“No,” she snapped, digging her fingers painfully into his
thigh. “Please.” Her voice softened. “Please don't go any
where.” She pressed his thigh more gently and then rose to
her feet. The woman shrugged off Baker's jacket and,
making no effort to cover herself other than turning her
back to him, she carefully slipped her arms into the cool
fabric of her sleeves. It chilled her. Baker stood and
stripped off his sweater, offering it to her as she buttoned her blouse. She took it, thanking him with her eyes, and slipped it over her head. Once more, Baker covered her
shoulders with his jacket. Closing it across her chest, she
hugged herself and stared into the darkness. He knew she was remembering.
“They had knives,” she said, her voice dull.
“Yes.” He drew the suede lapels together at her throat. “But don't worry about them now. They can't hurt you.”
“But how did you . . . There were two of them and they
were afraid of you. You don't seem .. ”
”I don't know. We'd better get going.”
“The big one. He was going to cut me if you did any
thing.”
Baker took her arm and steered her toward the east-
bound path. He held her until he was sure she could walk
steadily.
“We should call the police,” she said.
“There's no need.” Baker listened hard for some sign that she knew their names. At least the one who knew his. But he
heard nothing. Felt nothing.
“But look what they ... They could hurt somebody else.”
“They won't,” he promised. “Not for a very long time. It might help you to remember that.”
She stared for a long moment into the darkness. “It still doesn't seem right,” she said finally, a swell of anger push
ing through the fear. “They grabbed me. Right out on the sidewalk they grabbed me and they pulled me in here. God
damn
it, they should go to jail.”
Baker felt himself relax. She didn't know them. And she
didn't know him either. Whatever was happening, whatever
Abel was causing to happen, she need not be a part of it any
longer.
“Put it behind you,” he urged gently. “If you call the po
lice, you'll feel better for only a little while. But you'll
spend years answering useless questions about tonight.”
Her eyes clouded. It seemed as though there was another
reason for calling the police. That other man in there. The
one who hurt them. There was something terrible about him.
This man? No, not like this one. He was like this one, but... The picture danced away from her.
“Let's just get out of here,” she said.
She was silent as they walked slowly down the east side of
Fifth Avenue, a street width away from the black stone walls
of the park. By the time they reached the Frick Museum she
was trembling. An aftershock was setting in. She would
seize one shaking hand with the other and the quiver would
leap at once to her elbow. Baker listened.
Approaching a streetlamp, Baker saw the wet line
gleaming across her high cheekbone and curling down her
throat. He stopped and fumbled, patting for a handkerchief
he knew he didn't carry. Then, with his fingertips, he wiped away one welling tear and held her, drying her face against
his shirt.
”I feel so cheap,” she sniffed.
“Don't you dare.”
“You don't. . . you don't know what I mean.”
“You were remembering their screams,” he said. “You
were remembering the way they must have hurt. It made you
feel better and you don't like that in yourself.”
For a moment, she didn't move or speak. Then, not look
ing up: “How did you know that?”
I've had the feeling is what he almost answered. ”I don't
know” is what he said.
They were near the Pierre Hotel. Baker gestured with a
thumb. “The bar will still be open if a drink might help. You
can use the ladies' room to ...”
She shook her head. ”I don't want anyone to see me.”
“Does that matter? Except for wearing my clothes, you
don't look bad at all.”
“People will recognize me.”
Baker affected a shrug, pretending not to understand.
“
There are other places. Or I'll take you home. Tell me
where you want to go.”
She looked up at him, through his tinted glasses, into
eyes that were a soft gray in that light. She saw no recogni
tion in them. It bothered her. Not so much that he didn't
know her, but the flash of intuition that told her he didn't
want to know her.
“My home is in Idaho but I'm living in California. I'm
mostly a skier.”
Baker remembered, but he did not react.
“Except now I'm mostly an actress. I've made two
movies and I've been on TV a lot. Maybe you've seen me in
something.” Oh damn, she thought, why did I say all that.
He'll think I'm a perfect
ass.
Baker smiled. “Now that you mention it,” he said. ”I
didn't place you before.”
It was a lie of course. Baker had heard when Jace called
her by name and when he called her Hollywood. And he
knew the face. He'd seen it many times. He saw it a hundred
years ago with Sarah at his side, watching her hand out tro
phies for a junior girls' slalom meet in Stratton, Vermont. Tina especially knew her. Tina had finished third. And her reward from Baker was a parka like the one Tanner Burke wore. Her reward to herself was to fix her hair in the long
layered cut of Tanner Burke and to ski like her and walk like
her in that confident, striding way she had. To toss her long,
loose curls when she laughed and to tilt her head when she
grinned. Now Baker grinned to himself. He imagined Tina's
eruption if he ever told her that he'd met Tanner Burke . . . Oh, Daddy, you actually talked to her? What did she say?
Weren't you nervous? Is she like she is in the movies? Don't
tell me if she isn't nice. She is, isn't she? Did you tell her I
still have her picture? Did you tell her she's my absolute
most intense favorite?
And he'd seen her since. During the endless lonely hours
of what Sonnenberg called his pupation, he'd
seen her
on the
television screen. He'd looked for her there. By that time,
she'd become more than Tina's idol in Baker's mind. She'd
become a link that held him just the smallest bit closer to
Tina when he could not be with her. For that reason, or for
another, she grew on him. He saw her face often in televi
sion movies and in Clairol commercials. And once he even
left one of Sonnenberg's sessions to watch her on a celebrity
ski tournament.
Baker knew her. And someday he'd tell Tina. But for
now, he thought, this particular night had better pass without
their lives being further linked, except in memory.
“My name is Tanner,” she said, looking at the sidewalk.
“Tanner Burke.”
“Hello, Tanner.” He took her arm again to start her walk
ing. “You're staying at a hotel then. The Plaza?”
Tanner Burke nodded. “Well?” she asked.
“I'm sorry?”
“You haven't told me your name.” She paused with him
on the sidewalk of the General Motors Building before
crossing toward the Plaza.
“It's . . . Harry,” he answered. “Harry Mailander.”
“Harry?” Her eyes flicked up. “You hesitated just then.”
“Just thinking,” he said. “You should be all right from here if you don't mind walking through the lobby in my sweater. I'll watch you until you're inside.”
Her pulse in the arm he was holding took a hitch. He felt
it through his fingertips. She hesitated, then put a hand on
his and held it. For reasons she could not yet sort out, his
suggestion startled her. It was true that she was safe
enough. The hotel entrances on Central Park South and on
the fountain side were brightly lit and each would have a
doorman near. But she'd be alone. He'd let go of her arm
and the awfulness of what had happened would come flood
ing back, and he would not be there to blur it. The trembling
would return, and if she turned back toward him he'd be
gone and she'd wonder whether he had ever been there at
all
...
There was that too. It hadn't struck her until now and
it came with a shudder. Those screams. The gagging terror of the one who'd sat on her, and the horror she could feel in
that huge and vicious man who'd held the knife against her
breast . . . This man had caused that. This tender man.
Harry?
“Harry Mailander,” she repeated. “Why do I think that
name doesn't fit you? Why do I think it isn't even your name?”
Baker couldn't help but smile. Her perceptiveness
pleased him. He knew, of course, that she might have some
dim memory of him speaking Abel's name or of Abel speak
ing his, but it was more than that. He could feel it. And he
knew that she could sense something real beneath whatever
name he chose to use, and knowing that made him feel less
the invention of another man.
“It's nice to see you smile, though.” She answered with a
tentative grin of her own. “Another feeling I have is that you
don't smile very often. But you should.”
Baker flushed, but the grin remained.
From inside Baker's jacket, she drew out an American
Airlines ticket envelope she'd seen when he placed it over
her shoulders. “If I look at this,” she asked, her own smile
fading, “will it say Harry Mailander?”
“I'd rather you didn't.”
She stopped again and faced him as he gently took the envelope from her and returned it to its place. Her eyes
showed hurt and then anger.
“Well, Harry or whatever-your-name-is, I want to know why not.” Her hands went to her hips. ”I mean, I don't want
to sound full of myself, but most men I meet want me to re
member them. You don't even want me to know your name.”
Baker touched her cheek. “I'll remember you,” he said
softly, “and I'll think about you. And yes, I'd very much like
you to remember me.”
“As Harry Mailander? Why not John Doe?”
“Tanner.” He took her hand in his. He thought her eyes
softened when he spoke her name. “Tanner, there are two
very badly hurt men in the park. The bigger one might even
die. I don't know why any of that happened, but I'm going
to try to walk quietly away from it. I hope you will too.
There are other reasons why I can't say or do what I'd like, but that's a big one. I can't get involved with ... that park
business.”
Tanner Burke studied him
,
trying to absorb him. She
opened her mouth to speak, to say to him that she'd never
t
ell his name. Not even if all she had depended on it. But she
said nothing. She knew that a promise would never be
enough. Not for him. There was something surreal about
him. Something shadowy. As if he was one of those crea
tures who existed only after dark. But that wasn't right.
There was the airline ticket. And it made him real. If not
here, then in whatever place he came from. Someplace
where he said good morning to the neighbors and where he had friends and where anyone who knew him could talk to
him anytime they wanted. But she couldn't. Once again, it
struck her that if she turned away or shut her eyes, he might
well be gone when she looked up again. She reached to
touch him so that could not happen. So that he couldn't leave. Being with him, his gentleness, his touching and
warming her, had thrown a cloak across the horror of the
park, and now he was going to pull the cloak away.
He couldn't leave her.
“Can you stay with me awhile longer?''
she asked, her
voice small.