Let Me Go (8 page)

Karim produced a small black electronic gadget about the size of a deck of cards. It had a dial on it and a small red light. He held it in front of Archie. “Any wires you want to tell us about?” he asked.

“I told you,” Archie said. “I'm invited.”

Karim scanned the gadget up and down Archie's body, front and back. “He's clean,” he said to Jack. “I hope you're not offended,” Karim added to Archie with a shrug. “Can't be too careful.”

“Of course,” Archie said.

Karim pocketed the gadget and then held out his hand in front of Archie, palm up. Archie knew what he wanted. He set the mask on the desk, opened his tuxedo jacket, pulled his weapon from his holster, ejected the magazine, put the magazine in his pocket, and then laid the gun in Karim's open hand. “I'm going to need that back,” Archie said. It was his personal weapon, registered under his name. Leaving it out of his sight was an insane proposition. Karim would know that. Which was exactly why Archie needed to allow it. It was a gesture of trust. Or recklessness.

“Of course,” Karim said. He put the gun on the desk behind him. “Now I just need you to empty your pockets,” he said.

Archie reached into his pockets and emptied out the contents on the desk. The compass. The brass pillbox. His wallet. Cell phone. Badge. Karim picked each up and inspected it. He came to the pillbox and opened it. “What are these?” he asked, looking at the white pills.

“Painkillers,” Archie said.

“I thought you went to rehab for those,” Jack said.

Archie picked the mask up off the desk and put it on, snapping the elastic band around his head. “I did,” he said.

Karim held the pillbox out and laid it in Archie's palm. “Enjoy the party,” he said.

Archie closed his hand around the box and slipped it back into his pants pocket. “So where's Leo?” he asked.

Cigar smoke veiled Jack's face. “He's around,” he said.

 

CHAPTER

11

 

Susan pulled at
the hips of her dress. She'd chosen a strapless maxi number with pockets and a tight structured bodice. The dress was gold silk, and the lining was just a hint too snug. It was possible that she was a six and not a four, but she sure as hell wasn't going to admit it now. Star had presented her with ten pairs of shoes in several sizes. She had picked out a pair of gold ballet flats, all the better if she had to make a run for it. Star had done her makeup and managed to slick Susan's shoulder-length bob into something resembling an updo. Once Susan was deemed properly gussied up, Star had presented her with a rhinestone-encrusted mask at the end of a long black wand. It was a female fantasy cliché: being whisked off to a ball and dressed up like Cinderella. In reality, it just felt creepy.

But now, as Susan held the sparkly mask up and peered through it, she had to admit, Jack Reynolds knew how to throw a party. The grounds had been transformed into a wonderland. White paper lanterns glowed in the darkened trees. Torch-lined paths wound through gardens to hidden bars and musical quartets. There was a surprise around every corner: a fire juggler, a trapeze artist, women clad only in body-paint tuxedos serving salmon tartines off silver trays. A Charlie Chaplin movie projected onto strips of muslin stretched between two massive Douglas firs. Susan guessed there were five hundred guests, at least. Everyone was wearing masks, but she still thought she recognized a few of them. The scions of old Portland families; people whose ancestors had made a mint clear-cutting old-growth forest, or running whorehouses for sailors down by the river. Their last names were on buildings downtown, on wings at the museum; they served on boards and went through acrimonious divorces. She hadn't seen so many of them in one place since she'd covered the opera one year when she'd worked at the
Herald
.

She probably knew other people there, too, but who could tell with all the masks? Portland was a small city, and if you knew anyone at all, chances were you knew some of the people they knew. It was the kind of town where you could show up at a party thinking you'd know no one, and end up seeing five of your closest friends and a few people you'd been hoping never to see again.

It was kind of a relief to be wearing a mask. She didn't have to pretend to know anyone. She didn't have to make small talk. She was anonymous.

Susan took a tartine from a painted lady and huddled next to one of the propane outdoor heaters that were stationed throughout the yard. Her elbow was getting stiff from holding the mask in place. She still hadn't seen Leo. She'd texted him four more times since she'd gotten to the party, and he had yet to respond.

She took another tartine from a passing tray, stuffed it in her mouth, and negotiated sideways past an approaching group of laughing couples. It was still early, but everyone seemed a little drunk already. The paths were clotted with slow-moving guests, too caught up in the ambience or their own conversation to remember if they had a destination. The masks with feathers shed, and the feathers floated in the air like maple keys and colored the path with splashes of black and purple and green. Susan darted past the other guests, beads of gravel crunching under her feet. She navigated around everyone expertly, pivoting and dodging and skittering, occasionally offering an apologetic shrug or a half-swallowed “Excuse me.” She pretended she was trying to get somewhere, to find someone; that she was late. She pretended she was hurrying along a subway platform. All the while, she kept the mask in place, her elbow crooked at a ninety-degree angle, the wand in her fist. She zigged and zagged down the crowded path, past another bar, behind the Charlie Chaplin movie, and down some slate stairs that led to a pool. The pool was a dark green luminous rectangle carved into a stone patio that opened onto the river. LED orbs the size of softballs floated on the pool's surface, pulsing through a rainbow of colors. The stairs were lit with discreet accent lights, and lampposts stood sentry around the pool and lake embankment, but the landscaping around the patio was dark.

Susan took the stairs two at a time and ran across the stone pool deck to where the paving stones gave way to a wall of trees. She stopped short as she glanced up at one of the bronze lampposts. Squatted on top of the lamp, wings outstretched, was a grinning bronze gargoyle. The cognac-like glow of the lamp's antiqued glass gave the gargoyle's eyes a mad gleam. Susan stepped off the patio and backed against the trees into the darkness. She was alone. She could hear the lake lapping against the shore, and, farther away, up the hill, the sounds of music and laughter. Across a half mile of black water, she could see the lights of other houses, just visible through the conifers that surrounded the lake. The night sky was high and hard, like even the stars wanted to keep their distance. Gargoyles squatted on lampposts all around her, like a murder of crows.

It was cold by the lake, and Susan's skin hummed from the chill. A few fall leaves, caught in the wind, scratched along the patio, and then finally flitted into the pool and were still. Susan lowered her mask and pressed herself against a tree trunk, hoping it would hide her silhouette.

She kept her eyes on the stairs.

Sure enough, he came.

He had been following her through the party, always at the edges of her peripheral vision. Someone else might not have noticed. It was crowded, the men were all in tuxedos, wearing masks; it was dark. But Susan wasn't just anyone—she was a reporter. She paid attention. She noticed people. Especially when they were wrestler-sized tough guys who had recently kidnapped her.

Cooper took the stairs casually, with the easy gait of someone not in a hurry, not bothered, not stalking someone. He had changed into a tuxedo—nothing fancy, and a decade out of date—and he was wearing a simple black mask, like a comic-book henchman. When he got to the bottom of the stairs he stopped. Susan didn't move. The bark was rough against her shoulder blades. She could feel Cooper's gaze searching for her in the darkness.

Suddenly the boisterousness of the party seemed very far away.

“Watch out for snakes,” Cooper called.

Susan had to bite her lip to keep from whimpering. She stood on her tiptoes and scanned the dark ground around her for any sign of movement.

“Leo's brother Jeremy liberated two pet Burmese pythons a few years ago, and no one's seen them since,” Cooper called.

Susan thought she heard a slithering in the dark. She tightened her grip on the wand of the mask, and wondered if it could be used to fend off a python.

“Pythons will wind around tree branches and drop right on top of you,” Cooper said.

It was too much. Susan leapt forward, away from the trees, and stumbled out of the foliage onto the paving-stone pool deck. Cooper chuckled, the silver in his teeth glinting in the lamplight.

Susan quickly checked behind her for snakes, saw none, and then turned back to Cooper. “Why are you following me?” she demanded.

He was still fifteen feet away, and he didn't make an effort to get closer.

“It's a big island,” he said pleasantly. “I didn't want you to get lost.”

“I want to see Leo,” Susan said. She brushed at some of the tiny bits of leaves that were stuck to her dress. “Or I'm leaving.”

“Okay,” Cooper agreed.

That was too easy. “Right now,” Susan said, to be clear.

Cooper produced a cell phone and lifted it to his ear. He said something into it, but Susan couldn't make it out. She was too far away. She took a few uneasy steps toward him across the stone patio, but by the time she was close enough to hear, he had already put the cell phone back in his pocket.

He didn't say anything. She hated that. He made her ask.

“Now what?” she asked.

“Want to skinny-dip?” he asked.

“No,” she said.

He shrugged. “Then I guess we wait.”

“I know Archie Sheridan,” Susan said. “He's a personal friend of mine. He's caught serial killers. So he could catch you guys, if something happened to me. I've called him and told him I'm here.”

Cooper crossed his arms and gave her an amused look. “Have you, really?”

“Yes.”

“Why don't you check and see if he's called back?” Cooper said. He gave her a nod. “Go ahead. We have a minute. Check. You might have a voice mail.”

Susan tucked the bejeweled mask under her arm, and got her phone out of her evening bag and checked it. No voice mails. She scrolled through her texts to see if Leo had gotten back to her, but saw only red exclamation marks next to the texts she had sent him. She tried to hide her growing alarm. None of them had gone through.

“The elder Mr. Reynolds is not a fan of cell phones,” Cooper said. “He finds them rude. If you ask me, he's fighting a losing battle, but he's the boss, right? He's had cell phone blockers installed. You can't get reception anywhere on the island.”

He held up the cell phone he had been talking on and Susan realized that it wasn't a cell phone at all—it was a walkie-talkie.

She was on an island with a bunch of masked criminals and no way to call for help. The lake was very black and very cold and the lights on the other side were very far away. The gravity of the situation was dawning on her. “I shouldn't have come, should I?” she asked.

Cooper's face looked grave in the lamplight.

There was a noise at the top of the stairs and Susan found herself hurrying to Cooper's side. As she stepped beside him, two male shapes appeared side-by-side at the top of the stairs she had descended minutes before. The men were both in tuxedos, their faces shadowed and masked, but Susan knew Leo right away. She wanted to run to him, but she felt Cooper's hand tighten around her shoulder. Leo didn't see her, or at least didn't recognize her. Susan could tell by the way his attention was fixed on the other man. The second man was older, the same height as Leo, but a bit thicker, and accompanied by the orange glow of a lit cigar. Jack Reynolds, Leo's father. Susan could smell the cigar from ten feet away.

Jack had his hand on the back of Leo's neck as they walked. With another father and son, it might be an intimate paternal gesture, but Susan could tell by Leo's stiff gait that there was nothing paternal about this. Jack wasn't so much guiding Leo as he was steering him.

Leo stopped on the stairs and Susan saw his posture harden. He'd seen her. She lifted her mask and waved it meekly at him. She couldn't make out his face—it was too dark up there. Jack laughed and slapped Leo on the back and then left him and jogged down the last few stairs and over to where Cooper and Susan were standing in the lamplight.

“There's our surprise guest,” Jack said cheerily to Susan. He put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her on both cheeks. He stank of cigars and liquor. She could feel the heat of the cigar in his hand against her arm. “A vision of loveliness,” Jack said. “I knew Star could put something together for you. She wants to be a stylist. Such a waste. She fucks like a jackrabbit. We've all wet our dicks in her. Hey, Leo,” he called back toward the stairs, “did you ever think you'd share a fuck with Archie Sheridan?”

She flinched when he said it. Jack must have seen it, because he smiled. He looked like one of the gargoyles. Susan had seen Gretchen Lowell smile like that, too. It was the pleasure that came from causing people pain.

“What is she doing here, Jack?” Leo asked from the stairs. His voice was firm but strained, and it made Susan feel even worse for coming, because Leo so clearly had no idea she would be here.

Jack stepped beside Susan and put his arm around her and gave her a squeeze. “The social event of the season, and you don't invite your girlfriend?” he called up to Leo. “You've been banging this one since what, January? And you've yet to bring her out to the house. I was starting to think you were embarrassed by me.”

Leo didn't move. “She's not my girlfriend.”