Was she saying what I thought she was saying?
“After seeing that, you thought it was okay to kill people?”
I was going to need to have a very serious conversation with my brother as soon as this was over. I didn’t think he believed it was okay to kill people, since he never has, but I was going to make sure.
“I learned killing served a purpose.”
“Martha was protecting you and your sister. Your uncle had been abusing you both, and he threatened your grandmother.”
“That hag wasn’t my grandmother! She was never around when I was growing up, when I needed her. Then when she did come along, she took us away from our family, our home. And Wayne wasn’t abusing us. He loved us. He wanted us to feel special. We made each other feel special.”
Uh oh. Desirae was way more messed up in the head than I’d originally thought. I also suspected her sexual abuse went back way further than just her uncle if she could talk this way about it. Her mother had been a prostitute. It stood to reason Mom brought some of her clients home. It also stood to reason some of those clients got too friendly with Desirae and her sister. It broke my heart and made me feel sick.
“You hated Martha for what she did,” I said.
I thought it was a good idea to keep her talking. My first objective was to free myself, and since I had no real idea how I was going to do that, I needed to stall for time. I could only hope Natalie and Priscilla had time.
“Back to therapy?” she spat. “Then let’s talk about you.” She turned and picked up a potholder as she spoke, then she reached into the pot and pulled out the knife. “You have a lot of scars on your body. Want to tell me how you got them?”
I’m not normally the sharing type, but I thought I could make an exception. I wanted to keep her talking. If this was what she wanted to talk about, I’d go with it.
“Most of them came from my father,” I told her. “He was an angry man.”
“He ever do anything else to you?”
She picked up her chair and carried it over, setting it directly in front of me. When she sat, our knees were only a few inches apart.
“Like what?”
“Like touch you?”
“No, he was interested in my brother.”
She leaned forward, one elbow on her knee. She was still holding the knife.
“Were you jealous?”
What the hell kind of question was that? Had I been able to, I’d have smacked her.
“There was nothing to be jealous of.”
“What do you mean? You said he touched your brother.”
“No, I said he was interested in my brother. He never got the chance to touch him.”
“Why not?”
“Because I killed him.” I never tell this to anyone. Ellmann’s family had been the single exception, and that was only because my hand had been forced. I hadn’t even told Ellmann; he’d had to look it up. But, I figured it didn’t matter now, because the best I could work out my current situation was that either Desirae or I would be dead when it was all over.
This seemed to take her aback. She leaned back in the chair, the knife in her hand on her lap, watching me, thinking.
“Some of those scars are newer,” she said finally. “Where’d they come from?”
I shrugged. “Here and there. A few weeks ago, I was shot a couple times. There was a rollover accident, too, and I got pretty banged up in that.”
She smiled that same creepy, dark smile.
“You must have gotten in someone else’s way.”
“Yeah, drug dealers, actually,” I said lightly. “It was mostly by accident, but they didn’t seem to care.”
“Too bad they didn’t kill you. It would have saved me the headache.”
“Actually, I killed them. Maybe you should keep that in mind.”
She watched me for a beat, trying to determine if I was telling the truth. She wanted to believe I was just talking tough, but something caused her to doubt herself. Desirae Dillon may have been as nutty as trail mix, but she wasn’t stupid. And that was not a comforting thought.
“Yeah, well, maybe the drug dealers should have taped you to a chair,” she said, clinging to her confidence. “It’s hard to kill people if you’re taped to a chair.”
“We’ll see. By the way, where’s Natalie?”
She tipped her head over her shoulder in the direction of the bathroom where I’d seen Priscilla.
“Over there,” she said. “I decided to rearrange the schedule.”
“I’m honored you could fit me in.”
“Your sarcasm won’t save you from the pain.”
She leaned forward, holding the knife in her left hand.
“I sometimes like to use a scalding knife,” she said, “because the heat from the blade cauterizes the wound. That way there’s no bleeding. It prevents the person from bleeding out before I’m through with them.”
She lowered the knife toward my left thigh. Without hesitating, she pressed the blade to my skin, pushed down slightly, then dragged it back toward her.
20
The skin on my leg burned from the heat of the blade as Dillon sliced it open. She watched me, waiting for some sign of pain. I stared straight at her, my face blank.
This is a skill I’d mastered a long time ago. My father, sick bastard that he was, took enjoyment in beating people up. He liked to see the pain he inflicted. I’d learned quickly how to hide it. I was drawing on that skill now. I wasn’t going to give my torturer the satisfaction of knowing she’d caused me pain. That’s me—defiant until the very end.
Of course, I’m not stupid. I realized she was just getting started. She was truly crazy, and whatever she had in mind for me was only going to get worse. I didn’t think I could hide the pain for very long, but I was damn sure going to try.
Dillon watched my face as she cut me then sat back, laughing.
“You have a high tolerance for pain, huh? I guess that’s not surprising, given all your scars. Fortunately, I’m prepared for that.”
She stood and set the chair aside.
While she had her back turned, I gripped the arms of the chair and pulled up, trying them for any give. There wasn’t much. Getting out of this chair right under her nose seemed impossible, but I didn’t have it in me to just throw in the towel.
“You haven’t told me what you want,” I said casually. “Isn’t that sort of like cheating?”
She laughed. “My game, my rules.”
She returned the knife to the towel and reached for the needle-nose pliers.
“Maybe you could tell me anyway.”
She walked with the pliers over to my left side and reached down for my hand. My initial reaction was to ball my hand into a fist. But it would have been futile, merely delaying the inevitable.
She took my pinky finger and held it in her right hand. The pliers were in her left.
“I thought you’d be a fighter,” she said. “You’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass so far.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I won’t disappoint you.”
She pinched the end of my fingernail with the pliers then anchored my finger as she began to pull up. The pain of having that fingernail ripped off was unlike anything I’d ever experienced. I couldn’t hide the tears that filled my eyes, but I stared into her face the entire time and never blinked, never winced.
She dropped the nail to the floor and released my finger, carrying the pliers back to the towel. While her back was again turned, I rocked back and forth in the chair. When I scooted forward, there was a noticeable sway in the chair under me. One of the chair legs was loose.
“No one told you the threat of pain is more effective than pain itself, huh?” I asked.
“Effective for what means?” she asked without turning toward me.
“I think you take sick satisfaction in causing pain in other people. But more than that, you want something from me. I think you wanted something from everyone you tortured.”
&nbs
p; She picked up something long and metallic and carried it over to the stove, placing it in the pot, then returned to the island.
“Oh, really? And what would that be?”
I rocked the chair back and forth while her back was turned to me, continuing to weaken the joints.
“I think you tortured Priscilla because you wanted to get to me,” I said. “That’s probably how you found Natalie.”
“Oh, Natalie’s a good one,” she said, turning to me and smiling with wicked excitement. “I can hardly wait to finish with you so I can bring her back in.”
“You enjoy hurting people, don’t you?”
Her face turned cold and ugly.
“That’s all they did to me. Now I’m the one who hurts people.”
I understand this. After I was raped, I vowed no one was ever going to hurt me again. I decided to hurt them first. Occasionally this was physical, as I did get into quite a few fights, but mostly it was emotional. I’m ashamed to say there is a wake of broken hearts, damaged egos, and lots of tears behind me. The difference between this woman and me is that I never took pleasure in what I did. I did it because I thought it was the only way to survive. She just does it because her mind was broken beyond repair a long time ago and now she thinks it’s fun.
She picked up a knife from the towel, a smaller one this time, and came over to me. I looked up at her, my eyes locking on hers. She touched the tip of the blade to my right cheek, and I felt the point puncture my skin. Watching me, she turned the blade on its side and dragged it over my cheek harmlessly. She continued down my neck, moving particularly slowly over my carotid artery, watching my face closely for signs of fear. I showed none. She then dragged the knife over my left collarbone, pressing it against the bone. I felt the blade bite into the skin above the bullet-wound scar. She pulled, opening the skin several inches.
I felt the blood running down over my chest, hot and sticky, soaking into my clothes. The drop on my cheek had finally fallen, streaking down my face and dripping off my chin. She stood over me, holding the bloody knife and studying me. After a couple minutes ticked past, she turned away, placing the knife back on the towel then retrieving the long metal thing from the pot. She held it up and walked back to me. It looked a lot like a skewer, only longer and thicker. The tip was pointed, and the long shaft was round, probably a quarter of an inch thick. She reached out and touched it to the inside of my right arm. The two or three inches of my skin that came into contact with the side of the shaft burned and sizzled. The scent of burning flesh wafted up my nose, and I felt like I was going to puke. The smell was awful. The pain was horrible. I wanted to scream. I bit my tongue to keep from doing this.
She could see I was struggling to hide the pain, because her grin revealed her self-satisfaction. She walked back to the stove and dropped the skewer back in the pot then picked up a knife and returned. She took the hem of my shirt and held it, slicing the shirt open up the middle to chest level. Pushing the pieces of fabric aside so my belly was exposed, she replaced the knife and collected the skewer from the pot.
Standing over me, she lowered the point of the skewer to my abdomen, holding it an inch from the skin. Then she slowly moved it around, as if deciding where to place it. I’d wondered from the first moment I’d seen the skewer if she would stab me with it. Now I wasn’t wondering anymore; I’d pretty much accepted it as fact. I gripped the arms of the chair, knowing the next part would hurt like hell.
She grinned her horrible, demented grin as she watched me preparing myself. Finally deciding on a place on the upper left side of my abdomen, she put the point of the skewer to my skin and leaned forward, pushing it into me. The heat from the metal burned my skin and tissue as it came into contact. I was holding my breath, sweating from the pain, tears streaming from my eyes, my jaw clenched tightly so I didn’t scream.
I felt the tip pierce through my back. Dillon held it there for a moment, looking almost euphoric, then slowly pulled it back out, twisting the thing as she did. My chest was heaving, and each breath was rushing in and out of my nose. I felt the sweat dripping off my forehead, running down my spine and between my breasts. The desire to throw up was stronger, and I felt slightly dizzy.
I had no doubt she could do this all night. I, on the other hand, could not. My strength would only decrease now that I was bleeding. Whatever my plan was, I needed to put it into action soon if I wanted to have any hope of pulling it off.
__________
“How did you find me?” I asked. “Neither Priscilla nor Natalie know where I live.”
She shrugged. “I followed you.”
Apparently there had been a lot of people following me the past couple of days. I wondered if Desirae and the Cadillac driver had ever bumped into one another. Then I thought the chances of being followed by two different people at the same time seemed pretty remote. I’d picked up the Cadillac after visiting Lyle Young. Understanding Young and Desirae were so tight, it would make sense if she were the one following me. I also picked the Cadillac back up after visiting Eric Dunn and Grandma Porter’s house. Dunn was somehow connected to both Dillons and Lyle Young, and Porter had been Desirae’s grandmother.
“You killed your own grandmother,” I said.
“I told you, she wasn’t my grandmother!” she shouted.
“Why did you kill her? You tortured her. What were you looking for?”
“My stupid sister, of course,” she said, as if this was obvious. “And you led me there. Dani hadn’t been to see the old hag for years. But when you started looking for Dani, you went to see her. I thought it was worth a visit; maybe she knew something she hadn’t said.”
“Wait, you’re looking for your sister?”
That made me feel a lot better. If she, sister and crazy criminal that she was, couldn’t find Danielle, there was no way I could.
“Of course I’m looking for her.”
“What did your gra—Martha tell you?”
“Nothing. Stupid, old bitch didn’t say a word. I think she knew where Dani is, and if I’d had more time with her, I probably could have gotten it out of her.”
“Old people,” I said. “They just can’t withstand torture the way young ones can.”
“Do you think this is funny?” she snapped. “Is this all some kind of joke to you?”
“No,” I said in a deadly tone. “I take it very seriously when people hurt me.”
She studied me closely for a moment. Then she picked up a box cutter from the towel and walked over to me. She used her thumb to push out the blade then lowered it to my thigh. Very deliberately, she made a single one-inch slice near the first, larger one. Then another directly below it. Then one more, directly below the last. Then she stood and walked to the refrigerator, returning with a bottle of lemon juice. Flipping the lid, she turned it over and squirted it onto my leg. The acidic juice ran into each laceration. I’ll never be able to accurately describe that feeling. It was beyond painful.
“Where’d Lyle go?” I asked, panting, after the initial pain subsided.
She set the bottle of juice on the island beside the towel.
“He doesn’t really like blood. Well, the bleeding, I should say. Or the screaming.”
She picked up the skewer again, along with a hammer. Suddenly the skewer looked a hell of a lot like a stake. She carried them over then placed the tip of the skewer on my right forearm, about three inches from my wrist. She paused and glared at me.
“You know, this would all be a lot easier if you’d just scream,” she said.
“How do you figure?”
“I would know you’re ready to cooperate. We could move on.”
“What’s the next part?”
She smiled. “It’s the part of the game I like to call ‘Question and Answer.’”
“So you do want something from me.”
I wondered how long we’d been at this. My sense of time was warped by pain and anger. I’d long since had my fill, but I still hadn’t quite wor
ked out an escape. Which meant, for the moment, I wasn’t going anywhere. If we hadn’t even gotten to the main purpose of this little exercise, it seemed clearer than ever Desirae Dillon, in her mentally fractured state, was like the damn Energizer bunny and could just keep going and going and going. I didn’t think Priscilla or Natalie could, and I knew I certainly couldn’t. Already I could feel weakness and fatigue settling over me. I didn’t know how much longer I could continue.
She waved both arms. “Of course I want something from you,” she said, as if the class idiot had finally caught on to the lesson. She moved slowly around the chair as she talked. “What, did you think I just brought you here to torture you?”
Actually, that thought had crossed my mind. For Desirae, torture might have been used to extract wanted information, but she also enjoyed it. A lot. At this point, she probably only used the idea of extracting information as justification for something that gave her a great deal of pleasure.
“What could you possibly want from me?”
“Right now, I want you to scream,” she snapped.
“Sorry. I don’t cooperate with kidnappers.” I shrugged. “I sort of already set that precedent. I can’t change it now. It’d look like playing favorites or something.”
She smirked, insanity gleaming darkly in her eyes. “Fine with me.”
She stepped closer and placed the skewer against my forearm, raising the hammer. She wacked the end of the skewer with the hammer, as if doing nothing more consequential than staking a tent. But her agitation or excitement caused her to hurry, and in her haste, the stake was poorly placed. I felt it glance off the bone as she hammered it through.
I felt a scream in my throat and choked it back.
“Just scream!” she cried.
I glared at her and knew hate burned in my eyes.
I felt the skewer pierce the bottom of my arm, and she whacked it with the hammer again and again, driving it into the arm of the chair. Then she stared at me, her hand wrapped around the skewer. Slowly, with deliberate malevolence, she pulled on the skewer, working it around inside my arm. Tears streamed down my cheeks, and my jaw ached from clamping down on my screams.
Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft Page 25
