Spellbinder (22 page)

Now the Chrysler was turning into the road’s first curve—gone.

He revved the engine, put the car in gear and began a U turn.

Two cars ahead, the Chrysler was signaling for a right turn—a change of freeway lanes. Looking in the mirror, without signaling, he also changed lanes. Overhead, the sign coming up read “Airport Exit, 1 Mile.”

His victim was escaping. Running.

Without Holloway, he had no hostage. No protection. It was the one possibility he’d overlooked: that Holloway would try to leave town. Meanwhile, in Los Angeles, Flournoy and the others would set their traps for him.

Ahead, the Chrysler was changing lanes again—committed, now, to the airport turnoff.

He waited for a red pickup to pass on his right, then swung into the inside lane. Also committed. As he drove, he looked in the mirror. Were they following? Who? How many? Where were they?

Now the Chrysler was turning off. Two cars were between them, a sports car and a sedan. Quickly, he glanced at his watch. The time was twenty minutes after nine. In the pit of his stomach, the trembling had begun again. Suddenly he was alone, without a plan—fighting all of them, his unseen enemies. All his life, they’d surrounded him: evil, leering faces, with hatred in their eyes, their mouths furiously twisted, laughing, screaming, taunting him. And his mother, too. Time without end. Malice without mercy. Screaming. Striking out at him. Hurting him.

Killing him.

Killing him.

Suddenly his eyes were stinging. Tears blurred the shapes of the cars ahead. He blinked, shook his head, wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. It was a shameful gesture, fugitive from childhood. The fear, too, came from his childhood. And the hatred. And—now—the determination. Never again would he fear them. Because Holloway would set him free. Holloway’s life, or his death. Both would set him free.

Blinking again, he saw the Chrysler signaling for another turn: “United. TWA. Pan Am.”

Pan Am—The International Airline.

His victim would escape. And without Holloway, there was no hope. No hostage. No freedom from the fear. Nothing.

So, looking back over his shoulder, he signaled for the same turn. Wherever Holloway went, he would follow.

Like father, like son.

The thought produced a quick, treacherous burble of tittering laughter. He clamped his jaw, caught his tongue between his teeth. The momentary pain cut short the laughter. It was an old trick, one he’d learned long ago, hot prowling. Everything threatened him. Even his own laughter.

The Chrysler was drawing up at the curb opposite the door marked “United.” His car, too, was turning toward the same curb, stopping behind the Chrysler. It was as if the car had driven itself, stopped itself. Ahead, the front door of the Chrysler was opening. One of the men dressed in blue was getting out, holding open the rear door. Elton Holloway was stepping to the sidewalk—followed, moments later, by Austin Holloway. The man in blue closed the rear door. Now, leaning into the car, he spoke to the driver, nodded, spoke again. Already Elton and Austin were moving toward one of the doors marked “United.” Austin Holloway’s footsteps were slow and shuffling, uncertain. But when Elton took his elbow, the older man pulled sharply away. At the curb, the man dressed in blue was closing the Chrysler’s front passenger door, stepping back as the car moved away. Now the man in blue walked briskly toward the United door. Already, Elton and Austin Holloway were inside the terminal. Snatching the keys from the ignition, he swung open the driver’s door and stepped out of the car. A nearby policeman was frowning, watching him closely. So he must play-act, pretending an emergency. He looked at the policeman, pointed urgently toward, the terminal and made for the United door, trotting. Behind him now, the policeman was shouting something. But he mustn’t stop—couldn’t stop. Because, through the glass doors, he could see Elton and Austin moving away from him, toward his left. So, even if they towed the car, he must leave it behind.

Inside the terminal now, he stepped quickly out of line with the policeman’s outraged stare, then stopped. Elton and Austin were still moving toward the left. But their progress was slow, the younger man adjusting his pace to the measured shuffle of the older man. To his right, the man dressed in blue was walking toward the United ticket counter.

Elton and Austin Holloway were going to the passengers’ concourse. The man dressed in blue would pick up the tickets.

Tickets to where?

To his right, the man in the blue suit was taking his place at the end of a long line of people who waited patiently in a cordoned area that extended the full length of the United counter. Each person waited his turn, then went to one of a half dozen ticket clerks. So he would have no chance to take his place behind the man, listen while the man bought the tickets, then buy a ticket to the same city.

No chance …

To his left, Elton and Austin were approaching the end of the United baggage counter. In moments, they would turn down the concourse—lost from his view.

Should he let them go?

Should he return to his car, face the policeman’s anger, drive to a highway phone booth and make his call to the Temple?

Or should he persist, stalking Holloway to wherever he might flee? If he did—if he succeeded—Holloway would realize that escape was impossible. He would realize that he must pay—and pay—

—or else die.

He realized that he was moving, walking to his left, after Holloway and Elton. He wasn’t aware that the decision had been made—wasn’t aware that he was committed. He only knew that he had no choice. He must do what he was doing.

Ahead, the two men were turning down a concourse marked “United gates 44–52, TWA gates 53–56.” The concourse was enormous: a long, squared-off cavern with dark-tinted windows on either side and a movable sidewalk in the center. Now Holloway and his son were stepping on the movable conveyor belt. On either side of the belt, other passengers were walking unassisted. Some of them moved leisurely, slower than the belt. Others, in a hurry, walked faster. He quickened his pace, walking beside the belt, gaining on the Holloways. Far down the concourse, the belt ended at a barrier formed by two arches and a counter …

…
the metal detectors.

He realized that he’d suddenly stopped walking. Numbly aware of the travelers jostling past him, he stood with his hand inside his jacket, curled around the butt of the .45. In his pocket, he could feel the shape of the switchblade knife.

Ahead, the two men were almost off the movable sidewalk, about to join the line waiting at the metal detectors.

He moved to the glass wall, clear of the pedestrian jostle. Had he just passed storage lockers? Yes. Looking back, he saw them: a bank of rectangular steel doors, across the concourse and up toward the entrance to the ticket lobby. Opposing the passenger flow, half running, half walking, he dodged his way back to the lockers, looking for one with a key, an empty one. As he looked, he searched for coins in his pockets: two quarters, according to the sign. In the whole bank of lockers, only one was vacant, on the top tier. But how could he get the big automatic inside without being seen? Nearby he saw an overflowing refuse bin filled with candy wrappers, soft-drink cans and discarded newspapers. He stepped to the bin, took out a wrinkled newspaper, stepped back to the lockers. Standing close to the empty locker, glancing quickly in either direction, he withdrew the .45, folded it in the newspaper and slipped it into the locker, along with the knife. He deposited two quarters, took the locker key, put it in his pocket and began running toward the metal detector. Ahead of him, the Holloways had disappeared, already passed through the detector, and were now blocked from his view by others waiting in line. Breathing hard, he took his place at the end of the line.

When would the plane leave?

Where would it go?

How much time would he have to discover its destination, return to the lobby, buy a ticket and return here, to the spot where he now stood?

He looked back over his shoulder, searching the crowd for the man in the blue suit. How many minutes had passed since they’d entered the terminal? How far had the man gotten in the ticket line? He looked at his watch.

Time: 9:35.

The day that would change his life was almost two hours old. After today, nothing would he the same. Already, he was a different person. After only an hour, he had changed. He was in charge—in command. For the first time in his life, others feared him, scurrying before him like small, frightened animals trying to escape his vengeance. Back at the Temple, waiting for his call, they were trembling with fearful apprehension. In front of him, Austin Holloway, famous throughout the world, was vainly trying to run from him—and not succeeding. The old man couldn’t move at more than a slow walk.

Father dear, old and sick. No longer could he run. No longer would others fear him. The king was almost dead.

Dying, dying, finally dead.

Yes, if he willed it, dead. Millions would mourn the fallen king. And all because of one man’s power, one man’s control.

His
power.
His
control.

Only one passenger remained in front of him: a tall, teenage girl wearing tight jeans and something that looked like a Mexican serape thrown over her shoulders. Her hair was long and blond, falling around her shoulders like golden flax, incredibly fine.

She was walking ahead—passing through the detector. The attendant was beckoning to him, smiling. Was he smiling in return? He didn’t know, couldn’t be sure. But, moments later, he was passing the attendant, passing the two policemen standing guard.

Free.

Trotting again, he came to the first gate, 44. The area was deserted. But the next gate, 45, was crowded. Drawing up, breathing hard, he stopped just inside the entrance, scanning the waiting faces. The faces were all blank: faces already dead, waiting their turn to cross into hell. Some of the faces were hidden behind a wall. He moved to his right—

—and saw them: the father and the son, sitting directly in front of the loading counter. Above the counter, on an illuminated screen, he read:

Flight #812, Los Angeles to San Francisco

Departing 9:55 On Time.

Turning away, careful that they didn’t see him, he began running back the way he’d come.

S
TANDING IN THE HALLWAY
outside the closed door of her bedroom, she held her breath, listening. From inside she heard the unmistakable sound of a deep, sad sigh. Then, equally unmistakable, she heard the sound of a suitcase lock snapping shut.

Had her mother finished packing?

Was their mutual agony almost ended?

Soon her father and her brother would arrive. After an hour spent exchanging meaningless pleasantries, her father and her brother and her mother would leave, followed by the omnipresent bodyguard, always keeping his discreet, carefully calculated distance.

Like any other potentate—like any other corporate figurehead or political tyrant—her father’s retinue was elaborately structured. Everyone who served Austin Holloway knew his place, and kept to it. Otherwise, he—or she—was replaced.

In the family, the same rules applied—and the same penalties were exacted. Except that, in the family, replacement by dismissal was impossible. So, instead, the royal favor was withdrawn, de facto excommunication. Soon the excommunicate’s soul began to shrivel, like a shrunken head, fugitive from some ancient voodoo rite. With the soul so shrunken, the body’s disintegration was inevitable. But the wasting away was a slow, subtle process, at first readable only in a downward deflection of the eyes, or a dullness of the voice, or a discouraged cast to the mouth. Yet, once begun, the process was irreversible, and eventually physical manifestations emerged. In the case of Elton, a telltale puffiness was beginning to bloat both his face and his waistline. After thirty-two years, the secret of Elton’s debaucheries was showing.

In the case of her mother, the malignancy was more advanced, plain for all to see in the perpetual pain etched into the lines around her mouth, and in the sorrow so stark in her eyes. Her mother’s final decline was close at hand. Someday soon, her mother’s liver would fail. It would all be over.

And, finally, there was her own case. Denise Holloway, age twenty-eight. Unmarried. Childless. A lonely woman who secretly despised her family. Because it was all that remained to her, she fiercely cherished her own independence—and just as fiercely fought for it. Yet, ultimately, it was a meaningless victory. Because, as Peter had once said, people were meant to live two by two.

Peter …

As soon as her family left, she would throw some things in a suitcase, and water the plants, and set the timers, and ask Mr. Byrnes at the grocery store to watch their stoop for circulars and newspapers. An hour later, she would be on the road to Mendocino. Four hours later, she would arrive at the cabin. By that time, it would be dark. The windows of the cabin would be glowing soft and golden, lit by the kerosene lamps inside. Peter would see her headlights coming through the trees long before he could see the car and recognize it. With Pepper beside him, he would be standing on the porch, waiting and watching—and frowning. In Mendocino, at night, visitors could mean trouble.

But then he would recognize her car. In one bound he would leap from the porch to the ground, following Pepper, already barking and frisking around her car. She would switch off the headlights, switch off the engine and get out of the car. In the darkness, they would hold each other close, saying little, letting the small urgent movements of their bodies seek each other out—exploring, rising, stroking, accepting. At first, their movements would be tender, almost tentative. But, as passion rose, their bodies would begin moving together with one strong, single purpose. Until, with their arms tight around each other, they would go inside, to bed.

Two by two …

Inside the bedroom, she heard soft, hesitant footsteps approaching the door. Silently, she stepped back—one step, two steps. Now the doorknob was turning, the door was opening. Dressed in a beautifully cut sharkskin traveling suit and wearing a sheer silk scarf at her throat, her mother stood in the open doorway, both hands clutching a small beige handbag. Her hair was meticulously coiffed, piled high on her head in elegant chestnut coils. Her feet were together, her chin was lifted. She was smiling: a fixed, mechanical smile, betrayed by eyes that were too bright—too vulnerable. If she were wearing an organdy gown instead of the sharkskin suit, and clutching a Bible instead of the purse, she could have been on stage, smiling fixedly into the TV camera as The Hour approached its finale.