Dina Santorelli Page 6

  Chapter 13

  The low whirr of the ceiling fan always filled Reynaldo with sadness. The metal blades sliced through the dusky air with cruel efficiency, frightening the dust out from its hiding spots and into the darker sections of the empty living room, and blowing the top of Reynaldo's curly graying bangs away from his forehead. From the worn couch, Reynaldo stared up, his hands folded behind his head, watching the blades go round and round. How many times had he lay in this very spot in the past forty-two years, he wondered. When he was a boy, his little legs were too short to reach the third cushion of the couch, but now his feet dangled off its side. He straightened his legs and pointed his toes as far as he could, scraping the edge of the wall unit with the top of his big toe. Yes, he had gotten bigger. But had he grown?

  From here, Reynaldo could survey all areas of the main floor of his home—the dining room, kitchen, front door, staircase—while watching television, if he chose to. Right now, the set was off; the screen was coated in a thin layer of dust in which Ricardo had etched the word jode with his finger the last time he had come over, which was Christmas. In the early days, there had always been something going on in the house—people coming and going with trays of food; his brothers sneaking this way and that, pulling one girl or another; his mother having coffee with the neighborhood women; his father snoring on the recliner. Reynaldo was ten years old when his grandmother fell ill and came to live with them, and he gave up his bedroom so that she had a place to sleep, making him a hero among his family members, his mother in particular. But for Reynaldo it was a dream come true to be able to sleep in his favorite place, on this couch, and even after his grandmother passed away, he never went back to his bed.

  Now, the room once filled with so much laughter and movement was quiet. He looked at the kitchen sink, filled with dishes, and imagined his mother standing before it, yelling at his brothers in Spanish and forcing a washcloth into a tall glass and twisting it.

  "Rey, you don't want to go outside and play?" she'd ask when she saw him lying there, knowing full well that he didn't.

  "No, mamá, I want to stay here," his eight-, ten-, seventeen-year-old self would say every time.

  "All right, but be careful you don't get stuck to that couch for good!" she'd say with a laugh, never realizing that one day her prophecy would come true. Reynaldo had been stuck for so long, the years blowing past him, and he wondered where all the time had gone. Still, at the same time, lying there, wasting time idly—away from the responsibilities of his life, his brothers, the garage—he'd never felt freer.

  His cell phone rang. Reynaldo looked at the number and picked up.

  "Aunt Ro?" Reynaldo was concerned. Aunt Rosalia never called this late in the day, particularly from one of the mansion's land lines.

  "Rey? Rey, are you there?"

  "Yes, Tía. Are you okay?" Her voice, usually filled with a singsongy lightness, sounded troubled and afraid.

  "Rey, can you come and pick me up tonight at the governor's? Something has happened."

  "What?" Reynaldo asked, pulling on his shoes and grabbing his keys. "Are you all right?"

  "Yes... No... Please come, Reyito."

  "I'll be there in fifteen minutes," Reynaldo said and hurried out the door.

  Chapter 14

  "Wait here," Joey said, leading Jamie and the baby, still asleep in her arms, into the upstairs master bedroom. Even though he was in his late teens, there was a boyishness about Joey: His hair was long, and his facial features were soft, with an expression of textbook adolescent apathy, as if everything bored him. Even as Bailino was doing the unthinkable in the basement, Joey exhibited zero response, and Jamie wondered whether it was because he was a veteran of such brutality or if he had simply zoned out listening to his iPod. One of his earphone wires dangled from his ears, and a thumping baseline dotted the silence as he gently ushered Jamie into the bedroom and then walked past her and out the door. Jamie heard the dead bolt click and noticed that there was no knob on the bedroom door—a key was needed from either side to open it.

  She stepped toward the floor-to-ceiling windows on the right side of the room. It was difficult to see in the night, but she still could make out the hazy outlines of the mountains in the distance, a blackness before them that was murky and still. The moon, nearly full, was coming up just over the tree line of the western horizon and appeared large and red, and Jamie heard the familiar chorus of crickets through the thick glass of the windows. Other than that, she didn't recognize anything.

  The master bedroom of the log cabin was a luxurious space decorated with an upscale country motif and anchored by a king-size bed off to one side and a large, wrought-iron chandelier hanging in the center. Everything looked new—no scuff marks disturbing the gloss of the wood-strip flooring, no dust gathering in the corners of the room, the heaps of luxurious bed linens arranged just so. Two small rooms connected to the bedroom: The first, to the left, was a bathroom. Jamie could see some of the bulbs of the vanity and the pedestal sink. The other room was to her right, with the door slightly ajar. Jamie peeked in. The room, probably once a walk-in closet, had been converted into a makeshift nursery: The walls were white and bare, and there was a strong new-carpet smell; a wooden crib stood in the center. A ripped-open pack of diapers was laying on the floor, along with several unopened containers of formula, plastic baby bottles, rubber nipples, packages of baby wipes, rattles, toys, blankets, clothes, and socks—all with the price tags still on them.

  Jamie rubbed the blonde curls of the baby's head. She could feel the little heart beating against her chest, which gave Jamie an odd sense of comfort. The crib had no bumper or bedding of any kind—just a mattress covered by a thin white sheet. It looked like a prison cell. Jamie took a deep breath and laid the child in the crib on top of Bailino's jacket. The child stirred, but remained asleep. Jamie grabbed a few wipes and held them between the palms of her hands to warm them, then took a diaper and placed it under the little girl and cleaned her with the wipes as best she could without waking her. She closed the diaper and, unable to find a trash can, tossed the wipes on the floor. Carefully, she pulled the jacket out from under the baby and hung it on the crib post. The little girl shivered, and Jamie held up one of the onesies she'd seen lying on the floor. It seemed small. She checked the label: newborn. There was no way it would fit. She tossed it back and grabbed a pair of size 1T flannel footie pajamas with a picture of Pooh Bear on the front; she slid the little girl's arms and feet into the clothing and zipped her up. Then she picked up the blanket from the floor and placed it over the child.

  Jamie looked down at the little girl sleeping peacefully. Her raspy wheezing had subsided into a quiet, rhythmic breathing pattern. She pulled up on the side of the crib so that it was as tall as the other and the child wouldn't fall out, but a price tag prevented the hook from catching. Pushing it out of the way, Jamie set the latch, hearing a soft click.

  There, she thought. Safe. For now.

  She reached for the large price tag, rubbing her fingers along the sides of the plastic, wondering if it posed a threat to the child. There was a paper receipt stapled to it that was stamped in black ink with the word FLOOR MODEL. At the bottom, the receipt read, in small print, "Babies'R'Us, 221 Wade Road, Latham, NY..."

  Latham? Where was that? Jamie wondered. She kept reading. "...12110 (518) 783-0632."

  Area code 518. She knew that. Her best friend from high school had moved to Ballston Spa , New York, when she was eighteen years old, and his new phone number had the same area code. It was near Albany, about three or four hours from Manhattan. She looked at the little girl asleep in the crib. Is that where they were?

  There was a faint noise behind her, and Jamie was startled by Don Bailino, who was leaning against the doorframe.

  "You have a way with children," he said, glancing at the sleeping baby. "Jamie."

  Jamie's body stiffened at the sound of her name.

  Bailino shifted the weight on his feet. "That is y
our name, isn't it? Jamie?" he asked, studying her.

  She looked at the baby, who was still asleep. She didn't know whether to lie or to tell the truth, or to say anything at all. Her thoughts raced to the blonde woman who had screamed and fought her way to an early death. She pressed her lips together to keep from saying the wrong thing.

  "Jamie Carter, 520 Franklin Street, Massapequa, New York 11758." Bailino pulled Jamie's portfolio out from behind him and flipped it open to the first page. "Graduate of Hofstra University, BA in Journalism. 3.52 GPA."

  Jamie listened in horror to the recitation of her carefully crafted resume.

  "Worked for two years at the Massapequa Tribune, three at Home Furnishings World as home editor, a year at USA Baby as an associate editor, currently freelancing... Interests: Travel, Women's Issues, Children." Bailino closed the portfolio and placed it on a bureau behind him in the master bedroom. "References furnished upon request." He walked toward her.

  Jamie backed away. In this small room, Bailino was an even more imposing figure. He was not a very young man, probably around fifty, judging by the deep lines on his forehead and around his eyes and the graying hair just above his ears, but his formidable body was that of a considerably younger man. The large cross that hung from his neck was turned backward, and his white sleeves were rolled up to the elbows; there was fresh dirt in the crevices and around the threaded edges. The scent of his cologne was strong, as if he'd just put some on, and filled the room like poisonous gas. His eyes were fixed upon her the same way that they'd been in Bryant Park, and that cold, menacing look made Jamie shudder. She bumped into the crib, jerking it a little, but the child remained undisturbed. She was out cold.

  Pressed against the wall, Jamie shook her head no, putting her arms in front of her to push against Bailino's body as he closed in on her, but he was like a tank. She tried to speak, but her voice came out as a whimper.

  "Shhhh," he whispered before his large mouth closed in on hers. She clenched her lips and teeth together, but his hand grabbed the sides of her jaw and pulled it down, forcing her mouth open, and his other hand wrapped around her head and pushed it forward.

  She shoved her face away and gasped for breath, watching the sleeping baby as Bailino landed powerful kisses on her neck and shoulders, sucking on her skin, pulling it in between his teeth and stretching it until she felt like it was going to rip off.

  "Nooo..." she wheezed, wincing from the pain, the tiny bites feeling like slices of a razorblade.

  Bailino released his grip, but before Jamie could react, he slammed his body against hers to hold it in place as his hands quickly undid the button and zipper of his khakis. His pants and underwear slid to the ground, and as he kicked them to the side, he grabbed her hand and placed it on his hairy groin.

  "Noooo," Jamie said again, trying to pull away.

  "Touch me," he rumbled, his voice a heavy whisper.

  "I... I can't." Tears streamed down her face, stinging the area around her mouth, where Bailino's five o'clock shadow had left her skin raw.

  He grabbed her hand and, cupping it with his, placed it on his penis, which felt like a missile in her hand. He held it there and squeezed, a small gasp escaping from his mouth, which he threw again onto Jamie's, his saliva covering her lips and cheeks. Pinning her shoulder back with his free hand, he moved his lips down to her chin, his tongue following the crevice of her cleft, and then, methodically, to her neck, the area between her breasts, and down to her stomach and below her waist. Jamie picked her feet up off the floor, hoping gravity would help overcome his hold, and it did: She slid until suddenly Bailino crouched down and threw her over his shoulder with ease.

  "Please," she cried, as she picked her head up and saw the baby through the bars of the crib get further away as he carried her out and into the bedroom.

  The large muscles of Bailino's biceps worked like the well-oiled gears of a tractor as he flopped Jamie onto the bed and charged forward. Before she could catch her breath, he was on top of her, ripping her shirt open, pulling her bra straps down from her shoulders, and burying his face between and under her breasts. Piece by piece, the layers of the white luxurious bedding fell to the floor as Jamie groped for something to hang onto, feeling as if she were grabbing handfuls of fluffy snow while dangling from atop a cliff. Bailino's large hands groped at her body, squeezing her nipples, and Jamie slapped at his hands, pulling at the coarse patches of hair along the fingers in a futile effort to pull them away. She reached outward for something, anything, to use as a weapon.

  She managed to turn over and wrap her fingers around the top of the headboard, but Bailino heaved her arm back, sending a searing pain through her shoulder, and then flipped her onto her back again and landed on top of her. While Jamie struggled to regain her breath, Bailino flicked her hands aside, pushed her skirt up and tore at her underwear, which was still wet with urine; Jamie felt a surge of pain as Bailino pressed open her legs and jammed into her, slamming her head into the delicate iron scrollwork of the headboard. She called out, but Bailino covered her mouth with his hand, and her nostrils flared as she sucked air through her nose. The weight of his body was overpowering, and she grew lightheaded as she tried in vain to push him off. Bailino pounded against her, banging her again and again into the headboard, causing the hanging pictures above to bounce in the same rhythm. As the intensity grew, a low growl emanated from Bailino's lips, and their eyes met as they bobbed up and down in synchrony, faster and faster, until suddenly everything stopped.

  Bailino dropped his hand from Jamie's mouth, and the air went rushing inside, filling her hungry lungs with oxygen. His body, laced with sweat, lay on top of hers, and the two of them remained still, heaving, breaths slowing. The crown of Jamie's head ached, a pain that shot down to her eyes and sinuses, and the sores along her neck and shoulders prickled against the pillowcase. The open air felt cold and abrasive to the scratches on her face, and there was an intense throbbing between her legs, where Bailino was still in her, but all she could think about was having to look into his eyes, having to face him in the stillness of the room, in the wake of what had just happened and might happen again.

  But she didn't have to. Bailino slipped off and plopped onto the mattress beside her, his arm reaching around, his hand slipping under the band of her shredded underwear. His body began rising and falling in soft, steady pulses, and Jamie sighed with relief, savoring the moment she had to think, to figure out a game plan that would somehow get her out of there—and the baby too. But instead her eyes blinked with fatigue and, slowly and unwillingly, she passed out next to the man who raped her.

  Chapter 15

  Phillip Grand studied his wife from across the bedroom as she tapped at her keyboard, the glow of the monitor hardening her already sharp features and drawing all the pigment from her tanned, taut skin. But even in this harsh light, Phillip thought Katherine was striking, a modern-day embodiment of the word handsome—a type of beauty that was no longer appreciated in a media-obsessed culture that put undernourished, frail women on a pedestal. To him, Katherine was pleasing and dignified, and what stood out to Phillip now were her heavily lashed, curious eyes, which, as he had often noted, were identical to those of their daughter Charlotte.

  Charlotte...

  Phillip focused on his wife's fingers, long and skinny, moving swiftly, their pads meeting the concave keys with ease, a byproduct of some thirty years of practice since tenth-grade typing class.

  "Honey, why don't you come to bed?" he asked. "You need to rest."

  Mrs. Grand either didn't hear the request or ignored it.

  Phillip lay back on the bed and thought through the day's events—the blur of policemen going in and out of the mansion and the intense questioning of his staff, a small band of ambitious twenty- and thirtysomethings he once considered loyal, but all of whom now seemed distrustful and aloof. All day long, the possibility that he had a traitor in his camp, the thought that someone, out there, had his little girl, and the wo
rry that the media would get wind of Charlotte's disappearance, weighed on him. Detective Nurberg seemed to think, and Phillip was inclined to agree, that the media would only muddle the investigation at this point. Although, despite the consensus among his Republican colleagues that the liberal media was out to get them, the press in general had been kind to Phillip Grand over the years. Was it naïve of him to think that more searching eyes might be better than a few?

  Phillip rubbed his temples. He couldn't think anymore. His head ached, and he was exhausted. It probably didn't help that he hadn't had anything to eat besides a half package of Oreo cookies. And he didn't remember seeing his wife eat at all.

  The typing stopped.

  Katherine was dialing the bedroom phone. He looked at his watch.

  "Who are you calling at this hour?"

  She held up her hand to silence him.

  "Ellie... Ellie... It's Katherine," Katherine said into the handset. "Yes, I know. I had a question about the Tanner project. ... Ye... No, I'm fine. ... Well, I guess we can speak in the morning. ... If that's easier for you. Well then..." She hung up and continued typing.

  The governor shook his head. The police had placed emergency wiretaps on the mansion's landlines, and he knew it would seem odd—suspicious—for his wife to be placing business calls at 1:13 a.m. He was about to say something, but then thought better of it and leaned his head back against his pillow.

  Drive and ambition were not only a passion for Katherine Grand, but a necessity, a coping mechanism that got her through difficult times; they were two of the qualities that had attracted Phillip to her. Having grown up with maternal role models who spent their days idly, complaining about the color of wallpaper or the inconvenience of a cool spring, Phillip thought Katherine was a breath of fresh air—she had no intention of becoming a trophy wife, just as he had no intention of having one. He remembered the day she came storming through the door of his office when he was running for state assemblyman in the 131st District. Dressed in one of those broad-shouldered, pinstriped power suits popular in the 1980s, she had put her briefcase on his desk and told him that she was going to be his campaign director. He already had one. She was confident, forthright. "You need me," she'd said. "I can get you elected." She opened up her briefcase and handed him an envelope containing incriminating photos of the Democratic incumbent whose seat Grand was contesting.