Except food. The nausea of earlier had passed, and I was now quite hungry, something I found a little surprising, considering the amount of food I had eaten at Randall’s parents’ home the night before.
Randall. Oh, God, how long would it be before he discovered I was missing? He had said he would call the next day—today—but when? There were no clocks in the bedroom or the bathroom, so I had no idea what time it was. From the light outside I guessed it was either very late morning or early afternoon, but since I had no idea how long I had slept, it was impossible to say for sure. And if he missed me, and just got my answering machine, it would probably be some time before he became truly worried. We were always playing phone tag with one another, since I was out so much and he knew not to call my cell phone unless it was an emergency.
It would be even longer before George or anyone at the restaurant missed me, because I had asked for the weekend off to finish a paper and start preparing for finals. George had granted me the time off, mostly because the restaurant was always slow the weekend after Thanksgiving anyway. Very possibly no one would notice I had vanished until I didn’t show up for class on Monday morning.
The panic started to well up in me, my heart again beginning its agonized pounding. I turned off the hot water and gathered up a large soft towel and wrapped it around myself, willing the fear away. It was no use heading down that path; I had to keep my head about me, no matter what happened. For the moment, I was safe enough—no one had come to disturb me, and I had to finish preparing myself for whatever might come in the next few hours.
I stepped out of the shower and drew on the warm blue bathrobe, then looked in the cabinets under the sink and found a blow dryer with a diffuser along with some hair products, again all designed for curly hair. It was obvious that all of this had been prepared for me in particular, and not some random female college student.
With deliberate care I went through all the steps of preparing myself, from smoothing moisturizer into my skin to drying my hair. There was something almost decadent about the amount of time I was able to spend on myself, after so many years of rushing out the door to get to school or work on time. But here—well, it was obvious I wasn’t going anywhere soon, so I let myself take my time with the comforting little rituals, as if by concentrating on them I could keep my thoughts away from the strangeness of my situation.
Upon reentering the wardrobe I found another smaller chest of drawers, this one filled with lingerie, all obviously new and all in my size. I tried not to think about it—how could my captor have known my cup size, for God’s sake?—and dressed myself quickly, finding a pair of dark denim jeans that fit perfectly, along with a beautiful cashmere argyle cardigan in rich shades of emerald green and cornflower blue. A pair of dark green kitten heels seemed to finish off the outfit perfectly.
I paused for a second by the jewelry chest, fought a losing battle with my conscience, and opened up the top drawer. Surely there had to be something in there that didn’t look as if it should be adorning a celebrity on the red carpet. After a bit of searching I found a pair of simple diamond stud earrings—well, as simple as a pair of multi-carat diamonds could be, anyway—and slipped them on. A gorgeous emerald winked at me from the center of the black velvet compartment, imploring to be worn, but I shut the drawer with more resolution than I felt. It was one thing to wear a pair of stud earrings, especially since I always felt naked without earrings on, but it was an entirely different matter start parading around in jewels that looked as if they should be locked in a vault surrounded by armed guards, not left in an unsecured chest of drawers. Besides, I didn’t want my captor—whoever he was—to think that he could seduce me with a few flashy rocks.
A moment or so after I had shut the wardrobe door behind me, paused to fold my damp towels and rehang them on the rack, and emerged into the main bedroom, a knock came at the door that presumably opened on the main corridor. I couldn’t help the sudden pounding of my heart, nor the unexpected rush of adrenaline that washed over me, but all the same I managed to take one or two deep breaths before I approached the door in the little antechamber and asked, “Who’s there?” To my relief, I sounded calm and firm, not shaky and frightened as I had feared.
A male voice. “I’ve brought you some food. Step back from the door.”
Folding my arms tightly around me, I retreated a few paces. I could hear the sound of keys rattling against the deadbolt, and then the door swung slowly inward.
A man carrying a tray covered with a domed silver lid entered the anteroom. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, brown-haired, conservatively but expensively dressed. His blue eyes were hard, watching me with care.
Of course I recognized him immediately. My stalker. The man I had laughingly dismissed in my conversation with Meg.
“You!”
Unperturbed, he said, “Please go on into your bedroom.”
Since there didn’t seem to be much point to standing in the cramped space and arguing with him, I did as he said, standing off near one of the tall windows and watching as he deposited the tray on the marble-topped side table. His manner was calm, his movements unhurried. Although he kept a close watch on me, I couldn’t see anything about his manner that was immediately threatening.
“I suppose there’s no point asking why you’ve brought me here,” I said at length.
He paused, his hand resting on the handle of the silver tray cover. There was no emotion in the clear Wedgwood-colored eyes. “That’s a question you’ll need to ask the boss.”
“The boss?”
“I’m just the intermediary, Miss Daly.” He lifted the tray cover to reveal a plate of scrambled eggs, a small cut-crystal bowl of strawberries, and a stack of toast, along with a glass of orange juice.
My stomach rumbled unbecomingly. How long had it been since my last meal? Probably at least fifteen hours.
“Just following orders?” I asked, hoping that I had injected the correct amount of contempt into my tone.
He refused to be baited, however. “You’d best eat. He will see you tonight, for dinner.”
“Tonight?” Despite my efforts to keep it under control, my voice let out a betraying squeak on the last syllable.
“He prefers to wait until after sunset to see you.”
How melodramatic. “What, is he a vampire or something?”
The faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. I noticed for the first time that he actually was quite attractive, in a rugged, athletic sort of way. “That might be easier to explain.”
“And what the hell am I supposed to do until after sunset?”
He lifted a hand in the direction of the little sitting room. “You’ll find the study well stocked with books. I suggest you find some way to amuse yourself until then.” With that he stepped away from the table and moved toward the door.
Before I could react or move to stop him, he disappeared into the antechamber. I heard the lock click shut.
“Well, hell,” I said softly. Part of me wanted to throw the plate of food against the locked door in a grand gesture of defiance, but I knew that would hurt no one but myself. With a resigned sigh, I approached the table and then sat down in one of the little striped chairs that flanked it.
The radio on the table played on into the silence, a delicate piano piece by Debussy. There being nothing much else I could do, I lifted the fork and took several mouthfuls of egg. They were delicious, as was the buttered sourdough toast and the strawberries. My stomach finally quieted after about five or six bites, and I finished the rest of the simple meal with a sort of aggrieved determination, since I knew I had to keep my strength up, much as I hated having to take food from these people.
After I had finished eating, I replaced the cover on the tray and then turned up the volume on the little Bose radio so I could hear it in the next room. My jailer had been right—the bookcases on both walls were filled with books, an eclectic collection of both hardbacks and paperbacks, ranging from my
steries to bestsellers to historical novels. All the sorts of books, in fact, that I enjoyed reading, although I hadn’t had much time to do any kind of recreational reading for quite a while.
Well, you’ve got plenty of time now, I thought.
Despite my jailer’s recommendation that I read to fill up the empty hours, I couldn’t help making another pass of my suite, just in case I had missed something during my initial inspection. But no—every window was covered with iron bars, and of course the door didn’t budge when I tested the lock. Although sitting and quietly reading seemed to be the last thing I should be doing in such a situation, I realized soon enough that unless I wanted to spend the next six hours or so pacing around the room like a caged animal, I might as well choose a book and do what the brown-haired man had instructed.
I needed something quite thick, something that would occupy me for the next five or six hours. A fat tome on the top shelf caught my eyes; I brought it down and saw that it was a historical novel about the illegitimate daughter of King John. Good—the thing was over eight hundred pages long, and the political infighting of that much-maligned king and his familial entanglements promised enough distraction that I hoped I could concentrate on it and not my present situation. Otherwise, I’d drive myself crazy with conjecture before sundown arrived.
The afternoon ticked away slowly. With a sense of ironic amusement, I noticed the radio was tuned to USC’s radio station—no huge surprise, considering it was the only classical station in the Los Angeles area. At least that told me I had to be somewhere within the station’s broadcast range, although, since that ranged from the coast to about sixty or seventy miles inland, and from Santa Barbara in the north all the way to the southern border of Orange County, there were thousands of square miles where I could be hidden.
I was able to gauge the passage of time somewhat by the station identifications at the top of the hour. And no matter how excruciating the wait, it is true that time will eventually pass, no matter how slowly it feels to those who wait. The quality of light outside the window changed slowly, ebbing down to a muted dusk of mist and low clouds. I had to lay aside my book to turn on the lamp next to my chair; I was surprised to see, once I picked it back up again, that I had gone through nearly four hundred pages.
The radio station announced it was six, then six-thirty. A few moments later came the knock at the door.
Heart pounding, I put the book down, paused briefly on the way to the door to check my hair in the mirror, then waited.
The key turned in the lock, and my jailer stood there. Past him I got a dim impression of a softly lit corridor where dark portraits and landscapes lined the walls. “If you would follow me,” he said, and held the door open.
Lifting my chin in my best diva manner, I moved past him and on into the hall. He closed the door behind me and then headed down the corridor as I trailed in his wake, trying to take in some of the grandeur around me.
This was not a house—this was a mansion. We passed doorway after doorway until we came to a huge staircase with an elaborately carved banister and began our descent. A many-armed candelabra on the landing provided the only illumination, but I could see huge tapestries hanging on the walls; beneath my feet was a runner in a fantastically intricate Persian pattern.
From the main corridor that seemed to run the length of the ground floor of the home, I saw room after room opening up, all apparently furnished with the same darkly carved antiques that I had seen upstairs, and all lit by candles, their flickering golden light lending an air of unreality to my surroundings. This was not the sort of home that had ordinary chambers such as living rooms or family rooms—instead I saw drawing rooms, sitting rooms, salons, libraries.
Finally we came to a dining room dominated by a huge table of carved mahogany, a table around which were placed carved chairs with gorgeous blood-colored tapestry upholstery. The walls of the room were also painted dark red, set off by a series of tapestries that depicted medieval maidens and unicorns.
Only two places were set in that shining expanse, although candelabras cast their dancing shadows along all its length. At the head of the table a man rose from his tall carved chair, the pale half-mask on his face gleaming oddly in the shivering candlelight.
I recognized him almost immediately, although at first my mind didn’t want to make the connection. But it slowly sank in as I continued to stare at him, although I wasn’t sure I could make myself believe it.
My captor was the Phantom of the Opera.
Chapter 13
For what felt like an eternity I could only stand there, staring at him. Only a second or two must have passed, however, because he said to my jailer, “Thank you, Jerome. You may leave Miss Daly with me now.”
Beside me, Jerome nodded his head slightly and left the room without a backward glance. I remained where I was, shock rooting me in place.
The Phantom said, “If you would join me, Miss Daly?” and spread an elegant hand to indicate the seat next to his.
I finally found my voice. “Not until you tell me what I’m doing here.”
“All in good time.” The slightest edge of menace entered his tone, like the whisper of steel across silk. “For now I’m afraid I must insist.”
Not knowing what else to do, I crossed the heavy tufted rug that covered the floor and allowed him to pull out the chair for me, then sat. He reclaimed his own seat at the head of the table, gracefully unfolded his napkin, and settled it in his lap.
I noticed that he had seated me on his left, so the uncovered side of his face was toward me. It was the same man from the Halloween party at L’Opéra, of course; his voice had told me that almost immediately, and the uncovered half of his face was familiar, the elegant features, the faint shadow of a scar high up on his cheekbone, like some remnant of a long-forgotten duel. Now, however, instead of the formal tails he had worn on Halloween, he was dressed in a black mock-neck sweater and dark pants, his skin pale against the somber garments.
“Some wine?” he inquired. “A ’61 Bordeaux—quite a good year. I think you will find the nuances...interesting.”
Without waiting for my reply, he poured the heavy, garnet-colored liquid from a crystal decanter into my glass. Even from where I sat I could smell the heavy richness of it, the seductive swirl of fruit from the aged grapes.
“You are full of questions, no doubt,” he continued, watching me carefully. In the dim candlelight it was impossible for me to tell what color his eyes really were, and his expression was equally inscrutable.
“No doubt,” I said. “Are you going to answer any of them?”
His gaze slid away from mine. “Perhaps...in time. For now, I would very much appreciate it if you would try the wine.”
I replied, a bit surprised by my own boldness, “Maybe you should have a sip of mine first. After all, you poured it from a decanter, not from a bottle. Why should I trust what’s in it?”
Instead of anger, my sharp tone elicited an amused chuckle. “If that concerns you, of course, Christine...I may call you Christine? We have, after all, met before.”
I wanted to scream at him, What the hell difference does it make? but managed to keep my tone calm. “If that’s what you’d like.”
“Yes, Christine, I would like it very much.” The caress of his voice across my name was obvious, and I shivered. He went on, “As for the other matter, it’s common practice to decant a Bordeaux like this. But if it makes you uncomfortable—” And with that he reached across to my wine goblet and took a small sip, his eyes mocking me over the rim of the glass. Then, instead of setting it back down on the table, he handed it directly to me, so I was forced to take it from him. The tips of his fingers brushed mine, so quickly I barely had time to register the fact. I noticed that he still wore the gold and onyx ring on the pinky of his right hand.
He continued to watch me with that level, dark gaze, so I had no choice but to lift the heavy glass to my lips and drink. Probably most of the wine’s finer points were
lost on me, but I recognized a swirl of dark flavors, hints of fruit, smoky earth. The warm rush of it hit my almost-empty stomach; it had been quite some time since the light breakfast Jerome had brought me.
“It’s very good,” I said. “But you didn’t really bring me here to discuss wine, did you?”
A pause. “No.” He took a sip of his own wine, then said, “You may reassure yourself that I mean you no harm. I’m prepared to give you anything you could possibly ask for.”
“Except my freedom, I suppose.” I forced myself to maintain eye contact with him, but he showed no outward sign of reaction to my words.
“’Freedom,’” he repeated. “Freedom is a highly overrated commodity, in my opinion. Here you will have every comfort you lacked in the outside world.”
And how far away was the outside world, I thought, and had it missed me yet? I tried to force my thoughts away from that particular path—it led inevitably to Randall, and I couldn’t allow myself to think of his emotional turmoil once he realized that I had seemingly vanished off the face of the earth.
“Well, we can leave aside the debate over the value of freedom for now,” I said. “Maybe we should discuss the legal consequences of kidnapping? Or how about false imprisonment?”
He regarded me with an amused twitch at the left corner of his mouth. “I assure you, Christine, I’m not worried about any of that.”
“No? What about breaking and entering or assault?”
With a wave of one elegant hand he brushed away the litany of offenses. “To be convicted, one first has to be caught. I have no intention of that happening.”
“I’m sure that’s what every criminal thinks, right before the police come knocking at the door.”
At that comment he actually laughed, a laugh that under other circumstances I probably would have found attractive. It was forthright and pitched beautifully, just like his speaking voice. “I’m not in a position to tell you everything you want to know, Christine, but I will tell you this: There is no way anyone can connect me to you—just to put your mind at ease as to the imminence of my arrest. Your being here is the result of very careful planning. No one saw you taken. No one saw you brought here. And, as you probably observed from the windows of your suite, my home is quite isolated. There is no way anyone can discover your presence here. So you might as well put away this particular line of questioning—you’ll discover nothing that will be of any assistance to you.”
No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale Page 13
