Dina Santorelli Read online

  Jamie kept her eye on him, hoping he wouldn't turn back around, since he looked a bit creepy. She marveled at how in a park packed with people, the guy had chosen to approach her, kind of like how she always managed to be the one to come home with all the mosquito bites after a summer outing while everyone else got away scot-free; the whole bit her mother used to give her about being so sweet did little to stem the itching, although she had to admit that it did make her feel better. She wondered if it was her sweetness that prompted jogger-guy to stop by, or whether it was more likely that Jamie looked as if she had nothing better to do than dig in her bag for her phone. Jogger-guy hurried up the park entrance steps and out onto Sixth Avenue, passing right by the man in black who still stood by the veterans' monument with his arms folded. Had he not moved all this time, Jamie wondered.

  Her phone vibrated in her hands. It was a text from her brother Edward.

  HOW DID IT GO?

  Jamie smiled at the four little words, which reminded her that, despite her feelings of isolation, or freedom, she did have someone she was still tethered to. She texted back:

  SHITTY.

  She waited a moment. The phone vibrated again.

  THEIR LOSS.

  She smiled and wrote:

  DAMN STRAIGHT!

  She was watching the men wave and walk away from the blonde sun goddess in the grass when another text arrived:

  WHEN ARE YOU HEADING BACK?

  Jamie wrote:

  WHAT R U WRITING A BOOK? :)

  Within seconds came the reply:

  NO, BUT U SHOULD B.

  Jamie sighed. Edward never gave up. He had been encouraging her to write fiction since she won a short-story contest in the fifth grade—a story that she got to read on a local radio station. And as much as she pooh-poohed the idea to friends and colleagues, becoming a creative writer had been a longtime dream of Jamie's, a dream she had set aside when she took a job at a local newspaper just out of college, a dream that she kept aside while married to Bob. Somewhere, lurking in the deep recesses of her brain, and her hard drive, three enthusiastically started but abandoned novels lay dying.

  Another text arrived:

  DINNER TONITE. MY TREAT. B/C U R UNEMPLOYED & BROKE...

  And then another text:

  AND DIVORCED & LONELY...

  Jamie smiled and started to text back when her phone vibrated again:

  & UGLY 2...

  Jamie laughed out loud. She typed:

  SOUNDS GOOD & I'M HAVING DESSERT!

  She put her phone away and turned her attention back to the blonde who was now packing up her things and presumably returning to work. Lunchtime was coming to a close, as more and more chairs lay abandoned and New Yorkers prepared to suck it up for just a few more hours until the five o'clock whistle. Jamie, of course, had nowhere to go. At least, not until dinnertime.

  A little girl about four or five years old popped into view, hopping along in front of a woman who was beseeching her to "slow down" and "stay with mommy." Her young face was radiant, with her long, dark hair pulled back into a ponytail and a slight sunburn on her cheeks and the bridge of her nose. When she slowed down so that her mother could catch up and take her hand, she surveyed the park with fascination and caught Jamie watching her; she responded with a smile and a wave, which Jamie returned.

  From the corner of her eye, Jamie saw the man in black wave too and wondered if he mistakenly had gotten the impression that she had been waving to him, and not the little girl, but then he settled back against the veterans' monument as before, hands crossed in front of him, left leg bent. He must have seen someone he knew, she thought. Only there was something different about him now, and it took her a moment to realize what it was—he was smiling. It was hard to see, because his face looked as impassive as before, but the corners of his mouth were turned up; Jamie was sure of it, because the shadows on his face had changed. Then he began to move methodically, almost robotically, unfolding his arms, brushing down his suit sleeves, which had bunched up in the crooks of his elbows, and bending his right leg up from the knee, and then his left, as if he were about to go for a jog right now in his black tailored suit. When he brought his left hand up toward his sunglasses, Jamie was rapt, as if in the audience of an open-air theater, eager to see the elusive man behind the shades, the man who seemed to exist unnoticed by the mass of people leaving the park, as unnoticed as the stone monument behind him. And as he lifted the sunglasses off the bridge of his nose, her entire body froze.

  He was staring at her.

  Jamie nearly toppled over on her wobbly bench. Her flight response kicked in, and she had the sudden urge to run, to just get up and go, the kind of thing adults tell children to do when they're in trouble, but instead she stayed put, telling herself that she had to be mistaken. She looked to the right and left of her, but no one was there, and her mind filled with questions: Had he been staring at her all this time? Does he think he knows her? Does he know that she had been looking at him too? Was she overreacting? Then the man in black moved again, this time at an angle to the monument, his body turned so that he was facing her. In a flash, his right hand was in the air, waving, a broad, purposeful wave, the kind you see at a rock concert.

  Now the alarm bells were sounding, since Jamie had ignored the original distress notification, but, again, instead of hightailing it out of the park, she did the complete opposite—she sat perfectly still as if she were a small animal finding itself face-to-face with a predator in the forest.

  What are you doing, she asked herself. Get the hell out of here.

  She yawned and, as nonchalantly as possible, stood up from her chair, pretending she hadn't noticed him at all, that she had just decided it was time to go, although her hand trembled fiercely as she placed her bottled water into her paper bag. The park still had a good amount of people, but it suddenly seemed so empty, like the man in black could just reach out and touch her even though they were a half a block's length apart.

  Jamie picked up her portfolio and magazine and tossed the rest of her lunch into a nearby trash can. Then, without hesitation, she walked east, away from him, with purpose, like she had somewhere to be. She walked as fast as she could without looking like she was trying to.

  The boundaries of the park were crowded, and she was walking against the tide. She looked at the magazine cover in her hands:

  NEVER LOOK BACK.

  But now she couldn't help it. As she crossed through the park's south exit, Jamie glanced at the spot where the man in black had stood. But no one was there. She lifted her sunglasses up and looked once again over the tops of the heads around her. She looked in the grass, by her chair. He was nowhere.

  As she flipped her sunglasses back down, someone grabbed her shoulder and jerked her body forward. Before she realized it, someone was kissing her hard—too hard. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't move, and she felt the lunchtime crowd surging around her:

  "Hey, asshole, get out of the way!"

  "Jesus Christ, get a room, buddy."

  She felt bodies brushing past her and the strength of the man holding her, and she tried to pull away, but something sharp was digging into her side, and her arms were pinned against her portfolio, which was trapped against his large chest as he squeezed her against him. She squirmed and tried to reach up, but her arms felt like they were caught in a vise and only her fingers could move, and when they did, they felt the coldness of the large gold cross hanging from his neck.

  "Don't make a fucking sound or I'll kill you," the man in black breathed into her mouth.

  Jamie's eyes welled with fearful tears that no one saw through her dark sunglasses.

  Chapter 5

  "Keep walking," the man said, holding Jamie tight against him and pressing the sharp object into her right side. His left hand reached into her pocket, took out her phone and placed it into his own jacket pocket. He grabbed her portfolio and carried it at his side, like a businessman, as the magazine fell to the ground.
/>   Jamie felt her legs giving out beneath her as they hurried down Fortieth Street. She stumbled, but the man held her so tightly that she was forced to move her feet in step with his. She wanted to scream. She thought of all the people who would say at her funeral, "Why didn't she yell for help? There were hundreds of people around her." But she couldn't cough out a word. She could barely breathe and felt what she knew was warm blood, dribbling down her right side, as the sharp object dug deeper into her.

  The man crossed diagonally against oncoming traffic to the south side of Fortieth. As Jamie walked, her eyes, behind her sunglasses, beseeched every passerby. She tried to mouth the words, Help me, but everyone was busy: Taking photos of buildings, of each other. Texting. Chatting. Laughing. No one looked at her.

  As they approached Fifth Avenue, a black limousine stuck out noticeably at the intersection, causing irritated pedestrians to walk around it. As they got within a few yards of it, the back door opened.

  "Get in," the man said to her.

  Jamie's knees buckled.

  "Do you want to die here?" he said through a feigned smile, holding her up and pressing the knife deeper into her side.

  Before she could react, she was pushed onto the floor of the limousine, the door was shut, and the limousine sped off into traffic.

  Inside, the stench of cigarette smoke was asphyxiating, as Jamie was thrown back and forth while the car made a series of hard turns. It took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the darkness of the car, and she realized that she and the man weren't alone. There were others.

  She looked up at the new faces. Two men. One wearing a suit, the other wearing jeans and a white T-shirt.

  "This is the one you picked?" asked the bald man in the suit sitting just behind the driver.

  "Shut the fuck up and put her out," said the man who had grabbed her, who was sitting in the backseat on the passenger side. He and the bald man seized her shoulders.

  "Get off me. What do you want?" Jamie screamed, feeling lightheaded from the cigarette fumes. She slapped at the dark, smoky air, the edge of her sunglasses getting caught on her sleeve and falling to the floor as the car windows were systematically rolled up, closing out any last traces of blue sky.

  As they wrestled her down, Jamie's eyes went to the man in the jeans, who reached down to pick up her sunglasses, neatly folded them, and placed them onto his lap. She realized that he wasn't a man at all, but a kid, maybe about sixteen or seventeen years old.

  "You're just gonna fuckin' sit there?" the bald man asked him.

  "Leave him alone," the man in black said, pulling Jamie's arms behind her back while trying to secure her kicking legs.

  "Take it easy, sweetheart," said the bald guy. He took a handkerchief out of his pocket. "This won't hurt a bit."

  Jamie spat at him, which elicited a loud chuckle from the driver. The bald man slapped her. "Are you fuckin' kidding me?" he said, grabbing her neck.

  "Hey," roared the man in black. "Knock it off."

  The bald man hesitated and then pushed the handkerchief, which was wet, over Jamie's mouth. The smell was horrible, and she started gagging.

  "No more spitting for you, Dimples," the bald guy said, holding his hand over her mouth.

  Suddenly, Jamie found it more and more difficult to kick her legs, feeling as if she had fallen into a pool of water and was fighting the resistance. Her breathing was becoming labored, her mind hazy. She fought back her drooping eyelids, but her eyesight was getting blurry. As they hauled her off the floor and onto the seat, Jamie's eyes briefly focused on the sunlight that was filtering through the backseat window, how it glittered off the river, and she repeated over and over to herself, We're heading north. We're heading north.

  Chapter 6

  The wind whipped through Reynaldo's hair, uncovering the gray roots that lay below the thick, black waves. He stood motionless, hidden behind the intricate mass of interlacing steelwork, nearly choking from the exhaust that swelled from the growing number of commuting vehicles crossing the Albany County Bridge.

  He took a long drag from his cigarette and watched the exhaled smoke swirl into nothingness as the lights of the neighborhoods came to life across the river. He looked at his watch. It was time for him to go.

  Reynaldo gazed down the 157 feet from the bridge's center to the water's surface. The outline of the Hudson River, which only minutes ago had been vivid and rhythmic, now appeared imperceptible as the daylight waned, having been unsettled by faraway motoring as well as other unseen tuggings of the universe.. He flicked his cigarette out toward the water and stepped onto the narrow ledge.

  He closed his eyes and pushed one leg forward and held it there, quivering, challenging both the elements and his own misgivings. After a few moments, he found his center. He thought of Pedro and Ricardo. He thought of his mamá, God rest her soul, and the wobbling stopped. With resolve, he jumped. Backward.

  Reynaldo's knees buckled as they landed hard on the bridge's walkway behind him, his face scraping against the jutting metal of his bicycle, which had been lying on its side. Somehow, he had misjudged the height of the ledge this time. Dazed, Reynaldo stood up and brushed himself off. He glanced at the steel columns flanking him and at the oncoming traffic. As usual, no one had noticed him.

  Lighting another cigarette, Reynaldo hopped onto his bike and pedaled north, wiping the blood from his face up and into his hair. He looked at his watch. He had to get back to work.

  Chapter 7

  The main ballroom of the mansion had an unusual, almost inappropriate brightness. The heavy drapes had been tied back, the windows opened, and a subtle chill suffused the air as Nurberg descended the grand staircase from the upper floors. Most of the mansion's staff already had been questioned and sent home, so there was an eerie stillness to the large space, and the shifts in wind caused the drapes to sway in a soft dance at the very corners of the room, forcing Nurberg's trained eye to dart from one end to the other.

  As the years had passed, the governor's mansion had evolved from a simple two-story house into the picturesque Queen Anne–styled building it was today. In the early '70s, the mansion, and its surrounding grounds, had even earned a place on the National Register of Historic Places. In May of last year, First Lady Grand unveiled the first installation of solar panels, which, the subsequent press release claimed, was a significant step toward reducing the mansion's energy consumption and pollution, serving as a role model for the rest of the state. Eager to show off her svelte post-baby body, the First Lady scheduled a press conference, and Nurberg remembered that it had been held prematurely, about a week before the work had been completed at the Rockefeller Pool House. As Katherine Grand showed reporters how the new panels were already providing energy for the mansion's upkeep and cutting greenhouse-gas emissions by 50 percent, the workers' hammering in the background drowned out practically every word.

  That was the last time Nurberg had seen the First Lady in person until he entered the mansion's small, private dining nook in the kitchen adjacent to the main ballroom. Mrs. Grand was sitting at one of the pine chairs, her legs neatly crossed, her eyes fixed upon her husband, who was seated at the booth side of the table. The governor's graying head was plopped into his hands, and his tall frame sagged forward. On any given day, the governor, who was six foot four, towered over his wife, who was no slouch herself at five foot seven, but today Mrs. Grand was the one whose physical presence commanded Nurberg's attention—bizarre considering she seemed even thinner than last year, the bones of her wrist sticking out as she carried a steaming cup of tea to her pursed lips.

  "That incompetent housekeeper! I told you to fire her, didn't I," she said, after taking a long, slow sip.

  Governor Grand raised his head. "Rosalia? That's absurd. She loves Charlotte."

  "I never trusted her." Mrs. Grand placed the cup of tea in its saucer. "Always with her Spanish, voodoo nursery rhymes."

  Nurberg stepped forward before the governor could respond.

&n
bsp; "Governor Grand. First Lady Grand." He showed his badge. "I'm Detective Sergeant Mark Nurberg of the Albany Police Department's Children and Family Services Unit. I'll be handling your daughter's case."

  Governor Grand stood and extended his hand. "Good to meet you, Detective. We got here as quickly as we could." Nurberg resisted shooting the First Lady a look.

  "Detective." Katherine Grand, who remained seated, gave Nurberg a single nod of a greeting, while taking another sip of tea.

  "Have you found anything yet?" the governor asked.

  "Well, our team did a preliminary sweep of the entire mansion and the grounds, particularly in the nursery, but it showed nothing. I'd like to run down any security cameras around the perimeter during the hours the alleged abduction took place."

  "Alleged?" the governor asked.

  "Well, we have to consider all possible scenarios, Governor," Nurberg explained. "We searched under the beds, in the closets and basements, just in case the child crawled out of her crib and simply managed to get herself stuck somewhere or was injured and couldn't cry for help."

  "Interesting how the housekeeper hadn't thought of that," Mrs. Grand said, to no one in particular, while staring out the kitchen window.

  "Katherine, please," said the governor. "Go on, Detective."

  Nurberg continued. "Or sometimes, the child will just crawl away and fall asleep. Hours later, she'll wake up happy and innocent and come out of the hiding spot, without ever knowing all the havoc she caused."

  "How often does that happen, Detective?" asked the First Lady, whose attention Nurberg finally seemed to have.

  "Does what happen, ma'am?"

  "That a reported kidnapping results in a happy child lost somewhere in the house."

  Nurberg's eyes met the First Lady's for the first time. They were a sharp and piercing blue.

  "Not very often, ma'am. But it is a possibility."