Since meeting with Jimmy and his insane proposal, she’d struggled, trying to find the loophole that would end the nightmare. Every time she’d seen the shimmer of a possibility, she’d pictured Justine, and hope fled.
She’d taken frantic calls from her mother, and had even spoken to a patrolman who’d reluctantly agreed to look into Justine’s disappearance. She’d told him nothing; she had no choice.
“Where is she?” her mother had cried. “Someone’s done something to my baby. Why?”
Barrett had tried to reassure her. To let her know that Justine would be okay, that somehow everything would work out fine. And she almost believed that—the truth far stranger than the easy fiction of, “No word.”
The minutes and hours had ticked by.
And now, staring across at the performer’s entrance to Carnegie Hall, she felt a vortex sucking her down. With every step, as she crossed the street, she felt its pull, Jimmy’s pull, dragging her in, closer and closer. He wanted her to be there; she was. He wanted her alone; she was. He wanted her to play music, and she had. And now, they were going to give a concert. But to whom? And why?
Halfway across the street, the absurdity hit. A murderous cellist—her patient—was in love with her, and if she didn’t come up with something fast, he intended to blackmail her into marriage … or kill her sister … or both.
She remembered Sifu Li’s sign, “Fear doesn’t live in the present, it resides in the past and the future.”
At least now, as bizarre as it was, she knew what Jimmy wanted. He wanted to marry her. He wanted to play music with her. She almost laughed at the simplicity of it. What was it Hobbs had said, “He’s got a crush.”
But there was more, Jimmy’s psyche was made of quicksilver, with an unstable personality that shifted with the breezes of suggestion and frustration. He was like a minefield, constructed through decades of torture and, she suspected, generations of twisted doings at the mansion. A wrong word, an uncareful gesture, a misperceived glance, they could all set him off. Even despite the heart-stopping agony of Justine’s kidnapping, Barrett felt something for Jimmy. Not the romantic thrall that he imagined, but there was something endearing that, in a certain light, at certain times, gave her glimpses of the unhappy child in his past and the brilliant man he might have been. But then she thought about Justine and about the ever-expanding list of victims. Yes, she would do as he told her, but she had to find a way to save Justine and bring this to an end.
___
Hobbs fought to keep his emotions in check as he viewed Barrett through a pair of polarized binoculars. The poisonous manila envelope lay next to him on the seat of his anonymous navy blue Impala parked at the western side of 7th Avenue. He’d tried to phone her after she’d run from him. He knew that she was screening her calls, because she wouldn’t pick up and then ten minutes later he’d call again and her line would be busy.
He should have told her the whole truth. But how do you do that? How do you tell someone that because of your stupidity a child-pornography ring was allowed to operate? Even though he eventually brought it down and was the whistle blower on fellow detectives, it didn’t matter. If he’d even known for just a day, what did that equate to in the suffering of a child? That a man he’d considered a good friend had lied to him didn’t matter. That detail never found its way into the papers. It was his fault and he accepted that. He’d wanted to believe his men, to give them that one chance to pull their act together. But if he’d known … it was a familiar game and one that he wished he could stop. If he’d known, he would have acted and none of this would have happened.
“But then you wouldn’t be here,” he reminded himself. You’d still be with Margaret and that was a mixed bag. He wouldn’t have admitted that to himself a year ago, but the truth was that while he loved his two daughters—life with his ex hadn’t been good. He had never cheated and knew that he never would, but the passion had fled their marriage years earlier, and their only point of connection was their children.
Somewhere after his eighth attempt to call Barrett, he’d noticed the concert invitation stuffed in the bottom of the envelope. When he saw Barrett’s name on it, he immediately understood. She was in trouble and had sent him a message.
So rather than continue his fruitless calls, he’d staked out her apartment and then trailed her.
___
Ellen Martin gazed down from the fourteenth floor of her company’s Carnegie Towers Suite as Barrett crossed the street. The risk of what they were doing was massive, and the presence of the detective in the unmarked car was bad news. He’d need to be taken care of—a contingency she was prepared for—but at the moment, she had more pressing matters.
She gathered her bags and headed toward the elevators. She tried not to think about how much was at stake, and how things could go wrong. It was a crazy plan, Jimmy was certifiable, but if they could pull this off, none of that would matter. She knew how to handle him and all of the swirling others that lived inside of him.
As the elevator brought her down to the basement that connected the towers to the historic concert hall, she thought about Jimmy’s obsession with fairy tales, and their childhood games of Hansel and Gretel, where the storyline would wander for hours, as they’d conquer endless foes, with the inevitable climax of each of their enemies being fed into the massive furnace. Just as Father, during that horrible night of their eighth birthday, had killed Maylene and incinerated her—a memory that had only recently returned. While she would never tell Jimmy, Ellen knew why he did it. Jimmy had confided in Maylene, and she had naively confronted Father, had even threatened to go to the authorities if the abuse didn’t stop; she never saw it coming.
Tonight would be different. More like one of Maylene’s fairy tales. The gown nestled in tissue paper, and the antique jewels from Cartier and Tiffany, fit for a princess. The detective, like one of their childhood villains, would be vanquished, and the concert, while a bit over the top for her taste, was Jimmy’s Cinderella ball. A magical night for him to shine, to prove his love … to take a bride.
All of which was good for him, but for Ellen—who Father had always called the practical one—the goal was less about the bride and all about the making of an heir to continue the Martin dynasty. But more too … there was a hunger inside of Ellen … a need for this child, Jimmy’s child, a chance to get it right and unmake all the horrors of their past. The elevator doors opened, and shouldering her precious burden, she mouthed, “And they all lived happily ever after.”
TWENTY-NINE
Old memories flooded Barrett as the red-jacketed doorman led her back to the dressing rooms for the Weill—the smallest performance space in Andrew Carnegie’s 1891 gift to New York City. As a child and teenager she’d performed in all three halls. The Weill, with its classical arches, graceful woodwork, and massive crystal chandelier, was her favorite. This felt like stepping back in time.
But now, each footfall caused her gut to tighten. The doorman stopped and unlocked a dressing room door, “The other performer is already here, you want me to tell him you’ve arrived?”
“No,” Barrett said, wanting to grab the doorman and tell him that the other performer was a homicidal maniac, and would he please call the police. “I’m sure he’ll find me,” she said, looking in at a brightly lit room that reeked of roses. The bouquet was massive, dozens of blood-red blooms surrounded by plumes of angel’s breath; it took up half the counter along the mirrored wall. Propped in front of the vase was an envelope.
“Will you need anything else?” the man asked.
Many things came to mind—more bullets for the gun that lay heavy in her bag, the whereabouts of her sister, a large and heavy object to fall on Jimmy. “No, I’m all set.”
He looked at her, glanced questioningly at her back pack, and then at an empty clothes rack—like the ones that get wheeled up and down the fashion district. “Are you expecting your wardrobe?”
She glimpsed her reflection through the baby
’s breath—she was still in the black sweats she’d worn that morning—so long ago—sitting across from Jimmy and watching as all the different voices spilled out of him. She’d thought of changing, had even stared into her closet, unable to decide what to wear. Her mind struggling against the other piece of things—he’d proposed … and she’d accepted. She’d thought of Ralph, and their wedding day—her ivory satin dress now carefully boxed and folded in tissue paper. Tomorrow was supposed to be his funeral. Throughout the afternoon she’d been on and off the phone with her mother, not able to tell her—or anyone—the awful truth.
A knock at the door, and the rustle of plastic and paper and then Ellen Martin, dressed in a midnight-blue watered-silk gown, her blond hair lacquered into an elegant upsweep, diamonds glittering from her ears and around her bare throat, pushed into the space.
The doorman excused himself, “Looks like your stuff arrived.”
Ellen glanced at him, and then at Barrett. She smiled as she hung a bulky garment bag on the clothes rack, and deposited a small rectangular makeup box on the counter. She fished a bill out of a dainty purse, the same color as her dress, and handed it to the worker, “Thanks so much.”
“Will you ladies be needing anything else?”
“Barrett, honey?” Ellen asked.
“No,” stunned by Ellen’s involvement, and realizing that she had made a serious miscalculation. She’d overlooked the obvious—Jimmy’s accomplice was his sister.
“You know,” Ellen said, checking in the mirror, “I’m a little parched. Be a dear,” reaching into her purse and peeling off a couple of C notes, “get us a bottle of Crystal … and keep the change.”
“Thanks,” and he was gone.
“Well,” Ellen turned to look at Barrett, “we do have our work cut out for us, don’t we? Just sit yourself down, and I’ll start in on hair and makeup.”
“Why are you here?” Barrett asked through clenched teeth, wondering at the near-feverish enthusiasm of Jimmy’s sister. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Don’t be silly,” Ellen replied, “miss my brother’s wedding, not on your life,” and the smile vanished. “Now sit down, and stop asking questions … you need to focus on your performance, you need to think about your sister, and you need to think about the honor of marrying into our family.”
Barrett thought how easy it would be to overpower Ellen, and wondered if that was a way out; Jimmy’s sister in exchange for Justine.
As though reading her mind, Ellen clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, “And dear, I’d be very careful about any attempts to change the course of events. Your sister’s life hangs by a thread. Should anything happen to either my brother, or me, she will not survive. Do we understand each other?” staring Barrett in the eye.
It would have felt so good, to take her down, but the risk … Defeated, she said, “Yes.”
“Good, now in the chair—we don’t have much time.”
As Barrett complied, Ellen grabbed Barrett’s bag from the floor, unzipped the main compartment and spilled its contents across the counter by the roses. The small firearm—an unregistered snub-nosed pistol—landed heavily, alongside her cell phone, pager, and PDA.
“Oh, my,” Ellen commented, with mock exasperation as she removed the batteries from the cell phone and pager, “what will we do with you?” And the firearm and electronics disappeared into a slit pocket in the voluminous skirt of her gown. “Now,” pulling a brush from the makeup case, “turn around, and let’s see what we can do.”
Barrett faced forward, and seethed as Ellen worked a brush through her hair, combing it straight back with assured strokes, making it smooth and shiny.
“I’d always wanted a sister,” Ellen remarked, as she twisted and pinned Barrett’s short hair back, augmenting it with matched human-hair pieces that she worked into a tidy French knot.
“Why are you doing this?” Barrett asked, trying to keep her anger in check, not wanting to give in to the paralyzing fear that simmered a hair beneath the surface.
“Soon,” Ellen said—then, to a knock at the door. “It’s open.”
The bellman wheeled in a cart with iced champagne and two crystal flutes.
“Thanks so much,” Ellen flashed a smile.
“Will you ladies need anything else?”
She met Barrett’s eye in the mirror. “No, everything’s just about set.”
Once he’d gone, Ellen, not turning her back, opened the garment bag.
Despite herself, Barrett stared into the zippered opening. At first she thought the dress was black, but as Ellen lifted out the rustling garment, it caught the light, flashing a deep green. “Vintage Dior,” she said. “I hope you appreciate what I went through to get this. I had it remade just for you.”
Barrett said nothing, as Ellen hung the gown. “It’s a perfect length for playing,” she commented, stepping back from the rack. “Now, let’s get changed … don’t be shy. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”
A thought came to Barrett, something Hobbs had mentioned about the locks on her apartment. “You’ve been in my condo,” she stated.
“Of course, how else could I get your size right? Now move. I promise not to peek. You get changed, and I’ll pour the bubbly.”
Barrett got up, glanced at Ellen, and then at the gorgeous dress.
“Go on,” Ellen urged. “It won’t bite. We don’t have much time.”
Using the hanging garment bag as a partial screen, Barrett disrobed down to her underwear, while keeping an eye on Ellen. She knew that if she were going to survive and save Justine, she needed to stay sharp. Now was not the time to fight, but it would come; it would have to come. She unhooked and unzipped the back of the dress, noting the elaborate sewn-in corset. As she stepped into the dress and pulled it up, Ellen glanced at her, two champagne flutes in her hands.
“You’re going to have to take off your bra … it’s strapless, but trust me, you look fabulous.”
Holding the shimmering satin in front of her breasts, Barrett reached back and unhooked her bra.
“Here,” Ellen glided across the tight space, handing her a glass of champagne, “I’ll do the back.”
Barrett stiffened as Ellen’s strong fingers worked the tiny hooks that cinched the garment in tight around her belly, and ribs. As Barrett watched her reflection, she realized that this dress had indeed been custom fitted … for her. The elegantly draped front revealed the tops of her breasts, her waist corseted in tight and the ankle-length skirt flowed out like the petals of some fantastic flower. As she slipped on perfectly fitting black-velvet pumps, new doubts crept in. She felt her throat tighten.
Ellen stepped back and looked at her, “See if you can sit,” she said. “And you better have some of that champagne; you look like you’re about to jump out of your skin … go on.” Ellen picked her glass off the counter, and raised it in Barrett’s direction. “To new beginnings,” she offered, and sipped the cold bubbly.
Barrett felt the walls close around her, sweat beaded her forehead. Everything had been planned; there was no way out; it was hard to think.
“Just drink,” Ellen urged, “you need something to calm down.”
Barrett hesitated. She’d not seen Ellen pour the champagne, and wondered if it had been drugged.
“Drink it,” Ellen ordered. “Or I could just as easily give you a shot; I’m sure I’ve got something in my bag.” She smiled, “But Crystal is better, a glass or two shouldn’t hurt your performance.”
Barrett saw no choice and carefully took a sip, tasting it with her tongue. It was cool and it seemed to dissolve upon contact, the bubbles flying up her nostrils.
“Now sit, and we can get on to makeup, and … Jimmy brought you presents.”
Still holding the sweating glass, Barrett got back in the chair, as Ellen deftly spread a plastic apron around her shoulders and over the gown. “I understand you’re a fantastic sight reader,” she remarked as she pumped a mascara brush into its
tube and proceeded to work on Barrett’s lashes. “Good thing, the Chopin is tricky—especially the opening—but I understand you’ve already been through the Brahms.”
Barrett said nothing, as she watched her transformation in the mirror. Occasionally, she’d sip at her drink, even letting Ellen refill it for her. It helped a little, the alcohol a tiny balm against her surging panic.
“Voilá!” Ellen announced, ripping off the makeup apron.
Barrett stared at the beautiful woman with flawless skin in a spectacular shimmering green-black dress. From her ears dangled tear-shaped blue-white diamonds—Ellen had said something about the jewels having belonged to her great-great grandmother. Around her throat was the matching necklace with large stones drawing attention to the sweep of her neck and the full curve of her breasts that were molded by the dress’s intricate, but invisible, architecture.
“Come,” Ellen said, offering her hand.
Barrett stood, and felt the blood leave her head. The room swayed, and she immediately thought of the champagne, but no, she’d only had a couple glasses. Unless … her head pivoted, she looked at the satisfied smiled on Ellen’s lips, and then at her own reflection. Her eyes, there was something wrong, why were her pupils so tiny? And there was a strange warmth in her belly—not unpleasant—kind of floaty. She glanced at the floor, her feet hidden by the glimmering fabric. She stuck out a foot and admired the pointy tip of her velvet slipper. And the gown was so pretty, the way it caught the dull light of the dressing room, and shot sparkles of the most-beautiful green.
“Yes,” Ellen mused. “You’re finally ready.”
THIRTY
It was all Jimmy could do to stay in control. Father howled wanting to come out, but that would be catastrophe. From behind the velvet curtain, he peeked into the packed recital hall. While he’d not seen most of those in attendance in nearly two decades—at least not in person—he easily put names to many of the faces. The invitations had only gone out a week ago, yet from the bubbling noise that filtered back, it sounded like a packed house. If Father came out … Father couldn’t play, only Jimmy could. He balled his fingers into fists and then relaxed them, repeating the exercise several times, slowing his breath, trying to keep his excitement in check. He was so close. “And they lived happily ever after,” he mouthed under his breath, catching a glimpse of his cello, nestled in the curve of the gleaming concert grand.
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