She decided to smile at him. “Awful. It serves me right for ordering a salad in Alaska.” She turned to the children. “Those hot dogs went down awfully fast.”
The orphans flashed mustardy grins at her. She marveled at how soon children could forget a hurtful situation. Then she reached across the table and stroked Luke’s hand. “Do I dare risk the little girls’ room?”
“Go ahead,” he winked. “The experience will do you good.”
The bathroom proved to be pungent with disinfectant, but surprisingly clean. She was there for five minutes, taking care of business and thanking the powers-that-be that her first significant conflict with Luke had fizzled out before it exploded.
When she returned to the dining room, their table was empty. Luke and the orphans were gone.
“Excuse me,” she asked the man behind the counter. “My friend and the children, did they …”
“They paid up and left,” said the man.
“What? Left? Where did they go? Did they say?”
The man shrugged. “I figured you’d know.”
Panic in Sitka
THE MAN BEHIND THE COUNTER SAW THE CONFUSION IN Prue’s face and managed a kindly smile. “Maybe he just expects you to … catch up with him.”
“He didn’t say anything?”
“No ma’am. Just paid the bill and took off.”
Prue stared at him, mortified, then glanced at the empty table again. Luke had left a tip, she noticed. What in God’s name was happening? Was this his way of punishing her? That little tussle over the float plane trip certainly didn’t justify this kind of childish stunt.
And what right had he to involve the orphans in this … this … whatever it was? Prue was livid now, scarlet with humiliation. There had better be a damn good explanation.
She left the restaurant and looked both ways down the street. They were nowhere in sight. To her right, the little gray-and-white frame Russian cathedral offered refuge to a steady stream of tourists. Maybe that was it. Maybe the children had grown restless while she was in the rest room, and Luke had taken them to the next logical stop on their tour of Sitka.
Maybe he had expected her to know that.
She entered the cathedral, paid a two-dollar donation, and stood in the back, scanning the room. She recognized several people from the Sagafjord, including the loud brunette who hung out with Frannie Halcyon, but Luke and the orphans were not there.
Out in the sunlight again, she considered her alternatives. If Luke was, in fact, trying to teach her some sort of lesson, then he could just go to hell. She could see the town on her own, if need be. On the other hand, what if some unforeseen emergency had arisen which had demanded that Luke leave the restaurant?
But what could have happened in five minutes?
She strode back to the restaurant, surveying it once more through a grease-streaked window.
Nothing.
Keep calm, she ordered herself. There’s an explanation for this. If he had planned on upsetting her, he had succeeded completely. She would never let him know that, though. She would not let him see her cry.
Reversing her course, she walked in the direction of the ship, casting anxious sideways glances down the cross streets. When she was three blocks from the cathedral, she passed a narrow alleyway where a small furry figure caught her eye.
It was one of the orphans. The little girl.
She was standing at the end of the alleyway, framed prettily against a weathered wooden building.
“Hey!” shouted Prue.
The little girl remained immobile for a moment, looking confused, then waved tentatively.
Her name, thought Prue. What was it?
Remembering, she yelled again. “Anna! It’s me! Is Mr. Starr down there?”
Her answer came in the form of a looming shadow … and then Luke himself, lunging in from the left to snatch up the startled child.
“Luke! For God’s sake, what are you doing?”
His head pivoted jerkily, like the head of a robot, as he turned to look into her terrified face. The alien rage in his eyes made her blood run cold. Who was this man?Who in the world was he?
She ran towards him, screaming: “What have I done, Luke? Just tell me what I’ve done!”
But he was gone again, sprinting down another alleyway with Anna under his arm.
Prue kept running, her heart pounding savagely in her chest. She watched Luke cross a vacant lot, then disappear into a thicket of weeds and wildflowers. Where was the other orphan, anyway?What had he done with Edgar?
When she tried to follow, her heel caught on a rusty bedspring, wrenching her violently to the ground. She lay there, disbelieving, choking on her sobs while blood gushed from her ankle.
“LUKE,” she screamed. “PLEASE LUKE, I’M BLEEDING … PLEASE … PLEASE….”
But there wasn’t a sound.
Still on her stomach, Prue jerked an oily rag from beneath a discarded refrigerator and clamped it frantically against her ankle, scattering the flies that had already begun to gather.
She eased herself into a sitting position, leaning against the refrigerator as her eyes glazed over with the full horror of the thing that had happened:
A man with no last name, a man she had loved, a man carrying the identification of Father Paddy Starr, had kidnapped the foster grandchildren of Frannie Halcyon in a small town in Southeast Alaska. And the Sagafjord would sail in less than two hours.
It was time to pay the piper.
Atrocity
REMEMBERING AN ANCIENT TEACHING OF THE CAMP Fire Girls, Prue made a tourniquet from another oily rag and applied it hastily to her ankle.
Three minutes later, she loosened the device enough to see that the bleeding had stopped, then raised herself cautiously to her feet. A pearl-sized drop of blood, dark as a ruby, bubbled to the surface as soon as she placed weight on the ankle. She blotted it warily, whimpering as she did so, until she felt secure enough to walk.
Then she set off in the direction of the ship.
As she left the litter-strewn lot, an angry voice called out to her. “Hey, lady!”
She flinched at the sound, turning to see a heavy-set, redheaded man in his late forties. He was wearing overalls and carrying a hoe upright, like a spear.
“Was that son of a bitch with you?”
Prue struggled to find her voice. “I … if you mean … uh …”
“Look, lady … I’ll kill the bastard if I have to! I’ll find out who he is and I’ll …” He stopped, seeing the blood on Prue’s ankle. “What’s that?” he asked, using a tone that was only slightly less hysterical.
“I fell,” she said feebly. “I cut myself on that bedspring. Please don’t yell at me.” She began to sniffle. “I can’t take it anymore. I can’t.”
The man dropped his hoe and walked toward her. “Did he do this to you?”
“A man in a blue blazer?”
“Yep. You know him?”
Prue nodded defeatedly. “I was … chasing him. Did you see which way he went?”
“Through there,” said the man, pointing to a dilapidated wooden fence with two missing planks. “Through my goddamn garden, the son of a bitch!”
For about five seconds, Prue considered pursuing him, but her spirit was broken now, and she knew that Luke and the orphans would be long gone. She thanked the man and resumed walking, adding lamely: “I’m sorry if he damaged your garden.”
The man exploded. “Garden, hell!” He seized her wrist and pulled her toward the hole in the fence. “You’re gonna see this, lady!”
See what, for God’s sake? What on earth had Luke done?
Passing through the opening, they came into a small backyard—virtually indistinguishable from the junk-scattered lot it adjoined. A row of tractor tires, painted white and planted with petunias, was the sole concession to aesthetics. Along the back fence stood a shed of some sort, compartmentalized for … what? … cages?
The man led her to the shed.
“All right now, you tell me what the hell that means!”
What she saw made her scream, then gag, then vomit in the weeds behind the shed.
The man stood by awkwardly, finally offering her his handkerchief.
“Your friend is crazy, lady. What else can I say?”
Half-an-hour later, Frannie Halcyon was nervously pacing the Promenade Deck of the Sagafjord. Since two other cruise liners were already docked in Sitka, the ship was moored in the harbor, with launches making shuttle runs to the pier. The matriarch’s eyes were glued on those launches.
“If something’s happened, I’ll never forgive …”
“Nothing’s happened,” said Claire. “Relax, honey. You’re worse than a new mother.”
“But we sail in an hour.”
“They know that,” said Claire.
“And I know that Giroux woman. She’s nothing if not flighty. She’s probably dragged that man off to a shop somewhere, with total disregard for …”
“Look!” cried Claire, pointing to the dock, “there’s another launch heading this way!”
Frannie’s tension eased instantly. “Thank God!”
Claire scolded her with a grin. “You’re the worst worrywart!”
“What deck’s the gangplank on?”
“A-Deck, I think.”
“I’m going to meet them,” said Frannie.
“Want company?”
Frannie smiled. “I know you think I’m silly. I get these feelings sometimes. There’s no rational explanation for them.”
Her fears disintegrated as soon as she saw the gossip columnist’s blonde tresses emerge from the launch.
“You see?” said Claire.
But then they saw that Prue was alone.
DeDe Day’s D-Day
MRS. MADRIGAL WAS TRIMMING THE IVY IN THE courtyard when Mary Ann left for work.
“Off to the station, dear?”
Mary Ann nodded. “A big day. A big day.”
The landlady set down her shears and stood up. “Your little surprise, you mean?”
“You know about it?”
Mrs. Madrigal smiled. “Michael told me. He didn’t say what, actually … just when. I can’t imagine what it is.”
“It’s a wonderful surprise, actually. Not to mention a great story, if I do say so myself.”
“A marriage proposal and a great story. How many milestones can you squeeze into one week?” The landlady grasped Mary Ann’s shoulders, planting a kiss firmly on her cheek. “Congratulations, in advance, dear. I always knew you could do it.”
Mary Ann beamed. “Thanks.”
“And I want to plan a little do for you. For you and Brian.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Mary Ann, “I was hoping you’d plan the wedding.”
The landlady’s face lit up. “I’d be thrilled. Here, you mean?”
Mary Ann nodded.
Mrs. Madrigal looked about her in the courtyard. “Let’s see. You can say your vows under the lych gate. A coat of paint will fix it up just fine. And we can bring in a cellist, maybe … or a harpist … a harpist would be heavenly.” She clapped her hands together almost girlishly. “This is so wonderful … my little family … God’s been so grand to us, Mary Ann.”
“I know,” she replied.
And she meant it, too, for the first time in years.
Her revenge, she had just begun to realize, would be sweeter than she had ever dared to dream. Larry Kenan saw to that by being an even bigger bastard than usual.
“Well, how’s our little fighting journalist today?”
Mary Ann didn’t look up from her desk. She was organizing her note cards on DeDe, pruning and reshuffling to keep within her five minute format. It wasn’t easy.
The news director remained in the doorway, thumbs hooked in his Gentlemen’s Jeans. She could feel his smirk burning into the top of her head. “Look,” he said, “Denny needs to see your props for today’s show.”
“Right,” muttered Mary Ann, continuing to shuffle.
“Now, lady.”
Mary Ann gazed up at him, steely-eyed. “It’s just a goddamn sea sponge, Larry.”
He snorted noisily. “For what?”
Mary Ann looked down again. “An alternative to tampons.”
There was silence for a moment, then Larry began chortling like an idiot.
Mary Ann picked up a pencil and made a meaningless note on her calendar. “Toxic shock your idea of a big yuck, Larry?”
“Not at all,” said the news director, turning to leave. “Just glad to hear you’re doing a little in depth reporting. Break a leg, O.K.?”
The movie for today’s show was Move Over, Darling and the irony wasn’t lost on Mary Ann. Doris Day has been marooned on a desert island for seven years and comes home unexpectedly to find her husband, James Garner, on the verge of marrying Polly Bergen. Meanwhile, DeDe Day shows up at intermission. It was too delicious for words.
Mary Ann’s phone rang at 2:15.
“Mary Ann Singleton.”
“It’s DeDe, Mary Ann. Listen to me carefully: Have you told them anything yet?”
“Where are you? I need you here before the …”
“Have you told them anything?”
Mary Ann was thrown by the urgency in DeDe’s voice. “Of course not,” she replied. “We won’t say anything until we’re on the air.”
“I can’t do that, Mary Ann. We can’t.”
“Now wait just a minute!”
“Mother just called! The children have been kidnapped!”
“What? In Alaska?”
“He’s got them, Mary Ann. I’m almost positive.”
“Jesus … are you …? How is that possible?”
“There isn’t time to talk. I’m flying to Sitka in an hour. Will you come with me?”
“DeDe, I …”
“I’ll pay for everything.”
“It isn’t that. I’m supposed to be on the air in …”
“I need you, Mary Ann. Please.”
“O.K. Of course. Where shall we meet?”
“At the airport—catch a cab. And don’t say a word to anyone, Mary Ann … not a word!”
A Sucker for Romance
THERE WAS A RUMOR RAMPANT THAT THE HOTTEST BODIES from the City Athletic Club had graduated to the Muscle System farther down Market Street, but Michael found it hard to believe.
Today, for instance, the club was wall-to-wall horse flesh—sleek, river-tanned torsos straining heroically against the high-tech tyranny of the Nautilus machines. All in all, a profoundly discouraging sight.
For Michael’s own body needed work. Badly.
After forty-five minutes of torturous leg lifts, decline presses, overhead presses, and super tricep exercises, he repaired to the Hollywood-size Jacuzzi where Ned was languishing like an aging gladiator.
Michael eased himself into the bubbling water. “It’s practically an unwritten law,” he said.
“What?” asked Ned.
“If I’m in shape, I’m not in love. If I’m in love, I’m not in shape.”
Ned laughed and squeezed the back of his neck. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
“Thanks a lot,” said Michael.
“Well, I assume you meant …”
“I know, I know. And there is no lucky guy, either. I’m just ready for … something nice.”
Ned extended his legs and floated on his back. “What about your cop friend? I thought he was making the earth move.”
Michael shook his head. “It was only the bed.”
The nurseryman laughed.
“Besides,” added Michael, “I’ve had it with falling in love with love. I’m a lot more cautious than I used to be.”
“Right.” Still on his back, Ned turned his head and smirked at him.
“I am,” Michael insisted. “You have to be cautious. Some guys have given up on love altogether, settling for a list of ten people they can have terrific sex with. You can think you’re falling in love, when r
eally you’re just auditioning for the list. Does that make any sense?”
“Did you make his Top Ten?” grinned Ned.
“I didn’t mean Bill specifically,” said Michael.
“Oh.”
“Anyway, I think I’m more of a Golden Oldie now. It doesn’t matter. I’m kind of a washout at buddy sex. Why am I telling you this, anyway? You’ve got your own list.”
Ned let his legs drop and sat up again. “It beats cruising the bars and fast-food sex. There’s a lot to be said for sex with friends, Michael.”
“Maybe. But a little romance would be nice. A little sentiment.”
“Fine. Go get it, Bubba.”
Michael smiled. “I’m trying, God knows.”
“Is that what you were doing at The Glory Holes last week?”
“In my own way. Hell, I don’t know. I run in cycles, I guess. Sometimes I think I’m the horniest guy alive … and I don’t need a damn thing in the world but some hot stranger tweaking my tits and call me “buddy” in the dark. I mean … some anonymous sex is so wonderful that it almost seems to prove the existence of God.”
Ned splashed water on him. “That’s because you’re on your knees, kiddo.”
Michael laughed. “But that’s just part of the time. As soon as the moon changes or something, I want to be married again. I want to sit in a bathrobe and watch Masterpiece Theatre with my boyfriend. I want to plan things—trips to the mountains, dinners in Chinatown, season tickets to whatever. I want order and dependability and somebody to bring me NyQuil when I feel like shit.
“And yet … I know that’ll pass too. At least, for a while. I know there’ll be times when I want to prowl again. I’m too much in love with adventure. I panic at the thought of being with only one person for the rest of my life. So what the hell is the answer?”
Ned shrugged. “You find somebody who understands all that. And loves you for it.”
Michael looked at his friend for a moment, then ducked beneath the surface of the water. When he reemerged, he said: “Why am I getting heavy in the Jacuzzi? It must be that damn wedding.”
“Mary Ann and Brian’s?”
Further Tales of the City Page 19
