In the middle of the living room was a card table, covered by an oilskin cloth. On the table was a red Sears Craftsman toolbox. The kidnapper had been carrying it when he broke into Dr. Graveline’s house.
Heather nodded toward the toolbox and said, “What’s in there?”
“Just some stuff I borrowed from Rudy.”
The furniture looked like it came from the Salvation Army, but still there was a spartan coziness about the place, especially with the soft sounds of moving water. Heather said, “I like your house.”
“The neighborhood’s not what it used to be.”
“What kind of fish is that on the wall?”
“It’s a blue marlin. The bill broke off, I’ve got to get it fixed.”
Heather said, “Did you catch it yourself?”
“No.” Stranahan smiled. “I’m no Hemingway.”
“I read for Islands in the Stream. With George C. Scott—did you see it?”
Stranahan said no, he hadn’t.
“I didn’t get the part, anyway,” said Heather. “I forget now who played the wife. George C. Scott was Hemingway, and there was lots of fishing.”
The beakless marlin stared down from the wall. Stranahan said, “It used to be paradise out here.”
Heather nodded; she could picture it. “What’re you going to do with me?”
“Not much,” said Stranahan.
“I remember you,” she said. “From the surgery clinic. That night in the parking lot, you put me in the cab. The night Rudolph’s car caught fire.”
“My name is Mick.”
Being a famous actress, Heather didn’t customarily introduce herself. This time she felt like she had to.
Stranahan said, “The reason I asked how you’re feeling is this.” He held up three pill bottles and gave them a rattle. “These were on the nightstand by your bed. Young Dr. Rudy was keeping you loaded.”
“Painkillers, probably. See, I just had surgery.”
“Not painkillers,” Stranahan said. “Seconal 100s. Industrial-strength, enough to put down an elephant.”
“What … why would he do that?”
Stranahan got off the barstool and walked over to Heather Chappell. In his right hand was a small pair of scissors. He knelt down in front of her and told her not to move.
“Oh, God,” she said.
“Be still.”
Carefully he clipped the bandages off her face. Heather expected the salty cool air to sting the incisions, but she felt nothing but an itchy sensation.
Stranahan said, “I want to show you something.” He went to the bathroom and came back with a hand mirror. Heather studied herself for several moments.
In a puzzled voice she said, “There’s no marks.”
“Nope. No scars, no bruises, no swelling.”
“Rudolph said … See, he mentioned something about microsurgery. Lasers, I think he said. He said the scars would be so small—”
“Bullshit.” Stranahan handed her the scissors. She gripped them in her right hand like a pistol.
“I’m going in the other room for a little while,” he said. “Call me when you’re done and I’ll explain as much as I can.”
Ten minutes later Heather was pounding on the bedroom door. She had cut off the remaining bandages and phony surgical dressings. She was standing there naked, striped with gummy adhesive, and crying softly. Stranahan bundled her in the blanket and sat her on the bed.
“He was s’posed to do my boobs,” she said. “And my hips. My nose, eyelids … everything.”
“Well, he lied,” said Stranahan.
“Please, I wanna go back to L.A.”
“Maybe tomorrow.”
“What’s going on?” Heather cried. “Can I use your phone, I’ve got to call my manager. Please?”
“Sorry,” said Stranahan. “No telephone. No ship-to-shore. No fax. The weather’s turned to shit, so we’re stuck for the night.”
“But I ‘m s’posed to do a Password with Jack Klugman. God, what day is it?”
Stranahan said: “Can I ask you something? You’re a beautiful girl—you get points for that, okay—but how could you be so fucking dumb?”
Heather stopped crying instantly, gulped down her sobs. No man had ever talked to her this way. Well, wait; Patrick Duffy had, once. She was playing a debutante on Dallas and she forgot one lousy line. One out of seventeen! But later at least Patrick Duffy had said he was sorry for blowing his stack.