Terrorscape (23 page)

Val heard a female voice say, “What percentage of
people in normally functioning populations have it?”

“What is normal?” he said wryly.
The female student flushed.

“Just something to keep in mind. To answer your
question, one percent.” Professor Hendricks smiled.
“However, as with most mental health disorders, the
severity of the symptoms exists on a continuum.

“It is actually very interesting that you chose to
refer to a 'normal population' as it is true that many
sociopaths are able to mimic socially acceptable
behavior and function in society, even having jobs,
going to religious services, and starting families.

“Antisocial personalities are a mystery to us. It is
difficult to fathom a style of perception so different
from our own. We know so little about the so-called
normal brain….” He trailed off. “From what we do
know about neuroanatomy, people with antisocial
personality disorder appear to have fewer neural
connections in their limbic system and frontal lobes,
the areas of the brain chiefly responsible for emotion
and executive functions, respectively. They also have
suppressed nervous systems; they tend to maintain
prolonged eye contact without the feelings of anxiety
or discomfort that others tend to exhibit. When
exposed to loud and sudden stimuli a startle response
is often absent.

“Emotions are a mystery to them. A puzzle, if you
will. Many of them become adept mimics but their
performance is often, well, soulless.”

He clicked slides.

“Rehabilitation is often unsuccessful, because of
this
mimicry.
People
with
antisocial
personality
disorder are frequently keen observers, and will
speak and act in the way their therapist desires. The
sad truth is that attempts to “cure” the individual
often just results in a better liar.”

Val looked at the screen.

There
was
a
man
there,
in
confinement
somewhere. A jail cell, maybe. His pierced lips were
drawn into a vaguely sardonic smile. What bothered
her most, though, were the eyes; they were a cold
dark blue, devoid of any perceivable human emotion,
staring as though attempting to bore past the camera
lens and into the innermost thoughts of the observer
on the other side.

She was reminded of that picture of Gavin she
had seen freshman year. Him, holding the crossbow
as though he planned to fire it at the yearbook
photographer.
Gavin's
eyes are like that. She bit her
lip. Prolonged eye contact. Yes, that was it. He had a
way of staring people down.

The moment the thought occurred to her she
knew she would never forget it, and that simple
realization tore her insides to shreds.
Chapter Sixteen

Lime Blossom
Val woke up, drenched in sweat.
Not again
.
Another horrible nightmare.

She clutched at the front of her tank top, halfexpecting to feel the thick congealing blood from her
dream coursing down her front. Her eyes flicked to
Mary's empty bed and panic rose.

Where was Mary? What time was it? 12:15?
Three hours until abnormal psychology.
She had been asleep for more than half the day.
Again
.

Val got to her feet and winced as an ache sliced
down the back of her head.

 

Sleep hangover.

She grabbed a hair-tie and twisted her hair into a
messy ponytail and searched for something to wear.
Clothes were all over the floor, mostly on Mary's side
of the room. Val tossed a few of the clothes on Mary's
bed and then gave up. She didn't have the energy to
clean. She didn't have the energy to do anything.

She was still spooked by that last lecture. By the
delinquent youth with Gavin's eyes.

Mary
had
set
up
a
coffee
machine
in
the
bathroom. The pot held the remnants of last week's
brew. Val muttered in disgust as she scraped the
moldy remains into the bathroom sink. She was a
slob, too, but she drew the line at mold cultures.

As she scrubbed, she happened to catch her
reflection in the bathroom mirror. More breakouts
speckled
her
cheeks
and
forehead
beneath
the
freckles, far more noticeable because of her fish-bellywhite complexion. Hair, lank and greasy from her
night sweats. She could see the network of veins on
her face, gray-green beneath the skin, dark purple on
her eyelids. Darker shadows beneath her eyes.

She looked terrible. Not as terrible as she should
have—not as if her entire world were flying apart in
pieces as sharp as razors—but terrible nonetheless.

Putting on makeup. That was something else she
was going to have to do if she planned on leaving the
house. Not that it mattered. She had nobody to
impress.

Val finished filling the clean pot with water and
shut off the tap. Once the coffee started brewing she
felt a little invigorated. The heady smell of the
Ethiopian brew was warm and homey. It was the
same brand to which her father was partial.

A sharp knock at the door jerked her unpleasantly
from
her
coffee-induced
stupor,
and
yearning
thoughts of home.

Mary, why don't you ever take your key?
Val shook
her head. “Why didn't you clean the—”

 

She stopped. It wasn't Mary stretched out in her
doorway, but Gavin.

He managed to slip through before she could
slam the door, closing it with a heavy thud that
rattled all the windows up and down the hall as he
leaned his body back against it. Casually, he reached
down to flick the latch. She clenched her hands into
fists.

“Get out—get out, or I'll scream.”

 

His eyes flicked to her hands before crinkling, catlike, in amusement. “I'm sure you will.”

 

She knocked his hand aside, hard enough that her
fingers stung. “You don't get to touch me.”

 

“Is that a fact.”

She stumbled back a pace when he pushed off
from the door and felt her panic mount at showing
such weakness. “It…it hasn't been three days,” she
ground out, trying not to wilt when he closed the
distance between them.

“Actually, it has. But we'll cross that bridge when
we get to it, won't we?”

 

“What are you—what do you want then?”
“It seems we have an unwelcome addition to our
little game.”

A loud burbling sound caused them both to look
off to the side. Val escaped into the bathroom to shut
off the coffee machine, only to find Gavin outside the
door.

“I didn't tell anyone.”
“I know.”

It took her a moment to put the pieces together.
“He called you, too?”

“Yes.”
He
was
studying
her
room
intently.
“Yellow roses. How very appropriate.”
“Its my favorite color,” she snapped.

“And how well it becomes you, my little jade.”

His lips fell upon hers, and his mouth was hot
and sweet as his fingers raked through her hair to free
it from her ponytail. She felt the tangled strands fall to
her shoulders, tickling unpleasantly. He kissed her
until she had no air left and she fell away, gasping for
a breath that did not exist.

“My roommate will be home soon.”
“We won't be long.”
He pulled her robe back from her shoulders,
letting it fall to the floor. He put his hands on her

arms
and
whispered
something
in
her
ear.
He
laughed when she stiffened, casually sliding the
straps of her tank top down to bare the top of her
breasts as he purred, “Such a simple request.”

“I said no.”

“I will not be refused.” He dragged her top lower,
and kissed her upper lip. “Surely you've done it
before.”

Val said nothing.

“Undress me.” He pressed her hands against his
shirtfront before sealing their lips together. He ran his
hands down her flanks, down her buttocks. He
maneuvered beneath the leg of her shorts and made a
pleased sound as his shirt fell open and her breasts
rubbed against his bare chest.

“Now.” He slipped his hand out of her pants and
took her right hand. His other hand was at the base of
her spine now, keeping her in place. He ran her
fingers down his chest, over the tops of his jeans,
eventually coming to rest against his bulging fly. He
pressed down on her hand, hard, and she felt him
throb inside the denim. “Unzip me.”

And he dug his fingers lightly into the base of her
spine as he caught her lower lip between his teeth and
sucked, before turning his head and plunging his
tongue into her mouth. He sighed into her mouth as
she unfastened the catch, and felt springy hair and
hot skin before yanking her hand away as if she had
been burned. He hissed in her ear, “On your knees.”

He shoved her down before she had time to
register the command, and pulled her head up by her
chin. She found herself thinking,
He seems a lot taller
from the floor
.

She remembered the greenhouse, when Charlie
had been threatening her with the poker and he had
stepped in at the last instant to kill the brunette girl.

He had seemed impossibly tall then, too.

Gavin squeezed her jaw until she opened her
mouth and then he slipped out his sex. His erect penis
reared up, roseate and corded with purplish veins. It
swelled under her frightened gaze, and he deftly ran
his hand along the shaft to caress the florid tip with
his thumb.

“I've often dreamed of this. You have the kind of
mouth that inspires the fantasies of poets.”

Val squeezed her eyes shut and felt the heat
radiate from his body as he stepped closer. The tip of
her nose brushed against his scratchy treasure trail.

“Open your eyes. I want you to watch.”

He released his grip on her jaw, letting his fingers
coil and knot through her hair as he pushed past her
lips. His other hand was on her shoulder, clenching.
And then she heard him moan and something hit the
back of her throat. She nearly gagged, and he dug his
fingers in harder, bruising her collarbone.

Val forced herself to breathe through her nose.
She could feel her tender skin chafing, growing
chapped in the cold dry air with the repeated friction.
He grunted occasionally, usually proceeding another
one of those particularly deep and painful thrusts that
left her epiglottis feeling bruised.

Just when she thought her face might splinter, or
that she might throw up for real, he pulled out and
she felt a warm stickiness spatter her breasts. Thick,
white, milky, viscous.

Her stomach heaved. She wanted to look at him,
but could not meet his eyes. Not like this, with the
straps of her top dangling pathetically around her
elbows, half-naked, and covered in his seed.

“My clue,” she mumbled.
“Look me in the eyes and ask me.”
“Please….”
“Look at me.”
She did, and immediately wished she had not. “I
want my clue.”

“I want you to taste me.”

Val did not understand, and then she thought she
might and her stomach lurched frightfully. “What?”
He took her hand, forcing out her index finger.
He ran her index finger up her breast, catching one of
the opalescent globs, and brought her hand to her
mouth. “Lick it all off and I'll give you what you
want.”
She choked back a sob. Closed her eyes. Flicked
out her tongue and swallowed because it was better to
get it over with quickly and all at once than to let the
taste of him linger, salty-sweet, in her mouth.

Her gorge rose, and she felt saliva flood her
mouth. He ran the pad of his thumb along her lower
lip. “Such an obedient thing,” he said. “Even in filth,
you remain a rose.”

“Please,” she sobbed.

 

“Yes,” he mused. “I suppose you've earned it.
Very well. Your clue is sin.”

 

“Who did you kill?”

He shook his head as he left. She had the feeling
he was laughing at her, as if he knew she would be
running into the shower the moment he was gone.
Because that was precisely what she did.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

Val had never been superstitious, but the soft, full
moon that drenched the room in a bluish, surreal cast
was almost enough to make her believe in ghosts.

She could hear the faint ticking of a clock, and,
fainter still, the sound of a television in one of the
other dorms. She felt like she was living through one
of her nightmares—and perhaps she was. They were,
after all, based on life.

The light from the moon was enough to see by
and with a stealthy look at her sleeping roommate,
Val slipped her laptop's case out from underneath her
bed. The canvas scratched against the edge of her bed
and her heart stopped as Mary groaned, turning over
onto her side. Val wasn't so afraid of waking Mary up
as she was of Mary wanting to know what she was
doing up at this hour.

The screen blinked on, bathing her in a bright
white glow. She unplugged the power cord, letting
the screen dim as it reverted to battery power.

She had to know whose death she had caused.
She had to know who she should have on her
conscience. That she should feel guilt was necessary;
it was her burden to bear as much as it was Atlas's to
hold the world on his shoulders.

She typed in “Derringer” and “murder”, praying
there would be no hits. She was disappointed.
Nancy Ramirez Murdered in Home.

Val
felt
simultaneous
horror,
confusion,
and
dread, pierced with the cold arrow of relief. The name
was unfamiliar to her, and there was no chance of her
being a student at DHS—not a recent one, anyway—
since the article gave her age as twenty-nine. So who
was Nancy Ramirez?

Maybe it's coincidence
.

She couldn't believe she was being so callous
about a woman's death. But then, she was no stranger
to death. She met with him personally on every third
day.

Her eyes continued to scroll through the article.
There was a picture at the bottom. This, strangely
enough, did look familiar, and another search quickly
told Val everything she needed to know. Nancy
Ramirez worked at the Derringer Emergency Medical
Hospital.