Prodigy Page 6

  She glanced at her watch, and was surprised to see that it was after ten. Normally she’d push herself to the kung fu studio for a workout, but Sifu Henry Li closed up around eleven, so there’d be little point. As she rounded her block, her eyes fell on a familiar man’s silhouette on her front stoop. Her heart quickened, as she approached. At least he hadn’t keyed into the condo.

  He stood as she approached. “Barrett.”

  “What are you doing here, Ralph?” And realizing the hour she added, “and how long have you been here?”

  “I called out sick,” he said, with a half smile. “I’m not sure that was a lie. I miss you so much, Barrett. I’m not sleeping, I’m not eating.”

  She saw sincerity in his eyes, he seemed so unhappy. “Ralph.”

  “Barrett, there’s got to be something I can do to make this right.”

  “I don’t know, Ralph,” she admitted, feeling a tingle up her spine as he took her hand.

  “Please,” he brought her fingers to his lips, his coarse stubble against her knuckles, his warm breath on her skin. “Can’t we talk?”

  Her knees felt weak, it has to be the alcohol, she told herself as her mouth, seemingly disconnected from her better senses, said, “Okay, you can come up, but just for five minutes.”

  “Thank you.” He followed her up the stairs.

  She felt his every footfall as they rounded the landings, and then, outside their condo door, his presence close, his hand on the small of her back, a gesture so familiar, and so missed. She fumbled with the key.

  “Here,” his hands on hers, steadying them, twisting the knob.

  The warm smell of home washed over them. She turned toward him, struggling for resolve, wanting to say, “just five minutes.” But before the words could come, his deep-brown eyes were on hers, his expression sad … tender. He was pleading, wanting another chance. And in that moment, Barrett surrendered. She didn’t care, the ache in her chest and tightness in her throat cried for relief.

  “Okay,” she whispered, as his arms wrapped around her, drawing her in.

  The touch of his full lips on hers was electric. She pressed against him, needing to feel his length against hers. She closed her eyes, and felt the floor give way, as he swept her up, and carried her toward the bedroom. A tiny voice tried to remind her that she was mad at him, that he’d betrayed her with another woman … again. In that moment, she didn’t care, she was floating in his arms, and then on the soft down of their quilted comforter. Her hands snaked under his shirt, feeling his hard muscles, the flatness of his belly. She grabbed at his belt and pulled him toward her.

  “Thank you,” he mouthed, his lips finding hers, his musician’s hands quickly working at the buttons of her blouse. “I love you,” his mouth on hers. “I love you.”

  Two hours later, Barrett lay flat in bed, her thoughts dreamy. Ralph was fast asleep, exhausted from their lovemaking that had ended in the shower. “Getting clean and getting dirty all at the same time,” he’d whispered while holding her tight under the spray.

  Now, the sound of his breathing and the sweet, soapy smell of him were like a soothing drug. She gently touched the smooth skin of his back. Why? she thought. Why did you have to do that?—thinking simultaneously of his infidelity with Carol and the beauty of what they’d just shared. She rolled away and swung her long legs over the side of the bed. She picked up his button-down shirt, threw it on and moved quietly toward the door, closing it behind her. Padding silently across the living room,she sat down at her piano. With her left foot damping down on the soft pedal, she let her fingers fall on the keys, and without preparation drifted into a Chopin Nocturne, letting the vibrations of the wistful music fill her. As that ended—perhaps fueled by the conversation with Ellen—she launched into the Revolutionary Étude, amazed that her fingers remembered. Images of Sophie and recitals long past flashed before her, as dizzying runs spilled from the Mason and Hamlin. She pictured the Martin twins—so beautiful—a pair of blond angels sparkling in the spotlights. How sad, she thought, moving seamlessly from Chopin to Erik Satie’s dreamy Trois Gymnopédies, and wondering—hoping—that she’d be able to help the tortured child—now a man—that Ellen Martin had described.

  ___

  Two miles away, on the Upper East Side, Ellen Martin’s limo pulled into the garage of the Georgian townhouse that had belonged to her great-great grandfather, James Cyrus Martin. She felt exhilarated and realized that despite her initial reticence, Jimmy had finally gotten it right. Barrett Conyors was perfect. She was beautiful—even though she tried to play that down with her ill-fitting suit and near absence of make-up. Her intelligence was impossible to deny—which gave Ellen pause—and she’d been more than modest about her skill as a pianist. And the accent she tried to hide … just like Nicole … just like Maylene all those many years ago. A whiff of something dangerous from her past bubbled up; and she felt the shiver of a very bad thing that, try as she might, she could not remember.

  As the chauffeur held the door, Ellen’s mind raced through all that had to be done. Jimmy might have made the right selection, but as she well knew, his talents did not extend far beyond his cello. She could almost hear her father’s hissing voice, “Chicky’s the one that makes things happen.”

  Yes, she thought, punching in the code to let her into the house. She had many plans to make and they’d have to be very careful—Dr. Conyors would not be easily led—but after their dinner, she knew that it would be worth the effort.

  FIVE

  Jimmy’s powerful fingers attacked the Allegro with razor-sharp precision, while Ellen’s soaring accompaniment spilled from the stereo; it was a recording of their Carnegie Hall debut at the age of twelve. He glanced up at the massive Bösendorfer and imagined Ellen there, instead of Fred the cat curled in a ball, watching him.

  His blond bangs fell across his face, as his bow hand arced and plunged, pulling soulful phrases from his eighteenth-century cello. One with the music, the room slipped away and a fantasy emerged, fueled by the heartbreaking melodies of the only piece Chopin ever wrote for cello. He felt the heat of the lights as the vibrations filled his body. He’d be in tails and the woman at the piano was no longer his sister. She was Barrett, dressed in black satin with a single strand of lustrous pearls encircling her throat. Her gray eyes would sparkle as she’d challenge him to ever-greater virtuosity. He’d look up, and there she’d be, loving him, wanting him.

  For half an hour he ran from movement to movement, the allegro moderato, the scherzo, the mournful largo, and the release of the finale. As he drew the final chord across the strings his head sagged, and he imagined a stunned silence in the auditorium, and then the first tentative applause, which would blossom and explode into a standing ovation. There’d be shouts for an encore, and with sweat dripping down his face he’d turn to his beautiful Barrett. Their eyes would lock and the emotion would be more powerful than words.

  The turntable skipped and the needle scratched. Startled, Jimmy put down his cello and switched off the player. He gingerly lifted the decades-old vinyl and replaced it in its sleeve. He ran the tips of his long fingers over the photograph on the front. In the picture, he was facing forward and Ellen, in profile, was looking at him. He traced the outline of her cheek. He’d been hard with her on the telephone, he knew that she meant well, but in the end, she’d see he was right. “Chicky.” His raspy voice whispered Ellen’s childhood nickname.

  He put the album away and looked at his cello, feeling a familiar emptiness. He glanced at his bracelet as it sparked its fifteen-second reminder. The urge to go out was fierce. His tongue flicked at his bottom lip as he thought of the cool night air, and pictured her building, knowing which windows were hers, knowing the lock on the security door was broken. He pictured the black and white tile of her downstairs hallway, the worn treads on the wooden steps, the creak of his weight, as he moved closer toward her …

  He walked to the fiberglass cello case Ellen had had custom made in Sweden, its v
elvet interior perfectly fitted to contain the Amati that Father had purchased at Sotheby’s. He reached in and released a hidden catch in the bottom. A panel clicked open and he retrieved another one of Ellen’s gifts—an electronic key. Sitting on the edge of a damask sofa he crossed his bracelet-encircled ankle over his left knee. Aiming the metal key at the release, he waited for the red light. Quickly inserting it, he depressed the catch, nothing happened. He tried again, and still nothing. The light blinked. He pulled out the key and wiped the magnetic strip against his pants. He checked the lithium battery, but knew that it was still good; he’d just replaced it. He waited for the light and reinserted it. Jamming his thumb hard against the button, he strained to hear the sound of the catch, the sound of freedom. “Come on,” he pressed it again and again, carelessly ignoring the flash of red. Ellen had warned him not to release the security bracelet when it was transmitting; if he did so, a malfunction reading would occur and within minutes a monitor from the forensic center would come knocking at his door. “Come on.” He took the key out and, holding it under the light, examined its every surface. Sweat beaded his forehead, his breath quickened as he tried a third time—it still wouldn’t work. Ignoring Ellen’s warning, he pushed it in and out. Frustration mounted, rage surged, and before he could think, he hurled the key across the room. “Shit!”

  The cat leapt from his perch and raced under a table as Jimmy watched the malfunctioning key fly through the air. For a moment he thought it would land safely on the rug, instead, it cracked against the white-marble fireplace.

  “No!” He ran over and looked down. The plastic casing had shattered, revealing its complicated electronic guts. He picked up the biggest piece, tears welling.

  A familiar voice whispered in his ear, “Stupid boy. Such a stupid boy.”

  “No,” he tried to block out Father’s voice.

  “Never could take care of your things, could you? Perhaps Jimbo needs a visit?”

  “No, no, no.”

  “I think you do,” and then laughter.

  Jimmy’s knees buckled, and he dropped the ruined key. He jammed his hands over his ears, knowing it wouldn’t help. “Go away,” he tried to shut out the laughter. “You’re dead, you’re dead.”

  “Do I sound dead?”

  “Leave me alone.”

  “I don’t think so. You have to pay, Jimbo.”

  “What do you want?”

  “You know …”

  Jimmy shuddered. He smelled whiskey on the back of his neck, and his chest squeezed as though he were being pressed down hard against his mattress. “No,” he sobbed, feeling father’s clammy fingers pull down the back of his pajamas.

  “Yes, yes, yes” the voice whispered, the words slurry and moist.

  “No!” Jimmy shouted, clawing his way back toward reality. “You’re not here, you’re dead, you’re dead!” He focused on the piano, and his cello, he looked across at the mahogany ladder that could be wheeled across the two-story-high bookshelves. “Go away!”

  Father’s laughter echoed in his ears, as he stood on shaky legs and backed away from the fireplace. “Go away!”

  The laughter faded, but wouldn’t stop. Jimmy tried to slow his breathing; his heart pounded. Desperate for comfort, he picked up a dog-eared program from a long-ago recital. It was from the Manhattan Prodigy series. With trembling fingers he opened it, stopping briefly on the glossy black-and-white headshots of himself and Ellen, two gifted teenagers who for their last three years in the program had monopolized the coveted last spot. He flipped back through the pages, passing through ever-smaller photos until he came to the one that he needed. It was that of a nine-year-old girl, with gleaming dark-brown hair and almond-shaped eyes, who had stolen the show when she had erupted with a brilliant execution of Chopin’s jaw-dropping “Revolutionary” Étude; a piece that not even Ellen could handle. He stared at the picture, remembering the gawky girl who had played with fierce intensity. She’d worn an ill-fitting velvet dress and her face—her beautiful face—seemed lit by some internal light. It’s a face he’d seen one other time, only then the gawky girl had blossomed into the most magnificent creature, like a fairy tale princess. She’d come to him in the hospital; she’d had such compassion, as though she could see his pain, could know it, could make it go away. And then the miracle happened; in that hell hole, on that day; he’d felt love spark to life. And with that came a certainty that what he felt, she did as well. He saw it in her eyes, a desire and a longing for him. And through the long years that followed he knew that she’d be there. And now …

  “Barrett Conyors,” he whispered, reading the name beneath the photograph. The laughter subsided; it was going to be okay.

  He put the program down and walked to the fireplace. Dropping to the hearth, he gathered the pieces of his shattered key. Satisfied that he had them all, he straightened and headed toward the kitchen with Fred mewing at his heels. He unlatched the back door and took a deep breath of evening air. Careful not to let the cat out, he stepped into the walled courtyard. In front of him was a weathered marble fountain, no longer functional, but filled with rainwater and muck; a swarm of newly hatched mosquitoes swirled over its surface. Above him soared a dense canopy of hundred-year-old evergreens, a Japanese maple, and exotic specimen trees that had started to unfurl their spring foliage. To his right lay the ruined remains of Mother’s garden. She had loved her roses, spending hours pruning and spraying them, picking off Japanese beetles and crushing them in her fingers.

  “And now she’s buried under them,” Father whispered.

  “So are you.” Jimmy spat back.

  “Details, details.”

  He stood still and looked around. Supposedly, they’d both perished in a car accident three years ago, along with a twenty-something Latino chauffeur. When he was first told, it didn’t take him long to figure it out. Starting with the fact that Mother and Father rarely went anywhere together.

  “Accident my ass,” Father hissed.

  Jimmy stared at the sprouting weeds, and tangled remnants of once-carefully tended arbors. When they were little, he and Ellen had a game of make-believe; they called it Hansel and Gretel. Only, in their game it wasn’t just the witch that went into the oven. Depending on the day, and who they were mad at, it could be just about anyone, Jimmy’s cello teacher, a piano-playing rival of Ellen’s—but mostly they’d fantasized about pushing Father and then Mother into the oven, and having their beloved Southern nanny, Maylene, take care of them.

  When the social worker at Croton had broken the news, Jimmy had asked for the details, to see the newspaper clippings, to go to the funeral. They’d all assumed it was a healthy grief reaction, and he was granted permission to attend, albeit accompanied by two guards. But Jimmy had read between the headlines, and had observed how easily Ellen took over as CEO for Martin Industries. No bodies were found in the submerged BMW sedan, just a scarf, a shoe, and a chauffeur’s cap, everything else presumably washed away in the swift currents of the Hudson.

  Perhaps one day he’d do a bit of digging, but now, other desires took precedence. He walked past the fountain and entered the dense thicket of ivy, weeds, and bramble that created a dark tunnel. Moving by feel, his hand found the cool surface of the brownstone carriage house, constructed of the same material as the mansion. Opening a small wooden door he entered a world that the review board knew nothing about. Still well within the range of his bracelet, this was his special retreat.

  He stepped into the darkened hall that ran the length of the building. To his right was the garage, which housed a 1952 Rolls Royce Silver Shadow, a maroon Jaguar XKE, a Ford panel van to which Ellen had made a variety of modifications, including the installation of a 340 horsepower V-8 engine, and a yellow cab—the most anonymous vehicle one could have in Manhattan.

  He looked through the garage to the front door, and wistfully noted the dark outline of his black leather car coat hanging from its hook. There’d be no going out tonight, at least not to where he wan
ted. If he strayed beyond his range—about a block in any direction—they’d come after him, and … “No,” he shut his eyes, and tried to block out the smell of pine disinfectant, and Croton’s ever-present stench of body fluids.

  He climbed the twisting stairs to the second-floor quarters, which Ellen had converted into a large loft space. It was first accessed through a narrow antechamber that contained his computer and a row of security monitors that would warn him if anyone approached the house, or rang the bell, a necessary precaution as it would not go well if Hector—or anyone else from the board—came calling and he wasn’t in. The ceiling of both the security booth and the large room were covered with dark acoustic tiles, the walls—also black—she’d paneled with a sound-absorbent polymer; once the door of the security booth was closed, both rooms became entirely soundproof. He’d told her that he wanted to use the carriage house as a recording studio. But that was not entirely correct. And in the weeks since his release, he’d arranged for contractors to begin the next phase of construction. Several unopened boxes with additional monitors and sound equipment were stacked above and beneath the counter of the security room, and a massive deadbolt had been recently affixed to the steel-reinforced door that separated the two rooms.

  As he’d done, almost every day since leaving Croton, he typed in Barrett Conyors’ name, and stayed until dawn, rereading her articles, learning what he could about her sister’s surgical program, seeing what workmen had filed permits for repairs to her mother’s building, even getting the orchestra-seating chart to know exactly where her husband, Ralph Best, sat. He found it interesting that she’d never taken his name; obviously, she was waiting for someone else. At times, it amazed him how much he could discover about her through the Internet. Most of the web had been blocked to him while at Croton, as he’d spend hours in the library earning 33 cents an hour, supposedly doing clerical work, but actually learning what he could about his Barrett, and trying to maintain finger dexterity by typing. Those snippets of information were powerful messages; she was leaving a trail for him to follow, just like the bread crumbs that had led Hansel and Gretel back to safety.