The Perfect Witness (2 page)

GLITTERING STARS. TALL TREES.
Wisps of smoke.

A crackling fire only a few feet away.

And Andre Mandak was kneeling beside her, his gaze focused intently on the bandage he was applying to the wound in her side. He looked up as he felt her stiffen. “Back with me? I was beginning to worry. You lost quite a bit of blood. The wound isn’t all that bad, just a flesh wound. But you probably suffered shock.”

“Where are we?”

“After I stopped the blood, I drove twenty or thirty miles down the road and set up camp to finish the job.” He was buttoning up her shirt. “You need blood, but it’s not urgent. I’ll get you to someone I trust to check my first aid within the next twelve hours or so.” He smiled. “But I don’t anticipate any complaints. I’m pretty damn good.”

She shook her head. “You’re crazy. I’m not going to take that chance. I don’t know or trust you. Why should I trust your friend?”

“No reason. Except that from now on I’m going to run the show.”

“Bullshit.”

“That’s the way it has to be,” he said as he moved a few yards away from her. “Unless you particularly want Camano to kill you or get his hands on you. Neither would be pleasant. I understand that he has certain ambitions in which he thinks you might be a help or hindrance.”

“I can run. I can hide. I don’t need you.”

“The hell you don’t. If I help you, you’ll survive. If I don’t, you may last six months.” He smiled and coaxed, “Come on, Teresa. Use me. People have been using you for most of your life. It’s your turn now.”

She stared at him. He had suddenly turned from brutal frankness to a charisma that was almost mesmerizing. She had only been vaguely aware of him as a man since he had appeared in her life tonight. He had only been a threat and a puzzle and the faint stirring of hope.

Close-cut dark hair, blue eyes beneath slashing dark brows, high cheekbones, and a beautifully shaped sensual mouth. How old? Late twenties? Early thirties? He was dressed in dark jeans and sweatshirt that revealed he was lean but muscular and very strong in spite of his slimness. He had carried her with no problem at all. “Who are you? Not your name, Mandak. Who are you to me?”

“Who am I?” He thought about it. “Your savior? Your teacher? Anything else will have to be worked out between us.”

“Savior?”

“I killed three men for you tonight. Doesn’t that qualify?”

“How did you even know I was in those woods tonight?”

“I’ve been waiting … and watching. I knew it was going to happen soon.”

“What? How?”

“Because it wasn’t reasonable that they’d let you go peacefully. It would have been too dangerous for Camano.” He paused. “I didn’t know that your mother was involved.”

“I don’t want to talk about her,” she said shakily. “She didn’t mean for anyone to hurt me. She loves me.”

“Very well. But I had to know if she’s a threat.”

“Why? Why do you have to know anything? Who the hell are you? How do I know that you won’t try to sell me to Camano? I don’t
know
you.”

“But I know you. I’ve been watching you for a long time.” He held up his hand as she opened her lips to speak. “I’ll tell you as much as I can. I’ve been keeping an eye on your father and his relationship with you for the last few years after it came to my attention.”

She stiffened. “What came to your attention?”

He only stared at her.

“What?” she said through clenched teeth. “You’re bluffing. You don’t know anything about me. You couldn’t.”

“I know your father discovered what he thought was a treasure trove in you and exploited it for at least two years. I know Camano probably killed him and is wavering between trying to use you the way your father did or killing you to be sure you don’t reveal that he was the one who ordered the kill.” He paused. “Tell me, do you know for certain that it was Camano?”

“How could I?” she asked cautiously. “Even the police weren’t sure that he killed my father.” Her lips twisted. “Not that they cared. They were just glad to get rid of one more gangster. When Camano became Don, they just refocused their attention and forgot about my father.” She had a sudden thought. “Or maybe they didn’t. Are you with the police? Is that how you know so much about me?”

He shook his head. “God, no. But it’s refreshing of you to jump to that connection. At least, you’re not still thinking I’m going to sell you to Camano.”

“I’m not sure that you’re not. You know too much about me.” She defiantly met his eyes. “Or do you? Just what do you know, Mandak?”

“You want it all? I know that you’re the only child of Antonio Casali and his wife, Gina. Casali was pretty much a scumbag and involved in murder, vice, and longshore racketeering. He was so dirty he managed to climb up to head the New Jersey Mafia. Three weeks ago, he was gunned down in the streets in Trenton.” He paused. “You went to the funeral, but then you disappeared from view. I assumed that it was your mother’s doing to get you away from Camano, who had just taken power. Is that right?”

She nodded jerkily. “I thought that it was going to be okay. I prayed that she wouldn’t do it.”

“Do what? Betray you?”

She didn’t answer.

He was studying her face. “Too late,” he said softly. “You’ve already slipped and told me too much. You’re her daughter. Why would she do that to you, Teresa?”

“Why should I tell you?” she asked bitterly. “You believe you know it all. But all that stuff you rattled off doesn’t mean anything. Guesswork. Or you could have read it in the newspaper.”

“Then should I go a step farther? Your parents were far too busy to take care of you. Your father was a mob boss who had ambitions to take over the entire Northeast territory. Your mother liked being married to Casali and acting the queen bee. She had no time to be a mother. You were sent away to boarding school from the time you were six. You didn’t seem to mind. You did extraordinarily well at school. You’re exceptionally bright, and very early on, the teachers found that you had a special talent. You have a photographic memory.”

She stiffened. She didn’t like where this was going. “No big deal. It’s not common, but photographic memory isn’t really that special.”

“Special enough. The school principal advised your parents, and they were curious enough to bring you home and show you off for amusement value. Your mother particularly liked to be the center of attention. The glow didn’t last long, and they sent you back to school about six months later.” He grimaced. “I’d bet you were relieved. You liked your books and your teachers and had no desire to be a star.”

But those months had held their own magic, she wanted to tell him. For the first time, she had felt important to her mother. Her father was always cold and had never paid any attention to her. But her mother had been a beautiful butterfly who fluttered and smiled, and occasionally lingered in Teresa’s world for brief instants. “Are you nuts? I was no star. I told you, a photographic memory isn’t all that rare.”

“But you were relieved to go back to school?”

“Maybe.”

“But it didn’t last long, did it? Two years later, the school expelled you and sent you home. They couldn’t deal with you.” He paused. “Would you like to tell me why?”

Her hands clenched into fists. She couldn’t breathe. He
knew.

“Shall I tell you?” he asked softly. “It wasn’t the photographic memory. They could have handled that in a student. But that talent had changed, metamorphosed, in those two years. The teachers and students were regarding you as a freak. They felt insecure and afraid of you.”

Nightmare time. Loneliness. Oh, the aching loneliness. It was all rushing back to her.

“They were idiots. I didn’t want to hurt anyone.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” he said gently. “But even the teachers weren’t prepared for what you were able to do.”

“I didn’t want to do it. I’d just look at them, and it was there before me.”

“What?”

She didn’t answer.

“What, Teresa?”

“Why are you asking me? I don’t know who told you. But you
know,
damn you.”

“Tell me.”

“The memories,” she said unevenly. “I could read their memories. Whenever they remembered anything, it was clear as glass to me.”

“You couldn’t read minds but you could read past thoughts, past actions, memories. Intimidating.”

“I didn’t want to do it. I didn’t know what was happening to me. At first I thought I was actually reading their minds. But it was blank for me unless they were remembering something. But one was as bad as the other. No one would believe me. They thought I was lying.” She moistened her lips. “But it was worse when they did begin to believe me.”

“They kicked you out and sent you back to your parents.”

“I was glad to go. I didn’t think it could get any worse.”

“But it did.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “My father … was interested. It wasn’t like before when I was just a curiosity. He thought that I might be … He wanted to see if he could use me.”

“Your mother?”

“She said I should do whatever my father said. She said this time we had to keep it a big secret just between the two of them and me. She made me go to this fancy Dr. Kramer on Fifth Avenue. He was a psychiatrist. He told my mother and father that he didn’t believe in what the school was telling him, but he’d investigate and let them know.” She said hoarsely, “I hated it. He kept asking me questions. Over and over. He wanted to know how I knew when I was making contact with someone’s memory. I told him that it was like being sucked into a dark tunnel, and I was suddenly just there. He told me to stop making up stories. He’d use big words like ‘hippocampus’ and ‘frontal cortex’. He’d tape wires and stuff on my head. He’d bring in strangers and try to trick me into saying the wrong things about what they were remembering. It went on and on…”

“But then he found out you weren’t making up the stories.”

“Yes, all those tests showed that my brain appeared to make contact with the amygdala segment of the brain of anyone with whom I came in close contact. Those are the cells that harbor memory. He told mother that there was evidence of stimulation in both brains. He said that my sensation of being pulled into a tunnel was my mind focusing, making adjustments.”

“That tunnel signal interests me,” Mandak said. “It may indicate you’re struggling for control.”

“Control? Are you crazy? I have no control. I just have to accept. My mother was excited. But she told me that I wasn’t to go back to see Dr. Kramer. He wanted to write an article for some medical journal, and that was making my father angry. He didn’t want anyone to know about what I could do.”

“Exit Dr. Kramer. What happened to him?”

“I don’t know. My mother said that he was going to Europe to study for some degree.”

“How convenient.”

Though she had accepted what her mother said at the time, that’s what Teresa had thought in the years that followed. People who displeased her father often just went away never to be seen again. “I was glad at the time. I hated going to his office.”

“But you hated more what happened when your father and mother believed his report.”

“Yes,” she said jerkily.

“And what did your father make you do?”

She didn’t answer for a moment. She didn’t know why she had already told him as much as she had. Secrets … Her mother had told her that she mustn’t tell anyone, that it was a secret. But she was alone now, and this man might have saved her life. And just telling someone about those years made her feel less vulnerable.

“They’d sit me down in the library with my father and whoever he chose to bring home with him,” she said haltingly. “Sometimes it was one of his men, sometimes a politician, sometimes it was someone from another mob. He’d ignore me, but he’d laugh and joke with them. I guess that they thought it was a little weird to have me there, but maybe they felt safer and more at ease having a kid in the room. After they’d left, I had to tell my father what memories had surfaced in their minds during the visit.” She closed her eyes. “So ugly. Mean and cruel and ugly. Memories are never anything like what’s on the surface. They’re almost always selfish, and the reasons why anyone does something are usually based on what they remember as being good or pleasant for them in the past. But often what those men thought pleasant was cruel and bloody and—” Her eyes opened, and she stopped as those memories began to come alive for her again. “Sometimes I wanted to throw up. I begged my father not to make me do it. He wouldn’t listen. My mother said that it was my duty and that I mustn’t say anything that might upset him.”

“Did it continue until he was killed?”

“No.” She drew a shaky breath. “Until about six months ago. I knew what my father was by that time. At first, I was numb and scared and just did what he told me to do. Then I began to wonder what effect my telling my father about those memories was having on those people he had me read. One night Ned Jokman came to see my father. He had worked with him for years. His memories were … bad. Death. Cheating. Bribes … After I gave my father the report, he seemed angry. He stormed out of the house. I followed him. He went to the guesthouse, where Jokman was staying. My father’s men dragged Jokman out into the woods and made him kneel.” She shuddered. “My father shot him in the head.”

Blood and bits of skull and brains flying everywhere.

“I screamed. I kept on screaming. My father hit me and hit me again. I deserved it. It was my fault.” She swallowed. “My fault. My fault.”

“No, it wasn’t.”

“Don’t tell me that,” she said fiercely. “I told my father what Jokman remembered doing, and he dragged him out into the woods and killed him. It wouldn’t have happened if I hadn’t told him. It wouldn’t have happened if I’d shut away those memories and blocked them.”

His eyes narrowed on her face. “Can you do that?”

She was silent. “Sometimes.”

“Not often.”

“But I can pretend,” she said quickly. “I can make people think I’m not able to do it any longer.”

“Is that how you kept your father from forcing you to tap into anyone’s memories after he killed Jokman?”