Shadow of Perceptoin

by Kristine Mason

  “Come on, John,” Celeste said as she opened the front door. “We’ve interrupted their dinner again. Let’s go home. I have several sample books of wedding invitations I want us to go through tonight.”

  “Can we scrapbook when we’re finished?” John asked just before he shut the door behind him.

  Once Celeste and John left, Hudson set Brutal on the dog bed, then rubbed his stomach. “I’m so hungry. I’d eat another one of your gross granola bars. C’mon, I’ll make the toast, while you cook the omelets and tell me what happened with your sister.”

  Holding his hand, she followed him into the kitchen while trying to decide if she should ask him about John’s marriage comment. Because she knew not knowing would bug the living shit out of her, she blurted, “What did John mean by another walk down the aisle?”

  He blew out a deep breath, and ran a hand through his hair. “I…I was married a long time ago.”

  Stunned, she stepped back, and narrowed her eyes at him. “Any children I should know about?” she asked, disgusted with him, and with herself. How could she have been stupid enough to believe Hudson had changed? Now that she thought about it, other than the little bit he’d told her about the time he’d been held captive in Columbia, he hadn’t said anything about himself, or his past. She’d foolishly allowed her heart to rule her head. All his bullshit about tiptoeing around the past or the truth, had been just that—bullshit.

  “No,” he said, and approached her. “Jen and I were only married for a few years, and ninety percent of the time I was overseas.”

  She took another step back until her hip hit the counter. “Jen,” she echoed. “And you didn’t think you should have mentioned Jen to me?”

  “I honestly didn’t think it was that important,” he answered. “I’m sorry, Eden. I guess I screwed up.”

  Utter betrayal sliced through her heart. He hadn’t trusted her. To think that she’d thought she knew him. She didn’t—at all. What she knew of him had been superficial and only what he’d wanted her to see. Like when they’d been together before, he had to control every aspect of their relationship. God, she’d even allowed him to convince her to lease her townhouse in case she decided to move back to Chicago. He’d told her he wouldn’t ask her to stay, but he’d manipulated her anyway, and had swayed her into thinking they might have a shot at a future together.

  Not anymore.

  Not ever again.

  “You guess?” she asked, shocked that he could sum up his lack of trust so flippantly, as if he’d forgotten something off the grocery list. She hurt. Bad. She didn’t have many people in her life she could trust, and she’d trusted Hudson. She’d trusted that they’d become close enough that they could share private thoughts, emotions…their past. “God, Hudson. You gave me so much crap for never talking about myself and avoiding the past. Then I went and opened up, and told you about my rape. Something I’d never told anyone, by the way, not even my own family. And you didn’t think to even mention an ex-wife. I mean, it’s not like you haven’t had plenty of opportunities.”

  “I know, but after you told me what happened to you, I realized our pasts really didn’t matter. It’s who we are now that counts.”

  “Gee, how poetic,” she said, laying the sarcasm on thick. How convenient that he’d come to this miraculous conclusion after she’d been the one to open herself to him. Figuratively and literally. “When you quit CORE, maybe you should consider writing greeting cards.”

  With his eyes full of concern and apology, he crowded her against the counter. “You’re right. I should have told you about my ex. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have expected you to tell me about yourself, then not do the same in return.”

  Shoving his chest, she moved away from him. Although thoroughly pissed, she couldn’t forget that a short while ago they’d made love. He’d held her in his arms and had loved her body, had filled her heart and soul with hope for a future. She needed to distance herself from him. Lust would not cloud her judgment again.

  “Eden, please. What can I do to make this up to you? Tell you about Jen? How I married her out of high school because all I ever wanted was a family of my own. That my mom had left me when I was about nine, and that I wished my dad had left me, too. He was a bastard who used me as his occasional punching bag, especially when he was drunk.” Shoving his hands in his pockets, he looked to the floor. “I can tell you about my tour in Afghanistan, the horrible things I saw, or better yet, the horrible things I did during my years with the CIA. I can tell you—”

  “Stop.” Holding up a hand, she shook her head. “I need space.”

  She didn’t want to hear any more, not now. At this point, she couldn’t figure out his agenda. He’d had plenty of opportunities to tell her these things. For him to hurry up and lump them all into one big confession didn’t work for her. She didn’t want a forced confession. She believed relationships were about give and take. Only she had been the one to give. All he’d done was take.

  Tears filled her eyes. Throat tightening as she fought to control her emotions in front of him, she moved past him.

  He snagged her hand. “Eden,” he said, his tone thick, quiet…pained.

  He tilted her chin, but she refused to face him, to allow him to see the hurt. She’d already shown him too much. “I want to be alone.”

  With the tip of his finger, he traced her jaw. “I love you,” he said, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.

  Her heart and stomach ached with insult. Pushing past him, she rushed to the bedroom, then slammed the door. In the privacy of her room she let the tears fall. She’d wanted to hear him say the words, but not like this. Not as a way of apologizing.

  Falling onto the bed, she hugged the pillow. Hudson’s scent lingered on the linens, and she shoved the pillow across the bed. Hiding in the bathroom wouldn’t work either. She’d only be reminded of the way he’d held her, coaxed her body with his rough hands and—

  “Eden,” Hudson called from the other side of the door. “I just heard from Rachel. We have the clientele list from Med Spa.”

  She’d been so focused on Hudson, she hadn’t even thought about the killer or Dr. Roth.

  Damn. She didn’t want to be anywhere near Hudson. He’d broken her heart. Now she had to spend the rest of the evening sitting next to him, searching for any link to the killer.

  Chapter 21

  With dusk fast approaching, Michael Morrison pulled into his gravel driveway. He drove the minivan to the steel garage, climbed out, then opened the door. As he waited for the garage door to finish rising, he headed toward the van, then stopped.

  Movement in the overgrown fields caught his attention. He scanned the tall grass. The head of a coyote surfaced, followed by another, then another. With caution, he glanced to the other side of the property just as another coyote crept from the grass onto the gravel.

  They‘re waiting for their next meal, and I’ll deliver it. Soon.

  As he climbed back into the van and drove into the garage, he realized the coyotes weren’t much different from his patients. Like the doctors from Med Spa, coyotes were opportunistic hunters. Only the coyotes hunted their prey for survival, while the doctors preyed on insecure, young women for profit.

  Once he parked the van, Michael quickly closed the garage door. He didn’t want to become his dinner guests’ appetizer.

  Sealed in the building, he slid open the driver’s side back door.

  Dr. Victor Roth glared at him.

  Michael jerked back, then relaxed when he saw that the duct tape he’d applied earlier had stayed intact. His hands and feet bound, and held together behind his back with triple layers of tape, Roth remained hogtied. Still, the doctor had woken too early. Michael needed time to prep him for his surgery, and he couldn’t do it while the man was awake.

  Time to improvise.

  Michael went to his office and retrieved the varmint rifle. He rushed back to the OR, grabbed a hunting knife, then moved toward the van.

&nb
sp; Roth’s eyes grew big and round as he darted his gaze from the knife to the OR. He attempted to talk, but the duct tape kept him mute.

  Holding the rifle in one hand and the knife in the other, Michael eased toward the doctor, then leaned into the van and severed the tape that held Roth’s arms and legs together and behind him. “Get out,” Michael ordered, and raised the gun.

  Hands still taped behind his back, and ankles bound, Roth inched like a worm toward the open door. When he reached the edge, he stopped and looked up at Michael.

  “Do it.” When he realized Roth’s head would take the majority of the fall, he added, “It’s not that far of a drop, and if you’re worried about messing up your face…maybe breaking a nose, don’t. I was planning on fixing that big ol’ honker of yours anyway.”

  Instead of moving forward and out of the van, Roth began to shift his body backward.

  Michael set the knife on the roof of the van, then raised the rifle and took aim. “One way or another you’re coming out of that van. You can do it with a bullet in your ass, or you can cooperate and follow my directions.”

  Roth’s face grew red and his eyes watered. The veins in his neck strained as he tried to speak.

  Lowering the rifle, Michael leaned into the van, and ripped the tape from Roth’s mouth.

  “You son of a bitch. I’ll kill you for this. I’ll fucking kill you,” Roth raged.

  “Big threats for a guy who’s bound up and has a rifle pointed at him. But I understand. It’s like I said, though, you either get out of the van now, or you can get out of the van later…with a bullet in you.”

  Roth spat on the floorboard. “Fuck you. Go ahead and kill me. I don’t take orders from you.”

  “Oh, I’m not going to kill you. That’s the coyotes’ job. But I will start shooting. First your ass, then your leg, then maybe your hand…I’m trying to remember. Are you a lefty or a righty? I’d hate to shoot the wrong hand. I know how critical it is for you to be able to use your hands when performing surgeries.”

  “You sick bastard,” Roth shouted.

  “All of this name calling isn’t necessary. Just do as you’re told.” He raised the rifle and aimed at Roth’s ass. “You’ve got ten seconds to get out of the van. One, two, three…”

  Michael pulled the trigger.

  The shot echoed throughout the garage, along with Roth’s scream.

  Raising the rifle again, Michael aimed for the man’s leg. “One, two—”

  “Don’t,” Roth wailed. “Please. I’ll move. I’ll move.” He cried as he heaved his body toward the opened door. “See. You don’t have to shoot. You didn’t have to shoot. If you’d given me to ten, then—”

  “I still would have shot you.”

  “Why?”

  Michael shrugged. “I don’t like you.”

  Roth dangled his head over the concrete. “The feeling’s mutual. I fucking hate you.”

  Tired of Roth’s potty mouth, Michael grabbed the man by the belt, then hauled his ass out of the van. When he landed face down, Michael pressed the butt of the gun into Roth’s bullet wound.

  More wailing and blubbering ensued. Michael rolled his eyes. “Crybaby,” he said, then grabbed the back of Roth’s belt again, and lugged him closer to the OR. Once he reached the surgical table, he forced Roth to his feet.

  Roth resisted. Twisting his body and throwing himself to the concrete.

  With a schedule to meet, and in no mood for Roth’s bullshit, Michael smashed the butt of the gun into Roth’s kidney. The man rolled to his side, and raised his bound ankles. Before his feet could connect with Michael’s legs, Michael swung the rifle like a golf club.

  Blood spurted from Roth’s nose. Wincing, he released a groan, then closed his eyes. His body limp and unmoving, Michael gave his stomach a swift kick. No reaction. Good, now he could prep Roth for surgery.

  Within twenty minutes, Michael had Roth on the surgical table, his arms and legs bound. Sure Roth could not escape, he went to the office. He eyed the bottle of Wild Turkey on the desk, but didn’t give in to temptation. He needed to stay sober. For what he had planned afterward, his head needed to be clear.

  He’d love nothing more than to be half-drunk when he performed Roth’s nose job. Mutilating a man’s face, even if he hated the guy, was not something he looked forward to doing. The blood, the screams…they would follow him into hell and live with him for an eternity.

  He’d crossed the line of morality the day he kidnapped Dr. Thomas Elliot. Even then he could have stopped, released Elliot, untouched, somewhere far from his farmhouse. Never having harmed a creature in his life, he’d wanted to stop.

  His daughter had deserved justice, though. Whether his brand of justice was right or wrong, it was justice nonetheless.

  Ignoring the whiskey, he moved toward the TV, then stopped. Roth’s groans drifted into the office. “Damn it, why can’t he stay the hell asleep,” Michael mumbled, then an idea appealed to him.

  After unplugging the TV and DVD player, he carefully pushed the TV cart from the office and into the OR. After plugging all the cords into the socket, he adjusted the cart at an angle in which Roth could have full view of the movie. Once satisfied that he’d given Roth access to the TV screen, he moved to the surgical table, then twisted the man’s head.

  “Unless you want me to bind your head to the table, face the TV.”

  “Fuck you,” Roth said, then spat.

  Michael wiped the phlegm from his face, and shook his head. “You shouldn’t have done that,” he said, then walked to the van and retrieved the hunting knife he’d left on the roof. When he returned to the surgical table, he waved the blade, then shoved it into the sole of Roth’s foot.

  Roth screamed, high and loud.

  Leaving the knife imbedded in his foot, Michael clamped a hand over Roth’s mouth. “I dare you to swear at me again.”

  Roth shook his head.

  “Be good,” Michael said as he released Roth’s mouth. He removed the knife. “Or else this blade will find its way into your other foot. After that, maybe I’ll go for your groin.”

  Sweating and panting, Roth lolled his head. “Please, if it’s money you’re after…”

  “I don’t want your money. But I do want you to watch something. Now that I think about it, I regret not showing this DVD to the others.”

  “Others?” Roth echoed.

  “Mmm-hmm, you know, Tom Elliot, Brian Westly, Leo Tully…”

  Tears streamed through the blood on Roth’s cheeks. “Did you…?”

  “Kill them? Not really.” When Michael noticed Roth’s body relax, he added, “With the exception of Westly, the coyotes did that for me.”

  The man’s prone body tensed. “Why? What did we do to you?”

  Michael hit PLAY on the DVD remote. “Watch.”

  The home movie began with Eliza in her pretty purple dress, and as it moved forward through the years, he glanced at Roth. His bloodied face contorted in confusion, then with realization as the final still shot of Eliza appeared on the screen.

  “Any of this making any sense, Doctor?”

  “Yes,” he hissed as more tears streaked his face. “I remember you now. And I remember your daughter. She came to us, and we did what she asked.”

  “Right.” Michael nodded. “She asked you and your doctor buddies to scar her body.”

  Wincing when he raised his head, Roth said, “She still looked good enough.”

  Arching a brow, Michael blew out a deep sigh. “Good enough,” he repeated. “There was nothing wrong with her in the first place. Do you agree?” He waved the hunting knife. “And I suggest you tell me the truth.”

  “I…I think the rhinoplasty enhanced her face.”

  “And the other surgeries?”

  Roth glared at him, then glanced away. “No.”

  “No? Interesting.” He set the knife on the workbench. “Personally, I think you’re full of shit and are trying to save your sorry ass. Look at my daughter.” He point
ed to the TV screen. “You know damn well you screwed up her nose when you were trying to enhance her face. You tried to narrow the tip, and removed too much cartilage. Her nose began to collapse, and her nostrils become distorted.”

  “She still didn’t look that bad,” Roth, the arrogant prick, argued. “And I told her I could fix it.”

  “In a year, and for more money,” Michael said with disgust. “You, Elliot, Westly, and Tully are all nothing but a bunch of egotistical blood suckers. You preyed on my daughter, on her money and insecurities, just like you’d preyed on other young women.”

  “That’s not true,” Roth whined. “We were only trying to help women appreciate their faces and bodies.”

  “Is that why you gave Westly a nice bonus each time he sent you a new patient?”

  “A referral fee, that’s all that was, and there’s nothing illegal about it.”

  “No, not illegal, but immoral. I’ve researched some of your clients, the young women who endured the same botched-up surgeries as my daughter. Some of those girls still need psychiatric help, while others had to endure multiple surgeries to fix what you bastards had done to them.”

  “Immoral? Who are you to judge what’s immoral? Look what you’re doing to me, what you’ve done to my colleagues.”

  Roth’s impertinence, over what he and the others had done, and the way he dared to accuse and judge, spiked Michael’s temper. He gripped Roth’s broken nose, and squeezed. “Don’t you dare scream. Don’t even utter another word.”

  The man winced and opened his mouth.

  Michael squeezed harder. “Not a word.”

  Roth nodded, but Michael didn’t release him. Of all the men, he wanted Roth to suffer the most. While the other surgeries had been bad, Roth’s had been the worst. At least Eliza could cover the disfiguring lumps and scars on her body with clothes. But she couldn’t cover her nose.

  And although the botched surgeries could have been fixed eventually, the doctors at Med Spa, specifically the lead doctor, Victor Roth, had expected Eliza to pay for them. She’d seen an attorney, but the contract she signed with the doctors had stated, in much more eloquent and bullshit legal jargon, that basically all sales were final. If only her stupid bitch of a mother had paid better attention to the contract Eliza had signed. Instead, she’d kept her head in the clouds. She’d looked at dollar signs rather than consider her daughter’s health. Sarah had been convinced these surgeries would take Eliza to the necessary level of perfection, and would lead to a multimillion dollar modeling career. Because of Sarah’s selfish stupidity, and Roth and his colleagues’ greed, Eliza was dead.