She's Not There (28 page)

Buchanan stared out the dirty window, his hand resting on the gun on his lap. The chair was hard, and when he shifted to find a comfortable spot, he caught sight of an image in the cracked window—his face, sliced in half.

CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

Alex stood at the bottom of the steps looking up at the opera house. Now that he was here, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do. Had he expected to just walk in and confront Reyes? He wasn’t even sure Mel was here. But where else would she go? She had to be here.

Two elderly women moved past him, heading up the steps. They wore dressy suits and heels, their perfume trailing strong behind them. He watched them enter one of the theater doors. Moments later, a quartet of women went in the same door. Alex climbed the steps and went inside.

There was a crowd of maybe thirty people, men and women, all well dressed, their laughter and talk echoing in the vast marble-columned lobby. Alex spotted the sign near the red-carpeted steps.

T
HE
N
UTCRACKER
R
EHEARSAL

S
PECIAL
E
VENT
P
ATRONS
O
NLY

He had been here before. In Miami, of course, but he had been to one of these things in the past. You wrote a big check to the ballet and they gave you bad champagne in a plastic glass and let you watch a rehearsal.

Alex moved in among the others. He could feel his face sweating and he wondered if the gun made a noticeable bulge in his belt under his suit coat. But no one was looking at him. He fit right in.

The crowd was streaming into the theater. Alex straightened his tie and followed.

His eyes traveled up over the gilt walls and gold curtain as he made his way down the center aisle to where the others were gathered in the front center rows. The sounds of the orchestra warming up came from the pit. He took a seat in an empty row behind everyone else. His heart was kicking up, but he felt an odd calm, just like he used to feel when he would enter a courtroom.

A tall man came onstage, introduced himself as the artistic director, and made some comments. Alex heard almost none of it as his eyes swept the theater.

He was looking for Mel. He was looking for Jimmy Reyes.

The lights went down, the music began, the curtain opened.

There was nothing to do now but sit here, he knew. Sit and wait. Because he was sure, so very sure, she would be here.

And then, suddenly, there she was.

Appearing from behind a veil, dressed in a blue harem costume, moving like silk to the slow music. Alex sat forward in his seat.

No . . . it wasn’t his Mel. It was just another girl posing as her, trying to confuse him.

He slumped back in the seat and shut his eyes.

When the lights finally came up again, he blinked and looked down at his watch. Two hours had passed, and he remembered none of it. The others were leaving, streaming back up the aisle. He sat still in the seat. The gold curtain rose slowly, but now the sets were gone, leaving just ugly concrete walls, exposed lighting, and a curtain of pulleys, chains, and winches. Big men in T-shirts and jeans were moving around on the stage, pushing flats of scenery, yanking on ropes. Noise . . . hammering, men yelling, a bell going off.

Teenagers in jeans and hoodies—the dancers, Alex realized—were scattering in all directions, flitting among the slow-moving men carrying violin cases. The theater was emptying fast.

Alex rose slowly and started up the aisle, but then he froze.

He was coming toward him. Jimmy Reyes, he was coming down the aisle right toward him.

Reyes didn’t give him a glance as he passed. He bounded up the three steps to the left of the stage and began pointing upward toward the lights as he talked to a man with a clipboard.

The blood was pounding in Alex’s ears, blocking out all the sounds, and for a second he could almost feel the gun radiating heat against his waist. He moved closer, standing at the rail of the orchestra pit, watching Reyes.

He wiped a hand over his sweating face.

No, forget Reyes. Buchanan is the one you want. He’s the threat. Find the threat first and eliminate it.

Reyes finished with the other man and came forward toward the lip of the stage. For a moment, Alex thought he was coming to talk to him but then Reyes pulled out a cell phone.

“Hey, love,” Reyes said.

Mel . . . is he talking to Mel?

“I’m almost finished. Did you get some rest?”

Smiling. The bastard was smiling.

“Good. Why don’t you grab a cab and come down here? I’ll take you to lunch at Indigo.”

Reyes hung up and slipped the phone in his jeans pocket, and then he disappeared into the wings.

Alex looked up, feeling a rush of emotions. Anger and jealousy but mostly relief. Mel was still alive, just as he had felt she was. He could still save her from Buchanan. He could still convince her to come home. All he had to do was be patient.

The man with the clipboard was still standing on stage. Alex could hear him arguing with a stagehand, something about union rules and overtime and that everyone had to clear out in an hour.

Alex glanced around. The theater was empty. Most of the lights were off now. He spotted a door over by the steps near the stage. He went to it and opened it. It led into a long narrow hallway. Lots of doors, leading to other hallways. Backstage . . . it was a warren of rooms and hallways. He had been here before, waiting for Mel to come out of the dressing room—waiting, always waiting.

And that is what he would do now. Wait for her to come.

Buchanan had been waiting, watching, for two hours now.

Then, suddenly, she was there. Amelia was standing in the large picture window of Jimmy Reyes’s second-floor apartment. She stayed there for maybe a minute, looking out as she drank from a coffee mug. Then she was gone.

Buchanan leaned back in the booth and let out a long tired breath. He felt a small surge of satisfaction that he had been right in assuming she would come here to Reyes. The doubts had been there these last couple days but he had been right after all. At least he still had that—he still knew how to do his job.

Reyes had left hours ago. Buchanan had watched him head up the hill toward Geary Street. It had taken one call to the San Francisco Ballet offices to find out there was a dress rehearsal today. But why hadn’t Amelia gone with Reyes?

“Another refill?”

Buchanan looked up at the waitress. She was perturbed that he had taken up her prime table this long for a lousy fifteen-dollar burger and coffee.

“Yeah, another refill,” he said. Then he slid a twenty-dollar bill across the table. “If you leave me alone there’s another twenty for you when I leave, okay?”

She refilled his coffee, pocketed the twenty and left. Buchanan went back to watching the apartment.

The corner booth at the Seal Rock Inn restaurant offered him a clear view. He had checked out the neighborhood and the building’s exterior already. It overlooked a park that sloped down to the ocean and two popular tourist places, the Sutro Baths and the Cliff House. There was a steady flow of MUNI buses, sightseeing coaches, and tourists on foot. Reyes’s building had no other way in or out except for the main entrance on El Camino del Mar.

He again considered going up to the apartment and trying to talk to Amelia. But his best bet was to wait until she was out in public. She might feel safer, and so would he. And she was unlikely to try to shoot him again.

Buchanan took a drink of coffee, his eyes scanning the street. Whoever had taken a shot at him last night might be lurking around, watching him, hoping he’d lead them to Amelia. No, he’d be patient and wait for the right moment. As long as she was up there in that apartment, no one could get to her.

Buchanan shifted in the booth, trying to find a more comfortable angle to ease the ache in his shoulder. He picked up the coffee mug but set it down again.

His gut was churning too much right now. And it sure as hell wasn’t from the coffee.

He looked back at the apartment just in time to see Amelia come out the door. She looked around and started across the street toward the park.

Buchanan jumped up, grabbed his canvas tote, tossed two twenties on the table and hurried to the exit.

She was getting into a cab. He had parked the Toyota a block away on the chance Amelia might recognize the car. He ran to it and cranked it up, but by the time he got the car turned around toward the apartment, the cab had disappeared.

Fuck!

He sat back in the seat, pissed at himself. But then it hit him that she was probably going to meet Reyes at the rehearsal. He steered the Toyota up the hill toward Geary Street.

He left the car in a public lot near the rear of the opera house. He ditched his jacket, slipped the nine-millimeter Nano in the waistband of his jeans and pulled his sweatshirt down over it. He circled the building until he found the stage door. Someone had left an old Velcro-tabbed back-support belt in the trash. He pulled it out and slipped it on. When a guy came out, Buchanan grabbed the stage door and ducked in.

The old man at the security desk barely gave him a glance as he went by. As Buchanan made his way through the dim hallway, he saw no one else and heard nothing. He had to go slowly, the only light coming from red exit signs. But he could feel a soft rush of air and see a white light ahead, so he followed it up a short flight of steps, past an electrical panel and crates.

He slipped between two black curtains and stopped. He was in the left wing of the stage. In the middle was a plain metal floor lamp topped by a bare bulb, its light glowing stark in the middle of the vast empty stage.

Voices . . .

Buchanan drew back between the two curtains.

A tall thin man came out of the opposite wing—Reyes? And then, there she was—Amelia. They stood close, talking, Reyes’s hand on her arm. Buchanan heard him say something about having to go check something at the box office and Amelia replied she would wait here.

Reyes went down the stairs and up the aisle, disappearing into the shadows of the theater. Buchanan waited until he heard the echo of a door closing and then stepped out so he could see Amelia better.

She was just standing there, the Vuitton duffel over her shoulder. She turned in a slow circle, looking up, and her face, caught in the glow of the bare-bulb light, looked like that of someone visiting an old cathedral.

She stopped and set the duffel on the stage. She walked away from it, heading toward the back of the stage. Then she turned around and stood there, perfectly still, her head bowed.

Buchanan heard someone humming. It took him a second to realize it was Amelia. She was singing to herself, something very slow and soft.

She began to move. Just one arm swept slowly across her face first, like she was hiding behind a veil, but then she began to glide across the stage with small quick steps. Two delicate little leaps and then . . .

She slowly raised one leg, unfolding it upward as she spread her arms behind her.

Buchanan eased back into the shadows, not wanting to watch because the moment felt so private. But he couldn’t look away. So he watched, transfixed and motionless.

This one’s special, Bucky.

It was what Rayna had said to him that first night in the hotel back in Fort Lauderdale. He hadn’t understood what she meant then but now he did.

There she was, dressed in black jeans, a black T-shirt, blue Converse sneakers, and purple plastic glasses. But Amelia was as exotic and ancient and as beautiful as the pyramids.

Buchanan bowed his head. He got it.

For the first time, he got it. It was the unicorn effect.

That’s what birders called it—those rare birds that lived only in your imagination. You heard of them or maybe saw a drawing in a book, but you never ever got to see one. Then, one day, there it was in front of you, as if some mythical creature had stepped out of a storybook and come to life.

A thing of beauty where before you only saw the mundane.

He felt a jab in his back and then the voice came from behind him.

“Don’t move.”

CHAPTER FORTY

“Walk out onto the stage, in the light.”

Amelia spun around at the sound of his voice. Before he even came out of the shadows, she knew it was Alex.

Oh my God . . .

That man Buchanan was with him, moving slowly into the light. He was a few steps in front of Alex, his hands raised.

“Alex, what are you doing here?” she demanded.

Alex poked at Buchanan to get him to walk. Did he have a gun at his back? Her eyes cut to her Vuitton bag at the edge of the stage where she had left it. Should she make a move for her own gun?

“Get on your knees,” Alex said.

Buchanan lowered himself to one knee, then the other. When Alex stepped around him, Amelia could see him clearly. He had a gun, and she remembered seeing it before, in his desk back in Fort Lauderdale.

“Alex, look at me,” she said.

Alex’s eyes came up to her slowly, and caught in the harsh light, she could see a storm of emotions in them—anger, confusion, need, and . . .

Love?

“What are you doing here?” she asked, more softly this time.

“I came to stop him.” Alex gestured toward Buchanan with the gun. “He wants to kill you.”

Buchanan shook his head. “That’s not true.”

Amelia’s eyes shot to Buchanan’s. She didn’t say it out loud, she didn’t want to antagonize Alex, but she knew Buchanan could read her look.
You already tried once
.

“Tell her, Buchanan,” Alex said. “Tell her you were hired to kill her.”

Amelia started taking small steps toward her duffel, her eyes darting between the two men. Alex was looking at Buchanan, but Buchanan was watching her. He knew why she wanted to get to her duffel, but would he let her?

“Tell her!” Alex yelled.

Alex kicked at Buchanan, catching him in the shoulder. Buchanan let out a yelp and fell forward to one hand.

“Tell her, God damn it.”

Buchanan pulled in a hard breath and looked up at Amelia. “Owen McCall offered me two million to find you and kill you. But after . . . after the lake, I knew I couldn’t do it. I kept following you so I could warn you. Maybe save you from the next man McCall would send.”

Amelia was at her duffel now, but she forced herself not to look down at it. The name Owen McCall registered as Alex’s partner, the man she had seen on her computer screen when she was looking up Alex’s law firm.

She looked at Alex. “Did you know about this?”

“God, no, Mel.”

“He knew all about it,” Buchanan said.

Alex came at him. “You’re a goddamn liar! It was all McCall’s idea. Tell her that, Buchanan. Tell her!”

“I only know what McCall told me!” Buchanan shot back. “And he said you knew!”

Alex swung the .45 at Buchanan’s head. Buchanan tried to grab it but he missed, and Alex smacked him behind the ear with the butt.

Amelia reached down and grabbed her gun from her bag, whipping it up so fast she nearly lost her grip on it.

“Alex, stop it!”

The faces of the two men registered in her consciousness like snapshots.

Alex—pale and damp, his eyes dark and jumpy.

And Buchanan—no fear or even surprise in his eyes, just . . . relief? Why? Did he think they were on the same side now?

“Mel . . .”

Just a whisper, but it made her swing the gun back to Alex.

“Mel, you don’t need that. I have this all under control. Give me the gun.”

Amelia shook her head, glancing quickly toward the seats. Where was Jimmy? Why wasn’t he here? Was he watching this from the control room? Had he called the police?

“Mel, come on,” Alex said. “Let’s talk this out.”

“No! I want to hear him talk,” she said, swinging the gun toward Buchanan. “Tell me why Owen McCall wanted me dead.”

Her hands were trembling and she locked her elbows to try to make them stop. Buchanan was looking at her, his face cut with white light, black shadows, and a streak of red blood.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me the truth.”

“You remember Mary Carpenter?” Buchanan asked.

The name sounded familiar but the woman’s face was out of focus. “I . . . I’m not sure,” Amelia said.

“She was your husband’s secretary,” Buchanan said. “She knew something illegal was going on in the firm and she was probably going to turn them in. Or they thought she was.”

Alex jabbed his gun at Buchanan’s temple. “Shut up or I’ll shoot you,” he said.

“Alex, be quiet.” Amelia looked back to Buchanan. “Go on.”

“First you tell your husband to take that gun away from my head and let me stand up. I don’t talk to anyone on my knees.”

“Alex, back away and lower your gun,” she said.

“Mel, none of this matters!”

“It matters to me!”

Alex moved away slowly, but he kept a white-knuckled grip on the .45. He was sweating and his eyes were still jumpy. She had no idea how far she could push him.

Buchanan stood up slowly. Amelia wasn’t sure who to aim at, so she kept her gun moving slowly back and forth between the two men.

“Talk,” Amelia said.

“McCall and your husband killed Mary Carpenter by faking her car accident,” Buchanan said.

“How do you know this?” Amelia asked.

“Your husband kept a souvenir from that night that I found in—”

Buchanan stopped talking and just looked at her. At first she didn’t understand why, but then she knew. He wanted
her
to remember. He needed her to remember this by herself so she would believe him. But she couldn’t remember.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “What kind of souvenir?”

“You tell me,” Buchanan said.

“Leave her alone!” Alex took a step toward her.

“You found it in your husband’s study,” Buchanan prodded. “You hid it with your mementoes in that box from Iowa. The box your mother sent you.”

Amelia stared at Buchanan. And then it came. First the memory of the cardboard box, with all the photographs, books, jewelry, ballet shoes. Her mother had sent the box to her before she died. It was where she had hidden the book Jimmy gave her. And Ben’s letters . . . she remembered those, too, now.

“Mel, listen to me, please.”

Her eyes shot to Alex but she was seeing herself in his study, going through his drawers looking for his hidden bottle of vodka so she could throw it away. But she had found something else.

“It was a flamingo,” she whispered.

It took a moment, but Alex managed a nervous smile. “He’s lying to you, baby. There’s nothing illegal going on at the firm. There was no murder and there was no souvenir or anything else. He’s just trying to plant fake memories in your head and confuse you.”

Amelia started to back away, more memories coming that didn’t make much sense. “No, it’s true. It was a little plastic flamingo, just like the ones on Mary’s desk.”

Alex shook his head. “Mel, you need to trust me. You’re still confused.”

“Yes, yes, I am,” she said. “I’m not sure what it meant, but I know it bothered me. I know he’s telling me the truth.”

She spun back to Buchanan. “That night in the Everglades. Was that McCall, too? Did he try to kill me?”

“I don’t know. I can tell you someone was with you that night because you took the tan suitcase out of the Mercedes to make room for something. And someone closed the doors of the car after you were hurt.” Buchanan looked at Alex. “Ask your husband what happened out there.”

Amelia turned to Alex. “Tell me.”

Alex just stared at her, and in that long silent moment, she could see something in his eyes that made her feel uneasy. She had seen this look before. Had she confronted him before about this? Was that why things had gone so wrong?

“Damn it, Alex, tell me!”

“It was Joanna,” Alex said.

“Joanna? Why would she . . . ?” Amelia stopped, desperate to bring up something from her memory of that night. The gun suddenly felt too heavy in her hands.

“You and Joanna were going to a party on Marco Island,” Alex said, his voice a monotone. “On the way, you told her about these . . . concerns you had about the firm and Mary Carpenter. It was dark and raining hard. Joanna said you argued and that you lost control of the car.”

“But why?” Amelia whispered.

“Why what, baby?”

“Why did she leave me out there?”

Alex was quiet, lips pressed tight.

“Finish the story or I’ll shoot you right here and now!” Amelia said.

Buchanan raised his head. “She’ll do it, man. You better tell her,” he whispered.

“All right, all right,” Alex said. “Joanna called her driver and he dragged you off into the weeds but he couldn’t finish the job. Then they drove home and left you out there to die.”

The dark-haired man in her visions. Not her husband, but that chauffeur who drove Joanna’s car, the man whose name she didn’t even know, who probably didn’t even know hers.

Amelia’s knees started to give, and all she wanted to do was sit down and try to process all of this, try to figure what was true and what was not.

“Mel.”

Alex’s voice brought her back, and with it came a vision of oranges on a windowsill and the blue sea beyond. And herself in a wedding dress and then a harem costume. A pink cell phone and a little black dog. Sighing Vivaldi violins and tinkling
Nutcracker
celestas. Burnt cookies and Tabu perfume. The hotness of her sick mother’s brow and the roughness of her father’s hands as he pushed her away. And that cold white mansion and that cool blue-green bubble, the two places where she had almost died.

Little things will bring it back.

That’s what the doctor had told her back at the hospital. But it was all too much and it was all too fast, a sensory avalanche from the past that was threatening to bury her now.

“Enough,” Amelia said.

Alex was staring at her. And then he nodded slowly. “Yes, enough. Now we can move on.”

“Move on?” she asked. “To where, Alex?”

“Anywhere we want,” he said. He reached into his jacket, pulled out two small dark blue things, and held them out to her.

“Look, I have our passports,” he said. “We can go, right now. We can leave here and go anywhere we want. We can start over.”

Amelia was stunned. “No. I can’t go anywhere with you.”

Alex moved closer to her. “I promise you it will be different this time, Mel,” he said. “No more scams. No more drinking. I’m different now.”

She shook her head slowly. “It’s too late.”

Alex tossed the passports to the stage and was at her in three steps. He grabbed her wrist, wrenched the gun from her hand and tossed it to the back of the stage. She tried to pull away, but he caught her and yanked her back to him and locked an arm around her neck. He started to drag her toward the wings.

“Stop it!” she cried. “Let me go!”

“You’re coming with me,” Alex said.

“No, she’s not,” Buchanan said.

Alex spun her around, pinning her back against his chest, so she was a shield between himself and Buchanan.

Oh God.

Buchanan had a gun, pointed at Alex—not her. But she knew Buchanan didn’t have a clear shot at him.

“Let her go,” Buchanan said.

Alex tightened his arm around Amelia’s neck and wedged his gun under her chin. “Stay out of this.”

“You have nowhere to run,” Buchanan said. “McCall won’t give up. He will hunt you down—both of you—and kill you.”

Alex clumsily shifted her to the side. “I have money, lots of money,” he said. “Millions, I have millions. We can go anywhere in the world.”

“And there will always be a man like me one step behind you.”

Alex thrust his gun toward Buchanan. “I said stay out of this! Let us go or I’ll shoot her. I swear I will.”

“No you won’t,” Buchanan said. “You came all this way to get her back and now you’re going to leave her dead on this stage? Is that how you want this to end?”

“No!” Alex yelled.

“Then what do you want?” Buchanan asked.

“I want it to be like it was.” Alex lowered his head so he was speaking into Amelia’s ear. “You understand that, don’t you, Mel? Don’t you want us to be like we were?”

Amelia stayed silent. She was afraid to say anything because Alex had a choke hold around her neck and she didn’t know what he would do, didn’t know who he was anymore. She locked eyes with Buchanan.

“I thought you were a different man now,” Buchanan said.

Amelia felt Alex’s arm tighten around her neck.

“I am,” he whispered.

Buchanan slowly lowered his gun down to his side. Then he took several steps back and nodded toward the wings. “Go ahead,” he said. “I won’t try to stop you. Go ahead and drag your wife off to Timbuktu.”

For several long moments, no one moved.

“Alex,” Amelia said.

His breath was hot against her neck and he was making strange little mewing sounds.

“Alex, let me go,” she said.

And then he did. His arm dropped slowly from her neck and she eased away from him. She knew she should run, but she didn’t. She turned to face him.

His hair was damp with sweat, his cheeks cut with tears. When he brought his hands up to cover his face, the gun gleamed in the light. For one awful second, Amelia was afraid he was going to shoot himself.

“Alex,” she said softly.

His hands came down and he stared at her, but his eyes were unfocused and flat, like she wasn’t there. Like he wasn’t there. Alex drew in a hard breath, stuffed the gun in his waistband and reached for something in his breast pocket. When he uncurled his palm, Amelia saw a silver ring.

“You remember this, baby?” Alex whispered.

She looked down at the ring and then up into his eyes.

“I bought it for you in Menton,” Alex said, his voice growing more earnest. “Don’t you remember how much you loved it there?”

“Alex . . .”

“Don’t you remember how much you loved
me
?” Alex asked.

Amelia stared at the ring. She didn’t remember it, though she did remember that she had loved him once. But she didn’t love him now, and that truth was not what he needed to hear. Amelia took a step back, away from him.

Alex closed his fist over the ring.

“I’m sorry, Alex.”

He bent and picked up the passports. He opened one, looked inside, and then held the other out to her. She took it. He turned and started away.