She took the key gingerly and moved the wrench side over a tuning peg for one of the razor-thin strings in the upper register. If this were a case? She thought, What are the facts? What are the patterns in Jimmy’s … and Ellen’s behavior? Careful to make no noise, she unwound the string, feeling the tension release. Jimmy is classic, she realized. He selected his victim—me—and then got rid of all competition. The horror of what had happened to Ralph and to Hobbs sank in. She fought back tears. But there was more, Ellen was as bad—possibly worse. She had to be the driving force, because the personalities that Barrett had glimpsed in Jimmy seemed too mercurial to sustain this kind of planning and effort.
As the string came free in her hands, she thought too about Nicole Foster—the young violinist, who like herself was a transplant from the south—had there been a similar prison constructed for her, or had all those years in Croton given Jimmy—and Ellen—the time to plan?
She twisted the steel string in her hands, feeling it bite into the bruised and bleeding flesh of her knuckles. The pain was a tonic, helping her to push past the drugs. She gripped the string hard and pictured it around Jimmy’s throat—or better still—Ellen’s. With her prize, she padded toward the front door, and standing motionless by the frame, she waited.
___
Little Jimmy wondered if he should tell Ellen. As he’d done since Barrett’s arrival, he sat transfixed in front of the row of monitors that let him view every inch of Barrett’s apartment. He’d watched as she’d struggled to free herself from the restraints, he could see her pain and determination, and with each forward movement he could feel her triumph. He knew that if he told Ellen, she’d be right back in there tying her down. But he didn’t want that. His princess needed to be free, to be happy, to have the run of her kingdom that Jimmy had made for her. He didn’t understand why she was taking apart the piano, but Father pushed past little Jimmy, and with a triumphant surge took control.
“Jimbo,” father hissed. [I think our bride wants to trick us. She’s a naughty girl, but we know how to take care of naughty girls, don’t we?”
Not interested in Jimmy’s response, James Cyrus Martin knew that he and Ellen would have to be more careful. Barrett’s antics couldn’t continue for another nine months. They needed to ensure a healthy heir. After that, well, poor little Jimbo would find himself both a father and a widower.
THIRTY-FOUR
Ellen—who’d been relaxing in the library with a scotch, and Mahler’s Fifth cranked to the point of near pain—fumed as Jimmy spoke in the lisping voice she associated with Father.
“Chicky,” he cautioned, battling the music. “She’s stronger than she looks.”
“That’s the least of our concerns,” Ellen replied, clicking off the stereo and plunging the room into silence.
No longer in her nurse’s outfit, a show she put on for the benefit of little Jimmy, Ellen moved quickly through the mansion to the kitchen. “She can be up as much as she wants in another day,” she muttered, as she rifled through the pantry looking for the right vials and syringes.
With Father at her side, she jogged back through the courtyard and toward Barrett’s cage on the second floor. This kind of foolishness would not do.
At the top of the stairs, she pulled a gun from her shoulder bag. She unclasped the safety and handed it to her brother, “Don’t shoot anyone. We don’t want to go through this another time.”
“No,” he agreed, savoring the feel of the cold compact weapon. “This one is perfect. Much better than the first one. We’ll have a beautiful baby.”
A dread shiver passed through Ellen. Father’s personality would have to be dealt with in the future. There was no way she’d ever let him lay a finger on Jimmy’s baby. How she’d manage that hadn’t been fully worked out, but right now she needed him.
“Maybe,” Father continued, as Ellen punched in the electronic door code that let them into the small control room constructed outside of Barrett’s cage, “we could keep her around for another kid, just like you and Jimbo.”
Ellen froze, as she realized that Father knew exactly what she’d intended. “What are you talking about?”
“Come now, Chicky. Fooling Jimbo is one thing, but you’re talking with the old man. I’m not much for fairy tales. Jimbo won’t be getting his happily ever after with the good doctor.”
“Have you told him?”
“Why would I do that? We’re on the same side. Let’s go in and settle down our lovely doctor. It’s a pity I never liked girls. I think she’d be fun.”
Ellen held her tongue, as she flipped the lights and looked at the monitors. She spotted Barrett next to the door, the infrared cameras showing that she had something in her hands that was difficult to see.
“She took something out of the piano,” Father remarked.
Ellen pressed the zoom control on the camera. She wondered how Barrett had gotten out of the restraints, and how was it possible for her to be so awake after the large doses of tranquilizers? But what really worried her was that Barrett’s stressed state jeopardized the success of the fertilization. If it failed, it would take another month to get her ovulating again, and Ellen had few illusions that every day Barrett Conyors was in captivity was a day of grave peril for her and Jimmy. This new complication—that Father had figured out her end game—was also worrisome. Ellen never fully understood how such very different people came to live inside her brother, but at times she’d seen the boundaries between Father, little Jimmy, and the others shift. She wasn’t certain that Father could keep the secret, and if he didn’t, it would break little Jimmy’s heart. She pressed a button on the panel and spoke into the microphone. “Dr. Conyors, you need to get back into bed. We need you to do it now, and if you don’t we’ll begin cutting off your sister’s fingers.”
“That was good,” Father commented, his eyes ablaze, his breathing fast. “Very good. Look at how frightened she is. Oh … she’s so lovely, looking around, knowing she’s being watched. Wondering where we are, wondering if she can get to us …” He clapped his hands in excitement.
Ignoring him, Ellen pressed the button again, “You have fifteen seconds to put down whatever you have in your hands, and get back into bed, or else we’ll be bringing you her fingers. One, two three …”
___
Barrett froze, the steel piano wire coiled around her wrists. She heard Ellen’s counting through hidden speakers. She had no doubt they’d make good on the threat. Defeated, she returned to bed, but held onto a length of piano string, a single razor-thin strand.
“Now lie down,” Ellen’s voice, boomed overhead. “I’m sorry if you find it uncomfortable, but you have one more day of bed rest and then you can be up and about as much as you like … now lie back … close your eyes … and don’t try anything.”
Seething and scared, Barrett did as told. She’d never had a chance. All the time she’d been struggling out of the restraints, she’d been watched. Despair crashed down, threatening to break her will. Sifu’s admonition of “fear nothing” rang in her head. With her right hand she worked the piano wire under the sheet between the mattress and the metal bed frame. She let her fingers play over its tip, taking comfort in the needle sharpness, as light flooded the room.
Jimmy entered first, a gun in his hand, grinning wildly. “Someone’s been very naughty,” he commented, keeping his distance, the tip of the gun trained on Barrett’s forehead.
Then Ellen, dressed in black slacks and sweater, came into the room. She looked at Barrett with an expression of exasperation and concern. “Lie back,” she instructed. “And put your hands and feet by the cuffs the way they were. I’m sorry if it’s uncomfortable, but we need to make certain that everything takes, and bed rest for forty-eight hours is the only way.”
With Jimmy at her side, the gun cocked and loaded, Ellen approached. “I’m going to give you a little sedative to get you through, but after that I promise you’ll be up and about, and I think we’ll even let you and your sis
ter stay here together. Now won’t that be nice?”
Ellen uncapped the syringe, and met Barrett’s gaze. “I promise,” she said, “things are going to work out … you’ll see.”
Barrett flinched as the cold wet alcohol pad touched down on her bare shoulder. She saw Ellen’s profile, her expression intent as she brought the needle close. Now, she thought. And forcing her body into action she yanked the piano wire from under the mattress and with a single sweeping movement pushed up, grabbing Ellen and twisting her around as she lost balance. With a single lightning movement Barrett wrapped the wire tight around her neck; she twisted, pulling it in harder.
___
Father blinked, shocked by Barrett’s rebellion. She was crouched in bed, a piano wire tight around Chicky’s throat. Chicky’s eyes were bulging, and he could see the bite of the wire, as her fingers clawed at her neck, trying to free herself.
Barrett yanked tighter, and Chicky stopped struggling.
“Put down the gun, Jimmy,” Barrett barked, “or swear to God, I’ll kill her.”
“Interesting,” Father hissed, the gun pointed at Barrett’s head. Chicky was staring at him, fear in her eyes. Little Jimmy stirred in the background, trying to break through. “What to do? What to do?” With his gaze fixed on Ellen’s, he hissed, “Sorry Chicky,” backed out of the room, and bolted.
THIRTY-FIVE
Barrett’s thoughts raced as Jimmy ran. With her fingers twisted in piano wire, and Ellen’s hands clawing at her own, her options weren’t great. The minute Jimmy—or whoever the fuck he was—made it to the other side, she’d be back where she’d started, locked in her cage, and not one step closer to freedom, or to finding Justine. But if she ran after him, and left Ellen, that was bad too. Or the third choice—all options flashing through her mind at once—kill her. She willed herself numb, as her hands pulled the wire tighter; the sinews in Ellen’s neck bulged. The hands waved frantically, her body bucked, arcing back. Barrett went for the kill, Ellen Martin’s body sagged heavily. Barrett thought briefly to check a pulse, to make sure she was dead, but Jimmy was moving fast. Already at the door, he’d flipped open a hidden panel above the knob and was punching in a code. She sprinted across the living room.
With a heave he jerked the door open.
She was too late. She pictured the closing door and leapt over the couch, landing in a forward roll, her entire being focused on the handle. She grabbed it tight, her body in a crouch, her hands slick with blood.
She pulled back … nothing … but then she felt a tiny bit of play, and realized Jimmy was still on the other side; he hadn’t gotten it fully closed. Hanging on to the knob she sank down to the floor, braced her legs on either side of the door, and pulled for her life.
Through the thick door, she heard Jimmy’s lisping persona, swearing. If she let go—if he got the door latched—she’d be lost. The muscles of her calves and hamstrings strained, her forearms corded and sweat popped on her brow. It was all about focus—get the door open, just get the door open.
Time warped and stretched; it seemed eternity that she lay back, straining, and then, in a cartoonish moment Jimmy let go, and Barrett fell back hard, her grip off the knob, her head landing with a crack on the tiled floor. Winded, dizzy, she struggled to upright herself. Terrified, she focused on the crack of space between the door and whatever lay on the other side. She grabbed for the handle, ignoring the blinding pain in her head. She pulled, expecting Jimmy on the other side; he wasn’t. The door opened into a semi-dark hallway, with filtered light that spilled in from frosted windows on either end.
Trying to calm her breath, she stood still and listened. Whereas her condo/prison had been devoid of outside sounds, the hallway was filled with many. Traffic noises to her right, and much less on her left … she heard a door bang in the distance. She moved cautiously toward the window away from the traffic noises. The frosting on the glass was impenetrable; she reached up and found the catch. She pushed, at first it held tight, but as she jammed the bony parts of her hands hard against the painted wood frame, it shuddered and moved up. She hit it again, pushing past the pain as splinters of wood bit into her flesh. Through the four-inch opening, she stared down, on a tangled mass of greenery. And in the distance she caught glimpses of the Martin mansion.
The smart thing would be to get the hell out, to jump out the window on the other side if need be. To run in her slip and bare feet to find help, but that would take time and explanations, and maybe a search warrant, and by then … no.
Moving toward an open door, which let out onto a stairwell, her entire awareness tuned outward, listening for every creak, the chirp of a bird, the acceleration of cars and trucks that seemed so close. As she came to the landing she was in a hallway that mirrored the one above. Security monitors lay at one end, their black and white screens providing multiple views of 19th Street. There were two doors, one that had a glass top that provided a view of darkly glimmering vehicles, four of them—a yellow cab, a panel truck, and two others she couldn’t make out. She put her hand on the knob of the second door. She again thought of going for help, but thinking of Jimmy with Justine made her turn the knob.
___
James Cyrus Martin’s strength was slipping. It wasn’t just physical, as he pulled back, trying to latch and lock the damn door, with Conyors to the other side. Inside his head a war raged. Little Jimmy howled for Chicky, screaming at Father to let him out. Jimbo cried and yelled, and clawed for control.
With a malicious shove on the door, James Cyrus reversed direction and pushed in. It was a horrible risk, but the result bought him time. He didn’t stop to hear her fall; he was down the stairs, and running, pumping his legs wildly across the garden path and into the main house. He twisted the kitchen lock shut, and slammed the door behind. It was all a series of horrible risks, but he was a betting man, and he bet that she’d come after him. The lock on the door wouldn’t hold her long, just enough for him to be ready. As he unlatched the door that led down to the basement, he tried to placate little Jimmy—this was not the time for Jimbo to come out and play—this called for an adult—there was too much at risk. “It’s going to be okay, Jimbo. Everything’s going to be okay.”
He heard his son sobbing, his grief palpable. Maybe Chicky was okay, he pictured the ferocity of that woman as she strangled his daughter. Chicky was gone, and now it was just him and Jimbo. But that would be okay, he’d stay in control, just like before. Maybe Jimbo would never come out again. A not unpleasant thought as he turned on the basement lights, felt the heat from the furnace, and saw the outline of the metal cage in which Justine Conyors was trapped.
___
Ellen Martin’s eyes stared at the ceiling, the whites growing dry; she did not move. Then, a sea of white shot through her optic nerve and into the back of her brain. She blinked, and wondered briefly if she were dead, and then pain, unlike anything she’d ever known, like a circle of fire around her neck, told her she was very much alive—or in hell. She gasped for breath, the subtle movement of the air through her bruised and bloodied throat almost too much to bear. Her hands reached back to the bed, pushing up. She looked into the living room, past the piano and at the open door. Barrett Conyors was gone, and Jimmy too was nowhere in sight.
She swore as she got to her feet, her head swam, and the searing pain doubled her over. A sticky sweat popped on her brow and along her back. She thought of her brother, and of all she’d built with the company; it gave her strength. She was going to fight; she always did. She steadied herself against a bureau, caught her reflection in the mirror, the bright band of raw red like a bloody necklace. Damn her! And then she remembered father’s betrayal. Damn them both, and retrieving her gun from under the bed, she staggered toward the door.
THIRTY-SIX
Barefoot and dressed in a green satin nightgown that snagged and tore on thorns, Barrett pushed through the thicket and raced across the courtyard. The kitchen door was locked. She grabbed a rock, shattered the glass, an
d let herself in. From below she heard a door slam and the sound of footsteps moving deep into the bowels of the house; he wanted her to follow him, and she didn’t see a choice. At least with Ellen out of the way the odds were better.
She glanced around, and saw the open door that led down a darkened stairway. With each passing second she knew that he was plotting, thinking of ways to trap her, to get her back into her cage. The door was a trap, but she could hear something down there, the sound of creaking metal, and the stirring of water through pipes. Torn between catching him and running away, she heard a woman’s scream. “Justine,” she gasped, and not able to stop herself, she moved through the door. With each step down the darkness became more complete, wrapping her in an eerie shell. Cobwebs wisped against her face, and warm waves of dusty air washed over her.
She heard her sister sob, and as her eyes slowly adjusted she saw a distant glow of fiery orange. The heat grew and as she moved toward the source of the light, she made out the outlines of an ancient furnace, like a giant iron oven. At first she didn’t see Jimmy, just the cage, and her sister, dressed in scrubs, inside what appeared to be a kennel, with metal bars, and just enough room to stand. Justine’s eyes were wide and her back was pressed tight against her cage. Tears glistened down her cheek, and then Barrett saw him, hidden behind Justine, his hands holding a cord tight around her throat.
She felt him watching her, smiling.
“Now this is fun, isn’t it?” he lisped.
“Let her go,” Barrett said. “I’ll do whatever you want if you just let her go.”
“Oh, dear,” James Cyrus replied. “If only I believed you. Trust is so hard to come by, and once trust is gone, well … there’s only the strangling of relatives to keep true love on course … don’t you find? Isn’t this a perfect symmetry?”
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