Tabloid Trix Chapter 27
Becky had convinced him. She talked through and quarreled with his plan, trying to make him see that it was wrong. It was sloppy. It would lead to…bad things.
Of course, once he calmed down, he could objectively examine her point of view. There were security cameras, other tenants, scarce as they were, in the old building. This was New York City, after all. The police would question the fired staff; and all paths would lead back to him.
Not one of his brighter campaigns.
He knew it, too, in that secret, rational corner of his mind; it made him fight that much more with Becky. He was slipping. His need to get to almost-Becky was overwhelming. His other desires, the ones Becky didn't know about, were mixing in and throwing him way off balance.
And she didn't hesitate to point it out. Or to take him to task about his strange tenseness since they left Montréal. Her blue eye glared with suspicion at him. Something must have happened in Montréal, and he hadn't told her yet.
He took pains to soothe her, to explain he was just eager to finish the project he and she had been working on for so long. To finally have his beautiful Becky in the flesh, whole again. To be able to look into two impossibly clear blue eyes, to touch her and have her touch him.
He didn't tell her he was missing his island, and the things he brought there; and especially the red, red geysers and the freedom he found. And the power - oh, the power - over life and death.
It was more difficult in New York City. More traffic cameras to track movement; no rural island across from his house where he could take his little trophies to play with in the dead of the night. His fingers itched for the release he had yet to find in this massive hive of people.
It made him just a little short-tempered.
He turned his powerful mind back to Paul Trent, and just how he was going to help him understand just how…foolish…his actions had been.
Misto Cay, Caribbean
Bright buttery sunlight streamed into the beautiful bedroom in the villa known as Lotus. Diana Lynch stretched and looked up at the mosquito netting on the ceiling, and wondered just where the hell she was.
A confused minute later, it all came flooding back to her when she turned to see Mart's face, peaceful in slumber, looking more boyish and endearing than he had any right to.
Her amethyst eyes roamed over him, from the tips of his blonde hair, the slight golden stubble on his cheeks and the strong line of his shoulders.
They were both tired and a bit depressed as they made their way to the villa, escorted by their personal butler. Mart thanked the man and hurried him on his way, eager to talk to his Diana. Eager to clear whatever it was between them.
"Umm, I guess I'll just turn in, Mart," she said when he came back. The villa was gorgeous, soothing to the eye and calming to the soul.
"Can we talk for a minute, Di?" When she looked up at him, a slight protest mirrored in her face, he continued. "Just a moment. It…it's the first time we had a chance to talk, alone, since all this nonsense began."
She didn't say anything; just gave a nod and settled herself on the comfortable, cushioned sofa that was gaily patterned with huge lotus blossoms. It should have looked ugly, loud and garish, but here…it just fit in.
Mart sat on the low table in front of her, and gazed into her downcast face. Her magnificent eyes were hooded; and he just hoped she would listen to what he had to say. He grasped her long, slender hand, his fingers nervously playing with the little silver ring she always wore on her middle finger.
"It's my fault, you know," he began and stopped when she raised her face, her amethyst eyes full of confusion.
"Paul Trent and that rag? I don't see how, Mart." Why on earth would Mart think it was his fault? Trent was a sleaze.
He shook his head. "No, not the magazine stuff. I mean the other stuff. Between you and me," a flush rose in his face, as vibrant as any of Trixie's.
His touch was creating the most amazing feelings in her: longing, security and a surprising coil of heat that threatened to overrule her determination to be a real partner to him, and not just a convenient bed partner. She untangled her hands from his, sat back a bit and folded them primly in her lap.
"I'm listening."
She wasn't going to make this easy on him. His blue eyes raked over her, sitting there, eyes downcast, waiting for him to begin. Except Mr. Walking-Dictionary couldn't find any words in the vast vocabulary he had at his disposal.
He cleared his throat, raking a nervous hand through his short blonde locks. "Do you want to marry me?" He almost clapped a hand over his mouth. That certainly was not what he was going to say.
Diana raised her head and stared at him, her violet eyes as wide as he'd ever seen them. "Wha…what did you say Mart?" Ohmygod. He wasn't proposing, was he?
He twisted his hands together, trying to mitigate the disaster that was sure to follow his ill-chosen words. "I meant, do you want to, like, marry me in the future? Not right now," he hastened to add. He almost groaned aloud. Superman himself wouldn't be able to get him out of the trench he was digging.
"So, you're not proposing to me," Diana said, in her soft voice.
"Not…not now, Di," he pleaded. "I love you. I've loved you just about forever. I do want…"
A flicker appeared in those eyes that haunted him since he was seven years old. He couldn't get a good read on her, couldn't tell whether she was about to jump up and storm off, or worse yet, tell him she didn't want to marry him. Ever.
"Mart, you've been pushing me away for months." Her soft eyes filled with tears. "Months. The only time we communicate is in bed. A marriage, a life together, to me at least, is not based on how compatible we are sexually. That's just a small part." She tucked a long strand of jet-black hair behind her ear. "It's not what I want in a boyfriend, either. I don't want to be a friend with benefits." She flushed. "If that's all I wanted, I could take care of things myself."
Mart looked down at his hands. He wanted to protest, wanted to tell her she meant more to him than anyone else in the world, that he could never treat her that way. As he thought over their last few dates, he came to the stunning realization that her words rang true.
"God, Di, I'm so sorry." Agitated, he stood, then sat right back down, hard. "I do love you. So very, very much it hurts sometimes." His blue eyes glistened with tears. "I never meant to make you feel like that. I have so much, I don't know, stored up inside of me, all these feelings. I want what Jim and Trix have. I want that with you. Only you."
She placed a slender hand on his knee, their jeweled gazes colliding. "I want that too. Don't you see, Mart? What they have, what Jim did for her, God, it's the stuff legends are made of. But it's their legend. A girl can be a little envious of that. It doesn't mean I want it. We have to write our own story. And my story, our story, doesn't include getting married now."
"Could you ever forgive me? Oh God, Di, I'm such a dolt." His hands crept to hers, interlacing the fingers. He was just glad she didn't pull away.
"Yeah, I forgive you," she replied, threatening tears finally spilling. "I love you, Martin Belden."
He released her hands, brought his thumbs up to wipe away the drops sparkling on her cheeks. "And I love you, Diana Lynch."
When their lips met this time, it was with a gentle promise of a bright future.
Back in New York City…
That bitch wasn't answering her cell phone; neither were the other two members of the so-called Editorial Board of OMG!.
She freakin' stood him up!
He waited for over an hour at the office, pacing back and forth, continuing to try to open the locked door. Each time, he hoped that magically, the doorknob would turn all the way and he'd find himself in the decrepit office.
Instead, it remained stubbornly stuck after a mere quarter-turn. Every new attempt caused his volatile temper to climb higher and higher, until he was slamming out of the building. His face was violently red, and people moved out of his way on the sidewalk.
He kept trying them all, using up the expensive minutes on his prepaid cell phone every time he rang through to their chirpy voicemail messages. His mind, so full of red, kept whipping him along the street.
They better not be trying to pull a fast one. So help me God, I'll kill them all. His hands were clenched into white-knuckled fists. He just knew they were trying to steal his story. Bastards. He'd show them. They thought he was stupid, but he sent each and every story and photo to himself through the mail before they were published, and they were all in sealed envelopes and dated by none other than the USPS. It was as good as a copyright.
The odor of stale beer caught at his senses, and he made a detour into the run-down tavern.
Misto Cay, Caribbean…
Aidan was lounging by the infinity pool, his dark shades in place and a cool, reserved expression on his handsome face. Inside, however, he was completely awed by the island, and the fact that he and his sister were simply invited along like it was no big deal.
The Bob-Whites had straggled into the dining room at the main house at breakfast. Aidan was busy reading the full-color, thick brochure that enumerated all the island had to offer. Personal butlers with each villa. White-sand beaches. SCUBA equipment. Jet-skis. A guest could choose to dine on gourmet meals every day in the main house, or have the cook prepare something in their personal villa.
There was a small infirmary, staffed with a nurse-practitioner. A masseuse. And of course, maid service so that one didn't have to lift an over-privileged, lazy finger to do anything as taxing as making one's bed.
He smirked sarcastically at himself. It was paradise.
Except the one person that would really make it paradise for him entered the dining room with sleepy, satisfied eyes; very kissed looking lips; a slight flush highlighting her high cheekbones, and a love bite on her neck. And her husband was smiling at her with pure male satisfaction.
Made him want to gag.
The decision was made to meet back at the main house for dinner, and to discuss 'the issue.' He thought it was pretty damn funny to see his picture in the gossip column online as Honey's mystery man. Kaitlin, however, was not at all amused by the dredging up of Dan's past, or the allegations of drugs and sex among the seven.
Kaitlin. His sister was wild about Daniel Mangan, and judging by the stars in his eyes, he was crazy about her, too. Aidan wondered why he was sleeping in Rose Villa with his sister, while Dan had Jacaranda all to himself. No parents, no constraints. They could be together, if they wanted to, and it was very obvious they did. What was holding them back?
A pretty little maid interrupted his thoughts with her musical accent. "Can I get you anything, Sir?" she giggled, blushing a little at the handsome young man relaxing by the pool.
Aidan peeked over the rim of his sunglasses at the cute girl, who appeared around his age. Hmmm. Might be an interesting day or two, he mused, and gave her a wide, sexy grin.
Back in New York City…
He threw down a couple of cheap scotches, and silently reflected that that's why they call it rotgut. His belly was burning as it was, before he stopped in the bar, and now he was really in a significant amount of pain. Trent wondered if he was getting an ulcer, and damn, if he was, the crappy magazine was going to get hit with a large lawsuit. Pain and suffering, loss of wages, copyright infringement, plagiarism; hell, if he was married he'd throw in loss of consort.
He pushed his way out after leaving money on the bar; no tip for the bored bartender who was more interested in watching the game on the old, flickering cathode-ray set than fulfilling his customers' needs.
As soon as the worn sneakers hit the pavement, he was lighting up a cigarette. As he trudged through the not-quite-dusk, he kept one arm pressing on his abdomen while the other was busily engaged in the task of repeatedly removing and reinserting the cigarette after every deep inhale and exhale.
By the time he smoked it down to the filter, he was home.
Trent stubbed the butt out on the cracked and filthy steps leading into what was optimistically called the lobby. Before he opened the door, he raised his head to the flickering red sign. Apartments. Cheap Apartments for Rent.
He almost laughed aloud.
The lobby consisted of some cracked linoleum, a black and white checked pattern popular in the early fifties. There was a listing, dirty sofa that once might have been green, but was now sort of brownish. It really should be posted with a bio-hazard warning.
In the corner was a large cage, the check-in. Nobody was manning it. There was a heavy-duty mesh screen on the two exposed sides, and a small slot to push money through. On the side of the mesh was a buzzer to contact the slob who was, ostensibly, the manager. The elevator, off to one side, had a yellowing out of order sign on it.
As he trudged up the cracked steps, he thought about the little house he used to rent in Sleepyside. A miniscule yard, but the air was clear and the house was clean. He didn't have the stale odors of onions, garlic and old sex to contend with. Nor did he have to carefully watch where he was stepping, avoiding the used condoms and the landings that were used as urinals.
Apartments? Hell no. He knew what it was; his Cheap Apartment for Rent. It was a place for hookers to take their next john, for people that stayed a couple of weeks and flitted out in the dead of the night, leaving their meager belongings that the manager greedily scoffed up and sold.
Flophouse.
An old word, but so much more descriptive than the more PC 'transient hotel'.
He inserted his key into the lock in the beat-up old door, with the painted-on number that was cracked and peeling off, and stepped into his palatial apartment, he thought with a sarcastic snort.
Of course, he never realized the throne room was always the place that evil lurked, grew and flourished.
Misto Cay…
Brian was showering, washing off the salt and sand before they all met for dinner. He couldn't believe the absolute fun, the joy they all experienced today on the island. It was much too long since they had a carefree day like that.
They all met at the small jetty, and soon were out on the tranquil, turquoise waters on the most amazing jet-skis. God, those things could move. He loved the spray of salt water in his face, the wind whipping by, the sun beating down on his limbs. They explored the island on water, stopping here and there to jump in and cool off, have a couple of races and just relax.
As the multiple shower-heads pulsated against him, he recalled how he and Honey smoothed the sunblock on each other under one of the thatched-hut cabanas scattered about the beaches. His large hands on her silky skin, working in the smooth lotion; her own slender hands, cool to the touch, on him, so tremendously erotic that he was surprised he didn't ravish her right then and there.
The pleasurable day was playing out in his mind's eye, so that he never heard the glass door open, never felt the little cool breeze, but only experienced the thrill of her sultry voice and her magic hands sliding around his waist.
Dinner could damn well wait. Paul Trent could damn well wait. In fact, the whole damn world could wait…
Kaitlin was brushing her hair when the peremptory knock on her door ushered in the freshly-showered and shaved brother she loved so well.
"Wow. Some set-up. Are you going to be able to go back to our tiny apartment?" Aidan looked around in awe. His sister was seated before a huge vanity, a triple mirror reflecting her lovely face. The room was nearly as big as their whole apartment in New York.
"This is a vacation," she grinned. "Real life always beckons from afar."
He lowered himself onto the fainting couch, an almost identical grin splitting his face. "Yeah, it does, doesn't it? But I could get used to this, real fast."
"Well, Ace, unless you are planning to kidnap and compromise some fabulously wealthy heiress, who will fall madly in love with your wicked ways, it's beer and Atlantic City for us!"
Aidan snorted out a laugh. Putting one hand to his forehead, he said dramatically, "But I am now used to private islands and Cristal! Oh, the horror of it!"
Kaitlin had to giggle. Sobering suddenly, Aidan sat up. "You know Kait, I would have gone and stayed in the other villa in case you and Dan wanted to…" A slight flush bloomed on his cheeks, "You know, stay here."
The brush stilled in her hands. Was there anything in life more uncomfortable than discussing one's sex life with a sibling? The only answer she could come up with was discussing the same subject with parents. "Ah, Ace. Dan and I…uh, we are taking things slowly." Both of them recognized staying in the same villa would not be conducive to their celibate agreement.
"Uh, Kait, isn't that kind of," he groped for words, "Locking the barn door after the horse escaped? Or is it a cow?" he mused.
She was surprised into a gasp of laughter. "Geez, Aidan, don't pull any punches because I am your sister," she giggled again. Her merry eyes met his in the mirror. "Dan is special and you know what? So am I."
Aidan stood, walked over to his sister and put his hands on her shoulders, stooping to plant a soft kiss on the top of her head. ""bout time you recognized that, Miss McCourt. You are very special."
She leaned back against him, and raised a soft hand to pat his. "Thanks, Ace. I love you."
"And I think you're my favorite sister."
"Hey! I'm your only sister!"
"See?"
Paul Trent's apartment, New York City…
He stepped through the open door, flipped on the dim light, and locked it, and the chain lock he installed himself. Flimsy, but at least it would buy him time if any of his law-abiding neighbors decided to break in.
A cultured voice came out of the shadows. "Mr. Paul Trent? I've been waiting a very long time to speak to you."
Trent staggered back a couple of steps, his back against the door. "Who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?"
Hunter Lavigne stepped into the pool of light. "Mr. Trent. Is that a polite way to greet the man who signs those pitiful paychecks of yours?" He extended his hand, and Trent was surprised into shaking it. The man's hand was strong, with a cool grip.
"My name is Hunter Lavigne, and the late, lamented OMG! was once a publication of a subsidiary of mine. World Vista Entertainment, I believe." His face was still in the shadows, indistinct.
"I know that name," Trent conceded. Everyone knew about the most famous wealthy recluse since Howard Hughes. He immediately picked up on the reference to the magazine. "What do you mean, late lamented? The magazine is doing great."
"No doubt, thanks to you and your articles about …who were they now? Oh yes, the Bob-Whites of the Glen. Very nicely written stories, Mr. Trent." A long arm shot out, pointing to the wall plastered with photos. "You seem to be obsessed with the blonde, in particular." Indeed, he had taken his time in the room before Trent arrived, examining all the photographs tacked up on the wall. The majority of them were of almost-Becky. He was very appreciative of that. He tracked her progress from a child in a paper skirt all the way up to, well, now.
Trent relaxed a bit. Maybe Lavigne was setting him up for something big. After all, D'Rue and the others probably had some sort of contractual agreement. "You didn't answer my question about the magazine," he persisted.
"You didn't answer my question about the blonde."
Paul gave a dry cackle. "Miss Nosy Parker? She's been a thorn in my side forever. If it wasn't for her, those kids and their rich parents, I'd be an investigative reporter for the Times or the Post. This," he gestured to the wall, "Is just a little payback. Now to use the immortal words of Hannibal Lecter, quid pro quo."
Hunter Lavigne actually smiled. Oh, and if you only knew, Mr. Trent. "I ceased publication of the magazine yesterday and the website has stopped polluting the internet," he said in that calm, cool voice.
Trent was flabbergasted. "Why in God's name would you do that? The articles were blasting circulation into the hundreds of thousands, if not millions."
Lavigne barked out a short, mirthless laugh. "God has nothing at all to do with the decision to terminate publication, Paul." A pause. "May I call you Paul? After all, I do feel some modicum of gratitude to you for bringing um, Trixie, to my attention." He stepped fully into the light and took off his glasses.
Not looking up, Trent sneered. "You may be rich, Hunter, but so is Trixie's husband, and the family she married into. If you think you can swoop in and pry her away from the redhead, you are very mistaken. They may have just legally gotten married this year, but he's been married to her in just about every way since she was thirteen and he was fifteen."
Lavigne snapped his fingers; put his hands into his coat pockets. "Her husband means less than nothing to me. She's merely sleeping, awaiting me to awaken her. Becky." He breathed out the name reverently.
The retort died on Paul Trent's lips as he looked up and into the colorless eyes of madness.
Misto Cay, Caribbean…
They decided to eat outside, on the elegant patio with its cheerful lanterns casting a magical glow over everything. The sumptuous meal began with conch chowder, chock full of tender conch and vegetables. Baked crab and baked bonefish paired with peas and rice johnnycakes came next, topped off with chikoo pudding for dessert.
Even Mart was stuffed.
The warm evening, gorgeous setting and utter relaxation of the nine young adults at the table brought a smile to their servers. They silently disappeared, leaving the young ones to their conversation and the wordless looks passing between them.
Jim didn't want to bring up the subject, but he did. He didn't want the joking, fun and joy in each other's company to end, but he had to say it. He watched as the expressions on his family and friends' faces changed from bliss to hunted. He was sure his own face reflected the same.
"We need to discuss Paul Trent," he began, the man's name tasting like ashes in his mouth. "And what we need to do about him."
Paul Trent's apartment, New York City…
He watched as Trent's eyes narrowed on him, rejoiced in the look of fear that passed over the man's countenance. "I wouldn't try that, if I were you, Paul," he said in the same conversational tone as one would state 'the sun is shining'. "You wouldn't like the consequences at all."
Trent stopped sidling to the door leading out to the hallway and freedom. No doubt he wouldn't make it to the door. Lavigne was mad, off his rocker and unpredictable, He couldn't help the stray thought that passed through his almost frozen brain…what a story this would be!
"I think you are wondering why I came to visit you personally with this news. The other staff was discharged, with a great termination package, if I do say so. And an ironclad confidentiality agreement."
"I'll be happy to sign anything you have with you," Trent spoke, trying to keep the tremble out of his voice.
"Oh, Paul, I'm absolutely sure of that. However, the research on your background indicates you have quite a problem adhering to promises. I can't possibly let you hurt Becky any more than you have already."
He thinks Trixie Frayne is somebody named Becky. A deep shudder ran through the man. He thinks she is this Becky and he's crazy.
Lavigne wagged an index finger in his face and made little tsk-ing sounds. "Your articles have made it very difficult for me to get to Becky. Very difficult. People, fans, cameras everywhere in this damn city. Never a chance to get her alone."
"You…you shut the magazine down to stop the publicity." The import was staggering.
He didn't like Trixie Belden Frayne. Didn't like the Bob-Whites of the Glen, didn't like the privileged Wheeler and Lynch families, or the homey Leave-It-to-Beaverness of the Beldens. He wanted, wished, hoped to take them all down several pegs, show them what it was like to be Paul Trent.
He didn't wish her dead.
Misto Cay, Caribbean…
Dan spoke up. His words were measured; he kept a tight rein on the Irish temper that was threatening to explode; on the vocabulary he was sure would turn the very air they breathed blue.
"I know our families have contracted with Mr. Ramsay to try and shut the magazine down," he began, his dark eyes growing ever darker. Under the table, he grabbed one of Kaitlin's hands in his own. The mere touch of her hand grounded him in the present.
"But I've been researching this. Why don't we initiate a class-action suit against Paul Trent personally? Not the magazine, but against him. Defamation and privacy laws do state that a person can sue if another person if they prove he deliberately set out to do harm."
Mart chimed in. "Yeah, but Trent doesn't have anything. According to what the lawyers are telling us, he's living in a cheap room in a not-very-nice section of the City. It's not like we could win cash from him."
Trixie's clear blue eyes began to sparkle. "You may have something there, Dan. We don't need whatever meager assets Trent may have. We can tie him up in court, though. He'll either have to get a Legal Aid attorney or appear pro se."
Brian laced his fingers behind his neck, and gave a quizzical look to his sister. "Pro se? What's that?" He gave a laugh. "I'm familiar with Latin terms, but more like pectus excavatum."
"It means he would act as his own lawyer in the court. And you know what the old saying is about that: a man who acts as his own attorney has a fool for a client." Dan's lip curled up. "We could ply him with injunctions and torts and whatever else, and maybe get a gag order."
Jim nodded. "It could work. I know Mr. Ramsay is going full-steam ahead with shutting the magazine down, but we might be able to shut Trent down." A wicked glint came into his eyes. "Maybe permanently."
Paul Trent's apartment, New York City…
Trent knew he had to chance it. He had to try and escape. Hell, he even had to contact Trixie Frayne and tell her she was starring in some madman's fantasy.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.
His eyes slid to the doorway. So close, yet it felt like a chasm opened up in the room. The other side of the room, the side facing the alleyway, had the rusting, broken fire escape. He could try to make it there, but he figured if he put his full weight on it, the whole thing would go crashing down, and he'd be dead anyway.
He briefly thought about calling for help, but who would care, or even hear? The building was alive with moans, groans, screaming fights and the myriad sounds humans could make when committing the worst sort of atrocities on one another. After a while, it just became a part of the landscape.
Lavigne saw the little weasel eying the possible escape routes; almost heard the whirrs and clicks of his tiny mind. Grasping the implement hidden in the deep pocket of his coat, he balanced on the balls of his feet as adrenaline rushed through him.
Ready…set…Trent was up in a flash, going for the door, but Lavigne was too quick, too experienced. He crashed against Trent, pushing him to the door and twisting his arm behind his back. He had the great satisfaction of hearing the bone snap.
With the other hand, he plunged the sharp syringe into Trent's side.
Trent felt the agony of the bone breaking, felt the burning sensation in his side. Almost immediately, he felt his muscles go lax, as Lavigne half dragged him to the bed and pushed him on there, face down.
"Now, Mr. Trent, I will explain what is going to happen to you." He rolled the man over, took a bit of time arranging him nicely on the bed. "I'm sure you have heard of succinylcholine. It's a very powerful muscle relaxant, used in anesthesia. Oh, and for murder, too. You should know that little fact. Almost untraceable. Well, it doesn't work as swiftly as when given intravenously; due to circumstances, I had to give you an intramuscular injection. We have some time together."
Lavigne stood, started turning on all the lights. "It works by suffocating the victim. All the muscles in your body are simply become paralyzed, until the muscles controlling your breathing don't allow the necessary expansion and contraction of your chest. It takes, oh, maybe twenty minutes to a half-hour to die. And you're fully conscious of what's happening."
Trent's eyes were staring straight ahead as he listened to the calm, almost serene voice of Hunter Lavigne. He heard a rustling sound, and Lavigne came into his line of sight. He had shed his clothes and was nude. "Oh, don't worry," he giggled. "You're not at all my type." He drew closer, and Trent could see the shiny, sharp scalpel.
"We're going to do a little experiment, you and I, Mr. Trent. Will you perish from suffocation, or will you perish from exsanguination? I'll try to be merciful, Mr. Trent. I'll try and show you the mercy you withheld from Becky."
The thin, razor-sharp blade made a long, deep incision and immediately, the scarlet rivers began to run. Trent's eyes watched as it flashed again and again, and the acts in the little room became unspeakable.
His mind left his body long before his heart stopped beating.
