She learned to dance that night, and it was fun. The fact that she was a clumsy and awkward dancer didn't matter. She was gorgeous in her little lost-kitten way and nobody
cared
how bad a dancer she was.
She got drunk, too. Rum was the culprit. You mix rum with Coca Cola and it tasted like a confection and not liquor at all. She didn't realize how
much
it was liquor until it was too late.
By then, though, she'd found Brad. He was a handsome, twenty-nine-year-old surgeon. He said he wasn't married but she could see the lingering red ring indentation on his finger. Not that she cared. She found it pretty funny, actually.
There was another nice thing about Brad. He had a Porsche. An itty-bitty red one. Brad let her drive it. They went on the Dan Ryan and raised hell for an hour. She was a much better driver (she'd practiced on a hospital tractor mower, the operative principles being pretty much the same) than she had expected herself to be.
Then they ended up out in the boonies, parked near the lake. It was a clear summer night. The lake surface was painted gold with moonlight, and the night was a wild perfume of various fragrances.
She was quite methodical about what she wanted to do. First, she wanted to make out for a while. Then she wanted him to slowly begin to seduce her. She wanted to give
and
get oral sex, and then she wanted to make love. At one point, so dizzy, she was afraid the rum was going to come back up on her and she d do something really insane like vomit in his mouth. But she managed to keep it down.
He wasn't much of a lover. He made a lot of noise but that was mostly about
all
he did. He pinched her nipples so hard, they hurt. And when he had his finger in her, he just kind of waggled it around was all. Maybe the way they had state maps (Your Guide to Iowa), they should have body part maps (Your Clitoral Vacation). She couldn't
believe
he was a doctor. How could a
doctor
know so little about the female anatomy?
The thing was, he wasn't a doctor. And his name wasn't Brad. And he didn't own the Porsche.
He was an escaped forger from Joliet Prison, his name was Rick, and he'd stolen the Porsche from the Saks Fifth Avenue parking garage in the Loop.
Gretchen learned all this after the cops stopped them on the Dan Ryan going 132 mph and then took them both into custody.
She never saw Brad-Rick again. Nor did she know what kind of punishment he received. He'd obviously put some years on his sentence.
During her interrogation, both cops left the room for a time. When one of them came back, he found her crying. "What's wrong?" he said.
"All that time I was with Brad," she said, "I didn't have a single orgasm."
He smiled a cold cop smile. "Things're tough all over, kiddo."
***
She was returned to the psychiatric hospital. But not for long. A certain Dr. Quinlan had seen her story on the news and asked if she could be transferred to
his
psychiatric hospital. Being very well-regarded by the state psychiatric board, and being a major contributor to the campaigns of both the mayor and the governor, the transfer was made.
***
Oh, shit. Gretchen was just sneaking out of Building Four when Roy Barcroft caught her. Building Four was set far away from the other three. It was Quinlan's private domain.
Barcroft was head of security here at the compound, as the staffers called Quinlan's psychiatric hospital. The official name was Windcross, but nobody on staff ever called it that.
Four large new brick buildings. Quinlan made it look as much like a college campus as possible, down to the ivy that had begun to climb the walls. There were three large tennis courts, Olympic-size outdoor
and
indoor swimming pools, and a nine-hole golf course. There was a guest dining room where gourmet cuisine was served on weekends, the room having the appointments and the ambience of a four-star restaurant. It was expensive to spend your time at Windcross, but wealthy people who were in legal trouble-or who had loved ones who were in legal trouble-generally found a way to be placed here. Quinlan was not apologetic about the fact that Windcross had made him rich. He always pointed to the research he was doing here on the vagaries of the criminal mind. His research had been applauded worldwide; liberals and conservatives alike felt his published papers brought real wisdom to America's ever-escalating crime problems (forget about the highly questionable FBI stats that showed violent crime on the decline). If he liked women, expensive cars, and even more expensive airplanes, so be it.
"Oh, shit," Gretchen said.
Barcroft was closing fast on her as she darted from the side door of Building Four to the grass that edged on the asphalt road that ran through the compound.
He was a big man, Barcroft, the kind little girls had nightmares about in boogeyman dreams. He had a wide, tanned face lined on the jaw with a long scar. He had midnight-black hair and dark eyes that seemed jack-o'-lantern luminous when he was angry. And, boy, was he angry now.
"Hey!" he shouted.
But she kept on running. She kept the mini video camera tucked into her chest like a quarterback suddenly deciding to run for glory. She was already out of breath. Despite her tiny size, her diet consisted largely of Three Musketeers, popcorn. Diet Coke (she was just a teensy-weensy bit bulimic) and Hot Tamales. She never exercised and rarely lifted anything heavier than the
TV Guide
.
And right now it was all catching up to her.
She headed straight for the asphalt. Maybe she could run faster on a flat, hard surface. This particular area had only been sodded a few years ago and it was still lumpy in places.
But she didn't make it to the asphalt. Not erect, anyway.
The toe of her Reebok caught on the edge of the curb and she went sprawling face first. She remembered to keep the Mini-cam pressed tight to her chest, with her arms over it to cushion the fall.
Then Barcroft was standing over her. At the moment all she could see was one neatly creased khaki trouser leg and a spit-shined black boot. She looked up, her sweet erotic little face breaking into a gamine grin. Now seemed the right time to try the old Gretchen charm.
"Hi, Barcroft."
"Hi."
"I bet you're really pissed, huh?"
"Stand up, Gretchen. I want to see what you've got there."
She became aware of her circumstances suddenly: lying on the asphalt; a dark train rushing and rumbling through the prairie night in the distance; the half-moon almost unnaturally bright in the navy blue sky; the scent of her own perfume; Barcroft's black-booted foot tapping impatiently.
But he was beyond the range of her charm at the moment. Sometimes, he was mildly flirtatious. Not tonight.
"Stand up."
"I'll tell Quinlan if you hit me."
"Stand up, Gretchen. Now."
So she stood up. He could have helped her, lent a hand, but he didn't.
"What the hell's this?" he snapped.
He jerked the camera from her arms and held it out in front of him. He looked at the camera for a long moment and then looked over at Building Four. "What the hell were you taping in Building Four?"
"Nothing. Honest. I was just carrying it around."
But he already had his cell phone out. "Let me talk to Quinlan." He would be asking the twenty-four-hour operator to clear his call directly up to Quinlan's apartment. "Well, tell him I'm
ordering
you to clear this call through." Another pause. "I'm sorry to disturb you, Dr. Quinlan. But we may have a major problem on our hands."
He glared at Gretchen. "Something we need to discuss in private." Beat. "Fifteen minutes, then."
"You really are pissed, aren't you, Barcroft?" she said, smiling, after he put his cell phone away. She was still trying, uselessly, to flirt with him.
But he didn't say anything. He just grabbed her elbow and marched her along the grass back to Building Four. This was like being taken to the principal's office. Only much,
much
worse.
CHAPTER TEN
The first person the Staffords called was their family physician, Doctor Grainger. He advised them to give Jenny one of the sleeping pills he'd prescribed long ago, and told them to let her sleep as long as possible. He'd see her tomorrow afternoon. Then he told them how happy he was that she'd come home.
Molly said, "Do you think we should call Priscilla?"
"It's pretty late, hon,"Tom said.
"Well, we called Dr. Grainger."
"Yes, but he's an MD. Priscilla is her psychiatrist. There's a difference." He took her in his arms. Held her. "God, I still can't quite believe she's home."
"Neither can I." She looked up into her husband's face and gave him a long kiss. Then, "Please, can't I call her? She's been worried sick."
He grinned. "You just want to share the good news."
She laughed. "That's right."
"Well, then call her. I'm going up to bed. I think I'm actually going to be able to sleep now."
Unspoken was the fact that they had no idea where their daughter had been the past eight days. Unspoken was the fact that Priscilla might well want Jenny sent back to a sanitarium.
Tom swatted Molly affectionately on the bottom and then climbed the stairs to the second floor. Molly went eagerly to the phone.
***
"She was taping you," Barcroft said.
"Taping me?" Quinlan said. "Where?"
"Building Four. The Tower."
"How the hell did she get up to the Tower?"
Barcroft had been dreading the moment when this was brought up. In theory, Building Four was the most secure of all the compound buildings. Even more secure, again in theory, was what they called the Tower. This was a large addition that had been built on to the roof. Nobody got in there except Quinlan and the people he authorized. Barcroft had never been in there. Not once.
But somehow little Gretchen had snuck in.
"If you want me to quit," Barcroft said, "I'll have a letter of resignation on your desk tomorrow morning."
"I don't want you to quit, Roy," Quinlan said evenly, obviously fighting to keep his legendary temper under control. "I want you to explain to me how the hell she got into the building and then into the Tower."
They were in the living room of Quinlan's apartment, which was a study in blacks, whites, grays, and chromes. Imposing as it was, it was also comfortable, with the built-in bookcases and the large open-hearth fireplace and the deep white shag carpeting. The west window offered a spectacular view of the distant Chicago skyline, a menagerie of lights and skyscrapers and giant planes descending toward O'Hare, a panorama that you never got tired of looking at.
Barcroft was now wondering what secret the Tower held. He'd always been curious. Especially since he'd learned that the entire construction was sound-baffled-completely soundproofed. A security man was a nosy man, and he'd love to see what Gretchen had gotten on her tape tonight.
But the Minicam was in Quinlan's hands, and Quinlan wasn't about to share his secrets with Barcroft.
"Where is she now?" Quinlan asked. In his dark blue silk pajamas and holding a pipe, he reminded Barcroft of Hugh Hefner. Quinlan spent a lot of time entertaining various female patients in his pajamas. And "entertaining" was a word open to wide interpretation.
"Down the hall. In a secure room."
"As 'secure' as the Tower?" Quinlan said, smiling coldly.
Barcroft felt his cheeks turn hot.
"Keep her down there for a while. I want to go over this tape in private."
"Yes, sir."
Barcroft turned and started to walk back to the electronically keyed door. The correct thumbprint was the only way in or out.
"Barcroft?"
Roy turned, faced Quinlan.
"I'm sorry about the cheap shot. You know, at the last there."
"I had it coming."
The cold Quinlan smile. "Yes, you did. But that didn't mean I had to say it."
Barcroft stared at Quinlan a moment, then turned and pressed his thumbprint to the ID pad.
***
About an hour after she got to sleep, Jenny had to urinate. She hiked up her sleeping gown and sat down. The toilet seat was cold on her backside. When she started peeing, the sound seemed unnaturally loud to her in the shadowy bathroom, the only light being the moon through the window.
She was just getting up, just turning around to flush the toilet when she saw…
… an image of a motel… an image of a dead man in a room in that motel… an image of her own long, slender hands… bloody…
A searing headache burst inside her head. She cradled her head in her hands, trying to stop the pain.
And then they were gone-the images
and
the headache.
Some sort of nightmare, she thought, as she slipped through the shadows in her bare feet, headed back to bed.
Some sort of nightmare.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Quinlan stood at his window, with his wonderful view of Chicago spread out before him. He had his pajamas, his pipe, and his handsome self.
This was the first thing Gretchen saw when Barcroft brought her into the apartment.