Dark Screams, Volume 9

by Dark Screams- Volume 9 (retail) (epub)

  The bathroom had a door for the toilet area, but the sink was accessible through the archway. As I stepped through it, the first thing I noticed was Margot’s nude, perfectly shaped figure from behind. The backs of her legs were still pink with a crisscross of welts from where she’d had me whip her.

  When I say perfectly shaped figure, that’s exactly what I mean, emphasis on the word shaped. She had the kind of designer body you see often if you live in L.A. for any length of time, sculpted through plastic surgery. It was striking, and it conformed to what the media promotes as “perfect.” And yet there was something preposterous about it, as if it had been forced to comply with the anatomical proportions of a cartoon character: breasts that defied gravity, a tummy unrealistically taut for her age, and a butt that looked as if it had been carved from granite.

  Margot didn’t notice me right away. The steam from the sink had fogged up the mirror and her hands obscured her face as she bent over to wash it. As I looked closer, I saw that one of her hands was somehow underneath her skin. She was cleaning underneath what appeared to be a pliable mask of some kind, as if it were made of artificial flesh.

  I gasped, suddenly terrified. She heard me and spun around angrily. “What are you doing?” she screamed.

  My intrusion had distracted her. She hadn’t properly reattached her face. The left side folded over like the peeled-back skin of an overripe piece of fruit. Underneath, I could see a layer of tight, shiny skin that resembled the grafts on burn victims.

  “Oh, God…” was all I could manage.

  “Get out!” she yelled, storming toward me. “Get the fuck out!”

  She ran at me, shoving me backward, not an easy thing to do given my size, which was still considerable despite my having lost weight in the years since leaving Copper Creek.

  Something in me snapped.

  This woman had stolen my Emma’s face. I grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. “Who the hell are you…What are you?”

  The violent shaking loosened her face even more, and I watched in revulsion as her features collapsed inward. The façade of Emma’s face completely detached, sliding down to reveal the true horror underneath.

  —

  Margot Walker was a mockery of Emma and a violation of her memory. And the more I learned about her deceit, the more my anger toward her grew. Margot Walker wasn’t even her real name. She’d been born Sue Mueller.

  The handcuffs she’d used on me earlier in the evening had come in handy. It was the only way I was able to restrain her. We sat facing each other in two chairs I’d positioned together in the master suite.

  I had a hard time looking at her. Without the mask, she was a monster without expression; a blank countenance incapable of exhibiting any emotion. There was no nose, only a nasal cavity, and there were narrow slits where her ears should have been. Her mouth had no lips, so her teeth were exposed like a skull’s.

  From the forehead to the chin and all the way across was an extensive web of alternating ridges and polished scars. It looked as if her features had been whittled down to better accept the shape of Emma’s face, like they do to teeth before capping them with those perfect porcelain veneers.

  At first she refused to tell me anything. But when I took photos of her with my phone and swore to expose her secret, she began to talk. I would have done much worse to her if she hadn’t. And I think she sensed that.

  According to her, she was born with an unlucky roll of the genetic dice. Not grotesque necessarily, but no one had ever accused her of being attractive, either. Her father had done quite well for himself as the CEO of a high-end furniture chain, and when he and his wife died in a tragic car accident, Sue became the sole heir to a significant fortune.

  She had only wanted two things in life: to collect art and to be beautiful. Suddenly, she could afford both. But she wanted more than a nose job or lip fillers—she wanted a total transformation. She wouldn’t be satisfied with anything less than being a raving beauty.

  Her quest brought her to Dr. Seth Holland, the revolutionary plastic surgeon and founder of the Fresh Start Institute.

  Even I had heard of Dr. Holland, the most overexposed celebrity doctor in history. He’d first made headlines around the world for his groundbreaking work in biosurgery, restoring the faces of accident victims or those born with deformities.

  He was later accused of selling out when he launched the Fresh Start Institute, where consumers could create their own designer faces and bodies. He was the first to commercialize tissue engineering, or what the medical community called “regenerative medicine.”

  Most important, he was the son of a bitch who had transplanted Emma’s face onto Sue Mueller.

  When the full implications of this hit me, it took every ounce of self-restraint not to end her miserable life right there. But I wasn’t done with her yet. I needed to know what happened to Emma.

  The featureless woman was terrified to tell me any more for fear of what I would do to her. When shouting lost its effect, I lost control and backhanded her. She toppled backward onto the stone floor.

  “Tell me what happened to Emma, Goddamn it!” I yelled. “Or I swear to God I’ll make your face look even worse than it does now.”

  She was crying, but her face was disturbingly immobile. “I never meant to hurt anyone,” she said, choking up. “I just…wanted to be beautiful.”

  I yanked her up from the floor and shoved her back on the chair. “Tell me!”

  It took some time for her to regain her composure and talk coherently. But I got her to confess that she and Emma were part of a group that the media dubbed “first-generation” Fresh Start clients. This referred to anyone who had had procedures done at the institute during their first couple years of operation. Eventually, a significant percentage of that group developed serious side effects and filed a class-action lawsuit against Dr. Holland, which at the time nearly destroyed his empire. Sue had chosen not to take part in the lawsuit, though she wasn’t sure about Emma.

  What Holland and his scientific team couldn’t have foreseen was the emergence of a particularly destructive yet slowly gestating virus borne from the merging of flesh and bioartificial materials grown in a lab.

  Many first-generation clients became infected with the virus, which ravaged the tissues of the victims’ faces. Progression could be stopped with drugs, but there was no permanent cure, only management of the virus. A tragic consequence was that the virus also made the infected person medically unsuitable for a replacement transplant.

  Sue was one of the infected.

  In response to this tragedy, Holland’s team developed fully functional bio-masks for the victims using second-generation technology. The masks could be worn over the damaged tissue but not permanently attached. This is why Sue had to clean beneath it daily.

  Not every victim survived the virus, and many who did took their own lives.

  Fortunately for me, the virus wasn’t contagious.

  Still, the burning question remained: How did Emma become involved?

  On this, Sue could only speculate. It was common knowledge that Holland had recruiters on the payroll that scouted beautiful people. The institute was known to pay exorbitant amounts of money for the use of their likenesses. It wasn’t hard to imagine Emma, desperate for money, seeing a way to become wealthy overnight.

  The pieces were starting to come together, but I felt sick to my stomach thinking about it.

  I stared at the pathetic thing before me. “Why did you act like you didn’t know her? Why bring me here? What’s your game?”

  Her eyes were cast downward. Perhaps ashamed, though it was impossible to tell with her face. “It was the way you looked at me. I’ve wanted someone to look at me like that my entire life.”

  I was shaking at this point. “You stole Emma’s face…you even stole how I looked at her. Everything you are is based on a fucking lie!”

  It was all too much. A combination of lack of sleep, overdrinking,
and emotional turmoil sent me racing for the toilet to vomit. And in that brief moment of distraction, Sue made her move.

  As soon as I heard her knock over the chair I gave chase, but she was too far ahead to catch.

  She didn’t make it down the stairs.

  Hands still cuffed behind her back, she lost her balance and fell. I watched as she tumbled to her death on the spiral staircase, twisting her neck into a hideous and unnatural angle. She was lying on the floor chest down, but her featureless face stared up at me with a skull-like grin.

  I stood there for several moments, stunned. I wish I could say I had some sympathy for her. I didn’t. She may not have been directly involved in Emma’s disappearance, but she was a part of it.

  I suppose I could have called the police and explained that “Margot” had been drinking and simply lost her footing. The surplus of sex paraphernalia in her closet would certainly explain the welts and bruises.

  But no matter how I spun it in my mind that night, I came up looking like her murderer.

  Any early birds in the neighborhood would start heading for work soon, and I couldn’t be seen leaving the house. So I got dressed and wiped down any areas I remembered touching. I found dishwashing gloves under the kitchen sink (most likely the housekeeper’s) and wore them throughout the cleanup process.

  I knew my DNA was all over the sheets, so I stripped the bed and replaced them with fresh ones. I tightly folded up the dirty ones and rolled them up in my jacket.

  The most difficult part of the cleanup was reattaching Emma’s face to Sue Mueller’s head. It had a tacky surface on the inside, and it took me several tries to align it correctly. However, it formed a perfect seal once affixed properly. As horrible as it sounds, I was tempted to take Emma’s face with me. At least I would have a part of her forever.

  Logic prevailed and I didn’t.

  Last, I removed the handcuffs Sue was wearing, dumped red wine on the stairs, and left an empty glass near her body. I knew if there were a toxicology test, it would show that she had a considerable amount of alcohol in her system. My hope was that it would appear she tripped down the stairs while drinking. It wasn’t a foolproof plan by any means, but it was the best I could do under duress.

  I had parked down the street. This was bad and good. On the one hand, the farther I had to walk, the greater my chances of being spotted. On the other hand, my car was never in the driveway, so most likely it wouldn’t be remembered by any neighbors.

  I left the house via one of the side doors, went through the backyard, and slipped into the alley behind. As far as I could tell, no one saw me get into my car and drive away.

  —

  It was time for a face-to-face with Dr. Seth Holland.

  It is frighteningly easy these days to find personal information on the Internet. A quick search and his info popped up on umpteen “peoplefinder” websites. For a small fee they gave up his name, date of birth, marital status, gender, and phone number.

  Most people don’t know these websites even exist, much less take on the arduous task of removing their information from each and every one. Fortunately for me, Holland was one of those people. Not surprisingly, he lived in an oceanfront property in the affluent city of Malibu.

  I checked the schedule of appearances on his website to make sure he wasn’t on the road when I visited his home. I took a week off from work to stake out his property and get a sense of his schedule.

  I first checked to make sure he didn’t have dogs; it was a relief to learn that he didn’t. That could have gotten messy. And I like dogs. Holland was divorced and both of his adult kids had flown the coop, so he was living alone, as far as I could tell. The biggest hurdle I faced was the security gate. So I parked a few miles away and hid in the thick shrubbery that bordered his home.

  He pulled up to the security gate at 10:37 p.m. on a Wednesday evening. I rushed his car from the bushes and smashed in the passenger-side window with a hammer (I wasn’t taking any chances on a locked door).

  Holland was understandably terrified, suddenly faced with a large man wearing a ski mask and holding an eight-inch hunting knife to his throat. He didn’t try to resist. I climbed in next to him and he drove us through the private gate and onto the massive property.

  —

  Holland was a doughy man with coiffed hair and a fake tan. He offered me money, but I made it clear that I wasn’t there to rob him. I wanted information and he was going to give it to me, or we were going to have a serious problem.

  I tied his hands behind his back with a necktie I’d brought with me. I figured the soft material would be less likely to leave marks on his wrists. We sat in two chairs I’d set up in his posh living room, much like when I interrogated Sue Mueller. It seemed ironic that the backdrop was a breathtaking view of his massive backyard, and the Pacific Ocean beyond, which could be seen through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

  He lived on a private beach, so I knew we wouldn’t be disturbed.

  Holland was far more terrified than Sue had been. I suppose an armed man in a ski mask invading your home will do that. I had brought several pictures of Emma with me and I spread them out on the coffee table next to us.

  “Tell me about her,” I said. “And believe me…I’ll know if you’re lying.”

  Holland leaned forward, studying the photos. “Well…these are old pictures. But yes, of course I remember her. Emma Grace, the most symmetrical natural beauty I’ve ever seen. A classic golden ratio.”

  He meant the math term that describes a ratio, often found in art, architecture, and even nature. I learned it during my design training; it’s supposed to mathematically explain why some shapes are more pleasing to the eye than others.

  Holland continued. “She was one of the first donors we scouted.”

  “What do you mean by ‘donor’?” I said, fighting to stay in control.

  He swallowed nervously. “Paid donors, of course. We gave enormous payouts for exclusive rights to people’s likenesses. Our clientele pays a fortune for that kind of natural beauty.”

  “Why did you need her face?” I demanded. “I thought you just printed them out on those high-tech 3-D printers.”

  “Not back then,” he said. “Our beautification processes were still somewhat crude. First-generation facial transplants required us to surgically remove the donor’s face. You can understand why we paid a premium.”

  I slammed my fist down onto the table. “But why?” I demanded. “Why would anyone give up their face?”

  “She…She meant a lot to you…” he said. “I can see that. I’m sorry.” I suppose he hoped to calm me down, but I only grew more enraged.

  I grabbed him by his shiny designer shirt and pulled him toward me. “Why did she do it?”

  “I…I can’t say…Everyone has different reasons,” he said. “I do remember that she had an unusual request. She wanted a replacement face that was quite average, chose one from our frozen cadavers, if I remember correctly. We used to store hundreds of them. Now we just grow what we need.”

  I released him and he slumped back in the chair with a relieved sigh.

  “What happened to Emma?” I said, unsure if I was prepared for the answer.

  He shrugged. “I don’t remember much. It was a lifetime ago. You know how many people I’ve worked on over the years?”

  “I don’t give a shit about other people, Holland. You better damn well try to remember.”

  He took a long moment before he spoke. I suspect he was trying to jog his memory, think of a way out of the situation, or prepare himself for my reaction.

  Finally, he said, “If I recall, she seemed happy with the results. She wanted an average face, so I assume she wanted anonymity. Many of our clients change their names and start their lives over. That’s why we call it Fresh Start. I believe she changed her name, too, but I don’t recall what it was. I only remember her as Emma.”

  I stared him down.

  “Listen, you have to believe me. She see
med happy. We paid her an enormous sum and she lived comfortably for several years. Unfortunately, she contracted the virus that affected so many of that first group.”

  He closed his eyes wearily and shook his head. “We tried. I swear to you. We did everything we could. But we couldn’t save her.”

  I felt tears spilling from my eyes.

  It took about an hour to kill him. First, I forced him to drink an entire bottle of wine at knifepoint. Then I made him change into swimming trunks. After that it was fairly easy to drown him in the large hot tub outside, especially with his hands tied behind his back.

  The first time I killed someone, I carried an enormous amount of shame. Thoughts of Emma’s father haunted me for years. I tried to assuage my guilt by contributing to multiple sclerosis events like the one where I met Sue Mueller.

  But after watching her and Holland die, I no longer felt guilty.

  I felt empty.

  —

  I was a nervous wreck for weeks.

  I expected the police to show up at any moment and arrest me. I spent countless hours trying to come up with a convincing narrative if they ever discovered I’d spent the night with Margot Walker.

  Holland’s death was also on my mind, but I was less worried about that. I’d done a good job making sure I didn’t leave any forensic evidence behind.

  Both deaths made the news, of course. And while Margot’s beauty made for good press, the exposure on Holland was off the charts. Fortunately, he was known to be a heavy drinker, so an accidental drowning in the hot tub didn’t raise a red flag. The newspapers said no foul play was suspected.

  Police were still investigating Margot Walker’s death the last time I checked. Her transplantee status was never revealed to the media, though. And the police never contacted me, either. I think that leaving separately from her at the charity event is what saved me from notice or suspicion. I was one of hundreds of people in attendance that night.