by A A Bavar
“I love you, too,” said Patricia.
Paul walked into the kitchen. The rose and the note were still on the table, but the cell phone and letter opener were gone. “What the fuck are you up to, Wendy?” he cursed under his breath, and walked into the hall. He could hear music coming from the studio to his right. It was turned on pretty loud and he recognized it immediately. It was a song he hadn’t heard in a long time. One of his favorites. One of her favorites. The one she used to play repeatedly when painting. “What the hell?”
… It ain’t much I’m asking, I heard him say,
Gotta find me a future, move out of my way,
I want it all, I want it all, I want it all, I want it now,
I want it all, I want it all, I want it all, I want it now…
Paul rushed down the hall and barged into the studio. Wendy was standing by the far bay window looking out at the garden behind the mansion, her back to the door, her hair flowing loosely on her shoulders and back, while Freddy Mercury continued demanding what was his right.
… Just give me what I know is mine,
People do you hear me, just give me the sign,
It ain’t much I’m asking, if you want the truth
Here’s to the future for the dreams of youth,
I want it all, I want it all, I want it all, I want it now,
I want it all, I want it all, I want it all, I want it now…
The room was large, its open space tastefully organized as a mini gallery, studio, and office. Spotlights from the ceiling and walls highlighted the paintings on display, and showings were usually private and small, with no price tags in view, negotiations a mere formality for such high priced pieces. Comfortable but firm divan sofas were placed strategically facing the gallery walls.
To Paul’s right was an impressive, modern, glass desk with three antique chairs, the pastel, floral patterns of the fabric used on the seats and back cushions subtle enough not to clash with or distract from the art. The two in front of the desk were positioned at a slight angle, facing the one where Wendy usually sat and entertained her guests with tea and crumpets while they wrote checks carefully guarded in exorbitantly priced Hermès pocket books. A dark brown, leather ledger with the letters WJ embossed on the cover lay perfectly straight beside a gold fountain pen. On it, carefully positioned for all to see, was the Hope Diamond.
Paul walked past the desk to the small, glass stand carefully placed in the corner, shut the stereo off, and turned. Facing him, on the opposite wall, was a new painting, the motif shocking, the style unmistakable. He turned to look at the woman now staring at him and froze. “You!”
Wendy groaned and tried unsuccessfully to open her eyes. She wasn’t sure how many days had passed since Samantha had cast the spell to slowly drain her life energy and kill her, but obviously her own defenses had worked, and she was still alive. She lay there, her heart beating forcefully against her ribs as the thought of Samantha returning crept into her mind, and allowed her body to slowly come out of the stupor it was forced into. There was something different about her surroundings, and although her mind was hazy, she could hear movement and people’s muddled voices in the distance. There was also the constant beeping of machines somewhere close to her. She tried again, and this time was able to slowly open her eyes. She blinked several times before being able to focus on the wall in front of her. There, to greet her, was a beautiful landscape painting, the one she had painted years ago while on a vacation in Vermont. She had brought it for Samantha when she was originally admitted to the hospital, something to liven up her room and make it more homey.
Wendy tried to move her right arm expecting it to be tied down, but to her surprise it was free. She half-squealed with excitement, trying not to make any noise, and looked around the room. To her relief, it was empty. She didn’t know what would happen next, when Nurse Brown discovered that she was awake, and she didn’t want to hang around to find out. They would most probably drug her and send her back to the padded room, and she couldn’t allow that. She had to get out and stop Samantha. The element of surprise was on her side.
Wendy pulled the IV line from her arm, removed the heartbeat sensor from her finger, and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her head was clearing fast, and she realized that the voices she was hearing were right outside her door. A man and a woman were talking, and the discussion was getting confrontational. Slowly, she stood, holding the side railing of the bed for support, and looked down at herself. To her surprise, she wasn’t in a hospital gown as she expected. Instead, she was wearing a nice pair of brown pants, a green shirt, and socks. She also noticed a trench coat, a cap, and sneakers on the chair next to her bed.
What in the world is going on? she thought, and tried to walk. Her legs felt like Jell-O, but there was no time for her to exercise them and get the blood going. Cautiously, keeping as quiet as possible, she half-slid half-dragged her feet to the bathroom located to the left and somewhat behind the door to her room. She walked in and closed the door, leaving a small gap from where she could eavesdrop on the conversation outside.
“As I said before, Sgt., Ms. DesJardins is in a coma and in no condition to receive visitors,” said a woman’s voice. “Furthermore, hospital policy restricts visitors to close friends and family. And more importantly, during visiting hours.”
Wendy smiled. It was Nurse Brown. She actually liked Nurse Brown. She always treated her with genuine care and concern, quite in contrast to Nurse Jane. But then again, Nurse Jane had been dealing with the real Samantha for over a year, so her antipathy was understandable.
“Ms. Brown,” said a calm, but authoritative male voice, “ten seconds in the room will do it. I’m not asking to talk or interact with Ms. DesJardins in any way. There’s been an assault, and all I need to do is to confirm that she’s here and that she hasn’t left the premises during the past forty-eight hours. That’s all. And please remember that this is official police business.”
Wendy put her hand over her mouth. She was being framed. The clothes, the coat and sneakers, it was all Samantha’s doing.
“Of course she’s here!” answered Nurse Brown. “What kind of question is that? Haven’t you been listening? Ms. DesJardins is in a coma for God’s sake. Where could she go?”
Wendy was expecting the Sgt. to respond, but to her surprise a different male voice interjected. “Excuse me, are you Nurse Brown? I’m agent McKeown and this is agent Avila. We’re looking for Ms. DesJardins’ room.”
“Oh, for the love of Christ,” exclaimed Nurse Brown. “What is going on? I think I should call the doctor.”
“No need for that,” said McKeown. “Can you identify this person?”
There was a brief moment of silence. “Sure, that’s Mrs. Jewett.”
“Wendy Jewett?” asked McKeown.
“Yes. Why? Is she okay?” asked Nurse Brown.
“She’s fine. Do you know if she’s related to Ms. DesJardins in any way?” continued McKeown.
“Not that I know. But she is Ms. DesJardins’ healthcare proxy. She’s been visiting regularly ever since Ms. DesJardins was admitted over a year ago. She really cares for her, I can tell,” replied Nurse Brown. “Is there a problem?”
“This is my card. It has my cell phone number on it. If Mrs. Jewett comes by today, please call me. It’s imperative. She’s a person of interest in a high profile case,” said McKeown, and without missing a beat, added, “Can we meet Ms. DesJardins?”
There was a long pause. Wendy took a step back from the door and bit her lip. “What am I going to do? I need to get out,” she said to herself. “Oh God, I have to get back to my bed, and pretend I’m still in a coma so I can buy some time.” Wendy turned and was about to open the door when she suddenly stopped. She snapped her head to the right, facing the mirror above the sink. What she saw made her gasp in shock. The reflection staring back at her was of herself as Wendy. She shrieked in dismay.
“What was that?” asked the Sgt.
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nbsp; From the small crack between the door and the frame, Wendy watched, her hand cupped over her mouth, as the door to her room swung open and three men followed by Nurse Brown rushed in.
“Samantha?” exclaimed Nurse Brown, her voice full of concern, as they ran to her bed. “She’s not there! The bathroom! Check the bathroom! She must have fallen!”
Wendy swung around and leaned against the bathroom door with her back, causing it to slam shut. “Oh God, please let me be strong enough,” she pleaded, and squinted in concentration. Her eyes immediately glowed an intense blue and she snapped her fingers.
The bathroom door crashed open against the side wall. McKeown stood in the doorframe with Avila and Sgt. Downing behind him. “There’s no one here. She’s gone.”
“Who else, my love?” said Samantha with a wicked smile. “Isn’t this fun?” She was holding the envelope opener, its blade pressed between the index finger and thumb of her left hand. She released the blade and looked at her fingers. Two razor-thin, red lines appeared where the blade had been resting. “As sharp as ever. You know, I’ve had this for many, many years… much longer than you’d understand. And it’s always been my favorite for… taking care of business.”
Paul’s eyes flicked from Samantha to the door and back, but he didn’t move. “Where’s Wendy? What did you do to her?”
“Oh, don’t worry about Wendy,” said Samantha, waving her hand dismissively in the air, the envelope opener swishing back and forth. “If not already gone, she’s on her way to a much better place, believe me. Now, in my opinion, who you should be worried about is your little friend waiting for you in your car. What, you thought I didn’t know she was here?” Samantha laughed loudly, her round eyes almost shining.
“Why?” blurted Paul. “Why are you doing this?”
“Why? I should be asking you the same thing!” shouted Samantha, her voice trembling, and pointed at Paul’s leg. “Why did you do that this morning? Why would you risk so much to save someone so insignificant? You could have died, don’t you see?” She paused and looked down at her hands. When she resumed, her tone was soft, almost grieving, like that of a woman in pain searching for hope. “Was it for me? So the police wouldn’t come after me?” Samantha looked up at Paul, her eyes shimmering with tears. “Do you still love me?”
“I… what? No!” exclaimed Paul, and immediately held up his hand. “Sorry, that came out wrong,” he said, and allowed his eyes to soften. “I meant, yes, of course I do, and I did it to protect you. But no, I couldn’t let that happen. The police knows about you threatening Tricia the other night and they would come after you if anything happened to her. I couldn’t allow that, don’t you see?” Paul licked his dried lips, swallowed, and casually took a step towards the door.
“I do see,” said Samantha quietly, and paused. “No, no they wouldn’t,” she continued matter-of-factly, scrunching up her nose, the vulnerable woman of a few seconds before gone. “Do you want to know why? Because it’s not me they’re looking for, and more importantly, it wasn’t me at the train station this morning. It was Wendy, and everyone saw her… she’ll be the one on the security footage. She’s the one everyone will go after!”
“But Tricia said—”
“Tricia, Tricia, Tricia…” interrupted Samantha in a mocking sing-song. “I know what little Miss Perfect said, but who cares? The police don’t believe her, I made sure of that. To them, she’s a hysterical, depressed, daddy’s girl who calls wolf for everything. Not that it matters, because she’s going to be dead before you leave this room, and your buddy, Ray, made it all happen… with a little help from me, of course.”
Paul froze. “What? How did you know about Ray? What did you do?”
“Oh, nothing too dramatic,” said Samantha, batting her eyelashes and twirling her index finger in her hair like an innocent girl. “I only had him send a somewhat incriminating photo of Wendy to the FBI, and then I killed him.”
“You killed him?” Paul said in disbelief, his breathing short. “You won’t get away with this!” he exclaimed, and sprang for the door.
Samantha was ready. Her eyes flashed red and with a quick motion of her wrist she sent the letter opener flying in Paul’s direction. It spun neatly through the air and found its mark, cutting through the flesh, deeply imbedding itself in the back of Paul’s left thigh. Paul screamed in pain and crashed to the floor by the door.
“You bitch!” he shouted, and grabbed his leg.
Samantha strode over and stood over Paul as he squirmed on the floor. “Now, now… language, my love, language. And I think you meant to say witch!” she said, and smiled, enjoying her own joke.
Paul looked up bewildered. Suddenly, a muted buzzing sound cut through the silence. Samantha took out a cell phone from her back pocket and glanced at the screen. “Good thing I held on to Ray’s phone. Seems like we have a couple of agents on the way,” she said, pointed at Paul, and lifted him to his feet with a subtle motion of her finger. “Let’s get this party going before our uninvited guests arrive. We need to have things just right, you know?”
Paul stood on his good leg, clutching at his thigh with his left hand, while clumsily waving his blood smeared right hand beside him for balance. “How did you do that? What do you mean we? I don’t want anything to do with any of this crazy shit!”
“Don’t worry, you won’t remember any of it. All you’re going to worry about is me and being with me. But for now, you have to do your part. Paul and Samantha forever, remember?” Samantha reached around Paul, grabbed the handle of the letter opener, and pulled it out with a quick, swift motion.
Paul screamed and clenched his teeth, his face contorted with a mix of pain and fury.
“Oops, sorry. Not really, though. I did want to hurt you, make you pay for traipsing around so unceremoniously with that little tramp and breaking my heart, but now I’m done,” said Samantha, pointed at one of the antique chairs by the glass desk, slid it behind Paul, and forced him to sit. “Now, be a good boy, take out your phone, and have Tricia come up,” she said with a wink. “Trust me, you don’t want me to go and get her.”
“Samantha, you don’t have to do this. I swear, from now on it’ll be only you and me,” pleaded Paul. “I’ll fire her… you’ll never hear of her again.” Paul tried to stand, but an invisible force bound him to the chair.
“Ah, so much drama,” said Samantha, and exhaled wearily. “Okay, I’ll just have to do it myself.” She bent over and reached for Paul’s jacket pocket.
“Don’t bother, I’m already here,” said a voice from behind her.
Paul’s head snapped to the side. “Tricia! What are you doing?”
Patricia’s lean figure lunged forward, her arm stretched out in front of her. “This is for all the crap you put me through,” she shouted, and squeezed the trigger on the pepper spray just as Samantha turned to look.
The pepper spray hit Samantha in the face, causing her to reel backwards. She grabbed her face and screamed in anguish. Patricia took a step forward, pivoted to her left, and plunged the heel of her right foot into Samantha’s stomach. The kick was strong and accurate, sending Samantha crashing to the floor, the envelope opener flying out of her hand as she tried to dampen the fall.
“You bitch,” screamed Samantha, as she rolled to her side, her hands frantically rubbing her face and eyes. “You blinded me!”
Patricia didn’t stop. She ran to where Samantha was lying and saddle jumped her, forcing her to lie on her stomach. She threw the pepper spray on the ground and grabbed Samantha’s arms, pulling them up and back, then pushed them down hard with all her weight against the small of her back.
“Paul! Get me something to tie her hands!” she shouted.
Paul, now free from Samantha’s hold, jumped up and immediately screamed. Blood gushed from behind his left thigh as his leg buckled and he fell to his hands and knees with a grunt.
“Paul!” screamed Patricia, her eyes wide open. “Your leg!”
Samantha grim
aced, turned her head to the side, and looked at Paul. Their eyes made contact. It was brief but explosive. Paul suddenly couldn’t breathe. He grabbed his throat, struggling with the lack of air. He opened his mouth to say something but no words came out.
“Paul! What’s wrong? Help me!” screamed Patricia, the look of terror on her face growing by the second as Paul’s eyes bulged out, his face turning a dark shade of red.
“He’s not helping anyone,” hissed Samantha, her arms still in Patricia’s hold. “Especially not you, sweetie. All he’s going to do is take a good, long nap. And when he wakes up, he won’t remember any of this and we can go back to being—”
“No! Stop!” shouted Patricia. “What did you do to him? He can’t breathe! You’re killing him!” She jumped off Samantha and scrambled to Paul just as he crumbled to the ground on his side. Patricia grabbed Paul’s face in her hands. His eyes were open, but there was no hint of recognition or conscious life. Slowly, they rolled back into his head.
“Oh my God, no! Paul!” cried Patricia, and turned towards Samantha.
Samantha was up, her arms crossed, and leaning against one of the gallery walls enjoying the show. Her face looked unblemished, somehow recovered from the pepper spray, and her eyes were a deep red. “Sweetie, he’ll be fine. If I were you, I’d be worried about myself.”