‘‘It doesn’t exist!’’ she hollered back him, freezing him.
He turned, wild-eyed.
‘‘There is no tape!’’ she said.
He drew his weapon. ‘‘I want it now.’’
Holding her hands out in front of her to ward him off, she sat up slowly and reached for the console. Her palm held down a square button. ‘‘Okay,’’ she said, her voice echoing through overhead loudspeakers. She pointed into the studio, a dazed Brian Coughlie still holding his weapon on her.
An exhausted Lou Boldt stood on the other side of that glass. First one, then a second uniformed officer stepped out from behind the huge black curtains that surrounded the studio’s walls. All held handguns trained on Coughlie.
She said, ‘‘The tape you saw on the ship? A blank. Boldt arranged to have it delivered. It was the psychologist’s idea—Matthews. She said your ego would allow you to believe you could convince me to destroy it.’’
‘‘I was undercover!’’ he shouted through the glass. ‘‘I can prove it!’’
‘‘Where’s Melissa? What have you done with her?’’
‘‘Drop your weapon!’’ Boldt’s muted voice shouted back.
Stevie tripped another button on the console. ‘‘I taped your visit, Brian. The whole confession. How’s that for irony? I’ll probably win that Emmy Melissa promised after all.’’ She stepped up to him. ‘‘Where the hell is she?’’
CHAPTER 78
n brothel by airport,’’ the woman’s deep voice said on the other end of Boldt’s receiver. He knew that woman’s voice, but he didn’t bother to identify it by name. She gave him the address and said, ‘‘She in room on second floor. She not in good shape, but she alive. Best I could do. So sorry.’’
Boldt took McNeal with him and a radio car as backup. The drive to the airport was typically about twenty minutes. They made it in twelve.
‘‘She just calls up and tells you this?’’ Stevie said.
‘‘That’s it.’’ Boldt caught himself grinding his teeth and let his jaw hang slack to try to relax.
‘‘No explanation?’’
‘‘She pressured them into keeping her alive. It’s the only thing that makes sense.’’
‘‘She has that kind of control?’’
‘‘And then some,’’ he answered.
‘‘And waits until Coughlie is indicted to tell us?’’
‘‘If he hadn’t been indicted, we’d have never gotten the call. She’s not an angel. She’s a politician. She’s buying herself a future break . . . and she’ll get it.’’
‘‘But Coughlie could have used Melissa to plea bargain. How stupid can you get?’’
Boldt said, ‘‘Depends on what’s left of her. How much Coughlie knows. A jury might not be too sympathetic.’’
‘‘Torture?’’
‘‘They wanted that tape badly. I imagine that’s what kept her alive until our friend stepped in.’’
‘‘These people are not human beings.’’
‘‘That’s the way
they
think. That’s where it all starts.’’
She nodded. ‘‘She’s alive,’’ she gasped.
They drove past neighborhoods where the houses all looked the same and the cars were the same. Big groups of sameness. He felt bothered and anxious.
‘‘Another example of the wonderful cooperation between media and law enforcement.’’
She laughed out loud. ‘‘You win!’’
‘‘No one wins,’’ he said. ‘‘Not ever.’’ He pulled the car to a stop, a patrol vehicle parking alongside of him. The sign said NUDE GIRLS. The two-story building was painted Cape Cod gray and had enough parking for a convention center. ‘‘Are you prepared for this—for what we might find?’’
‘‘No,’’ she admitted. ‘‘Are you?’’
‘‘Gloves?’’ Boldt said, handing her a pair.
‘‘I’m not wearing gloves,’’ Stevie replied, handing them back, hurrying from the car. ‘‘Come on!’’
Boldt produced the warrant, but the uniforms led the way inside. It smelled foul, a combination of air freshener and human hell.
‘‘She had a shaved head when she came in,’’ Boldt told the obese manager, a sweaty man who couldn’t, or wouldn’t, get up out of the worn red couch. He was drinking a dark cocktail on the rocks. He smoked a thin foul cigar with a white plastic tip.
McNeal took off up the stairs. Boldt indicated for a uniform to follow her. He turned and climbed the stairs himself, leaving another uniform by the door. ‘‘No one goes anywhere,’’ he told the kid. He remembered being that young—remembered the feel of the gun on his belt and the smell of the leather. He climbed the stairs heavily.
Stevie opened one door after another—bare buttocks, sweating flesh. A salesman’s suit carefully arranged on a chair. The smell of pot and booze and familiarity. The uniform lingered a little too long at each door. Stevie moved faster and faster. Nine doors. No Melissa.
Her movements became frantic. She felt tears in her eyes and tension in every limb. An ache so deep inside her—an ache only a woman understood. Another flight of stairs. She ran now, out of breath, nearly out of life. The uniform lumbered up behind her, but she turned to see it was Boldt.
‘‘Easy,’’ he said. ‘‘We don’t want to scare her.’’
‘‘Scare her?’’ she barked back at him, incredulous.
‘‘Just go easy,’’ he repeated. He fired down to the uniform, ‘‘Where the hell are the EMTs? Get on the horn!’’
‘‘EMTs?’’ Stevie whined, now slowing as she reached the third floor.
Boldt handed her the gloves again, his arm outstretched. ‘‘Be smart,’’ he said.
She accepted them limply. ‘‘Oh, God . . .’’
They both paused by the only door that was locked.
Boldt whispered, ‘‘She mustn’t see anything but joy in your face. You understand how important that is?’’
Tears spilled down from her swollen eye.
‘‘Freedom is a fragile thing,’’ he said.
She nodded faintly.
‘‘Are you ready?’’ he said, his shoulder against the door.
She struggled with the gloves, sniffled and drew in a deep breath. But the tears would not abate. Her shoulders shook. Her throat tightened. She nodded. ‘‘I’m ready,’’ she said.
Boldt broke open the door.
‘‘Thank God!’’ Stevie McNeal whimpered, running inside and falling to her knees.
CHAPTER 79
he late October sun played low and soft on the horizon, reminding Stevie McNeal of the yellow headlights on cars in Paris. She had thought about traveling, but it wasn’t right yet for either of them. ‘‘You see the sailboat?’’
Melissa didn’t answer. She didn’t rock the rocker. She just sat there staring out blankly.
Corwin had been good enough to loan them the cabin indefinitely. Marsh grass fluttered in the strong breeze that accompanied every sunset. A sturdy stand of cedar stood at water’s edge like a wall.
She gave Melissa a bath every evening before bed, like a mother with her child. She soaped the skin where they’d used cigarettes to burn her, she cleaned the loins they had soiled with their filth. But she couldn’t reach the woman’s thoughts, couldn’t clean there. They were trying a combination of massage, acupuncture and therapy. A woman psychiatrist recommended by Matthews made the ferry ride to the island twice a week. She said she was encouraged, but Stevie wasn’t buying it. For all she could tell there had been no change whatsoever.