Spin (Captain Chase)

by Patricia Cornwell

  “Oh, come on, Carme!”

  “It’s not me who would pin it on you, Sisto,” she retorts, her scuba-like rubbery socks leaving no tread pattern. “A bad idea to pick up those cartridge cases. I told you not to. Tried to warn you,” and there’s no need for her to elaborate.

  Except I didn’t have to handle anything to be a suspect the same way she is. The Langley twins. Two for the price of one.

  “You can’t just leave a dead body in the parking lot,” I try to calm down. “Do you want us locked up for the rest of our lives?”

  She stops walking, facing me, the overhead canopy snapping like sails in the wind. Pulling back her hood, shaking out her hair, she takes off her gloves, seeming unreal like a phantom, and I can barely make out her strong bone structure and deep-set eyes, the same as mine.

  00:00:00:00:0

  “NOW OR NEVER?” she says as she offers me the key to my truck.

  I don’t take it.

  “Like I’ve said, what just happened isn’t your problem,” she says, almost nose to nose, her breath smoking out. “None of this has to be your problem, you can leave. Or stay. Decide, Calli. Now or never,” a game of ours that goes back forever.

  When faced with the decision, what’s it going to be? Will you do it or not? It’s about courage and desire being greater than fear, and wanting something badly enough that you’ll risk the consequences no matter how severe.

  “Now or never,” she repeats, and we resume following the covered walkway, passing familiar blue doors with aluminum numbers.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” is my answer as we reach room 1.

  Opening the unlocked door, she flips on the overhead light. Instantly, I’m overwhelmed by the odors of stale cigarettes, dust, and old water damage, intensified after months of being closed up.

  “I’m going to ask again because this is serious, Carme. Do you have any idea who he is? Or was?” I feel the heat from the paint-peeled radiator beneath the window. “And what are we supposed to do with him?”

  “We don’t have time for endless discussions,” closing the door, she throws on the dead bolt, and it’s obvious that she didn’t just move in an hour ago.

  Black paper has been taped over the boarded-up window to ensure no light is visible from outside. There are cameras in the ceiling, at least three of them I can spot right off. On the countertop in the kitchenette are laptops displaying spectrum analysis, live video feeds inside the room and out.

  As big as life on one display is the same GPS map the hitman was following, two red balloons where my police truck and his Denali are parked outside in the lot.

  “You were tracking both of us?” I’m no longer incredulous, not sure anything could surprise me ever again.

  “Tracking you being tracked,” she says as I look around a room I’ve not been inside for years.

  The furnishings are the same as I remember, cheap pinewood painted white. A bed, a few chairs, and several framed beach prints on the scuffed pink walls.

  I take in the kitchenette with its ancient drip coffee maker . . .

  The copper-toned ice bucket, and miscellaneous water glasses . . .

  The vintage pink minifridge, a rust-spotted Coca-Cola bottle opener on the side . . .

  I recognize the blue vinyl-upholstered sofa but not the non-reflective black robotic jumpsuit laid out on it, or the thruster jetpack propped in a corner near a large soft-sided carrying case. Next to the bed are a surgical lamp, and an IV stand hung with bags of fluid. On top of the bare mattress are folded disposable white sheets, black plastic flex-cuff restraints, and boxes of surgical gloves in different sizes.

  Carme quick-releases the suppressor from her pistol, matte-black metal with rosewood grips, exactly like mine at home. Our gifts to ourselves for the holidays last year, the Bond Arms Bullpup delivers quite a wallop for a compact handgun, and when it comes to the barrel, size does matter. The longer, the more velocity, and if you do the math, that equals more stopping power and an explosive wound track.

  She leaves the pistol, the suppressor near loaded magazines on a bedside table as I notice jugs of an oxi-action stain remover that can destroy blood and DNA, and there are spray bottles of disinfectants, rolls of paper towels. Carme grabs a packet of surgical gloves, peeling it open as she heads into the bathroom where cases of sterile purified water are stacked inside the tub.

  “I assume that was you at the controls hijacking my GPS,” I talk to her through the open door.

  “What you can be sure of is that you’re supposed to be here as long as you’re willing,” she says, deconning with an odorless disinfectant spray, spritzing herself, the bodysuit from head to toe. “Are you willing?”

  “Yes.”

  “Obviously, not the ideal venue,” she sprays down a large green Yeti ice chest that looks like one we have at home in the basement. “I would prefer a place where the water’s not been shut off. But like Einstein said, the measure of intelligence is the ability to adapt.”

  “And if you knew that someone, possibly an assassin, was following me, why would you lead him here and almost get us killed?” I ask as she washes up thoroughly with disinfecting soap, like a surgeon.

  “I didn’t almost get us killed,” she opens another jug of sterile water. “You almost did by not being aware someone put a tracking device on your truck last night while it was parked at Fort Monroe,” she wipes herself dry on a sterile disposable towel.

  “How do you know that for a fact? And who are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about the dead dude who parked his Denali out of sight near Vera Young’s apartment,” she says. “Going the rest of the way on foot, nobody seeing him as dark and deserted as it was,” working her hands into the surgical gloves. “It doesn’t take but a minute to attach one of those sticky-backed trackers to the undercarriage, the bumper. Meanwhile, someone’s doing the same thing to his unattended vehicle.”

  That someone was Carme, and it would seem that while I was working Vera’s crime scene, my sister was in the area. No doubt moving about stealthily like she is right now, she placed a tracking device on the hitman’s truck while he was placing one on mine.

  “But if you saw him do it, why wouldn’t you go right behind him and remove it?”

  “He would have known it was gone,” she replies. “Now you’ve tipped your hand.”

  “And if you can track him, who is he and where was he staying?”

  “Don’t know because he didn’t go anywhere he might be staying, and it’s not my problem now.”

  “But why have me lead him here?” I again ask as she body blocks my view, collecting something from the ice chest.

  “Better than him following you home,” she offers that horrific thought, walking out of the bathroom, one hand held behind her so I can’t see what’s in it.

  But I have a pretty good idea. And I don’t have to cooperate.

  “He could have done that last night,” I remind her. “I left Fort Monroe and went straight home. It didn’t occur to me to scan my truck with my spectrum analyzer, and obviously I should have. I was none the wiser about the tracking device, and the point is he could have followed me home . . .”

  “I wouldn’t have let that happen,” she interrupts. “Now shush! Take them off,” indicating my coat and gun belt. “There’s no time to waste. We’ve gotta get going.”

  I do as she says just like I always have, placing my jacket and gun belt, my pistol, the Chinese assault rifle on top of the cigarette-burned white Formica coffee table. Nearby is a pair of gray-tinted sports glasses.

  “Now or never?” Carme demands, and it’s like facing my doppelgänger or own reflection, both of us powerfully, compactly built except I tend more toward pudge unless I’m exceedingly careful.
<
br />   We’re the same height, not too tall or short. Our hair is collar length and cut the same. But hers used to be shorter and less shaggy. And I notice she has reddish highlights just like mine, only hers aren’t natural.

  “Now or never. What’s it going to be?” she says, and the deeper greenish tint to her eyes must be from contact lenses when neither of us needs them.

  It’s as if Carme’s trying to look more like me when it’s always been me wanting to look more like her, and on closer inspection I recognize the patterns woven into her black speed-skater-looking skin. The smart fabric is loaded with sensors that interface with her environment, including the black electronic bracelet around her left wrist.

  “What’s it going to be, Sisto?” Hugging me, she touches her head to mine, making our secret sign. “Now or never? You have to say which one.”

  “Now,” I give my consent for what’s already begun.

  “Going forward you won’t remember certain encounters when it’s best you don’t,” she rolls my left sleeve above my elbow. “Some results no one can be sure about,” and I feel a slight pinch near my cubital vein. “Some things are best forgotten . . . ,” the voice instantly far away. “If need be, erased . . . never to be restored . . .”

  “. . . There, there, steady as she goes . . .”

  . . . Sitting me down on the edge of the mattress, and it’s as if I’m drunk and made of lead . . .

  . . . The papery sound of a disposable sheet shaken open . . .

  . . . As I try to speak, and nothing emerges, the room rotating . . .

  “. . . You’ve got to trust me even when you don’t . . . ,” quick fingers undoing my clothing . . .

  . . . Twitchy, seeing double . . .

  “. . . Lay down on your back . . . That’s it . . . Just relax . . .”

  . . . When I try to answer, it’s as if I’ve had a stroke . . .

  . . . A draft of frigid air . . .

  . . . The sound of a door shutting . . .

  . . . Murmuring and footsteps . . .

  “. . . No matter what, dear, remember I’m here . . . ,” fragments of a voice that sounds like Mom’s. “. . . Everything’s going to be okay, I promise . . . You’ll be fine, dear . . .”

  . . . Gentle hands work my sports bra over my head as my boots come off, and I’m paralyzed . . .

  . . . Sinking down, down, deeper into dimness . . .

  . . . Vaguely aware of the nonfragrant mist spraying over every inch of my body . . .

  . . . The papery feel of a sheet draped over me . . .

  “. . . We’re in this together . . . ,” Carme’s voice, and I can’t answer or volunteer a thought. “. . . Isn’t that right, Sisto . . . ? Remember how I came up with that . . . ? When we were kids . . . ?”

  . . . Sister + Callisto = Sisto if you do the math . . . , hearing it in my head as clear as day . . .

  . . . But I can’t utter a sound or move my lips as something wet and cold is rubbed over my fingertips . . .

  “. . . You won’t remember what you’re about to experience . . . All the same, trust me when I say that a deeper part of you will know . . . and realizing the truth will cause you to seek it . . .”

  “. . . Think of it as an upgrade to your programming, dear . . . Of entering new dimensions with untold possibilities . . .”

  “. . . Sorry, Sisto . . . This is gonna sting a little . . .”

  5

  I WAKE UP to searing pain and complete darkness, sensing another human presence as palpably as heat.

  Resisting the impulse to call out to Carme or anyone, I focus on my ankles lashed together beneath the covers. My wrists are bound, my arms barely bent and miserably tethered to the wall behind my head.

  I have no idea where I am but it isn’t the Point Comfort Inn. I’m not in my own bed, that’s for sure, on my back staring up at the black void of the ceiling, scarcely able to move. It would be next to impossible to defend myself, I couldn’t kick or throw an elbow, much less a fist.

  Concentrating on my hands, I’m aware of a tingling sensation, more numbness than usual in my scarred right index finger. Nervously rubbing it with my thumb, I trace the contours of the finger pad I almost sliced off three years ago. Holding my breath, I listen, not hearing a sound except the wind. But I sense someone.

  “Who are you and what do you want?” I sound surprisingly bold when I call out.

  No answer, and images are rushing back to me of my sister inside room 1. Telling me it’s now or never. Drugging me. Everything deleted. Disjointed. Fragmented sounds and sensations flurrying through my head like bright confetti.

  “Who’s there?” I’m thirsty, as stiff as rigor mortis.

  No response, and I will myself to stay calm as I feel aggression coming on, simmering beneath my skin.

  “Hello?” I clear my throat. “Hello!” I tug against a pair of tough plastic restraints, remembering them in my splintered thoughts.

  Black double looped, double locking, the same type of law enforcement plastic zip ties I keep in my protective service’s office and truck. And I’m tripping on a kaleidoscope of flashbacks . . .

  . . . Plastic trays and cut-out gray foam precisely arranged with small tools, glass vials . . .

  . . . Scores of tiny liquid-filled transparent tubes with black caps in a wire storage rack . . .

  . . . Boxes of hypodermic needles . . . 10 gauge and smaller . . .

  “HELLO?” I shout aggressively this time.

  Silence, and I’m startled by anger boiling up from deep inside.

  “Now would be a very good time to explain yourself . . . !” I violently tug at my restraints.

  “Easy does it, don’t hurt yourself,” Dick Melville’s voice is shockingly close. “How are we feeling other than cranky?”

  “What are you doing to me?” I scream at him.

  The snap of a switch, and he appears in a cloud of light from a Williamsburg-style brass floor lamp. Ensconced in his wing chair throne like God. Dressed in Air Force camouflage embroidered with 4 stars on his chest.

  “You have no right . . . ! Cut me loose or . . . or I’ll . . . ! Or else . . . !” I sputter and stammer, mortified and furious.

  “Or else what, Calli?” he stares at me, handsome in a severe way, broad shouldered and tall with a platinum buzz cut, his strong features sharply sculpted like Mount Rushmore. “What will you do? Take a swing at me again? Dash your drink in my face? Call me names and say you don’t respect or believe in me or the cause anymore?”

  “It wasn’t conscious or intentional. What cause?”

  “I made the mistake of freeing your hands only once.”

  “Obviously, I didn’t know what I was doing,” I protest.

  “Do you remember saying you hate me?”

  “Certainly not,” more contritely than I feel.

  “Calling me a fake and a phony?”

  “I’m very sorry. What cause are you talking about?”

  “The one you resent me for. Your cause. What you and Carme are here to do,” he says as if he made us.

  “It would be easier to discuss all this if you cut me loose,” I let him know, peering up at the details of my bondage, low tech, practical, well engineered.

  I’m suspicious about who’s responsible because it wasn’t Dick. For an astronaut, he’s surprisingly all thumbs with tools and knots, and has an aversion to water sports and boats. Therefore, I doubt he’s to blame for marine rigging that’s prevented me from attacking someone or escaping. And it may sound sexist to say but I detect a thoughtful, no-nonsense female touch.

  Whoever strung me up is good with gadgets and resourceful at fixing things, bringing to mind Mom’s string games and origami
. Not just the usual cat’s cradle and Jacob’s ladder but NASA-related sleight of hand. I envision her quick fingers fashioning three-dimensional stars and planets of yarn and twine, or folding paper into miniature expandable habitats and solar panels. If someone had to tie me up, it may as well be her, sort of a different spin on a bedside manner.

  Explaining why my bindings are humanely loose, my wrists and ankles protectively wrapped in bandages to prevent abrasions and bruises. The short length of nylon rope attaching my flex-cuffs to the wall is the same kind Mom buys at Full Throttle Marine. Hazard yellow, quarter inch, double braid, and she’s partial to simple bowline knots like the one anchoring the rope to a Sea-Dog eyebolt.

  “Seriously, Dick. You can cut me loose. I promise I’ll behave,” sounding more reasonable than I sure as hell-o feel.

  “You can throw quite a right hook, I’ll give you that,” he holds up his hands, bruised from deflecting my blows. “That’s what I got if I cut you free,” confirming that he hasn’t been managing me alone.

  “. . . Think of it as an upgrade to your programming, dear . . . ,” Mom’s voice distantly in my fractured memory . . .

  “We’ve got a lot to go over,” Dick says as I crane my neck, scanning my surroundings. “As you may have gathered, the timing for implementation was abrupt. Urgent and improvised due to unexpected events. It wasn’t ideal even if you don’t recall most of what went on, including any discomfort you might have felt,” implying that some of what was done to me must have hurt like crap.

  “I know something’s happened only because I’m here,” I’m doing my best to keep my temper in check. “And it would be helpful to know what day of the week it is,” as I recognize the patterned brown carpet, the dark wooden paneling.

  00:00:00:00:0

  “SUNDAY MORNING, December 8th,” Dick says to my horror, and as if on cue, church bells start clanging. “It’s almost 1100 hours,” he adds.