Greg Iles - Third Degree

“I told you, I’m about to pee on myself!” Laurel cried for the fifth time.

Warren didn’t even look up from her computer.

“Why don’t you take a break from that thing and search the house some more? I told you, there’s something else waiting for you to find it.”

He chuckled softly. “What I want to find is buried in the circuits of this machine.”

“What you need to find is what Kyle Auster planted in here, so you can start taking out your anger on the person who’s your real problem.”

Warren ignored her.

She tried another tack. “Do you really want our children to see me taped up like a hostage? With urine-soaked pants? How are you going to explain that?”

“You don’t have to use the bathroom. You just want to get loose.”

“I’m about to burst! Can’t you see the sweat on my face?”

He gave her a brief glance. “If you have to go that bad, go in your pants. I’ll throw them in the washer before the kids get here.”

New anxiety awakened within her. “How are they supposed to get here if I don’t pick them up? Are you going to get them?”

“Maybe I e-mailed one of the girls at the office to get them.” She hadn’t considered the idea that Warren might be e-mailing people while he was carrying out his exercise in paranoia. “Who?”

“Nell Roberts.”

Laurel pictured a pretty, dark-haired Louisiana girl, the younger sister of the bleached-blond receptionist people said Auster was sleeping with. What would Diane Rivers do when Nell Roberts showed up at school to pick up the children Diane had been asked to drop off? She’d call Laurel’s cell phone, which was now tucked into Warren’s back pocket, and he’d give some smooth explanation to allay any suspicion. End of story.

“How long till they get out of school?” Laurel asked casually.

Warren shrugged. “They’ll get here when they get here. But Nell’s not bringing them. I didn’t e-mail her. You’re such a perfect mother that I realized you would already have arranged to get them here. Right?”

His sarcasm angered Laurel, but at least she had learned that the possibility to intervene with Diane remained.

“Warren, I’m begging you to let me go to the bathroom. Don’t you have enough simple human decency left to allow that?”

At last he looked over at her. “Tell me the password to your Hotmail account. Then you can go.”

Okay, Laurel thought angrily. You asked for it. She closed her eyes and relaxed her urinary sphincter. Within seconds her crotch was soaked, then her inner thighs and bottom. The smell would hit Warren in a minute, and he was unlikely to maintain a stoic front. The sofa beneath Laurel’s behind was a leather Roche-Bobois imported from France, $17,000 and change through a boutique store in West Palm Beach. She was still peeing when Warren sat up straight n the ottoman.

“Fuck!” he cried. “You didn’t pee on that couch?”

“I told you I had to go.”

“Get off the damn sofa!”

“Screw you. Cut this tape off me and I’ll get up.”

He glared as though he wanted to hit her, but Laurel sat as calmly as a Buddha, almost blissful in the relief of her empty bladder.

“You’re disgusting,” Warren said.

“You asked for it, you got it.”

He went into the kitchen and came back with a razor-sharp steak knife. Then he knelt and began cutting the duct tape away from her lower legs. They burned as blood began flowing back into her skin. She held out her hands for him to cut the tape from her wrists, but he shook his head.

“Forget it. Take off your pants and throw them in the wash. Then we’ll get you some new ones.”

Stripping off her pants presented a problem, since her pants were the only thing concealing her clone phone. Carefully, she slid them down her legs and bunched them around the pocket that held the Razr, then headed for the laundry room. The pungent odor of urine reminded her of the days when Grant and Beth still wore diapers, a memory that broke loose a calcified layer of fierce maternal instinct. As she passed through the kitchen, she glanced at the wall clock: 2:11 p.m. Fifty minutes, max, until the kids burst through the front door. Fifty minutes to break out of the house or to hurt Warren so badly that she could do anything she liked without fear of retribution.

He seemed to sense her hardening resolve. He followed no closer than ten feet behind her as she walked to the laundry room, and his gun stayed in his hand. That distance allowed her to palm the Razr as she tossed the dirty slacks into the washer. But this presented another problem. If she tried to sneak the phone to the bedroom while naked from the waist down, Warren was bound to see it. She considered trying to slip it up under her arm, but she could feel him watching her from the bifold doors.

“Get moving,” he said. “Come on.”

“Just a sec.” She wanted to check the phone for text messages, but she didn’t dare. As she reached for the big jug of Purex on the shelf above the machine, she slid the Razr onto the shelf and left it there. Just before the phone slid out of sight, she saw 2 new messages on its tiny exterior LCD screen. Her heart leaped, for the messages could only be from Danny, but she didn’t even consider trying to open the phone and read them. That would have to wait. After she got the wash going, she left the Purex on top of the dryer and walked half-naked back to the master suite, trusting that Warren would prefer to watch her receding derriere rather than double-check the laundry room.

She got into the shower and cleaned herself as well as she could, considering the duct tape on her wrists. Rather than loosening under the spray, the tape became even stickier, a gooey gray mess. To her surprise, Warren hung a towel on the shower door while she scrubbed. She dried herself with it, pulled a fresh pair of panties from her drawer, and selected a pair of stretchy, black yoga pants from the closet-just the thing for sprinting, if she got the chance.

As she sat on the bed to pull them on, she caught Warren staring at her pubic triangle. He’d always liked her to keep it shaved, and she usually obliged him. But Danny had liked her natural, and she’d been more than happy to please him. Warren hadn’t complained about the difference, though he had mentioned it a few months back. But now he was staring at her mons like a detective who’d stumbled onto a clue that could solve the case of his life.

“What?” she asked. “Comments from the gallery?”

“Kyle likes them shaved,” Warren said almost to himself. “I’ve heard him say it a hundred times.”

“He would.”

Warren’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean?”

Laurel sighed, debating whether to be honest. “I just think it’s juvenile the way men want women shaved down there. I mean, what’s the deal? Do you really want a prepubescent girl, and a shaved woman is the closest thing you can get?”

Warren had gone red. “Your new friend is above all that, right? More mature than the rest of us?”

You’d better believe it. “I’m not going to dignify that.” She pulled on her panties and then the yoga pants. “What now, General Pinochet?”

“Don’t act like this is my fault. You put yourself in this position.”

“Ah. So torture is the new legal remedy for infidelity?”

“It ought to be. Even if it were, the betrayed person would still suffer more.”

She dismissed his words with a flick of her hand and walked back toward the kitchen.

“Back to the couch,” he told her. “If there’s room beside your wet spot.”

“No more duct tape. My children will not see me like that. And you’re going to cut this tape off my wrists before they come in.”