Further Tales of the City (24 page)

A
S SOON AS HE RECOGNIZED PRUE’S VOICE, FATHER
Paddy tittered through the grille in the confessional: “Really, darling, we can’t go on meeting like this!”

Prue answered him soberly. “I want this to be … official, Father.”

“Meaning, zip the old lip, huh?”

“It
must
be confidential,” whispered Prue. “I promised Frannie Halcyon I wouldn’t tell anybody. Apparently, it’s a matter of life and death.”

“My God, girl! What happened on that ship? I
thought
you were back a little early. Don’t tell me that you and Luke had some sort of …?”

“Luke is gone, Father!”

“What!”

The cleric stirred audibly in the confessional.

“What are you doing?” asked Prue.

“Getting a cigaret,” he replied. “Bear with me, darling.” There was more moving about, then Prue heard the cat-like hiss of Father Paddy’s lighter. “All right,” he said finally, expelling smoke. “Take it from the top, darling.”

* * *

It took her ten minutes to outline the disaster for him. When she had finished, Father Paddy uttered a faint moan of disbelief.

“Well?” said Prue.

“Does he still have my ID?” inquired the priest.

“I’m afraid so. I’m sorry, Father … I …”

“Don’t apologize, darling. It was my stupid idea in the first place. What about Frannie Halcyon? Did she make any connection between
that
Sean Starr and me?”

“None, as far as I know,” said Prue. “I doubt if she realizes your first name is Sean. She was too upset about the children to be functioning in a rational …”

“Mary Ann might figure it out, though.”

“You
know
her?” asked Prue.

“We work at the same station. I tape my
Honest to God
show just before she does the afternoon movie. I had to stand in for her on Tuesday when she didn’t show up. No one had any idea where she was, and I certainly had no idea she was … Lord, this is getting sticky!”

“The thing that upsets me,” said Prue, “is that DeDe appears to have … known Luke.” The very thought of this made her eyes well up with tears again.

Father Paddy must have heard her sniffling. “Darling … you don’t mean … biblically?”

“Yes!” sobbed the columnist.

“Oh my,” said the priest. “She
told
you they had been lovers?”

“Not exactly. But she knew something about him that she couldn’t possibly have known if she hadn’t been … intimate with him.”

The priest sucked air in noisily.
“What?”

Prue hesitated. “I don’t see how that matters. She just
did,
that’s all.”

A long silence. “Very well, then … I guess it’s time for my next customer.”

“But, Father … what should I
do?”

“You’ve already done it, my child. You told them what you know.”

“I didn’t tell them about the shack in the park … or the fake ID. I didn’t tell them I had known Luke before the cruise.”

“Purely extraneous, darling. It’s obvious you’ve stumbled on some private romantic squabble between DeDe and Luke. I know it must be painful to accept that, but you can’t let your emotions drive you into doing something rash. If I were you, I’d lay low for a …”

“Father, he took her children, for God’s sake!”

“Well, of course, that’s dreadful … and she deserves our prayers … but your little interlude with Luke is hardly pertinent to her dilemma. Where did she know him, anyway? I thought you said she’d been hiding out at Frannie’s place since her return from Cuba.”

“I don’t know for sure. I guess she could have … you don’t think she knew him in Guyana, do you?”

“I was wondering when you’d get to that.”

“You mean … a Temple member?”

“It’s certainly possible,” said the cleric. “Now, is that really the sort of thing you want to get mixed up in, darling?”

“But I
am
mixed up in it, Father. If they find him and he’s carrying your ID …”

“I’ll tell them the truth.”

“But …”

“I’ll tell them that I lost my wallet in the park about a month ago. And you’ll confirm it, because you were with me at the time. And that will be the end of that. Do you read me, darling?”

“I think so,” said Prue.

“Good. Now run along and be a good girl. This will all come out in the wash … I promise you.”

“But … what if he tells them about me?”

“Then, they’ll just have to choose between the word of a reputable columnist and the word of a kidnapper. That shouldn’t be too tough. Scoot, now! I’ve got customers waiting. And, Prue … put this all behind you, darling.”

“All right.”

“That means:
stay away from that shack.”

“O.K.,” said Prue defeatedly.

“God bless,” said Father Paddy.

S
HE ARRIVED RIGHT ON THE DOT, AS BRIAN HAD EXPECTED.

“You’re Bambi,” he said as cordially as possible, extending his hand. “I’m Brian, Mary Ann’s friend. I watch you on TV all the time.”

She barely returned his handshake. “She’s not here, huh?” She scanned the room as she spoke, as if she might spot Mary Ann peering out from under a tablecloth or crouching behind a curtain. “I haven’t got a lot of time, you know.”

“She just called from the airport,” said Brian. “Apparently, she had a little trouble making a connection in Denver—the traffic controllers’ strike. Here, let me take your coat. I’m sure she won’t be long.”

Bambi slid out of her bronze metallic windbreaker but retained control of the matching shoulder bag. Hanging the jacket on a chair, Brian grinned with calculated boyishness and said: “You look even better in person.”

“Thanks,” said Bambi.

Another grin, this time ducking his head. “I guess you hear that a lot?”

The newswoman shrugged. “It’s nice to hear it, anyway.”

Brian sprawled on the sofa, letting his denimed legs fall open carelessly. “I liked your stuff on the gas leak, by the way. Very cool-headed and thorough.”

“You saw that?”

Brian nodded. “On three channels, as a matter of fact. Yours was the only one that made sense. Sit down. You might as well get comfortable.”

Bambi pulled up a Breuer chair and sat down, keeping the handbag in her lap. “They almost didn’t send me on that story,” she said.

“Really?”

The newswoman nodded. “You’d be surprised what prejudice there is against letting women do any of the really hard-hitting disaster stuff. I just keep pushing, though.” She smiled valiantly.

“Good for you!” said Brian. “Look … I’m gonna have a cup of tea. Will you join me?”

Bambi shook her head. “I can’t handle the caffeine.”

“It’s herbal,” said Brian. “Our landlady makes it. Incredibly soothing. You should try a cup.”

“Oh … all right.”

He was back in five minutes, his hand shaking slightly as he handed her the cup. She sipped it tentatively, then unleashed her best six o’clock smile. “It’s
marvelous!
What’s in it?”

“Uh … hibiscus flowers, orange peels … stuff like that.”

“Does she have a name for it?”

“Oh … Alaskan Twilight, I think.”

Bambi took another sip. “Mmmm …”

Brian kept up the idle chatter for another five minutes until the newscaster’s speech began to slur. For one terrifying moment, she seemed to realize what had happened, staring at him in confusion and anger. Then her eyelids drooped shut, and she slumped forward in the chair.

“Jesus,” murmured Brian. He rose and checked the body; she was out cold but still breathing. When he tilted the head back, a pearl of saliva rolled from the corner of the newscaster’s mouth.

“O.K.,” he said out loud.

The door to the hallway swung open. Michael’s head appeared first, then Mrs. Madrigal’s. The landlady’s brow was
creased with concern. “Are you sure she’s …?”

“She’s all right,” Brian assured her. “What’s in that stuff, anyway?”

“Never mind,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “It’s organic.”

“And it lasts fifteen minutes?”

“More or less,” replied the landlady. “I wouldn’t push it. Michael dear, if you’ll grab the feet, Brian can take her arms. I’ll make sure the coast is clear.”

Michael knelt by the body and grasped the newscaster’s ankles. “We
could
just finish her off.”

“Michael!” Mrs. Madrigal was in no mood for joking.

Hoisting their quarry until she was waist high, Brian and Michael staggered into the hallway.

“Alaskan Twilight,” grinned Michael. “Gimme a break!”

N
IGHT HAD FALLEN BY THE TIME MRS. MADRIGAL
rejoined her “boys” on the roof of 28 Barbary Lane.

“Well,” she said, slipping between them and squeezing their waists, “her temper’s as foul as ever, but her appetite’s improved considerably.”

Brian looked relieved. “For a while there, I was sure she was going for a hunger strike.”

“Has she stopped yelling?” asked Michael.

The landlady nodded. “I think I convinced her the basement is soundproof. We don’t need to worry about the neighbors, really. Even when she’s making noise, you can’t hear her beyond the foyer. Visitors are another story.”

Michael gazed out at the lights on the bay. “It’s like
The Collector,”
he said.

“She has all the amenities,” insisted the landlady. “A comfy bed, a space heater, all my Agatha Christies. I even gave her Mona’s old TV set.” She turned to Michael. “What did you do with her car?”

“I parked it down on Leavenworth. Five or six blocks away.”

Brian frowned. “That doesn’t exactly cover our tracks.”

“Well,” shrugged Michael, “if you know of a swamp nearby …”

“Leavenworth is fine,” said Mrs. Madrigal. “I don’t expect we’ll be keeping her longer than two or three days. I hope not, anyway. She says she’s due at the station on Friday afternoon. Somebody’s bound to start getting suspicious.”

“Mary Ann took care of that,” said Brian.

“How?” asked Michael.

“She called the station and said that she and Bambi are on the trail of a big story and that they won’t be back until the weekend. The news director was plenty pissed, but he bought it. He didn’t have much choice.”

“So no one else knows that DeDe and the kids are alive?”

“No one except the kidnapper,” said Brian.

“And they’ve got no idea whatsoever who he is?”

Brian shook his head. “Just some guy Mrs. Halcyon met on the ship. Mary Ann is convinced that any media attention at all would seriously jeopardize their chances of getting the kids back alive.”

“That’s quite enough for me,” said Mrs. Madrigal.

“She wouldn’t have asked us to do this,” added Brian, “if the situation wasn’t desperate.” He turned to the landlady. “Did you get Mary Ann’s notes, by the way?”

Mrs. Madrigal nodded. “I locked them in my safe.”

“Good. We’ll come out of this O.K. I mean … it isn’t like we’re torturing her or holding her for ransom or something.”

“You’re right,” Michael deadpanned. “Maybe we’re not thinking big enough.”

“Michael, dear.” Mrs. Madrigal remonstrated with her eyes.

Brian addressed the landlady: “I think you’re great to be doing this. Mary Ann says she’ll take full responsibility when she gets back.”

Mrs. Madrigal’s smile was understandably weary. “It’s not just for her, you know.”

“What do you mean?”

“Those children,” explained the landlady. “I wept for a week when I read about their disappearance in Guyana.”

“You
knew
them?” asked Michael.

Mrs. Madrigal smiled wanly and shook her head. “I knew their grandfather.”

“Mary Ann’s old boss?”

Another nod.

“You mean you …?”

“We had a rather friendly little affair just before he died. Nothing earth-shattering, but … nice.”

Both men stared at her in amazement.

The landlady took ladylike delight in their confusion. “If I’m not mistaken, one of the twins was named after me. The little girl, I presume.”

“That’s right,” laughed Brian. “Her name is Anna. Mary Ann told me. Jesus, you’re a trip!”

“The little boy is Edgar,” added Mrs. Madrigal. “Edgar and Anna. Isn’t that lovely symbolism? Our affair was memorialized by those children. They’re coming home safe and sound if I have to
strangle
that ridiculous woman in the basement.”

Michael regarded her with admiration. “What a fabulous ulterior motive!”

The landlady gave both of her boys a jaunty shake. “How about some brownies for my partners in crime?”

“When did you have time for
that?”
asked Michael.

“Well … I made a batch for our houseguest, and there are plenty of leftovers.”

“You got
her
loaded?”

Mrs. Madrigal’s face was resolute. “I want her to be comfortable.”

“This woman knows how to take prisoners,” said Brian.

A
FTER SEVERAL HOURS OF SEARCHING IN NOME,
Mary Ann and DeDe found an Eskimo bush pilot who filled their requirements exactly. His name was Willie Omiak, and his cousin Andy had served for the past four years as a National Guardsman on Little Diomede.

“He can have it,” declared Willie, shouting over the engine noise. “Nome’s small enough for me. I tried living in Wales for a while and even that drove me crazy.”

“You mean … the British Isles?” Mary Ann couldn’t picture this round-faced, brown-skinned youth living among Welshmen.

The Eskimo grinned. “Wales, Alaska. The nearest mainland town to the Diomedes. We’ll be stopping there to refuel and check weather conditions. You sure you want to stay overnight on Little Diomede?”

“We may,” said DeDe. “It depends.”

“They don’t have a Holiday Inn,” smiled Willie.

“We’ll manage.”

“Sure,” said the pilot. “Maybe Andy’s family can put you up.” He winked, apparently sensing the first question that
occurred to Mary Ann. “Don’t sweat it. They’ve never lived in igloos—mostly sod huts propped up on stilts. The Bureau of Indian Affairs built ‘em some new houses about six or seven years ago. Polyurethane walls … much warmer.”

“I’ll bet,” said Mary Ann, privately saddened that even the Eskimos had been reduced to using plastics.

“What about defenses?” asked DeDe, as the tiny, single-engine Cessna skirted the coastline northwest of Nome.

“What about ‘em?”

“Well, I mean … with Russia only two-and-a-half miles away?”

“According to Andy,” said Willie Omiak, “they’ve got three M-14 rifles, one grenade launcher and one grenade. It isn’t exactly a full-time job, being a scout.”

“A scout?”

“Eskimo Scouts,” explained the pilot. “That’s the official name for Alaska National Guardsmen. They do most of their work in the winter, I guess, when you can walk right across the ice. Most people know better these days. Back in ‘47, the Russians held Andy’s dad for almost two months when he crossed the strait to visit relatives. Hell, it was just family. Nobody even knew about the Cold War.”

“Do the Russians have forces on Big Diomede?” asked Mary Ann.

Willie Omiak grinned. “About as scary as ours. A guy in a little shack on the highest part of the island.”

“What does he do?”

“Watches,” answered the pilot. “While our guy watches back. Nobody has much reason to visit Big Diomede anymore. Most of our cousins were shipped to the Siberian mainland back in the fifties. For that matter, nobody goes to Little Diomede either. What got
you
interested?”

“We’re looking for someone,” said DeDe.

“An Eskimo?”

“No,” DeDe replied. “An American.”

Willie Omiak looked at his passenger, then turned and winked at Mary Ann. “We’ll forget she said that, won’t we?”

They appeared out of nowhere it seemed—two granite crags united by their isolation, but divided by politics. On the smaller one, a village was visible, a cluster of clapboard and tarpaper houses snuggled against the base of a sixteen-hundred-foot cliff.

“That’s Ingaluk,” said Willie Omiak, making a low pass between the islands. “It’s Thursday down there. Over there on Big Diomede it’s Friday already.”

Mary Ann peered down. “You mean …?”

“We’re flying directly over the International Date Line.” He grinned at her over his shoulder. “This place confusing enough for you?”

It was eerie, all right. Two continents, two ideologies, two nations—neatly bisected by today and tomorrow. What better place to search for two frightened little children teetering perilously between two fates?

As the Cessna swooped lower, Mary Ann could make out a schoolhouse and a church. Then the airstrip materialized: a rectangle of asphalt near the shore, delineated by oil drums and half-a-dozen people awaiting their arrival.

“There’s Andy,” yelled Willie Omiak, as the plane bumped the runway.

“He looks awfully glad to see you,” said Mary Ann.

The pilot patted the leather satchel on the seat next to him. “I’ve got the new
Playboy,”
he grinned.

Mary Ann’s giggling stopped when she saw the naked dread in DeDe’s eyes. They had chased their quarry to the end of the world. What if it was too late?