The Ties That Bind

by Warren Adler

  Fiona noted how Gail avoided any reference to the issue of sex. Once again, it confirmed her suspicion that Gail was tremendously inhibited on the subject, both in talk and action. But Fiona felt it was important to broach the subject, especially if she was going to tell Gail about her experience with Farley.

  "Are you a virgin, Gail?"

  She bucked immediately.

  "I don't think that's any of your business," Gail shot back.

  Was it possible? How old was she? Thirty? A virgin at thirty? If so, it seemed incredible, especially for a cop in the homicide division, where matters of sex were part of the landscape. Yet, when the subject was depersonalized, as in police business, Gail seemed to have no problem discussing the subject.

  "You're right, Gail. It is none of my business."

  "I didn't mean to sound harsh," Gail said.

  "I know you didn't. It's my risk," Fiona sighed.

  "Risk? I don't understand."

  "You will."

  Fiona felt her throat constrict.

  "You don't have to, Fiona," Gail said.

  "I do now," Fiona replied. She paused through a long moment. "I ... I was almost convinced that I knew who was responsible for the death of Phyla Herbert," Fiona began, watching Gail Prentiss's face. She would have to endure that, Fiona decided. No hiding allowed. "My theory ... I believed that the man who did that to her was Farley Lipscomb."

  Gail seemed stunned.

  "The Supreme Court justice?"

  Fiona nodded.

  "Not all political scandals in Washington are based on sex. Only most of them," she said.

  "Are you serious?" Gail asked.

  "Absolutely," she replied, clearing her throat. "It was a replication of what he did to me seventeen years ago, down to the tiniest detail."

  "My God!"

  "I mean everything, Gail. The same injury."

  "How terrible," Gail exclaimed.

  "I told no one about this. Not ever."

  "I'm so sorry, Fiona. I had no idea."

  "I thought it was a dead issue. Long forgotten. Then this. It brought it all back." Fiona could not contain a tremor in her voice.

  "That explains a great deal, Fiona."

  "I wonder. I just can't get the idea out of my mind. It was me I saw in Phyla's place. Me. I felt certain he was there. That he did this thing..."

  "Are you sure that the ... the situations are identical? They might have seemed identical."

  "Believe me, as near as I can remember the details my encounter with him, they are identical." Fiona paused. "Certainly close enough."

  "The memory plays tricks, Fiona," Gail said.

  "I know. I also know that any basis of comparison is in my mind. But the trauma came back."

  "Trauma?" Gail's brows knitted with curiosity.

  "Something clicked inside of me," Fiona said. She told her about what had happened after the episode, the bout with sexual revulsion, the long road back. And how it was replicating itself now and wreaking havoc in her relationship with Harrison Greenwald and what it was doing to him as well.

  "Is it possible that you're over-reacting on this, Fiona?"

  "Possible? Worse. I am ... absolutely."

  "And you firmly believe it was him, Justice Lipscomb?" Gail asked. "Even in the face of what we know about Barker? About him being in the room? About his lies? About his past?"

  Fiona felt the strain of wrestling with this dilemma.

  "To be brutally honest. Not beyond a shadow of doubt."

  "You see, your experience has colored your judgment. I'd say it was only natural."

  "But not professional," Fiona said with resignation.

  "It does confuse one's ability to reason," Gail said gently. "In Barker's case, there was a clue. Clues. In the case of your Justice Lipscomb, there is nothing, not a sign, not a trace."

  "He is very clever," Fiona said. "He would have probably worn a disguise of some sort to prevent people remembering him. He was always extremely cautious. And he knows a lot about evidence and police procedures. He was a prosecutor once and knows what we had to look for. Knowing his methods, I'd say he could pull it off."

  "And Barker?"

  "On the face of it, very compelling."

  "But you're still not one hundred percent convinced?"

  "It' driving me bonkers."

  "A Supreme Court justice?"

  "A man," Fiona sighed.

  "And Phyla would have just opened the door and let him in, then allowed him to do with her as he wanted?"

  "I'm afraid so. I did."

  Gail's disbelief was tangible. Nor could she hide her confusion.

  "You let him?"

  "The truth is that I consented gladly."

  "To be abused like that? It's not normal, Fiona."

  Gail's eyes widened as if she were a child confronted by a movie monster.

  "I thought I loved him. When it comes to love, normal sex has little meaning," Fiona explained. Gail seemed totally perplexed.

  "To allow yourself to be tied like that, like an animal? And beaten? Gagged? A dildo inserted in your anus?" She made a face of disgust and shook her head rapidly from side to side to emphasize the horror of it.

  "It was meant to be a game," Fiona said. "And it got out of hand."

  "Some game. It can kill."

  "Killing is not part of the scenario," Fiona sighed. "I gave myself to him because I trusted him. I thought I loved him. I was willing to do anything for him. Earlier we had reversed roles and he was the one to be disciplined."

  "You did that to him?"

  "Not the dildo business, but I tied him up, whipped and paddled him. He was tremendously stimulated. He loved it."

  "And you?"

  "I ... I think I loved it, too. I mean ... when it was a game."

  "I can't understand that," Gail said. "Sex is supposed to be beautiful. This practice is perverted."

  As expected, Gail was repelled by the idea of it and no amount of explanation to a person that repressed would convince her otherwise. Nevertheless, Fiona owed it to herself to try to offer some rationale based on her own research.

  "I know it's difficult for you to understand, Gail. I really had to delve into this, to find out why I might have enjoyed it at the beginning. There are various scientific explanations. Like people who have been painfully ill or repressed as children finding a way to process this pain into pleasure. Or people who are control freaks needing the punishment game to keep them sane. It's supposed to be comforting. When it comes to sex, to the things that excite people to pleasure and relief, we're all somewhat confused. Just as I was. I thought I was proving my love, showing my trust, laying myself bare. The experience left me jolted, filled me with self-disgust. At times, I felt it was all my fault. The man deliberately ripped me apart. What he did to me was definitely not part of the scenario and I could never ever give my unconditional trust to anyone again. I gave myself to him. I gave him my will and my body and he betrayed me. It has haunted me to this day and telling it to you now is the hardest thing I can remember doing in my whole life."

  Despite Fiona's determination to maintain control, she felt herself losing it. Her tongue felt heavy and her body began to tremble.

  "I never told anyone about this, Gail. First there was pain, then self-loathing, then shame. Finally came revulsion, although I tried to find out as much as I could about it. As I told you, it took a long time before I could get back my appetite for sex."

  "It's very hard for me to relate to it, Fiona."

  "I know. And seeing this happen to someone else with such terrible consequences has had a terrible effect on me. It's all come back. Just the thought of making love to Harrison induces nausea. I can't even fake it..."

  She stopped, abruptly burying her face in her hands. The breakdown had come with no real warning. The process of peeling away the years of containment and silence took its toll. A wave of hysteria rolled over her and she could not stop the eruption that wracked her body.

 
; Then Gail was beside her on the couch, enveloping her in her warm, strong arms, and Fiona was sobbing uncontrollably into her ample bosoms. It seemed to take forever to get herself under control again.

  "There's a lot I don't understand about this, but that kind of hurt I can understand, Fiona," Gail said.

  After a while, Gail opened her arms and Fiona sat up. Gail reached for her pocketbook and handed Fiona some tissues, waiting patiently until she was composed again.

  "I guess this reaction was inevitable. It has been inside so long," Fiona said, forcing a smile. Their eyes met.

  "I'm not a virgin," Gail said suddenly. She stood up and began to pace the floor.

  "You don't have to do this, Gail," Fiona cried.

  "Yes, I do. Your confession gives me permission," Gail said. "It sticks in my gut, makes me feel like ice inside. I haven't been a virgin since I was nine years old."

  Fiona was stunned at the revelation, watching her as one might watch a tennis match, as she strode across the room and back like a caged animal.

  "We were playing in the playground in Memphis, where my father was in practice. My sister ... yes, I did have a sibling once ... and we were simply little girls playing. He came up behind us, grabbed us, threw us in his car. Then drove us to a wooded area."

  "Please, Gail. It's not required."

  Gail didn't seem to hear, going on with her story.

  "First he raped me, then he raped my sister and, in the process ... he ... strangled her to death. I saw it. Then, when she was dead, he started to do it again to her. That was when I ran away. Nothing was ever the same after that."

  Fiona saw no tears, only cold fury. Beneath the surface, she could detect tangible icy rage.

  "No. Nothing can ever be the same," Fiona sighed. For herself as well.

  Fiona reached out and took Gail's hand. They were silent for a long time until Gail spoke again.

  "You might say I've been a virgin since then."

  "No relationships?"

  She shook her head.

  "It's ... it's so hard to believe. You're so ... beautiful ... a bigger-than-life female."

  "Bigger than life," Gail squeezed Fiona's hand. "Just nature's protective coat."

  With her free arm, Fiona put it around Gail's shoulders and felt the weight of Gail's body press against her. They were silent for a long time.

  "He was here last night, Gail," Fiona said.

  There seemed no need to explain whom she meant.

  "In this house?"

  "In this room."

  Gail shifted her body suddenly and sat upright, turning to face Fiona.

  "I did a stalking number." Fiona recounted her visit to the State Department, her call to Letitia Lipscomb. "I know all his buttons and I pressed them."

  Fiona felt Gail studying her face, waiting for her to continue.

  "He denied it," Fiona said.

  "Then why can't you accept Barker as the perpetrator?"

  "I can't believe Farley, Gail."

  "Can't or won't?"

  "Both."

  "I just don't understand..."

  "He's still into it, Gail. The B and D. Heavy."

  "How..."

  Fiona explained.

  "Unbelievable," Gail said, letting go of Fiona's hand. She stood up and walked the length of the den and back. She stopped at the couch and looked down at Fiona.

  "Barker is guilty, Fiona. Your judgment is distorted by your personal experience. Just as mine would be..."

  At that moment, the sound of the phone's ring jangled into the room. Fiona, with an odd sense of relief, picked up the phone. It was the Eggplant.

  "We got a shitload of trouble, FitzGerald."

  She covered the mouthpiece and looked up at Gail.

  "The Eggplant!"

  "You there, FitzGerald?"

  "I'm here, Chief."

  "It's all over the bulldog edition of the Washington Post. Herbert's work. I'm sure of it. Says we have a suspect in his daughter's murder and we're planning to pull him in."

  "Does he mention him by name?"

  "Yup."

  "Jesus."

  She looked toward Gail and shook her head in despair.

  "Barker will go up the wall," Fiona said.

  "He already has. Blew his brains out nearly a half-hour ago. A neighbor called us. He left a note to you and Gail and one to his parents." There was a long pause. "We opened the note addressed to you. You want to hear it?"

  "Of course."

  "Six words," the Eggplant said. "'Sorry. It's too much to bear.'"

  16

  "There could be any number of explanations," Tom Herbert said. "Mine is that he was trapped in his own guilt, too ashamed to admit what he had done. He couldn't face the music."

  They were sitting in Herbert's suite in the Hay-Adams. Herbert sat in one of the upholstered chairs, legs crossed, looking imperious. He seemed smugly convinced of his lack of culpability in Barker's death. Gail, her long legs crossed in front of her, sat on the couch.

  The revelation last night about Barker's death had had a strange effect on Gail. She had been stunned by the news and had left Fiona's house in what could only be described as shocked silence. She had said little in the car coming over to the Hay-Adams. During the ride, Fiona had reported on her own search of Barker's apartment.

  Before picking up Gail, she had stopped by Barker's apartment alone. Since it was the scene of a death and under the jurisdiction of the police, she had no problem getting inside. The resident manager was very cooperative.

  The body, of course, had been removed, although there was still blood spatterings on the floor and walls of his bathroom, where he had done the deed.

  It was a small efficiency apartment, rather messy, but typical of that occupied by a single man. It had the feel of a hotel room that had rarely, if ever, been cleaned by a maid. Fiona rifled through drawers and closets. She found books, magazines and newspapers scattered all over the place, but nothing that could remotely be associated with the subculture of Bondage and Discipline. Nothing. No props. No magazines. Not even run-of-the-mill porno magazines, which seemed a staple in the living quarters of single males.

  The results of the search, while not conclusive, buttressed Fiona's original theory about Farley Lipscomb.

  * * *

  "There's a certain flawed logic in your interpretation, Mr. Herbert," Fiona said. She had not sat down and was gripping the back of a chair. "The man feared media exposure most of all. He was panicked by it."

  "Of course. Because he was guilty," Herbert said.

  "We never proved it," Fiona snapped. "Nor did he confess to the crime in his note."

  "His own action proved it," Herbert replied, turning toward Gail, who continued to observe a stoic silence.

  "You could have prevented it. Pulled him in. Put a twenty-four-hour guard on him. He'd be alive to pay the piper."

  "Mr. Herbert, by going to the Washington Post you precipitated his action. Don't you realize that?"

  "When all else fails, the media is there. I took advantage of that when it was obvious you, the police, were not doing your job. What other recourse did I have?"

  "How about the criminal justice system?" Fiona said.

  "I'm a lawyer. You can't be serious."

  "Did you think we were trying to deliberately cover up this terrible act?" Fiona asked.

  "You were overly cautious, fearful, afraid to make a mistake," Herbert said. "The homicide situation is a mess in this city. Your department is a target. You were more interested in covering your ass."

  "Why are you so certain that he was the man?" Fiona asked.

  "He was in her room. He had lied about what he had done the night Phyla was murdered. And he had a history of violent treatment of women. What more proof do you need?"

  "Somebody could have come after he left your daughter's room," Fiona said cautiously. She detested Herbert for what he had done, a feeling that more than overshadowed her initial sympathy for him.

&n
bsp; "Don't be ridiculous," he sneered. He looked toward Gail.

  "She agreed with me. Isn't that correct, Officer Prentiss?"

  Gail seemed to struggling to find an answer.

  "At first, yes," she said finally.

  "And now?" Herbert asked.

  "His note is not conclusive," Gail muttered. "He was paranoid about media exposure, worried that it would ruin his career."

  "I can't believe this," Herbert shot back.

  "He was a young and ambitious man," Fiona said. "To be shown in the media as a suspect in a terrible crime like that could be devastating to his career chances."

  "My daughter is dead," Herbert said, sputtering with anger. "That is devastation."

  "So is Phelps Barker," Fiona said.

  "That's different," Herbert said. He was adamant. "He executed himself for his own crime."

  "But can we be absolutely, one hundred percent certain?" Gail said, her voice trailing off.

  "You can't. But I can. That's because neither of you truly understand the character of a man ... let me reiterate ... a man ... What do you women know of what goes through the mind of a man who would do a thing like that ... force a woman into the kind of horrible perversion, then do what he did? He couldn't take the shame of it. If he was innocent, he wouldn't have taken such a drastic step."

  Fiona resented his resort to using gender to justify his conviction. She also knew it would be impossible to shake his opinion.

  "Whatever your conclusion, Mr. Herbert," Fiona said, "the man is dead. He cannot defend himself."

  "That was his choice," Herbert said smugly. "If you had any insight, you would face the fact of his guilt. Get real, ladies. This case is closed."

  Gail looked at Fiona, shrugged, then reverted to silence. The events of last night had made a profound impression on Fiona. For the first time in her life she felt that she had found an unconditional friend. We are sisters, she told herself.

  Long ago, Fiona was certain, before the connotation of true and loving friendship had been skewed by sexual innuendo, there were relationships like this. To find it in a partner, brought together by random selection, was almost a miracle. She was grateful to the Eggplant for his idea and now she was determined to work her damndest to make the idea viable. Gail's support gave her the courage to press on.