The PMS Outlaws: An Elizabeth MacPherson Novel (27 page)

“Seems kind of funny for a policeman to escape from detention,” said Rose Hanelon. “Very ironic.”

Clifford Allen gave her his most unpleasant smile. “What makes you think Hillman was a policeman?”

“Well … government agent then. Whatever.”

“None of the above,” said Clifford.

“But he said he was,” Lisa Lynn pointed out.

He sneered. “Since when do we take people’s word for things in here?”

“Including yours,” snapped Rose. “What makes you think Hillman wasn’t a cop?”

“I’m a burglar. I know cops. I can smell cops. Did you ever watch him in the TV lounge? Law and order shows didn’t interest him. He never questioned any of the police procedure, or reacted to the plot with a personal anecdote. He didn’t even seem interested in the shows.”

“He’s an old man,” said Lisa Lynn. “He hasn’t been in law enforcement since the Fifties. Maybe the new techniques are so different that he can’t relate to them.”

“It’s more than that,” said Clifford. He thought for a moment about how to express a hunch that was more feeling than facts. “Hillman was nice to me.”

“So he was a nice guy,” said Rose. “With questionable taste.”

“You don’t get it. He ate his meals with me. He’d talk football with me. He even gave me some change for the drink machine once. And I’m a burglar, remember? Hillman knew it. Everybody knows it. Now no cop—retired, crazy, or dead—ever socializes with a criminal. To them we’re scum. We’re the element of danger in their low-paying job. We’re the cause of their drinking problem, their failed marriage, their nightmares.
Hillman was not a cop, could never have been a cop, because I liked him.”

The lawyer who seldom said anything cleared his throat. “Clifford has a point. I see what he’s getting at. I know a lot of peace officers, too, in my line of work, and now that I think of it, I have to agree with him. Hillman didn’t fit the mold.”

The members of group looked at one another, trying to take in the news. “So,” said Emma O. “Who was he?”

Richard Petress laughed at her bewilderment. “He was just some crazy old dude, girl. Just like the rest of us.”

Elizabeth had been silent throughout this exchange. She was taking it all in, but slowly, as if the sound waves of the discussion had to travel through water to reach her. At last a thought occurred to her. “Did Hillman say where he was going?”

“The word is that he was asking if Virginia had any toll roads,” said Matt Pennington. “Nobody knew.”

“I know about Virginia roads,” said Elizabeth. “I’m from there, and he knew it. I wonder why he didn’t ask me.” Through a fog of sedatives a voice in her head was shouting, “Because you told him Jack Dolan was still alive! That’s where he’s going, you dolt!” Elizabeth thought vaguely that she ought to do something about that. Tell somebody, maybe?

“D
id it go off all right?” asked P. J. Purdue. The opening of the car door had made her jump. As much as she claimed to be enjoying herself, there were moments when the life of a fugitive took its toll on her nerves. She was sitting in the driver’s seat of their latest stolen car in the parking lot of a shopping
mall, and trying to read
Newsweek
by peering over the top of her sunglasses. It had taken ten minutes for her partner to emerge from the Uniform Supply Shop, but outside all was quiet. No police cruisers had gone by, and no one seemed to notice her presence. She and Carla might even be able to stay around long enough to have lunch in the Italian restaurant at the end of the row of shops. “Did you get the handcuffs?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

Carla Larkin slid into the passenger seat, smoothing her short skirt and rolling her eyes at such a fatuous question. “Of course, I did. I’m back, aren’t I? It was a cinch, same as always.” She struck a pose. “I simply told the man in the uniform store that I was buying them as a birthday present for my brother who had just graduated from the police academy. I got the full lecture on brands of handcuffs.”

“Which kind did you get?” asked Purdue. “I have become a connoisseur of handcuffs.”

Carla shrugged. “I always go for the cheapest. I can’t see paying an extra ten bucks for Smith & Wesson’s brand name. I mean they’re handcuffs, for God’s sake. They all open with the exact same key anyhow.”

“Well, they work better than wet pantyhose,” said Purdue with a grin. “And since we only ever need one key, think of the recycling possibilities.” She pushed a strand of hair back from her ear to reveal an earring: a small metal key dangling from a thin gold wire.

“There are some differences in brands, I guess,” Larkin said, ignoring her. “I do hate those handcuffs that are jazzed up by putting the bluing on them. That stuff comes off on your skin, your clothes, everything.”

“They rust, too.”

“Tell me about it,” said Carla. “That’s what the guards used when they transported us. Ever try to wash off blue dye with powdered soap?” She opened the plastic bag and tilted it toward Purdue. “Matte stainless steel HWC’s. Twenty-three bucks apiece. On sale: three pair for sixty.”

“So you bought three pair, right?”

“I thought you said we were getting out of the game, P. J.”

“Well, we are, but—hey! You never know. Something might come up.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know.” Purdue fingered the handcuffs. “Maybe we ought to try thumb cuffs some time. I always thought they looked kind of kinky. You know, those little bitty ones that you lock down over each of the thumb joints. A guy would have to tear his thumbs off to get out of those. Besides, they’re small enough to carry without a handbag. That’s a plus.”

Carla rolled her eyes. “Look, given enough time anybody can get out of handcuffs. You could spring the lock with a ballpoint pen. A paper clip. I learned that much in prison. If we could get the cuffs that federal agents use—the ones that open with a little round key—they’d be harder to get out of, but we probably can’t find any.”

“Okay, what about a set of Peerless hinge-plated cuffs? Since there’s a hinge plate instead of a chain between the cuffs, the guy would have a harder time getting out of them.”

“Eighty bucks,” said Carla. “And remember we would use them one time. It’s a waste of money. Personally, I could care less what kind we use. All these twenty-dollar wonders do is
buy us a little time to get away. After that, who cares? Besides, we are quitting, aren’t we?”

“Yes. Of course, we are. But three for sixty. I mean, come on!”

Carla sighed. “I knew you’d say that. Yeah. Three for sixty. So I bought ’em. Just in case. It’s not like it’s our money, really. That banker sure had a wad of cash on him, didn’t he? Guess he didn’t trust his own bank.”

“I wish we could find another sucker like him,” said Purdue wistfully.

“I don’t. You didn’t have him slobbering all over your neck half the night. So where are we headed now?”

“Southeast,” said Purdue, handing her the map. “Place called Danville.”

“Elizabeth, you have a visitor.” It was Thibodeaux, the big orderly who had showed her around on her first day. “Do you feel like seeing him?”

E
lizabeth yawned. Group therapy had been over for a while now. She wasn’t sure how long she had been sitting on the sofa in the dayroom, thinking of taking a nap before dinner, but perhaps a nice long walk down two corridors to the reception lounge would do her good. “Whatever,” she said, yawning and stretching as she stood up. Maybe her father or Bill had come to see how she was getting along. She ambled along the hall beside the orderly, without much interest in what would happen next, today or ever.

When the door to the reception room swung open, Elizabeth saw her cousin Geoffrey, impeccably clad in a fawn-colored suit.
He was studying the chintz-patterned wallpaper with the practiced eye of one who feels he is entitled to an opinion.

Elizabeth managed a shaky wave and sank down on the sofa. It was soft, and it smelled better than the one in the dayroom, but the fact that it did not face a television was a mark against it. “Hi, Geoffrey,” she mumbled without looking up at him.

“I was on my way home,” said Geoffrey. “I thought I’d just stop by and see you.”

“Cameron is dead,” said Elizabeth softly.

“Yes. Listen, I’ve just driven about six hours. Boring road is I-77. I thought we might go out to eat, if you’d like a little fresh air.” He frowned at the sight of his cousin. Her unwashed hair and rumpled clothing suggested that she was getting worse instead of better. Despite his misgivings he forced himself to give her an encouraging smile. “The staff person I spoke to said that you could have an evening pass to go out for dinner. Are you hungry?”

Elizabeth sighed. “I mean, really, Geoffrey. Dead.”

“Yes.”

She blinked up at his impassive face. “You knew it all along?”

He looked embarrassed. “Well, it stood to reason. Terribly cold water. Rough seas. No wreckage ever found. Have you only just worked it out?”

“Had my nose rubbed in it, more like,” sighed Elizabeth. “Being crazy means that you get to speak the truth, no matter who it hurts. If you’re lucky, you are also too crazy to
understand the truth when people tell it to you, but unfortunately, I seem to have a mild case of insanity.” She yawned again. “Sorry. They changed my meds yesterday. These new pills make life all blurry.”

“I liked you better without them.” When Elizabeth did not reply, Geoffrey went on, “Girl zombie is not one of your more attractive roles. Your brother’s new house is shaping up quite nicely, thanks to me. I brought a few snapshots, if you’re interested. Did you get my faxes about Jack Dolan’s shady past?”

“Yep.”

“So you told your policeman friend that he had been misinformed?”

“Yep.”

“Well, in case he didn’t believe you—policemen are such a suspicious lot, don’t you find?—I brought some of the articles pertaining to the case. I thought you might show them to him.”

She shook her head. “Can’t.”

“Why not?”

“He flew the coop. Took his car keys and drove off into the sunset.”

“Really?” Geoffrey raised one expressive eyebrow. “Is that permitted?”

Elizabeth shrugged. “What can they do? Take away his dessert privileges? I told him that Jack Dolan was still alive, and he left. But it turns out that he’s not a policeman anyhow. At least, that’s what the burglar says.”

He watched her for a moment in silence. Her eyes were closed, and she seemed to have forgotten that he was there.
“I am beginning to hope that you are delusional,” he said at last. “Do you happen to know who this escaped imposter actually is?”

“Just a crazy person, I guess,” said Elizabeth, showing very little interest in the discussion. “But I know where he’s going.”

“Danville?”

“Yep.”

“And you’d know him if you saw him?”

Elizabeth’s smile turned into a yawn. “So would you if it wasn’t Halloween. Scarred face. Burns. Very sad.”

That’s it, thought Geoffrey. He took hold of her arm and pulled her to her feet. “Come along, dear. You have a dinner pass, and I’m going to take you to a splendid restaurant. March.” Without waiting for a reply from Elizabeth, who seemed to be sleepwalking, he half carried her to the door and down the corridor toward the front entrance. As they walked he kept up a flow of bright chatter, laughing occasionally as if responding to something amusing that she had said. When her eyes started to close he tightened his grip on her arm.

After many tense moments, each of which seemed to last a week, Geoffrey succeeded in getting Elizabeth out of the building, into the parking lot, and installing her in the front seat of his car. He fastened her seat belt, and, with a final stretch of his sore muscles, he got back behind the wheel where he had spent the last seven hours.

“What splendid restaurant are we going to?” Elizabeth murmured sleepily.

Geoffrey started the engine. “McDonald’s,” he said. “In Danville.”

I
t had been a long time ago, A. P. Hill thought as she drove west out of Richmond. She had not called Bill to tell him she was coming back. She thought she’d surprise him. Allow herself to be shown around the new offices of MacPherson & Hill, and then take him out to dinner to celebrate. She hadn’t been much of a partner in the last ten days, she thought, and the fact that she’d had a lot on her mind didn’t excuse her behavior. After all, what was worrying her had happened a long time ago, too. If a statute of limitations applied to the case, surely it had long since expired. In fact, there might not even be a case. As far as she knew charges had never been filed. Certainly nothing about the incident had ever appeared up in the Williamsburg newspapers.

They had been lucky. The newspapers should have had a field day with the story:
LOCAL COLLEGE STUDENT ABDUCTED IN BONDAGE RITUAL BY TWO BLONDES.
A. P. Hill shuddered, imagining tabloid headlines, similar to the ones that now featured Purdue’s present escapades. Only the stories would have displayed her picture, instead of Carla Larkin’s, as the outlaw accomplice.

We must have been crazy, thought Powell Hill for the five hundredth time. They had certainly been angry that night—perhaps there is a point where anger and madness become indistinguishable.

Purdue had called the frat house, asking for Milo, and after long minutes of waiting, while the receiver was laid down on the table, and shouts of “Anybody seen Milo?” filtered back through the line, the same slurred voice came back on and told them that Milo had gone off to study. Try the snack bar, the
voice had added. He usually stokes up on coffee and burgers before he hits the stacks.

There wasn’t much time for preparation. They had put on a week’s worth of makeup from the absent Terrell’s supply, and the most provocative clothes they could find in Terrell’s closet, completing the look with her largest pairs of dangly earrings. Purdue took a small handbag and emptied everything out of it except her room key, a ten-dollar bill, two pairs of damp pantyhose, and a disposable camera that still had a few shots left on the roll.

“Loaded for bear,” said Purdue, tottering a little in Pamela’s roommate’s platform shoes.

“How will we know this guy if we find him?” asked A. P. Hill, trying to pull down a skirt so short it might have been a dinner napkin.