Charming Lily Read online

  And then he was alone, stark naked, with only a pile of wood and no matches.

  He jumped up and down, waving his arms to try and stay warm. What would Lily do? She would say, use your brain, move, don’t stand still. He had no clue what he should do next. Would he freeze to death in two days? Probably. If he could find some stones, he might be able to rub them together to form a spark. If he didn’t rub his fingers to the bone trying. The Burger King paper bag would catch fire quickly. But would the wood be dry enough to catch fire? Son of a bitch! He was free, but he wasn’t free. “If I ever find you bastards, I’ll fucking kill you,” he shouted at the top of his lungs.

  Overhead he heard a flurry of sound.

  Bats!

  And he was buck-ass naked.

  Marcus Collins leaned back in his leather chair and looked at the New York skyline. He was on a short leash, and he knew it. If he didn’t do something quickly, it would be all over. It was all going to come down on him and then where would he be? CYA and look out for Number One. Was there a way to bluff his way through it? Was there a way to get out clean and not look back? Just how smart was Dennis Wagner? Pretty goddamn smart according to Matt Starr. He didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to know Dennis was onto him. The proof was in the paper he was holding in his hand. Dennis had just canceled the trash pickup firm and reinstated the old company. How the hell was he going to explain that to Betsy? Let’s see, what had he gotten for that little favor. Ah yes, stand-up sex in the bathroom for all of thirty seconds. He could picture the exact time, the place, the color of the towels, and the color of the bath mat he had been standing on. He could visualize what he was wearing, at the time and what Betsy was wearing, which was almost nothing. She’d smiled that time. Maybe it wasn’t a smile at all but a grimace. He’d given her best friend’s husband a million-dollar contract for trash disposal, and he’d gotten a small kickback and a quickie that left much to be desired.

  He felt ashamed, and he felt guilty. A time or two he actually felt hatred for himself. All he felt now was stark fear. Because of that fear, he’d gone down to the parking garage yesterday and called the Network News Office and the Wall Street Journal, disguising his voice and informing them of Matt’s no-show at the wedding and his subsequent disappearance. At best it was a temporary diversion. What he had to do now was find the last sequence to the XML and turn it over to his competitor, collect his thirty million, and split. All he would be doing was taking a page out of Matt Starr’s book and disappear. If Matt could do it and get away with it, so could he. He wondered if he would miss Betsy and the girls. He shrugged. The girls were miniature versions of Betsy. No, he wouldn’t miss them much. He’d bet his Presidential Rolex she would have some rich guy on the string within a week. The thought bothered him. He knew in his gut his little family wouldn’t miss him at all.

  Once, when he was young, he’d had ideals. He wondered exactly when they disappeared. Was it when he married Betsy or was it when he realized Dennis Wagner would always be second-in-command? Or was it when his brother approached him to ask for help in paying their father’s bills at the nursing home? His chest heaved in anguish when he remembered what he’d said to Owen that awful day. “Let the state take care of him. He’s got Alzheimer’s and doesn’t know if he’s in a ten-thousand-dollar-a-month nursing home or one that costs two thousand. He gets his medicine, he has nurses, and they take him for walks. That won’t change at a pricey home. The answer’s no, Owen.”

  The shame running through his body was so thick he gagged. Owen had never spoken to him again. Owen was a vice cop in Ridgewood, New Jersey. His wife Margie was a fifth-grade schoolteacher. They had five kids and lived in a split level on a shady cul-de-sac. His kids were active in sports, and Owen umpired Little League. Margie was a Brownie leader and baked and cooked wonderful meals. They were a real family. Owen told him once he and Margie had sex four times a week. Owen had taken a second mortgage on his house in Ridgewood to pay for their father’s nursing care. As a family they went to see him every Sunday afternoon.

  Marcus wished he could cry. There was no way he could ever make that right.

  He looked at the house on the screen of his computer, then clicked the mouse and it disappeared. With things in such turmoil there was no point in searching for a house. He wasn’t going to Oregon in April. If his luck didn’t change soon, his ass might be languishing in a federal pen in April. The thought was so horrendous, he jumped up, removed his jacket, and jerked at his tie. He rolled up his sleeves, narrowed his eyes, and sat down at the computer. All he needed was Matt’s or Dennis’s password and he was home free. He pressed the buzzer on his desk. “Meredith, hold all my calls. That means all, no matter who it is. Say I left the building. I have my pager. Order me a corned beef sandwich and don’t forget the pickles. I’d appreciate some fresh coffee.”

  He’d tried this all before and gotten nowhere. He’d never been this desperate before, though. Maybe this time, if he didn’t give up, he’d crack the password. He heaved a mighty sigh and brought up the program he’d helped design. He stared at it for a long time. Instead of typing, he picked up the phone and called the Bellflower Nursing Home. When the operator’s cheerful voice came on, he said, “This is Marcus Collins, could you tell me how my father is today?”

  “He’s having a good day today, Mr. Collins. He ate all his breakfast and went for a walk with one of the volunteers. He’s scheduled for a haircut later this afternoon. Then around four-thirty he gets to drive the golf cart if he’s up to it. He likes that a lot.”

  “Is there anything he needs or wants?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. I’m looking at his chart. Mr. Owen Collins was here on the weekend. Mrs. Collins brought a tin of cookies, and the children played cards with him. He’s doing as well as can be expected.”

  “Thank you. That’s good to know.”

  Marcus knuckled his eyes when he hung up the phone.

  Now it was time to figure out how he was going to handle his new life. All he needed was one little word that had no more than eight letters.

  Matt stomped around the room, cursing and shouting his frustration. At least he felt warmer for the effort. Whatever he was going to do he was going to have to do it soon. Once darkness came and the temperature dropped he was going to be one sorry man.

  At least he could see with the light filtering through the grimy windows. He looked around, trying to figure out what kind of building he was in. An old hunting lodge maybe. Abandoned. Maybe somewhere, possibly upstairs, there was something he could use for clothing. He heard the bats rustling again up under the eaves. They’d probably come out in a flock once it got dark. Move, Starr, move. He ran then, coming down hard on his heels, just enough to jar his entire body. He didn’t feel so cold when he stomped and ran. He took the stairs two at a time and actually felt his body flush with the effort.

  He looked around in dismay. The loft was empty. He gritted his teeth when he heard the rustling again. He pounded his way over to the window. He dropped to his knees to see how high up he was from the ground.

  Knees. What was he kneeling on? A box? A window seat? Window seats were always used for storage. Growing up he’d had a window seat in his room right under the dormer window. He’d kept his baseball glove, his bat, his tennis racket, and his hockey skates in the box. His breath escaped his blue lips in little dry puffs. Please, God, let there be something in here I can use. Please. Please. He was afraid to lift up the lid, afraid he would see nothing in the bottom. Damn. He thrust up the lid and shouted in glee. Blankets. Wonderful warm blankets. Flannel shirts, corduroy trousers, green Wellington rubber boots. A quilted jacket of some kind. Wool socks. Lots of wool socks someone had knitted. Thank you, God. No underwear. He felt disappointed. Within minutes he was bundled up to his chin. Blessed warmth. He was about to close the lid when he noticed a fat white candle and a tin of matches on the bottom. Manna from heaven. “Thank you, God. I swear, I will do something good when this is all over.”<
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  This was what happened when you tuned in to the universe. Let them all laugh. Did he care? No, he did not.

  Now what should he do? Should he take his chances and leave this snug harbor or should he wait till morning and get a fresh start? He could build a fire, eat the contents of the Burger King bag, and make a cheerful night of it knowing he was going home in the morning. Home to Lily and maybe together they could find Gracie. His heart fluttered at the thought of his dog and how she might be wandering around, trying to forage for food. Maybe Lily was gone, along with the million dollars he had insisted he put in her account. Her million dollars. Possession was nine points of the law. If she had left with the money, how could he blame her? He couldn’t. Well he had the rest of his life to find her.

  All he had to do now was figure out where he was and how to get back to civilization. He needed to think about the men who had brought him here, too. They’d transferred his money to bank accounts somewhere. Wherever that somewhere was, that’s where they were going. Or were they? His money was probably all over the world by now, being transferred from one account to a hundred others. God alone knew where it was. Two days, they had said. Did that mean it was going to take them two days to get where they were going? Or was that to throw him off? Did they know about the blankets and clothes under the window seat? More than likely. Maybe they thought he was stupid and didn’t have the brains to explore the loft. Somehow or other he rather thought they had left the stuff for him to find. From the beginning they said they weren’t murderers.

  Hot damn, he was sweating. He wished he knew what time it was. Way past noon he thought. Maybe two o’clock or later. Too late to start out without knowing where he would have to spend the night.

  He clomped downstairs, the Wellingtons making loud clopping sounds on the steps. They were too big by several sizes, but the four pairs of socks helped to fill them. If he didn’t move fast, or run, they would stay on his feet. He heard the bats again. Were they rabid? What would they do when night fell? Did they come out in flocks and fly about, or did they go outside? Maybe they only roosted in the house during the day. He felt totally ignorant. He’d bet anything Lily knew all there was to know about bats. Charming Lily, the love of his life. He reared up suddenly and threw out his arms. Let her know I love her. Let her know I’ll travel to the ends of the earth to find her.

  It was amazing that fast food could taste so good, he thought, as he chomped on the cold Whopper. The French fries were equally delicious even though they were cold, too, soggy and greasy. He ate every single one. The icy coffee was better than the finest champagne. He loved every mouthful.

  His stomach full, Matt threw the logs on the fire along with the burger bag and waxed containers that held the coffee and French fries. He struck a match from the tin and watched the dry wood spring into flames. Now the trick would be not to let the fire go out. The moment he heard a high-pitched scream, he whirled around, his heart leaping in his chest. There was nothing to be seen in the dark corners. Where had the sound come from? And then he saw them. Bats, falling down the chimney into the fire. He raced upstairs for one of the blankets under the window seat, galloped back down the steps, and did his best to beat out the flames. In his life he’d never heard such squealing and screeching.

  The moment the blanket caught on fire he knew it was time to leave. He bolted and almost lost one of the Wellingtons in his haste to get out the door. How was I supposed to know there were bats in the chimney? No one said anything about bats. They told me to build a fire. He sat down on a fallen log and looked back at the building where he’d been held a prisoner. Hundreds of bats were flying in crazy circles all around the house. He ran then because he didn’t know what else to do.

  When he couldn’t run anymore, he looked around for a log to sit on. He had no idea where he was. The moment his breathing returned to normal, he took stock of his situation. He was in the woods, that was for sure. The heady scent of pine assailed his nostrils. It reminded him of his youth and Christmas. He’d always gone with his father to chop down the tree and then set it up in the living room. He loved the smell of the branches and the sap on his hands.

  It would be dark soon. He had to think about where he was going to spend the night and how he was going to stay warm. Maybe he could break off some of the lower pine branches and make a bed of sorts and use more of the branches to cover himself. Even though he was warmly dressed, the ground would be cold and damp. His rear end felt cold because the trousers were too big and air rushed up his legs. Underwear, especially jockeys, kept your butt nice and warm. Someday he was going to write all this in his memoirs. If he lived to write about it.

  The woods were thick and dark, the undergrowth dense. How was he to get out of there? He had no knife to hack at the vines and thickets. Each time he stomped his foot the Wellingtons came off. It was all going to be an exercise in futility. How long would it take to starve to death? There were no berries or nuts around. No water. How long before he started to dehydrate? Lily knew all these things. Well, Lily wasn’t there, and he had to do the best he could.

  Was he going north, south, east, or west? Maybe he could tell when the sun set. The only problem was he couldn’t see the sun through the thick canopy of trees. Was he going to die out here? How long before his cold, stiff body would be found?

  Dennis. Dennis would look for him. His good buddy Dennis would never believe he stood Lily up. Dennis was as dumb as he was about this survival stuff. Give him a computer and he had no equal, but his performance during the Extreme Vacation had been so dismal Matt had cringed. His own had been no better. He had to believe that somehow Dennis would come to his aid.

  Lily, I am so sorry. If you truly love me, then you won’t believe I deserted you. I can only hope you listen to Dennis and are trying to find me. Don’t give up. Please don’t give up. I’m going to do my best, but I don’t think it’s going to be good enough. Me asking for help. That’s a hoot, isn’t it?

  He realized he was tired but knew he had to keep moving, to cover as much territory as he could while he could still see. He took a deep breath and started out again, a little slower this time so as not to use up all his energy. He did his best to calculate the time by counting to sixty over and over and ticking off the minutes on his fingers. He’d walk for forty minutes if he could hold out that long and then try to make himself a shelter for the night. He needed a weapon, a big stick. Just in case. What kind of animals prowled during the night? Lily would know, but he didn’t. Suddenly he felt so stupid he wanted to cry.

  A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth at the thought. His mother had told him once that big boys were allowed to cry. She’d said, “When something hurts real bad, Matthew, it’s all right to cry. Crying will make you feel better.” It was a pity his father wasn’t of the same opinion. Tears were a sign of weakness for him. He wanted a tall, strapping son who would take on the world and conquer it. Matt had to wonder if his parents would be proud of him today, had they lived. His mother would have been proud of him if he pumped gas for a living. Not so his father. He remembered how he’d cried at his mother’s funeral and even afterward, but he’d been dry-eyed when his father was lowered into the ground. That first year he’d gone to the cemetery almost every day to talk to his mother, pointedly ignoring the other grave. Once he thought he’d felt her presence. And once he thought she’d whispered something in his ear that sounded like, “Enjoy your life, son. You don’t need to keep coming here. I’m watching over you.”

  He’d stopped going then and only went to the cemetery around Christmas and on Memorial Day. The past two years he hadn’t gone at all. He raised his eyes and looked upward. “Can you help me, Mom? I don’t know what to do, where to go. As much as I miss you, I’m not ready to meet up with you yet.”

  He couldn’t go another step. The damn boots were giving him blisters. A rotten log beckoned, and he sat down, dropping his head into his hands. He did cry then because his mom had told him a long time ago it was o
kay for big boys to cry. Angry with himself and his circumstances, he started to curse. “Sorry, Mom.”

  Matt struggled with the piney branches, but they were hard to break off because they were wet and thick. His hands were black and sticky with the resin, but at least he had a bed of sorts. Would the thick pine boughs keep him warm during the night? He’d know soon enough. All the light was suddenly gone. He lowered himself to the ground and pulled at the pine branches until they covered him from head to toe. He struggled to remember one of the prayers he’d learned in Catholic school, prayers he hadn’t said in a very long time. “Our Father . . .”

  While Matt Starr prayed, Marcus Collins cursed. It was almost eight o’clock, and he was no further ahead than he was when he settled in around noon. Eight hours and nothing to show for it. He yawned and stretched his arms over his head. He needed a break, a diversion. He’d order a pizza and work another hour, then call it a day. He’d go home and think up some lies that would get him some extra time. He adjusted the lamps before he walked out to his secretary’s office. He looked down at the mound of pink slips. Calls he had to return. He pawed through them as he called to place his order for the pizza. The guard would bring it up when it arrived, and he wouldn’t have to worry about running down to pay the driver. Matt had accounts all over the city for takeout. Once in a while, Matt did something he approved of. He winced at the tone of some of the messages. He had yet to check his private voice mail or e-mails. They were probably just as angry-sounding. Betsy had called five times. Okay, no point in returning her call. He knew her friend had called to inform her about losing the contract for trash pickup. Like he gave a good rat’s ass about that. Twelve calls from Dennis. Screw you, buddy. One from his tailor—his new suit was ready to be picked up. Something to look forward to. Another call from the kids’ ski lodge saying both his girls had fevers. What did they think he was going to do, rush to Maine and bring them home? That was Betsy’s job. Screw that, too. Six calls from Eric Savarone’s secretary, Martha. Two calls from two different banks. So he was overdrawn again. Or Betsy was overdrawn. Same difference. Thirty-two different calls from the media requesting interviews about Matt Starr’s disappearance. Like I’m really going to return any of those calls. Marcus snorted his disdain. Let them put their own spin on things. And then the mystery caller. No name, just a number. Well, he knew who that was. He’d talked to him earlier in the day. No rush on that one either.