Jenny was only half-listening. She was looking for an escape route. She kept trying to convince herself that if she only looked hard enough and long enough, she'd find an alternative escape to the tunnel.
"You know what an aura is?" Gretchen said, loony and sincere as ever.
"Around your head, you mean?" Jenny said.
"Uh-huh. Well, that's how this professor said you can recognize them, the space aliens. They have these really strange auras that kind of pulsate, like they're sending out a signal or something. Quinlan's got an aura like that."
"That's really interesting, Gretchen."
Gretchen said, "I'm sorry I'm putting you through this, Jenny. But I just know that if Quinlan ever finds your body, he'll raise you from the dead, and then where'll I be? Right back to square one. I had a shrink who always said that-'right back to square one'-and I really like that expression."
"It's a great expression, no doubt about it," Jenny said, still uselessly looking around.
And then it was there. In her hand. Gretchen's hand. It wasn't all that much of a knife. A cheap paring knife with a plastic walnut handle. But plunged into the heart, or into an eye, it would certainly do its deed.
"I'm sorry about this, Jenny," Gretchen said, mad as ever. "I really am."
And it was then she lunged for Jenny.
***
The cab searched the dark, lonely road, its headlights fierce and angry as a jungle cat's. The only thing that spoiled the dramatic effect was the somewhat dorky insignia on the doors and trunk identifying it as a cab. Coffey's cab.
He was on his way to the Stafford mansion. He was preparing the little speech he'd give to the security microphone when he pulled up to the gate. Unless he gave a stellar performance, there was no way they were going to let him come inside. And he needed desperately to get inside.
He passed no other cars on the last stretch of road to the mansion.
As he approached the double iron gates, he was still trying out speeches in his mind. Toadying, pleading speeches. The trouble was, he was sick of giving toadying, pleading speeches. He was trying to save the life of their daughter and if they were too thick to understand that, the hell with them.
When he approached the closed double gate, he didn't even slow down. He just drove right on through, sending the gates flying low into the shrubbery on either side of the drive.
He drove fast up the long, curving drive. No doubt, somebody inside the mansion had already taken note of this sudden breach of security and was on the phone with the cops. The tearing sound of metal, and the crashing sound a piece of gate made hitting the drive, gave him a peculiar satisfaction.
The mansion still resembled a castle to him. All it needed was a moat, a drawbridge, and a guy in a Robin Hood costume walking the battlements. He pulled up directly in front of the main door, killed his engine, leaped from the car, and ran up the front steps.
The maid was just opening the door when he reached it-apparently and less-than-brilliantly, she wanted to peer out and see what was going on-but he only pushed past her and stormed into the house.
The living room with its massive chandelier and antique European furnishings was glitzy and empty.
He went directly down the hall, shouting their names all the while, his words echoing back at him from the splendid high ceilings.
They were in the den and there were three of them.
Tom Stafford said, "The police are on the way, whoever the hell you are." He wasn't going to be intimidated. He was Tom Stafford and he was rich and powerful, and so what if this young man had just driven through his front gates and confronted him in his own den? He
still
wasn't going to be intimidated.
Coffey could hear Eileen hurrying down the hall. "Ma'am, ma'am, are you all right?" she was yelling anxiously.
She looked in the den and went, "Oh."
"Don't worry," Coffey said. "Nobody's going to get hurt. I'm here to try and save their daughter, whether they believe it or not."
A big, lanky man stepped forward and said, "My name's Ted Hannigan. I'm a friend of the family." He shot a sharp look at Stafford and smiled coldly. "Well, his wife likes me, even if he doesn't." He shook hands with Coffey. "Right now, I'm up to hearing anything that might help Jenny. If you were willing to put your ass in a sling by driving through the gates, then I guess you at least deserve a hearing."
Tom Stafford said, "I was under the impression that this was
my
house and that I did the inviting around here."
"Lighten up, for God's sake, Tom," Hannigan said. "Your daughter's life is at stake here."
Tom Stafford looked shamed when Hannigan reminded him of why they were all here. He waved his hand. "I guess you're right, Ted." Then, to Coffey, "Exactly why the hell did you come here, Mr. Coffey?"
"First, cancel the cops," Coffey said. "The cops," Coffey repeated. "We don't have time to do a lot of explaining to them."
"Please, Tom," Molly Stafford said. "You know they'll stop if you ask them to."
Tom Stafford considered a moment then went over to a phone, picked up, punched out a number and then said, "This is Tom Stafford, Mr. Mayor. I guess we won't need any officers here at the moment. I'll explain later." Beat. "Thank you."
"This had better be one hell of a story you've got to tell us, Coffey," Stafford said after he hung up.
***
The first knife-thrust caught Jenny on the side of the neck. It wasn't much more than a gash. But even this slight a cut startled Jenny, paralyzed her momentarily. There was pain and there was blood. It made everything-the knife, Gretchen, this smothering little room-real in a way it hadn't been before.
Gretchen was just getting started. She brought the knife down again, this time catching Jenny on the ear. Gretchen's aim had been true-she'd been going for the carotid artery-but Jenny had shoved her at the last moment, seriously altering the trajectory of the blade.
The slice on the ear was even more painful than the cut on the neck. But unlike the neck wound which had immobilized her with fear, the ear cut infuriated her. Maybe it was because the pain was twice as much. Or maybe it was simply because her survival instincts had cut in and she was really pissed.
Gretchen stepped back, making Jenny's grab for her knife hand useless.
The two women slowly began to circle each other. Gretchen looked Madder than ever. But she also looked more determined. She clenched the knife handle so tightly, you could see the veins in relief on top of her hand. She kept waving the knife, so that even if Jenny lunged for her again, it would be pointless. The knife would be in constant motion.
Jenny glanced around the room. There must be something here that would suffice as a weapon. But she didn't see anything. Gretchen watched her checking everything out. Gretchen smiled.
Jenny feinted a lunge a few times, but Gretchen could see I that Jenny was just going through the motions. Gretchen kept both herself and her knife moving. Any minute now, she'd finish this.
That was when Jenny slipped the belt off her jeans. At first, Gretchen obviously didn't know what was going on. She watched, fascinated, as Jenny snaked the belt out of its loops. What was she doing, anyway? Gretchen's expression asked. But Gretchen was smart. She kept moving, and the knife kept moving, too, back and forth, forth and back, slicing the air. making it impossible for Jenny to grab the knife without cutting herself badly in the process.
It was a fashion belt, a Gucci, a slip of cordovan black leather. Gucci, God love him, did not design belts for combat. He designed them to adorn teensy-weensy little waists. If she got out of this alive, Jenny would have to write Gucci a note, thanking him for all the help his belt had been. Perhaps he'd run it in a testimonial advertisement in
Mirabella
-"I Kicked Ass With My Gucci Fashion Belt!"
Gretchen just now figured out what Jenny was doing. Her eyes got big and her mouth slackened.
Jenny cracked the belt like a whip. An impressive demonstration of the fate that was about to befall Gretchen.
"Why don't you put the knife down, Gretchen?" Jenny said.
She spoke gently, the way she would to a sick child. Her injuries still smarted, but she was no longer pissed. The woman was insane. It wasn't her fault.
"You planned this, didn't you?" Gretchen said.
Jenny had to stop herself from laughing out loud. "I didn't even know about this tunnel until ten minutes ago. How could I have planned it?"
"You read my mind," she said. She continued to circle, to wave the knife. "You're one of them. One of the people from the mother ship."
Jenny sighed. "Will you please just give me the damn knife, Gretchen?"
"So you can kill me with it and then have Quinlan all to yourself?"
"No-so you won't hurt me and you won't hurt yourself."
For the first time, Gretchen's determination seemed to wane. She looked from the knife point to Jenny then back to the knife point and then to Jenny. "Do you look like Casper inside?"
"Casper?"
"The friendly ghost. You know."
"Oh."
"I saw inside one of the people from the mother ship one time and that's what they looked like. Like little Caspers except with real big eyes."
Jenny struck then. She looped the Gucci belt over Gretchen's wrist and yanked. Gretchen was startled, and loosened her grip momentarily.
The knife dropped from Gretchen's stunned hand and skidded a few inches across the floor.
Jenny bent to pick it up. And then Gretchen flew into her with a flying tackle. Gretchen wanted her knife back. Perhaps she'd borrowed it from one of the people on the mother ship and needed to return it.
For such a slight woman, Gretchen felt like an NFL lineman. They were all arms and legs and sweaty grunts and groans as they wrestled on the floor for possession of the knife.
Gretchen was on top, then Jenny was on top, then Gretchen was on top, then Jenny was on top. Jenny punched her once in the jaw and Gretchen punched her back in the ear, the same ear her knife had nicked, and it hurt like hell.
Then, even though she was on the bottom, Jenny got the knife. Gretchen was busy trying to strangle her-while at the same time declaring her undying love for Quinlan-when Jenny saw the knife blade directly behind Gretchen's foot. Gretchen was too busy at this very moment being Mad to look for the knife. It took a few moments, but Jenny was able to reach down and reach the blade and get the knife in her hand. There were a few momentary delays, however, when Gretchen got serious about the strangling business and really bore down on Jenny's throat. Aside from a little occasional gasping, a little occasional gacking, and a little occasional gurgling, Jenny was doing pretty well.
She brought the knife up in a single swoop and placed the edge of the blade directly against Gretchen's throat.
"Nobody could ever love him as much as I do," Gretchen screamed, spewing spittle and crazed words everywhere.
"Gretchen, Gretchen," Jenny said in a strangling-raspy voice.
"What?"
"I'm holding a knife to your throat."
Gretchen looked down and saw the blade being held to her throat. "Shit, you found it." She sounded shocked, dazed.
"Yeah. Now kindly get up and get off me."
"Where'd you find it?"
"Gretchen, what's the difference? Now, just get up."
"I'm curious is all."
Jenny sighed. "Will you please take your hands off my throat?"
"Oh, yeah." She took her hands off. "So where'd you find the knife?"
"Will you please get up off me?"
"I'll get up off you when you tell me where you found the, knife."
Jenny sighed. "It was behind your foot."
"Shit. And I missed it?"
"Yeah. You did. And now will you get up?"
Gretchen got up. "I like that belt of yours, by the way. Is that a Gucci?"
This, Jenny thought, was a nightmare created by the Marx Brothers. She stood up, folding the switchblade and dropping it in her pocket.
She brushed herself off and said, "Gretchen, I'm going to prove to you I want out of here-and you're going to help me, all right?"
"I am. How?"
"Well, listen. And I'll tell you."
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
It took Coffey about twenty minutes to lay it all out for them, and at first the three faces he was addressing looked alternately skeptical and irritated-skeptical that brainwashing of that sort could actually be accomplished; irritated that he was wasting their time with nonsense when Jenny was out there somewhere in desperate condition.
Only when he began to factor in the drug therapy did they start to look at least mildly interested. Using straight hypnosis as a way of creating a second and murderous personality in Jenny's mind sounded preposterous. No hypnotist had that power. But if the hypnotist used mind-altering drugs along with his hypnotic technique… that became much more believable. Both Molly and Tom Stafford even began asking him a few questions at this point. Ted Hannigan just sat there, looking anxious and vaguely angry. He was still pretty dubious.
Then Coffey got into the matter of pathological memory mechanisms. "I took Jenny back to the motel room where the dead man was. We must have spent twenty minutes there. Then I took her to my place. Sometime during the night, she got out of bed and snuck off. She then got into a cab and came home. Here. But she doesn't remember any of it. Her conscious memory kicked in only when she got home. When he was in the CIA working with creating assassins through hypnotherapy and drug experimentation, one thing Quinlan learned about was the pathological memory mechanism. He found it useful to keep his would-be assassins in an amnesiac state until they were home safely. Even if they were back in their primary personalities, they had no memory of anything related to the assassination. So Jenny didn't remember anything until she walked in this door. The next night, when I came up to her in a restaurant, she had no memory of me at all, even though she'd spent several hours with me."