by Lake, Keri
“You okay, Mrs. Culling?” Carmen approached the bed, eyes wide. “Ay dios mio! Is that blood?”
“I’m okay, Carmen. Please, I’ll be fine.” Though enough splotches marred the sheets to rule out a paper cut, the worst of it was probably inside of me. He’d done it before, much more violently than the night before, so I knew I’d recover within a couple of hours. “Please, I’m okay. I … just started my menstrual cycle.” A lie, and as Carmen cleaned my personal bathroom, I was certain she had a pretty good memory that only less than a week ago, I’d finished my usual cycle.
“Should I call the hospital? Tell them you can’t come in?”
“No!” I didn’t mean for the word to come out quite as forcefully as it did, but I refused to miss the opportunity to leave the shithole for a few hours. The only thing that kept me sane happened to be hanging out with a bunch of broken and battered students—my reward. “No, I’ll be okay. I just … had some residual bleeding.”
“That’s a lot of blood for residual.” Her Hispanic accent almost made the comment laughable, if not for the air of concern behind it, but her gaze remained glued to the patch of blood on the sheet where my ass sat. “I’ll start you a bath … or, I mean a warm shower, how’s that?”
I’d once told Carmen I didn’t particularly care for baths. In truth, I was downright terrified of them.
“And I’ll get these sheets cleaned up for you, quickly.”
“That sounds wonderful, Carmen. Thank you.”
She headed toward the bathroom but paused, midstride. “Miss. You know, I have a friend who was in a really bad situation once.” She’d lowered her tone, putting my oh, shit sensors on high alert, and didn’t bother to turn and look at me. “She hired this guy …”
“Carmen—” I interrupted her for her own safety. “I said, I’m fine.”
She nodded and continued on toward the bathroom.
I once took a psych class in college and struggled with the difference between psychopath and sociopath. To me, any ‘path’ was a path that I avoided in life, but truly, I should’ve paid more attention.
While the rush of water echoed from the bathroom, I glanced up at the camera in the corner of the room.
* * *
Renata, a cousin of Carmen’s, who worked for the same family-owned cleaning agency, fixed the back of my dress, looking over my shoulder as we both stared in the mirror. A single strap of black satin crossed over my breasts to my right shoulder, and clung to my curves in a long, elegant gown, with a band of beads that clipped my small waist. A long slit exposed my thigh, and the strappy heels beneath added a delicate touch. While black gloves hid the scar on my wrist, a cluster of layered pearls at my neck concealed the mark where Michael had gotten carried away with his belt at my throat.
In truth, I hated the fancy dresses and expensive jewelry he made me wear, like his own personal Barbie doll. Having grown up with nothing, it went against my blood to flaunt something so flashy.
“Such a beauty!” Renata turned to a much smaller, meeker woman, who gathered the clothes I’d discarded for the dress. She never spoke. Couldn’t. She had no tongue. “Isn’t she pretty, Elise?” At her question, the woman gave a slight smile and nodded, but quickly returned to gathering up whatever mess she could scrounge in my otherwise meticulous bedroom. Renata smoothed her fingertips over my long, brunette locks that’d been curled at the ends. “What are you, Mrs. Culling? You got some European in your blood, yeah?”
“My father was French, and his mother was also Sicilian.”
“And your mother?”
Instinctively, I rubbed the scar on my forearm and looked down at the tattoo of black cursive over my wrist. A quote by Charlotte Bronte:
I’ve lived the parting hour to see
Of one I would have died to save.
God, the thought of her still stabbed me in the heart. I’d lost her at a time in my life when I probably needed her most. A time when my father had become so stricken with sadness, the mere mention of her name had him hiding away in his garage, his sanctuary, for hours. It’d only been later, in the letter he wrote to me the day I eloped with Michael, that I realized how much pain her death had brought him.
I’d never known anyone like my mother, so full on life, vibrant and free-spirited, it felt warm and right just to be near her. We could hardly survive on my father’s meager income, and yet, I had everything I needed while she was alive.
“Beautiful,” I said. “My mother was beautiful.”
“Well, then, that’s why you’re so gorgeous. Mr. Culling’s jaw is going to drop, when he sees you. Just hope he returns in time!”
“Michael left?” I shot my gaze to hers in the mirror’s reflection. We were due to leave in twenty minutes, for the hospital charity he’d made a point to remind me of that morning. “How do you know, Renata? I thought he was working in his office?”
She shook her head. “Strangest thing. He normally keeps his office locked, but it was wide open when I arrived this afternoon.”
The words were almost blasphemous. Michael never left his office door open. “This afternoon? It’s been unlocked all afternoon?”
“I knocked, like I normally do before going in, and there was no answer.” She slapped a hand to her face. “Oh, my! I hope he isn’t …”
Dead? I tightened my face to keep my eyebrows from winging up into a happy little smile. “Did you go inside?”
“Oh, no. I would never go in unless he gave me the permission. He’s very particular about that.”
“Perhaps …” I cleared my throat and smoothed my hand down the front of my dress. “I should check it out. Make sure he didn’t keel over on me!” I hoped my laughter didn’t come off as fake as it sounded to my own ears.
“That would make me feel a whole lot better. I didn’t even think that something could’ve happened to him!”
We can only hope. As much as I knew I’d be disappointed, the prospect of finding him lying on the floor, some vacant, lifeless expression amidst the blue of his skin that would surely pronounce his death, was exciting? Jesus, had I become just as psycho as the bastard?
“Thank you, Renata, that’ll be all. I’ll check on Michael. I’m certain he’s only stepped away.”
She nodded and smiled. “Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Culling. Again, you look stunning.”
“Gracias,” I added, a little too jubilant for the morbid conversation we’d had two minutes ago.
Once she’d disappeared from the room, I made a beeline for Michael’s office.
Please be dead. Please be dead.
“Shut up!” I whispered, chastising myself.
Why, it’s not like he can hear your thoughts!
“He’d certainly try if he could,” I muttered to myself.
Down the stairs, past the foyer and down another hall, I finally reached Michael’s office. What if he’s in there? I’d think of an excuse. Even snooping around the door of his office was enough to land myself in punishment, and after limping all afternoon, it was a wonder I’d even attempt something so dangerous.
I knocked on the door. Once, twice. At the third knock, I peeked my head inside. Damn, my heart felt like it might beat right the hell out of my chest!
“Michael?” I cringed at the normalcy in my voice, almost a plea, as if I needed him for something all of a sudden. When he didn’t answer, I slipped inside.
The sight of his office spurred an urge to throw up, but I tucked it back. Keep it in check. The shit was monumental and I didn’t intend to screw up the opportunity with a battle of nerves.
As expected, Michael was nowhere to be found. I rounded his desk and opened drawers. For months, I’d been anxious to find something on him—a photograph, a document, a goddamn severed head that might act as indisputable evidence in court. Though, knowing Michael, his connections would probably fabricate some outrageous story, like the headless victim fell on a guillotine, and Michael would be set free.
His desk was something out of a men
tal health magazine for OCD. Everything neatly spaced, stacked. Nothing appeared to be suspicious.
I lifted a document, knocking a flash drive to the floor, and ducked under his desk to retrieve it, setting the papers back in the drawer along the way. Chip in hand, I quickly backed out from under his desk and rose to a stand, gasping at the shadow in the doorway. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck. My stomach could’ve fallen in a heap of bloody organs onto the floor at that very moment, while a blanket of ice slithered through my veins, crushing my chest with panic.
“What are you doing in here?” His voice carried the daunting calm that’d always acted as a red flag.
“Checking on you.” The words tumbled from my mouth in all my stomach churning alarm. “Your door was open.”
“My door is never open.”
It would be futile to argue the point, and I wasn’t interested in getting Renata killed—there’d be no convincing him that it was, in fact, unlocked. My stomach tightened as I dragged my finger across his desk, slipping into a necessary skin, but one I loathed, and came to a stand in front of it. “The truth is, Michael. I can’t stop thinking about last night.” The approach was tricky. I’d made it a point not to express any measure of enjoyment when it came to sex with him. “There’s … something about fucking on your desk. Ruining your perfect papers, with your cum dripping down my back. I like to destroy your important things that way.” I had to stifle the urge to throw up in my mouth. Jesus Christ, the thought of his cum dripping off of me made my skin itch.
The short span of eternity that followed had goose bumps forming on my skin. He’s not buying it. He’s not buying it.
“Perhaps we’ll revisit this conversation later this evening.” I could almost feel his eyes scanning me for any degree of deviation from the truth. “We’ll be late for the charity ball.”
* * *
Detroit Riverside Hospital came into view. A cylindrical structure made of glass, sliced at an angle, extending from the brick building and stood lit with a soft, orangey glow.
“Darling, you look delectable.” With his hand resting on my thigh, Michael sat beside me in the back of the limo.
I didn’t bother to turn and face him. Fighting off the tremors in my hands had consumed me most of the ride, since, less than a half-hour earlier, he’d caught me inside his office. His office. In five years, I’d never ventured inside his office without invitation from him. Michael’s office was off limits and, under normal circumstances, locked down during the day.
The night before was the first time we’d ever fucked in his office, which allowed me the perfect opportunity to cover up the true reason I’d risked my life to venture where I’d been warned never to go. In his hasty and disheveled state, he’d forgotten to lock the door before finishing me off in my bed.
And with what I guessed was important information on that chip, I’d lied to his face, to my very soul, and told him I couldn’t think of anything else but fucking him against his desk again.
It seemed he bought it, but I’d come to know a frightening realization about Michael—what seemed to be rarely ever was.
“Thank you, Michael,” I said in the most robotic voice I could muster. My shoulder flinched at the wisp of breath against my neck, the desperation to push him away drumming at my muscles.
“I look forward to ripping this dress off of you later. Perhaps I’ll make you come all over the executive summary I’ve been working on.”
At that sickening thought, an urgency tugged at me—the same urgency I got on the rare occasions he took me out of the mansion to accompany him to some event.
Escape.
If I were to succeed, I’d be hunted.
If I failed, I’d be killed.
I knew, because it wasn’t the first time I’d given thought to running. I’d actually acted on it, and each time I’d been caught, Michael had upped the punishment. I was confined to my bed for a week the last time, not as punishment, but as a medical recommendation for the wounds I’d suffered. Stupid move. That’s what you get when you don’t have a game plan. Didn’t matter, though. The tight stretch of my dress confining my legs served as a reminder that I wouldn’t get far. The dresses he chose for me were, themselves, a form of shackles.
Michael knew people and would pay a ridiculous amount of money to find me, so that he could kill me properly. He controlled the police department through his self-appointed, bastardly corrupt police chief. Between them, they could cover up my death with such finesse, it’d be like I never existed to begin.
Still, instincts had my stomach clenching, and my hand balled into a fist. If he found out I’d taken the chip, he’d know I rifled through his desk. No one ventured inside of Michael’s office, aside from Renata.
Going back to the mansion meant punishment , the likes of which I’d probably never seen in my life. The charity was my one and only chance—that single moment I’d surely regret not taking advantage of. Who knew when he’d take me out of the mansion’s confines again? He’d probably bury me alive in the cellar for taking that chip. I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity. I would try to escape Michael, no matter how dangerous it might be.
The limo arrived to a stop at the front entrance, where valet approached. I tugged down the hem of my dress, and noticed the frantic bouncing of my knee, the dead cold stiffness of my fingers inside the gloves.
“Relax, it’s just party. I’m right here.” His clammy hand covered mine.
I’d once told him that such affairs made me a nervous wreck, that I hated having to dress up and leave the mansion—a confession that’d secured my ability to accompany him on more occasions.
I mustered a fake smile, every bit of the exchange with him lending no insight into the thoughts running through his head. Did he suspect that I’d betrayed him? Would he take the opportunity later in the evening to investigate what I’d done? If he’d found the chip missing, I couldn’t even say what fate would hold for me, because I’d never so blatantly defied Michael, aside from a few escape attempts. No doubt, it would all end in some grotesque death that would make The Black Dahlia look like a mercy kill. “I’ll be fine.”
I couldn’t go back with him later. I had to find a way out, a means of escape. I didn’t regret stealing the chip—after all, it had to end —but returning to the mansion with him could be the end of me. I’d seen him murder a man as casually as if he’d read the morning paper and tossed it afterward. No conscience. No remorse. I couldn’t live a lifetime fearing that I’d be killed and discarded, though.
“That’s my brave girl.” He gave my thigh a squeeze and trailed his hand up my body, over my breasts, to the back of my neck. “In my sights at all times, is that clear?”
Gaze glued to my folded hands, trembling in my lap, I gave a sharp nod. Fuck you.
7
Nick
I stood outside the dilapidated building that sat about five hundred yards from the brand new hospital. At one time, it’d housed the nursing students, who used the underground tunnels to move back and forth between the buildings.
I slipped the large duffle over my shoulder, pulled my hoodie over my head, and wedged the crowbar beneath the particleboard covering the window. With two sharp yanks, it pulled free. Grit and gravel hit the bottom of my boot as I climbed inside the broken window, and I flipped on the flashlight, cutting a wide circle of light through the dark.
A desk sat off to the right, a wall of mailboxes behind it. A sweep over the garbage and grime caked to the floor revealed a door to the left. I stepped over debris to reach it and with one good heave, it opened, and the distinct squeal of rats echoed from inside. Flights of stairs extended up and down, and I pointed the flashlight over the railing to peer below. A good two flights beneath was where it ended, and I descended the stairs quickly, jumping to round each landing, careful not to hit anything sharp that I couldn’t see in the faint light.
At the bottom of the stairs, an old sign hung above a cracked door, rusted with faded letters that read To The Hos
pital. A kick of the door nearly threw it off its hinges, and I entered the mouth of the murky tunnel.
Upping my pace to a jog, I reached the end of it within minutes and clamped the butt of the flashlight between my teeth as I shrugged the duffle from my shoulder. Based on the blueprints I’d studied, I knew the door ahead of me had been welded shut—sealed tight. From inside the duffle, I pulled the portable plasma cutter and torch with a power pack. After donning a pair of welding gloves and plasma shades, I sliced a nice arc through the thick steel door. Sparks flew as the flame moved quickly over the metal, with little exertion on my part, and in a matter of minutes, I’d outlined a hole big enough to fit through. I kicked my boot through the center of the circle, knocking the loose steel, and climbed inside to about an eighteen-inch gap between the door and a steel cage that housed storage.
The cage butted up to the walls at each end of the alcove, with no other means of entry, except straight through. I directed the torch to the bars, cut away a good two-by-five feet, then slipped the torch back inside the duffle, exchanging it for a snap gun. Inside the cage, I cleared a path to the door exit, shoving aside an anesthesia cart, blood pressure monitors, small isolettes.
Lifting the padlock on the cage door, I snapped three clicks of the snap gun, until it opened, and removed the chain, leaving my bag at the entrance of it. Shrugging out of my coat exposed the logo of the housekeeping company the hospital had contracted, plastered to my shirt.
Thing about new hospitals? New faces weren’t unusual—particularly the temporary contract workers. I’d learned that when I first scoped it out a couple weeks earlier—not a single staff member questioned me in my uniform.
After tossing the discarded clothes into the duffle, I grabbed my computer bag from inside and made another short jog past other storage cages, to a staircase. According to the blueprints, I sat one level below the Trabelsi Cancer Center, where the party was to be hosted in the elaborate Healing Arts Gallery.
