Squishy? I tried to think. I felt it on all sides. Something squarish, in bubble wrap.
Bubble wrap. Paul's global positioning system was wrapped in bubble wrap.
Carefully, lovingly, realizing the potential of this miraculous discovery, I pulled the GPS out of my purse and laid it gently on the blanket.
Carefully, lovingly, I began to remove the bubble wrap, praying, as I did so, that the GPS had been returned from the West Marine repair shop operationally complete, including fresh batteries.
"What's that?" Mrs. Bromley asked as the device began to emerge from the plastic.
"This, Mrs. B, may be our salvation." I looked straight into her eyes. "And if not our salvation, at least a means of bringing these criminals to justice after we're gone."
"What? With a PDA?"
"No, not a PDA, Naddie. It's Paul's GPS." I turned it around so she could see the screen. '"I lift up mine eyes-'" I quoted. "I knew there was some reason we needed that window!"
Naddie looked puzzled. "Does it send out some sort of signal?"
"No," I explained. "Just the opposite. It picks up satellite signals and tells you exactly where you are. Paul uses it when he's sailing, to navigate."
"Well that's all well and good," Naddie said, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, "but knowing exactly where we are isn't going to help us get out of where we are."
"No, but when we do get out, it will tell us how to get back."
"Get back? Why on earth would we want to come back?" And then she got it "Ah, the police! I must be senile."
I got to my feet. "Here, hold onto this-carefully!-while I climb back up to the window."
"Why do you need the window?"
I eased a toe into an empty wine slot and began to pull myself up the wall. "It needs to see the sky in order to pick up satellites."
When I reached the ceiling, I used the decanter drying rod to remove the panel, laying it aside on top of the Whisperkool.
Light poured into our prison cell.
Naddie handed me the GPS, and I held it as far out the little window as I could before turning it on. I waited, watching anxiously for the screen to light up. When it did, I said a silent prayer, thanking God and the Energizer Bunny. Then I cheered as, one by one, the device glommed onto the satellites orbiting overhead.
When the GPS was done acquiring satellites, it beeped.
"Now, to save our position."
Below me, Mrs. Bromley was bouncing up and down on her toes. "How do you do that?"
"Remember when I said Paul used this for sailing? Well, what we do is push the man overboard button." With my thumb, I mashed the M.O.B. down. "If we get out of here alive, Naddie, this little baby will tell us exactly where we've been. It'll even lead us here, like a mechanical bloodhound."
I kissed the GPS, tucked it into my waistband, and scrambled back down.
"You know what?" I said as I re-wrapped the GPS in its protective plastic. "I'm tired of waiting. I think we need to make it happen."
I tucked the device tenderly into my purse, slipped the strap of my purse over my head and positioned the bag comfortably against the small of my back. "You know what else I think? I think Chet's waiting for instructions. He doesn't have permission to use that gun, otherwise he would have shot us already."
"Perhaps we should get his attention." Naddie squared her jaw and grinned. She picked up a bottle of chardonnay, and when I nodded, she smashed it on the floor.
We stopped to listen. Chet had switched channels. He seemed to be watching a stock car race.
I picked up another bottle of chardonnay and hurled it against the wall. It crashed into a bin of merlot with a satisfying thwack.
The television went silent.
Just to make sure Chet was listening, I threw another bottle of wine against the door, hoping to shatter the pane. Surprisingly, the bottle broke, but not the glass. God only knew what kind of space age material it was made from.
A shadow appeared on the other side of the glass. "Hey, you ladies, cut it out. I know what you're trying to do."
I stood to the left of the door, well out of pistol range. "Aw, Chet. We're just having a little fun! There's wine in here, Chet. Lots and lots of wine! What do you think we've been doing in here, Chet? We've been drinking wine! Lovely, lovely wine!" I dashed another bottle against the tiles.
"You can break every goddamn bottle in there, I don't give a fuck. It's not my wine."
"C'mon, Chet," I wheedled. "Let us go. Before your friend gets back. We'll never tell."
"No fucking way."
Chet's shadow disappeared for a minute, and then it returned, dragging a chair. He positioned the chair directly in front of the door and sat down in it. I imagined him with his arms folded across his chest, a deputy sheriff in a spaghetti western.
I used the corkscrew to open a bottle of merlot, then poured it carefully under the door. Chet seemed to be ignoring the wine that had to be wicking into the carpet at his feet. Every few seconds he'd tip his head back, and I could see the vague outline of a bottle. Chet was drinking beer.
"Chet," I called through the door. "You really should let us go. You know why?" I giggled drunkenly. "Because my brother-in-law is a policeman, that's why! You don't believe me? His name is Rutherford, Chet. Lieutenant Dennis Rutherford. You can look it up. And if anything happens to me, he's going to come looking for you. And he's going to find you, and when he finds you he's going to cut off your balls and feed them to his cat!"
On the other side of the door Chet drained his bottle. I saw him set it on the floor next to his chair. Then he paid another visit to the refrigerator. I heard the door slide open and the psssst of a bottle being uncapped.
"You know something, lady? You are full of shit!" Chet faced the door defiantly. He tipped the bottle up and took a long swig. "I gotta do what I'm told. Ain't no independent thinking in this outfit. Last time I tried, he ripped me a new one."
I turned to Mrs. Bromley and rolled my eyes. "If Chet ever had an independent thought, the New York Times would report it."
"Boss not very understanding, then, is he?" Naddie was getting into the act.
Chet plopped down in his chair. "No way. Don't ever want to screw up with this dude or you could end up a floater."
"It can't be that bad," she drawled.
"Wanna bet? Kee-rist!" He snorted and upended the bottle. "Was supposed to get papers back from this broad. Ended up capping her instead. Didn't mean to. Was he pissed!”
The image of Gail's body swam before my eyes. I clapped my hand to my mouth, trying to suppress a scream.
Naddie touched my arm. To Chet, she said, "Why don't you get out of this business, then. Do you have a mother, Chet? Go home to her. Get a job at Wal-Mart."
"I don't usually work with guns," he mused, ignoring her. “Too fucking loud."
"Messy, too, I'll bet," Naddie said.
The refrigerator door slid open. Psssst. However this comes out, I thought, it'd probably be the last time Pottorff stationed Chet next to an unlocked refrigerator door.
"So, Chet, if you don't like guns, how come you got one stuck in your belt?" I asked.
"That?" He snorted. "Adds to my street cred, you know? Gets respect."
"So, what do you usually work with, Chet?" I hiccupped. "I really want to know. Knives? Poison?"
Chet laughed. "Nah. I make it look like natural causes, you know, like those geezers at the nursing home."
Naddie's fingers dug into my arm.
Chet was on a roll, so I pressed him. "And just how did you do that, Chet?"
"I burked 'em," he said simply. He tipped up his bottle and took another drink.
Somewhere a horn blared. Chet arose from his chair. When the horn blared again, Chet disappeared.