DIVA (38 page)

The Young and the Restless
ended and a commercial came on, one of those sappy Viagra ads, a gray-haired older couple acting lovey-dovey. Watch TV too much, you’d think every man on Earth was ready to get it on every minute of the day. God knows he wasn’t. His wife had passed two years before Katrina, thank the Lord. She’d have thrown a hissy-fit, coming home like he had to find the house they’d occupied for thirty years—the house where they’d raised two great kids—filled with muck and moldy furniture and a refrigerator full of bugs.

A bold graphic on the TV caught his eye:
NEWS BULLETIN
.

Albert went over and upped the volume.

“New Orleans police say a man broke into a house and kidnapped a woman today. He’s described as a white male in his thirties, six feet tall and slender. Police believe he’s driving a white Ford E-series van. If you see the van, call the number on the bottom of your screen. Do not approach this man. Police say he is armed and extremely dangerous.”

Albert adjusted the bottom plate of his dentures with his tongue. Some nut was out there, armed and dangerous. He set his coffee mug in the sink and returned to the front room, cradling his Winchester in the crook of his arm. He sidled up to the window, raised one slat of the blind and looked across the street.

The van was still there. Looked like a Ford to him. He squinted.

Yup, had that distinctive Ford logo on the back. A black Ford van.

The announcer had said the guy was driving a white van, hadn’t she? Albert fingered the stubble on his jaw. Damned if he could remember. But that van had no business being in Joe’s driveway. Of that he was certain.

He returned to the kitchen, picked up the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

A woman came on the line, asking what was his emergency.

“That nutcase that kidnapped the women. I think he might be in my neighborhood.”

“Could you tell me your name and your location, sir?”

Albert stated his name and address. “I got a gutted house across the street from me, and there’s a Ford van parked in the driveway.”

“Is it a white van?”

Lord-a-Mighty, here he was being a good citizen and this dumbbell was grilling him like he was a suspect. “No, it isn’t. But it’s a Ford van and it’s big and it’s parked where it ain’t supposed to be.”

“Thank you, sir. I’ll notify the detectives.”

“You want the plate number?”

“Yes, sir. Do you have it?”

“Nope, but if you hold on a second, I’ll get it for you.”

_____

He watched the Diva listen to the music coming from his boom box.

Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun,
Charles Munch conducting the Boston Symphony back in the ‘60s, recently reissued on CD. He had asked her to identify the flutist on the opening solo. His version of Name That Tune.

She seemed enthralled, sitting as still as a Rodin sculpture, eyes closed, lips curved in a smile. A far cry from when he tried to make love to her this morning. When she resisted, he’d slapped her. He hadn’t meant to. It just happened. Since then she’d been much nicer, asking about his music background, complimenting his playing.

Maybe they could work things out after all.

His cell phone ripped into
Ride of the Valkyries.
Startled, he pulled it out and studied the faceplate. The Diva opened her eyes, watching him as the music soared to a lush climax. “Stay there, Belinda. I need to take this call in the other room, but I’ll be watching you.”

She nodded, dreamy-faced, like she was in a trance.

He went down the hall to the gutted kitchen. The stench was awful, the sink full of moldy rags. He could see The Diva through the spaces between the studs, but she couldn’t hear him. He punched on. “What.”

“Ben?”

“Why are you calling me?”

“Are you in trouble? A New Orleans police officer called this morning asking about you.”

His neck felt like spiders were crawling over it. How could that be? They didn’t know his real name. “What did he say?”

“It was a woman. She was asking about you, and Ma and Pa.”

“What did you tell her?”

“I told her Ma and Pa were dead.”

“What did you tell her about
me
, Rachael?”

“Nothing. I said I hadn’t seen you for years. Where are you? Why are the cops calling me?”

“I’m in N’awlins. It’s a fun town. Y’all come and see me, y’hear?”

“Stop it, Ben. The cop got my number from the orchestra manager. I don’t know what you’re doing, but you better stop or you’ll get me in trouble!”

“As if you never got
me
in trouble. You got me in trouble every chance you got. Daddy-O used to beat the shit out of me, remember?”

Silence on the other end. He turned to monitor Belinda. What a good girl, sitting on his makeshift loveseat, eyes closed, listening to the music.

A sharp crack sounded, brilliant light flashed outside the window, then deep rolling thunder.

“Ben, why did that policewoman call me?”

Poor Rachael. She didn’t want to get in trouble. When she was fucking Pa, she didn’t worry about getting in trouble. But that was then and this was now. Rachel had stayed in touch with Pa right up until he died. He knew why. She wanted to know who her birth parents were. Didn’t want to know bad enough to keep fucking him, though.

“Remember Belinda Scully?” he said. This was going to be fun.

“The girl that played principal flute in the All-State orchestra? What about her?”

“The cops think I kidnapped her, but I didn’t. Turn on the TV and watch the news. You’ll see.”

He closed the phone and rubbed his eyes. He’d been up all night, watching Belinda sleep, anticipating her reaction when she woke up. And then, his reward. The kiss. The sweetness of her mouth.

Until lover-boy Renzi called.

On the way here in the van, he’d heard the radio bulletin. The cops were hunting for a white Ford E-series van.
Do not approach this man. Police say he’s armed and they consider him very dangerous.

He laughed aloud. He was dangerous all right. Dangerous and armed to the teeth. If anyone approached him, he’d blow their fucking heads off. And now the cops knew his true identity. He smiled.

Doomsday, coming soon to a theater near you. He was going to be famous and he didn’t need to shoot a president like Hinckley, in his pathetic attempt to impress Jody Foster. The most important person in
his
world was sitting right there on his loveseat. Now they were alone.

Well, Oz was here, but Oz didn’t count.

Anticipating the sweetness of her mouth, he started down the hall.

______

Frank paced Belinda’s driveway, waiting impatiently while Vobitch talked on his cell phone. The crime scene techs had finished and gone.

Vobitch signaled him, mouthed:
We got a tip on the van.

His heart thrummed his chest. About time they caught a break.

Vobitch’s gleeful expression faded and he punched off.

“The tipster says the van’s black. Probably a dead-end, but they’ll check it. They’re running the plate now, shouldn’t take long.”

Not a white van, a black one. An errant thought plinked his mind and flitted away. He raked his fingers through his hair. They had to find Belinda.

He closed his eyes and concentrated. A movie scene blossomed in his mind: the assassin in
Day of the Jackal
, spray-painting his white sports car blue.

“What’s the address?”

“Frank, I’m not sending SWAT until I’m sure it’s Stoltz.”

“Fuck waiting! Give me the address.”

_____

Terrified by her captor’s bizarre behavior, she tried to calm her wildly beating heart. After the phone call, he had returned, muttering to himself. When the music ended she’d heard loud cracks of thunder, and flashes of lightning had filtered through the window blinds. Then Silverman asked her to identify the flutist who’d played the
seductive flute solo.

When she said she couldn’t, he said, “Play it for me. That’s why I let you bring your flute, Belinda. So you could play for me. Just for me.”

Every flutist at Juilliard knew the solo by heart. Debussy’s
Prelude to an Afternoon of a Faun
was required repertoire for every orchestral audition.

Now she had to play it in this stinking hellhole. Not for an audition, to placate an evil monster with a shaven head. If she didn’t, he might kill her.

She raised the platinum Haynes flute to her mouth and took an enormous breath. Gazing at the floor, she played the solo on autopilot, her fingers moving effortlessly, her mind alive with possibility.

Something in her flute case had given her a glimmer of hope.

If she was very careful and very brave, maybe she could escape.

She finished, lowered her flute and forced herself to look at him.

He clapped his hands and his rubbery-red lips spread in a smile. The monster with the shaven-head and piggish blue eyes looked positively ecstatic. “Gorgeous! You're a fabulous flutist, Belinda. Play something else for me.”

She took a deep breath the way she did before a big performance to steady her nerves. “Would you like me to play the Gershwin Variations?”

He leered at her, devouring her with his eyes. “Would you
like
to play it for me?”

She mentally rehearsed what she had to do. No one was going to save her. She had to save herself.

“I’d love to, Barry. But first I have to adjust the tension on the keys.”

He frowned. “Why?”

“Because of all the trills,” she explained, working to keep her voice calm. “I do it when I go offstage, during the applause.” She dredged up a smile, the charismatic smile she used to charm her audiences. “Want me to show you how I do it? It will be our little secret.”

He clapped his hands like a delighted child. “Show me, show me!”

“Don't get up, Barry. Let me get the screwdriver and I’ll show you.”

She went to the foam-filled chair where her flute case lay open. Her palms were wet with sweat and her heart was jumping like a jackrabbit inside her chest. She wiped her palms on her jeans.
Don’t think about it. Just do it.

She picked up the tiny screwdriver she used to adjust the tension on the keys of her flute. Attached to the one-inch molded-plastic handle was a two-inch metal rod that ended in a sharp flat edge.

Holding the flute in her left hand, she showed him the screwdriver. “See? The screws are tiny, so this tool is perfect. Watch how I do it.”

He leaned forward in his chair, smiling and eager. “I’m watching!”

She stood by his chair, slightly behind him. Now came the difficult part.

The terrifying part. If she failed, she was dead.

“Keep your eye on this tiny screw.” She touched it with the tip of the screwdriver. “I’m just going to give it a half-twist.”

Gripping the screwdriver in her hand, she thrust the blade at his eye, but at the last instant he turned his head. She tried to alter her thrust. Too late.

Instead of piercing his eye, the screwdriver plunged into the bridge of his nose, ripping flesh as she thrust it upward with all her strength.

“Arrrrrgh!” he screamed, clasping his hands to his face.

She whirled and ran down the hall toward the door where they had entered the house.
Dear God, let it be unlocked, let me out of here!

Behind her, she heard him moaning.

Then, footsteps, thundering toward her.
“You traitorous bitch!”

Consumed by panic, she froze.

She couldn’t think. Couldn’t breath. Couldn’t move.

She had to move!

Holding the flute in her left hand, she grabbed the doorknob with her right and twisted. The door creaked and groaned. Opened an inch and stuck.

The door was warped from the flooding. She was trapped.

“I’ll make you wish you’d never been born!”

She thought her heart would explode.

Desperate, she yanked at the door. It moved another inch.

Footsteps behind her. Closer and closer. “I’ll fix you, bitch!”

She turned and looked. Saw a horrifying vision staggering toward her, blood spurting from the gash on his brow. The eye below it was shut. The other eye was fixed on her like a pale-blue laser beam from hell.

Now he was only ten yards away, arms extended, his claw-like fingers outstretched to grab her.

She dropped her flute, stuck her fingers in the opening and yanked as hard as she could.

CHAPTER 40

Albert brushed crumbs off his mustache and set the red Fiestaware plate in the sink. He wasn’t given to bragging, but in his opinion he made the best grilled cheese and bologna sandwich anywhere: two thick slices each of German bologna and Munster cheese on whole-wheat bread, toasted in a frying pan till it was crispy brown.

Now that he’d finished lunch, he’d better go see what was going on at Joe Landry’s house across the street.

He grabbed his Winchester, went in the parlor and tilted the blinds.

The storm was worse. Jagged bolts of lightning flashed, quickly followed by the boom of rolling thunder. Wind drove sheets of rain sideways, pelting the street and the sidewalk like buckshot.

The van was still in Joe’s driveway. Where the hell were the cops?

A flash of motion caught his eye: a woman running down the sidewalk across the street. Running as if the harpies from hell were after her, arms flailing, legs pumping, hair plastered to her head.

She had sandals on her feet.

Piss-poor shoes for running in a torrential downpour.

He fingered his mustache. Not many of his neighbors were runners and of the few he’d seen, this woman wasn’t one of them. He’d have remembered that reddish-gold hair.

Too many weird things were happening today. A woman out running in a violent rainstorm, a van parked where it shouldn’t be. He’d called to report that van twenty minutes ago.