by Pamela Cowan
“You better let me go. What are you thinking? I’m not rich. What is this? Is this a kidnapping? There aren’t any rich people in that apartment. You must have the wrong person.”
“You need to shut her up,” said Storm after a few minutes of this.
“Why, it’s not bugging me.”
“Lauren,” Storm snapped.
“Fine. Hand me those Kleenex.”
Storm handed her the slender box of tissues that she found in a sling at the back of the front seat.
Lauren pulled out several. “Open your mouth.”
“You’re not putting those in my mouth.”
“The hell I’m not.”
Storm sat back and closed her eyes. She was tired. She felt sick. Taking a woman who was old, frail, and who, aside from a barrage of whining, seemed helpless, was never on her agenda. If it wasn’t for Lauren’s stories of the old nurse’s evil deeds, she wouldn’t be able to stay in this car another second. But she had heard Lauren’s stories.
It was strange, one of those coincidences that make the concept of fate seem plausible. Around the same time Lauren was in the hospital recovering from the car accident, Storm had been in the hospital too.
After her father poured 151 rum over her back and ignited it, she had been burned over thirty percent of her body, mostly across her back and the back of her arms. Fourteen percent of those had been third degree burns requiring skin grafts.
She couldn’t remember the first few days in the hospital, but the days after that were a horror-filled routine of pain. It hurt when she was awake or asleep. It hurt when she lay in bed with IVs dripping fluids into her, and it hurt when they moved her to a gurney to be taken to the Torture Chamber, the daily bath where her burns were washed with water and bleach, and dead skin was removed by nurses.
She had not hated the nurses. They were trying to help, and some were really kind. But she had learned to hate the smell of bleach, and she knew how to ride a wave of pain far too well.
Maybe that was why she was willing to help Lauren. Her story was one Storm could relate to, and empathize with.
That night in the basement, Lauren said, “After I got hit, I ended up in a hospital. I had casts on both my legs, my jaw was wired together, and my face was...well, it wasn’t pretty. The pain was bad, but the drugs made it manageable. They didn’t take all the pain away, exactly. It just made me not care so much. At night it was worse. At night sometimes I had to scream.
“Clevidence would come in and tell me I was a baby. To suck it up. Sometimes she’d give me a shot, but it didn’t last long enough. I finally realized that the pain was worse on nights she worked. I made a big mistake.”
Storm had noticed the crease of concentration on Lauren’s forehead, the glisten of tears in her eyes. Not tears of sadness but of anger and frustration. She knew them well enough to recognize them in another.
“I confronted her,” continued Lauren. “I said, ‘I know that you’re messing with my meds. Are you using them yourself? Are you selling them? If you don’t stop I’m going to turn you in.’”
“You know what she did?” Lauren had asked.
Storm shook her head.
“She sat at the edge of my bed. She’d never done that before. She sat down like she was a friend or family or something, and she put her hand on my leg, just above the cast, and she pushed down just a little. It hurt like hell, but I didn’t want to show it. She sat there and smiled at me and she said, ‘Sweet child, you are under heavy medication. Sometimes that makes people believe really strange things. Such strange things that sometimes we have to take away the medication completely. I’d hate to do that, and I’m sure you wouldn’t want that?’
“By then she was really putting pressure on my leg, and it hurt so bad sweat popped out and ran down my face, my back. I told her to stop. I gave in. Only she didn’t stop. She got up so she could put more weight on my leg. I could feel the pins twisting. I started whimpering. Can you imagine it? I was just a kid, and this bitch was torturing me, like she probably tortured a lot of people. I begged her to stop.
“She asked if I had changed my mind. If I now realized that there was no problem with my meds. I told her I did, and she got up and dialed up my morphine. I floated away and it was heaven. The next night she came in and I was hurting, and she said if I toughed it out, she’d give me an extra pop the next day.
“That’s how it went from then on. A night of unbelievable agony, then a day of relief and a night of being whacked out of my head.
“When I healed enough to get into a wheelchair and hang out in the sun room, I met other patients with similar stories.”
“Why didn’t all of you get together and turn her in?” Storm asked.
“We were all too scared. You don’t understand how vulnerable you feel in a situation like that. She had all the power. What if she got mad and did something to mess with my face? They’d done all this work to put the bones around my eye back together, but they warned me to be careful, to not even touch it. What if she did something . . . something that couldn’t be fixed? What good would it be to get her if I was permanently disfigured? How much would getting her fired help me?”
“None,” Storm agreed.
“She hurt me so bad,” Lauren said, her eyes bright with unshed tears.
Storm could see the child behind those eyes, the frightened child, and the fear of a nurse who only brought agony. “Don’t worry, she won’t hurt anyone else. We won’t let her,” she promised.
Storm sat up and looked at her watch, then at Lauren, who had managed to stuff the nurse’s mouth with tissues and was putting duct tape across her lips.
“Is it time?” Lauren asked.
“Yes, let’s go kill this bitch.”.
CHAPTER NINE
FOLLOWING STORM’S DIRECTIONS, Lauren drove down Evergreen and then pulled into an industrial complex that housed several three-story buildings, all combinations of gray stucco, gray brick, and dark glass. From the signs, she guessed that most held large high-tech companies or rented space to small ones.
The building they wanted was the last on the left. A reflective sign near the glass doors spelled out Traynor Chemical in wide black letters.
The parking lot was empty but for a dark red, ten-year-old Ford Focus with a flat tire, sitting askew under one of a row of bright street lights. Despite the light, the area felt isolated, a long row of evergreens cutting off the view of the main road and dulling the fairly constant sound of cars passing by.
Storm could feel her heart rate climb as they pulled into a parking space at the front of the building.
Her thoughts were in conflict. She wanted to be an agent of justice yet she didn’t want to kill. Craved being part of something more important than herself, but was afraid of the danger it could bring to herself—and more importantly—to her family.
What the hell was she thinking? This was like a drug that got into her blood, no different than any addiction, and didn’t she see the result of addiction every day?
“Come on. Help me get her out of the car.” Lauren’s request woke Storm from her useless self-analysis. She got out and went to help get their captive out of the car and into the building.
“The wire’s caught in her hair,” Lauren said, tugging at the thin strand. The nurse shrieked at each tug. “Hold on, I’ve got a wire cutter in the glove compartment.”
“Of course you do,” said Storm, unconsciously touching her neck with her fingertips.
Lauren got the cutters and said, “Hold on to her. I’m gonna cut her free.”
Storm grabbed the older woman’s bony wrists and held firmly. She smelled of lavender, baby powder, and sweat.
With one snip, the wire broke apart. Lauren worked it free and flung it into the backseat. Then she moved out of the way so that Lauren could pull the nurse from the car and onto her feet.
The woman’s eyes were wild, the whites flashing as she looked around the empty lot, obviously seeking help that wasn’t the
re. Seeing the truth, experiencing the stillness, she seemed to shrink. When Storm pulled her forward, she followed without a struggle, but slowly and with a small catch in her step, as if her hip hurt or her feet were sore.
Her lurching, reluctant steps reminded Storm of one of Joel’s pull toys, a segmented lizard that moved wherever you dragged it but with a similar hesitation in every bumpy step.
Once they reached the doors, Lauren took Storm’s place while Storm dug in her pocket for the mag key. The lock beeped as the tiny indicator light turned from red to green.
Inside, the long hallway was dim, lights on at half power. The strong chemical smell of carpet cleaning solution greeted them. The long stretch of carpet held the unmarred pattern left by a vacuum cleaner. It was quiet and felt empty. The few doors that stood ajar along the hall showed nothing but darkness.
On the left, at the end of the hall, was a wide, door-less entry to the kill room. Storm reached out and flipped a switch and a row of fluorescent lights set high in the ceiling came on with a metallic click, then flickered and buzzed.
The room was an oversized shower designed to be used in case of chemical spills. It was rectangular, about eight feet wide by sixteen feet long, with two entries opposite each other at the near end. Jutting from each of the longer, concrete walls was a row of five shower nozzles. Each was connected to a flexible hose which could be removed to focus the water. At the far end of the room, an Americans with Disabilities compliant handrail was bolted into the concrete. In the ceiling, a maze of pipes crisscrossed each other and cast a strange pattern of confused shadows across the floor.
“So this is it,” said Lauren. “I see what you mean. It’s perfect.” She reached into the pocket of her coat and removed a leather dog leash. Storm had told her about that too, about how a dog leash is less suspicious than a rope and has such a simple and handy snap on one end and a loop on the other.
Lauren tossed the leash over the lowest pipe, careful that it was between two supports, slid the leash through the loop, and was left with the snap end. This she attached to the zip ties around the nurse’s wrists.
“The leash is kind of long,” Lauren said. The nurse stood with her arms in front of her, raised so they were bent at the elbows, her hands at the level of her chin. She had enough room to take several steps in any direction.
“My last partner always got them onto their tiptoes,” Storm noted.
“I wish you’d quit bringing him up.”
Surprised by the hostility in Lauren’s voice, Storm realized Lauren was jealous of her relationship with Howard. The entire concept was so bizarre she didn’t know how to react, so she didn’t. Instead she said, “Would you take that gag off? I have to tell her why she’s here and give her a chance to say what she needs to say.”
“I don’t know why you bother with that—”
“You agreed we’d do this my way,” Storm replied shortly.
“Okay, okay, don’t get all wound up. I’m doing it.” Lauren stood in front of the nurse and said, “Now stay still or I’ll have to hit you or something. I’m going to take your gag off. You want me to do that, right?”
The nurse nodded vigorously. Her cheeks were wet with tears and a line of drool slid from one edge of the tape down her neck.
“Oh, gross,” said Lauren as she dug at one corner of the tape with a manicured nail covered in clear polish except for a line of teal at the tips. When she got
the corner free, she caught it between her thumb and forefinger and tore it off.
The nurse, gagging and coughing, spat out the wad of wet Kleenex and immediately backed away to the end of her tether. “What do you want from me?” she demanded. “Why am I here? You let me go. You let me go right now.”
“What, you going to call the police?” Lauren asked, a smile in her tone.
“That’s enough,” said Storm. “Aislynn Clevidence,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “You have been found guilty of unforgivable crimes. You have been judged, and you have been condemned. There is nothing you can say that anyone wants to hear, but I’m giving you this chance anyway. So go ahead and say what you need to, but know that afterward you are going to die in a way that probably doesn’t begin to befit your crimes.”
“Crimes? What crimes?” she asked.
“You want to tell her, Lauren?” asked Storm.
“Don’t need to,” said Lauren. “She knows exactly why she’s here.”
“I don’t,” spat the nurse. “I don’t. I don’t know.”
“Well look at me, then. Tell me you don’t remember. It’s me, Lauren Barry. Don’t look the same, I guess. No bandages on my face. No casts on my legs. No pain pills for you to keep for yourself. But even if you don’t remember me, it doesn’t matter. There were plenty of us who had to deal with you. Lots of kids too young to believe we could turn you in and not get in trouble.”
Storm was watching closely and saw a flash of understanding cross the woman’s face, a shadow of guilt moving across her eyes. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
Ever since the basement and the bargain for her freedom. Ever since she’d agreed to help Lauren kill the nurse, she’d been afraid—no terrified—that the woman was innocent. She’d feared that Lauren had some other reason for killing her, and that she was innocent of abusing the people in her care. Or worse, that Lauren didn’t even have a reason, but had chosen the nurse at random and was using her to test Storm. To see if she’d go through with it. That would be the ultimate horror, to learn she was responsible for killing an innocent person just to pass a test.
But now, with that one flash of insight, Storm knew it was all right. She had dealt with enough abusers and liars in her day to recognize those traits in the nurse. The weight of worry lifted and she was filled with a sudden glorious sense of self-righteous anger, a growing flame that burned along her nerves, melting her fears and concerns.
All doubt was eliminated. She was right where she should be, doing exactly what she should be doing.
“I don’t remember you, the nurse insisted. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“It was almost twenty years ago,” said Lauren. “You were an old hag then and you’re a—”
“Don’t argue with her, Lauren. Just do what you came here for,” Storm said.
Lauren nodded. Then she reached into another pocket of her coat and this time pulled out what looked like a clam shell case for reading glasses. When she opened it, however, she revealed that it held a pair of hypodermic needles and two bottles of clear liquid.
She removed one needle and a bottle, then slid the rest into the wide pocket of her barn coat. Using her teeth, she pulled the protective cover from the needle and then she plunged the point through the rubber barrier on top of the glass bottle and filled the entire syringe.
Seeing the needle, the nurse screamed. “Let me go. What are you doing? Let me go right now!”
Lauren closed on her, took a handful of the thick coat and tried to tug it from her shoulder, but the nurse flung herself to the side and Lauren lost her hold.
“Stand still,” Lauren said.
“Go to hell,” the woman yelled back.
Lauren caught hold of the furry hood of the woman’s coat, but again she broke free.
Storm stepped forward, grabbed the nurse’s wrists, and unsnapped the leash. Before she could react to being free, Storm lifted her arms up, wound the leash around the zip tie several times, then clipped the snap to the leash. Though the woman was not on her tip toes, she was unable to move more than a few inches.
“You bitch!” she screamed at Storm. “You don’t know what it was like. Cleaning up their shit and piss, practically bathing in their vomit. Give me this. Get me that. Treating me like a fucking servant. Why wouldn’t I need some pain relief?” Suddenly her head swung around and she snapped at Storm’s shoulder with her teeth. She missed, barely. Storm reacted by grabbing the old woman’s face with one hand, digging her thumb into the soft flesh under the nur
ses jaw, and pushing her head back.
“Give her the damn shot,” she commanded.
Lauren stepped forward. “I can’t get her arm. Her coat’s too thick.”
“Her stomach. Lots of people inject into their stomach.”
“How?”
“Jerk her pants down and jab it in. It was your idea, so come on. Do it.”
“I don’t think I can.”
“Oh for the love of. . . Give me that.”
She let go of the nurse, pulling her arm back fast, and took the syringe from Lauren.
The nurse kicked out, all her weight hanging from her arms as her feet thrashed around. The tip of a worn leather tennis shoe caught Storm’s shin. “Get her pants down,” she yelled.
“Let me go. Screw you.”
Storm could barely hear her over the thrumming pulse in her head.
Reaching up under the woman’s shirt, Lauren grabbed the elastic waistband of the nurse’s pants and pulled them down below her paunchy stomach. Another flurry of kicking caught Storm’s shin and her knee. She didn’t feel any of it, or even really notice it. The world had narrowed to the pulse in her head and a pale patch of skin. She drove the needle in and pressed the plunger with her thumb, injecting the full contents of the syringe.
The nurse gasped and Storm realized she could hear again. She withdrew the needle and stepped out of range.
“I heard if you use several injection sites, you won’t leave a raised area, like a welt,” Lauren shared. “The police can tell it was an injection if they find that kind of mark on a body.”
“We don’t need to worry about that,” Storm reassured her. “No one will be examining the body.”
“What did you give me?” The nurse asked, her voice trembling.
“Ms. Clevidence, you don’t get to know,” said Lauren.
“Insulin,” said Storm, ignoring Lauren. “I’m injecting you with insulin. I’m told it’s not a bad way to die. No pain.”
“That’s not—”
“You want to give her the next one?” asked Storm.
