“No. Stick the needle in. You have to find the vein.”
“I’m not a doctor. I don’t know how to do this.”
“Try.”
Trisha’s lyrics swarmed around his pounding head. He tightened his grip and jabbed the needle into Natalie’s flesh. He pulled it out immediately, shocked at what he’d done. Blood escaped from the puncture and followed the curve of her forearm, but it was hardly anything.
Outside the rest of the band joined in—drums, bass, lead guitar—and the music grew louder.
Natalie squeezed her eyes shut, riding out another wave of pain. “Keep trying,” she said. “Find the vein.” She grabbed his tee shirt.
He wanted to please her. She was an emaciated ghost, but he was attracted to her.
“Try again,” she said. “Please.”
He plunged the needle into her arm, but the vein was elusive. He tried again and again. Blood trickled out of every hole he made and smeared the inside of her arm, making it slick and more difficult to hold. He could feel the vein with his finger, but it was a moving target, slipping away each time he thought he had it. There had to be a trick to this, he thought.
Natalie clenched her jaws. He knew he was hurting her, but this was what she wanted. But it was also what he wanted. He had to finish this.
It looked like a vicious animal had been gnawing on her arm. The moving vein was driving him crazy. It was right there, but he just couldn’t stab it. He moved it to the side with his fingers until it wouldn’t go any farther, then positioned the needle on top of it and slowly applied pressure, piercing the skin layer by layer, trying to ignore Natalie’s wincing and Trisha’s singing.
“I think I got it,” he said. This time the vein hadn’t slipped away. It seemed to be caught on the needle.
She nodded. “Keep going.”
He was about to push the plunger when he realized something.
Damn it! he thought. In his panic to find the vein, he’d forgotten to pull out the plunger. There was no air in the cylinder. Shit!
He pulled out the needle, and blood spurted, spattering the back of his hand. It kept coming, pouring out of her. He stared at it as it seeped into the comforter, mesmerized by how quickly it spread.
“Did you do it?” she moaned. The pitiful note in her voice wrenched his heart.
“I’m doing it,” he said, pulling back the plunger. He wiped his bloody hands on the comforter to get a better grip, but again the vein teased him. It took several more jabs before he’d pinned it, but he feared that he might have pierced right through and the air bubbles wouldn’t get into the vein.
She moaned and winced. He was making her suffer. He had to finish this. There was no turning back. This is what she wanted, and he wanted to please her. He wanted to kill her.
He pulled the needle out slightly and tried to angle it along the length of the vein. Hoping that it was in place, he slowly pressed the plunger until it wouldn’t go any farther. He worried that there wasn’t enough air. Should he pull it out and do it again?
She tugged on his shirt. “Did you do it?” Her voice was so faint he could barely hear.
“I did,” he said. “I think I did.”
She pawed him, touching his face, his shoulder, his chest, his groin. Then her arms went limp. She grimaced, gathering her strength, desperate to feel him.
He didn’t know why she was doing this. Was she thanking him? Was she trying to hit him? But every time she raised her arms, they collapsed and fell into his lap. He became aroused, and after a few times he was rock hard.
“When the pain that you feel rolls on like a wheel…” Trisha’s voice was inside his head, like a ghost in a house. The bass and drums were his heartbeat.
He stared at Trisha’s face in the photo, then looked at Natalie, her face still, a stern peace in her expression. He rubbed the bloody comforter between his fingers. She was beautiful. Like an angel. They were beautiful, mother and daughter.
“When the nights are long and deep, and your thoughts won’t let you sleep…”
He loved them. He wanted to make love to them. He ran his hand up and down Natalie’s wounded arm, painting her shoulder with blood as he gazed down at Trisha.
“When you think no one cares, that colts don’t need mares, keep this voice in your heart… I need you.”
Natalie’s eyes were shiny and fixed. He reached out to turn her face toward him. Her head gave no resistance, as light as nothing. His bloody fingers left two wide stripes on her cheek. She was dead, but her blood was still warm. He wanted to make love to her.
Trisha’s voice rose to a crescendo as she went into the chorus. “I need you. I need you. Always and forever, I need you.”
The moment grabbed him and took him somewhere he couldn’t control.
The music swelled. Her voice rose higher and louder, modulating up to the next key. “I NEED YOU. I NEED YOU. ALWAYS AND FOREVER, I NEED YOU.”
He stared at her picture, unconsciously rubbing her mother’s naked body under the flannel nightgown, and suddenly he exploded inside, an orgasm like he’d never felt before shaking him to the core. He groaned and sucked in air, forcing himself to keep his eyes open so he could stare at Trisha in the photograph.
The music encased him, the emotion in her voice paralyzing him. “I NEED YOU! I NEED YOU! ALWAYS AND FOREVER, I NEED YOU!”
He threw his head back and came again, squeezing the soaked comforter in his fist, blood oozing through his knuckles.
The song ended abruptly at the peak of emotion. Then silence. Then applause. Then cheering.
“This is my little girl.”
Lassiter looked down at the stage and saw Michael at the microphone, beaming proudly, his arm around Trisha who had buried her face in his shoulder. “This is Trisha. Isn’t she great?”
Lassiter panted, his breathing ragged. His gaze went back and forth between Trisha in the photo and Trisha on stage.
“Isn’t she great?” her father repeated, stoking the cheering crowd.
“Yes,” Lassiter whispered. “She is great.”
He got to his feet, his legs shaky. He knew he should clean himself up and get out of there before someone caught him. He thought about taking the photo out of the frame and keeping it, but there was no time for that. Besides, Natalie and Trisha were in his head, and he would never let them out. They were his. Forever.
And that’s how it began. Gene Lassiter would go on to kill and kill again, searching for a woman who could thrill him as much as Natalie had. But as hard as he tried to find a Natalie substitute whose finish would give him the same exquisite sensations, no “bleeder” could ever fully satisfy his desire. Trisha, the daughter who resembled Natalie so closely, was the only one who could save him. He had to find her.
Chapter 1
Gene Lassiter, now 39, lifted his sunglasses and checked his watch. I wonder what’s keeping her, he thought. Such a busy woman you are, Ms. Laura Thayer. Always late. You’ll be late for your own funeral.
He stood near the corner of Park and Seventy-First on Manhattan’s Upper East Side in the shade of one of the grand apartment buildings that loomed over the double-wide avenue. He stared at the entrance to 708 Park on the next block, the one with the dark green awning, Ms. Thayer’s building. He’d been waiting for some time, strolling around the neighborhood so as not to look obvious. To his left in the distance he could see the Met Life Building standing over Grand Central Station. He glanced straight ahead down Seventy-First toward Central Park and took in the rows of stately town homes. Some of those structures wouldn’t have looked out of place in Mozart’s Vienna. Or Jack the Ripper’s London.
The air was crisp, the sky clear blue. A long straight multi-colored carpet of tulips in full bloom filled the meridian on Park and stretched as far as he could see in both directions. Yellow ca
bs raced by, even though it was a quiet Sunday. Cabbies used Park like a freeway, competing with one another, jostling for position, and showing no courtesy whatsoever to the private cars.
Lassiter heard the clop-clop-clop of rubber flipflops coming up behind him. Out the corner of his eye, he saw a twenty-something woman—pink sweat pants, gray hoodie, exposed midriff—shuffling by with a black French bulldog on a red leather leash. From the tangled condition of her long blond hair, he guessed that she’d just gotten up even though it was almost noon.
Poor dog, Lassiter thought. Did she make you wait this long for a walk?
The blonde passed by and gave him the briefest of glances. Like most attractive Upper East Side trust-fund babies, she didn’t want any man to think she could possibly be interested in him. Lassiter had dealt with enough rich people to know their ways, and he knew he was hardly a toad. Slender and fit with good posture, clean-shaven, glossy dark brown hair just slightly on the longish side. A men’s wear designer, a client of his, had recently asked him to pose for a fashion shoot, but he’d politely declined, of course. Women often told him he had earnest brown eyes—eyes they could trust—but that’s not what he saw in the mirror. Perceptive brown eyes—that’s what he saw. He looked younger than his age, and in dim light, wearing the right clothing, he could pass for a college kid, and on occasion he had.
As the blonde hurried away, Lassiter couldn’t help but notice the jiggle of her behind and her tramp stamp, the tattoo across her bare lower back—climbing roses on a vine with exaggerated thorns, like glinting daggers. A slight smile came to his lips. Yes, that’s one big difference between the old rich and the young rich. The young were infatuated with ghetto culture. They’d pay anything to look like they’d bought their clothes and jewelry in Harlem… as long as the designer logo was showing.
The little dog lagged behind and stared back at Lassiter.
“Come!” The girl yanked on the leash. She had an annoying nasal voice.
The dog yipped and trotted to catch up with his mistress.
Watching them go, he felt sorry for the little pooch and imagined his heart as being just like that animal. It wanted to go one way, but a leash pulled it in a different direction. It had no choice.
He peered over his glasses and saw a black Mercedes S600 pull up in front of Ms. Thayer’s building. His pulse quickened. Was it her? A wave of fear passed through his gut. He felt the slight sting of tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He didn’t really want to do this, not again, not anymore, but the leash kept tugging him. The sun glinted off the shiny surface of the Mercedes, and a yearning zinged through his groin. It could be Ms. Thayer. But he had to act quickly or he’d miss his chance. Now or never. He didn’t want to, but deep inside he did want to. In truth he was the one pulling the leash.
Lassiter smoothed the lapels of his navy blazer and made sure his tie was centered as he started walking toward her building, stepping off the curb and crossing Seventy-First Street. He focused on his steps. If it wasn’t her, he’d pass right by and forget the whole thing. Or turn down Seventy-First, go around the corner, and set up watch on the corner of Seventieth. It all depended on if it was Ms. Thayer in that car, and if it was, when she got out of it. He had to time it just right.
He slowed down as he got to the opposite curb, ready to change his route the moment anything felt wrong. The chauffeur got out, a lumbering middle-aged Hispanic man in a black suit and cap. He had a fleshy face and big bags under his eyes. Duke Ellington bags. He went around to the rear door by the curb and opened it.
Lassiter moved faster. He took off his sunglasses and put them in his breast pocket. The car windows were darkly tinted, and he couldn’t see who the passenger was. If it was Ms. Thayer, she was taking her sweet time getting out. Lassiter put his glasses back on. He was committed to walking past the building so the chauffer was probably going to see his face. And there had to be a doorman in that building who might also see him. Where was he?
A foot emerged under the edge of the open car door. A woman’s foot in a two-tone navy and buff patent-leather pump, followed by a set of paws. A small short-haired dog scampered onto the curb and stopped when the thin leash grew taut.
Just like my poor little heart, he thought. The shivering dog was a miniature Italian greyhound with a soft gray coat and a white chest. Sophia, Ms. Thayer’s dog.
The lady herself stepped onto the curb, and the sunlight illuminated her lush black hair, a retro shoulder-length flip, and Lassiter’s hesitation evaporated. No second thoughts, no regrets. He was on autopilot. Laura Thayer didn’t look exactly like his dear Natalie, but that was okay. He had a secret home movie that played only in his mind, and it starred his very special fragile flower whom he killed over and over again, improving on his clumsy performance when he was younger. It played in his head, and it played when he was with his Natalie substitutes, his bleeders.
Lassiter slowed his pace. The chauffeur stood on the sidewalk.
“I won’t be needing you till later, Eduardo,” she said to the man. “Come back at six forty-five.”
“Yes, Ms. Thayer.” The chauffeur walked around the car to the driver’s seat.
Slow down, slow down, Lassiter told himself, waiting for Eduardo to get behind the wheel. Once the chauffeur’s head disappeared under the roof of the car, Lassiter took off his sunglasses.
“Ms. Thayer!” he said, feigning surprise.
She turned toward him, about to be annoyed, but then she recognized him.
“Oh, Gene. You startled me.” But she didn’t sound startled at all, her voice a firm, mature alto.
Laura Thayer was in her late forties, but she had a slender figure and a face that appeared just a touch over thirty. Youthful beauty but with a knowing expression that comes only with experience. Her skin was flawless, but only to be expected from the founder and CEO of Juno Cosmetics, a company whose gross revenues would most likely top $1 billion this year. Juno dominated a lucrative market niche based on its lines of concealers, powders, and foundations for older women.
“So good to run into you,” he said, flashing his good-day-sunshine smile.
“You, too,” she said.
He soaked her in—the shiny dark hair, the dark lipstick, the sparkling blue eyes (possibly the result of colored contacts but so what). No, not exactly like Natalie but close enough to excite him.
A warm smile softened her crisp demeanor. His women clients all liked him—some even loved him. But what wasn’t to love? He was their private wealth manager and brought them consistent returns, usually between seven and twelve percent and never less than six, no matter what the market was doing.
“So what are you doing up here?” she asked.
He nodded over his shoulder. “Just coming from church.”
“Oh.” She seemed surprised that he’d be a church goer. It wasn’t that going to church was unacceptable for her type. Except for old money, religion just wasn’t something that factored into their wealth and so it wasn’t discussed. Still, he had picked out a nearby parish, Holy Redeemer, and found out the name of the pastor in case she asked. Thank God for websites.
There was an awkward silence as she looked at him, considered him. He deliberately said nothing. She had to be wondering whether she should invite him up. At least that was his hope. Well, why not? she was probably thinking. He’s my money guy. He’s done right by me. I owe him. Besides, he’s a pleasant fellow, intelligent, unattached—shouldn’t I get to know the man who handles my money?
“Would you care to come up for coffee?” she asked.
“Oh, I don’t want to intrude.”
“Don’t be silly. I wouldn’t have asked.”
“Well… okay, I’d love to.”
“Good. Come in.”
She led the way with nervous little Sophia trotting behind her. The doorman, an older gentl
eman with a thick white mustache, wearing a dark green blazer that matched the awning, opened the brass-framed door. As Lassiter approached, he looked down, frowned deeply, and puffed out his cheeks to distort his face, and not just for the doorman. No doubt there were security cameras in the lobby and elevators.
He followed Ms. Thayer and Sophia into a walnut-paneled elevator. She inserted a key into the control panel and pressed PH, penthouse. He immediately bent down and fussed over the little dog. The doorman would get a good look at only the top of his head, and the camera would see his back.
“So how are you today, Sophia?” he asked the dog.
“You remember her name.” Ms. Thayer seemed surprised.
He continued to scratch the dog’s head. “I love dogs. I remember her from the cocktail party you had here last year.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Do you have a dog?”
The elevator doors closed, and Lassiter stood up, careful to keep his back to the camera on the ceiling. “Oh, yes.” He nodded and smiled fondly as if he were picturing his beloved pet. “A French bulldog. He’s all black.”
“What’s his name?”
He remembered the trust-fund baby’s tattoo. “Thorn,” he said.
“Really? Is he prickly?”
“Oh, no, he’s creampuff. It’s kind of a joke. I thought about naming him Spike, but that seemed like a cliché. Thorn sounded a little classier. And a little Goth.”
“You seem like the last person on earth who’d be into Goth. Is that your after-hours personality?”
“Oh, no, not at all. But when I got Thorn, I was dating someone who had been a Goth in high school. Even had a few tattoos. She was the one who came up with the name.”
“But you’re not with her anymore?”
Lassiter shook his head. “Just wasn’t meant to be, I guess.”
“I wouldn’t think you’d have any problem meeting women. Didn’t some magazine put you on their list of most eligible New York bachelors?”
He rolled his eyes. “And you can imagine the kind of women who sought me out after that.”
Bleeders Page 3
