More Twisted

state.”
    “That’s right, counselor. Maybe Jerry’d go to prison for life but that wasn’t good enough for us.”
    And the only way Cabot and his father-in-law could get to Jerry was to make sure he was acquitted. So they hired the best criminal attorney in the country.
    Lescroix laughed in disgust. Why, Cabot was the one playing him in the trial. Acting guilty, never explaining what he might’ve explained, cringing at Lescroix’s far-fetched innuendos.
    Suddenly the lawyer remembered Cabot’s words: Jerry’s tied up right now  . . .
    “Oh my God, are you going to kill him?”
    “Jerry? Oh, we’re just visiting right now,” Cabot said. “Jerry and I and Patsy’s dad. But I should tell you, I’m afraid he’s pretty depressed, Jerry is. I’m worried that he might do himself some harm. He’s even threatened to hang himself. That’d be a shame. But of course it’s a man’s own decision. Who’m I to interfere?”
    “I’ll tell the police,” Lescroix warned.
    “Will you now, counselor? I guess you could do that. But it’ll be my word against yours, and I have to say that after the trial today your stock’s none too high ’round here at the moment. And neither’s Jerry’s.”
    “So what’re you buying?”
    “Peace of mind. That’s what.”
    “Sorry to cut this short,” Cabot continued. “I thinkI hear some funny noises from the other room. Where Jerry is. I better run, check on him. Seem to recall seeing a rope in there.”
    A low, desperate moaning sounded through the line, distant.
    “What was that?” Lescroix cried.
    “Oh-oh, looks like I better go. So long, counselor. Hope you enjoyed your stay in Hamilton.”
    “Wait!”
    Click.

T UNNEL G IRL

    S orry to bother you so early, sir.”
    An alarmed Ron Badgett, in a 6:00 a.m. morning daze, blinked at the suited man on his doorstep, holding a police department shield.
    “I’m Detective Larry Perillo.”
    “What’s wrong, officer?”
    “You own the building at Seventy-seven Humbolt Way?”
    “That’s right. My company’s there.” Ron Badgett felt another jolt of concern course through him. He’d been fuzzy-headed and exhausted three minutes ago. Now he was thoroughly awake. “There been a fire or something?” The paunchy, middle-aged man, with thinning hair, pulled his beige terry-cloth bathrobe belt tight.
    It was a cool September Saturday morning, and the two men were standing in the doorway of Ron’s well-worn suburban colonial house, which hadn’t quite recovered from the previous owners’ three children, who’d apparently run and jumped and pounded on every accessible surface. Ron and his wife spent most of their free time fixing it up.
    “No, sir, your office’s fine. But we’re hoping you canhelp us. You know the old building behind yours, across the parking lot?”
    “The condemned one?”
    “That’s it.”
    Sandra, Ron’s wife of eighteen years, appeared in the doorway, frowning. She wore a blue quilted robe and slippers. Her hair was mussed, and she had a sleepy, morning look that Ron still found appealing, even after eighteen years of marriage. “What’s the matter, honey?”
    “There’s some problem with an old building behind the office.” He introduced her to the policeman.
    “Oh, that one they’re going to tear down?” Sandra, at the moment working only occasional freelance jobs, had spent a week helping Ron move into the building. One day, at the back loading dock, she’d commented that the old building looked dangerous.
    “That’s right, ma’am.” Perillo then added, “It seems that yesterday evening a coed from City College was taking a shortcut through the courtyard back there. Part of the building collapsed. She’s trapped in one of those old delivery tunnels that used to connect the factories and warehouses in the neighborhood.”
    “My God,” Sandra whispered.
    “But she’s alive?” Ron asked.
    “So far. We can hear her calling for help but she doesn’t sound very strong.”
    His wife shook her head. Ron and Sandra had a seventeen-year-old daughter, currently in school in Washington, DC, and the woman was undoubtedly thinking about their own child hurt or trapped. Nobody’s as sympathetic as fellow parents.
    The policeman glanced down at the morning newspaper, sitting nearby in a plastic bag on the lawn. He picked it up and extracted the paper, showed them the headline: CAN THEY SAVE TUNNEL GIRL ?
    A photo revealed dozens of rescue workers standing around a