The Trophy Wife (4 page)

“Ahh!” a pained voice screamed in the darkness. Emily dug her nails into her bite marks and ripped a hole through the fabric. There was an explosion of light, suddenly darkened by a woolen ski mask. She could see angry eyes blazing and then felt the snap of a fist that drove the curtain against her temple. Her knees buckled. Her feet were sliding and she couldn't free her arms to get a handhold. She collapsed in the arms that were holding her prisoner.

“Get her!” the pained voice screamed.

Another man's voice. “Hold her still, for Christ's sake!”

The arms crushed around her and she felt herself being dragged over the edge of the tub.

“Shoot her. Stick the damn thing through the curtain!”

“Hold her still, dammit!”

Her head and shoulders were being wrestled down to the bathroom floor. The edge of the tub was digging into her belly, her legs dangling uselessly in space. She screamed again and this time heard the echo of her voice rattling off the walls.

“Do it!”

She felt a sharp pin prick plunge into her thigh and then the pressure of a hypodermic injection.

“Oh, Jesus!” It was more a prayer than a curse. “Oh, Jesus!”

She expected to feel her body going limp as darkness closed across her mind. But nothing happened. She was still aware of the sting of the needle and more aware of the pain that the edge of the tub was causing across her hips. She started to scream again, but once more the tattered curtain was pressed against her face. Then she found a foothold against the wall behind the tub and pushed herself furiously at the body that was holding her. She felt the man in the mask topple backward and crash against the vanity cabinet.

“Fuck!” he yelled. “Grab hold of her legs.”

She kicked and felt her heel score hard into someone's body. The second voice yelped in pain. “Damn you!” A fist struck through the curtain into her side, driving the air out of her body.

“Just hold her! Don't kill her.”

“She kicked me in the face.”

“She can't kick you if you hold her.”

Emily tried to kick again, but was amazed to find that her legs didn't work. The pain across her midsection had gone away. And she really didn't mind the strong hand that was pressing the shower curtain over her mouth. She could hear the water still running, falling on the curtain like rain on a roof. I hope they remember to turn the water off, she thought. And then she lapsed into blissful sleep.

When they knew the drug had taken its effect, the two men loosened their grip. One turned off the shower while the other twisted his face out of the ski mask.

Carefully they dragged the curtain out into the bedroom where they had more room to work. They straightened the crumpled edges and then rerolled her into a neat package. One of the men took the top half, locking his arms under Emily's elbows. The other lifted the backs of her knees. Carefully, they carried her out into the hallway and then past the guest suites to the back stairs.

“Set her down for a minute,” said the one who was at her head. He took a deep breath. “Some tough broad.” He looked at the bleeding bite mark in his hand. “Damn near took off my thumb …”

“We should have brained her,” said the other, touching the clot of blood that filled one of his nostrils.

“You should have gotten the needle into her faster.”

“If you held her still.”

They grunted as they lifted her again and moved slowly down the stairs. One freed his hand long enough to pick up the Lexus keys and open the door to the garage. They kept it open with their knees as they carried her out to the car and set her down on the paved floor. One fitted the trunk key and then they lifted the package, still dripping wet, over the bumper and onto the trunk carpet. Seconds later, the big tires were popping over the Belgian bricks out toward the gate. Then the car swung onto the country road and moved slowly away.

* * *

Walter left his office promptly at 3:00
P.M.
and used the fire stairs to dash down one flight to the senior executive fitness center, a dead-serious health club reserved for the chairman and the senior vice presidents. The center was equipped as a gymnasium, with motorized treadmills, stationary bicycles, land-locked rowing machines, and enough hydraulic stair-climbers to make the elevators to the fifty-second floor unnecessary. Recognizing the irreplaceable skills of the senior line and staff executives, and alarmed at the statistics on heart attacks, the board had voted $4.1 million to turn the fifty-first floor into a fitness center with the best gym equipment, a three-tiered sauna, steam room, Jacuzzi, and a locker room with individual stall showers. Then, realizing that they were an equal-opportunity employer with no glass ceilings, they had spent another million adding a women's locker room, sauna, steam room, and Jacuzzi that, as far as anyone knew, had still never been used.

But despite the cardiovascular machines and the bodybuilding stations, the fitness center functioned more as a conference room. At midafternoon, when the New York markets closed, the senior executives changed into athletic togs and jogged side by side on treadmills while they discussed the morning's impact on the bank's activities. Occasional glances at flickering monitors kept them up to date on the Chicago banks and markets, the West Coast, and the Far East business news, which were updated continuously. And should some piece of information gathered either from a fellow jogger or from the electronic ticker tape require action, there was a telephone mounted on every piece of gym equipment.

Because of his physical appearance, Walter thought of himself as young rather than middle-aged, and when pushed, as middle-aged rather than as well beyond the halfway point. Visually, he was in better shape than most of the other men, which he reasoned was probably an indication of superior mental assets, as well.

He offered a greeting to the whole room rather than any one in particular, started his treadmill, and stepped aboard.
Within a few minutes he had finished his warm-ups and was jogging at a steady pace up a five-degree incline.

He glanced to his left and saw that he was running away from two of the top executives. Karl Eider managed foreign subsidiaries in thirty countries and was clearly the officer with the most international experience. But trips abroad to the Michelin-rated restaurants of Paris, Vienna, Brussels, and Milan had given him a portly shape and triple chins. While mentioned out of courtesy, he wasn't really a candidate for the top job and certainly didn't want it if it would interfere with his travel.

Laboring next to Elder was Henry Martin, the bank's expert in investments. Basically, he was a trader with all the gambler's instincts required to turn hefty profits out of most of his bets. “A money machine,” he was frequently called, and he was proud of the title. But while gamblers were essential in the back room, no bank wanted them out front where they might run into a big depositor. Henry wasn't really a rival for the top spot.

Walter had to look in the other direction to spot the one man who could beat him to the chair when the music stopped, Mitchell Price. He was standing near the free weights, leveraging another railroad wheel on each end of the bar in preparation for his regimen of bench presses. At thirty-nine, he was the youngest of the senior officers, the leanest, and probably the most fit. Mitchell was the bank's expert in the electronic systems that had replaced currency and paper as the arbiters of global wealth. His work was distinctly different from that of any of the other officers and it just might be that Jack Hollcroft, sensing that the future belonged to the computer literate, would nod toward Mitchell Price.

Walter Childs moved vast sums of money from country to country to protect InterBank's position in foreign currencies. His claim to the brass ring was that his skills most nearly fitted the bank's unique role. He had salvaged hundreds of millions of dollars by taking a quick exit from the peso before Mexico's economic woes had cut the value of the currency in half. Then he had
made
hundreds of millions by mounting
a rescue operation at usurious rates. At age fifty, he was a bit too old to be a boy wonder, but old enough so that no one would question his experience. While he ran mile after mile on a fast-moving treadmill, Walter tried to present the calm demeanor that was essential for the top man in times of crisis. So while he kept his eyes fixed on the monitors, he showed little surprise with any of the information and rarely used the telephone.

He returned to his desk just as the evidence of a new dollar-yen crisis was appearing. When the yen fell, every Western bank got nervous realizing that local industries would once again be buried under boatloads of cheap Japanese imports. Walter spent the early evening organizing an orderly buy of yen through all the branches and affiliates. The price rose and the momentary crisis was over even before most European banks were aware of it. It was seven o'clock when he summoned his limousine for the long journey home.

He snapped on the courtesy lamp so that he could continue working in the backseat of the car, setting his briefcase on the seat beside him and spreading the papers across his lap. He found himself wishing that he were meeting with Angela instead of heading home. Angela would appreciate the victory he had just achieved in supporting the Japanese currency. She would understand instantly the crisis that had been avoided and would know that he was one of perhaps only a dozen men in the world who could have pulled it off. Emily wouldn't fully grasp his importance to the situation. She would respond with something unappreciative like, “I'm happy for you, dear.”

When they turned into the driveway, the headlights showed the open garage door with Emily's car missing. Walter was momentarily alarmed because the garage light was out.

“Looks as if you've been abandoned,” Omar chided from the front seat.

“Probably just the last rubber of bridge running long,” Walter answered cheerfully as he gathered his papers. But he
was uneasy. It didn't make sense that the garage door would be left open.

He thanked Omar, initialed the limousine log, and then let himself in through the kitchen door. He wasn't surprised to find that the security system was unarmed. He flicked on the kitchen light and started into the living room, then pulled up short when he saw the outline of a person seated on his sofa.

“Emily?”

“No Mr. Childs, it isn't Emily.” The voice was harshly masculine.

Walter stared at the dark form while he fumbled for the dimmer switch. The track lights over the fireplace came up like theater lights, slowly illuminating his visitor. He was looking at a rather ordinary man in a conventional business suit. The only thing that was extraordinary was the small, automatic pistol that was aimed directly into his face.

“Please sit down … there … right across from me.” The man was pointing with his free hand toward the soft chair on the other side of the fireplace, separated from the sofa by a four-foot-square coffee table.

“Who are you? Where the hell is my wife?”

This time the man gestured toward the chair with the muzzle of the pistol. “Please … sit down. Then I'll answer questions.”

He was probably about Walter's age, but a fat neck and sagging shoulders made him look older. His soft appearance, together with his clear voice and precise pronunciation, made the pistol incongruous. The man looked as if he would be more comfortable handling a pencil. Walter sat in the place indicated, keeping his eyes focused on the other eyes.

“Who the fuck are you … and what are you doing in my house?” He was on the edge of the cushion, his weight still on his feet.

“I'm a messenger, sent to tell you that your wife is fine.”

Walter inched forward. “Where is she?”

“I don't know. And that's the important thing that you have to believe. I don't know where she is, and I don't know who's holding her.”

“Holding her?” Walter was halfway to his feet when the gun was raised directly into his eyes. He sat back slowly.

“Your wife has been kidnapped by someone who wants you to do something. But I don't know who he is. I don't know who kidnapped her and I don't know who's holding her. All I know is that you're the only one who can save her.”

“You don't know? Then what are you doing here?”

“Mr. Childs, please listen to me carefully. Once you understand that I'm no threat to you … that I'm completely useless to you … I'll be able to put away this gun.”

Walter stared into the worried eyes. “I'm listening,” he said.

The man leaned forward. “I don't know anything about this. I don't know you and I don't know Mrs. Childs. I'm simply bringing you information. I got a phone call a week ago, asking me if I wanted to make ten thousand dollars for simply delivering a message. I asked if what I would be doing was legal and the voice answered that if it were legal, they'd use Western Union.”

“What voice?”

“A voice speaking through some sort of computer. High-pitched. Flat. I couldn't tell if it was anyone I knew. I couldn't even tell if it was a man or a woman. But I said I'd like to know more. Things haven't been going well for me. I can use the money.”

“I can pay you twice that much,” Walter interrupted.

The man shook his head. “It wouldn't do you any good because there's nothing I can do to help you. What I agreed to do was wait for a call telling me that I was hired and deliver a message that I would find here, in your house. I came here, found the instructions on the mail table in the foyer along with this envelope …”

“How'd you get in?”

“I was told that the garage would be open and the door into the house unlocked. That's the way I found things.”

Walter thought and then nodded for his visitor to continue.

“Thank you,” the man said, as if Walter were the one holding
the pistol. “Now, if you'd look down between the cushions, that's where I put the envelope.”