Spellbinder (19 page)

Another step. An arm’s length separated them now. A half step more, and he could touch her. Looking into her eyes now, he saw a small furtive flicker of fear beginning.

Yes.
Yes.

Reaching out with his right hand, he touched her nipples—first the right nipple, then the left. Another half step, and he could circle her waist with his left hand, centered on the small of her back. When he tightened his grip, drawing her closer, he could feel the brush of her pubic hair. Responding, his genitals were straining to touch her—to rip into her. Beneath the probing fingertips of his right hand, her nipples were hardening. Against his face, he could feel her breath hot and musky.

Now, slowly, he allowed the fingers of his right hand to climb her body, one finger at a time, delicately walking her flesh. At the base of her throat, above the collar bone, with his thumb on one side of her throat and his forefinger on the other side, he tightened his hand, whispering:

“If you want that money, you’ve got to fight me for it.”

He saw the flicker of fear leap into a flame, felt her body suddenly convulse, straining against the arm that held her close against him. Instantly, he clamped thumb and forefinger together, forcing her head back—choking off her cry. Her body came alive: taut with fear, suddenly twisting violently, wild and writhing. Between his fingers, her breath was rattling in her throat. Her pelvis was crushed against him as his thrust began. Inches from his, her eyes bulged with terror. Against his leather jacket, he felt her fists flailing.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Between his thighs, he felt her legs thrashing. Her head was thrown back, neck arched, throat exposed. A final step, and her head crashed against the wall. Now her eyes were glazing, losing focus. In his throat, his own breath was rattling. The time was closer—

Closer

With her buttocks jammed against the wall, trapped, her body was an animal’s, thrashing against his body, straining against his thrusts—faster, harder, racing the dying light in her eyes, racing the—

Something thudded behind him, followed by a crash, a shout, a sudden scurry of feet. Whirling to face the danger, he dropped to a crouch. The man—Jerry—stood in the open doorway, his right hand fumbling under the fringed leather jacket. Bellowing:

“What the fuck—?”

Beside him, the girl was slumping to the floor, snuffling, coughing, trying to speak. Helpless. No threat. Advancing now, eyes suddenly as watchful as a jungle cat’s, Jerry drew his hand clear of his jacket. A single sharp click, and a blade leaped in his hand. Springing back, James felt for the butt of the .45 at his belt, found it, drew the pistol. With his thumb, he pulled back the hammer, then released the safety. From Uncle Julian, he’d learned his lesson.

“Drop it. Drop the goddamn knife.”

Slowly, Jerry straightened. Beneath the broad brim of the planter’s straw hat, he stared at the gun. His eyes were narrowed, unafraid. Calculating. And, therefore, dangerous.

“Drop it.” As he spoke, he moved to his right, away from both of them. On the floor close to the wall, legs spread wide and arms hanging helplessly, still coughing, the girl was trying to speak. Still harmless. In the doorway behind the man, an oblong of darkness, a face appeared—then faded back into the dark. There was the real danger: that face, disappearing. Going for help.

So he must go—get out. He must leave them behind: the naked whore and her pimp, pleasure unfulfilled.

“Drop it.”

This time, the knife clattered on the cracked linoleum of the floor. Jerry was straightening from his fighting stance, holding out his hands, palms upturned. Smiling. Afraid, but smiling. Smart.

“Be cool, man,” Jerry was saying, speaking in a soft, whining voice. “Be cool. You want to leave—” Cautiously, one hand moved invitingly toward the open door. “Then leave.”

“Who’s out there?”

“Nobody’s out there.”

“You’re a goddamn liar.”

Now the hands spread wide apart, the palms once more innocently upturned. “All right. So there’s someone out there. If there is, I don’t know about it.”

“Move over there. Beside her.” He gestured with the gun. “
Quick
.”

“Yeah. Right.” One step at a time, the pimp moved to stand beside the whore, still sitting on the floor, helpless.

Stooping, he picked up the knife, hefted it once, then threw it at the other man’s feet.

“Pick it up.”

“Wh—?” The other’s eyes were puzzled now.

“Pick it
up
.” As he spoke, he glanced at the doorway, still empty. With the gun trained on the pimp, he moved to the opposite wall, half hidden from sight behind the opened door.

Helplessly, the pimp stooped, picked up the knife, then slowly straightened.

“Now cut her.”

“Wh-what?” The pimp’s eyes were round. Disbelieving. “
What?
”

“I said, cut her. Let me see her bleed.”

“What the fuck you—”

“I said,
cut
her.
Do
it Or I’ll kill you.”

“Jesus Christ,” the pimp breathed, turning toward the girl. “Jesus Christ.” The girl was crouched beside him now, on her hands and knees, head hanging down between her bony shoulders, sobbing for breath.

“Do it. You’ve got two seconds. Just two.”

Moving slowly and woodenly, as if he were drugged, the pimp moved the slim, gleaming blade toward the girl’s shoulder. Momentarily his hand faltered. Then, responding to a sudden menacing jerk of the .45, he drew the blade across the sallow white skin of her shoulder. A line of bright red blood followed the knife.

As the blood began to run down the white skin of her back, he heard laughter begin: a thin, unsteady laugh, almost lost in the sound of the whore’s screams.

It was a stranger’s laugh—strange, yet eerily familiar.

Because it was his voice. His laughter.

C
ONSCIOUS OF THE NECESSITY
to control himself, whatever the cost, Holloway kept his eyes lowered to his desk, rereading the letter. On the other side of the desk, sitting with his legs crossed, trouser creases aligned, gleaming white cuffs adjusted to a precise inch beyond the sleeves of his jacket, Flournoy sat watching—waiting. Wondering.

“Here’s the envelope,” Flournoy said, quietly leaning forward in his chair to slide a plain white envelope across the desk.

As he’d expected, the end of the envelope had been neatly clipped off on the side that carried the stamp. It was routine, part of established mailroom procedure. At least once a week, contributions came into the mailroom with no return address except that scrawled on the envelope. Most of the contributions—and most of the mail—came addressed directly to him. So, unless they were marked “very, very personal,” a pre-arranged code, all letters sent to him were opened in the mailroom.

Still bent over the letter, he cleared his throat. “Who all’s seen this, would you say?”

He heard Flournoy sigh: a sharp, impatient exhalation. Flournoy hated imprecision—hated surprises.

“One of the mailroom clerks,” Flournoy answered. “And the supervisor. And Priscilla, in my office.”

“Which supervisor?” As he said it, he finally ventured to raise his eyes. Across the desk, as expected, Flournoy looked as calm and calculating as if he were sitting in on a Council meeting, discussing fiscal planning.

“Julie Smith.”

“Did she say anything?”

Flournoy shrugged. “She didn’t say anything particular, just passed it on. Julie and Priscilla evaluated it, of course. That’s part of their jobs—part of the routine.” He let a long, meaningful beat pass before he said quietly, What’s it mean, Austin? What’s it all about?”

Instead of answering the question, he asked, “Did you know this would happen—that this was coming?”

“Well—” Flournoy gestured sharply, impatiently. “Well, yes, I did, as a matter of fact. That is, I knew he was sending the letter. Or, at least, I knew he
said
he was sending a letter. He called Friday, and told me what he intended to do. I thought that, actually, the situation might be improving—that he would turn out to be just another crank letter writer—of which, as you know, we get hundreds, every year. So I decided to simply wait and see what happened. Of course, I knew there was an element of risk—that one of the mailroom girls would see more than she was supposed to see. But the only way to eliminate the risk would be to monitor all the mail addressed to you—which would be impossible, given the volume we’re handling. But, at the same time—” He gestured to the letter, frowning. “At the same time, I didn’t expect anything like that.” Still frowning—still patently displeased at the unpredictable, untidy turn of events—he asked again, “What’s he talking about, Austin? What’s that last line mean—‘father dear’?”

“It means,” Holloway answered, speaking slowly and deliberately, “that he’s probably my son.”

“
Christ.
” Because he so seldom swore, Flournoy’s single short expletive made the problem seem more dire, more dangerous.

Holloway sighed. “Precisely.” As he spoke, he realized that, unconsciously, he’d pushed the letter across the desk, toward Flournoy. Subconsciously, then, he wanted Flournoy to handle it. Flournoy, or anyone else—anyone with sufficient strength, and determination. And, yes, sufficient ruthlessness. Because, undeniably, there was a mortal threat in the letter. So ruthless measures must be taken. Now. Quickly. Before more damage was done.

As if to accept the challenge, Flournoy picked up the letter, rereading it. The shrewd, thoughtful frown had returned, casting the manager’s thin, almost patrician face into its habitual expression: closed and cold, revealing nothing. Finally, looking up, he said, “How old is he?”

“He’s twenty-six years old.”

“Do you think he’s dangerous?”

“Yes,” Holloway answered heavily. “Yes, I think he’s dangerous.” As he said it, he felt the room tilt on its axis, then begin a slow, unsteady sideways slide. It was a sensation that, lately, had become sickeningly familiar. His strength had suddenly ebbed, sapped by the letter’s malevolence. He realized that he’d slumped back in his chair. Momentarily, his eyes had closed. He hadn’t been aware that it had happened—not until the room suddenly disappeared. Drawing a deep breath, he forced his eyes open, forced himself to sit straighter in the chair.

“Today’s Monday,” Flournoy was saying quietly. He gestured to the letter. “He’s going to call tomorrow, that’s certain. We’ve got to decide what to do.”

“I’ll call Mitchell in. He knows about it—the whole story.” He reached out his right hand toward the phone. His fingers were trembling. Suddenly the hand seemed thin and palsied: blue-veined and brown-blotched, an old man’s claw.

“How long has Mitchell known?” the other man made no effort to conceal his annoyance at the thought of being the second to know, not the first.

“Since Friday.” He lifted the phone and pressed the intercom button. With only minimal effort, he could summon a rich, resonant voice. Saying: “Ask Mitchell to come in, please, Marge.”

“Yessir. Right away. Your daughter called, about ten minutes ago. You said to hold your calls, so I said you’d call her back.”

Denise. Calling, certainly, about Katherine. His daughter’s patience had run out; she’d come to the end of her endurance. She’d called over the weekend, to warn him that it would happen. Now she was serving final notice. It was understandable, inevitable. For Denise, freedom was everything.

Aware that an answer was required, he said, “Did Denise say what was—troubling her?”

“No, sir. But she said she’d wait for your call.”

“Yes. All right. Send Mitchell in. I’ll talk to her in a half hour.”

As if he’d been waiting just outside, Mitchell appeared almost immediately, sitting in his accustomed straightback chair, thus subtly acknowledging the difference in status between him and Flournoy, at his ease in one of the office’s two deep-tufted armchairs, placed to face the desk. Wordlessly, Flournoy passed the letter to Mitchell. Watching Mitchell read the letter, slowly and methodically, Holloway looked carefully at the security chief’s face, searching for some hint of a reaction. Had Mitchell expected it? Was he prepared for it—prepared to act, protecting him?

Yes. Resolution was plain in Mitchell’s calm, thoughtful gaze—in the set of his jaw—in the slow, purposeful flexing of his big-knuckled fist as he read the letter a second time. Whatever must be done, Mitchell could do.

But what choices did he have? What action could he take?

Now Mitchell put the letter aside and turned to Flournoy, who began an ill-tempered summary of the letter’s probable significance. Patiently, Mitchell listened to Flournoy’s tense, staccato sentences. Occasionally, Mitchell made short responses. Listening to the two men talk, Holloway let his gaze wander to the phone. He must remember to call Denise. It had been two weeks, since Katherine left. Police reports had been made. Lawyers had talked to lawyers. Sums of money had been proposed, considered, finally accepted. Payoffs had been made on street corners, at airports, in hotel lobbies. The reporters had come to the mansion and gone, assigned to other stories by editors whose cooperation had been discreetly solicited. The little girl, paralyzed, had been forgotten by the public. Her parents, set for life, were adjusting. In addition to all the high-level financial maneuvering, Flournoy had arranged for the parents to pick up a new car. The gift, totally unexpected, had been an inspiration. In matters of diplomacy, Flournoy’s touch was light and delicate, superb.

But, in the matter of James Carson, Flournoy’s talent could fall short. Something in the letter suggested that a heavier, harder hand was required.

Mitchell’s hand.

Now Flournoy was turning to him. His manner was brusque, decisive. Once again Flournoy was in command.

“We’ve got to try and handle it ourselves,” Flournoy said. “We’ve got to exhaust every possibility. That’s obvious. We can’t assume that the problem will go away—that he’ll get tired of asking. Which means that we’ve got to meet with him. Face to face.”

“What’ll we tell him?” Mitchell asked. “What’ll we say?”