Tilting at Windmills (Claire Lance)

by Geonn Cannon

  Madrid got on top of her before she could recover, pinning her with his body as he finally pulled his left hand from his pocket. "Stay still, cop. I don't want to break this in you."

  She panicked, misinterpreting his meaning. There was no way she was going to let this fucker rape her. She dragged her fingernails down his face and felt a primal sense of satisfaction as he cried out in pain. Something scratched along her forearm and Madrid sat up and backhanded her. He called over his shoulder, "Would one of you get in here and fucking hold this bitch!"

  Monty and the driver were suddenly on her again, pinning her to the mattress. "No!" she yelled. But after a moment of panic she realized that he wasn't trying to take off her clothes, he was pushing up the sleeve of her jacket.

  He slapped the crease of her elbow and pressed the syringe against it. Lance tried to fight, spit in his face, and howled as he injected her. When the syringe was empty, he pushed off her with a grunt and wiped at the knees of his pants. "Goddamn. Where did you get this mattress?"

  "Alley," the driver said as he fastened a pair of handcuffs to Lance's right wrist. He jerked her back and fastened the other cuff to a pipe running down the wall.

  "Fuck. You owe me a suit." He looked down at Lance. "We'll be seeing you, Detective. Gotta make sure you take your medicine."

  Lance lay on her back and jerked her arm, listening to the handcuff rattle against the pipe. She cupped the injection site with her free hand and used her thumb to staunch the blood. She rolled onto her side, facing the wall, and tightened her jaw, as if sheer will would keep the poison from racing through her veins. But she knew it was useless. She could already feel the fog beginning to fall over her mind, and the world seemed to tilt.

  #

  "It was a cocktail," Lance said. Her voice was curiously free of emotion as she spoke. The sky had grown dark in the last fifteen minutes, as if sensing the mood in the Pinto, and thunder growled in the distance. "Lots of shit, none of it good. They came back to inject me again every few hours. Never gave me a chance to clear my mind. They brought me food, water...enough to keep me alive. Their favorite joke was to bring me Happy Meals from McDonalds. Guess they thought it was amusing, but I never figured out why. Maybe because I was happy. After a while I was so high, I wasn't even sure I was a prisoner."

  "How long?" Gwen asked. Her voice was meek and she was pressed hard against the passenger-side door as if she was afraid of being physically drawn into the world Lance was describing if she got too close. "How long did they do that to you?"

  Lance ran her hand under her nose and blinked rapidly. "Twelve days."

  #

  Lance didn't look up anymore when they came in. The light from the door no longer bothered her. She didn't even know which thug it was. He knelt on the mattress next to her and rolled her onto her back. She flopped like a rag doll, her arm thrown across her face to cover her eyes so she didn't have to look at them. Her sleeves had been cut off days ago so they could get to her elbows easier.

  They had taken her shoes and socks so they could inject her between her toes. She was idly curious about where they would inject her next, but it didn't matter. She no longer really felt the pain from the pinprick, didn't know the last time she had been straight, didn't even care that they were probably going to kill her once this sick fucking game was over with. She hated being down, hated when the fog lifted and she remembered where she was. She just wished they would hurry up and get bored and get on with it.

  She was hoisted upright and manhandled until she felt the wall against her back. She looked at the man, backlit by the door, and blinked. She wondered if he was going to pour another bottle of water down her throat. It was wet and it kept her from being dehydrated, but otherwise she wondered if the acrid liquid could really be called water. But no, he was working the key of her cuff. She still wasn't surprised; she just figured it had finally come time for them to start trying to rape her.

  He released the cuff and her arm fell to her side. It had been held at the awkward angle for so long that it didn't feel like part of her body. It seemed to float, disconnected, by her side. "You ready to go for a little ride, Detective?" the man said. She didn't reply. He bent down and pressed his shoulder into her stomach. A moment later, she was airborne.

  The man's shoulder pinched her lungs and kept her from drawing in a deep breath. He carried her across the garage, the garage she had last seen a hundred thousand years ago, and stopped at the open back door of a van. He dumped her and she hit her head on the hard metal floor. Someone else hooked their hands under her shoulders and dragged her toward the front of the vehicle. "God damn, what did it do, shit itself?"

  Lance closed her eyes, surprised that she could still feel humiliation. She'd had no choice, since there had been no toilet in the room they locked her in. It had been over a week and, after fighting it, she decided that anything that would make these guys keep their distance was a plus. But now that she was out of the room, back in real life, such as it was, she was ashamed. "Put it over there. I don't want it fucking near me."

  "Please," Lance rasped.

  "What? Did it talk?"

  Lance didn't want to say the words, didn't want to admit her weakness. It took everything out of her to form the words, and she felt herself breaking even as she said them. She swallowed and forced them out. "I need my injection."

  One of the men laughed. "Oh, for the love of God." There was a clatter, and then someone knelt next to her. "You want it so bad, here ya go." He pressed the needle into the soft skin of her elbow and sank down the plunger. She exhaled and sagged against the wall. "Let's get outta here," he said.

  The van started to move and Lance slumped to one side. She cried into the muscles of her upper arm, letting the tears drip down to the floor of the van. She needed the drugs, yes. She needed them to keep from twitching, to keep the nausea from overwhelming her, but mostly she had asked for it so she could be high when they killed her. Maybe it would make the transition into Heaven, or Hell, easier. She curled into a ball and waited.

  The van pulled to a stop and idled there for a few seconds as the driver got out and came around to the back. The doors opened and two pairs of hands grabbed her. One pushed, the other pulled, and she fell onto the hard asphalt of the street. The driver grabbed her throat and lifted her up. She forced her eyes open and looked at him. "Mr. Madrid says that you violated his home, so you gave him the go-ahead to violate yours. Good night, pig."

  He dropped her back to the ground and walked away. She heard the engine roar, was bathed in a cloud of exhaust fumes, and the van drove off.

  Lance lay, stunned for a few minutes, unsure what was happening. They had taken off her cuffs, and now they seemed to be gone. She waited for what felt like years for someone to come back, for something to happen. Finally, she rolled onto her stomach. She pressed her hands flat against the asphalt, tiny rocks and broken glass digging into her palms. Her arms shook as she pushed herself up. She used the bumper of the car next to her to get to her knees, then bent over the trunk as she tried to catch her breath. She was weak, exhausted, and high, feeling like she had died and no one had told her yet. She blinked at the building in front of her and thought she was hallucinating.

  The bright yellow light of the lobby, the reflected shine of the mailboxes along the north wall, the stairs leading up on the other side of two glass doors. It was all utterly familiar to her, a sight she had hallucinated thousands of times over her imprisonment.

  It was her building. They had taken her home.

  She pushed away from the car and nearly tripped over the curb. She forced herself to walk to the front door and pressed her shoulder against the brick next to the call box. She fumbled with the small white buttons and finally ended pressing five or six of them in an attempt to buzz the apartment she shared with Elaine. She put her mouth next to the intercom speaker and said, "Lainey." Her voice broke and the tears finally began to flow. "Lainey, I need help. Please let me in, Lainey..."

&
nbsp; The box squelched and shocked her. She moved back a step and then pulled the door open. The vestibule was unbearably bright and the smell of Pine-Sol almost scorched her nostrils. The clean smell only made her realize how disgusting she smelled after more than a week without a bathroom or a shower. The world swam as she moved to the stairs and somehow found a way to pull herself up to the second landing. She held onto the railing with both hands, her eyes fixed upward the entire time. She stumbled twice and managed to keep from sliding all the way back down the stairs.

  Her hand slipped on the door and she wiped the palm on her shirt. She managed to get the door open and walked into her home. Sanctuary. She had never understood that word before. But now, smelling the unmistakable and reassuring odor of their apartment, hearing the Harley Davidson growl of the old refrigerator motor and seeing the phalanx of Elaine's canvases that made up the walls of their living room, she knew what it meant. Safety. Protection. Home.

  Lance used the kitchen counter as a handrail and pushed herself deeper into the apartment. Her head was swimming. She smelled something else on top of the familiar scents of the apartment, but she couldn't place it in her current state.

  "Lainey," she gasped. She swallowed and raised her voice. She had been away from Elaine for so long, due to the undercover assignment. Now that she was home, she couldn't stand not being with her again. She couldn't stand another second alone. "Lainey, please, are you here?"

  The bedroom door was open. Lance didn't remember walking to it, but suddenly found herself bumping her shoulder against the frame. Visions of her bed and her comforter and wrapping around a naked Elaine gave her the strength to keep moving. She suddenly understood how late it was, probably the dead of night, and Elaine was probably asleep. She turned on the lights and, sure enough, she saw the shape of Elaine's body under the comforter.

  Lance hit the foot of the bed and fell to her knees. She crawled along the edge of the bed and said, "'Lainey. I'm sorry, it's late, it's so late, but I need you to wake up. I need your help." She grabbed the blankets and pulled them back.

  She saw the wounds, but didn't understand them. She lay down on top of Elaine's body, noting how cold she was and thinking they should turn up the heat. Blood was coming from Elaine's mouth and from the ugly tear on her throat. Blood covered her and the bed, and Lance held her as she sobbed.

  "Stop it," she said, to herself, and the world, to the fucking drugs making her see this horrific scene. "Stop it, please. Lainey, just wake up and it'll go away. Lainey, wake up. Lainey." She stroked Elaine's hair, her fingers now sticky with blood.

  Two minutes later, the police came into the apartment and took Claire Lance into custody.

  Chapter Nine

  Rain beat against the windshield, completely obscuring the road ahead of them. Lazareva kept her eyes focused and her hands steady on the wheel. In deference to the weather, she had dropped her speed to seventy, but she refused to pull over. "If the storm forces Lance to pull over, it will give us a chance to catch up with her."

  "It's not going to do us any good if you get in an accident," Mallory said.

  Lazareva smiled. "I'm not going to get in an accident. I've been driving since I was ten. I once took a joyride during a tornado and brought the truck back without a scratch."

  "What were you doing driving in a tornado?"

  "Shutting up some big-mouth boys," Lazareva said. "I was a tall tomboy, and I had a funny accent to boot." She took her eyes off the road for about half a second to look at Mallory. "I'm surprised at you, though. I'd have thought you'd move heaven and earth to take this Lance character down. You're afraid of a little rain?"

  "I'm going to be the one to take her down," Mallory said without a hint of hesitation in her voice. "I just want to make sure I'm in one piece to do it."

  "Must've been bad."

  Mallory looked over at her. "What?"

  "Whatever she did. It must have been something god-awful."

  Mallory glared out the windshield at the waterfall on the other side. Other cars were just smears of light, and occasionally they could see lit signs on either side of them. Safe harbors, but neither woman was willing to sit and wait out the storm. At length, Mallory said, "It was unforgivable."

  Lazareva nodded. "Where did the two of you meet up?"

  Mallory chuckled without humor. "The first time? Thanksgiving dinner."

  "Damn," Lazareva chuckled. "I've had some bad holidays in the past..."

  Mallory looked out the window and said, "You want to know why I hate Claire Lance? Fine. She was a dirty cop. She was a junkie and, when she couldn't get her fix, she murdered my sister."

  #

  Elaine's canvases had been moved out of the way, and the couch was pressed against the far wall to make room for the fold-out table. Elaine sat at the head of the table with Faye to her left, facing an empty chair directly across from her. She raised her eyebrow at her sister and pointedly looked at her watch. Elaine said, "She's just running late, is all." Elaine's friends from art school, two of her neighbors, and the owner of the Slap/dash Gallery and his girlfriend rounded out the rest of the guest list.

  Elaine wore her nicest dress, an off-the-shoulder crushed velvet number, and had gotten her hair done at a fancy salon for the first Thanksgiving she hosted in her own apartment. She didn't seem at all worried that her girlfriend was extraordinarily late.

  They had already started eating when Lance finally arrived. She wore a ratty hooded sweatshirt over a faded red T-shirt. Her stonewashed jeans were ripped and spotted with bleach stains. With her stringy hair stuck to her sweaty cheeks and forehead, she looked like she'd been running a marathon. She exhaled as she came out of the kitchen and into the living room, bent over next to Elaine and kissed her forehead. "Sorry," she whispered.

  "S'okay," Elaine said, grabbing Lance's hand before she could run off. "Claire, I want you to meet someone. Claire Lance, this is Faye Mallory, my sister."

  "Hi," Lance said. She squeezed Elaine's hand and lowered her voice again. "I really need to shower. I need to get back to work."

  Elaine tried to hide her disappointment. She would have succeeded, too, if Faye hadn't grown up with her. "You're not staying? It's Thanksgiving."

  "I can't, honey," Lance said. "I just made detective and they've handed me this huge case. I need to show them they didn't make a mistake." She looked around the table at all the people trying to ignore their exchange. Lance forced a smile. "Besides, it looks like you've got plenty of people to keep you company."

  "But..." Elaine glanced toward the assembled group and leaned closer to Lance. She lowered her voice and said, "I thought you were going to make an effort with Faye."

  Lance looked at Faye. "I did. Hi, again."

  "Hi," Faye said.

  Elaine looked down and said, "Claire..."

  "Honey, I really only have five minutes, and I need to shower. Okay?" She bent down and kissed Elaine's lips. "I'm sorry."

  Elaine released her hand. "Okay. I'm sorry. Your work is important."

  Lance smoothed a hand over Elaine's hair and looked at the spread of food. "You did a great job with the dinner. I wish I could enjoy it. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone." She stepped away from the table and headed for the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.

  The gallery owner swirled his tea in his glass so that the clattering of the ice filled the silence. He coughed and then forced a too-wide smile. "Well, she seemed nice."

  #

  "Was she really going to work?"

  Mallory shook her head. "I don't know. I'm not sure about anything. Elaine insisted that Lance was just shy around new people and it sometimes came off as hostility. I never got many chances to see them together. We had some dinners together, but I never thought Lance was good enough for Elaine, and Lance could sense it. I think she didn't like having me around because I could see through her. Elaine was adamant that Lance was tender with her. And I never saw any bruises. Elaine never struck me as a...battered woman. I don't think L
ance ever actually hit her. I think the abuse was far more insidious than that. Berating, belittling... Lance saw herself as the alpha dog in any relationship and anyone else was below her in importance."

  "Like blowing off Thanksgiving," Lazareva said.

  Mallory nodded. "Elaine was up at five in the morning with that turkey. She did everything herself. She was in her nicest dress, movie star make-up and hair, and then Lance just breezes through in sweatpants and ignores it all."

  "Was Elaine mad?"

  "No, of course not; she just accepted it. Lance showered and changed clothes, kissed her on the way out, and that was it until I left that afternoon. Elaine insisted it was no big deal. ÔThat's just Claire,' she said. And...and I accepted it."

  Lazareva nodded slowly. "How did it happen?"

  Mallory sighed and rubbed her forehead. "That was the Thanksgiving before Elaine died. Lance became a detective after all, but that just meant she spent even more time at work, ignoring Elaine. So Elaine spent more time with me talking about how wonderful Lance was. She called me in October, just panicked. Mainly because she didn't know where else to turn, and she thought maybe I would have some pull. Apparently Lance had disappeared. I did what I could, but no one wanted to talk to me. No one knew where she was, what she was doing, anything. All I could get out of her bosses was that she was working undercover, but they hadn't gotten any reports from her. Elaine wasn't panicking yet, but she needed someone to talk to. Just to get it out."

  Lazareva nodded.

  "A week after we spoke, I got another call." She thought the rain had picked up suddenly, but she covered her eyes and discovered she was crying.

  Lazareva quietly said, "You don't have to."

  "No," Mallory said. "You should know who we're going after." She inhaled and blinked at the windshield, clearing her tears. "A week after we spoke, I found out that Claire Lance had been arrested for my sister's murder."

  #

  Mallory entered the building without a clue as to what was going on. Her SAC, Thorpe, had woken her up in the middle of the night and just told her to get down to the field office as soon as humanly possible. Her slacks were pulled on over her pajama pants, her white T-shirt hidden by a buttoned jacket. She hadn't bothered to comb her hair, so it stood up in spikes and waves as she stormed into the office.