“Where’s Eric?” he breathed.
“I don’t know.”
“You’re going to help me get him back.’
Fear had pierced my chest wall like splinters. All the adrenaline was coursing upward to my brain, driving out thought. I had a brief image of Dietz with Rochelle Messinger. They’d evidently succeeded in plucking the kid from his father’s grasp. I could smell chlorine from the swimming pool, mingled with Messinger’s breath. He probably couldn’t take his gun to the pool without calling attention to himself. I pictured him in the water, Eric on the side just waiting to jump in. If his mother appeared, he’d have run straight to her with a shriek of joy. By now they were probably barreling out to the airport. The plane had been chartered for nine to allow time for the snatch. I willed the thought away. Made my mind blank.
Messinger slapped me across the face hard, setting up a ringing in my head. I was dead. I wouldn’t get out of this one alive. He shoved me toward the back door, kicking a chair out of my path. I caught sight of Ernie, the old guy, shuffling toward the kitchen. His expression was perplexed, especially when he spotted Patrick on the floor with the corsage of blood pinned to the center of his chest. Mark Messinger turned and pointed the gun at the old man.
“Oh don’t!” I burbled. My voice sounded strange, high-pitched and hoarse. I squeezed my eyes shut and waited for the spwt! I looked back. The old fellow had pivoted and was shuffling away in panic. I could hear his howls echo down the hall, as frail and helpless as a child’s. Messinger watched him retreat, indecision flickering in his eyes. He lost interest and turned his attention back to me. “Get the car keys.”
I saw the bag where I’d dropped it on the floor near the phone. I pointed, temporarily unable to speak. I longed for my gun.
“We’ll take my car. You drive.”
He grabbed me by the head and buried his grip in my hair again, propelling me with a fury that made me cry out in fear.
“Shut up,” he whispered. His face was close to mine as we descended the back stairs. I stumbled, grabbing at the rail with my right hand for balance. My heel slipped off the stair and I nearly went down. I thought he’d pull all my hair out, effectively scalping me with his closed fist, which held me like a vise. I couldn’t look down, couldn’t move my head to either side. I could feel the gravel driveway underfoot. I proceeded like a blind woman, hands out, using senses other than sight. The car was parked in the drive near the shed. I wondered briefly if a neighbor would spot our clumsy progress. Nearly dark now. In my mind’s eye, I could see Rochelle’s face. Please be on the plane, I thought. Please be in the air. Take Dietz with you forever and keep him somewhere safe. I pictured his impatience, his intensity. I willed him into a taxi, drove him away from the danger. I couldn’t save him, couldn’t even save myself this time around. Messinger yanked open the door on the passenger side and pushed me across the front seat. He was driving a yellow Rolls-Royce: walnut dashboard, leather upholstery.
“Start the car,” he said. He got in after me, crowding close. He placed the barrel of the gun against my temple. He was breathing hard, his tension concentrated in his grip on the gun. If he shot me, I wouldn’t feel it. I’d be dead before the pain could travel along my nerve ends and get the message to my brain. I willed the act, wanted it over with. “Do it,” he said. I thought the voice was mine, so nearly did it mimic my thought.
“Start the fuckin’ car!” His anger was erratic, sometimes fire, sometimes ice, his command of himself veering inexplicably from unbridled impulse to rigid control.
I felt for the keys in the ignition.
“Where’d they take my son?”
“They didn’t tell me.”
“You lying bitch! I’ll tell you then.” He dropped his voice and I could feel the force of his words against my cheek. The sexuality was back, the same tickle of desire that rises when you dance with a man for the first time-some awareness of the flesh and all the possibilities that wait. He was calm again, confident, his throaty laugh nearly jubilant. “Rochelle’s got a twin brother flies a plane,” he said. “She knows better than to take Eric back to her place because I’d find him first thing and she’d be dead before she shut the door. She’ll try to get him out by air, take him off and hide him somewhere till things cool down.” He moved the gun away from my head, gesturing with the barrel. “Back out on the street and take a left. We’ll head out to the airport, there’s a charter place out there. Drive carefully, okay?”
I nodded dumbly, my mood shifting as abruptly as his. So far, I was alive, not maimed or disabled. I was grateful he hadn’t hurt me, thrilled I wasn’t dead. I did as I was told. I felt absurdly happy that his manner was pleasant, his tone nearly friendly as I backed out of the drive. He’d reduced my habitual cockiness to humility. There was still hope. There was still a chance. Maybe they’d already left. Maybe they were gone. Maybe I could kill him before he killed me. I had a flash of Rochelle being shot in the chest. He’d kill her as carelessly as he’d killed Patrick Bronfen, with the same matter-of-factness, the same casualness, the same ease. Dietz would die. Messinger would trade me for Eric at the outset and then kill us all. Rochelle, Dietz, and me, in whatever order would maximize the horror. I focused on the road, suddenly conscious of the car. I could smell leather seats, the fresh rose in a crystal vase. The car glided in silence. I turned right on 101 and flew north. There was not a highway patrol car in sight.
My mouth was dry. I cleared my throat. “How did you know where I was?”
“I put a bug on the Porsche the first night it was parked in front of your place. See this? My receiver. I’ve been following you guys everywhere in a couple of different rental cars.”
“Why’d you kill Patrick?”
“Why not. He’s a dickface.”
I glanced over at him curiously. “Why’d you spare Ernie?”
“That old fart? Who knows? Maybe I’ll go back and do him now you mention it,” he said. His tone was teasing. A little hit-man humor to show what a devil-may-care kind of guy he was. He’d taken the gun away from my head and it rested now on his knee. “What’s the story with this bodyguard? He’s a pain in the ass. Two times I nearly had you and he stepped in.”
I kept my eyes on the road. “He’s good at his job.”
He looked over at me. “You makin’ it with him?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Come on. . .”
“I’ve only known him four days!” I said, righteously.
“So what?”
“So I don’t jump into bed with guys that quick.”
“You should have done while you had the chance. Now he’s a dead man. I’ll make you a deal. How’s this? Him or you. Better yet, Rochelle or him. Take your pick. If you don’t choose, I kill all three of you.”
“You’re only getting paid for one.”
“True, but I’ll tell you, the money doesn’t mean that much. When you do what you love, you’d do it for free, am I right?” He leaned toward the tape deck. “Want some music? I got jazz, classical, R B. No heavy metal or reggae. I hate that shit. You want Sinatra?”
“No thanks.” I saw the off-ramp for the university and the airport and eased right. The road curved up and to the left, crossing the freeway, which now passed underneath. It was gone and we hit the straightaway. Two more minutes to the airport and what was I going to do? The digital clock on the instrument panel showed that it was 8:02. A mile farther on, the access ramp to Rockpit Road came into view on the right. I took the turn. I knew the ocean was close by, but all I could smell was the rotten-egg odor of the slough that hugged the road. A fog was rolling in, a dense bank of white against the blackened sky. The university sat up on the bluffs like a walled city, all lights and buff-colored towers. I’d never gone to college. I was strictly blue-collar lineage-like this guy, come to think of it. Like Dietz.
I took Rockpit for half a mile until the hangars and assorted outbuildings of Neptune Air appeared on the left. “Here,” he said. I slowed the Rolls and turned in. Messinger sat forward, peering through the windshield, which had been spritzed with fine mist.