by Trisha Wolfe
His light chuckle forces my spine straight.
“Don’t shrink me.” He refastens his suit jacket. “I’m a man, too. Not just a federal agent.”
I get inside the car, safely removing myself from his proximity. “Your fixation with me is a direct result of your obsession to catch Grayson.”
I start to pull the door shut, but he catches it before it latches. “What did you say?”
My pulse thunders in my ears. “Your perceived feelings for me are a correlation of—”
“You called him Grayson.”
I did, and there’s no backpedalling. I stare into Agent Nelson’s sharp gaze and wonder whom has been deceiving whom. Was his advance a moment ago true desire, or a rehearsed method to lower my defenses? Either way, the damage is done.
“He was my patient,” I clarify. “And I was shaken…just now.” The explanation is weak, resorting to demure, skittish female versus oppressive male. But it seems to work.
Nelson’s expression softens. “I’m sorry,” he says again, then sighs heavily. “You’re right. It’s the case. And that fucking Foster.” He frowns. “Sorry.”
“No need,” I say, allowing him to use the excuse I provided to restore his ego.
“He’s constantly getting in the way. I think it was Foster who leaked the DNA evidence to the press.” He scrubs a hand down his face. “From your observations, do you consider him unhinged? Your assessment could help secure a restraining order to get Foster off my crime scenes.”
Truthfully, in this moment, I find both men to be bordering obsession and possibly unhinged in their pursuit of Grayson. But I say, “It’s difficult to evaluate someone properly with only sporadic encounters, agent.”
He nods, but he’s not finished. “And Sullivan is escalating. The murders have been spaced out until now, similar in nature. If he’s devolving so close…” He trails off, then looks at me. “He’s too close to you.”
“I thought you said I wasn’t in danger.”
He measures his response. “Let me take you back.”
This is the first time he’s spoken to me extensively about the killings in Rockland. The agent could be concerned for me, worried that Grayson will make an attempt to see me…or worse. Or he’s getting anxious. Knowing I’m his only real link to Grayson and not wanting me out of his sight for precisely that reason.
I grip the steering wheel with one hand, my other clamped around the door handle. “My plane leaves in less than an hour. I think it’s best for our professional relationship if I get on that plane.”
His gaze goes to the spot where he glimpsed the bruise on my neck before. “Has Sullivan tried to make contact with you?”
My features purse in bewilderment. “If he had, you’d have been the first to know.”
He studies me for a moment and then nods. “I’ll make sure your detail is at the airport for your arrival.”
“Thank you, Agent Nelson.”
He shuts the car door, watches me drive away. I glance in the rearview mirror to see him standing with his arms crossed, a formidable silhouette against the grim backdrop of my past.
I could’ve lied to him. I could’ve spouted my typical excuse, using my patients as the reason I need to get back to my practice quickly. I probably should have, allowing his ego to mend further.
But it’s time Agent Nelson and I stop all pretense.
He never asked me directly about the rape examination after I was taken to the hospital. The results were put in my file, and I’m sure he read those results.
The test was inconclusive. Proving that I’d neither been coerced by Grayson during my abduction, nor that I hadn’t.
At the time, I thought the agent simply deduced that, based on Grayson’s MO, a violation against a victim like that was extremely outside his methods. It was highly unlikely, and so the exam therefor gave credence to my statement where I affirmed my abductor had not sexually violated me.
But then, there are times like now, where I wonder if Nelson questions the results—wondering if my slip of the tongue in saying Grayson’s name with such familiarity reveals a shared intimacy with my patient. Not coerced in the least.
I turn onto the airport exit off the highway.
The truth is, I’m a doctor. That exam was botched right from the start. It’s not difficult to do if you know how. Unfortunately, Agent Nelson is intelligent enough to come to this conclusion.
9
Devolving
Grayson
“He’s all yours.” Charity slips her arms inside her leather jacket and starts toward the motel room door.
I’ve been waiting inside the room for five minutes while Charity—which I’m sure isn’t her real name—got dressed in the bathroom. Lawson is asleep on the bed, his wrists bound together behind his back.
Most motels stopped using open-frame headboards a while back. Less risk that you’ll walk in to find a person tied or cuffed to the bed. I’ll have to improvise.
“He drank it all?” I ask before she opens the door.
“Yeah. He did,” she says. “Room’s in his name. Good luck, sugar.” She leaves, and I lock and chain the door behind her.
I push back my hoodie. Draw the second row of curtains over the window. I lay my burner cell on the table, glancing at the time. Lawson got in a good half hour before he passed out.
Opening the small duffle bag, I dig out Duct tape, Zip Ties, and the rest of my supplies. I slip on a pair of gloves before pulling a black ski mask over his face, the eye and mouth slats open to the back of his head.
He starts to rouse as I cut away the necktie Charity used to bind his wrists. I roll him over and Zip Tie his wrists together, then make quick work of the rest.
“What’s going on?” Lawson asks, groggy.
He’s not drugged. Still just bleary from a night of drinking. The beer I paid Charity to give him contained a very important component for this next act. And by the tent he’s sporting in the sheets, she kept her word.
“Be still,” I tell him. “Your wrists are tied for your own protection. If you move, try to escape, the Zip Tie around your dick will cinch tight. The more you move or struggle, the tighter it will get.” I back up a few paces. “You get the idea.”
It’s in our nature to rebel. Lawson panics, tries to free his wrists, and cries out when the plastic tie around his dick does just as I said it would.
“You can slip out in a few hours,” I say. “When the Viagra wears off.” I toss the beer bottle in the trash. “Until then, I need some answers.”
He begins to shout, and I press the tip of the blade to his throat. “There’s another way this can end even quicker.” I insert the tip just enough to draw blood so he knows I’m serious.
“What kind of sick fuck…?” Lawson is still panicking, but he’s at least stopped testing the restraints. Progress.
I wait for him to calm down. Then I take a seat across from the bed.
“What do you want from me?” he asks.
That’s the right question. It’s not my finest trap, but sometimes simple and concise is what’s needed. A modest trap that fits the crime. I’m sure his wife sitting at home with their newborn would agree.
What Lawson can’t know is who I am. The information I need can give that away. Even an oblivious crime-scene tech can put it together. I could just kill him once I’m done, but that would leave a body. Another messy murder to handle.
Besides, I try to save the real fun for bigger fish.
“A friend of mine has gone missing,” I start. “The police aren’t giving up any information on the most recent murder. I need to know if the victim is my friend.” I pause here. “He owes me money.”
Lawson breathes heavily through the mask. “That’s it?”
“It’s a lot of money,” I add.
“The vic’s name is Christian Zinkowski. Now let me go.”
“That’s unfortunate,” I say, standing. “That just happens to be my friend.” I hover near the foot of the bed
. “I need to know who killed him.”
He hesitates before he says, “I don’t have that info.”
“I think you do.” I kick the bed, making the box spring bounce. Lawson curses as the movement causes him to flinch.
“You’re going to tell me everything you know about Christian Zinkowski and the crime scene. I know you are, because despite your actions tonight, you don’t want your family to be hurt. Charity likes to keep a photo gallery of her johns. Her memory’s not that good. She likes having a log of names and fetishes. What they like. What they don’t.” I get close to his ear. “And sometimes, when a john fucks up real bad, she likes to send copies to his family. To his work. Technology is a crazy thing—how so many people can be reached with the click of a button. Like setting off a bomb; lives explode on detonation.”
Michael Lawson tells me everything he knows.
I record the conversation on my phone, and when he’s done, I pack up my supplies, leaving him bound on the bed with his face covered.
“You’re just leaving me here like this?” he asks, panic lacing his voice.
I pause at the door, wondering again if I should simply kill him. I don’t like leaving loose ends. It’s sloppy. I glance at the bed, where he’s still in the same position. Back propped against the headboard. Wrists tied to his dick.
On the other hand, who the fuck is he going to tell?
“You can scream for help now,” I say, cracking the door open. “Or you can wait a few hours for your limp dick to slip out of the Zip Tie. Your choice.”
I wait in the open doorway to see what he’ll decide. His decision is more important than he knows. One shout will end his life.
He doesn’t stir or say a word. Maybe he is smarter than the average tech.
“Think about Grandma and baseball,” I say, then close the door.
I hover outside the room for a moment longer, just to make sure. At Lawson’s silence, I take off through the parking lot.
Maybe I’m going soft. Before London, I wouldn’t have left Lawson alive.
I understand what love is; the emotion, the feeling. Chemicals in the brain—the same chemicals that make up personalities and disorders. At a certain age, it’s nearly impossible to change who we are and how we behave.
But if something significant occurs—chemical-altering emotions felt for the first time—would that impact the chemistry of the brain? Would that change the person, the disorder?
People wake from comas. People who have never been violent suddenly commit murder. And psychopaths feel love for the first time.
What the fuck is the world coming to.
I suppose these are questions for a psychologist.
I just happen to know one. Intimately.
10
Dependence
London
The hum of the fish tank fills my office. The lack of noise from the waiting room makes the typically undetected sound loud in the too-quiet room. I recline in my chair, close my eyes, letting the drone soothe my mind. The patients are gone. The day through.
After an intense afternoon, I’ve successfully escaped the officer detail Agent Nelson sent to receive me at the airport. The two FBI agents he has escort me on occasion. The ones I know are always watching. They have gone from trying to be politely inconspicuous, to downright unavoidable. Hovering in the building lobby, near the reception desk. One even tried to camp out inside my office today.
Thankfully, the agents were called to Rockland for a more urgent matter than protecting me. Apparently, the FBI’s budget doesn’t allow for babysitting. They’re also too economical to spring for plane tickets, leaving Agent Nelson on a slow commute back to Maine. Which could be my only chance to make contact with Grayson.
Maybe that was Agent Nelson’s intention. After what transpired between us in Hollows, I have little faith that he harbors any trust for me. So there’s a chance that his patsy agents are still skulking around, watching.
I could go now. Right now. Don my disguise to the Blue Clover. Hope that Grayson senses my need…
Or I could be patient. Trust that Grayson and I are still working in tandem.
But are we?
Ever since I learned of Lydia, a sort of disconnect has descended over me like a gauzy veil, a feeling of detachment from Grayson that’s frightening. The more I wonder about the girl—the woman—who could’ve been, the more I allow myself to see and experience through her.
I’m fascinated, and I’m terrified.
I tighten the string around my index finger to the point of pain. It relieves some of the pressure wrapping my head as I swivel my chair back and forth, gaze cast out the window overlooking downtown.
Before I can proceed with my plan, I need reassurance. That’s reasonable. I’m not some lovesick teen fretting over her boyfriend’s lack of communication; I’m suffering the pangs of withdrawal. Like any drug, lust-sex-love pumps endorphins into the brain. And when depleted of those endorphins, the cravings can be as strong as the yearning for a hit of heroin.
I’m addicted to Grayson, and the way he makes me feel.
And yet I fear him just as powerfully.
It’s unhealthy, but there’s no such thing as a “healthy relationship”. Any interaction with another person that alters chemicals in the brain is going to be risky. Our behavior changes when in a romantic relationship. That’s just the science of it.
Love—that all-consuming love artists pen sonnets about—is a short-lived emotion.
That kind of love can’t be sustained. It’s wild and passionate and consumes you like a wildfire tears through a forest, burning hotter and raging rampant until its only option is to die out. That’s what Grayson and I are: a wildfire. We’ll burn through each other until our resources are expired.
That kind of love also makes you blind.
Before Grayson, trust was a figurative idea. Only obtained if one was blinded by their emotions. You can’t question what you can’t see—what you don’t know exists.
I pocket the string and spin my chair around to my desk, decision made. I pick up the office phone to return the call from the message Lacy gave me hours ago.
Trust.
That’s what comes next, Grayson said. I move, he moves. We’re a shadow of each other, fused to one another through pain and pleasure and a hedonistic illness that rivals even the greatest serial killer teams.
We’re a duet—we belong together. One cannot exist without the other.
Fine. I can accept that. But I want to accept it with my eyes wide open.
The operator on the line transfers me to the forensics’ department, and before I can hang up, second-guessing myself, Calvin’s sure voice booms across the line.
“Hello, London. You send me the most interesting things, you know that?”
I do. Like pig’s blood when I’m doused with it after a trial. Calvin is my trusted contact in the local forensics’ lab. He works for money under the table. They barely pay him enough to make rent.
“Someone has to keep you busy,” I say, opening my desk drawer. I pull out the vial I keep locked up. “This city is pretty boring, otherwise.”
“Well, you’re making sure to see to that, aren’t you?”
After a moment of trivial conversation, Calvin jumps in. “Genealogy isn’t my specialty, but I was able to scratch up a healthy report for you on the sample you sent over last week. Are you in front of your computer?”
I flip open my laptop. “Is it safe to send?”
“From the everyday hacker, yes. If that’s what you’re wary about. From the FBI? Probably not.”
A second of hesitation, then: “Send it.”
My apartment is under surveillance. The only safe and secure place for me to keep my research on Grayson is my practice. These walls are protected under patient-doctor confidentiality. In turn, the FBI may be able to trace and access my data, but they can’t use it. Not against me, or Grayson.
I hold up the vial. A few dark-brown hairs line the glass
. I close my eyes and flash back to the moment Grayson thrust inside me and I gripped his hair, coming away with the strands.
I wrapped them around my finger—woven along my string—for safekeeping.
Pushing the memory away, I click open the report. “What am I looking at?”
Calvin goes over the basics: blood type, heritage, immediate family. Then he says, “But I figured you were looking for something a little more interesting. Considering the heritage, I ran the DNA through the international database and got a hit. A relative with a pretty lengthy record citing crimes against children came up.”
I locate the name on the report. “Shane Sullivan.” As I read, my stomach knots.
“Apparently, he was wanted in connection to a child sex trafficking ring. But when authorities finally caught up to him, he and his wife were found dead. Brutally murdered. Cut up into pieces. Pretty gruesome, huh?”
The police report attached to the document states their deaths were unnatural. A crude pendulum contraption was used to “dice” their bodies. Reading over the description, I realize it might’ve been more than an instrument to kill and mutilate; it’s possible it was designed to get answers. To work out a puzzle…and their failure resulted in their dismemberment.
A handmade puzzle constructed from woodchips was found at the scene in one of the large greenhouses. Images and words scrawled on the jigsaw pieces garnered no resolution for authorities to the murderer. The duo having many unsavory connections, the local police concluded it was a trade gone wrong. The case was closed with no further investigation.
What were you trying to puzzle out, Grayson?
“Thank you, Calvin. This is good information. Oh, one more thing. Does it say how his mother died? I don’t see a death cert in the docs.”
