Installation 35: Making Love Out of Nothing at All previous
Once power was restored to the galleries and Karl was helped to his feet by Bronson Menard (who gave Karl his handkerchief and told him to “stop sniveling like a chick”), it was discovered that Phoebe was, once again, missing. Search parties were organized.
“She's dead,” Fern said when she and Carlotta heard the news. “She's cut up into little pieces and stuffed into a pillowcase. I can feel it. Best to just check the Dumpster in back.”
“Since when are you clairvoyant?” Carlotta asked, annoyed by the uproar.
Penn Bradley ran into the office. “Flashlights,” he gasped. “We need flashlights. And weapons. Do you have a broom or a baseball bat?”
Without a word, Carlotta disappeared into her office and came back with an aluminum bat. She handed it over. Penn took it and consulted a crumpled list he pulled from his pocket.
“OK,” he said. “I've got Fern with Team Five, exploring The Restaurant and The Store. Carlotta, you're with Team Three, basement duty.”
“There's no way in hell I'm going to the basement,” Fern said. “I'm not in the mood to become the inspiration for the next Saw sequel.”
“She's exempt,” Carlotta said to Penn. “Just let me grab my shiv and then we'll get going.”
Down in Art Storage Room B, The Phantom was indeed torturing Phoebe. First, he tied her to the bed.
“You have to pay for what you did,” he said.
“I didn't do anything wrong,” Phoebe said. “I'm a young single woman on the dating scene.”
“I don't want to hear your voice right now,” he said. “I've prepared a little concert for you.”
“A concert? That's nice.”
The Phantom went over to his piano and did a few scales to limber up his fingers. Then he began to play “Making Love Out of Nothing at All” by Air Supply. Phoebe's upper lip quivered. Her hands were tied behind her head and secured to the bed's headboard so she wasn't able to cover her ears to block out the sound. When the Phantom reached the end of the song, he launched into “The One That You Love.” Phoebe started to cry from frustration.
“That's right,” The Phantom yelled over the music. “The entire Air Supply catalog.”
“You're a sadistic nut job,” Phoebe said.
“I was going to write you a declaration of my love,” The Phantom said. “When I realized that Air Supply had already put all my thoughts and desires down on paper. And set them to music. Sweet, sweet music.”
“I can survive a little Air Supply” Phoebe said.
“But wait, there's more,” The Phantom said. “After this I'm going to play every song that's ever gotten stuck in your head. I've got 'Smoke on the Water,' 'Mmmbop,' and that 'Mahna Mahna' song from 'The Muppet Show.'”
“I hate you,” Phoebe said and turned her face to the wall.
Karl led the way through the Baroque gallery with the rest of Team Two following. Now that the lights were restored, he was on a mission to find Phoebe and prove to her that he could be gallant. So far, they'd turned up nothing but he would soldier on, not resting until he found her. Dead or alive. Too bad it was almost lunch time. Burrito. Bean and cheese burrito with chips. Salsa. Coke.
One would think that if one's supervisor was sent to mandatory substance abuse counseling, one's supervisor might take that to heart and decide that maybe his or her job was on the line. That's what Meredith Rule was thinking as she put slides into a slide carousel for Phillip Mantou. And said supervisor might try to give up drinking for real, especially at work. On the contrary, however, Phillip was ensconced in his office having a whiskey sour and singing to himself.
This did not please Meredith. She was getting tired of him. It made her wonder what this was all for. Originally, Meredith was on a career track. She had a graduate degree. She got the job working as assistant to Phillip. But now she was just stuck, spinning her wheels with a drunk. Maybe, she thought, she should open her own business selling the little hand-embroidered cards she made in the evenings while watching reruns of “Friends.” It was something to consider.
Penn Bradley slammed through the office door.
“What's going on here?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” Meredith said. “I'm working.”
“It smells like a saloon,” Penn said. “Why aren't you out searching? You're on Team Six – lobby and parking ramp. Phillip's on Team Three.”
“What are you talking about?” Meredith said.
“What's the trouble?” Phillip said, swaying in the doorway. “Who's making all the mumble jumble?”
“There's a girl missing,” Penn said. “And we're on a mission to find her before its too late. This might be the work of the Parking Ramp Thug and/or the Pillowcase Kidnapper.”
“What the devil are you talking about?” Phillip said. “You sound like a very bad episode of 'Murder She Wrote.'”
“You watched that show?” Meredith said.
“What girl?” Phillip said. “One of the patrons? A school girl?”
“Phoebe Persons,” Penn said. “Snatched while trysting with her lover in the African gallery.”
“Shit,” Phillips said. “That whore? She was in my...” He stopped, reconsidering what he was going to say. “She's just off on a jag somewhere. She'll turn up.”
“I think we should help,” Meredith said. “Especially if we're assigned to teams.”
“We're assigned to teams,” Phillip mocked. “Oh, then let me run right out. There's nothing I like better than being assigned to a team at this place. Need new signs for visitors? Let's form a team. Wondering why attendance is down? Let's form a team to talk about it. Someone needs help wiping their ass after taking an enormous shit? Let's put a team together – make it a group effort.”
“You're a very sour old man,” Penn said.
“Be that as it may,” Phillip said. “We are not helping in your search. Good day, sir.”
Penn and Phillip stared at each other. Meredith was caught in the middle, clutching her slides.
“You're lucky there's a girl in trouble,” Penn said. “Or I'd grease your drunk ass.”
“I am not drunk,” Phillip said. “I have a speech impediment.”
In Art Storage Room B, The Phantom suspected that something was awry. He stopped in the middle of “Every Woman in the World” to listen. He heard voices, possibly an angry mob with pitchforks and torches making its way through the basement. He jumped up from the piano.
“Is it over?” Phoebe asked.
“We have to move,” The Phantom said, cutting the ropes that held Phoebe to the bed.
“I'm not going anywhere,” Phoebe said.
The Phantom picked Phoebe up and swung her over his shoulder. He ran into the gloom of the storage area, bumping into crates and tripping over damaged furniture. In the far corner he kicked aside a Tibetan rug, revealing a door in the floor. Clenching Phoebe with one hand so she couldn't break away, he heaved the door open with the other. There were stone steps leading down.
“Come on,” The Phantom said.
“You've got to be kidding,” Phoebe said. “I've watched enough Oprah to know that going to a secondary location is a huge mistake.”
“You're actually already in the secondary location,” the Phantom said. “This would be the third location.”
“Is there a piano down there?”
“No.”
Phoebe shrugged and allowed herself to be pushed forward to a new level of darkness. At the bottom of the stairs she saw the glint of light playing off water. There was a little stream. Tied to a mooring was a skiff. The Phantom climbed down into it and held out his hand to Phoebe.
“Time for a little boat ride,” he said.