Silent Night 2 (11 page)

“Guess you'll be moving into a big, fancy house,” Danny said, teasing her. “With a maid and a butler and a chauffeur.”

Diane didn't find his remarks amusing. “I won't be eighteen for another four months,” she told him. “I've got to keep the money a secret until then, or my parents will try to grab it.”

Danny
tsk-tsked.
“Where you going? I thought you were going to call Dalby and tell him how he can get his daughter back.”

“I am,” she replied sharply. “But you don't expect me to call from here, do you? They'll trace the call and pick us up in ten minutes flat!”

Danny turned his glance to the window. “Yeah. I knew that. I was just testing you.” He picked up the
Sports Illustrated.
“Know what I'm going to
do when I get my share? I'm going to get a tattoo.”

“You always had a lot of class,” Diane said dryly. She zipped her coat and started to the door.

“Wonder why we haven't heard from Pres,” Danny muttered, his face buried in the magazine.

“Shh. No names!” Diane said sharply, motioning to the bedroom. “I wonder too.” She stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “Hope he didn't get into more trouble in the detention center.”

“Maybe they found out about that car he stole,” Danny said.

“Huh?” Diane turned around in surprise. “I never heard about that.”

Danny blushed. He avoided her stare. “Oh. Well. He only borrowed it for a little bit. He didn't really steal it.”

Diane laughed. “Well, he could have offered
me
a ride in it! I'm getting sick of the old Plymouth.”

“You can buy five cars,” Danny muttered. “After we trade Reva in.”

Diane glanced toward the bedroom. “Just keep an eye on her, Danny. I know you plan to take a nap the minute I leave. But watch her, okay? We don't want any slipups now, you know?”

“Yeah. Okay, okay,” he growled, scratching his head. “I'll watch her. Go make the call already. I'm getting old, sitting here.”

Diane made her way out the door, closing it carefully behind her. She stepped out into a bright, clear day that felt more like September than December. The ground was spotted with
patches of old snow, one of the few signs that it was winter.

She bent to pet the head of an old hound dog that always hung around the apartment building. “Who do you belong to?” she asked it, rubbing its damp fur. “Or do you own this joint?” The old dog wagged its tail slowly in reply.

Diane climbed into the car. It took three tries to get the engine to grind to a start. Then she headed to the Division Street Mall, where she planned to find a secluded phone booth to make her call.

The car radio was broken, but Diane didn't need it. She hummed happily to herself, tapping her hands on the wheel, rehearsing for the thousandth time in her mind what she planned to say to Mr. Dalby.

• • •

Robert Dalby, Reva's father, shifted uncomfortably in his armchair. He lowered his copy of the
Wall Street Journal
and stared into the fireplace, watching the flames jump and dance.

With a weary sigh he picked up the newspaper and began to read again.

When the phone on the table beside him rang, he let out a startled cry. He fumbled for the receiver, knocking over his small glass of sherry.

The liquid formed a brown puddle on the polished tabletop. Ignoring it, Mr. Dalby managed to grab up the receiver on the second ring. “Hello?”

“Is this Robert Dalby?” A young woman's voice.

“Yes. Speaking.”

“Mr. Dalby,” said the young woman, very stern
and businesslike, “I . . . uh . . . I have your daughter. She's okay and everything. I . . . I called to tell you what you need to do to get her back. It will cost you a million dollars, see. Don't worry. We have your daughter, safe and sound.”

“No, you don't,” Robert Dalby replied. “My daughter, Reva, is sitting right here with me.”

M
r. Dalby stared into the fire as he listened to the gasp on the other end. He could hear voices in the background, the clink of plates and silverware. The caller must be in a restaurant somewhere, he realized.

He struggled to recognize the voice.

Was it a voice he had heard before? Was it a girl who had worked for him? Who still worked for him?

He didn't recognize her. All he could tell was that she was nervous. And young.

Reva had gotten up from her chair by the fire and stood beside him, listening to his conversation. “Daddy—?”

Mr. Dalby raised a finger to silence her.

Reva placed an arm on the back of her father's
chair and leaned close, trying to hear the voice on the other end.

“Mr. Dalby, would you repeat what you just said?” Diane demanded in a trembling voice.

She stood in a narrow phone booth at the back of the Doughnut Hole restaurant at the Division Street Mall. The door to the booth would close only halfway, so she stood with her back to the restaurant.

“I said that my daughter, Reva, is home with me,” Mr. Dalby repeated gruffly.

In the cramped phone booth Diane shuddered. The walls closed in on her. Everything went dark. A heavy feeling of cold dread made her feel as if she were about to faint.

Or scream.

Was Dalby telling the truth?

Was he trying some kind of stupid trick?

“Mr. Dalby, don't play games with us,” she managed to say in a tight, shrill voice.

“Whoever you are, listen to me!” Robert Dalby shouted.

“Mr. Dalby—”

“Let that girl go!” Dalby sputtered into the phone. “That girl is not my daughter. You will not get a
penny
from me. You have kidnapped the wrong girl!”

P
am had been struggling against the cords that bound her wrists. But her efforts only made them cut deeper into her skin.

She let her body go limp and struggled to slow her breathing. Pain shot up her legs from where her ankles were tightly tied. Her throat ached behind the gag.

Where am I? Why are they keeping me here so long?

What are they going to do to me?

The questions wouldn't go away. As hard as she struggled to force them from her mind, they kept coming back. And with the questions came a rising
panic that choked her and sent shiver after cold shiver down her body.

Why did they kidnap me? What do they want with ME?

All at once Pam knew the answer to those questions.

They didn't want me. They wanted Reva. My millionaire cousin.

Reva. Reva. Reva.

The name burned more cruelly than the pain at her wrists and ankles.

This is Reva's fault, Pam thought bitterly. This
has
to be Reva's fault.

No one would want to kidnap me. They
had
to want Reva.

Reva. Reva. Reva.

Pam repeated the name until it became an ugly chant.

And now will I have to DIE because of Reva?

A tingling sensation crept up her back. It felt as if a thousand tiny insects were crawling all over her.

Pam tried to swallow, but her throat was too dry. If they don't loosen this gag, I'm going to choke to death, she thought.

For the thousandth time she rubbed her head against the pillow, trying to slide the blindfold off. But it wouldn't budge.

Reva. Reva. Reva.

They wanted Reva. But they got me.

Pam could hear the two of them fighting about it in the next room. There was a girl and a guy, she knew that much.

She hadn't been able to catch their names. They
had been very careful about not saying their names. The girl sounded young, Pam thought. A teenager, maybe. The guy—she couldn't tell. He was loud and vulgar, and he always sounded angry.

He sounded very angry now. They were moving around noisily in the other room, pacing back and forth.

Pam struggled to hear their conversation.

“It's not my fault!” the girl was shrieking.

“Not my fault. Not my fault!” The guy nastily imitated her voice. “Then whose fault is it, honey-bunch?”

“You and Pres went to the store. You went right up to her, didn't you?” the man demanded.

“Please—no names!” the girl protested. “She can hear us. You know how thin the walls are.”

“So tell me how it happened,” the man insisted, ignoring her complaint. “How did we get the wrong girl? How could you not know?”

“I never saw her face!” the girl screamed shrilly. “I was down on the floor, pretending to search for my contact, remember? I never saw her. She was wearing some kind of big floppy hat!”

The man let out a snarl of rage. Then Pam heard a crash. The girl screamed. Had he thrown a lamp or something at her?

“The neighbors! The neighbors!” she was screaming now, her voice high with fright.

Maybe they'll let me go, Pam thought. She felt a sharp stab of pain at her ankles. The cords were too tight. Too tight. Her feet were tingling, numb.

Now that they know they have the wrong girl, maybe they'll let me go.

She held her breath, listening hard. It was quiet in the other room now.

“I'm sick,” the man whined. “I'm really sick. All this work. All this . . . tension.”

“It's a stupid mix-up,” the girl replied. “If your stupid brother had been with us—”

“I'm sick,” the man repeated. “My headache is coming back. I can feel it.”

“How do you think
I
feel?” the girl cried emotionally. “This was supposed to be a great Christmas. It was supposed to be like in the movies. But now . . .”

Now
what?
Pam wondered.
What?

Now what are you going to do? Let me go home? Please, oh, please—let me go home!

Pam heard footsteps in the next room, the floor creaking.