6Suddenly, the light went out and a voice whispered, "Don't move."
"Who's there?" In a rare show of bravery, the writer stood up.
"You don't need to know who's here. All that matters is that you are mine."
"What do you mean?" The edge of fear was beginning to show in her voice. "This is America. You can't just order people around like that. Tell me who you are! Tell me now!"
"Or you'll do what? Scream?" the voice said, mocking. "Who will hear you? Who will care?"
"Don't make me hurt you," she said, her tone clearly calling her bluff. "Tell me who you are! Or get out of my house!"
"It is not necessary for you to know who I am," the voice replied silkily. "In time you will come to know me very intimately indeed. But for now, you had best cooperate."
"Cooperate with what? What are you going to do? Rape me?"
"Hardly. I wouldn't stoop to such lows. You will come with me."
She felt the barrel of a gun in the small of her back. "What are you trying to pull?" Her voice was breaking.
"Just come, come with me," coaxed the voice. "You shall know in time."
Her arrogance returned. "You can't just walk in here and kidnap people! Who do you think you are?"
"I think I am… I think I am… I think I am Me. Now come. There is much to be done.
"Come with you where? And why? And what is this work?"
The gun prodded harder. "Now, don't make things worse for yourself then they already are. Come with me. Come now."
She felt the gun slide slowly up her back and to her head. At the same moment she felt a knife at her neck. "You had best," the voice intoned, "do as I tell you."
One last self-protective instinct stirred in her. "My purse is on the chair. Take what you want, but please, please let me go," she almost sobbed.
"Now, now, you should know me better than that," the voice replied without humor. "I wouldn't stoop to such petty crimes. Now come, don't make another sound lest my knife find your throat." She let herself be led out the door of her apartment, down the stairs and to a waiting automobile. She braced herself, ready to be shoved into the trunk.
The owner of the voice sensed her thoughts. "Oh, I wouldn't do that," he said sardonically. "What an awful cliché." He examined his nails nonchalantly. "No, you shall ride in the front with me." He swept the passenger door open with a grand gesture, the knife never leaving her neck, nor the gun her temple. "Get in, my dear." She got into the car reluctantly. He slid into the other side. "Do put on your seatbelt," he grinned, "I would hate for you to be injured should we crash. And I suggest you act as if you are enjoying yourself fully, should you value your life." His voice had hardened to a hiss.
* * *
A phone rang. "Chief. Pick up the phone."
Silence. The phone rang again.
"Chief. Pick up the phone!"
"Guh… Idonwanna." A chair turned, revealing the chunky face of the chief. In his right hand he held a powdered-sugar donut; in his left he held a pen. He picked up the phone.
"Uh, hi."
"Is this the chief of police?" The voice was low and guttural, and somewhat forced, as though the speaker was attempting to disguise it.
"Uh, yeah," the chief replied through the donut, his voice somewhat muffled.
"I'm going to kill you."
"Very funny. Ha. Ha. Ha."
"But it's not funny, chief, now is it? And I'm not going to kill you. I'm just going to give you a hint."
"A hint on what?"
"The kidnapping and murder of one of your constituents."
"One of my what now?"
"Oh, never mind. Just… remember purple."
"Purple, eh? Well, we'll see about purple." He slammed the phone back onto its cradle. "Mel, bring me something purple."
The man named Mel entered the room, wearing a purple suit. "Is this purple enough for you, Chief?" He bowed slightly.
"Is that a confession?"
"Confession of what?"
"Confession of guilt!"
"No, I'm not guilty."
"Then why are you wearing purple? The man said purple! You must be guilty!"
"Guilty of what?"
"Guilty as charged! And you had better tell me what's going on here."
"Well, this morning I got up and saw this purple suit. I thought, well, why can't a man wear purple if he feels like it, and I felt like it. So I wore it. Is there some reason I shouldn't?"
"Yes! Only guilty people wear purple."
"You've lost me here."
"The voice on the telephone. It said to remember purple! Then, scarcely ten seconds later, you wander in wearing a purple suit! What color are your socks, Mel?"
"Purple, but…"
"Ah-hah! You, my friend, are now our prime suspect in this case!"
"But I only wore them because I thought it would match!"
"No, my friend, you were trying to make a statement. You were trying to shout to the world, 'Hey everybody, I'm a kidnapper and a murderer.' You, my friend, are guilty! I have never seen a guiltier man than you, Mel Porter. Your face shines with it. You reek of guiltiness, your hair is gelled with guiltiness. I'm ashamed to even know you, you slime."
Mel stared at his chief. "Okay. I'm guilty. Guilty of what? The freedom to express myself by wearing a purple suit, that's what. Guilty of knowing a slime like you." He was furious. "Fine. Arrest me. And I'll plead guilty of wearing a purple suit to work. Thanks, boss." He turned and stormed out.
Hmm, thought the chief, that did not go well. Ah, what can you do? He pressed the call button for his other underling-servant, Lester.
"Lester. Bring me something purple."
He entered, wearing a purple suit.
* * *
"What do you want with me?" The writer had found her voice again after a long silence. She and her kidnapper were still in the car.
"I told you. I don't want anything with you. I want you."
"For what? Are you going to rape me?"
"You asked me that question already, and again I must answer no. Why do you ask? You seem almost… eager."
She shuddered. "No, you just… imply something. Normally when people say they want you, they're talking about sex."
"Well, I'm not. I'm talking about permanent servitude."
"You did this because you wanted a maid?"
"Of course. Know any better reasons?"
"Well, in the movies, everyone kidnaps people because they want to take over the world."
"This isn't a movie, my dear. Here we are."
They had stopped outside an old apartment building.
* * *
"Ah. So you're guilty too, eh? Just how many were in on this conspiracy? Talk!"
"I'm sure I have no idea what you are talking about, Chief. Perhaps you would like a glass of water."
"I would not like a glass of water, you bumbling fool! I want answers, and I want them now! Bring me Mel!"
"Yes, chief. Whatever you like." Why, oh why did I have to work for such an unstable psychotic mushroom-for-brains? Lester began his search for Mel.
He found him sitting at his desk. "Oh, hello," he said tiredly. "Come to arrest me for flagrant disregard of the unwritten law against purple clothing? Or wait," he smiled, "then you would have to arrest yourself too. Why are you here?"
"The chief wants to speak to you. Seems to think there's some kind of conspiracy going on. I told him I'd find you."
They walked into the chief's office to find him on the phone. "Yes. Yes. No, I didn't know that. Yes. Thank you." He hung up. "That was a young woman named Naomi living in an apartment on 5th Street and Johnston. Says her roommate disappeared last night, leaving her computer on and her purse on a table. Hasn't seen her since. And earlier today I got a call saying to remember purple on some kidnapping and murder case. And then you walk in, both wearing purple suits! I demand an explanation!"
"We just both happened to wear purple on the same day. Nothing wrong with a little purple, now is there?"
"It's highly unusual. I have never worn purple in my life."
"So?"
"So I think I have reason to believe you are both part of a conspiracy."
"Because we wore purple suits on the same day?"
"And on that same day, I get a call telling me to remember purple. And this woman has gone missing."
"I have worn this suit before, Chief. You didn't seem to see it as being anything unusual then."
"But today I do. Perhaps then you weren't part of a conspiracy."
"Perhaps now we're not part of a conspiracy either!"
"Perhaps. In any case I find it highly unusual. But, being as you've both served me faithfully for over five years…" he pulled up his pants importantly "…I am going to give you a chance to save yourselves. Find the person who did kidnap this woman, and I'll forget all about this purple incident. But should you fail, I'm going to arrest you myself and take all legal action possible to prosecute your cute little behinds into the next millennium. Now go. You're dismissed. I suggest you get to work, boys."
They left. "Oh, how awfully typical," Lester began. "The big, stupid boss gives us one more chance to save our asses or it's into the poky for us. How original. I think he's been reading too many detective novels."
"Well, don't be too harsh on him. They're probably the only things a big oaf like him can read. Being as his IQ's about seventeen, you know."
Lester chuckled appreciatively. "Well, he does seem to have a psychic sense for the location of powdered-sugar donuts."
Mel laughed. "You wanna drive? To go to 5th and Johnston, I mean."
"You can…"
* * *
The kidnapper led the writer up six flights of stairs and into an apartment overlooking the street. "Do sit down." He indicated a yellow plastic couch. "We must get acquainted. Tell me all about yourself."
She sat. "Why? What's it to you? You just want to use me as a slave, anyway."
"Now, now, you shouldn't be so angry. It's bad for your heart." He paused, as if waiting for a response. "Very well. I will tell you about myself. My name is Jonathan, don't call me Jon. I like moonlit nights, beaches, cats, and clean bedrooms. I am thirty-five years old and was born in Philadelphia. My favorite color is purple. Now you go."
"Fine," she said angrily. "My name is Jerelynn, call me Peaches. I like red, orange, and yellow, soft cool water, marble floors, and air mattresses. I'm twenty-nine and was born in Milwaukee. Happy?"
"Not particularly. What's your sign?"
"Ah, superstitious, are we? Cancer, if you must know. I don't put much stock in horoscopes."
"Oh, neither do I, but it's good to know… Cancer, eh? I'm a Taurus. Fascinating combination."
"Oh, fascinating. Just stellar. Now, if you don't mind, I believe it's time for bed."
"Right this way." He led her to a closet. "Sorry, I ran out of room. You can sleep on this." He threw a sleeping bag and pillow in after her. "And just so you don't try escaping, I'm locking the door."
The door closed, and she heard a click. Then another, and the door opened again. "Whoops, forgot. Bathroom's this way."
She used the bathroom, stared at herself in the mirror. She looked the same as she always did, just more tired and depressed. Ah, well, she thought, might as well try and sleep. She left the bathroom and followed her captor back to the closet that was now her home.
* * *
Naomi paced restlessly. Peaches was lost in the city, probably kidnapped. On the case was a police force led by a buffoon that hadn't even bothered to interview her.
There was a knock at the door. "It's open," she called tiredly.
"Sorry to disturb you, ma'am. You called earlier about your roommate's disappearance?"
"Indeed. It's about time you people got here! Where's your chief?"
"Ah, he sent us. He's probably at home by now, asleep, all tucked up into his little bed. Anyway… At what time did you return home today?"
"Six-thirty."
"And you saw…?"
"The door was unlocked, all the lights were on except for the one in the study, Jerelynn's purse was on the table, and her computer was on a blank word-processing document."
"Does Jerelynn usually come home before you?"
"Always. And she was the only one who could have unlocked the door."
"How so?"
"It's a voice-print lock. We're techno-dweebs."
"And either of you two can open it?"
"Yes. It stores two passwords."
"Okay. Is it normal for Jerelynn to turn on her computer as soon as she gets home?"
"She often does. She's a part-time writer."
"And does she ever impulsively do things? For example, would it be normal for her to suddenly exit the apartment, without her purse, leaving the computer on and the door unlocked?"
"She never goes anywhere without her purse. And she wouldn't leave the door open. She loves her computer."
"Okay." Lester stopped, apparently at a loss for how to continue.
"And we have a survey question to ask you," Mel put in. Grinning at Lester, he continued. "Rate you level of satisfaction with our chief of police on a scale of one to ten, ten being fully satisfied and one being not at all satisfied."
"I'd give him a two, for talking to me through a donut and not coming down here himself. He deserves two points for sending two people. Are you sure this is part of your investigation?"
"Well, no. I suppose we're finished here." Lester began to leave, Mel following.
Naomi looked at their retreating backs almost fondly, and suddenly realized they were about as likely to find Peaches as they were of finding a good song on a country album. "Wait! I'll help."
"Uh, okay," Lester said, secretly relieved. He had realized that they had no idea of where to begin. "I guess we go back to the station and trace that call."
"What call?"
"Long story. Mel?"
"Tomorrow. Look at the time." IT was 9:30. "We can trace the call in the morning."
"Yeah. Tomorrow." They left Naomi standing in her doorway and went to call a taxi.
Why her, Naomi wondered.
* * *
Why me, Jerelynn wondered as she fell asleep.