Charles Williams - Man on a Leash

“Interesting trip,” Paulette said beside him. “Like a sorority initiation, and about as intelligent.”

“Shut up,” Top Kick said. “And turn around, both of you.”

He did an about-face and heard Paulette turn beside him. Top Kick should be in front of him now, but another gun prodded his back. “Like the monkey said in the lawn mower, don’t make no sudden moves, ole buddy.” Tex. Somebody was throwing rope around his ankles, hobbling him. He thought of the photograph of his father and was swept with cold rage for an instant but controlled it.

“I’m still here, Romstead,” Top Kick said in front of him then. “All right, unlock the cuffs.” He felt the handcuffs being lifted. They clicked open. “Put your hands in front of you,” Top Kick ordered. He held them out. “You too, Mrs. Carmody.” The cuffs closed over his wrists again, and he heard another pair click shut beside him. The pictures, he thought. Realism, artistic detail, the director’s touch. Footsteps receded across the concrete. He heard the rustle of cloth somewhere.

“All right, turn them on.” This was the intercom voice, presumably Kessler. “And take off the blindfolds.”

There was a soft swishing of cloth right beside him. Tex, or whoever it was behind him now, was removing Paulette Carmody’s blindfold. He felt fingers working at the knot of his own. Then, from the middle distance somewhere in front, a feminine voice said, “You mean you really would ball that old thing?”

“What an adorable child,” Paulette said.

“Who-eee, would I?” It was Tex behind him, all right. “Be like ridin’ a Braymer bull.” He went on, in imitation of a rodeo announcer, “—comin’ out of chute number five on Widow-maker—”

“Get on with it,” Top Kick ordered somewhere off to his right. “For Christ’s sake, don’t you ever think of anything else?”

The blindfold came off then. He blinked, momentarily unable to see anything in the almost painful glare of light burning into his face. Then he could make out that there were four of them, high-intensity floods on standards, two in front and two off to his right. Everything beyond them was indistinct and shadowy, though he could vaguely make out the swing-up door of a two-car garage directly facing him. To his left was a car, a two-door sedan several years old, and on the other side of it, across that whole wall, was a backdrop that appeared to have been made from a cheap plastic dropcloth sprayed with a thin coat of green paint. He looked around in back and saw the wall behind them was covered the same way. He had to admit for the second time that for all their theatricality they didn’t miss a bet. They knew as well as he did that the second set of people to see these pictures was going to be a room full of FBI special agents, and they weren’t going to see a hell of a lot. No knotholes, no distinctive grain patterns, stains, old nails, or anything that would identify the place later.

He looked to the right. Tex or Top Kick was standing just far enough back to be well out of the picture, holding the sawed-off shotgun. Six feet two, at least, and heavy in the shoulders, wearing a black jumpsuit and a black hood. By squinting his eyes against the glare he could just make out three more shadowy figures now, slightly behind the lights in front and on his right. One was obviously the girl, not over five five, the second could very easily fit Kessler’s description as to build, while the third was as big as the man with the shotgun. They all were dressed the same way.

All those lights weren’t necessary for the pictures, of course; they could have used flash bulbs just as well, but the object was to keep him from seeing very much beyond them. His eyes jerked back to the car then; he’d seen something before that hadn’t registered at the time. It had two short whip antennas installed on it, one on the roof and one on top of the trunk. And now he saw something else; a half-inch or three-quarters-inch hole had been drilled in the left-hand door, and on the concrete floor beside the car was a steel rod about six feet long threaded at both ends.

“Go ahead, Romstead, take a good look at it,” the intercom voice said. “It’s yours.” The slender figure stepped out of the shadows then, holding a Polaroid camera. He came forward a few steps, sighted through the viewfinder, and moved back a step, presumably to get the handcuffs in the frame.

The camera clicked, and there was a wait while the picture developed. Romstead continued to study the car. The two antennas suggested that basically it was the same operation as before except that it had been transferred to wheels. One would be a transmitter tied to one or more bugging devices inside the car to monitor anything he said or did, while the other would be a receiver for the radio signal that constituted his tether. He’d just grasped the function of the steel rod when Kessler—it was bound to be Kessler—removed the film, peeled off the backing, and studied the result. He nodded. “Perfect the first time.” Romstead noted that he was wearing nylon gloves.

“All right, in the car now,” Kessler said. “Both of you. Romstead at the wheel.” With the shotgun prodding his back, Romstead hobbled over to the car. The other of the two big men opened the door, and he got in behind the wheel, while Paulette was helped into the seat beside him.

“I don’t know what we’re doing,” she said, “unless we’re shooting a commercial for mental disease.” Nobody paid any attention. Romstead said nothing; he was too intent on what they were doing, probing the setup for any flaw that would offer the slightest ray of hope. Apparently she was to go, too; he hadn’t expected that. While the man with the shotgun covered him from Paulette’s side, the other unlocked his handcuffs and produced a short length of chain with steel rings at both ends. One cuff was replaced on his left wrist and the other was snapped into one of the rings on the chain. The doors were closed, and Romstead noted there was a hole drilled through the right one too. He’d been right about the rod. The man beside him reached down for it. The end of it appeared in the hole at his left, just over the armrest on the door. It was threaded through the ring at the lower end of the chain, then between Paulette’s shackled wrists, and on through the hole in the right-hand door. He heard washers and nuts being applied and the nuts being tightened with wrenches. Nothing, he thought. There was no way they could get out of the car until they were let out.

The rod was half-inch steel, and it passed in front of them between the bottom of the rib cage and the lap, pinning them down and back against the seat. Even without the shackles you couldn’t get past it any more than you could get out of the seat with the safety belt fastened. And the doors couldn’t be opened, of course, with that rod locking them shut. His right hand was free, and there was enough length to the chain to permit him normal positioning on the wheel with the left, so he could drive, but drive was all he could do. He wouldn’t be able to rise from the seat far enough to reach anything else in the car.

“Does she have to go, too?” he asked.

“She shore does.” It was Tex who was on the right. “Ain’t inny glass in them doors now, Sugarfoot, but you won’t be thinkin’ about yore hairdo nohow.”

She ignored him. One of the light standards was brought around in front of the car to shine in through the windshield. Kessler positioned himself to Romstead’s left with the Polaroid. “Left hand up on the wheel, Romstead,” he said. “And both of you face this way.” They turned. He snapped. Very careful, Romstead thought, not to get any of the exterior of the car. Just the two of us and the backdrop on the other side. When the picture was developed, Kessler nodded with satisfaction. He moved in closer then, shooting downward at an angle to get the detail of the bar and the manacles.