Escape the Night (36 page)

Dewey
…

He braked abruptly.

Noelle seemed startled. “You okay?”

“Fine.” He touched her hand. “Just daydreaming.”

The two men glanced at the tire tracks that Carey's car had left, and then re-entered the cabin.

Within five minutes, they had removed the tapes from beneath the dinner table and under the bed.

Returning to their car, they began the long drive to Manhattan, to meet the ugly man.

Englehardt opened the textbook Martin had left for him, and began reading:

“What I propose,” Pogostin wrote in his preface, “is that psychotherapy through hypnosis will in time supplant the more laborious analytic method of uncovering, and then healing, repressed traumatic memory.”

In the background, from the tape spinning on his desk, Peter Carey said, “I'm talking to my father—something like, ‘It's too dark down there for elephants, Daddy.'”

Englehardt turned the page.

It was past nine when Peter and Noelle drove up to the Aristocrat. Peter smiled; a shade ruefully, she thought. “You
can
stay the night, can't you?”

Resting her chin on one hand, she feigned deep thought. “That's a serious commitment. But then this is a meaningful relationship.”

“Look, I'm thinking about hypnosis, all right?”

She turned, amusement gone. “Don't act picked on, Peter—it's not like you.”

He shook his head. “It's been on my mind. Coming back was like facing it again.”

“I was joking—to bring the hypnosis up then was like accusing me of blackmail. I'm not some emotional terrorist …”

“It wasn't meant …”

“Of course I'll stay. You knew that.”

“Yeah, I did.” He leaned back, exhaling. “There has to be an end to it, doesn't there.”

“For
your
sake, yes.” Noelle moved closer. “Look, Peter, whatever it is, I can take care of myself. I'm not pulling out on you, and I'm not going anywhere—except maybe to your place, for the night.”

Carey looked from her to the Aristocrat, and then nodded. “I guess we'd better go there, then.”

They both got out.

Emerging, the doorman called, “Evening Miss Ciano, Mr. Carey—nice to have you back.”

Carey stopped by the trunk, watching him. The doorman's eyes darted away; quickly, he smiled at Noelle.

“I'll move this in a minute,” Carey told him.

The doorman's smile faded. Still facing Noelle, he answered Carey, “I'll have someone move it for you,” and then ducked back inside.

Peter Carey stared after him.

Tired, Englehardt listened to the latest tapes; without comment, Martin had laid them on the corner of his desk, and left.

Soft with lovemaking, frightened for her, Carey told Noelle, “Ever since I met you, I've been afraid that you would die …”

Carey had not decided.

For silent moments, Englehardt listened, deciding when to murder Peter Carey. All that was needed was a few more days.

Englehardt picked up the telephone and called Barth. “It's time,” he told him softly, “for you to see what it is I've done for you.”

“Problem?”

Peter and Noelle had been drinking Irish coffee in the kitchen, winding down and talking about everything and nothing, when he fell silent. Now he answered, “I just keep waiting for Barth to reappear. Phil's been watching me like a sentinel, still pushing a sale, but there's been not one word from Barth. It's eerie.”

“Don't think too hard about it—you might materialize him.” As a distraction, she stole the rest of Peter's whipped cream.

“Jesus, Ciano, you've
had
yours.”

She licked her lips. “Breakfast,” she explained blithely. “My Doug Sutcliffe session's first thing in the morning. But don't worry—I'll run off the whipped cream after that.”

Peter stirred his coffee. “Just as long as you don't run off with Sutcliffe.”

“I'll try and restrain myself.” She leaned back, as if viewing him from another angle. “Why is it,” she asked, “that you never mention your mother?”

“What brought that to mind?”

“Just that she's your first female prototype. I mean, you know all about my father.”

“There's not much I can tell you.” Peter's face clouded; Noelle felt sorry for her question. “Let's just say that I didn't turn out to be what she'd wanted from life.” He shrugged. “I've never noticed that kids do much for anyone's marriage—which gets us back to our discussion at the ski lodge.”

Shaking her head, Noelle said quietly, “It doesn't have to.”

She put down her coffee. They rose from the table, together.

Barth turned from the window. “How did you accomplish this?” he demanded.

Englehardt hesitated; his services appeared more wondrous when unexplained. “Our usual procedures.”

“Don't condescend to me.” Barth glared at him, his acquired diction growing more pronounced. “I want to know what I'm paying you for, not some pretense of magic.”

“Very well.” If awe wouldn't do, better the professionalism of the humble servant—for now. “It's quite straightforward,” he answered crisply. “Take Carey's apartment, for example. Most New Yorkers go to a great deal of trouble to feel safe in their own living space, and Peter Carey has ensured that his is one of the most secure in Manhattan: he's got a doorman, guards patrolling the corridors, and a deadbolt connected to an extremely sophisticated alarm system.” Here Englehardt permitted himself a smile. “All of which fits with the deep and gnawing insecurity which his psychiatrist so graphically portrays. In this case, his fears are justified: even in a secure building, people remain the key …”

“Get to the point.”

“The doorman. He despises New York, and wishes to live in Florida. Posing as a government agent, my operative offers him money, promising that none of Carey's things will be permanently displaced. The doorman knows we're not government, or we wouldn't be bribing him so handsomely, but if the motive isn't robbery he can tell himself there isn't really any harm. The manager has duplicate keys to all apartments, and it's no trouble for him to borrow one for the brief period we require to make a second duplicate. We don't have to break in: we simply enter the apartment as Carey would.

“Of course, we
were
quite fortunate in his former neighbors—it's not a golden era for the aging. For years the Krantzes watched maintenance fees and property taxes and simple inflation eating through a fixed income, until they were forced to secure a second mortgage in this time of high interest rates and proposed cutbacks in Social Security—quite a desperate step. Suddenly, we confront these frightened, passive people as representatives of a foreign buyer offering an undreamed-of amount of cash and a substitute apartment on the East Side, where Carey will never see them.” Englehardt smiled professorially. “Our only requirement is that they vacate on request, maintaining the secrecy of our publicity-conscious principal from everyone, including Peter Carey. As reluctant as they were, they had no other choice. With that, we've secured the predicate for total surveillance.”

“Yes.” For the first time, Barth's face betrayed the eagerness Englehardt needed. “Let's see how that works.”

In the darkness, Carey's hands were shadows moving across slim, silver ridges, Noelle's back and shoulders.

Sitting at the base of her spine, he massaged her, tenderly and without hurry, working down from her neck and the hollow between her shoulder-blades and then back up again, using the flat of both palms. Her eyes were closed, her murmurs of endearment gentle and indistinct. Carey stroked and kneaded, his expression for once soft, unguarded, almost unfocused. Raising her head, Noelle turned sideways and exposed one breast; Carey bent his mouth to hers and then to the firm pinkness of her nipple as she rolled on her back so that his knees now clasped her hips and, still kissing her breast, he slid one arm beneath her shoulders and two fingers of the other hand so delicately between her thighs that they seemed almost to rest there. She cried out; Carey's pelvis arched and her legs slid from beneath him and opened as if demanding that his lips move down her stomach to rest in the tangle of black hair. As his tongue probed deep within, her hips thrust upwards and began moving, Carey's mouth moving with them, Noelle's lips again parting to murmur an unfinished something to which he paid no heed until once more he raised his mouth to cover hers, both arms now clasping her back and, chest sliding across her breasts, slim hips between slim thighs, he entered her. Moving slowly at first, until she spoke, he then moved faster, at last moving so frenziedly that she cried out again; still Carey did not stop. Their rhythm repeated, over and over, Noelle crying out and moving with Carey, fingers now scraping his back, now grasping the pillows, her face abstracted, dreamy, lost as Carey moved, relentless, and she screamed, coming repeatedly, tears running from half-closed eyes down her face until all at once he cupped the back of her head with his hand, mouth open in an inarticulate moan as he looked into her face and his body shuddered, and then she looked back, eyes focusing again, mouth rising to his amidst the continuing shudders which slowed finally, and then stopped, and each stared at the other for a long silent moment before his head fell to her shoulder, and Englehardt snapped off the machine and the silver bodies became a silver dot shrinking in a blank screen. “As you can see,” he said dryly, “it's quite effective.”

Barth stared transfixed at the vanishing dot. His voice was tight. “How did you get the picture.”

“Remarkable, isn't it? The camera you see on the wall above the video screen is peering at our young lovers through several pinpricks in a square-inch layer of paint which Mr. Carey's rubber plant now helps to conceal. The equipment is very light-sensitive.”

“And the sound?”

“We take an appliance from each room—a coffee-maker, a lamp, the clock-radio—and replace them with exact duplicates containing undetectable electronic transmitters. You'll note the originals in the crate beneath the video machine—all that's required is that they plug into walls.” Englehardt pointed to the large AM-FM stereo resting where the Krantzes' bed had been. “That's where the sound comes out.”

Looking back, he saw that Barth's gaze had not moved from the screen. “So,” he added smoothly, “Peter Carey has nothing he can hide from you. Of course, you can understand the uses of all we'll see here only to the extent we understand young Mr. Carey. Hence, Dr. Levy's notes, which you really must read, are as crucial as subtitles in a foreign film.”

“Don't assign me homework, professor.” Barth turned away from the machine. “
Your
assignment is to learn how to
explain
things to me.”

“Very well.” Englehardt shrugged. “As Dr. Levy has noted, Miss Ciano is the person for whom Peter cares, and fears, most deeply. By taking him to Vermont, and then drawing forth more emotion than he has ever dared to feel, she has made our work far easier. Peter is already feeling that she's the only bright spot in his fears, that he needs her desperately: this makes him more vulnerable than ever. So the woman you were just admiring becomes the weapon we will use; the more their bodies join in life, the more the image of her death will torment him.”

Barth kept staring. Suddenly, Englehardt saw that, beneath his rudeness, the man was terribly shaken: he had seen this before, this shrinking from knowledge, as if confronted by one's own humanity, even inconsequence. “But perhaps,” he went on easily, “we should consider this tomorrow. It may be well for you to absorb the change which has occurred.” Englehardt finished with a benign smile. “After all, you're a much more powerful man than you have ever been before.”

As if in contradiction, Barth pointed at the screen, asking in a dead flat voice, “This tape—what will you do with it?”

“Oh, for now, we'll keep it here. Security, you know. Besides”—now Englehardt was smiling—“one of my operatives will be watching it after you leave—a small reward for services rendered. But that's really just a loan. As you can see, this tape, and the people on it, now belong to you.”

Casually, he flicked on the dial …

Noelle gazed up at Carey. Softly, she said, “You've never done that before.”

He stroked her hair. “What's that, lover?”

She smiled. “Looked into my face.”

CHAPTER 12

Carey and Noelle pushed out of the Aristocrat and were hit by the cacophony of rush hour. The sky over Central Park was lowering with the hard gray look of snow; when Carey did not remark on it, the doorman began moving from foot to foot. “You'll be wanting a cab, I bet.”

“In a minute.” Carey walked Noelle a few steps up the sidewalk, then touched her arm. “You'll be late.”

She turned. “Then you're really going to talk to him—about hypnosis?”

Carey jammed both hands in his pockets; their breaths crossed in the air, as mist. “Yes—this morning.”

Impulsively, she kissed him, then pulled back. “That wasn't for …”

“I know what you meant.” His palm cupped her face. “Just promise me—no matter how absurd it seems—not to go anywhere you don't have to, and not to go alone.”

She placed one hand over his. “Nights I'll be with you—it's work that's tricky. Things pop up …”

“Can you take time off?”

She shook her head. “We're short two people, and I'll have to print the pictures. But I haven't seen that man again—I'll just be extra careful, okay?”

“
Promise
.”

“Please.” He kissed her. “Anyhow, enjoy your session with Sutcliffe—it isn't every day one photographs a living legend.”

“No big deal—after all, I just slept with one.” Her grin snapped clean and wide and sharp; turning, she tossed “See you tonight” over her shoulder, and marched off toward the Dakota.