No Return: A Contemporary Phantom Tale (16 page)

Wondering, I stood looking at it for a long moment. I knew that red roses signified true love, while white roses could indicate reverence or humility, or love that still lay sleeping. Was this offering a message? Who could have possibly taken such desperate measures, just to leave me a bouquet of roses that stirred only questions?

Swallowing hard, trying to ignore the pounding of my heart in my breast, I looked past the roses to see another arched opening in the wall. I walked through and saw that I was in a little antechamber decorated only with a gilt mirror and matching long-legged table, on which stood a delicate orchid in a beautifully painted oriental pot. More importantly, however, I saw that opposite the mirror was a heavy wooden door with carved panels.
 

I pounced on the handle and tried to turn it. Locked, of course. Then I noticed that it was shut with a very businesslike deadbolt, the kind that needs a key on either side to lock it.
 

At last I let the panic and anger I had kept carefully in check over the past few minutes burst out, and I pounded on the door, not caring that my fists soon ached from the punishment of beating on the unyielding surface.

“Hey!” I screamed, facing the door, wondering if my unknown captor stood outside the door, listening to me carry on. The thought fueled my rage even further. “You can’t do this! This is
America
, for Chrissake!”

Silence, of course. What had I been expecting—for someone to open the door immediately, issue an apology, and call me a cab?

“Listen, you bastards! You’re committing a
felony
!”

Again the unanswering quiet. If anyone was listening, apparently the fact that they had committed a federal offense was not a source of huge worry.

Finally I stopped pounding on the door. My fists hurt and so did my throat. It was quite obvious that I could stand here and scream all day, and no one would heed my cries. Had I been locked in here and then abandoned?

Defeated for the moment, I turned back into the bedroom and went on to open a door on the other side of the room, a door that opened into a private bathroom.

“Bathroom,” however, seemed too prosaic a word to apply to the opulent chamber which greeted me, a chamber that bore about as much resemblance to the cramped cubicle at my bungalow as a Rolls Royce did to a Yugo. It was easily the size of my living room at home, the walls, floors, and counters covered with a soft rosy marble with faint cream veining. Soft cream-colored rugs were placed strategically beside the sunken bathtub and the separate shower stall; a mirrored tray on the counter held a bottle of Évian water and a crystal glass. From the back of the door hung a plush-looking robe in a deep sapphire blue.

Despite myself, I couldn’t help letting out a nervous little laugh.
Help, I’m being held captive at the Ritz-Carlton!
I thought, moving to open the bottle of Évian. I figured it was safe, since the bottle was still sealed, and besides, I was thirsty, my voice raw from shouting. Taking a few much-needed sips of water, I looked around again.
 

Along the ledge that ran the length of the bath was a series of potted ferns, while just above them was another window, this one of frosted glass. I could make out the shadow of more bars beyond the window—no escape that way, either. At the foot of the bath were several jars of expensive-looking bath salts and a cube of lavender-scented soap in a porcelain dish. I found all this preparation ironic, since I had never been much of a bath person. I never could see the point of soaking for hours and hours the way some women apparently did, but that might have been because I had just never had time for that kind of luxury.

I set down the crystal water glass and opened one door of the enormous Venetian glass medicine cabinet that hung over the sink. Inside were a toothbrush still in its wrapping, a new box of toothpaste, a new package of dental floss, a few other personal-care items, and apparently the full line of facial products from an extremely expensive designer. The rest of the cabinet was empty—apparently my captor wasn’t about to trust me with any analgesics or other over-the-counter remedies. Curious, I opened the drawer on one side of the sink and found an assortment of new cosmetics, still in their original packaging, all from the same designer brand. Someone had obviously gone to a lot of trouble and expense to make sure I was provided for while I was here—never mind that I usually ran out the door with only mascara and lip gloss for makeup, unless I was going to work.

At the far side of the bathroom was another door. I put my hand on the knob, thinking it must be locked—what else
could
there be in the elegant suite that comprised my prison? But instead the doorknob turned easily, opening into the biggest walk-in closet I had ever seen. There was a light switch next to the door, and I flicked it on, bringing to life a delicate crystal chandelier that hung from the ceiling in the center of the closet.

I say “closet,” but it was really a small room, complete with a compact rose-upholstered chaise lounge in the center—for reclining upon while trying to decide what to wear, I presumed. It looked like something out of a magazine, one of those glossy spreads where you were given a guided tour of the wardrobes of some of the world’s richest and most spoiled women. At that moment I had to count myself among their ranks, because the room was full of clothes, all carefully organized according to color and type; one wall was made up entirely of shoes, each pair placed in its own little cedar cubbyhole. At random I pulled a chic bouclé jacket from one rack, peering inside at the label. I didn’t know much about clothes—with my budget, the most designer I usually got was the clearance rack at the local discount store—but even I recognized the name of Chanel. A little awed, I hung the jacket back in its place, then looked around me again.
 

Placed beneath the rack that held jackets, blouses, and other shorter items was a pretty little dresser that matched the other furniture in the bedroom. I assumed it held lingerie or sweaters, items that needed to be folded. But when I pulled out the drawer, it was all I could do to keep from gasping out loud. Inside was a black velvet inset with carefully molded compartments, and against the velvet glittered a constellation of jewels.
 

I knew even less about gems than I knew about clothes, but I knew enough to recognize emeralds, sapphires, rubies...all set with diamonds, in improbably intricate necklaces and earrings and rings, all so glorious that at first I thought they couldn’t possibly be real. I didn’t want them to be real. If they were, how many hundreds of thousands—or even millions—of dollars glimmered up at me from that drawer? What kind of resources could my captor have, to conjure all this glory just for me?

My hands were shaking. I closed the drawer carefully, fearful of the treasures within. It was too much. Trying to stay calm, I told myself that at least immediate dismemberment or worse didn’t seem to be on the agenda; I couldn’t imagine the worst psychopath furnishing a luxurious suite with such riches if the victim weren’t going to be around to enjoy them for a while. Whatever was planned for me, death didn’t seem to be it, at least for now.

What I really wanted was a hot shower and a change of clothes, and since both amenities had been prepared so amply for me, I decided to go ahead and take care of myself. After a quick check of the bathroom for any obvious cameras—feeling foolish, I couldn’t find any—I turned on the water and stepped into the luxury of a shower where the water pressure was just right and the hot water apparently inexhaustible. Some high-end shampoo and conditioner especially designed for curly hair had been left in the shower for me; apparently my captor had thought of everything to keep me comfortable for an extended period of time.

Except food. The nausea of earlier had passed, and I was now quite hungry, something I found a little surprising, considering the amount of food I had eaten at Randall’s parents’ home the night before.

Randall. Oh, God, how long would it be before he discovered I was missing? He had said he would call the next day—today—but when? There were no clocks in the bedroom or the bathroom, so I had no idea what time it was. From the light outside I guessed it was either very late morning or early afternoon, but since I had no idea how long I had slept, it was impossible to say for sure. And if he missed me, and just got my answering machine, it would probably be some time before he became truly worried. We were always playing phone tag with one another, since I was out so much and he knew not to call my cell phone unless it was an emergency.

It would be even longer before George or anyone at the restaurant missed me, because I had asked for the weekend off to finish a paper and start preparing for finals. George had granted me the time off, mostly because the restaurant was always slow the weekend after Thanksgiving anyway. Very possibly no one would notice I had vanished until I didn’t show up for class on Monday morning.

The panic started to well up in me, my heart again beginning its agonized pounding. I turned off the hot water and gathered up a large soft towel and wrapped it around myself, willing the fear away. It was no use heading down that path; I had to keep my head about me, no matter what happened. For the moment, I was safe enough—no one had come to disturb me, and I had to finish preparing myself for whatever might come in the next few hours.
 

I stepped out of the shower and drew on the warm blue bathrobe, then looked in the cabinets under the sink and found a blow dryer with a diffuser along with some hair products, again all designed for curly hair. It was obvious that all of this had been prepared for me in particular, and not some random female college student.
 

With deliberate care I went through all the steps of preparing myself, from smoothing moisturizer into my skin to drying my hair. There was something almost decadent about the amount of time I was able to spend on myself, after so many years of rushing out the door to get to school or work on time. But here—well, it was obvious I wasn’t going anywhere soon, so I let myself take my time with the comforting little rituals, as if by concentrating on them I could keep my thoughts away from the strangeness of my situation.
 

Upon reentering the wardrobe I found another smaller chest of drawers, this one filled with lingerie, all obviously new and all in my size. I tried not to think about it—how could my captor have known my
cup size
, for God’s sake?—and dressed myself quickly, finding a pair of dark denim jeans that fit perfectly, along with a beautiful cashmere argyle cardigan in rich shades of emerald green and cornflower blue. A pair of dark green kitten heels seemed to finish off the outfit perfectly.

I paused for a second by the jewelry chest, fought a losing battle with my conscience, and opened up the top drawer. Surely there had to be something in there that didn’t look as if it should be adorning a celebrity on the red carpet. After a bit of searching I found a pair of simple diamond stud earrings—well, as simple as a pair of multi-carat diamonds could be, anyway—and slipped them on. A gorgeous emerald winked at me from the center of the black velvet compartment, imploring to be worn, but I shut the drawer with more resolution than I felt. It was one thing to wear a pair of stud earrings, especially since I always felt naked without earrings on, but it was an entirely different matter start parading around in jewels that looked as if they should be locked in a vault surrounded by armed guards, not left in an unsecured chest of drawers. Besides, I didn’t want my captor—whoever he was—to think that he could seduce me with a few flashy rocks.

A moment or so after I had shut the wardrobe door behind me, paused to fold my damp towels and rehang them on the rack, and emerged into the main bedroom, a knock came at the door that presumably opened on the main corridor. I couldn’t help the sudden pounding of my heart, nor the unexpected rush of adrenaline that washed over me, but all the same I managed to take one or two deep breaths before I approached the door in the little antechamber and asked, “Who’s there?” To my relief, I sounded calm and firm, not shaky and frightened as I had feared.

A male voice. “I’ve brought you some food. Step back from the door.”

Folding my arms tightly around me, I retreated a few paces. I could hear the sound of keys rattling against the deadbolt, and then the door swung slowly inward.
 

A man carrying a tray covered with a domed silver lid entered the anteroom. He looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, brown-haired, conservatively but expensively dressed. His blue eyes were hard, watching me with care.
 

Of course I recognized him immediately. My stalker. The man I had laughingly dismissed in my conversation with Meg.
 

“You!”
 

Unperturbed, he said, “Please go on into your bedroom.”

Since there didn’t seem to be much point to standing in the cramped space and arguing with him, I did as he said, standing off near one of the tall windows and watching as he deposited the tray on the marble-topped side table. His manner was calm, his movements unhurried. Although he kept a close watch on me, I couldn’t see anything about his manner that was immediately threatening.
 

“I suppose there’s no point asking why you’ve brought me here,” I said at length.

He paused, his hand resting on the handle of the silver tray cover. There was no emotion in the clear Wedgwood-colored eyes. “That’s a question you’ll need to ask the boss.”
 

“The boss?”
 

“I’m just the intermediary, Miss Daly.” He lifted the tray cover to reveal a plate of scrambled eggs, a small cut-crystal bowl of strawberries, and a stack of toast, along with a glass of orange juice.
 

My stomach rumbled unbecomingly. How long had it been since my last meal? Probably at least fifteen hours.

“Just following orders?” I asked, hoping that I had injected the correct amount of contempt into my tone.