"Your mom?"
"Fuck her, too. She married the asshole."
"Who, then?"
"I don't know. I guess amp;"
"Yes?"
"You don't squeal. Not on family. Even when they treat you like shit. And anyway amp;"
"Yes?"
"I did shoplift the goddamn magazine."
"So you had it coming?"
"I don't know."
"Does your hand heal okay?"
"Pretty much. Thumb's a little fucked up. Nerve damage, maybe."
She let him rest for a minute or two. His breathing, which had grown rapid and shallow, slowed and deepened as he relaxed. She thought about what he'd told her and what it might mean. An idea occurred to her.
"Can we go to one more place?" she asked.
"What the hell." A smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Might as well rack up some frequent-flyer miles amp;"
"You have a lot of tattoos, Justin."
"Ain't they pretty?"
"Some look professional."
"They are."
"Where'd you get them done?"
"Wild Ink."
"Where's that?"
"Hollywood. Ernesto works there. Ernesto's a fuckin' artist."
"Then that's where we'll go. We're in that tattoo parlor. You're in the chair, and Ernesto is working on you."
"Okay."
"Needle in your flesh. How does it feel?"
His shoulders lifted in a shrug. "Hurts."
"Hurts how? In what way?"
"Burns."
"Tell me what you're feeling right now."
"Needle going in. Hot wire in my skin. And amp;"
"Yes?"
"And I like it."
"Do you?"
"I like to feel the burn."
"Is that why you're at the tattoo parlor?"
"Yeah. Don't even want another goddamn tattoo. All I want is amp;"
"What?"
"The pain."
"Why do you want pain, Justin?"
"Makes me feel amp;"
"How does it make you feel?"
"Strong."
"Why?"
" 'Cause I can take it."
"Why do you have to take it?"
A slow shrug of his shoulders. "That's life."
"Life is pain?"
"Shit, yeah."
"Is that the way life should be?"
"It's the way it is."
"Is it fair? Or unfair?"
"It's life. Fair ain't got nothing to do with it."
"Your father mistreated you, Justin."
"I guess."
"He abused you."
"He fucked with me, yeah. So what? Everybody fucks with everybody."
"You were only a kid."
"So?"
"Is it wrong to hurt a kid?"
"I know where you're going, Doc. Fuck you."
She'd lost him.
She had hoped to make him see that his violence against teenage girls was, in part, a reaction to his own father's violence against him. It was the kind of insight that could be accepted more readily when the mind's defenses were lowered in the MBI trance. But he wouldn't go there. He wasn't ready.
"All right, Justin. Back to the beach. Rest a minute."
She wrote up her notes, using a pen with a built-in flashlight because she didn't want to turn on the room lights until he was out of his trance. After a short time she told him that he would be waking up. She powered down the MBI appliance, then checked the record of the session. Time: nineteen minutes. MBI at 80 percent motor threshold, 60 percent of the coils engaged.
Behind her, she heard Gray stir.
"How are you feeling?" she asked without turning.
"Woozy. What'd I say?"
"What do you remember?"
"I can never get a straight answer from you, can I, Doc?"
She saved the record of the session to a CD. "We talked about your father. He used to punish you. Burned your hand."
"Fuck, yeah. That's right."
He seemed to be shifting in his chair, unusually restless. Maybe the memory had disturbed him more than he'd let on.
She ejected the CD from the tray and slipped it into a plastic case. "What he did to you was wrong. He hurt youand ever since, you've been hurting others and yourself."
She labeled the disk, using her flashlight pen.
"That's the way I like it," he said.
"Is it, Justin?"
"Yeah, Doc. It's what I live for."
Something in his voice made her swivel in her chair, turning toward him, and then there was a solid smack against the side of her heada dazzle of light and delayed pain, and with curious detachment she had time to think that he was loose, he'd freed himself.
Another blow stunned her. She toppled backward off the chair onto the carpet, knowing she had to scream for help, but before she could, he pressed his hand over her mouth, and in the light of the flashlight pen she could see his face.
One last impact, his fist against her temple, a new eruption of brightness, and then a high humming wave carried her away.
Chapter Twenty-one
Robin had no idea how long she'd been out, a minute or an hour. When her eyes opened, she saw Gray leaning over her, a knife in his hand.
"Justin amp;"
"Hey, Doc. You banged your head something fierce."
"You're amp; out of the amp;"
"Straps? Well, yeah. Thanks to my buddy here." The knife flashed. It was long and shiny and looked like one of those knives used by assassins. What was the name? A stiletto.
And now it was held inches from her throat, and even in the dim light of the computer console she could see its leading edge slick with blood.
He read her thoughts. "Don't worry. Not gonna cut ya."
"No?" The word was thin and faint and distant.
"Just need your cooperation for a minute. Roll over."
"What?"
"On your belly."
She was frozen. She couldn't move.
Gray grabbed her shoulder, shoved her onto her side, and she remembered the deputy in the waiting room. She wanted to scream, but only a hoarse whisper escaped her throat. "Help amp;"
"He can't hear you, Doc. Believe me." She remembered the blood on the knife. "Just roll over and quit making things so friggin' difficult."
He flopped her on her belly, and she felt his hands on her back. She tensed up, her entire body rigid. Then he was stripping off the beige suit jacket she'd worn today.
"Got it. Thanks for your assistance."
She craned her neck, staring up at him as he shrugged on the jacket and buttoned it. The fit was tight across his wide shoulders, but the fabric didn't tear.
"Need something to hide my jailhouse rags," he said by way of explanation. "Already got the lower extremities covered."
For the first time she noticed that he was wearing a blue cap on his head and blue pants over his jumpsuit. Items from the deputy's uniform.
As he fastened the last button, it occurred to her that both of his hands were free, which meant he wasn't carrying the knife. Her gaze cut to the floor and there it was, a foot away, within reach if she dared to try for it amp;
Too late. He snatched it up again.
"Interested in this?" He squatted, resting a knee on the small of her back, and drew the weapon close to her face. "Pretty, ain't it? A thing of beauty is a joy forever. Or so they tell me."
It was close now, so close she could see that it was not a stiletto, not a knife at all. It was a flathead screwdriver. The blood on it was glossy, dripping.
"Christ, I get pissed off at you sometimes," Gray said.
"You do?" She kept her tone neutral.
"The way you run me through my fucking paces, a rat in a maze. That's all I ever was to you. A lab rat."
She didn't dare challenge him by contesting what he said. "I'm sorry you felt that way," she whispered.
"You ain't sorry. You're just scared I'm gonna rip out your freaking throat.
" The screwdriver eased up against the soft underside of her chin. "It wouldn't be hard amp;"
She waited.
"Who the fuck was he, anyway?" he asked.
The question was incomprehensible. "Who was amp; who?"
"Him. The jagoff that KO'd you. Mr. Cool."
She was lost. "Mr. Cool?"
"Well, I gotta admit, I thought it was pretty cool, the way he snuck up behind both of us and never made a peep. I mean, the shoes that dude was wearingI gotta have 'em."
"I don't know what you mean."
"The guy that clocked you. What's the story there?"
"I thought amp; I amp;" She selected her words with care, conscious of the screwdriver testing her throat. "I thought you were the one who amp;"
"Brained you? Not sayin' I wouldn't have, but Mr. Cool beat me to the punch. The punch, ha, that's kinda funny."
"Yes. Funny."
The blade tickled her skin. "I don't hear you laughing."
"I guess the concussion robbed me of my sense of humor."
He grunted. "Petty theft. You saying you don't recollect Mr. Cool?"
"I'm sorry. I don't."
"You looked right at him. That pen thingamabob flashed a light in his face. You had to see him."
"I don't remember any of that."
"Bullshit."
"A lot of times a blow to the head will result in minor amnesia. Memory loss."
"Yeah, I know what amnesia is. So you're blaming your bad memory on the concussion, too?"
"It's the only explanation."
"You probably think I'm shittin' you."
"No, Justin, I don't." She kept her voice toneless.
"You think there never was no Mr. Cool. Right?"
"I didn't say that."
"You're thinking it. But you're wrong. I didn't mess you up. Didn't waste the Deputy Dawg neither."
"Okay."
"Mr. Cool must've iced him on the way in. Slit his throat nice and quiet. Silence n' violence. You got to respect that."
"Uh-huh."
"He was dead already, is what I'm saying. I didn't do him. He was lying mere in the other room when I ran out."
She went along with his story because she had no choice. "Chasing Mr. Cool."
"Fuck, no. Being chased by him. Yeah, I tangled with him for a sec, but all I had was this fucking screwie. Who knows what hardware that cat was carrying? So I make a run for it into the waiting room. Then I see the deputy, and his piece is still in the holster. This piece here."
He drew a gun out of the waistband of his pants. Robin pulled in a shallow breath.
"I snatch it," Gray said, "and I come back inside. Figure the odds are evened up."
"I see."
"It's a shame you was asleep for all this. You missed the whole damn show."
"Sounds like it."
"We played cat-and-mouse in the shadows for a minute or so." He snorted. "Minute, hellmore like ten seconds, probably. Then Mr. Cool hightails it outta here."
"You scared him off."
Gray shrugged, snugging the gun in his pants again. "Maybe he just remembered he left something on the stove. So who was he?"
"I told you, I don't know."
"You got an enemies list that long? Doc, you been hanging out with the wrong people. Hey, you know what? I bet I saved your damn life. Bet he woulda sliced you open just like the Deputy Dawg if I hadn't furnished a distraction."
She wondered if he believed the story himself. He might have suffered a psychotic break. "That's true."
"Woulda gutted the heart out of you, I bet. Then found a way to pin it on me."
"Probably."
"No probably about it. I gave you life, Doc Robin. And what I giveth I can taketh away."
The blade nuzzled her throat like the snout of an animal. Robin held her breath.
"Nah," he said, withdrawing the weapon. "Sorry, Doc. You ain't my type. I like 'em young and nubile. You're too goddamn old."
He stood, then glanced around the office and found her purse. Digging through it, he extracted her wallet and a key chain.
"I'll be needing cash and a set of wheels. If you don't mind amp;" He checked the logo on the key chain. "Saab. Nice. I seen that one parked out back. The nine-five, right?"
"Right."
"I'll see it gets back to you in good condition. And by the way, when you talk to the cops, be sure to tell 'em I did you a good deed. Not that it'll matter none. I'm still gonna be America's Most Wanted." He grinned, as if pleased with the prospect. "Ta-ta."
He left the room, and she started breathing again.
Chapter Twenty-two
Gray was fighting back panic, an unfamiliar feeling for himbut then he'd never been a hunted animal before. His arrest last year had come without warning, and he'd spent all his time afterward in confinement. Now he was free, but the trick was to stay free. No fuckups, or he would be back in the Reptile House, then transferred to some state hellhole like Pelican Bay, and all his good times would end.
What he had to do was put some miles between himself and the office. Easy enough, once he was driving the doc's Saab, but it was parked in the lot behind the building, and the prison van was there too, with Forrest Gump nestled behind the wheel.
Gray opened the building's rear door and scouted the parking lot, considering his options. If he left this way, he'd be directly in the driver's line of sight. The doc's jacket and the deputy's cap and pants made him less conspicuous, but the Dawg was almost sure to recognize him if he looked in Gray's direction.
Maybe he wouldn't, though. Goober seemed to be reading a newspaper or some shit. Which was surprising, since Gray hadn't realized these deputy dipshits could read. The driver might not even look up. And if he did amp;
Gray could pop him. He had the dead hick's guna nice hefty Beretta nine, a bigger piece than the deuce-deuce he used when he was snuffing cheerleaders. Maybe he could smoke the Gumpster before old Forrest had time to react. Still, he wasn't kidding himself. He wasn't exactly surgical with a piece. The odds weren't exactly on his side.
Well, whatever the motherfuck he did, he better do it fast. Doc Robin might already be shaking off the woozies and getting on the phone to 911.
He should've pulled the plug on that bitch when he had the chance. Wasn't sure why he hadn't. Could've snapped her neck while she was out cold, or raked a hole in her throat with the screwie.
Too late now. He had no time to go back and finish the job. No time to find another exit, either. His only hope was to go out the back door and get out of the hillbilly's line of sight before he was made.
He stuffed the gun into the waistband of his pants, under the jacket, then stepped outside. He resisted the instinct to keep his head down, instead looking boldly ahead like any other nine-to-five zombie who had a perfect constitutional right to be here. He never even glanced at the prison van or the brainless inbred fucker in the driver's seat.
Hands in his pockets, he crossed the parking lot, taking slow, even strides, a man in no hurry. At the other end of the lot he finally allowed himself a look at the vannot by turning his head, but by checking it out in a parked car's side-view mirror.
The Deputy Dawg was still sitting behind the wheel, head down, reading. He'd be reading his fucking termination notice soon.
"You're horse-fucked, Gomer," Gray muttered with a smile, "you dumb peckerwood piece of shit."
It had been too easy.
He remembered where Doc Robin parked her wheels. On previous occasions he'd noticed the shiny new Saab in a reserved spacea tight car, perfect for his getaway. He headed toward it at a fast walk, then slowed, shaking his head in consternation.
Shit, what the hell happened to his ride? It used to be so sweet and shiny. Now it was a fucking wreck. Windshield cracked, side window busted. He was disappointed in the doc. He'd expected her to take better care of her rig.
He turned off the car alarm with the remote control on the key ring, adjusted the driver's seat, then slipped inside and turned t
he key in the ignition switch. Quickly he backed out of the space. Once clear of the lot, he accelerated, speeding down a series of side streets until he felt safe.
He relaxed a little, allowing himself to enjoy the feel of the steering wheel and the responsiveness of the engine, pleasures he hadn't experienced in a year of incarceration.
The CD on the tray was some classical shit. That crap made his ears bleed. He ejected the disk and tossed it out the window, then dialed through the FM stations till he found some kick-ass rock 'n' roll. He pumped it loud, beating his hands on the steering wheel above the blare.
He was laughing. He was out of Twin Towers. He was on the loose and living large.
"Lock up your daughters, moms and dads," he said with a whoop of glee. "Justin Gray is back in town!"
Chapter Twenty-three
When Robin was sure Gray had left the office, she pushed herself into a sitting position, then rose upright. Two unsteady steps brought her to the phone on her desk. She assumed she would dial 911 and was surprised when her fingers speed-dialed the first number in the phone's memory.
Meg, she realized. She was calling Meg.
There had to be a good reason, but none occurred to her until Meg picked up on the third ring.
"Cameron residence."
"Meg, I want you out of the house right now."
"It's a condo. Mom, not a house, and why would I be out of it when I just got into it? Jamie's mom dropped me off, like, thirty seconds ago"
"Meg!" The shout of anger surprised them both. "Shut up and listen to me. I want you to leave the house and go to Mrs. Grandy's and then call me from there. Call me at the office. Understand?"
The jollity was gone from Meg's voice. "What's happening?"
"Just do it."
"What if Mrs. Grandy's not home?"
"She's always home. If not, try Mr. Haver."
"The guy who works at home all day in his bathrobe? The guy who's always hitting on you"
"That guy. Now leave the house. Right now. Don't stop to get changed and don't take another call. Just go. Have you got that?"
"Yes, Mom."
"I love you," Robin said, ending the call before her daughter could reply.
Now it was time to call 911, except first she had to put down the phone and bend over the wastebasket by the desk and throw up, voiding her stomach of lunch.
In Dark Places Page 14
