Ask the Parrot

“Just let me see . . .”

Ankles and wrists tied together, she could only move in strange little lunges, but soon she was where she wanted to be, with her back to Brian, her tied hands down by his ankles, her hunched shoulders against his shins. Exhausted from the effort, she rested her head a minute, until she realized she was resting it against Brian’s thigh and that Brian hated that. So she lifted her head, felt around behind her, and at last came to a part of the duct tape holding the screwdrivers as chocks against the floor, to keep the chair from moving.

Now he grew silent again, and she was aware of his head bent as he tried to see what she was doing and whether or not it would get them anywhere. The duct tape clung fiercely to the wooden floor, but finally she felt far enough along it to reach an end, and could yank that upward. Once started, the tape came more readily, and then the screwdriver itself helped, and, out of breath but triumphant, she could whisper, “I got it!”

“It’ll take more than one,” he said. “But then I’ll be able to help.”

This shift in him from being testy with her, scornful of her, impatient with her, to someone who could help was instantaneous and unremarked-upon. She simply accepted the offer with a nod and scooted backward a bit more until she could find some duct tape to assault.

The second screwdriver was easier to remove, now that she knew how, and then Brian could move his chair, though only in tiny increments, since his ankles were still tied together and to the chair. “Now what?” he said. “I don’t think I can drive this thing through that door.”

“Let me bring that other chair over,” she said. “If I can get up on it, maybe I can reach the knots on your wrists.”

“What good does that do? They’re tight, Suzanne, trust me.”

“I tied them myself,” she said. “Just let me see what I can do.”

“Whatever you want,” he said, disbelieving her.

She didn’t care. Now that she was moving, she was moving. She rolled across the floor, making herself dizzy, but at last bumping into that other chair. Her legs tied together with jumper cable made for a blunt instrument, but with them she could kick the chair away from the wall and around the edge of the desk and over toward Brian, who, astonishingly enough, was doing what he could do to help. That is, he kept shifting his body forward while pressing down and back on the floor with his white socked feet, inching the chair on its casters out away from the corner, where she would find him easier to reach.

Maneuvering them into position wasn’t hard, with his back turned to her and the other chair so that, if she were sitting sideways on it, Suzanne would be able to reach Brian’s wrists. No, the hard part was for her to get up onto the chair. She did manage to lunge herself up so she was lying facedown across the chair seat, but then could do no more, had no traction anywhere. At last, half-muffled in that position, she said, “Brian, I need your help.”

“Sure. What?”

“I have to put my foot in your lap, and you have to not let it get away. I can’t get up on this chair unless I can brace against something.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do here, but all right. Let’s try it. Jesus, Suzanne, try to be a little careful.”

“This will be very fast,” she promised.

Well, it wasn’t, and she was sorry to have to hear him grit his teeth as her right heel bore into his crotch, but she needed that brace to be able to swivel around on the chair seat, first on her side, then faceup, so that then she could pull herself up with her bound hands behind her against the slats of the chair back.

“There!” she said.

“Jesus.”

“I’m sorry, Brian. Can you turn a little more away from me?”

“I certainly can.”

There was some fumbling involved, but then, behind her, she could feel his thick-fingered hands, and then the wrists, and then the thin strong shoelace.

Yes, those were the knots she’d made, good strong knots that could be slipped if you knew which part you were pulling. Here’s a loop, here’s an end, here’s—

He jumped as though he’d been electrocuted. “What’s that? Wait—wait a minute! My hands are loose!”

“Brian, please, please, untie my wrists, please, please—”

“Yeah, wait, let me see what I’m doing here. He didn’t make it easy, that sonofa— There!”

“Oh, thank God!” she said, and bent to tear off the jumper cable pinning her ankles.

He was still struggling with the duct tape on his socks. She jumped to her feet, patting the wall. “Lights.”

“We’ve got to be careful when we go out there, Suzanne, we don’t know what’s—”

“I don’t want to go out there,” she said, hurrying through the doorway into the dark interior room. “I want the ladies’!”

He called after her, “You’ll need the key!”

12

Where was Tom going? It didn’t make any sense.

Around seven-thirty, Tom Lindahl’s Ford SUV had driven away from the little converted garage he lived in and headed south out of Pooley, with Cory and Cal in the Volkswagen Jetta far behind, and an hour later they were all still driving, heading steadily southwest across New York State, away from Pooley and away from Massachusetts,