He shook his head and started to say no. Then he saw it. A tattoo, buried beneath thick black hair and just above the victim’s ankle. “Wait. Got it.”
Eden pointed to the markings on the screen. “I see it, too. Letters?”
“Greek actually,” Rachel clarified. “Sigma Alpha Mu.”
“Do you think he was a Sammy?” Eden asked Rachel.
“Makes sense to me.”
“Hold up. A whatty?” They might as well have been speaking Greek at the moment. Hudson had no idea what the hell they were talking about.
Rachel hit a few more keys and the screen changed to a website. “The Sammys, or Sigma Alpha Mus, are a fraternity.”
“Jewish,” Eden added.
“Yes. And according to their main website, currently fifty-four chapters are recognized in universities across the country.”
“Currently,” he echoed. “This guy’s gotta be somewhere in his mid to late forties.”
Rachel switched from the website’s home page to its alumni page. “That’s my guess. So figure this guy was in college twenty plus years ago.”
Eden leaned against the metal table. “Not to sound negative, but without a name or a...body, this isn’t going to help us right now.”
“True. But it’s given us a few leads. The vic is Jewish and had at one time belonged to a fraternity.”
Hudson nodded to the Sammy alumni page on the TV screen. “I’d be interested to know how many alumni in the vic’s age group ended up as plastic surgeons.”
“Plastic surgeons?” Eden repeated.
“Think about it.” He pointed to one of the still shots on the other TV screens. “The guy doing the slicing wasn’t torturing our vic to gain information, but to send a message. He gave him breast implants, then went on about how we’re all being poisoned by airbrushed images.”
“There’s no such thing as perfect, only perception,” Eden quoted the doctor.
“Right.” He moved a finger over the screen. “Look at the operating room. This guy did some serious planning. I doubt our vic will be the last, even if you were to somehow air this DVD or found a way to let him know you’d received it and can’t air it.”
Her knuckles grew white as she grabbed the metal table. “I worried about the same thing, especially when he made the comment about my beauty pageant series.” She looked at him, her green eyes forlorn, distressed. “This is personal, isn’t?”
“It’s revenge.”
“Dun, dun, dun,” Rachel mumbled, and pulled a pencil from behind her ear. “Are we done with the melodramatics? Because I have something else I want to show you.”
“I’m not being melodramatic,” he countered. “I’m being realistic. This is a plain old case of revenge.”
“Just a cut above the rest?” Rachel tapped the pencil eraser against her chin and pursed her lips.
“Smart ass. Do you think you could somehow, preferably legally—”
“Search the Sammy data base for any males who would have graduated twenty to twenty-five years ago with a degree in medicine.”
The corner of Eden’s mouth tilted and the anxiety in her eyes momentarily disappeared. “I think Rachel pretty much has it covered.”
Puffing his cheeks, he looked away.
“He hates when I finish his sentences for him,” Rachel said as she moved back to the computer. “They all do. Which is why I do it. Okay, keep your eyes on screen two.”
The TV didn’t show the man being tortured on the table, or even the doctor with the bucktoothed surgical mask. Instead, Rachel had blown up an image of the back of the operating room. A few strokes to the keyboard and the still shot moved. He watched, then smiled when a clap of thunder, chased by lightening illuminated a small window.
“Did you see that?” Eden asked. “Those were trees, right?”
“Sure did look like it. Rachel, can you replay that?”
She did, this time in slow motion. Sure enough, the split second of lightening revealed trees outside the operating room window.
“We can eliminate some sorta basement torture chamber,” Rachel said. “And I highly doubt this is someplace in the city.”
“He’d want privacy,” Hudson confirmed. “Neighbors nearby wouldn’t do. Not for this guy. So we can likely eliminate the suburbs, too.”
“So he’s out in the country?” Eden suggested.
He shrugged. “Hard to tell. Either way, he’d have to be within driving distance to your townhouse.” When he chanced a glance at her, he noticed the worry in her eyes again and cleared his throat. “I mean—”
“I know what you meant. He’s obviously been at my place, he knows where I live.”
“He’s also been watching you enough to know someone else is, too,” Rachel added, her tone holding a hint of apology. “In a way, that might not be such a bad thing. Maybe this guy isn’t a threat to you, but just looking at you as his media outlet. Why else would he warn you about a potential stalker?”
Hudson had given that possibility a quick thought, too. He’d just as quickly dismissed it, though. In his experience, there was no such thing as a killer with a heart of gold.
“Is there anything else?” he asked Rachel.
“I was able to enlarge some of the equipment’s make, model and even a few serial numbers. After you leave, and after I look for our frat boy, I’ll see what I can find. I’m not hopeful, though. This guy probably bought the equipment secondhand. Paid in cash.”
“What about this?” Eden asked, and pointed to the third screen where vials of medicine sat on a small table. “Were you able to get a name off the drugs he used? If they’re pharmaceutical—”
“I’ve already tried enlarging the vials, but the angle of the image gave me nothing. Hopefully we’ll have a better view next time.”
“Next time,” Eden echoed, then drew in a deep breath and looked away from the TV screens. Fear, despondence and worry hollowed her too thin face. For a strong woman, she appeared breakable. He didn’t like her sudden vulnerability, or the urge to wrap his arms around her and give her comfort. He’d already screwed up once today. Revealing that he’d needed “car therapy” to overcome their break-up had been a mistake. Offering physical comfort would be catastrophic. In a matter of twelve hours, old wounds had been reopened and old feelings had emerged. Or maybe they’d never gone away in the first place. Whatever the case, he had to keep his focus sharp.
Another DVD would be coming their way.
*
Using the side rail remote, Dorothy Long raised the bed for a better view of the old, thirty-six inch Sony TV. The channel guide promised a marathon of Mama’s Family reruns on TV Land today and she’d intended to watch every episode. She loved the show, and how Vicky Lawrence played the character of Thelma “Mama” Crowley Harper. All that sass and the way she’d run the family reminded Dorothy of herself. Not that she had much of a family anymore, but she still had Pudge.
Where the hell was that child anyway?
Lowering the volume, she shifted her head toward Pudge’s room. Half past ten, she needed her pills, her colostomy bag changed and her bed sores treated. She also needed her breakfast. Lord she was starving. That frozen pizza Pudge had baked last night hadn’t even come close to satisfying her. But Pudge had disappeared into the bedroom before she’d had the chance to ask for anything else to eat. And when she’d called out, she’d been ignored. She should punish the ungrateful shit for that one. What if there had been an emergency? What then?
With disgust, she set the remote on the bed tray. Lately, her sweet child had been acting like a spoiled, ungrateful brat. Pudge needed to learn a lesson. If she could climb out of this bed she’d wallop Pudge’s ass so goddamn hard the ingrate wouldn’t be able to sit for a week. Yes. That’s what was needed around here. A good old-fashioned reminder about respect.
But the bed had become her self-imposed asylum. Her legs could no longer hold her body weight. Hell, she’d become so blessedly huge she couldn’t even wipe her o
wn ass anymore. Roles had been reversed.
Aside from Pudge’s strange mood swings, Dorothy loved how life had turned out for her. She ate, slept and watched TV whenever she wanted, as much as she wanted, without having to answer to a pig bastard of a husband who’d expected nothing but perfection. She’d shown Rick, though. If only he wasn’t dead—at least for just a couple of minutes—she’d love for him to gaze upon his wife now.
“Fuck you and a dress size number 2,” Dorothy sang to her dead husband, then reached for the remote. She’d blast Pudge’s ass out of bed. When the volume had been raised to the point Dorothy worried she’d blow the old TV’s speakers, Pudge finally opened the bedroom door.
Dorothy hit the MUTE button, drowning out a commercial for feminine hygiene. “There you are. I’ve been waiting on you all morning. I’m hungry. But I need you to change my bag and the gauze on my sores first.”
Instead of answering, Pudge went to the kitchen.
“Son of a...” Dorothy muttered, then reached for the remote again. She thought about giving the room another sound blast as a way of showing her irritation, but lowered the volume instead. Why ruin the TV? Besides, she thought she heard Pudge rummaging around the fridge.
Minutes later, Pudge pushed through the kitchen door and stood at the threshold holding a glass of orange juice. Anticipating the sugary sweet burst of flavor on her tongue and how delicious bacon and eggs would taste with the cold juice, Dorothy licked her lips. “I’ll have my eggs scrambled, today. Four should do it, along with three pieces of toast and six slices of bacon.” When Pudge didn’t move, she motioned impatiently toward the bed tray. “Come on now. Gimme the juice before it turns warm, then get to work on my breakfast. I’m so damn hungry, changing the bag and gauze can wait.”
Pudge moved into the shadows of what had once been the dining room. Years ago, the room had been used for parties and holiday celebrations, but now served as storage space for medical supplies and food. Not that Dorothy cared. She’d hated all that celebrating and holiday nonsense. The extra work, the extra mouths to feed...the extra beatings.
Her left eye twitched—an infuriating reflex she hadn’t been able to shake over the past fourteen years. Not when the memories tried to settle in and take over like they were now. Not even when she knew, personally, that Rick was dead and buried. All over the place.
“Bring me my goddamn juice,” she demanded while rubbing her eye with the back of her hand, and at the same time rubbing the old phantom bruises from her face. There had been so many. Cuts, broken bones, black and blue marks. She raised both hands and no longer rubbed, but scrubbed. She scrubbed the memories, the filthy images, the face of the man she’d once called husband. Breathing hard, her cheeks overflowed into her palms reminding her that she wasn’t his skinny punching bag anymore.
Rick rested in pieces, while she remained alive. Living the way she wanted, the way she’d chosen.
“You shouldn’t talk to me that way,” Pudge said in a tone so quiet and menacing Dorothy dropped her hands and stared across the room. Fear caused by the memories of her dead husband had nothing to do with the tremors of dread rippling through her body and lodging in her gut. The midmorning sun shone through a small slit in the ripped dining room curtain. The thin stream of light played with the features on Pudge’s face.
For a moment, her once adorable child resembled the monster Dorothy had married and buried. Pudge’s normally bright blue eyes had darkened to black, the whites surrounding were yellowed and bloodshot. Deep scowl lines around the mouth bracketed lips too thin. Smudges under the eyes gave Pudge’s face a hollow, gaunt look of emaciation. But it was in the smile where Dorothy’s fears festered. Pudge wore a grin similar to Rick’s when he’d been ready to mete out punishment. Deviant, malicious, hateful.
“What’s the matter, Dot?” Pudge asked and moved toward the living room. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
A cold prickle of unease raced along her skin. Rick had called her Dot before he’d beaten or raped her. Hearing the name from Pudge’s mouth sickened and frightened her. What if Pudge became a cruel sadist like Rick? Finding pleasure in abuse and suffering. Unsure if drugs played any role in Pudge’s change, Dorothy decided to tow a fine line. And although afraid, she shrugged. “Just thirsty is all, honey. Tired, too.” She shifted and gripped the bedrail. “Didn’t sleep well on account of heartburn and these bedsores.” Holding tight to the rail, she used her upper body strength to attempt a slight roll hoping to emphasize her pain and elicit sympathy.
“Maybe if you weren’t so fucking fat you wouldn’t have them.”
“Pudge,” Dorothy said on a gasp and with genuine hurt. Of all people, Pudge had always understood the weight gain. “How could you say something like that to me? Besides, you know I have thyroid issues and—”
“People with thyroid problems don’t blow up to six hundred pounds. No. Your issue isn’t medical. It’s called gluttony. You eat more food in one day than a normal person would eat in a week.”
“You make me sound like a—”
“Pig? Just calling it like I see it.”
The glint in Pudge’s eyes resembled Rick’s menacing glare. Uncannily so. And just like her dead husband who had held power over her all those years ago, Dorothy realized that by allowing herself to become morbidly obese, unable to walk and tend to her own needs, she’d given Pudge power over her, too. With that realization, her fear morphed to utter dread. What if Pudge forced her into a nursing home? No more frozen pizzas or Happy Jax burgers and fries. The doctors would limit her food intake not to mention the amount of TV she watched. Hell, did nursing homes even have cable?
Then she remembered the nurse who visited every other week. She also remembered her will and her life insurance. Pudge might scare her lately and hold some control over her, but Dorothy knew who really held the cards. And it was time Pudge had a healthy reminder.
Releasing the bedrail, she rolled flat on her back. “A pig, huh? Is that what you think of your mother? After all that I’ve done for you? After all that I’ve saved you from. I might be fat, but so are my benefits. You’ll receive what? Over four hundred grand when I’m dead? Unless...”
A small smirk played at Pudge’s mouth. But it was the eyes Dorothy couldn’t look away from. Defiant, dark, unearthly. “Are you threatening me, Mama?”
“Do I need to?”
Body rigid, face expressionless, Pudge’s eyes became deadpan, blank.
Minutes passed.
The laugh track from Mama’s Family sounded off in the background. A car’s engine revved somewhere down the street.
And Pudge hadn’t blinked let alone answered or moved.
Swallowing hard, Dorothy held out a shaky hand. “Pudge? Honey, you okay? You’re scaring me.”
When she received no response, she slapped both hands together and screamed as loud as she could.
Pudge jumped. The juice glass shattered on the floor. Pudge looked to the mess, then to Dorothy. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m such a klutz. I’ll get you another glass of juice. Then we’ll take care of your bag and gauze. How did you say you wanted your eggs?”
Confused, Dorothy continued to stare at her child. The dark defiance in Pudge’s gaze had disappeared. Eyes that had seemed unearthly moments ago now sparkled blue. The resemblance to Rick had also vanished.
But for Dorothy, the fear remained.
Something was wrong with her Pudge.
Chapter 5
HUDSON KEPT PACE with Eden as she led him through the corridors of WBDJ-TV’s offices.
“Hurry,” she said and grabbed his arm. “I need to find David.”
“Who?”
“My cameraman. I want to catch him before he goes to lunch.”
Hudson’s stomach grumbled, a reminder he hadn’t eaten since yesterday evening. When he’d raided Eden’s fridge and cabinets this morning, he’d come up empty. Brown, squishy bananas, yogurt and protein bars did not constitute food in his opinion. “Lunch is
n’t a bad idea,” he said, hoping she’d take the hint.
“No time. I need to finish this last segment for the Sunday evening news. And I hate having to rush or be crunched for time.” She stopped and asked a security guard if he’d seen the cameraman. The guard pointed to the left and she took off again. “Besides,” she began, “I thought you wanted to review my beauty pageant series that’s been airing over the past few weeks.”
He did, but while eating a Big Mac and fries. Before he could respond, though, she stopped dead.
“Oh good, you’re still here,” she said to the large Asian man approaching them. Wearing a long, leather duster, boots, flannel shirt and carrying a cowboy hat, he looked as if he’d stepped off the set of an old spaghetti western film.
“And a good afternoon to you too,” the man replied with a thick Southern drawl.
Hudson suppressed a smile. He’d met all sorts of people in his life. An Asian man dressed as a cowboy, and sporting a deep, baritone twang that rivaled Johnny Cash’s, was a first.
“Sorry,” Eden said, then looked to the ceiling. “Hello, David. How are you today?”
“Fine, ma’am.” David smiled. “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?”
She turned to Hudson. “David’s been trying to turn me into a Southern Belle.”
“Just ‘cause you were born a Yankee doesn’t mean you hafta act like one,” David responded and offered Hudson his hand. “David Ito. Cameraman extraordinaire and Eden’s personal lackey.”
“Professional consultant,” she corrected. “This is Hudson Patterson.”
“Nice to meetcha,” David said, then turned to Eden. “Now, why are you so happy to see me?”
“I was hoping you’d work with me on the last segment for my series.”
“You don’t need me. You’re better off with Rusty.”
“No. I mean, Rusty is good, but you’ve been with me on every interview and had taken every shot. It’s your opinion I need. You’re the reason this series has been so successful.”
David looked at him and shook his head. “Does she get all sweet and lay on the sugar when she wants something from you, too?”
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