by Barbara Paul
“I know.”
“Oh, Marian, I’m so sorry! I can’t begin to imagine what you must be feeling!”
“Guilt,” Marian said. “I feel guilt.”
24
The next morning the surveillance teams reported Fairchild had stayed in his West Side apartment except for a quick trip to his studio and an hour he spent with Bobby Galloway in one of the Central Park playgrounds. The team on duty at the time said Bobby didn’t seem to want to play with the other children.
Well, of course he doesn’t want to play, Marian thought. His father dead and his mother in prison—though how much of that Bobby understood, she didn’t know. But if such a traumatic thing had to happen to a child, it was better that it happen at Bobby’s age than, say, when he was entering puberty.
Fat comfort in that.
Her flesh crawled to think of Bobby in the care of a man who enjoyed killing and torturing. But Fairchild was taking good care of his nephew, trying to help him lead a normal life again. Marian remembered the first time she’d met the two of them, the uncle bouncing the little boy on his shoulders and both of them laughing and having a good time.
But no matter how much Fairchild cared for the boy, Bobby Galloway would never be allowed to reach adulthood, marry, and beget children—of that Marian was sure. Sooner or later the last Galloway would have a tragic accident … and Alex Fairchild would be a rich, rich man.
Perlmutter was contact man for the surveillance teams to report to; so when he appeared in Marian’s doorway, her heart skipped a beat. Perlmutter held up a hand and said, “He’s in his studio.”
Letdown. Then: “Is Bobby with him?”
“No, and that’s what I came to tell you. Fairchild’s hired a nanny—live-in, name of Verna Muller, forty-three, strictly legit. Somebody stable who’s there all the time—that’s gotta be good for the kid.”
Yes, that was good. “Have you thought about what’s going to happen to Bobby if Fairchild gets away with this?”
“Yeah, that kid’s days are numbered. But he isn’t going to get away with it, Lieutenant. If Holland can just hold out until the next time Fairchild goes wherever it is, then—” He broke off. “Was that my phone?” He hurried back to his desk.
Marian waited, tense. Time dragged.
When he at last came back, his face told her the bad news even before he spoke. “They lost him.”
“Jesus Christ!” Marian hit at the desk, sending the desk calendar flying to the floor. “How could they lose him?”
“Freak accident. Campos and O’Toole were following his taxi when they ran into a bottleneck on West Fifty-second. Car and a bakery van collided, traffic backed up for two blocks. Everybody just sitting until the vehicles could be towed. Campos stayed in the car while O’Toole went to check on Fairchild. But by the time he could work his way through the bumper-to-bumper cars, Fairchild had got tired of waiting and had already left his cab.”
“Damn!” This wasn’t supposed to happen! “Where was the cabdriver taking him?”
“Astor Place, O’Toole says.”
“Astor Place? But that’s in …” She thought quickly. “Perlmutter, go tell the captain what you just told me. It looks as if Holland’s being held somewhere in the Ninth Precinct instead of in Brooklyn.” She unlocked the bottom drawer of her desk and took out her bag.
“Where will you be, Lieutenant?”
“Home,” she said grimly. “Waiting for the next tape.”
This time Fairchild had brought a pull truck with him, piled high with boxes and bundles. One of the wheels was squeaky; Holland had heard it even before he’d noticed Fairchild’s flashlight bobbing in the distance. What in the hell does that maniac have in mind now?
Among the things Fairchild had brought were two lights on stands, which he set up quickly and expertly. “Since this will be your farewell performance,” he told Holland, “we want everything to look just right.”
A chill ran down Holland’s back. “It’s time to kill me.”
“Oh, no. At least, not now. No, I meant this will be your last chance to persuade the reluctant lieutenant to put an end to the investigation. So make it good, Pretty Boy. That woman is as pigheaded as you are.”
“And if she won’t?”
Fairchild made a kissing sound. “Bye-bye!”
Holland knew why Marian was refusing to close the case; the minute she did, his usefulness to Fairchild would be ended. He also knew she’d played the tapes for Murtaugh and was even now drawing upon the resources of the NYPD to locate him. But how could anyone ever find him … here?
“All right, I’m ready,” Fairchild announced. “Stand up. And strip.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Strip. Take off those trousers and whatever you wear under them. Let’s get a look at what our lady lieutenant finds so fascinating.”
A long silence built. Then Holland slowly got to his feet and spoke one word: “No.”
Fairchild tut-tutted. “Ah, but I insist! Your last performance must be done au naturel. Take off your trousers.”
Holland smiled his nastiest smile. “You take them off.”
The challenge hung in the air between them. Fairchild paced back and forth, never taking his eyes off Holland. Suddenly he stopped and commanded, “Show me your hands!”
Holland opened his empty hands. The bottle cap had been lost in the struggle earlier.
“You do understand, don’t you,” Fairchild said, “that if anything happens to me, you’ll die here?”
“I understand.”
“Nobody knows where you are. And nobody ever comes here. I found this place by accident. If you injure me—if you even try to hurt me—I’ll leave you here to rot, I swear I will!”
“Oh, I believe you.”
Fairchild licked his lips; still undecided.
All of life is about dominance, Holland thought. If Fairchild could get the trousers off him, he would win. King Alex.
Fairchild made up his mind. He took a gun from his hip pocket and placed it behind one of the lanterns, outside of Holland’s reach. “Hold your hands up over your head. Now, stretch back. Farther!”
“That’s as far as they go.”
Fairchild approached slowly, never taking his eyes off Holland’s hands. He fumbled the waistband of the trousers open without looking, and got the zipper open. But then he dropped his eyes for one second …
Holland brought his manacled hands down hard on the back of Fairchild’s neck. He twisted him around so that Fairchild was facing outward and brought the link between his manacles up hard against the other man’s neck. “The key!” he hissed. “Unlock me!”
Fairchild was pulling ineffectually at Holland’s arms. “I … I don’t have it on me,” he choked out.
“Do you know how easy it would be for me to break your neck? Where is the key, dammit!”
Fairchild was coughing and had to struggle to get the words out. “Show you … need flashlight.”
Holland’s trousers had fallen down around his ankles; he kicked them aside and walked Fairchild toward where he’d left the flashlight. Fairchild had to hook it with one toe and roll it toward them. He shone the light along the wall to the left, looking for something. There it was: a nail in the cement wall, holding a key ring with one key on it. Fairchild coughed. “Can’t reach it from here.”
“Let’s try, shall we?” Holland moved them both as close to the key as his chain would allow. “Now, reach for the key. Stretch, damn you!”
Fairchild stretched one arm out as far as it would go. The tips of his fingers were a good four feet short of the key ring. He made an attempt to laugh; it came out a gurgle.
Seeing the uselessness of it, Holland released him and shoved him away. Fairchild had won.
Fairchild was coughing and holding his throat. He picked up a bottle of Evian water and swallowed some, making a face as the liquid went down. When he’d recovered, he walked over and planted himself in front of Holland. “That was very unp
leasant,” he said … and slapped him.
Holland bared his teeth but did not retaliate.
Fairchild slapped him again. And again. And again. When Holland did not respond, Fairchild put his fists on his hips and smiled. “That’s better. You’re learning. Now, take off those fancy black briefs.”
Holland felt a surge of adrenaline; it would be so easy to kill him, right now, where he stood. But he fought down the impulse; Fairchild had the upper hand, for now. Without a word, Holland tugged his briefs down over his hips and stepped out of them. Standing naked before his captor, he waited for what was to come next.
Fairchild picked up both briefs and trousers and turned to walk outside the circle of light. “You know I said I’d leave you here to rot if you tried anything,” his voice came from the darkness. “But now that you acknowledge I’m in charge here, I just might put that off for a while.” When he came back, he was carrying the whip.
Holland’s heart sank. He disguised his anguish with flippancy. “A rerun? I thought you’d have some new treat in store.”
“Oh, this is just for aesthetics. All those ugly red cuts above your waist and none below. We’ll balance things out by adding a few stripes to your legs.” He sniggered. “At least, I’ll try to hit your legs.” He waited a moment to make sure Holland got his meaning.
If I’d never met her, this wouldn’t be happening.
Then it hit him, what he’d thought. Holland was so sickened that he was unprepared when the first lash landed across his thighs. On some level—oh god!—on some level, he had been blaming Marian. The whip sliced across his knees. He clenched his teeth and stood as still as he could. I deserve this. I deserve this.
When Fairchild was satisfied, he said, “Well, you took that like a little man.” He tossed the whip aside and picked up the camcorder. “Show time, Pretty Boy. Do your stuff.”
But Holland remained standing still, teeth clenched against the pain and holding his head high. He followed Fairchild with his eyes as he jumped around, shooting from different angles, fancying it up.
“Very amateurish, what I’m doing,” Fairchild confided. “But we don’t want them suspecting I know how to use a camera, do we?” At last he finished. “Well, I must go see that this is delivered to your ladylove. But first, let’s get some antiseptic on those new cuts.”
He went to the hand truck he’d brought and carried back what turned out to be a thin mattress, the kind used for cots or narrow bunk beds. Fairchild told Holland to lie down. Wondering what he was up to, Holland stretched out on his side.
“On your back.”
“I’d rather not. Lying on my back is painful.”
Fairchild looked at the lash cuts on his back. “Oh, those do look nasty. All right, I’ll get to them in a minute.”
He got to work with antiseptic and gauze squares, even holding compresses against the deeper cuts to stop the bleeding. “Do you know what day it is?” he asked chattily. “It’s July first. The weather gods must be watching the calendar, because those nice June days are gone. It’s chilly here, but outside you could be broiled alive.” He grinned. “Aren’t you glad I didn’t put you in a tin hut somewhere?”
Then he started in on Holland’s feet. He wiped away the dried blood with antiseptic and brushed the gravel and grit off Holland’s soles.
Holland watched in bewilderment. He’s cleaning my feet?
“I picked up a new antiseptic salve,” Fairchild said. “That ought to do the trick on your back. Let’s see, now.” He started applying the salve, his touch as light as a feather. “It should take some of the sting out as well.”
His back did feel a little better already. “Why are you so good to me?” Holland asked sarcastically.
Fairchild smiled enigmatically. “I can be very good to you … as long as you behave yourself.” He stood up and went to the hand truck. When he came back, he was carrying a thermal blanket which he spread over Holland. “Take a nap, Pretty Boy. I’ll be back as soon as I arrange to have the tape delivered.”
But Holland lay wide awake as he listened to the sound of Fairchild’s retreating footsteps, trying to figure the best way to make use of this extraordinary turn of events.
25
It should have been the ultimate humiliation. The tape showed Holland in a state that would have reduced most men to a posture of abject defeat: unshaven, with dark shadows under his eyes, and naked as the day he was born. Fresh cut marks on his legs and thighs were bleeding heavily. But Holland stood straight and still, his head up, only his eyes moving as they followed his tormenter. Holland wouldn’t give Fairchild the satisfaction of seeing him cringe.
“Incredible,” Murtaugh murmured. “He’s been chained, whipped, stripped naked—and he still manages to keep his dignity.”
Marian didn’t give a hoot about Holland’s dignity; it was his person she wanted back. But she saw Murtaugh’s point, although not sharing his amazement; Holland was behaving exactly as she thought he would.
“Hang in there, dude,” Campos muttered to the image on the screen.
The poster board at the end was filled with a stenciled message: This is the last tape. If the eleven o’clock news tonight does not report that the Galloway case has been closed, then he dies. And he will die horribly.
“Look at that,” Walker said in disgust. “He couldn’t just stop after ‘then he dies.’ Oh, no, he had to twist the knife.” He glanced at Marian. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant.”
“Run it again,” Marian said.
Murtaugh rewound the tape and pressed the PLAY button. The picture was brighter and clearer on this tape, and the camera moved around a bit, shooting Holland from all sides.
“What’s he doing?” Perlmutter asked. “Showing off?”
“Wait,” said Marian. “What was that white blur on the left?”
“What white blur?”
“When he was swinging the camera around to get a different angle. There’s something white at the extreme left side, very narrow—the light just barely caught it. Back it up, Captain?” They all watched closely as Murtaugh ran the tape back. “There. Now, forward just a few frames. That’s it!” Murtaugh hit PAUSE.
But the picture was streaked and blurry. “Try the tracking knob,” Perlmutter suggested.
Murtaugh looked at the controls on the VCR. “This machine has two.”
“Try ’em both.”
The captain fiddled with the two knobs and managed to bring the picture into focus. Marian’s white blur revealed itself to be the beginning—or ending—of a tiled wall. Graying white tile.
“Bathhouse?” Marian asked. “Subway? A rest room, the locker room of a gym?”
“Hospital, laboratory,” Perlmutter added. “The morgue.”
Murtaugh said, “A lot of the older municipal buildings have that white tile in them. The stuff’s all over this town.”
“But it’s unfinished, whatever it is,” O’Toole pointed out. “They ran out of money before they finished tiling the wall?”
“Yeah, but where?” Campos complained. “It could be anyplace.”
They stared gloomily at the tape.
Fairchild had brought a small camp stove that was heated by cylinders of propane gas. “It didn’t occur to me that the lack of running water would be a problem,” he said. “I thought this would be over by now—I didn’t realize how stubborn your ladylove could be. Well, we’ll just make do with bottled water. Do you have any idea how heavy those big bottles are? I hope you appreciate all the trouble I’ve gone to for you.”
“Oh, I appreciate it,” Holland said dryly.
Fairchild was no longer wearing a bandage on his cheek. The two scratches the bottle cap had made were neither as long nor as deep as Holland would have wished. Fairchild put a pan of water on the stove to heat. “Now, while that’s getting warm, I’ve got something here you’ll like.”
“Chicken soup.” Holland could smell it; his mouth had been watering ever since the other man returned.
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p; “That’s right. No, no—you’ll spill it. Here, let me.” He twisted off the lid of the cardboard carton and dipped a plastic spoon into the soup.
I’m to be spoon-fed? Holland obediently opened his mouth.
Fairchild fed him a spoonful, then another. “There, isn’t that good?”
Holland sat wrapped in his blanket, allowing himself to be fed like a baby, sure now of his role in this grotesque game. Fairchild was the dominant one, the source of both pain and pleasure, the one from whom everything came. Hrothgar, the ring bestower. Everybody wants to be God. Fairchild could mete out punishment or reward according to his whim, and Holland’s task was to be totally subservient to that whim. Fairchild, the all-powerful father, never to be questioned; Holland, the dependent child, to be pampered or spanked as the occasion demanded.
Test it out. “Did you bring just one carton? That’s all?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Fairchild said. “Next time I’ll bring two. I didn’t know you liked soup so much.”
“I love soup. All kinds of soup. I like soup for breakfast.”
“I’m thinking you need red meat. You’ve lost a lot of blood, you know.” Reproachfully.
“I’ll try not to bleed so much,” Holland said through clenched teeth.
Fairchild held out an apple. “Eat that. It’s good for you.”
Yes, Daddy.
While Holland was eating the apple, Fairchild took a plastic bag and began picking up food wrappers and empty Evian water bottles. “A lot of mess here.” He held out the bag for the apple core.
Clean up your room?
After being so finicky about the litter, Fairchild carelessly tossed the plastic bag behind the lanterns. “Let’s have a look at those cuts.” He pulled Holland’s blanket away. “Hmm. Most of them are healing nicely, but there are a few that look like trouble.” He made a tsk-tsking sound. “It’s too dirty here—too much risk of infection. The water ought to be warm by now.”
He went over to the propane stove and poured the water into a bucket. From the hand truck he fetched soap, a sponge, and a towel. He dipped the sponge in the bucket and squeezed out the warm water over Holland’s head.