The Ties That Bind (24 page)

The room was simulated as a castle dungeon with a number of
what could be described as infernal torture machines, including the replica of
an iron maiden. She led them to a wall of items displayed under the heading
"whipping." There were numerous whips and paddles of every variety,
canes, switches, leather straps, chains, knouts, belts and riding crops.

"Unbelievable," Fiona whispered under her breath.

"Weird," Gail said in a whispered response.

The woman turned to them.

"May I ask if you're serious practitioners or
beginners." Her eyes shifted from face to face.

"A little experience," Fiona acknowledged. The
woman nodded her understanding.

"Tops or bottoms?" the woman asked, her eyes
studying Gail. "What a magnificent mistress you must make."

Gail shot a glance of skepticism at Fiona.

"There's money in it, you know," the woman said.
"A cottage industry, actually. A good dominatrix can make an excellent
living. Many people participate as a form of therapy."

Fiona was tempted to ask the woman what her preference was,
but she held off. It did occur to her that the company mailing list would offer
a valuable cornucopia for the media.

"In fact," the woman said, "everything in
this store is therapeutic. A shame we have all these silly taboos. The body is
a wonderful pleasure machine."

"Beats smoking," Fiona cracked, unable to resist.

"Exactly," the woman said. "You can't get
cancer from B and D."

Fiona looked over the display. Farley had taught her how to
put him through his paces. It's only a game, she told herself. People into this
practice lived only with the illusion of danger, the excitement of believing
they were on the edge. Farley had taken it a step beyond. He had crossed the
thin line between virtual and actual reality.

Gail inspected the various items, handling many of them, some
of which were demonstrated by the clerk. They both watched as she took a
bunched leather strap from its display and cracked it against the wall.

"The quality of the noise is part of it," she
said. Then she remove one of the paddles. "Preferences are individual, of
course. But we have one of the best selections in America. We are the capital
of the nation, after all, why not be the B and D capital as well?" She
giggled at her little joke.

"Oh, yes," she said, leading them to a
glass-enclosed display. "We have all the costumes. I presume you're
interested in leather."

"How could you tell?" Gail said with a touch of
sarcasm. "Do they say
me
?"

"Very much so," the woman said seriously.

"I'm assuming that all these items are legal?"
Fiona asked. She knew the remark was facetious, but she was already projecting
the legal aspect of what they were planning, wondering if there was any
precedent for such an action.

"Completely legal," the woman replied, with a
touch of indignation. "We have been harassed, of course. Fortunately, the
Constitution is on our side. There is an irony in the issue. We do not, for
example, sell weapons of destruction, like guns." She looked at Fiona
sternly. "And our materials are made for use in private homes by
consenting adults. What people do with these items is their own business."

"I hadn't meant to offend," Fiona said, but she
could tell that the woman was wound up and she made way for her to continue.
"We are talking about human sexuality. Freud, you must know, was one of
the first to explain the deeper meaning of these impulses. They are perfectly
natural. Many say, comforting. We don't invent these things. And we wouldn't be
selling them if there wasn't a market. How do you propose we show our wares? In
some sleazy clandestine environment? This is not a sleazy business. We do not
dispense evil here. Harm is evil. And our products are not meant to harm. You
cannot imagine how many successful people buy our wares and practice B and D.
There are lots of powerful men, for example, who love being submissive. It
comforts them to suspend all control over others. In the top category, we have
quite a few female customers, women who need to exercise the kind of power they
do not regularly have over their own lives. I personally happen to be very
enthusiastic about the practice. I like it both ways, top and bottom."

It was a long speech, an advocacy. It struck Fiona as eons
away from Farley's resort to hurtful and dangerous excess. She had noted a
product called an anal vibrator on display. It looked benign in size compared
to the one that Farley had used on Phyla and her. There was one item that had
them puzzled. Made of leather, it was labeled a cock lock.

"That encloses the erect penis and locks it in
place," the clerk said.

"My God," Fiona commented.

"Actually, it's for the most advanced mistresses. It
is rather a formidable item."

She moved around the room describing some of the other
items, stopping by a glass case displaying silk stockings and leather lingerie
that seemed to be constructed to exaggerate the buttocks and push up the
breasts. There were also black lace panties and bras and shoes with five-inch
heels.

"For stomping," the woman said, pointing to the
shoes.

Fiona and Gail exchanged glances and shrugged.

The clerk continued her tour, stopping at a makeup counter
with various vials and lipsticks displayed under glass.

"Mistresses' colors are normally cherry red and
black," she said, again studying Gail. "I can make you look
marvelous."

"How does one learn to be a good ... mistress?" Gail
asked. In the context of the environment, the question seemed logical and
matter-of-fact. Fiona was amazed how quickly they had reached a level of
"normality." There seemed a kind of "new age" spirit about
the shop.

"Oh, we have lots of instructional tapes," the
woman replied. "And of course, we can put you in touch with a number of
highly qualified dominatrixes who also teach. This is a very delicate and
ritualistic practice. It must be done correctly to avoid any danger. A good
dominatrix must know when to call it off."

"Are there people who go too far?" Gail asked
innocently. Fiona stiffened. The clerk's eyes narrowed as she inspected Gail's
face.

"These people are anathema," she said with
indignation. "They must be avoided at all costs. They give B and D a bad
name. They are very sick people."

Fiona wondered if the woman was serious. But there was
nothing in her demeanor to suggest otherwise.

"Do you take credit cards?" Gail asked.

"We do. But most people pay cash for obvious reasons.
There is a great deal of prejudice about people who are different."

Fiona and Gail moved from counter to counter, listening to
the woman's advice, making their choices. The woman picked out a leather
outfit.

"This should do," the woman said. "You could
try it on."

Gail declined politely. The process seemed so ordinary, as
if they were shopping for gifts for a wedding shower.

Standing in this room, filled with these Gothic
contrivances, Fiona felt an odd feeling of deliverance, somehow diluting the
old shame of what she had done with Farley. All she did was play a game, his
game.

They were selling games here. What had happened to her and
Phyla was not part of that game. Farley had transformed each of them into a
human prop.

In fact, she could now sense that nothing, no device in
this room, with whatever expertise it was used on her, could possibly give her
pleasure again. For her the game was over. All the danger and mystery seemed to
disappear in these displays. Nor did she find any superiority in her position.
Let others enjoy. It was not for her.

They found enough cash between them to pay for their
purchases.

"Would you like your name put on our mailing
list?" the woman asked.

"No, thank you," Gail replied for both of them.

"Many of our customers use a box number," the
woman said as they parted. "I know you'll enjoy your purchases."

They locked the packages in the trunk of the car and set
off to interview the murdered girl's relatives.

"A real eye opener," Gail said.

"All in the line of duty," Fiona replied.

They rode in silence for a long time. Finally, Fiona spoke:

"What are you thinking about, Gail?"

"Sex," Gail whispered.

Fiona decided to leave it at that.

Fiona sat in the ornate chamber of the Supreme Court
observing a case in progress. She was alone and listening with only casual
interest. It was a complicated case on a narrow issue dealing with trade, each
side offering long, boring arguments, studded with statistics and precedents.

But Fiona was not there to listen to the case. Her mission
was to catch Farley's eye and try to convey by her presence a nonofficial,
nonthreatening motive. Knowing Farley's paranoia about possible discovery, she
had eschewed any other form of communication. No telephone calls. Nothing in
writing. No attempts to visit his office.

This was her fourth visit to the court. Usually they
occurred on her days off or whenever a break in her schedule permitted.
Periodically, she and Farley had exchanged eye contact but she had made no
attempt to mime any other signals. After each session she would wait in the
corridor on the chance that he would appear. So far he had not shown up and she
was beginning to fear that her strategy was off the mark.

Each night after her shift was over, she would hurry home
on the off chance that he might simply appear as he had done on those two other
occasions. Gail, too, had agreed to remain "on call," in case she was
"needed" at a moment's notice. So far, nothing.

Three weeks had passed since they had visited the sex shop.
Gail had acknowledged to Fiona that she, in the privacy of her own room, tried
on the costume.

"Won't you let me see?" Fiona had asked.

"No way."

"There'll be a time, Gail, when you might have to play
the role." Fiona warned.

"God help me," Gail muttered.

Fiona noted that Gail had become increasingly agitated
about her father's health. Her mind was not on her work and she seemed to be
showing less and less interest in Fiona's obsession with Farley Lipscomb.

Except for Dr. Barker's threat of a lawsuit, the case of
Phyla Herbert was, to all intents and purposes, a dead issue. After the
statement by the Eggplant, the media had lost interest. Other, more newsworthy,
events superseded it. Even Dr. Barker's threat would soon lose its edge.
Relatives of victims, caught up in the backwash of a case, were often emotional
and prone to wild threats that rarely materialized into action.

The march of death continued in the homicide division, with
Gail and Fiona working on a growing number of female homicides, some of which,
usually domestics, were quickly closed. Those that were drug related or
drive-by shootings were, for the most part, a lost cause.

They did their best, worked hard on each homicide, but
Fiona's real focus remained on the Phyla Herbert case and her plans for Farley
Lipscomb. Fiona had explained to Gail that what she had planned would be a risk
to their careers. In fact, they were deliberately disobeying what the Eggplant
had decreed. In the homicide division, there was no greater infraction.

Movie versions of heroics, focusing on apprehending a
perpetrator by using methods not sanctioned by police protocol, were far off
the mark. In today's frenetic, media-haunted world, being caught using
unorthodox means could spell career disaster.

There was no telling how Farley would react if he divined
what they were planning or found them out in some way. For Fiona, there was
guilt in it as well, mostly for having persuaded Gail to go along with an
action that could ruin her.

"Are you still with me?" Fiona would ask Gail
from time to time, determined to keep her interest alive.

"I'm your partner, aren't I?" An air of
irritation seemed to have become part of Gail's responses.

Whenever a more specific reference to her readiness to
perform as a dominatrix surfaced, Gail showed a reluctance to discuss it. She
was looking increasingly tired and drawn. Her father's illness was taking its
toll on her. He had taken a turn for the worse and she was spending more and
more time ministering to his psychic needs and worrying about him.

"It's really rocking me, Fiona," Gail told her, a
repetitive theme in their working moments together. Aside from the pressing
business of the moment, Fiona kept any reference to Gail's potential
"role" to a minimum. Indeed, there were moments when Fiona worried
that Gail's personal problems would overwhelm her and she would be unable to
participate.

For her part, Fiona, undeterred, continued her preparation
for the planned encounter with Farley Lipscomb. She purchased video equipment
and set it up in the basement recreation room of her house. She had drilled a
hole to fit the lens in a wall behind a bookcase and tested the camera and the
microphone with a tape.

Fiona realized that in court a judge might rule that the
tapes were inadmissible as evidence. Nor was she certain that her plan of
luring Farley into the situation she had in mind would ever happen.

"Suppose he doesn't cooperate?" Gail had asked
when Fiona had first discussed what she had in mind. Lately, even that question
seemed to have faded from Gail's consciousness.

Aside from her worries about Gail's flagging interest,
Fiona's own certainty was getting increasingly threadbare and she began to
wonder if her obsession was badly distorting her sense of reality.

To complicate her life further, Fiona was being pressed by
Harrison Greenwald, who had finally given her what amounted to an ultimatum.
She knew, of course, that it would come sooner or later. It amazed her that he
had not walked away sooner.

"I can't go on like this, Fiona," he had told her
during a conversation in the cocktail lounge of the Willard Hotel.

"I can't blame you."

"I feel shut out," he sighed. "And not just
physically."

"You'll get no argument from me, Harrison."

"Don't you care, Fiona?"

"Yes, I do," she replied after a long pause.

"Then what is this all about?"

It went round and round, with nothing resolved. Most of
all, she feared that, even if they resumed their previous relationship, she
might be so put off that it would ruin whatever future they had. What she
needed was to somehow work this out of her system.

In her mind, she assured herself, bringing down Farley
Lipscomb would put the finish on this episode of sexual revulsion and cure her,
once and for all, of the traumatic effects of her experience. It wasn't, she
knew, a very scientific approach but it served to buttress her motivation.

"You seem very interested in court procedures,
Fiona."

It was Farley Lipscomb's silken voice, coming from behind
her as she waited in the corridor outside of the Court. Turning, she looked at
him, meeting his eyes directly. He had changed from his robe to street clothes.

"No I'm not," she replied, tamping down her
excitement. Her response had been carefully rehearsed. It, too, was pure
theater. "I'm interested in other disciplines."

"Oh," he said, waiting for a further response.
She hoped that the careful coding of her invitation would communicate her
message without triggering his paranoia.

"My friend is tops," Fiona said, watching his
face for a reaction.

"Your friend?" he asked. In the briefest flicker
of his eyelids, he seemed to be receiving the message.

"She is extremely orderly," Fiona embellished.

There was a moment of hesitation as he studied her. She
assumed he was weighing the risk and hoped that the anticipated pleasure would
neutralize his suspicion.

"Is she?" Farley said. His sense of engagement
jumped out at her. As she had observed at their last meeting, his addiction
seemed to have remained undiminished, perhaps even stronger than before.

"And available. Any night at a moment's notice."
Fiona held her breath and watched him closely. "She can whip right over to
my place." It was a less cryptic statement than the other, but he seemed
to be absorbing it. There was no way of knowing for certain.

"I'll take the matter under consideration," he
said, his face expressionless. He started to go, then turned again.

"And the other matter?"

She knew exactly what he meant.

"Over," she said. "Closed forever."

He nodded and offered a thin smile, then moved away. She
watched his back recede, a handsome man in late middle age, still ramrod straight
and dignified. It was, of course, a facade designed to cover a multitude of
sins, she thought, feeling the full impact of her remembered pain.

* * *

The next day, as they drove to yet another crime scene, a
young girl blown apart in a drive-by gang shooting, Fiona waited for the right
moment to tell Gail about her meeting with Farley. She could sense more than
the usual tension in the air.

There was also the anticipation of what they would find on
their present assignment. Nothing was more awful than an innocent child killed
at random.

Worse, the prospect of finding a suspect would be a
daunting task, with witnesses either not wanting to get involved or offering
conflicting stories. Once again, they steeled themselves for the grief and
helplessness of relatives, friends and neighbors.

But the subject had to be broached and, as they drove,
Fiona told Gail what had transpired in her meeting with Farley.

"Are you sure he'll react?" Gail asked. Fiona
caught an undercurrent of hesitation.

"He has reacted, Gail."

"And I'm still in it?"

"Of course." Fiona studied her face. Gail's
expression could not hide her reluctance."

"You're having second thoughts, right?"

"Maybe it's this thing with my father," she
began. "I'm not myself."

"I certainly don't want to add to your problems,
Gail."

"And I'm not sure I can handle it."

Fiona decided to let the matter rest. There was enough
pressure on Gail without adding to her burden.

Later, after a day of accelerating horror, wrung out by the
tension of the day, they chatted at the police parking lot before leaving. Gail
was going home to be with her father. She had checked his condition a number of
times during the day. The prognosis did not look good.

"I hope your father improves, Gail," Fiona said
as Gail opened her car door.

"It's beyond hope, Fiona. Just a matter of time."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"I just have to get through this, Fiona."

"Of course, Gail. I do understand. I really do."

Fiona wanted to offer more comfort. But she felt too guilty
to respond.

Having made Gail the lure, she wondered how Gail would
react if Farley did show up and she was called upon to respond. Fiona was not
happy with the prospect. She was calling upon her new friend to risk too much
at an especially bad time in her life. It was unfair. She felt awful about it.

At the same time, her instincts told her that Farley
Lipscomb would take the bait. Then what?

Before driving off, Gail turned down the window of her car.

"Just be careful, Fiona," she said.

"Not to worry," Fiona replied.

They exchanged glances for a long moment. Then Gail turned
away and sped off.

That night Fiona was too uptight to eat. He would come. She
was dead certain of that. But when? She half-expected him to show up last
night. Waiting had been an agony. Would it be tonight? Or tomorrow? Or when?
She allowed herself to believe that he had bought into her suggestive
invitation. Fearing that she might trigger his paranoia, she had not been
specific, allowing him to set the time frame.

She roamed the house, checked and rechecked the video
equipment. And if he did come? Then what?

By ten Fiona was beginning to question her assumptions. Was
it an exercise in wishful thinking? Perhaps suspicion had intervened and
triggered his better judgment. All for the best, she decided, trying unsuccessfully
to put it out of her mind. By any measure, he would be a fool to come. But lust
and addiction lived by their own rules.

By eleven her confidence went down another notch. At the
same time her guilt feelings about Gail accelerated. It was as if she had been
involved in a mental duel with a phantom of her own creation and she had lost.
She had the urge to phone Farley and call the whole thing off, to let sleeping
dogs lie. But would the dogs be silent forever?

Before she could act, the phone rang. She ran to the
instrument and picked it up after the third ring.

"Fiona?" It was Harrison Greenwald.

She paused, disappointed. Had she expected Farley Lipscomb?

"Yes, Harrison."

She knew her obvious indifference would be hurtful, but
there were other things on her mind.

"Such warmth," Harrison said.

"I'm sorry. My mind was elsewhere. Forgive me."

"I don't understand any of this, Fiona. I need some
resolution. What I need to do is talk. Just talk. Can I come over?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"That sounds pretty final."

"It is."

Suddenly she imagined she heard some movement outside.

"Please, Harrison," she cried. "Leave me
alone. I can't talk to you now."

She hung up abruptly, knowing that he would interpret it as
a terrible act of meanness, a final blow. It would be over between them.

She ran to the front door, opened it, looked around
outside. Nothing. Her nerves felt jangled. She felt torn by overwhelming guilt.
For the way she treated Harrison. For involving Gail in her mad obsession.

Picking up the phone again, she dialed Gail's number. An
unfamiliar woman's voice answered.

"May I speak with Gail?" she asked.

"She's with her father. This is the nurse."

"Never mind then..." Fiona started to hang up.
Gail's voice intervened.

"Fiona?" Gail was whispering.

"How is he?"

"About the same. He's under morphine."

"I'm so sorry, Gail."

"There's nothing to be sorry for, Fiona. This can't be
helped." There was a long moment of dead air on the phone.