by Jack Adler
The image dissolved and returned to the newsman sitting behind his desk. “Police said the canisters, if they can be safely transported, will be brought to a police laboratory for a more detailed analysis of their contents. At this point no one has taken responsibility for the canisters, but the HAP organization is suspected. Meanwhile, the freeway remains closed. In other news . . .”
Bender shut the television off. “Time to take due credit for our deeds,” he said, picking up the phone, “and wake up Holly. We have more work to do today.”
Since our office was on Sunset Boulevard, I stayed at the Sunset Horizon, a medium-sized independent hotel within walking distance of our office, where Tramerica received a great volume discount. We used the hotel for many of our groups. I had slept fitfully, not so much from jet lag but from being unable to extricate Tramerica from its problem. Holly Baxter was the key. I had to find her before the police did or before anything happened to her, but I had a very bad feeling that my chances of success weren’t all that good.
At breakfast I read the newspaper and felt worse. The front page article had a profile of Holly Baxter, her photo and more references to the manifesto. The police said they wanted to question her and that she was still missing, but Holly’s guilt, I was dismayed to read, seemed strongly implied. Precious little information was given about the HAP, no doubt because none of the reporters working on the story had unearthed any information. So what was the likelihood, I thought, that I would do any better?
“I’m not going to rob a bank!” Holly shouted.
These people were insane. But how could she escape them? The doors and windows were locked, and she didn’t have a clue where she was.
“Did you sleep well?” Bender asked with his false air of concern as if robbing a bank were an ordinary part of their day. If they thought they could force her to participate, they were truly off the deep end.
“Enough pillows?” Rona taunted.
Say as little as possible, Holly cautioned herself. Don’t trade barbs with the bitch.
Being forced to shoot Ashley had been a surprise when she was still mystified by what was going on. She knew more now, and their fantasy about her as the next Patty Hearst was about to come to a crashing end.
“Yes, you are,” Bender said with patience as if he were handling a difficult child. “You belong to us, the HAP.”
“I don’t belong to you,” Holly said with a grim resolve, mustering as much determination in her voice as she could. “I’m not a Patty Hearst if that’s what you’re after.”
Bender gave his usual infuriating smile. “Holly, please call me BB. Now, please understand your situation. You’re wanted by the police, and you don’t have a choice.”
“I won’t do it!”
Bender shrugged. “Eventually, Holly, you’ll come to accept our cause. But we need you now, and so we have some extra insurance, besides the photos, to make sure we get your cooperation. It may seem cruel, but it’s necessary, and I hope you understand. Forgive us, and don't let our insurance deflect from our cause.”
Holly looked at Bender with growing anxiety as he nodded to Luke, who promptly slipped a cassette into the VCR.
Holly couldn’t believe her eyes as the footage went on. How had they obtained all this film? There was her home at Larchmont, both the exterior and interior. There was a shot of the garden, the pool and the burglary alarms. Her father was shown leaving for work. Inside the house she saw the dining room, den and even her bedroom! How had this happened? Hadn’t anyone noticed?
“I can see you’re impressed,” Bender said. “It’s amazing how good some of these new cameras are. So small, too. And of course, when you’re working on plumbing and like matters, you get a chance to be creative.”
“But why?” Holly stared hard at the man treating her like a puppet. Rona sat with a satisfied smile while their handyman Luke waited for orders with a look of stolid acceptance. Everyone must be looking for her, not just the police. Didn’t any neighbors live near this so-called safe house? Didn’t anyone notice anything peculiar, like the fact that the blinds were always drawn?
“As I said, insurance,” Bender explained. “We hope you’ll join us because you believe in our cause. But if not, we want you to understand your parents will be killed the moment you run away from us. It won’t be a problem. We know their exact schedule, how to get in and out of the house, where the alarms are—everything.”
Bender allowed himself a tight smile. “It’s almost as if we were living there, too.”
“But why us?”
“You’re important, Holly. Your father is certainly important. We need to get attention, and you can help.”
“I’ll never do what you want.”
“I think you will. Would you really want us to kill one of your parents to show you we mean business? You can choose which one.”
Holly stared at Bender in horror. She had no doubt he meant it.
“Would you like something to drink?” Bender asked with his patented solicitude.
Bender wore dark glasses, a baseball cap and a false beard and mustache to disguise his face. Rona wore the same flat shoes, a blond wig and dark glasses she had worn when they had entered the bank earlier. Luke, meanwhile, cruised around the block rather than immediately parking. The bank they had picked was a small one, and they had come first thing in the morning, when there few customers. Bender disarmed the paunchy, middle-aged guard, who was taken completely by surprise. Brandishing her pistol, Rona ordered two frightened tellers to empty their tills. A bank executive raised her hands and nearly tripped as Rona showed her away from her desk.
“Everyone!” Bender shouted. “Lie flat on the ground! Do it!”
The two customers present quickly obeyed.
“Stand by the door and shoot anyone that moves,” Bender ordered Holly. Reluctantly, Holly aimed the pistol in the general direction of the patrons. She knew there were no bullets in the gun.
Bender helped Rona collect the bills, which they shoved into a large satchel. Meanwhile, Holly saw that an overhead surveillance camera was capturing her image. Wouldn’t bank robbers ordinarily break these cameras? She wanted to scream that she was being forced and that her gun didn’t have ammunition. But Rona was watching her, glaring at her, commanding her with her eyes to lift the pistol every time it slipped. She tried to shield her face, to look down and to the side, but she was sure she could be recognized. But could anyone see the terror in her eyes?
In minutes, they were out of the bank and driving away. Holly couldn’t hear any police sirens. Didn’t the bank have alarms? Couldn’t one of the tellers have hit some floor alarm? How far away could the nearest police station be? In this day and age, was a bank robbery that simple?
She was now more naked than ever. Already branded a murderess, she would now be considered a willing accomplice in a bank robbery, too!
Our small two-person office, which I planned to use as my base of operations, was run by Stacy Graham, whom I had met before. She had hired a new secretary since the last time I had been in L.A., a pleasant young black girl by the name of Corinne Grassley. Stacy was pleasant enough, but she was a brusque and brutally honest woman who had a well-deserved reputation as a man-eater. She had been married and divorced twice, and the estimate on how many affairs she’d had was an office joke. But she was sharp at work and had an excellent record in the travel industry. She spent most of her time making calls to retail travel agencies, hotels and everyone else we used for our air and ground arrangements.
Stacy had prepared a dossier of information on the tour group. There was probably nothing new, but it was worth going through it as a courtesy to Stacy. I set up shop in the small conference room. Corinne was kind enough to arrange for my rental car and bring me coffee. I was about to start making calls when Stacy ducked in and asked me to step into her adjoining office. She was wearing a skirt too tight for a woman in her mid thirties, but it certainly showed her bountiful curves. Her more loosely fitting b
louse revealed an ample bosom. I studied her coiled black hair and inquisitive black eyes. Zoftik, as the Yiddish expression went.
Corinne seemed to take a quick look at her as Stacy closed the door. A window overlooked the traffic humming along on Sunset Boulevard. Several pastoral prints decorated one wall. A computer and printer sat to one side of her cluttered mahogany desk. She had a small couch, which I sank back into.
“I just wanted to make sure you know we’re here to help you in any way,” Stacy said from behind her desk.
“Thank you.”
Without further ado she asked, “So any idea about Holly Baxter?”
“I don’t know,” I said honestly, not sure I should be discussing the subject with Stacy, though her title as director of West Coast operations placed her high in the company’s hierarchy. “She doesn’t sound like a stone killer to me.”
“I suppose,” Stacy said.
“So, Stacy, tell me about Ashley Wells.”
Considering her reputation, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she and Ashley had had a fling, though they hardly seemed the same type. While their ages matched better than Ashley and Holly’s, Stacy was hard-boiled and plain speaking; Wells, from all accounts, was a literate academic who liked mentoring young female acolytes too much.
“What can I tell you?” Stacy said. “He was in the office a couple of times. We chatted. I never saw him out of the office if that’s what you’re nibbling about.”
Nibbling! I loved her choice of verbs.
“I wasn’t, but did he hit on you?”
“Hit on me!” The notion amused Stacy, as I thought it might. “Hardly.”
“Just checking.”
“Come on, Derry, the only one I’m hot for is you; you know that.” She smiled broadly to soften her message.
And for the rest of Tramerica, I thought. “And I’m very flattered, but—”
“But bullshit! Come on over tonight. I’ll make dinner. I’m a terrific cook, too.”
“Too?” I said with too broad a smile on my face.
“Mr. Greene, I do believe you have a prurient mind.”
For all her bluster, Stacy was a college graduate who could probably match wits with Ashley Wells and most men. But she took delight in her bluntness, especially to express her sexuality. Stacy and Monica Lewinsky, a curious sisterhood. But getting involved with Tramerica personnel wasn’t my speed, on either coast. I had learned my lesson. But I didn’t want to alienate Stacy; she could be a formidable enemy. Besides, I got a kick out of her approach.
“Thanks, Stacy, let me get organized first, and I’ll get back to you.”
Big mistake, I immediately thought. Stacy’s eyes clouded over for a moment, but she didn’t say anything. “Mi casa es su casa,” she said with a tight smile.
Suddenly, Corinne knocked and entered the room without waiting for a response. “Come watch!”
On the small TV perched on a credenza in the anteroom, where Corinne sat, we watched the three bank robbers with grim fascination. One was Holly Baxter; she was holding a gun!
“It’s her!” Corinne cried.
Stacy shook her head in denial while I tried to see Holly’s face, but the footage was too fleeting.
The TV announcer said, “A daring robbery took place earlier this morning at the Greater Southwest Bank in Encino. The missing heiress Holly Baxter has been identified as one of the robbers. Police believe the other two robbers were also members of the mysterious Help America
Patriots group. Baxter, who has been increasingly compared to Patty Hearst, is also being sought for questioning about the murder of a tour guide a few days ago. The Help America Patriots have already taken responsibility for large canisters that stopped traffic on the San Diego freeway during rush hour this morning. Examination of the canisters at a police laboratory revealed nothing toxic inside. More details in our noon news report.”
“Well, “ Stacy said as Corinne shut the television off, “it doesn’t look very good for her, stone killer or not.”
“Or for us,” I added.
Holly had to control her fury, she told herself after being forced to watch the footage. She couldn’t let Bender see her despair.
“So now you’ve branded me a bank robber, too,” Holly said. She was alone with Bender. Perhaps this was a good time to probe him for a weakness. It seemed clear that she would not win the sympathy of her kidnappers for individual reasons. Luke liked her and sympathized with her, but he appeared to be a true believer and obedient to Bender’s orders. Rona obviously hated her, which was clearly a class issue. That left Bender. He liked to play with her mind, but she could play, too. And maybe sex could be a tool. What did she have to lose at this point? She wondered, though, if Bender and Rona were sleeping together. Or what if Bender was gay?
“What other great accomplishments do you have in store for me?”
Bender smiled in recognition of her irony. He seemed to appreciate her gallows humor. “Holly, you did very well today. We’re proud of you.”
“Really?” She bent forward a bit to accentuate her breasts.
“As a reward, we’re going to forget your crude little note in the bathroom.”
Holly could feel her face flush. It didn’t take long for her effort to be discovered. But she had to try.
“Did you really think we wouldn’t spot that?”
“Why does Rona hate me so much?” Holly asked to change the subject.
To Holly’s surprise, Bender was responsive. “Rona grew up, shall we say, in less genteel circumstances. She also likes order, possibly a result of having been an army brat.”
Interesting, Holly thought. But she more she knew about them, the more dangerous she became. She shouldn’t be asking all these questions unless she changed her tactics and pretended to be a convert. And if Bender answered so readily, did that mean that her fate had already been determined?
“Holly,” Bender said, “you mind is sweating.”
Damn it, Holly thought, castigating herself. Was she so obvious, or was Bender all that perceptive? “My parents must be terribly worried,” she said at last as if that explained her mental turmoil. “Is there some way other than robbing a bank that I can let them know I’m OK?”
“Perhaps there is,” Bender said with another of his elusive smiles. “It might not be quite what you want, but you’ll be able to send them a message.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Holly said, smiling as if she were seeing a man and not a captor.
“Holly,” Bender said, again adopting his didactic tone. “Let me give you some advice that will save you some effort and humiliation. I know you’re familiar with the so-called Stockholm Syndrome where captives like you fall in love with their captors. If that happens, and I hope it does, great. But please don’t try to seduce any of us. Personally, I think you’re very attractive, and I do like women, very much. But that’s not our mission here. Understood?”
“What is your mission?”
“You already know that: to make the country see the need for change. We still hope that you’ll see that the path we’ve taken, though a bit violent at times, is necessary and justifiable.”
“Killing people is justifiable?! You’re insane!”
Far from angry, Bender thought a moment and said, “Holly, you studied history in college. When has violence not been a part of any major shake-up in society? Sometimes violence is more than justifiable; it’s necessary. And as I’m sure you realize, more people die from guns in the U.S. than in any other country in the world.”
Sparring mentally with Bender wasn’t working at all. He was better at debates than she was. But as long as she kept him talking, she might create an intellectual bond that could help her. But his next question surprised her.
“Were you in love with Ashley, or was it just a fling?”
“Why do you ask?”
Bender shrugged. “It’s not important to us. If you were in love, then I’m sorry. I don’t think you were, though.”
<
br /> What a strange man, Holly thought. She was trying to manage her with these little signs of humanity. But she saw him for what he was: a cold-blooded murderer and terrorist. But she could pretend to waver if it helped get a message to her parents.
My first phone call was to the Los Angeles police. I was connected to a Detective
John Ruiz, who was unreceptive and brusque. Finally he agreed to spare a few minutes of his precious time on Tuesday afternoon. With that done, I felt better in calling Wolcott. He was stunned to hear of Holly Baxter’s involvement in a bank robbery.
“Shades of Patty Hearst, which seems to be the media thrust,” I said.
Wolcott was silent.
Trying to see the positive side of a terrible situation, I said, “At the least won’t this take away from the senior Baxter’s claims of a set-up?”
“That’s not your problem,” Wolcott said sharply. “Concentrate on getting information that can help reduce our involvement.”
Wolcott sounded very harried, and I could imagine the stress he was under. I promised to let him know about my talk with Ruiz, and then I set up an appointment that afternoon with Martha Roberts, one of the tour group who lived nearby in Long Beach. In the meantime I surfed various Web sites but found no reference to the HAP. I looked up Patty Hearst and activities perpetrated by the Symbionese group in an attempt to predict what we might expect from the HAP. I also downloaded a list of political organizations in the Los Angeles area and then asked Corinne to call each one and have their calendar of events faxed to the office. I thought perhaps going to some of such meetings might be useful. I never knew who I might meet or what leads might emerge. On my checklist, I also intended to contact the political science departments of UCLA and USC and even look at some of the universities’ bulletin boards.
There was a lot to do. My rental car was already waiting for me thanks to Corinne. I still needed someone who had local sources. It was time to call Valerie Hudson, if I could find her. After some misses, I finally reached a V. Hudson in Sherman Oaks. Even after several years, I recognized her throaty voice. After a few pleasantries, she agreed to meet me for cocktails that evening.