Thing With Feathers (9781616634704) (26 page)

“Ah, you are a devotee of the Marquis De Sade? ‘It is always by way of pain one arrives at pleasure,’” Lasley recited from memory. “You are alarmingly well-read of the Marquis, Preacher Bowman.”

Lasley was intrigued. Assuming everything the man said was true, how would a preacher know such a thing about his daughter? He whispered something to his assistant. Stuart left and then returned shortly with a silver tray laden with good claret; fresh Jewish bagel breads; creamed cheese; fresh, thinly sliced salmon; and rings of Washington Walla Walla sweet onions. The preacher’s jowls juiced like a hungry wolf’s, and his eyes seemed to gobble up the tray. The fine food looked a sight better than his usual fare of greasy fried potatoes and eggs. Though he’d consumed a large breakfast only an hour before, the preacher could not wait to be invited to partake. Lasley noted the hungry gaze and graciously encouraged Bowman to fill himself while he poured three glasses of the claret. Bowman never took notice that his was the only glass being refilled time and again.

It was not long before he was sloppily throwing his bulk around the dainty settee, howling at amusing stories that Lasley seemed to have hundreds of, and drinking still more. When the preacher’s eyes were altogether glazed over and his speech perfectly slurred, Lasley leaned forward conspiratorially and said, “you know, I feel I must confess to you, Preacher. I’ve been with Miss Cindy Marshall myself. She’s a tigress.”

The preacher’s response nearly caused Lasley to choke on his claret.

“I know. She pretends not to like it rough, but it’s the only way she wants it. Take my word.” He laughed obscenely. “Don’t spare her the rod, if you know what I mean.”

Chester Lasley was no gentleman. He had done dark deeds in his time and would do still more. But what the preacher had just admitted to was beyond even Lasley’s warped capacity. If he understood this preacher correctly, the man had polluted his own daughter, apparently more than one time. Now that was a secret Lasley was sure that Cindy, a.k.a. Blair Marshall, would never want told. Lasley could not believe his good fortune. He now had the power to make Cindy Marshall do anything, anything at all that he wanted. And apparently, he was in for some exceptionally spirited foreplay in the process.

He could not wait to return to Chicago. He instructed Stuart to cancel plans they’d made for the remainder of their scheduled stay and set about arranging their return to Chicago. Lasley did get his log camp meal later that day, but he was quite obviously disappointed with the chicken and dumplings. He expressed scant interest in the details of the burn, which the state forester had rushed to the Pullman to give him, and he refused to leave his car long enough to view the devastation. Loggers, officials, and Tillamook citizenry alike were baffled by Lasley’s visit. Clearly, Chester Lasley was a bon vivant and not the outdoor type. But many wondered how he intended to write about the Tillamook Burns in his East Coast papers, having viewed exactly nothing.

Chapter 57

September 12, 1939

Chicago, Illinois

C
indy loved the fall colors. September in Chicago was windy and red, skin-tingling and orange, fresh and yellow. She took her daily stroll along the storefronts, hotels, and cafes to Navy Pier and back, admiring tissue-thin maple leaves as they skittered along the sidewalks. She absorbed the delicious smells from the delis and fine restaurants. Their fragrances, carried to her by the chill winds, were impossibly rich. She smiled at the clanging of the trolleys. She was bundled in an expensive fur with a woolen scarf wrapped comfortably around her head to protect her ears and throat. Cindy felt fine. She had come a long way from Cloverdale, and not merely in terms of mileage. Her good friend Wendell had accompanied her for the first half of her walk and had glowing reports for her regarding her wealth.

She was a woman of her own means now, a survivor. She had the money to do as she pleased. She’d gobbled up real estate that was undervalued due to The Great Crash, or as some called it, The Depression. Folks in Chicago liked the term, “Dirty-Thirties”, but whatever you called it, when Chicago began to emerge from it, her holdings were worth ten-fold. She lived in her converted printing house, where she occupied the top floor, loft-style apartment. She adored her new place; especially the three enormous windows in her living room that all took in stunning water-and-city-light views.

The apartment had three spacious front rooms, which she had tastefully decorated in soft buttery cream and the palest of purples. She dated successful men; dined and danced in the swankiest locales; and no longer had to do anything she did not wish to do, except perhaps for her date that night. She had already agreed, days earlier, to take in a Friday night dinner show with Chester Lasley, though she wasn’t certain why she’d accepted. She did not like Lasley and no longer needed his money. It seemed that no matter how affluent she became, she could never have enough security. Wendell and his friends had invested her earnings well, and her stocks had easily tripled her wealth. Still, what if the stock market were to take a drastic fall? She could stand to lose quite a lot. But she would not lose everything. She had her properties and, because Cindy’s faith in the stock market went only so far, she also kept ample cash savings hidden in a small community bank across town. She even kept a last will and testament in a safety deposit box there, with Victor as her beneficiary and Wendell as her executor. Each week, she collected her earnings from her after-dark pursuits and escort services, which she kept in a sock in her top drawer, and then she caught a cross-town trolley to Streeterville, and made her deposit. She finished with a leisurely stroll to Navy Pier and back, which was precisely what she did on that grand autumn day. She had come to love that particular routine of hers. Cindy had come to terms with the life she’d inherited from Blair, and she determined that, although Blair had been born unlucky, it didn’t necessarily have to stay that way for
her
. They’d had their share of blessings bestowed upon them, few but wonderful blessings of a loving family and friends, for which both Cindy and Blair were grateful. All in all, Cindy was content with life.

She pulled out the long chain she wore around her neck and checked her diamond Lady Racine watch. It was almost three o’clock. She should probably go back to the flat and take a nap. It promised to be a late night with Chester.

Chapter 58

B
y three o’clock that afternoon, every man belonging to the board of trade was desperate. Their short office coats no longer flapped open but were discarded over chairs. Their soft hats, usually pulled forward over one eye in a “don’t care” fashion, were removed to afford nervous fingers opportunity to streak through their greased hair in a rare and undignified manner. By the time the trade market closed that day, Jackson Street was frantic. The market had not had so severe a drop since ‘29.

Wendell decided to square his shoulders and tough it out. He had his own money tied up as well as the funds of more than a dozen clients, including Cindy Marshall. Wendell understood that the war in Europe was making the market fluctuate drastically. Giving in to the panic and dumping stock now would only cause a greater drop and would result in severe losses of wealth. So, when the market closed, Wendell was still holding all of his stock. He postulated that he would only lose money for his clients if he sold their stock at that day’s loss. But a patient, careful broker waited, knowing the decline of that day would reverse and rise back up, sometimes in less than a week, sometimes it would take years. The Crash of ‘39 would not set itself right again until well into it’s third year due to world turmoil, but Wendell’s clients invested in the long term. Some thought his was a risky stake. If it was, so be it. The market was no place for the faint of heart. Anyway, Wendell believed that the real risk was in chasing stocks when they were acting like runaway trains.

Wendell did not feel it cardinal to report to Cindy. She understood that the market rose and fell daily. That day’s decline was not so severe, after all, as to cause investors to jump from high-rise windows. Besides, she would be getting ready for her date with Chester Lasley that night. On their walk earlier, Wendell had asked Cindy to dinner too, but she explained that Lasley already had tickets for the new show and it would be terribly rude to cancel at such a late hour. Wendell, of course, had disagreed.

“Your portfolio is doing very nicely, Cindy. You don’t need to be with men like Lasley,” he had argued. He saw that Cindy shivered slightly and pulled her fur coat tighter.

She smiled at Wendell, her best friend. “This will be the very last time, I promise you. I cannot put a finger on it. There is just something about the man that makes me nervous. Perhaps he reminds me of someone from my past. But, no worries, Wendell. Chester has always conducted himself as a gentleman.”

Chapter 59

L
ife with Father
was drole, the cordon bleu was dry and salty, and Chester was positively insufferable. He would leer at her bosom, say inappropriate things, and every once in a while, he would admonish her as if he were her parent, for nothing more than chatting with acquaintances she ran into.

Cindy found his behavior boorish, and as the driver turned onto her street, she could not help but be relieved. Her solitude would be much preferred over the company of Chester Lasley. Silently, she vowed that that would be the very last time she accepted any dates with the man.

“Ouch! Chester, what has gotten into you?”

“Why, what do you mean, my dear?”

She sighed with exasperation. “I mean you’ve been acting strangely tonight. You’ve been ogling me and reprimanding me, and you just pinched me and it hurt. It is truly mystifying behavior.”

“My dear, I promise you I am full of secrets tonight. And if you are a very good girl, I will share one or two.” He shared a wink with Stuart in the rearview mirror.

She turned and looked at him. He wore that irksome smile again.

The driver pulled alongside the curb. “I’m awfully tired tonight, Chester. If you don’t mind, I believe I’ll go straight to bed.”

“But I do mind, my dear. I had hoped I would be invited up. Am I to receive no thanks for entertaining you this evening?”

She stepped out of the car. “It didn’t occur to me that this date was to be considered a down payment for my services, Chester. I made no promise to you beyond dinner and a show, and frankly, I have a headache. If you like, I’ll happily reimburse you for my dinner ticket. How much was it?” Her jaw was firmly set as she snapped open her evening bag to count out cash.

Chester was nimble for a big man. He jumped out of the car and grabbed her elbow, spinning her around toward the front entrance to her building. With his fingers dug into the soft skin of her upper arm, he marched her past the doorman and growled under his breath, “I had other plans, Cindy. And I simply won’t take no for an answer.”

He led her to her flat in silence and waited impatiently while she fumbled with her keys. He frightened her more than a little. Her mind was racing.

What can this all be about?
“Chester, please. I…I really do have a headache. If you’re angry with me—”

“Just get that cursed door open, my dear,” he hissed.

She obliged. Stepping across the threshold, she dropped the keys back into her purse. Perhaps if she poured on the flattery, he would settle down.
Yes, I’ll play him like Blair’s father. Be assenting,
her mind told her. She heard the deadbolt slide into place. She turned. “Chester, perhaps I could interest you in a drink?”

That’s when he blindsided her. His open hand landed square across her left cheek and sent her to the carpet. She shook her head and tried to get her bearings on what was happening, but before she could react to the blow, he reached her in a single stride and pulled her to her knees by her hair, wrenching her neck painfully. Her face stung and then went numb. He repeated the strike across her face, then pulled her to her knees by the roots of her hair, and crudely motioned the act he wished her to perform.

Lasley pushed her roughly and she fell to the floor in a heap. “That was the worst I’ve ever had!” he screamed at her. He picked her up and threw her onto the bed. Then he straddled her and pinched her mouth painfully between his thumb and forefinger. “Tell me you like it, whore!”

She shook her head from side to side. “I don’t! Stop, Chester! Please!”

He inspected her lewdly and then ripped open her gown. “No? Well then, let’s see how Blair likes it! Does Blair like it?” He proceeded to ravage her with his slobbering mouth.

Cindy went slack as her mind raced to catch up with events as they unfolded.
How could he know?
Blair was suddenly awake and screaming inside of her. She was horrified. “Please, Chester,” was all she could say. Her eyes glistened.

“Please? Please what? We both know this is how you want it. Your father told me so.” He tore the rest of her dress from her. “Your own father! And then you abandon your invalid husband? And leave your child in the hands of that perverted preacher man to raise? You’re disgusting!” He smacked her again and again, fiercely pitching her head from side to side. Her bottom lip split open.

She could feel one tingling eye beginning to swell closed.

“Your own father! C’mon! Tell me you like this!” He had her hands pinned above her head. “‘The only way to a woman’s heart is along the path of torment. I know none other as sure!’” He recited the Marquis.

“Oh Lord, please.” She could not think.
This cannot be happening, not again!
She had escaped the preacher’s evil
.
“I don’t!” She sobbed. “He raped me. Chester…please. Please stop this.”

Lasley ignored the heartbreaking pleas from the helpless woman on the bed, too caught up in his own excitement to hear anything she had to say. He wrestled her over on her stomach and pulled two nylon stockings from his pocket. He tied her wrists tightly to the bed posts, stretching her out painfully. Cindy made no more pleas, she just moaned in her humiliation as Lasley stripped off the last of her garments, leaving only her stockings and heels.