by Polly Iyer
Chapter Eighteen
Carried Away
“Even though the Lieutenant ordered me to stay by your side, Ms. Racine, I don’t want to distract your act. I’ll wait outside the door.”
“Oh, come on, Detective Harris,” Diana said. “The kids won’t be distracted. They love company, any company. But make sure you keep your gun inside your jacket. We don’t want to scare them any more than they are already.”
She tugged at his arm, and like so many times before in her life, a split second aura of darkness shrouded her. She pulled her hand away from the detective, but not before he reacted to the stunned look on her face.
“What’s the matter, Ms. Racine? You look, I don’t know, kinda sick.”
Diana blinked to shake the feeling, swallowed hard, and took a few deep breaths. “No, nothing, I’m fine. Just a little dizzy spell.”
“You sure you’re okay?” Blanche asked. “You haven’t eaten much lately.”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
“Sure she’s fine,” Galen said. “Look at her. Right as rain. Let’s go. The kids’re waitin’.”
Diana squared her shoulders and bounced into the room with her usual greeting. “Hey, kids, how’re you doing?” A cacophony of enthusiastic responses greeted her.
She wore a white shirt with half-dollar size black polka dots, black slacks, and a red necktie, her only concession to color, and only when entertaining children. She had pulled her tousled mane into a pony tail, its coiled tendrils bouncing as she worked the room like a stand-up comic, chatting with each excited child, joking about broken arms or legs, and reminding them to take care when sky diving or snowboarding. Highly attuned instincts cautioned her to engage the more seriously ill with encouraging words and positive predictions.
“Okay, gang, gather round.” With the help of nurses and aides, she orchestrated the group to encircle the bedridden ones along the wall. She knew the importance of including everyone in the fun and made a special effort to draw out the quiet and introverted children. “Let’s see, who shall I start with?”
“Me, me, me,” the chorus chimed.
“Now each of you will get a turn to be my subject, so be a patient patient. I’ll start over here and go around the room in order. You’ll be first.” She pointed to a little boy in bed whose right leg was encased in a serious looking cast suspended a foot in the air. “Then I’ll go to you, and you, all the way around till I finish with…you.” She arranged the order to wrap up the morning with a sullen, withdrawn girl wearing a New Orleans Saints cap and sitting in a wheelchair with an IV drip. Getting close to her, Diana whispered, “I always save the best for last.” The girl managed a smile, basking in the special attention.
“Okay, Mr. Broken Leg, what’s your name?”
“Jackie Biggs,” he said. “My leg’s broken in three places.”
“Ouch! That must have hurt.”
“I didn’t cry though,” the boy said. “Crying’s for babies.”
Diana took his hand. “My, my, look at all the signatures on your cast.”
“There’s my name,” one yelled. “See what I wrote?” Someone else pointed to the plaster shell. Others with casts showed off similar adornments.
“You’re a daredevil, aren’t you?” Diana asked, signing the cast with a flourish and a daisy exclamation point. “And your mom tells you to be careful, doesn’t she?”
Jackie Biggs, eyes as big as saucers, nodded at each of Diana’s disclosures, while the other children sat riveted as if they were listening to a scary story around a campfire.
As she moved from Jackie Biggs to Jennifer to Joey and to the other seven children, Diana, never one to ignore any signs that might help impress her public, noticed the clues and tokens each child clung to as their personal security blankets. She listened to what they said and how they said it, watched their expressions and reactions as she spoke to them, coaxing more information than they knowingly offered. They told her much of what she needed to know, but not everything. Some things she knew as a mother knows her own child. She didn’t know how she knew; she just did.
Over the years, ominous signs emanated from one child or another, and she struggled to conceal the emotions they generated. She ached to take those children in her arms and comfort them but couldn’t allow the selfish luxury. So it was with the last little girl. Diana felt the energy draining out of this child as if it were draining out of her. During these dreaded moments, she tried to offer hope and make them smile. She succeeded this day.
“And what’s your name?”
“Melissa.”
“What a pretty name. Much prettier than Diana.”
Melissa grinned. “Diana is a pretty name too. You’re pretty.”
“I am? Wow, that’s nice to hear.
”My mommy and daddy are coming to visit later, but I can’t go home yet.”
“You will, soon. I know they miss you. You like visitors, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And sometimes when you sleep, someone else visits, huh? Someone special.”
Melissa looked at her wide-eyed. “Yes. How did you know?”
“I know these things. And I know who it is. Your grandmother.”
“Are you like a witch?”
“Yeah, are you?” the kids asked.
Diana laughed. She noticed all the kids were riveted to the conversation. “No, I’m not a witch. Don’t you all believe in magic?” This time the answers ranged from yes to no to I don’t know. “What about you, Melissa?”
“Um, I don’t know. Are you magic?”
“Hmm, sometimes. Tell us about your grandmother.”
“She says I’m going to see her soon.”
“How do you feel about that?”
“I told her I knew I would. Is that magic, Miss Diana?”
Diana took hold of the little girl’s hands and squeezed. “Yes, Melissa. That’s magic.”
Diana stopped the questions, hoping she hadn’t gone too far.
All the children exchanged glances. Diana, surprised they’d remained attentive for two hours, decided not to push her luck by staying longer and gathered her belongings. “Any questions before I go?”
“How do you do that?” a boy in a wheelchair asked. “How can you tell us things?”
“Is it really magic?” another asked.
“Uh-huh. Magic happens when I touch you. Then you talk to me. Not with words but with feelings, and those feelings tell me about you. Sometimes you tell me what you’ve done and other times what you think. I never know which when we start. I’m not always right, because like everyone in this room, I’m not perfect.”
“Well, you were right about me,” he said.
“Yeah, me too,” the chorus chimed again.
“I’m glad. Now, I want all of you to get well and go home, and I want you daredevils with broken bones to be careful. Don’t fly jet planes or ski down the highest mountains, okay?”
“Okay!” they said in a loud and clear response.
Diana waved goodbye and, with her entourage preceding her, left the hospital ward en route to the parking garage.
“You did good in there, Ms. Racine,” Harris said. “I was real impressed.”
“The name’s Diana, and thank you, B. D. That’s nice of you to say.”
“She’s great, ain’t she?” Galen said, beaming, as he and Blanche led the way. “Those kids lapped it up. They loved her.”
“They sure did.” Harris pondered a while before he spoke. “That little girl on the IV, you think she’s gonna die?”
“We’re all going to die; just a matter of when.”
“You know what I mean. Is she gonna die soon?”
Diana’s mouth tightened, and she looked away. “Unless I’m wrong, the answer is yes.”
“But you don’t think you’re wrong, do you?”
She looked him in the eyes, meeting his concern with her own. “No, I don’t.”
The prediction cast a pall over the conversat
ion as they walked to the parking garage and took the elevator up one floor to find their unmarked police car wedged between two SUVs.
Diana didn’t hear a thing until the groan and the thud sounded behind her. She turned around and saw B. D. Harris, last in the procession, lying on the ground with a knife between his shoulder blades and Galen taking a wallop to the jaw from a skulking shadow that sent him barreling across the trunk of a car. Now she knew why Harris’s touch generated such an ominous sensation. Oh, why didn’t I pay attention?
Before she could scream, the figure, face covered by a ski cap, pressed a foul-smelling cloth over her face. Holding her breath for as long as she could, she kicked and scratched with all the power she could muster until her muscles grew heavy, and she fell limply to the ground.
Mute.
Helpless.
Unable to do a damn thing. Not even scream.
As everything faded to black, she heard Cyrano’s voice say to her mother, “Be quiet, or I will kill you.”
Chapter Nineteen
A Mental Barricade
In a semi-conscious state, Diana saw the masked man return. He picked her up as if she were weightless and carried her to his car, laying her across the backseat. She tried to fight him, but she couldn’t seem to marshal the strength. He duct-taped her hands, feet, and mouth, and covered her with a blanket. As he backed out and drove off, a gunshot sounded from behind.
“Well, what do you know?” he said. “The cop isn’t dead. I’m losing my touch.”
That voice. She’d know it anywhere. Tears filled her eyes and trickled onto her cheeks. A bullet pinged off something, and the car accelerated down the circular lot and out onto the street. She was groggy but awake. After a while, the car pulled to the right, stopped, and he drew back the blanket. He stayed far enough out of her line of sight, but she heard every word.
“Bet you didn’t see this coming, did you?”
Then he put the acrid-smelling cloth over her face again and kept it there. As everything faded to black, she thought of the three people left behind on the garage floor. I need time to think. Time to think. Time to…
She woke, still groggy, when the car stopped. All she could see was the diffused plaid of the blanket and smell its musty odor. The front door opened, then the back, and Diana felt herself being lifted out of the car. Fear pierced every molecule of her body. She’d been afraid before, many times. But she knew what was happening. Now she knew nothing. What did he have in store for her?
She envisioned B. D. Harris sprawled face down on the garage floor, blood oozing from the knife wound in his back. Her stomach roiled at the thought that something even worse had happened to Galen and Blanche. Adding to the confusion, Diana gleaned not one iota of sensory insight into the person who now carried her in his arms. Of all the times for her telepathic gifts to abandon her, leaving nothing in their place but overwhelming terror.
The tape securing her hands and feet cut deeper into her every time she moved. He juggled her easily as he first opened a rusty-sounding outside door, then another, and entered a cool, damp interior that smelled of mold and mildew.
He laid her down on a creaky bed and removed the blanket. She wanted to act as if she were still under the anesthetic, but the light streaming in the window caused her to scrunch her eyes. So much for my first performance. Adjusting, she turned to inspect her abductor. Confused from the morning’s rogues’ gallery, all at least twenty years old, she couldn’t put a name to the face, but he was definitely one of them. She assumed the man who had lured two women into hasty sexual situations would be attractive, but she was unprepared for the visage before her.
Even if she weren’t bound, the sheer impact of his beauty would have immobilized her. Of course he was tall—she knew that—but his face, chiseled into hard angles, complemented the seductive voice, until now his defining characteristic. Tanned, with sun-bleached hair curling around his neck, and a lean muscular body, he wore a stonewashed gray T-shirt tucked into faded jeans resting low on his hips. The bluest eyes she’d ever seen scanned the length of her body as if she were an exotic specimen under a microscope. He leaned forward. She recoiled, and a smug smile hinted his amusement at her reaction. Then he yanked the tape from her mouth with a wrenching flick of his wrist, forcing a tiny gasp through her lips. Diana heard the dull thud of her rapidly-beating heart.
Why am I getting no vibes from this man? No insights into who he is or what he wants? She decided to say nothing and let him stare.
“I’m going to remove the tape from your wrists and ankles, then fasten you to the bed.” She answered with silence. “It wouldn’t be wise to kick at me, and if you think that when I leave, you can move this flimsy cot to the window to call for help, forget it. I’ve bolted it to the floor. Besides, no one could hear you anyway, so scream away. All you’ll do is damage your vocal cords.”
She had a thousand questions, but this was his game, and until she knew how to play, she’d keep quiet. She’d determined one thing for sure: fear turned him on. Though scared out of her mind, she willed herself calm, at least on the outside.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” His silky voice caressed his words. He leaned in closer. “I’ve seen you on stage and pictured in the newspapers, but never this close, of course. That heavy stage makeup doesn’t do you justice.” He ran his fingers across her face. “Large, dark eyes; perfect nose.” Then he traced a path down her chin and neck to her chest and over her breasts to the flat expanse of stomach. “You’re so small, almost child-like, except for the perfectly-formed woman’s body.”
Diana suppressed the cringe his touch generated. What was he planning? Damn. Why didn’t he release some kind of psychic energy? It was as if he’d erected a sensory barrier.
He tore the tape from her wrists and handcuffed them to the iron bedpost. Then both ankles. She lay spread-eagle on the cot, secured and vulnerable, like some primitive sacrifice at the altar of an expectant god.
Should she scream? Maybe by some freak stroke of luck someone might hear her cries for help. No, she didn’t want to incur his wrath until he explained, either verbally or by allowing her insight, why he kidnapped her. She’d remain mute but alert.
He planted himself on the edge of the bed, put his hand on her arm and closed his eyes. Then Diana understood. She couldn’t penetrate his mind because he held her at bay in a psychic duel for dominance. This was the contest, or part of it.
“Don’t you want to know why you’re here?”
She must be a worthy opponent, hold back her fear. “You can’t read me, can you?” she asked in a voice more bold than she felt. “You’re trying, but you can’t.”
He laughed, a full-throated laugh that at any other time would have been infectious, but now sounded arrogant. “And you can’t read me either. We have a standoff. Now what do we do?”
“I don’t know. I’m here against my will, remember? The ball is in your court.” She marveled at her outward composure and wondered if she gave off vibes of weakness. She couldn’t do that. Anxious to bombard him with questions, she forced only one. “Did you kill my parents?”
“No.” He rose and walked to the door. “But I’m not sure about the cop.” His callousness about taking a life sent a spiraling tremor down her back. He closed the door behind him.
Gathering her wits, she scanned the small room, primitive in its construction and furnishings. Its musty coolness chilled her, despite the warm weather outside. She pulled on the restraints, but they were secure. Whatever anesthetic he used caused a throbbing headache and a mouth as dry as a cat’s tongue.
She thought about B. D. Harris, thought about the two dead women. This man’s obsession with her caused the gruesome chain of events. With mug shots and rap sheets flashing through her mind like frames of a film in slow motion, she struggled to fit the puzzle pieces together, until the drug’s residual effects knocked her out again.
A strange smell brought her out of a nightmarish hallucination of swirlin
g pink scarves and underwater floating bodies. Sweat beaded her face, and when she went to wipe the dampness away she couldn’t move her hands, bringing her back to the cabin and the man standing over her with a steaming bowl of some noxious-smelling fare.
“Are you hungry?” His gaze traced over her body and paused on her breasts.
“Yes.” She moved, trying to shift his fascination from her chest.
Putting the plate down on the bedside table, he unlocked both the ankle and wrist cuffs and helped her sit up. He refastened her wrists so they weren’t so spread apart.
“How am I going to eat with my hands cuffed?”
“I’ll feed you.”
“Why, do you think I’ll overpower you and run away? I may be a little unorthodox, but I’m not crazy. Besides, looking at you and looking at me, I wouldn’t give myself much of a chance, would you?”
He pulled a rickety wooden chair close to the bed and took the dish from the table. “I hope you like chili.”
“My favorite.” Her tone implied otherwise, but he didn’t seem to notice. His voice. His flawless looks and surface charm. Those piercing blue eyes. How easily those women must have followed him to their deaths. He had other plans for her or she’d be dead. What were they?
His smile boasted that he’d won the first round. She didn’t flinch. Didn’t take her eyes off him, knowing the test of wills had begun.
She’d met people before who, on first impression, struck her as handsome or beautiful, but as their character shone through, her view changed, and they became a reflection of their arrogance or shallowness or evil. No doubt, this man would turn ugly in her eyes very soon.
He brought the spoon to her mouth. She didn’t like chili, even the homemade variety, and this came straight from a can. But her stomach growled from hunger, her energy’s meter approaching empty. Not that she required much to lie trussed up like an animal ready for slaughter. Breakfast had been her last meal—a cup of coffee and slice of whole grain toast. She saw no advantage in complaining about chili. She ate as he fed her spoon after spoon, knowing that to survive whatever he planned she must nourish her strength. She didn’t have to worry yet. If killing her were his objective, she’d be dead.
