His thigh muscles bunched and relaxed under her butt as he strove to fill her to the limit. Sweat broke out on her brow and began to pour down her face, and with pure instinct guiding her now, she increased her pace, rising and pounding down on him, a high ululation issuing from her lips to match Marty's increasingly gruff and urgent grunts.
She came, her pussy muscles clenching him hard, and she screamed out her release. One thrust, and another, his hands dropping to grip her waist, and then Marty was spending inside her, jet after jet of hot cum that splashed and tickled deep within.
* * * *
Caroline lay in bed, gazing up at the ceiling and feeling lower than she could ever remember. Every detail of her stupid actions of the night before was imprinted on her mind, and insisted on playing back, over and over until she felt she could weep.
Conflict was nothing new to her. The frequent spats between her parents and Tom or Claudia, or sometimes all four when she was growing up seldom impinged directly on her life, but she was fully aware of the effects the arguments had on her family and mourned them. It was something entirely new and unpleasant to know she was at the heart of a rupture between Claudia and Martin. Claudia's short way with her on the phone the night before when she'd called to apologize had given her scant cause for comfort. She loved her sister dearly, and hated being the target of her anger.
A soft knock sounded at the door, it opened and her mom poked her head around. "Are you not feeling well, honey?" she asked.
"No, Mom. I… I had an argument with Claudia last night. I was acting stupid."
"That's not like you," her mom said and came into the room. Bending over the bed, she felt her forehead. "You're so hot! Could it be a reaction to the medication they gave you? Drugs can make people do silly things."
"Maybe," she said. A wonderfully clear image of Martin's face came to her mind, a mental snapshot of the moment when she'd walked naked into the sitting room, and she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to dispel it through sheer willpower.
Her mom must have misinterpreted the gesture. "I hope you're going to stay home today, young lady!" she said in her best schoolteacher voice, one Caroline remembered so well.
"Yeah, Mom. I called in sick when I woke up this morning. I knew I wouldn't be able to do any good at the hospital."
"Good girl. Look, I've got to go to school; will you be okay on your own?"
"Yeah."
Caroline watched with bleary eyes as her mom picked up the dirty clothes she'd left neatly folded on a chair the previous night and made for the door. The sight of them brought back the memory of undressing hurriedly in the bathroom of the apartment, and she briefly closed her eyes with pain.
Her mom paused at the door and looked back. "If I were you, I'd keep off that computer today as well. Too much of that isn't good for you."
"I will, Mom."
"Okay, then. You rest up, and I'll see you tonight."
"Okay, Mom. Bye."
Settling back in the bed, she wondered what to do with her unexpected free time. She glanced at the computer, thinking that with no one else in the house she could cyber all she wanted and scream as she came—if she so wanted. Her pussy gave a small twitch, but with the memories of last night so fresh, her mind overruled her body ruthlessly.
But the sight of the computer made her think. She'd taken the silk domino from the drawer the previous morning before leaving for work, ready to seduce Martin with it. It had been in her hand when she got dressed again after her failed attempt, but for the life of her she couldn't recall putting it in her pocket. A quick scurry into the bathroom and she searched through the dirty clothes her mom had placed there. Nothing. She sat on the edge of the bath and sighed.
* * * *
"What are you going to do about Caroline?" he asked, when she returned from taking a shower.
Claudia paused in the act of putting on her bra. The way she stood there wearing only her panties, the way her shoulders were pulled back to make her breasts thrust out as she put on her bra made his tired cock give a violent twitch.
"I'll need to talk to her tonight," she said, fastening the hooks. Running her fingers around the cups she smoothed them out over her breasts and gave him a half-smile. "Maybe by then I'll have figured out what to say."
"Will you talk to her at home?"
"Yeah. I'll have to drop by, talk to her face-to-face."
"What about your dad?"
She laid aside her pants and came over to sit on the bed beside him, wrapping her arms around him to hold him close. "Don't think I've forgotten what Dad stirred up between us, Marty. I don't think I'll ever forgive him for doing that."
"I do hate to see bad blood between you, love," he said, stroking her hair.
"It's his fault," she said tersely.
"I know." He drew back and gave her a sad smile. "My dad and I didn't get along, so I know what it's like."
She stroked his cheek. "Oh yeah; I remember you telling me."
He kissed her and drew her close again, savoring her warmth, the sheer physical feeling of holding her in his arms. "What I'm saying is Andrew's a typical dad. He was fine up to a point when we had dinner. Maybe he doesn't want to let go of his kids."
"He's got to, sooner or later," she said with a growl.
"Tell him that."
"I've told him that, and I will again—that and more," she said, drawing away and picking up her pants again. "But Caroline's my main concern right now."
"It strikes me that Caroline's like a bomb waiting to go off," he said as she put them on. "At least with a bomb the experts can use a controlled explosion to make it harmless."
She cocked her head and looked at him. "What did you say?"
"I said at least a bomb can be made harmless with a controlled explosion." She nodded and looked thoughtful. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. You've just given me an idea." Claudia gave him a broad grin. "Many a true word's spoken in jest, Marty," she said, stooping to kiss his forehead.
"What do you mean?"
She picked up her jacket and put it on. "I think I've figured out a way to deal with Caroline. It's going to take me a while to figure out the details, but I'm sure it'll work."
"Oh, dear!" he sighed. "Oh, dear, oh, dear, oh, dear!"
"Aw, you'll love it!" she said, picking up her purse and sweeping out. She waved as she went through the door. "See you later, you gorgeous hunk!"
* * * *
The shrill alarm blared out, bringing John Burwell to his feet by pure reflex. "Oh, shit! Not again!" he groaned, grabbing his case and heading for the door.
Sue Littlemoor was running down the passage as he emerged into it, her face grim. "It's Louise Gold's alarm," she said without stopping. "She's somewhere in the private suites."
Together they pounded down the passageway with the alarm blaring out from klaxons fixed at every corner, and came to the private suite. A nurse was leaning against the wall outside the same room where Mendoza had taken his hostages. Burwell saw her round pleasant face was deathly pale. "Louise? What is it?" he asked, slowing his pace when she merely watched them come.
For answer she jerked her thumb toward the open door, then turned and retched. Dreading what he might see, he laid his hand on Sue's arm and walked over to the door. Peering in, he felt his gorge rise in his throat.
Blood was splashed everywhere. Great crimson sprays marred the walls and furniture, and pooled on the pale carpet around the head of the man lying face down on the floor. One hand was outstretched, a wickedly-sharp and bloody scalpel clutched in its grip. Gulping down deep breaths to steady his nerves and stomach, he advanced toward the corpse—for corpse it surely was. He knelt by the body and gently felt for a pulse, purely as a formality; none. Bending lower so he could look at the face without moving the body, he asked, "Who is it?"
"Henry Fiskin." It was Sue who answered, her voice cool, detached. Only a barely discernable tremor betrayed her emotional turmoil. "He was discharged last week, but
came back to pick up some paperwork."
"Why did he come in here?" Burwell asked, annoyed at the plaintive note in his voice. As a psychiatrist dealing strictly with the mind he was unused to the mess a human body could make. "Why did he kill himself? Why?"
"I've no idea, Doctor." He felt her hand rest on his shoulder, and her fingers gave it a gentle squeeze. "Look, don't blame yourself for this, okay? Whatever reason made him come in here and kill himself had nothing to do with you."
"I wish I knew that for sure…”
"Doctor, listen to me!" she said urgently. "You assessed him, and he was fit to be discharged. I processed his paperwork and I can attest that he was cheerful at the time. He was happy to be discharged." As he stood up, she shivered, and he noticed how cold it still was in the room. "What do we do now?"
"Call the police, I guess. It's possible he may've been murdered." He sighed and ran his hand through his hair. "Take Louise with you, make sure she gets to sit down and have something to drink to settle her nerves. Send one of the security guards back here; I'll stand watch until they arrive."
Sue departed, and he left the room with a sense of relief, glad to be away from the metallic stench of fresh blood and the gruesome sight. Leaning on the wall where the nurse had been, he drew a deep breath. "What the fuck is going on in this place?" he asked the air.
* * * *
Winifred watched from her aerie as the unhappy spirit joined the multitude of others below. The darkness exuded a nauseating aura of satisfaction. She knew he was aware of her, yet cared nothing. What was worse by far than his satisfaction was the air of expectancy underlying the good humor.
She searched in vain for the bright spirits of the young nurse and the man. The pressure of time was building; just a few more days and all her resistance would be futile. As the knowledge wrung her heart, she became distantly aware the darkness had shifted his attention elsewhere. Following the line of focus, she saw a bedraggled man trudging through the rubble and slushy snow behind the old building, his overcoat unbuttoned in spite of the keen wind. Every line of his bearing conveyed deep despair. From below, the air of expectancy grew, became tinged with a warped kind of compassion.
"Oh, no!" she moaned.
* * * *
Martin showered, reluctantly washing off the smell of Claudia's pussy where it remained on his cock and amidst his pubic hair. His cock became tumescent at the thought of the morning's lovemaking, and he stroked it gently, feeling the tenderness there, recalling the way it felt to be buried so deep in his lover.
With a sigh, he let it go and recommenced washing other parts of his body. There was too much to do—and besides, he knew they would make love again that night. His heart soared anew at the thought that all was well between them once more.
His breakfast was a solitary but cheerful affair. As a sop to the cold weather, he cooked a traditional British fry-up of bacon, eggs, sausages, mushrooms and tomatoes with ketchup and buttered toast on the side, all washed down with a mug of tea. As he ate he had the chance to think over the sudden ease with which he'd been granted access to the files he needed. Burwell had seemed so reluctant before, yet suddenly there hadn't been any problem—at least, none he could see.
He called up the address on his cell phone's text section, and studied a city map. The archives lay a short drive across town, and a glance out the window showed the snow was beginning to melt in the intermittent rays of sunshine. No problems there. He would have time enough to make a good start on the records before the archive closed for the day. It would be too much to expect to be able to bring the files back with him, but he'd be a step closer to solving the mystery that was affecting those close to him.
Unbidden, a memory of Caroline flashed up before his mind's eye, the young woman slender and gloriously naked as she walked sedately into the sitting room. He shook his head and dispelled the image with an effort, and wondered not for the first time what Claudia was planning to do about her sister.
* * * *
Two patrol cars had arrived. Quickly establishing the nature of the incident, the cops set up a perimeter around the private suite, and one took station at the main entrance. A sergeant had arrived in the second car, and Burwell gave her a brief précis of what had happened, and then she passed it on to homicide. Eventually a CSI team arrived, accompanied by a detective. Burwell watched them enter the room before making his way around the hospital, reassuring staff and patients alike that all was in hand—if not exactly well.
The detective was waiting for him when he returned to his office. "Hi, Doc, I'm Detective Lovett, Indianapolis PD homicide, attached to CSI. Could you give me a run-down of events leading up to the incident?"
Incident—such a neutral term! Burwell thought. "Sure. Let's go into my office to talk. It's private, and frankly I need to sit down; my back is killing me."
"Occupational injury, Doc?" the man asked as they went in.
"No, I got this playing football," he replied, sitting down. It was only partial relief, but however much he would have preferred lying on the couch, he didn't like the image it would present to the cop. "Even psychiatrists need to let off steam sometimes."
Lovett sat down opposite him, and folded one leg over the other to support his notepad. "So, what happened, Doc? From the top, please."
Burwell told him, and the ballpoint scratched busily over the pages as Lovett wrote. "This isn't the first incident here this week, is it, Doc?" he asked, glancing up.
"No. Another of our patients had a relapse and took a nurse and myself hostage for a brief while." Uncomfortable at having to admit to the incident, he waved a hand. "It can happen. Some influence outside the hospital can tip a patient over the edge again. Luckily we were able to subdue him before he harmed himself or others."
"Where's this guy now?" Lovett asked, writing this down.
"He's being examined at a secure clinic in town."
"Okay." He looked at his notepad and moved on to his next question. "CSI found a rusty scalpel clutched in the victim's hand. Can you tell me where he may've gotten it from?"
"I've no idea."
"It couldn't have been left lying around somewhere here?"
The question was a deliberate provocation, but Burwell had years of professional experience in playing mind games. "This is a psychiatric clinic, Detective," he said, "not a surgical unit. When this place was in full operation, some of our patients' illnesses inclined them to self-harm—or suicide. Even now we're dealing with low-risk patients we still keep sharp implements off the premises and run regular sweeps to ensure it stays clear. We even insist any workmen who enter the building check their tools before and after leaving, just in case."
He waved in the general direction of the main doors. "You'd have noticed we have a metal detector at the main entrance in accordance with regulations; it's old but still functional. If anyone tries to get in here with a weapon, even something as small and easily pocketed as a scalpel, they would be detected."
Lovett jotted this down. "Could it have been passed to him through a window?"
"No, not possible; the windows don't open."
"And the doors are linked to an alarm?"
"Yes."
Lovett tapped his pen on the pad, and his brow furrowed. Then he looked up, his eyes sharp. "That only leaves the possibility someone inside could have given him the weapon."
"Again, you'll remember the metal detector on the door," he said patiently. "All the patients and staff have to enter through it."
"Okay, but the older ones aren't foolproof."
"Then it'll have to be checked for malfunctions."
"That can be done." Lovett made another note. "We got an independent assessor for those."
"I'm sure it'll prove to be fully functional. As for our staff, they're all trustworthy, highly qualified and experienced people," Burwell said sternly. "I hope you're not looking at them in terms of suspects?"
"We don't rule anything out at this early stage, Doctor," Lovett
replied, putting away his notebook, "but right now we can't see any other ways the guy could've gotten hold of a scalpel. As for your current crop of patients being low risk," he said and looked him in the eye, "after this I'd suggest you reassess them. Thanks for your time."
* * * *
In the private suite the investigation had passed through the photography and sketching stages; markers stood on the floor indicating potential evidence; the rusting scalpel had been bagged and secured. Now Alvin Drake, Chief CSI on the spot, moved methodically to gather other, more fragile evidence.
He squatted down and examined the north wall of the room. A spray of blood here showed early indications of having come from the victim—although he wouldn't make any assumptions—but another substance had attracted his attention. It had shone quite clearly under the UV flashlight, indicating it was of bodily origin. Popping a swab from its protective tube, he took a sample of the dark smear and placed it in his box. On entering the room he'd noticed a sour odor hanging in the air, a fact confirmed by his colleague and the cop who'd first entered the room. The odor seemed stronger here, and he speculated if the substance was the source. In a ten year career in CSI, he'd smelt everything a human body could produce in all stages of both life and death. This smelled sour and long-dead, but it matched nothing in his mental databank. His professional curiosity was piqued. This case would be another one for the textbooks.
* * * *
Arriving at the archives, Martin had to pass through yet another metal detector system before being allowed into the public building. The proliferation of security measures was beginning to weigh on his spirits. Why anyone would wish to target an archive was beyond him—but then, it was a whole new country with its own way of doing things.
He was directed to the appropriate office, and sat down at the desk set aside for him. An office assistant placed a stack of files beside him. "These cover the Daniels-LaRoche Center up to the year 1950, sir," he said, and touched the top folder. "This stack includes everything on reported incidents in the hospital, the rest are all patient records."
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