Affliction

by Marilee Brothers

Mick swipes my face with the gag and, once again, jams his shoulder into my midsection. I grunt as the air whooshes out of my lungs. Breen holds the door open. After Mick steps through, Breen tells him to wait for Myron. Breen hurries away.

  Since my projectile vomiting episode, I’m feeling much better. Spunky, even.

  How can that be? I should be cowering in fear. Myron just told me of my impending death. Still, I’m thinking clearly, able to put everything into perspective. What’s the worst thing that can happen if I die? Aida is safe. Her baby will be safe. Kendra and Paco will make sure of that. Billy has the flash drive and I know he won’t rest until these evil people are behind bars. That is, unless Paco gets to them first. Strangely, I’m not afraid to die. I just hope it’s quick. Not that I want to die. No way. I have things to do. Places to go.

  Maybe it’s because the blood is rushing to my head that I throw caution to the wind. “Hey, Mick,” I say.

  He grunts.

  “You know what? I can read your soul. It’s not like Myron’s and Eddie’s. Why are you involved with these nasty people? For money? Women from your homeland are being used and abused, turned into brood mares and sex slaves. You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  “Stop talking.” He whacks me on the butt again.

  “Ow.”

  The buzzer sounds. Myron is now clad in jeans and a white tee, topped with a camouflage hunting vest. He keeps his distance from me. I can’t help but taunt him. “What’s the matter, big boy? Scared I’ll hurl on you again?”

  He snarls, “Shut the fuck up.”

  I hear laughter rumble in Mick’s chest. “She got you good, bro.”

  Myron ignores the jibe and walks ahead of us down the hall. He pauses in front of an examination room, opens the door and turns on the light. “Put her on the table.”

  Mick plops me on the examination table, none too gently. I hear a woman crying out in pain. The sound is coming through the wall from the examination room next to ours. I picture Dr. Breen hovering between the pregnant girl’s legs, poised and ready to deliver the baby and hand it over to a childless couple with a big bank account. It makes me sick. If I had anything left in my stomach, I’d throw up on Myron again.

  I wait until for the pause between her screams and yell at the top of my lungs. “Don’t let him take your baby. You’ll never see it again and…”

  I see the back of Myron’s hand coming toward my face. I duck but it’s too late.

  Whack!

  His heavy blow knocks me off the table. With my arms bound together, I can’t break the fall. I crash to the floor. The right side of my body hits first. My head bounces off the tile. Blood drips from the gash on my cheek, compliments of Myron’s heavy ring. Pain shoots through my right arm. Dizzy and hurting, I curl up in a little ball of misery.

  Myron nudges me with a foot. He’s breathing hard. “I told you to shut the fuck up. Do you believe me now?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut to hold back the tears and nod.

  The screams on the other side of the wall start up again, closer together now. Myron, arms folded across his chest, leans against the door. He tells Mick. “Put her back on the table.”

  Mick scoops me up. My arm throbs with pain. I wonder if it’s broken. When he sets me on the table, he places a finger across my mouth. “Didn’t I tell you to stop talking?”

  His words piss me off. I open my mouth and chomp down on his finger, hard enough to draw blood.

  With a yip of pain, he yanks his finger away and snarls something in Russian that sounds like, “okhu el.”

  I smile at him sweetly. “Okhu el to you too.”

  Apparently it’s a really bad curse because he flushes. His hand curls into a fist. Kiss your front teeth goodbye, Mel.

  My head is throbbing but my vision clears. Mick’s pale blue eyes are cold as ice. He mutters something else in Russian. His hand relaxes and he steps away.

  Myron chuckles. “Told ya she was a piece of work.”

  I turn my head toward Myron. “You gonna kill me now or what?”

  Myron flashes his mirthless smile. “Now, it’s pay back time. We put your feet in the stirrups. Mick and I have a little fun. Then, you die. How does that sound?”

  Struggling to control the shockwaves of fear and pain coursing through my body, I force myself to meet his eyes. “You sure you want to get that close to me? After what happened earlier? Plus, I’m having a herpes flare-up right now. Hope you have a rubber.”

  Myron’s right eye begins to twitch. An angry flush reddens his cheeks. “Knew you were a skank. Did you give it to Billy?”

  “How do you know he didn’t give it to me?”

  We lock gazes. I refuse to blink. Our stare-down is interrupted by the sound of a baby crying. Myron pumps a fist in the air. “Yes. You know what that is? It’s the sound of money.”

  Several retorts spring to mind. All of them are inflammatory. Since I know he won’t hesitate to light me up again, I keep my opinion to myself.

  A few minutes later, the baby’s cries stop suddenly. I hear a woman’s voice, rising and falling, tinged with panic. A door opens and closes followed by the sound of footsteps. The door to our room opens. Breen steps through. “Mick. I need you to calm our new mother down. She needs someone who speaks her language.”

  Words burst from my mouth before I can stop them. “You want Mick to calm her down so you can sell her baby for big bucks. Right, doc?”

  Breen’s gaze swings over to me. “Do you think the young woman in the other room has any idea how to care for a baby? Trust me, she does not. She’d be on the streets or on welfare in a New York minute. Really, I’m doing her a tremendous favor. I’m giving her child the chance to grow up in a loving family.”

  I squirm up to a sitting position. “You’re doing her a favor?” My voice is shrill with outrage. “Is that how you justify impregnating women without their knowledge and selling their babies? You know what you are? You’re a giant carbuncle on the ass of society.”

  Myron takes a step toward me, one hand raised. I zip my lip.

  Breen stares at me, blinking rapidly, rendered speechless by my comments. I’m certain no one has ever spoken to him like I did. In this clinic, he is the Supreme Being, worshipped by an adoring female staff and needy women desperate to conceive. And, I just called him a huge pus-filled blister. I bite back a smile of satisfaction. If I’m going to die, I may as well get my licks in.

  Jared Breen leaves without saying a word. Mick pushes away from the wall and follows him.

  The pain in my head throbs, echoing the beat of my heart. Dread and panic arrive in equal measure.

  I am now alone with Myron who’s already explained in graphic terms, what he intends to do to me.

  Hang in there, Mel.

  Chapter Forty

  He strolls to the table, one hand in the pocket of his camo vest and pulls out a large hunting knife. He removes the scabbard and slides a finger down its length. The overhead light bounces off its razor sharp surface. I stop breathing, my gaze fixed on the blade.

  He waves the knife in front of my face. I shrink back. “Here’s the deal,” he says. “You make me happy and your death will be quick. If you don’t make me happy, well, let’s just say your loving family will have a hard time collecting enough of you to bury.”

  I will myself to breathe. My brain needs oxygen. In my present trussed-up condition, my brain is the only part of me not under Myron’s control. Think, Mel, think. Don’t let fear paralyze you.

  I heard Mick’s voice coming through the wall. He’s speaking in a low, measured tone. The woman responds, sounding calmer. I want to reach through the wall and claw his eyes out.

  Myron leans close and licks his lips. “I’ve been watching that cute little ass of yours swishing around the restaurant for too long. ’Bout time I got a piece of it.”

  My wits are my only weapon. Since my wrists are bound, my upper body is useless. If he unties my legs so he can rape me, I might be able to strike him
with a strong double-leg kick. Then what? Unless he’s completely incapacitated—highly unlikely—he’ll go to work with the hunting knife and pieces of my body will be scattered around 3 Peaks. It will be a grisly Honor Melanie Sullivan scavenger hunt.

  Myron grabs the neck of my Nick’s Place T-shirt with one meaty hand, pulls it away from my body and slices it from top to bottom. If falls away. He slips a finger under the center panel of my bra and uses the blade to cut it. It springs open, exposing both my breasts. He cups my left breast in his hand and squeezes. It hurts like hell. I grit my teeth to keep from crying out. He’s humming under his breath, obviously a man who enjoys his work. His movements are slow and deliberate, designed to make me realize I’m totally under his control. Willing to do anything. Willing to beg for my life.

  As if.

  His face is close to mine. He’s breathing hard and the bulge in his jeans tells me he’s turned on by my helplessness.

  I take a deep breath and lower my voice. “Look at me, Myron.”

  He glances into my eyes and snarls, “I give the orders. Not you.”

  To prove how manly he is, he grabs my hips and pulls me to the side of the table next to him. He rubs his erection against me. His breathing accelerates.

  I force a bark of laughter. “I’m guessing the only way you can get it up is when a woman is tied up and helpless. I dare you to look into my eyes and tell me that’s not true.”

  He keeps rubbing his disgusting organ against me and mumbles, “You’re full of shit.”

  “Am I? You’re scared to look into my eyes. No problem. I already looked in your nasty little soul. Yes, I can do that. Want to know what I saw there, beside the fact you served time in prison?”

  Myron freezes. He lifts his flat gray gaze away from my lower body until he’s looking directly into my eyes. It’s what I hoped he would do. He’s not the brightest star in the firmament, so I’m praying he’s leery of things he doesn’t understand.

  Past. Present. Future. Words from Steve’s soul-reading manual. In this case, I have to work backward. Present to Past. Make some educated guesses. Fingers crossed, I soldier on.

  He stares, unblinking, into my eyes. “How did you know I was in prison?”

  “When we first met, I looked into your soul and saw prison bars. Among other things.”

  “You’re making this up.”

  “Am I?”

  It’s time for the truth-o-meter. “Myron’s not even your real name.”

  “Hell, yes, it’s my real name. Why wouldn’t it be?”

  I see the lie flash across his soul before he looks away.

  “You changed your identity so you didn’t have to put ‘ex con’ on job applications. Does Nick know?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  I’m far from safe so I pull out the big guns. “When I looked into your eyes just now, I saw something else. Something that’s going to give you major Weenie Wilt.” I emphasize the last two words like they are capitalized, the official Latin name for a troublesome medical condition.

  I stare pointedly at the organ in question. It’s already considerably smaller. “Are you ready?”

  He steps away from me. “What are you? Some kind of Satan worshipper? A witch?”

  I smile. “Maybe. Wanna know what I saw?”

  His jaw tightens. Clearly, he doesn’t.

  Too bad.

  “The prison bars in your soul are bigger than before, and darker. That means you’re going back inside. Soon. Know what else I saw?”

  There’s uncertainty in his eyes when his gaze meets mine.

  “Terrible images.” I force a shudder. “Awful. They don’t scare me, though, because I know what they mean. Everything you plan to do to me tonight will be done to you when you’re locked up again. In triplicate. By men. Big, nasty, muscular men. The prison shower is a real danger zone.”

  This is such an outrageous lie; I almost choke on the words. I’m cheered by the fact Myron’s face has gone pale.

  He recovers quickly and blusters, “You’re making this up.”

  “You sure about that?”

  His eyes narrow into little slits of fury. Moving fast as a striking cobra, he grabs my ankles. One slash of the knife and my ankles are unbound. Clutching the waistband of my jeans, he yanks me to the end of the table, steps between my legs and grinds his crotch against me.

  “Surefire cure for weenie wilt,” he says with a sneer.

  The pain shooting through my arm stalls me for a moment. It takes every ounce of strength I possess not to scream.

  Okay, Mel, this is your last chance. Make it good.

  “Guess you don’t believe me,” I pant. “Need more proof. I know what you served time for.”

  He keeps rubbing against me. “Go for it.”

  “Rape and aggravated assault.”

  He stops grinding and unzips his fly. “Lucky guess.”

  “The future doesn’t look so lucky for you.”

  He gropes for the button on my jeans. “My future looks a whole lot better than yours. In case you’ve forgotten, you’ll be dead soon.”

  He makes the mistake of looking into my eyes when he utters these words. I hold his gaze, and narrow my eyes. “In case you’ve forgotten, every single thing you do to me tonight will be done to you. Three times over.”

  He grimaces and wraps a hand around my throat. “Shut up.”

  I squeeze out the words, “Three. Times. Over.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” he screams, but his grip loosens.

  The door opens and Mick steps through. He takes in the scene with a single glance, but gives nothing away in his expression. “Talked to Rusty. He wants me to take care of her now. Not wait until morning.”

  Myron looks frustrated and pouty. “Gimme five minutes.”

  I so want to say, “Five minutes? Don’t make me laugh.” But, I don’t.

  Mick says, “No time, dude. Got to do it now. It’ll be light soon and I need to dump her in the dark.”

  My blood turns to ice. Despite his soul, Mick looks like a stone cold killer, totally impervious to emotion. A get-the-job-done-and-move-on kind of guy.

  You’re so screwed, Mel.

  Still glowering at me, Myron takes a reluctant step back. “I’ll drive you.”

  “Breen wants you to stay here in case he needs help with the woman and kid.”

  Myron hands over the keys. Mick pockets them, steps around Myron and reaches for me.

  Their calm discussion around my impending demise makes me livid with rage. “Hey, assholes.” I yell. “I’m half naked here. The least you can do is cover me up.”

  I double up my legs and land a good hard kick in the middle of Mick’s chest. A brief grimace of pain flashes across his stoic face, but he’s as unmovable as a stone statue. He pulls a roll of duct tape from his back pocket and lashes my ankles together. That done, he removes the flannel shirt he’s wearing over a form-fitting black tee, drapes it around my upper body and buttons it.

  “Happy now?”

  “Ecstatic,” I say. Since my hands are bound, I flip him the bird with my eyes.

  Once again, I’m hoisted in the air and draped across Mick’s left shoulder. The pain momentarily steals my breath away.

  “Bye-bye, sweetheart,” Myron mocks. “Sorry I didn’t get to know you better.”

  “Roast in hell, Myron. You’ll fit right in there.”

  “Witch.” he snarls.

  “Satan’s minion.” I respond, grunting to get out the words as I jounce up and down on Mick’s shoulder.

  “Bitch.”

  “Bastard.” It’s my parting shot as I’m borne out of the clinic.

  No more options. No more tricks up my sleeves. I’m in the hands of a killer and I won’t even have a chance to tell my mother goodbye.

  Are you ready to die, Mel?

  Chapter Forty-One

  Mick opens the trunk of the Impala and places me inside. He starts to close the
lid but reconsiders and pulls the gag from his pocket. He leans close. His eyes are cold and focused. “I have a decision to make and I know you won’t keep your mouth shut while I’m thinking.”

  “What kind of decision? Like, how to kill me? Where to kill me?” My voice is quivering and semi-hysterical. “So, what do you want me to do? Be quiet while you decide where to dump my body?”

  I’m trying hard not to cry, but after a stifled sob, I say, “I think Myron broke my arm. It hurts like hell.”

  “Keep your voice down or the gag goes on.” He leans into the trunk and unbuttons the flannel shirt he’d draped around me. I feel his fingers probing my right arm. Just below the elbow, he wraps his hand around my arm. Squeezes. I inhale sharply, trying not to cry out in pain.

  “Hmm,” he says, buttoning the shirt and tying the filthy rag around my mouth. He slams the lid shut. What did you expect, Mel? Sympathy? I curl up on my non-injured side. Mick cranks the motor and the car pulls out of the clinic parking lot.

  My tears begin to flow in earnest. Since my mother is foremost in my mind, I search my memory for advice she may have given me about how to deal with serial killers. Zilch. With pain throbbing in my arm, it’s really hard to focus. But I do remember watching a true crime show on TV about serial killers and mass murderers. Are serial killers/mass murderers and hired killers different? Probably, since the latter gets paid for doing the deed, whereas the others do it for fun. I vaguely recall something about trying to establish rapport with the potential killer, something like, “Aw, come on, killing me would be like killing your little sister and I’m sure you don’t want to do that.”

  Or, is that technique intended for kidnappers/murderers? My mind is definitely not functioning well. I’m learning something about pain. It absorbs all your energy, chasing all rational thoughts from your mind. Focus, Mel. Try to save yourself. Nobody else will.

  Okay. When Mick opens the trunk and, if he doesn’t kill me that instant, I’ll try the rapport thing. Nothing to lose.

  A few minutes later, I feel the Impala make a slow left hand turn and pull to a stop. I hear the car door open and close and the sound of receding footsteps. Is this the time to make noise? We were surely still in the heart of the city. I steel myself against the pain and squirm around until I can lash out with my bound feet. After a series of feeble thumps, the lid of the trunk flies open and Mick peers in. He’s holding a plastic grocery sack.