Cellar Door

by Suzanne Steele

  Her indignant gasp was even more adorable when she narrowed her eyes at me. “Wouldn’t it be easier for you to watch where you’re going?” she replied haughtily.

  The brief conversation was enough to make that hollow place inside me stir, to fan the flicker of heat to a full flame. I knew in that moment that it was because of her. If I thought I desired her before, seeing her face to face like this and experiencing such a visceral reaction only solidified my fascination.

  I knew, in that singular moment, that I would have her. Something passed between us that day, something very much beyond my control. Before that moment, I had merely been watching her from a distance, my initial curiosity having blossomed into a mild fascination because of Lance’s avowed interest in her. No more – from that moment on, I became driven by a force I immediately recognized as obsession – and it had nothing to do with anyone but the two of us.

  With her books safely tucked back into her arms, she huffed away, clearly irritated with the unpleasant, abrasive man she had encountered in the stark white hallway of the hospital. My attention was captured by her dark ponytail as it bounced in time with her hurried, agitated steps. I leaned my shoulder against the wall, smiling while I shamelessly savored the staccato swing of her delectable backside as she scurried away.

  When she rounded the corner and I could no longer see her, I picked up the check-out card from the local library, which had fallen onto the floor. The name scribbled at the bottom of the card rolled off of my tongue as naturally as my own, the name that would forever change my destiny: Madonna Marie Mathews.

  Perhaps this innocent bookworm -- my dark angel, my Madonna – would prove to be the kindred spirit upon whom I could unleash all my darkest fantasies.

  Chapter Two

  Madonna

  I hurry down the hospital corridor with happy anticipation. What I’m about to do may seem unimportant when compared to the life and death concerns of so many of the patients here—but, to me, it is anything but.

  “Mr. Williams, good to see you,” I say in a cheery voice as I set my books on a table by the door. I give him my best smile and cross the room to open the blinds and let some light in.

  “I thought you weren’t going to make it, sweetheart. So tell me, did you find it?” he asks expectantly, unable to hide his pleasure at the prospect of me reading his favorite poetry to him today.

  The power of words is truly humbling, how they can even soothe a soul that is facing death. Mr. Williams shares my love of literature. The time we’ve spent reading and discussing books has bonded us as friends. We’ve established our own private book club of sorts. The dimming of his eyesight has made it impossible for him to read on his own. He says he enjoys the more personal experience of being read to now far more than listening to audio books. It’s the least I can do to make his last days enjoyable.

  Without preamble, I pull up a chair and begin reading ‘Stopping by woods on a snowy evening’, by Robert Frost.

  He speaks when I’m finished. “I do so love that last passage. You know, he wrote that after he’d been up all night writing ‘New Hampshire’. It’s amazing, the unexpected ways inspiration can strike, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, sir, it is. I wonder if he had any idea that the world would still treasure his words so many years later.”

  “Miss Mathews, don’t give up on your dream of publishing that book of poetry. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to know your words were being read by the next generation long after you’re gone?”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid poetry doesn’t captivate readers the way it did years ago…”

  “If the melody and the meaning are in the words, it will find its audience. Your purpose is to unleash the part of your soul that’s trapped with no other means of escape -- not to get rich, famous, or even popular, for that matter. Yes, your writing is the thing that will surely keep you sane.”

  He turns his head toward the window and the view of the manicured grounds. His eyes become unfocused, his thoughts drifting far away. “You see, if you don’t let the words out, release the characters and thoughts that ramble around inside your head, you will surely court insanity.”

  Chapter Three

  Liam

  The lush melody of her voice wraps itself around me as she reads aloud the classic poem by Robert Frost.

  She has no idea that I often listen as she reads to the patients. Her voice soothes the beast within me. All the stress of life and death simply falls away as if by some miracle, some magic only she possesses.

  My ears perk up when I hear the man speak of her dream to write a book. It all makes sense now, the hours she spends at her desk across the street from the coffee shop. My angel has a story to tell, I’m sure of it.

  As far as I know, she has no friends, not even acquaintances. No pets, nothing but her books and words—words that tumble around inside her head, begging to be brought to life. Yes…it will be easy to do what I have planned. After all, I’m all she’s got. I long to corrupt her, to soil her, to mark her, and seal her as my possession. Perhaps by doing so, I will be her salvation.

  She inhabits my dreams, my every waking moment, yet she doesn’t even know I exist. How trite. To her, I’m just the caustic, rude asshole who knocked her books from her hands. How can it be that, even though I attract the attention of most of the nurses at this hospital, the one woman I want doesn’t understand how the thought of her haunts me?

  If someone were to ask me why I’m obsessed with the beautiful stranger, I don’t know that I could give a reason. Certainly not a logical one. All I know is the cavernous void that lurks deep in my soul was as black as pitch until the moment I looked into her cobalt blue eyes.

  The tiny flicker of hope she sparked in me continues to burn steadily. But I must feed the flame if it is to flourish. I must keep her near me so it doesn’t blow out.

  I’ve devoted my career to saving lives. Perhaps it’s time for someone to save mine.

  Chapter Four

  Madonna

  I smile as I glance over and see that Mr. Williams has drifted into a peaceful sleep. Shakespeare’s sonnets did the trick today. I’ve done what I came to do, given a dying man another all too brief reprieve from the nightmarish toll cancer is taking. He’s sleeping more lately. I wonder how many more visits we’ll have.

  I kiss his cheek and leave the book of poetry on his bedside table before I slip from the room. As I round the corner, wiping a tear from my cheek with the back of my hand, I nearly run into the man with the dark hair and striking blue eyes, the same one who knocked me and all my books down a couple of weeks ago.

  “I see you still haven’t figured out how to manage those wretched books you insist on carrying around everywhere you go,” he gloats.

  He is infuriating as ever but this time I’m prepared. “I see you still have that enormous chip on your shoulder you insist on carrying around everywhere you go,” I snipe in reply. I usually have better manners than this. The man brings out the devil in me, and I wish I knew why.

  Rich, baritone laughter echoes off the walls, surrounding us. He beams at me, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes conveying his pleasure at getting a rise out of me. His eyes narrow as he takes in tear-streaked cheeks, evidence of my sadness over the impending loss of my friend. But he has no way of knowing that.

  “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” he asks in a surprisingly fierce tone of voice. From his show of concern, you’d think we were old friends. I’m not sure we could be any farther from friends, actually.

  “I’m fine. Allergies,” I mutter, ignoring the skeptical tilt of his head as he waits for me to fill the silence with an explanation. Not happening. His hospital ID badge identifies him as an orthopedic surgeon. Wow. I bet he just plows over anyone who gets in his way and nobody ever stands up to him. Someone needs to, that’s for sure. So I keep going and let sarcasm rule the day.

  “So…Work any miracles today? Save any lives? Re-attach any limbs? Maybe give some poor soul the ability to
walk?”

  “Yes, yes, no, and yes, in fact, I did,” he replies with an amused smirk as his gaze slides up and down my figure, making leisurely stops along the way. “I’ll tell you all about it over a cup of coffee.”

  Oh, hell no.

  “Yeah, about that,” I scoff. “I won’t be having coffee with the likes of you, now or ever.”

  “Well, you can usually find me here, so if you ever change your mind just let me know,” he says good-naturedly as he leans back on his heels and slides his hands into the pockets of his slacks.

  “Don’t hold your breath,” I mutter caustically as I sweep past him.

  “Oh, now, don’t go away mad,” he teases as I storm off down the hall. “Someday you might really need that cup of coffee and I’d hate for you to miss out.”

  “Miss out on what?” I toss the retort over my shoulder, huffing and puffing as I trudge down the hall with my stack of books.

  “Why, me, of course!” he says oh-so-innocently. His arrogant chuckle seems to follow me as I step into the elevator and awkwardly reach down to push the Lobby button without dumping my books on the floor once more. I hate to admit that he might have a point about my books…but, well, he might have a point. Dammit.

  “One miracle worker, right here, if you ever need one,” he calls out to me, pointing at himself and nodding. He continues to flash that lopsided smile as the elevator doors close.

  I spend the brief journey to the lobby fuming and plotting his imaginary but incredibly gratifying demise. He has got to be the most arrogant, infuriating man I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. As far as I’m concerned, he’s nothing more than a typical playboy surgeon with a God complex. Coffee, right… I have no intention of being a notch on his or anyone else’s bedpost.

  I have one thing on my mind: getting back to my desk to write. That pompous doctor and his offer of coffee don’t fit into the equation. The brisk late afternoon air is invigorating as I exit the hospital, and reminds me that I need to hurry. It will be dusk soon and I don’t want to be walking the streets when the sun goes down.

  I barely make it to the bus stop in time to catch the last bus before dark. I dig around in my jean pocket and struggle to hold onto my armload of books. With my bus token safely deposited into the slot, I cross over to the closest seat I can find.

  Wretched books?!? How in the world could someone as educated as a surgeon be so ignorant? Why, I wouldn’t have coffee with that man if I was going through caffeine withdrawal and the headache that goes along with it. I tuck an earbud in my ear and listen to an audio book via my phone, desperate to drown out the doctor’s sardonic voice. Wretched books, my ass.

  The ride takes a while but is pleasant enough with the company of the audio book. It’s not long before I’m standing and pulling the cord to alert the driver to stop. He eyes me in the mirror and smiles as I shuffle to the front of the bus.

  “Have a nice evening, Miss Mathews, and get some work done on that book of yours. I want to be able to say I knew you when.”

  “I will, George. And thanks, be safe.”

  “I will, I got a family countin’ on me.”

  Even though I smile in his direction I can’t stop the pang I feel in my chest at not having a family of my own. I have no idea who my mother and father are because I was raised in the orphanage behind my old elementary school. Saint Peter’s Children’s Home, located in Crescent Hill, was home to me from my birth until the day I turned eighteen. Even though I was treated very well there, nothing can take the place of a real family.

  The orphanage was all I knew while growing up, so I choose to look back on the experience with gratitude and focus on the positive side of things. The employees were always kind, and they kept me off the streets and provided me with an excellent education—which, in turn, inspired my love of books.

  I step off the bus and head toward the safety of my downtown high rise. The doorman greets me as I shuffle past him with my armload of wretched books. It’s one of the reasons I picked this place to live, the security.

  “Miss Mathews, I have something for you.” His voice stops me before I make it to the elevator. I turn to find him holding a large bag imprinted with the name of a high-end store.

  “Hmm, who’s it from? Here, just put it on top,” I say as I jerk my chin toward the stack of books I’m still holding. I’ll wait until I get up to my apartment to see what’s in the bag.

  “Don’t know, miss. I just got here a minute ago myself and it had just been delivered.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I smile and hurry to catch the elevator before it begins its ascent. I manage to unlock my door without dropping my key, and am just grateful to be home, sore arms and all.

  My curiosity piqued, I open the bag to reveal a luxurious and, no doubt, pricey messenger bag. It’s stunning. I pull out the card. I know perfectly well who the gift is from, but I am curious about what the card says.

  The color matches your eyes, so I couldn’t resist. I hope this tote will help you carry your stack of books – and serve as an apology. My offer stands for that cup of coffee and any other way I can ever be of service to you.

  Yours,

  Liam Sheldon Chambers, M.D.

  Okay, I’m totally confused. How can someone be so rude and pompous and yet so thoughtful and humble? Regardless, I’m keeping this messenger bag. The damn thing probably cost more than I make in a month and I don’t have any problem using it. It’s true; I am tired of fighting with my wretched books.

  Where most women might have a problem keeping such a costly gift from a complete stranger, I don’t. It almost makes up for how he treated me and my wretched books. The snarky way he referred to my precious books really fucking bugs me. Yeah…it’s gorgeous, it’s roomy, it’s the most beautiful shade of blue I’ve ever seen, and I’m keeping it.

  Chapter Five

  His Pursuit

  I put the cigarette out on the sidewalk as I watch her surreptitiously from across the street. There she is, the Riddler’s last bit of unfinished business. Personally, I don’t see anything special about her. But the knowledge that I can right this wrong for him is practically an aphrodisiac to me, so much so that I have to adjust my pants as I visualize what needs to be done.

  The Riddler. The man who terrorized the streets of Louisville, Kentucky, three years ago. I will confess to being riveted by the media attention he enjoyed during that time. In particular, one local crime blogger’s posts about the crime spree captured my attention and led me to seek out the man himself: Lance Jenkins.

  I quickly became an admirer and spent hours compiling a digital scrapbook of newspaper articles and social media posts about his accomplishments. It took me months to summon the nerve to ask for a meeting, but to my surprise he agreed. Over the course of the last three years, I have visited him in Our Lady of Tranquility’s private psychiatric wing many times and – although, truly, I’m really not one to brag -- I’m proud to say I consider him a friend. My only friend.

  I have learned so much from him during our visits. Having already been convicted of his crimes, he’s under no pressure to withhold information about his kills so we discuss them freely. In fact, he’s encouraged to reminisce about the murders quite often as medical students interview him for a better understanding of the criminally insane.

  Much was achieved during his crime spree but, sadly, much remains unfinished. With each passing day, it has become clear to me that finishing his work will be my life’s highest purpose. In particular, I intend to tie up the one loose end that continues to haunt him: the one that, quite literally, got away. He regrets not having enough time to make her his final kill, so I’m going to make her my first instead. There must always be a delicate balance maintained in these things.

  When he agreed to see me the first time in that stuffy visitation room at the hospital, I was finally able to tell him just how much he meant to me. From that moment on, we have been as one. The connection of kindred souls resonates deep within me a
nd I know he must feel the same.

  It started out simple enough, with me going on and on about how I was his biggest fan, how I’d read every article ever written about him, how I’d studied every detail of his work. And now? I’m closer to him than his own brother. And I will do anything to keep that coveted position—even kill.

  I will give him something no one else possibly can: the chance to live – and kill -- vicariously through me. Sharing in my experiences, even after the fact, will help him not feel confined like all those other patients. This way, he can savor the experience of killing without worrying about getting caught. In every way that matters, I’m giving him his freedom.

  I amble up Muhammad Ali Boulevard toward my home in downtown Louisville. I was so lucky to secure the building that served as Lance’s work space during his killing spree. Even though the building had been refurbished and made available for occupancy, no one was interested in the property because of the atrocities that were committed there. No one appreciated its historic value but me. Of course, I had to have it so I bought it and moved in. My feet have trod upon holy ground ever since.

  I searched that fucking building high and low to try and recover any piece of The Riddler I could find. When I couldn’t find anything, I was lucky to be able to go directly to the source by visiting the man himself.

  Best decision I ever made.

  He told me about the women he murdered, describing how he selected each one and the tools he used for each kill. Hearing about the deaths he facilitated brought me back to pulsing, raging life. I am forever grateful to him for that. The least I can do is to step in and complete his work.

  I’m fortunate to have such a gifted man mentoring me. I want to make him proud. I want to carry on his legacy of fear and death, of absolute control.

  I’m certain he’ll be pleased when I make her my first kill in the name of all that is The Riddler. And when I do, he and I will forever be connected in life and in death—bound by blood and anguish.