Smoke Screen (7 page)

Finally she began to speak. “I once interviewed a man who agreed to talk to me about a labor strike, but only if he could remain anonymous. My sound tech and I electronically altered his voice, and he wore a hood during the interview. And even then, all the while I was interviewing him, his eyes weren’t on me. Through the holes in the hood I could see them looking past me, just beyond my shoulder, anxiously darting from side to side. I even turned my head once to see what he was looking at. I didn’t see anything to be afraid of. But he did.”

Her eyes pulled Raley back into focus. “That’s how it was with Jay. I thought his restlessness meant he wasn’t feeling well, or that he’d become too warm in the crowded bar, or that, despite his dismissal of the cancer, he’d become upset when we talked about it. But now, I think he was afraid.”

“Of someone in the bar?”

“What else could it have been?”

“Did you ever turn and look behind you?”

“Actually, I was about to. Maybe Jay sensed it, because he reached for my hand and asked if we could move to his place to continue our conversation. He left money on the table, and we headed for the exit.”

“Did either of you speak to anyone as you left the bar?”

“No. Except to excuse ourselves as we made our way through the crowd.”

“No cross words with anyone? No hostile exchange of any kind?”

“Not even a dirty look.”

“See anyone who looked suspicious?”

“Suspicious?”

“Sinister. Up to no good.”

“I have only blurred images.” After a moment, she shook her head. “No, I don’t recall anyone with clarity.”

“Anyone follow you and Jay from the bar?”

“No.” Then hesitantly she said, “I don’t think so.”

“But you’re not sure?”

“A memory flickered, but…”

He could tell she was trying to snag it, hold on to it, but she failed to. “I don’t think anyone followed us, but I can’t be positive.” She brought her eyes back to his. “I explained all this to the police. Nothing,
nothing
out of the ordinary happened between the table and the exit.”

“What about on your walk to Jay’s town house? Did you meet anyone along the way?”

“I don’t believe so, although I don’t have a sharp recollection of the trip. I was well looped by then. I vaguely remember going inside his town house and immediately making my way to the sofa, wanting to sit down.
Needing
to. I wondered how I could have become so drunk over one glass of wine, and I didn’t even finish the glass.”

“So you went to the sofa and…?”

“And, that’s it. I can’t remember anything else.”

“Did Jay join you on the sofa?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Did you start making out?”

“I’ve just told you I don’t even remember if he sat down beside me.”

“Do you remember drinking scotch?”

“No. But I must have because I threw it up the next morning.”

“Jay was good at talking women into doing things they were reluctant to do. Like drinking too much, taking off their clothes. He was an expert at getting a woman out of her clothes. He boasted about his technique.” He watched her closely, interested to see how she would respond.

“If he exercised his technique on me, I don’t remember it. I don’t know how I became undressed, or how we got into bed, or what we did there.” Suddenly there was a catch in her voice. Her blue eyes filled. “Can you imagine how awful that is for me? I realize you have a low opinion of me, but no one deserves to be taken advantage of that way. I don’t know what was done to me that night, but the possibilities of what could have been done without my knowledge or consent make me sick and afraid.”

He didn’t say anything for several moments, then asked her, “Do you think Jay took advantage of you?”

She drew in a deep breath and let it out before she raised her head. The tears were gone, but her nose was running. “I can’t imagine that he would, but I don’t know,” she finished huskily.

He got up and went into the bathroom, pulled a length of toilet paper off the roll, and brought it back with him. He folded it into a square and pressed it against her nose. “Blow.” Her eyes went wide and she shook her head. “Don’t be silly. Blow.”

She blew. He wiped her nose, then went into the kitchen to throw the tissue away and asked her if she wanted more water. She declined.

He returned to his chair. “Tell me about when you woke up.”

She described how Jay was lying on his side, facing away from her. Her head was muzzy, she was confused. She collected her clothes, finding some of them in the living room, then went into the bathroom, where she threw up.

“It should have occurred to me then that I’d been drugged, but this was Jay Burgess. A police officer. A man I knew and trusted. I saw the empty bottle of scotch and blamed myself for losing control and doing something stupid.”

She paused and gave him a pointed look. “Which is not my m.o. I’m not in the habit of drinking myself unconscious and waking up in a man’s bed with no recollection of how I got there. In fact, nothing even remotely like that has ever happened to me before. I like being in control.”

“That I believe.” He said it in a way that didn’t flatter her, and he figured she caught the nuance because she frowned.

“Anyway,” she continued, “I used the bathroom and showered, the two things you’re not supposed to do if you suspect you’ve been given a date rape drug. Consequently, I can’t prove that I was.”

“When did you lose your virginity?”

The question took her aback. “What?”

“How many years have you been having sex?”

“None of your damn business.”

“It’s not that I care, I’m just finding it hard to believe that you can sit there and with a straight face tell me you don’t know whether or not you and Jay did the nasty thing.”

“A condom foil was found on the sofa.”

“Ahh. So you did.”

“It would appear so, but I don’t know. My doctor—”

“Why would you need clinical proof? Wouldn’t you
know
? Even hours later, wouldn’t you just feel it?”

“Would
you
?”

“I’m not a woman! My body doesn’t get penetrated.”

She bit back whatever she was about to say. Looking away from him, she compressed her lips and forcibly composed herself. When she looked back at him, she said, “It didn’t feel to me as though we’d been intimate. But I can’t swear to it. And does it even matter? Isn’t that a little beside the point?”

“I guess so. Jay still wound up dead.”

He stood up and took his knife from his pants pocket, then stepped around to the back of her chair. “Thank you,” she said with meaning as he cut through the tape binding her hands.

“Don’t get too excited. We’re not finished yet.” He wrapped his hand around her biceps and headed for the bedroom, hauling her along behind him.

“What are you—Wait! You said you wouldn’t hurt me.”

“It won’t hurt. Unless you fight me.”

He gave her a light push that sent her stumbling toward the bed. She broke her fall against it but bounced up and dashed toward the door. He hooked his arm around her waist as she ran past him, lifted her against his hip, and carried her to the bed, unceremoniously dumping her onto it.

Being caught at the waist had knocked the breath from her. It took a couple of seconds for her to regain it, then she was all fight again, kicking at him with all her might, flailing her arms in her effort to connect with his head.

But it was never any real contest. He straddled her thighs to make her thrashing legs ineffectual, then plucked the roll of duct tape from his shirt pocket, where he’d temporarily stowed it. Leaning away from her slapping, scratching hands, he ripped off a strip with his teeth, caught her left hand, and pulled it up to the bedpost. In seconds, he had her wrist taped tightly to the post at the level of the mattress.

He came off her and blotted his cheek with the back of his hand. Seeing fresh blood, he said, “You scratch me again and I’ll tape your hand to the top of the headboard. It won’t be nearly as comfortable.”

“Go to hell.”

Confident that she couldn’t do too much damage or go very far in the amount of time it would take him to go through the cabin turning out lights, he did so. When he reentered the bedroom, she was standing at the side of the bed, tugging frantically on her left hand as she tore at the tape with the fingernails of her right, accomplishing nothing except to pull the bed several inches away from the wall.

“You plan to drag the bed all the way back to Charleston?”

“Damn you! Let me go!”

Raley unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down. That shut her up. She stared at him aghast. “What are you doing?”

“Taking my clothes off, what does it look like?” He toed off his sneakers, stepped out of the jeans, and removed his socks. He unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt, pulled it over his head, and tossed it onto the nearest chair, then bent down and picked up the roll of tape.

“Get back on the bed.”

She shook her head, then said hoarsely, “No.”

He was on her before she could plan an effective defense. In seconds, she was on her back on the bed. He straddled her again while he wrapped the duct tape around their joined wrists, her right to his left. Again he bit off the end with his teeth.

“You might manage to gnaw off the tape on your left wrist,” he said, “but you can’t get free of me.”

“Maybe not,” she said between gasps of breath. “But I can make life very unpleasant for you.”

He should have recognized her wicked smile as a warning. As it was, he was almost too late to react when she raised her knee toward his crotch. She missed his balls by a margin so narrow, he caught his breath in anticipation of the pain that, fortunately, never came.

Frustrated that she’d failed, she screamed up at him, “Get off me!”

Instead, he stretched out fully, leaving himself less vulnerable by pinning her legs down with his. She was hampered but not defeated. She continued to buck like a colt, trying to throw him off. He lowered his face to within inches of hers, close enough to exchange angry breaths but far enough so they could keep each other in sharp focus.

“Stop that!” he ordered.

She didn’t of course.

“You want to know why I brought you here?”

“I think I know why,” she replied, panting from her exertion.

“You don’t know shit. I’ll clue you in. But you’ve got to stop fighting me first.”

Instantly she became still, but if looks could kill…

“I brought you here because I believe you.” Her blue eyes went wide. “I’m probably the only person in the state who does.”

“What?” she gasped.

“Yeah. I believe your memory was deliberately wiped clean.” He pressed down on her harder, for emphasis, to make certain she was paying attention. “Because the same thing happened to me.”

B
RITT WOKE UP WHEN A SHAFT OF SUNLIGHT STRUCK HER FACE.
She was lying on her side, facing a window. Through the screen she could see dense green forest, the leaves of a wisteria vine fluttering against the post of an old-fashioned clothesline, and a predatory bird doing spirals against the cloudless sky.

Remembering where she was, she rolled onto her back and came up on her elbows. Daylight did little to enhance the room. It was small, accommodating only the bed, a chair, and a TV tray that served as a nightstand, on which was a gooseneck reading lamp. In the corner was a large bureau with six deep drawers.

The room had no charm except for the patterned quilt covering her legs and feet. It appeared to have been hand stitched, and the fabric remnants from which it was made were color coordinated.

The only other decorative item was a sweet potato vine growing from the tuber that had been suspended in a jar of water sitting on top of the bureau. Its roots had formed a thick nest inside the jar, while the leafy vine nearly filled the corner all the way to the ceiling, its tendrils curling around a network of string tacked to the wall.

The room was humble but tidy. His clothes were no longer on the floor or in the chair where he’d left them last night when he joined her on the bed.

Her hands were free, although she still had bands of tape around the wrists. The edges trailed fine, white threads. She pushed off the quilt and got out of bed. The door to the living area was closed, but through it she could smell fresh coffee. The aroma made her mouth water.

After using the bathroom, she hesitantly opened the bedroom door. He was standing with his shoulder propped against the front door jamb, staring through the screen as he sipped from a large mug of coffee.

The same thing happened to me.

Following that startling statement, he’d continued staring down at her for several beats, then he’d rolled off her, switched off the gooseneck lamp, and stretched out on his back beside her. They had touched nowhere except the backs of their hands that were taped together.

He hadn’t moved. She hadn’t dared. In minutes he’d been breathing evenly, obviously asleep. Impossible as it seemed now, she’d soon fallen asleep, too.

Sensing her presence, he turned. As they continued to look at each other, she wondered about his level of hostility this morning. He would hold a grudge forever, that much she knew. But if he’d meant to get retribution with bodily harm, he wouldn’t have freed her hands. His expression was blank. At least it appeared to be. It was hard to tell what the beard concealed.

Testing the waters, she said, “The sweet potato vine is a nice, homey touch.”

He looked at her for several seconds more, then nodded toward the kitchen area. “Coffee mugs are in the cabinet on the right.”

The sisal rug that covered most of the floor in the living space gave way to vinyl in the kitchen. It felt cool against the soles of her feet. She took a mug from the cabinet above a stained Formica counter and poured her coffee. It tasted as strong as it looked, but it was good.

“I think there’s some sweetener somewhere.”

She shook her head. “I’d use milk if you have it.”

“In the fridge.”

Once she’d added milk to the coffee, she sat down in one of the chairs at the small, wood dining table and began peeling the sticky silver duct tape off her wrists.

Watching her, he said, “If it makes you feel any better, I had hairs caught in mine. Hurt like hell to peel it off.”

She gave him a wan smile. “It makes me feel better.” When she finished the task, she wadded the tape into two tight balls. He extended his hand, and she dropped them into it. He tossed them in the trash can.

“How’s your head?”

“I still have a goose egg. And the roots of my hair hurt.”

“The hazards of being an uncooperative kidnap victim.” She gave him a withering look. Unrepentantly, he added, “I had to make you think I meant business.”

It wasn’t quite an apology, but she figured it was all she could expect. “At least I paid you back,” she said, motioning toward the scratch on his cheek just above the beard.

“If your knee had connected with my balls, you would have paid me back.” He turned and opened the refrigerator. “I assume you’re hungry.”

“Last night you were my abductor and this morning you’re the gracious host?”

He turned on the flame beneath a burner on the gas stove, set a skillet on it, and began lining up strips of bacon in the skillet.

“Mr. Gannon?
Raley?
” she said when he still didn’t respond. He glanced at her over his shoulder. “Why did you take the tape off? Why am I free now?”

“Didn’t you hear what I said last night?”

“About believing me because the same thing had happened to you?”

“That’s why the tape is no longer necessary.”

“You could have told me that over the telephone, or in some other civilized manner. Why did you put me through all that fear and anguish last night?”

“Meanness. Retaliation.”

“You admit it?”

“That was partially it, yeah. But fear and anguish are also good motivators. I needed to satisfy myself that you were telling the truth about losing your memory.”

“And did you?”

“If I hadn’t, you’d still have your hands and feet taped together.”

She thought about it for a minute, while the bacon sizzled in the skillet and he whipped eggs in a bowl. “If you believed me last night, why didn’t you let me go then?”

“If I had, you would have been so anxious to get back to your TV station and report your story, you would have hightailed it out of here, in the dark, not knowing where to go or even where you are. You would have plunged headlong into the wilderness.

“In order to keep you from hurting yourself or getting lost, never to be seen again, I would have had to chase after you. It had been a long day, I was tired, I wanted to go to sleep. I didn’t even want to argue with you about it. It seemed easier just to tie you down so you couldn’t leave.”

Privately she acknowledged that was precisely what she would have done if she’d been free to attempt it. “What’s to keep me from doing that now?”

“You won’t.” He’d removed the bacon from the skillet and poured the eggs into it, then put two slices of bread into a dented, rusty toaster. His motions were economical, like this was his daily routine.

“You committed several crimes, you know.”

Keeping his back to her, he shrugged.

“Think what a story that would make.” She glanced through the screen door toward the pickup truck parked only steps away from the cabin. “‘Raley Gannon broke into my house and kidnapped me.’ l could have it on the news by noon today. There’s bound to be a main road not too far from here.”

“Four point seven miles. But you won’t go.”

He came to the table with a handful of flatware, which he dropped onto it with a clatter. The mismatched utensils were followed by a roll of paper towels. He divided the food between two plates, one of which he slid over to her. He sat down, doused his eggs with Tabasco, then picked up a fork and began eating.

The breakfast smelled delicious, but she didn’t dig in. It had just now occurred to her why he was so confident that she would stay even though she was free to leave. “I won’t go now because I have only a portion of the story.”

He stopped eating to rip a paper towel off the roll and wipe his mouth with it. Behind the beard, she saw a trace of a smile. “Your curiosity is much more binding than my duct tape.”

“This relates to what Jay was going to tell me, doesn’t it? And it must harken back to what happened five years ago. Right?” To her consternation, he continued eating. “When are you going to tell me the rest of it?”

“Your food is getting cold.”

He would tell her the whole story. She was sure of that. She wouldn’t have to outsmart or cajole him in order to get it, either. He wanted to tell her. Just as Jay had. Whatever it was, it was a hell of a story. Possibly a career-making scoop, as Jay had promised.

But it could wait until after breakfast.

She ate ravenously. When she was done, he cleared the table. She dried the dishes he washed. Her curiosity was killing her, but he didn’t speak a single word, so neither did she.

With the chore out of the way, they returned to the table and sat down across from each other. He began fiddling with a box of toothpicks in the center of the table.

The silence stretched out until it became unbearable to her. Apparently he was waiting for her to begin. She said, “If you had told me earlier last night that the same thing had happened to you, and given me a few minutes to assimilate it, I would have seen reason, just as I have this morning.”

“Maybe.”

“I wouldn’t have hightailed it out of here, I wouldn’t have plunged headlong into the wilderness. Not until I had the whole story.”

“Probably not.”

He was contradicting himself. She shook her head in confusion. “Then it wasn’t really necessary for you to tape our hands together and bind me to the bed, was it?”

“No.”

“So you did that out of sheer meanness.”

“Not entirely.”

“Then why? Why did you—” But she broke off without finishing the question because suddenly she knew why.

He kept his head down for a long time. When he finally raised it and looked at her, it felt as though he’d reached across the table and socked her lightly in the lower abdomen.

Just then footsteps landed heavily on the front steps.

“Raley! Get up, boy!”

“Oh shit,” Raley muttered as he came quickly out of his chair.

The strangest-looking man Britt had ever seen came barging through the screen door, nearly tearing it off the hinges in his haste. He stumbled over three hounds, who bounded in along with him, their tongues dripping slobber onto the man’s crusty bare feet. He cursed them lavishly for tripping him up.

“Get those damn dogs out of here,” Raley ordered. “They’ve got fleas. So do you, for that matter.”

The old man didn’t seem to hear him. Immediately upon clearing the doorway, he’d stopped dead in his tracks and stood transfixed, gaping at Britt, who had also shot to her feet, partially to protect herself from the hounds, who were circling her, sniffing at her bare legs with more curiosity than menace.

Raley whistled sharply. “Out!” The three reluctantly withdrew, whining, tails tucked between their legs. Raley held open the screen door. They slunk through it onto the porch, where they plopped down into three panting canine heaps.

Raley returned to the table and sat down as though the disruption hadn’t taken place. The old man was still rooted to the floor, staring at her. “What’s
she
doing here?”

Britt didn’t miss the disparaging emphasis on his reference to her. “You know who I am?”

“I ain’t blind. Course I know who you are.” He shot a look toward Raley. “I know all about you.”

His tone indicated that what he’d heard about her from Raley wasn’t complimentary.

“He kidnapped me.”

“Kidnapped you?”

“He came into my home, bound and gagged me, and drove me here.”

“Against your will?”

“Isn’t that what
kidnapped
usually implies?”

“Don’t get on your high horse with me, young lady. You’re gonna need all the friends you can get.”

That elicited a reaction from Raley. He looked at the old man sharply. “Why? What’s happened?”

“I seen it on the TV first thing this mornin’.” He looked askance at her, then spoke directly to Raley. “They done the autopsy on your late friend Jay.”

Any time a police officer died of anything other than natural causes or old age, it made news.

Patrick Wickham, Jr., knew that from when his father had been killed. He’d been gut-shot and left in a dirty, rat-infested alley to bleed out. Newspapers had deemed it a heinous crime committed by a lawless assailant. The community was saddened and outraged. It had lost a hero who would be long remembered and revered for his unstinting bravery on the day of the police station fire.

Barely a year had elapsed between the fire and the night Pat Sr. was slain. The brouhaha over the fire was just beginning to die down when his murder stirred it all up again.

As a trained policeman himself, Pat Jr. knew that his father had failed to follow procedure that night. He hadn’t even exercised common sense. But his costly misjudgment had been obscured by the posthumous accolades to his uncommon courage.

The other three heroes of the fire were asked to eulogize his dad. Pictures of Cobb Fordyce standing with head bowed beside the casket had made him a shoo-in for the race for the AG’s office. George McGowan had wept openly at the interment. Jay Burgess had offered Pat Jr. and his mother whatever assistance they needed from him and the CPD. “Anything,” Jay had said, pressing his mother’s hand as he kissed her cheek.

For weeks following Pat Sr.’s funeral, Jay had phoned often, even stopped by the house a few times to see how they were faring, bringing with him flowers and small gifts. But then the calls and the visits had tapered off and finally stopped altogether.

Every once in a while, his and Jay’s paths would cross at police headquarters. They always exchanged friendly hellos, but it was obvious to Pat that Jay didn’t want to engage in conversation, and that was more than okay with him.

Now a photo of that handsome, guileless face filled the screen of his twelve-inch kitchen TV.

“Another officer who distinguished himself five years ago during the police station fire apparently died the victim of foul play,” the announcer said, all gravity.

“Daddy?”

“Shh!”

“I wan’ milk.”

Each morning Pat Jr. prepared breakfast for his two children. It wasn’t a chore he particularly enjoyed. In fact, he dreaded it every morning—the whining, the demands, the invariable spills. But getting breakfast was the least he could do for his wife and children. The very least.

Mechanically he poured milk into a sippy cup, secured the top, then handed it to his three-year-old son. Smelling of a wet diaper, his two-year-old daughter was in her high chair, creating a mush of waffles and syrup in the tray.