by Samuel Fort
Chapter 4 - Quarantined
Ben woke feeling like he’d been hit by a train. He remembered almost nothing of what had happened after Lilian drove him away from the double murder and back to his apartment, except that at one point an elderly man had woken him to stitch up the cut on his cheek.
He dreamed or hallucinated still other visitors. Emaciated women with gray faces and eyes without pupils, foxes walking upright in Tudor-era costumes discussing mathematics, impossibly tall beings in flowing yellow robes, and Lilian, in scarlet, nursing something unspeakable from an exposed breast.
There was a bottle of prescription painkillers on the nightstand nearest him. The clock there told him it was a few minutes before nine o’clock. There was an ongoing commotion in the parking lot below his second-story bedroom window. Voices - lots of them. He stumbled over to the window and peered outside.
His heart skipped a beat. There were three police cars parked in front of his building. Apparently the law had caught up with him. Of course it had. He must have been ID’d by dozens of people. What had he been thinking last night when Lilian had convinced him to leave the scene of a crime?
But then he then saw the police barricades in front of the building and the yellow warning tape, ambulances, and television news vans with large satellite masts hoisted into the air. There were at least fifty men and women loitering between the vehicles. Surely his arrest didn’t merit this kind of circus. His tension dissipated further when he saw that the cops in the yard below were drinking coffee and facing away from the building. Whatever they were here for, it didn’t appear to be an arrest.
“Quarantined,” a voice said behind him.
He spun and almost fell from the dizziness induced by the painkillers. Fiela leaned against the doorway of his bedroom, a spatula in one hand. She was wearing one of his dress shirts. Though it fell to mid-thigh, he could see that Fiela’s legs were exquisitely sculpted, shapely and toned to the point of perfection. They were also marred by dozens of razor-thin scars.
She had removed her heavy makeup and she was, in her natural state, stunning.
“What are you doing here?” Ben asked.
“I sneaked in after Lilian dropped you off. I’m here to protect you.”
“The only person I need protection from is you, Fiela.”
“I said I was sorry, Ben. Don’t be mad.” She smiled. “See, I’m making you breakfast!”
Ben held up a hand. “Wait! Take a step back. How do you know my name?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “This is your apartment. It’s on your mail and all your papers. I saw it on some books, too.”
“You’ve been going through my stuff?”
“Not much,” she said, averting her eyes, before quickly adding, “You write books? You must be very clever.”
He sighed and said, “Never mind that. Why is my building quarantined?”
“There was a case of Cage’s reported here last night. The first one in Denver. It’s quite contagious,” she said conspiratorially.
“Cage’s, here? Of all the places…” He ran his fingers through his hair. “The past twelve hours have not been good to me.”
The girl shook her head. “You’re wrong, Ben. You’re one of the lucky ones.” Her countenance was suddenly solemn. “Trust me.”
“Trust you?” he said, pointing at the stitches on his cheek.
“I had to do that. People were watching. I had to show them that you weren’t with me.”
“Couldn’t you have thumped me on the head or something?”
The girl frowned, thought for a few seconds, and said, “Yeah, that would have been better.” Brightening, she said, “So - eggs?”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You need to eat before Lilian gets here. She’ll be in a hurry.”
Ben motioned toward the barricade outside. “I don’t think Lilian will be coming.”
Rolling her eyes, the girl said, “Ben, it’s a script!”
“A script? Like a movie script?”
“More like a hoax. A really, really sophisticated hoax.”
Seeing a ray of hope, the man asked, “Why do you think that?”
Fiela seemed to struggle for an answer before saying, “I sneaked out earlier to get a newspaper for you and I overheard the television people talking. They think it’s a hoax.”
She was a terrible liar, but he played along. “How did you sneak in and out of a quarantined building?”
“Oh, that wasn’t hard,” she said as if it was a silly question.
Ben stared at her. The girl was clearly lying about something but he wasn’t sure what, and the fact was he desperately wanted the quarantine to be a hoax because it was far better than the alternative.
“Is Lilian behind this hoax?” he asked.
“Maybe,” the girl said sheepishly.
“And why would she perpetrate a hoax that would terrify thousands of people, including me?”
“To protect you, of course.”
“To protect me?”
Fiela nodded. “Yes. You are far safer with a gaggle of policemen and television crews outside your front door. Lilian probably arranged it.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Anyway, I don’t have any enemies.”
The girl put her hands behind her back and stared at him without comment.
Ben shook his head and threw his hands up into the air. “Okay, fine, let’s see what happens.”
“Good. Now-”
“Sunny side up,” he said, walking toward the bathroom.
The researcher studied his face in the mirror and was pleased to find that it had taken only three stitches to close up his cheek. He showered and shaved as best he could around the wound. As he dried himself, he saw Fiela’s clothes from the day before on the bathroom counter, and something bulging from a pocket in the black jeans. Curious, he reached into the pocket and withdrew a small, tattered paperback book, Poems of 19th Century England. Several pages had been dog-eared.
“Huh,” he said, and returned it. She had to be a student.
He threw on a pair of slacks and a polo shirt before walking into the kitchen. Looking surprisingly domesticated, Fiela was readying coffee. Plates of eggs and toast were on the counter. Silverware, a pitcher of water, and glasses were on the table.
There was also a newspaper. The researcher sat down and opened it. He scanned the headlines, half expecting to see a police sketch of his face with the caption Wanted For Questioning. Instead he found a small article on the second page with the header, Arrest Debacle at Local Hotel. It read:
Local police reported a shooting at a local motel, the Twin Rivers, at about 9:15 p.m. last evening. Two law enforcement officers were reportedly killed when they attempted to arrest a prostitute for solicitation. Early reports indicate that a man, possibly an associate of the female suspect, ambushed the officer who was attempting to handcuff the woman. In the ensuing struggle, the woman managed to remove the officer’s gun from its holster and shot into the police vehicle, mortally wounding the second policeman. Witnesses report the male suspect used a club to assault the arresting officer. The woman escaped on foot and the man left the scene in a late-model sedan with tinted windows. Police have not released names or descriptions of the two suspects or the officers killed. No other information is available at this time.
Ben read the article three times. It was ridiculous. What sources was the reporter using? Brooding on the errors and lack of specific information, he speculated that the police were purposely withholding information until he or Fiela were apprehended. That was worrisome, but the only thing he could do was to wait and find out.
Well, no, he admitted to himself, he could call the police and turn himself and Fiela in, but he remembered Lilian’s promise of attorneys and he thought it best to get the legal eagles lined up before he took that step. Fiela, in particular, needed solid legal representation.
There was a short blurb below the fold regarding a police c
ordon around his apartment building but there was no mention of Cage’s disease - if there had been, it would have been the headline story. Evidently the article had been printed before anyone in the press knew the circumstances of the cordon. He contemplated turning on his television but decided that knowing wasn’t going to be any better than not knowing at this juncture.
“I need clothes,” Fiela said as she brought the plates to the table.
“I’m sure Lilian can buy you some,” he mumbled. Or you’ll be issued some at the penitentiary.
The girl set a plate in front of him and her own just a few inches away before pulling a chair so close to his side that they were practically rubbing shoulders. As they ate, she put a bare foot lightly atop his and started moving it slowly up and down his leg.
“Um, Fiela,” he began, but there was a commotion outside, giving him an excuse to rise and walk to his balcony. The police below were taking down the barricades. There wasn’t an ambulance or news van to be seen.
“False alarm,” he said after a long moment. “Huh.”
“Yeah. Lilian will be here soon, then.”
One minute after the last barricade was removed Ben watched Lilian’s black Mercedes roll into the parking lot. His new client stepped out of the driver’s side wearing a sleeveless navy blue dress that stopped above the knees, and shiny black pumps. She pulled a suitcase from the backseat and a few minutes later knocked on the door. Fiela answered.
“Sister!” the girl exclaimed excitedly, and the two women touched cheeks.
If Lilian was surprised to see Fiela, she didn’t show it. She entered the room, dropped the suitcase, and walked briskly toward Ben. “Good morning,” she said, her expression apologetic, as if he were a child she’d lost in a mall. “I’m so sorry about last evening.”
He stopped her advance with one hand. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do.”
“I know,” she said, “and I will, on the way to Steepleguard.”
“Steepleguard?”
Fiela dropped to all fours and began yanking clothes from the suitcase. “It’s where we grew up.”
Lilian nodded. “Steepleguard is where Ridley lives. He is Fiela’s uncle. She and I grew up there together.”
“You’re related, then?”
“In a way. We were Ridley’s charges, as young girls.”
“I don’t understand.”
“We were orphans.”
“Oh,” said Ben awkwardly. Thinking he should say something else, he mumbled, “I’m sorry.”
She shook her head. “It was a lifetime ago.”
“I like this one,” said Fiela, rising and holding up a white silk blouse to her chest. “And the gray skirt, maybe. I still want to go shopping. I need a fetch. No, two fetches. Mister and Miss.”
“After,” said Lilian sternly, only then turning to look at her. “Take what you need and get dressed. I need to go. It’s a four hour drive to Steepleguard.”
The girl disappeared into Ben’s bedroom.
When she was gone, Ben said in a hushed but urgent tone, “Lilian, we are in a lot of trouble. We can’t go to the your friend’s house, not now!”
“Why not?”
He looked at her disbelievingly. “Lilian, last night I witnessed that girl murder two policemen. I left the scene of the murder in an unmarked car - your car. Those are crimes.”
The woman was unfazed. “Those things never happened. I do recall, however, seeing something on the news this morning about two policemen who were killed last night. A nasty business involving a prostitute and her pimp. But there was certainly nothing in the story related to you or Fiela.”
Ben crossed his arms. She wanted to play games? Now?
“Any idea what this pimp looked like?” he asked.
“The police aren’t saying but my contacts tell me that he was short, bald headed, and wore a leather jacket.”
“No, the motel manager was short and bald headed. Fiela wore the leather jacket.”
“Well,” the woman said dubiously, “that is your account, but you were a piñata last night and you’re high on prescription narcotics. Most witnesses remember things quite differently. Those people have made reports to the police that conflict with what you just told me.”
“What people?”
“Some anonymous callers and some passers-by. Even some of the guests. Anyway, what is more believable, what I just told you or some ludicrous story of a girl assaulting and killing two policemen with a mop handle? In due course that rather silly scenario will be replaced by the believable one - the one people expect. It is called ‘retroactive interference.’ Steps have been taken.”
The researcher grunted. “That won’t work, Lilian. There will be pictures of me and Fiela or maybe even of my license plate from the coffee shop if anyone connected the car to me.”
“Phones take horrible photos of distant objects in dim light,” countered the woman, “and good pictures may be lost - or altered. The prostitute was wearing very heavy makeup and had her hair dyed bizarre colors. You were, according to your version of events, either on the ground or had your back to the alleged witnesses. Your car was removed by Mr. Fetch and the license plate you think is attached to your car is actually attached to an identical car owned by a known meth dealer.”
“But the DMV-”
“The DMV computer records show the plate was issued three years ago to the meth dealer. Not you.”
Ben racked his brain and said, “The motel manager saw me when he handed me a towel.”
“The motel manager,” responded Lilian immediately, “is involved in several questionable activities and has a lengthy rap sheet. My investigator met with him this morning and the manager admitted he was drunk most of the evening and has only the fuzziest memory of what transpired.”
Ben put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Lilian, policemen died. Badly. They were murdered. Smoke and mirrors won’t stop their counterparts from getting to the bottom of what really happened.”
“Actually,” she said, “the two officers who were killed were corrupt and loathed by their peers, which is why they were so easy to manipulate. That’s why they were sent after Fiela. They had orders to kill her. The detectives assigned to investigate their murders are the most incompetent on the force. Good riddance to bad apples is the police department’s attitude, internally.”
Ben found that he had exhausted all his objections. Apparently Lilian had been busy while he slumbered. “I still don’t understand why you’re doing this. If everything you say is true you have spent a great deal of money and called in a lot of favors. Why?”
“As I told you, this is an emergency.” She moved closer, put a palm on his chest and said with conviction, “Ben, there are no limits to what I will do to get you to Steepleguard this morning, and there is no possibility that Fiela will ever be turned over to the police. Best that we drop this topic. It is, I promise you, utterly inconsequential.”
Ben looked into the woman’s emerald eyes and saw not an iota of doubt. His options, as he saw them, were to defy her and call the police, pitting himself against her and her powerful allies, probably ruining his good name and career in the process and forfeiting ten-million dollars and an opportunity to make history, or to let the Strattons handle Fiela and to play along as if nothing had happened.
“Okay,” he said at last. “What is Steepleguard, again?”
Lilian relaxed. “It is one of my father’s former summer homes in the mountains. It was once the Steepleguard Hotel, built by some lumber barons in the 19th century. It was a popular retreat for the elite but in the 1920’s a mile-wide avalanche buried the railway and primary road that led to it. Neither was ever uncovered, though Ridley did improve upon a private, secondary road, which is the only way to access the hotel now. The building is so remote that few people even know it exists. Ridley lives there alone except for a few fetches - I mean, servants.”
“The tablets are there?”
Fiela emerged from the bedroom spinning in a slow circle to show off the blouse she had selected. “What do you think?”
Lilian crossed her arms. “It fits well, but perhaps you would spare Ben some angst if you also wore a skirt?”
“Oh, have I forgotten that?” the girl asked, all innocence. She lingered in the doorway a few seconds longer before disappearing.
“Do you like her?” asked Lilian earnestly, studying his face.
“That’s an odd question.”
“But do you?”
“I don’t understand why that should matter.”
“I would prefer that you like her. I think you will find she is not as odd as she appears once you spend some time with her.”
Ben said, “Honestly, I’d rather not. I think she’s dangerous.”
The woman laughed and said, “She really is. That’s why I love her.”
