“What did you come up with?”
“I propose that you and I meet, in order for me to establish my credentials.”
“Okay, where?”
“Where are you?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m in New York, but I have to go to Miami on business later in the week. Is there someplace between New York and Miami we can meet? Preferably in an airport?”
“I’m on the west coast of Florida,” Stone said. “How about Palm Beach International? It’s a couple of hours’ drive for me.”
“Agreed. Now, what do you need from me?”
“In what state are you licensed to practice?”
“New York.”
“Okay. Bring a copy of your New York law license, your New York driver’s license and your United States passport. Also, I’ll need a photograph of you with Paul Manning, taken no earlier than today and no later than tomorrow, and I want a copy of the day’s New York Times prominently displayed in the photograph.”
“I can do all that, I think, although Paul doesn’t like to be photographed.”
“I can imagine. Then I’ll need a copy of Manning’s U.S. passport, with his current identity recorded therein, and I want that clearly visible in the photograph, too.”
“Whoa, whoa, he’s not going to go for that.”
“I’m giving him nothing unless I’m convinced he’s who he says he is, and in order to do that, I’ll need to know who he says he is. He’s going to have to prove it to me.”
“You’re throwing in a whole lot of stuff, here,” James said.
“If you’re a lawyer, you’ll know very well that I have to protect my client, just as you have to protect yours. That’s all we’re talking about.”
“I’ll get back to you,” James said and hung up.
“Any progress?” Liz asked.
“By inches,” Stone said. “Manning is being very cautious.”
“He’s got a lot to be cautious about,” Liz replied.
An hour later, Stone’s phone vibrated again. “All right,” James said. “The day after tomorrow at one p.m., at Signature Aviation, Palm Beach International.”
“Fine,” Stone said. “I’ll see you then, but if my concerns are not met, there’ll be no discussion of terms.”
“I understand,” James said.
Stone hung up. “We’re on.”
43
Late that night, after a big dinner and more wine than he had intended to drink, Stone fell into bed, exhausted. He had barely fallen asleep, when he was wakened by a knock on the door-at first, softly, then loudly. Annoyed, he got out of bed, put on a robe and went to the door.
“Good evening,” Dolce said. She stood there with two brandy snifters in one hand and a pistol in the other. “May I come in?” she asked, unnecessarily.
Stone looked at the gun and backed into the room. “Of course,” he said.
Dolce kicked the door shut and offered him a snifter. “I brought you a drink,” she said.
“Thanks, but I’ve already had too much to drink this evening,” he replied.
“I said, I brought you a drink,” she said, through clenched teeth.
Stone took the glass.
“Sit on the bed,” she said, “where I can see you.”
Stone sat on the bed.
Dolce lifted her glass. “To many more happy moments like this,” she said.
Stone sipped at his brandy. It had an uncharacteristically bitter taste.
“Drink it!” she said, tossing down her own drink.
Stone tossed down his own. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” he asked.
Dolce smiled, revealing her startlingly white teeth against her olive skin. “A pleasure, is it? I had somehow gotten the impression that seeing your wife was no longer such a pleasure. How long has it been?”
“Too long,” Stone said. He felt dreadful; the brandy on top of everything else he had had to drink at dinner was too much. He moved to set down his glass on the bedside table, and to his astonishment, he missed the table entirely. The glass dropped to the floor, missing the rug, shattering into tiny pieces. “I’m drunk,” he said.
“Not exactly,” Dolce replied. “You’re just feeling the first effects of the Thorazine.”
“What’s Thorazine?” Stone asked, and he had to try hard to pronounce the words.
“It’s a little something that an enlightened medical profession has devised to help those of us who are-how shall I put this?-psychiatrically challenged easier to manage. Do you know that one of Papa’s doctors actually said those words to me? Psychiatrically challenged! You have no idea what those of us who do not meet society’s standards of behavior have to endure at the hands of those who wish to make our company more acceptable.” She smiled. “But you’re about to find out.”
“Huh?” Stone said, dully. His mind seemed fairly sharp-certainly, he could understand her-but there was something blocking the connection between his brain and his lips, something that slowed everything to a molasseslike flow.
“Don’t worry, my darling, it won’t last long,” she said, rising and approaching the bed. Her shoes ground the broken snifter into the floor with a loud noise. She placed a finger in the middle of Stone’s forehead and pushed gently.
Stone fell back onto the bed. It was where he had always wanted to be, here on this bed, staring at the beautifully crafted ceiling of his beautifully crafted cabin.
Dolce lifted his feet onto the bed, untied his robe, then rolled him over and stripped it off his body. She rolled him onto his back again and tucked two pillows under his head.
Stone lay there, naked, indolent to a degree he would not have dreamed possible. He had no wish to do anything except lie there and let this happen.
Dolce went back to her chair, picked up the handbag that had hung on her arm, opened it, took out a wad of something and returned to the bed. She sat down on the edge and shook the little bundle into long lengths. “You know,” she said, smoothing them out, “science has never solved the problem of what to do with old nylon stockings. There’s no recycling of them, and they seem too good to throw away. One little run, and they’re useless.” She smiled again. “Or are they?” She rolled Stone’s limp form through three hundred and sixty degrees, until he was centered on the bed, then she tied one end of a stocking to a wrist and the other end to a bedpost.
Stone watched her do it, unconcerned, and continued to watch as she tied his other hand and both feet to bedposts. He was spread-eagled, naked, on the bed, before a trickle of concern made its way from somewhere in his brain to his forehead, where it manifested itself in beads of sweat that popped out. Wait a minute, he thought, something is wrong here. He tugged at the bedposts, but the sturdy mahogany bed would not move, and neither could he.
“Well,” Dolce said, “I believe your tiny dose of Thorazine is beginning to wear off. A psychiatric dose would have lasted much longer. It took me several months to learn to control my dosage-without the knowledge of my nurses, of course-to the point where I could manage a clear thought sooner, rather than later.” She drew back a hand and slapped him smartly across the face. “There, feel that?”
“Yes,” he said, and his lips moved better than they had a few minutes before.
“Oh, good, because I want you to be wide awake and feeling everything that is going to happen now.”
“Dolce,” Stone said, “what are you doing?”
“I thought it would be good,” she said, “if you had some personal experience of a loss of control over what happens to you, and, particularly, if you experienced a sense of loss over, oh, I don’t know, maybe a body part or two?” She opened her handbag and removed an old-fashioned straight razor.
Stone tried harder to free himself from the stockings and the bedposts, but to no avail.