by E. G. Scott
“I’m between jobs right now, but I do a lot of freelance and volunteer work. I’ve done a little of everything, though. I never really found my true calling, I guess. Some people are just luckier than others when it come to that kind of thing,” she says.
“Volunteer work is wonderful. I need to do more of that myself,” I say, wanting to bolster her. She smiles gratefully.
“Okay, well, let’s get you up on the table.” I pause. “What would you feel comfortable doing today in terms of undressing? As far as giving me access to your skin? I’d love to do some needles in your shoulder . . . We can put towels over any parts of you that you are feeling self-conscious about.”
“I think I’m comfortable enough with you now that I can let you see my body. Fair warning, though: It isn’t pretty.”
“This is a judgment-free zone, I’ve seen all kinds of bodies, and everyone is beautiful. I’ll step out so you can get situated. I’ll be back in a few minutes.” I shut the door behind me.
Once back in the waiting area, I look for my phone and can’t find it. I check my coat pockets and my purse, but it is nowhere. I conclude that it must have fallen out of my coat pocket in the car, and I’m frustrated with myself for not keeping track of it. I don’t have time to worry about it now with Lucy waiting for me. From the treatment room, I hear the sound of paper crinkling and know she has pulled herself onto the table. I triple-check the lock on the front door and put on the chain bolt, which we never use, just to feel doubly safe, especially now, without a phone.
As I pass the closed door to Rachel’s room, I pause and place my hand on the knob. I start to turn it but stop myself. I rest my forehead on the wood and can smell the lavender essential oil in her treatment room. I feel like I will never be ready to walk through this doorway again without feeling destroyed. I say my new mantra silently: Show me a sign that you are still with me. I hover for a moment and accept that she’s gone. I know there will be a million more moments I’ll have to continue that acceptance.
I move to my door, knock lightly, and hear Lucy reply, “Ready.”
When I enter, Lucy’s laid out on the table. She has draped the towel over her chest like a bandeau, and her stomach is exposed. She has the other towel draped over her crotch area, leaving her thighs and legs exposed. Her head is turned away from me and facing the wall. I see what she was self-conscious about, but I would never draw attention to it even if she hadn’t warned me. Everyone’s body tells a story of the things they’ve endured, and unsurprisingly, Lucy’s story tells a lot.
“Did I do the towels the way you wanted them?” She’s facing toward me now, clearly expectant for a reaction to her body.
“You are perfect.” I sanitize my hands and start unwrapping my first packet of needles.
“I’m going to start putting needles in. If any of them hurt or feel weird, just let me know.”
“I’m ready.” She seems relieved that I haven’t run screaming out of the room and smiles at the ceiling as I move around her body swabbing the intended meridian points with alcohol.
I feel comfort in the familiar movements and a small sense of lift from the doldrums of the last couple of weeks. With each needle inserted, I feel the energy releasing in Lucy’s body as she relaxes into the experience, a little bit deeper with each pass.
When I get to Lucy’s legs, I see a series of abrasions around her ankles and up and down her calves. They look to me like animal scratches.
“What happened here? Do you have a cat?” I ask.
She pauses and casts her eyes down to her ankles and feet. “Oh, those. I scratch in my sleep. It is an old habit from childhood. I don’t have any cats; never liked them. I’m definitely a dog person.”
I glance at her fingernails, which are cut extremely short and in their current state wouldn’t be able to do any damage, let alone the scene on her legs, but I don’t push. It would make sense if she trimmed her nails after doing this, but these don’t look like human scratches.
“So, do you also have a patient in the other room?”
“No, actually. Not today. Usually the massage therapist is in that room.” My voice starts to catch.
“Rachel, right? She was very nice. And really funny. She is a character, isn’t she?” Lucy smiles. “She was so generous and offered me a free massage, which I’ll definitely take her up on!”
The flood of emotions and the desire to tell Lucy about Rachel’s death is swift. My eyes well up and I’m glad Lucy’s eyes are shut.
“She is . . . she isn’t here . . . she isn’t working today. She won’t be back . . . for a while,” I stammer as I regain composure before I put the last needle in.
“Oh? I just assumed there was a patient getting needles in that room. When you were setting up earlier, someone was moving around in there.”
A sharp ringing starts in my left ear and a cold sweat breaks out all over my body. “Lucy. What do you mean someone was moving around in there?” Her eyes flutter open and meet mine.
She looks chastised and visibly embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I was totally being a snoop!”
I hold my breath, the information permeating and my pulse quickening. “Sorry.” I realize I’ve been too abrupt. “It’s okay. I’m not mad. Can you just tell me what exactly you heard?” I’m using every effort to remain calm.
“Well. I thought I heard someone moving around, so I put my ear to the door and heard the sound of someone breathing, pretty heavily too.”
SIXTY-SIX
WOLCOTT
“John Lyons, I presume?”
“Yes?” He stands with the front door cracked open, one arm holding the handle while he crosses his stomach with the other. His eyes are narrow as he sizes me up. “Can I help you?”
I flip open my credentials and they go wide, showcasing a set of bloodshot whites. “Detective Wolcott.” He’s visibly alarmed. “Dr. Lyons, do you mind if I come in for a moment?”
“Um,” he hems. “Not really the best time.”
“It’ll just take a few minutes, I assure you.”
He scratches his side absently. “What is this about, anyway?”
I break eye contact, both to put him at ease and to steal a look into the house. “Just wanted to ask a few questions about an acquaintance of yours.”
“And who would that be?”
“Mind if we sit down? I’ve been on my feet all day.”
“Again, not really the—”
“Dr. Lyons, is there something in there you don’t want me to see?”
He stiffens, which causes me to move my hand inside my jacket. I maintain a neutral expression as the adrenaline rises. “I just . . . Okay, here’s the deal,” he says. “I wrapped up surgery earlier, and I smoked a little bud when I got home. There’s some in plain sight on the table in the other room.”
I feel my stomach calm as I slide my hand out of my jacket. “Listen, I couldn’t care less about that. It’s practically legal at this point.”
“Okay,” he says, relaxing. “Maybe I’m a little paranoid.” He opens the door and steps aside to let me in. As he leads me down a hallway, the musky scent tickles my nostrils. We reach the living room, where he motions for me to take a seat on a sofa as he flops into an armchair opposite me. The coffee table in between us is laden with large, pungent buds and a vaporizer. He sees me eyeing the stash. “I’d offer, but . . .”
“Appreciate the hospitality. All set.”
“Right.” He nods. “Who was it you wanted to ask me about, anyway?”
“You’re familiar with a Charlotte Knopfler?” I say.
A grin takes over his face. “Oh, Charlotte. Of course.”
“You recently contacted Ms. Knopfler at her home. May I ask how you came across that information?”
“The hospital I’m at is the same one where Charlotte used to work. I dug up her number from an old d
irectory. I was calling with condolences for a friend that passed away.”
“This friend being Rachel Sherman?” I ask.
“Right.” His eyes drop to the floor.
“And how did you come to be aware of Miss Sherman’s passing?”
“We were, uh . . . Well, I guess it doesn’t really matter now.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Her anonymity.” He seems to weigh the word as it leaves his mouth. “Rachel and I knew each other from Narcotics Anonymous. Another reason why I get nervous about that,” he says, nodding toward the coffee table. “Technically a no-no, but the harder stuff is what gave me problems. Anyway, that’s how I came into Charlotte’s orbit in the first place. I stopped in one day and chatted her up. Caught myself a little crush.”
“Hmm,” I say, and lean forward. “And the name Jack Doyle?” I ask, catching his glance.
His face goes a shade of pink, and he titters self-consciously. “Yeah,” he says. “Look, I was a little embarrassed about going to an acupuncturist. You know, being an oncologist and all. The whole East-West thing. I was just trying to cover my tracks on that one. Honestly, I’m still not sure if I really subscribe to all of it. But Charlotte . . . Well, I’ll be real with you. Half the reason I made the appointment was to get closer to her. That woman really gets my pulse going.”
SIXTY-SEVEN
CHARLOTTE
My heart is pounding so hard I’m sure she can hear it. I put my hands by my sides as I try to calculate what I need to do first. Multiple scenarios blossom in my head. I feel stupid for not checking Rachel’s room.
Do I take Lucy’s needles out and whisk her out of here without explanation? Or tell her there’s a gas leak? Or do I get to my phone to send a text to Dennis? Of course, my fucking phone is in the car. And if Peter is in here, who knows if I will even make it to the door? I can’t leave Lucy alone in here with him. I feel my panicked breathing starting up. I don’t want to freak her out, especially if it is a false alarm. But I can’t put her in danger either.
I take stock. As far as she knows, everything is fine, although her gaze on me is looking more concerned with each passing moment that I don’t say anything.
“Charlotte? Is everything okay?”
I think quickly. “Oh! I completely spaced. That must be the cleaning lady. You startled me for a second, but I was just mixing days up.”
She nods, smiles, and shuts her eyes, unperturbed by my explanation.
“How are you feeling right now?” I keep my voice steady.
“Dreamy.” She looks exactly that. I am vacillating between overreacting and vigilance.
“Are you comfortable? Warm enough?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Terrific. I’m just going to let you sit with these for about twenty minutes. Okay? I’ll be right outside if you need anything at all.”
“Wonderful.” Her breathing is deepening. “I’ll probably fall asleep.” She sighs happily.
I lower the lights as I normally would and slide out the door as calmly and quietly as possible.
My pulse is racing so fast now, I worry I won’t make it to the main door. I am frozen in place, considering what might happen if I open the door and try to get the officers’ attention. If Peter is already inside, will he try to lock me out and hurt Lucy? Going into Rachel’s treatment room to inspect if he’s in there by myself seems tragically dumb. I think about my laptop, and opening it to send an email, until I realize I’ve stupidly left that in the car as well.
Don’t panic. I’m hypersensitive right now. Logically, the sounds that Lucy heard could be any number of things. Maybe people at China Panda moving things out the back entrance, which butts up against the windows of Rachel’s treatment room. Maybe there’s a draft from a cracked window creating movement inside.
I start for the front door, deciding that the only smart option is to get Officers Tedesco’s and Smith’s attention. My hand is on the chain lock when I hear the sound of paper crinkling and a hard thump on the floor, followed by a groan.
“Lucy?” I call, with my hand still on the lock. There is no response. I move back in the direction of the room. “Lucy? I’m coming in, okay?”
I hear her moan, and the sound is coming from much lower in the space than it should be. Like she is on the floor. I try the knob, but the door is locked.
“Lucy, I need you to let me in, okay?” I certainly didn’t flip the lock when I left her. I try the knob again. There is no question.
“Charlotte?” Her voice is strangled. My blood runs cold.
“Yes! Honey, open the door. It’s locked from inside.”
“Charlotte, please help. I’m hurt.”
“I’m trying. What happened? Did you fall off the table?”
She is silent for a full minute and I feel like I’m going to burst from the tension.
“Lucy?”
“I’m not alone in here.” I see a shadow of movement through the bottom of the door and gasp. I back up quickly, lose my balance, and seem to fall end over end as I move to get to the front door backward. To my surprise, I am still vertical as I put my hand back on the chain lock and undo it. I unlock the knob and get a grip around it. I hear the door behind me open and I turn, prepared to come face-to-face with Peter. Finally. I will see him in the flesh after all this time. As I move my body in two directions, one arm moving to pull open the door and the other pivoting to see who is emerging from the room, I feel a sharp sting in the side of my neck.
Everything around me gets fuzzy and dark fast. I can’t see, but I can hear the sound of someone stepping over me and relocking the door and putting the chain in place before I’m grabbed by the ankles and dragged far away from my possible escape.
* * *
I jerk violently back to consciousness, and a hundred bees sting my face and neck simultaneously. There is a throbbing pain in my neck where it feels like I’ve been poked with something sharp. I cry out and attempt to move my eyes without further disrupting my head, to avoid another cluster of shooting pain. As my eyes adjust, I see many small shadows in my near periphery on all sides. It takes me a moment before I realize what I’m looking at. There must be at least thirty needles stuck into my cheeks and forehead, creating a garden of slim metal stems over the landscape of my face.
It takes a few seconds to get my bearings. My surroundings are familiar, but the vantage point is off-kilter. The room is barely lit, and it is hard to see anything beyond a few feet in front of me. What I can see is tinged with a yellow-green hue. The heavy curtains have been pulled closed and there is candlelight licking the walls.
I’m unsure of how long I’ve been out. I can’t crane my neck to see the clock behind me without inviting great pain. As my eyes adjust to the gloom, I realize that I’m faceup on the treatment bed. My arms and legs feel like they are bound, but I don’t seem to have anything around my wrists or ankles. Once I have the thought, I feel the phantom pressure of the handcuffs and shackles from earlier this week.
My chest feels constricted, like I’m under a leaden blanket. There is an upward stabbing sensation with each inhale. I’ve been drugged, as my motor skills are offline and my respiratory system is close behind. Given my increasingly dry mouth and the urge to throw up, I’m guessing it is something highly toxic and fast acting.
“Hello?” I whisper. I know even without a response that I am not alone in the darkness.
“Charlotte.” A familiar husky voice croons from behind me. “Finally.”
“Peter?” I can barely find the air to get his name out. It feels like something is cinched tightly around my neck.
“Hello, darling.” His voice is low and hushed. He sounds different than he did on the phone, but it is undoubtedly him.
I dig deep for the strength and calm to get me through this. Waves of supreme nausea are rising and falling rapidly. There is a
slight tremble in my voice that is impossible to hide. “This isn’t really how I pictured meeting you for the first time.”
He laughs drily. “Oh, Charlotte. You are adorable. But you and I have met plenty of times.”
“What are you talking about?” Each exertion is getting harder.
“You are just so completely self-absorbed. You’ve been in the same room with me more times than you probably realize.”
My mind is reeling. Even though I’m terrified to see his face, his disembodied voice is scarier.
“What are you talking about?”
He laughs. “Not only have we already met, we worked together, closely.”
I’m at a complete loss. I try to think about all the men I’ve worked with and try to place him.
“You were just too self-involved to see how much I’ve changed.”
I can see slight movement in the shadow on the wall to my right. He is still standing behind me but has moved closer. I feel breath on top of my head as he leans closer. My heart palpitates.
“You all did quite a number on me, kiddo. But don’t worry. I’m very resilient.”
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I did. But I never would have intentionally hurt you.” I feel like I’ve been hurled into a whirlpool of dark water and I’m losing the strength to swim against the current.
“Did I ever tell you about my brother?” he asks.
“No,” I murmur.
“Hmm. I guess that’s right. I led you to believe I was an only child like you, didn’t I? I was trying to ramp up the bonding.
“Although, in a way, it wasn’t a lie. I really was an only child after a certain pont. Then an orphan and a ward of the state. My childhood résumé was quite a bit more dire than I divulged in our endless back-and-forths. We talked so much about yours though.” It sounds like he is walking back and forth behind me. Like a caged animal.
I cough weakly.
“Feeling unwell, sweetheart?”