For Her Eyes Only (McCormack Security Agency)

by Curtis, Shannon

  Jade adopted a sympathetic expression. “We might need more to clean her face,” she suggested.

  The woman nodded and turned to the sink.

  Jade stuck her foot out, and the woman tripped as she passed. Her arms flailed as she tried to regain her footing, and she knocked her head with a sick thunk against the sink under the mirror, collapsing senseless to the floor.

  Jade blinked.

  That had been easier than she thought it would be. She was expecting a fight. She shook her head. Sometimes the simplest ways were best.

  Margie started to straighten, and Jade moved quickly. She grabbed Margie by her chignon. Margie cried out in surprise and tried to stand up. Jade grappled with her, forcing her head lower.

  “How fitting. You flushed my life down the toilet, now I get to flush yours,” she said through gritted teeth.

  She shoved Margie’s head into the toilet, pushing it below the sickly mess she’d made of it. Margie struggled, batting her arms back over her head, scratching at the hands that held her head.

  Jade smiled. This was like a baptism. Washing away the sins of the woman. At least then she’d be clean. Jade’s eyes narrowed. Jade, on the other hand, would never be clean. When Margie did what she did, her parents had looked at Jade with revulsion, as though she was some cheap, dirty whore. They were shamed by her. They, like everyone, had believed Margie, not Jade.

  Jade’s hand tightened, and she pulled Margie’s head from the porcelain bowl.

  “Please, stop,” Margie spluttered, trying to brace herself against the toilet rim. Discolored liquid dripped down her cheeks and chin, and her mascara made grotesque dark streaks down her face.

  “Funny, that’s what I said at the time,” Jade said conversationally. “No, please, stop,” she sang in a little-girl voice. Jade’s lips twisted, and she shoved Margie’s head down again, into the sick refuse that filled the bowl. The gross mess didn’t perturb Jade. She’d seen much, much worse after she’d left college. She’d become the very thing her parents had accused her of. All those nights on the streets, spreading her thighs for any man who wanted a piece of her and was willing to pay for it, knowing she was better than them, but needing the money, frustrated at her own helplessness.

  All those disgusting things she’d done. A cheap and filthy slut, her father had called her.

  But not Simon. No, Simon loved her. Always and forever. He’d rescued her, pulled her out of the slums. Cleaned her up and dried her out. He understood her. Completely. It hadn’t been her fault. It was Margie’s fault. Margie, and the others. Thank God for Simon.

  He’d come up with the whole idea, really, that night when he found her in the bathtub. He’d saved her life with his plan. She didn’t know what she’d do without her hero. She was doing this for Simon, for her. For all the years of pain this woman had caused. She and Simon weren’t victims anymore. No. They were getting their own back, stealing back what had been stolen from them.

  “You’re not going to tell any more lies,” Jade rasped. She felt like God, all-powerful. She was like a divine retribution. Strong. Determined. Disciplined.

  She frowned as she glared down at the back of the woman’s head. No, this wasn’t good enough. She couldn’t see the life leave her eyes. She wanted Margie to know. She wanted to see Margie’s fear, her despair. Just like she’d feared and despaired, that night long ago.

  Bitch.

  She hauled Margie from the bowl and flung her back out of the stall. Margie landed roughly on the tiled floor. She coughed, big, hoarse, racking coughs, spewing filth and water from her mouth.

  “Please, stop,” Margie said weakly, holding her arms up as if she stood a chance of defending herself.

  “How does it feel, Margie? Nobody here to help you. All alone.” Jade followed her down on to the tiled floor, straddling Margie’s wet body. “You brought this on yourself.”

  “Why are you doing this?” Margie sobbed, trying to bat Jade’s hands away as Jade grasped the woman’s head.

  “Don’t lie to me now, Margie. You know what you did.” How could she still act innocent? Didn’t she know that Jade knew better? She lifted the woman’s head and slammed it back against the hard floor. Margie cried out. Jade wanted Margie to admit it, to plead with her, to apologize to her. She wanted Margie’s confession. “Tell the truth, damn it!”

  “What did I ever do to you?” Margie wailed, trying to fight her off.

  Jade frowned. “You lied, damn it. You ruined my life!” She slammed the woman’s head again, feeling a satisfactory crunch of bone. If she hadn’t spread her toxic lies, Jade’s life would have been completely different. It was Margie’s fault.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Margie gasped weakly, her trembling hands clutching at Jade’s sleeves. Jade froze. No. Oh, no. Her face. Damn it. Jade slammed her head again. She leaned closer.

  “Look at me, damn it. Look at me.” Surely she would sense who she was dealing with?

  Margie hiccupped, her gaze blank. She didn’t recognize her.

  “You told them I asked for it,” Jade said, her voice low and guttural, hurting her throat as she forced the sound out. “You told everyone that I wanted him to do that to me.”

  Margie’s head was shaking, and it took Jade a moment to realize it was her own hands that were trembling. Margie frowned and looked up at her, blinking sluggishly.

  She still doesn’t get it. Jade firmed her lips and let go of the woman’s head to raise her hands to her own face. Damn it. She faintly touched the scar that trailed down her hairline. At this moment, she hated her new face, hated the triumph it had stolen from her. “Think Berkeley. Do you know who I am now, Margie?”

  Margie blinked, and her head lolled from side to side as she tried to shake her head, tears streaming down her face.

  “No,” she cried.

  Jade slapped her across a cheek with vicious force. “Yes, you do. I’m Jade, Margie. Jade. Remember me? You told everyone I liked it when Mike raped me. That I asked for it.” Rage welled up in her as she remembered that night, of Mike’s hand across her mouth, covering her cries as he assaulted her. She remembered Margie’s face as she’d stumbled out of the bedroom, trying to make her way past the other partygoers. She remembered Margie’s disgust.

  Margie screwed up her face. “I—I don’t understand.”

  Jade hit her head against the floor again, because the stupid woman was pissing her off. “You went to a frat party. You saw Mike drag me into a bedroom, and you told everyone I wanted it, that I liked him.”

  Jade leaned closer. “You lied.”

  Tears tracked down Margie’s temples as she gazed up at Jade with glazed eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Jade sat back for a moment. She’d apologized. She’d said she was sorry. Jade tilted her head, frowning as she considered the woman beneath her. Her face was a mess, blotchy, speckled with muck, stained with mascara. Her eyes were bloodshot, her pupils were tiny fixed points in a sea of murky brown. She was a broken woman, so far removed from the ice princess of their college days.

  Jade had taken the ice and starch out of the woman, had drained her of her strength. Conversely, Jade felt...unmoved by the woman’s apology. She felt stronger than ever, alive. Euphoric. She was no longer a victim.

  She was taking control. Damn, it felt good.

  She smashed Margie’s head against the floor. Again. And again. Margie had long stopped struggling, her pupils fixed and dilated, her muscles lax, by the time Jade stopped.

  She sat back, her arms trembling. Her shoulders were sore. Huh. She stared down at the mangled mess that had once been Margie and waited. Waited for the triumph, the sense of victory.

  It rolled over her like a tsunami, sweeping her along on a tide of joy and elation. God, it felt good. But she could feel more, feel even better.
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  Maybe she had to get all of them.

  Yes, that was probably it. She had to get all of them. She rose, looking down at the tableau she’d created. She needed to do something, though, to lure them in. She eyed the other fallen woman and shrugged. It had worked for her.

  She positioned herself in front of the sink, and took a deep breath. It was going to hurt. She closed her eyes and bent over quickly, hitting her head against the rim of the sink.

  “Oh, God,” she gasped, blinking at the starburst of pain that exploded at the front of her head. It hurt, damn it hurt. Hopefully it left a mark.

  Dazed, she staggered against the wall, trying to cling to the surface in order to stay upright.

  Yes, that would do.

  She collapsed on the floor and closed her eyes against the pain. Now, she just had to wait.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Ryan stood over Kurt, who sat, quiet and subdued, in one of the armchairs in the lounge. “Now, tell us everything.”

  Kurt glanced up at Ryan, then at the others gathered around him. Jeffrey and Elliot sat in one of the lounges, Paula in another, sitting next to a nervous Deborah. Neil leaned against the wall near the door. Hank and Vicky stood close, but off to the side. For once, Kurt didn’t look movie star gorgeous. He was pale, sweating, and looking sick. “It was back when I was in college.”

  Ryan nodded, waiting. Hank shifted on his feet, his expression fierce, looking every part of a former deputy sheriff.

  Kurt swallowed. “I, uh, there was this party. I was already getting teased about not having a girlfriend. The guys on the team were beginning to get nervous around me, and it doesn’t take long to go from nervous to mean.”

  Ryan cocked an eyebrow. Was he trying to justify the act?

  “I, uh, I met this girl. Cute. Quiet. She was really, really drunk. One of the guys on the team dared me to get into her pants.” Kurt blinked, and looked like he was going to cry. “I convinced her to come upstairs with me. She was so drunk. I could tell she wasn’t really into it, but I kept thinking about my friends outside the door, and what I would cop from them if I didn’t. So I did.”

  “Did what?” Vicky asked, her voice quiet. Ryan turned to glance at her. She’d come up right behind him, so quiet, but one look at her face told him how upset she was at hearing this.

  “We had sex.” Kurt wouldn’t raise his eyes to look at any of them.

  “You had sex, or you raped her?” Vicky said, her voice cold. “There is a difference.”

  “I raped her.” Kurt whispered. “At first, I thought she was just going to let me do it, but then she started to try and push me off. I couldn’t stop.”

  “Wouldn’t,” Neil inserted from his position at the door. “Not couldn’t. Wouldn’t.”

  “So how the hell do I fit into this sad pile of crap?” Hank asked, his tone rough, as though he was offended by the association.

  “She went and reported it later. You were the deputy on duty.”

  Hank frowned, trying to remember. He finally shook his head. “I saw a lot of stupid things in that job. There were so many cases...”

  “My name back then was Mike. Mike Parker. I changed it because my folks didn’t want me to wrestle. They wanted me to go into business, and insisted I use a stage name.”

  Hank’s eyebrows rose as recognition crossed his features. “Parker, yeah, I remember now. Your folks have some sort of blue-chip company. I remember your father, coming down to the station.”

  Ryan frowned. “So what happened?”

  Hank put his hands on his hips, frustration in the movement. “Well, he told us a completely different story back then. Unfortunately, the whole football team, as well as some of the other partygoers, backed up his cockamamie bull of her pursuing him. We had so many witness statements to the effect that it was a consensual act, there was no way we could draw up any charges that would stick.” Hank nodded at Kurt. “Your father got some sort of hotshot lawyer, and we couldn’t even detain you.”

  The story triggered a memory in Ryan’s mind, and he twisted to face Hank. “Was there a boyfriend?”

  Hank frowned. “What?”

  “The victim. Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “Oh, my God,” Vicky gasped behind him and he turned to see realization dawn in her eyes.

  “Yeah, actually, she did. I had to arrest the guy. He attacked our perpetrator here.” Hank sighed. “That was sad, the way that panned out, especially after hearing this today.”

  “How so?” Ryan asked, although he thought he already knew the story.

  “Well, his lawyer,” Hank said, indicating Kurt, “pressed charges. Unfortunately, as there were witnesses, we had to charge the guy. He ended up going to prison.”

  Paula gasped, her hand rising to cover her mouth as she stared at her husband. “Is this true, Kurt?” she asked, her voice trembling.

  Kurt nodded, a tear rolling his down his cheek. “Yeah,” he rasped. He brushed the tear away with a rough hand. “I’m not proud of myself. There is not one day that goes by when I don’t think of that guy.”

  “Why didn’t you do something? Say something?” Paula wailed.

  Kurt rolled his eyes. “You know my father, Paula, and you have to ask me that? No son of his will ever go to jail. No son of his will ever be gay, and no son of his allows anyone to hit him and get away with it. That would be weak.”

  “Oh, my God.” Jeffrey said, stunned, as he stared at Kurt and Hank. “Was this at Berkeley?”

  Hank nodded. “Yeah, why?”

  “I think Margie told me about this, ages ago. She was visiting a cousin at the college, and went to a frat party. She told me she ended up having to give a witness statement to the police about some girl, and how there had been a fight.”

  “She was one of the witnesses?” Ryan asked.

  Jeffrey shrugged. “I think so.”

  “What is your surname?” Hank asked.

  Jeffrey shook his head. “This was before we met. She would have used her maiden name, Madeiros.”

  Hank winced. “Margie Madeiros, huh? Rings a bell. I’m surprised I didn’t put it together—but she looks different now, right?”

  Jeffrey nodded. “Yeah. She’s had a little cosmetic surgery done.”

  Hank jerked his chin at Kurt. “What about you? I didn’t recognize you. Sure, you were just a college kid back then, but normal people don’t change that much.”

  Kurt nodded. “I had some work done, mainly just my nose.”

  “So many people having a nip and tuck,” Vicky muttered in a voice only Ryan could hear.

  Ryan drifted away for a moment, and Vicky followed him. “This isn’t a poaching or recovery holiday for the Maxwells,” he told her quietly.

  She shook her head. “No. It’s a vendetta.”

  “They must have planned this for some time,” he said. “The surgery, coordinating these guys to be here at the same time,” he shook his head. “That’s a whole new level of twisted.” The machinations, the patience this couple would have employed to get everyone in the one spot at the one time...it was disturbing.

  “The question is, where are the Maxwells now?”

  He shrugged. He eyed Elliot. Jeffery was with Margie, a witness to the attack. Kurt was the rapist, and Hank, the arresting officer. How did Elliot fit into this? And his wife, Jennifer? As Simon and Jade Maxwell?

  A faint cry for help echoed into the room. He frowned, trying to figure out the source. He started to walk toward the door.

  “Help!”

  This time it was louder, more panicked.

  * * *

  Ryan bolted out of the room, down the hall and across to the ladies’ restroom. He could hear others behind him, but didn’t bother to turn and look. He slammed through one swinging door, then anothe
r, and halted at the sight that met his eyes.

  Meagan sat on the floor, holding a shaking hand to her forehead, tears rolling down her cheeks as she stared at the scene with horrified, stunned eyes. “Help!”

  Jennifer lay unconscious on the floor, a visible lump on her forehead, and Margie—Ryan’s shoulders sagged. Her eyes stared fixedly at the ceiling, a dark crimson puddle slowly pooling around her head. She was beyond help.

  He turned, barring access to the door as Jeffrey ran up behind him. “No, you shouldn’t,” he told the man quietly.

  Jeffrey looked at him, confused, and then dread filled his expression. “What’s happened?” he asked hoarsely. “Please, let me in.”

  “No—” Ryan said as Jeffrey tried to push past him. He held him back. He felt the tension drain from the man, the muscles relax as he caught sight of his dead wife.

  “Oh, Margie,” Jeffrey wailed, sagging against Ryan. “Margie, please, no.”

  Ryan met Hank’s eyes over Jeffrey’s shoulders. Hank wore a curious look on his face. Ryan shook his head. Just once. Hank’s shoulders sagged, and he covered his mouth with his hand. Paula gasped, trying to crane her neck to see past him, stunned, wary, and just a little fascinated. Deborah just turned away, her shoulders shaking.

  “Please,” Meagan said from the floor, weakly. She looked up at them, her gaze shocked as she pulled her hand away from her head. Ryan saw the blood on her hand at the same time she did, and thrust Jeffrey toward Hank. Paula put her hand on his shoulder, half in support, half in restraint.

  Ryan quickly crossed to the dazed woman and lightly grasped her chin. Her complexion was pale, her eyes drawn. He turned her head gently, inspecting the wound. Her head had split open near the hairline. “What happened?” he asked her quietly as he turned to Jennifer.

  “I don’t know,” Meagan whispered, her breath hitching.

  “No, Jeff,” Hank called, and Ryan looked up in time to see Jeffrey break free of Hank’s hold and stumble inside the bathroom, sinking to his knees and sobbing at his dead wife’s side. His hand trembled as he smoothed back a hank of hair off Margie’s face. He got out a handkerchief from his shirt pocket and proceeded to wipe the spittle and refuse off Margie’s face, crying uncontrollably as he did so.