The Charmers (26 page)

Mirabella didn't even bother to put on lipstick, though she did put on her gloves. And the sapphire. It was like going naked without them.

She paused for a moment, her hands held out in front of her. She had worn gloves ever since the accident when she was twelve. She never showed anyone her hands. Not even lovers who had seen every other part of her. Not even Chad Prescott who as yet had never seen all of her. A surgeon like that, what would he think of the reddened objects with their ugly scars where the saw had sliced them open all those years ago? What would he think of the wounds with the imprints where the huge stitches had held them in place, so that one day she might use them again? As she did now. But never without the gloves.

How she envied women their pristine beautiful white hands, their shiny painted nails, made even more exquisite with bands of diamonds and gold. The sapphire, inherited from Aunt Jolly, had been her savior in a way, blazing under the lights so no one ever thought about what she might be hiding under its beauty, only about how remarkable it was.

The route to the Villa Mara took only a minute. Soon she was on the dark lane leading to the rear gates. A light came on as the car crunched to a stop. From the window she spotted cameras trained on her. She couldn't blame the Boss. A man like that, with all his money, was a prime target for kidnappers. He needed security.

More lights came on as she drove down a path that led to the sea, and a house, or some kind of building overlooking it. There were no lights, nor even any windows.

Then right in front of her eyes, the ivy-clad wall slid to one side, revealing a steel door. And the man behind it was the Boss.

“Welcome,” said the spider to the fly.

 

51

Mirabella

I knew the Boss must have had set up his bunker especially to show me. At the press of a button, golden drapes lowered from the ceiling, masking all the walls. Then the huge bed was raised. Verity was in the very center, sunk deep into masses of pillows. Her golden hair was spread out like lace. The peach silk sheet was folded under her thin white arms that were carefully placed by her sides, hands flat, showing perfectly manicured, pink polished nails. A gardenia was tucked behind one ear, plucked, I had no doubt, from the great bowls of them on every surface, the scent of which threatened to overpower the air itself until I felt I choked for breath.

Dear God, I thought, she looks like a dead woman, made ready for her coffin. I turned to the Boss, who was standing right behind me. “What have you done to her?”

“What have I done? Why, Mirabella, look around, why don't you? Look at this palace I've constructed especially for your friend. I ask you, who could do more for Verity than I? Of course you are shocked to see her in this state but I assure you her medical care is the best. Better in fact than anything Prescott could have done. The machine you see next to her bed is feeding nourishment into her, even as she sleeps and the air is specially filtered to maximum purity.”

The Boss spread his arms wide, the amiable smile reaching his eyes—generous, likeable, charming. “Trust me,” he said gently. “I will make sure the old Verity returns to you intact. A girl does not almost drown without there being aftereffects, problems with the lungs, blood flow. I removed her from the hospital because I have the best medical help in the world for her here.”

I wasn't buying it. Something was very wrong. I stared at him right back. “I'm taking her home with me now.”

Arms folded over his massive chest, the Boss began to pace the room, glancing at Verity, then back at me.

“I'd like to know exactly how you intend to do that, my dear. In fact, why don't we share a glass of wine? Let Verity sleep while you and I figure out what is best for her. Of course it goes without saying that we both shall do only what is best.”

He knew I was afraid, in fact he could probably read my thoughts almost before I had them. I wondered what to do. I had no clue, I was panicking. I refused the offered glass of wine.

“My dear, it's a Montrachet. I decanted it some hours ago, expecting your company.”

“You expected me?”

“Of course. I knew you would come to visit your friend. It's natural. And as you can see, all is well.”

I took the glass. I wished Chad were here, and the Colonel. I was afraid of this man, afraid for Verity. Yet he was being so nice, he was a celebrity billionaire, he did not need either me or Verity.… So what was I doing here, alone with him in this magnificent bedroom?

He took me by the hand and led me to a deeply cushioned velvet chair opposite the bed.

“Please. Taste the wine, I'm sure you are going to love it.”

He came closer, bent over until his knees touched mine. He wasn't exactly threatening, but to me it felt like it. I took a cautious sip.

He towered above me. “Well?”

“Delicious. I'm not used to such elegant wine.”

“Well now, why not sit back and enjoy it? In a few moments we shall see the show.”

Mystified, I saw him press a remote, lowering a curtain and cutting us off from the bed, from Verity.

Alarmed, I got to my feet, but he was up at once, right there, in front of me.

“My dear Mirabella, when will you stop this panicking? I only want you to watch the show, of which, of course, Verity is the star. I have it all set up, electronically, but it will take a few moments. So, now…”

He pushed me back into the chair, and held the glass to my mouth, forcing me to drink. I knew I must not, knew what he was capable of. I gritted my teeth and wine dribbled from the corners of my lips onto my white shirt. I went to wipe it off, but he snatched my gloved hand. “Of course. Poor Mirabella, such a terrible accident.” Then he squeezed my hand, hard, and I cried out in pain.

“Still hurts?” He was obviously enjoying himself. “Good. Well now, let's first see what I have to show you. And then we shall see what we have for the two of us. You always thought it was Verity I wanted, but it's always been you, Mirabella. From the minute I saw you, I knew what you were like. I knew you were my kind of woman. I know what to expect from you.”

He came and sat next to me. I could smell him he was so close, a faint but heady old-fashioned masculine bay rum cologne that mixed somehow with his own male aroma. In one of those irreverent passing thoughts that came to me while under dire circumstances I bet he'd had it made specially, just for him. No one else in the world would ever be able to buy it. Only he would smell like the Boss. God, I couldn't even remember now what his real name was. Did anybody, I wondered? He was who he was, and that was enough. His very name, the Boss, reminded everyone of his power.

“Well now,” he said, smiling. “Let's see the show.”

 

52

Chad Prescott

Chad hopped a ride from Paris on a private jet carrying a rock group to a concert in Monte Carlo, an event given by the prince to honor some visiting president.

When he got to the hospital, he was told again that Verity had been moved to the Boss's guesthouse, where she was guaranteed expert medical care. The Boss had told them it would be better than she could get there. And who were they to say no? Of course they'd taken his word for it. A man like that, how could they not? They would have left their own daughters in his care.

Of course they would, Chad thought. Anybody would.
A man like that.
He was walking out of the hospital when he saw the Colonel, also hurrying for the exit. He hailed him and the Colonel strode back, hand held out.

“My friend,” he said. “I hope I can call you my friend, since we are in this together.”

“And what exactly are we ‘in'?” Chad had a feeling it was bad.

“Mirabella went to look for Verity. They told her she'd gone with the Boss. She has not come back, nor has she communicated with me. I'm on my way to the Villa Mara now. Two squad cars will follow me.”

“Follow
us,
you mean. I'm coming with you.” We should take a helicopter, get there quicker.”

“Quicker but more noisy. We don't want to alarm him.”

The Colonel saw Chad's shocked face and added quickly, “Alarm
anyone,
I mean. Mirabella also, as well as Verity who is just out of the hospital.”

“And should not be,” Chad added, grimly. “What is the Boss up to, anyway?”

The Colonel shrugged. “We are talking about a man who has everything money and power can buy. With some men this is not enough. There are things they cannot purchase. They feel the need to exert their power, to show it off, earn the kind of ‘respect' from a woman they feel entitled to. They want the ultimate power, Doctor.”

Chad did not have to ask what he meant. Ultimate power over life or death. He was a doctor, a medical man as he preferred to refer to himself. He was in the business of saving lives. But right then, he wanted a man dead.

The Colonel

The Colonel had disliked hospitals ever since his wife had spent her final hours there. More than dislike, it amounted almost to a phobia. The curtains closing off beds from passersby; the ever-present tick and purr of life-or-death machines, the squeak of rubber-soled shoes on nurses' hurrying feet, the sheer nervous energy of such places. He had not been happy therefore to have to be there to interview the waiter with his entire head bandaged and two blank fear-filled eyes staring back at him.

He knew the actions of criminals like the waiter were not motivated by brain power, by normal logic and reasoning. They were very simple, and motivated purely by need, or greed, or impulse. All three were what had sent the waiter to his—almost—doom, and certainly would end with him in jail. What he wanted from him now, though, was a simple clear statement. A confession, if you will. He wanted the waiter to tell him who had bought him. Who had paid him. And for how much. In the Colonel's experience it did not take a lot to buy a man like that. Under-the-table money, no tax declaration, then out of there fast as possible. Only this time it had not worked.

But the waiter was not talking. His eyes peered blankly out of those bandages. He did not even bother so much as to shake his head, to indicate he did not know. He simply sealed his lips and shut up.

The Colonel did not blame him; the reward for implicating the Boss would have been severe, and anonymous. This waiter, like the other one, would simply have disappeared.

Of course that possibility still existed but, with a shrug, the Colonel knew it did not matter anymore. What mattered was what Mirabella had to say. And Verity. Once he got her out of that bunker.

 

53

Verity

It was strange, mystical, almost, being held aloft over a stage on an ornately carved golden throne, as though I were the princess I had so often as a child imagined myself to be. Children have those kinds of daydreams, those fairy-tale fantasies they know in their hearts are not true, but in that moment they live them as though they were. Fond parents might call it a fertile imagination. They might say, “Oh, she's always playing games in her head, inventing things, you know.” They called me a very “creative” child.

But now my head buzzed unceasingly, crammed with odd thoughts, memories, wishes … and how I wished I might be somewhere else, other than playing princess for the Boss. And, oh my God, could that be Mirabella with him?

The stage lights were blindingly bright but I knew it was she, I could tell by her fiery red hair, though I could not make out the details of her face. Yet I could see she held a glass of wine in her hand. Surely that meant this was a social occasion, that everything was alright and what was happening to me was a prank, some kind of joke. Yet I heard no laughter.

The lights were suddenly lowered, except for a spotlight aimed at me, on my throne, and at the objects on either side that I could not see because I could not move my head, which seemed imprisoned in a kind of collar. I tried turning my neck but it was impossible.

I called out, “Mirabella, help me.” At least I thought I had spoken but no words seemed to come out. All I could do was look at her. She had saved me once, on the train, and again when the car went over the canyon. I had the sinking feeling that this time my luck had run out, because sitting next to her was the Boss.

“Well then,” the Boss was saying jovially, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “A little more of the Montrachet, I think, Mirabella, while you admire my show.”

Mirabella

I am looking at Verity and I am living a nightmare. A horror story, some kind of theatrical event staged with real-live participants, and which I know with a cold feeling in my gut can only end in tragedy. I feel the Boss's eyes on me as I stare at his montage, his little “show,” at Verity's blank face, and the golden halo that outlines her head. Her blond hair is pulled back so severely I feel sure it must hurt, but then so must the metal halo, and the wide matching collar, half hoops that I know must also be gold. The Boss would not have stinted on his show. The gold would be real gold, as would the large emeralds in her ears, and in the rings on her thin fingers. In fact Verity seemed so emaciated I didn't know how those rings stayed on. Her fingernails were enameled a deep red, as were her toes.

Then the golden curtain that had parted to expose Verity slid farther to the side, and there, mounted to the black wall beside her were the taxidermied heads of two donkeys. Each donkey wore a golden halo.

“So, you see, how lifelike it all is?” the Boss said. He was remembering the two donkeys he'd liked so much when he was a child, and how he'd ultimately had them executed, then sold them as fake “venison.” He sat back in his large chair, rubbing his hands together again, in anticipation of more to come.

I was already on my feet. The fragile crystal glass smashed on the floor, wine went everywhere, rich as blood. He grabbed me and I shook him off with a strength I did not know I had. Verity's eyes were fixed on me. Her mouth moved but she was not saying anything, but I saw her bare toes curl and her thin fingers were gripping the arms of the throne as she tried to lift herself up.