Fear Nothing (8 page)

The noise machine in the corner of my bedroom. I’d forgotten to turn it on. Of course.

I got out of bed, hit the large button of the Brookstone unit and was rewarded with the soothing sound of crashing ocean waves and crying seagulls. Back to bed. I assumed the position, on my back, lying coffin straight, arms by my sides. I closed my eyes, focused on the sound of some exotic, salty shore.

Eight minutes, to judge by the glowing red numbers of my bedside clock. Then I bolted upright, fisting the sheets while swallowing the scream and staring intently into the shadows of my expansive bedroom. Three night-lights. Oval LED plug-ins that offered pools of soft, green glow. I counted the lights five times, waiting for my heart to decelerate, my breathing to slow. Then I gave up and snapped on my bedside light.

I have a beautiful master bedroom. Expensive. Carpeted in the softest wool. Designed using only the richest silks, including custom bedding and hand-stitched window dressings, all fashioned in shades of soft blue, rich cream and sage green.

A soothing oasis of look and feel. A reminder of my adoptive father’s generosity and my own continued success.

But tonight, it wouldn’t work for me. And I knew by eleven thirty what I would do next.

Because even though I was the product of some of the finest intellectual upbringing, both a person and a case study, a doctor and a patient, I was still a member of the human race. And humanity is a messy business, where knowing what is right doesn’t necessarily preclude you from doing what is wrong.

I showered. Donned a tight black pencil skirt, knee-high black leather boots and, without even thinking about it, my sister’s preferred fuchsia top. I made my face up, left my brown hair down and added a simple gold band to my left ring finger. I’d learned years ago that was the key to success; to appear as married as they were. It reduced their fear of future entanglements while adding to their sense of mutual culpability. You were no better than them, hence a desirable target.

Ten minutes till midnight. I grabbed the plastic kit I kept hidden away in the back of the lower bathroom drawer. Tucked it in my gray bag. Then I was out the door, driving toward Boston’s Logan Airport and my destination of choice, the Hyatt Boston Harbor.

 • • • 

A
FTER MIDNIGHT ON A
M
ONDAY NIGHT
, most bars, even in a major city, were quieting down. But airport hotels exist in a timeless vacuum. People getting up, people going to bed, on so many different schedules, the actual hour ceases to have meaning. You can always find people drinking at an airport hotel’s bar.

I took a table near the windows overlooking the Hyatt’s fabled view of Boston’s skyline. Dark harbor waters below, glittering city lights above. I ordered a Cosmopolitan, alcoholically aggressive, while still being appropriately feminine. Then I went to work.

I counted eight other occupants in the bar. One couple, six individuals. Of the individuals, two were older gentlemen, one clearly European, lost deep in his single malt, the other Asian. I discounted them as a reflection of my own lack of interest, not necessarily theirs.

Two guys at the end of the bar held my attention the longest. Both in blue suits. Clean-cut, short dark hair. Midwestern, I judged. On the younger side of middle-aged. The one to the right was larger, the dominant male, clearly at ease with himself and his surroundings. Sales would be my guess. The kind of man accustomed to life on the road, outgoing and energetic enough not to mind a new city every day, savvy enough to have developed a system for maximizing travel’s upside while minimizing its inconveniences.

I sipped my fruity martini, feeling the hard rim of the glass with my teeth, my tongue. Letting my gaze find his back, linger.

Fifteen minutes later he appeared tableside, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling. Alcohol? Anticipation? Did it matter?

I watched his gaze go to my left hand, note the ring that was a match for his own. Two consenting adults, same short-term needs, identical long-term constraints. His smile grew. He offered me a drink. I replied with an invitation to the vacant chair across from me.

He returned to the bar, ostensibly to order the drinks, while most likely informing his travel companion not to wait up. The traveling companion grinned, made his exit.

Then Salesman was back, introducing himself as Neil, admiring my sweater—nice color!—and we were off. Questions for me, questions for him. All easily answered, most of it probably lies. But kindly meant and prettily spoken. Just going through the motions, a third Cosmo for me, a fourth, fifth, sixth? whiskey for him. Then that delicate moment, as I watched him lick his lower lip, contemplate his next move.

I didn’t like to make it too easy for them. Didn’t resort to fawning giggles or suggestive touches. I had my own standards. The man had to come to me. He had to work for it.

Then finally, as worthy of a professional salesman, he made the ask. Would I like to retire someplace quieter? Maybe continue our conversation more privately?

In answer, I picked up my purse, rose to standing. His smile growing, as he realized it honestly was happening, the strange woman in the bar was really saying yes. And by God she was as good-looking standing up as sitting down and please oh please oh please let her be wearing a black thong beneath that tight-fitting skirt . . .

I followed him to his room, never having to give away that I didn’t have one of my own, because in this day and age rooms required photo ID and these were not the kinds of evenings I wanted connected back to me.

Once inside, it was all pretty straightforward. Nothing special, nothing kinky. I always marveled at this. All these men, straying beyond the bonds of marriage to engage in the same old sex acts. A set repertoire on their part? Or maybe they didn’t require variety as much as they thought. Even with a new partner, they instinctively sought out the routine they were most comfortable with.

My one request: Leave the lights on.

He liked that. Most of them did. Men are visual, after all.

I let him remove my tall leather boots. Unpeel my tight skirt to find the black lace thong. Then my fingers worked the clasp of his slacks, the buttons of his shirt. Clothes on the floor, two bodies on the bed, condom on the nightstand. I smelled his aftershave, probably applied right before he journeyed downstairs in search of conquest. I heard his guttural words of praise as his hands ran down my naked body.

I sighed, let myself go. The pressure of his fingers gripping my hips. The roughness of his whiskers against my nipples. The first, penetrating feel of him thrusting into my body. The sensations I could feel. A physical act I could register.

Then that suspended moment, his head arched back, teeth gritting, arms trembling . . .

I opened my eyes. I always did. I had to know, if even for an instant, that this person’s ecstasy had something to do with me.

I touched his cheek. I buried my fingers in his thick brown hair. And I permitted him to see, for this second when he was aware of nothing, just how much this fleeting moment of contact meant to someone like me.

A woman who controlled all, having spent her entire life being told it would be physically dangerous to trust in what she could feel. A child, still trying to unravel the mystery of pain and still absolutely, positively terrified of sounds in the dark.

Afterward, he collapsed. I reached over, snapped off the light.

“I have an early morning flight,” I said, the only words that needed to be spoken.

Reassured, he dozed off while I lay next to him, stroking the muscular outline of his upper arm, concentrating on the ripples of his shoulders and triceps, as if mapping the planes of his body with my fingertips.

I counted off the minutes in my mind. After five had passed and his breathing dropped to a slower, heavier tone, dulled by whiskey, sated by sex, I made my move.

First order of business, snapping on the bathroom light. I grabbed my purse, then moved into the lit space, closing the door behind me. Not thinking anymore. What I was going to do next defied rational thought or well-adjusted reasoning.

What had I tried to explain to my new patient, Detective Warren, earlier in the day? Without balance, difference pieces of Self sought dominance. Meaning even the strongest Manager mind couldn’t run the ship 24/7. Sooner or later, the weak, hurting Exiles were bound to break out and wreak havoc for the Firefighters to handle next.

By engaging in various acts of self-destruction. By creating drama for the sake of drama. By ensuring for at least a brief period of time, the rest of the world felt their pain.

Slim black plastic kit out of my purse. Easing it open. Removing the square packages of lidocaine-soaked wipes. Tearing open the pack, removing the sheet. Holding it in my right hand, while picking up the slender, stainless steel scalpel in my left.

Cracking open the bathroom door. Adjusting until the glowing strip of white light fell across my target’s sleeping form like a thin spotlight. Pausing, then, when he remained snoring lightly, padding naked to his side of the bed.

First, the lidocaine wipe. With light, even strokes, applying the topical anesthetic down the length of the salesman’s left shoulder, slowly but surely numbing the surface of the skin.

Setting down the wipe. Counting carefully to sixty in order to give the lidocaine enough time to do its work.

My fingers, running along the contours of his left shoulder, mapping the muscles once more in my mind.

Then, picking up the scalpel. Positioning the blade. A slight prick to test for physical response.

Then, when my salesman remained snoring blissfully unaware, telling myself this was what set me apart from my family. I was not like my sister. I was not like my father.

I was not driven by a need to inflict pain. I just . . . Sometimes . . .

No sound mind would do what I was about to do. And yet. And yet . . .

My right hand moved. Four quick strokes. Two long, two short. Incising a thin ribbon of skin, approximately three inches in length and not even a quarter of an inch wide. Then, using the blade of the scalpel, wicking it away from the flesh, until it landed warm and wet in the palm of my left hand.

Blood welling up on the surface of the salesman’s numbed skin. I picked up my own black panties and held them against the wound till the bleeding slowed, then stopped.

Moving quickly now, back to the bathroom. Ribbon of skin placed in an empty glass vial. Sealed, then labeled. Used anesthetic wipe, scalpel, everything, tucked into the plastic case, then slid once more into my purse. Hands washed. Face and mouth rinsed.

Heart starting to pound, fingers shaking, as I struggled with each article of my clothing. Finally, skirt on, bra, top, boots. Dragging a hand through my mane of brown hair before sweeping up the loose strands on the floor and flushing them down the toilet. One last glance in the mirror. Seeing my own face and yet feeling like a total stranger, as if I’d stepped outside my own skin. My sister should be standing here. Or my father.

Not the one who looked like my mother. The supposed innocent.

I reached behind myself, snapped off the bathroom light.

I stood alone in the dark. And I wasn’t afraid anymore, because the dark was now my friend. I’d joined forces with it. It had told me what it wanted me to do, and I’d relied on it for cover.

Traveling salesman Neil would wake up in the morning with a raging headache from too much alcohol, a more pleasant soreness in other parts of his body, and a dull pain in the back of his shoulder.

No doubt, when he went to shower, he’d try to inspect his back in the bathroom mirror. At which point he’d spy a red stripe down his left shoulder blade, slightly puckered at the edges. He’d puzzle over it. Wonder if he banged into something. Except the wound would appear more like a broad scratch, meaning maybe he snagged himself on something, a belt buckle, a sharp strap.

Eventually, he’d shrug, climb into the shower. The wound would most likely sting for a second; then that would be that. It would heal, leaving behind a faint white line, the source of which remained forever a mystery.

Because who’d ever consider that his bar hookup had removed a strip of his skin with a scalpel while he slept? And even now, she kept it in a glass vial, part of a special collection she couldn’t explain but was compelled to keep.

My adoptive father had obsessed over my genetic inability to feel pain.

Maybe he should’ve been more concerned with my genetic predisposition to inflict it upon others.

 • • • 

I
WENT HOME
, conducted a thorough physical exam to ensure I hadn’t accrued any unsuspected damage, then collapsed into bed, sleeping without a single dream.

I woke up bright and early to a phone call from the prison.

Superintendent McKinnon’s voice was firm and crisp. “Adeline, there’s been another incident. Shana got her hands on a homemade shank. Apparently, spent most of the night working herself over. She’s currently stabilized down in medical, but Adeline . . . it’s bad.”

I nodded, because when it came to my sister, there had never been anything good. I hung up the phone, swung out of bed and prepared to return once more to prison.

Chapter 6

A
LEX MADE ALL THE ARRANGEMENTS
. D.D.’s physical therapist plus Phil and Neil would meet them at the scene of the first murder and D.D.’s subsequent stair dive. Seven
A.M.
, D.D. sat in the kitchen across from three-year-old Jack, plying him with Cheerios while engaging in their morning contest of who could make the most ridiculous face. As usual, Jack won, but D.D. felt she put up a fair fight.

Eight
A.M.
, Alex drove Jack to day care, at a neighbor’s house just down the street. D.D. told herself she was not nervous. Alex’s idea to reconstruct the shooting incident of six weeks ago based upon the resulting trauma to her body made perfect sense. Forensic collision experts did it all the time, looked at smashed-up car A, smashed-up car B, then rendered stunningly accurate analyses of the auto accident, including who was to blame. If it could work on cars, why not the human body?