Mister X Part 14

When Vitali had fastened his seat belt, Mishkin started the engine.

"What a science our job is, Sal."

Vitali grunted agreement. "Drive, Dr. Mishkin."

Mary followed the mover down with the last cardboard box packed with the detritus of her life, from the apartment that had once seemed a haven. In a strange way, moving away from here was more of a wrench than when she'd left home to come to New York. That had been a matter of choice. This move was a necessity. If she didn't make it, she would never feel safe in her home again.

Of course, she wasn't positive she'd feel safer in her new apartment, on a higher floor, with a full-time doorman, where she was off her usual subway route and would have to be traced to be found. She didn't think the subway man would go to that trouble. Probably he chose his targets at random.

Or so she told herself. She knew that if she were the object of some kind of sick fixation he might go to whatever trouble he had to in order to find her, his unholy grail.

She carried the seed of fear he'd planted in her with his eyes and the glint of the knife blade. What would he do to her if he did somehow manage to find her?

Mary knew that wherever she went she would ask herself that question, terrified of the answer. The subway man hadn't harmed her, but he'd certainly considered it. She was nothing human to him, merely something to satisfy a sick whim, a plaything of his dark desires. He could see her as that and only that, an object. And he wasn't the only one. There were others out there just like him, looking at her the same way, thinking the same dark thoughts. Every day, everywhere she went, they could simply look at her and know how vulnerable she was. People like them could see her as what she had become, could sense her injured soul the way carnivores could sense their prey.

In head and heart she knew that.

And knowing it had changed everything for her.

She shut the street door and tried not to look back.

25.

Pearl deliberately drank too much wine.

Three gla.s.ses of an expensive pinot noir.

She'd made up her mind and eaten lightly during dinner at Russeria's, only a few short blocks from Yancy's apartment on Fifth Avenue.

He'd suggested the restaurant, somehow knowing this would be the night. Had she in some way signaled him? Pearl wondered if it was particularly easy for men to read her mind. Quinn- Well, never mind Quinn.

She took another sip of wine. Dessert was on the way, a chocolate flan rimmed with whipped cream and raspberries.

Yancy had told her his apartment overlooked Central Park, Of course it would. And someday it would be windmill powered. It was difficult for her to believe completely, or to dis disbelieve completely, anything this man said.

Well, maybe nothing he said was the whole truth and nothing but the truth. That was usually the way it turned out in criminal court.

Not that Yancy was a criminal. Ethics weren't exactly law.

As they were eating their desserts, she studied him across the table. He was impeccably dressed in a dark tan sport coat with neatly creased taupe slacks, a white shirt, and a maroon knit tie. A matching maroon handkerchief peeked from his jacket pocket. He reminded her of the seasoned, sophisticated Cary Grant. Around the time that airplane chased him.

"New York also has steam," he was saying, "running underground through much of the city. Remember when that underground steam pipe blew a few years ago near Grand Central?"

Pearl did. It had been a terrific explosion, followed by a gusher of superheated steam and water that reached as high as the nearby Chrysler building. People had gawked in disbelief. People had panicked. There had been at least one death.

"It was quite a demonstration of power unleashed in the wrong way," Yancy said. "But that kind of power can have positive uses. It's already used to provide heat and electricity, but not to its full potential. The coalition is considering ways to tap into that steam system even more, expand it out of the city so that someday it will hook up to similar steam systems, get it turning turbines to produce unheard-of amounts of energy. I have a few people close to the governor interested." He grinned. "I guess we'll call ourselves the National Wind and Steam Coalition."

Wind, steam, and bulls.h.i.t, Pearl thought. But he did seem enthusiastic about his work.

She told herself that with Yancy, seem seem was the operative word. was the operative word.

"Do you really think that's possible?" she asked. "Turning the city's underground steam system into a kind of subterranean Hoover Dam project?"

He toyed with his fork. "Oh, I don't know. I can make it sound possible, so maybe it is."

She helped herself to a small sampling of her flan, watching him watch her lips work on the smooth silver spoon.

He gave her his handsome smile, the blue eyes. "But why am I talking about work? You're so much more important than that."

"More important than wind and steam power? You sure of that?"

"Of course, Pearl. What you have makes the whole world go round, not just a few windmills or turbines."

She sipped her wine and leaned over the table to look closely at him. "Are you lobbying me?"

He nodded. "I admit it. Are you susceptible to a bribe?"

She nodded back. "Like a two-term congresswoman."

"Going to finish your dessert, Congresswoman Pearl?"

"No, just my wine."

He gave some sort of silent signal to the waiter, who appeared with their check. Yancy paid cash and left an outrageous tip, probably to impress Pearl.

Within a few minutes they were outside on the sidewalk, in the hot night. She was slightly lightheaded from the wine. Things were moving swiftly. It was apparent that Yancy didn't want her to have second thoughts.

She knew that wasn't going to happen. The red wine and chocolate flan were having their combined effects on her, and she felt marvelously...compliant.

She didn't feel that way often, so why not lean back and enjoy it? A person couldn't keep her guard up all the time.

He flagged a cab that appeared as mysteriously as had the waiter.

"I thought your apartment was only a few blocks away," Pearl said.

"It is, but we shouldn't walk when we can ride."

"Smaller carbon footprint," said the congresswoman.

"We'll walk next time," Yancy a.s.sured her.

In the back of the cab he kissed her, then nibbled at her earlobe and gave it a little nip.

"What was that all about?" she asked.

"Earmark."

"You do stay with a theme."

"You're the theme," he said. "The theme, the overture, and the entire symphony."

Being played like an instrument, Pearl thought. It's not just a figure of speech It's not just a figure of speech.

His apartment was on Fifth Avenue and did indeed have a view of the park. The apartment was s.p.a.cious, with plush rugs over a gleaming hardwood floor. There were brown leather upholstered chairs, gla.s.s-topped tables, modern prints on the walls. A Mondrian that looked real over a fireplace that didn't. Over in a corner there was even a gleaming grand piano.

The overall impression was one of comfort, order, and wealth.

But just an impression of the apartment's living room was all Pearl got, or wanted.

The bedroom was vast, with a king-sized bed with a brown leather bench at its foot. White walls, beige drapes, a thick cream-colored duvet.

No mirrored ceiling, thank G.o.d.

Had she expected one?

In truth, she was still trying to understand this guy.

In bed he was dominant but gentle, bringing her close to o.r.g.a.s.m and then letting her fall back, turning her in on herself so that every thought other than of what he was doing fled from her mind. He toyed with her, and she amused him in a way that excited her.

He brought her closer, closer to where she wanted to be, and didn't let up.

Didn't let up.

A woman in the room called his name in her voice.

When they were finished he rolled lightly off her and kissed the ear he'd nibbled in the back of the cab. They looked at each other across the topography of white linen that was the landscape of lovers.

He didn't ask her how it had been for her, but she could see the question in his eyes.

"Profound and fun," she said.

He smiled. "In equal measures?"

She thought about it. "Yeah, I'd say. Only one complaint."

He appeared startled and hurt. "Oh? What's that?"

"Your hair didn't get mussed. Not one single hair on your head."

She turned to him, laced her fingers through his thick white hair, and made it a wild tangle.

She was amazed to see that he had dark roots.

26.

Holifield, Ohio, 1994 It had taken forever for night to fall. Jerry and his mother were the only ones in the house.

Jerry Grantland's father seldom bothered to show up on his scheduled visitation days. This day had been no exception. It had pa.s.sed without explanation, without even a phone call, without Jerry or his mother even mentioning his father.

Jerry lay silently in bed, waiting for his mother to turn off the Jeopardy! Jeopardy! rerun on television in the living room. He could barely hear the low murmur of voices and rustle of applause from the TV, but he could see the crack of light beneath his bedroom door and knew she was still up. Probably she was drinking another of the mixture she made from club soda and the bottle of gin she kept in the cabinet above the sink. rerun on television in the living room. He could barely hear the low murmur of voices and rustle of applause from the TV, but he could see the crack of light beneath his bedroom door and knew she was still up. Probably she was drinking another of the mixture she made from club soda and the bottle of gin she kept in the cabinet above the sink.

An hour pa.s.sed. Two. He could hear his mother snoring now and thought she'd probably sleep all night where she lay on the sofa. That was how it usually worked when she watched Jeopardy! Jeopardy! and drank the gin drink. and drank the gin drink.

Jerry rolled over onto his side and checked the clock with its flipping lighted numbers by his bed. It was twenty minutes past midnight. Jerry knew he should wait until about one a.m. That was usually the time it happened, when Mrs. Keller was asleep. Of course, if you watched the clock it would never flip to the next minute. Instead of watching, he closed his eyes and thought about Mrs. Keller. Jerry realized he had an erection, and he wondered, with a wife like Mrs. Keller, why did Mr. Keller do the things he did?

But then, why did Jerry's mother do some of the same things? Adults were a mystery to Jerry. Someday, he was sure, the mystery would be solved. When he was an adult.

At ten minutes to one he could no longer stay in bed without jumping clear out of his skin. He got up, slipped into his jeans, and put on his tennis shoes without socks. Though it was a hot night, he got a dark shirt from his closet and wore it untucked over the white T-shirt he slept in.

Silently, he went to his bedroom window and raised it. The window moved smoothly in its wooden frame and made no sound. Two days ago, while alone in the house, Jerry had lubricated it with some of his mother's Crisco from the kitchen.

The window screen unlatched from the bottom and swung upward, allowing him room to slip beneath it and drop the few feet to the yard.

It was a moonless night and dark, just as he liked it. The mosquitoes were out, but they didn't bother him much. Off in the distance he could see a shimmering cloud of moths circling a street light. They looked oddly like snowflakes caught in a whirl of wind.

He crept a few feet away from the window, then ran and disappeared into the dark void that was the unbroken lawn between his house and the Kellers'.

Then he was in the blackness and shrubbery at the side of the Kellers' house, near the twins' bedroom window. Sharp-edged holly bush leaves scratched his bare arms as he moved sideways into the comparative softness of the yews.

The yews were his cover and his shelter. He'd come to feel as at home in them as if he were some wild and nesting animal. Though he knew he was risking everything by being there, he still somehow felt more secure where he was than anywhere else in his world. He belonged there, in the concealing blackness and cover of the shrubbery. What he was doing couldn't be so wrong if he belonged there.

As if on signal, katydids in the surrounding trees began to sound their ratcheting shrill mating call. Jerry was glad. The racket made it less likely that he'd make some slight noise and be discovered.

He was at the window now. The shade was lowered almost all the way, as it usually was. A gap was left so it wouldn't knock over Tiffany's collection of ceramic animals on the inside sill. The bottom of the shade was an inch above the giraffe, leaving plenty of room for a view.

Squatting on the soft earth, Jerry settled into a comfortable position so he could peer into the bedroom without moving or making a sound. He wasn't worried about being noticed; there was always a night-light glowing softly in the twins' room, making it brighter inside than out. If somebody inside did happen to glance his way, he was sure that if he didn't move he'd be invisible behind dark reflecting gla.s.s. Experimenting with his own bedroom window had taught him that much. Night turned bedroom windows into the kind of mirrors you saw in the movies and on TV, where the police questioned suspects and then left them alone to comb their hair or examine their teeth, but they couldn't see the cops standing behind the mirror looking right at them.

Jerry was where the cops usually stood. Safe unless for some reason the light changed.