Black Diamond

by Elisa Marie Hopkins

When they’re about to reach the cell, Sophie asks, “I assume I’ll be going in alone?”

  “Correct,” he confirms. “My men will be standing guard, ready to come to your aid should something happen.”

  “Something? Something like what?”

  “Time is of the essence here,” he says, trying to move things along. “I would advise that you be quick about your business with him. Shall we proceed?” He heads toward the cell door, but Sophie doesn’t follow.

  “Is he expecting me?” Her voice is a low murmur, rising with a trace of fear at the end.

  Number One sighs and places his hands on his hips. “He talks about you often. I’d say he’s not only expecting you, but looking forward to your arrival.”

  The slider door opens, then closes behind her. Nestled inside the prison’s dreary iron walls is a lone maniac doing nothing but silently inhaling and blowing smoke out of the side of his mouth.

  There’s a dead silence.

  His home looks like a sophisticated college dorm. There’s a comfortable bed, TV, couch, desk, and a private bathroom. The walls are white, lit by LED accents. Tiny strips of daylight beam across the room. At the very top, barred windows are not close enough to reach nor big enough for someone to squeeze through.

  Upon seeing her, a lazy smile twists at Bridges’s lips. He takes her all in, blonde head, fingernails painted red, body hugged by a gorgeous black trench coat and matching leather jeans…a sort of femme fatale moving as if she has learned to defy gravity. Everything about her seems…dark. Face of an angel—she’s beautiful. Dressed to kill—she’s frightening. And Bridges knows…he is the target.

  Come and get me. “Hello, Sophie,” he greets smoothly, after taking a drag from his cigarette. His gray sweater, well-worn jeans, and casual oxfords say relaxed. Dirty blond strands of hair fall without care across his forehead, and his face is unshaven. The last time Sophie saw him he was wearing glasses, but not now. He looks like a young Maxwell Caulfield, except Bridges’s eyes are brown. He flicks the cigarette to the floor. “It’s good seeing you. You’re doing well, I hope.”

  “What are you so happy about? You’re in prison.”

  He grins and walks to Sophie, who is trying not to crumble into a pile of bones.

  “First, prisons are for convicts. I’m merely an arrestee. I haven’t been found guilty of anything. Hell, I haven’t even been tried. Second, I’m happy because you figured it out. I knew you would. Though I have to admit I didn’t envision it taking so long. Would you like some water?”

  “I’m good. Figured what out?”

  “How about coffee? A cigarette perhaps? I think I have biscuits.”

  “What do you say we skip the boring bits and get to the point?”

  “Okay, okay,” he puts his hands in the air. “Don’t shoot. I was only trying to be nice. If you’re angry at me, just tell me. Don’t sulk. It’s not good to keep things bottled up inside.”

  “I’m angry.”

  “Anger is an emotion, Sophie, not a state of being. You are not angry. You feel angry. If you call out your feelings for what they are—simple, insignificant feelings—you don’t allow them to take control of you.”

  Her silence forces Bridges to try again. “That mad, huh? I see. Well, have a seat.” He waves at the couch.

  “I’m fine standing,” she says, even though her feet started complaining awhile ago.

  “Have it your way.” He sits on a chair bolted to the floor beside a metal table hung from the wall. “So, how’s it going? You sleeping okay? How are things with Sarah? Is she staying out of trouble?”

  No response. Her arms are crossed and her eyes are everywhere but on him.

  Bridges smirks and asks, “You don’t know where she is, do you?”

  She chuckles and shakes her head because what else are you going to do when someone you hate figures something out about you that’s true? Just play it cool.

  “Oh, come on, Sophie. I’m pointing out the obvious here. I read people like a book for a living.”

  “You murder them too.”

  “Can you prove it?” he dares. She feels intense disgust now. And Bridges can tell. Every time he opens his mouth, Sophie gets angrier. He likes her that way. “I’m innocent, you know.”

  If looks could kill, Bridges would be dead from her glare alone. One shot. Bang. He’s gone. “Why did you escape from jail if you’re innocent? Nothing to hide. Nothing to fear.”

  “I didn’t escape, my dear. I was released. Two guards opened my cell door. Said I had to follow them.”

  There’s only one natural reaction. “Yeah right, and I’m the queen of Sheba. What are you going to tell me next, Bridges? That you’ve never broken God’s sixth commandment? Are you going to tell me you’re just a pawn in all this? Give me a break.”

  “I didn’t peg you for the religious type,” he says, his face full of riddled expression.

  It’s kind of hard to believe in Him when you’re in all kinds of senseless situations. “I’m not.”

  “So, let me get this straight. In your mind, I very expertly dug a hole in my cell’s roof, dumped the contents into the toilet, crawled through the vents, raided the guard barracks, stole some of their clothes, then walked out the front door to freedom?” He shakes his head, three sets of no. “Tsk, tsk, tsk. I’m flattered, but come on now, Sophie. Surely you know better than to believe everything you read in the papers.”

  “I thought we’d established I’m not a believer.”

  “You gotta believe in something.”

  “I believe you’re a real psycho, John.”

  He prefers the term genius. “Look at my hands.” He holds up the back of them to her. They’re long, white, and slender, finely manicured. “Do these look like the hands of a hole digger to you? I’m far too vain.”

  She laughs. “You’re telling me someone made it seem like you dug a hole, but actually just let you go?”

  “I can’t help it if that’s what it looks like.”

  “And who would go through all that trouble to get you out?”

  Bridges looks Sophie head to toe and back and again as he digests the question. “Whoever wanted me out would be the logical answer.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Actually,” he says icily, “it makes perfect sense.”

  “If someone got you out, why’d you turn yourself in?”

  Maybe someday he’ll tell her the truth. He smiles, leaning in toward her. “Nothing to hide. Nothing to fear. Right?”

  “Okay, you just tell yourself whatever makes you feel good,” she says in a flat, tired intonation. “It doesn’t matter. I know the truth.”

  He sighs. “You know how some people claim to see Jesus in a tortilla, Mary in a window pane, a bunny in the clouds?”

  “What?”

  He stands, picks up a book from the bed, and plucks out a photo from inside. He holds it in front of her.

  “What do you see here?”

  “Are you trying to analyze me?”

  “Not at all. I already know who you are. What’s going on in this image?”

  All she sees are black spots scattered on a white background. Or is it the other way around? “I don’t know.”

  “It’s a cat. Do you see it now?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bridges puts the photo away and sits on the chair again.

  “That’s because the rational part of your brain brought up the predictive model of what a cat looks like. In short, what you know influences what you see.”

  “What does this have to do with anything?”

  “Well, our minds always try to find the easiest way to look at things.”

  “You’re telling me I’m looking at it wrong?”

  “I’m telling you many things. The truth is, Sophie, there isn’t any evidence of my involvement with the alleged crimes I’m accused of. It’s all a waste of time.”

  “How about the fact that you tied me up to a chair in some goddamn storage unit and bea
t me up, huh? How about that for evidence?”

  He finds her adorable. “Ah, there it is, that nerve. I was starting to miss it. You have such a fire inside you,” he says with humor in his voice. “You stir desire.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Well, fuck you too.”

  Rage flashes in her eyes. “You kidnapped me!”

  He groans. “Did we not just talk about perception? Let me ask you this, did I enter your apartment, put a gun to your head, and take you away by force?”

  “You held me against my will. That’s kidnapping in the eyes of the law.”

  And then he says with a smile, “Honey, I didn’t kidnap you. I only borrowed you for a little while. There’s a difference.”

  T H I R T E E N

  * * *

  Through the Looking Glass

  SOPHIE BRISTLES WITH fury. “Borrowed? Borrowed?”

  “Unfortunately, you were interfering with my plans. But honest to God, I meant you no harm. The door wasn’t even locked. You could’ve left at any time. It was your choice to stay.”

  She resists a terrible urge to shout. “You said you would kill me if I tried to escape.”

  “Well, people say a lot of things to suit their interests.”

  Quick as that, she starts to doubt, and the worst torment of the mind runs rampant.

  Bridges says, “That’s the thing about fear. It really cripples you from going anywhere even when you know it will be good for you. You’ve got bags under your eyes. Tell me, are you having nightmares, disturbances…panic attacks?”

  “You think this is funny? You think this is a fucking game?”

  “Look around you. This is where I live. It’s no game, I promise you that.”

  “Save your psychobabble for the fools that actually listen to you.”

  “You should start listening to me if you want to know about your sister. That is why you’re here, is it not?”

  She doesn’t argue because he’s right. Can he really read people, or am I that predictable?

  “Don’t look so surprised, Sophie. Seriously, it’s written plain as day across your face. Tell you what, I answer your questions and you answer mine. Deal?”

  “What questions?”

  “Deal?”

  As angry as she is, as much as she despises him, she came here for a reason. “Fine.”

  “What’s that you say?” He puts a hand behind his ear. “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over all this deafening willingness on your part.”

  She rolls her eyes and exhales loudly. “I said fine. Fine.” She orders herself to calm down. “Now start talking. What is wrong with Sarah?”

  He lets out a theatrical breath. “Where should I start? As far as clinical observations go, Sarah has a very particular disorder characterized by thought patterns, delusions, hallucinations of persecution, among other things.”

  “Schizophrenia,” she says in a grave whisper.

  “Yes, of the paranoid type.”

  “And what is that about?”

  “When I started treating her, she experienced several periods where she thought everybody was out to get her. FBI. CIA. Homeland Security. And she was specifically antagonistic toward you, but that you already know.”

  “What else?”

  “I’m afraid I maintain a strict doctor-patient relationship.”

  “No, no, screw that. The relationship has been compromised. You don’t have a patient anymore. Sarah is nowhere to be found.”

  “How do you know that?”

  It’s said with such provocation, Sophie blinks. She looks the man over carefully, because it’s one of those questions that answers itself. She doesn’t know. She can’t possibly know. And that only serves to prove, once again, she’s playing a game of cat and mouse. Bridges is a gamesmen. There is no telling what he’ll say or do.

  Speaking of games… “What about the doll?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The doll, John. The disturbing doll that looks like me. What was its purpose?”

  “Well,” he shifts, crosses his other leg over his knee, “dolls have the power to revive childhood memories. They can help clients with complex traumas heal and increase self-esteem. Because a child’s traumatic events can be destructive, they often upset an individual’s growth and formation. Sarah created seven dolls in art therapy, one of which she called Sister. She’s associated with objects from childhood: pancakes, cartoons, dolls.”

  “Why? Because she didn’t exactly have a childhood?”

  “Precisely. She’s like Peter Pan. Did you know Peter Pan was actually evil in the original fairytale?”

  “What were the other ones?”

  “What other ones?”

  “The other dolls.”

  “Mother, Father, Anna, Self I, Self II, and Self III. Anything else you want to know?”

  “She made dolls of herself?”

  “Sarah is a bright young woman. Most patients make one or two dolls in therapy; three at most, even the worst cases. Sarah created four outer relationships and three representations of herself to communicate with. This capacity for self-reflection, to be able to stand back from her own personality and problems and apply critical understanding to them—it’s not common. It’s quite spectacular.”

  “So she knows she’s sick.”

  “Yes, to some extent. She thinks she can fight it.”

  “Can she?”

  “Not on her own. She needs to be watched. Her symptoms are in remission for the most part. She’s gotten pretty good at knowing in what situation and around who she can ask, ‘did you hear that’ or ‘did you see that.’ She’s able to pick when to comment on her hallucinations. Again, remarkable.”

  Sophie frowns in total confusion.

  “The thing about Sarah, she’s as human and normal looking as they come…just an ordinary person. A monster you can pick from right out of the crowd. It’s the seemingly normal ones you need to watch.”

  “Or maybe she’s not crazy at all. Ever thought about that?”

  The stainless steel door slides open. Number One walks in and says time is up.

  “I’m not done here yet,” Sophie counters.

  “Five minutes. Then I’m coming in, whether you’re done or not.”

  When the door closes, Sophie asks, “Why should I believe any word that comes out of your mouth?”

  Bridges sits still, enchanted by her untamable spirit. He tilts his head to the side, brown eyes full of mystery, and grins with a certainty that gives Sophie goose bumps. “That you ask means you already do. I don’t need to convince you, Sophie. You have intuition and senses. Both have already connected and created a level of acceptance in your mind.”

  “Shit.”

  “What?”

  She believes him. She paces back and forth. Uneasy thoughts strike in her mind. “What exactly am I supposed to do with her now? Take her to the playground? Hug the crazy away?”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “No, that is not what I want!” she raises her voice, indignant.

  “You know, in war you learn to use the enemy’s weapons as your own.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “See, I don’t really follow procedures to the letter,” he reports. “I’m not a conventional therapist. It’s only when I understand people that I can truly help them. I make sense of their world, and they make sense of mine.”

  She scoffs, crossing her arms. “They say shrinks are the craziest ones.”

  “Boo-frickin’-hoo, we’re all mad here,” he replies in an eerily calm voice, hardly surprised by the comment. “I offer empathy and hope, rather than judgment and scorn. In simple terms, I build on Freudian ideas. I do what few would dare have the courage to do. Most are too busy. Or too normal.”

  “Yeah, John, you’re the cat’s meow and all that,” she drawls, wanting to get the conversation over and done with.

  “It’s too easy to go insane in this society…to fuck up. How do you
stay sane? How do you stay grounded?”

  “Screw society.”

  “You need a system. That’s exactly what I provide.”

  God, how can anyone buy this bullshit? Her mind feels dazed.

  He gets up, crosses the tiny jail cell, and stops within a few steps of her. He catches a wispy, fervent scent of citrus fruits and patchouli that seduces his nostrils. “Are you afraid of me?”

  “No.”

  “Then why won’t you look me in the eye?”

  “That’s not fear. That’s revulsion.”

  “So you’re not afraid of me?”

  Maybe not. Maybe yes. She isn’t so sure. “No.”

  “Look at me.”

  She does. “No,” she repeats.

  “Good. Do you think I want to hurt you?”

  “What’s with the third degree?”

  “You said you would answer my questions.”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “I don’t think you want to hurt me.”

  “What do you think I want?”

  “You tell me.”

  “I asked you.”

  “I don’t know!”

  “You’ll figure it out.”

  “Hey, I don’t have all day here. I didn’t come here to solve a mystery. Why don’t you just tell me and we can call it a day?”

  “That’s okay, I’m very patient. I can hang in there with you. It’s your turn. Ask me.”

  “Ask you? Ask you what?”

  “I know you want to ask me. Go ahead, ask me.”

  He is absolutely correct, and Sophie hates him being right about anything. She has a shedload of questions, and not enough time. “Why didn’t you kill me?”

  Bridges has no need to lie now, but he’s going to be economical with the truth. “I may be many things, but a killer is not one of them.”

  “Why didn’t you rape me?”

  “I’m not a rapist. I could’ve been a criminal, but my parents loved me, my sisters loved me. I was a very happy kid…and that protected me.”

  “You gave me drugs. Why?”

  “Because you needed them, darling.”

  “I almost died!”

  “Oh, yes. I found out about your intolerance to opiates. Isn’t it ironic? Painkillers cause you pain instead of relief. It’s like your body wants to keep suffering.”