Talk (The Alexandra Chronicles Book 4) Page 16

  "He's in Hazleton rehab in Minnesota," Agent Cole said.

  Craig turned to her, looking irritated. "Oh yeah? How do ya know?"

  "Insurance claim." "Aw, that's not even fair. Why didn't you tell me?"

  "Because we haven't known where to find you," Alexandra told him. "Okay, so Matt's definitely off the list."

  "What about Eric, Jessica's ex-husband?" Wendy asked.

  "He's in jail," Agent Cole said.

  "That's the guy in L.A. County, right?" Craig asked, making a note.

  "Yes," Agent Cole said. She looked up at Alexandra. "Hit-and-run before this started.

  "Hit-and-run?"

  "Hit an off-duty cop crossing a bar parking lot."

  "Oh, brother," Alexandra muttered, making a note. "What about these guys around here? The delivery guy?"

  "Clean."

  "The maintenance guy?"

  "Clean. At least of clean of this." Alexandra looked at her. "There was an outstanding warrant for check kiting."

  Alexandra raised her eyebrows, looking back at her notes. "Seems our security is a wee bit lacking around here. I'm going to have to talk to Dirk." She looked up. "Okay, Craig, what else do you have?"

  Craig was riffling through his pad. "Okay, there's this piece of shit. A charmer they call Keller 'the Snake' Johnson. Jessica was fucking this guy in Mexico some years back—"

  "I told you before to clean it up," Will said quietly.

  "What's that?”

  "I said, clean up your language."

  Craig frowned. "Look, boy-toy, I know you've been the one screwing her lately, but what makes you think you're so special?"

  "Craig," Alexandra said. "Get on with it." She looked at Will, who only sat there staring at Craig, his face turning red.

  "Yeah, yeah, yeah, all right." Craig looked down at his notes. "So anyway, this guy Snake Johnson's workin' for the Dunez cartel now and they're in deep shit with the feds."

  Agent Cole's ears had perked up.

  "The way I see it," Craig said, "they might have made the snatch to make a trade with the feds for one of their guys."

  "Long shot, but I'll check it out," promised Agent Cole. "Give me what you've got." The agent stood up and held out her hand, which Craig looked at as though it had slime on it.

  "No way," he said.

  "Give her your notes, Craig," Alexandra said.

  "Uh-uh. No fucking way."

  "Oh yes you will," Alexandra said, leaning backward over her desk to pick up her phone. "We really appreciate the work you've done, Craig," she continued, punching in some numbers, "and when we get Jessica home we'll give you the story." She put the phone up to her ear. "But for now it's best you get on a plane back to Washington and keep your mouth shut. Oh, hello—it's Alexandra Waring calling. Is this Helen?"

  Craig's eyes narrowed.

  "Yes, hi, we haven't met. I hope to meet you very soon. Listen, I was wondering if Craig was there… No? Oh, he is? Yes, of course. All right, well, I'll just call his office and leave a message." Pause. Smile. "Thank you, that's very nice of you. Great. Thanks a lot, Helen. Bye-bye." She hung up the phone and looked at Craig. "Nice lady, your wife."

  He glared at her. "You bitch."

  Alexandra smiled sweetly. "Keep your mouth shut, Craig. Give Debbie your notebook and then get the hell out of here."

  "Maybe I don't care," he challenged her.

  She shrugged. "I've got nothing to lose by finding out."

  "You fucking bitch," he said, struggling to his feet and heaving his notebook across the room. Then he tried to walk out, throwing the door open so hard it bounced off the wall and came back to hit him. He let out a string of oaths and stormed out.

  When all was quiet again, Agent Cole looked at Alexandra. "What was that all about?"

  "Oh, nothing," Alexandra said lightly, sliding off the desk.

  "Well done," Wendy murmured admiringly.

  Jessica went into the bathroom with the brass bookend and smashed a safety razor until she could extract the tiny blades. Then she went into the kitchen, searching around for a source of light. Nothing. She searched the parlor. Nothing. Then she had an idea.

  She went back into the bedroom and with the stainless steel knife, unscrewed the hardware holding the mirror in place on the bureau. Once it was removed, she was able to work the mahogany mirror up off the metal rod that held it and carry the mirror into the room next door. She propped it up against the closet door and angled it to reflect the lamplight on the man's body.

  She hurried to his side, no longer able to stand the idea of what that wire was doing to him. She worked with one of the tiny blades over and over until, finally, the wire strapping his wrists to his ankles snapped and his whole body straightened out.

  Mercifully, he was unconscious. She worked quickly, trying to unwind the wire off one wrist. She got it off, and then started on the other. When that was unwound, she moved down to his ankles and gently pulled that wire out from the folds of his swollen flesh. Then she went back up to gently pat his arms, trying to get the circulation going again.

  She couldn't let the horror of what she saw sink in. It would overwhelm her. How anyone could have let someone lie here like this...

  She rolled him onto his back, propping his head up on a bundled towel. She went back into her rooms and came back with a bowl of warm water and a clean white sweat sock and gently started dabbing at the clotted blood. Everything on his face was oozing; myriad cuts and slices needed to be stitched. It was hopeless, but she had to try. She brought back a bottle of witch hazel from the bathroom and dabbed it onto his wounds, hoping it would do something toward stopping infection.

  She gently patted his lips with warm water. All of his teeth in the front had been broken so that there were just bloody stumps left.

  God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

  She tried to cut off his shirt, but he regained consciousness and started to cry. She had to get him under proper lighting so she could see what she was doing. She had to get him next door.

  She took a deep breath and stood up. She would have to tear out more of the wall so she could get him through.

  "Okay, so this is what they have," Alexandra said in the late afternoon, passing the sheets out to Will, Debbie and Rich in her office. "The first sheet are the notes they say are from the original stalker, Leopold. They are numbered in the sequence that the notes were received."

  # 1 Dear Jessica, I know how lonely you have been. I have been lonely too. But now we will have a chance to get to know each other and move on to the kind of intimate relationship I know you long for. If I may, I wish to suggest you wear less revealing clothing now. Love, Leopold

  # 2 Dear Jessica,

  You mentioned the other day you needed one of these. I hope you like it. I look forward to seeing you wear it. Perhaps you will tuck it in your bosom. I do not like how much other men can see. Ever yours, Leopold

  # 3 Dear Jessica,

  I watch your eyes in those unguarded moments and I see the sadness there. You mustn't give up hope. It won't always be this way. We will be together and after that, happy always. You will be able to wear sexy clothes with me. I do not want you to think I do not find you alluring. Love, Leopold

  # 4 Dear Jessica,

  It is with great joy I share with you that I am busy working on our future. After so many years of loneliness, the mere thought of you makes everything worthwhile, all pain merely a path to you. I watch you and revel in the love and warmth in my heart. I crave to cover your body with my own. Soon, Jessica, soon. Love, Leopold P.S. Did you like my present? You have not worn it yet.

  # 6 Dear Jessica,

  There are people who wish to hurt you. I will do my best to protect you, but you must be careful. Please, please, promise me you will keep a sharp eye out. I'll be there as soon as I can be. Please do not wear revealing clothes. It makes it hard to control mysel
f and yet I must until we are together. Sleep well, my precious. I hold the vision of you in my heart, of your body against mine. Love, Leopold

  # 12 Dear Mrs. Cochran,

  Do not fear, Jessica will be safe with me. I can and will look after her far better than you can. The danger is there. Sincerely, Leopold

  "And these," Alexandra said, pointing to another sheet of paper, "are the ones the FBI say were composed by someone else."

  # 5 Darling Jessica, Beware, for there are enemies around you. But do not fear, love, for no one can keep me away. I will be there soon, love, so close you will feel my protection. I will not let anyone hurt you. I will not let anyone keep us apart. Love, Leopold

  # 7 Dearest Jessica,

  The time is drawing near for us to be together. I am coming to get you very, very soon. Do not fear, my love, for no one can stop me. I tremble at the thought of your touch. Love, Leopold

  # 8 She won't hurt you anymore. I'll see that no one else does either. All my love, Leopold

  Will turned to Agent Cole. "Debbie, what do these mean to you?"

  "One possibility is someone might have been setting the scene for Jessica to be kidnapped," the agent said, "and setting up Leopold as the fall guy."

  "If there is a Leopold," Will said, making everyone look at him. "Look, this Leopold may have been an invention of two or more people setting up Jessica's kidnapping."

  "You mean they could be notes written by two different people who are working together," Alexandra said.

  "Or more than two people," Wendy offered.

  "I tell you," Agent Cole declared, "if we can find out who paid Bea Blakely that ten thousand dollars, we're going to find Jessica's kidnappers."

  "And Bea's murderer," Alexandra said.

  "On the other hand," Agent Cole said, "it wouldn't be the first time we've had a murderer with multiple personalities."

  The room fell silent as they absorbed this possibility.

  Jessica held a capful of Mr. Clean with ammonia under the dying man's nose to revive him. His eyes were swollen shut, but he seemed to understand what she was telling him, that he had to help her try to get him up on his feet. He had to get through the hole in the wall to the next room, where there was light, and safety, and where she could bandage his wounds.

  It was excruciating trying to move him. She knew she risked killing him—with a beating like this, God only knew what his internal injuries were—but she also knew that leaving him would mean certain death. She ended up taking the bedspread off her bed, laying it out on the floor and then rolling him—who she had come to think of as Hurt Guy—onto it. Then she dragged the bedspread across the floorboards into the closet. Here it became very difficult. She draped one of his arms around her neck—making him cry out—and, half crouching, she tried to drag him through the hole in the wall, but she felt her back starting to give and had to stop.

  "You must push with your legs!" she scolded him. "You have to! Now, on the count of three—one, two, three!" He tried and she gave it her all, a surge of adrenaline helping her legs, and she pulled him backward, falling down as she did so, but succeeding in getting him through the wall.

  He had lost consciousness again. Just as well, she thought.

  She took the sheet and blanket off her bed and made a pallet on the floor between the bed and the closet—a view of this side was blocked from the door to the parlor. She elevated Hurt Guy's head on a folded towel, revived him, rinsed his bloody mouth and then gave him some water, which she instructed him to swallow. When he was able to keep that down (for, at first, he could not), she prepared some warm milk, laced with sugar, and spooned that between his swollen lips. After that, she crushed several aspirin, dissolved them in water and gave that to him.

  He was burning with fever. Now that they were in the light, as she mopped more blood and dirt off him, she could see purple heel marks all over his rib cage. There was no sign of the mustache or glasses he had been wearing when he'd abducted her. She cut and then peeled off his soiled trousers and underwear, and, trying not to gag, cleaned him. She dabbed more witch hazel on his wounds, wrapped a towel around his middle like a diaper and then covered him with the blanket.

  He was asleep and she knew there was nothing more, at the moment, she could do for him. So now to think. First order, she had to clean up, cover her tracks—the most noticeable giveaway was the odor emanating from his soiled clothes.

  She did the best she could by cleaning the remains of his clothes in the john, for she had no other place to throw away the excretions. No way to get rid of the smells except with water. And so she turned the hot-water shower on to steam away the smells. Then she stripped and showered herself from head to toe and got dressed again in clean clothes. She hung what remained of Hurt Guy's usable clothing over the curtain rod.

  She came back into the bedroom and around the bed to look at Hurt Guy again. Ragged breathing. Out like a light. She knelt to feel his forehead. Fever. She went into the kitchen, wrapped some ice cubes in a dishcloth and came back in to put it on his forehead, praying the aspirin would help.

  She had to do something about the plaster and asbestos that was all over the place, and the clothes from the closet that were strewn all over the room. Chances were, whoever had done this to Hurt Guy had left him for dead. If not, and he went in to check on Hurt Guy, he would obviously see that she had pulled him into her room. But, if he had left him for dead, he might not check on Hurt Guy at all. And if that were the case, she might be able to keep the man alive in here until she could get help.

  She put the rubber gloves back on and started tossing the debris into the other room. She had gotten the biggest pieces out and was on her knees, moving the dust and dirt and plaster into a pile when she heard a noise. A new one. She tore off the gloves and hurried to the parlor, closing the bedroom door firmly behind her.

  The sound she heard was the rattling of the front door.

  Someone, evidently, was coming to visit.

  Jessica hastily sat down and tried to smooth her hair.

  Norm Kunsa knocked on Cassy's door only once before coming in, slamming the door behind him and throwing himself down across her couch. Cassy, who was on the telephone, finished her conversation, hung up and addressed the sprawled body. "Any news?"

  "I have personally interviewed every possible suspect working here at West End," he began, looking up at the ceiling. "And you've got the biggest collection of friggin' fruit loops here I've ever seen in my life."

  "I'm sure you impressed them, too," she said, coming around her desk to sit in a chair facing him.

  He rolled his head to the side to look at her, loosening his tie. "The guys in your research department practically all live with their mothers. And the women are more than a little screwy as well."

  Cassy frowned. "It's not their fault you don't know what to do now."

  "That's where you're wrong," he said, swinging his feet to the floor to sit up. "I know it's time to start praying something comes in over the hot line. I thought for sure Leopold would have contacted us by now."

  She was silent for a moment. "We're that much at sea?"

  "The trail's getting cold," he said quietly. "Don't get me wrong, we're going to get this guy, and we're going to find Jessica, but unless we get lucky, it's not going to be soon.”

  Cassy closed her eyes and pressed the bridge of her nose with her hand. "What are Jessica's chances?"

  "They're good. Really."

  Cassy dropped her hand. "Really?"

  "Really." The FBI agent got up. "I'm going to check with the phone banks and see what's come in."

  Will was sitting on a bench in Darenbrook Square, staring out at the Hudson. It was like any nice early June evening in New York City; the skies were blue, the trees freshly green, the flowers starting to grow, the air holding a slight chill in the shadows of the sunset. And, behind the wall of firs, cars revved and honked and screeched along in the rush-hour traffic on the West Side Highway below.

 
; "Hi," Alexandra said softly.

  "Hi," he said, not bothering to look at her.

  "Mind if I join you?"

  "No."

  She sat down and looked out at the river, too. "You need some sleep." "You haven't slept either." Neither looked terribly well; because of his stubble, the absence of an eyebrow and hank of hair, Will definitely looked the worse for wear. "Wendy's almost talked O'Neal into getting us the hot line call sheets."

  "That's good," Will said.

  "Denny and Alicia are at the warehouse, sifting through Jessica's fan mail," Alexandra continued. She was referring to the Long Island facility where all fan mail to DBS was taken to be screened and logged. It hadn't been so much a security procedure in the past as one of promotion; the network had accumulated over three million names and addresses of network viewers this way, a database they used to do mailings for special broadcast events. "The thinking is, Leopold may have been writing Jessica for years under his own name."

  "It's going to take forever," Will said. "Don't get your hopes up."

  Alexandra looked at him. "I have to keep my hopes up. I used to have a field producer who pounded it into my head that I'd never get anywhere on a story unless I combined my brains with a whole lot of hope I was right—and go for it."

  Will didn't speak. If anything, he looked even sadder.

  After a moment, she said, "It was the meeting with Craig, wasn't it?" He sighed, eyes still on the Hudson. "It's that I don't know where Jessica is."

  "I meant about Jessica's past," Alexandra said. "It was difficult to listen to."

  His mouth tightened slightly.

  "Do you want to talk about it?"

  "I want to find Jessica and bring her back."

  "And then what?"

  He turned to Alexandra. "Then who the hell cares? What matters is that we find her and bring her home."

  "I agree. But I don't think you should try and convict Jessica on other charges when she's not here to defend herself."

  He turned away angrily. "You think I believe any of that crap Scholer said?"