Mary Clark - Loves Music, Loves To Dance

“How did your mother and father react?”

“They were hugging each other. My father said, ‘Barbara, we have each other.’”

“And that hurt you, didn’t it?”

“I knew they didn’t need me,” she whispered.

“Oh, Darcy, don’t you know that when you think you’re going to lose someone you love, the instinctive reaction is to look for someone or something to hang on to? They were trying to cope, or more accurately, preparing to cope. Believe it or not, that’s healthy. And ever since then, you’ve been trying to shut them out, haven’t you?”

Had she? Always resisting the clothes her mother bought for her, the gifts they showered on her, scorning their lifestyle, something they’d worked all their lives to achieve. Even her job. Was that one-upmanship to prove something? “No, it isn’t.”

“What isn’t?”

“My job. I really do love what I do.”

“Love what I do.” Michael repeated the words slowly, in cadence. A new song had begun on the tape. “Save the Last Dance for Me.” He stood up. “And I love to dance. Now, Darcy. But first I have a present for you.” Horrified, she watched as he got up and reached behind the chair. He turned to her, a shoe box in his hand. “I bought you pretty slippers to dance in, Darcy.” He knelt in front of the sofa and pulled off her boots. Every instinct warned Darcy not to protest. She dug her nails into her palms to keep from screaming. Erin ’s ring had turned and she could feel the impression of the raised E against her skin.

Michael was opening the shoe box and parting the tissue. He took one shoe out and held it up for her to admire. It was an open-toed, high-heeled satin slipper. Gossamer ankle straps were almost transparent bands of gold and silver. Michael took Darcy’s right foot in his hand and eased it into the shoe, double-knotting the long straps. He reached into the box, removed the other slipper, and caressed her ankle as he guided her foot along the insole. When she had both shoes on, he looked up and smiled. “Do you feel like Cinderella?” he asked.

She could not answer.

The radar indicates the wagon is parked about ten miles away in a northwest direction,” the Bridgewater cop said tersely as the squad car raced down the country road. Vince, Chris, and Nona were with him.

“The signal’s getting stronger,” he said a few minutes later. “We’re getting closer.”

“Until we’re there, we’re not close enough,” Chris exploded. “Can’t you go faster?”

They rounded a curve. The driver slammed on the brakes. The squad car skidded, then straightened. “Oh hell!”

“What’s the matter?” Vince snapped.

“They’re digging up the road down here. We can’t get through. And the damn detour will waste time.”

Music filled the room but could not drown out his maniacal laugh. Darcy’s footsteps were flying in synch with his. “I don’t often do a Viennese waltz,” he shouted, “but tonight it was what I planned for you.” Twirling, bobbing, turning. Darcy’s hair flew around her face. She was gasping but he seemed not to notice.

The waltz ended. He did not remove his arms from around her. His eyes were glittering, dark, empty holes again.

“Can’t Get Started with You.” Easily, he slipped into a graceful fox-trot. Effortlessly, she followed him. He was holding her tightly, crushing her. She couldn’t breathe. Is this what he did to the others? Got them to trust him. Brought them to this desolate house. Where were their bodies? Buried around here somewhere?

What chance did she have to get away from him? He’d catch her before she could get to the door. When they came in, she’d noticed the panic button. Was it hooked up to a security system? Knowing that someone was on the way, he might not kill her.

Now there was a growing urgency about Michael. His arm was like steel as he glided and stepped in perfect time to the music. “Do you want to know my secret?” he whispered. “This isn’t my house. It’s Charley’s house.” “Charley?”

Backstep. Glide. Turn.

“Yes, that’s my real name. Edward and Janice Nash were my aunt and uncle. They adopted me when I was a year old and changed my name from Charley to Michael.” He was staring down at her. Darcy could not bear to look into those eyes.

Backstep. Sidestep. Glide.

“What happened to your real parents?”

“My father killed my mother. They electrocuted him. Whenever my uncle was mad at me, he said I was getting just like him. My aunt was nice to me when I was little, but then she stopped loving me. She said they’d been crazy to adopt me. She said bad blood shows.”

A new song. Frank Sinatra crooning, “Hey there, Cutes, put on your dancing boots and come dance with me.”

Step. Step. Glide.

“I’m glad you’re telling me this, Michael. It helps to talk, doesn’t it?”

“I want you to call me Charley.”

“All right.” She tried not to sound tentative. He mustn’t see her fear. “Don’t you want to know what happened to my mother and father? I mean, the people who raised me?”

“Yes, I do.” Darcy thought of how tired her legs were. She was not used to the spike heels. She felt as though the tight ankle straps were cutting off her circulation.

Sidestep. Turn.

Sinatra urged, “Romance with me on a crowded floor…”

“When I was twenty-one, they were in a boating accident. The boat blew up.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not. I rigged the boat. I am just like my real father. You’re getting tired, Darcy.”

“No. No. I’m fine. I enjoy dancing with you.” Stay calm… stay calm.

“You can rest soon. Were you surprised when you got Erin ’s shoes back?”

“Yes, very surprised.”

“She was so pretty. She liked me. On our date I told her about my book and she talked about the program and about how you and she were answering personal ads. That was really funny. I’d already decided you’d be next after her.”

Next after her.

“Why did you choose us?”

“And while the rhythm pings, what coo-coo things I’ll be saying,” Sinatra sang. “You both answered the special ad. All the girls I brought here did. But Erin wrote to one of my other ads too, the one I showed the FBI agent.” “You’re very clever, Charley.”

“Do you like the spike heels I bought for Erin? They match her dress.”

“I know they do.”

“I was at the Playwrights’ Benefit too. I recognized Erin from the picture she sent me and I looked up her name on the seating list to make sure I was right. She was sitting four tables away. It was fate that I already had a date to meet her the very next night.”

Step. Step. Glide. Turn.

“How did you know Erin ’s shoe size? My size?”

“It was so easy. I bought Erin ’s shoes in different sizes. I wanted just that pair for her. Remember last week when you had a pebble in your boot and I helped you take it out? I saw your size then.”

“And the others?”

“Girls like to be flattered. I’d say, ‘You have such pretty feet. What size are you?’ Sometimes I bought shoes specially. Other times I’d take them from the ones I already had.”

“The real Charles North didn’t place any personal ads, did he?” “No. I met him at that benefit too. He kept talking about himself and I asked him for his business card. I never use my own name when I call people who answer the special ad. You made it easy. You called me.”

Yes, she had called him.

“You say Erin liked you when you met her the first time. Weren’t you afraid she’d recognize your voice when you called and said you were Charles North?” “I phoned from Penn Station, where there’s a lot of noise. I told her I was running to catch a train to Philadelphia. I lowered my voice and spoke faster than usual. Just like this afternoon when I talked to your secretary.” The timbre of his voice changed, became high-pitched. “Don’t I sound like a woman now?”