by Farris, John
"Wait!" Virg yelled, and ran.
When he caught up to her, he seized her right arm above the elbow and turned her, forcing the light on her face. She pulled her head back. There was something around her neck; it looked like a dog collar.
He lowered the light to get it out of her eyes. Just as he'd thought, she was naked under the shirt. "Where you going?" Virg asked. She tried to run away from him; not a word out of her. She was strong and he had trouble holding onto wet flesh. "Look," he said, bitterly annoyed. "Just trying to help."
She made a protesting sound, shaking her head urgently. Her thickly lashed eyes were wide and shock-blank. The big dog collar around her neck bothered Virg. He didn't like any of this. How, he wondered, was he going to get her back to the car—drag her? And then what? They just might have some kind of nut on their hands.
A big semi was coming toward them, ablaze in the murk. Virg tried to pull the girl away from the light. She froze at the sound of the truck, turning her back to it. Maybe, Virg thought, if the driver noticed them at all it would look as if they were taking a walk—at three in the morning in a goddam rainstorm. But the truck didn't slow down. As soon as it was past the girl pried Virg's hand from her arm, gouging him in a couple of places with her fingernails, and fled.
Virg started after her at a run but he splashed through a puddle, soaking his trousers to the knees, and he gave up. Mike, the son of a bitch, was still in the car. Virg walked back, sodden and fuming. He should have busted her one. The sight of her naked breasts, nipples small and hard in the weak yellow beam of the flash, had inflamed him.
But the remembered wildness in her eyes turned him off. She had looked as if she could kill him. He had seen a girl look like that once: she had just thrown her baby out of a window. Virg shuddered and pressed the back of his right hand to his mouth and found a gouged place with the tip of his tongue, tasted his own blood. Crazy bitch. He wondered if Buffalo was going to be any different, any better than what he'd always known.
The narrow street was filled with water so she walked beside it; there was no sidewalk, just cold mud. A random hazy streetlight to show the way. The darkened houses were frame and shingle, small-town ghetto houses. The rain fell needle sharp. She was not aware of it. A dog barked from a porch. She walked slowly on, limping, not looking around, mud splattered as high as her waist. As she walked she shuddered, but the shuddering didn't cause her to stop.
When the street ended she went to her left. Half a block away was a narrow three-story house with a neon tavern sign in one window. She stopped then as if the pale artery of neon had intrigued her, gazed up at the tavern for three or four minutes. There was no sound on this new street except the thinnish rain, no movement. She walked up the dozen steps slowly and then without hesitation opened one of the doors and stepped inside.
It was a warm and beery nest with a neatly blocked ton of smoke sitting low on a margin of light. There was a long bar to her right, tables to the left. In back a lighted shuffleboard, booths. The jukebox was off. Only a few faces at this hour. A bartender in silhouette against a blue-toned mirror.
There hadn't been much noise when she walked in, but it was deathly still now. Rain dripped from her face and fingertips. She looked around but not as if she was terribly interested. Her attitude was one of patience and resignation.
"Livia," the bartender rumbled. A black woman with broad shoulders, African jewelry and a natural emerged from the shadows at the back of the tavern and approached the girl, not believing half of what she saw. The girl stared somberly back at her.
"Yes?" Livia said sharply.
She was surprised when the girl spoke—just something about her, as if she didn't speak at all, or couldn't.
"Where is this?" the girl said, in a guttural whisper. She had to strain to get that much out. She lifted a hand to her collared throat. "This—town?"
Livia glanced at the bartender, then back. Behind them a man got up, laid a five-dollar bill on the table, reached for his hat and went through the door like a cat through a hole in a fence.
"Nyack, New York," Livia said, moving a step closer, frowning. "What's that around your neck?"
The girl didn't answer, only shuddered. Her eyes were abnormally wide, pure agate. The bartender thumbed a dime out of the cash register and put it in a pay phone.
"Honey—you're wet and you're cold," Livia said. "Why don't you come back here and sit with me, and we'll get you something warm to wrap up in." She held out a hand coaxingly. The girl looked at it and went as rigid as a stork.
"My name is Carol Watterson," she said, "and I want to go home." She showed her teeth and Livia prudently decided not to try touching her. Something bloody and wild about this one, she thought. There was a long silence. Nobody seemed to know what to do.
At length the girl spoke again, in her raw whisper of a voice.
"My name is Carol Watterson—and I want to go home."
"Sure, honey," Livia said soothingly. "Don't you worry about a thing. You can go home."
Chapter Eleven
Sunday, June 30
Special Agent in Charge Gaffney placed the microphone where it would pick up both voices, then turned on the big tape recorder. "I hope this won't bother you, Carol," he said.
She smiled fitfully and shook her head. They were alone; Gaffney had patiently insisted on that. She sat on the regency sofa in the library with her bare bandaged feet tucked under, a cigarette with a long trail of smoke in one hand. She wore a Cardin shirt, striped bell-bottom slacks. She'd made up her eyes heavily so the puffiness wouldn't be obvious. Her hair was clean and newly brushed and it curled to a fall over her left shoulder. It partially obscured the bad bruise on her throat, which was like a deep-purple egg surrounded by a yellowing nimbus.
"But I don't think I can remember anything," she told him apologetically, in her whispered voice.
Gaffney said, "I know it's very difficult right now. As we talk details may come back to you. The blood sample your doctor obtained may give us an idea of what type of drug, if any, they were using on you. In the meantime—"
"I'll do the best I can," she promised, and yawned. She caught the yawn with the back of her hand, looked guiltily at the FBI man. "I'm sorry! I don't know what the trouble is. I couldn't be sleepy. I slept all day. I feel like I'm under glass. I can't—I'm not in touch with anything yet." She stared at him. "Did we meet last night? To be honest, I don't remember that much."
"We met. And you'll never know how happy I was to see you, Carol."
"I was given up for dead, wasn't I?" She fingered the bruise on her neck.
Gaffney stopped the tape, reversed, listened, was satisfied with the quality of the sound. He erased what already had been said, paused with his finger on the start button. He looked at her sympathetically. "That was an alternative we had to consider. Suppose we get started? We'll make this as brief as possible. To begin with, Carol, why don't you just tell me about last Sunday afternoon?"
She put her cigarette in an ashtray. "Well—Sunday, Kevin and I played tennis most of the afternoon, then we went down to Jake's in the Village to get a bite to—you know all that. OK. So we were sitting inside and this man came along and told me something was wrong with the Sting Ray. A fire, he said. I was panicked, of course. I went outside with him—"
Gaffney opened his attaché case, handed a photograph to her.
"Carol, I'm showing you an artist's sketch of this man as your brother described him."
She pondered the face. Then she put the photo down, face down, on the sofa, biting her lower lip. "That's—yes, that's pretty close; I mean, it's him. The man. His mouth is wrong, and I don't think his nose was quite as long. But you've got him there."
"Would you tell me what happened after you left the restaurant with the man?"
"I had to catch up to him; we were outside by then."
"Did he say anything else to you?"
"I made some sort of rhetorical remark—what could have happened, my car
is brand new—you know, something like that. He tried to be reassuring. He said he didn't think there was much damage—"
"Excuse me. Did you notice anything about his speech?"
"How do you mean?"
"Did he have a regional accent? Yankee? Southern?"
"I was too upset to notice."
"And after you reached the car—"
"Well, the hood was up. But nothing had happened. There were no indications of a fire. I looked up to give him hell. I thought it was a sadistic kind of joke." She gestured with one hand. "He was standing, about here, this far away from me."
"You're indicating four feet, or a little less."
"And on my right. He was looking at me in a—I don't know—frightening way."
"Was there a black delivery van nearby?"
"Oh, I forgot that. Yes. Parked behind us. By that I mean it was between the Corvette and the back door of the restaurant."
"Was anyone in the van, Carol?"
"Driving. I just had a glimpse of him."
"Can you describe him?"
"Not very well. He was dark-skinned and wore sunglasses. I think he had on a blue shirt. Blue like my car."
"A medium blue. There was a man standing to your right, and another in the van. Was the first man blocking you in some way? Could you have run if you'd wanted to?"
"No. I couldn't get around him. But I didn't think about running; that never crossed my mind. I just didn't know what was happening. He had a white can in his right hand. Like a can of shaving cream. He sprayed—sprayed it right in my—face."
"Take your time."
"It was—MACE, I think."
"Chemical MACE?" Gaffney asked.
"I know some kids who were hit with that stuff, while demonstrating. It happened before they learned to wear goggles and seal them to their faces with Vaseline, and wear handkerchiefs soaked in baking soda and water over their noses and mouths. Whatever he used on me, it was awful. It almost blinded me. I couldn't get my breath. I was choking and trying to throw up. I knew I was in danger, but all I wanted was to sit down."
"Then he put you in the van?"
"He all but threw me in. And after that—" She closed her eyes and was quiet. After a couple of minutes Gaffney turned off the tape recorder.
"I'm sorry," she said resignedly. "I knew it wouldn't be any good; I knew I'd get that far and—" She touched her throat again, grimaced. "Why do you suppose they did that to me? Why put—a dog collar around my neck? Was there a chain too?"
"Apparently. The leather was ripped in one place. A chain might have been attached there."
"And how did I get away?" She tilted her head back and sighed in vexation, tensely trying but finding the past week beyond recall. "Did I pull the chain off with my hands—or did they let me go? Or—"
"What, Carol?"
"Did someone else let me go?" She glanced at the cigarette in her ashtray; there wasn't much left of it. Gaffney lit a fresh one for her. He shook his head noncommittally, smiling; he liked this one. She was a little underweight now, tan gone sallow after days of captivity, and the bruised throat probably ached with every word she spoke, every slight motion of her head. But she'd come through in good shape, spirit untrampled. She was a stand-up fighter and had a generous share of the golden good looks he was partial to; abundant sexuality but well grounded in the ego, not running wild and wastefully. This was a woman, openhearted, intuitive, outspoken, and she would only improve with age.
"You'll have to tell us. When it comes back to you."
"If it does. But you think they might have drugged me."
"With one of the hypnotics, yes."
"Then I was made to forget. And even if I want to remember, I'll never be able to."
"Depends on what you were given, and how knowledgeable the administrator was. A good psychiatrist using sodium pentothal might be able to remove the block." She was watching him, totally absorbed.
"All right, then! I'll take sodium pentothal."
"I'm afraid not. It's a tricky area, and there's a possibility that pentothal treatment, even by an expert, wouldn't be safe for you."
She said, her lip curled in a half smile, "You mean it might blow my mind?"
Gaffney shrugged. "Not my field. But that was the consensus, so we've dropped the idea."
"Now what?" She pointed at the tape recorder. "That won't be any help."
"Well—tomorrow, if you're up to it, I thought we'd drive over to Rockland County."
"Memory reinforcement?"
"Something like that."
"I'm game," she said, not hopefully.
She had awakened at dusk; it was fully dark now and the tennis courts were lighted. Felice and Kevin were playing. She went out the back door and stood in the grass watching them. It was a cool night, not so many bugs, even around the court floods. Riggs wandered over and sat down a few feet away, tongue rolling. She snapped her fingers. Riggs stared at her, amiably, then turned his head and began chasing a flea along his backbone.
She heard Felice yell in exasperation at a bad serve. She returned to the kitchen, sat down at the captain's table with her chin in her hands. Dimly she heard Sam's old typewriter clacking away in his room on the second floor.
A couple of minutes later Felice and Kevin trooped in, turning on lights.
"Hi," she said glumly, not looking at them.
"Hi," Kevin said.
"Where's Gaffney?" Felice asked.
"He left."
"Oh. He wasn't here long."
"There wasn't much I could tell him."
"Oh," Felice said again. "Your voice is better."
She straightened, hands slapping the table lightly. "Sure. Now it's like a bad sound track on the late-late show." They were both standing in the center of the kitchen, rackets in hand, faces glistening, looking solemnly and uncertainly at her. She smiled. "Who won?"
"Who won," Kevin said.
"Oh, well, of course."
"I think I'll make a sandwich," Kevin announced, dropping his gear on a counter and opening the refrigerator. "Carol, want a sandwich?"
"You must be hungry," Felice said.
"No. I couldn't eat."
"Buttermilk?" Kevin asked.
"No—Kevin, let's go down to Jake's. I'll buy you a cheeseburger."
Kevin pulled his head out of the refrigerator. Felice's expression was peculiar. "Are you sure you feel—"
"If I can walk I can drive," she said curtly, and then her eyes widened and she looked very startled. "I said Jake's, didn't I? Oh, Jesus. Take it back, Kevin. I don't think wild horses could get me in Jake's again, ever. We'll try the Baron. If you want to go. I'd love some company."
"Sure," Kevin said. "Let me change my shirt, this one sort of stinks."
Felice poured a glass of buttermilk and sat down, groaning a little from soreness. She laughed. "Kevin's learned to handle my topspin lob, and I don't have much else going for me."
"Keep him moving to his left; his backhand isn't all that good yet."
Felice listened to the typewriter as if it were Bach. "Sam's working hard."
"That piece for Harper's," Felice said. "It was due last week." She tilted back in the armchair, pulled open a drawer behind her, took out an unopened pack of cigarettes. "Smoke?"
"I'm dying for one, but my throat can't take it." Felice nodded understandingly, lit a cigarette for herself, shook out the match, exhaled. She slumped comfortably in the round-backed chair, crossing her ankles. Most of the light from the fixture above the table was in her face. She rubbed a mosquito welt on one arm. Her eyes were half closed, a sheen of perspiration on the dark lids.
"Sleepy, Mother?" There was a smile on her face, thin-lipped, colorless, neutral. Her young hands were clenched on the table as if she were throttling something—her own nerves, perhaps. Felice said, "Marth Pelling and I are going to an estate sale at the auction galleries in Mamaroneck next weekend. Want to join us?"
"I might. Are you buying?"
"The
y're offering a Winslow Homer the General wants, so I'll bid for him. And there's a Pollock I'd like, if the bidding doesn't get too steep."
"What would be a good price for it?"
"Oh, seven thousand at Parke-Bernet."
"Twenty-five years ago a junk dealer bought a few dozen canvases Pollock did when he was with the WPA. The dealer paid four cents a pound. He was going to insulate pipes with the canvas."
"Four cents a pound," Felice said wonderingly.
Outside Riggs barked loudly at something and tore off the back steps. They both jumped. Felice laughed at her own fright, then looked concerned.
"Honey—"
"No, I'm all right, Mother, please don't—t-touch me."
"What is it?"
"T-they had me locked up and wearing a dog collar and a chain. I got away somehow—damn it, somehow. But what if they decide to come around and collect me again?"
This time Felice caught one of her hands and held it. "That couldn't happen. There's no danger. If there was, Gaffney would've assigned men—"
"But we don't know what it was all about! Why were they keeping me? It wasn't a—a sex thing, we know that. Why didn't they call? I just don't have any answers. I don't remember, Felice. That's frustrating, but it scares hell out of me too—" She leaned into the light, her eyes button wide. "The three of you," she said fractiously. "Sam's the worst, but it's all of you. Trying so hard to pretend it didn't happen. You're either too chummy or too dear and listen, I've had all the long, thoughtful looks I can stomach! I haven't been resurrected. There's nothing wrong with me!" Her weak voice gave out, ending as a tired squeal; she laughed at the ridiculous voice and was convulsed. She lowered her head almost to her mother's hand and a squeezed-out tear dropped from one cheek.
After a few seconds Felice said tonelessly, "We all took our lumps last week."
"I know," she whispered, disgusted with herself. She sat up, sighed, wiped the leaky eye with the back of one hand, a gesture intact from childhood. "I shouldn't have—I didn't mean to—"
"Better now?"
