Escape the Night (43 page)

“
And you also fear remembering your father's death
.”

“
Yes
.”

“
And now you fear that something will happen to Noelle
…”

Carey rubbed his temples.

“
Tell me, is there some thread
…”

A dark room, a door opening, the flash of a wheel.

“
Peter!
”

Noelle.

“
Who is the faceless man, Peter?
”

Phillip was frightened; Phillip was missing.

“
Now you have Noelle to think of
…”

Carey picked up the telephone.

“Photography.”

“Peter Carey. Is Noelle back?”

“No. Really, she'll call you when she gets here.”

Carey put it down.

She was dead.

Levy was dead.

There was no one he could trust: Phillip was gone; the Krantzes were gone; Benevides would not listen; the doorman could not face him, yet smiled at Noelle.

Noelle had asked him to Vermont, and then the Krantzes disappeared …

“
Why are you doing this?
”

“
Because I like Vermont
.”

Only Noelle had seen the ugly man. No, that was crazy …

“She's
your witness, not Uncle Phillip or the Krantzes. And if you don't stop acting crazy, she'll be the only thing that saves you
.”

Noelle had deserted him.…

“
I love you, okay?
”

She was dead.

The telephone rang.

“Noelle?”

“It's Susan, Peter. Aaron—from the mailroom—went over to the house. The key was missing, but nobody had locked the door. Mr. Carey isn't there.”

“Did Aaron look inside?”

“Uh-huh—nothing but some luggage by the door. I'll call as soon as we hear from him.”

“
Noelle? My God, Phil … what's Barth got on you?
”

Carey put down the telephone.

He sat back, straining for control.

Suddenly, he remembered a trick from his first nights in boarding school, when he could not sleep and missed his father. He would lie back in his bed: in his mind, they would start out from the Plaza and cross the street to Central Park. From scraps of memory, he wove a day for them, imagining their careless talk as they wound from zoo to Band Shell to the fountain until, with perfect logic, Peter knew this must have happened.

Now, one by one, Carey reviewed all that had occurred since waking—he had just parted with Noelle, and, in his mind, Levy still lived …

In his mind, he listened to Levy's message.

His memory was lethal.

Phillip was afraid of him; whomever his uncle feared used what Carey had forgotten, and now must fear the tape.

There could only be one other. A man who spied.

“It's ours,” John Carey rasped; in his mind, his grandson whispered, “I'm sorry …”

Peter Carey picked up the telephone.

“Clayton Barth's office.”

“Get him on—it's Peter Carey.”

“Just a moment, sir.” Carey stood, pacing.

“Clayton Barth.”

“You win, Barth. I'll do what you want.”

There was silence, and then Barth ventured, “So your uncle has persuaded you?”

“Just don't hurt Noelle.”

At first, Barth did not answer. Very calmly, he replied, “I've no intention of hurting anyone.”

“You killed Levy for the tape, you prick. What
happened
to me, why did you have to kill him?”

“I didn't murder anyone.” Suddenly Barth sounded outraged. “You're
insane
—that's why Phillip sold to me.”

“
It's ours
…”

“Sold? Where is he? Did you kill
him
, too?”

“No.” Abruptly, the sharpness vanished from Barth's voice; he paused, repeating softly, “
I
haven't murdered anyone,” and then hung up.

“
It's
not
Barth
.”

Carey's face fell in his hands.

Noelle Ciano hurried through the cluster of X-rated movie houses, headed for the
Times
.

So much of her work was in its surprises: returning from a routine jaunt to Rockefeller Center, shooting skaters for the Sunday paper, she had picked through the faces she saw to fulfill her pledge to Peter. Instead, she spotted people gathering at the foot of a seedy hotel old enough to have windows that still opened. She turned the corner; a woman teetered on the windowsill of an eighth-story room. Her hair was gray and damp with snow, her loose, flowered-print dress flapped in the biting wind. She stared into the silent crowd as if at a pack of animals.

Noelle first ducked into Nedick's and called the fire department; shooting two quick pictures, she shouldered through the curious and fearstruck and titillated, calling for the woman to wait. Legs trembling like stalks in the wind, the old woman stared down at her, eyes crazed and desperate in their sockets.

“Jump,” a young voice shouted.

“Wait!” Noelle cried to her, over and over, like a mantra, until joined by scattered others. Her mouth was dry; her body felt the strain of the woman's legs.

Firemen came, trailing a wave of sirens. Noelle backed off; with a megaphone, one ordered the crowd away while four others ran forward with a canvas net and two more with axes rushed through the front of the hotel.

Noelle caught all seven with a wide-angle lens.

The last picture she took was of a hand reaching to pull the woman inside. Disappearing, the woman stared down at her.

Noelle felt cold; beyond that, she was not sure. She went to have an Irish coffee.

Now, coming down, she thought of calling Peter.

She neared the
Times
building, fighting the first wave of commuters in their winter coats, hunched against the snow. Its clock read 3:10; she would see him soon. As she left, his face had been so soft, as if to speak his love made him younger. Now she wondered how best to tell him what she had seen and done. Perhaps he might help sort out her feelings: about her work, the woman, her last wild stare, as an arm reached through the window …

She felt a hand on her arm.

Spinning, she looked into the grotesque rubber smile of the man from SoHo.

“Noelle.” His voice was like a lover's. “I've been watching you.”

She began backing away, stunned. “
No!
”

He stepped toward her. “Come with me,” he said softly. “If you ever want to see Peter Carey, alive.”

Noelle stopped moving.

CHAPTER 15

Clayton Barth felt smaller: as if contagious, Carey's fear eroded his sense of mastery.

He called Englehardt.

“Yes?”

“Peter Carey just phoned, babbling about a tape. He said this man Levy had been murdered for it.” Barth stopped, waiting for an inquiry.

Without inflection, Englehardt said, “Meet me in an hour—here.”

Barth's skin felt cold. “Tell me …”

“In person.”

Englehardt hung up.

“Dr. Pogostin's office.”

“This is Peter Carey. Please, I need to talk to him.”

“I'm sorry—Dr. Pogostin is in conference. Perhaps tomorrow …”

“
Now
.”

The voice was cool. “It's not his practice …”

“People are
dying
. If you don't tell him that, it's on your head.”

Silence. “Just a moment.”

Carey waited. There's a madman on the telephone, she would say, talking about murders. Better to call the police.

“Hello, Peter.” Pogostin sounded wary. “I thought you might have forgotten me.”

“You have to tell me what's on that tape. Levy's dead.”

“I know.” Pogostin paused, then spoke more crisply. “I've been with the police, Peter. The tape is missing, and they asked that I discuss its contents with no one. They specifically mentioned avoiding you.”

“Not you, too.” Carey's voice rose. “Doctor, they're
wrong: Phillip
is missing;
Noelle
is missing …”

“You should tell that to Lieutenant Gregorio.”

“Tell him what? I don't
know
why this is happening, or even what's on that tape …”

“Then how do you know your memories can help you?”

“Please,” Carey finished, “do not do this to me.”

“And how do I know to believe any of what you're telling me?”

Carey bent forward. From the depths of reason, he retrieved a memory, spoke it aloud. “‘You can trust me, Peter—after all, I'm a total stranger.'”

There was a last, long silence. “Meet me at six,” Pogostin said.

Carey's voice steadied. “Thank you, doctor.”

Martin replayed the tape, then checked his watch.

4:55.

Englehardt had left him little time; the police would come for the answering machine, and he must keep Carey from Pogostin …

He took the tape of Carey's hypnosis, placed it on the stolen cassette recorder marked “Peter Carey” and began to play it. Carey started speaking as a child; Martin erased everything that followed, and stuffed both the recorder and tape in the pocket of his coat, with the key to Phillip's town house.

For the rest, he decided to time himself.

Quickly, Martin picked up the crate holding Carey's appliances, and carried it to the door.

There was no one in the hall.

Bearing the crate, he crept down twenty feet of carpet and entered Carey's apartment.

Within seven minutes he had replaced the original lamp, coffee-maker, clock-radio and alarm bell, wiped off his fingerprints, returned the four duplicates to the crate, and carried it to the Krantzes'.

The only trace of his work remaining was the tape on Carey's answering machine.

The surveillance of Peter Carey was over.

His woman was waiting.

Martin checked his pocket, touching the revolver and Carey's recorder, and left the building.

For the first time, Carey felt something like relief. He tried to sort out his thoughts and feelings.

Perhaps Noelle was fine.

He checked his watch: 5:15.

He would wait here as long as he could.

5:18.

Each minute eroded his calm.

5:23.

Phillip had not returned.

5:27–28–29 …

The telephone rang.

He snatched at it. “Noelle?”

“You've been wrong to worry, Peter.” The voice was calm, reassuring. “You see,
I
have her now.”

Carey slumped in his chair. Finally, he asked, “Where is she?”

“That's why I'm calling, Peter. To take you to her.”

“Who
are
you?…”

“Leave casually,” the voice interrupted, “as if you're returning home from work. Take your usual route up Fifth Avenue. We'll be watching. When you're far enough from the building, I'll make contact with you. And one more thing, Peter: don't even think about calling the police as you just did Pogostin, or Noelle will die.” The voice paused, to deliver its frightening coda. “‘
Okay?
'”

The voice, even the inflection, was Noelle's.

“You've been
listening
…”

The man hung up.

Quickly, Carey called the
Times
.

“Photography.”

“Where's Noelle?”

“Is this Peter?” There was a pause; his tone was less hostile than before. “Honestly, we don't know where she is …”

Carey ran from the building.

Englehardt moved toward the incinerator.

The second floor was dark and empty, a no man's land. He looked around him, listening, careful to walk quietly. He saw the shed along the wall, the telephone, and nothing more. The shed was locked; he heard no sound.

Gently, he opened the incinerator.

The pilot light glowed. He turned on the gas and dropped each photocopy of Levy's file into the rising flame until there was only ash.

He followed with the videotape of the naked lovers, his extra clothes, then every scrap of paper which bore the name Carey, stopping only at a photograph of Phillip. As he dropped it in, he was breathing hard, and the only trace of his surveillance was one copy of a single tape.

He put on gloves, listening for sounds between labored breaths. Looking once more toward the shed, he walked softly to the freight elevator on the opposite wall, and took it to the gallery.

He preferred the gallery at night.

It was the perfect time; in the thin light from the windows, his dragons, serpents and warriors reached their fullest power, subtle sculpture merging in the shadows with the strength of his imaginings.

A shadow stared through his window.

Englehardt crept past the statuary, peering into the silent street, and quietly unlocked the door.

The shadow became Clayton Barth. “What have you
done
, dammit?”

“Inside,” Englehardt answered softly. “It's time we had our talk.”

Carey's doorman stopped the three uniformed men to slip their leader a key.

Swiftly, they went to the Krantzes' with packing crates and stripped the apartment bare.

The leader did not question this, or the order to abandon so much new equipment at a garbage dump in New Jersey; the ugly man had paid them well.

He began caulking the drill-hole where the camera had been.

Englehardt leaned on his desk. Softly, he said, “We had to terminate Phillip Carey.”

“Terminate?” Barth's ghastly, testing smile died on his face; he felt how foolish he must look, how unlike a president …

“Phillip is dead.” Englehardt began speaking faster. “Peter's come too close to discovering the means of our control. Learning this involved the unplanned death of Dr. Levy. Phillip's swiftly followed.”

“
Dead
.” Numb, Barth tried retrieving his fantasy of presidential power; keen faces listening around a conference table, bodies poised to carry out his will. But he was alone with Englehardt in an empty loft, surrounded by pipes and wires and hanging metal lamps, the surreal landscape of a madman's brain. “Phillip was no threat to me …”