Freedom Bridge: A Cold War Thriller (26 page)

Prologue

R
eflections. The diamond at her throat, flashing splinters of orange. The crystal chandelier, out of range of her roaring fire but dancing with candlelight.

Her tight grip on the telephone?

Reflection of a holiday mood gone sour . . .

“Karen, for God’s sake,” she protested into the phone. “What are you trying to do, scare me to death? Tonight of all nights,” she said, willing her voice to turn calm.

“Utter privacy is a mixed blessing, isn’t it?”

“I love it now,” she lied. “After three years, even a city dweller gets used to the Westchester woods.”

But she never had.

“So much crime, these days. It worries me. I was reading—”

“On the West Side of Manhattan, maybe,” she cut in, “not out here.”

But she’d been reading about it, too. Burglars from New York and  NewJersey heading for the suburbs. Looking for bigger game. Burglars with wheels . . . and what else, guns? Knives?

“Sarah, your alarm system—”

“My security blanket, you mean,” she admitted drily. “We had it upgraded while you were away. Goes off in the police station now. The cops are on the scene in five minutes tops. Hold on while I check the roast.”

On the way to the kitchen, she glanced in the mirror. The full treatment, she thought, pleased with
this
reflection, at least. Black satin lounging pajamas. Slippers with stiletto-thin heels. Blonde hair looking sleek, straight, and sexy, just the way Mark liked it.

All’s well in the dinner department,
she thought, sniffing and prodding, practically sailing back to the living room, her festive mood restored.

“Listen, killjoy,” she said, cocking an ear to the phone, “no more raining on my parade, okay? You’re supposed to say—”

“Happy anniversary, I know. Don’t mind me, dear. Tonight will be very special.”

“Starting with my table. Wish you could see it!”

“As exquisite as that? Draw me a picture.”

“My centerpiece would knock your socks off. Mark’s too, I hope. Masses of tiger lilies, the most glorious shade of orange—”

“In a black vase, of course.”

“Darn right.”

“What else?”

“Candlelight, crystal, and the good china.” She smiled. “Artfully arranged on a lace tablecloth—that wispy silvery one, remember? Goes with the glasses.”

She touched the delicate rim of a smoky, long-stemmed champagne glass. Ran a finger along the intricate pattern of a sterling-silver knife. Picked up the knife just to enjoy the weight of it in her hand.

“I even liberated a couple of place settings from the safe-deposit box—”

She could have bitten her tongue.

“Since when do you keep your sterling in the bank? Have there been any burglaries near you, Sarah?”

“Don’t be silly. People around here play it safe, that’s all.”

People around here don’t want their sterling—not to mention their jewelry—carted off in a pillowcase while they’re out to dinner
.

“What are you sighing about?” she asked.

“I just wish Mark didn’t take these night classes.”

“Mark doesn’t
take
them. They’re assigned. Besides, I’ve never minded.” Another lie.  “Don’t start, Karen. You’re making me jumpy all over again.”

“Don’t blame
me
. You were always jumpy on Halloween.”

“And you’re a big help. Hold on again, okay? I had a hard time getting the fire started and it’s looking a bit feeble.”

Lie number three.  She was having a hard time holding her temper. She took her impatience out on a log that her robust fire didn’t need, teetering on the damn heels as she struggled with the iron tongs, hair rippling around her shoulders.

Like liquid gold, Mark would say.

The tongs back in place, she gave the radio dial a defiant twist, then said into the phone, “Mood music.”

“I can hear the lyrics all the way down here. So could your neighbors if you had any.”

“Wise guy.  Don’t worry, I switch to Brahms the minute Mark walks in the door.”

“When
is
he walking in?”

“Best guess? Half an hour. Why don’t we play catch-up while we’re waiting? Tell me about your presentation. Bet you snared the account.”

“Before I even took off my coat.”

“They don’t pay you enough, you know that? When I think—”

“Boo, mommy, boo!”

She whirled around, almost dropping the phone, then laughed at the small masked figure in the doorway above.

“Only ghosts say ‘boo,’ darling.”

“Oink, oink.”

“Thata girl. Now off to bed, Miss Piggy.”

“Rhyme, rhyme, you owe me a dime!”

“Stop stalling, Susie. Tell you what. You get
three
dimes for three rhymes under the pillow by morning
—if
you’re in bed by the count of five. Ready? One . . . two . . . three . . . ”

She retrieved the phone. “Susie is still keyed up. Lots of little trick-or-treaters made house calls.”

“Ghost and hobgoblin time . . .”

“You’re dating yourself, kiddo. These days, it’s characters out of
Star Wars
and the
Muppets
. Me, I’m nostalgic. I prefer ghosts and hobgoblins.”

“Isn’t that your doorbell?”

“What’s on the other end of that line, Karen, an amplifier?”

“Why would Mark ring? Could he have forgotten his keys?”

“Not likely. Probably some last-minute trick-or-treaters. No home-by-eight in the suburbs. Be right back.”

She pressed her face to frosted glass and grinned, feeling like a kid again as she picked out the slightly distorted shapes. Kids draped in sheets, clustered around one little Muppet in green. All of them were holding tight to their goody bags.

“Would you believe old-fashioned ghosts outside my door?” she chuckled into the phone. “Takes me all the way back.”

“Sarah, maybe you better—”

“Oh, and one modern touch,” she said. “An adorable little Muppet frog. Hang in there while I distribute the loot. Homemade candied apples this year, if you please!”

She held a silver platter of apples in one hand. With the other, she turned a key. A chip of light next to the doorknob went from unblinking red to bright yellow. She opened the door.

They pushed in on her so that she teetered precariously, almost dropping the platter. “Hey you little roughnecks,” she scolded, “I was about to hand you—”

Except for the frog, they weren’t so little, she thought. She counted seven ghosts as they fanned out into the foyer . . . the dining area . . . the living room.

She opened her mouth to yell at them—

And was cut off by a howl. They were howling and whooping!

A brown hand flipped the radio dial, turning up the volume.

She took an automatic step backward as a ghost moved in on her. A denim sleeve shot out from under a sheet, tilting the silver platter. The candied apples went flying.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she gasped when she saw where he was headed.

He was piling up her silverware
.

“Put it back, damn you!”

But he didn’t. Then one of them, a ghost like the others but with a black hood, approached her table—her exquisite table—and she didn’t move to stop him because he had picked up a knife. A vicious yank of the tablecloth sent her crystal and china to the stone floor with a splintering crash. An overturned vase spilled water, drowning the flame of a candle.

Black Hood advanced on her—

But stopped short while the frog took his picture.

She could almost feel him smiling under his mask as he stood there holding the knife as he waited for the picture to develop. Instant results from an Instamatic . . .

Her head swayed to the crazy rhythm. Ghosts wearing sneakers and running shoes. Thick denim legs, weaving and bobbing. Hands that grabbed, ripped out, piled up, tore through, smashed aside—

And stopped, they kept stopping while a frog took their picture.

Insanity!

She snapped out of it with a jolt. Inching sideways, step by invisible step, she moved in the direction of the front door. She was almost there when Black Hood let out a yell. She lunged.

Her heels caught in the doormat as her hand snaked out, missing the alarm’s panic button by an inch.

She went down.

Two of them dragged her toward the mess in the dining room. Water seeping into black satin . . . fabric tearing—and flesh. Her thigh scraping across broken glass.

The howling started up again, turned piercing—

And brought her, thrashing, to her feet.

Susie!

It was less a thought than a silent cry of panic that leapt to her eyes. That sent her glance up three steps to the doorway on the left. Had Black Hood noticed, damn him? He was coming over!

“Jewelry,” she told him. “Up there. The bedroom to the right. My jewels. My husband’s. Just open the—”

He cut her off with an imperious wave. Two of them went up without waiting for her to tell them where it was. But they’d stopped howling. And they’d gone in the opposite direction from Susie’s bedroom.

When they came out of the master bedroom with a pillowcase, she forced herself to turn away.

A few others disappeared into her kitchen and came out gnawing on a chicken breast. What turned her legs to rubber was that they’d let her see their faces.

Black Hood walked over to her. She backed away slowly.  She knew what the bastard

had noticed
this
time . . . the diamond pendant that had been her engagement ring. It rose and fell with her ragged pulse.  She had a flash-memory of telling Mark that, as much as she loved her engagement ring, it was too many carats to wear safely in public. With a rush of bitterness at the irony, she reached for the clasp. “Take it, it’s very valuable,” she told Black Hood. “Take your loot and get the hell out of my house.”

Her hands were still fumbling with the clasp when he ripped her blouse open to the waist.

They came at her like a wolf pack.

Her only weapon was a silent litany . . .

Susie, Susie. Dear God, let me be quiet for Susie.

Her arms were grabbed from behind.

Susie—

Her legs were yanked up, stripped, pulled apart.

Susie, Susie!

Her body was slammed against the wet stone floor.

As their leader whipped off his face mask, Sarah stared into utter vacancy . . . and shuddered at the thin slash of a mouth.  And because she dared not scream, dared not risk awakening her child, she gave in to tears.

His mouth twisted as his hand shot out, knocking her senseless.

Not quite senseless. She felt the tearing pain of forced penetration.

She felt it again . . . again—oh God, again and again! How much more could she endure?

“Hey, lookee, a natural blonde!”

They were gloating, howling, whooping over her, while someone kept yelling at them to stop—the frog?

She half raised her head in time with a flash of his camera.

More flashing, more howling, she was on the verge of howling herself, she was on the brink of unconsciousness—

She was yanked back by a squeal of laughter and an “oink oink.”

“Kermit! Mommy, it’s Kermit the Frog!”

Her scream went off like a delayed siren.

When Karen heard the scream, the telephone clattered to the rug, a strangely muffled sound.

She snatched it up again. “Sarah, in God’s name, tell me what’s happening!”

No voice to answer her. Only the sound of raucous disco and some weird repetitive howling. But she’d heard Susie’s voice babbling about a frog and a—a hermit?

She yelled Susie’s name into the phone. She yelled for Sarah.

She heard Sarah’s voice, heard her rage—

“No, don’t—not on my wedding anniversary! You’ve got the diamond, damn you to hell! What more do you—”

A scream
—
agonized.

She heard her own scream as she dropped the phone again.

Hang up. Get help.

But how would she get Sarah back?!

She heard the baby crying—so clear, so close to the phone.

“Somebody turn the fuckin’ brat off!”

Sobbing—deep-voiced. Sarah? Please God, Sarah?

“We better get outta here!”

“Shut your face and take your fuckin’ pictures.”

“Hey, anybody want some roast piggy?”

“Put those tongs down! Don’t hurt my baby!”

“Leave them alone! Don’t hurt them!”

“Shut your face, I tole ya! Wipe those prints, asshole.”

“Mommy, Mommy!”

“It’s all right, darling. Mommy’s coming. It’s all right.”

Sarah . . . so close she could almost reach through the wire and touch her.

“Sarah.”

It had come out a whisper.

“Sarahhhhhhhhhhhhh! ”

“Check out the phone! Hey, boss, we got us a motherfuckin’ snoop!”

“Sonofabitch . . .”

“—be afraid, Susie darling, it will be all—”

The sound that came through the phone stopped her in mid-scream. Dry, rasping—

She stared at the receiver.

What had she heard?

“Did you hear that, bitch? You get yourself a fuckin’ earful?”

What she heard next were sharp repetitive cries, a kind of whooping, like Indians on the warpath.

Then a click.

She was calm when she got the Bedford police on the line. She would have stayed calm if they hadn’t kept badgering her, wasting precious minutes with their questions. Who’s this calling? Where you calling from? Manhattan? How come you called in the emergency? Over and over they kept at it until she had to scream at them to shut them up, she couldn’t stop screaming.

“I’m her mother!”

Acknowledgments

K
ai Bowen — “The Computermeister” — has been helping me (and my husband) with hardware and software computer service and advice for years, both in person and remotely. Kai is very accessible, reasonably priced, and no problem I have ever had has stumped him. (See www.thecomputermeister.com). Any possible errors in
Freedom Bridge’s
German phrases are mine, not Kai’s.)

Judith Sansweet (
www.proofreadnz.co.nz
) put my text through the fires of professional proofreading as she polished the manuscript for print and digital publishing. I learned a great deal from Judith during the always delicate matter of editing an author’s writing, knowledge which I intend never to forget! (Deviations from the
Chicago Manual of Style
and Strunk’s
Elements of Style
reflect the author’s preferences and are entirely my doing, not Judith’s.)

Rita Samols ([email protected]), reading Freedom Bridge for pleasure, made considerably useful comments about the manuscript, for which I am very grateful.

To Tabatha Haddix, a fellow novelist (
www.tlhaddix.com
), my thanks for graciously, and with good cheer, altering my scheduling and consults with
Streetlight Graphics
numerous times.

Glendon Haddix of
Streetlight Graphics
has been an unmitigated pleasure to work with from Day One. His talent and subtlety, from book cover to graphics, and his ability to divine exactly what I wanted before I was fully able to express it, has been invaluable.

My gratitude to Robert Bidinotto, bestselling author of
Hunter.
Robert is a
very
old and valued friend who, over the years, has had unstinting praise for my novels. Thanks to his posting on P.J. Media entitled “10 Reasons You Should Skip Traditional Publishers and Self-Publish Ebooks,” I—and lots of other fiction writers—did just that. Perhaps Robert’s generosity can best be expressed by what he wrote me a few years ago: “It gives me great pleasure to help great writers!”

In my earlier novel,
Eye for an Eye
, my acknowledgment to my husband, Hank Holzer, reads: “To my first editor and best friend.” Even though he has asked me to keep it that simple this time around, I cannot oblige.
Freedom Bridge
is enriched throughout with Hank’s historical research and some dramatic turning points.

Oh, and he’s still my first editor and best friend!