Valentine, page 18
Weapon.
She reached cautiously over to the wall next to the bedside table beside her and unplugged the lamp. It was a large, heavy brass affair, and its mate was on the matching table on the other side of the bed. She rose to her feet and quietly removed the blue parchment shade. She unscrewed the lightbulb and swiftly wrapped the cord around the base. Picking up the lamp by the neck, she raised the weighted base above her head as she crept over to the closet door on the other side of the room. In one swift, violent move, she threw it open.
Empty.
She moved silently across the carpet to the bedroom door and pressed her ear against the wood, listening. Sarah Vaughan continued to sing softly.
Nothing else.
She grasped the doorknob with her free hand, turned it, and yanked the door open. The heavy lamp was poised, ready to smash down on anything beyond the door.
The hallway was empty.
The office door across the way was open, as was the bathroom door next to it. She turned her head and peered down the hall toward the living room. She could see a dim light, a soft, flickering glow emanating from the other side of the couch. From the coffee table. A candle. It illuminated the room enough for her to see that it, too, was empty. She craned her neck and glanced quickly around the corner into the kitchen. Empty. Leaning forward, she surveyed the office. Empty. There was a closet in that room, but it was stuffed floor-to-ceiling with filing cabinets and summer clothes. Too crowded to afford room for a human body.
Holding the lamp above her, she stepped silently out into the hallway and crept over to the bathroom. She planted herself in the doorway and reached over to switch on the light.
Empty.
From where she now stood she could see the entire apartment.
Empty.
The song came to an end, and a moment later it began again. He had recorded it on a cassette tape, over and over. She could see the tiny green lights of the home entertainment center glowing in the dimly lit living room.
Slowly, inevitably, her gaze traveled over to rest on the last possibility.
The closet next to the front door.
Move!
She stepped quickly into the office, closed the door, and locked it. She was already across the room, reaching for the telephone, when she became aware of how cold she suddenly felt. Her gaze rose from the phone to the window above her desk.
It was wide open. A small, perfectly round hole had been cut in the glass just above the lock in the frame at the bottom.
She leaned forward, peering out onto the fire escape. Her gaze traveled down, down as far as she could see. The fire escape was empty.
The receiver was now in her left hand, and she was fumbling with the buttons of the dial, trying to remember the sequence of the numbers as she held the lamp aloft in her right hand. No use: she couldn’t think of anything. She dropped the receiver and fell immediately to her knees, throwing aside the rug in the center of the floor. Tara’s bedroom was directly below this room. Oh, please, God! She brought the brass lamp up in both hands and smashed it down to the floor. Three quick raps, then three slow, then another three quick. Again. And again. She beat out the tattoo over and over, staring all the while at the closed, locked office door, expecting at any moment the sharp, heavy pounding of his fists on the other side. . . .
Count to ten.
One, two, three, four—
Then, mercifully, it came, resounding through the entire apartment. Pound, pound, pound on the front door, followed by the loud, threatening shout of a seriously angry female cop.
“Open up! Police!”
She wasn’t aware of the fact that she had moved. The office door was open, and she was running, and she was now at the front door, staring at the closed door to the closet not six feet away. The pounding came again.
“Police! Open the door!”
Still brandishing the lamp, Jill reached out for the doorknob, shouting, “Tara, it’s me! Don’t shoot!”
She threw the door open. Her friend stood in the doorway in her bright Chinese kimono, legs apart, arms rigid in front of her, the .22 caliber Lady Wesson aimed at Jill’s heart.
They stared at each other for a moment, Tara with the gun and Jill with the lamp. Then, in a flash, the actress was at her side, aiming her weapon toward the interior of the living room. Jill raised a finger to her lips and pointed at the closet door. Tara nodded. Jill went cautiously over to the closet, reached for the doorknob, and glanced back at her friend. Her feet planted, arms rigid, aiming at the center of the door, Tara nodded again. Stepping aside, out of the line of fire, Jill turned the knob, threw the door open, and dropped to the floor.
Nothing.
She slowly rose to her feet, still clutching the brass lamp, and peered into the closet.
Empty.
She turned back to her friend. Tara slowly exhaled and lowered the gun. Jill leaned back against the closet door, dropping the lamp to the floor beside her.
“He’s gone,” she said.
The song had come to an end, but now it began again, and the smooth, soft voice of Sarah Vaughan suddenly filled the room. Tara whirled around, instinctively bringing up the gun.
“What the hell—?”
“No!” Jill cried, and Tara once again lowered her weapon.
In the same instant, both women turned toward the source of the light. The tall red candle glowed, set in its own wax on the surface of the coffee table. Jill stepped forward, Tara right behind her. Silently, they stared down at the candle, and at the envelope next to it. On top of the envelope rested a small, flat black velvet box, six inches by four. A jewelry box, Jill thought, already reaching out her hand.
She pulled the envelope out from under the box and tore it open. It was another store-bought valentine, this one from Hallmark. Two tiny children with enormous eyes cuddled on the front. The boy was handing the girl a heart-shaped card. The scripted legend read:
“FOR YOU . . .”
As Tara peered over her shoulder, she opened the card. The printed words were:
“WITH ALL MY HEART!”
Underneath this, in the now familiar typescript, was the usual signature:
LOVE,
VALENTINE
She dropped the card and the envelope on the table and picked up the jewelry box. Without hesitating, without thinking, she snapped it open. She stood rigid, staring down at the large, gaudy diamond ring that winked up at her.
It was attached to a severed human finger.
The box clattered down, spilling its obscene contents out onto the table. The first, involuntary thrill of horror came up through her, only to fade as quickly as it had begun. Tara gasped and stepped backward, away from it. Jill did not. She leaned down, inspecting the object more closely. She slowly reached down, picked it up, and held it next to the candle.
It was fake, of course, and a crude imitation at that. One of a million allegedly humorous vulgarities on sale at every novelty shop and amusement park in America. It was somewhat larger than life, for one thing, and the ring with the bit of glass in it was painted a dull, improbable copper color. The bright red, two-inch fingernail was too thick, almost as thick as the rubber finger itself. And the jagged, bloody wound at the base was nowhere near the color of actual blood.
Filled with contempt, with a loathing she had never felt before, she tossed the disgusting thing down onto the table. It actually bounced, landing silently on the Oriental carpet. The two women stared down.
Jill regarded the finger for a long time, thinking, He was here. He was in my house. In my home. While I slept in the next room, he came in here and did this insane, this unspeakable thing. He could just as easily have murdered me.
No, she realized. He doesn’t want to murder me.
Not yet.
He’s waiting for Valentine’s Day.
Belinda died on a ski slope, but it wasn’t an accident. Sharon had disappeared, and Cass had moved away to parts unknown. Yet, standing there, she knew that all three women were dead. She was certain of it, as certain as she had ever been of anything.
And now, she thought, it’s my turn.
She looked over at Tara, who stood shivering in her thin silk kimono, clutching her arms to her body. She summoned a smile for her friend, walked into her bedroom, and came back with her warmest blanket. Handing it to Tara as she passed, she proceeded to the picture window. The first, faint light of dawn slowly filled the dark sky as she stared out at the street, the opposite buildings, and the enormous cityscape beyond them. Windows. Thousands and thousands of windows.
The loathing had vanished, replaced by something else she’d only experienced once before, on the kitchen floor of the apartment on Central Park West, when she’d reached up and grasped the heavy iron skillet and brought it down on her stepfather’s head. Rage. Blind, naked, prehistoric fury.
Staring out at the city, she slowly filled her lungs. The shout that emanated from her crashed into the window and came back at her, smashing into her face, echoing through the room as if it were uttered not by her but to her.
“You’re dead, Victor!” she cried. “Do you understand me? You’re dead!”
Tara came up behind her and gently placed her hands on her shoulders. Then, Jillian Talbot reached for the cord and slowly, ceremoniously closed the curtains.
“What are you going to do?” Tara asked.
She turned around to confront her friend, noting Tara’s look of surprise when she saw the dangerous expression on her face.
“I’m going to stop this,” she said. “I’m going to stop it right now!”
9
SATURDAY, FEBRUARY 7
Jane Fleck was awakened by the soft ringing of the telephone on the night table beside her. She rolled over on her side and fumbled for it, nearly knocking it off the table in the process. She glanced at the luminous dial of the alarm clock next to the phone: six-thirty.
“Hello?”
“Hello, umm, Mrs. Fleck? My name is Jill Talbot. I’m a client of your husband’s, and I’m terribly sorry to disturb you at this hour, but it’s important that I speak to him.”
“Oh, yes. One moment.”
She reached over to nudge the giant, still form in the bed beside her.
“Hmmm?”
“Phone for you. Jill Talbot. Wake up.” She deliberately rubbed the cold receiver against his neck. That and the name of the caller was all it took. He was off the bed and around it in an instant, reaching for the receiver. He stood beside his wife in the dark bedroom of their Cobble Hill apartment, naked and shivering, listening to the voice on the other end of the line.
Jane opened one eye to watch him. His face was immediately drawn, tense. She knew that look: bad news. The series of short grunts he emitted only confirmed her suspicion. Finally, she heard him say, “Okay. Stay there with your friend. Don’t go back into your apartment till I get there. Give me twenty minutes.”
She closed the eye and drifted, only half listening as he went over to the closet and dressed. She was nearly asleep again when she heard the odd sounds, the little series of metallic clicks from the other side of the room. When she looked over and saw what it was, she immediately sat up in the bed.
“What?” she said. “What is it?” She watched, fearful, as he checked that his gun was loaded, placed it in his shoulder holster, and quickly put on his coat.
“Nothing. Go back to sleep.” He came over, leaned down, and kissed her cheek. “Back in a while.”
With that, he was gone. She lay back in the bed, listening as the apartment door closed behind him.
Twenty minutes later, having given up on the idea of sleep, she got out of the bed and shuffled nervously into the kitchen to make coffee.
Jill sat in Tara’s living room, piecing everything together. She had learned so much in the last half hour that her brain was numb, threatening to shut down from the overwhelming reality of it. She was trying desperately to concentrate.
What now? she wondered.
Well, that, at least, was decided. She’d told Barney Fleck on the phone, and nobody was going to talk her out of it.
And then, what?
No. She wouldn’t think about that. She’d just do what had to be done now, and cross that bridge when she came to it.
Those bridges. Plural.
Right.
She looked at her watch again. Where was Barney . . .?
Tara watched her friend. She’d been sitting quite still for a while now, staring down at the coffee table, an unreadable expression on her face. Now and then she glanced at her watch or sipped from the mug of chamomile tea Tara had given her when they’d first come downstairs to phone the detective. That had been right after Jill had performed what Tara, the actress, could only describe as her “mad scene.”
She had shouted her threat to this Victor person, this Valentine, and closed the curtains. Then, she’d suddenly started babbling almost incoherently, something about him knowing more than he could just from watching. He always knew when others were with her and when she was alone. He knew when Nate stayed over, and when he didn’t. He knew everything she was doing, even before she did it.
With that last statement, her eyes had grown very wide, and she’d glanced wildly around the room. Then, before Tara could grasp what was happening, she’d rushed from the living room into her office. By the time Tara arrived in the doorway, the receiver of the telephone was in two pieces. She’d gone to stand next to Jill, who silently pointed down at the little metal thing inside the mouthpiece. She did not remove it: instead, she’d screwed the mouthpiece back onto the receiver and replaced it in its cradle.
Then she’d gone nuts. She raised a finger to her lips, instructing Tara to remain silent, and began—very quietly—to trash the room. Every stick of furniture was overturned and inspected. The closet, the filing cabinets, the bookshelves, even the framed cover art on the walls. She’d grabbed a pen and a pad of paper and scribbled furiously, then ripped off the page and handed it to Tara. It read, Bugs! You take bdrm & bath. Look EVERYWHERE!!! The last word was capitalized and underlined twice.
Tara had nodded and gone immediately into the bedroom. She quickly, quietly checked the bedside tables, the vanity, and the closet. She then attacked the bedframe and mattresses, silently thanking God for her kid brother’s teenage phase as an electronics geek. Years ago, he’d bored her and their parents endlessly with his nonstop monologues on the subject. Now, thanks to him, she knew that what they were looking for was of considerable size. The tiny devices you saw in the movies and on television were only good for a few hours—unless they were being operated from the next room. Anything that remained active for weeks, relaying transmissions a decent distance, would involve not only a microphone but an electronic gadget for activation and some sort of battery or power pack. It would definitely be bigger than a thimble. Her brother’s words—only half heard at the time—came back clearly to her, and she made a mental note to call him.
She’d finished with the bed and gone into the bathroom. Jill had done the kitchen, opening every cabinet and fixture, even the oven, and progressed to the living room. Tara was removing the porcelain lid of the tank behind the toilet and peering down inside when she felt the hand on her arm. She’d replaced the lid and followed Jill out to the living room.
The couch was lying on its back. Jill had knelt at the bottom and pointed. There, taped to the inside above the legs, was the object of their search. Tara had stared, the rage growing inside her as she knew it was growing in Jill. Without a word, the two women had left the apartment and come downstairs. Tara had closed her own front curtains as Jill had called Mr. Fleck, and now they were waiting.
The buzzer sounded, and Tara went over to let him in downstairs. A few minutes later, she opened her apartment door and saw the detective for the first time since the incident with Betty Hanes at the television studio. She’d forgotten how big he was. Amazed and comforted by the sheer size of the man, she stepped aside and watched as he went immediately over to Jill.
“I want to see,” he said.
Without a word, Jill stood up and led him out.
Ten minutes later, Jill and the detective were back in Tara’s living room. She noticed that Jill was now fully dressed, and she had her coat and purse with her. Tara sat across from them, listening to their conversation.
“Okay,” the detective said, “we’ll leave them in place, and active. We don’t want him to know you’ve found them. But how are you going to keep up the charade?”
“That’s simple,” Jill said, her voice curiously flat. “I’m not going back there. Not for a while, anyway.”
“Where will you go?”
Jill looked up at him, then over at Tara. She shook her head. “Never mind. I’ll be with friends. I’ll be perfectly safe, but I don’t want any of you to—to have that information. Not now. I’ll be in touch with both of you.” She turned to the detective. “It’s okay. My agent gave me the idea, and I remember our conversation clearly. Neither of us mentioned our friends’ last name, or where they were. Even if he was listening, he wouldn’t be able to put it together. I called them once from the apartment, but they weren’t home. I left a brief message, again revealing nothing specific. Yesterday, when I called them back, I did so from a pay phone on the street. Otherwise, I haven’t mentioned it—not in the apartment, certainly.”
“What about with Nate?” Tara asked.
Jill shook her head again. “No. I—I haven’t even told him. I’m just going away for a few days, maybe ten. Until after Valentine’s Day.”
Tara and Barney stared at her. She turned again to the detective beside her on the couch.
“Do you have your notes from yesterday?” she asked him.
He nodded and pulled them from a coat pocket.
“When you spoke to the relatives,” Jill continued, “did they mention dates, or at least times of the year?”
Tara watched as Barney Fleck read over the pages and his eyes suddenly widened.
