Scene Stealer (13 page)

“My darling,” Lawrence Dunn said in surprise, “your presence at tonight's performance does me great honor.”

“There is no tonight's performance. I cancelled it.”

“The show must go on!” Lawrence thundered. “Surely you know that, my love.”

“Why?” Kevin asked, although it was not clear to me who he was asking.

Felicity's complexion turned an astonishing shade of pink. Her thin lips mouthed words that refused to emerge. “What is that boy doing here? I told you to hide the kid upstate,” she finally said.

“I've been here all the time.” Kevin stared at Felicity. “I know who you are! You were the lady that broke into the theatre a few nights ago after Mr. Dunn went home.”

“Felicity?” Dunn appeared confused. “Why didn't you let me know you were coming? I would have waited for you, my love.”

“I was not in the theatre,” she said, indignant.

“You were too here,” Kevin said. “You snuck in with a flashlight and stole one of Mr. Dunn's hats!”

The hat! I remembered now. That woman's elbow. Norman Bottoms's talk show.

“Felicity?” Dunn asked. His tone of voice was troubled. “Was it you that purloined…”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Felicity said. “What would I want with a hat?”

“My darling, you need only ask and the hat would have been yours.”

“Forget the damn hat. You'll find the hat.” She turned toward Kevin. “You didn't see me.”

“The hat is missing,” Dunn said. He appeared confused.

“Larry, answer my question. I gave you explicit instructions and money. Why didn't you hide the kid upstate? What do you think I paid you for?”

“The money, O Mistress Mine.” Larry rounded his vowels and caressed Felicity with his ardent gaze. “The money…”

“I am not your mistress,” Felicity said.

“Ah, yes! The boy. We must not speak of such worldly things in front of the boy.” Dunn pretended to lock his lips. “The money has been used for a most noble cause. To further the Muse. Of course I speak of
An Evening with Larry and Will.
Never fear, the lad is quite comfortable.”

“Yes,” Kevin said. “The food is boring, though.”

“Shh!” Annalise said in what was supposed to be a whisper.

“My God! Who is that girl?” Felicity's expression registered distaste as she surveyed Annalise's paint-splattered jeans.

“I'm Mr. Dunn's assistant.”

Felicity ignored the callused hand that Annalise offered and focused on me. “What is Barton's spy doing here, Larry? Have you double-crossed me, you old idiot?” She spat each word. “No. You don't have the intelligence.” The finger she pointed at Dunn exhibited a small tremor.

Dunn winced, backed away from the accusatory finger and proceeded to recite from another of Shakespeare's sonnets. “O love's best habit is a soothing tongue and age, in love, loves not to have years told.”

“Shut up!” Felicity screamed at him. “Let me think. The last thing I need right now is a senile actor spouting half-baked Shakespeare.”

“Half-baked…You lied. You lied to me.” Dunn's face showed white beneath the stage make-up. “You don't like Shakespeare.”

For the moment, squared off against each other, Felicity and Dunn forgot about their prisoners. Felicity had left the door open. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Kevin edge toward it.

“I don't give a hoot in hell about Shakespeare!” Felicity's temper was completely out of control.

“How dare you use such language in my theatre! In this Cathedral of the Arts. In front of this lady!” Dunn's arm swept in my direction.

“What are you doing here, you prying old bat? Who are you?” Felicity directed that question to me.

“I am a great admirer of Mr. Dunn's.” I smiled sweetly at the actor.

“Miss Weidenmaier is an excellent prompter,” Dunn said.

“Thank you, Mr. Dunn,” I said, belatedly recognizing the fact that in dealing with Lawrence Dunn, we were dealing with a psychologically maladjusted mind. Unfortunately, Felicity Silk realized it too.

“Larry, darling,” she said, oozing warmth and contrition. “Larry, I apologize for my behavior. I do adore Shakespeare, especially when you perform his works. Say you forgive me.”

Dunn paused, selected another verse and again recited, “When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, that she might think me some untutored youth, unskillful in the world's false forgeries.”

I thought I heard Felicity's teeth grind as the woman strove to keep her composure.

“Thank you, darling.” Felicity's words were now soft and measured. “Larry, you must listen to me. If you're going to attain your rightful position in the theatre, you must get rid of these people. They're in your way, Larry. Nothing must stand in the way of high art.”

“Miss Weidenmaier has been most helpful,” Dunn said. He sounded stubborn and defensive.

“Darling,” Felicity said. “We agreed that I would manage your career. These people can hurt you. Destroy your theatre. I'm sure you can find a comfortable spot for them in the churchyard; they can join the members of the congregation who have been at rest for eons. There's plenty of room for three more bodies. Everything you've worked for is at stake. Art demands sacrifice. These people must go.”

Kevin had already gone, sliding out the door like a ghost.

Annalise tried to follow, but the child's tap shoes as she walked across the cement floor of the basement interrupted Felicity's appeal to Dunn.

Of all days, I thought, for Annalise to find a tap teacher.

“Don't try it,” Felicity said. A small, silver revolver appeared in her hand and motioned Annalise to the center of the room.

Annalise's reluctant feet followed the direction given by the gun. The girl moved slowly, giving Kevin precious seconds to make good his escape before anyone noticed he was gone.

“You too.” Felicity's weapon pointed straight at me. Lawrence Dunn stood slightly to the right. He neither moved nor said one word. Felicity checked the room for Kevin. “Where's the kid?”

I detected a note of hysteria in her rhetorical question then Silk regained control and addressed her accomplice, adding additional emphasis by aiming the gun at his head.

“Tie them up. Be quick about it.”

Lawrence stared at the gun then picked up uncommonly sturdy lengths of rope. The quiet, except for a hissed, “Hurry up!” from Felicity continued 'til he finished the task of binding us to each other; she then lowered the gun, apparently satisfied.

“I'm going after the kid,” she said. “Get rid of your two lady friends before I return. If you want a theatre to act in, get rid of them.”

Dunn bowed his head and retreated into the words of his beloved Will Shakespeare.

“Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend, nor services to do, till you require.”

Captain Corcoran checked the address he had found for Lawrence Dunn's Off-Off Broadway theatre. The theatre, Saint Genesis, had been listed in one of those free newspapers handed out on busy street corners.

Water had managed to seep through the soles of his heavy, mud-caked shoes, making his socks cling to his damp feet. As he walked, the rain tapered to fine drizzle but stagnant pools merged near clogged sewers. He skirted a mound of plastic garbage bags; half the bags had been slashed and slop leaked onto the already filthy pavement. The slop contributed a pungent sauce to the rotting fruit, the chicken bones, the broken bottles and crushed cans. He had walked the streets for hours trying to make a decision. The fingers of his right hand clenched, made a fist, struck the open palm of his left.

What had happened? No pride left in the city. He'd like to level the streets; bring in bulldozers and wrecking crews. Build it up again from scratch. Clean lines, clean streets, everything in its place instead of decay everywhere you looked.

A teenager, muscles and tattoos displayed by a thin, cut-off T-shirt approached.

“Got a couple of bucks, mister?” The kid, a sullen look stamped on his face, blocked the sidewalk.

“You're in my way,” he said. The boy tried to stare him down. Failed. Sauntered away. Captain Corcoran took a deep breath and exhaled slowly; the tremors that invaded and took charge of his body subsided. Young punk. The kid needed discipline. He needed someone in authority to tell him what to do and when to do it; probably dragged up by a single mother with no father around. Kevin, Kevin, he needed to be with Kevin. Something had happened to his son. He had to find his boy.

What had gone wrong? He had to think straight. His own boy missing. Why? Why? Nothing made sense anymore. He had to find Kevin and take him away from the stench of this city.
Concentrate, Captain Corcoran. Concentrate. Find your son. Find Kevin.
Maybe, he thought, I should have taken the pills but pills made a man sluggish. Still, they kept him calm; the sense of unreality wasn't as strong when he took the pills. The emotion he felt now was almost physically painful. He had never been able to abide weakness in anyone; he couldn't tolerate it in himself.

Stop thinking this way and pull yourself together.
He remembered; an actor who auditioned with Kevin. The actor who had set up a theatre in an old church near here. What was the name? He glanced at the ad he had torn from the newspaper. Saint Genesis, that was it.

Another block and he saw the church.

An Evening with Larry and Will.
He studied the sign in front of the theatre and wondered if a fancy-pants Shakespearean actor would have the guts to engineer a kidnapping. Not likely. Actors were weak, sissies; was he wasting his time? Kevin would stop performing when he and Jean got back together. Someday his son would thank him.

Kevin looked like him, had his eyes, his nose. But sometimes it was hard to believe Kevin was his son. Maybe it was his fault. Maybe he pushed the child too hard; he should let him go at his own pace.

Captain Corcoran liked to work out, take in a ball game. Kevin disliked sports. All he wanted to do was read. Go to museums. Act. Artsy stuff. That came from his mother. Things would change now that Kevin was older; they'd have more in common.

He checked his watch as he approached the theatre. The doors should be open by now but it was quiet, no one about. He noticed a sign posted on the locked front entrance. Closed. Not a surprise, Captain Corcoran thought. How many people want to waste an evening listening to one actor reciting words like
thee
and
thou?

A couple of girls, dressed in tights and tunics, joined him at the door. “Try the handle,” one said. “Maybe the sign was put there by mistake. The theatre isn't dark tonight.” Her fist hammered the wood door. “Annalise!”

“That Annalise is a real ditz,” the second girl said. “It was dark last Tuesday too, that's when she originally invited me. At least she called and told me that one was cancelled.”

“Maybe she did call,” the first girl said. “I didn't check my text messages.”

“I checked my voice mail just a half hour ago,” her friend said, then turned her attention to Captain Corcoran. “She's been inviting everyone in our acting class. Did Annalise invite you too?”

“No.”

“Who invited you?”

“No one, I thought it would be an interesting evening.”

“You're not an actor, are you?” Her eyes met her friend's for a moment. “You can join us for a drink anyway. There's a bar across the street where we can keep dry. It's going to rain again, I can tell. My dancer's bunion.”

“I don't drink.”

“Oh…tough. Sorry.” The girls walked away. “Wait 'til I get hold of Annalise. She owes me one.”

Captain Corcoran stood by the door. The open gate bothered him. Why would the gate be open and the door to the theatre locked? As long as he was there he'd have a look around. An actor—Dunn wasn't number one on his list of suspects. But he refused to be sloppy. He could be wrong. His life had no meaning without his son. He would find Kevin, and punish anyone who threatened his child.

Kevin gripped the rail; then crept halfway up the staircase before he stopped and listened. One squeak and that awful woman would realize he was gone.

He wanted to race up the steps two at a time but that wouldn't be very smart. Instead, he climbed slowly, trying to figure out what his father would do if he was the one who had been kidnapped. But that was silly; no one would dare kidnap his father.

He turned his head toward the basement, practically strained his eardrums to listen, but all he could hear was his heart. It pounded like a machine-gun firing away inside his chest. Rat-a-tat-tat. Rat-a-tat-tat.

Two more steps. Now that woman was screaming at Mr. Dunn. So busy screaming she didn't even notice he was missing. Screaming would ruin her throat; probably get nod…no-u-…nodules on her vocal cords. Serve her right.

Kevin reached the top of the landing. He wiped his hands on a corner of his shirt; they were all sweaty. Because he clutched the rail so hard; he wasn't scared.

Shadows haunted the backstage area and phantoms threatened to reach out and grab him. All right, he was scared. But the ghosts didn't scare him as much as that woman did. She was the enemy. He was fighting a war and he had to rally his forces. Only Miss Weidenmaier and Annalise and he hadn't planned on his being able to just walk out of the room and he wasn't sure what to do next.

Call the police, that's what he should do. There must be a phone somewhere or he could run out to the street and yell for help. He just had to find the door.

Kevin followed a trail of phosphorescent paint spots that led from the wings to the stage. A pilot light stood smack in the middle of the floor; that's what threw the shadows. He knew that. That's why it was called a ghost light.

“Kevin, dear. Come back. I want to talk to you!”

That woman had discovered he was gone. He heard her running up the steps. He crawled under the stage curtain and found himself facing the benches where the audience sat. She'd never crawl under. She'd be stuck on the stage side.

But she was hunting him; he'd better find a place to hide. He spotted an old pulpit that must have been used for sermons when the Saint Genesis was a church and he ducked down behind it. It was a good place to say a prayer, but the only one he could think of was “Now I lay me down to sleep.”

“Kevin, darling; I have something for you, sweetheart. Where are you?”

Her voice was muffled because of the curtain and so full of honey, flies would stick to it. “Something for you.” Who did she think she was kidding? He wasn't dumb. Not dumb enough to answer her.

What would his father do now? Captain Charles Corcoran would lead his men out of danger. Kevin raised his hand and signaled his imaginary followers, then started crawling down the aisle.

The sound of wood, glass and metal crashing to the stage floor brought him to a stop. That woman used words he wasn't allowed to say unless they were in a script. She must have banged into a table full of props and knocked it over.

All of a sudden it was quiet. He could hear himself taking quick, short breaths. If he could hear himself, maybe she could hear him breathe too.

What time was it? He squinted at his watch but it was too dark to see what number Cowboy Bob had lassoed. It must be late. Maybe Mr. Dunn's audience would be disappointed and break down the doors, then they'd be safe.

He was thirsty. Gee, it was funny how you never think about water 'til it isn't there; he'd trade just about anything for a glass of water, even his autographed playbills.

He bet his mother and father had gotten back together and were trying to find him. His father would move back home. It would be nice having two parents again; especially if they didn't fight anymore.

The stage curtain creaked and groaned. That woman had found the line that opened it.

“Kid, I'm going to count to ten, then you'd better show yourself.”

The gooeyness was gone from her voice now. Boy, talk about dumb. If being sweet didn't work why did she think being nasty would?

It sounded like she must be on the lip of the stage now. He didn't dare raise his head to find out; she might see him. He crawled into one of the pews and under a bench to plan his strategy. Instead of retreating he would mount an attack. Only he didn't have any weapons. His father had a gun and a rifle and a knife when he went into battle; even a hand grenade. He wished his father were with him. Most of the time it was better being with his mother but he could sure use his father's help now.

His eyes adjusted to the darkness under the bench. The back of the pew was all solid wood. He couldn't crawl through; he'd have to go back into the aisle to get to the door. He inched his way, pretending he was on a mission, then peered around the end of the stall.

He didn't see her. He bet that woman had given up and gone back downstairs to yell at Mr. Dunn some more. But then he would have heard her footsteps. Maybe she was unconscious. Maybe even dead. That could happen if she had hurt herself when she ran into the prop table. Maybe.

If he was to save his squad he had to take a chance and crawl up the aisle. A squad was a big responsibility; it was his duty to look after Miss Weidenmaier and Annalise. Soldiers fought for the folks back home, his father said. They were sort of like his folks back home.

“Ow.” The sound slipped past his tongue. He had caught his jeans on a nail sticking out of the floor. Ripped right through the denim and scratched his knee. A squad leader didn't notice blood. It stung, but he was a leader like his father. He found the old piece of tissue in his back pocket and pressed it against the wound. Now the enemy wouldn't be able to follow his trail.

He continued crawling up the aisle. His knees hurt, especially where the nail got him, but he would go on. Up ahead there were double doors! There was still no sound from his enemy.
Run! Run for the doors and freedom!
A quick glance to the rear and he raced up the aisle and burst through the center. The doors swung back and forth behind him. She would hear them swinging. Unless she was dead she would hear them.

It was darker here but he could tell he was in a lobby. Where was the door to the outside? He had to find the door to the street.

In acting class they had exercises—pretending to be blind or deaf and mute. At night before he went to sleep he practiced them; just pretend this was more practice. When he returned to school he'd be perfect. He held his hands straight out in front and imagined being blind.

His fingers touched something smooth and cold like chrome. He stood on tip-toe to reach the top. It must be a counter where they sold soda and stuff; his fingers felt along the top and found a glass. Did he dare drink from somebody's used glass? It smelled like stale tea. Gee he was thirsty. Just one little sip then he'd continue looking for the door.

He could see a little better now; he could see the doors. He abandoned the glass and raced toward them, then reached for the handle and tugged. The door wouldn't move. He pressed one hand against the wood and pulled on the handle as hard as he could. Locked. This was an old church, there had to be a window. He would break it and crawl out. Yell at the top of his lungs.

He looked at the walls of the hall; all he could two stained-glass windows, one on each side of the door. There were saints portrayed on the glass. Was it wrong to break saints?
Help me
. His lips moved in a silent prayer.
Help me, help me, help me
. The glass, framed by lead, was too thick to break and each pane of glass too small for anything but a cat to squeeze through. His heart was going to explode in his chest; it was beating so fast. He smacked his forehead with his fist.

“Mom.” It was just a whimper. He wasn't a soldier. He was a little boy who wanted his mother. A tear escaped and his nose was getting stuffed.
Stop.
It was an order. He couldn't be a little boy. Not now. Not with Miss Weidenmaier and Annalise depending on him.

Then he saw the phone; the saints had listened and answered his prayer. The phone hung high on a wall near a coatroom. The police would come and rescue them. He pushed a stool under the phone and clambered on top to reach it. No dial tone. Nothing. It didn't work.

Lobster claws grabbed his arms and swung him off the stool; a sneaker fell off his foot. The phone dropped. He was conscious of it banging against the wall. He screamed. Loud. As loud as he could. The claws dropped him, and his body slammed into the floor. For a moment he lay there, stunned. He could feel the warm, sticky blood from his knee seeping through the tissue paper. He moved an arm. Something stuck. Slivers of glass. His Cowboy Bob watch was broken. Mr. Barton would be mad at him.

That woman bent to grab him again. He rolled away and scrambled to his feet, escaping with a raked arm from her long nails. He screamed again and again at the top of his lungs.

“Daddy!”