Mortal Lock (13 page)

A hawk. Yes. The man liked that image. A solitary, hunting hawk. A righteous hawk, circling … then descending suddenly out of the night sky.

Some of the girls looked fresh and new. He knew that look wouldn’t last long. The Life would claim their bodies like it had their souls.

Maybe he was doing them a favor, the ones he chose.

He knew appearances didn’t matter. The night-girls may come in all sizes, shapes, and colors, but they’re all alike. Every one of them. Wicked, evil women. Sweet and ripe-looking on the outside, venomous at their core.

It was their fault.

They gave him no choice.

It was a lot easier now than when he’d started. He never fought
the feelings anymore. He knew there was only one thing that would soothe him.

For a while, anyway.

Agony
. The word was a prism in his brain, refracting all the light in his vision.
Agony
. He knew the truth now. The only way it could ever be.
Agony
. Inflict it, or suffer it.

There was nothing else.

2

I can always tell
, she thought.
Sometimes, just from the way they use their cars to stalk. And when I see their faces, when I hear them talk, I know they think I can’t see the truth
.

When she saw the dark coupe for the third time that night, she deliberately walked a half-block down from the corner, distancing herself from the safety of the other girls. She positioned herself against a bent aluminum lamppost with a burnt-out bulb, and clasped her hands behind her.

No fishnet stockings or five-inch spike heels for her. She had better luck in a simple little white dress, standing primly, as if waiting for a bus. Her heart fluttered in her chest. She fancied he could hear it, even from so far away.

And that it would draw him closer.

The dark coupe slid to a gentle stop next to her. As she walked toward the passenger-side window, it zipped down as if in sync with her movements.
It’s like I have X-ray eyes by now
, she thought.
I can see right into his mind. Ropes. Handcuffs. Maybe a gun. Always a knife. Or a razor. And, in the trunk of his car, a Polaroid camera. Or a videocam
.

3

“Are you dating?” the man asked.
No way this one’s an undercover
, he thought.
They always try to blend in, dress up outrageous, look like all the rest
.

“Maybe,” the girl said, softly. “But I don’t date just anyone.”

“How much for a—”

“Don’t talk nasty,” the girl interrupted him. “That’s what I mean. I only date nice men. Are you a nice man?”

“I can be
very
nice,” the man assured her. “Very generous, too.” Now he was certain she couldn’t be a cop. They always wanted you to offer a specific amount of money for a specific sex act, so that it would stand up in court. This one, she acted like it was her first time out. If she only knew …

“All right,” the girl said, “but not … not here, okay? It’s not … private.”

The man knew “here” meant the pool of darkness behind the abandoned factory building where the night-girls always directed their quick-tricks to park. Privacy didn’t mean anything to hookers, but safety did. Usually, he had to talk them out of going there. This one would be easier than usual. “We could go to my house,” he said.

“No,” she said firmly, leaning into the car through the open window. “I’d be too scared. Maybe after we have a few dates, I would. But I know a place. It’s not far from here. You know that spot off 109 where they have the picnic tables?”

“Sure,” the man said.

4

Don’t wait!
she screamed inside herself, as the dark coupe pulled into the deserted highway rest stop.
Don’t let him start
.

As the man was unzipping his fly, she brought up the tiny .25
caliber automatic and shot him in the face. He made a grunting sound, hands pressing against his temples as if he had a horrible migraine. She shot him four more times, not aware of the moaning sound coming from her mouth … a banshee wail louder than the muted
pops!
of the little pistol.

There wasn’t much blood. There never was. And she never got any on her little white dress.

She backed out of the car carefully. Opened the trunk with the key she had pulled from the ignition switch.
Yes!

It was about a mile through the woods to the access road where she always left her own car. From experience, she knew it would take her about a half hour, carrying her shoes in one hand.

5

Maybe they’re right
, he thought to himself.
Maybe I really am a natural-born wuss
. He circled the fringes of night-girl territory in his beige compact sedan for what seemed like the tenth time that night, certain they were laughing behind their hands as he passed by.

They’re just plain … scary
, he thought.
I mean, they could have diseases and everything
. And he’d heard they all had pimps. Big black guys who’d cut your throat for whatever was in your wallet.

He had promised himself it would be tonight. No more backing out at the last minute. If only he could find one that wasn’t so … dangerous-looking.

The moment he saw her, he knew she was the one. That pretty little white dress. The sweet expression on her face. Somehow, he just knew
she
wouldn’t laugh at him if he had trouble with …

6

She backed out of the sedan carefully. With the smaller cars, there was a greater chance of getting some of the blood on you.

She opened the trunk. Empty. That didn’t matter, she told herself. It just meant he had been too cautious to bring his torture equipment with him. Probably had it back at his place. She knew it had to be
somewhere
close at hand. One thing she knew. One thing she was sure of.

They’re all alike.

for Ruby

“Just tell me how it happened,” the nondescript man said. His voice was low-pitched and toneless, but the man he was speaking to heard every syllable clearly.

“It was the blood transfusion,” the doctor said, glancing at his wafer-thin platinum watch to underscore the value of his time. Seated in a butterscotch leather chair, he reclined slightly behind a slate-gray slab of marble that served him as a desk. He wore his white doctor’s coat like a suit of armor.

The nondescript man’s face was expressionless, heavy cheekbones framing obsidian eyes.

If he were any more neutral, he would be inert
, the doctor thought to himself, wondering why so detached an individual was making him feel so … terrified. He let his eyes wander across the immaculate eggshell-white walls of his office, as if the expensively framed diplomas held some talisman of protection.

“Why did she need a blood transfusion?” the nondescript man asked.

“She was a hemophiliac.”

“Was?”

“I mean is, of course,” the doctor said, hastily. “A hemophiliac at the time of the … event.”

“So, she was cut?”

“Cut?”

“Stabbed, sliced, punctured …”

“Oh. I see. You mean, as a result of some deliberate act?”

“Yes.”

“No! Certainly not. It was … entirely unintentional. You see, she—”

The doctor stopped talking, shuddering involuntarily, as though the temperature in the room had suddenly dropped. The other man had not moved.
He’s way past “patient,”
the doctor thought,
he’s a damn stone
.

“She had elective surgery,” the doctor resumed, his voice precise and clipped. “To repair the harelip. And, while she was still—”

“Who ‘elected’ the surgery?”

The doctor struggled with himself, unable to identify the source of his terror. His status, his profession, the trappings of his office … all his treasured boundaries seemed to have gone porous. He had the overpowering feeling that wrong answers could cost him his life.
Get a grip!
he counseled himself.
You’re overreacting. The man is grief-stricken at what he’s just learned, that’s all. Different
people handle traumatic news in different ways. You know that. Relax!

“Your sister was a ward of the court,” he explained, abandoning his habitual air of superiority for a facsimile of empathy. “She has been, ever since the death of your parents, when she was only four. You couldn’t be reached, and—”

“That was more than twelve years ago,” the unexpected visitor said. “She’s old enough to make her own decisions now, isn’t she?”

“Well, not legally, of course. I mean, she’s still a minor. But, believe me, sir, your sister very much wanted this surgery. It was her choice. The consent of her legal guardian was required, but your sister …”

“Dawn.”

“Dawn. Yes, I’m.… Yes, Dawn herself made the request. She was at an age where … social considerations can become paramount, especially in matters of self-image. You know how adolescents can be …” The doctor let his voice trail off, inviting agreement.

“She had the surgery,” the nondescript man said. “She got a transfusion. So the disease, it was in the blood she got?”

“Apparently so. We have carefully ruled out all other possibilities. She certainly did not have …”

“AIDS.”

“Yes,” the doctor said. His hands balled into fists beneath the desk, to keep their trembling from becoming apparent. “Prior to any surgery, of course, we do a complete blood panel. I’m sure you understand, with this type of surgery, a transfusion would not have been anticipated. If we had thought there was even the possibility of such a need, a series of injections, essentially hemoglobin-enhancers, could have been administered. Or, for that matter, the patient’s own blood could have been drawn and stored.”

“But you didn’t do any of that?” the man asked, his voice devoid of inflection.

“The cost of such … precautions … is quite prohibitive, sir. Your sister’s insurance would not cover …”

“Did you tell her that?”

“Tell her that? I don’t understand?”

“When you were getting this ‘informed consent’ from Dawn, did you tell her that there were things you could do, things that would make the surgery safer … only you weren’t going to do them, because her insurance wouldn’t pay for them?”

Did I use that term, ‘informed consent,’ myself? Or did I just …?
The doctor’s mind raced, approaching the redline of panic. He consciously breathed through his nose, in a futile effort to center himself. “Well,” he said, carefully, “as I explained, the child is a minor. Even if such matters had been discussed with her, how would that have—?”

The other man hadn’t moved, but, somehow, his body was closer to the doctor’s desk. Much closer.

“She might have refused the surgery,” the man said, his voice just above a whisper. “Or she might have asked a relative to put up the extra money.”

“You are the only relative on record for her,” the doctor said quickly. “And, as I explained, we were unable to reach you.”

“Dawn can always reach me,” the nondescript man said, his voice very soft. “But you didn’t tell her, so she didn’t try.”

“I …”

“And now she’s dying.”

“We do not take that position,” the doctor said, desperately trying for an authoritative tone, and failing miserably. “I mean … there are new drugs. And more promising ones being developed all the time. Being HIV-positive is no longer the guaranteed death sentence it once was thought to be.”

The nondescript man locked the doctor’s eyes. “But for her, with the hemophilia, it is, yes?” he said. “These drugs you’re talking about … she can’t take them; isn’t that true?”

“Well, that is true as of this moment. But, as I said, there are new—”

The doctor blinked rapidly, interrupting himself. Because, suddenly, the visitor was standing right next to him. And the doctor had not seen him move.

“Where is she?” the nondescript man said.