Chapter Four
Florence Confronts the Colonel
Florence Henderson sped up the long winding luxuriant drive to the Colonel's house. Out of the car and up the long set of expansive marble steps she marched. She hammered on the door with all her might. The butler opened the door, "Yes?"
Florence stood on tip toes to get in his face, "I need to see the colonel."
With droll indifference the butler responded, "I'll see if the Colonel is available."
Florence waited outside angry as hell. It had been their idea, the brothers, to brutalize the girl. They'd given her the job to terrorize her into a sense of confusion and fear. She'd tried to get out of it; resented their refusal to take responsibility for frightening the girl. Then, out of nowhere, while she's just trying to do what she was told, Mr. Fletcher, know it all, starts playing Galahad. Shit, shit, shit! Fletcher had made her look like some hate filled crazy bitch. Sure she'd had problems with Sorrel, but it had always been about the business. It had never been personal!
The butler almost nonchalantly sidled back to the front door, "The Colonel has been on the phone with his brother. He understands your problem. He said to go home and relax. He'll call you later."
Florence looked at the butler. She tried to peer around him, but he blocked her vision, "Thank the Colonel for me, and tell him I'll be home all weekend." She walked back to her car, got in, and sped away.
Sorrel's Room:
The morning had started poorly, but seemed to be ending a little better. Ms. Henderson kept talking about cutting up her body parts, but Fletcher had pretty much deflected that. Then Fletcher put some jewelry on her; a ring and a necklace, but he nearly burned her finger off in the process. Other than that at least no one had tried to shoot her, and no one had called the police.
If she could just get to her computer, or any company computer, she might be able to figure out what had happened, but that looked like it would have to wait. Mary wanted to take her back to her pink cell.
Mary walked Sorrel back through the living room to the stairs. They climbed only two flights of stairs this time when Mary stopped, pointed, and said, "Your rooms are down there."
Sorrel was surprised. She thought she was being returned to her little penitentiary.
Mary showed her a door about three feet away, "It's unlocked. Go ahead in and get settled."
Sorrel gave Mary a quizzical look. Then she turned, walked to the indicated door, opened it, and went in.
What a shock for Sorrel. It wasn't just a room. It was as though it was her room. Like really hers! Someone had brought all her things here to Fletcher's. It was her bed, her bedspread, her bureau, her night stand, her chairs, her hope chest, her stuff, her everything. She ran to the closet. It was a big one. Everything in the closet was clothing she'd bought. It was all hanging so neatly, just like she'd left it yesterday morning, only then it was in her apartment, now it was in Fletcher's house. It was wonderful to look at her things and see them, knowing they were the things she owned; not some wardrobe picked out by someone who hated her. What a wonderful moment. It felt good.
Then it felt bad. She realized they'd emptied her real apartment. Her home was gone! Her stuff was now in other person's house. In a very real, sobering, sense one could even say her things no longer belonged to her; they were Fletcher's! On first glimpse it might look like they'd done her a service, but in reality they'd coopted another part of her life; rendered another part of her personhood irrelevant.
From the hallway Sorrel heard Mary call in. "Don't forget Fletcher is waiting downstairs. Take a good shower, get dressed and made up. He has something he thinks he has to do."
Still, Sorrel was pleased to be able to wear something of her own. After yesterday's mini blouse and skirt set and this morning's pink horror the chance to wear some real womanly clothing would be good. She took a nice hot shower, she shampooed her hair, and she used the opportunity to carefully re-shave her under arms, legs, and trim herself down below.
Going back to the closet she selected an outfit she'd bought but had never worn. She'd been saving it for some special occasion; nothing formal; something nice, something to impress.
She pulled it out of the closet. It had a bright white cotton blouse with a Midshipman's collar, like those the sailors wore. It was a simple white piece, but with dark blue piping around the collar's edges and around the cape that lay gently on her back. She tied the collar off in a simple knot; she'd had enough bows for a while. The whole thing was sculpted to fit her frame. There were no buttons; it slipped easily over her head as a pull over.
Underneath she put on a relaxed fit white bra and a lightly laced white chemise. Down below she slipped on a pair of comfortable cotton panties. She slipped on a modest dark blue pleated skirt that came to just above her knees. She donned a pair of skin toned panty hose, and for shoes she selected a pair of dark blue two-inch heels. She looked in the mirror. She looked and felt more like herself.
Searching the closet she found one of her dark blue cashmere sweaters. She would carry this over her arm as a kind of added accouterment. Then on a whim she grabbed a broad brimmed navy blue hat, and placed it on her head.
After picking out the sweater and hat she went to her vanity and selected the make up she wanted. She lightly brushed a little pale pink blush around her cheeks. She applied a smidgen of black eye liner, and a tad of very pale blue eye shadow. After applying some pale pink lipstick, ugh, she was still trying to get over the pink room upstairs; she overlaid it with a clear lip-gloss. Pressing her lips together and puckering up she thought she looked pretty good.
Last she addressed her hair. Brushing it out again she went to work and pulled and twisted into a tight French braid that hung gently down her back.
Peering into a full-length mirror she thought she looked pretty good for a woman her age. She wondered if what she'd done with herself would impress Fletcher. She didn't know why, but she sort of hoped so. With one last look and a kick of her heels she left the room and went downstairs.
Fletcher had been waiting impatiently. He had two things, actually three things, in mind to do. Neither Sorrel nor Mary knew, though he thought Mary suspected something; inside both the pinkie ring and the necklace were tiny transmitters. Each worked off a different frequency, and each had its own capacity.
He'd put those pieces of jewelry on Sorrel, not to humiliate her or reaffirm his authority, but to make them serve as protective beacons. If Sorrel were out somewhere, say in Mildred's or Florence's care, and they were up to something, he'd be able to intercede before they could do any damage.
He knew he was an asshole for going through all this. He was starting to behave like she was innocent when he knew she wasn't, well probably wasn't. But he was acting like her safety was his responsibility when it wasn't, well probably wasn't. What he was doing was stupid. It would be fun to see if the shit worked though.
Like he told himself, and to the others earlier, he had no opinion about Sorrel. She was a caught thief who was destined to make up for her crimes, but that didn't mean brutality or cruelty. She was a shitty little swindler, but she still shouldn't be abused or mistreated. Humiliation and embarrassment notwithstanding, pain, torture, or mutilation was out of the question. Then again, what did it matter to him?
His new little transmitters would enable him to watch out for her, but he had to make sure they worked. That was his first order of business. His second order of business was a lot different. Sorrel's situation fascinated him. She was a crook, a thief, and a scoundrel if there ever was one, but what had led her to do it. Their company was a good one. He and his brother had always made sure they were loyal to their good employees, and up to the day Sorrel's criminality was exposed she was considered, if a little single minded and stand offish, always an excellent person. Fletcher just couldn't figure out why she did she do what she did.
Then again, if she was everything they thought she was; why would she give a shit about two kids she admittedly had abandoned. If she'd really had ditched them, then why did it bother her if they found out. That was puzzling. What was she; a thief who blew off making millions to steal, a runaway mom who was afraid to hurt kids she'd dumped? He wanted to find out what was made her tick.
Third, the last thing was maybe a little perverse. She was pretty. He liked pretty things, being around pretty girls. If he was going to keep a watch over her, why not enjoy it. Why not take her to lunch? Hell, he might even find something out?
First Day:
As Sorrel reached the bottom of the steps Fletcher whistled, "Wow." You're much prettier than I remember you when I'd come in and out of the office. Sorrel you're a very attractive young woman."
Sorrel blanched. Getting a compliment from Fletcher was one of the last things she expected, and until today certainly the last thing she'd ever want. Fletcher, she saw, was dressed in a dark blue Tee shirt and somewhat scruffy dungarees. He had on a simple pair of black tennis shoes. They bore no emblem or indicator of being associated with any of the big manufacturers. He was wearing Wal-Mart Specials!
He looked a little ridiculous in black shoes, dark blue jeans, and white socks, but she had to admit, ridiculous in a good way.
She wondered if anyone ever bothered to try to dress him. For a man whose reputation was that of a braggart and bully he certainly didn't look the part. Sorrel smiled, "Thank you. I think that's the first time either at the office or since that you've ever said anything to me."
Fletcher answered as politely as he could, "You have a reputation as something of a man killer. You know something of an emasculating machine."
Sorrel bridled, but held her thoughts back, "You know your reputation isn't exactly pristine either."
Fletcher didn't like that comment. Using a deeper voice he answered, "I don't have a reputation. Nobody talks about me. Nobody knows anything about me."
Sorrel looked at him, scowling slightly, "Are you kidding. Ask around. You're considered the biggest blow hard and braggart in the company."
Fletcher didn't get mad, but he didn't like what he heard, "Tell me Sorrel. Have you ever heard me brag or act like some kind of blowhard?"
Sorrel reflected, "Well no, I haven't seen you myself, but that's what everyone says."
Fletcher looked at her a little differently, "Come to think of it, I've never heard any of the men say anything about you. I've heard a lot from the women."
Sorrel spoke with some gravity, "Fletcher, since I came to work for the company I haven't been on a single date. There isn't a single man who can say anything about me personally. They may not like the way I've done my job, but no one has anything on me personally."
Fletcher blurted out without thinking, "Well there's a lot of men who have something to complain about now don't they."
Sorrel turned away, but then turned back. There was a firmness and sincerity in her look that disarmed him. She said with a renewed vehemence, "I didn't do anything wrong or illegal. I know you don't believe me. You'll never believe me, but it's true. This is all wrong. If you'll just let me at a computer I'll prove it"
They'd inched their way closer and closer till they were standing almost toe to toe.
Fletcher looked down into her eyes. "I'd like to believe you. Right now I think believing you're innocent would be a wonderful thing for me, but you and I know both know the truth. Those documents and tapes aren't lying."
Sorrel diffidently rebutted, "Yes they are."
Fletcher backed down, and it surprised him a little, "Look I don't want to make things worse for you than they already are. You have no idea what could be in store for you. But right now, today, I have some other things we need to take care of. Here's your cell phone. It's fully charged. Do you know how to drive a manual transmission?"
Sorrel answered, "I was weaned on one."
