The Ex

by Lutz, John

  The young detective, who had the wan, wasted look of an esthete, stared at Chumley until Chumley looked away.

  “What about a photo of the boy?” Salter asked.

  “I have several,” Molly said. “They’re downstairs in our apartment, if they haven’t been destroyed.”

  “Let’s go,” Salter said. “It’s time we looked at the destruction down there.”

  He accompanied them downstairs while Marrivale stayed behind and continued questioning Chumley.

  In the elevator, Salter said nothing. Molly saw him glancing out of the corner of his eye at David, as if he were suspicious of him. She’d read that the police always suspected the parents first in the disappearance of a child. But this was different. They knew who’d taken Michael. A psychopath who’d left a taunting message on the parents’ answering machine.

  When they entered the apartment, Salter cautioned them not to touch anything. “The place will be dusted for prints,” he said. “We want to know who’s been here recently and handled whatever was vandalized.”

  Molly knew that made sense, but she felt somehow violated again, being unable even to touch her possessions in her own apartment. She and David stood near the center of the room with their arms at their sides, looking like awkward trespassers in their home.

  Then Molly remembered that the apartment would never be home again—at least not the home it had been. She’d never be able to see it, to live in it, the same way. However the nightmare with Michael would be resolved, Deirdre had changed their lives forever.

  Salter clasped his meaty hands together and looked around with his neutral, assessing eyes at the littered floor, the slashed sofa with its batting bulging from its wounds. “Somebody doesn’t like you, all right.”

  “Deirdre,” Molly said.

  Sidestepping the contents of the desk drawers that lay on the floor, Salter walked over to the answering machine lying beside the overturned desk. He stooped and pressed the message button. Molly felt the boiling pressure of rage building in her again as they listened to Deirdre’s message.

  “You sure it’s her?” Salter asked when the message was finished. He pressed his hand to the small of his back as he stood up. “The caller only identifies herself as ‘you know who.’”

  “Who else would it be?” Molly blurted.

  “It’s Deirdre,” David said. “I recognize her voice. And Julia at Small Business Preschool said Deirdre was the one who picked up Michael.”

  “Aunt Deirdre!” Molly said.

  Salter looked at her. “Deirdre was acquainted enough with the boy that he thought of her as an aunt?”

  “Apparently,” David said.

  “Then the three of you were friends.”

  “No,” Molly said. “She’s my husband’s ex-wife, for God’s sake! We were civil, at first. Then it was just as I told you. She began tormenting me, sneaking in here, and she tried to kill me.”

  Salter looked at her the way he’d been looking at David in the elevator.

  “Damn it!” Molly exploded. “A maniac has our son and you stand there looking at us as if we were the criminals. Do something! Do your fucking job!”

  She felt spittle on her chin and realized she must look like the maniac, ranting and foaming at the mouth. David tried to pull her to him and hold her, but she pushed away from him, walked a few feet, and stood alone. She felt as isolated and ineffective as if she were frozen in ice with only her agonizing thoughts. When she gazed fearfully into herself, she saw only a deep darkness that pulled like a vacuum at her being. A devouring black hole in the space of her existence. What had happened to her life? It was all so horrible and hopeless.

  The detective’s lips were moving soundlessly. He was talking to her. She focused her mind and brought herself back to outer awareness.

  “The photograph,” Salter reminded her flatly. “You said you had a photograph of your son.”

  Later, in the hall outside Deirdre’s apartment, Salter and Marrivale walked together to stand near the elevator, where they wouldn’t be overheard.

  “I checked,” Marrivale said. “There’s a murder warrant out for Deirdre Grocci, maybe goes under the last name Chandler, maybe Jones. She escaped from a psychiatric clinic in Missouri, and she’s suspected of killing a woman named Christine Mathews in Saint Louis.”

  “A nutcase killer,” Salter said. “And now they tell us she’s snatched a kid.”

  “You don’t think she did?” Marrivale asked, obviously surprised.

  “Oh, yeah, I think she’s got him,” Salter said. “And I think maybe there’s a lot more to it than we know.”

  “She sounds plenty dangerous,” Marrivale said. His pale face tightened. “Jesus! That poor kid…”

  “Yeah.” Salter dug the photograph of Michael that Molly had given him out of his pocket and held it out for Marrivale to see.

  “Poor kid,” Marrivale repeated, staring at the photo with his head bowed. “He looks something like my sister’s boy. About the same age.” For a moment his expression hardened with fury.

  “Some shitty world,” Salter said, sliding the photo back into his pocket.

  “Anything can happen anytime to anybody,” Marrivale said. “And when it does, it usually isn’t good.”

  “This time,” Salter told him, “we’ve gotta see that it doesn’t happen to this kid.”

  “It’s too often the innocents who get hurt,” Marrivale said. “They’re like prey animals for the carnivores of the world. We have to protect them.”

  Salter looked at him, wondering for a moment if Marrivale might be too philosophical to be a cop.

  50

  Molly sat in a chair in the room at the Wharman Hotel that night and stared out the window, though her attention never reached beyond the reflecting pane that held her indistinct image, a woman mostly faded away, never changing expression and idly twining a strand of hair around her forefinger. She wished she could exist in that flat, opaque world that had no dimension or agony, that would disappear with the dawn.

  After the police had taken her statement, then David’s, they talked to Chumley again. And they listened again to Deirdre’s message on the answering machine, then confiscated the cassette and slid it into a yellow evidence envelope. Another detective, who seemed to outrank Salter and Marrivale, arrived and was given the photograph of Michael that Molly had taken that summer in Riverside Park. He stared intently at it, then handed it back to Salter, who left to talk to Julia at Small Business.

  Then they’d instructed Molly and David. At least one of them was to remain in their room at the Wharman. The police would be watching the apartment building. A policeman would be stationed inside their apartment, in case Deirdre returned there. He would also be monitoring and recording all phone conversations; any calls would be patched through, without the caller’s knowledge, to the room in the Wharman. Molly and David were told to agree to any demands and terms for ransom money, and to ask to talk to Michael.

  So after packing two more suitcases, they’d returned to the hotel room, which seemed to become smaller and more confining with every hour.

  There was a ghost in the flat, reflecting window, pacing behind Molly. David, four paces one way, four the other, back to his starting point. She saw his reflection stand still and slam a fist into its palm, heard the impact of flesh on flesh behind her.

  David resumed pacing.

  “She’ll know the police are watching the apartment building,” Molly said in a flat, exhausted monotone. “She won’t go back there. She’s too smart. She was smarter all along than any of us thought. Scheming and smart and evil.”

  “The cops will find her,” David said with more assurance than he could possibly feel. “They’ll find Michael. If she calls the apartment, the cop there will listen in. They’re ready for a phone call. They might be able to trace it.”

  “She won’t phone,” Molly said.

  “She might demand ransom.”

  Molly laughed sadly, a broken express
ion of hopelessness. “Ransom! You still don’t understand. It isn’t ransom that she wants.”

  “What, then?” David asked.

  “Didn’t you read those newspaper clippings, David? Didn’t you listen to Chumley? She’s insane. She’s dangerous. She’s homicidal. And she has our son!”

  David stopped pacing and stood in the center of the room. He appeared to try returning the gaze of her reflection in the dark windowpane, but there wasn’t enough substance there and he turned away.

  “Even insane people have their own kind of unique logic,” he said. “It’s only a matter of figuring out how she thinks.”

  “She thinks like an animal. A cunning, predatory animal that concentrates all of itself on getting what it wants.”

  “And you think she wants Michael?”

  “He’s only part of it,” Molly said. “She wants you, David. She wants to become me. In some psychotic way, she wants to live my life.”

  He said nothing. Instead he walked over and stood behind her, then began massaging her shoulders. When she didn’t respond, he bent over and kissed her cheek. She still didn’t respond, watching the scene in the windowpane as if it were theater and didn’t involve her.

  He stopped massaging, lowered his arms to his sides, and sighed. “You’re trembling, Mol. It’s been a long time since we’ve eaten. You need something to keep your strength up.”

  She shook her head no. Dread filled her; she wasn’t remotely hungry.

  “You should at least have something to drink,” he insisted. “I’m going to get some ice and try to find a soda machine. What do you want me to bring you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’ve got to have something, Mol. Soda. A bag of pretzels or potato chips from a machine. Anything”

  When she didn’t answer, he went to the dresser, picked up the plastic ice bucket, and walked to the door.

  She saw his reflection turn to face her.

  “The door will lock behind me, Mol. I’ll let myself back in with my key. I won’t knock. If anyone knocks, don’t go to the door. Promise me.”

  She remained silent. She simply had nothing to say to him, though she knew he was frustrated, near losing his temper.

  “Dammit, Mol! This isn’t helping Michael. Isn’t helping you. Or me. We need you. Haven’t you figured that out? We need you!”

  She found herself standing up despite her great weariness. She looked at him, smiled feebly, and nodded.

  He smiled back, looking immensely relieved. “Better, Mol. Much better.”

  Still carrying the ice bucket, he came to her and held her close. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and he kissed her forehead. His lips felt cool and dry as death.

  “Gonna be okay here alone?” he asked.

  She nodded, near tears. He was right. He did need her. Michael needed her. “Sure,” she said. “Don’t worry. Go ahead.”

  She watched him walk to the door, look back at her, then leave. He pulled the door tightly closed behind him so that the lock clicking metallically into place was loud and definite.

  Molly stood still for a moment, then went to the dresser and studied her image in the mirror.

  She shook her head in dismay. Her complexion was chalky, as if she’d suffered a long illness. There were dark circles beneath her eyes. Her hair was in wild disarray.

  She attempted to rearrange her hair with her fingers, but it was futile. It simply sprang back up where she tried to smooth it down, and lay lank and lifeless where she tried to fluff it up. She opened the top dresser drawer, got out her cosmetic kit, and felt around inside it for a comb.

  There was none. She and David had packed too hurriedly to remember everything they’d need. She wished now she’d asked him to go down to the lobby and see if he could borrow a comb from the desk. They probably kept a supply of courtesy toiletries for forgetful guests. If they had none, he might have gone to the drugstore down the street to buy a comb.

  She glanced over at their empty suitcases stacked on a folding stand. It was possible that there was a comb in one of them from a previous trip. When they traveled, they were always buying things they’d forgotten, sometimes tucking them away in pockets or zippered compartments for the return trip then not remembering to unpack them.

  She went to the stack of softsided luggage and checked inside the top suitcase. Found nothing.

  Then she unzipped an outer compartment on the stiff fabric side of the second suitcase and reached inside.

  Her groping fingers felt plastic, but it wasn’t a comb.

  51

  David managed to wrestle two Pepsi-Cola cans and a bag of pretzels from the vending machines on the floor below. The ice machine was in an alcove across the hall. It gurgled and clunked as he approached, as if it had been waiting and was producing ice just for him.

  After scooping ice into the plastic bucket, he managed to juggle everything so he could carry it, then walked toward the elevator.

  He wasn’t really worried about Deirdre learning where they were and showing up there. There was no way she could find out which hotel they’d chosen. Only the police knew.

  He broke stride for a moment. And Julia? Did Julia know?

  Well, it probably wouldn’t matter. Still, he’d have to ask Molly if she’d talked to Julia, told her their location. Molly was right: Deirdre had the cunning and intensity of a carnivore on the hunt. If she decided to try locating them, she’d do anything.

  He only hoped she wouldn’t hurt Michael. That was something David told himself over and over wouldn’t happen. God knew, he was aware of her kinkiness. She could enjoy inflicting pain. But he hadn’t seen that kind of sadism in her, the inclination to harm a child.

  He rode the elevator up a floor and got out. Balancing soda cans and pretzel bag in one hand, the ice bucket in the other, he made his way down the hall to the room.

  Clutching the bucket under his arm and using his key, he entered, pushing open the door with his hip, his back to the room. He used his foot to close the door, turning around as he did so.

  He dropped the ice bucket, unaware of it bouncing off his toe, or of the small, cylindrical chunks of ice scattering over the carpet. The shock of what he saw hit him with a palpable force that winded him.

  Molly was sitting in the chair by the window again, hunched over and hugging her stomach. But now she was watching television.

  The VCR’s red light was glowing. Moans were coming from the TV. On the screen, David was on top of Deirdre. Her legs were locked around his waist, her fingers clutching his back like talons sunk into prey. She turned to face the camera and smiled wildly, the corruption of her madness gleaming in her eyes.

  Dropping everything else he was carrying, David ran across the room and fumbled with the unfamiliar VCR controls.

  Finally he found the power switch and the screen went blank. Then he ejected the cassette. He stooped and picked up a soda can, laid the cassette on top of the TV, and bashed it again and again with the can.

  All his effort had little effect other than to crack the black plastic casing.

  He tossed the can aside, then picked up the cassette and brought it down repeatedly and with all his strength on the edge of the dresser. The case separated, then shattered. David grabbed the tape and unreeled it, yanking it out until it draped in twisted ribbons to the floor. He bunched it all together between his hands, along with what was left of the cassette, and hurled everything into a nearby wastebasket.

  He stood trembling, out of breath. What he’d feared for so long had finally happened. His world was as irreparably smashed as the videocassette. Gone from him and out of reach. Destiny. The harsh sounds of his struggle for air filled the room.

  Then, standing there and staring at the broken cassette and the tangle of tape overflowing the wastebasket, his face flushed with abrupt realization.

  He turned to confront Molly.

  “Mol, I know where she is! I know where she’s taken him!”

  She was standing
now, still hunched over, glaring up at him through her tears. She might collapse. She might fly into a rage. She might become physically ill. He knew she was balanced on a fine edge.

  She said nothing.

  He stared at her in dismay. “Listen, Mol, please!”

  “You bastard! Liar! Liar! Liar!”

  She suddenly hurled herself at him, slamming him with her fists, kicking him, scratching at his eyes. One of the blows caught him on the forehead, momentarily dazing him. He reached out and pulled her in close, smothering her charge and hugging her tight, restricting her movements.

  “I’m sorry, Mol! Jesus, I’m sorry! But I think I know where he is! I know where she’s taken Michael!”

  Her arms went limp. She stopped struggling and stepped back, looking at him as if he were a stranger who didn’t interest her. The outburst and attack had left her mind and body exhausted. Her eyes seemed to stare at him from inside a final sanctuary where pain could no longer penetrate. He knew he’d done this to her, reduced her to this. He had to make it up to her and he could!

  “Come on!” he implored. “I’ll show you! Please, Mol. come with me!”

  She continued to stare vacantly at him, emotionally and physically spent.

  He gripped her arm just above the elbow and moved toward the door. She didn’t resist, but he almost had to drag her as she accompanied him zombielike downstairs to the lobby, then out into the street.

  He saw a taxi pass at the corner with its rooflight on and raised an arm, but it drove by without the driver seeing him.

  Then a cab turned at the opposite corner and came toward them, rooflight glowing. Still with a grip on Molly’s arm, supporting her, David waved his free arm wildly and saw the taxi swerve and coast toward them.

  Salter saw the Joneses get into the cab. The husband seemed to be in a frenzy, the wife as calm as if she were drugged.

  He started his unmarked car and steered it into the flow of traffic, staying well back of the cab but keeping it in sight. He was good at tailing cars; that’s why Benning had assigned him to watch the hotel. The parents were always suspects when a child disappeared, so what had just happened wasn’t a complete surprise.