Tim Green: The Letter Of The Law

"No," Lipton said with an evil grin. "I can't do that. I'll have to get back in touch with her myself. When do you think would be a good time to call? Do you have any idea when I can reach her?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Lamb," Gina said. "The office is closing now, but I've left word at her home as well to call me. I wish you'd give me a number."

"No," Lipton said. "I'll just call her at home tonight. Don't worry about it."

"All right," Gina said with concern. It wasn't like Casey to just disappear during the day without even checking in. "If you don't get her for any reason, she usually gets in around eight in the morning and you can reach her first thing."

"Fine," Lipton said, punctuating the end of the call by snapping the phone shut. He sat in the front seat of his van with the air-conditioning blasting. A double layer of clothes, while essential to a perfectly clean crime scene, was an inconvenience in the heat. The fact that someone might see him going into Patti Dunleavy's apartment was of no consequence. The police were looking for him anyway. The thought of being so bold actually pleased him.

It wasn't long before the girl arrived home at the upscale apartment complex. Lipton knew her car, and when she pulled into a shady spot only a stone's throw from his own van, he slid out of his seat and slithered into the bowels of the van, where he could watch her safely from the shadows. Around him were the tools of his trade: roles of tape, a ladder, coils of rope, sharp knives, and tools ranging from James bars that could open back doors to fine wire cutters and soldering irons that enabled him to tamper with phone and electric systems. A metal desk was built into one wall. The same van had served him well over the years and had seen a lot of miles. Even when his aunt was alive, Lipton had kept it at her lake house, out of the way, unnoticed by anyone.

When Patti had disappeared up the decorative white stairway, he sat down on the swivel chair that was bolted to the floor in front of the desk and flipped on his computer. With glee, he pulled up his special files and went directly to Patti Dunleavy. He had only recently composed her story, and now he reread it with satisfaction, taking the time to add a few particularly titillating lines to her imagined sexual proclivities. Twice again, he read her story, immersing himself in a trancelike state in which his whole universe stopped and focused its entire energy on the destiny that awaited the haughty young girl who begged to be subjugated.

If she knew, if any of them really knew the way in which their sexual essence was contributing to the enhancement of his genius and the virility of his power, he believed they might willingly go to their death. But that wasn't their nature. He shook his head no. It wasn't their nature. They were too stubborn and self-consumed to stop and think. So he had to take it from them. It was his due.

Stirred from within, Lipton picked up his phone off the front seat and dialed Patti's private number.

"Hello?" she said. She sounded fresh to Lipton, as if she'd just come out of a long, cool shower. He imagined her wrapped in a towel, her hair draped about her shoulders in dark, wet strands.

"Patti," he said urgently, "this is Professor Lipton. I'm in serious trouble. Everything's all right, but Casey told me I should call you. She said she'd meet me at your apartment."

"My… she didn't say anything to me," Patti said. She was flustered and uncomfortable. "I haven't heard from her. What's wrong?"

"I'm on a cell phone right now," he told her. "Casey told me not to talk on the phone. She just said to meet her at your place. I'm on my way. I just wanted to let you know. I didn't want to shock you."

"You… I…"

"Don't worry," he said hurriedly. "Casey said to tell you that everything will be fine. I'm sure she's going to call you any minute."

He didn't want her to panic, to bolt from her apartment or make any rash calls. If she believed him, she would wait by the phone.

"Okay," she said tentatively.

"I'll be right there," he said, then hung up.

Lipton took a small, dark duffel bag and began to carefully load it with the supplies he needed. He was in no great hurry. He knew Casey was unavailable and she was the only person Patti would call. After all, he was a client, and confidentiality was sacrosanct. He liked the idea of taking his time, of savoring every moment in anticipation of what he was about to do. He fussed over each item that went into the bag and dwelled affectionately on the role each would play in his scheme. The last thing to go in was a Tech-9 the ultimate handheld firepower. It was for the emergency he'd never had, but to Lipton, thoroughness was its own reward.

Fully prepared, he shouldered the small bag and slipped back into the front seat to look around the complex. There was a young man in a short-sleeve white shirt and tie getting out of an aqua green Mustang. Lipton followed his progress across the lot and into his apartment. When the door closed, he got out of his van and crossed the steaming blacktop. After one final glance around, he slowly began to scale the outside staircase two steps at a time toward the young lawyer's apartment on the third floor.

Casey sat at Sales's kitchen table, unable to focus on the work in front of her. Papers spilled importantly from her briefcase, but she found herself rereading the same passages of a brief Patti had prepared for an upcoming hearing. It was much easier for her mind to wander over the mounted animal head trophies staring down at her from the high log walls, or to consider the rich history behind the different Native American artifacts. There was something strangely familiar about the rustic austerity of Sales's cabin that made Casey uneasy. This was the setting, after all, in which she'd been raised. Her father and older brother had been hunters and she'd grown up on venison.

She had time to be introspective now because her concern over Lipton's appearance had waned nearly an hour ago. Each minute that ticked off the clock seemed to mock their plan. Would Lipton really try to abduct her again after what had happened last night? And, if he did, was he desperate enough to strike at the first possible opportunity? Apparently not.

Casey got up and searched the refrigerator for a diet soda. All she found was orange juice and beer, so she went to the tap and filled a glass, holding it up against the light from the window and looking at the cloudy well water with disgust. It wasn't unlike what she'd had to drink as a girl in Odessa, the same rural setting, the same brackish water. The sight of it was repulsive. She longed for a cold bottle of crystal-clear Evian.

Casey was suddenly and clearly gripped by panic. What if she was kidding herself? Did she really think she could just unravel the life it had taken her so long to weave? Wasn't she actually part of the upper crust now? Wasn't it possible that she needed Taylor as much or more than he needed her? Could she really do without his money, his manners, his good looks, and his connections? Could she really just leave him? Casey felt panic tighten its grip, as if she had suddenly found herself in a hopeless dream. She had never been confused before. All her life she had known exactly what she'd wanted.

Now she felt that she knew nothing. Her heart told her a better life was out there for her. But her mind was spinning, all because of a cloudy glass of water and the familiar feel of a spartan cabin in the sticks. She didn't know if she had the courage to really change her life. Her confidence had been shaken. Her brazen certainty that every move she made in life was the right one had been crippled by the Lipton case. She had been hunted and terrorized. Her husband had betrayed her. All those things, things she never imagined could happen to her, had happened within a few short days.