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# Part V # Lydia was escorted to a secret location in an FBI van with a bag over her head, which was a very stifling experience to say the least. For anyone who hasn't been bagged lately, not only is it impossible to see anything but you can barely breathe, which is the real problem in the sense that it makes one feels as if death is imminent. But the FBI didn't want to kill Lydia. They just wanted to scare her a lot and make her think they might kill her, as they've been known to do from time to time. After about an hour of driving, she was shuffled off into a windowless room located only God knows where, and there she sat, with her hands cuffed behind her back, waiting for something. She didn't know what. And that was pretty damn scary too. After a few more hours, a tall, slender, severe looking fellow rocking a generous amount of five o'clock shadow entered the room with a cup of coffee and a scowl. Lydia immediately thought to herself that this must be the bad cop. Or at least she hoped he was because that meant a good cop must be coming. She wouldn't want to meet the bad cop if this guy was actually the good cop! The slender cop took a sip of coffee and gave Lydia a long once over, eyeing her up and down. He seemed to take special interest in something about her, fixing his gaze so intensely she found herself deeply unsettled. "Can I help you?" she asked. The slender cop set his coffee down at the table and took a seat. "Nike and Adidas," he remarked, referring to Lydia's Adidas track jacket and Nike track pants, her customary dog training outfit. "I guess I did a bad job matching today, huh?" she said. The slender cop shrugged and took another sip of coffee. "Bad? Who's to say. Your jacket doesn't match your pants, but that's not a crime last time I checked." Lydia nodded in agreement, suspecting that maybe her first impression was incorrect. Maybe this was actually the good cop. "You know what is a crime, though?" the slender cop asked. "Murder!" he followed quickly, not allowing Lydia a chance to volunteer an answer. "Well, yeah," she said. The slender cop studied her closely, perhaps hoping to read her body language for a crucial tell in her response. He appeared frustrated when nothing damning became evident. "I mean, sometimes I mix up my socks," he said, chuckling to himself, and Lydia chuckled along with him. "The other day I came into the office wearing one black one and then this other, crazy sock my kids got me for my birthday." "Oh wow," Lydia said. "It had a bunch of turkeys on it. I don't know why they thought I'd like that but that's what they got me. Kids huh?" "You can say that again," Lydia said. "But what's the harm in that?" the slender cop asked, and Lydia shrugged, seeing no harm at all. "You know what is harmful, though?” he asked as Lydia patiently anticipated an answer. “Choosing to be an accessory in a murder for hire plot!" The slender cop waited for his accusation to resonate, squinting real hard and studying her reaction when it did. Lydia gave a little nod and shrugged sympathetically, unable to argue with his logic. The slender cop threw his hands up in the air. He had had enough. He told Lydia he was going to take a break and clear his head. In the meantime, his partner was going to be asking her a few questions. Shortly after the slender cop exited the windowless room, a short, fat man with a pasty complexion and an atrocious combover entered. He stumbled all over himself, accidentally spilling the contents of his briefcase across the table and scrambling to gather it all up, which included more koosh balls than Lydia assumed necessary for a federal agent. "I am so sorry to keep you waiting," he blubbered. "Oh, you didn't, really," Lydia reassured him. The fat cop offered a cool, clammy hand for her to shake. Lydia cocked her head, gesturing to the back of the chair where her hands were restrained. The fat cop shook his head and muttered "stupid, stupid" under his breath. Lydia sat and watched him curiously. He took a seat and smiled timidly. "Ok let's begin," he said warmly. The fat cop gathered himself with a deep exhale, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them, glaring at Lydia with a horrible passion. "What'd you do with the body, you dumb bitch?" he shouted, waving his hands wildly, taking Lydia by surprise and frightening her half to death. The fat cop cringed and stopped his aggressive gesticulating immediately. He awkwardly attempted to comfort her. "No, no, I'm sorry. Oh shit. I haven't done this before, I am so sorry. I'm really not very good at this," he cried. The fat cop opened his briefcase and offered Lydia a York peppermint patty, which she again refused on account of the handcuffs. “I could feed it to you,” he said, and began stammering as Lydia scrunched up her face at this suggestion. “I mean, I’ll just put it in your mouth.” “What,” replied Lydia, more as a statement than a question. “No. That came out wrong,” the fat cop said, running his hands through his greasy hair nervously. Clearly in way over his head, the fat cop announced sweatily that he had to go take a break to clear his head. His partner would be back in in a minute, he said, muttering to himself on his way out the door. No one came for quite some time. Then in her boredom, Lydia made a remarkable discovery. She wasn't handcuffed to the chair at all. All that was holding her was a flimsily tied rope, which on further inspection after freeing herself, turned out to be just an old roll of Fruit by the Foot. Reacting swiftly, she moved across the room like a ninja, opening the door slowly and peeking down the hall. Empty. So she made her move toward freedom.