“Skeeto followed her. She admitted…baby is mine.”
The baby was his. Narziss paused a moment and, perhaps not coincidentally, pressed the morphine button several times.
Casey tried a different tack. “You know I’m writing about this for Sports Scene magazine. That’s a given. But what I include is still up for debate.”
The athlete looked the reporter in the eyes. “I never…paid Skeeto…to hurt Elena.”
“Did you ask him to do it as part of his employment duties?” Casey said.
“No.”
“Did you drop hints to that effect?” Nell said.
“No, damn it. I cared about her. Skeeto was only going to talk sense into her. He followed her to the church. But he never got the chance—Hailangelo took her!”
Nell said, “You can make him pay.”
Casey said, “Where did he take my sister?”
The female nurse returned. “Can I help you?”
Narziss said, “I want them to leave.”
The nurse echoed, “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you two to leave now.”
“You know him,” Nell said to Narziss, composed. “Think. Where might he take her?”
The nurse grew impatient. “I’ll call security.”
“Todd, please,” Casey said.
The nurse left.
Narziss blinked. “Studio.”
“You mean the store?” Casey said.
Narziss nodded.
Nell shook her head. “We already checked there. Where else?”
Narziss cleared his throat, blinked, and winced. “Deer stand.”
Casey paced. “That narrows it down to all of wooded Wisconsin.”
“Permanent…stand in oak tree,” Narziss said. “He has a blind.”
Casey squinted and frowned. “A what?”
Narziss pressed the button for more morphine.
“A blind,” Nell explained, “is camouflage so the deer can’t see your pasty tuckus.” She glanced at Narziss. “Where is it?”
“Highway 32…County Road B…railroad tracks…fifty yards north.”
Casey wrote it down on his hand, his mind racing. Did Hailangelo have Leila up in some tree like an owl with its field mouse? He sprinted out the door with Nell on his heels. As they ran down the hallway, she took out her phone and dialed.
“Who are you calling?”
“My boss,” Nell said.
Somebody answered and Nell began reporting to the man on the other end that they were headed for the deer stand. “Can you send a team there?”
A hospital security guard approached. Nell showed her badge and he backed away.
“Everything okay?” Casey said.
“Yes,” Nell said, “the Chicago bureau chief is communicating with his counterpart in Milwaukee, who has agents in the area. They’re sending a chopper from Milwaukee and trying to trace Leila’s cell phone.”
“Nice. She’s going to be okay, right?”
Nell glanced at him but said nothing.
They arrived at the Z4 and climbed in. Nausea clung to his stomach like gum to the bottom of a shoe—he tried pulling it free, but the tension stretched and stuck and he couldn’t scrape it off. He searched for something useful to occupy his mind. “So, if Narziss didn’t pay Hailangelo to kill Elena, what was it for?”
“Hailangelo did the statue of Narziss and they both knew Elena, who sold drugs.”
The truth dawned on him. “They partied together.”
Nell slowed the car down at a red light, then sped through the intersection.
Casey’s mind was racing too. “Nell, are you a criminal profiler?”
“I’m an FBI field agent.”
“You’d like to be working in Quantico?”
“Yes, my dream has been to make the Behavioral Sciences Unit. But there aren’t a lot of openings.”
Casey suddenly wanted her to succeed more than anything he could think of, to feel the euphoria that comes with it. He hoped that, when this was all over, he could be a part of that, and that his future would involve spending more time with his sister too.
36
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 26
Hailangelo drove his Chevelle down Highway 33. He whisked the car past farmland, enjoying the symmetry of the agricultural rows and the perspective of them. Cows and horses grazed near faded red barns ready to topple at a moment’s notice. Phallic silos and cylindrical hay bales challenged him to maintain his focus—his admiration for Leila’s long blue hair, the black eyeliner around her eyes.
He glanced at her in the passenger seat and smiled. “Can you feel the horsepower?” he said.
“Yeah, it has giddy-up. It’s nice to get away from the everyday monotony, you know? My mother is always so concerned about success, money, safety, blah-blah-blah.”
“I’m so excited you’re posing for my next statue.”
“Me too! And for an exhibit in Manhattan.” Leila twirled a strand of hair with her finger and giggled.
He had never heard her laugh. “Well, I’d have asked you long ago had I seen you earlier.”
Leila blushed.
“You weren’t working the first few times I patronized Fixate Factory. The place seemed so…empty without you.”
Leila surveyed the country landscape. “Where exactly is your studio?”
He ignored the question, continuing his stream of thought. “Your blue hair is like a stage curtain, your personality and uniqueness bursting out from behind it like rays of light, transcending the stage, unable to be contained.”
“Nobody has ever said something like that to me before.”
That was the idea. “What do you think of your mother?”
“My mother?”
“Yes. Do you try to be like her—or the opposite of her?”
She said nothing. As they drove farther and farther out of town, Leila grabbed the back of her neck. “Are we close yet?”
“Yes, another five minutes or so. It’s out here so I can have peace and quiet while I work. Even a slight jerk of the hand can ruin a statue. I require complete serenity.” He smiled at her, and seemed genuine. It seemed to calm her anxiety.
“I know we met a few months ago,” Hailangelo said. “But I feel like I’ve known you all my life.”
“Me too,” she said. “I’ve admired your sculptures since I was a girl. Anyway, I find it apropos we met at Fixate Factory, the most laid-back scene I know.”
He didn’t go to Fixate to relax. He went there to become energized, pent up. “I do enjoy the ambiance.”
“It is peaceful out here,” she said, somewhat grudgingly.
“Exactly. And when I have such exquisite material with which to work, I get lost in the process. I can’t allow it to go to waste because of some intrusion. Your statue will be a Greek goddess.”
She demurred. “I’ve never seen a blue-haired goddess before.”
“True art is about taking risks. Pushing boundaries. But more than anything, of course, it’s about undeniable beauty.” He slowed the Chevelle and turned right off the highway onto a gravel road about twenty yards long. It ended at a patch of snow-covered grass leading up to a frozen cornfield. He parked the Chevelle. Outside, dusk set. There were no streetlights. He smiled at Leila. “We’re here.”
She gripped the armrests, scanned the endless fields, and snickered. “We’re…where?”
He pointed across the field. “There. See that oak tree?”
“Uh, yeah.” The thick, mature trunk protruded about eight feet out of the ground before sprouting its first branch. The limbs were bare, but she could tell that, when fully leaved, the branches formed a half-circle. “Is that a tree house?”
He frowned. “It’s my studio.”
“Oh. Right.” She winced. “Sorry.”
His mind raced, as if flipping through TV channels with no time to spare. He tapped his temple as if it were the remote. “It’s where I like to do the preliminary work. I have another studio in my office back at the art shop
.”
“You don’t park next to this…studio?”
“I don’t want to deal with cars driving up and disturbing me, especially when they occur right as inspiration strikes. We’ll walk.” He opened his door and stepped out of the car. “And inspiration is most definitely striking now. Come.”
Leila hesitated. She rummaged a hand in her purse. Hailangelo saw her through the car window, prepared for her to pull the gun she had used on her rapist. Instead, she extracted her cell phone, glanced at it, and realized it had no reception.
“Coming?” He smiled, his teeth so white they nearly glowed in the dusk.
She got out of the car, closed the door, and stood there. “How do you get your statues down?”
“By rope.” His face froze like his statues.
She didn’t budge, didn’t utter a word, like a squirrel when a twig snaps behind it. Hailangelo’s heart rate didn’t change a bit. But he figured hers did. He laughed. “I’m kidding. I have a hydraulic lift I use to lower them. It runs on a gas cylinder.” He pointed at it in the distance. “See? It’s right there, partially obscured by the tree trunk.”
“Oh, yes, I see.”
He waved for her to follow. She did, and they walked together, side by side. “It’s okay, I know why you’re nervous.”
“Why?”
“I know about what happened to you when you were fifteen.”
She half-laughed, then frowned. “I’m sorry…”
“The rape. Don’t worry—I don’t judge.”
“You…you know about that?”
He raised his palms as they walked. “Yes, but I don’t look at you any differently.”
“How? How do you know that?”
“Well, to be honest, I saw you crossing Langdon Street in Madison.”
She recoiled and halted. “You did?”
“I was having a beer in the Rathskeller, saw you leave with your friend, and was going to catch up with you and say hello. It’s a small world, seeing you there.”
Leila squinted. “But, I didn’t see you.”
“Yes, I know. As I drew nearer, I saw you in the crosswalk, and you broke down, and the bus nearly ran you over. I was horrified. You cried, but your friend helped you.”
Leila looked down. “I…I’m sorry you had to see that.”
“Tut-tut. Don’t be silly.”
“I was sort of in shock.”
“I overheard you telling your friend about that man. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have eavesdropped on you—it’s just that I was concerned.”
Leila reached up and massaged her neck. “This is so embarrassing.”
“There’s nothing to be ashamed about. It seemed like you were in great hands with your friend.”
“Amelia. Yeah, she’s fabulous.”
“Is she…just a friend?”
Leila’s already fair complexion went completely pale. “What do you mean?”
“Do you feel a butterfly fluttering off the walls of your heart when you’re with her?”
Leila shuddered. “She’s my best friend. She helped me through the rape. I owe her my life.”
Now they were getting somewhere. “You would…give yourself to her?”
Leila hugged herself and began walking toward the tree. “It’s cold out here.”
Hailangelo chuckled and followed. “My apologies. I’ve been a horrid host. Your pedestal in Manhattan awaits.”
“I doubt that.”
“What’s to doubt? I have the gallery, the skills, the brand, the contacts.”
She said nothing.
“What did Amelia teach you?”
“She taught me to conjure thirty seconds of courage, get through the anxiety, and settle in a comfort zone.”
How he adored Amelia at that moment, as a spider might appreciate a human who swatted at a fly, succeeding only at hastening the insect’s capture in the webbed quagmire. “I know it looks like a treehouse or deer stand from here. But inside it’s carpeted, furnished, and the generator feeds a space heater, so it’ll warm up quickly. I’ll pour us some spirits.”
“Great, I could use some liquid courage.”
Hailangelo felt more and more confident in her compliance with every step. It’s not like she had anywhere else to be. They neared the tree, now about twenty yards away. “Have you always loved to paint?”
She glanced at him in surprise.
He winked. “I saw the paintings on your wall. It just seemed so…you.”
She folded her lower lip into her mouth and bit down on it, flattered.
“You’re talented,” he said.
She smiled and looked down. “Thank you. You’re too kind.”
“No, I mean it. Ever consider moving to NYC?”
“New York? Me?”
“I could introduce you to friends there, in the art scene.”
“I don’t think my mother would approve of a profession without built-in health insurance.”
“You can’t let your mother run your life. Besides, after your statue, you may become an in-demand model.” They arrived at the base of the tree. His flashlight extinguished.
“Whoops,” Leila laughed nervously. “Paul Revere, your torch is out.”
The light flicked back on as Hailangelo pounced, striking her with the flashlight, first on the neck—temporarily shorting her air supply. He kicked her in the stomach and she doubled over.
If only he hadn’t run out of hydrocyanic acid. But fortunately, he had more in the deer stand.
Hailangelo slammed the flashlight against the back of her head. She fell into a heap, dazed but not yet unconscious. Grabbing her, he knelt down and lifted her onto his right shoulder. “Come now, Millie,” he said, grinning, “we have a lot of work to do to get you ready for the grand unveiling.”
37
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 26
As they drove toward the deer stand, Nell’s cell phone rang. She answered and listened for a few moments, then ended the call.
Casey said, “What is it?”
“They’ve tracked Hailangelo’s car.”
“The deer stand?”
“Yep. Right where Narziss said it was. Once you leaned on him a little.”
Hailangelo stepped onto the hydraulic lift, his muse draped over his shoulder like a burp cloth, and flipped the lever to turn it on. He moved a joystick to raise the machine into the air. It buzzed as they ascended. The snowy cornfield grew smaller as they reached the top of the tree.
She made fists and pounded on his kidneys.
The buzzing stopped and he hoisted her onto the deer stand.
She rolled onto her back while he entered the stand from the hydraulic lift. She tried to run away from him, but he jumped up and kicked her in the side. She froze in pain.
He surmised that panic had set in, that Leila would harken back to some pithy statement Amelia had made about felons who lusted for power over women.
She slid back along the floor to the corner and sat there.
“This is cause for a celebration.” Hailangelo smiled. “I’ve got a bottle of 1977 Cognac worth two hundred dollars.” He started the generator in the stand and turned on the space heater. He walked to an old trunk straight out of a pirate tale, opened the lid and extracted the bottle and two champagne glasses.
Leila tried not to blink so she could watch him closely to make sure he put nothing in her drink.
He poured the amber liquid into a glass and held it out to her. “A glass of spirits, Millie?”
She didn’t move—instead, she glanced around the interior of the deer stand. He had painted the walls with a hyperrealist mural depicting six Supreme Court judges in black robes gazing at them through binoculars.
“You like the décor?” He grinned at her, wide-eyed. It heightened his sense of being scrutinized, assessed. He adored the audience.
She raised her chin defiantly. “I’m not Millie.”
He chortled. “Oh yes, you are.”
“Why do you call me that?”
/> “Millie was the cousin of artist Edvard Munch, creator of the painting The Voice, which was inspired by his affair with her. You are special. You remind me of her.”
Leila folded her legs to her chest and hugged them. “How am I special if I remind you of someone else?”
“Because you’re the only one who ever has. Come now, drink up.”
Leila didn’t.
“Drink!” he demanded angrily.
She hustled to her feet, took the glass, and drank, expecting bitterness. It was sweet.
Hailangelo beamed. “You like it, right? Tell me you do.”
“It’s fine,” she mumbled.
“You’re worthy of the bottle and the wait.” He went to a stainless steel cooler and extracted an ice pack. “Here, I know it’s frigid, but let’s put this on your neck.” He applied it to her bruise. She winced and scanned the room.
“If you’re looking for your phone,” Hailangelo said, “I’ve crushed the SIM card so we won’t be interrupted by any calls from telemarketers. ‘Press one if you’re a serial killer. Press two if you’re a victim.’” He winked at her. “Stick with me, kid, and you’ll go far. Just think—all your friends will be able to visit you in Manhattan.”
He expected Leila to break for the lift, but she didn’t. She simply stared at her shoes, dejected.
He continued in the earnest tone of Andy Griffith. “I’m sorry I was so forward about it. I shouldn’t have struck you. It’s just—” He chuckled innocently. “I didn’t want you to get scared, is all…and run off screaming, only to miss the opportunity of a lifetime.”
She held the ice pack out to him. “It’s too cold.”
He applied it again with a sympathetic expression. “Ssh-ssh…we don’t want your contusion to leave a permanent mark. They’re really difficult to cover up.’”
She broke down. “I…can’t go through it again. Please.”
“Go through what, Millie? We’re only making a statue that looks like you.”
“Please, please don’t rape me.”
Hailangelo looked hurt.
“My dear cousin, I’d only dream of it.”
38
WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 26
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