Once More With Feeling (6 page)

"What in the hell's going on?" she
screamed.

"Someone's following us."

"Oh." She didn't know what else to say. Then
the absurdity hit her. "Randy, you jackass, we're on the Long
Island Expressway! Of course somebody's following us!"

He didn't answer, a skill he had polished to
perfection.

The limo lurched to one side, then the
other. He was driving like a maniac. Maybe he was a maniac. For all
she knew, the sexiest bodyguard among a choice selection of big
hulking men could be Charlie Manson's first cousin. Nobody at the
studio took her fears seriously. Desmond probably hadn't even
checked out the security service he had hired.

She rolled from side to side until her grip
on the seat was no longer a match for Randy's driving. She made a
spectacular three-point landing on the floor and slammed her head
against the well-stocked bar. She sprawled there gracelessly and
passed the time with a recital of four-letter words.

The limo gradually slowed, then it stopped
its frantic weaving. Gypsy's heart was thundering so fast that for
moments it was just one long beat. Finally, she found the strength
to sit up, although not to climb back up on the seat. "Well?"

"I guess I was wrong."

"You were wrong?"

"They turned off."

She was shaking so hard she was forced to
stay where she was. "Just like that? They turned off?"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. I'm really sorry. Look,
I'll pull off so you can have a chance to pull yourself
together."

"No!" She struggled to push herself up to
the seat and finally succeeded. "Don't you dare stop this thing.
You take me right to the university, and you park this monstrosity
where everybody can see us. Do you understand?"

"I really thought we were being followed.
There was a dark car with two big guys in the front. Every time I
switched lanes, they did, too. I sped up, so did they. I couldn't
take any chances."

"I've got a lump on my head bigger than your
IQ, you little prick! And a suit that looks like I had sex in it!"
She looked down at the damage. "And a run in my hose!"

He didn't answer, which was wise. She took
care of the hose by stripping them off. She carried a spare in her
briefcase, and she managed to wriggle into them as Randy took an
exit ramp. Her mirror showed no sign of a lump on her forehead--she
suspected that would emerge right in the middle of her lecture. She
combed her hair, freshened her makeup, and did her best to smooth
her skirt and jacket.

Neither of them spoke for the rest of the
trip, although Gypsy could see Randy's eyes repeatedly darting to
the rearview mirror. She didn't know if he was spying on her or
looking for the two big guys. Whatever he saw or didn't, he seemed
calm again. She was anything but.

The university was a tree-shaded oasis after
the long drive and the car-chase-that-wasn't. Close to the hall
where she was to speak they slowed to a crawl as students crossed
the road at odd moments and angles.

"I'll park and check the area. You stay
locked inside until I come back to open your door," Randy said.
"We've been promised the university will have a couple of campus
cops waiting in front and more inside."

"Sure," she said acidly. "We can't be too
careful. A dark car might drive right up the center aisle of the
auditorium while I'm speaking."

He parked the limo between two red traffic
cones at the curb, a job not unlike docking the QE2. After he
turned off the engine he didn't speak . . . or move.

"Look, I don't want to be late," she said.
"Can't you get this part of it right, at least?"

"I don't see . . . the cops." He sounded far
away, but before she could ask what was going on, he pushed his
door open and got out, closing and locking it behind him. She
watched as he passed in front of the windshield, then she looked
down to gather up her purse and briefcase.

When she looked up again, Randy was lying
face down in the middle of the sidewalk twenty yards away.

"Holy shit!" Gypsy was out of the limo
before she could think about it, sprinting, then diving at his
prostrate body. "Randy!" She grabbed his shoulders and shook him
hard, banging his chest against the sidewalk. People began to close
in on her.

She could feel her new hose rip to shreds
and ping like tiny slingshots against her calves. "Randy!" She
shook him again. Then she grabbed one muscular arm and tried to
turn him over.

"Let me help." A young man wearing a black
leather jacket knelt beside her, and together they managed to get
Randy to his back.

Randy's eyes were wide-open and staring at
heaven's gates.

Gypsy slapped her hands over her mouth.

The man in black leather felt Randy's neck
for a pulse. He moved his hand, then again. "Jeez, I can't find a
pulse. Does anybody here know CPR?" Another student, a woman with
long, straight hair pushed her way through the gathering crowd and
knelt at Randy's other side. She placed her ear against his
chest.

"Cops. There are supposed to be cops!" Gypsy
got to her feet to look for help. Somebody had to call an
ambulance, and the cops were an obvious first choice. But the hall
entrance was the only view that wasn't blocked. There were no cops
there or anywhere in sight.

Gypsy's fears for Randy died under the
crushing weight of new fears for her own safety. Randy was dead.
There were no cops.

And a dark car had tailed them on the Long
Island Expressway.

She dived at Randy again, frantic this time
to get to him. There was no visible evidence of a gunshot wound,
but she wasn't going to take the time to investigate further. He
was dead, and that was good enough for her. She pushed the young
woman to one side and searched for Randy's pockets, methodically
patting down all the parts of his anatomy that had appealed to her
just an hour ago. She found the keys and jerked them free.

The crowd parted as she darted toward the
limo. She unlocked the door and slid into the driver's seat. Gypsy
hadn't driven in years; she hadn't needed to. But the powerful
motor roared as she pulled out into the narrow lane and took off
the way she and Randy had just come.

"No. No, no no!" Elisabeth looked at the
dashboard clock again, although only seconds had passed since the
last time. After leaving the city she had gotten behind every slow
driver on the Expressway. And once again, the traffic was too thick
to change lanes easily.

She was going to be late for Gypsy Dugan's
lecture. She had gauged her time too closely, placating Didi
Caswell with one more stop at Cartier's.

Elisabeth managed to pull into the fast
lane, and this time she stayed there. She was a careful driver, so
considerate that Owen refused to drive with her. But today, she was
a Formula One champ in a tan Mercedes. She was Elisabeth Whitfield,
about to make a close examination of the woman who had nearly
become her obsession.

And why had Gypsy Dugan assumed such
monumental proportions in her mind? Elisabeth concentrated on her
driving, but the question was such a familiar one that she could
consider it, as well.

The answer was just as familiar. Gypsy Dugan
was the road Elisabeth hadn't taken. She could watch Gypsy staring
back at her from the television screen, and she could see the life
she might have led if her decisions had been different.

She switched lanes again and pressed down
harder on the accelerator.

Gypsy Dugan was twenty-eight. Elisabeth had
made it a point some time ago to piece together the anchorwoman's
life story. At twenty-eight Elisabeth had turned men's heads, too.
The breasts that sagged now without an underwire bra had been taut
and lush. She had never had a model's figure; hers had been womanly
and inviting. And men had noticed and approved.

That was only one tiny similarity, of
course. Hardly enough to consider. But there were others. Straight
out of college Elisabeth had gotten a job at a small White Plains
television station. For the first six months she had been nothing
more than a glorified gofer, but she had loved everything about her
work. She had a deep, abiding interest in the news, and she knew
she would have a flair for presenting it, when she was given the
chance.

She moved up to writing next, and her forte
was human interest stories. Her bosses were so impressed with her
ability to ferret out interesting material that they rewarded her
by giving her a short spot every Wednesday at noon during the local
newscast. Then, as the spots drew attention, they were increased to
twice a week and finally, to twice a week during the evening
telecast.

She photographed well; everyone had agreed
about that. She had a pleasant voice and a perfect oval face. Her
hair was a soft silver-gold that looked almost platinum under
studio lights, and she mined that asset by wearing it long enough
to touch her shoulders. Her warm smile--and a lifetime supply of
social small talk--put her subjects at ease. Consequently they told
her things that they had never told anyone before.

Her connections hadn't hurt, either. Her
family was only moderately wealthy, but their roots extended deep
into some of America's richest soil. As a child she had played
tennis in the Hamptons, skied at St. Moritz and sunned her pale
skin in Cap d'Antibes. Better yet she knew a host of people who had
lived just as she had--and she knew how to use them. She quickly
graduated from spots at the local dog pound to spots interviewing
the occasional celebrity who wandered through White Plains. She
sensed what names to drop in order to get interviews, and only
rarely was she turned down.

There were few anchorwomen in the early
seventies. Elisabeth aspired to be one of them someday. As part of
her career climb, at the beginning of her third year out of college
she moved to a more prestigious station in Manhattan.

Then she met Owen Whitfield.

The driver of a rusty sedan leaned on his
horn as she cut in front of him to get to her exit. She glanced at
the clock again as she braked on the ramp. Despite a valiant
effort, she was still going to be late.

Suddenly she was furious at Owen in a way
she never had been before--or perhaps had never acknowledged. She
had given up everything for him. Theirs had been a whirlwind
courtship, even though her parents had disapproved of the match.
One night at a neighbor's party she had fallen in love with the
poor young architect with the delicious smile and the collar-length
dark hair. He had promised that he would never tie her down or hold
her back, and she had believed him. She had worked for two months
after their marriage. Then she had gotten pregnant with Grant.

Even then she believed she could still have
it all. But after Grant's birth, she discovered just how wrong she
was. Owen was awarded a fellowship in Rome, but he refused to go
without her. It was a simple choice between her needy little family
and the television station where she still spent far too much time
getting coffee for less-talented men. On the evening of her last
day at work Owen expressed heartfelt regrets that she'd had to give
up so much. But it was the last time he ever did.

Today, Owen and the demands of their life
together had kept her from her job, her pitiful, inconsequential
job, once more.

Elisabeth understood her strange affinity
with Gypsy Dugan. She looked behind the anchorwoman's desk at
The Whole Truth
, and she saw the woman she might have been.
A better-bred, less-obvious version, perhaps, but even that might
have been different. As Owen's wife she had stayed in the social
circles in which she had grown up. Had she stayed at her job and
fought her way through the ranks, she might have learned to value
different things. She might have dared more, compromised less. She
might have been less concerned with doing the right thing and more
concerned with her own happiness.

Gypsy Dugan was a woman who put herself
first. If Elisabeth had put herself first, perhaps she would not be
a dissatisfied, premenopausal society matron married to an
unfaithful man who looked straight through her and never even
realized he was doing it.

She sped down the ramp so fast that she
nearly ran the stoplight at the bottom. When the light turned green
she forced herself to drive slower, but once she was out of the
worst of the traffic, she clamped her foot down on the accelerator
again. She might miss Gypsy's opening remarks, but she'd be darned
if she was going to miss more than that. She had a lecture to
attend and an interview to do. This time the whims of Owen
Whitfield would not defeat her.

She glimpsed the university before she saw
the limo. She was gloating about the minutes she had gained since
leaving the Expressway. Getting to the lecture had assumed mythic
proportions in her mind, and she reveled in the thrill of conquest.
If she could do this, despite all the obstacles, life still held
possibilities. The crisp institutional architecture was as welcome
to her as her first sight of London as a schoolgirl.

She was going to make it.

The limo bore down on her before she could
act to evade it. It was as dark and imposing as a hearse, and the
irony didn't elude her, not even as she desperately spun the
steering wheel. The Mercedes fishtailed, in perfect obedience to
her panicked commands, but the limo driver couldn't change course.
As the limo sped directly toward Elisabeth, she realized she was
going to die.

Even as her eyes squeezed shut in
acceptance, she wondered who would take her place at dinner with
the Caswells that night.

There was pain, such extreme pain in
Elisabeth's chest and torso that smothering was preferable to
drawing a breath. The pain only lasted for an instant. Then there
was darkness, a lush midnight-black abyss that was so profound, so
enveloping, that as she sank into it she knew it was the velvet
arms of death.