Promise You Won't Tell?

by John Locke

  He drops me off at the office, then drives Sophie home.

  You know that feeling you get when you unlock the front door to your house and feel something’s wrong? In my case it’s the front door of my office suite.

  Maybe it’s a scent. Maybe it’s intuition. Maybe it’s nothing. But feels like someone has been here since Dillon and I left earlier this morning. The feeling’s so strong I consider walking right back out the door and waiting for Dillon.

  Except that Dillon won’t be back for at least twenty minutes.

  And there’s this: I have a gun.

  I walk through the reception area, past the perpetually vacant reception desk, and get the distinct feeling someone not only entered the office after we left, but they’re still here. To make matters worse, I hear sounds of activity coming from my office.

  This can’t be good.

  I quietly place my handbag on the floor, remove my gun. Creep down the hall, past Dillon’s office, the supply room, the break room, the bathroom. My office door is closed, as it should be.

  There it is again!

  And again.

  The unmistakable sound of someone conducting a noisy search.

  I pause, gun in hand, take a deep breath, silently turn the door handle with my free hand. I plan to push the door open while screaming, “Hands in the air, asshole!”

  And shoot if I must.

  That’s the plan.

  But while executing it, I fail to remember my office door doesn’t push inward. It pulls outward. So when I push, nothing happens. But when I yell, “Hands in the air, asshole!” Someone screams inside, and—I don’t mean to, but I—well, I discharge my handgun.

  The screaming continues, so at least I didn’t kill anyone. When it stops, I pull the door open, ready to shoot again.

  It’s a woman.

  A redhead.

  “Don’t shoot!” she screams.

  She’s practically naked, covered only by the type of gown you might find in a hospital, tied at the neck, wide open in the back. The front of her body is pressed tightly against the wall, as if she’s trying to blend with the drywall.

  Except that she can’t, because, like I said, she’s a redhead.

  That is not to say she has red hair.

  In fact, she has no hair at all. On her head, anyway.

  What I’m saying, her head is, quite literally, painted red. From the base of her neck to the top of her hairless scalp.

  What else?

  She’s shapely.

  I can’t tell her age from this angle, but I can tell you she has a remarkable ass.

  What makes it remarkable?

  Her tattoos.

  She has two.

  One on each cheek.

  Left cheek says If I’m drunk.... Right cheek says, Flip me over!

  “What the hell are you doing in my office?” I say.

  “Looking for drugs.”

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  “I’m Fanny, your receptionist.”

  “What?” Oh, please no! I’m aware my mouth has dropped open, but I let it hang that way. I flat don’t care.

  She turns to face me. “You’re Dani.”

  It takes me a moment to form words with my mouth. I have to close it first. Eventually I say, “Why are you dressed like that?”

  She moves away from the wall and I see she’s hooked up to an IV stand. It has two hooks at the top to hold some sort of infusion solution that’s being gravity-dripped into her wrist.

  I point. “What’s that?”

  “Just a saline drip. No big deal. I just have to make sure the bag remains twenty-seven inches above my heart.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Could you put the gun down, Sugar? I nearly shit myself when you tried to shoot me.”

  I look at the floor beneath her.

  “Your carpet’s safe,” she says. “It’s an expression, Sugar. Relax. Put the gun down, okay?”

  I lower the gun.

  She says, “According to the emergency room nurse, the infusion pressure’s fifty mmHg at twenty-seven inches above the heart. At fifty-four inches, it’s double.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Neither do I, Sugar, but it’s not as important as getting your envelopes pasted, right?”

  “It sounds terribly important,” I say, looking nervously at the needle in her vein, and the tube that’s running red.

  She follows my gaze and says, “I’ll need to re-inject myself. I’ll go outdoors so I won’t bleed on your carpet.”

  “You shouldn’t change that IV by yourself!”

  “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it, Sugar. Last time this happened I wound up with subcutaneous crepitation. You’ll hope that happens to me again, because it’s fun. When air or gas gets trapped under my skin it’ll feel like you’re touching Rice Krispies.”

  “You need a doctor,” I say.

  “Don’t be silly! I’ve already lived through the worst of it. These doctors and nurses are so full of themselves. Of course, their attitude is all, “Don’t you dare leave the ICU! You’re taking your life in your hands!” But then I explain how important these envelopes are to you, and—”

  “Look, I feel terrible about that,” I say. “And those awful texts I sent?”

  “Don’t give it a second thought. You have every right to expect a full day’s work for a day’s pay. And anyway, you know how it is with those doctors and nurses. They’re just covering their asses. Speaking of which, how’d you like the tattoos on my butt?”

  “Uh…I didn’t mean to stare.”

  “That’s okay, Sugar. You’re not the first to enjoy the view. If you’re ever in Soho, at Billy Bikers, check out the men’s room wall, above the urinal. They’ve immortalized me. Framed photograph taken by Billy himelf.”

  “Why are you here?” I say.

  “You told me to get my ass to work or you’d fire me. I can’t afford to lose my hospitalization.”

  “You’ve got hospitalization?”

  “Of course. So do you and Dillon! I’ll get you a copy of the booklet that explains the benefits.”

  “How did you—I mean, how could you possibly sign us up for group hospitalization?”

  “Can I be completely honest? I forged some documents, signed some checks.”

  “Who gave you check-signing privileges?”

  She gives me a look. “Why, you did, Sugar.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “No? Well, hell, I probably forged your signature for that, too. Couldn’t sign up for insurance without writing a check, after all. But no harm, no foul. I’m as honest as the day is long. Good thing, right?”

  “Why are you looking for drugs in my office?”

  “I couldn’t go to the pharmacy dressed like this, could I?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I was looking for a prescription bottle. If you had one I could call the pharmacy, give them this scrip, maybe have them deliver my meds here.”

  “The pharmacy wouldn’t fill your prescription under my name.”

  “Sure they would!”

  “How’s that possible?”

  “I used your name when I checked into the hospital.”

  I frown.

  “What’s wrong?” she says.

  “I’m sorry, Fanny, but this isn’t working out. I’m going to have to let you go.”

  “Don’t be silly!”

  “I’m completely serious, Fanny. While I’m sympathetic to your unnamed illness, you’re clearly a scam artist.”

  “In certain circles I’m known as a Nordic Princess, and a key member of the IVBF.”

  “What’s that, a shoe store in Kettledrum, Illinois?”

  “I can’t say, never having visited the mythical kingdom of Kettledrum, where you might be town mayor,” Fanny says. “But the IVBF I’m referring to is the International Virgin Boat Festival.”

  “We’re getting off topic again.”

  “Her
e’s a topic. You shot me with a handgun.”

  “Shot at you.”

  “In Minnesota, they call that attempted murder. Check the State Criminal Code of 1963, Section Number 609.”

  “We’re not in Minnesota. And anyway, I thought you broke into my office.”

  “That’s not going to play well with the police. They might wonder what sort of employer forces dying women in hospital gowns to come in and paste envelopes while hooked to IVs. Not to mention discharging a deadly weapon in the workplace. Check California Penal Code Section 12031 for reference.”

  “I’ll take my chances. And by the way, we’re in Tennessee, not Minnesota or California.”

  “I only know the statutes from places I’ve been arrested. But I’m confident with the possible exception of Texas, it’s illegal to use your employees for target practice.”

  “Like I say, I’m willing to take my chances.”

  “Why, because I’ve got a blue tongue?”

  “No, of course not! It’s because—Wait. You’ve got a blue tongue?”

  She sticks it out.

  “Oh, Jesus!” I shout, covering my eyes. It’s not only bright blue, but forked. I gag, and throw up in my mouth.

  “You okay, Sugar?”

  “You had your tongue split? Completely? On purpose?”

  “Cleaved, Sugar. We call it cleaved.”

  I briefly wonder who she means by “we,” but remember Donovan Creed, once said, “Don’t ask questions unless you’re prepared to hear the answer.”

  I’m not prepared for Fanny’s answer. I don’t want to know who else has their tongues cleaved all the way to their throats. But I’m curious why she does.

  “Why would you do that, Fanny?”

  She winks. “Ask my boyfriends.”

  “That will never happen.”

  “You know who else has a blue tongue?”

  “No, and please don’t tell me. I truly don’t—”

  “Bears.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “My spiritual advisor says I’m directly descended from the union of a bear and a human.”

  The more she speaks the crazier she seems. I just want her out of here.

  Still, I have to ask, “Which gender was the human?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Not really, I suppose. Since the whole notion’s preposterous.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if you saw how much body hair I remove each week with my weed whacker.”

  I say, “Fanny, I’m sure you’re a nice person and all, but you simply can’t work here anymore. Surely you understand my position. You’ve forged legal documents, stolen money, and committed insurance fraud.”

  “You make it sound like a bad thing! Look, if something happened to poor Dillon, how would he be able to pay his medical bills? Surely you intended to provide him with hospitalization at some point.”

  “Well, of course. At some point.”

  “And you’d extend that coverage to your other employees, such as your devoted receptionist, right? I mean, you have to cover all your employees in order to qualify for group health insurance.”

  “Well…”

  “You know what I think? I think you intended to provide coverage for Dillon, but never got around to it.”

  “Yes, but—”

  “I just did what you intended to do. And now we’ve all got coverage.”

  “I can appreciate what you tried to do. It’s not just the insurance, or the checks. It’s you, Fanny.”

  “What about me?”

  “I need a nice, quiet, prim and proper receptionist, who shows up every day and does only what I ask her to do. Someone who looks and dresses normally, who takes calls, schedules appointments, and—”

  “Stop! You’re making my ears scream! What you need is someone who looks at things differently. Someone who sees things others don’t. Ask Dillon what he thinks of me.”

  “Dillon’s eighteen. He hired you because of your boobs.”

  She smiles “You like them?”

  “I don’t know anything about them.”

  “Would you like to?”

  “No. I’m just saying, he’s an eighteen-year-old boy. He has no idea what criteria to look for in an ideal receptionist.”

  “Of course he does! He found me, didn’t he? And anyway, he’s here.”

  I turn around. “Where?”

  “He’s pulling into the parking lot right now.”

  “You can’t possibly hear anything that far away.”

  “Shh!” she says. “Listen for the sound of the car door slamming shut.”

  “This is ridiculous.”

  She says, “There! Surely you heard that!”

  “You’re insane.”

  “You’re telling me you can’t hear him humming?”

  This time she’s gone too far. “Oh really? What tune?”

  “Ravel’s Bolero.”

  “Gotcha!”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Dillon’s idea of classical music is Guns N’ Roses.”

  “You got a problem with Guns N’ Roses?”

  “No, it’s just—”

  Dillon opens the door to the office, enters, walks through the reception area, down the hall toward us, humming Ravel’s Bolero.

  “Where did you hear that tune you’re humming?” I demand.

  “Fanny sent me a mix.”

  Fanny says, “The title hooked him.”

  “What, Bolero?”

  “No,” Fanny says, “The mix title. My song list. I call it—”

  “—Stop! I don’t want to know. You’re trying to suck me into your vortex again.”

  Dillon says, “You look great, Fanny! How are you feeling?”

  She smiles. “I’ve seen better days. And worse ones, too.”

  “Dani’s having a bad day, too,” he says. “We stole some cell phones hoping to find naked pictures of a girl, but they didn’t have any.”

  “I know some great porn sites.”

  “Me, too. But this was a client. Something happened to her, but we can’t prove it.”

  “Story of my life,” she says. “By the way, Dani just fired me.”

  “Don’t worry. She fires me all the time. You probably just got off on the wrong foot. Like I said, she’s had a bad day. Still, I’m sorry she made you come to work like this.”

  “That’s okay. I’ve been meaning to meet her for a long time.”

  “I’m right here in the room,” I say.

  “You should be in bed, Fanny,” Dillon says.

  “If I had a bedroom like the one on her computer, I’d never go outside.”

  I say, “What are you talking about?”

  “The photos on your computer. Who’s bedroom is that?”

  “What the hell were you doing looking at my computer? You’re out of line! That’s completely unacceptable!”

  Dillon says, “It’s Kelli Underhill’s bedroom.”

  “The girl who had the slumber party?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Well, whoever put the surveillance equipment in there did a helluva good job.”

  She turns to leave.

  Dillon and I look at each other.

  Surveillance equipment?

  “Wait!” I say.

  Riley was right about the first four photos Dillon took of Kelli’s bedroom using the camera’s built-in flash.

  “The flash makes ’em pop out like cold air on a warm nipple,” Fanny says.

  “Makes what pop out?” I ask.

  She points to an area on the right side of the photo. “Right here. See that tiny light burst?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s light, reflecting off a miniature camera lens. And see this one up here?”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s another one.”

  “You’re certain?”

  “Of course. I used to install surveillance equipment for the CIA.”

  “I seriously doubt that.”

&nbs
p; “You can call and ask them. Central Insurance Agency. Two-forty Eddington Street, Montpelier, Vermont.”

  “Oh.”

  “Want their number?”

  “No. But if you’re right about the cameras—”

  “Yes?”

  “You can keep your job.”

  “Oh, goody.”

  “For now.”

  “How about a raise?”

  “Don’t press your luck.”

  “What if I tell you something else?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like—what’s your client’s name?”

  “Riley Freeman.”

  “What if I told you these cameras have nothing to do with Riley?”

  “What do you mean? They have everything to do with her.”

  “You’re focusing on your case.”

  “That’s my job.”

  “I agree. Which is why you need me.”

  “I’m waiting,” I say.

  “You’re not seeing the bigger picture. There’s more going on here.”

  “Tell me.”

  “This isn’t the work of teenagers.” Fanny says.

  “No?”

  “This is a professional installation. It took time. My guess, these cameras have been in place for a long time.”

  “What, exactly are you saying?”

  “Someone’s been spying on Kelli. And probably for a long time. You might find a video of Riley Freeman being assaulted, but Kelli’s a victim, too.”

  I point at one of the photos. “This camera’s directly above Kelli’s bed?”

  “Sure is.”

  “And this one covers her dressing area.”

  “Yup.”

  Dillon and I look at each other.

  He shrugs.

  I say, “How big a raise were you looking for?”

  At ten this morning, Riley shocked me with a question. At four-fifteen she makes a comment that knocks me for a loop.

  “What do you mean you want to drop the case?”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Ripper. I’ll find a way to pay you for your time. It’s just that I can’t do this.”

  “You owe me nothing, Riley. I haven’t been charging you. But we have to see it through.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Kelli’s my friend. If you tell the police about those videos, it could ruin her life.”

  “Riley, after all we’ve been through, surely you want to know what happened.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “If there’s a video, and it shows something happened to you, we have a responsibility to talk to the police.”