Earth Angel (40 page)

“And out of them.” She grinned and we both laughed. It felt good to dirty-laugh over guys, as if that were a stabilizing theme
in life.

“Anyway,” Lt. Trump said, “you shouldn’t be alone. You could do worse than ride this out with Payton.”

I parked in the dirt beside a truck with gigantic wheels. The Softball game was already in progress. As I walked
around the grandstand, I could see one team running into their dugout while the other team took the field. The women wore
mostly jeans, either long or short. Each team wore a different color T-shirt with their team name on it. The team in the field
wore yellow T-shirts with black lettering that said B-GIRLS. The hitting team wore red T-shirts with white lettering that
said L
ADYHAWKE
. I wondered if they named themselves after that movie with Michelle Pfeiffer and Rutger Hauer. Maybe that had something to
do with the kidnapper. Or maybe I was going nuts. I had to be to have come here after Trump had warned me to stay away.

But she didn’t understand. I had to do something, do more than I had before. Tim had died because of my inaction. Christa
Vaughn had been kidnapped from her own bed and raped because of my inaction. I had to change that pattern. I don’t know what
I was looking for. Maybe another clue. Or maybe I thought I’d see the man and somehow recognize him, know him because people
like us, people who cause others so much pain, had to have something in common.

I watched the game for a few minutes, mostly scanning the crowd. Waiting for that tingle like the Highlander gets when he
knows there’s another immortal nearby. But nothing happened and I decided to head off to the next location. I bought a diet
Coke for the drive and started toward my car. I don’t know where he came from, but suddenly there was a man beside me with
something sharp poking me in the side.

“Dr. Gottlieb, I presume,” he said, chuckling.

Then he stabbed me.

I
SAT ON A HARD WOODEN CHAIR IN THE MIDDLE OF A WINDOWLESS
room. Gray metal industrial shelving braced three walls, and metal lockers were attached to the fourth wall. The shelves
were empty. The walls were a faded white over cinder blocks. It must have been a storage room of some kind.

He sat over by the door, writing at his gray metal desk. I could hear his pen scratching against the paper. A desk lamp shone
down on the desktop, but shaded the features of his face.

I lifted my wounded hand, where he’d stabbed me. He’d dressed it himself when we’d arrived here, swabbing the back of my hand
with iodine and slapping on a gauze pad the size of a diaper, which he then strapped on with long strips of adhesive tape.
The tape was a little too tight and my hand occasionally felt numb until I flexed my fingers a little. Whoever he was, he
wasn’t too handy with a first aid kit; my hand looked as if it were wearing a parachute.

The knife hadn’t gone in too deeply, but it had hurt. Still did. A kind of pulsing ache that reminded me how few times in
my life I’d ever been physically injured. Though I
had witnessed my share in others, rarely had I had to endure physical pain. Even as a child I didn’t fall or run into things
or sprain ankles or wrists. I never had a bump on the head, a black eye, a split lip. I played just as hard as the other kids,
but I assumed I was either more careful or just luckier. But this was different. A large, dried bloodstain stiffened the hem
of the sweatshirt which I’d used to stop the bleeding on the ride over. The bloodstain looked like Gary Shandling’s hair.

I wasn’t tied up, but when he’d brought me into this room and said, “Sit!” I’d gotten the distinct impression he didn’t want
me wandering around. So I’d sat.

“It’s hot in here,” I said. As I mentioned, there were no windows, but I saw a couple of vents in the ceiling. But the air
wasn’t being circulated. It was hot and heavy. Besides, I didn’t like this schoolgirl-waiting-in-the-principal’s-office routine.

He looked up from his writing and the light illuminated his face. He smiled and placed his finger to his lips, “Sssshhhh.”
And he continued writing.

He was about forty, longish black hair, and country-club handsome—like John Kennedy, Jr. He wore a white silk shirt, casual
but expensive, and inexpensive black jeans. He wore no socks, just maroon Top-Siders. He was tall—when he’d stabbed me I felt
his chin hovering over my head—and muscular. He’d practically carried me to his car with one arm. “The stab is to get your
attention,” he’d said. “And to warn you not to scream. I can do much worse. But you already know that.”

So I sat there and waited. He hadn’t blindfolded me when he brought me into his house with the strange room, so I could identify
it, but since I’d sat on the floor while he drove, I probably couldn’t find it. It was remote, no other houses nearby, just
lots of woods and a long, windy dirt road. With the other girls he’d kidnapped he had remained hidden; none could describe
him. But he’d taken
no such precaution with me. I had to assume that meant he was going to kill me. Oddly, I wasn’t scared of the dying part—I
just remembered back to the days when I worked in the morgue and imagined myself in one of the metal drawers. It seemed restful.
However, I was anxious about what he intended to do to me beforehand. I had never been raped or molested but I had a feeling
I wouldn’t handle myself well.

He stood up, tucked his shirt neatly into his pants, and strode over to me. He stretched out a hand toward me and I flinched.
“Lovely to meet you, Dr. Gottlieb. We didn’t have time for introductions before, not with all the cloak-and-dagger goings-on
earlier. Literally with the dagger, eh?” He grinned. “I’m Carson Ford.”

His hand hovered in front of my face so I shook it. “Delighted.”

“Well, now, sarcasm is probably a healthy reaction in such situations. Are you hungry, thirsty?”

“Yes.”

He nodded enthusiastically. “You’re the first to say yes. All the others said an emphatic no, as if by starving themselves
they were hurting me. Of course, you’re much older, more mature.” He started toward the door, which had a huge deadbolt lock.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key ring. “Oh, I almost forgot. Would you care to make a phone call first?”

“What?”

He pulled a tiny cellular phone from his back pocket. “I thought you might want to make a call.”

“A final call?”

He shrugged. “I’m not a prophet, Dr. Gottlieb. I can’t tell the future.”

“What if I call the police?”

“It’s your twenty cents, call whomever you wish. But, for argument’s sake, let’s say this is your final call. Your last communication
with the outside world. Who would
you want to speak to? The cops? Your parents? Your priest, or equivalent? You tell me.”

What could I tell the police? I wasn’t sure where I was. Look for woods. Dirt road. Big house. White Jeep Wrangler hidden
in the garage. His name is Carson Ford, if that’s his real name?

“Carson Ford is my real name,” he said. “In case you were wondering. But this house is owned under a different name. Wouldn’t
help them find you, I don’t think. But, hey, it’s worth a try.” He handed me the phone. “But they can’t trace a cellular call,
if you were hoping.”

I took the phone. I thought of my mother, lying in bed, talking back to the TV. My father driving home from the deli, smelling
of pickles and lox and coffee. I wanted to click my heels three times and be back there with them. Or Carol, my friend, whom
I had lied to. If I could have a little of her strength right now, maybe I could make it through whatever he had planned for
me. Or Jackie Frears, she’d have crushed his skull between her thighs and chewed through the door by now. I dialed the phone,
pressed
SEND
.

Carson Ford discreetly moved back to the desk to allow me some privacy. He resumed writing intently on his pad, his face hidden
in shadows.

“Hello?”

“It’s me again,” I said. “Hi.”

Pause. “Can I talk this time or are you going to hang up on me?”

“Sorry about that, David. PMS—post-media syndrome.”

He laughed, which was a good sign. But I wasn’t in the position to appreciate signs, since they suggested the future and I
didn’t really have much of a future. I thought about telling him I was being held and to alert Lt. Trump and mobilize the
fucking national guard if you have to, but there wasn’t much point. They wouldn’t find me in time and I didn’t want to waste
however much time Carson
Ford was giving me by explaining all that to David. I was going to die, I’d accepted that, and for once in my life I could
say anything I wanted. That felt pretty good.

“Are you mad at me?” I asked. “Wait, let me rephrase: How mad at me are you?”

“If I had to choose between you and Nancy Reagan to take to the prom, you’d just squeak by.”

“I fucked up, David. I set out to do some good and ruined everything I touched.”

“You can’t set out to do good. You do good because you are good.”

“What are you saying, I’m not good?”

“You’re great. You just can’t ram stuff down people’s throats. Besides, what’s ruined? Nothing is ruined. You changed things
a little, you didn’t exactly alter the courses of mighty rivers. What are we talking about, anyway? I don’t care about any
of that. I care about you.” He sighed with frustration. “Look, we’ve got to see each other, talk face to face.”

Carson Ford cleared his throat for my benefit. When I looked over he tapped his watch and shrugged.

“Okay, David. I’ve got a few things to do first with Lt. Trump, then I’ll come over.”

“Great. We’ll take turns running Josh over with the car.”

I laughed. “I saw Josh today. He came by to apologize for everything. He was quite sincere. I think I saw a tear in his eye.”

“How’d he find you? I’ve been looking for you all day.”

“Luck. It doesn’t matter.”

We were both silent.

“Maybe this is the part where somebody mentions the word
love
,” David said. “Who wants to go first?”

In my whole life I’d only said “I love you” to three men. The first time didn’t count because I was twelve and I said it in
a letter to David Cassidy, who responded with a signed glossy photograph (which I still had). The second time
was to Brad Connors in high school, who wept after I said it and immediately wanted to have sex and then get a tattoo of my
name on his arm (I talked him out of the tattoo). The third man was Tim. And now I wondered if I’d loved any of them, even
Tim. Had I loved Tim, the person, or had I loved the idea of Tim and me together—TimandSeason—and the prospect of a future
I could clearly predict?

“No volunteers?” David said. “All right, then I’ll start. Season—”

“I love you, David,” I said. “I don’t have a fancy way of saying it and I’m not even sure what the hell I mean by it. Is it
one of those infatuation things or am I just talking myself into something because of the way my life has been going lately.
I mean, do we really know each other enough to talk about such things?”

“You’re depressing me.”

“What I mean is love starts awkward and gangly and clumsy, like a baby. It makes mistakes, it can be forgiven.” I stopped
talking and took a deep breath. “All I know is that for most of the time since I first met you I wanted to be with you more
than I wanted to be anywhere else.”

“Good, because when you come over tonight, be prepared to stay. For good.”

Carson Ford stood up and walked toward me. He held out his hand for the phone. David was telling me how much he loved me,
when he first realized it, how it was deeper than anything he’d ever felt before. Somewhere in the middle of it I said, “Gotta
go, bye,” and pressed
END
just as Carson Ford snatched the phone from my hand. I didn’t want him to hear anything David was saying to me. That was
mine.

“Don’t abuse a privilege,” he said, but without anger. “You said you were hungry and thirsty, so I’ll go whip something up
for you. That’ll give you a chance to poke around, try to find some way of escaping. I hope it’s something
fiendishly clever. I’d expect nothing less of you, Doctor.” He unlocked the door and left. I heard a metallic clink on the
other side of the door, the sound of a deadbolt sliding into place. I tried the door anyway, but it was locked.

I did just what he said I’d do. I looked around for some way out. I knocked my knuckles against the walls but they were solid
cinder blocks, just as I’d thought. I stamped on the floor, which was carpeted and didn’t reveal much. I opened the lockers
but they were empty. I tried to think of a weapon to attack him with when he returned. Carpet tacks? The lamp on the desk?
Stab him with a pen? I walked over to the desk. There were no letter openers or staplers or heavy paperweights. Just a lamp,
his tablet, a pen. And a glass of—I sniffed—iced tea. I could break the glass, wrap my underpants around one end, and use
it as a dagger. Those things worked in the movies, but Carson Ford was a large, well-muscled man. I might hurt him, but odds
were slim that I’d disable him. On the other hand, what did I have to lose that I wasn’t already going to lose?

I looked at his tablet. It was one of those music tablets with staff lines printed. It was covered with music notations, notes
with those little flags and lines and clefs. Each mark was swift and bold as if he were hurrying to keep up with whatever
was playing in his head. I flipped down the other sheets of paper on the tablet. More of the same. Ten pages of music.

I opened the top drawer, hoping for scissors. It was empty. Not even a paper clip I might straighten and hide in my mouth
to later clench between my teeth and stab him in the eye when he got close enough. Had I seen that in a movie or was that
my own twisted invention?

I opened the other drawers. One was filled with television scripts. Each had the show’s name in big letters on the front page,
with “Carson Ford” in smaller, modest
letters underneath. I pulled them out:
Roseanne, Wings, Married… With Children, Frazier, Seinfeld
. I opened the
Seinfeld
and started reading: