The Fixer (11 page)

Bastian poured himself another scotch and ignored the chimes. He felt no need to endure the false pity detail-hungry colleagues might offer on the other side of his front door. He took his glass and bottle to the sun porch at the rear of the house and cursed himself for relying on Childress to keep the underlings in line.

Bastian flopped onto a chaise and gazed into his back yard. The outdoor lights had been synchronized to the shortened days. A blanket of snow, rare for Washington, left dollops of white on the long curving bows of the fir trees. He remembered Christmas was next week. The dean of the medical school had invited him to his family’s ski lodge on Crystal Mountain. “Have to get new plans now,” he said to no one as he took a swig straight from the bottle.

He saw her approach from the west side of the house. Tall and thin. Long brown hair under a bright red beret. Struggling with an enormous poinsettia plant as she stepped gingerly over the snowy walk. Bastian cradled the scotch and watched her climb the icy stairs to the deck. The porch light caught her face. “An ethereal snow fairy,” he sang to the empty room. He saluted her beauty, took another drink, and watched her through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He felt a voyeur’s tingling excitement as he watched her struggle to balance the large pot. She brushed snow off an outdoor table and carefully set the flowers down. She reached inside her navy pea coat, pulled out a white envelope, and nestled it within the giant blooms. For a moment he contemplated inviting this delivery person in for a cup of holiday cheer. But he sat still. Watched her turn to go. Watched her slip on his stairs and land with a loud yelp.

“Oh, shit!” Bastian pulled himself off the chaise, set his bottle down, and took three heavy steps toward the deck. He leaned against the door and breathed deeply, trying to clear his head of scotch and irritation.

“What the hell happened?” he yelled as he yanked the door open. “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my backyard?”

The young woman groaned and struggled to sit up. Her beret fell, a slash of red against the accumulating white. She turned to retrieve it. The porch light caught her face and Bastian smiled as the snow-encrusted lovely tried to regain her dignity and struggled to stand on wobbly legs.

“You could put a little salt on those steps, mister.” She sounded more frightened than hurt. “You’re lucky I didn’t break my neck. I could sue, you know.”

Her false bravado amused him. “And I could have you arrested for trespass. Who are you?”

The beautiful intruder fixed her red hat back on her head and pointed a gloved hand toward the poinsettia. “Monica O’Leary. I deliver for Rainier Floral. I tried your front door but there was no answer. I didn’t want to leave your plant where somebody could take it so I brought it around back. Merry Fucking Christmas.”

“Stay where you are.” Bastian crossed over the snowy deck and pulled the card from the plant. He chuckled when he saw it was from Meredith Thornton and assumed she’d ordered them some time ago. He doubted the university president would be so generous given the day’s events. He tossed the card down and stumbled back toward the house.

“Hey, mister.” The delivery girl shuffled over to the table. “Aren’t you gonna take this plant inside? It’s like a hundred dollar flower. Somebody must love you a lot.”

“Keep it.” He called over his shoulder, walked into the room, and threw himself back onto the chaise.

Monica picked up the plant and the card and flat-stepped across the slippery deck to the still-open back door. “Mind if I just set this inside? It’ll die out here.”

Bastian surveyed the young woman in his door way. Her hair, damp from the melting snow, clung to her face and framed translucent skin and bright green eyes. Plaid kilt and navy blue leggings under her pea coat. Dark green rubber boots. Bastian blinked hard to steady his liquored focus.

“Put it over there.” He motioned toward a glass table at the far end of the sunroom. “And close the door behind you. It’s freezing out there.”

Monica balanced the large pot on one hip when she turned to close the door. She kept an eye on him as she crossed toward the table.

“You been drinking, mister?”

Bastian held the scotch bottle high in his right hand. “Care to join me? If you’re not a scotch person there’s plenty of whatever.”

Monica crinkled her nose and looked around the room. “You sure? Won’t your wife wonder who I am?”

Bastian took a long pull from the bottle. “There’s no wife…what did you say your name was?”

“Monica O’Leary. From Rainier’s.” She shoved her hands in her pockets and rocked back and forth in her green boots.

“Ah! An Irish lass come to bring me Christmas cheer.” Bastian’s attempt at a brogue fell short. “Come drink with me, lassie. Tis a dark day I’m havin’.”

She shrugged her shoulders and unbuttoned her coat. “What the hell. You’re my last delivery and my back is killing me after that tumble. You got Irish?”

Bastian tried to get up but collapsed back to the chaise.

“Sit still,” Monica said. “You have your own little party working. Point me in the direction and I’ll help myself.”

Bastian waved to the butler’s pantry. “There’s whiskey in there, child. Fine Irish whiskey. Just the thing for a cold winter’s night of betrayal.”

She tossed her jacket on a chair, left the room, and returned two minutes later with a tumbler of liquor. Monica lifted her gloved hands toward her host and wished him happy holidays. She took a small sip. “So what’s this about betrayal?”

Bastian tried to focus. He moved his legs to one side and patted the open area at the foot of the chaise. “Come sit with me and I’ll tell you a story worthy of Irish tears. A tale of brilliance unappreciated. Of deception colder than the snow that falls outside those doors.”

Monica took the seat he suggested. “You have a poet’s soul. What’s got you bummed this close to Christmas?”

He leaned back and gazed at her. The soft light of the one table lamp gave her a candlelit glow. Bastian remembered a time when all his women were this innocent and fresh. He smiled at the delightful turn the day had taken.

“You’re quite beautiful.” He brushed a long strand of hair away from her face. She didn’t flinch. He brought his hand lightly across her cheek and traced her full lips with his thumb. “Do you know who I am?”

Monica bowed her head, grinned, and looked up at him with long-lashed green eyes. “Of course I know who you are, Dr. Bastian. I’ve wanted to meet you for the longest time. Ever since I read your paper in
Science
about opiate effects on maternal bonding.”

Bastian tilted his head as he caressed her cheek. Her naiveté proved more intoxicating than his scotch. “You’re not a delivery person, are you?” This was his favorite perk. The academic groupies so willing to service the bodies of the illustrious minds they adored. Deluding themselves into thinking they were special because they sucked the cock of a genius.

Monica smiled. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to introduce myself. I even drive by your house sometimes.” She giggled and shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’m not a crazoid stalker.” She set her glass down on the floor. “Today was fate. I drove by and saw the florist guy walking away from your door.” Monica blinked her eyes slowly. “I swung my car into your driveway and told him I was your sister. Said I’d take the flowers inside. I didn’t mean any harm.” She hung her head. “I just wanted you to have that beautiful plant. Don’t be mad, okay? I didn’t even know you were home.”

Bastian withdrew his hand from her cheek and let it travel the length of her arm. “I’m not mad, Monica. You’re my Christmas present. All wrapped up in snow.”

Monica smiled and ran a hand over his leg. She held his gaze as she pulled off her gloves. One finger at a time. Tugging each tip with her teeth. Tossing the gloves and beret to the floor. Running a hand through her long brown hair before returning it to his thigh.

“I’m sorry you had a bad day.” Her voice sounded like whiskey and cigarettes as she inched closer to him. “I want to hear all about it.” She grinned a wicked tease. “But first I want to give you another present.”

Bastian swallowed hard and repositioned his hips to accommodate the erection that strained his trousers. “It is Christmas, after all.” He reached out to her.

“Ah, tut tut,” she whispered. “Close your eyes. Lean back. Relax.”

Bastian smiled and did as she asked. The Fixer brought her hand up to his face and gently placed her fingers against his lips.

“No peeking, okay?” she whispered.

“You’re a shy one, are you? Not too inhibited, I hope.” Bastian kept his eyes shut.

The Fixer reached down and tugged the loaded syringe free from the surgical tape that secured it to the inside of her rubber boot.

“Not inhibited at all, Dr. Bastian.” She pulled off the orange needle guard and leaned forward. “Not one little bit.” She teased aside his collar, and watched him smile in anticipation of her kiss. She stabbed the syringe into his shoulder, pressed the plunger, and jumped free of the chaise. All before his eyes jerked open.

“What the fuck!” Bastian swiped at his shoulder. “Did you bite me?”

The Fixer smiled from three feet away. Her voice calm and slow. “Relax, Dr. Bastian.”

His arms quivered as he grappled for the side of the chaise. “I can’t… I caaa…” He sounded as though his tongue had tripled in size.

“You can’t what, Dr. Bastian? Get up? Of course you can’t.” She held up the empty syringe. “Why not just settle back? Can you do that for me?”

“Whaaaaa…” Bastian’s face went slack. His eyes glistened in bewilderment.

“What’s this, you ask? This was 250 milligrams of succinnylcholine.” The Fixer watched the look in his eyes turn to terror as his body went limp.

“Wh…..” Bastian didn’t have the breath to finish the word. His body lay still. His muscle system completely shut down by the powerful drug.

“Why? Is that your question? You know this drug. You’ve used it hundreds of times on your animals. You know what’s next. Complete muscle paralysis. Full consciousness remaining intact.” The Fixer re-capped the syringe and stuck it back in her boot. “First your striated muscles are paralyzed. You can’t move. Sixty seconds later your smooth muscles stop working. No breathing. No heart beat. That’s where you are now. You’ve got about ninety seconds, Dr. Bastian. Ninety seconds to lie in your petrified body and contemplate the fact you’re already dead. There’s nothing for you to do but close your eyes.” The Fixer took two steps closer and glared down at the helpless man. “But you can’t close your eyes, can you, Bastian? You’re going to watch as your life drains out. Less than a minute now. You’re already nothing. The date’s been chosen for your obituary. All that terror and not a thing you can do. Quite an experience, wouldn’t you say?” The Fixer leaned in close. “Not unlike the one you gave Ortoo.”

She stood and kept her focus on her inert captive. She watched the terror in his motionless eyes; kept her attention fixed until she saw them glaze over.

The Fixer crossed the room and pulled a pair of latex gloves out of her coat pocket. She snapped them on, picked up her whiskey glass, and went to the kitchen. She cleaned the glass and returned it to its spot in the butler’s pantry. Swept up the shards of broken glass she found on the kitchen floor. Wiped the liquor bottle and put it away. Retrieved her winter gloves and hat and surveyed the room for any trace that she’d been there. Then one last look at the dead man on the chaise.

She shrugged into her pea coat, tugged the red beret onto her head, clicked off the table lamp and left through the same door she’d entered.

Lydia hadn’t intended to come to work the day after New Year’s, but she was worried after last night’s call from her answering service. Savannah Samuels called demanding an immediate appointment. She wasn’t surprised to see her waiting when she pulled into the parking lot. Lydia walked past and unlocked the door. Savannah shadowed her without a word of greeting, her beauty dulled by a haggard look of exhaustion and a pair of baggy sweat pants.

Lydia proceeded to her desk, clicking on lights against the early morning darkness. Savannah collapsed onto the sofa, curled into a fetal position, and rocked rhythmically against the leather.

“Would you like a cup of tea?” Lydia gestured toward the microwave in the waiting room.

Savannah kept rocking. Her eyes closed. Oily hair unwashed and uncombed.

Lydia hung her jacket and took a seat opposite her patient. “Savannah,” she whispered. “You’re here and you’re safe. Tell me what has you so upset.”

Still rocking, Savannah stared into nowhere. Red lines of sleeplessness defiled her electric blue eyes.

“I need you to sit up.” Lydia’s voice was firmer now. “Put your feet on the floor.”

Savannah’s rocking stopped. She blinked several times before dragging herself upright. She took a deep breath, unzipped her green nylon jacket, and hugged a throw pillow tight against her chest. “Thank you for seeing me, Dr. Corriger. I hope I didn’t interrupt your holiday.”

“My service said you sounded frantic.” Lydia crossed her legs and leaned back into the chair.

“I don’t know if ‘frantic’ is the word.” Savannah ran her hands through her dirty hair. “Scared shitless, perhaps, but not frantic.”

“Savannah, we’re not doing this today. We’re not playing word games or finding hidden clues.” Lydia’s voice was clear, strong, and steady. “You’re obviously distraught and you’ve reached out for help. That’s a great first step. But the rule here is you can’t ask for help unless you’re ready to take it.”

Savannah stole a glance toward the window before turning her attention to the pillow in her lap. “You haven’t a clue who I am, do you?”

“You haven’t given me much to go on,” Lydia said. “But I’m here. I’d love to know who you are.”

Savannah looked up at her therapist and slowly shook her head. She took several deep breaths before speaking. “It’s getting worse, Dr. Corriger. I’m getting worse.”

“In what way?” Lydia scanned the full length of her patient’s body; taking in the entire tableau of her misery.