Turning on the Tide

by Jenna Rae

  “Table by the front door.”

  “Locked?”

  “Drawer, no lock.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You don’t think maybe Lola took it?”

  Del let go a shaky laugh. “Why would she?”

  Tess drew in a hissing breath. “Put yourself in her shoes, mija. If you moved out of your cop girlfriend’s house, and she had a handful of guns and a hair-trigger temper, wouldn’t you want a little insurance?”

  Del faked a laugh and got Tess off the phone as quickly as she could. She drifted to the backyard and eased carefully into the rickety old lawn chair that was still the only furniture on the back porch. It protested with a groan.

  “You think she was scared of me?” She closed her eyes. “You think I have a hair-trigger temper?”

  She let the afternoon shadows lengthen for a while before she went back inside to finish cleaning her weapons. Usually it was a good task for thinking, quiet and orderly. The smell of the oil, the satisfying sounds and feel of the metal parts moving smoothly in tandem—these things had always soothed her mind and freed it up from the day-to-day world, allowed her to get clarity. But today, even after she finished and put away her weapons and her kit, she was restless and edgy. When the phone rang, Del was glad to see Lola’s number.

  “Hey.”

  “Hi.” Lola seemed to be tongue-tied too. There was a long silence.

  “Listen,” they blurted out at the same time, then laughed and went silent at the same time. There was another long pause.

  “Do you have my .38? The one from the front hall?” Del’s voice sounded brusque, she knew, but she didn’t know how to soften it after the fact.

  “Oh, yes, sorry, I just—”

  “No, it’s cool, whatever. I just wanted to make sure—”

  “I can bring it back to you—”

  “No, keep it.”

  Del could hear Lola shaking her head. “I couldn’t.”

  “Seriously, I want you to have a weapon, in case.”

  Another silence.

  What am I doing?

  “Del,” Lola’s voice was hesitant, “I appreciate it, that doesn’t seem like the right word. I just don’t even know how to shoot it properly. It’s very kind of you, but—”

  “No, you’re right. I just thought, in case you needed it. But you’re right.”

  “Well, thanks, anyway.”

  “No problem. I’ll get it tomorrow if that works for you. Around six?”

  “Sure, okay. And, listen, if you wouldn’t mind, I do think I’d like to get my cell phone back.”

  “Yeah.” Del knew she should have given it back days ago. Keeping the phone had seemed like a way of protecting Lola, but it hadn’t been, not really. “Sure, no problem. Should’ve done it by now, anyway. I’ll bring it by.”

  “Hostage exchange,” Lola quipped, and they both laughed too hard for too long. There was another long silence.

  “Well, bye, then.”

  “Yeah.” Del made a face. “This is gonna sound stupid, okay? But I feel like once I have the gun and you have the phone—”

  “No!”

  Del was startled by the loudness and vehemence of Lola’s interruption. She picked at the grout on the kitchen counter.

  Lola laughed. “Sorry, I just—hey, let’s leave it at, I’ll see you tomorrow around six, okay?”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  “Bye.” And there was a click. Del stood with the phone in her hand for a long time.

  “How did we get here?”

  She noticed there was a vodka bottle on the kitchen counter. Del tried to remember getting it out and couldn’t. It was still cold. Suddenly, some nice cold vodka sounded like a good idea. She poured herself a generous helping in the mug sitting next to the bottle and tossed it back.

  God that was good. She took another slug and took a deep breath. The tightness in her shoulder and back released for the first time in weeks. Had she been this pain-free since the shooting? She couldn’t remember. She couldn’t quite place how she was feeling. Tired, she guessed. More like, relaxed. Very, very relaxed. She could almost sleep. She let her eyes close or maybe they closed on their own. She wasn’t sure.

  Am I actually falling—?

  Del opened her eyes and couldn’t place where she was. There was a stuffed pig next to her, nearly three feet long and two feet tall, black with white markings. There were two baby pigs nearby. They had little snaps on their snouts, and there were corresponding snaps on the big momma pig’s belly, like teats. The babies would attach to the momma, Del realized. But there were eight snaps and only two pig babies. Piglets and momma were a nightmare of mutilation. The snaps were about the only parts of any of them that were untouched.

  The baby pigs had been burned. They were singed, and there was melted wax all over them. Red candle wax, once upon a time, it looked like, but there was dirt and crud stuck to the darkened sludge that covered much of the synthetic fuzz. What looked to be knife marks, stab wounds, had exposed the little white balls that comprised the baby pigs’ innards. They were discolored, some of them, tinged with red and black and dusty gray.

  But it was the momma pig that had taken the brunt of someone’s rage. There were scars all over the huge stuffed animal. Stab wounds, burns from matches or cigarettes or a lighter, maybe. The face was smashed in, bloodied. Had someone punched the thing until his—or her—knuckles bled? Both eyes were gone, and what had once been a snout was missing, too. There was part of one ear dangling, and a hole where the other had been. The momma pig was stuffed with foam, firmer than the baby pigs. Less give. Del found herself calculating how many times she’d have had to punch the thing to bloody her knuckles. A lot, a whole lot. Hundreds of times at a go. The tail was still attached. Del peered to see that the thread was shiny, newer. So it had been reattached at some point. Back when someone was trying to take care of the piggies.

  Momma pig looked old. Maybe twenty or thirty years or more. So, assuming it was a childhood plaything—or voodoo doll, or whatever—the room she was in belonged to someone in maybe his or her thirties or forties. The stuffed animals had occupied Del’s attention for several minutes, but now she could take in more than those strangely mutilated toys. She was in a small bedroom, what looked like a child’s bedroom, and she was tethered to a narrow bed.

  Del tested the wrist restraints that held her. They were leather, lined with soft synthetic fabric over foam, surprisingly comfortable. Good quality, tight enough to keep her secure without leaving bruises. Locked, the straps connected to the bed frame on each side, just below the mattress. The lock and key were probably a brand universal, not that this helped. She didn’t have the brand name or the key. The headboard was old-fashioned, solid, too solid for Del to take apart with her bare hands, even if they’d been untethered. The room was mostly bare, save for a night table and bureau, white like the headboard, with long-faded stickers of farm animals in the center of each drawer. The knobs were pink. It was a room meant for a girl, then. Well, Del amended to herself, a woman who thought of herself as a girl. A man who thought of himself as a girl, maybe.

  She ran through the possibilities, implications, strategies—after what she guessed was an hour, she grunted in impatience. Enough waiting around, she silently commanded her captor.

  Show yourself. This didn’t work, so Del went back to analyzing her options.

  Del knew what she was doing, intellectualizing in order to keep her cool. Most people, she realized, would panic in a situation like this, handcuffed to a little girl’s twin bed in a darkening room. She had no memory of how she’d gotten here, who might have drugged her—this seemed the most likely possibility, given her lack of defensive wounds. She wore her usual knit boxers and a tank top and socks. She did not feel sore, bruised or achy. So she hadn’t been here long. Only her shoulder hurt, but no more than had become usual.

  The perp could have attached the restraints to the headboard instead of the side rai
ls but hadn’t, so her comfort mattered. Or there was some advantage to keeping her hands by her sides, with minimal but not entirely limited mobility of her arms. Did the kidnapper know Del had a shoulder injury and not want to exacerbate it? Was there something the perp wanted her to do?

  Her legs were free. Why? Was it a miscalculation? It didn’t seem likely. Del had the feeling this whole thing was planned down to the smallest detail. Leaving her legs free meant something. But what? Was the kidnapper overconfident? Or were there multiple armed kidnappers? No gag, either. She’d been awake for some time, but no one had come to check on her. Had she metabolized the drug more quickly than anticipated? She weighed more than she looked like, so maybe. Or she was in a location so isolated that it didn’t matter if she hollered. The mirror above the dresser could be a two-way, of course, but she didn’t have the sense that this was so. The night table was bare, but if she could reach inside the top drawer—unlikely but worth a try. Maybe there’d be something useful in there. Maybe she could reach a foot over. Del had just started stretching out her leg when she heard a key enter the lock on the other side of the door.

  “Hungry?”

  It was Janet. Del tried not to give in to the relief that threatened to throw her guard down. It might be little, winsome-looking Janet holding the door open with her foot because both hands were burdened with a tray of food, but that didn’t mean this wasn’t still dangerous. Pretty little Janet had managed to drug and kidnap Del, tie her to a bed, and keep her from escaping. She was clearly far more dangerous than she looked.

  Janet’s eyes darkened.

  Del eased her leg back away from the night table. She wouldn’t have been able to reach it anyway. The restraints limited her movements just enough to ensure that she could move around a little and not enough to do anything.

  “I don’t blame you for trying. I’d be disappointed if you didn’t! You don’t really think I’m silly enough to leave anything lying around here, do you? You’d leave before we were done, given half a chance, don’t think I’m unaware of that, baby.”

  “Done with what?”

  Janet set the tray on the bureau and turned with a wide smile. “I’m so happy to see you looking rested, my darling. Are you comfortable? Shoulder’s not hurting too much, I hope.”

  Del shook her head. Dozens of possible options raced through her head but left her in a muddle. Was that from the knockout drug or because part of her didn’t want to believe Janet had kidnapped her?

  “You don’t have to do this,” Del whispered, surprised to hear how hoarse she was. “I won’t leave. I want to be here with you, Janet. I swear.”

  Janet turned away, hiding her face with her hair while she moved things around on the tray. “Don’t lie to me, baby, please? I know it may seem unfair but I really need us to be honest with each other.”

  Del shook her head. “I’m not lying.” After a moment, she realized that she was in fact being at least somewhat truthful. She wasn’t exactly thrilled at being tied up, but she genuinely wanted to hear what Janet had to say. She tried to express this, but her dry throat could produce only a raspy squawk.

  “Shhh,” Janet crooned, nudging in behind Del, propping her head up. She held a straw to Del’s lips and Del was absurdly grateful to taste orange juice a moment later.

  “There you go, sweetheart, that’s it. Poor Del, poor baby.”

  Del knew about Stockholm Syndrome or whatever the so-called experts were calling it these days. She knew that kidnapping a person and making her dependent on you for food and water and life itself would bind that person to you and make her loyal and all of that. But that didn’t stop tears from spilling from her achy, swollen eyes at Janet’s soft words and the careful way she held the glass so it wouldn’t spill and the way her free hand stroked Del’s cheek gently and soothingly. It felt ridiculously good to lean against Janet’s body, to feel the way she’d arranged herself to cradle Del.

  “Thank you.” She slurped up the last of the juice and hiccupped a sob.

  “I’m going to take good care of you, I promise.”

  The glass went away and so did Janet. Del tried to reach for her, but her arms wouldn’t move. Why wouldn’t they move? She was too tired to pursue the question.

  “Lie back down, sweetheart. That’s it.”

  Then Del’s eyes were closing. Her body was leaden and her mind was shutting down along with it.

  “You drugged the juice,” she murmured. “You drugged me again.”

  “Don’t worry, darling.” Janet’s voice was both close and far away. Her moist lips kissed Del’s forehead. “It’s only until you’re ready.”

  “Ready for what?” But there was only darkness and silence, and the question echoed over and over in Del’s mind until even the darkness and silence were beyond her ken. Ready for what? Ready for what? Ready for what?

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Nonetheless.” Lola tried to keep the impatience out of her voice. “All I need is my phone.”

  “I see.” Janet’s voice cooled another few degrees. Another few exchanges, and the frost in her tone would turn the line—Lola imagined a string between two paper cups—into a long trail of ice.

  “Janet—”

  “I’m sorry for your inconvenience.” Janet’s words were clipped. “But Del’s illness is a higher priority than your cell phone, isn’t it? I will arrange for someone to deliver your phone to you. Please do not call again.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, really. But please just tell Del—”

  The line was dead. Frozen to death, Lola thought. “I hope she feels better,” she finished lamely into the nothingness. She hung up and looked around the kitchen. Poor Del!

  After a moment, Lola felt a giggle gurgle up out of her. “Poor Janet!”

  No wonder she sounded so grouchy! Del was a horrible patient. If Janet was playing nurse, she must be exhausted. Lola sobered. Del was strong and healthy and stubborn. If she was too sick to drive home from Janet’s, she had more than the flu. What if she was really ill? What if she needed help? Lola vacillated between annoyance and worry for the rest of the day.

  “Del’s made her choice,” she told Marco later that evening.

  He tipped his wineglass at her. “Tell me you’re just making this up.”

  She laughed, a sour sound, even to her own ears. “Is it really that hard to figure? Come on, Janet’s a knockout!” She tried to laugh again, but the sound was more like a sob, and she waved it away with a wry smile.

  “You’re a knockout, too. Especially with your dyke chic hair.” He smiled and raised an eyebrow.

  “You like? Thanks. I’m still getting used to it.” Lola shrugged. “Anyway, who would you pick, if you were Del? The fat old cow who does your laundry or the hot young sexpot who turns you on? I never had a chance.”

  “She loves you, Lola. And you’re not a fat old cow, silly. You’re wearing a size medium according to that little tag sticking out of your collar.”

  “Oops, thanks for the heads-up. I love her. If I had been stronger, if I’d been, I don’t know, better, maybe we’d have had a chance. But I was a placeholder. While the two of them licked their wounds and made their way back to each other.”

  “She loves you,” Marco insisted again. “And she was happy with you. She was never happy with Janet, not even at first. You’re ten times better for her than Janet ever was.”

  “Maybe. But people love who they love, and they don’t always love the person who’s best for them.”

  Marco groaned and leaned his head back. “This sucks.”

  “Yes.” Lola made a prim and proper face to get Marco to smile. “This sucks very much indeed.”

  Later that night, unable to sleep, Lola grabbed a notebook from her nightstand and started writing. At first, it was all a jumble of nonsense about Del, about Olivia, about Marco and about Orrin. But eventually, it became a frightening story about Janet. Lola wrote until her hand cramped, and then she went to her computer.


  The story twisted around on itself like a serpent, and Lola had a hard time making sense of where it was going. She worked and reworked the details until it made some kind of sense. She read it over and had to shake her head at her own nonsensical thinking. Surely, this fiction had no relationship with reality! But Lola had the nagging sensation there was some purpose to this story. Maybe it was a message from her subconscious, trying to warn her. The things she’d written were surely not literally true, of course, but symbolically, they might mean something.

  “What if I’m right?” Lola rubbed her shorn head. “What if Janet’s dangerous? What if she’s not who she seems to be at all?”

  She felt silly.

  “I’m jealous of Janet. That’s probably where this is coming from. This is paranoid fantasy.”

  She sat for a minute, trying not to panic.

  “What if it’s not?”

  She took the time to make coffee, to shower, to dress, before she sat at the computer and stared at the screen.

  “It would be impossible to find out much,” she told the humming processor. “But I could maybe do a little research and see how close I am on some of this. With any luck, I’ll turn out to be totally wrong, and I can let it go.”

  Her coffee cooled as the sun made its path across the sky and Lola did her digging. One crazy conjecture after another led to digital confirmation, corroboration or correlation. Lola started to feel dizzy as day became night. Her lunatic theory, born as much out of jealousy and resentment as anything else, began to feel almost like reality.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “Don’t jump to conclusions here. Just because you made some guesses that turned out to be right or close to right, that doesn’t mean the rest of your guesses are right too. All it means is that you intuited some things about her, things anyone with half a brain could have put together, and stirred them into your crazy imagination.”

  She glanced at the pale sky of dawn, streaked with pink and peach and violet and promising a clear, cold day. So, she’d worked on this for a full twenty-four hours and was just too sleep deprived to think rationally. Nothing sinister was going on, surely. Del was sick. Janet was cool to Lola because anyone would be in the same situation. And Janet was hardly strong enough to overpower Del and hold her against her will.