by Jared Paul
...
Doctor Shannon Walsh’s offices were in Greenwich just off I-95. Her practice specialized in women’s health, natal care, and early childhood development. When they were dating Bollier used to tease Shannon that she was perfect with kids because their temperaments were so perfectly aligned. From the parking lot, the building looked to be twelve stories of shining blue glass and silver steel.
Bollier knew Shannon worked on the eighth floor and she wondered if she would be watching and if so what she must look like from above. An insignificant dot in a vast sea of Lexuses and Beamers, maybe, or perhaps a singular source of life and light in a dreary landscape of indolent machines.
As her heels clicked across the blacktop Bollier took a German fragrance out of her handbag and sprayed it on her neck. Bollier never bothered with such things, and she had to stoop to ask the counter girl at Bloomingdale’s that morning which scent she would recommend for a long night. The girl said that she knew just the thing and reached for a heart-shaped flacon with a gold stopper. She sprayed it on Bollier’s wrist.
“Lovely isn’t it? Can you smell the peony?”
Bollier nodded, not wanting to look like a rube.
“It’s very subtle, mixed in there beneath all that brazen mandarin orange. I like to think of it as being nestled between petals of jasmine and the lily of the valley, waiting on a bed of amber, Virginia cedar and musk.”
Because she felt she should say something Bollier said “It smells soapy to me.” The counter girl nodded and smiled the way a person does at an idiotic remark made by a sweet but senile woman in a nursing home. Bollier used her cop’s voice.
“Just give me the damn box.”
But now as she entered the elevator Bollier was glad she’d taken the counter girl’s recommendation. Even if she couldn’t tell peony from any of other notes she had to admit that the overall effect was intoxicating. There were two men on either side of her in the elevator and it seemed that they were not immune to the effect.
On the eighth floor Bollier got out and worked her through the labyrinth of sterile hallways. It was silent as the grave save for the humming of the fluorescent lights overhead. When she found the office she strode up to the desk. The nurse told her to sign the guest book and have a seat.
Bollier grabbed a sports magazine from the rack and sat down. A kid sitting across the way, maybe two or three years old stared at her until his mom told him not to be rude.
The kid dawdled over to a set of giant Legos in the corner. His mother grinned proud and ashamed all at once.
“Sorry about that. I’m trying to get him to stop staring at strangers.”
“It’s fine.”
Bollier hoped that her presence would not invite a conversation about procreation. It was a vain hope.
“Are you expecting? You certainly don’t look it.”
“No. Just ovulating.”
That shut her up and Bollier passed the time in peace, reading about the most recent grand failures of the New York Knicks to land another marquee free agent.
Mothers made her feel uncomfortable, insecure, so she relished the chance to return the favor. Mothers acted like they were superior to every other woman; like they had performed some great miracle or sacrifice by getting knocked up, and were in on a secret that only a mother could know or understand. Mothers filled Bollier with loathing.
If she felt disagreeable about mothers their broods outright gave her the creeps. Bollier did not know why. She wondered whether it was a cause or a result of her orientation. She found the whole idea of pregnancy repulsive; the fluids, the swelling, the pain. The child acted as a parasite, feeding on its mother until it was strong enough to break free. It was like the scene from Alien when the creature burst out of John Hurt’s chest. Why anyone would subject themselves to something like that was beyond her reckoning.
Worse than the pregnancy was the idea of being responsible for another human being. That idea filled her with a cold terror a thousand times more savage than any science fiction monster. Bollier’s analytical disposition uniquely suited her for being a detective, and in her mind made her patently unfit for parenthood. She was neither shy nor passionate about sex. This odyssey to Greenwich was a perfect representation of what it meant for the detective. Sex was like food or water; a necessary hunger to be fulfilled and nothing more, but the logical result was a nightmare. Women were not only far more physically alluring than men, but laying with them carried no awful risk of pregnancy, no lasting attachments and obligations. It was perfectly logical. Bollier suspected that there were far more women like her than anyone would ever know. She liked it that way.
A brother and sister on the far side of the waiting room were squealing over a toy as their mother begged them to be quiet. Bollier felt vindicated.
“Leslie Bollier?” A nurse called out.
She got up and followed the nurse to an empty examination room. The nurse asked her to lay on the table and told her to get comfortable.
“Doctor Walsh will be with you in a few minutes.”
“Thanks.”
After the nurse closed the door and she laid down Bollier felt her heart rate pick up. It had been months since she’d seen Shannon, and they hadn’t parted on friendly terms, but she hadn’t had a decent toss since. The mere whiff of Shannon was enough to excite her. What was more enticing was the knowledge that she could seduce another person so easily. Shannon would play hurt, be coy, maybe for a few minutes, then she would melt like a chocolate bar in one of those little brat’s hands.
Witnessing the prowess of her seduction in action and the promise of solid sex were nice, but Bollier’s greatest anticipation was for revenge. Shannon had cheated on her. She’d walked right in on it with Jordan Ross. Ever since that humiliation had never ventured far from her heart, even with the looming threat of the Russians. Now Bollier was going to get her back. She would fuck Shannon silly, use her for the cabin, and then when the dust cleared and it was safe to leave, dump her post haste. A perfect circle of justice served.
Bollier was starting to feel a warm, tickling sensation creeping up her inner thighs. She thought about the look that would be on Shannon’s face when she kicked her to the curb.
Just when she was beginning to feel tempted, the Doctor came in.
Shannon’s hair was cropped shorter and dyed a darker shade of red. She was wearing a white smock with her name sewed in cursive lettering over her heart. A stethoscope hung from around her neck. She tried her best to maintain her detached doctor’s timbre, but a slight flutter betrayed her.
“Hello Leslie. What seems to be the problem?”
It was a ridiculous way to start the conversation. Bollier had never been her patient when they were dating, and she had to know that was not the reason for her visit. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have cleared a spot in her calendar so fast. Usually it took two months to book an appointment with the esteemed Doctor Walsh.
Bollier sat up erect. Her legs were crossed.
“Hi Shannon. It’s good to see you.”
The Doctor cleared her throat and made a check on her clipboard.
“It’s um, it’s good to see you too. I was surprised when you called. Are you having some kind of… issue?”
Bollier had to stifle a laugh. When they first met Bollier had found it impossible that there could be someone even more socially awkward than her. And yet Shannon was that and much more. This was going to be even easier than she’d imagined.
“Yes. I am.”
Shannon had taken a seat on a stool with wheels. The detective stood up. Her chest was at Shannon’s eye level.
“What um. What seems to be the problem?”
She could practically see the effect of the fragrance in real time. Bollier licked her lips and eased her weight back against the examination table. She imagined it was how someone would stand if they were trying to look seductive. Perhaps she’d seen a starlet strike the pose in a movie once, yes. Marilyn Monroe in Some Like it Hot,
that was where she’d seen it.
“I have this itch lately.”
Doctor Walsh glanced up at Bollier, her eyes widening.
“I see. Where um... Where is this itch um...? Exactly where is it?”
Pouring as much honey into her words as she could manage, Bollier answered.
“Would you like me to show you?”
...
Bollier walked out of Doctor Walsh’s offices fifteen minutes later, twirling a set of house keys around her index finger. On her way to her car she called Agent Clemons, who did not waste time with any small talk.
“Did you get it?”
“Mission accomplished. The place is all ours until this weekend when Shannon comes out.”
“That-a-girl.”
Chapter Ten
In the middle of the night the entire north block at Sing Sing prison was aroused by the sound of a blood curdling scream. The F sharp rang out loud for a moment, then it changed to a wet, choking sound. A gasp and a moan followed and then nothing. The lights came on everywhere and the inmates were roused from their beds.
“What the hell’s going on?” An inmate from up the block shouted.
“They found Simpson. Someone done cut his damn throat open with a fountain pen,” some anonymous prisoner shouted back.
Shirokov lay still in bed. Before the commotion he had already been lying awake, too disturbed by the rumblings in his tummy to fall asleep. Winston shot up and listened intently to the call and response echoing from the cell block.
“No way! Simpson is dead?”
“Simpson BEEN dead. They got Harper too! Same shit, right in the neck.”
Shirokov was rolling his fist over his stomach in a counter-clockwise motion. He moved it slowly from the ascending colon up, around the bottom of his rib cage, then down to his pelvis on the other side. Up, around, and back down again. Winston watched him do this so long that he suspected might become hypnotized if it went on much longer.
The guards were shouting now, telling the inmates to be quiet.
“How the fuck does this happen? TWO? In one night?”
An argument commenced. The particulars were lost on everyone not in the immediate vicinity of where it was happening. Some of the guards were blaming the others, while the prisoners mocked them from the relative safety of their cells. Over the din they could hear the warden’s baritone rising.
“Now listen here all you porch monkeys and spics and chinks and dirty Jews. We are going to find out what happened here tonight. We will find you and we will punish you. I promise you that.”
The clamor died down soon after and the lights went out. Winston spoke to Shirokov.
“Killing guards and shit. That’s off the hook now. You know about Harper and Simpson right? Both them two was on the Aryan Brotherhood’s payroll.”
“Oh. Were they?”
“Yeah.”
Winston could not say for sure but he thought he detected a smile spreading across his cell mate’s face in the dark.
“Not anymore.”
…
The Walsh family cabin squatted on a secluded woodland plot of land not far from Mount Riga State Park at the northwestern tip of Connecticut. Jordan Ross and Detective Bollier had fled there the previous winter after he was ambushed at his home by a trio of Russian gunmen.
While he was staying at the cabin, Jordan recuperated from his injuries and began the intensive training regime that had transformed his body into a sleek killing machine again. During his downtime, he’d played poker and gotten drunk with Doctor Walsh off the extensive scotch collection in the basement bar. He had mostly fond memories of the place. They came flooding back to him as Detective Bollier turned the key and opened the cabin’s back door. The reassuring mix of pine and oak hit his nostrils and he instantly decided that coming back was one of Bollier’s better ideas.
Agent Clemons got settled in the guest room downstairs while Jordan unpacked in the one on the main floor, just off the master bedroom. It was a spare, small room clearly constructed with a child in mind. Tiny winged angels were carved into the single twin bed’s headboard. Jordan had not noticed them during his previous visit.
He had brought so little with him that it only took five minutes to unpack. Jordan’s bag was packed with weapons from the service, trophies taken from dead Russians, a canteen, a fresh pair of underwear and a change of socks. Agent Clemons had promised to take him shopping for a new wardrobe in town once they were settled in.
The Russians did not know about the cabin, but Jordan had learned the hard way too many times that no place was safe, and so Jordan hid a Ruger inside the pillowcase, a Colt Mustang in the closet, a .38 in the sock drawer, and slid the M4 under the bed. Jordan then carried the ancient army green gym bag out of the bedroom and through the house, unloading it and hiding weapons in places that would be easy to reach in an emergency. Jordan put another .38 in the cabinet next to the tea bags, he hid a .22 in the bathroom medicine cabinet, a glock 19 on the mantel over the fireplace, two Uzis downstairs in the bar next to the gin, and he put the AK-47 under the pool table. Jordan also kept a Smith & Wesson and his Yarborough on his person at all times.
When he was through unpacking he found Bollier in the kitchen preparing a cup of tea. She had changed into a bathing suit and was also wearing a bemused expression.
“Are you sure you brought enough guns?”
“Definitely not. When Kyle and I go out shopping for clothes later I think I’m going to get a bow and arrow set, maybe another handgun too.”
“I was joking, Corporal.”
“Rather have too many guns and not need them than to need them and not have them.”
Detective Bollier accepted this without another word and got to work on preparing a four-course dinner. For three days the group had the run of the cabin, enjoying themselves as much as possible before the highly mercurial and immature Doctor Shannon Walsh arrived. In the meantime they played board games and brainstormed for ways of finding Jordan’s sister without reporting back to the NYPD or FBI. They were stuck on that point.
Jordan got along with Shannon best out of the three of them, and might have even called her a friend, but even he had tired of her antics and constant prying over the winter. Agent Clemons tolerated her presence with grunts and nods.
The exact dynamics of Bollier’s relationship with Shannon were a mystery to Jordan. He could not imagine two more dissimilar souls. During his first stay at the cabin they had bickered constantly, whenever they weren’t in bed. It seemed to be the only place that they found an accord together. As the weekend was approaching Jordan sensed a tension rising in the detective. The plan had worked. Bollier had obviously seduced the Doctor easily enough. Now she had to follow through. Jordan doubted that the plan would be good for her emotional well-being, but Bollier was sober, and when she was sober she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, so he said nothing.
Shannon arrived on Friday afternoon, bearing a cooler filled with ice and Miller Lite, and enough chicken wings to feed a platoon. She walked in on Jordan and Agent Clemons playing a game of Battleship at the kitchen table. Shannon dropped the cooler.
Ever the gentleman, Jordan got up and greeted her.
“Heeey Shannon! It’s good to see you. Do you need a hand with that?”
Looking more than just a little confused, Shannon nodded.
“Um. Yes. It’s. Heavy. Hi Jordan. Hi Kyle. Um. Where’s Les?”
On cue Detective Bollier came swaggering into the kitchen. She was wearing a low-cut light blouse and a pair of jean shorts that left the imagination wanting.
“Shannon! You’re here. I thought the weekend would never get here. Oh my god look at all that chicken. I guess we’re grilling tonight, huh boys? Kyle, come take this cooler down to the bar there’s more ice...”
Bollier was about to embrace her old paramour when Shannon screwed her face into a frown.
“Yeah. Um. Les? Can I have a word with you?”
&
nbsp; “Sure. Sure. Fine, do you want to speak in private?”
“Um. Yeah. The bedroom.”
The two ladies walked out of the kitchen and through the living room, then they turned left. Someone slammed the bedroom door shut behind them. Shannon had left her summer party package thawing on the kitchen floor. Sheepishly, Jordan and Kyle packed the half-thawed chicken into the refrigerator. The cooler would not fit so they left it on the counter.
Muffled voices came from the master bedroom. One of them was getting louder, more shrill as the time passed. The other stayed calm and even, cooler than a cucumber in a pitcher of ice water. This only seemed to aggravate the other voice. The calmer it was, the angrier the other became.
Agent Clemons asked if Jordan wanted to keep playing.