Picture Perfect (24 page)

 

Cudge stood over Elva, his hands flexing as though working an invisible pair of grips. The long tendons in his forearms were hard and prominent under his skin. The meager light of early morning was behind him, throwing his silhouette into relief and hiding the brain-exploding rage on his blunt-featured face.

Elva backed away, shaking. She tried to tell herself that Cudge hadn't seen BJ escape, but she knew that was just wishful thinking. His posture was threatening, lethal. But BJ was safe.

“What were you doing here with that kid? How long have you been hiding him?” Her father's voice boomed in her ears, bouncing off her fear. She'd always been afraid of him, ever since she was a little girl. She'd never understood why Mama had married him or had children with him. There was no kindness in the man, only a love for the cheap hooch he bought in town.

“Papa, don't. I didn't do nothing wrong. Honest, I didn't.”

She could smell the familiar liquor, sweet yet rancid, each time he exhaled. He'd been drinking again. There wasn't food on the table, but the welfare check could buy hooch the same as it could buy food. Poor BJ. He was just a little boy and he needed milk, butter and eggs. Instead, all he got was thin potato soup made with dry skim milk. Poor BJ. All eyes, scared eyes, that watched the doorway waiting for Papa to come home. Praying he wouldn't. And Mama, grim mouth, hunched shoulders, red hands from too much laundry and trying to keep the place clean.

Papa advanced on her, striking her in the thigh with his heavy boot. “How long have you been hiding that little bastard? You tell me or I'll give it to you. I'll finish you for good!”

The words were different, but they meant the same. Just like the night Papa had come home and heard BJ crying. BJ had never cried again. But Brenda—she had never stopped crying.

Elva was back in the poverty-ridden shack in the Pennsylvania foothills. The smell was the same. Liquor, dirt, fear. And the smell of dry urine from where little BJ slept. But this was the second chance she had always prayed for. BJ would be all right; she'd seen to it by making him run away.

She could hear the low intake of her father's breath; it sounded like the growl of a beast. He moved toward her with sure, slow steps. She could sense his lust for the kill; she could almost taste it. An icy finger touched her shoulder, but she was too paralyzed to move, trapped in his gaze like a rabbit in the beam of a headlight. Somewhere in the back of her brain she heard her mother screaming: “Don't touch my baby!”

His hands were in her hair, yanking her to her feet. “No! Leave her alone!”

With all the force she could muster, she kicked, aiming between his legs. She felt him flinch and heard his sudden gasp. He flung her from him, sending her on to the floor. The pop-up rocked wildly on its moorings as the world tilted before her.

Pop-up? This wasn't Papa. Mama wasn't screaming, those were her own screams. BJ was dead, long dead. Cowering in a corner beside the refrigerator, Elva shielded her head with her arms. This was Cudge and he was just like Papa. Nasty, mean—a killer. Before the cast-iron frying pan came crashing down on her, Elva had an insight that she'd never been quite able to put together before. She didn't have to wonder any more why she stayed with Cudge—she knew. He was her punishment. She'd always known it would end like this. He was Papa all over again and, because he was, he gave her a certain security. Violence had been her birthright. And violence was Cudge. Through him, she would be able to pay for her sin of not saving BJ. She would die, just the way her little brother had died, and then her soul would be saved.

Her arms came away from her head. She allowed his weapon to fall, allowed herself to succumb to the blows. And always there was little BJ's face, eyes watching, waiting for her.

 

The round, plastic disc on the zipper of his jacket bounced against his neck as Davey ran through the woods, his breathing harsh and ragged.
Faster
, his mind screamed,
don't let him get you. You have to find Aunt Lorrie.
He was getting tired. And then he heard the words, and his Reeboks picked up speed.

“I'll get you, you little bastard,” the man yelled. “You ain't getting away from me!”

The trees were thinning so it was easier to run between them. Perspiration streamed down Davey's forehead as he staggered ahead. It was so hard to breathe. Maybe he could hide somewhere and wait till he felt better, just a little while.
No
, he couldn't stop. If he did, the man would find him and kill him. If only Duffy were here. If only Aunt Lorrie were here. But they weren't—he was alone, and he had to find Duffy and Aunt Lorrie all by himself.

Saliva formed in the corners of his mouth as he heard curses coming from his left. His gasping breaths were making too much noise; his hand over his mouth to seal in the harsh sounds, Davey floundered ahead. He was slowing down now and tears of frustration gathered in his eyes. He stopped and listened to the early morning stillness. He was at the edge of the woods; ahead was a row of young trees then an open field. Davey looked ahead then back behind him. If he went across the field, he would be out in the open. If he stayed where he was, the man would catch him.
Hide
, he thought. He had to hide for a little while and rest. Davey looked around. There was no hiding place among the saplings.

Quickly he veered off his straight path, almost backtracking, but to the right. Hardly daring to breathe, he crouched down behind a wide tree and clamped one hand over his mouth to still his harsh gasps. His other hand fumbled with the zipper on his windbreaker. His eyes closed as he anticipated the sound the zipper would make as he pulled it down. It moved down but got stuck in the metal at the end. He needed two hands to make the jacket open. A second was all he needed, but he had to decide which was more important—keeping his hand over his mouth or getting rid of the red jacket. He crouched lower against the tree trunk. He crossed his fingers then yanked at the plastic disc and struggled out of the jacket, careful to make no sound. What should he do with the jacket? Mom would be mad if he left it behind. She always said you had to value your things and take care of them. He looked at his Reeboks. He might get away with the ruined sneakers, but not the jacket as well. He had to take it with him. If only it wasn't red. He looked at it with disgust and saw that the inside was brown. Dirt brown. He pulled the sleeves inside out and put the jacket back on. Now he blended in with the forest colors. The man would have to have real good eyes to find him. He felt confident as he started out again, but a sharp noise close ahead made him drop to the ground.

“I know you're here somewhere, you little twerp. I seen your jacket. You ain't gonna get away from me this time. I took care of Elva, and now I'm gonna take care of you.”

Davey flinched. The voice was so close, almost at his head. The tone changed from threatening to cajoling. “You know I'm gonna catch you, so you might as well come out from wherever you're hiding. You come out now, and I'll take you to your folks. I'm gonna count to three, and you come out, okay?”

Davey remained still. The man was lying. He was trying to trick him, to make him come out, and then . . .

“One, two, three. Okay, you had your chance!”

Sounds of crashing and swearing fell on Davey's ears. How close the man must be. Davey was shaking with fear. He didn't dare lift his head or make any movement at all. It was a good thing he'd turned his jacket inside out. Gradually, the sounds grew quieter, as if the man were moving farther away, but his curses and threats could still be heard. Davey lifted his head and risked a look; there was no one staring back at him. A long sigh escaped him.

He struggled to his feet and looked at his watch. The little hand was on the seven and the big hand on the twelve. Seven o'clock, he told himself. Seven o'clock in the morning. If he were at home, Mom and Dad would be in the kitchen eating breakfast. He wished he'd had time to take one of the cupcakes out of the bag on the refrigerator before he left the pop-up. But he couldn't think about food now. He had to get out of the woods and find a road where there were cars.

Davey trudged back through the woods. The man had gone in the other direction, so he didn't feel he had to run. His legs ached furiously, and the knee that needed the brace kept bending when he put his weight on it. His hands were scratched and bleeding, and he could feel where the side of his face had scraped into a tree. Touching it lightly, he brought droplets of blood away on his fingertips. When had he had his last shot? Was it still working? Would the bleeding stop? His ankles and knees felt tender. Was it from running, or was it like before he started the shots?

Painfully tired and frightened, Davey hid in the brush under the trees. He would sit there and listen, watchful for the bad man. Lying on his belly, head cradled in his arms, he tried to stay awake.

S
ara Taylor stepped out of the bathroom after her morning shower, dry, powdered, cologned and naked. Slipping her toiletries into an Yves Saint Laurent cosmetic case, she placed it at the top of her suitcase. Andrew would bring both their suitcases home on his late afternoon flight. Sara hoped no unexpected problems would arise, and that Andrew's appearance in court would be completed by the afternoon. She could count on it, she thought, remembering how well she had drilled him on his testimony.

She must see about breakfast. For Andrew, hot cakes, sausages, one scrambled egg, and toast. For her, half a melon. A large pot of hot coffee for the two of them. She had to eat something to get her thoughts in order. She didn't want to think about what had happened in the shower ever again. She would put it out of her mind and never let it resurface.

Sara opened the door and handed the ever-present guard her breakfast menu. “Would you please tell room service that Mr. Taylor and I would appreciate our breakfast now. We have to be in court by nine.” Without waiting for a reply, she closed the door, then walked over to the bed and gently shook Andrew awake.

“Time to get up, darling. All you have to do is shower. Everything is laid out for you. Breakfast will be up shortly. I don't want to rush you, Andrew, but sometimes you have a tendency to dawdle. Today you have to hurry—it's already seven o'clock.” If Andrew noticed her annoyed tone, he didn't say anything. Instead, he dutifully got up, went into the bathroom and took his shower.

Sara stood outside the bathroom, listening to the sound of water splashing against the tiles. Her thoughts strayed back to DeLuca and her sexual fantasy. She shook her head to make them go away but they wouldn't. Maybe the television would distract her. The set came to life with a sexy, light-hearted comedy show. Sara frowned—everything had sexual connotations of one sort or another. She changed the channel to an early-morning talk show. An author was describing her latest book about men's sexual fantasies. Damn. Again, she pushed the button on the remote. Cartoons. That was certainly safe.

She heard the shower being turned off. Andrew would be in the sitting room in another minute, and she could question him again, give him a short run-through to be sure he hadn't forgotten his lines. What was she going to do on the plane for two and a half hours? She would have all that time to think, to fantasize . . . Davey—she would think about Davey, and Lorrie, and what she was going to say to her. How could Lorrie lose her son? How dare she allow him out of her sight? Yes, Davey and Lorrie would be safe ground.

Andrew was fixing his tie when a knock sounded at the door. A waiter carried in a breakfast tray laden with plates and silverware. After he'd left, Sara lifted the stainless-steel covers. She shook out Andrew's napkin and handed it to him.

“Looks good. Aren't you eating, darling?” he said.

“Just some melon. You know I don't like to eat before a plane trip. This is more than enough. That little round scoop of butter makes the hot cakes look so appealing, don't you think, Andrew?”

Andrew nodded as he chewed industriously. “This breakfast is a surprise—all my favorites!”

“You deserve only the best, Andrew, and that's what I want for you.” Sara knew her voice lacked conviction, but Andrew was so busy eating he wasn't paying any attention.

“Are we taking the bags to the courtroom or do you think I should come back for them?” he asked minutes later, as he pushed his empty plate aside.

“You might want to freshen up before you leave for your plane. Leave them here or they'll just be a hindrance. The limo will be waiting, so there shouldn't be any problem. You might even want to shower. I heard just a short while ago that it's going to be eighty-nine degrees today.”

“I'm glad we don't live here anymore, I can tell you that,” Andrew volunteered as he pushed back his chair. “I like the change of seasons at home. What about you, Sara? Do you ever miss Florida?”

“No, darling, I don't. Perhaps though, we should start thinking about moving out of New Jersey. It's so . . . so crime-ridden. Connecticut would be nice; let's consider it in the spring. I'm ready when you are.”

“Then let's go and get this over with, so I can be home with you and Davey for dinner this evening.”

“We don't know for certain that Davey has been found. As of last night he was still lost, but I'm sure they must have found him by now. He did miss his shot though, and that's what worries me.”

“I feel just as you do—Davey will be waiting for both of us when we get back. Sara, instead of punishing him for wandering off, why don't you make a wonderful dinner with all his favorites? We'll make a party of it, and afterward have a serious talk with him. We don't want him to think we're angry with him, but he has got to realize what he's done. My father used to do that with me. The real punishment came from having to stand there with no defense for what I'd done, and my father understanding perfectly. My mother, too. They were never divided when it came to me. Whatever one said, the other agreed. Like we do with Davey.”

“It sounds like a tremendous idea.” That was something she could do on the plane ride. She could plan the menu and think about the talk she and Andrew would have with Davey.

“I, for one, won't be sorry to see the last of this hotel,” Andrew said, closing the door behind him. “You'd better give me the key, Sara.”

“Darling, I really don't want to go and leave you here. I'd much rather be here with you, but our son . . .”

“Sara,” Andrew said, putting his arm around her shoulder, “I don't want to hear another word. We agreed and the matter is settled. I'll be fine. I'm just sorry that I made such a botch of things yesterday. Today I'll do much better. The State will have no problems. Mr. DeLuca will be more than satisfied.”

“I rather doubt that,” Sara said, sotto voce.

“What was that, darling?”

“Nothing. Just woolgathering. It wasn't important. We're fortunate that we left when we did. The traffic is building up. You're going to be the first witness, so it is imperative that you be on time.”

Thirty-five minutes later the limousine pulled up at the curb outside the courthouse. Sara hated the pushing and shoving crowd of reporters shouting questions. As she walked beside Andrew up the stairs, she kept her gaze straight ahead, her step firm and sure. It wasn't till one of the security guards opened the door for Sara that she saw Roman DeLuca. She felt a flush creep up her neck.

“Good morning, Andrew, Mrs. Taylor,” DeLuca said. Sara wondered why DeLuca called Andrew Andrew and her Mrs. Taylor. Andrew was whisked off by two court bailiffs, and Sara was left standing next to Roman DeLuca and one of the men from Sanders's unit, Michael Jonas. Stuart Sanders had introduced Jonas to Sara and Andrew, identifying him as an assistant supplied by the State of Florida. Sara wondered if he, too, was part of the syndicate.

“You don't strike me as the type to make foolish mistakes, Mrs. Taylor.” DeLuca's eyes narrowed. “Why didn't you take my advice? You'll have no one to blame but yourself.”

Sara felt herself grow rigid. “I don't make mistakes. I always take full responsibility for my actions. As for your advice . . .”

“Spare me, my dear. You had your chance last night and you ignored it. We don't play games.” DeLuca turned to his associate. Sara felt mesmerized as she watched him. His lips barely moved. “Take care of the lady, Jonas.”

“Yes, sir,” came the clipped reply.

It happened so fast. One minute the three of them were standing alone, the next minute there was a swarm of reporters around them. Sara stepped aside, clearing the way for DeLuca to take center stage. Jonas moved at the same time, jostling against Sara. She knew, without seeing the gun, that the man was wearing a shoulder holster; she felt the hardness of the leather as she was thrown against him. The color drained from her face as she understood what DeLuca had meant by “take care of her.” He must have thought she wasn't leaving. It was her own fault for allowing him to think she wasn't giving in to his threats. The fact that she was on the verge of telling him meant nothing. She couldn't tell him now, while he was holding court to the press. She would leave now while all the commotion was going on. DeLuca would find out sooner or later that she was on the flight. As she turned to go she felt a touch on her arm.

“We'll leave together. Don't say anything, just move casually.”

“Take your hands off me,” Sara hissed.

Jonas's grip became more secure. “Smile, pretty lady, so the reporters can snap your picture. I mean it.”

He did, she could feel it. “You wouldn't dare do anything here in full view of all these people. You aren't an associate of Stuart Sanders. You're one of DeLuca's thugs, not a government agent. I also know what you're wearing under that custom-tailored suit.”

“Then you know I mean business. Keep smiling and walk slowly, straight out to the car.”

“Why? Where are we going? That's assuming I go with you.”

“For a little ride. You talk too much.”

“I was just going to the airport.” Sara didn't like the man's looks or the cold, controlled way he spoke, knowing that he had no intention of taking her to the airport. The shoulder holster said all there was to be said. She had to think quickly. Where was that seedy-looking reporter from the slick tabloid? He had offered five hundred dollars for her exclusive interview late yesterday afternoon. Her mind raced. What was his name? Peter? Percy. Percy Strang, that was it.

“Let's get on with it, Mrs. Taylor. You're wasting time. I'm not going to tell you again.”

“I can see that,” Sara smiled up at him. “One moment and then I'll be glad to join you for coffee.” She made her voice purposely high and shrill, knowing one or more of the reporters would look her way. She gave them all a dazzling smile then asked for Percy Strang. The reporter from the
Miami Herald
looked disgusted. Sara could almost read his mind—the gossip tabloids always got the dirt because they paid for it. It always came down to the buck. An honest reporter had to hustle, and then he was lucky to get two inches of printable news.

“Yo! Here I am, Mrs. Taylor. Changed your mind, I see.”

“Why not? I can spend five hundred dollars just as easily as the next person. Why don't we go for coffee?” Sara asked.

“You got it. I'll even buy.”

“How generous of you.” She felt panic rise in her chest as the clamor around Roman DeLuca stilled; everyone was listening to the exchange between the wife of the State's star witness and the reporter from the
Informer
. “When will you pay me?” Sara demanded as an afterthought.

“As soon as these nimble fingers get everything down in black and white.”

“A lady could hardly ask for more.” Sara felt all eyes on her as she shook Jonas's hand off her arm. “I'm so sorry, Mr. Jonas, to renege on our breakfast date. However, five hundred dollars is five hundred dollars. I'll see all of you later. Gentlemen.” She nodded to the crowd and moved quickly to Percy Strang's side.

Sara linked her arm through Strang's, walking him down the corridor, out the door and down the steps to the street. The limousine was standing at the curb; the driver inside was reading the paper and smoking a cigarette. She dragged the reporter with her as she leaped into the backseat of the luxurious car. “Take me to the airport, driver, and please hurry. You don't mind, do you, Mr. Strang? I mean about going to the airport. If we have time, we can have coffee. I thought it would be best if we talked on the way. This way you won't feel I'm trying to put you off. I don't have much time, and we'll have to stop the interview when I board.”

At the reporter's disappointed look she went on hastily. “Of course, you can always come to New Jersey, or call me long-distance. My son disappeared yesterday, and that's why I'm going home now. No one knows yet. It's your exclusive, Mr. Strang. However, I don't want to talk about that just yet. We'll get to my son later. For now, why don't you and I get to know each other? You tell me what it is you want to know, and I'll answer to the best of my ability.”

“Are you saying your son's been kidnapped? Jesus, Mrs. Taylor, I don't know what to say!”

“I knew you'd feel like that which is why I said we would talk about it later. I do have one rather small favor to ask of you though.”

“For an exclusive like that, Mrs. Taylor, I would try to walk on water for you.”

“Yes, well, that won't be necessary. I want you to stay next to me every minute till I board the plane. Don't leave my side. If you see . . . What I mean is, if you suspect . . . Just don't leave my side. Is it a deal, Mr. Strang?”

“Of course it's a deal. This is the kind of stuff reporters only dream about. How am I ever going to thank you?”

“By staying next to me and not letting me out of your sight.”

“Is there a microphone in this limo? How do you give the driver instructions?”

Sara felt faint. “I don't know . . . I'm not sure.”

Percy Strang fiddled with the small grille above the ashtray. “Is this a rented limo or did the District Attorney provide it for you and your husband?”

“The district attorney?” Oh, God. “Mr. Strang, look outside. Is this the way to the airport?”

“Beats me, Mrs. Taylor. I'm based out of Chicago—I was sent here to cover the trial. We could be going to Cuba for all I know.”

“Press that gadget and ask the driver how much further it is. Do it now!” Her voice was shrill. Percy did as he was instructed.

“Another five minutes, ma'am,” came the reply. “The turnoff is just ahead. You can see the sign from here.”

“Thank God,” Sara sighed.