“Which kind did you get?” asked Purdue. “I have become a connoisseur of handcuffs.”
Carla shrugged. “I always go for the cheapest. I can’t see paying an extra ten bucks for Smith & Wesson’s brand name. I mean they’re handcuffs, for God’s sake. They all open with the exact same key anyhow.”
“Well, they work better than wet pantyhose,” said Purdue with a grin. “And since we only ever need one key, think of the recycling possibilities.” She pushed a strand of hair back from her ear to reveal an earring: a small metal key dangling from a thin gold wire.
“There are some differences in brands, I guess,” Larkin said, ignoring her. “I do hate those handcuffs that are jazzed up by putting the bluing on them. That stuff comes off on your skin, your clothes, everything.”
“They rust, too.”
“Tell me about it,” said Carla. “That’s what the guards used when they transported us. Ever try to wash off blue dye with powdered soap?” She opened the plastic bag and tilted it toward Purdue. “Matte stainless steel HWC’s. Twenty-three bucks apiece. On sale: three pair for sixty.”
“So you bought three pair, right?”
“I thought you said we were getting out of the game, P. J.”
“Well, we are, but—hey! You never know. Something might come up.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” Purdue fingered the handcuffs. “Maybe we ought to try thumb cuffs some time. I always thought they looked kind of kinky. You know, those little bitty ones that you lock down over each of the thumb joints. A guy would have to tear his thumbs off to get out of those. Besides, they’re small enough to carry without a handbag. That’s a plus.”
Carla rolled her eyes. “Look, given enough time anybody can get out of handcuffs. You could spring the lock with a ballpoint pen. A paper clip. I learned that much in prison. If we could get the cuffs that federal agents use—the ones that open with a little round key—they’d be harder to get out of, but we probably can’t find any.”
“Okay, what about a set of Peerless hinge-plated cuffs? Since there’s a hinge plate instead of a chain between the cuffs, the guy would have a harder time getting out of them.”
“Eighty bucks,” said Carla. “And remember we would use them one time. It’s a waste of money. Personally, I could care less what kind we use. All these twenty-dollar wonders do is buy us a little time to get away. After that, who cares? Besides, we are quitting, aren’t we?”
“Yes. Of course, we are. But three for sixty. I mean, come on!”
Carla sighed. “I knew you’d say that. Yeah. Three for sixty. So I bought ’em. Just in case. It’s not like it’s our money, really. That banker sure had a wad of cash on him, didn’t he? Guess he didn’t trust his own bank.”
“I wish we could find another sucker like him,” said Purdue wistfully.
“I don’t. You didn’t have him slobbering all over your neck half the night. So where are we headed now?”
“Southeast,” said Purdue, handing her the map. “Place called Danville.”
“Elizabeth, you have a visitor.” It was Thibodeaux, the big orderly who had showed her around on her first day. “Do you feel like seeing him?”
Elizabeth yawned. Group therapy had been over for a while now. She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting on the sofa in the dayroom, thinking of taking a nap before dinner, but perhaps a nice long walk down two corridors to the reception lounge would do her good. “Whatever,” she said, yawning and stretching as she stood up. Maybe her father or Bill had come to see how she was getting along. She ambled along the hall beside the orderly, without much interest in what would happen next, today or ever.
When the door to the reception room swung open, Elizabeth saw her cousin Geoffrey, impeccably clad in a fawn-colored suit. He was studying the chintz-patterned wallpaper with the practiced eye of one who feels he is entitled to an opinion.
Elizabeth managed a shaky wave and sank down on the sofa. It was soft, and it smelled better than the one in the dayroom, but the fact that it did not face a television was a mark against it. “Hi, Geoffrey,” she mumbled without looking up at him.
“I was on my way home,” said Geoffrey. “I thought I’d just stop by and see you.”
“Cameron is dead,” said Elizabeth softly.
“Yes. Listen, I’ve just driven about six hours. Boring road is I-77. I thought we might go out to eat, if you’d like a little fresh air.” He frowned at the sight of his cousin. Her unwashed hair and rumpled clothing suggested that she was getting worse instead of better. Despite his misgivings he forced himself to give her an encouraging smile. “The staff person I spoke to said that you could have an evening pass to go out for dinner. Are you hungry?”
Elizabeth sighed. “I mean, really, Geoffrey. Dead.”
“Yes.”
She blinked up at his impassive face. “You knew it all along?”
He looked embarrassed. “Well, it stood to reason. Terribly cold water. Rough seas. No wreckage ever found. Have you only just worked it out?”
“Had my nose rubbed in it, more like,” sighed Elizabeth. “Being crazy means that you get to speak the truth, no matter who it hurts. If you’re lucky, you are also too crazy to understand the truth when people tell it to you, but unfortunately, I seem to have a mild case of insanity.” She yawned again. “Sorry. They changed my meds yesterday. These new pills make life all blurry.”
“I liked you better without them.” When Elizabeth did not reply, Geoffrey went on, “Girl zombie is not one of your more attractive roles. Your brother’s new house is shaping up quite nicely, thanks to me. I brought a few snapshots, if you’re interested. Did you get my faxes about Jack Dolan’s shady past?”
“Yep.”
“So you told your policeman friend that he had been misinformed?”
“Yep.”
“Well, in case he didn’t believe you—policemen are such a suspicious lot, don’t you find?—I brought some of the articles pertaining to the case. I thought you might show them to him.”
She shook her head. “Can’t.”
“Why not?”
“He flew the coop. Took his car keys and drove off into the sunset.”
“Really?” Geoffrey raised one expressive eyebrow. “Is that permitted?”
Elizabeth shrugged. “What can they do? Take away his dessert privileges? I told him that Jack Dolan was still alive, and he left. But it turns out that he’s not a policeman anyhow. At least, that’s what the burglar says.”
He watched her for a moment in silence. Her eyes were closed, and she seemed to have forgotten that he was there. “I am beginning to hope that you are delusional,” he said at last. “Do you happen to know who this escaped imposter actually is?”
“Just a crazy person, I guess,” said Elizabeth, showing very little interest in the discussion. “But I know where he’s going.”
“Danville?”
“Yep.”
“And you’d know him if you saw him?”
Elizabeth’s smile turned into a yawn. “So would you if it wasn’t Halloween. Scarred face. Burns. Very sad.”
That’s it, thought Geoffrey. He took hold of her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Come along, dear. You have a dinner pass, and I’m going to take you to a splendid restaurant. March.” Without waiting for a reply from Elizabeth, who seemed to be sleepwalking, he half carried her to the door and down the corridor toward the front entrance. As they walked he kept up a flow of bright chatter, laughing occasionally as if responding to something amusing that she had said. When her eyes started to close he tightened his grip on her arm.
After many tense moments, each of which seemed to last a week, Geoffrey succeeded in getting Elizabeth out of the building, into the parking lot, and installing her in the front seat of his car. He fastened her seat belt, and, with a final stretch of his sore muscles, he got back behind the wheel where he had spent the last seven hours.
“What splendid restaurant are we g
oing to?” Elizabeth murmured sleepily.
Geoffrey started the engine. “McDonald’s,” he said. “In Danville.”
It had been a long time ago, A. P. Hill thought as she drove west out of Richmond. She had not called Bill to tell him she was coming back. She thought she’d surprise him. Allow herself to be shown around the new offices of MacPherson & Hill, and then take him out to dinner to celebrate. She hadn’t been much of a partner in the last ten days, she thought, and the fact that she’d had a lot on her mind didn’t excuse her behavior. After all, what was worrying her had happened a long time ago, too. If a statute of limitations applied to the case, surely it had long since expired. In fact, there might not even be a case. As far as she knew charges had never been filed. Certainly nothing about the incident had ever appeared up in the Williamsburg newspapers.
They had been lucky. The newspapers should have had a field day with the story: LOCAL COLLEGE STUDENT ABDUCTED IN BONDAGE RITUAL BY TWO BLONDES. A. P. Hill shuddered, imagining tabloid headlines, similar to the ones that now featured Purdue’s present escapades. Only the stories would have displayed her picture, instead of Carla Larkin’s, as the outlaw accomplice.
We must have been crazy, thought Powell Hill for the five hundredth time. They had certainly been angry that night—perhaps there is a point where anger and madness become indistinguishable.
Purdue had called the frat house, asking for Milo, and after long minutes of waiting, while the receiver was laid down on the table, and shouts of “Anybody seen Milo?” filtered back through the line, the same slurred voice came back on and told them that Milo had gone off to study. Try the snack bar, the voice had added. He usually stokes up on coffee and burgers before he hits the stacks.
There wasn’t much time for preparation. They had put on a week’s worth of makeup from the absent Terrell’s supply, and the most provocative clothes they could find in Terrell’s closet, completing the look with her largest pairs of dangly earrings. Purdue took a small handbag and emptied everything out of it except her room key, a ten-dollar bill, two pairs of damp pantyhose, and a disposable camera that still had a few shots left on the roll.
“Loaded for bear,” said Purdue, tottering a little in Pamela’s roommate’s platform shoes.
“How will we know this guy if we find him?” asked A. P. Hill, trying to pull down a skirt so short it might have been a dinner napkin.
“I got a description of him,” said Purdue. “While you were downstairs at the drink machine, I got Bullington to tell me everything about him that she could remember. If he hasn’t changed clothes, I can’t miss him. Even if he has, I think I can spot him.”
It had been as simple as that. They’d found him in the snack bar, just as the voice on the phone had told them they would, and Purdue had recognized him within seconds. She nudged A. P. Hill. “The dark-haired clown at the counter,” she murmured. “Keep smiling if it kills you.”
Somehow Powell Hill had got through the next ten minutes, with a plaster smile, and an imitation of a femme fatale that was good enough to fool anyone who wasn’t sober. After a few minutes’ repartee, which the young man seemed to find bewildering, though of course his macho self-image prevented him from saying so, they led him away to an unlit wooded area that was unlikely to have passersby so late at night. This was the tricky part. Finding somewhere to go. They had discussed this point in hushed, urgent tones on the way to the snack bar. They didn’t want him at the dorm, and they couldn’t risk going back to his room, so it had to be outside. It was probably a good thing he wasn’t sober. He wasn’t thinking clearly enough to argue with them.
Working briskly and insistently as they murmured perfunctory endearments, “Trish” and “Amy” had managed to divest the young man of his clothes. As he lurched toward them to return the favor, A. P. Hill caught his wrist. She was surprisingly strong for a slender young woman. Taking martial arts classes instead of ballet had its advantages.
P. J. Purdue took the pantyhose out of her purse. “There’s more to the foreplay,” she murmured in a sultry voice. “Ever been tied up?”
The anthropology student seemed to be muttering something about South American courtship rituals as Purdue bound his wrists together behind his back with the damp pantyhose, and then tied him to a small tree. With trembling fingers made clumsy by her nervousness, A. P. Hill tied his feet together, trying not to look up as she worked.
In less than two minutes their victim was securely trussed and immobilized. Purdue stepped back and handed A. P. Hill the camera. “Shoot,” she said, “but keep me out of the frame. I’m going to tell our boyfriend here why this is happening to him.”
“We can’t!” hissed her partner in crime. “It will get … you-know-who … in trouble!”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Purdue, tapping the camera. “Not unless old Studly here wants to see his picture plastered all over campus on homemade posters—WOULD YOU ATTEND AN UGLY-GIRL PARTY WITH THIS MAN?”
The young man stopped struggling with his bonds. “Is that what this is about? Listen, we didn’t mean any harm.…”
“Oh, tell it to the squirrels, macho man!” Purdue snapped a few more pictures of the captive. “Let’s get out of here,” she said to A. P. Hill, who was acting as lookout.
As they turned to go, A. P. Hill said, “I’m sure this has been an interesting anthropological experience for you. File it under Revenge Rituals. And tell your Neanderthal buddies that if they don’t stop harassing campus women, they’ll all find themselves tied to trees!”
Then they ran until the young man’s shouts no longer echoed in their ears.
And that had been it, really. Although they read the local and campus newspapers front to back for weeks, there were no articles about a naked man left tied to a tree near the campus of William & Mary. No policemen came to the dorm to question anybody. Perhaps Milo Gordon had escaped on his own, and had slunk back home in the darkness without a word to anybody. It was as if the incident had never taken place.
The next time she went home, Purdue got the photos developed by a friend of hers, probably telling him some plausible lie about the subject matter: a drama class exercise, perhaps. When she came back to campus, she gave Pam Bullington one of the prints and swore her to secrecy. And that was that. Then it was over. Honor satisfied. No repercussions. They soldiered on through the undergraduate year, concentrating on the weightier matters of exams and term papers; gradually the incident faded from Powell Hill’s mind until it had the hazy texture of a half-remembered television movie starring a girl who vaguely resembled her.
She had cause to remember it a few years later, when her law partner Bill MacPherson, remarking on his sister’s forthcoming wedding, mentioned her old boyfriend, Bill’s former roommate, Milo Gordon. When she heard the name, A. P. Hill took a deep breath and willed herself to stay calm, but she’d had to set down her coffee mug because her hand was shaking.
“Where is your old roommate now?” she’d asked Bill, as casually as she could.
“Peru, I think,” said Bill, oblivious to her discomfort. “Somewhere in South America anyhow. I get a Christmas card every couple of years. Milo is a forensic anthropologist. Studies bones. I asked him once why he didn’t study live people, and he said he didn’t much care for them.”
A. P. Hill had let out a sigh of relief as she turned the conversation into safer channels. There didn’t seem to be any likelihood of her ever meeting Milo Gordon, since he and Bill had lost touch. Even if they did meet, he might not remember her. A. P. Hill wondered if Bill had ever been told about Milo’s abduction, and what he had thought about it if he had. What would he think of her?
With P. J. Purdue at large, performing that same old stunt on a succession of strangers, A. P. Hill was very much afraid she was going to find out. Suppose when P. J. Purdue was finally taken into custody, she talked about the first crime of the PMS Outlaws—the one in which they used pantyhose instead of handcuffs, and her accomplice had been A. P. Hill.
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Powell Hill eased her foot off the accelerator. She had been doing seventy without realizing it. She was not in that much of a hurry to reach Danville. She still didn’t know what she was going to say to Bill when she got there.
Chapter 14
“Did you hear from your cousin Geoffrey yet?” Edith asked Bill as she brought in the mail.
“No,” said Bill. “I assume that he made it home to Georgia safely. Why? Are you worried about him?”
“No. I want to make sure he’s really gone.” Edith’s gaze took in the walls of Bill’s office, newly papered in chintz; the rowing scull set upright in a corner to serve as a bookcase; and the tartan-matted, gold-framed fox-hunting prints set at tasteful intervals along the walls. “Breaking and entering is a crime, isn’t it?” she asked Bill.
“Ye-ees,” said Bill, sorting through the letters.
“Well, breaking and decorating ought to be.”
“The decorations are probably very nice,” said Bill carefully. “I just don’t think it’s me.”
“Looks like a set for a Jane Austen film,” said Edith with a sigh. “Still, I suppose he meant well. And he certainly was good company for Mr. Jack. He’d sit and listen to him for hours on end, it seems like.”
“I know,” said Bill. “I wonder what he was up to.”
Edith shook her head. “You know him better than I do,” she said. “Well, I haven’t got time to stand around here all day talking to you. People keep coming to the back door asking for Mr. Jack. He said I was to tell them he’s in the outbuilding. I wonder what he’s up to?”
Bill smiled. “At his age? Breathing, I expect. Not much else. Anyhow, I’m going to be busy, too. A woman called a little while ago and said she wanted to talk to me about a lawsuit. Something about her car. I’ll let her in if you’re busy.”
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