No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale (29 page)

Put that way, it seemed to make a great deal more sense. Not as an excuse—oh, no, one could never excuse a capital crime—but as an explanation. Of course, it was possible I gave him far too much credit. He could be as mad as I had first thought him, a sociopath whose charm and talent hid a cunning mind that didn’t think of the consequences of his actions because for him there could be no consequences…but somehow I didn’t think so. There had been no mistaking the pain in his eyes when he realized I had been about to betray him and escape, just as his anguish had been obvious as he knelt to assist Ennis. His rage had been shocking, brilliant and painful as a bolt of lightning, but I didn’t think it had been premeditated. The thought that I had caused him so much pain was agonizing. The realization that I had probably destroyed whatever delicate rapport had begun to develop between us was almost as painful. I couldn’t hate him. I didn’t even want to try anymore. Had I only attempted to flee because I couldn’t bear to admit that I had come to love him?

All the hours we had spent together rose then in my mind, mocking my loneliness. Every smile, every laugh, every caressing mention of my name. I hadn’t wanted to acknowledge the feelings at the time, hadn’t wanted to admit to myself that every day I had become easier with him, had looked forward to seeing him. It had been easy to use my ignorance of men, of love, to dismiss everything Erik had come to mean to me. Only now, when faced with the very real prospect of a loss possibly greater than any I had yet experienced, did I realize that I couldn’t bear the thought of another day without him.

The feelings I thought I had had for Randall now seemed shallow, insignificant. Perhaps I had been more attracted to the idea of being with him than to Randall himself. Oh, we got along well enough, and he was undoubtedly attractive and fun to be with, but I had to admit that I had not spent a great deal of my time over the past week or so missing him. Of course I had worried about him, wondered how he was coping with my sudden disappearance, but Erik had so filled my time and my thoughts that Randall had been pushed very much to the background.
 

For the first time I lifted my eyes to my reflection in the mirror. I looked a little the worse for wear—there were shadows under my eyes, and my cheeks had none of their usual color, but I had weathered the night better than I had thought. My eyes were gray this morning, cloudy to match the skies outside and the sweater I had chosen to wear, and they were very solemn.
 

What if it is true?
I wondered.
What if he’s hiding a deformity just as dreadful as the one in the book or the play?
Did I have the strength to accept it? Could I look him full in the face and not flinch? Somehow I knew I would have to, if there was to be any kind of future for us. In the musical, Christine had betrayed the Phantom by tearing the mask from his tortured features. I could only hope that Erik might understand that I would be removing the mask not to hurt, but to heal.

Of course, that idea was predicated on the assumption that he would even allow me to see him again. How deeply had the knife cut last night? How badly had I really hurt him?

By now it was full daylight beyond the windows. I turned the radio back on and moved about the room, restless to find some occupation. Not much offered itself beyond the books, none of which appealed to me. Having come to some sort of decision, now knowing what I felt I must do, I felt even more chafed by my captivity. Also, I realized that I was quite hungry—quite understandable, since of course I hadn’t eaten since noon the day before, but as the time slowly slipped by, I began to wonder whether they were even going to deign to feed me. Finally, just after the radio announced it was nine o’clock in the morning, I heard the familiar turn of the key in the deadbolt.
 

Jerome, of course. Unsmiling, he brought in a tray with a bowl of cereal and some toast and dropped it with a noticeable clatter on the table across from my bed. He turned back toward the door, obviously not inclined to engage me in any sort of conversation, and I stood.

“How is Ennis?” I asked, amazed that my voice actually sounded steady.

He paused, then turned partway back toward me. His face looked impassive enough, but there was cold anger far back in those blue eyes. “Recovering,” he replied at length. “He should be out of ICU tomorrow.”

A rush of relief went through me. At least that much could be salvaged from the horror of the night before. “Thank God,” I said. Then I added, “Jerome, you know I never meant for any of that to happen—”

“Is there anything else?” he asked, cutting off my explanation. “I’ve got work to do.”

Something inside me quailed at the thought of asking anything else of him, but I knew I must. “Please—I really need to speak to Erik. I need to explain—”

“Haven’t you done enough already?” There was no mistaking the cold contempt in his voice. “He doesn’t want to see you. At least he’s not letting you starve—it’s more than you deserve.”

As I stared at him, momentarily shocked into speechlessness, he again turned and left for good this time. I could hear broken bits of pottery crunch under his heels as he exited the antechamber, and then the deadbolt turned once again.

For a long moment I remained standing, watching the closed door. And then, stupidly, I began to cry again.

“She wants to see you,” Jerome said. A pause, and then he continued, “Of course I told her that was impossible.”

“Of course,” Erik murmured. Why would she want to see him? What could she possibly have to say? More lies, no doubt.

He was more weary than he could say. It had been the middle of the night before he returned to the estate, only to find Jerome’s Range Rover already parked in the garage. Jerome had been waiting up for him, drained but politely furious. Had he no concept of the risk he had been taking? Christine had been left alone for hours—anything could have happened.
 

Erik hadn’t bothered to point out there was very little that could have actually gone wrong; she’d been locked securely in. Short of the house burning down, he couldn’t think why it mattered that she’d been left alone. After a brief inquiry into Ennis’s condition, he’d sent Jerome to bed, but Erik himself was unable to sleep until almost dawn. Even then his slumber had been troubled, the usual nightmares of pain and sharp blades, although now made worse by visions of Christine standing over the operating table, her face contorted with horror at the sight of his unveiled features.

Even now he reached up briefly to touch the reassuring smoothness of the mask, so real was his memory of that dream. He tried to recall a more comforting image of Christine—perhaps from the day of their picnic, the breeze catching her glorious dark hair, soft tendrils touched with copper and mahogany blowing around her face as her eyes looked almost aquamarine in the bright sunlight. Yes, that was better. If he thought hard enough, perhaps he could also erase the way she had looked last night, the soft flush leaving her cheeks as he advanced on her, the unmistakable fear in her eyes. If only he could forget the sound of her sobbing. The sound of her pain.

Jerome regarded him expectantly, as if he thought Erik was going to issue a new set of orders regarding Christine, but for the first time in a very long while he felt adrift, rudderless. So much energy and focus had gone into planning Christine’s abduction, planning her stay here, and although he had prepared for the contingency of an escape attempt along with every other worst-case scenario he and Jerome could dream up, he had let his guard down too much over the past few days. He’d been so convinced that she was warming to him, so sure she was close to returning his feelings. Now they were back to square one, with Christine once again locked up and obviously hostile, and Erik didn’t know what else to do. Could he keep her prisoner indefinitely? How could he not? She had been so willing to betray him—he knew she would go straight to the authorities if she were ever freed.

Although it was barely noon, he went to the table by the window that held a decanter of his favorite cognac and poured himself a double. He lifted the glass and tossed it back, not caring for the sudden disapproval in Jerome’s eyes, craving only the fire in the back of his throat and the false warmth it gave him. Perhaps it would be better if he just got very, very drunk.

“Sir—”

“Oh, the hell with it, Jerome,” he snapped, then sloshed more cognac into his glass. What else did he have to do with his time, anyway?
 

“About Christine—”

“This changes nothing,” Erik said. “Nothing. Just keep her locked up. I need time to think.” He took another large swallow of cognac, then looked over at Jerome. The man appeared to have something on his mind; better to let him speak his piece and then get out. “What, Jerome?”

“I went back to see Ennis earlier this morning...” Jerome began.

“How is he doing?”

“Very much improved. I spoke with one of the nurses, and she told me he would probably be moved from ICU this afternoon.”

He felt relief, of course. No thanks to him that Ennis wasn’t lying in the morgue this morning instead of a hospital bed. Well, the man always had been tough. Erik tried to remember a time when Ennis had been ill enough to miss any of his duties and failed.
 

“Good,” he said at length, and was surprised to hear a certain tremor in his own voice. God, he really was letting this get to him, wasn’t he? “Make sure he has flowers for his room as soon as he gets out of ICU.”

“Of course, Mr. Deitrich.” Jerome removed his iPhone from his breast pocket and made a brief note.
 

Erik stifled a sudden impulse to laugh. At least some things never changed.

“Anyhow,” Jerome continued, “Ennis was improved enough that he was able to talk with me a little. Of course he was very concerned about you—wanted to make sure you were all right.”

Erik made a noncommittal sound and took another sip of cognac.
 

“He also wanted to make sure that I told you something about Christine—about something she said to Ennis before he agreed to help her.”

Eyes narrowing, Erik took his glass of cognac and removed himself to his desk. Taking a seat, he stared at Jerome and said, “Continue.”

“Ennis was very emphatic that I tell you this. He seemed—worried about her.”

As well he might
, Erik thought, but said only, “His concern is very touching, I’m sure. So what was this revelatory statement of Christine’s?”

Jerome hesitated for a moment, as if he weren’t all that eager to divulge what Christine had actually said. “He told me she had promised him that she would never turn you in—that she would never tell anyone where she had been if only he would help her escape.”

Something turned over in him at those words, and he gazed at Jerome for a moment as he considered Christine’s words. Had she at least cared enough that she didn’t want to see Erik caught? Or had she merely lied once again to Ennis, told him what he wanted to hear so she could make her escape?

“She would have told Ennis anything to get away,” he said at length, not daring to let himself hope, and Jerome nodded.

“I told Ennis the same thing. But he insisted that that was not the case, that it was obvious Christine wanted to help you in at least some small way, even if she could no longer stay here with you.”

Could that really be true? Had Ennis been able to see the truth in her face as she made that promise? Once again he raged at his enforced isolation—if only he could go to the hospital now, ask Ennis to his face what he had thought of Christine’s words. Of course that was impossible. Once again, he had to rely on a third party’s interpretation of events—and he knew that Jerome was not disposed to be charitable toward Christine. Not that anyone could blame him.
 

Was it possible she had tried to spare him at least that much pain? Would a woman who cared nothing at all for him—hated him—have given him that much grace? He closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the hope rise up in him. Perhaps all was not as lost as he had thought....

“Thank you, Jerome,” he said finally, deliberately keeping his tone cool. “You will make sure that Ennis knows you have told me?”

“Of course.”

“Then that will be all for now, Jerome. Let me know this afternoon if Ennis is still improving.”

Jerome nodded at the dismissal, face impassive, and left, closing the heavy double doors to the office behind him.
 

Alone once more, Erik watched the flames dance in the fireplace, although they were mostly for show. The state-of-the-art climate control system in his home kept things comfortable at all times, no matter what the conditions outside. Still, it was another dark, cloudy day, and the illusion of warmth was somehow comforting. He hoped the sudden lift of spirit he felt at Christine’s words was not based on yet another illusion.
 

“Absolutely not,” Chief Weinstock said, tossing the warrant back across his desk at Ortiz.

He’d been expecting this, but Ortiz wasn’t about to give up with at least a token protest on his part. “Sir, I have several strong leads pointing to Deitrich—”

Weinstock leaned across his desk, eyes narrowing behind the half-lenses he wore in the privacy of his own office. “Ortiz, you’ve got dick. Hunches are all fine and good, but you’re not going to get a judge to sign a warrant on a hunch. Especially not with a guy like Deitrich.”

“With all due respect—”

“Do you have any idea at all who this guy is?” Weinstock stood, as if to give more weight to his words. “Calling him rich is like saying the Sears Tower is a tall building. He owns property all over town, has a controlling interest in several multinational corporations, family’s been here in Pasadena forever—”

“Yet no one has ever seen him.” Ortiz knew he didn’t have a prayer, but went doggedly on. “At least, no one’s really seen his face.”

“So the guy’s eccentric. With that kind of money, he can afford to be. But you go after someone like that without real evidence, and we’re going to be ass-deep in lawsuits. Harassment, wrongful prosecution, pain and suffering—the guy can pay a whole army of lawyers to think up new ways to screw the Pasadena P.D. over.” Weinstock took a breath, and said, “So the answer is no. No way.”