Let Me Whisper in Your Ear (32 page)

The elevator bell pinged, and the doors slid open. Walking directly across the sixth-floor hallway, Diane slipped into the ladies' room. She pulled paper towels from the wall dispenser and patted at her face, trying not to wipe off her makeup as she dabbed at the mascara that had run at the corners of her eyes. As she worked to re-create some semblance of a hairstyle, Diane heard the click of a lock opening at one of the stalls behind her.

“Hi, Susannah,” Diane said as the young woman limped toward the sink next to hers and pumped out some liquid soap.

“Hey, Diane. Hot enough for you?” Facing the mirror, Susannah smiled her crooked smile, which reflected its way back to Diane.

Diane was about to start complaining about her flattened hair and her sweaty walk to work, but she stopped herself, knowing how insensitive that would be. Susannah would probably give just about anything to be able to take the brisk walk that Diane took for granted.

“Thank God for air-conditioning,” Diane answered, pulling strands of ash-blond hair from her brush before putting it back into her shoulder bag. She rifled through the recesses of the satchel and pulled out a small can of hair spray. “And tomorrow I leave for a vacation with my kids. It may be hot at the Grand Canyon, but it won't be as muggy as it is here.”

“That sounds fabulous,” Susannah answered with enthusiasm in her voice. “Do you have all the information you need before you go? I could get a little research package together for you.”

That was one of the great things about Susannah, thought Diane, shaking the can and taking the lid off. She was always so upbeat and eager to help. God knew Susannah had plenty to be down about. But she didn't play the victim. Maybe she knew that a “poor me” attitude wore thin with folks after a while.

“Oh, you're a doll, Susannah, but I don't need a thing. I'm going to just sit back and let the tour guides do their jobs. I'm looking forward to a vacation where I don't have to read any maps or make any decisions or be responsible for anything more than deciding which pair of shorts to pull on in the morning. I just want to relax with my kids for two weeks and let someone else worry about what we're going to do every day.”

Diane waited until the researcher made her way to the restroom exit before pushing the button to release the hair spray. The smell of the aerosol fumes was just reaching her nostrils when Susannah called back from the doorway.

“I guess I should give you a heads-up, Diane. Joel is looking for you.”

CHAPTER TWO

The detective stood at the foot of the hospital bed in the small examining room, his face impassive as he took detailed notes on Leslie Patterson's answers.

“How many times do I have to tell you?” Leslie's voice rose in frustration. “I never saw his face. I'm telling you the truth: I never saw him.”

She watched the detective for a reaction. His facial expression gave nothing away. It was the way he was rephrasing the same questions over and over that tipped her off: He didn't believe her.

“Let's go over it again, Miss Patterson. You were on the boardwalk taking a stroll at midnight?” The detective stressed the last word of his question, signaling his skepticism. “Do you usually go out alone late at night like that?” he asked.

“I told you. I had a fight with my boyfriend, and I wanted to be alone to think about things. I thought a walk would clear my head and maybe tire me out so I could fall asleep.”

“Your boyfriend would be Shawn Ostrander, correct?”

“Yes. I told you that, too.” She picked up a spoon from the breakfast tray and threw it back down again. Some nurse had thought she was doing Leslie a favor by bringing in the tray as she waited to be released. “As if I would eat this slop.” Leslie sighed as she pushed back the rolling table that held her untouched food.

“And Shawn said he didn't want to see you anymore, is that right, Leslie?” The detective used a gentle tone as he led her onward.

“Yes. And that he'd met someone else.” Leslie studied the raw scrape marks the handcuffs had left on her wrists and then pulled the covers up higher.

Beneath the hospital blanket, where the detective couldn't see, Leslie pinched the top of her thigh. Without a safety pin or razor blade, a manually inflicted wound would have to do. A hard, mean twist intended to make her feel better. As the sharp pain pulsed, the expression on her face never flinched.

“That must have hurt,” said the detective.

Leslie blinked, for a moment thinking the man somehow knew she was pinching herself, before realizing he was referring to the hurt of knowing that Shawn had found someone else.

“Yes. It did. I love Shawn.” Leslie grabbed again at her hidden flesh and pressed the skin tight. This time, tears welled in her eyes. Not because of the physical pain, but because she couldn't stand the thought of losing Shawn. Didn't he realize that no one was ever going to love him the way she did?

“Did you want Shawn to worry about you, Leslie? Did you hope he would reconsider his decision to break up if he realized how much he missed you? Did you hope that disappearing for a couple of days would make Shawn come around?”

Leslie considered her answer. Yes, she did want Shawn to worry about her, and yes, as she'd lain in that dark, damp place for three days and nights, she was sustained by the hope that Shawn was missing her. She'd hoped that the horror she was going through would all be worth it because, when faced with the thought of losing her forever, Shawn would realize that he loved her as much as she loved him.

But if she told the detective that, it might help confirm what Leslie knew he already suspected. That she had staged a three-day disappearance to get attention. She didn't want him to think that.

“Look, Detective, someone abducted me, blindfolded, gagged, and tied me up, and left me somewhere for three days. I feel like you're accusing me when you should be out there searching for a real criminal.”

“We are, Leslie, believe me, we are. I'm not the only man working on this case. The better part of the Neptune police department is involved. We will get to the bottom of this. You can count on that.” Something in the detective's tone made the words feel more like a threat than a reassurance.

The hospital room door opened, and the doctor who had examined her in the emergency room walked over and stood beside the bed. He looked at his clipboard before speaking. He looked at the cop, too. As part of a crime investigation, the police as well as the patient had a right to know these test results.

“The rape kit came back negative. So we have that to be grateful for, Leslie. Even though you didn't claim to be raped, it was good to have done the test anyway. You can never be too sure in a situation like this one. You could have been drugged or knocked unconscious and not even known it.” The doctor smiled reassuringly and put his hand on Leslie's shoulder. “So, physically, you check out fine. Those scrapes on your wrists and legs will heal in few days. So will the cuts at the corners of your mouth. You can go home, Leslie. You're going to have to talk to someone, though, get your feelings out. Do you need a reference to a therapist? We have some excellent ones on staff.”

“Thanks, but I already have a therapist.” Leslie nodded, knowing that it made no sense to protest. Sure, she'd go back to therapy, and she'd fool Dr. Messinger the same way that she was fooling the emergency room doctor right now. He had no idea that she was pinching herself, over and over again, beneath the white hospital sheets.

 

Read on for an excerpt from

Mary Jane Clark's exciting novel

HIDE YOURSELF AWAY

Coming in June 2005

from St. Martin's Paperbacks!

 

PROLOGUE

 

He wanted to have the light on, but she was just as glad that wasn't a possibility. Any illumination coming from the playhouse windows would beckon one of the staff to come and investigate.

He also wanted to have some music and had brought along his cassette player, but she insisted on silence. They couldn't risk the noise traveling out into the soft, night air. The only undulating rhythm coming from within the cottage this night would be the slow, steady rocking of their bodies.

She lay on her back on the wrought-iron daybed, thinking of the youngsters who had napped on the mattress. She strained at every cricket's chirp and skunk's mournful whine from the field outside. She wondered if there were animals in the condemned tunnel that ran beneath the playhouse. She hoped not, since that was their predetermined escape route should they ever need it.

She was having a difficult time letting herself go. He was having no such problem. He was well into things. It was just as he was becoming frenzied that she heard the voice outside the cottage.

“Good Lord, it's Charlotte,” she hissed as she pushed him away.

They scrambled to collect their clothes. He grabbed his cassette player as she slid aside the wooden panel in the floor. Into the darkness they lowered themselves, sliding the trapdoor shut just as the playhouse door above them opened.

The cold, hard dirt floor of the tunnel pressed against their bare feet.

“What are you waiting for?” he whispered. “Let's go.”

“I'm getting dressed right here,” she said. God only knew what was in this tunnel, and she would feel a hell of a lot better if she were clothed as they made their way to the water at the other end.

They sorted their clothes by feel and dressed in the blackness as muffled voices came from above.

“Who's that with her?” he asked.

“I can't tell.”

Slowly they began to walk, arms outstretched to the tunnel walls, feeling their way out to safety. She stifled a scream as she felt something brush her leg. A raccoon? A rat? God was punishing her for her sinfulness.

Eventually, the waters of Narragansett Bay glistened from the opening at the end of the tunnel. They stepped up their pace, the moon providing scant but precious light. As they reached their goal, he stopped.

“Crap.”

“What's wrong?”

“My wallet. It must have slipped out of my pants pocket.”

“Oh, sweet Jesus.”

He grabbed her hand. “Don't worry, let's keep going. Maybe they won't see it.”

“I'm going back for it.” She was adamant.

“Tomorrow. You can get it tomorrow,” he urged.

She wished she could follow him out, but she knew she wouldn't sleep all night knowing that his wallet might give them away.

“You go ahead. Go home,” she said.

“I'll go back with you,” he offered.

“No. You have to get off the property. They can't know you were here. You have to go. Now.”

“All right, but I'll see you tomorrow.”

She swallowed as she watched him dart along the shoreline and disappear into the darkness. Taking a deep, resolute breath, she turned and stepped back inside, feeling gingerly against the side of the tunnel. Her fingers brushed against the hard-packed dirt and old brick, cold and clammy to the touch. She imagined what it must have been like for the slaves, running for their lives through this tunnel, inhaling deep breaths of the damp, musty smell that filled her nostrils now. Had they had lanterns to light their way? Or had they tapped blindly along in the blackness, not sure what was in front of them but willing to risk it, knowing only what horrors they had left behind?

When she estimated she must surely be close to the ladder that led up to the playhouse, her hand receded into a large indentation in the wall. Pieces of earth broke away as she pushed against it. Her pulse quickened. Was the old tunnel safe? Could it collapse and trap her inside? Would anyone ever find her?

She prayed. If she got out of this one, she vowed she would never, ever go to the playhouse again. No matter how much he wanted her to, this was the last time. She promised.

She pushed on, sniffling quietly in the darkness.

Until she tripped over something and fell to her knees. Her breath came in short, terrified pants, her heart pumped against her chest wall as her hand groped over the form. It was covered with a smooth fabric of some sort, and it was large and intractable.

A human body, still warm, but lifeless.

She had had this feeling before, but only occasionally, in dreams. The urge, the ache, the need to scream, but somehow being frozen, unable to utter a sound. She pushed back from the body and cowered against the tunnel wall, trembling in the darkness.

Later, she would realize that she had been there for only moments, but then it seemed an eternity, the terrified thoughts spinning through her mind. She should go get help. She should summon people from the big house. But she couldn't. She wasn't supposed to have been here at all, and she was mortified at the thought of having to explain her forbidden tryst.

And, even worse, what if they blamed her? What if they thought she had committed murder? She was rocking on her haunches, trying to soothe herself, when she heard the grating sound. The door was sliding open overhead.

She clamped her eyes tight, sure that this was the end. The murderer was coming to get her, too.

Instead, something fluttered from above, hitting her head, grazing her face. A piece of paper? A card?

She listened, shaking but undetected, as the door slid closed again.

Fourteen Years Later

The mining lamps that dotted the tunnel were powered by a generator, but that was one of the few nods to technology. The work was being done painstakingly, by hand. Just as the tunnel had been dug more than a century and a half before, human beings, not machines, scraped the clay and mortared the old red bricks now. Special care was being taken, inch by inch, foot by foot, to make sure that the walls were sturdy and firm. When the job was completed, thousands of tourists and historians and students would have the opportunity for the first time to walk the path American slaves had trod on their desperate flight to freedom. This tunnel had to be safe.