The Captives

by Debra Jo Immergut

  In the morning, she had felt coolheaded. She had sent cash in an envelope to a company that sold lingerie by catalog. Coral-colored set, lacy bra and matching bikini.

  At night, she lay wrapped in her fears and recriminations. She was thirty-two years old. She should be married by now. She’d had a proposal, once, from that college boyfriend. But there had been only one man she’d ever wanted to marry. And he had never asked. Or at least not until it was way too late.

  DUNCAN McCRAY WAS A TAD BIT OBSESSED WITH FUNDING. THE reality of it, but also the concept. Funding was his favorite word. He was always in need of funding. Because he owned nightspots, three of them, in an era when such establishments could be stormed by the club crowd then shunned by it in the space of a few months. Duncan’s bars weathered this period well enough, though, patronized by artists and royals of business and media who shared a taste for illegal substances. A taste Duncan obliged. Certain well-vetted dealers were waved in even as leggy models dusted in glitter powder and men in fine suits were kept waiting, grudgingly acquiescent, beyond the ropes. He always made it a point to find space for a few high-finance types, overexcited boys of low overhead and rocketing salaries, guys hooked into funding.

  But for his first club, he’d found funding in a more creative fashion. “Credit cards,” he’d said, gazing at Miranda, running his fingers through her hair as they lay in bed. “Other people’s. Don’t ever tell anyone.”

  He had turned up in New York in 1986, age twenty-one, still smarting from his upbringing by a menacing widowed dad in a dying Ohio town, armed only with a hospitality degree from a community college and an overgenerous helping of star quality. His first job was working the desk at the city’s trendiest hotel. The uniform was an inky blue Nehru jacket that set off his eyes. In America’s airport VIP lounges, businesswomen traded stories about him. He had a large following in the gay community. He collected their credit card numbers—businesswomen, show biz types, traveling sales associates, whoever—writing them down in endless lists in small notebooks when he worked the overnight shift. He wasn’t sure what he’d do with them, at first. He just collected credit card numbers.

  At some point later, he romanced a girl who lived in San Francisco. She wanted him to visit over Fourth of July. He was flat broke, having spent all his money on coke and high-end audio gear. He thought of the numbers. He used one to order a first-class ticket on United. Through a classified ad in the Village Voice, he sold the ticket for half price. Took the cash, bought himself an economy seat, flew to SF, saw fireworks.

  Using variations on this nifty little trick, Duncan amassed a healthy cache of funding. He was canny and cautious and hid his tracks well. He knew when bill statements went out and timed things accordingly. He paid careful attention to issuing banks, steering clear of those that were particularly vigilant. Made all calls from pay phones, kept no evidence at home.

  The cardholders weren’t even charged. “A victimless crime is a beautiful thing,” he said, smiling. “I know, I’m so fucking bad, aren’t I?” He laughed, his eyes faceted with dark energy. Miranda could drift forever in them, as in deep space.

  She only learned all this after they’d been entwined for a while, when she was already entirely a goner, a lost cause. In any case, she found she could shift her gaze from his misguided moments, the discomfiting elements, by simply refocusing on his eyes, face, smile, hands, and how these things made her feel.

  And of course, by the time they were entwined, the credit card scam was long over. No need for it. The bars were raking it in. And the credit companies had cracked down. You couldn’t pull a scam like that anymore. Measures were in place, and new technologies.

  Duncan shrugged off other women for her. “When they come on to me now, I’m just . . . blank. Not interested,” he marveled. “I really never thought it would happen. I never thought I would fall in love.” He put his arms around her. “You conquered me,” he said.

  “You conquered me first,” she reminded him.

  One damp night in early spring, when they had been together about a year, narcotics police in riot gear shuttered the first bar—the one that really brought in the money and kept the other two afloat. Duncan was hauled in, but released without charges the next day. A friend at City Hall, perhaps, or a nightlife-loving prosecutor with an interest in tamping down the fuss. Miranda never knew. Still, the bar was sealed, police tape binding the handles on its graffitied doors. The mortgages kept coming due; a few shadow investors asked to be cashed out.

  One night Duncan turned to Miranda. “I was just thinking about this guy who came into the bar a while back. He was from upstate somewhere. A fireman. Shit-faced, and he wouldn’t shut up. And he said they run this monthly casino night, it’s like the only thing going up there. Brings in ten grand a month.”

  “That’s a pile,” said Miranda.

  “Drunken idiot. I didn’t want to hear it. Then he said people think it’s all going to charity, but he’s been skimming for years. Already has something over two mil tucked away. Buried somewhere, believe it or not. And he told me that.”

  Duncan shook his head. Back-country dumbshit.

  “Said he’s waiting until he has three million, then he’ll just disappear.”

  He laughed wearily.

  “That kind of funding I could use,” he said.

  In the middle of the night, he sat up in bed, unable to sleep. “Weird, right?” he said. “Some shit-faced fireman? I remember the name of the town,” he said. “Candora.”

  A WINDOW IN THE TV ROOM OVERLOOKED A YOUNG OAK TREE, WHICH refused to give up its last leathery leaves to the sunny gusty day. A soap opera blared. April and Miranda sat on the windowsill, watching gray squirrels clamber up and down the tree’s trunk.

  “I love those goddamn squirrels,” said April. “Life has so many sweet things in it.” She turned to Miranda. “I’m never touching that shit again, Mimi. Not in here, not when I get out. You hear me?”

  “Of course I do.” A squirrel as it sat on its haunches, turning an acorn over and over between its paws as if admiring its perfection.

  “Aren’t you glad your pills didn’t take?” said April. “Aren’t you glad you’re still hanging around alive?”

  “Sure.” Miranda smiled.

  “I know I am. I don’t know what I’d do in here without you.”

  Miranda’s smile faded. She glanced at April’s face, honeyed in the afternoon sun, from the side. She had the longest eyelashes. “Your parole hearing’s coming up.”

  “Fifteenth of next month.” She turned away from the window, toying with the golden bracelet around her wrist, the dangling heart. “Trying not to get all nervous.”

  “I think you’ll get approval, though—don’t you?”

  “I hear the board can be tough.” She looked at Miranda. “Thank the lord Carmona didn’t find that pipe. You saved me, girl.”

  “You’re going to get parole. I’m sure of it.”

  “I just wish you were getting out, too.”

  Miranda turned back to the window. Lines of dead leaves swept across the browning grass, like ripples on a windblown water. “April,” she said, “you really believe in life after death?”

  “I do.”

  “Well, I don’t. I’m pretty sure this is the only one I’ve got. I can’t let it go to waste in here. Even if I deserve to—and I probably do—I can’t let it play out that way.”

  “Maybe you’ll get clemency or something. You never know. The appeal might take.”

  April wrapped Miranda then in a fierce hug, her chin resting on her shoulder, a gentle weight on a pressure point, a node of reassurance.

  She longed to confide in April. Wished she could ask her what to do about Frank Lundquist. But knew she was doomed to be utterly alone with this. Once again, she was contemplating placing her fate in the hands of an extremely flawed man.

  “You’ll write to me about your new life,” she said into April’s ear. “I want to know every last detail.” />
  FRANK LUNDQUIST SMELLED LIKE A MUSKY LIME. HE WAS WEARING aftershave for her. They hadn’t touched again. She knew he wanted to. She could see that. But he seemed overwhelmed by the transgression of it. Occasionally he would wander over to her side of the desk and sort of hover near her. This made her uncomfortable. She would ask him for a cup of tea.

  But this time he stayed put behind the desk, light from the basement window framing his head like a bright square halo. And he seemed pleased. “So I think I’ve got it,” he said as she took her place in the client’s chair. “I was thinking about what our obstacles are. And of course, the biggest is security.” He leaned forward. “Where is security most lax?”

  “Here in Counseling?” she guessed. Miranda noted that his hair was neater than usual. Grooved with comb marks like the grain on light wood.

  “Wrong. I have seen you guarded by a single guard. Asleep. One single, snoring guard away from freedom.”

  “If that had ever happened, I probably would have made a run for it myself.”

  “You didn’t because you weren’t really there at the time.”

  Now he stood, glided around to her, hovered in front of her chair, leaning back against the desk. “While you were in the hospital, still drugged, I visited you. And there was one lonely CO there. And he was asleep, Miranda. And there wasn’t another soul around. I could have done it. I could have done it then.” His eyes searched her face. “I wish I had.”

  “So what’s your plan, then?”

  “Don’t you see?” He smiled down at her. The glow from his gaze. “We’ll get you another dose of Elavil. You’ll kill yourself again.”

  Miranda shook her head. “Oh, no.”

  “You’ll try to, I mean. And you’ll time it so they find you. And when they bring you to the hospital—I’ll come and get you and take you away in the dead of night.”

  “I promised my mother I’d never do that again.” She said this with a crack in her voice. She could already see the intelligence of the plan. She hated the idea. She despised it.

  “Miranda. I’ve thought this through and through. I think it’s the best way. But if you can think of something better, I’ll listen.”

  She looked up at him. “And then what will happen?” These words sounded tinny in her ears.

  “Then we’ll disappear. You and I. We’ll disappear together.” He crouched down in front of her, gathered up her hands in his. His eyes scanned her face. She could see how possessed he’d already become by his visions of this future.

  Disappear together.

  She couldn’t picture it. Disappear with this person?

  And yet. The lure of another life. Wipe away her whole mangled story in one night. A clean stretch of years opening ahead.

  She looked at her hands resting in his. Those smaller, paler ones. Those were her hands, correct? They transmitted no sensations to her brain.

  LU HAD SEEN HER, WALKING DOWN THE UNIT. DOLLED UP FOR HER meeting with Frank. Lu had stopped her, lifted a lock of her carefully arranged hair, and smelled it. “Like a plum blossom.” She winked. “He will like this.”

  Miranda had smiled and shook her head. “You’re all wrong.”

  Lu laughed, and in one swift move, tugged Miranda’s shirt up to reveal the lacy peachy-coral bra. Miranda batted her hands away. Someone catcalled down the hallway.

  Lu pulled her close and kissed her on both cheeks. Gripped her arms tightly. “This is our power, Mimi,” she whispered. “We must use it. Always.” Then she released her with a little shove, propelling her toward the exit doors.

  15

  Strive for Accuracy, Truthfulness, and Honesty

  (Principle C)

  Risk assessment is a funny business. It comprised a large part of my work at Milford Basin. Admin needed to know: If Emilia is housed in a dormitory setting, how likely is she to pummel someone’s skull with a blunt object, as she did back in that crumbling row house in Troy? How likely is Brittni to beat her children again, if she regains custody while on parole? Should sad-eyed Minh be allowed to work in the kitchen, with its access to sharp implements, or would that simply lead her to self-laceration?

  And “risk” doesn’t have to be understood as a negative. The five-stage process of risk assessment (from Stage One: Specify Target Behavior to Stage Five: Specify Appropriate Monitoring) could be used to determine, let’s say, the chances that one’s spouse will show up for one’s surprise birthday party, or the likelihood that one’s junkie little brother will kick his demon habit.

  Towl and Crighton cooked up a neat little definition in their latest book: risk assessment is simply “the estimate of the probability of a target behavior occurring, combined with a consideration of the consequences of such occurrences.”

  So I’m wondering—how would the risk assessment have been calculated in my case?

  If Towl and Crighton themselves had cranked my psyche through the five stages, could they have foreseen that I’d become so entangled with a client of mine? Could they have predicted that I would plan her escape? Would they have known that I would break a dozen principles of professional ethics and a few very major laws to come to her aid, to fulfill my desire for a life of true impact?

  I doubt it.

  Not even the Lundquist test, long considered unmatched in its accuracy, could have predicted this outcome for me, its own Baby Zero.

  POOR SAD CHARLIE POLKINGHORNE. I HAD TO PLUCK HIS STRINGS, because he was my instrument. I asked him out for a drink after work. The holidays approached, the evenings came early and dark and cold. I chose a little dive by the river. He ordered rye, I ordered a beer. Mournful country music and garlands of feeble yule lights helped the mood along. We were sitting by the window, and a pulsating Santa perched above it made Charlie’s face go red, then dark, red, then dark.

  “Well, my ex-wife called me,” I began. “She’s pregnant. You know when we were together, she was all about childless by choice.” This happened to be true. Winnie had phoned to wish me a happy holiday. And she had announced this news.

  Charlie shook his head, glowing red. “Try not to take it personally, Frank. Some things aren’t meant to be.”

  Pool balls were racked somewhere behind me, laughter erupted. “I never knew what made her tick, I guess.” I smiled into my beer. “And you’d think I’d be able to analyze female behavior.”

  “Hell,” said Charlie, now darkened. “The contours of a therapist’s own life are often a mystery to him, you know that.”

  I swigged my beer. “I do.”

  Charlie raised his gaze toward the bleary window. “In fact,” he said, “I’m just running through a mental list of shrinks. And you know, I think I’m one of a very few that hasn’t been divorced at least once.”

  “Takes a toll, I guess.”

  “I could tell you our success secret, Sheila’s and mine.” He took another slug of rye. “Hobbies.”

  “Oh?” I said. “I didn’t know you had a hobby.”

  Washed in red light again, he nodded. “I draw from life. I hire models to come to my apartment, and I sketch them.”

  “Nude models?”

  “Sure, nude models, Frank. It’s about art, anatomy, et cetera.” He shrugged. “It’s good fun. It’s an outlet.”

  “And what does Sheila do?”

  “She collects rocks and minerals.”

  “Huh. Never knew that.”

  “Oh, yeah. She’s got a whole pebblehound set she pals around with. She gets a charge out of it.”

  I finished off my beer and motioned to the waitress for another round. Fiddled with the damp paper-pulp coaster. “Charlie, I can’t sleep. I lie awake and think about how I’m going to die alone.”

  He sighed. “Yes, well. Those sorts of fears are to be expected. It’s a rough time, a transition. A stressful life event. You need something, then.”

  “Well, I hate to take pills. I feel like I should be able to talk myself down.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. Let me give you somet
hing. What do you want, Halcion? Valium?”

  I hesitated for a moment. Poor old Polkinghorne. His face glowed crimson then sunk into darkness once more. He looked haggard, a crumpled, distressed version of the Cornell boy he’d once been, his colorless hair and creased cheeks. Could this cost him his job, his pension? When the whole thing busted open, could they find a way to pin some of the blame on him? But he’s close to retiring, I reasoned, and I knew Sheila came from money. I decided Charlie would come through it all pretty unscathed.

  The waitress set fresh drinks down on the sticky table. I picked up my beer and took a casual swig. “Actually, I was thinking Elavil. Say a few months’ worth?”

  I held my breath. I knew this was a major ask. But this would be enough to do the job for M, plus extra—a back-up dosage for me, just in case. Because the whole venture could go awry.

  “Any way I can help, Frank,” he said. “Any way I can help.”

  In my office two days later, M tucked pills, one at a time, beneath the bottom band of her brassiere, a pinkish-orange one, the color of a spring evening cloud. I cut my eyes away from her torso of cream, her waist, navel, the white-flag undulations.

  HOW COULD I HAVE GIVEN A STORE OF PILLS TO A CLIENT WHO HAD tried to kill herself once, with the very same drug? Risk assessment. I had never seen such a strong will to live, as I saw in her eyes when we talked of her escape. I had felt it coursing through her, so powerfully, that moment I’d held her in my arms, kissed her.

  It gave me the courage to overturn my life.

  From that moment, I began to pass my days in a state of heightened reality. My bafflement about my function here on Earth: gone. The sense of my unfulfilled potential as the quintessential child: vanished. Now that M and I had come together, the world seemed topped by secret sauce, every moment crackled with extra sensation. Everything I saw seemed shaded with portents.

  I began to plot and plan and take control as never before. That sense of mission, of success, that had been predicted by my father’s test—apparently, it was manifesting. But in a way that not even the most acute scientific mind would have proposed. Born of a force that M understood down to her marrow: the thrall of dangerous love.