Hillary_Tail of the Dog (20 page)

“What is it?” Dr. Bentley asked, knowing that if it was something appealing to her, it couldn’t be a good thing.

“I don’t have to tell you about it, I’ll
show
you.”

Dr. Bentley gulped, which amused him slightly since he could not recall ever gulping before in his life.
At least I can say I’ve gulped once in my life before dying,
he thought nervously then chided himself for wasting his thoughts on such nonsense.

“Oh, uh, how would you do that?”

“And you’re going to help me.”

Dr. Bentley suppressed the urge to gulp again. How could he really refuse her? But how could he engage in any atrocity she may have in mind? He knew he couldn’t. The color drained from his face as he pondered how he should respond without upsetting her.

“I...I...I’m not sure how much help I could be,” he said unsteadily.

Hillary chuckled. She was clearly making him nervous. She thrived on watching people cringe. Of course, this was a walk in the park compared to what she could do, what she planned on doing, soon enough.

“Relax, handsome, it’s not what you think, I don’t like to share the fun.”

Phew
, he thought,
but what then?
He had a quizzical expression on his face.

“I’m going to trust you to help me, Jake, but if you screw me over, if you try to do anything stupid, I’ll make you suffer for it ten times over,” Hillary said, and the look in her eyes made it clear that she was dead serious.

“You can trust me,” he replied, sounding as sincere as possible.

Hillary had her doubts but she did need his help. This was working out much better—and easier—than she expected.

“Okay,” she said slowly, “just remember what I said.”

Dr. Bentley nodded, his color slowly returning.

“Alright, now,” she said as she walked toward him and stood right behind him. She held the syringe to his neck. He held his breath, not daring to move a muscle.

“Go ahead and untie your hands, but seriously, don’t make any stupid moves because I’ll put you to sleep and make you regret it if and when you wake up.”

Dr. Bentley nodded his assent as he began struggling with the rope to free his hands. It was taking him too long and Hillary was growing more and more agitated by the second. She rolled her eyes and exhaled through her mouth loudly.

“I’m sorry, I’m trying my best,” Dr. Bentley said, “the last knot is too hard for me to reach. I don’t suppose you could help me out.”

Hillary sighed. She didn’t trust him enough to risk untying the knot herself. With his size and strength, he could easily overtake her and run before she had a chance to use the syringe. She thought about her options, each of them carrying a certain degree of risk. She finally settled on using a shard of glass to cut the rope.

She had shoved the pieces of glass far under the bed, closer to the side where she stood, but she would have to bend down to grab one. It would put her in a vulnerable position with Dr. Bentley so close, hovering above her. Maybe she could shove her leg under the bed and sweep them forward.
No, that would be stupid,
she thought.

“There are a few big pieces of glass under the bed,” she said, “use your leg to get one of them.”

Dr. Bentley, who had been kneeling since regaining consciousness, stretched his right let out, shoving his body further out so that he could get his leg under the bed. He moved it around a few seconds before recoiling it quickly as he yelled, “
ow, ow
...it’s cramping up.”

He was testing Hillary’s patience.

“Maybe I was wrong to think you could help me,” she said derisively.

“No, no...I’ll get it. I’m just not as young as you,” he tried joking.

Hillary didn’t think it was the least bit funny. Her hand tensely gripped the syringe inches from him in a threatening manner, causing him to shudder. Dr. Bentley quickly tried again. His wrists were getting raw from the friction of the coarse rope against his skin, but he knew he had to ignore the pain and stretch out as far as he could to reach a shard of the glass. It seemed to take forever as he moved his foot around the bed hoping to feel the glass beneath his foot. He could hear Hillary sighing in frustration, growing more and more impatient by the second.

“Don’t play games,” she warned sternly.

“I’m not, really. It’s just hard at this angle.”

“Well you’ve got one more minute,” she barked angrily. She was growing anxious, not knowing how much longer Dr. Morrison would remain unconscious. Dr. Bentley hadn’t been out for very long. Then again, the syringe she had used to sedate him had been prepared for her. She didn’t even know if it contained the same drug she had used to fill the other syringes. She had thought about asking Dr. Bentley but knew she couldn’t trust his response.

Dr. Bentley was sweating profusely now as he struggled to get a hold of the glass. A couple of times he had to wipe his forehead on his arm. He knew his minute was up. Yet Hillary waited for him to complete the task. He calmed down, which helped immensely. He was able to focus on what needed to be done and to his surprise—and great relief—he pulled a small piece of glass forward with his foot. He prayed it was big enough. He knew he was out of chances.

Hillary reached down and quickly grabbed the glass. It was small, but sharp. It looked sufficient to cut the rope.

“I’m going to cut through the rope,” she said slowly, waving the glass around in a sawing motion above him. “If you so much as take a deep breath I’ll put you to sleep and use the glass to cut out your eyes. If you have any doubts, just look over at your friend the cyclops over there.”

Dr. Bentley had no doubts. His will to live was greater than his will to escape, though he knew the latter was the only way to ensure his survival. He would allow Hillary to cut through the ropes then strike when the time was right.

“You have my word, Hillary,” he said softly, lowering his head away from his fastened wrists, unsure whether he did so demonstrate his compliance or in an effort to hide his throat as much as possible.

Hillary drew closer and quickly went to work cutting through the rope with the shard of glass in her right hand. Her left hand held the syringe in place against the back of Dr. Bentley’s neck with her thumb ready to depress the plunger if he made any questionable moves. Her fingers bled as she cut through the fibers. She didn’t even feel them as she inhaled the intoxicating smell of Dr. Bentley’s cologne intermingled with his sweat. It made her smile.

She snapped out of her aroma-induced trance when the shard of glass cut through the last fiber of the rope, jerking her forward a bit. Dr. Bentley was free. He stayed perfectly still, assuring Hillary that he was not going to try anything foolish. She stared at him, wide-eyed, saying nothing for a long while. It was as if they could communicate in silence with one another: “
You’d better watch it,
” she warned. “
I will, I swear,
” he replied telepathically.

Dr. Bentley was still kneeling on the floor, his arms at his side. Hillary dropped the shard of glass and transferred the syringe to her right hand, keeping it pressed against Dr. Bentley’s neck. She stood up, extending her arm to keep the syringe in place.

“Get up,” she ordered, and added, “slowly.”

Dr. Bentley obediently arose carefully. He slowly turned to face her and stood still, awaiting her next command.

Hillary stepped beside him, keeping the syringe against the side of his neck.

“You said you wanted to know about me, about the things I’ve done. I’m going to give you a front row seat to the Hillary show,” she said, smiling. “Of course, I’ll need a victim,” her smile faded.

“What are you—”

“I need you to pick Dr. Morrison up and put him on the bed,” she interrupted, her eyes staring fiercely into his, daring him to defy her.

He knew he had little choice. She needed a victim. It would either be himself or Dr. Morrison. As long as he could help it, it wouldn’t be him.

“Okay,” he replied, his voice as unsteady as his trembling hands.

“I’m going to walk over to him,” he informed her before stepping slowly toward Dr. Morrison’s unconscious body at the foot of the bed.

“I’m right behind you,” she warned, though unnecessarily, as Dr. Bentley could feel the syringe pressed firmly against the back of his neck—too close for his liking. If he stopped abruptly, he would be slipping into oblivion within seconds.

When he was at Dr. Morrison’s feet, he dropped down beside him quickly to avoid being jabbed with the needle. Hillary hovered above him but gave him adequate space to untie Dr. Morrison’s left foot. When the task was completed he repositioned himself to reach the rope securing Dr. Morrison’s other leg. He worked quickly, untangling the knots binding his right ankle. He then maneuvered himself to lift Dr. Morrison’s heavy, lifeless body.

Hillary knew Dr. Morrison’s dead weight would be difficult for Dr. Bentley to carry. He wasn’t the type of man who was used to any form of manual labor. The heaviest thing he probably ever had to lift was his gold fountain pen or a bottle of fine wine. She felt no pangs of pity, no regret for assigning such an arduous task. It needed to be done, and she was certainly in no shape to do it.

She watched closely as Dr. Bentley bent down and struggled to lift Dr. Morrison up. He slowly and laboriously slung Dr. Morrison’s flabby, bloated, heavy body over his shoulder and strained to stand up. Hunched over, he walked forward and flung Dr. Morrison on the bed. The lower, naked half of his body hung off the foot of the bed. Hillary’s pressure spiked as she looked over at the tuft of coarse wiry brown hairs surrounding the limp mass of disgust between his fat thighs. She could hardly wait to start the show.

“Pull him up,” she barked, keeping a watchful eye to make sure that Dr. Bentley didn’t make any sudden moves. Dr. Bentley took a few seconds to catch his breath then quickly complied. He walked to the head of the bed where he reached over and pulled Dr. Morrison’s body forward. Panting, he looked over at Hillary, who was once again smiling. He could only imagine the thoughts that were forming in her mind.

“Now tie his arms and legs good and tight, just the way mine were tied up.”

“I don’t think there’s enough rope,” Dr. Bentley protested.

“You’d better find a way to make do with what’s here,” she warned, no longer smiling. “And make sure he can’t escape.”

Dr. Bentley gathered up all of the pieces of rope, with Hillary following closely behind him like an ominous black cloud threatening a devastating storm. He separated the pieces according to length. Some were way too small to work with.

“Use the larger ones to tie his hands,” Hillary ordered. “Good and tight, remember.”

With hands still trembling, Dr. Bentley fastened Dr. Morrison’s hands to the bed, just as Hillary’s had been. He pulled on the ropes to show her that the knots were good and tight as she directed. The remaining pieces of rope were of varying lengths. Only one of them seemed large enough to tie one of his legs to the bed.

“Use the longer rope to tie Dr. Morrison’s leg to the bed,” she commanded.

“Which leg?”

“I don’t care, just hurry up already.”

Dr. Morrison grabbed the longest remaining rope and walked over to Dr. Morrison’s left leg. He pulled the rope around his ankle and tied it as tight as he could. There wasn’t much rope remaining after the knot, but Dr. Bentley managed a second knot.

What a good boy scout
, Hillary thought excitedly. The time was drawing near.

“There’s not enough—” Dr. Bentley began.

“Tie the ropes together!” Hillary yelled frantically. “Use that handsome head of yours, Jake.”

“But I don’t think—”

“Get it
done
,” she shouted, moving inches away from him.

For a split second, he contemplated an escape. Surely he was much stronger, much faster than Hillary. Yet she was so close to him now. All she had to do was stretch out her hand and it would be all over for him. He couldn’t take that chance. After all, she was much scarier and far more aggressive than Dr. Bentley could ever be. The odds were not in his favor.

Dr. Bentley fought to control his shaky hands enough to tie the ropes together. It took a great deal of effort, but he managed to piece together enough rope to bind Dr. Morrison’s right leg to the bed. He knew the rope wouldn’t be secure, but what did he care? He wasn’t the one who wanted Patrick bound to the bed.

Besides, if Patrick could escape, it would only increase his own chance of survival.

Hillary was ecstatic seeing Dr. Morrison tied to the bed spread-eagle, shamelessly, just as he had left her there for all those weeks. She imagined all the things she could do to him, all the things she
would
do to him. Dr. Bentley turned to see the manic look upon her face. He knew he had just sealed Patrick’s fate. After feeling the sharp needle puncture his upper arm, he knew he had sealed his own fate as well.

“But—” he said, unable to finish his thoughts as a fear he never experienced before shrouded him, wrapping him up like a cocoon.

“You should have known better than to trust me, Jake,” Hillary said with a big grin on her face. Dr. Bentley heard most of it before everything faded to black.

~14~

Dr. Morrison was first to awaken, with a fierce hangover and an overwhelming urge to throw up. He pulled forward to sit up, not realizing that he was tied to the bed. He had not recalled his encounter with Hillary until the ropes limited his movement and he looked over at his tightly secured limbs. Fear gripped his spine in its icy clutch, sending shivers throughout his body. He looked over to see Jake’s lifeless body upright in the leather chair from his office, his head slumped down to the side, his arms rendered useless by the duct tape wrapped tightly around his entire torso, effectively binding him to the chair. His legs were similarly taped to the seat of the chair. A pitiful sound escaped Dr. Morrison’s throat as his heart rate accelerated.