“That’s why we do Hapkido. To even the odds.”
“If you are fighting to survive, even odds are not enough. If you are in a fair fight, you have not planned correctly. You must be willing to do what others won’t. When two men of similar weight fight, who is more likely to win, Ms. Smythe?”
This was a question from one of my first lessons. I answered without thinking, “The one most likely to win is the one who strikes first. Aggression often works.”
“Yes. And when a man fights a woman, his goal is usually to control her. That is your advantage. If a man tries to hit you, what is your goal?”
“Stop him. Create distance. Get away. Get help.”
“And if you can’t do those things?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I’ve got skills — ”
“Dangerous thinking, Ms. Smythe. I’m not talking about a tournament or a friendly sparring match. You will soon go out into the world. Leave behind childish ideas about working out on the mat in the dojang with your friends. Your opponent is willing to beat you until you are unconscious. He’ll try to strangle you. He doesn’t just think he’s tough. He is tough. What must you do?”
“I must…do what he is unwilling to do?”
“Are you asking me or are you telling me?”
“I must do what he is unwilling to do, sir.”
“And what is that?”
He was the accountant, but I did the math. I knew the answer he was looking for, even though I didn’t really believe him then. Not yet. “Kill him,” I answered.
“That is your advantage. No self-defense training is complete without acknowledging this. I’ve taught you kicks and punches and locks and throws. More powerful than all of these are the simple things we do instinctively when our lives are threatened. As Bruce Lee said, ‘Poke out their eyes, punch ’em in the balls, take out their knees.’ Simple and direct. If you are prepared to be brutal, you will survive. The words to remember belong to Malcolm X. ‘By any means necessary.’”
We ran a long time before we spoke again. The rain had eased but my legs were tired and beginning to cramp. I had trained for short bursts of speed and strength in Hapkido practice, not long distance running. The cold ached down to my bones and my breath came short through clenched teeth.
“Are you telling me I’ve been wasting my time with you since I was eleven years old?” I asked.
He laughed. “No, Ms. Smythe. Now you know everything you need to know in order to defend yourself well. Everything else was preparation. To defend ourselves, we must be in good physical condition. We must be willing to do terrible things. Finally, we must be relatively calm in order to do those terrible things to defend ourselves…and others.”
“Can we rest a while?” I asked.
“No.”
“I’m thirsty.”
“Of course. It’s raining. Tip your head back, open your mouth and drink.”
We ran on. He was used to running and I wasn’t and it showed. Despite being twenty years younger, it was all I could do to stay at his heels. I fell twice before we got back to the dojang and he did not slow. He expected me to catch up. When I did so without complaining, my reward at the door to the school was a smile and a bow.
“That concludes our private lesson, Ms. Smythe. Please remind your mother that your dues are required at the first of the month. Do you need a ride home?”
I desperately wanted a ride home in a warm car. “No, thank you, sir.”
“Good run, Ms. Smythe.”
“Good run, sir.”
“Oh, and Ms. Smythe? One more thing. If you do find it necessary to kill anyone, I will be your character witness at the trial.”
“Great.”
“Just be sure you win.”
The truth is, I didn’t really pay Mr. Chang that much attention at the time. I took him seriously, but I chalked up his stern pronouncements to OCD and maybe watching too many old Jackie Chan movies where the master is avenged by his student prodigy.
I didn’t really believe that life was that hard. At least, not until Life ended and Death took Brad away from me.
Mr. Chang’s edict was much on my mind as I left Dr. Moorely’s office. The way he looked at me and the words, “your lovely neck,” haunted me more than Petra’s wild hair, gray naked body and scarred wrists.
5
Lesson 7: when trapped in a mental hospital designed to make you conform to expected societal norms, do the expected.
When you suspect the old serial rapist doctor may prescribe you a heavy sedative to make you compliant, don’t put up a fuss. When the Powers That Be underestimate you, that’s one of your few advantages.
When the nurse gives you the medication, don’t try what actors do in movies. Unless it’s the floor nurse’s first day on the job and she has terrible training, she will ask you to swallow the prescribed pill. Then she’ll ask you to stick out and lift your tongue. Hiding the big white capsule under your tongue is something that would only work in a movie.
The best way to appear to take the roofie (the deep sedative known as Rohypnol) is to palm it when the nurse hands it to you. Pantomime swallowing the pill and wince a little to sell the idea that you’re a good little patient. However, this is dangerous and an old, savvy nurse will watch your hands, too. I wouldn’t try this strategy unless your last name is Penn, Teller or Copperfield.
The easiest way to defeat Dr. Pervert’s prescription is to actually take it. Show them you’re not going to be any trouble. As soon as you can, without being obtrusive, slip into the bathroom and stick your fingers down your throat. Puke that puppy up and down into the toilet. Better fingers down your throat than something else.
Lesson 8: when the bedtime routine begins, watch your roomie (not the dead one.) Rebecca Call-Me-Becks will be out like a light because Dr. Moorely will want her passed out and snoring early, too.
When the lights go out, listen to the movement around the floor. Hospitals are like every other building. After the day’s routines are done, they settle into a quieter pattern. Shifts change. The skeleton staff spreads thin, gets sleepy and moves less.
Patients who wander in the night pad the hallways in their bare feet and must be led back to bed. Nurses walk miles so they wear sneakers and squeak down the hall. The doctors’ smooth dress shoes click a little on the tile in the corridor as they approach.
Do you hear those shoes clicking up and down the hall slowly, pacing? That’s Dr. Moorely, building up his nerve. How many times he took advantage of his position in this hospital is impossible to know. You can be sure he has committed this atrocity many times. Every sex offender claims the time they were caught is the first time. We all know it’s merely the last time — at least we hope it’s the last time. Sex offenders typically keep at their sick obsessions for a long time until they are captured or killed.
As the steps outside my door became slower and more deliberate, Dr. Moorely gathered his courage (or succumbed to his impulses.) When he was certain it was safe and the snoring emanating from Call-Me-Becks’ thin nose and thick, phlegmy throat was sure and even, he opened the door to the room.
Before he did that, I watched my roomie (the dead one). As I knew she would, Petra appeared, a pale crucifix against the wall that hid the marks of chains. Her eyes were deep black shadows, but a slant of weak light from the door caught glistening tears on her marble white cheeks. Blood dripped from her open mouth but no liquid hit the floor. She was terrified and, for some reason I can’t understand, condemned to repeat this ritual until Dr. Moorely was stopped.
That’s where I came in.
Lesson 9: This is a tough one. Pretend to sleep. I did. The toughest part was feeling his icy gaze on me. He slowly pulled back the sheet, on guard for me to stir, trying to gauge the depth of my Rohypnol sleep.
I waited for his pants to fall to his ankles so he’d be off balance when I shoved him down. When he crashed to the floor, I rolled up quick and leapt high in the air to land on the old man’s stomach with both
knees as hard as I could.
Moorely wheezed and could not get his breath. A rib cracked. With my pillow over his face, no air in his lungs and my weight on his ribs, he could not scream for help. If I kept the pillow pressed tight, he’d eventually stop struggling and would die of asphyxiation.
My plan was not to murder Dr. Moorely, though if he’d had a heart attack just then, I would not have objected. My plan was to take his eyes if need be. Mr. Chang and Petra would approve and, given the way Petra died, there was some poetic justice in maiming him that way.
Killing made it sound like I was doing something wrong. From Petra’s experience, I was certain I was in the right. Still, I’d never killed anyone. Not yet. And I decided I preferred the term dispatch. The word suggested I was about to send the doctor somewhere. Perhaps he could roam these halls for decades on end, trapped in his own hell as Petra had been.
Lesson 10: I realized that, despite Mr. Chang’s private lesson, I wasn’t ready to dispatch anyone, not even this sick bastard. The first kill is the hardest and I wasn’t ready to be an executioner.
What to do? What to do?
Then I saw my way out. I spotted the rectangular square of foil wrapper by his outstretched hand. In the dim light, the pills looked black, but by their shape and, guessing at his age, I knew what pills the doctor had readied for himself.
I leaned down and bit his ear hard to get his attention and he startled, letting out the barest of moans. I was sweating and my heart pounded, but Chang was right. All that training under stress worked. All things considered, I was relatively calm and prepared for battle.
“I only have two rules, Doctor. You must be honest with me and you must comply with my treatment plan. For every pill you swallow,” I said, “I’ll allow you to take two deep breaths, one before and one after. I must insist. Do you understand?”
He struggled under me, so I drew back one knee and drove my bony kneecap into his balls hard. I felt the squish and my stomach turned over. His eyes widened so much I could see the whites all the way around his pupils. The old man squeaked.
While he was still thinking about his ruined testicles, I lifted the other knee and brought all my weight down into his diaphragm.
Chang was right: to defend ourselves, we must be in good physical condition. I had little to fear from a seventy-year-old predator who used drugs to subdue his victims.
I explained what he was going to do and, of course, he wanted to protest. But he needed air for that. He nodded weakly and we began. He ate one blue pill. I guessed he’d already taken one or two. The box in his breast pocket contained two foil packages. I took the pen from that same pocket and shoved the point up against his carotid artery. He swallowed every pill dry. That took a while, but Call-me-Becks was in a deep snore so there was no rush.
Petra put her arms down and stepped closer. The ghost girl’s feet were coated in filth and trails of dried blood ran black as they wound down her legs in the moonlight. Her proximity freaked me out but, when I glanced up, the ghost’s head was cocked to one side. Her look communicated all the uncomprehending curiosity of a dog staring at a ceiling fan.
I focused on the doctor. When he was done taking his medicine, I could tell the pills had their intended effect. I wanted to throw up in his face, but I’d watched a lot of CSI with Brad. It’s a mistake to vomit at a crime scene and I still didn’t know how this was going to work out.
“Two packets. That’s ten pills, Dr. Moorely. Do you know what happens next?”
He shook his head weakly.
“Oh, I think you do.” I knew what was coming down the train track with Moorely tied to the rails. Mama owned Medicament’s only pharmacy and I helped out on weekends for years. I’d read the labels and giggled over the potential side effects of drugs since I was thirteen years old.
I gave Dr. Moorely a fierce sneer. “First, there’s an excellent chance your heart will give out as you limp out into the hallway. I can feel your pulse in your lovely neck, Doctor, pounding away. It feels like your heart is about to explode. You shouldn’t smoke. It’s bad for you.”
His eyes were wet. I looked around for some pity but couldn’t find any. Not with Petra standing over us, watching justice get served.
“If you make it to the nurses’ station, there’s a good chance you’ll die of embarrassment.”
He struggled for breath. “Listen to m— ”
“Sh! You’ll wake the baby.” I pressed his pen harder into his throat and he shut up. I wondered what Brad would say. He was always pithy and funny in a crisis. My zombie boyfriend was a sharp guy. For instance, though he suddenly found himself disarmed, Brad had thought to use a pencil to dial the phone before he died. He’d thought to call me one last time, with a special message that might be true love’s last sad gift. Or it might be a curse.
“We’re going to wait until dawn, Doctor. We’ll make sure all those little pills take full effect. We won’t be using them. We’re just going to have to wait. You’ve seen the commercials. If you have an erection lasting longer than four hours, consult a doctor immediately. It’s six, maybe seven hours to morning. They’ll have to operate, I think. It’ll be fractured and broken because, a little later, after you pass out, I’m going to wake you up by driving my knees into your penis. I don’t care how long it takes. Petra’s been waiting a long time for justice. We can give her one night of our lives.”
At the mention of her name, Dr. Moorely’s eyes narrowed. He managed to whisper, “How do you know that name?”
“If I told you, you’d lock me up in an insane asylum, Doctor.”
6
It was a long night and, if I had to do it again, I would have drunk more coffee. On the other hand, I’d already peed on him plenty. It’s hard to hold someone down that long, harder than a hard run in a cold rain.
When the wait for the sun’s return got boring, I reminded myself that Petra had been trapped here since 1972.
Lesson 11: when you’re holding an old man down with all your weight and strength, definitely make full use of the threat of the pen tip at his throat. Otherwise, when he surrenders, he’s actually resting, waiting for his chance at escape.
I spent the night feeling for his muscles to tense against mine. I spent the night threatening him. My knees ached. My back hurt. The muscles in my jaw went into spasms before it was over. The ghost of Petra stood watch over me through the night, mute but, I felt, encouraging.
The memory of Mr. Chang kept me going, too. I could hear him saying, “If you give this man a chance, he will kill you.”
That was true. Pain gave Moorely fear. However, as the dawn spread light into the room slowly, I saw the hatred boiling behind his eyes ever more clearly.
I got so tired toward the end, he almost pushed me off and circled his hands around my throat. That’s very dangerous. Blood vessels burst in your eyes. If you strangle someone the right way, focusing on the blood vessels to the victim’s brain instead of trying to close their airway, it doesn’t take long to choke someone unconscious.
About the time he slipped one hand around my neck I realized I’d done this all wrong. I should have piled my sheets and pillows in the bed as a decoy. I should have slipped behind the door and waited. Then I could have jumped on his back and choked him out and tied him up instead of spending the whole night holding him down and counting my muscle spasms to pass the time.
What can I say? I was new at this sort of thing.
The room that had been painted yellow with sunlight a moment before he began to choke me. Then the room began to darken. I dropped the pen from his throat and he had me, squeezing with both hands. I tried to pull my head back and, for a moment, I saw Petra’s wild, pleading eyes. She shook her head.
I threw my head forward but he stopped me from headbutting him. The old man had been resting a while and saw his last chance.
Then I saw my last chance. With the last of my strength, I clapped my hands over his ears and burst his ear drums. His eyes rolled up and hi
s mouth popped open.
“Enough,” he wheezed. “Enough!”
Call-Me-Becks snorted awake in time to see me put both hands on the floor on either side of Moorely’s head, rock forward and kick my cramped legs straight in the air into a handstand. When my knees came down, I fulfilled my promise, fracturing what would never again point straight. I rolled off Moorely and rolled toward the wall. Petra’s wall. I cried and wailed and screamed for help and squeaky nurses’ shoes pounded the green linoleum.
I was almost unconscious from exhaustion, but I saw Petra looking down at me. She had a nice smile. She lifted a hand (to wave goodbye, I think.) I noticed it was clean. She had not a spot of dirt or a dribble of blood on her body.
I blinked and she wasn’t there anymore. Makes you wonder what’s happening while you’re doing all that blinking every day, doesn’t it?
Dr. Moorely missed his window of opportunity for an easy fix for his little problem. A simple needle in his needle dick would have drained that painful, broken erection. They tried to save his weapon of choice. However, two days later, gangrene set in. A surgeon in another hospital down the road detached the diseased organ from the control of Moorely’s diseased mind.
The old man retired amid many questions. The hospital administrator wanted to know what he was doing in the women’s wing of the hospital, alone after midnight. The DA wanted to know what he was doing with all that Viagra in his pocket. The police wanted to know why he’d prescribed unusually heavy doses of sleeping pills for me and my (live) roommate that night.
I thought the case would go to trial, but three weeks later, disgraced and dickless, Dr. Moorely took his life. He did it at home with a pistol to the forehead.
A very nice detective came to see me after Moorely killed himself. Owens was his name. Detective Owens told me he had a daughter about my age so, as far as he was concerned, my actions were self-defense.
“I could have called for the nurses,” I said.
The Haunting Lessons: 1, 2, 3, 4, I Declare a Demon War (The Ghosts & Demons Series) Page 3
