The Trophy Wife (5 page)

Walter kept his eyes locked in confrontation across the table while he ran his fingers between the seat cushion and the padded frame of his chair. He retrieved a thin business envelope with no markings on the outside.

“The point that's essential is that I have no idea who sent me to deliver this message. I don't know who did the kidnapping. My instructions said that the kidnappers know nothing about me. And none of us knows who's holding your wife, or where. So you see, memorizing my face, or catching me and holding me for the police, will do you no good. I can't say anything that will help your wife because I know nothing about her. I'm not a kidnapper, Mr. Childs. I've thought a lot about this and I think that I'm just a good citizen reporting a crime. Does that make sense to you?”

Walter glared daggers at the man. He tore open the envelope and pulled out a single sheet of paper, computer-printed on one side.

 

Mr. Childs
.

The man seated across from you is telling the truth. He knows that Emily has been kidnapped, but has no idea why, or where she is being held. The kidnappers know nothing more than that they left your wife, under sedation, in a parked van. The van driver knows nothing, other than that he has picked up a valuable person, and is to hold her incommunicado until advised
.

I am the only one who knows all the players and all the locations. That means that none of them, nor any combination of them, can lead you or the police to your wife
.

My terms are simple. On Friday, at exactly 4:00 p.m., you will wire $100 million to a numbered account at Banco Folonari, the Cayman Island branch. You, of course, know the routing number and authentication code. The money will be converted into Banco Folonari bearer bonds and will be delivered to a courier, who will call for the proceeds using the appropriate authentication code.
You must make no attempt to follow or intercept the courier. The courier will use legitimate financial channels to deliver the money to me. I will have it Monday morning and will immediately cause your wife to be released. If the funds fail to reach me for any reason, you will never hear from either your wife nor me again
.

If you understand these plans, please inform the courier. His actions will tell me whether or not the message has been delivered
.

If you contact the police, the FBI, Interpol, or any other law enforcement agency, you can be certain that I will know about it. There will be no further correspondence from your wife or me
.

Her life is entirely in your hands
.

If you agree to meet these terms, please make a reservation tomorrow for a single table in the window at Casper's. Walk there and have lunch between noon and 2:00 p.m. I will then order that your wife be kept comfortable until Monday. If you choose not to meet my demands, simply neglect the lunch, or else make contact with the police or other authorities. In that case, I will pay the people holding Emily to kill her and bury the body. You will hear nothing further from any source
.

 

Walter looked up from the note at the man seated opposite him. “Do you know what this says?”

The man looked sympathetic. “I've guessed that it's about a ransom. I don't know for sure. But I've been told that if you understand the terms, I'm to stay with my present rental car. If you don't know what's being asked, I'm to change to another rental car company. So I don't need to know anything about the … arrangements. All I need to know is whether you understand the …” He gestured toward the letter that dangled from Walter's fingers “… the document,” he concluded.

Walter nodded slowly, indicating that he understood. He folded the letter carefully and slipped it back inside its envelope.

The visitor raised the automatic pistol. “Then I won't be needing this anymore.”

“No,” Walter agreed. “You can put it away.”

The man released the ammunition magazine and pulled the slide to show an empty chamber. “It wasn't loaded. But I thought you might attack me before you understood that I'm in no way involved. I mean, I would never hurt your wife. I have no idea what they're asking of you. Like I said, all I'm really doing is reporting a crime. That doesn't make me a criminal, does it?”

He stood slowly, slipping the pistol into the side pocket of his suit jacket. “I really hope that everything works out well for you.”

Walter glared back, about to spring toward the man's throat.

“Oh, just one more thing. My instructions said that they had left something for you in your mailbox.”

Walter rushed past the man and out the front door. He was tearing the package open as he ran back up the driveway from the mailbox. In the dim light of the foyer, he recognized the contents: Emily's wedding and engagement rings rolled together in tissue. He looked up into the living room, wondering if his messenger knew what had been left as proof that his wife had been taken. But the man was gone.

He squeezed the rings in his hands as he pumped up the stairs. Their bedroom was in disarray, with Emily's tennis things scattered on the floor. He turned into the bathroom and saw the broken curtain rings on the carpet before he realized that the shower curtain was missing. Then he noticed the bra and pants next to the laundry hamper. It was obvious that they had caught her while she was changing from her morning tennis game, probably while she was in the shower. With the curtain ripped away, the rings broken, and the carpeting soaked, he guessed that she had put up a straggle. “Oh, Jesus …” There was a small red stain surrounding the drain, where bloody water had run out.

He went back into the bedroom and walked around in an aimless circle as he tried to imagine the scene. The more he
thought about it, the more violent the image became until he bolted out of the room to keep from becoming sick. He took the back stairs down to the kitchen, pausing to notice the water stains at the top step. This was how they took her out, he thought, still soaking wet from her shower. He picked up the kitchen telephone and dialed.

Angela picked up on the third ring.

“I've got to see you in the morning, early,” he said in an angry staccato.

“What's wrong?”

“Emily … she's been kidnapped …”

He could hear the air escaping from Angela's lungs. Then a gasp, which was all she seemed able to manage.

“Did you hear me? She's been kidnapped. I've got a ransom note. Jesus, I was coming home to tell her … about us … and someone had taken her.”

Angela's voice was soft and calm. “Did you call the police?”

“I can't. They'll kill her.”

“Oh my God … dear God! You've got to get her back. Do whatever they ask … anything … you've got to get her back.”

Emily had just plunged the pruning shears into Walter's chest and was taking great satisfaction in the bewildered expression that had flashed across his face. “Emily, this isn't like you. You're not a violent person. You're supposed to forgive me,” Walter was saying as his knees slowly buckled.

“Oh,” Emily taunted, “did you expect me to just go quietly? Without a scene?”

Walter's knees hit the floor. “A scene, of course. But this?” He gestured to the round handles that were sticking out of his chest. Slowly he rolled over onto his side. His efforts to talk became a gurgle. Emily smiled as she watched him writhe in agony, sick from the taste of his own blood, his strength ebbing away. But as she began to feel her own consciousness, she realized that she was the one who felt sick to her stomach and whose strength had deserted her. She couldn't move her
arms or even raise her head. When she opened her eyes, she was blinded by a white glow. Only by squinting could she make out the pattern of perfect squares coming through the white background.

She was on her back, looking up at a ceiling of sound-deadening tiles. There was a ceiling just like it in the finished basement of the first house she and Walter had owned. She struggled to raise her head and was able to see the tops of the walls, light fake wood panels, framed out with rough furring strips. When she tried to sit up, she found out why her arms felt so heavy. Her wrists were handcuffed around the wooden crossbar of the headboard. She was chained onto a bed. She glanced down and saw that she was on a plain mattress with no bedding and was wearing a heavy, plaid nightgown that she had never seen before.

“Oh, you're awake.” It was a woman's voice, neither rude nor pleasant but simply stating a fact. Emily turned her head trying to locate the sound, but she was suddenly engulfed in a wave of nausea.

“I'm going to be sick.”

“No, you won't. That's just the drug. It takes a while to wear off.” The woman stepped into view, leaning over the bed. She had a long, thin face with narrow eyes and a prominent Roman nose. Her hair was jet black and cut off abruptly just below her ears. The part, which showed traces of gray, was as straight as a laser beam, and the narrow lips were colored to a dark maroon that was nearly black. She was in her forties, fitted out to look twenty and achieving midthirties. She seemed very competent, projecting all the authority of a top executive's private secretary.

She took Emily's face in her hand and turned it slowly from side to side. “They probably used Demerol. That shit can give you a nasty hangover. Sodium pentathol is faster, and there aren't any aftereffects.”

“Where am I?” Emily managed.

“That's not important,” the woman answered. “What's important is that you're alive and well. And you'll stay that way as long as you do as you're told.”

Emily lifted her head a bit higher. “A basement? Am I in a basement?”

“It's a cellar in a house. An old dump in the middle of nowhere. There's no way out except those stairs …” she nodded to Emily's left “… and there's a gentleman up there you really don't want to meet.”

Emily followed the direction of the gesture. There was a flight of steps, covered with a faded carpet, that led to a closed door. “How did I get here?”

The woman laughed. “In a shower curtain. You've been shipped around like a sack of mail.”

“You drugged me … you kidnapped me.”

“Hell, no. Kidnapping is a little out of my line. All I'm getting paid for is keeping you off the streets and that's all I'm doing. This is someone else's scam. Someone told me you were coming and the same person is going to tell me when you're going. In the meantime, you and I have to do our best not to get on each other's nerves.”

Emily wiggled on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position. “Please. Can you free my hands. My arms are hurting.”

“Sure! If you promise not to try anything silly.”

Emily nodded. The woman immediately went around behind the bed and snapped the shackles off one wrist, then the other. Slowly, Emily was able to drag her hands down and begin massaging her wrists. “God,” she sighed blissfully.

“There's a toilet over there,” the woman said, pointing to the stall formed by a framed-out wall. Emily looked. There was no door, just the most basic kind of enclosure. “And there's a table for your meals.” Emily followed her eyes in the other direction. A folding metal chair was positioned next to an aluminum camping table. “I'm not a chef and the guy upstairs can't even boil water, so you won't be getting a menu. But you won't starve.”

“Please, can I have some water …”

“There's a sink in the bathroom.” The woman had already started toward the stairs. Emily saw a floral blouse over designer jeans and flats. “I'll bring down some paper cups.”

There was a brief flash of light as she opened the door and then darkness at the top of the stairs when she closed it behind her.

Emily vaguely recognized her. Not the woman who had just left her, but a blonde-headed version who had appeared in the paperwork of the Urban Center. A grifter who had swindled twelve thousand dollars and then claimed that she needed a public defender. The center had provided one and the lawyer had gotten the woman off on a technicality. Her name was Rita. Rita Lipton, followed on the rap sheet with a string of ethnic aliases that announced everyplace from Park Avenue to Calcutta. Emily remembered laughing at her gifted imagination. She wondered what name she was signing to her bad checks now. And the change in her appearance was equally creative, but Emily guessed that hair dye and cosmetics were tools of her trade.

She sat up and was immediately dizzy. Her head felt heavy and the bed began to bob like a small boat. She clutched at the edge of the mattress and then swung her feet one at a time onto the floor. It was icy cold; a plain cement floor that had been painted a light gray. There were scuff marks along the walls where furniture or other heavy objects had been dragged. Electric outlets poked through the paneling, along with switches that controlled the lights buried translucent panels in the ceiling.

She could see what had been done. A basement—maybe even a garage—had been finished off with a drop ceiling and wall panels. The bathroom had been started but never completed. Judging by the scuff marks, the space had probably been used for storage and then emptied out in anticipation of her arrival. “Home, sweet home,” she managed wryly.

She pushed herself to her feet, wobbled, and then held onto the headboard to steady herself. It was a heavy wooden bed, probably out of an institution, with vertical rungs connected to a slightly curved crosspiece to form a headboard. It sat in the center of the room, completely out of place, as were the camping table and chair and the single wooden Adirondack lawn chair with a green canvas cushion. A place to eat, a
place to sit down, and a place to sleep, she thought. All the essentials.

Emily walked slowly toward the bathroom. A toilet with a cracked seat cover. A roll of paper hanging from a wire coat hanger that had been nailed to one of the exposed studs. A basin bolted between a pair of studs with a single cold water tap. All the essentials.