No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale (24 page)

Since at last count my bank account had had exactly $267.50 in it, I wasn’t sure I could exactly relate. But at least he hadn’t been offended.

Apparently noticing that I had stopped eating, he asked, “Are you ready to pack this up, then?”

“I couldn’t eat another bite,” I honestly replied. Everything had been fabulous, but there were limits—Ennis had packed enough for four people.

“Very good.” He began to gather the half-eaten food and wrap it up, but he did it somewhat clumsily, as if he hadn’t much experience with that sort of thing.

“Let me help,” I offered, taking a partially wrapped hunk of cheese from him. As a waitress I certainly had plenty of opportunity to wrap up leftovers, and I made short work of the remaining food.

Once I was done, he piled everything into the basket and picked it up. “Shall we?” he asked, and I followed him out of the gazebo down a flagstone path that led back toward the house.

Our return was slow and meandering, as he detoured to show me the herb garden planted outside the kitchen, the pergola off the library that was covered in genuine grapevines—“mediocre fruit at best,” he told me, “but at least it looks picturesque”—and the ornamental pool over which the willows bent, trailing their fingers in the water. A few koi moved gracefully through the jade-colored water, giving off flashes of gold and white and copper in the midday sun.

As I walked beside him, listening as he spoke of the gardens and the variety of landscapes his grandmother had had planted when they built this place, part of me wished that this was all it could be—just the two of us, enjoying this lovely home together, taking pleasure in one another’s company. But that wasn’t all it appeared to be, unfortunately. No matter how charming he was, how solicitous of my well-being, the ugly fact remained that he was forcing me to be here. I couldn’t just walk out the front door and say, “I had a lovely time, Erik. Give me a call tomorrow and we’ll have lunch.”

No, he had spoiled whatever could have been between us through that one heinous act. I wouldn’t lie to myself—an attraction existed between us that wasn’t entirely one-sided, and I certainly couldn’t say that I disliked his company—far from it. In fact, painful as it was for me to admit it, in some ways I enjoyed being with him more than I enjoyed being with Randall.
 

But he had taken from me the power to choose him, and that had been his one fatal blunder. Now that I knew I was somewhere still in reach of civilization, I had to at least try to escape. How and when, I had no idea, but sooner rather than later, of that much I was sure.

At length we reached the house, making our way inside through the same French doors in the small salon where he had led me outside the day before. The depths of the house seemed dim and shadowy after the bright sunlight outside, and I had to blink several times to adjust my eyes to the change.

Ennis appeared from nowhere to take the basket from Erik. “Everything to your liking, sir?”

“Wonderful, Ennis—thank you.” Erik looked over at me. “Did you enjoy it, Christine?”

“It was marvelous,” I said warmly, and was gratified to see Ennis smile back at me. Then I thought,
Of course. Ennis
. He was the only one who obviously hadn’t participated in this kidnapping plot. There was nothing in his kind, still-distinguished face that showed any evidence of duplicity. Of course, Erik had apparently convinced him that I was some sort of paranoid schizophrenic who was only functional when heavily doped up with lithium, but there had to be
 
a way for me to convince him that I was the victim in all this. I knew he would help me escape once he knew the truth.

“Very good, miss,” Ennis said, then left, taking the picnic basket with him.
 

I looked up at Erik, hoping that my features didn’t betray the turmoil I was feeling. “Would you mind if I went to my room for a while? I suppose I’m not used to that much sun after all those days inside.”

“Not at all,” he replied, his tone immediately solicitous. “I should have thought of that before dragging you all over the gardens—”

“Oh, I’ll be fine if I just lie down for a while,” I said hastily. If he were going to feel guilty over me, then at least he should feel guilty over something real and not one of my manufactured excuses.
 

“Of course.”

Again he led up up the now-familiar staircase to my room. We paused outside as he reached in his pocket for the key; then, as he slipped it into the lock and turned it, I reached out and laid my hand on his. His fingers were slender and strong beneath mine, still warm from the lingering effects of the sun.

“Do you really think that’s still necessary?” I asked softly.

He paused. The slightest tremor went through the hand holding the key, but he said nothing.

Keeping my tone still gentle, with the slightest trace of pleading, I said, “Where do you think I would go? I heard the cars going past the gazebo earlier. I could have screamed for help if I had wanted to.”

Still he was silent, but I could almost feel the physical force of his gaze as he stared down me, as if he were trying to rip the truth from my mind. Then at length he asked, the words barely above a whisper, “Do you truly mean that?”

Hating myself, I forced the lie past my lips. “I do mean that. But if we’re to—to be together at all, then surely you can understand why I don’t want to feel like a prisoner in this place.”

“Christine, I—” and then he fell silent, as if he were afraid to betray himself by speaking any further.

It was too late. I had already heard the break in his voice as he said my name, and I could feel my eyes sting with sudden tears. Damn him—why couldn’t I just hate him and leave it at that? Why did I feel this overwhelming sense of betrayal? Why did I find it so hard to remember that I was the victim here?

Quickly, before I had time to react, he took my hand from his and then raised it to his mouth. His breath was warm on my skin, the feel of his lips delicate, like the brush of a butterfly’s wing. Then he let go of me, and pushed the door inward.

“I can deny you nothing, it seems,” he said, and suddenly his voice sounded very weary.
 

Not knowing what else to do, I stepped inside and gently closed the door behind me. I waited for the inevitable sound of the key turning in the lock, but it never came. After a few moments, I put my hand on the door knob. It turned easily, but I did not open the door. Instead, I leaned my head against the lintel and suddenly, foolishly, began to weep.

“You
what
?” Jerome glared at him, unbelieving.

“I left her door unlocked,” Erik replied. Jerome’s rage would have been amusing if it weren’t for the fact that underneath his calm, Erik himself was a bit unnerved by the audacity of the move. Of course he had planned to take this step at some point, but not so soon, not even a week after Christine had arrived. Of course Jerome was furious, but Jerome hadn’t been there, hadn’t heard the faint tremor in her voice, seen the pleading in those shimmering sea-colored eyes. She had been right—how could they make any progress in their relationship if she continually thought of herself as his prisoner?

“She’s trouble,” Jerome said ominously.
 

“We knew that from the beginning,” Erik said, his voice smooth, although he was beginning to be irritated. After all, he was paying Jerome to do what he was told, not offer opinions.

“I don’t mean that kind of trouble. The kidnapping was a calculated risk, but it went off fine. I mean that she’s too smart for her own good. And that’s what gets a woman into trouble.”

At that Erik laughed and was gratified to see Jerome scowl. “I would never have taken you for a misogynist, Jerome.”

“Oh, I like women just fine, sir. That’s not my point.”

“And just what is your point?” Erik pushed his chair away from the desk and stood, going to the table by the window where his decanter of cognac sat. He poured himself a modest amount, pointedly not offering Jerome any—not that Jerome would have accepted it. Erik had never seen the man drink.

“My point is that I’ve seen plenty of women, both smart and dumb, get themselves into trouble. The problem with the smart ones is that they usually drag other people along with them.” The man’s blue eyes narrowed; his expression was not pleasant. “She’s playing you, sir.”

The rage welled up in him at Jerome’s casually cruel words, but Erik forced himself to take a calming sip of his cognac instead of lashing out at his assistant. “You know nothing about her,” he said at length, deliberately keeping his tone cold and distant.
 

“Maybe I don’t, but I know plenty about women. They’ll say and do what they have to to survive. Can’t even blame them, really—they definitely got dealt a short hand out of the biological deck. But that doesn’t mean I trust them—especially not one who’s cornered, like Christine.”

A small, hidden part of him wanted to acknowledge Jerome’s statements, since the man had had far more experience of the world than he, but Erik forced those pernicious thoughts away. Christine was not like that. Jerome had not seen the look in her eyes as she made her request, and Jerome hadn’t seen the easy way she had laughed and talked with him throughout that magical sunlit afternoon. Perhaps the scum Jerome had to deal with during his time with the FBI and as a private investigator soured him so much that he thought all women incapable of loyalty and compassion. Whatever the case, Jerome was obviously incapable of understanding Christine’s motivations. He could not comprehend anything that was pure.

“I’m afraid you have little grasp of the situation, Jerome,” Erik said at length. He was pleased to see the man’s color rise slightly, his eyes narrow. But of course Jerome could not give in to his anger around Erik. “You may go now.”

With that he turned to look out the window, effectively dismissing Jerome. He could hear his assistant hesitate for a moment, then say very quietly, “I’ll still be watching her.” But he gave Erik no time for a rebuttal, as he left immediately, closing the door with more force than was strictly necessary.

“You do that,” Erik murmured, then lifted the glass of cognac to his lips once more. It would actually please him to have Jerome watch Christine and find nothing suspect. It would please him to be able to prove the man wrong, show him that his infallible knowledge of human nature wasn’t so infallible after all.
 

It bordered on the ridiculous, really. Erik doubted very much that Jerome had ever met a woman exactly like Christine. In fact, Erik doubted that there
was
another woman exactly like Christine. She was a rare treasure, from her exquisite face to her magnificent voice to the agile mind behind it all. And now she was offering that treasure to him, unbelievable as it seemed. He could still feel the pressure of her delicate hand on his, the velvet texture of her skin against his lips. The thought of her gracing his home as an honored guest and future mistress instead of a prisoner pleased him very much.

“To freedom,” he said aloud, and drank again.
 

Chapter 18

Detective Ortiz stood on the front porch of Christine’s bungalow, waiting for her landlord to show up and let him in. The man had some unpronounceable Greek name—Ortiz had to check his notes and read through it one more time to try to get it straight.
Panagapoulos
. He just hoped he wouldn’t mangle it too badly once the man actually got here.

The potted plants on the porch were already wilting, he noticed. Other than that, there was no real sign that the bungalow’s inhabitant had been missing for a week—no papers piled on the front step, no overflowing mailbox. Probably she didn’t get much, except for bills and advertising circulars.

It was quiet here, late morning on a weekday. The neighborhood consisted of other, mostly larger, bungalows built about the same time as Christine’s, and a few two-story clapboard farmhouse types that had probably bridged the gap between the late 1800s and the early years of this century. Nothing here to show that anything untoward had happened to explain Miss Daly’s disappearance.

A late-model Lincoln pulled up to the curb, looking distinctly out of place in the shabby working-class neighborhood. After a moment, a heavyset man in his late fifties hauled himself out of the driver’s seat and came up the walk to meet Ortiz. The man did not look at all pleased to be there.

“Mr. Panagapoulos?” Ortiz extended his hand. “I’m Detective Ortiz.”

Panagapoulos reached and shook Ortiz’s proffered hand. His clasp was damp and clammy. A big diamond sparkled on his ring finger. “You got the warrant?”

Ortiz gladly abandoned the handshake and pulled the paperwork out of his breast pocket. Unfolding it, he handed the piece of paper to Panagapoulos so he could see it for himself. The man made a show of reading it closely, but Ortiz knew everything was in order.

“Ah, okay,” the man said finally, pulling a heavy key ring out of his pants pocket. “Strange business, huh?”

“Mm-hmm,” Ortiz said, trying to sound noncommittal.

Panagapoulos opened the door and pushed it inward. “Okay if I stay out here? I want to smoke.”

Inwardly Ortiz cheered—nothing was more annoying than tripping over an unnecessary observer when he was trying to conduct an investigation—but he only said, “Sure, no problem. This will only take a few minutes.”

Christine’s landlord only gave a brief grunt in reply—he was already occupied with lighting his cigarette.
 

That was good enough for Ortiz. He stepped into the tiny living room, noting the seen-better-days shabbiness of the furniture, the clutter of books on the built-in shelves. A light layer of dust lay over everything, but other than that the place was scrupulously clean. A drop-leaf table to one side had obviously functioned as her computer desk; he could see one of those portable printers you used with a laptop still sitting on the table, but the computer itself was nowhere in evidence.
 

Nothing looked to have been disturbed—several textbooks lay stacked next to the printer, and a piece of sheet music sat open on the music stand of the tiny spinet. The roller blinds were pulled all the way down on all the windows, but if Christine truly had last been here on Thanksgiving evening, there was nothing particularly unusual about closed blinds. He didn’t know too many single young women who would have gone around at night with the blinds open.