Now You See Her Part 28

Oh, well. I'd find out soon enough.

Then I heard the lobby buzzer in the kitchen.

"Who is it?" I said, pressing the Talk b.u.t.ton.

"It's me, Mom," said Emma.

"Emma!" I yelled. Well, at least I had someone who'd stand by me.

"Baby, I missed you so much!" I said.

"Mom, c'mon," Emma said. "Buzz me in already."

I pressed the Door Open b.u.t.ton and unlocked my apartment's front door before I went back into the bedroom. I was unzipping my suitcase when I noticed the message indicator on my cell. Someone had called while I was in the shower.

"Listen, Nina," Charlie said, sounding out of breath.

Thank G.o.d. Charlie did want to speak to me again.

I heard the front door open.

"Hey, Em!" I called behind me. "Hold on. I'm in the bedroom. I'll be right there."

"The FBI tracked Fournier to a hotel room up in Key Largo. When they went to arrest him half an hour ago, they found something horrifying. His wife and two young sons were dead, shot execution-style in the back of the head. Fournier wasn't there. No one has seen him. They think he's been gone for at least twenty-four hours. The FBI is putting out an APB on him right now. Whatever you do, don't go back to your apartment. Call me p.r.o.nto. I need to know that you're OK."

That's when I heard Emma outside my bedroom door.

"Mom?"

"Em, listen, pack a bag now. I'll explain to you in a second. I have to-" I started, dialing frantically.

"No, Mom. Whatever it is, it can wait," Emma said, a strange, angry edge in her voice. "There's someone I think you should meet."

"What?" I said.

I turned around. The iPhone spilled out of my trembling fingers and bounced off my gla.s.s-and-metal bedside table with a loud crack before somersaulting onto the Oriental carpet and landing facedown.

I shook my head slowly, my unmoving eyes wide, bugging as if they were being pushed out from their sockets.

Emma was in the doorway staring at me.

There was a man behind her wearing a Boston Red Sox baseball cap, an Adidas warm-up jacket, camo pants, and s.h.i.+ny black combat boots.

"Mermaid!" Peter said with a tip of his cap as he stepped into the room.

Chapter 111.

"HOW COULD YOU?" Emma cried at me. Her voice was angry, hurt. Her face was damp from crying. She was upset. At me?

"You've been lying to me my entire life. How could you be so selfish?" she yelled. She took out a picture of twin boys. "These are my stepbrothers. I do have a family. You're sick, Mom. You're a sick person."

"Emma, please," I said, my mouth going dry.

"Stop it! Stop lying!" she screamed. "Why didn't you ever tell me that I had a father? That he was alive. I went out to lunch today, and there he was outside of school. Waiting for me. One look in his eyes, and I knew he was my father before he even opened his mouth. There was no Kevin Bloom. What did you do? Hire an actor?"

"Emma, you don't understand," I said.

"Yes, I do. Peter told me everything. How you used to be married down in Florida. How you ran away and abandoned him. How could you be so cruel?"

I ignored her. My gaze was on Peter behind her as he put his hand into his pocket.

He produced a large black semiautomatic pistol and waved it at me with a smile. He put it back into his pocket as he placed a shus.h.i.+ng finger to his lips.

I cupped my hands over my mouth and nose and shook my head slowly at first but then faster and faster. This couldn't be happening. Nightmares couldn't come true.

"Please," I said to him, finally placing my hands together in a begging gesture. "Peter, she has nothing to do with this."

His smile never wavered.

Peter suddenly grabbed Emma by the back of her head and rammed her face into a cloth that he took out of his other pocket.

"No!" I screamed, running forward.

"Yes!" Peter screamed back as he kicked me in my stomach with his heavy police tactical boot. Breath whooshed out of me as I was knocked back on my b.u.t.t to the floor.

Chapter 112.

I HELPLESSLY WATCHED EMMA STRUGGLE in Peter's arms. There was nothing I could do as she glared at me in horror and confusion.

A moment later, her eyes rolled back into her head as she went slack. Peter let her slide onto the hardwood floor in front of me. Her chest was barely moving. She was out cold.

"Much better," Peter said, taking a roll of duct tape from his jacket pocket. "I thought my boys were annoying. Does she ever shut up?"

He duct-taped my hands behind my back before he dragged me into the living room and handcuffed my ankle to the radiator.

"Nice place, Jeanine," Peter said, sitting down on the couch across from me. He removed the gun from his jacket and placed it, along with the duct tape, on the cus.h.i.+on beside him before he put his feet up on the coffee table.

"I love all the hardwood. We should have done that picture frame molding in our dining room, don't you think? What's this couch? Pottery Barn? I like a lady who treats herself right. What about the modern painting over the fireplace? Let me guess. Crate and Barrel? I mean, how s.e.x and the City can you get?"

I stared down at the floor.

He put his arms over the back of the couch and let out a breath.

"Hold up. What's this?" he said, suddenly jumping up and grabbing a Yankees hat off the TV stand.

He looked at me with disgust before he sent it flying, like a Frisbee, over my head.

"Not bad enough ya had to abandon ya ol' hubby?" he said, reverting to a perfect Southie accent. "Ya had to go and become a s.k.a.n.kee fan, too!"

His eyes went wide and wild as he suddenly lifted the gun off the couch. He came over and pressed it to my forehead, dug it right between my eyes.

"Remember on the beach all those years ago," he said quietly. "I saved you, gave you everything. A house. A life in paradise. This is how you pay me back? Lies. Faking your death? You're f.u.c.ked up, you know that?"

"I don't care what you do to me," I said. "I'll do anything you want. Just please let her go."

He shook his head. "That's the best you can do? You'll do anything I want anyway. Request denied. Emma stays with Daddy. You should have thought about our precious bundle of joy before you came back down to Florida and set my whole entire world on fire."

He racked the slide of the automatic.

"I knew I should have killed you myself," he said.

"You killed your first wife. And your baby," I whispered. "You killed Elena and Teo and that gas station guy. Your new wife, your kids."

"Yes, I did, Jeanine," Peter said. "And now for my next act, ladies and germs. I'm going to kill my second wife as slowly and painfully as possible."

Chapter 113.

PETER TOSSED THE GUN back onto the couch and undid my cuffed ankle. He pulled me up by my hair and brought me into the bathroom.

He stoppered the tub drain and turned on the hot tap. He pulled a rubber kitchen glove out of his back pocket and put it over his right hand. When the steaming water reached the top of the tub, he turned off the k.n.o.b and tossed in some scented bath powder that was sitting on the tub's edge.

"Smell that. Nice, huh?" he said. "Ocean breeze? No, calla lily. Now, for a little experiment. Let's see if mermaids really can breathe under water."

He wrapped his gloved hand around my hair and dunked me, headfirst, under the water. It was burning hot. I tried to struggle, but his hand was like an iron bar pinning me to the tub bottom. He started sc.r.a.ping my forehead against the enamel, as if I were a Scrubbing Bubble. A minute pa.s.sed. Then two. I was about to open my mouth when he ripped me back up into the world.

I made an animal moaning sound as I sucked air, my face on fire.

"Wheee," Peter said. "Doesn't this remind you of something? See, I remember your worst fear, Jeanine. Drowning. Remember the story you told me when you were at the beach with your dad when you were a kid and got caught in a rip current? How you actually stopped struggling and were sinking when Daddy came to your rescue. But guess what, Jeanine? Daddy's not here. Daddy's dead. I'm your daddy now."

My head went back under the scalding water. I held my breath until it felt like my eyes were about to pop, until my skull felt like it was being filled with acid.

I was about to give in and swallow to get it over with when he pulled me back up a second time. When my ears emptied of water, I realized that Peter was laughing. Not a creepy mad-scientist laugh, but a kind of unable-to-catch-your-breath, uncontrollable fit of hilarity. As if instead of torturing me to death, he was watching an Eddie Murphy DVD.

"I'm sorry," he said, wiping at his eyes after a second. "Forgive me. I always promised myself not to take enjoyment from stuff like this, but this one time I'm making an exception. I knew coming back would be worth it. Oh, and before I forget. After we've had our fun, our little daughter is heading down to Mexico with me. I'm going to sell her to the highest bidder. Her fate is on you, Jeanine. I just thought it was important for you to know that. Husbands and wives shouldn't keep things from each other."

He burst into laughter again, snorting as he fought to contain himself.

"Now, come on. What are you waiting for? Dunk for those apples," he said as he slammed me under again.

Chapter 114.

PETER WAS WRENCHING MY HEAD out of the water for maybe the fourth or fifth time when I had the hallucination. I must have been deprived of oxygen because all of a sudden, I thought I saw Emma in the doorway behind Peter.

She looked like an angel. There was something over her head. Wings?

No, I realized. It was the gla.s.s-and-metal table from my bedroom. She had it reared back like a baseball bat.

At the last second, Peter turned.

But it was too late.

An elongated, rattling explosion of shattering gla.s.s rang off the tile walls as Emma crashed it onto his skull like a sledgehammer.

Peter's eyes rolled back into his head as he went over and down, spurting blood. Burned and feeling dizzy, my palms getting cut by broken gla.s.s, I wriggled over his legs on my hands and knees out of the bathroom. I made it as far as the living room when Emma knelt down beside me and cut my taped wrists free with kitchen shears.

"Run," I said hoa.r.s.ely. I gained my feet. "Door. Go. Police. Run!"

"Leaving so soon? Without giving Daddy a kiss?" Peter said behind us.

I turned slowly and froze. I had trouble registering what I was seeing.

The gla.s.s table had injured Peter. Grievously. His left ear was hanging off, flopping against his jaw, dangling by a string of skin. More skin had been shorn from the side of his head, from his temple to his jawline, the exposed pink tissue like b.l.o.o.d.y bubble gum.

Peter reached up and grabbed his damaged ear between his thumb and forefinger. He grunted and, with a quick hard tug, tore it free. It made a small, wet, ripping sound, as if he were removing a Band-Aid. He frowned as he looked down at the detached ear. He shook his head before he laid it carefully on the picture shelf on the wall by his shoulder.

"Someone," he said, nodding to himself with conviction, "is going to have to pay for that."

Then he smiled, his blue eyes flas.h.i.+ng like neon, like a gas burner cranked up all the way.

"b.i.t.c.hes, b.i.t.c.hes, b.i.t.c.hes!" he said in his Southie accent. "All the same. Can't live with ya. Can't kill ya."

The razor-sharp kitchen scissors were on the floor at his feet. He stooped and picked them up.

"No, wait. Spoke too soon," he said, snip-snapping them open and closed like a barber about to get to work. "Actually, I can."