’ll win a man,” her mother told her. Her sister was prettier in those days, with a voluptuous figure, whereas she always had a more masculine, tomboy look.
Ironically, this discrimination only made her into a better, more capable and independent person, unlike her sister, who had to have someone cook for her and her husband, clean their home, and care for their children. Her sister was truly an invalid now, she thought, stricken down by laziness, indolent, and slothful. She had become fat and spoiled and was a blob with a mouth. And her brother wasn’t much better, with his spoiled wife and undisciplined pack of rug rats. Good riddance to them, she thought, time and time again.
She didn’t need them. She had Daddy, and soon she and Daddy would have a family of their own. Finally.
She stood to the side in the dining room and surveyed her work. The table absolutely glittered. Their best china was set out with their best silverware and goblets. The candles burned and she had dressed the table in one of her prettiest tablecloths and matching napkins. Daddy put on romantic music, a Henry Mancini album. He had changed into a jacket, tie, and slacks and she wore one of her nicest dresses, her most expensive earrings with the tiny rubies in the middle, and its matching necklace. Daddy had shaved closely; she had sprayed herself with her most expensive perfume. It was meant to be one of those evenings they would never forget.
And it started out that way too. Daddy opened the wine and poured her a glass and then one for himself. They made a toast, followed with a kiss, and then they drank. She brought out the salad with the hot, fresh bread she had baked herself. Daddy complimented everything. He couldn’t say enough. She laughed, she held his hand, they conversed as they had not conversed in ages. Daddy told her about his day at work and the things he had overheard and seen. He made sure to tell her about Tommy Patterson’s remark. She beamed, a lighthouse in a world whose nights were usually without stars.
“What a nice thing for him to say.”
“Everyone at work wishes us well,” Daddy told her.
It put tears in her eyes. Strangers wishing them well. How wonderful and how ironic that strangers would care for them more than the members of their own families. She dabbed at her eyes with the cloth napkin and rose to bring out the duck.
“Can I help?”
“No, just sit and enjoy, Daddy,” she said. “I’ll be the cook, waitress, and chief bottle washer tonight.” He smiled and she went into the kitchen.
But before she could return, the phone rang.
She stared at it for a moment, as if she knew who was calling. It rang again.
Daddy was in the doorway.
“You want me to get it?” he asked. She nodded and turned to put the duck on the platter, her fingers trembling nervously in expectation.
“Hello,” Daddy said. When he listened so long without saying anything, it compounded her fears. What was wrong?
Daddy had his back to her and was nodding as if the caller could see.
Finally he said, “I understand. I’ll take care of it immediately. Yes, I’m on my way.”
He replaced the receiver and stood there with his back to her for a moment, gathering his thoughts.
“What?” she demanded.
“Someone is trying very hard to take our baby away from us,” he told her.
She brought her hand to her mouth and sucked in her worst fears.
“It’s a policeman and he has found someone who might tell him things that eventually would bring him here. I’m sorry,” he said, looking at the duck on the platter. “I’ve got to go. It’s for the baby,” he added.
Of course she understood.
“Go, Daddy. Do what you have to do.”
He nodded and went up to their bedroom. He didn’t change out of his good clothes; he went to the closet and reached up for the medical bag on the shelf. After he checked to be sure all he needed was inside, he closed it and descended the stairs. She was waiting at the bottom, wringing her hands, her face full of worry.
“Is that the best way?” she asked, nodding at the bag.
“Yes,” he said. “No mess, no fuss, no one comes knocking on our front door.”
“Do you want me to go with you?”
“Oh, no, Mommy. No. You stay and finish your dinner.”
“I can’t eat without you,” she snapped. “It’ll wait.”
He nodded.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he told her, and kissed her cheek.
She watched him leave and then she turned and walked furiously to the kitchen to put everything else on hold. Why? She wondered, stomping her feet, why was it so easy for other people? Why was it so easy for her blob of a sister? She pounded her fists against her thighs so hard in frustration, she felt pain, but she didn’t stop. She pounded again and again until she grew exhausted and sat at the kitchen table. Tears streaked down her face.
“We’re not going to lose this baby. We’re not!” she said. She gazed at the clock. She wouldn’t move. She’d wait right here for Daddy’s successful return.
He jerked the car back so hard and accelerated so abruptly in the driveway, the wheels spit the gravel behind him, some stones actually
hitting the house. He bounced down the back road, knowing he was driving too fast, but he couldn’t help it. He so wanted this to be a good night for Mommy, and for himself. They deserved it. They had earned it!
It was all supposed to go so perfectly; it was all supposed to be so simple.
When he turned onto the main road, he pulled out without looking and nearly collided with an oncoming vehicle turning into their road. The driver leaned on his horn and it blared into the night behind him, but he didn’t slow down until he reached the first traffic light and got ahold of himself. He realized he didn’t want to attract any undue attention. The remainder of the journey, therefore, was uneventful.
He eased into her parking lot less than a half hour later and waited a moment to be sure no one would see him arrive. Then he reached for his bag, unzipped it, and quickly filled the syringe so it would be ready. When that was done, he got out of the car, keeping as deeply in the shadows created by the parking-lot lights and the lights around the complex as he could until he was at her door. He stood there, gazing around.
It was deadly quiet, with no signs of anyone. Above him the sky was as dark as the beginning of a nightmare. A thick overcast shut out the half-moon and stars. That was fine with him.
He opened the bag and quickly put on the surgical gloves. Then he took out the syringe and clutched it like a dagger in his right hand. He took a deep breath to gather his courage and resolve, remembering the words of hope and encouragement between Mommy and him. Finally he pushed the door buzzer sharply, quickly, and dropped his right hand behind his leg so the syringe would be out of sight.
Moments later, her Taser in hand, Lidia Ambrook opened the door enough to peer out. The hand holding the Taser was behind the door.
“Yes?”
He was a nicely dressed man. The tension in her chest eased a bit.
“Lidia Ambrook?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God,” he said. “Anna Gold sent me.”
“Anna? Where is she?”
“She’s in trouble. She needs your help,” he said. “May I come in a moment?”
She considered and then opened the door wider and he entered, spinning around as he did so as to shut the door with his bag and simultaneously drive the needle into the soft area at the base of her skull. It took her by surprise, but she raised her Taser and attempted to point it at him. He dropped the bag and grabbed her right wrist with his left hand, keeping the needle embedded, the plunger down, as he held the Taser away from him. She tried to kick him between the legs, but he anticipated that and, using his body, drove her back against the door. He slammed her right hand against the wood at the same time and the Taser fell to the floor.
She finally found the strength to scream, so he released her right wrist and put his wrist, cuff and all, into her mouth, pressing as he did so. She pushed desperately at his chest, but he held her there, pinning her right side against the door and continuing to empty the syringe. She tried to get her hands free to pound him with her small fists, but he was all over her, his body keeping her left hand down, her right hand not getting back enough to deliver any sort of blow.
Her eyes fluttered. He felt her resistance dwindling. Her face was full of panic, but when her eyeballs went back, the panic seemed to evaporate and be replaced with an empty, restful expression. He smiled. It was almost over. Her body began to sink as her legs gave way. He let her slide down the door to the carpet, where he turned her over on her stomach and removed the needle.
He opened the bag and took out a cotton swab, which he used to wipe away the drop of blood at the base of her neck. He cleaned the tiny wound until it was undetectable by the human eye. He dropped the swab into his bag and closed it, stood up, and gazed down at her.
Her body shuddered and then grew still. He waited and then knelt down and felt for a pulse. Satisfied, he opened the door and peered out. Seeing or hearing no one, he closed the door softly behind him, slipped back into the shadows, and wove his way to his car. He got in quietly and returned the syringe to the bag, along with the gloves. Then he started the engine and backed out with his headlights off until he reached the entrance to the parking lot. It took all his self-control to drive home at a reasonable speed. He was so anxious to tell Mommy that all would be well again. She was just where he had left her: in the kitchen. When he entered, she looked up expectantly. He smiled.
“That’s that,” he said. “All finished.”
“It went all right?”
“Perfect, Mommy. Baby’s safe again.” His smile widened, so she relaxed.
“Thank God,” she said, and stood. She looked at the duck. “Oh, I’ll have to warm that.”
“Go on. I’ll just put this back,” he said, holding up the bag, “and throw some cold water on my face. I worked up a little sweat.”
She nodded.
“You’re a good Daddy.”
He smiled again and went upstairs. Minutes later he returned and they were at their dinner again as if nothing at all had happened, except he had worked up a bigger appetite.
“This is so good,” he said, munching on the pieces of duck. “Succulent and not greasy. How do you do it, Mommy?”
“Family trade secrets,” she replied, and he laughed. “Which I will pass on to my daughter,” she said firmly.
“That’s right. Just think of all that you can give our children.”
“That’s all I do think about, Daddy.”
He nodded sympathetically, his eyes closing.
“I know. Soon enough, eh?”
“Not soon enough. I wish there was a way to speed up the incubation.”
“There isn’t, Mommy. Those doctors who try those drugs to make things happen faster usually regret it,” he added with a scowl.
She nodded.
“I realize I’m impatient,” she admitted.
“You’ve waited a long time. No one can blame you, Mommy,” he said, reaching across the table to put his hand gently over hers.
She smiled at him. Such understanding.
“Wait until you see our dessert,” she said, and went to fetch it. She returned with the strawberry shortcake and his mouth watered. “And there’s French roast too.”
She brought out the silver coffeepot and cut the cake. They both moaned with delight as they finished their feast.
“I’ll help you clean up,” he said. She looked at him askance.
“I think I know why you’re in such a rush,” she said teasingly. He blushed but continued to gather the dishes.
After everything was rinsed off and put in the dishwasher and the tablecloth and napkins were thrown in the washing machine, Mommy yawned and stretched.
“I think I’m tired,” she said. “I think I’ll go up to bed.”
He looked disappointed and she laughed.
“Poor Daddy. Why don’t you go up first,” she said, and he smiled. He hurried away and up the stairs. She straightened a few more things in the kitchen and waited what she felt was enough time. Then she took the bottle of skin oil out of the bag on the counter where Daddy had left it, and she started up the stairs. “I’m coming,” she sang.
She paused in the bedroom doorway.
There was Daddy lying in bed, naked, his hands behind his head, his pendulum just a trifle raised in expectation.
“Time for your reward,” she said. His smile widened as she drew closer. She put the bottle of skin oil on the bed and slowly took off her dress. Daddy’s smile froze and then evaporated. She was always intrigued by the changes in his face just before she did this. His eyes grew smaller; his mouth became tight and serious. It was almost as if a different man hovered inside him, just waiting for this opportunity to emerge.
Once, when she was not quite nine, her brother, who was fourteen, came down to the basement without realizing she was sitting in the far right dark corner, one of her private places. He had one of those forbidden girlie magazines inside his shirt. He sat near the basement window to get the light and took out the ma
gazine. As he turned the pages he unzipped his fly and began to fondle himself. She watched, intrigued, fascinated, and nearly cried out when she saw him ejaculate. As soon as he had he closed himself up and left the basement. She waited, her heart pounding, and then she crossed to where he had been sitting and gazed down at the white blobs. She couldn’t help but touch one and then smell it.
This was where babies began? How could this be? She broke a tiny sliver of wood from a crate and scooped some of the sticky wetness. She kept it for days and watched it dry, expecting to see some suggestion of life. But there was nothing, a big disappointment. That tape they had shown in school was just a cartoon after all.
Of course, she learned better, and in time she understood, but she never got the opportunity to experience the mystery of life within herself. For her it all remained a fantasy, something magical that happened to other people but not to her—never to her.
But why should Daddy suffer because of that? she thought. He was loyal; he was loving.
She poured the oil into her palm and rubbed her hands and then she moved over him.
It was the best way she knew to say thank you, especially after what he had just done and what he would continue to do.
21
McShane sat back in the front seat of his car. It had taken him a lot longer than he had anticipated to find this street and the house indicated by Robert Royce’s circled X. There were so many new side roads in the area where people had built second bedroom homes or summer residences. He had actually driven by this road before realizing it was there. He turned back, found it, and followed the primitive sketch.
When he located the house, he parked just off the left shoulder of the road, backing up under an old, sprawling maple. But there was no need to look for a shadowy spot. Night fell much earlier these days. The heavy overcast and the absence of streetlights put the road and its surroundings into a sea of ink. From this location he could observe the house undetected. There were lights on downstairs, and from time to time he saw the silhouette of someone moving about, but there was little or no activity outside the house. It was really too dark to tell, but it looked as though the house were on a nicely maintained piece of property with some small structure in the rear. To the right of the house, a giant weeping willow tree loomed. McShane always thought weeping willows looked sad, like someone with his or her head down, the falling tears frozen in midair.
Under Abduction Page 16
