Not Dead Yet (4 page)

“Candy?”  the dirty-faced child asked.  Her face looked too old for a toddler.  Shaken, Theia turned away silently.  She had to get out of this courthouse before she embarrassed herself further.  She longed for the day when she would no longer jump out of her skin at the slightest thing.  She just wanted to be normal, like every one else.

One of the elevators opened.  Theia stayed about ten feet from the elevator door and looked carefully before she got on.  It was empty.  She wished there were other people on the elevator, in case Donald got on it from a lower floor.

Should she have taken the stairs, she wondered?  No, he could jump her on the stairs and she would have less chance of getting help there.  Then she remembered that she used to take elevators up a few floors, get off, then take a different elevator down.  Too late now, the elevator was moving downward.  Feeling as though Donald was right behind her, Theia had to fight the urge to turn around, even though she knew she was the only passenger on the elevator.

The elevator went down three floors then stopped.  The doors opened, but no one was there.  Had Donald gone down to this floor to wait for her?  Theia jammed the “close door” button repeatedly.  As the door finally closed, she saw a flash of clothing of someone trying to get on it.  The elevator went down another floor.  The doors opened. Theia’s heart raced.   Two clerical workers got on, talking about a co-worker’s affair and speculating on the real father of the co-worker’s child.  Theia’s heart rate slowed closer to normal.

The ladies left on the mezzanine level. Theia banged the “close door” button with her fist.  Nothing happened.  The doors started to close, then got stuck, repeatedly opening, then closing halfway.  Finally they closed.  Theia’s pulse pounded in her head.  The elevator just sat there for a moment, then, with a jerk, plummeted to the first floor.  The elevator stopped roughly on the street level, the doors opened, and a shaken Theia darted out.

She glanced around the crowded lobby, but did not see Donald.  There were even more places he could be hiding here on street level than on the floor where the courtroom was. She walked at a brisk pace toward an exit door.

“Hold on there!” a man ordered.  Theia whipped her head around, expecting to see Donald, but saw only a security guard calling a lawyer who had left his briefcase behind at a metal detector.

Theia pushed out the revolving door, still walking at a good clip, and got to her car without running in to Donald. In her car, she slammed the door locks, her heart hammering. 

CHAPTER THREE

Theia’s eyes snapped open.  She was on a raised, cold metal table.  The surgical lamp overhead glared into her eyes, obliterating everything a few feet away from her. 

Oh God, no.  He had her again.  She had to get away before he starting the cutting.  She struggled to move her arms, but they were tightly secured by two-inch wide metal bands at her wrists, at right angles to the table.

Her legs were up in stirrups, feet and ankles tied to them with some type of cloth.  A cold metal band encircled her just where her ribs met her abdomen, holding her to the apparatus.  There was a thin drape over her.  She was so cold.

She opened her mouth to scream, but no sound would come out.  There was a sound off to the left, behind her head.  She attempted to turn her head, but it moved less than an inch.  There wasn’t anything holding it in place.  Wheels scooted across the hard floor toward her, along with footsteps.  Then suddenly, there he was, leaning over her from her left side.  He wore a surgical apron over faded green scrubs, a pale green paper surgical cap with white edges and a white surgical mask pulled over his face.  His large Orson Welles brown eyes gleamed.  The bit of skin she could see around his eyes was glossy with sweat.

She closed her eyes.  Please, God.  Let me have a heart attack.  Anything but this.

When she opened her eyes, he pulled a roller tray over to her side.  A folded cloth covered the metal surface of the tray.  On the cloth were ten or fifteen scalpels and surgical instruments, neatly lined up like Matchbox cars.  Her eyes blurred.  She parted her lips to scream, but no sound came out.

She mouthed the word “please,” at him.  His eyes crinkled as he grinned at her.  Tears rolled down her face, and his eyes smiled lovingly at her.

“Babydoll,” he purred.  “You know you shouldn’t have flirted with that man at the restaurant.”

A man in a restaurant?  What man in a restaurant?  Then she remembered.  The incident in the restaurant had happened five years ago.  They were seated at a table with a white linen tablecloth draped at an angle over a dark green tablecloth.  Classical music played softly.  The waiter brought them a small chalkboard on which the day’s specials had been artfully written.  Their waiter was medium height, very thin and somewhat effeminate.  Lush plants filled the restaurant and helped muffle the quiet conversations.  Theia wore the outfit her husband had bought for her, down to the designer heels and handbag.  Her hair and makeup were in a style he had chosen from a magazine photograph of a classic movie actress. 

Foster’s broad chest and shoulders filled his shirt, even though it had been years since he had played college football.  His pager was clipped to his belt in case of an emergency surgery at the hospital.  His wiry salt and pepper hair accentuated his large brown eyes, which were magnified by the thick lenses of his glasses.

Theia told the waiter her dinner order, made brief eye contact with him and smiled, thanking him.  She glanced at her husband.  The pulse in Theia’s neck throbbed when she saw the anger in his eyes.

“Foster,” she said quietly.  “What’s wrong?”

“You didn’t have to flirt with him!” Foster snapped at her, oblivious to the fact that their waiter was still at their table, waiting to take Foster’s dinner order.

“I didn’t flirt with him,” Theia pleaded as his rage escalated.  “I just told him what I wanted for dinner.”

“Are you fucking my wife?” Foster bellowed. “Are you?  Because if you are, I’ll kill both of you!”  He stood and, placing his hands on the underside of the table, flipped it over, sending their plates, glasses and utensils flying in the direction of other people.  He stormed out of the restaurant, bellowing and cursing as he went.  Mortified, Theia followed him.  The baffled waiter had stared as they left.

Theia looked up at Foster, blinking from the bright surgical lamps shining in her face. 

“Ah, you remember.  And you know what I told you I would do when I caught you with another man,” Foster said. “Just like that model in the news who got her faced slashed.  That’s what I have to do to you now—it has to be done.  You won’t be able to walk down the street without people screaming in horror at the sight of you.”

Theia’s eyes darted around the room, looking for a means of escape and seeing none.

“In case you lose consciousness during the procedure, I’ll tell you exactly what I am going to do,” he said with an unnerving calmness, then, with a snap of his hand, yanked the drape off of her.  “I’d hate for you to miss out on anything.”

Why hadn’t she told anyone how crazy he had become?  He had isolated her from her family and her friends.  She was embarrassed, but she should have confided in someone.  No one would know to look for her until it was too late.

“I thought about injecting you with a chemical compound to temporarily paralyze you but allow you to still feel everything.  Tempting, but I read an article that reported incidents of deaths with its use.  I would hate for you to go quickly.  You will die, but the way I have it planned, it will take days.  I will bring you to the brink of death, keep you hovering there, and then wait until you are strong enough to go on.  Then we will do some more.  We have all the time in the world.”

“I would use a gag in case you find your voice and start screaming, but I am so looking forward to hearing you scream,” he continued.   “And the best part is that you could scream your lungs out, and no one will be able to hear you. This room is entirely sound-proof.”

Theia pleaded with her eyes.

“I find your silence interesting,” he continued.  “I see you are trying to talk or scream.  Hmmm.  I have heard of sheer terror paralyzing the vocal chords, but this is the first time I have witnessed it.  Can you move your fingers?  Come on, be a good girl now.  Wiggle your fingers.” Theia looked down the length of her arm.  She focused with intensity at her hand, but nothing moved. 

“Ha!  Literally paralyzed with fear!  How delightful!” Foster’s eyes were manic.  “I could probably remove the clamps and restraining bar and do the procedure, but just in case you do find the ability to move again, due to the blinding pain, I will leave things as they are.  I would hate to have you move and destroy my masterpiece.”

Theia felt a pounding in her head.  Was that her pulse?  There was so much pressure in her head she thought it might explode.  She felt light-headed.  Maybe I’ll pass out.  That would be a mercy.

“First,” he said, lifting a scalpel from the tray and walking around to stand at her right side, “I will cut you here,” he ran the side of the scalpel down her right cheek, with such a feather-light touch it did not break the skin.  Tears gushed from her eyes.  Still she did not speak or move. “Then here,” he traced a line down her left cheek, “and here,” across her forehead.  “Then down your arm,” the side of the blade glided down her right arm, still not cutting.  He walked around to her left side.  “Then down this arm,” he said. 

“Then I will let you bleed for a while.”  Walking down alongside of her, he continued tracing, this time down her left leg, as he spoke, “I will resume here, on your left leg.”  He walked around to her other side, “and your right leg,” he leaned over her torso, “your lovely breasts,” he said, a little viciously, this time drawing a few droplets of blood with the scalpel.  “No, too soon.  I want to savor the moment before I draw your life blood.”  He touched the blood with his fingertip and licked it off, savoring the taste. 

He turned away, walked around her to the tray of scalpels and instruments, let the used scalpel fall to the floor, and picked up something from the tray. He had an obsession with cleanliness. His back was to her and was blocking her view, so she couldn’t see what he picked up.  He held it down at his side, then stepped over to stand between her legs.  “Then here.”

Theia awoke screaming.  No, there was no sound coming out.  Was she still in the nightmare?  No, she was in her bedroom.  She never slept in the dark anymore, and in the dim light of the nightlight she could clearly see this was her room.  There was no metal table, no surgical light.

A sound, a noise in the hallway, was coming down toward her bedroom.  Was Foster in her apartment?  She had to make herself move, no matter how terrified she was.  She moved one toe on the right foot. She wiggled her toe again, then a third time.  Then she moved all the toes on her right side, then her foot, both feet. She had broken free from the grip of her terror.

Theia slipped out of her bed without making a sound, grabbed her phone, went over to the doorway where she reached over and turned on the room light.  She blinked until her eyes adjusted to the bright light.  There were no sounds in the hallway.  She took a deep breath, let it out, then cautiously looked around the corner and down the hall.  Nothing there. 

Theia flicked on the hall light, then the spare bedroom light. As she walked down the short hallway she turned on lights in every room, first the kitchen then the bathroom.  These shed enough light that it would be hard for him to be in the front room and not be seen.  The furniture was arranged such that the room could be scanned with a glance.

Theia turned on the lights in the front room and looked at the coat closet by the front door.  Theia needed to check all the closets in her apartment, and she wanted to have her gun with her when she did so. 

She swallowed hard and yanked the closet door open.  No one was hiding there.  She felt around on the shelf for her gun.  It was not there.  Had Foster taken her gun?  Was he hiding in one of the closets?  Was she going to have to face him unarmed?

No, she finally realized.  There was no gun because she had gotten rid of it five years before, when she no longer needed it.  And Foster was not in the closet because he was dead.

Theia sank to the floor and sat, cross-legged, her body racked with sobs.  Was she losing her mind?  Did she go through and survive so much, only to go crazy five years later?  She had to remember that he was dead and could never hurt her again.  She had a new life in a new town.  She had built her career and was making it on her own.  Rose’s case had triggered fears Theia had assumed were permanently laid to rest.  She would just have to figure out how not to have nightmares when handling these cases.  That was not too much to ask.  All she wanted was to work and come home and not wake up scared half out of her mind.  Was she too damaged from the past to ever have a normal life?  The prospect of spending the rest of her life in this condition weighed her down with gloom.

After a good cry, Theia got up, grabbed pillows and blankets and sunk onto the sofa. She drank a glass of wine and watched infomercials, the bane of the insomniac. Under the blankets, she drew her legs up and wrapped her arms around them. She was so cold.

The next morning was a typical clammy, hazy August morning in St. Louis.  The sky felt like a ten-ton humidity monster hovering overhead, just waiting to body slam the town. Such was summer in a city on the Mississippi River.