by Mia Thompson
Chapter 19
The familiar claustrophobia crept up on Sapphire as she moved through the cold walls of the prison. Knowing she could spend years locked behind the same thick walls, unless she escaped, signaled her muscles to run.
She swallowed the panic as the guard patted her down and sent her into the visiting room.
After the hysteria of her father’s kidnapping, Sapphire had looked though her purse for the recorder the Copycat gave her, praying she may have missed a clue. Somehow, the recorder was gone. She did find the handwritten note. It was a jewel if you knew the right person, she’d realized.
She sat down in the glass booth and waited for the man she hadn’t seen since she was twenty.
When he entered, a chill went up Sapphire’s spine. She never thought she’d lay eyes on him again. Capital H.I.M., her first catch.
Professor Thomas Broker’s face looked pale against the jump suit. He saw her and stopped mid-walk. His demeanor changed to something angry, then cocky.
He sat and grabbed the phone from the wall. Sapphire did the same.
“Hello, professor,” she said, resuming the old habit.
“Alas, here she is,” Broker said, “the woman of my nightmares.”
Sapphire scoffed. “Said the man who murdered five of his students.”
“Details.” He leaned back and glared at her. “Is this what you do? Like a killer keeps his trophies, you relive your glory by observing your conquests in the Hell you’ve placed them in.”
“No.” Sapphire said. “I have a note, and I need to find out who wrote it.” Professor Thomas Broker was the country’s best graphologist. He could decipher personality traits, childhood experiences, and even an individual’s psychological patterns based on their handwriting. The cops came to him all the time when searching for murderers… ironically. “I need…” Sapphire swallowed the bile, “your help.”
“My help?” Her old professor laughed, tilting his head back. “Oh, the incongruity. Why on earth would I do this?”
It was Sapphire’s turn to look amused. “Because you love being a know-it-all just as much as you love killing.”
The professor’s eyes narrowed for a few beats. “You attended my language class; you should know the proper word for know-it-all is the Germanic besserwisser.”
Sapphire rolled her eyes. The irony of his words escaped him. “You going to help me or not?”
“I might.” He rolled up the sleeves of his jump suit. “If you do something for me in return.”
“If it’s a cake with a file inside, you’re out of luck. Because I can’t bake, and you’re not a cartoon.”
“Still incorrigibly witty, I see.” His stare was apathetic. “In exchange for one inquiry which you must reply to with absolute candor.”
“Done,” Sapphire agreed, then pulled out the note.
Thomas Broker eyed the guard a few feet down, then shook his head. “Because of my irrevocable state, I’m not granted to do anything without the warden performing a scrutinizing commission that utterly infringes on my unique aptitude.”
Sapphire stared at him. “What?”
The professor sighed. “You have to give the note to the guard on your way out so the warden can look it over. Then they’ll give it to me and I’ll call you with the evaluation.”
Damn. She didn’t have much time. She scribbled her number below Play Me, Sapphire Dubois, then flashed it to him.
“Okay, so what’s your question?” Sapphire asked, eyes on the time.
He took a breath, seeming to relish in the fact that she had to wait for him. “Before you trapped me, I remember reading your test on tribal language.”
“Yeah?” Sapphire shrugged. She’d half-assed the test. She only transferred to UCLA to trap a killer, not to keep up a GPA.
“The answers were dreadful, but I studied your handwriting because, well… I wanted to kill you. I found it particularly fascinating and perplexingly familiar. There was evident childhood trauma…”
“Mhm, moving on.” Sapphire didn’t want to discuss what she witnessed at four years old.
“Then I saw your case a few weeks ago on TV, and I realized it. The reason your handwriting looked so familiar, was because it owned some of the same qualities as my own. Beautifully curved letters to the naked eye, but ugly and flawed in the least plausible places.”
“Are we done?” Sapphire’s mouth turned dry.
“I didn’t ask my question yet,” he dragged his words in satisfaction. “My question is, there are people who can kill, and then there are people who are killers, which are you?”
Sapphire’s throat closed up and she stared at her old professor in silence.
“Answer me!”
“I don’t know!”
He leaned closer to the glass. “The answer is easy. When you drove that knife into Richard Martin, did you enjoy it?”
Her hand gripped the phone harder and her heart fluttered. “No.”
Superiority washed over Professor Thomas Broker’s face. “Dilated pupils. That’s a lie.”
Then he laughed. He hollered so loudly the guards came for him. Sapphire slammed the phone into its holder and got up.
What if the voice inside had been right all along? If her father wasn’t made a killer, he was born one. Whatever defective obscurities ran in his blood, his brain, and his genes, could have transferred to Sapphire. She was sentenced by DNA to become like her father.
She chose to kill Richard Martin. Her father was right. Sapphire was a killer.
She drew a breath and pushed the doors open, still hearing the dulled sound of Thomas Broker’s taunting laugh from behind the glass.
• • •
He woke up with his hands and waist duct taped to a chair. She stood in front of him, staring at him the way only a predator could. She told him who she was. She spoke about Sapphire and about how she would kill him so he couldn’t hurt another Eloise, Sofia, or Erika.
It was all very poetic, very dull.
William played with the idea of manipulating her into believing his innocence, then studied her dark eyes and realized she’d kill him either way.
He gazed down at his duct taped hands and knew what he had to do.
“You’re right.” William interrupted her righteous speech. “I killed them.” He turned his head with shame. “You know how hard it is to live with what I am? The need, the urges, the lack of control over my own actions.” He squeezed the tears out.
“Boo-hoo, the monster’s sad,” she mocked and approached him with her knife.
Sweat dripped off William’s forehead as he looked up at her. It felt like it was over a hundred degrees in this old building which clearly lacked air conditioning. Good.
“Do it.” He looked at her with honesty. “Sometimes, I pray for death. Sometimes, I feel like the tyrant inside keeps me prisoner and death is the only key to the lock.”
She stopped, watching him.
William stared into space, forgetting she was there. He pushed away The Hunger’s controlling voice which urged him to shut up.
“Sometimes… I wonder what I could’ve been without him and his poisonous thoughts. Could I have stayed with them?” William’s voice filled with heavy emotion. “Could I have gotten to hold my wife at night? Could I have been allowed to watch my daughter grow up?” His tears turned real at the images.
The young woman stared at him with both doubt and unwilling sympathy.
“I wished for death many times…” William cleared his throat, and felt The Hunger’s intelligent voice emerge. “But I never wanted to die slowly. I never wanted to have time to think about all the things I did to those women.” The Hunger’s lies and charm returned. “Just, please, kill me quickly.”
Her upper lip curled as she put her knife away. She grabbed one of the loose bricks on the ground and smacked the water pipe next to her.
The water poured and gathered on the dirty floor around them.
“You…” She walked up to William and put her foot
to his chair’s leg, “deserve to die so slowly, you have time to think of all of them. Every woman you hurt, every tear you caused, every loved one you robbed.”
“No,” he begged.
She kicked the chair and William landed with a splash. “Now, food for thought while you lay there knowing you’ll be drowning in minutes. I want you to know that I’m going to bring your daughter here, and then, I’m going to kill her too.”
He watched her leave and groaned in supposed agony. “Nooo… noooo…”
She shut the door and William chuckled as the water level rose. Silly woman.
• • •
It was the last day in court.
Sapphire sat with her hand over her mouth. She felt like she was going to be sick. The closing arguments in front of her were important—life changing—but she couldn’t focus. Her phone rang minutes before she returned to the courthouse. Caller Unknown. She’d picked up right as she walked through the doors. The Copycat hung up right away this time.
Sapphire eyed the jury as they concentrated on Marissa Pearl’s final statements about the Serial Catcher. Sapphire had expected a more dramatic “You’re out of order! This whole courtroom’s out of order!” type of finale, but Marissa’s strategy was less Nicholson/Cruise showdown, and more pointing and blaming Sapphire. Unfortunately, the woman made a good argument.
When the prosecutor was done, she gave Sapphire an intense look, then headed for her chair. Sapphire wasn’t sure what Pearl’s deal was, but it felt personal.
Mr. Goldstein stood to get his final two cents in. Once again, he argued she loved Charles, and that self-defense against a known serial killer was the only way she would take to the knife.
Or not, a thought whispered.
When he finished, Judge Biggs announced the jury would deliberate. Sapphire walked out with Mr. Goldstein, feeling Marissa’s eyes on her the whole way.
“What now?” she asked.
“We wait and pray. Might be hours, might be days until we get the call.” He scribbled on his business card. “Here’s my personal number, if you need to talk.”
“Thanks.” Sapphire put his card in her wallet next to a two-year-old tenth-cup-free stamp card, and the card Nikki Pierce forced on her.
She stared at the business card and it dawned on her. One favor, no questions asked. Sapphire grabbed her phone and dialed. Maybe she didn’t have to wait for Broker’s call.
“Pierce.”
“Nikki, it’s Sapphire. I’ll give you the exclusive if you do me that favor.”
The journalist gasped. “Anything.”
“Do you know how to trace an unknown caller from my phone? Someone called me at 12:41 p.m. today and I’d like to know who.”
“First of all, no honorable journalist would do such a thing illegally.”
“Oh,” Sapphire said in disappointment. “Thanks anyway. Bye.”
“Woah, hold on! Second of all, I’m neither honorable nor scared to go around the law in the pursuit of truth.” Nikki’s fast taps on the keyboard sounded. “Also, one of my guys has already been tracking your call history for the past week. I’d apologize, but we both know I wouldn’t mean it.”
“Uh, okay? Can you call me as soon as—”
“Got it.” Nikki interrupted, then fell silent for a second. “Marissa Pearl. Hey, isn’t that your prosecutor?”
Sapphire’s eyes drew to Marissa Pearl who just stepped out of the courtroom. Motive? A prosecutor punishing bad guys the way she never could in court. Check.
Erratic behavior? The lingering looks, the hand shake. Check.
“When should we schedule our excl—”
Sapphire hung up on Nikki and watched the woman open the door to the back parking lot.
She took off after the prosecutor so fast she smacked into a red-headed lawyer. Sapphire didn’t stop, didn’t apologize. She just kept moving, eyes on Marissa Pearl.
Copycat? Check.
• • •
“Are you sure you need the wheelchair?” the nurse asked. “I saw you walk just fine before.”
“You questioning me?” Chrissy couldn’t believe the nerve. “Do you know who I am?”
“No, I’m new,” she laughed. “Should I?”
Imbecile. Chrissy pouted and crossed her arms.
“You remind me of my little Billy when we first moved out here,” the nurse laughed. “This hospital hired me and he was so mad he had to leave the city. Now he loves it here, all his new friends, the nature—”
“You’re giving me a headache,” Chrissy moaned. Her head felt thick. She still couldn’t remember much between the restaurant where she was taken and waking up in the hospital. A good thing, she supposed.
They turned into the hospital’s dining room and Chrissy felt a rush of joy at the sight of Cecily and Milford Kraft. They were back from their trip. Her mother wiped down the seat before she dared to sit. Her father looked at the people around him with scorn. Finally someone who understood how Chrissy felt around here.
“Daddy!” Chrissy shouted as the nurse rolled her up.
He gave her a nod, and her mother gave her cheeks air kisses.
“Sorry about the visit to this,” her daddy made quotation marks, “restaurant, but your mother was dying for a cup of coffee.” He looked her up and down. “You look well, considering.”
Chrissy nodded.
“Of course you do. You’re a Kraft, and Krafts pull through hardships.”
As he spoke the words, Chrissy’s mind flashed to something. It was too fast to follow.
He sat back down. “You’ll be happy to hear the dissolving of DubCorp is almost to the finishing line. Gary Dubois is signing it over to us in a few days.”
Chrissy felt like her head was going to explode as she squinted at her father. “What will happen to Sapphire?”
Her father’s neck pulled back in shock. “Business is business and personal is personal. You know this, Christina.”
“Yes, of course.” Stupid me.
Sapphire’s face appeared in her mind. In the image, Sapphire stood over her, and held her arms. A hot pain flared in Chrissy’s head, making her cringe.
“Oh dear, Milford!” Her mother grabbed Chrissy’s fingers. “Look what he did to her nails. Disgusting. We’ll have to cancel your coming-home party, Chrissy.”
Chrissy looked down at the skin where her nails should be. It didn’t even look that horrifying to her anymore.
“Don’t worry,” her daddy said. “We’ll find the country’s best manicurists and no one will ever know.” He turned to Chrissy’s nurse. “We’re going to need three of your most edible dishes and a cup of coffee. I assume Folgers is all you have.”
Chrissy’s mother made a half chortle, half sneer—her signature sound.
The nurse giggled. “I’m sorry, I’m a nurse, not a waitress, and,” she motioned to the food line, “it’s self-serve. You pay at the register.”
Chrissy watched her daddy’s nostrils flare. “What’s your full name, girl?”
“Uh, Amy Jones.”
“Let me explain something to you, Amy Jones. This hospital is owned by the Dickson Corporation and Robert Dickson and I play golf once a month. Consider yourself fired.”
“Wh…” Amy looked at Chrissy’s daddy in shock, then tears. “Please…”
Fired. Fired. Fired. The words pushed a jolt of electricity through Chrissy’s brain. Images toppled in her mind. Pain, misery, ghosts, feelings, realizations, and Sapphire. Sapphire saved her.
“Sir,” the nurse’s voice was thick with tears and desperation. “You don’t understand, I just moved here with my son and…”
“Then take this as a lesson. Now run along.” Milford Kraft waved at the devastated nurse, then looked at Chrissy and his wife. “Thank goodness we Krafts know how to deal with hardships, unlike some.”
Chrissy frowned at her father for the first time in her life, feeling a burn of anger. “What hardships?”
He smiled in confusion. “Pa
rdon?”
“What hardships have you been through?” The anger turned to heat on her cheeks. “Was it hard to be handed everything you pointed at? To do and say whatever you wanted to anyone who crossed your path? This nurse probably has more hardship in her pinky than you will ever experience. Tell him, nurse!”
“Well, ah…” The nurse stumbled.
“See!” Chrissy stood, her headache gone. “Apologize!”
“I’m sorry,” the nurse hurried.
“Not you, him. Apologize.”
Milford Kraft stood, and smacked his hands down on the table. “What has gotten into you, Christina? All this for some little nurse.”
“Yes! And for all the ones before her. For all the ones you made me think it was okay to humiliate. Apologize.”
“Chrissy,” her mother interjected.
“I will do no such thing!”
Chrissy had never seen her father so mad at her. The strange thing was she’d never been this mad either.
“Well, she’s not fired.” Chrissy put her hand on her hip. “I play tennis with Joan Dickson. She and I are way closer than you and Robert.” She nodded to the nurse. “You can go back to work now.”
The nurse ran off, and her father stared at her in mute shock, knowing she’d won.
“Now,” Chrissy said, “if you’ll excuse me, Mom, Dad, I have to go get some more pain meds for my disgusting fingers.”
She marched out of the “restaurant.” As soon as she turned the corner, she leaned against the wall. Exhilaration surged through her. She’d never spoken to her father this way before. It was freeing.
“Thank you.” The sniffling nurse threw her arms around Chrissy. “Thank you!”
“You’re… welcome.” Chrissy felt an odd, new emotion rise within her.
She watched the nurse walk away, and realized how good it felt to do something nice for someone she didn’t know. Better than shopping, coke, and sex combined. She wondered if other people knew about this rush.
Chrissy looked at her scarred hands, feeling a force run through them. She was like a superhero with the ability to do good. Her superpowers: status and money.
She was going to make the country club rehire the bartender. She’d even make them give him a raise. If people thought Erika Phelps—rest her soul—was a giving person, they hadn’t seen anything yet.
