Well Bred and Dead

by Catherine O'Connell

  “Did I hear you right? You want to transfer nineteen million dollars to another account?” he asked in astonishment.

  “That is correct.”

  “Mrs. Cook, may I ask you why? I’ve told you I can take excellent care of your money for you. In this market we can easily grow it to twice, three times what it is, in practically no time at all. Let me put you into some Intel options.”

  “James, I am not interested in stock at this time. I plan on buying some foreign real estate and the transaction will go much smoother if I have the money in place there,” I said, repeating the scenario I had been instructed to give. “I’m expecting a bidding war.”

  “It’s your money, of course, but—”

  “No, buts, James. I want the money transferred and I want it done right away.”

  “No can do right away, Mrs. Cook. When you’re transferring a sum like this out of the country the government demands some paperwork. Even if we get it all approved today, the earliest I can effect the transfer would be tomorrow morning.”

  I looked at Terrance Sullivan holding a purring Fleur in his lap. The fraud had won her over as easily as he had won me. Ethan was standing behind me, listening in on my conversation as best he could. I wanted them gone, out of my house. The government was buying me another day of my money and perhaps my life, but it was another day to be shared with these sociopaths.

  “Fax the papers over to me right away. It is imperative that I get this done as soon as possible.”

  I hung up the phone. “I’m afraid the transfer can’t be made today,” I announced.

  “I heard,” said Ethan and then to Terrance he added, “It’s going to take until tomorrow.”

  “Crap,” said Terrance as he dropped my cat onto the floor.

  36

  Such Sweet Sorrow

  James Slattery faxed over some documents requesting the source of the money to be transferred and the reason for its transfer, the government’s way of tracing the flow of money out of the country, done to check drug trafficking and other illegal activity, he explained. I filled the forms out with a weary heart and sent them back. James assured me he would get back to me as soon as the transfer of funds was approved.

  Time passed insufferably slowly. Breakfast was tea and tuna and the last of the crackers. Afterward, I was taken back into my living room where I tried to read more Jane Austen, but gave up after reading the same paragraph for the third time. The phone rang incessantly throughout the morning while my answering machine fielded calls from friends and acquaintances wishing me bon voyage, people who were free to capriciously go about their lives while mine was limited to my present surroundings. I listened without response as Elsa, Jacquie, and Whitney left me fond adieus, Whitney’s girlish voice especially warm in its well wishes. “You must be out running last-minute errands. Have a great trip. I can’t tell you how envious I am!” Had she seen me, I doubt she would have felt so strongly.

  My captors monitored the incoming messages, including one that came in at eleven o’clock from Natasha at Cat-a-Lina. “Mrs. Cook, we thought you were going to bring Fleur in this morning. Maybe there’s a mistake. In any event, we’re just going to assume you’ve made other arrangements for her unless we hear from you.”

  One tedious hour segued into the next without any word from James Slattery. Even my captors were growing fatigued with the situation, especially Terrance, who was getting jumpier by the moment. I hadn’t been allowed to bathe or even cleanse my face, and the necessary forays to the bathroom were both stressful and brief as I was no longer even permitted the dignity of closing the door completely anymore.

  The tweezers and scissors were still secreted in my pocket and the plastic bottle of nail polish remover was still beneath my left breast, digging into the flesh of my ribs. It was causing me such a disagreeable amount of pain, I contemplated taking it out and tossing it in the trash my next trip to the loo. But reminding myself it might serve as my only line of self-defense, I willed myself to rise above the discomfort. The bottle remained painfully secured under my left breast.

  Lunch was tuna again. Mr. Matthews, growing increasingly frustrated with the menu, added some capers to the mix, making a dissatisfied face as he chewed. “I don’t suppose we could order in a pizza?” he suggested to Terrance.

  “Are you crazy?” Terrance replied more than sharply. “We don’t want anyone getting anywhere near this apartment until we’re long gone. After tomorrow, you can buy a chain of pizza parlors.”

  The afternoon crawled past even more slowly than the morning, if that was at all possible. Ethan entertained himself by pulling all the travel books out of my library and spreading them across the living room floor. The other two were glued to the television, hitting the mute button every time the phone rang in order to monitor the incoming call. I settled on staring vacuously out the window. A bank of low clouds had rolled in, turning the day beyond dreary, and the lake reflected them in a colorless gray that only served to compound the hopelessness that welled inside me.

  Finally at four-thirty the phone rang again. It was the call everyone had been waiting for, the sound of James Slattery’s voice leaving a message on my answering machine. I was plucked from my perch on the couch and hustled into the library before he was able to finish.

  “Mrs. Cook, this is James. I’ve gotten all the paperwork back and—”

  Ethan hit the stop button and lifted the phone from the hook.

  “James,” I said, fighting hard to keep my voice from trembling. “I’m here.”

  “Oh, there you are. Let’s see, where was I? Oh, yeah. I guess all the documentation is okay and I just need you to sign one last piece and if it’s all in order we can do this transfer first thing in the A. M. I’ll fax the paper over.”

  “Thank you, James.”

  And then out of the blue, “Hey, weren’t you going to Paris or something?”

  “I’ve had a change in plans,” I replied listlessly.

  The last document signed and delivered, I returned to my perch in the living room. My ankles hurt from my restraints, my wrists were practically raw, and the plastic bottle of nail polish remover had begun to dig a hole in my flesh. The phone had stopped ringing with personal calls, my peers assuming incorrectly that I was in the first-class lounge at O’Hare sipping champagne and awaiting my boarding call. At six-fifty, a deep sigh escaped me as I thought of my plane taxiing down the runway with a vacancy in seat 2A. It was small consolation that my full-fare ticket was refundable. One had to be alive to obtain it. In fact, at this point my mental state had so deteriorated that all I longed for, aside from a proper bath, was one last walk in the park.

  The evening hours were a blur. I declined the tuna dinner, having completely lost my appetite, and was escorted to my bedroom sometime afterward. Sleep eluded me as I spent yet another night wondering if it was my last. Ethan shared my room again and fell almost immediately into what appeared to be sound untroubled sleep. As for the other two, I could hear the dull tone of the television until late into the night.

  Through the crack in my drapes I watched the sky turn from black to a troubled gray day with rain pelting the windows. Ethan was down the hall in the bathroom when Terrance came in to rouse me from my bed. He looked clean and fresh, having undoubtedly availed himself of my shower again. I felt greasier and dirtier than ever.

  After unlocking the handcuff, he walked me to the library where Mr. Matthews was situated in front of the television holding Fleur and watching some inane program with a man named Regis and some vapid blond woman whose name I didn’t catch. Ethan traipsed in behind us and the television was turned off. Terrance picked up the phone, dialed, and handed the receiver over to me one final time. A moment later I heard the chipper voice of my broker.

  “Good morning, James. It’s Pauline Cook. About that wire transfer.”

  The chipper tone vanished. “Right, Mrs. Cook. It’s all arranged. Just waiting for your final O.K. You know it’s not too late to put y
ou into some Cisco, some CMGI—”

  I cut him short. My heart was breaking, but I had no choice. “James, I would like you to effect the transfer now.”

  I could feel the ship of his last hopes sinking over the phone line, as was mine. “All right, I’ve pulled up your account and one, two, three. Done.” The words came out as if he had just pushed a button for a nuclear device.

  “Very good,” I said with true irony. Ethan, who was listening in on my cordless phone, started mouthing something at me. “What now?” I asked testily.

  “Did you say something, Mrs. Cook?”

  “Oh, fax me a confirmation as soon as you have one.”

  “Will do, Mrs. Cook.”

  The deed done, I said goodbye to my broker and my money, and contemplated what was to come next. After the thieves had gotten what they wanted, would they do as they promised and leave me alone? The television was turned back on as we sat awaiting the fax that would bring this travail to a close. Their presence was almost more offensive than what they had done to me. During a commercial for Sara Lee, Mr. Matthews began to wax eloquently about what he was going to eat as soon as he was out of my apartment. He covered nearly every fast food chain in the known universe.

  “One thing’s for sure,” he said, “I’ll never look at a fucking can of tuna again.”

  While the clock ticked off the minutes, I began to feel myself reaching the breaking point. For the past couple of days, my emotions had run the gamut from fear to heartbreak to disappointment to acceptance of loss. But now the apex of all emotions, anger, was making a tardy appearance. It raged inside me, churning and fueling, growing larger until I felt I might explode. Like oxygen feeding a fire, it flared with life. I was no longer afraid, I was incensed. How dare they do to me what they had done?

  That was when the fax machine rang.

  Huddling around it like so many stooges, they waited for the proof that the money they had so meticulously, diligently, and underhandedly plotted for was now theirs. As the machine rhythmically spit out the sheet advising them their fortune had been delivered, they started dancing about and slapping each other on the back in congratulations. So caught up in their reverie were they, that they had forgotten me for the moment, sitting in quiet fury with my hands and feet untied. A prolonged beep sounded the end of the fax, and Ethan held the sheet up victoriously.

  “This is it,” he announced. “Our money is home. Now I suggest we depart posthaste to go greet it.”

  No one noticed me backing to the door. While they had been celebrating I had prepared my weaponry to be brought into play. Held behind my back in my left hand was an open bottle of nail polish remover. In my right, the nail scissors.

  “Todd, get Pauline,” Terrance commanded while he and Ethan examined the sheet of paper as if they had just discovered a new gospel. “Tie her and take her back to her room.”

  Mr. Matthews came to me and grabbed my arm brusquely. Using my anger as fuel, I drove the nail scissors deep into the flesh of his upper arm, sinking the small blades in as far as they would go. His howl told me I had hit bone. Terrance jerked about and saw the scissors sticking out of Mr. Matthews’s arm. He darted to grab me, and I let loose with the nail polish, hurling it into his face. His eyes went wide in momentarily disbelief before shutting tight against the searing of the chemical. Amazingly he did not cry out, but groped past me in a bizarre dance of shock and pain, feeling his way urgently down the hall toward one of my bathrooms.

  Taking advantage of the confusion, I started to run, down the hall past the living room toward the entry. I could feel Mr. Matthews in pursuit though I did not turn to look. I just kept running. If I could make it into my private foyer before he caught me, I just might have a chance. There would be no time to summon the elevator, but next to the elevator was the entrance to the fire stairs. That was how I planned to escape.

  I reached the entry ahead of him. The other side of the foyer door was freedom. I put my hand upon the knob to open it, and felt the warm dry touch of another hand clamp down on mine. Mr. Matthews was standing behind me, his hot breath on my neck. Reaching into my pocket with my free hand I grabbed hold of my last weapon, the pair of tweezers. With the power of a woman possessed, I began jabbing at his hand like a chef chipping ice. His grip was abruptly released and without a second’s hesitation, I opened the door and slipped into the foyer, slamming it shut behind me.

  My adrenaline was flowing like that of a sailor in the final lengths of a regatta. I raced to the fire door and slammed on the bar to release the catch. It didn’t budge. Panic gurgled like a volcano as I pushed it again and again with the same non-result. Certainly this wasn’t possible. The fire code read that the exit stairs must be available at all times.

  I looked down and was filled with the hopelessness of a stray cat cornered by a pack of dogs. My captors had already anticipated I might use the stairs to flee. The bar was wired shut. In desperation, I began banging on the door with my fist. Then came the inevitable footsteps behind me. I stopped banging and slumped to the floor, still grasping the bloody tweezers in my hand. Through strands of greasy red hair, I could see Mr. Matthews glaring at me with uncontained anger. His hand was spouting blood, drops of which splashed onto my face.

  “I’m going to beat the crap out of you,” he said raising his foot parallel to my head. “That face is going to need a lot of work when I’m finished.”

  “Todd, stop!” Ethan was behind him, tugging at the younger man’s arm to hold him back. Mr. Matthews lowered his foot while I cowered on the hardwood floor. Ethan bent over me. “I don’t know why you’ve chosen to be so difficult, Pauline. I promised you we were going to leave you alone after we got our money. Now come with me. We’ve got to tie you up again before we leave, just until we reach our safe haven without any complications. After that, you’re free. Don’t forget, you’ve still got three million dollars, Pauline. Now be a sport.”

  Terrance appeared in the doorway, his eyes swollen like lemons, peering at me through cherry red slits. “You bitch,” he said in a voice raspy with pain.

  Mr. Matthews wrenched the tweezers from my hand and yanked me to my feet. Then he and Terrance literally dragged me down the hall to my bedroom. Terrance threw me on the bed and the handcuff went back onto my right wrist. My left was tied to the headboard with a mercilessly tight piece of rope. They forced my legs apart and tied one to each post of the footboard, so that I was bound to the corners of my bed like one to be drawn and quartered. I tried to squirm and found myself unable to move more than an inch or two. Mr. Matthews rummaged through my drawers and found a pair of panties which he stuffed into my mouth. Terrance finished the procedure by wrapping duct tape around my head several times.

  “All right, that’s that. Let’s blow out of this dump,” said Terrance.

  Ethan stood at the foot of my bed wearing a look of true sympathy on his face. “Don’t worry, Pauline. As soon as we have our money, we’ll make a call and let someone know you are here. But just in case you forgot, if anything happens in the meantime and I’m detained, the entire fortune reverts to me, even the three million dollars you still have in your possession.”

  And then they were out of my sight. I could hear Terrance’s voice in the hall, ugly with anger and pain. “The fuck we’ll make a call. The cunt can starve to death. And I hope she suffers.”

  Shortly thereafter there was the sound of the foyer doors closing. Despite my circumstances, it was a relief just to know they were no longer in my apartment. In a minute, the elevator doors would open into the lobby, and they would walk out the door to freedom and my money. But as I lay there, mentally making the trip down the elevator with them, I called to mind words that Detective Velez had uttered to me in the precinct one day, at the very beginning of this escapade. Thank God they’re stupid. If they had brains we’d be in trouble.

  I took comfort in those words.

  37

  Nemo Me Impune Lacessit

  And there I lay through th
e long morning, hungry and thirsty, frightened and in pain. I finally gave up on retaining my dignity and relieved myself in my bed. The immediate gratification of emptying my bladder gave way to cold damp discomfort a couple of minutes later. My humiliation was complete.

  With nothing else to occupy me, I actually dozed on and off, waking from dreams of ordinary life to the nightmare that had become my actual life. I tried to think of some way to free myself and tugged at the restraints relentlessly, but the work they had done was too thorough, and all I did was exhaust myself. Not that it mattered. Fleur stayed beside me most of the time, leaving once to go and drink from the toilet, and mewing occasionally that she was hungry. It really disturbed me that they hadn’t thought to feed her before they left. Did she have to suffer as well as I?

  Then in the early afternoon I heard my entry doors opening and the sound of a heavy foot in the hall. My heart caught as I thought they had returned to finish the job. The steps receded in the opposite direction toward the kitchen and there was silence for some time. Then my heart started pounding uncontrollably again as the sound of the heavy footfall came down the hall toward my bedroom.

  A deep male voice called out, “Fleur?”

  She started mewing at the sound of her name. The footsteps followed the sound and a moment later the body building hulk of Jeffrey was framed in the doorway. His eyes grew wide, his expression incredulous at the sight of me spread eagle like a porno star awaiting the cameras. Thank God, that idiot Tony had forgotten to deliver the message about not feeding my cat.

  “Mrs. Cook?” he whispered. He sprang into action, trying to remove the duct tape first, but stopped at my muffled scream as it tore out a chunk of my hair. He untied my left hand instead, and I worked the duct tape myself while he untied my feet.