No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale

by Pope, Christine

  My deus ex machina came in the form of a mall security guard, who apparently had just descended the escalator and then spotted the two of us standing over by the car. “Hey!” he called, and began hurrying in our direction. “That guy bothering you, miss?”

  Randall abruptly dropped my wrist as if it scalded him.

  I turned to the security guard and said, “It’s okay—I was just going. Right?” And I gave Randall a sharp look.

  “Uh—right,” he said. He still looked angry, an anger now overlaid with frustration, but he knew better than to say anything in front of the guard.

  The security guard gave both of us a dubious look, his heavy features obviously suspicious. But he said only, “If you’re sure everything’s all right—”

  “Oh, sure,” I replied airily, more relieved than I cared to admit. I was sure Randall would never have done anything to hurt me physically, but still he had frightened me a little. I was glad to have been rescued.

  The security guard didn’t say anything else, but he remained close by, watching as I climbed into the Mercedes and started it up, then angled the car up the ramp toward the first level of the parking garage. Through the rearview mirror I could see Randall stand there for a moment, then hurry up the escalator the moment the guard walked off. I wasn’t worried about him catching up with me, though; I reassured myself that I had gotten through the line to pay and exit long before he could have ever fallen in behind me.

  Still, I kept peering in my rearview mirror as I left the parking structure, worried that an older-model black BMW would suddenly drop in behind my rear bumper in the traffic on Colorado Boulevard. But I saw nothing, and turned my gaze forward, thinking then only of Erik, not wanting to reflect on the confrontation I had just endured. For the first time in more years than I had dared count, I finally felt as if I were going home.

  The rain shimmered on the mullioned windows of Erik’s study, its soft pattering a counterpoint to the hissing of the fire in the hearth. After uncounted time spent wandering the halls, he had returned here, not knowing where else to wait, and so he sat in an armchair he had dragged close to the hearth, forcing his gaze away from the clock, even as he told himself that it hadn’t been so long, really, since she had disappeared past the gates out onto Charles Street.

  The fear he had dared not voice earlier rose from the depths of his mind—the worry that once she found herself truly free in the world, she would have no reason to return to him. Or worse, that the police would not believe her story and would hold her for questioning. With every moment that passed he tensed more, waiting for the phone to ring and Greenburg to be on the other line, telling him that Christine had been arrested for perjury after all.

  But the phone remained silent, as did the great house around him; Ennis slept after his noon meal, and Jerome was still at his condo, presumably catching up on his sleep as well. Michel’s shift did not even begin until after four o’clock. Erik had often been lonely in his life, but this was the first time he could recall being so utterly alone. Always before there had been someone to fulfill his every need, someone to make sure that he never lacked for any comfort.

  Looking back, he realized he was appalled by the selfish creature he had been. Certainly he had had his share of suffering over his lifetime, but he had been cosseted and protected, every decision in the household made to accommodate him. He couldn’t imagine what his life might have been had he been born to a poor family, born into a situation where he would have had to fend for himself.

  Before Christine, he had never let himself become close to another human being, save Ennis, and that was only because Ennis refused to let Erik push him away. What had made Ennis put up with all of the self-centered demands, the complete indifference to anyone’s concerns but Erik’s own, Erik couldn’t begin to comprehend. Only now he had the faintest glimmering of the sort of selfless love one person might have for another, and the reasons for Ennis’s affection for the boy Erik had been and the man he had become. Certainly Erik had not had one-tenth that affection from his own father.

  And Christine—he knew he didn’t deserve her. He had planned her abduction and eventual seduction coldly, the way he had planned the financial ruin of the neighbors who had thwarted him or the corporate takeovers he had masterminded throughout the years. The plan had been for her to fall in love with him, but until it had actually happened, he had never thought about what would happen if he fell in love with her. Once it had happened, the trap in which he had thought to ensnare her had caught him instead, leaving him at her mercy. Never before had he given another person the power to hurt him—and she had hurt him, and rightfully so. He could not blame her for trying to escape, even though at the time he thought he could have killed her for wounding him in such a way. And then in place of the hurt had come the miraculous healing, her gentle touch on his ravaged face, her complete acceptance of every part of him.

  If she didn’t return, he knew he would have to let her go, even if it killed him. Even though she had told him repeatedly that she loved him, some part of his soul still had difficulty accepting it. Why would a woman like Christine love him—selfish, scheming, cold bastard that he was? Why would she, who could have the world at her feet, want to spend her life with a maimed half-mad recluse who could give her nothing but his unending devotion?

  The ticking of the clock seemed to dig itself into his very nerve endings. He stood suddenly and walked away from the fire, pausing by the desk and looking down at the small box that sat in the middle of the blotter. If she returned, he would have something to give her to show his love, his commitment to her. If she could overlook all his flaws and still want to be with him, then he wanted her with him as his wife.

  The diamond was as flawless and brilliant as Christine herself. It was not gaudily large—too big a stone would have looked awkward on her delicate hand—but it was as close to perfect as diamonds got, and he had been pleased by the effect of the stone in its antique-design platinum mounting. The thought of Christine wearing it as his wife made him tremble slightly, and he shut the ring box and replaced it on the desk.

  If she returned—when she returned, he forced himself to think—there would be so much to plan, so much to discuss with her. Of course she must finish her degree, and then if she still wished to perform, then he would do everything he could to support her in that. Perhaps he could endow a scholarship at USC in her name; he had a feeling she would like that. He thought of all the good he could have done with his wealth over the years and shook his head. The sheer selfishness of his previous existence left him shaken. That Christine had wrought such a sea-change in him made him love her all the more. Without her, he knew he would have dwindled into an inward-turned old age, wrapped in bitterness and disdain for the world and its workings. Instead, he felt energized, ready to move forward to the next stage of his life.

  If she returned, of course.

  He started at the sound of a car in the driveway and moved quickly to the window, but it was only Michel in his red Audi. Was it really four o’clock already? A glance at the clock confirmed the time, and Erik could feel his heart begin to pound. It had been more than two hours since Christine left—surely the police couldn’t have been questioning her this long? If she had run into trouble, wouldn’t she have called Greenburg, who in turn would certainly have called Erik?

  Perhaps he should go check on Ennis. The old man was really making a remarkable recovery, all things considered, but the hospital had sent home a set of post-op instructions, one of which admonished the caregiver to check on the patient every so often in case of a relapse. Ennis showed no sign of relapsing—if anything, he was already fretting about his enforced indolence, as if he thought he should already be up and about and seeing to Erik and Christine. But appearances could be deceiving, and Erik wouldn’t lie to himself—he would be reassured to see Ennis doing well, and he knew that Ennis would have comforting words for him if nothing else.

  But even as he turned and made for th
e door, he heard the sound of another car on the driveway and ran toward the window, pushing aside the heavy brocade curtains. Strange—Christine sounded as if she were going awfully fast, given her experience with the car and the wet pavement.

  He looked out to see the big S-Class skid around the curve of the driveway, the car grimly gripping the pavement even under such rough handling. What the hell? When Christine had left, she had been driving the car so gingerly it looked as if it were being driven by a timid octogenarian, not a twenty-something college student.

  Then he saw the reason for Christine’s haste. Barely squeezing in past the closing gate was an older-model black BMW, its wipers working frenziedly in the driving rain. Obviously its driver was more experienced or at least knew his car better, for it squatted easily on the driveway’s curve as it followed hard on the Mercedes’ bumper.

  The driver’s-side door on the S-Class banged open, and Christine jumped out, running for the front door to the house. Erik barely had time to register the fact that she was both barefoot and bareheaded in the rain before he saw the door on the BMW open and Randall Cagney step out.

  Cursing, Erik dropped the curtain and ran for the stairs, wondering what the hell could have happened. Of course Cagney must have followed Christine here, but how had he known she would be at the police station in the first place?

  Time for that later. Now all he could think of was reaching the front door—of course he had sent Christine off without a key or the code to the front door, thinking that he would be waiting here for her return and so she could do without for now. He cursed his shortsightedness even as he pounded across the foyer and furiously typed in the code to open the front door.

  It opened, and Christine fell into his arms, panting and dripping wet. “I tried to get away,” she gasped, “but he just kept following me—”

  And then Randall Cagney filled the doorway, pushing past the two of them to stand in the center of the entry hall. He glared at Christine as she huddled into Erik’s arms, and then his eyes narrowed as he took in the half-mask.

  “I don’t believe it,” he said at length. “You left me for the Phantom of the Opera?”

  Chapter 30

  To do him credit, Erik didn’t miss a beat. He held me for a few seconds longer, gave me a reassuring hug, and set me upright. Then he raised an eyebrow in Randall’s direction and said, “I take it you must be Randall Cagney?”

  Randall’s mouth dropped open for a second before he recovered himself enough to answer. “Yes, I’m Randall—Christine’s boyfriend.” There was no overlooking the emphasis he placed on the last word, and he glared from Erik to me, daring us to contradict him.

  I began to open my mouth to protest, but Erik beat me to it.

  “As to that,” he said, “we may have a few differences of opinion. First, however, I would like to know what you’re doing trespassing on my property.”

  “Trespassing?” Randall repeated.

  “Well, yes, that’s usually what one calls uninvited intrusion on one’s property.” Erik looked over at me, and his mouth quirked just slightly at the corner. Instead of the explosion I had been expecting, he seemed to be amused by the situation. “Perhaps you would feel more comfortable explaining your presence here to the police?”

  “The police?” Randall asked, and then, swiftly, “Oh, I’d love for you to call the police. Then you can explain to them how you’ve been holding Christine captive here for the past few weeks.”

  “He has not—” I began furiously, but Erik lifted a hand.

  “If that were true, why would she have come back here at all?” he inquired. “For that matter, why would she run directly to me instead of going to you?”

  “I don’t know—you’ve got her brainwashed or something—maybe she’s suffering from Stockholm syndrome—”

  “You have been doing your research, haven’t you?” Erik drawled. “How interesting. However, perhaps we should let the police decide.” He gestured down the hallway. “There’s a phone in the first salon on the left. Why don’t we all go down there to make the call?”

  Randall’s suspicious gaze shifted from Erik to me and then back again. “Great. I’d love to see you talk your way out of this one.”

  “Very well, then.” And he led us down the hall to a large sitting room I had never been in before. It was a chilly, formal room, with fussy French antiques and a number of rosy-cheeked portraits of eighteenth-century nobility on the wall, while an enormous Aubusson rug covered the floor. The style was very different from the furnishings of the rest of the house, and I found myself wondering who had decorated the chamber.

  Erik picked up the phone from the intricate ormolu table to one side of the door. “I don’t suppose it’s necessary to call 911 for this matter?” At Randall’s hesitant head shake, Erik continued, “Do you know who was working on Christine’s case?”

  “Detective Ortiz,” Randall replied, sounding a little numb. Obviously he was having a hard time coping with Erik’s apparent nonchalance over the matter.

  “Very good. Thank you.”

  Then Randall and I both seated ourselves somewhat awkwardly on the pair of gold-upholstered loveseats that faced one another across an inlaid coffee table, and listened as Erik dialed information for the Pasadena police department’s non-emergency number and then asked for Detective Ortiz.

  “Detective Ortiz? My name is Erik Deitrich.” A pause, and then Erik said, “Well, it’s rather awkward, but I have Randall Cagney here at my home, and he’s demanding that you come out to talk to all of us. He is trespassing, but perhaps if you could come over and—ah, excellent. We’ll see you in a few moments.”

  He hung up the phone and turned to Randall and me. “He’ll be over as soon as he can. In the meantime, can I offer you some coffee? You do look a little—damp.”

  It was true. Although it hadn’t been raining when I left the police station, partway through the drive back to Charles Street the heavens had opened up again, and even the moment or so Randall and I had been out in the rain had been enough to dampen each of us quite a bit. My feet in their shredded hose were freezing.

  “Um, sure,” Randall replied, looking somewhat bemused. I’m sure he had been expecting shouting, threats—anything but a civilized offer of refreshments while we waited for the police to arrive.

  Erik looked over at me, and again I could see that ghost of a smile in the corner of his mouth. “Christine, if you could let Michel know that we’ll need a pot of coffee in the grand salon? And perhaps you’d like to change out of those wet things—you don’t look very comfortable.”

  Grateful for the excuse to escape, if even for a few minutes, I nodded and slipped out of the room. I found Michel in the kitchen, standing in front of the open refrigerator door and muttering to himself in French. He started a little when I appeared, then ungraciously accepted the instructions to make coffee and bring a service for four to the grand salon. It still irritated him to have to perform the tasks that Ennis usually handled.

  After that I ran upstairs to my rooms and quickly drew off the damp twin set and skirt, then pulled on a pair of jeans and the argyle sweater I had worn my first day here. My feet felt like ice, so I figured the hell with fashion and slipped on a pair of sheepskin-lined house boots. During these operations I couldn’t help but wonder what Erik and Randall could possibly be saying to one another in my absence. Whatever the exchange, I was certain Erik would keep the upper hand. I had seen him passionate, angry, loving, even charming, but this was the first time I had seen Erik as a man secure in his power, used to handling difficult business transactions and legal situations. Watching Randall go up against him was rather like watching a rat terrier take on a pit bull.

  By the time I returned to the salon, Michel had already come and gone, leaving the coffee behind. The delicious aroma perfumed the air, and despite the tense atmosphere in the room, I was amused to see Randall take his coffee black under Erik’s watchful gaze, even though I knew he liked cream and suga
r, just as I did.

  “Ah, Christine,” Erik said, “just in time. Feeling better?”

  I nodded. “Much.” I reached for a coffee cup, feeling Randall’s outraged stare on me and choosing to ignore it.

  No sooner had I dropped a sugar cube and stirred a dollop of cream into my cup than the buzzer sounded, indicating that someone was waiting for the driveway gates to be opened.

  Erik set down his own cup and saucer. “I’d best get that,” he said, and left the room.

  Once he was gone, Randall said, “Who the hell is this guy?”

  “According to you, he’s the Phantom of the Opera,” I replied sweetly, taking a sip of ambrosial coffee.

  “That’s not funny. What kind of sick game are you two playing?”

  “It’s not sick, and it’s not a game,” I retorted, knowing that I could never make him understand. “Anyway, he told you his name—it’s Erik Deitrich.”

  “Yeah, that tells me a lot—” He shot me a quick, suspicious look. “How did you meet him, anyway?”

  “At the restaurant.” I figured it was safe to tell Randall that much. “He came to the Halloween dinner.”

  “Well, that makes a lot of sense,” Randall began, even as I snapped,

  “Do you have to be such a jerk?”

  We were interrupted by the sound of a throat clearing, as Erik reentered the room, followed by Detective Ortiz. Randall and I exchanged sulky glares, then settled back on our respective loveseats, just like a couple of children caught quarreling by their parents.

  Detective Ortiz caught my eye and nodded. “Good to see you again so soon, Miss Daly,” he said, and I couldn’t be sure whether he was serious or not.

  “Coffee, detective?” Erik asked, then poured a cup for him when Ortiz nodded.

  Erik sat down next to me, so the detective perforce seated himself next to Randall, facing us.