by Woods, T E
“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.
Chapter Fifteen
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.
Savannah turned her tear-filled eyes upward. “I’m still hurting people. Good people in bad ways. I lie to myself and say it doesn’t matter. That we’re all getting what we deserve.” She blinked at looked to her therapist. “But it does matter. People end up ruined…worse… because of me. Last night I couldn’t stop thinking about all the shit I’ve done.” She huffed out a joyless laugh. “You know. Reflections on the past, resolutions for the future. All that New Year’s bullshit. My past is despicable. I don’t see my future being any different. Last night my head was hell bent on replaying my greatest hits, you know what I mean?”
Lydia nodded. “We’ve all had times when we dwell on the mistakes of our past.”
“But that’s just it.” Savannah leaned forward, pleading eyes focused on Lydia. “My mistakes aren’t left in the past. The hits just keep on happening. Last night I thought there was only one way out. Only one way to stop myself from hurting people ever again.”
“Were you thinking about killing yourself?” Lydia kept her tone conversational. Normalize the thought to keep her talking.
Savannah nodded. “Like there was no other move for me. So I called your service. It was either that or put a gun in my mouth.”
“I’m glad you called.” Lydia held herself steady, not adding to the drama. “Do you have guns in your home?”
For the first time that morning Lydia saw a flash of the polished, in-command Savannah she’d grown accustomed to.
“You’d be surprised what I have in my home.” She pulled herself taller. “Yes, Dr. Corriger. I have guns.”
Lydia kept quiet for a few moments. She wanted Savannah to watch her think.
“I promise I will never take the option of suicide away from you.” Lydia leaned forward to demand Savannah’s full attention. “But I hope you won’t do it in a fit of impulse. Because if you do, you’ll never have the chance to know what might come next. You’ll never have the chance to see if we could fix whatever it is you seem so convinced is broken.”
Savannah gave a weak smile. “Where’s the red lights and sirens? Aren’t you supposed to save me?”
“If that’s you want, you came to the wrong place. If you want to kill yourself I won’t stop you. I just want to make sure you’ve explored all your options first.”
Savannah’s tears spilled from bloodshot eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I believe that.” Lydia handed her a box of tissues. “Let’s see if we can work something out together. What do you want to tell me?”
Savannah blew her nose, tossed the tissue into the wastebasket, and pulled out another. “What I say to you is strictly confidential, right? Like you’re a priest.”
“That’s right. Unless I need to take steps to keep you or someone else safe, I can’t tell a soul.” Lydia smiled. “Like a priest.”
Savannah kept her eyes on her hands. “What if I’ve hurt people? Do you tell?”
“There’s nothing I can do about what’s already happened, Savannah. We can talk about it, learn from it, develop strategies to avoid future mistakes. But, no. I can’t tell anyone what you’ve done.” Lydia sensed a cracking in her patient’s wall of mistrust.
“What if I robbed a bank?” Savannah asked.
“We’re not playing games, remember? Confidentiality is blanket. It doesn’t apply to some things and not others.” Lydia took a deep breath to quiet her impatience. “What is it you’ve done that has you so ashamed?”
Savannah stayed focused on her hands. “Remember when I told you I was aware of the effect I had on men? How I use that to my advantage?”
“I remember. You’re a startling beauty, Savannah. You wouldn’t be the first woman to use that to get what she needs.” Lydia hoped normalizing her patient’s behavior would reduce her shame.
Savannah looked down at her disheveled clothes and turned a quizzical look. “Is that what you see? ‘A startling beauty’?”
Lydia joined her in a smile. “Well, maybe not this morning. Let’s just say you clean up real nice.”
Savannah held Lydia’s gaze. “Why don’t you, Dr. Corriger?”
“Why don’t I what?”
“Clean up real nice?” Savannah brought her legs up under her and cocked her head. “No offense, but you dress like a drudge. No make-up. Shapeless clothes. Hair pulled back in a scrunchee. I see the kind of bone structure you have. Those big beautiful eyes. You could be drop-dead gorgeous in no time.”
Lydia felt her gut clench. She took another deep breath. “I’ll assume you meant that as a compliment. But we’re here to talk about you. Tell me how you use your own beauty.”
Savannah’s smile disappeared. “People hire me. Not for sex, though that’s usually a part of it. I’m not that kind of prostitute.” She huffed in self-loathing. “At least not anymore.”
“What kind of prostitute are you?” Lydia was happy to have the focus back on her patient.
“You really aren’t like other shrinks, are you?” The smile, though weary, was back. “I was expecting some sort of comforting words.”
“When I offer comforting words you’ll know they’re sincere.” Lydia leaned back. “What kind of prostitute are you?”
Savannah took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before exhaling loud and long. “Just for the sake of argument, pretend that you’re the chairman of a major bank. And this bank is about to launch a program of investments that are, let’s say, questionable at best. Maybe even unethical or illegal.”
“Okay. I’m with you so far. Are you telling me you’re a stockbroker?”
“No. I’m more specialized than that.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “Pretend you have a member of your board who’s opposed to these investments. Despite the fact that billions of dollars will be made, this board member thinks it’s wrong and can’
t be convinced otherwise. You might hire me to make sure that person isn’t available when it comes time to vote.”
“But if I’m the chairman, why wouldn’t I just replace that board member?”
“Maybe letting him go would raise the kind of questions you don’t want splashed across the front page of The Wall Street Journal.” Savannah stared into middle space. “People have their reasons for using me.”
“Okay, let’s stick with your scenario,” Lydia said. “How might you keep the person from voting?”
Savannah shrugged her shoulders. “It’s incredibly easy for a beautiful woman to distract a man.” She turned to face Lydia. “Something tells me you know that.”
Lydia held her gaze. “This is about you, remember? So you distract this fellow. What stops him from crying ‘foul’ when he learns he’s been duped? Going public with his dissent and how he was manipulated?”
Savannah sat numb and silent for several long moments. “Let’s just say he wouldn’t want the details of the distraction to be known.” She shredded a tissue into her lap. “The people who hire me always have full documentation of my work.”
“Blackmail?”
“At its most benign, yes, that could happen.”
“And at its most malignant?” Lydia was certain she didn’t want to hear the answer.
Savannah stared straight ahead. “People die.”
Lydia heard her heartbeat pounding in her ears. “Dead, Savannah? By your hands?”
Savannah blinked and said nothing.
Lydia’s mind raced. Her training hadn’t prepared her for this. “How many, Savannah?”
“Hires or deaths?” Savannah returned her stare into nothingness.
“Deaths, Savannah. How many deaths are you responsible for?” Lydia felt her breath become rapid and shallow.
Tears spilled freely from Savannah’s eyes. “Too many, Dr. Corriger. Too many.”
Lydia blew out a breath and looked out the window. The sky was beginning to lighten. A heavy fog obstructed any view. “When was the most recent?”
