The Trophy Wife (33 page)

The next step was the picture. She put her Polaroid camera on the edge of the kitchen counter, set the timer for ten seconds, and then ran around to look into the lens. By trial and error she finally got a photo of herself where her head was about the size of a postage stamp. She held the photo against the window, ruled the back, and then cut out a passport-size photo of the young brunette with short hair. This fit perfectly onto the first page of a Canadian passport just above the name Susan Schwartz. Angela slipped the passport into the outside pocket of her travel bag.

She gathered up her trash—the stained cloths, the empty hair coloring bottle and package, the paper towels that had wiped the basin, the film boxes and wrappers—and stuffed them into a paper bag. She added this to the sack of shredded files and carried them out to the incinerator drop chute.

The apartment had to have a lived-in look. Certainly, the full wardrobe of clothes, the cosmetics and toiletries still in the medicine cabinet, and the clothes in the hamper combined to give the impression that she was still living there, and would be back shortly. Now Angela added other touches. She filled two pots with soapy water and left them in the sink. In the refrigerator, she uncapped the milk jug and left a half stick of butter on a desert plate. She spread the
Times,
with the pages opened to the crossword puzzle, across her unmade bed When she looked around for her final survey, she could
hardly believe herself that this was the last time she would ever see the apartment.

Finally, she slipped on a denim jacket, added a colorful scarf at the neck, and threw the strap of her travel bag over her shoulder. She locked the door behind her and took the elevator down to the first floor. There, she shifted over to the fire stairs and let herself out the back door.

Angela went around the building, crossed the street, and walked past the front of her apartment building on the opposite side of the street. Helen Restivo's man was behind the wheel of a parked car directly across from her doorway. In the light of a streetlamp, she noticed him raise his glance as she approached, and run his eyes appreciatively over her full length. Then, as she reached the car, he turned away, resuming his vigil of the front door. The woman he was waiting for would never appear.

She walked to Park Avenue, crossed to the downtown side, and signaled to a passing taxi. “Kennedy Airport. International departures,” she told the driver. He dropped the flag on his meter.

Walter's living room was like a funeral parlor, with the deceased there in spirit if not in person. He sat hunched on the edge of a soft chair, his head sunk down between his shoulders and his eyes fixed on the pattern in the oriental carpet. Amanda sat back into the cushions of the sofa, her attention focused on the blank surface of the ceiling. Alex had turned a straight-back chair around so that he could straddle the chair back and lean his folded arms across the top. His attention was fixed on the telephone, willing it to ring.

Their conversation consisted of random phrases, unrelated to one another, but all concerned with their wife and mother. “They've got their pictures,” Walter had announced. “Somebody must be able to recognize them.” Then, after a ten-minute silence, Amanda had contributed, “Mother is a very strong person. She'll come through this all right.” Five more minutes had passed and then Alex had commented, “There
must be some way they could keep us posted on their progress.”

But while the conversation was sparse, the atmosphere was burdened with guilt. Walter could feel his son's moral indignation that his mother had been treated so shabbily by his father. Alex, who had been the reasonable arbitrator between Walter and Amanda, had returned from the tennis club firmly on Amanda's side. He hadn't questioned his mother's affair with the tennis pro. Rather, he had demanded of his father, “How could you have driven her into the arms of that creep?” His voice had been filled with censure and his eyes heavy with disgust.

Amanda could hardly bear the sight of him. She was immersed in the hypocrisy of her upbringing. Bad enough that her entire adult life had been condemned as shabby, purposeless, and immoral. Now she knew that the stinging, hurtful words had come from a figure of righteousness whose sins were far blacker than her own. Her father didn't disapprove of her sleeping around, he just wanted her to sleep with someone of his own class. To him, Wayne was a greater disgrace than either fornication or adultery. Her judgment was more offensive than her morals.

Walter was trying to keep his problems separated. He clung to Angela's words that their affair wasn't the cause of Emily's kidnapping. Even if that weren't true, his marital infidelity certainly couldn't be blamed for the gross threats of the madman who was holding her. When he had decided to go along with Hogan's plans for catching the kidnappers, he had assumed that Emily would be kept safe. How could he have known that a deranged felon would be willing to mutilate her for what he regarded as pocket change? Walter could almost believe that he wasn't responsible for his wife's predicament.

The exposure of his moral failings was another problem. He would have preferred to explain the changes in his life to his children positively and in good time. He knew how devastating it must be for them to have their father's philandering thrown into their faces, particularly at a time when their
mother was in grave danger. But eventually he would have told them, and he had already taken their disappointment into account.

His status at the bank was still a different concern and one that had slipped beyond his control. If Hogan and his lady detective were able to find Emily within the next few hours, then his adherence to bank policy and his refusal to pay the ransom would be seen as extreme devotion to duty. He could order the brass plate with his name for the door of the chairman's suite. If Hogan didn't find her, then he would pay the bank's funds as ransom and leave with Angela for the life of a well-heeled exile from the banking industry.

But as he sat brooding under the watchful eyes of his children, it was difficult for him to keep the problems separate. It seemed that his whole world had come crashing down on his head; his wife brutalized, his children traumatized, and his self-worth minimized. His adulterous affair was the root cause of all his problems. He couldn't help wondering if Angela was suffering as much for their love as he was.

In all his self-loathing and self-pity he had completely forgotten that they were gathered for Emily's wake rather than his own. And then the telephone rang.

Alex was the first to the receiver, where he exchanged little more than a grunt with Andrew Hogan and handed the phone to his father. Walter nodded gravely as he listened, nodding encouragement to Amanda and Alex who were hanging on his half of the conversation. “I see … I understand … let's hope so …” Then he asked Hogan to hang on for a second while he told them, “A convenience store clerk recognized them. He thinks he knows the area where they live. And a car was reported stolen from the train station. The owner thinks the man was waiting at the station. Andrew says they could find them at any moment.”

“Sure,” Amanda said sarcastically, turning away from her father. “Andrew couldn't find them when they were sitting in a bar that he had under surveillance.” Alex went back to his straight-back chair.

“Andrew,” Walter said. “I need you to pull your people
off me.” He listened for a few moments, his expression showing his displeasure. “I know what your responsibilities are. I also know that they don't include snooping into the affairs of senior bank officers.” He listened for a full minute. Then he said, “No, it can't wait until Monday. On Monday, you can do whatever you want. I need your investigators out of my life now.”

His angry voice had gotten Amanda and Alex's attention. They suddenly understood that their father was a suspect in their mother's kidnapping. They exchanged wide-eyed glances.

Walter's next remark was as much for their benefit as to persuade the bank's security officer. “Andrew, you have no idea what it's like to make a mistake with a woman you love and know you're going to live to regret it. If you can muster up an ounce of human feeling, I want a free hand for the next twenty-four hours.”

He listened, nodded, and then said, “Thank you.” When he turned back to his children he thought he saw a faint flickering of respect.

EMILY'S FACE WAS GLUED
to her pillow by a paste of dried blood. She lifted her head slowly, wondering why the pillowcase was pulling at her skin. Then she remembered the hot slash of the knife. She was about to scream at the image of horror she recalled, but she stopped the sound in her throat and instead prayed, Oh Jesus, oh sweet Jesus, what have I done?

She remembered that she had freed the crossbar of the headboard and had been able to slide the locked handcuffs off. She could have bolted into the ceiling and began her crawl to freedom. But they were still walking back and forth right over her head. They would certainly hear her pulling down the ceiling tiles. She had decided to wait until they went to bed.

Then she had heard Mike leave, banging the door angrily behind him. Maybe this was her chance. Maybe she should slam down one of the ceiling tiles and make a racket by knocking over the table and chair. That would bring Rita charging into the room. Emily was just as big as the other woman and probably a lot stronger. She would have the element of surprise working in her favor. She could overpower her jailer and then simply escape out the front door. But suppose Rita had a gun? Then there would be no struggle. All she would be able to do was watch helplessly while she was reshackled to something more durable than the bed frame. Maybe the water pipes under the bathroom sink. Then there would be no possibility of escape. Once again, she had made a terrible mistake in judgment. She had decided to wait.

Emily had realized the enormity of her mistake when Mike returned and Rita left the house. Now she was alone with the man who had promised to ravage and mutilate her. She had no doubt that he soon would be coming down the steps to
deliver on at least part of his threats. That was when she had formulated her plan. Lie still. Pretend she was still tied to the bed. Do something to distract him so that he wouldn't notice that the chains were hanging freely. Then, when he got close, crack his skull with the bedpost and lock him in the basement

It had been a good plan. It had come within one footstep of succeeding. But in the end, it had failed awfully. She had paid a terrible price.

Emily sat up slowly. Her jaw ached. Her ear was throbbing. Her knees and elbows were skinned from her fall down the stairs. She lifted each arm and kicked each leg to make sure that the muscles were still working. Lastly, she felt for her ear, and recoiled at the touch. It ended abruptly in a ridge of dried blood that was attached to her hair. There was a small mirror in the bathroom, but she was afraid to see how badly she was damaged. She had to keep focused on her escape.

She listened carefully. The house was completely quiet. There were no footsteps nor rumbles of water running through the pipes. Her keepers were asleep, probably two floors above her head.

She tied the torn corners of the nightgown into a knot, keeping the ripped neckline from falling down around her arms. The gown almost fit, giving her freedom to move. She folded the legs of the table, carried it into the bathroom, and set it up directly under the ceiling tile that she had been able to pop out so easily. Then she went back for the folding chair and used it like a step stool so that she could climb silently up onto the table.

When she raised her hands, the free ends of the shackles swung together, rattling like the rumble of an anchor chain. She paused with her hands over her head, listening for any response from upstairs, and then breathed in relief when there was none. You're panicking, she chastised herself. The sound had been hardly audible, amplified by her own fear. She looped the chains around her arms and then pulled the sleeves of the nightgown over them to keep them silent. The ceiling tile moved away easily.

She was staring into heavy darkness. Far ahead there was
a faint trace of ambient light; probably a distant streetlight shining through the window that had illuminated her goal during the day. Emily waited a few seconds until her eyes adjusted enough for her to make out the edges of the rafters. She reached as far forward as she could and dragged herself up into the narrow channel. When her waist reached the edge of the ceiling opening, she let her weight settle on the top of the tiles. The suspended ceiling groaned under her, but she didn't sense that it was sagging. It was going to hold up.

She started forward, but the neck of the nightgown pulled her to an abrupt halt. When she pushed backward with her knees, she was pulling the gown back instead of forcing herself ahead. Emily lifted up and pulled the hem up to her thighs. The tiles were like sandpaper against the welts left by her fall.

In a matter of seconds, she was breathless. The space was much too small for her to get to her hands and knees. Instead, she had to twist her body completely just to edge her knee or elbow ahead a faction of an inch. The effort was exhausting, particularly in the hot, dead air that was trapped under the floor. She was able to twist her head back and catch a glimpse of the space that she had climbed through. It was only a few inches beyond her toes. It had taken all her effort to move just the length of her body.

She gulped down air and then pushed ahead. She tried to find a productive body rhythm. Press herself hard against the right rafter, advance her left knee and elbow until they were grinding against the splintery wood, and then roll to her left as she pushed forward with the knee and elbow. But there was no way she could find a pace. Her knees had to be fitted carefully over each of the ceiling frames. Otherwise, she would be cutting herself to shreds. The rafters were rough-hewn. Splinters gripped the fabric of the gown and stuck into her bare skin. Every movement had to be executed slowly and precisely. There was no way she could hurry, nor any alternative to the exhausting effort.