She believed him. She had just finished three hours of psychological interviews with him and she knew what he was like. He had no conscience: he was not capable of guilt or remorse. If she frustrated his wishes, he would maim her without hesitation.
But what would he do after she had taken off her panties? she thought desperately. Would he be satisfied and take the blade away from her face? Would he slash her anyway? Or would he want something more?
Why couldn’t Robinson kill the damned rat?
“Quickly!” Dennis hissed.
What could be worse than blindness? “All right,” she groaned.
She bent awkwardly, with Dennis still holding her hair and pointing the knife at her. Fumbling, she pulled up the skirt of her linen dress and pushed down her Kmart white cotton briefs. Dennis grunted, deep in his throat like a bear, as they dropped to her ankles. She felt ashamed, even though reason told her this was not her fault. Hurriedly she worked her dress back down, covering her nakedness. Then she stepped out of her panties and kicked them away across the gray plastic-tiled floor.
She felt dreadfully vulnerable.
Dennis released her, snatched up the panties, and pressed them to his face, breathing in, his eyes closed in ecstasy.
Jeannie stared at him, aghast at this forced intimacy. Even though he was not touching her, she shuddered in disgust.
What would he do next?
Robinson’s nightstick made a revolting, squashing sound. Jeannie turned and saw that at last he had struck the rat. His stick had smashed the rear half of its fat body, and there was a red smear across the gray plastic tiles. It could no longer run, but it was still alive, its eyes open and its body moving as it breathed. Robinson hit it again, smashing its head. It stopped moving and a gray slime seeped out of the crushed skull.
Jeannie looked back at Dennis. To her surprise he was sitting at the table, as he had all afternoon, looking as if he had never moved. He wore an innocent air. The knife and her panties had disappeared.
Was she out of danger? Was it all over?
Robinson was panting with exertion. He directed a suspicious glare at Dennis and said: “You didn’t
“No, sir,” Dennis said glibly.
Jeannie formed in her mind the words “Yes, he did!” But for some reason she did not say them.
Robinson went on: “ ’Cause if I thought you done a thing like that, I would …” The guard shot a sideways look at Jeannie and decided not to say exactly what he would do to Dennis. “I believe you know I’d make you regret it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Jeannie realized she was safe. But relief was followed immediately by anger. She stared at Dennis, outraged. Was he going to pretend that nothing had happened?
Robinson said: “Well, you can get a bucket of water and clean this place up, anyway.”
“Right away, sir.”
“That is, if Dr. Ferrami is finished with you.”
Jeannie tried to say, “While you were killing the rat, Dennis stole my panties,” but the words would not come out. They seemed so foolish. And she could imagine the consequences of saying them. She would be stuck here for an hour while the allegation was investigated. Dennis would be searched and her underwear found. It would have to be shown to Warden Temoigne. She imagined him examining the evidence, handling her panties and turning them inside out, with a strange look on his face.…
No. She would say nothing.
She suffered a pang of guilt. She had always scorned women who suffered assault and then kept quiet about it, letting the offender get away with it. Now she was doing the same thing.
She realized that Dennis was counting on that. He had foreseen how she would feel and gambled that he could get away with it. The thought made her so indignant that for a moment she contemplated putting up with the hassle just to thwart him. Then she envisioned Temoigne and Robinson and all the other men in this jail looking at her and thinking, She doesn’t have any panties on, and she realized it would be too humiliating to be borne.
How clever Dennis was: as clever as the man who had set fire to the gymnasium and raped Lisa, as clever as Steve.…
“You seem a little shook,” Robinson said to her. “I guess you don’t like rats any more than I do.”
She pulled herself together. It was over. She had survived with her life and even her eyesight. What happened that was so bad? she asked herself. I might have been mutilated or raped. Instead I just lost my underwear. Be grateful. “I’m fine, thank you,” she said.
“In that case, I’ll take you out.”
The three of them left the room together.
Outside the door Robinson said: “Go get a mop, Pinker.”
Dennis smiled at Jeannie, a long, intimate smile, as if they were lovers who had spent the afternoon in bed together. Then he disappeared into the interior of the jail. Jeannie watched him go with immense relief, but it was tinged with continuing revulsion, for he had her underwear in his pocket. Would he sleep with her panties pressed to his cheek, like a child with a teddy bear? Or would he wrap them around his penis as he masturbated, pretending that he was fucking her? Whatever he chose to do she felt she was an unwilling participant, her privacy violated and her freedom compromised.
Robinson walked her to the main gate and shook her hand. She crossed the hot parking lot to the Ford, thinking, I’ll be glad to drive out of this place. She had a sample of Dennis’s DNA, that was the most important thing.
Lisa was at the wheel, running the air-conditioning to cool the car. Jeannie slumped into the passenger seat.
“You look beat,” Lisa said as she pulled away.
“Stop at the first shopping strip,” Jeannie said.
“Sure. What do you need?”
“I’ll tell you,” Jeannie replied. “But you’re not going to believe it.”
19
AFTER LUNCH BERRINGTON WENT TO A QUIET NEIGHBORHOOD bar and ordered a martini.
Jim Proust’s casual suggestion of murder had shaken him. Berrington knew he had made a fool of himself by grabbing Jim’s lapel and yelling. But he did not regret the fuss. At least he could be sure Jim knew exactly how he felt.
It was nothing new for them to fight. He remembered their first great crisis, in the early seventies, when the Watergate scandal broke. It had been a terrible time: conservatism was discredited, the law-and-order politicians turned out to be crooked, and any clandestine activity, no matter how well intentioned, was suddenly viewed as an unconstitutional conspiracy. Preston Barck had been terrified and wanted to give up the whole mission. Jim Proust had called him a coward, argued angrily that there was no danger, and proposed to carry it on as a joint CIA-army project, perhaps with tighter security. No doubt he would have been ready to assassinate any investigative journalist who pried into what they were doing. It had been Berrington who suggested setting up a private company and distancing themselves from the government. Now once again it was up to him to find a way out of their difficulties.
The place was gloomy and cool. A TV set over the bar showed a soap opera, but the sound was turned down. The cold gin calmed Berrington. His anger at Jim gradually evaporated, and he focused his mind on Jeannie Ferrami.
Fear had caused him to make a rash promise. He had recklessly told Jim and Preston that he would deal with Jeannie. Now he had to fulfill that imprudent undertaking. He had to stop her asking questions about Steve Logan and Dennis Pinker.
It was maddeningly difficult. Although he had hired her and arranged her grant, he could not simply give her
