Endless Abduction

by Gloria Martin

  Inga brushed the hair from his eyes, her hand lingering in a moment of tenderness on his forehead. She felt something for him, it was true, but when she looked down at him, she saw no future.

  She dressed and left the apartment. The sun was already waning, as it did so quickly in the early afternoon these days. Winter was on its way, creeping down from the north, wrapped in the darkness and cold that would soon enshroud the city. As Inga walked along the canal towards the building that her class met in, she thought about Kalle. She loved him, but she couldn’t be in love with him; he met her every expectation, and somehow she found it to be disappointing. He was terrifically and terribly predictable. Or perhaps, she reflected, it was because she had spent her childhood alone or in the company of the bohemian wanderers that would pass through her parents’ farm.

  It was this perpetual boredom that had driven Inga to forensics. The boundless brutality of humanity intrigued her. For each reason for a crime there were an infinity of ways to commit it. She liked the company of her classmates. Some of them were fairly typical; hulking men attempting to curry favor with everyone and anyone for the sake of their placement at the Police Academy. But others were true scientists, obsessed with the minutiae of every crime scene.

  The class was meeting in the morgue that day. As Inga walked down the stairs, she felt a growing sense of excitement mixed with a tingle of fear. It would only be the second real body she had ever seen.

  “Welcome, welcome.” Professor Janson waved a gloved hand, encouraging her to hurry into the room. She was the last one there, and she quickly dressed in a lab coat and gloves. The morgue was lit with bright fluorescent lights that hung low over three metal tables. The white of the walls and the tile floor, combined with the chill that permeated the room from the huge steel mortuary refrigerator on one side, made Inga feel as if she were standing inside of a fridge herself.

  “Today we’re examining a unique case,” the Professor intoned, opening one of the vault-like doors of the refrigerator, and drawing out a sheet-covered body onto one of the tables. The students gathered round, some of them with less enthusiasm, but Inga stood right beside the professor, where the head of the body lay. He delicately pulled the sheet off of it. Inga had to stifle a gasp. It was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen. Coal black hair splayed out around her face like a halo against the sheen of the steel table. Her face was pure porcelain white, a pure presentation of death, and yet there was something lively that lingered around her flawless features. Her eyes were closed, long ebony lashes splayed against the paleness of her cheeks. There was still a hint of ruby on her lips, which had stayed closed, even in death. “Any observations?” the professor asked, looking around the table.

  Inga leaned closer, looking intensely at the woman’s face, and then down to the flawless skin of her neck where two ruby puncture wounds seemed to sit just on the surface of the skin.

  “She’s been dead for just under 20 hours,” one of her female classmates guessed.

  “Right, and we know this because?”

  “Rigor mortis has already worn off,” Inga replied, looking up, “but just barely.”

  “Very good. Cause of death?” Professor Janson asked.

  Again, Inga jumped at the chance to answer. “Exsanguination…Puncture wound to the neck, and her blood’s been drained.” She felt a chill run up from the base of her spine as she said the words aloud.

  The professor nodded, “Which means what…What can you now assume about the perpetrator?”

  There was a flurry of murmurs among the assembled students. Some of those who were more interested in the profiling area leaned forward now. “I bet it’s a serial killer,” said a tall, brown-haired wannabe cop, “You know, like a real sicko.”

  Professor Janson nodded, “Possible, but as this is the first body that’s turned up like this, what else could it be?”

  “Vampire-obsessed goth crime of passion?” suggested another student, stifling laughter.

  “Show some respect,” Professor Janson snapped sternly. The morgue fell silent and his words echoed over the assembled students, “Everyone was someone, do you understand? Even Jane Does.”

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean…” the student cleared his throat, “Anyway, it could be, right?”

  “That’s right,” the professor confirmed, “Given the intimacy of the method, we can assume that the killer knew their victim, at least well enough to get close to her.”

  Inga’s eyes flitted from the puncture wound back to the woman’s face. There was just something so perfect, so statuesque about her features, that she seemed almost unreal. The last body they had observed had seemed just simply to be dead. But this woman radiated a sense of what Inga could only describe as serenity, like a Grecian statue, or a Renaissance depiction of the Virgin Mary. She involuntarily reached out a hand and touched her neck, just above the puncture marks. The classroom fell silent.

  “Ms. Larson?” Professor Janson asked. “An observation?”

  “Oh, I…” Startled from her revere, Inga scrambled to justify her odd behavior. “I was just thinking that it was strange that there were no other marks on her neck, no contusion, just the two puncture wounds. Whatever they used must have been very sharp.”

  “Excellent,” Professor Janson complemented her. “For example?”

  Inga looked around at the class. Everyone’s eyes were on her now. “Well, something smooth, I think, based on the lack of tearing, maybe a large needle, or…Whatever it was it would have had to have been made of smooth metal, or ceramic, or possibly bone?”

  “You see,” the professor continued, “Ms. Larson has just illustrated a very important aspect of this field. Every little detail matters. It’s not enough to observe that there is a wound. You must observe the wound itself. Am I being clear?” The class murmured its ascent, some of them casting sideways glances at Inga. She stared down at her notepad feeling at once pleased and embarrassed. She avoided looking at the woman’s face for the rest of the class for fear that she might again reach out for her.

  The rest of the day dragged on in the usual fashion. She sat through a lecture on mold, but she barely heard a word the professor said. Even as she scribbled down notes her mind lingered on the memory of the dead woman’s face. Perhaps, she reasoned, it was because she recognized her from somewhere? It wasn’t impossible, but Uppsala was such a small city that if she recognized someone, more than likely another student in the class would have shared in that recognition. Inga was relieved when at last 5:00 pm came, and she was released from her academic obligations. She left the campus and walked to her apartment in the city center, just a few blocks from Kalle’s, along a quaintly cobbled alleyway.

  She went upstairs, drew the red flower printed curtains, and switched on the old-fashioned tiffany lamp that sat on her bedside-table, before stripping off her sweater and undershirt. She couldn’t show up to Kalle’s bar looking like she had crawled out of an Ikea catalogue. In the soft golden glow of the lamp, Inga paused to admire herself in the mirror. She was slender and tanned from the long sun-soaked summer. Her breasts looked full and pert in the indigo blue lace bra she wore. In her navel, a small diamond glimmered teasingly.

  As she looked at her own body, Inga found her mind wandering back to the woman she had seen on the table at the morgue. Who was she, this mysterious and beautiful woman? Why had she died like that? Inga pulled on a sheer lace top that showed off the blue of her bra, and ended just at her waist. A pair of high-waisted pants of soft fabric that showed off the curves of her body followed, and then a pair of black stilettos, and the outfit was complete. She applied her makeup with a practiced hand, going for a smoky-eyed look with dark red lipstick. One last glance in the mirror, and she pulled on a black fur jacket and left.

  It was 8:00 pm when she met her friend Astrid at the bar. They were almost opposites, Inga and Astrid. Astrid was from Stockholm, and her tastes were acutely metropolitan, though she buried them under a guise of long skirts and pea
sant tops. She often told Inga that she thought they should have been switched at birth so she could have grown up in the country, while Inga could have enjoyed the urban upbringing that she was clearly meant for. Astrid was short and buxom, with chestnut hair and perpetually rosy cheeks. She was beautiful in an atypical way, and on one occasion, after a few bottles of wine, Inga had even ended up sharing a bed with her. It was Astrid’s chest, she had reasoned to Kalle at the time. How could anyone resist nuzzling such tantalizingly soft breasts? He had been forced to agree, but the incident left a question mark hovering over their relationship. Would he ever be able to fully satisfy her?

  That night, Astrid was wearing a wool skirt and a white blouse that accentuated her natural curves. Her short hair framed her face perfectly. She sat at the bar with a bottle of wine, and two glasses, one full, one empty.

  “Well hey gorgeous,” she smiled as Inga approached her, slipping into the seat beside her.

  “Hiiiii,” Inga replied, kissing Astrid on both cheeks before shrugging her coat off and waving to Kalle, who was busily preparing a cocktail at the other end of the bar.

  “Long day?” Astrid asked, pouring her a full glass.

  “Yeah, just finished up with a boring lecture…You?” Inga didn’t mention the practical at the morgue. She still wasn’t quite sure how to categorize what had happened.

  “Same, basically. Oh, except I’m tutoring a freshman now…” Astrid rose her glass and they toasted, “To ludicrously beautiful nineteen year olds.”

  “You little cradle robber,” Inga joked, drinking deeply from her glass, “Are you gonna go for it?”

  “Him, and yes, probably, as long as he gets all As, anyway,” Astrid smirked, “You know, if he’s good.”

  Inga laughed, “You are so bad!”

  “Heyyyy, just because Kalle doesn’t fulfill your bondage fantasies…”

  “Shhhhhh!” Inga shushed her friend and stifled a nervous giggle. It was always like this when they got together. Astrid was mischievous by nature, and it was too easy to make Inga squirm in front of Kalle. They could have met at another bar, of course, but Heim, where Kalle worked, offered the appeal of free drinks and the occasionally excellent DJ or hip-hop MC. It was a small bar. The entire interior was decorated with wooden slats, in an approximation of a cabin or a traditional sauna hut. The inventive cocktails and craft beers attracted locals and the more discerning of students alike. Inga liked going there not just because of Kalle, but because the atmosphere always seemed to be balanced perfectly between chaos and calm.

  By 10:00 pm the crowd at the bar had swelled. Astrid was drunk, and had taken to flirting with nearly anyone, regardless of gender or appearances, who came within two feet of her. Inga was beginning to get bored. Her eyes wandered from her friend to Kalle, who again was at the opposite end of the bar vigorously muddling oranges in the bottom of a glass. The crowd was a typical Friday crowd, dressed to impress, impatient to be intoxicated.

  And then Inga saw her. A few paces behind Astrid, leaning casually on the bar, was a woman whose face was so familiar to Inga, that she couldn’t believe her eyes. A thrill of excitement rose up inside of her chest as the woman looked up and caught her gaze. Her dark eyes were mesmerizing. Inga’s heart was beating hard now as she stared back into the woman’s eyes. They were pitch black and fluid, like still pools of immeasurable depths. The noise of the crowd seemed somehow muted now, and for a moment, they were the only two people in the room.

  Astrid’s voice burst through into Inga’s consciousness. “What it god’s name are you staring at?” she said. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,”

  She blinked, and the woman was gone. The crowd swelled around the bar. “I…” Inga trailed off, clutching her hand to her chest for an instant, feeling the racing of her own heart beneath her palm. How could she explain what she had just seen? A woman who had been lying dead on the table just that morning had stood just feet away, as alive as she was herself. “…Nothing. I thought I recognized someone, but it wasn’t who I thought it was.”

  She shook her head as if trying to clear it. How could have it been the same woman? It was preposterous even to consider. Inga lifted her glass to her lips and drank deeply. It had to have been a fantasy—the result of too much lab time and too much red wine.

  The rest of the evening passed in what seemed like an irrelevant blur to Inga. Though she tried to focus on her friends, the image of the woman from the morgue loomed before her eyes as if in a waking dream. She wavered between uncertainty and conviction. Surely she had been mistaken. Or, perhaps it was a twin sister. But then, what if, somehow, it had been her? The exact same woman who had lain, so beautiful in death, in the morgue? The questions spun in her mind through a haze of wine and noise.

  “Hey Astrid,” Inga said. “I think I’m going to head home.” Her friend looked crestfallen.

  “Really? But it’s only midnight,” she pouted. “What’s up? I thought you were down for a night out—plus I thought you were going to help me land a cutie…”

  “I’m really, really sorry,” Inga replied, taking her friend’s hand and squeezing it. “I am really not feeling well.” Truthfully, she was allowing the thoughts of the mystery woman to take priority over her plans, but she knew she wouldn’t be able to enjoy herself at this rate anyway.

  “Okay,” Astrid replied, clearly disappointed. “I guess I’ll see you later.”

  “Say ‘bye’ to Kalle for me,” said Inga. She slid off of her chair, threw her black fur over her shoulders, and headed for the door. She stepped out into the cool evening hair, and exhaled a sigh of relief.

  The streets were filled with bar-goers and party animals clinging desperately to the last remnants of summer. The evening air washed over Inga’s flushed cheeks, crisp and refreshing. As she escaped the main street for a more secluded route home, the sound of the late night revelers faded into silence and was replaced by the quiet shuffling of leaves blowing across the cobblestones, harbingers of the autumn chill. Inga glanced over her shoulder often, unable to shake the sense that there was someone following along behind her. A block from her front door she turned, and caught a glimpse of a shadow darting into a doorway.

  “Astrid? That better not be you,” Inga called out, trying to maintain steadiness in her voice. “Hello?” Maybe she had imagined it. She kept walking, quickly now. She was sure she could hear footsteps behind her. She broke into a run and fumbled with her keys, hands shaking, desperate to unlock the door before wrenching it open, and running upstairs to her apartment. She wrenched the door open, and slammed it behind her, sliding the deadbolt fast. Breathing heavily, she sunk to the floor with her back to the door. Although she could hear nothing, she was sure there was someone there, standing just on the other side off her door. The adrenaline that coursed through her body made her legs weak. Her heart raced. She felt somehow more alive. She realized that there was a part of her that liked being afraid.

  Inga undressed and collapsed into bed, drawing the duvet tightly about her naked body. She slept fitfully that night, her mind filled with visions that moved fluidly between the terrifying and the erotic: The woman from the morgue lay next to her in the bed. She held a hand over Inga’s mouth and straddled her hips, her hair falling in a dark curtain over Inga’s eyes, throwing her into darkness. The scene transformed, and Inga was alone in a cabin near her parents’ house. The snow fell thick outside of the windows. Inga looked out over the white and silent landscape, to the silhouette of the pine forest. Something moved between the tree trunks. Inga screamed, but no sound came out. She could not speak. Darkness fell. Inga was walking through the hallway of the morgue. She walked down into the examination room, which was bright white like the snowy landscape before it. It was as if she were watching herself. Inga reached out and opened the cabinet, pulling the body of the woman from the morgue onto the gurney. She was as beautiful as Inga recalled her to be. She reached out and caressed the perfect porcelain skin, trailing a finger across her cheek
and down to her neck, over the wounds to her clavicle. She rested the finger on the woman’s sternum, the place where the curve of her breasts began beneath the white sheet that covered the rest of her body. The woman’s eyes opened, and she smiled a fanged and terrifying smile. Inga screamed and started awake. She was tangled in her bed clothes. It was still dark outside. She breathed deeply, attempting to calm herself. Awake, she felt an unusual anxiety fall over her mind. She was disturbed by her own obsession with this dead woman. Even for someone with such a deep desire to bring more darkness into her sexual life, Inga couldn’t justify her mind’s tendency towards borderline necrophilia. It was unnatural. As she lay there in the dark, Inga wondered if she shouldn’t see a therapist.

  The birds outside her window were wakening, calling to each other in the darkness, their voices mixed with the drunken conversations of stragglers stumbling through the street to bed. Inga pulled the covers up to her chin and closed her eyes. She was glad that Kalle hadn’t come. She didn’t know if she could face him after a dream like that. Sleep tugged at the corners of her consciousness, and Inga succumbed to drowsiness. She slept until noon, dreamless and perfectly still.

  When Inga finally rose from her bed, she was refreshed. The sun had already tipped passed the meridian as she got ready for her class. The events of the day before lay heavily in the back of her mind, almost indistinguishable from the dull pain of her hangover. She took a long shower. The hot water cascaded over her body, making her relaxed and alert. She dressed in blue jeans and a white sweater, matching her red-framed glasses to her red canvas sneakers. She didn’t feel like struggling with contact lenses, and glasses always seemed to provide her with an extra buffer between herself and the world. It wasn’t until she had already left her apartment, and was walking along the canal towards campus, that she noticed a series of texts from Kalle. She was tempted to ignore them, but when she caught the gist at a glance, she stopped in her tracks.