Stone Shadow by Rex Miller Page B

Understand?” As always speaking so softly.
    “Aaaaaaahhhhhh,” sighing, looking not at all fresh as a daisy today.
    Jack getting her after a rigorous bit of playacting with intelligence and then, last night, a brain-battering session in which Donna Scannapieco had allowed herself to be put in a deep trance by a clinical hypnotist. Still, there'd been nothing forthcoming about the location of her makeshift prison.
    “Okay,” she said with a shrug. “Let's see. I was wearing the jeans, stacked heels, blouse under the grape sweater, earrings, purse, no extra jewelry, had makeup on, wearing my hair long like I have it today, it was an ordinary day, cool, I just don't remember anything about it all that I haven't said a million times. And he stuck his head in the window and said, ‘If you'll look in my hand you'll see I'm holding a pistol.’ I was scared but mainly I was like, you know, sort of in shock. I didn't want to get shot. I did what he said, and—"
    “Donna, did it ever strike you as odd that when he threatened you there in the shopping center that was the only time in the four weeks he had you that he'd ever made any kind of specific threat with a weapon?"
    “I don't get what you mean."
    “Even when he was telling you about all the people he had buried around the state. Did you once ever hear him say anything about I shot this one with a pistol? Or I stabbed this one with a knife? Or I hit this one over the head with a club?” She shook her head no. “See what I'm saying here? He threatened you with a gun in the mall when he took you. But how come he never waved a gun around or talked about any specific act of violence all the time he had you?"
    “He talked about acts of violence all the time,” she said, making a face at the stupidity of what he'd said. “He was always going to kick my ass for this or whip the shit out of me for that. And what do you call the fact that he claimed to have killed HUNDREDS OF PEOPLE. Is that enough violence for you?"
    “No. You're not getting my point. If he threatened to beat you or hurt you physically, sure, I agree that is definitely violence. But did he ever pull a knife or gun on you? A blackjack? Anything?"
    “Well—"
    “When he was talking about the crimes he'd committed, was he ever specific with respect to using a weapon? How did he get those people dead? Run over them in a car? Drop a bomb on them? Poison them? Strangle them? What?"
    “I don't know.” She shrugged. “He just talked about killing different ones and I don't recall anything about whether he said he shot ‘em or stabbed ‘em and I don't see what the hell difference it could possibly make. Also, you say did he threaten me with a gun? I was CHAINED by a leather thing this big"—she gestured impatiently—"all he had to do was grab me or slap me or kick me or whatever he wanted I didn't threaten him in any way. Why would he need a knife or gun? I was chained to the wall."
    “Good point. Tell me about the trip to the place he took you. What kinds of noises did you hear? How many times did he stop? How long did it take?” And on and on over the same stuff, listening to the different way she'd describe the same experiences, looking for the telltale elephant footprints in the cottage cheese. It occurred to him as he listened, watching her, it wasn't just the eyes. The sexual statements were transmitted by the clothing.
    There was something about the clothing she wore. It wasn't all tight sweaters and low-cut dresses or the obvious things like that. It was that her clothing was just ... He couldn't quite describe it or categorize it even to himself. Somehow Donna's clothing never quite seemed to be appropriate. Ridiculous, but there it is. Take today. She'd been drug over the coals by a therapist or whatever, the intel and homicide boys had been at her, Eichord again, and what does she show up in that morning? Some kind of strange, great, voluminous and flowery dress and big, gold hoop earrings,