Goodbye Sister Disco

by James Patrick Hunt

  The county sheriff gave a press conference the evening two of his deputies were murdered. He held back tears of grief, rage, and frustration before the microphones and told the public what information they had and didn’t have. A local reporter wrote the next day that the sheriff “vowed to catch these murderous jackal bins,” the reporter thinking that term was another cop’s way of labeling the criminal element. It wasn’t until after that edition of the newspaper ran that another reporter suggested the sheriff might have said “Jacobins” instead. The original reporter shrugged it off, saying “jackal bins” was what he had put in his notes.

  * * *

  Once in the St. Louis area, it became clear that Lee was not exactly the Bonnie to Terrill’s Clyde. In fact, it wasn’t even all that clear that Terrill was Clyde. He was the one with the most presence, the one with the looks, but if one observed him closely, he would see that Terrill cleared just about everything with Maggie. Though sometimes this was done indirectly. Short and compact in stature, Maggie was like the border collie who stares down the cow that towers over her. Smarter and more determined than any livestock, Maggie seemed incapable of self-doubt. It was a dynamic that everyone more or less was aware of and accepted. Even Terrill.

  But, like most intellectuals, Lee Ensler was practiced in self-deception. Maggie encouraged Terrill to screw Lee as soon as possible. “She’s expecting it,” Maggie said. But after that, Maggie had Terrill explain to Lee that monogamy and individualism had no place in the Liberation Front. Those were bourgeois attachments and they had to be eliminated. They were all equal here. Part of Lee’s reconditioning required that she have sex with all the members of the Front, men and women. When she had intercourse with Ray, Lee squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for it to be over, not giving in to human impulses like grief and anguish. And by the time she was on her fourth partner, her expression had become not unlike that of a sex-show performer in a third world country, blank and lifeless.

  In addition to the sexual sharing, Lee was subjected to what they called “the instruction.” This exercise placed her in the center of a room where all the members heaped verbal abuse on her, calling her names, “limousine liberal creep” and “poser” and much worse until she admitted her deep-seated feelings of “white supremacy.” That Toby was the only nonwhite member of the group was not discussed.

  Yet, through all this, Lee remained convinced that she was special to Terrill. After all, Terrill had quoted her poetry and made her feel special. For their parts, Maggie and Terrill had allowed Lee to retain this fantasy. Lee Ensler was underground now. She had made sacrifices to the group for Terrill, had undergone the brainwashing for Terrill. Her fealty to Terrill had become fealty to all of them. Fealty to the Liberation Front, whatever that was. She was too far gone now to think otherwise.

  There were seven of them all together. Maggie, Terrill, Ray, Mickey, Toby, Jan, and now Lee. With the exception of Mickey and Maggie, they were generally from middle- to upper-class backgrounds. At least half of them had some college education. Their goals were vaguely defined. And when they were defined, it was usually done by Maggie and Terrill. Some of them were committed to destruction for its own sake. Some of them were committed to the disruption of what they called a sick society. What they all shared was an adolescent nihilism, a general laziness, and an attraction to hatred. When seeing any group of middle-class Americans on television, invariably one of them would say, “Look at those fucking people.”

  Unfortunately for Lee, their cruelty was not limited to those outside their circle. As leader, Maggie singled out Lee for abuse. Maggie’s bullying engendered no sympathy for Lee from the others. Rather, they took their cues from Maggie and sooner rather than later joined in. Such is the way among any canine pack. Lee was the best educated among them, probably the most accomplished. A scholar and a talented writer. It didn’t matter. She was weak and unbalanced. They knew it and they exploited it.

  * * *

  It was cold in the basement. Damp too. They had given her a yellow blanket that seemed like it had been lying in a yard. It was crusty and dirty. She could wrap the blanket around her, but there was no carpet or anything else between her and the concrete floor. She was chained to a thick, rusty pipe. Chained. Cordelia could feel the chill coming up through her dress and coat. They had let her keep her coat. She had heard small rustles her first night there and screamed because she thought it might be a rat.

  She had been in the basement for approximately forty-eight hours. But they had taken her watch and she was having trouble tracking time. She had spent that time trying to hold on to her sanity. The potential of rats being down here with her, the fear of being raped or worse. More than once she wondered and even hoped that they would just kill her. But the thoughts of suicide passed as some voice told her that it was wrong to think that way.

  Cordelia Penmark had not been raised in a religious environment. Her father was a man of science and technology, not of faith. Her mother was a woman who had placed her faith in culture. Books, paintings, art, something called political science. No one had ever encouraged her to pray. Her childhood had lacked any discussion of life or death or the rightness or wrongness of wishing you could die.

  They brought her food twice a day … she thought. Each time, it was a tall man with a soft voice. Two peanut butter sandwiches on a paper plate and a bottle of water. White Wonder Bread, which she had not eaten since early childhood. The second time the man came, she said to him, “What are you going to do to me?”

  “That’s up to your father,” the man said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He has to pay us before we’ll give you back. It’s up to him.”

  Then Cordelia said, “Is Tom alive?”

  The man did not answer her.

  And she knew. Tom, murdered. Just like that. She remembered the man in the green jacket, walking up and extending his arm and shooting Tom … Tom falling. Would that it had been a nightmare. But it was real.

  How? How did such a thing befall a person easily? One minute, he’s in a party in a house in Ladue that’s warm and people are drinking and laughing, and then he walks to his car and is snuffed out like a … a light. On, then off. Just like that.

  It couldn’t be. Tom dead. Dead before he could raise an arm or fight or ask them what it is they wanted. Dead and then she was hauled away.

  Tom wasn’t stupid. He would have given them his wallet. He would have handed them the keys to his car. He would have told Cordelia to hand over her purse. And, as far as Cordelia was concerned, Tom would have tried to stop them when they took her away.

  And knowing that, it was easy to put it together. A child could have put it together. They weren’t interested in Tom’s wallet or car. What they were interested in was her. The daughter of Eugene Penmark. The bounty. The ransom.

  So that was it. Tom Myers had died because he was with her. Tom—vain, ambitious, in love with her physical presence, her prettiness, her status, her family’s money, the potential boost she brought to his career. In love with the girl he thought he knew. Or didn’t care to know.

  Cordelia sobbed at that thought. Here she was thinking critical things about Tom Myers. He didn’t really love me. Didn’t love you? For Christ’s sake, bitch, the man is dead. Did he deserve to die for not appreciating the “real” Cordelia? And just who is that anyway? What about the boy’s parents? His siblings? What do you think they’re thinking about?

  She believed that it was sometime during those feelings of remorse and guilt that she determined, quietly, that she did not want to die. That it was not right for her to die this way. That there was no need for it. That there was no use in it. That any feeling she had that she “owed” Tom Myers a death was misplaced. Maybe even sinful. And it was this feeling, this determination, that kept her going through her darkest fears and anxieties, that motivated her to kick away the snake of panic that approached her from time to time. She feared the snake, dreaded it, but maybe after so many kicks, i
t would come to fear her.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Gene Penmark received the call at five thirty that morning. He was in bed alone; Lexie had her own bedroom. She liked to get up early and use the exercise cycle while she watched her morning shows. So Gene was alone when he spoke with Terrill, his daughter’s captor.

  Terrill said, “Gene?”

  Penmark recognized the voice. He remembered the FBI agents. They would be in a van in the driveway, awake, he hoped.

  “Yes?” Penmark said, apprehensive.

  “It’s me. Today’s your lucky day. You can save your daughter if you do exactly what I tell you.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Good. Now I know there are probably FBI agents on the line with us, so I’ll come to the point: if you do not follow all the instructions I give you today, your daughter will be killed. It’s that simple. It’s in your power to save her or cause her death. The law enforcement officers are more interested in catching me than they are in saving her. They’re not your friends. Right now, I’m the best friend you have. So when it comes to deciding whether or not you want to please them or please me, you need to go with pleasing me every time. Your daughter’s life depends on it.”

  “I understand that, but—”

  “There’s more than one of us. While you’re on the phone with me, someone will be watching you. You’ll never know who and you’ll never know when, but it will be going on. If you lie to me, I’ll know it. And your daughter will die. Try to outsmart me, and it’s goodbye sister disco. You and I are working on this project, Gene, and the goal is saving Cordelia’s life. To that end, I’m the one you’re going to have to trust. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now the first thing you do is drive to Lambert International Airport and rent a car. A white Ford. One that hasn’t been bugged by FBI agents. After you rent the car, you drive straight downtown. Drive alone. No agents in the backseat or trunk, because if there are, I’ll make you regret it.”

  “Okay,” Gene said.

  “Now,” Terrill said, “have you got the money ready?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, Gene, marked bills, sequential bills, or ink bombs, those are a death warrant for your daughter. Understand?”

  “I understand that. It’s only money. I just want her back.”

  “Well, I’m glad to hear you say that, Gene. You put it in a backpack, a blue Lands’ End backpack. Wear a ball cap too; I don’t want people to recognize you. Got it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Keep your cell phone with you and I’ll be calling you back soon. Remember, Gene, it’s you and me here. Not them.”

  Terrill clicked off.

  * * *

  The red light on the dashboard flashed on and off, alternating with the headlights that had been rigged for the same purpose, as Hastings pressed his Jaguar through west-bound traffic on the interstate. Cars pulled over to the right lane, some quicker than others, and Hastings averaged around eighty-five miles per hour to the airport.

  He had received a call on his cell phone from Agent Gabler ten minutes earlier, saying that the kidnappers had contacted Penmark and it was going down now and he needed to be at the airport right away. Hastings said “thanks” to Gabler for some reason, expecting something in return, but Gabler had hung up already.

  Gabler called him again fifteen minutes later and said they were at the National Car Rental agency. A few minutes after that, Hastings had parked his car there and was standing under a canopy with Gabler and Kubiak and another dozen or so other law enforcement officers.

  There was another man there, tall and big shouldered and wearing a mustache. He wore a crisp white shirt, a tie, and red suspenders. Hastings had not seen him before and there was something about his bearing that suggested he was not an FBI agent. He was talking with Lexie Penmark.

  Hastings said to Gabler, “Who’s that?”

  “That’s Mr. Jeffrey Rook,” Gabler said. “Do you know him?”

  “No.”

  “He owns a private detective agency here in town.”

  “Oh,” Hastings said.

  “Apparently,” Gabler said, “Mrs. Penmark thought his presence was necessary.”

  Hastings sighed.

  “Yeah,” Gabler said, “that’s pretty much how I feel about it.”

  Hastings was halfway beginning to think Gabler was all right. Gabler could have gotten away with not calling him this morning. Feelings would have been hurt, but there would not have been too much Hastings could have done about it. He didn’t have time to give much thought to it, but his suspicion was that Gabler wasn’t trying to be considerate to him, but that Gabler respected his ability and felt they would all be better off with Hastings assisting them than not.

  Hastings said, “Is he waiting to be briefed?” referring to Lexie’s new beau.

  “You’d think so,” Gabler said.

  Hastings thought about his conversation with Lexie Penmark the night before. Perhaps hiring Rook had been her way of paying him back for not showing interest in her offer of employment. Perhaps not. It depressed him in any event. The order of importance that people like Lexie Penmark placed on things. As if controlling this “event” was more important to her than the safety of her stepdaughter.

  Agent Kubiak came up to Gabler and Hastings and said, “There’s a briefing session inside.”

  * * *

  It was Agent Kubiak who led the briefing. Though he was younger than many of the other men in the office, he did not seem to notice it. Hastings leaned against the back wall with his hands in his pockets and was unpleasantly surprised to see that someone had let Jeffrey Rook into the room.

  Kubiak played the tape of that morning’s conversation between Gene Penmark and the kidnapper. Some of the agents took down a few notes.

  When that was finished, Agent Kubiak said, “First off, I’ll tell you that the kidnapper used another cell phone with a stolen SIM card. So we got nowhere with the phone identity. We triangulated the call and learned that he called within an eight-block area in the Central West End. But he was gone after that.”

  There was a pause, Kubiak getting the bad news out first. When that was done, he said, “If this man is to be believed, he is not acting alone. He is smart. I do not want any of you presuming otherwise. He killed one man already and we have no doubt that he would not hesitate to kill Cordelia Penmark.”

  Hastings glanced about the room to see if either Gene or Lexie Penmark was there. They were not.

  Agent Kubiak said, “The kidnapper has expressly instructed Penmark to trust him and not us. As psychological tactics go, this is a clever one.” For a moment, Hastings thought he saw Kubiak glance at Rook. “But, gentlemen, let me be clear: when he suggests that we are more interested in apprehending him than saving the life of Penmark’s daughter, he could not be more wrong. Now. We haven’t much time. Agent Gabler will brief us on how we’re going to proceed.”

  Agent Gabler stood up. The room was small, and as time was short, he stayed where he was. He said, “There will be a helicopter in use. And there will be agents positioned as close to Penmark as safety will allow. No one is to move close until ordered by me. This is a difficult situation. If we get too close to Penmark, we risk exposing ourselves and breaking the terms laid out by the kidnappers. If we’re too far away, Mr. Penmark himself may be at risk of getting abducted. Or worse. I’ve gone over this with Mr. Penmark.” Gabler paused. Then said, “Lieutenant Hastings with St. Louis PD will be tailing as well as part of a joint task force. For those of you who aren’t familiar with him, he’s driving a brown Jaguar, so don’t anybody shoot him accidentally.” There were a few laughs. Men frightened and tense, wanting a release. They looked over at Hastings against the wall and he was acknowledged as one of them in a way he had not been before.

  Jeffrey Rook raised his hand. He gave his face a bored look, like this was all old hat to him.

  “Yes,” Gabler said. Like Hastings
, he was wondering who had let the man into the room.

  “Am I correct,” Jeffrey Rook said, “in assuming that you’re going to leave Gene on his own?” There was insolence in his tone. Suggesting that the feds were fucking things up.

  “No,” Gabler said. “We will be as close to him as we can without getting the girl killed. It’s the best we can do.”

  “Hmmm,” Rook said, his voice a snort. He didn’t lack for shame, this one. He said, “Then I’d like to ride with Gene.”

  There were a few muffled groans and sighs in the room.

  “Negative,” Gabler said. “You are a private citizen and you will stay out of it.”

  “I was a special agent with the Bureau for twenty-two years. Longer than you, Agent Gabler. And I’m working for Mr. Penmark now.”

  Hastings said, “Mr. Penmark is not running this, Mr. Rook. We respect your experience, but this is not your show.”

  Rook turned around and looked at Hastings. He said, “Who the hell are you?”

  Hastings acknowledged him with a blank expression and turned back to Gabler. As if to say, Anything else? The man wasn’t worth the drama. This, of course, irritated Rook further. He said, “Wait a minute, I asked you—”

  Hastings said, “St. Louis PD, and if you interfere with this drop, I’ll have you arrested.”

  “Is that right?”

  “You can count on it.”

  Hastings had given this a modicum of thought. Rook had pulled FBI on them. Retired, but maybe a guy who had some stroke with the local FBI field supervisors. Which may or may not have made the FBI agents in the room reluctant to put him in his place. But it meant nothing to Hastings.

  Rook was getting the hard-on now, giving Hastings a look like he was insubordinate or something. But to Hastings, there were few things sadder than seeing a man with lost power trying to recapture it.

  Rook said, “Are you threatening me?”

  “Yeah,” Hastings said, his voice conversational. The man deserved nothing more than that.