Dina Santorelli (4 page)

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.

"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
.

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.

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.

"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.