by T. E. Woods
“What did she do for a living?”
“I don’t know.” Savannah smile lacked any trace of humor. “My mother placed me in foster care when I was about two. I’m told she visited me once when I was six.” Savannah focused a stare on Lydia. “You see, something terrible happened to me at one of the foster homes.”
Lydia’s throat tightened. “You want to talk about it?”
Savannah kept her eyes riveted on Lydia. “Another foster kid stopped it. A teenaged girl, skinny as a rail but stronger than anyone I ever met before or since. I think that foster father was doing the same thing to her.”
Lydia felt her tongue go dry and reached for a sip of water. “I’m sorry that happened to you, Savannah.”
“My protector saved me.” Savannah’s smile was soft and genuine. “I never forgot her.” Her voice turned to a whispered vow. “And I never will.”
Lydia nodded. “And that was when you were reunited with your mother?”
Savannah stiffened her backbone. “Briefly. She came for a meeting with the social services people. Demanded they find me a better place. I think she patted my head as she left. I didn’t see her again until I was fourteen. She took us to Texas and we were together for two whole weeks before she drove me to a hotel in downtown Galveston. Told me to wait in the lobby. Said she had to go to work and a nice man was going to pick me up. I was to do whatever he said.”
“What did you make of that?” Lydia hoped she’d hear an ending other than the one she imagined.
“I thought it was kind of strange given that she’d never gone to work before and we didn’t live in Galveston.” Savannah rubbed a hand across her porcelain forehead. “A man came and pick me up, though. And I did whatever he said.” More tears dropped to her lap. “When he was finished he gave me five dollars and told me I should be in school.”
“Was that your first sexual experience, Savannah?” Lydia kept her voice steady and soft.”Beyond the rape when you were six?”
Savannah turned to Lydia. Two blue lasers beamed from a flawless face. “I’d been in the foster system for twelve years, Dr. Corriger. Nine different homes. No, it wasn’t my first sexual experience. Just the first time I got paid.”
“And your mother?” Lydia knew better than to react to Savannah’s shame.
“She kept the business going. I was her merchandise and she was a good little sales clerk.” The emotion so visible on Savannah’s face turned from shame to anger. “About a month into it a customer asked me how old I was. I told him. He showed me a badge, and I was back in foster.”
“And your mother?” Lydia hoped the repetition would help soothe Savannah.
“Never heard from her again.” Savannah bounced her right leg.
“You deserved better.” Lydia handed her a fresh box of tissues.
“Don’t pity me, Dr. Corriger. That’s not why I’m here.” Savannah’s voice grew stronger. “My mother’s shenanigans earned me special attention from the authorities. The next four years in the state’s care were okay. Nobody touched me. I was safe from then on.”
Lydia let the weight of the revelation hang for several moments. “From then on is a long time. You would have graduated from the system when you were eighteen. That’s nearly ten years ago. What’s life been like since then?”
Savannah struck a pose and fluffed her hair. “Don’t I look like I’ve made a success of myself? Aren’t you proud of what I’ve become?” She slipped out of teasing and resumed her anger. “Like I said, I’m well aware of the effect I have on men.”
“Are you telling me you’re a prostitute, Savannah? Is that what you think is broken in you?”
Savannah laughed for the first time that session. “Aren’t we all prostitutes, Dr. Corriger? Don’t we all march to the tune someone else is calling just so we can get paid? I mean, look at you? You’re willing to accept my terms, my rudeness, in order to collect your fee. In cash.” She laughed again. “The only difference is you don’t accept tips.”
“Are we back to insults?” Lydia’s voice was calm and steady. “If so, I’ll ask you again. Do you think that gets you closer to your goal or farther away?”
Savannah looked at her watch, stood, and collected her coat and bag. “Sex isn’t the reason I get paid. It’s just a tool of my trade.” She reached into her pocket, pulled out an envelope, and laid it on the table next to the tissue box. “Exact amount.” She turned to go.
“We still have time left, Savannah,” Lydia said.
“I’m done for today.” Savannah walked toward the office door. “Have a nice Thanksgiving.”
The quiet isolation of Lydia’s cliffside home wasn’t working. A continuous loop of her session with Savannah played in her head. Cursing her sleeplessness, she tossed off the covers and climbed out of bed. She went into her kitchen, clicked on the lights, and pulled a favorite bonsai tree out of the window box over the sink. Lydia moved the tree to the table, got her trimmers and scissors out of the drawer, and set about the quiet work of snipping and cutting; mindfully training the tree to perfection. For twenty minutes she tried to focus on the branches and leaves; purposefully avoiding thoughts of the beautiful patient who was in such pain.
That wasn’t working, either.
She went into her bathroom, splashed water on her neck, and buried her face into a thick cotton towel. Savannah’s face danced in her memory. Lydia needed sleep.
She blew out a long tight breath and opened a drawer, fumbled past cosmetics and creams and grabbed a pink plastic soap box in the back. She placed the container on the commode and sat on the side of the tub. She stared at it, knowing it held the relief she needed. She took a deep breath, reached for the box, and brought it to her lap. She pulled her white cotton nightgown up, exposing her right thigh. She snapped the box open and stared at six double-edged razors.
Lydia inspected one after the other, holding each between her thumb and index finger. She surveyed their edges. Watched the light glint off the blades. Relished the foreplay.
She made her selection, set the box aside, and held the razor to her thigh.
One quick slice. Shallow.
A second slice. Deeper. No blood.
A third. Deeper still. Lydia watched the crimson ooze over her pale skin and shuddered in relief. She drew a finger across the wound, smearing her blood. Then a deep cleansing breath and a quick clean up. Peace could finally come.
Chapter Fourteen
Fred Bastian slammed his front door and threw his briefcase onto the dining table as he made his way into the kitchen of his University Heights home. “Bastards!” he shouted to the empty house. “Fuck them all.” He entered the butler’s pantry, pulled a bottle of scotch from the leaded glass cabinet, and filled a Waterford tumbler half-way with the amber liquid. Bastian looked at the clock. Four twenty. “Close enough,” he whispered before taking a long drink.
The day had been a disaster, starting with the invitation to Meredith Thornton’s office. An invitation he’d ignored. Who the hell was she to summon him? But in light of the morning’s faculty meeting he may have mis-stepped. Bastian made a mental note to call Carl Snelling for a read on Meredith. He’d need her in his corner.
He sensed the mood of his minions change over the past few months, but he’d been too preoccupied with his research to address it. He shook his head and re-lived their betrayal.
The boring rituals: roll call, minutes, announcements. Then the heart of the departmental meeting: consideration of new faculty. Six candidates for two available positions. Bastian let the thirty-six faculty members prattle on for twenty minutes and pretended their input mattered. When he’d had enough he nodded toward Fritz Walther. The portly faculty moderator pulled himself to his feet, called the discussion closed and announced the final agenda item: the annual vote giving Bastian the faculty’s proxy in all personnel matters. It was routine. A rubber stamp ceding him full power to hire or fire any member of the department.
The first warning came when Levine asked for
a change from the customary voice vote. “Fucking know-it-all Jew,” Bastian called out to his empty kitchen. “I should have squashed his tenure when I had the chance.” He took another long pull from his scotch and remembered the pathetic look on Walther’s face as he fumbled for enough paper for the secret ballot.
Bastian held a cool smile as the votes were counted. No need to worry, he told himself. Just a few disgruntled idiots taking a naive swipe at power. He remembered shooting a look to Jerry Childress, his vice-chair. The one he counted on to keep the natives contained and cowed. Childress focused on his laptop and ignored him.
“Fucking Judas.” Bastian drained his glass and threw it against the sub-zero stainless steel refrigerator. Shards of crystal blanketed the tiled floor.
The count had been thirty-one to five against him. Bastian grasped the ramifications immediately. Every department chair in the university held their faculty’s proxy. This would be seen as a vote of no confidence. He’d be the laughing stock of campus before nightfall. By tomorrow the research community around the world would know. He’d have to think fast and call in some large chits if he was going to weather this storm.
Bastian poured himself another scotch and ignored the chimes. He felt no need to endure the false pity detail-hungry colleagues might offer on the other side of his front door. He took his glass and bottle to the sun porch at the rear of the house and cursed himself for relying on Childress to keep the underlings in line.
Bastian flopped onto a chaise and gazed into his back yard. The outdoor lights had been synchronized to the shortened days. A blanket of snow, rare for Washington, left dollops of white on the long curving bows of the fir trees. He remembered Christmas was next week. The dean of the medical school had invited him to his family’s ski lodge on Crystal Mountain. “Have to get new plans now,” he said to no one as he took a swig straight from the bottle.
He saw her approach from the west side of the house. Tall and thin. Long brown hair under a bright red beret. Struggling with an enormous poinsettia plant as she stepped gingerly over the snowy walk. Bastian cradled the scotch and watched her climb the icy stairs to the deck. The porch light caught her face. “An ethereal snow fairy,” he sang to the empty room. He saluted her beauty, took another drink, and watched her through the floor-to-ceiling windows. He felt a voyeur’s tingling excitement as he watched her struggle to balance the large pot. She brushed snow off an outdoor table and carefully set the flowers down. She reached inside her navy pea coat, pulled out a white envelope, and nestled it within the giant blooms. For a moment he contemplated inviting this delivery person in for a cup of holiday cheer. But he sat still. Watched her turn to go. Watched her slip on his stairs and land with a loud yelp.
“Oh, shit!” Bastian pulled himself off the chaise, set his bottle down, and took three heavy steps toward the deck. He leaned against the door and breathed deeply, trying to clear his head of scotch and irritation.
“What the hell happened?” he yelled as he yanked the door open. “Who the fuck are you and what are you doing in my backyard?”
The young woman groaned and struggled to sit up. Her beret fell, a slash of red against the accumulating white. She turned to retrieve it. The porch light caught her face and Bastian smiled as the snow-encrusted lovely tried to regain her dignity and struggled to stand on wobbly legs.
“You could put a little salt on those steps, mister.” She sounded more frightened than hurt. “You’re lucky I didn’t break my neck. I could sue, you know.”
Her false bravado amused him. “And I could have you arrested for trespass. Who are you?”
The beautiful intruder fixed her red hat back on her head and pointed a gloved hand toward the poinsettia. “Monica O’Leary. I deliver for Rainier Floral. I tried your front door but there was no answer. I didn’t want to leave your plant where somebody could take it so I brought it around back. Merry Fucking Christmas.”
“Stay where you are.” Bastian crossed over the snowy deck and pulled the card from the plant. He chuckled when he saw it was from Meredith Thornton and assumed she’d ordered them some time ago. He doubted the university president would be so generous given the day’s events. He tossed the card down and stumbled back toward the house.
“Hey, mister.” The delivery girl shuffled over to the table. “Aren’t you gonna take this plant inside? It’s like a hundred dollar flower. Somebody must love you a lot.”
“Keep it.” He called over his shoulder, walked into the room, and threw himself back onto the chaise.
Monica picked up the plant and the card and flat-stepped across the slippery deck to the still-open back door. “Mind if I just set this inside? It’ll die out here.”
Bastian surveyed the young woman in his door way. Her hair, damp from the melting snow, clung to her face and framed translucent skin and bright green eyes. Plaid kilt and navy blue leggings under her pea coat. Dark green rubber boots. Bastian blinked hard to steady his liquored focus.
“Put it over there.” He motioned toward a glass table at the far end of the sunroom. “And close the door behind you. It’s freezing out there.”
Monica balanced the large pot on one hip when she turned to close the door. She kept an eye on him as she crossed toward the table.
“You been drinking, mister?”
Bastian held the scotch bottle high in his right hand. “Care to join me? If you’re not a scotch person there’s plenty of whatever.”
Monica crinkled her nose and looked around the room. “You sure? Won’t your wife wonder who I am?”
Bastian took a long pull from the bottle. “There’s no wife…what did you say your name was?”
“Monica O’Leary. From Rainier’s.” She shoved her hands in her pockets and rocked back and forth in her green boots.
“Ah! An Irish lass come to bring me Christmas cheer.” Bastian’s attempt at a brogue fell short. “Come drink with me, lassie. Tis a dark day I’m havin’.”
She shrugged her shoulders and unbuttoned her coat. “What the hell. You’re my last delivery and my back is killing me after that tumble. You got Irish?”
Bastian tried to get up but collapsed back to the chaise.
“Sit still,” Monica said. “You have your own little party working. Point me in the direction and I’ll help myself.”
Bastian waved to the butler’s pantry. “There’s whiskey in there, child. Fine Irish whiskey. Just the thing for a cold winter’s night of betrayal.”
She tossed her jacket on a chair, left the room, and returned two minutes later with a tumbler of liquor. Monica lifted her gloved hands toward her host and wished him happy holidays. She took a small sip. “So what’s this about betrayal?”
Bastian tried to focus. He moved his legs to one side and patted the open area at the foot of the chaise. “Come sit with me and I’ll tell you a story worthy of Irish tears. A tale of brilliance unappreciated. Of deception colder than the snow that falls outside those doors.”
Monica took the seat he suggested. “You have a poet’s soul. What’s got you bummed this close to Christmas?”
He leaned back and gazed at her. The soft light of the one table lamp gave her a candlelit glow. Bastian remembered a time when all his women were this innocent and fresh. He smiled at the delightful turn the day had taken.
“You’re quite beautiful.” He brushed a long strand of hair away from her face. She didn’t flinch. He brought his hand lightly across her cheek and traced her full lips with his thumb. “Do you know who I am?”
Monica bowed her head, grinned, and looked up at him with long-lashed green eyes. “Of course I know who you are, Dr. Bastian. I’ve wanted to meet you for the longest time. Ever since I read your paper in Science about opiate effects on maternal bonding.”
Bastian tilted his head as he caressed her cheek. Her naivete proved more intoxicating than his scotch. “You’re not a delivery person, are you?” This was his favorite perk. The academic groupies so willing to service the bodies of the illustr
ious minds they adored. Deluding themselves into thinking they were special because they sucked the cock of a genius.
Monica smiled. “I’ve been trying to work up the courage to introduce myself. I even drive by your house sometimes.” She giggled and shook her head. “Don’t worry. I’m not a crazoid stalker.” She set her glass down on the floor. “Today was fate. I drove by and saw the florist guy walking away from your door.” Monica blinked her eyes slowly. “I swung my car into your driveway and told him I was your sister. Said I’d take the flowers inside. I didn’t mean any harm.” She hung her head. “I just wanted you to have that beautiful plant. Don’t be mad, okay? I didn’t even know you were home.”
Bastian withdrew his hand from her cheek and let it travel the length of her arm. “I’m not mad, Monica. You’re my Christmas present. All wrapped up in snow.”
Monica smiled and ran a hand over his leg. She held his gaze as she pulled off her gloves. One finger at a time. Tugging each tip with her teeth. Tossing the gloves and beret to the floor. Running a hand through her long brown hair before returning it to his thigh.
“I’m sorry you had a bad day.” Her voice sounded like whiskey and cigarettes as she inched closer to him. “I want to hear all about it.” She grinned a wicked tease. “But first I want to give you another present.”
Bastian swallowed hard and repositioned his hips to accommodate the erection that strained his trousers. “It is Christmas, after all.” He reached out to her.
“Ah, tut tut,” she whispered. “Close your eyes. Lean back. Relax.”
Bastian smiled and did as she asked. The Fixer brought her hand up to his face and gently placed her fingers against his lips.
“No peeking, okay?” she whispered.
“You’re a shy one, are you? Not too inhibited, I hope.” Bastian kept his eyes shut.
The Fixer reached down and tugged the loaded syringe free from the surgical tape that secured it to the inside of her rubber boot.
“Not inhibited at all, Dr. Bastian.” She pulled off the orange needle guard and leaned forward. “Not one little bit.” She teased aside his collar, and watched him smile in anticipation of her kiss. She stabbed the syringe into his shoulder, pressed the plunger, and jumped free of the chaise. All before his eyes jerked open.