The Miraculous Plot of Leiter & Lott (33 page)

If her instincts were truly wrong, and David did prove to be insane, she vowed not to let him hurt the girl, if she could prevent it. What she needed for that, though, was a weapon. If only she'd remembered to carry her mace!
 
Frantically assessing what else she might use, she flashed on a memory of David's serene face, instead. Which scared her. The faces of serial killers had that same look, didn't they? She recalled countless books and films where similar blank stares always seemed to fascinate those trying to understand the criminal mind of the sociopath.

She listened carefully for any other voices or cries, although the thick wood of the cabinet probably prevented hearing clearly anything so subdued. It was like being in a sensory deprivation tank. She even started to imagine the night sky, as if the fading afterimages of those blazing chandelier bulbs on her retina were actually stars like
Deneb
in Cygnus the Swan, a white super giant in the Northern Cross 60,000 times brighter than the sun, yet undistinguished due to its vast distance.
 

Concentrate, Valerie,
the voice in her head chided, in self preservation mode.

She listened ever more intently, focusing in on it, as though in meditation.
 
Momentarily, she heard faint crying again. A rise and fall in volume, followed by another slam of the sliding glass door. Then nothing at all. Had David taken Melissa Melendez out to a ransom site for an exchange, like criminals in the movies did? Or was he taking her somewhere else?

She imagined the little girl in the back of that van, now, her mouth being covered with duct tape. The idea seemed bizarre, the product of an endless dialogue with the echoes of crude neurotic visions. But the disturbing mental image nonetheless goaded her toward action. She had to do something, and quickly.
 

She tried pushing against the cabinet doors, carefully at first, then frantically when she found them locked. She ran her hand along the inside, but the wood felt smooth to her touch. Trapped, she felt a rush of panic-induced adrenaline, and managed to turn her knees toward the door in the tight space.
 
Then she levered all the pressure she could muster against the sides. In seconds, there came the cracking tear of brass hardware being ripped from stressed wood. The cabinet suddenly burst open, its doors rebounding as she pushed them aside and quickly climbed out. By the time she made it to the French doors, though, the van was gone. And so was Picasso.

Sliding the glass door aside, she ran outside and toward David's trailer.
 
Hurtling herself inside, she scrambled for the phone there, and got a dial tone this time.
Thank God.
She punched 911, and then hurriedly gave a description of the van. When asked her location, she told the operator "out back," then she laid the receiver down and waited outside for the police. While waiting, she stared at the bright house as a numbing sensation spread inside her. She looked up at the moon overhead, and saw a shooting star flash a long white streak past its ghostly face.

~ * ~

There were no sirens as two patrol cars arrived, their spotlights swiveling to illuminate the few shadows surrounding the house. Val walked down the driveway to the side, waving toward the cars with both hands.
 

The two cops were rotund men, the blue fabric at their waists stretched, their turns more like swivels as she directed one of them into the trailer, and showed him the journal on the table. "The girl was locked inside the main house," she explained, half disbelieving her own oddly throaty words, "and I was about to free her, when. . . when the man who lived here came back and took her away."

The officer began to flip through the journal, front to back, riffling the pages between. Then he pointed at the inside back cover. “Did you know this man David?” he asked.

She blinked at him. “What?”

“Did you know the guy?”

“Yes. I mean no, not really."
Obviously
.

“You've been here before, then?”

“No, I followed his dog here.”

The cop nodded once to himself, as though he didn't believe her. Then he turned to his left shoulder, and spoke something like a code into the looping microphone attached to his uniform, just below the shoulder. Another patrol car's lights swept the yard, and then two more policemen joined the first man's partner, now nearing the back doors, gun drawn.
 

“Where's the dog now?
 
In the house?”

“No," Val said. "He ran away. Or the kidnapper took him.”

“You mean David.”

“No, I don't know his name. I just know his wife's name was Melissa, just like the little girl's.”

The officer's eyes narrowed slightly, and his jaw went askew. He glanced down at the journal, and up at her again. “You didn't read this?”

“Not all of it,” Val said. "No time."

The man tapped at the name and address written in block letters on the inside back cover. Val stared at the name in astonishment. It read:
 

David
Leiter

114
Calle
Cabrillo

Tucson AZ 85716

"Ring a bell?" the officer asked, seeing her reaction.

~ * ~

The master bedroom had an ironic story to tell for anyone with eyes half open.
 
A Windsor chair had been tied to a bed post, with plastic tie straps on its arms and legs. The straps had then been cut, and a discarded length of brown strapping tape was found near the wall, as though tossed there. The tape was bagged for fingerprint analysis, and the chair dusted, but they all knew who they were looking for now.

David.

Val still stood mutely in the back yard, mouthing the name, when Greg Lomax finally arrived with a news crew. “You might be in deep water this time, Valerie,” Greg said, taking her aside as Tom
Waldren
and Russ Morrell prepped for an exclusive. “Want a lifeline before the sharks start circling, or not?”

“What do you mean?”

Greg glanced over at KTAT's premier talking head, who always seemed to be waiting for his cue. “Let me rephrase. Does the station mascot do this alone, or are you ready to salvage your job?”

“My job,” she said, still feeling dazed. "What is that?"

Greg sniffed and touched his nose. “Investigative reporter." He paused for effect. "As opposed to homeless person.”

Each second of her decision seemed to hold the weight of eternity. Val looked up at the moon again, but no shooting star offered a sign. Only the stark cratered face of another world--a dead world--met her gaze. When the pull of it felt overwhelming, she finally let go. In that moment, faith met fear, and her will to resist collapsed like opposing waves in a rip tide.

"Okay," she agreed at last, "okay, I'm ready."

Was she?
Even as she said it, she was aware of the changed timbre of her voice. The steady, determined, familiar tone taken by the person who had long pretended to be her. The actor--or impostor--in the award winning role of Valerie Marie Lott.
 

The next morning, when Greg dropped the Star's early edition heavily onto her desk, he announced, “Trent won't tell us if there's been a ransom demand, but with the leads you've supplied, our perp shouldn't be free much longer. Now let's just hope the Melendez girl is okay, and this resolves quickly. For all our sakes.”

Val stared down at the headline, numbly.

KTAT REPORTER CONFESSES LINK TO MELENDEZ CASE

Valerie Lott, reporter for KTAT-TV Channel 7, revealed her suspicions about the perpetrator of Melissa Melendez' abduction in a surprise investigative interview on last night's 10 PM news broadcast. Lott, standing outside the home of former optics engineer David
Leiter
with KTAT station manager Greg Lomax, reported to news anchor
Waldren
that she called 911 after being locked inside
Leiter's
residence north of Reid Park. “He was just someone I met at the park, and trusted,” Lott contended.
 
“If anything, he seemed harmless, but obviously he was wise enough to conceal his true identity, which is probably what made me break off our conversation when I did.” When her suspicions peaked at hearing about the Melendez abduction, Ms. Lott went in search for her acquaintance, following her “intuition,” as she put it, although she also mentioned following a dog she saw at the park. Rejecting police help, the veteran reporter then risked her life by placing herself in danger on a hunch--a danger that consisted in hiding in the suspect's house during a chilling close call when the abductor briefly returned, after which she then witnessed the suspect's van depart the premises. “I still don't believe David wants to do what he's doing,” declared Lott. “I don't think he'll harm Melissa, either. He's obviously still troubled over the loss of his wife and his own little girl earlier this year, and when he comes to his senses again, he will let her go.”

Lott next appealed to
Leiter
directly. “If you hear this, David, please just let the girl go, and turn yourself in," she pleaded. "We will find you the help you need to get through this ordeal, trust me.”

“Is Mrs. Robinson satisfied?" Val asked when she finished reading. She looked up at her boss, who had been watching her read with avid interest.

Greg straightened his tie, inadvertently flashing his new white choppers. "She was upset at first, but I think I've convinced her we're on top of it now."

"And are we?"

Greg now scratched the birthmark that resembled a rash on his red neck. “I don't get you, Val," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"You're the one who's lucky to be alive here, after your own little ordeal.”

“You know I don't really believe that.”

He chuckled. “That why you hid in an empty liquor cabinet?”

She ignored the question, posing one of her own. “Did the detective say when I could read the rest of David's journal?”

“Trent's not saying much of anything right now. Everything on site is being examined. The only thing we know right now is that
Leiter
is an engineer, a loner with few friends other than this Dr. Etherton who's come forward with clippings about their experience in Dubai during the bombings there. Of course, if you ask me, this
Leiter
guy's either a religious nut or a wannabe terrorist himself.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You don't think it's obvious, him living like an Al Qaeda trainee with no air conditioning, when he's got a three bedroom luxury house sixty feet away?”

“Like I told you, maybe he couldn't live there due to memories of his wife.”

Greg shook his head, not buying it. “So he eats pork and beans, and sleeps on the floor of a trailer parked in his driveway? Come on! There's a
Cusinart
on the marble island in his kitchen. A cappuccino machine. A stainless steel refrigerator and rotisserie oven, for God's sake!”

“None of which mean anything to him anymore. At least that much is true." Val paused. "You've never been in love, have you? With the exception of the Nielson family, that is.”

Greg gave her a hundred yard stare, and then, after instructing her to interview Vasquez in order to show viewers that she was back on the job--business as usual--he left her office, slowly shaking his head.
 

Escaping reporter inquiries, Val found herself in the park once more, about to fulfill her obligation. This time, though, it was different. As she watched the ball players practice, she felt no pang of lust or even mild interest. Nor did she need to waylay the team's star player. She had an appointment, arranged by simple phone call to the club's office. The team's office manager claimed that Vasquez was more than willing to give her whatever time she needed, now, after seeing her on TV.

Time was what she needed, for sure, to figure things out. Because it felt unreal to sit on the same bench where she'd met David, and to know his name really was David. Considering what had happened since. Even though it was only Greg who'd suggested she was lucky to be alive, and not detective Trent, the bizarre notion felt disorienting, all the same. As though everything she'd hoped to understand had been suddenly snatched away, instead. Like a life preserver jerked out of reach at the last second.
 

Stalling for more time, Val considered next what David had said about not letting thoughts about the past or the future control one's life. How thinking too much was itself the problem. And again, she couldn't help imagining David at the gazebo again, losing that battle. Because it was a battle she could never hope to win, herself. Might she ever stop worrying about the future, even for just ten minutes of peace? The newspapers and broadcast networks wouldn't let anyone do that. Everywhere, zealots promoted Socialism or Zionism or radical Islamic terrorism, often in the name of God. Talking heads and editorial writers alike warned of global warming, a coming Medicare crisis, stellar radiation, bird flu, loose nukes, the collapsing dollar. Had it all been too much, even for David?