by Warren Adler
"Oh, we have lots of instructional tapes," the woman replied. "And of course, we can put you in touch with a number of highly qualified dominatrixes who also teach. This is a very delicate and ritualistic practice. It must be done correctly to avoid any danger. A good dominatrix must know when to call it off."
"Are there people who go too far?" Gail asked innocently. Fiona stiffened. The clerk's eyes narrowed as she inspected Gail's face.
"These people are anathema," she said with indignation. "They must be avoided at all costs. They give B and D a bad name. They are very sick people."
Fiona wondered if the woman was serious. But there was nothing in her demeanor to suggest otherwise.
"Do you take credit cards?" Gail asked.
"We do. But most people pay cash for obvious reasons. There is a great deal of prejudice about people who are different."
Fiona and Gail moved from counter to counter, listening to the woman's advice, making their choices. The woman picked out a leather outfit.
"This should do," the woman said. "You could try it on."
Gail declined politely. The process seemed so ordinary, as if they were shopping for gifts for a wedding shower.
Standing in this room, filled with these Gothic contrivances, Fiona felt an odd feeling of deliverance, somehow diluting the old shame of what she had done with Farley. All she did was play a game, his game.
They were selling games here. What had happened to her and Phyla was not part of that game. Farley had transformed each of them into a human prop.
In fact, she could now sense that nothing, no device in this room, with whatever expertise it was used on her, could possibly give her pleasure again. For her the game was over. All the danger and mystery seemed to disappear in these displays. Nor did she find any superiority in her position. Let others enjoy. It was not for her.
They found enough cash between them to pay for their purchases.
"Would you like your name put on our mailing list?" the woman asked.
"No, thank you," Gail replied for both of them.
"Many of our customers use a box number," the woman said as they parted. "I know you'll enjoy your purchases."
They locked the packages in the trunk of the car and set off to interview the murdered girl's relatives.
"A real eye opener," Gail said.
"All in the line of duty," Fiona replied.
They rode in silence for a long time. Finally, Fiona spoke:
"What are you thinking about, Gail?"
"Sex," Gail whispered.
Fiona decided to leave it at that.
20
Fiona sat in the ornate chamber of the Supreme Court observing a case in progress. She was alone and listening with only casual interest. It was a complicated case on a narrow issue dealing with trade, each side offering long, boring arguments, studded with statistics and precedents.
But Fiona was not there to listen to the case. Her mission was to catch Farley's eye and try to convey by her presence a nonofficial, nonthreatening motive. Knowing Farley's paranoia about possible discovery, she had eschewed any other form of communication. No telephone calls. Nothing in writing. No attempts to visit his office.
This was her fourth visit to the court. Usually they occurred on her days off or whenever a break in her schedule permitted. Periodically, she and Farley had exchanged eye contact but she had made no attempt to mime any other signals. After each session she would wait in the corridor on the chance that he would appear. So far he had not shown up and she was beginning to fear that her strategy was off the mark.
Each night after her shift was over, she would hurry home on the off chance that he might simply appear as he had done on those two other occasions. Gail, too, had agreed to remain "on call," in case she was "needed" at a moment's notice. So far, nothing.
Three weeks had passed since they had visited the sex shop. Gail had acknowledged to Fiona that she, in the privacy of her own room, tried on the costume.
"Won't you let me see?" Fiona had asked.
"No way."
"There'll be a time, Gail, when you might have to play the role." Fiona warned.
"God help me," Gail muttered.
Fiona noted that Gail had become increasingly agitated about her father's health. Her mind was not on her work and she seemed to be showing less and less interest in Fiona's obsession with Farley Lipscomb.
Except for Dr. Barker's threat of a lawsuit, the case of Phyla Herbert was, to all intents and purposes, a dead issue. After the statement by the Eggplant, the media had lost interest. Other, more newsworthy, events superseded it. Even Dr. Barker's threat would soon lose its edge. Relatives of victims, caught up in the backwash of a case, were often emotional and prone to wild threats that rarely materialized into action.
The march of death continued in the homicide division, with Gail and Fiona working on a growing number of female homicides, some of which, usually domestics, were quickly closed. Those that were drug related or drive-by shootings were, for the most part, a lost cause.
They did their best, worked hard on each homicide, but Fiona's real focus remained on the Phyla Herbert case and her plans for Farley Lipscomb. Fiona had explained to Gail that what she had planned would be a risk to their careers. In fact, they were deliberately disobeying what the Eggplant had decreed. In the homicide division, there was no greater infraction.
Movie versions of heroics, focusing on apprehending a perpetrator by using methods not sanctioned by police protocol, were far off the mark. In today's frenetic, media-haunted world, being caught using unorthodox means could spell career disaster.
There was no telling how Farley would react if he divined what they were planning or found them out in some way. For Fiona, there was guilt in it as well, mostly for having persuaded Gail to go along with an action that could ruin her.
"Are you still with me?" Fiona would ask Gail from time to time, determined to keep her interest alive.
"I'm your partner, aren't I?" An air of irritation seemed to have become part of Gail's responses.
Whenever a more specific reference to her readiness to perform as a dominatrix surfaced, Gail showed a reluctance to discuss it. She was looking increasingly tired and drawn. Her father's illness was taking its toll on her. He had taken a turn for the worse and she was spending more and more time ministering to his psychic needs and worrying about him.
"It's really rocking me, Fiona," Gail told her, a repetitive theme in their working moments together. Aside from the pressing business of the moment, Fiona kept any reference to Gail's potential "role" to a minimum. Indeed, there were moments when Fiona worried that Gail's personal problems would overwhelm her and she would be unable to participate.
For her part, Fiona, undeterred, continued her preparation for the planned encounter with Farley Lipscomb. She purchased video equipment and set it up in the basement recreation room of her house. She had drilled a hole to fit the lens in a wall behind a bookcase and tested the camera and the microphone with a tape.
Fiona realized that in court a judge might rule that the tapes were inadmissible as evidence. Nor was she certain that her plan of luring Farley into the situation she had in mind would ever happen.
"Suppose he doesn't cooperate?" Gail had asked when Fiona had first discussed what she had in mind. Lately, even that question seemed to have faded from Gail's consciousness.
Aside from her worries about Gail's flagging interest, Fiona's own certainty was getting increasingly threadbare and she began to wonder if her obsession was badly distorting her sense of reality.
To complicate her life further, Fiona was being pressed by Harrison Greenwald, who had finally given her what amounted to an ultimatum. She knew, of course, that it would come sooner or later. It amazed her that he had not walked away sooner.
"I can't go on like this, Fiona," he had told her during a conversation in the cocktail lounge of the Willard Hotel.
"I can't blame you."
"I feel shut ou
t," he sighed. "And not just physically."
"You'll get no argument from me, Harrison."
"Don't you care, Fiona?"
"Yes, I do," she replied after a long pause.
"Then what is this all about?"
It went round and round, with nothing resolved. Most of all, she feared that, even if they resumed their previous relationship, she might be so put off that it would ruin whatever future they had. What she needed was to somehow work this out of her system.
In her mind, she assured herself, bringing down Farley Lipscomb would put the finish on this episode of sexual revulsion and cure her, once and for all, of the traumatic effects of her experience. It wasn't, she knew, a very scientific approach but it served to buttress her motivation.
"You seem very interested in court procedures, Fiona."
It was Farley Lipscomb's silken voice, coming from behind her as she waited in the corridor outside of the Court. Turning, she looked at him, meeting his eyes directly. He had changed from his robe to street clothes.
"No I'm not," she replied, tamping down her excitement. Her response had been carefully rehearsed. It, too, was pure theater. "I'm interested in other disciplines."
"Oh," he said, waiting for a further response. She hoped that the careful coding of her invitation would communicate her message without triggering his paranoia.
"My friend is tops," Fiona said, watching his face for a reaction.
"Your friend?" he asked. In the briefest flicker of his eyelids, he seemed to be receiving the message.
"She is extremely orderly," Fiona embellished.
There was a moment of hesitation as he studied her. She assumed he was weighing the risk and hoped that the anticipated pleasure would neutralize his suspicion.
"Is she?" Farley said. His sense of engagement jumped out at her. As she had observed at their last meeting, his addiction seemed to have remained undiminished, perhaps even stronger than before.
"And available. Any night at a moment's notice." Fiona held her breath and watched him closely. "She can whip right over to my place." It was a less cryptic statement than the other, but he seemed to be absorbing it. There was no way of knowing for certain.
"I'll take the matter under consideration," he said, his face expressionless. He started to go, then turned again.
"And the other matter?"
She knew exactly what he meant.
"Over," she said. "Closed forever."
He nodded and offered a thin smile, then moved away. She watched his back recede, a handsome man in late middle age, still ramrod straight and dignified. It was, of course, a facade designed to cover a multitude of sins, she thought, feeling the full impact of her remembered pain.
* * *
The next day, as they drove to yet another crime scene, a young girl blown apart in a drive-by gang shooting, Fiona waited for the right moment to tell Gail about her meeting with Farley. She could sense more than the usual tension in the air.
There was also the anticipation of what they would find on their present assignment. Nothing was more awful than an innocent child killed at random.
Worse, the prospect of finding a suspect would be a daunting task, with witnesses either not wanting to get involved or offering conflicting stories. Once again, they steeled themselves for the grief and helplessness of relatives, friends and neighbors.
But the subject had to be broached and, as they drove, Fiona told Gail what had transpired in her meeting with Farley.
"Are you sure he'll react?" Gail asked. Fiona caught an undercurrent of hesitation.
"He has reacted, Gail."
"And I'm still in it?"
"Of course." Fiona studied her face. Gail's expression could not hide her reluctance."
"You're having second thoughts, right?"
"Maybe it's this thing with my father," she began. "I'm not myself."
"I certainly don't want to add to your problems, Gail."
"And I'm not sure I can handle it."
Fiona decided to let the matter rest. There was enough pressure on Gail without adding to her burden.
Later, after a day of accelerating horror, wrung out by the tension of the day, they chatted at the police parking lot before leaving. Gail was going home to be with her father. She had checked his condition a number of times during the day. The prognosis did not look good.
"I hope your father improves, Gail," Fiona said as Gail opened her car door.
"It's beyond hope, Fiona. Just a matter of time."
"Is there anything I can do?"
"I just have to get through this, Fiona."
"Of course, Gail. I do understand. I really do."
Fiona wanted to offer more comfort. But she felt too guilty to respond.
Having made Gail the lure, she wondered how Gail would react if Farley did show up and she was called upon to respond. Fiona was not happy with the prospect. She was calling upon her new friend to risk too much at an especially bad time in her life. It was unfair. She felt awful about it.
At the same time, her instincts told her that Farley Lipscomb would take the bait. Then what?
Before driving off, Gail turned down the window of her car.
"Just be careful, Fiona," she said.
"Not to worry," Fiona replied.
They exchanged glances for a long moment. Then Gail turned away and sped off.
That night Fiona was too uptight to eat. He would come. She was dead certain of that. But when? She half-expected him to show up last night. Waiting had been an agony. Would it be tonight? Or tomorrow? Or when? She allowed herself to believe that he had bought into her suggestive invitation. Fearing that she might trigger his paranoia, she had not been specific, allowing him to set the time frame.
She roamed the house, checked and rechecked the video equipment. And if he did come? Then what?
By ten Fiona was beginning to question her assumptions. Was it an exercise in wishful thinking? Perhaps suspicion had intervened and triggered his better judgment. All for the best, she decided, trying unsuccessfully to put it out of her mind. By any measure, he would be a fool to come. But lust and addiction lived by their own rules.
By eleven her confidence went down another notch. At the same time her guilt feelings about Gail accelerated. It was as if she had been involved in a mental duel with a phantom of her own creation and she had lost. She had the urge to phone Farley and call the whole thing off, to let sleeping dogs lie. But would the dogs be silent forever?
Before she could act, the phone rang. She ran to the instrument and picked it up after the third ring.
"Fiona?" It was Harrison Greenwald.
She paused, disappointed. Had she expected Farley Lipscomb?
"Yes, Harrison."
She knew her obvious indifference would be hurtful, but there were other things on her mind.
"Such warmth," Harrison said.
"I'm sorry. My mind was elsewhere. Forgive me."
"I don't understand any of this, Fiona. I need some resolution. What I need to do is talk. Just talk. Can I come over?"
"No. Absolutely not."
"That sounds pretty final."
"It is."
Suddenly she imagined she heard some movement outside.
"Please, Harrison," she cried. "Leave me alone. I can't talk to you now."
She hung up abruptly, knowing that he would interpret it as a terrible act of meanness, a final blow. It would be over between them.
She ran to the front door, opened it, looked around outside. Nothing. Her nerves felt jangled. She felt torn by overwhelming guilt. For the way she treated Harrison. For involving Gail in her mad obsession.
Picking up the phone again, she dialed Gail's number. An unfamiliar woman's voice answered.
"May I speak with Gail?" she asked.
"She's with her father. This is the nurse."
"Never mind then..." Fiona started to hang up. Gail's voice intervened.
"Fiona?" Gail was whispering.
"How is he?"
"About the same. He's under morphine."
"I'm so sorry, Gail."
"There's nothing to be sorry for, Fiona. This can't be helped." There was a long moment of dead air on the phone.
"I'm really worried about you, Fiona. He could be dangerous."
"You can stop worrying, Gail. I'm going to call it off."
She heard Gail breathing through a long pause.
"Will that end it, Fiona?"
"I hope so."
She wished she hadn't sounded so tentative.
"Anyway, Harrison is coming over," she lied. She needed to put Gail at her ease about her security. "Maybe it's time I just let it go."
She didn't feel completely convincing.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes," Fiona said, "I'm sure. Now you get back to your father."
Moving into the den, she poured out half a tumbler of Scotch, took a sip, then reached for the phone again. But before she could dial she heard a faint knocking on the door. Her heart leapt.
Through the side window of the door, she saw him. At the same time, he saw her. He was dressed as she had seen him that first night. He wore a raincoat and a hat pulled low over his eyes. His hands were thrust into the pockets of his raincoat.
Her earlier resolution dissipated. She had got him to come. Her instincts had been correct. Seeing him now, she knew there was no turning back. Calming herself, she opened the door.
"I've been waiting for you, Farley," she said.
"Were you?," he replied, inspecting the surroundings with a predator's zeal. "I was intrigued by your invitation."
"I knew you would be," Fiona said, taking a sip from her drink, noting that the pockets of his raincoat bulged with more than the bulk of his hands. Obviously, his props, she decided. "Would you like a drink?" She started toward the den.
"No," he replied, following her. "I've come for other reasons."
"Yes, you did," Fiona agreed.
"You said she was tops," he said.
Unfortunately, her mind could not formulate an alternative plan, one without Gail. She had to stall him, wait for another idea to cross her mind.
"She is," Fiona replied.