Spellbinder

by Collin Wilcox

  “If they stop,” he hissed, “you better fucking well wave, and smile at them. Or I’m going to run this knife all the way in. All the way in. You hear?”

  She couldn’t answer—couldn’t take her eyes from the bright, obscene knife.

  The sound of the car engine was coming closer. Was it Peter? Please God, was it Peter? Could he have—

  A dusty white van was visible through the trees, bouncing along the rutted road at a faster-than-safe speed. The single passenger—the driver—didn’t look aside, didn’t wave. It was another stranger. The van was drawing even with the orange Chevrolet—quickly gone, now only as real as the sound of its engine, diminishing as the driver continued on his way, up the hill toward the Taylor place. Something had been lettered on the side of the van. Meaning that the driver was probably a repairman, or a delivery man. Not a friend. Not someone who would help her, or recognize her.

  The Toyota’s starter was whirring; the engine caught, roared. Using his right hand, Carson was putting the car in reverse, backing it expertly up the driveway, swinging it into the parking place she’d just left. Carson switched off the engine, and returned the keys to his pocket.

  “Now,” he said, “we do it all over again, except with my car. Then we close the gate, and we lock it. And then we go inside—” He nodded to the cabin. “And we talk. Right?” The last word was almost a whisper. It was a lover’s question, spoken as a lover might speak: intimately, softly. As he said it, she felt the point of the knife touch her cleft.

  It was a lover’s touch: gentle and delicate—yet knowing, probing, promising.

  “And so,” he was saying, “that’s the whole story. Everything. Now you’ve got the whole picture. You and me together, we’re going to make me a million dollars. Cash and carry.” Smiling as he spoke, he looked at his wristwatch. He sat in the big old overstuffed easy chair that they’d found in a Mendocino flea market—the chair Peter always sat in. Carson had taken a small suitcase and a rifle from the trunk of the Chevrolet and brought them inside. Both the suitcase and the rifle were obviously new, doubtless bought in Mendocino, earlier in the day. Ordering her to sit on the dilapidated couch, he’d put the suitcase beside the easy chair, then sat down. From the suitcase, he’d taken a box of cartridges—caliber .30–.30, she’d read on the box. With maddening smugness, smiling, he’d explained that it was illegal to carry loaded firearms in an automobile. He’d also said, regretfully, that he couldn’t get a pistol—not in less than a week’s time. Then, with slow, deliberate fingers, he’d loaded the rifle: five cartridges, each thrust into a small, hinged receptacle on the side of the rifle. It was a frontier-style rifle, the kind she remembered from Western movies. When he’d finished loading the rifle, he’d worked the lever and then raised the gun, aiming it directly at her chest, between her breasts. He’d laughed as he’d done it—a high, unsteady laugh, terrifying for its tremor of latent hysteria. Finally, he’d lowered the gun, then eased off the hammer. Now he sat with the rifle across his knees. At his belt, the bone handle of the hunting knife protruded from its leather sheath.

  Stealing a glance at her watch, she saw that the time was two twenty-five. For more than two hours, she’d sat immobile on the couch, listening to him talk. It had been an incredible monologue—an eerie, rambling, often incoherent account of one man’s hell on earth. Yet, in the beginning, he’d been crisp and concise, describing his plan in short, terse sentences. First, he’d said, he would chain her up, here in the cabin. As he’d said it, he’d opened the suitcase again, this time producing two long lengths of chain, and three padlocks. He’d dangled the chains before her, leering like some grotesque puppeteer, displaying the strings that would make her dance and shuffle to his command.

  Then, he’d said, he would drive to a nearby gas station, where he would phone her father. He would take her driver’s license, and her social security card. To prove that she was his captive, he would read the cards’ numbers to her father. Then he would spell out his demands, and his instructions for delivery of the ransom. The delivery, he’d said, would be somewhere in San Francisco. She would be left here, in the cabin, still in chains. When he had the money, he said, he would make another call, telling her father where to find her.

  That much, he’d told her quickly, briskly. But then he’d begun telling her why he was doing it. Austin Holloway, he’d said, had schemed against him—schemed to have him jailed, conspired to have him killed. Then, as if to justify his actions, he’d begun to ramble, describing how her father had worked against him and his mother, all their lives. As he’d talked, he’d become more agitated. His voice had risen; his mouth had begun twisting and writhing—slowly going wild. Even his eyes, at first so strangely expressionless, had kindled at the memory of his past life, snapping sparks of hatred. As he continued regressing into his childhood, the focus of his fury directed itself against his mother—and, striking an occasional glancing blow, at his uncle.

  And, sometimes, his anger had focused on her—on her privileges, and her manners, and even on the clothes she wore: the blue jeans and the wool plaid shirt. She was, he’d said, pretending to be something she wasn’t: a “poor girl,” instead of a “rich bitch.”

  Every time he’d said it—rich bitch—his voice had risen, his mouth had contorted. As his story rambled on and his focus veered from childhood to prison, from all the wrongs he’d suffered to all his fantasies for the future, she’d seen sweat begin to glisten on his forehead. Clamped on the rifle, his hands had been white-knuckled. His breath had come faster, rattling in his throat.

  Until, finally, he’d spewed out the essence: Austin Holloway was his father, and she was his half sister. And he hated both of them “for what they’d done to him.”

  Having said it—accused her and her father of ruining his life—he’d fallen silent, staring at her with his strange, dulled eyes, as flat and lusterless as two pieces of dark brown lava.

  “Are you—” Her throat closed. She shook her head, coughing. She had to talk—had to get him talking. Dealing with psychopaths, she’d read, it was essential to get them talking—keep them talking.

  “Are you sure that my—my father and your mother—” Suddenly aware that she’d made a mistake, she broke off. Saying instead: “Are you sure that my father—” It was another false start. Finally: “Are you sure—positive—that he’s your father?”

  “I’m sure,” he answered, his voice deadly calm now. “I’ve seen the papers. Everything.”

  “Were they—they married? Before he married my mother?”

  For a moment he didn’t respond. Gripping the gun barrel, his finger tightened. Then, speaking softly, venomously sibilant, he said: “No, they weren’t married. My mother was his whore. And it drove her crazy. That’s where she is now—in an asylum. And he’s going to pay for it. And you’ll pay, too.”

  “But why me?”

  “Because,” he answered, “you’re both guilty.”

  “Both guilty? Of what?”

  “Of driving my mother insane.”

  “But that’s cra—that’s unfair. Completely unfair. How could I have done anything to her?”

  He didn’t answer—didn’t stir. He only stared.

  “Have you ever considered the possibility of just asking him for help—for money? If what you say is true—if you can prove it—then my father will help you. I know he will. If he owes you something, he’ll pay. I—I’ll help you, if you like. I’ll talk to him.”

  “You’d talk to the police. That’s who you’d talk to—the police. I can see it in your face.”

  “No, you’re wrong. I promise you, I’ll—”

  “Besides, I’ve already asked him. That’s why we’re here. Because I tried to see him. And I couldn’t see him. So now, he’ll pay. And you’ll pay, too.”

  “But, Christ, you—”

  Suddenly he rose to his feet, angrily gesturing with the rifle barrel. “Get up, and get into the goddamn kitchen. Let’s see how you like being chained to tha
t goddamn stove, in there, while I make a couple of phone calls.”

  Twenty-Four

  “HERE IT COMES,” FLOURNOY said, “as advertised.”

  On the TV screen, Merv Griffin was looking straight into the lens as the camera came in for a closeup.

  “And now,” Griffin said, “I think, ladies and gentlemen, that you’re going to be very interested in what our next guest is going to say. Because he’s someone who’s known, literally, to millions of you. His name is Austin Holloway, and he’s one of the handful of people—TV pastors—who has, literally, changed the face of religion in America.

  “But first, before we talk to Mr. Holloway, and learn about the truly revolutionary project that he’s working on—the crusade that, in the last week or so, has created interest throughout the entire world—let me show you a couple of film clips.”

  Exactly on cue, Griffin’s face dissolved, replaced by an animated shot of the Temple. It was a night shot, with a perfect camera angle. In the foreground, magnified by the perspective, the Eternal Fountain was a graceful, frothing plume of multicolored iridescence, lit by floodlights from below. In the background, the broad steps and soaring columns of the Temple had never looked more dramatic. To himself, Holloway nodded. Cowperthwaite, he knew, had worked closely with the NBC camera crew. So, as soon as the segment was finished, he would call Cowperthwaite and—

  Beside him, on the end table, his telephone buzzed. Annoyed, he glanced down at the row of buttons. Surprisingly, the button for his private line was glowing. Or, as Flournoy had once said, his “private, private” line. His hot line.

  Flournoy had seen it too. He was gesturing toward the phone, offering to take the call. But, on the screen, the picture of the Temple of Today was fading away, replaced by a hair-spray commercial. Holloway lifted the phone.

  “It’s Mitchell.” His voice conveyed a sense of urgency—of trouble.

  James Carson had called. The other shoe had dropped. Hard. Glancing at Flournoy, he saw his own misgivings instantly reflected in his manager’s eyes.

  “What is it?” he asked, speaking softly into the phone.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt you. But I thought I should. I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

  Still with his eyes on Flournoy, he repeated: “Bad news?”

  “He’s got Denise. I’m sorry.”

  “He’s what?”

  As he said it, he felt his stomach heave. And—yes—a sudden pain shot through his chest. Alarmed, Flournoy was on his feet, standing over him. Protectively. Possessively.

  “He’s got Denise. Up in San Francisco, I think. He just called.”

  It was Katherine’s fault, then. Like so many others, this problem had started with Katherine. His nemesis. His ancient, eternal cross. How could he have done it? How could he have married her, so many years ago?

  And now, the final straw, she’d jeopardized them all: Denise, the new crusade. Everything. It could all come tumbling down. Police—publicity—pictures in the papers, on TV. It was all there, implicit in the tone of Mitchell’s voice—in the stark words the headlines would shriek: HOLLOWAY DAUGHTER KIDNAPPED.

  On the TV screen, the commercial was fading. Merv Griffin was on his feet, smiling, turning toward the wings turning toward the wings—

  —as he materialized, advancing across the stage, hand outstretched. Smiling. Nodding. Walking with a firm, sure stride.

  “Shall I come in?” Mitchell was asking.

  “In ten minutes,” he answered. “Wait ten minutes, then come in.”

  “So that’s all I know,” Mitchell said, spreading his big hands and shaking his head. “That’s everything.”

  Flournoy was on his feet, pacing the small sitting room that opened off Holloway’s office. “Are you positive—absolutely positive—that the driver’s license and the social security numbers were hers?”

  Plainly contemptuous of the question, Mitchell simply shrugged. “The numbers checked. Or, at least, the driver’s license checked. I won’t know about the social security number until tomorrow.”

  “But—” Flournoy gestured angrily. “He could’ve broken in. He could’ve stolen her purse. Did you ever think of that?”

  “I did,” Mitchell answered. “And it’s possible, I suppose. Anything’s possible. Still, two things are for sure. He’s got her wallet, and he’s called long distance. So he’s probably in San Francisco. He couldn’t be anywhere else.”

  “A million dollars,” Flournoy fumed. “It’s crazy. Insane.”

  Aware that his arms and legs felt heavy and useless, Holloway pushed himself to a more erect posture in the leather armchair. The heaviness, he knew, was a delayed reaction. It was shock. And fear. And infirmity, too—a faltering of the heart, depriving his limbs of their essential flow of blood. Resulting, therefore, in this heaviness—this strange, improbable lassitude in the face of crisis. Yet, somehow, he must take charge—take command.

  “How long ago did he call?”

  It was, he knew, an ineffectual beginning. He could hear uncertainty in the question. Uncertainty, and fear.

  Mitchell glanced at his watch. “About forty-five minutes ago. I called Denise, of course. When I didn’t get an answer, I called the DMV—called a friend, there. Then I called you.”

  “When is Carson going to phone again?”

  “He didn’t say. But I’d guess tomorrow.”

  “Did you tape the conversation?” Asking the question, Flournoy’s voice was sharp. His eyes were hard, coldly calculating the odds. As always.

  Mitchell nodded. “Naturally.”

  “And you’re sure it was him. You recognized the voice.”

  Once more, Mitchell nodded. “I’m sure.”

  “If he’s got Denise,” Holloway said slowly, “then we’ve got to call the police.”

  “If he’s got Denise,” Flournoy snapped, adding angrily: “That’s still not for certain.”

  “But Mitchell tried to call her,” Holloway said. It was, he knew, another ineffectual-sounding comment—a mild-mannered protest, nothing more. Somehow it was all he could manage—all his body would allow. But he must say something more. Anything: “She wasn’t home,” he said finally.

  “That doesn’t mean she’s kidnapped, though,” Flournoy said shortly. Peremptorily, he turned to Mitchell. “Do you know people in San Francisco? People we can trust?” Rapping out the questions, pacing the sitting room as if it were a quarterdeck, Flournoy was taking command—an irresistible force in a pinstriped suit.

  “I know a couple of people,” Mitchell answered thoughtfully. “I can trust them to keep quiet. But I don’t know how good they are. In an emergency, I mean.”

  “Do they have organizations?”

  “Yes. Both of them do. They each have three or four employees.”

  “Is there anyone in the police department? Anyone who won’t talk?”

  Regretfully, Mitchell shook his head. “There’re people here. Several people. But no one in San Francisco.”

  Still pacing, Flournoy stopped at the far end of the room. Standing with his back to a bank of bookcases, the manager stared at both of them in turn. “The first thing we’ve got to do is get up to San Francisco.” Then, speaking directly to Holloway: “I think Mitchell and I should go. Immediately. We’ll take one of his men. We’ll get help, up there, if we need it—private help. The first thing we’ll do is verify that she’s really been kidnapped. For that, we don’t need the police. Meanwhile—” He frowned, considering. Once more, he began pacing, talking as he walked—gesticulating as he talked. “Meanwhile, Austin, I think you should put Elton in the picture. Tell him what’s happened—and what might happen. Or, if you like—” Flournoy hesitated again, plainly to emphasize what he intended to say next: “Or, if you like, I can talk to him. That might be better. I’ll tell him to stick with you—stay at home with you, tonight, and stay with you, tomorrow, to intercept another call. And, of course, I’ll be in touch with him, when I find out anything. And, of cours
e—” Another pause, this time fatuous. “Of course, I’ll be in touch with you, too.”

  With an effort, Holloway nodded. “Of course,” he repeated.

  Twenty-Five

  HE SHIFTED THE PICKUP into reverse, glanced back at the traffic, then leaned across the big poodle sitting on the seat beside him to look up at their front window. The window was only dimly lit, with faint light coming from the hallway.

  She was out, then. Still out.

  With her mother?

  Not with her mother?

  He waited for one car to pass, then another. Beside him, Pepper was whining anxiously, pawing at the door. Across the street, Harry Byrnes was closing his store, switching off the lights. Meaning that the time was eight o’clock. Rolling down the window, he called, “Hi, Harry. How’s it going?”

  “Fine.” Harry Byrnes rattled the door of his store, then raised a hand, indicating that he wanted to talk. Watching the other man come across the street, dressed in his blue pea coat and walking like a squat, bandy-legged sailor just coming off ship, Peter smiled. Harry Byrnes was an original: rough-cut and honest. He stepped from the street to the sidewalk, waiting for the other man beside the pickup.

  “How’ve you been, Harry? Seems like it’s been a year since I’ve seen you.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Byrnes admitted, offering a stubby, callused hand. His grip, as always, was hard and contentious. Harry was a competitive man.

  Byrnes looked inside the truck. “Where’s Denise?”

  “I don’t know.” He looked at the other man more closely. “Why?”

  “Well, she left for Mendocino—your cabin. Isn’t that where you were?”

  “Oh—Christ.” Exasperated, he shook his head.

  “Why Christ? What’s wrong?”

  “I spent yesterday evening and most of today with friends, They live about twenty miles from the cabin. Then, this evening, I came down here. I missed her, then.”