The Doll Brokers (39 page)

Jonathan brought his wrist closer and tried to look at his watch. He couldn't say for certain but he believed it was nearly four o'clock. That meant at least one hour until the police arrived, which would be too late.

It hurt to keep his eyes open, but he managed to do so. His assailant—Vincent—was holding his father's gun in his hands. Jonathan could see by the way he was standing that there'd be no arguing with him, no pleading for mercy.

Resignation filled his heart, yet he knew he must try. “Let her go,” he said, regretting the tremor in his voice. “I'll give you whatever you want. You can hold me instead of her. She needs a doctor …”

“Doctor?” Vincent's eyes narrowed. “What on earth for,” he said, and he casually raised the gun and pointed it at Ann.

Jonathan shuddered.

“I've waited a long time for this,” Vincent said.

Jonathan looked around, trying to gather his strength and wondering what, if anything, he could use for a weapon.

“Call it judgment day,” Vincent prattled on. “We all must atone for our sins. You're not exempt, and neither is she. Especially not her…”

“How much money will it take?” Jonathan quickly asked.

Instead of a reply, Vincent frowned a little, pointing the gun first at Ann then at Jonathan, and back again, as if weighing the decision who to shoot first.

Jonathan's head was pounding. He wished he could think more clearly. There would be only one chance, if that. He would have to time his move perfectly.

As if reading his mind, Vincent leveled the gun towards Ann and pulled the trigger.

The gun clicked harmlessly. Once, twice, a third time. Vincent swore, then released the safety and re-aimed.

Jonathan somehow managed to leap upwards, keeping his eyes focused on the gun, while attempting to shield Ann with his own body.

The bullet caught him in the thigh. The force of it was enough to flip him over in midair. No pain, he thought in wonder as he hit the cement floor. Then it flared.

Vincent took aim again.

For a moment, Jonathan thought he might be hallucinating. A man was slowly coming towards them. He had crept out of the shadows and was rapidly approaching.

Vincent was too zoned out to notice.

Closer the man came.

Jonathan realized he must try a diversion. “The police are on the way,” he said, speaking the only truth to come to mind.

“Shut up!” Vincent hissed.

The man was almost upon them.

Jonathan recognized Sidney Greenspan, his skin coloring pasty, his breathing labored … which was ultimately what gave him away.

At the last possible moment, Vincent turned and calmly shot him in the chest.

Sidney's body seemed to pirouette, then convulse.

Jonathan attempted to lunge at Vincent. But the wound to his leg had diminished his strength.

Vincent stepped aside. “You're making this easy for me,” he boasted as he raised the gun and fired.

F
elicia could not get comfortable as she sat in the small waiting room in the hospital. From time to time a doctor or nurse would appear and she would look up expectantly, only to be disappointed. This pattern continued for the rest of the afternoon and into the early evening.

Cal went down to the cafeteria and picked up sandwiches. Felicia ate half of hers and put the rest away.

Finally, just before eight o'clock, the doctor she'd been waiting for came out to speak with her.

He was a handsome man, Felicia realized, and young, but strain was etched into his narrow face. “I'm afraid Ms. Lesage is still not out of the woods,” he said. “She's lost an awful lot of blood. The next few hours should tell us quite a bit more.”

Questions popped into Felicia's head but she knew they would have to wait. Once the doctor was gone she told Cal she'd be back in a few minutes and she slowly headed for the bank of elevators down the hall.

Hospitals did not appeal to her. She guessed she was like most people in that regard. The correlation to illness and her own mortality was not something she could ignore.

The head nurse greeted her in the orthopedics reception area and told her that Jonathan was asleep. Still, she moved towards his
room. There was always the off-chance that he would awaken, and she wanted to be there if he did.

She took a seat by his bed. It was a small private room, as drab and nondescript as most. Jonathan's leg was elevated. The bullet had caused damage to his femoral artery. It would take time to heal, the doctor said, but with physical therapy there should not be lingering side effects.

Watching her son sleep reminded Felicia of a time when Jonathan was in his early teens. He had slipped on the recently waxed kitchen floor, had banged his head and was knocked unconscious. The look on his face then was similar to what she saw tonight, troubled and drawn and sporting a peculiar expression.

She watched over him for another few minutes.

Returning to the waiting room, Cal told her there was no update on Ann's condition.

Felicia settled into a chair, but her mind was far too restless to permit her to relax. There was much to be thankful for, she guessed. Detective Rondgrun had filled her on what he knew so far. He had arrived at the storage facility almost an hour before he told Jonathan that he would, suspecting that Jonathan's impetuosity would get the better of him. The detective and the team from the New Jersey police force had no sooner forced the door when they found Vincent lying dead.

The gun he was using—now identified as the one once belonging to Felicia's husband—was so old, it had apparently imploded, killing Vincent instantly. The secret of the man's motive and identity was yet to be solved. They were hoping that either Jonathan or Ann—perhaps both—would be able to shed some light on the subject.

Detective Rondgrun told Felicia that Sidney Greenspan had also died. They had found a note from him. Apparently, Sidney's intention had been to snare Baby Talk N Glow away from her,
only to find himself trapped in something far beyond his expertise or control.

Once he discovered the truth, he apparently made plans to interfere. His note included an apology that seemed pathetic yet heartfelt.

Felicia, reflecting now on what she had learned, wanted to hate Sidney Greenspan for his deception, yet found herself pitying him instead. Despite his greed, he had apparently sacrificed himself for Ann's sake. Or, so the detective led her to believe.

The thought of losing Ann was more than Felicia could bear. She closed her eyes for a moment, a sigh escaping her lips.

A
nn felt both euphoric and peaceful as a soft light seemed to surround her, lift her up and bathe her in its glow, extinguishing the pain.

She tried to open her eyes and orient herself. The source of the light shifted, emanating from above. She wanted to turn her head to look but found that her neck would not allow it. Where was she? What was happening? Was she paralyzed or was this death?

She had a memory of being hurt, badly hurt.

Ann kept her eyes closed, cozying up under the softness … until she felt hands on her, pulling her away. She opened her eyes and caught sight of a nurse's uniform, and a face filled with concern looking down at her.

“Hello…”

Ann heard the voice and tried to respond. No words would come.

The nurse fiddled with the IV line. “I'm going to try to guess what you want to know first,” she said. “You had a ruptured spleen—Dr. Keogh removed that nicely, so in that respect, you're fine. Eight separate fractured or broken bones, including ribs. That's why you can't move, honey. Don't panic. You don't have a lot of parts that aren't in a cast. But they're going to mend,
and you're going to be okay.” She moved closer. “You're either incredibly lucky, or you have an amazing will to live.”

Ann scraped her throat for her voice. “Jon…” He'd been there, she knew, somewhere in the fog.

“Mr. Morhardt is a few floors up, in room 318. He's had some damage done to his thigh, but he'll be out of here by tomorrow. He's been to visit you every day, like clockwork. As a matter of fact—” The nurse looked at her watch. “—I expect him at any minute.”

But why had he been in the dark with her? Why had he been in there with all that pain?
Ann couldn't remember.

“Felicia?” she said suddenly.

The nurse smiled. “That poor woman. Why, she's been looking in on you even more often than Mr. Morhardt. Are you related to her?”

Ann didn't have to think about it. “In a manner of speaking,” she said.

She closed her eyes and went back underneath the light.

When memory returned—it might have been days, but maybe it was only hours—it happened all at once. She remembered trying to scream. Being shoved around in darkness.

Ann's eyes shot open.

Jonathan, on crutches, was standing beside her bed. “You're looking a lot better,” he said. “How are you feeling?”

Her mind tried to focus, but words wouldn't come.

“Well, if you don't mind, I think I'm going to sit down.” He moved the crutches and hopped backward to land in the chair next to her bed. Then he used his weight to hitch the chair forward, closer to her.

“He's dead,” he said.

Ann felt a tremor work through her, waking up some aches.

“It's a long story—I'll fill you in on the details when your eyes aren't so glassy. Short version—my father's gun misfired in
Vincent's hands. He died instantly, which was probably too good for the bastard.”

“Vincent?” she managed to say.

“Yeah.”

It started to come back. Vincent was Mad Dog.

“I guess there are a few things we're never going to understand,” Jonathan continued. “Like where Edmund Chow got to, and how he was involved.”

Ann felt one corner of her mouth lift a little. “Did you honestly think … I would die without … knowing?”

Jonathan looked startled. Then he laughed. “Stupid assumption.”

“Tell … the police that Mad … that Vincent killed him. He bragged to me that he left him … underwater. In Hong Kong's Victoria Harbour.”

He could tell she was struggling to stay with him. And Jonathan knew he should let her sleep. But there had been whole hours that were still fresh in his mind, hours when he would have given his own life just to hear her voice, and now he found he couldn't get enough. Did she remember his saying he loved her? Did she even hear it? She gave no indication.

Jonathan got his crutches together and heaved himself to his feet. “Patrick got you those containers. The shipping things.”

Her eyes opened wide, all pupils. They had her drugged up. “Pat did?”

“Mom gave him his job back. He's seeing a shrink and attending AA.”

“Hmmm.” She was drifting off again.

“Ann—please heal and come home.”

She nodded vaguely, tucked her chin, and he knew she was asleep. Jonathan hitched his way slowly out of the room.

S
he was undergoing excruciating physical therapy. It was over a month ago—late May to be exact—that she was released from the hospital. With time, she was told, her bones would heal, and she had no choice but to trust this prognostication.

It was not until mid-June that she was able to make her first appearance at the office. Until then she had worked from home, driving everyone crazy with her phone calls and e-mails. Ann threw herself into the business at hand, with half-days at first but expanding her time as the weeks moved along.

A new Customs Broker was lined up and shipping schedules for Baby Talk N Glow were organized. Contact was made with each of the major buyers in the United States, then with Hart Toy's distributors around the world, some once, others two or three times. Canada held a soft spot for her, being Felicia's and Jonathan's birthplace, so she was especially pleased to see that support in that country was solid, from Walmart, Target, and Toys ‘R' Us, to Sears and Canadian Tire.

Meanwhile, Ann and Jonathan avoided discussing details of their terrible ordeal, each figuring it was best not to traumatize the other. Most conversations began with, “What happened when?” only to be left unanswered.

But Jonathan was haunted by those final few moments: Vincent pointing the gun at him, the split-second realization that his life was surely over. And Ann herself, not able to come to grips with a perpetual nightmare that wouldn't die, the mental anguish she so desperately wanted to avoid hanging over her like a shroud.

Jonathan was able to walk with a cane; Ann still required the use of crutches. It drove her mad with frustration.

Meanwhile, she awoke each morning with the unspoken desire that Jonathan would rediscover his muse. She discussed his possible attendance at art exhibits that were frequently opening in the Manhattan area, dropped other hints that were aimed at stirring his creative juices. All to no avail.

It made her feel guilty, the fact that she could fully occupy her time with her doll project while Jonathan sat around the loft, moping. But her deadline was approaching and she knew she could ill afford to miss a beat.

The first shipment of Baby Talk N Glow to leave Hong Kong numbered almost two hundred thousand pieces. The dolls were packed in thirty-eight forty-foot containers on the S.S. Seahawk and arrived in the port of New York on a Friday evening in early July.

Alison Steinfeld of Toys ‘R' Us approved an order of a double ship-pack for her five hundred and eighty-one stores, which was just over sixty-nine hundred pieces. WalMart's thirty-four hundred stores received a total of twenty thousand, four hundred. Linda Figgures of Target was shipped ninety-six hundred and forty-two pieces, or a ship pack of six to each of their sixteen hundred and seven stores.

For a while, nothing significant happened—whatever sales were reported were marginal. Ann realized this was not out of the ordinary, but her nerves still felt jangled by the pressure. There was no denying the truth: if these first shipments of Baby Talk N Glow did not move, the balance of orders from the retailers would
be canceled and Hart Toy would be left holding the inventory. Now she was at the mercy of the consumer. No matter how many focus groups had approved of Baby Talk N Glow, no matter how much money they spent to promote her, if kids were turned off, all would be lost.