Resuscitation

by D. M. Annechino

“You can bet your last pair of knickers on it.”

  “Do I at least get an innocent kiss goodbye?”

  “I don’t think there’s anything innocent about you. You really don’t let up, do you?”

  “Not with a woman like you.”

  “Okay, will you settle for a peck on the cheek?”

  “Not what I was hoping for, but sure.”

  She leaned toward him and pressed her lips against his cheek. She was just about to pull away when Julian grasped her shoulders. Their eyes met, faces only inches apart. He moved toward her and kissed her softly on the mouth. “My apartment is only a few blocks away.”

  Unable to believe how effortless it had been to pick up Genevieve, or more accurately, how easily she had picked him up, Julian led her to his rental car. They got into a pearl-white Cadillac CTS and headed for the loft apartment he had rented only a few weeks ago. Four blocks away from Tony’s Bar & Grill, it took only minutes to arrive. Julian hadn’t kissed another woman in over ten years. As much as he wished the kiss hadn’t fazed him, he was terribly excited and hated himself for feeling this way.

  Genevieve pawed through her oversized purse. “Mind if I text my friend, Katie? I feel a little guilty that I left her at the bar.”

  “And what are you going to tell her?”

  “Not to wait for me.”

  Julian couldn’t be more pleased. He pushed the remote and the security gate lifted so he could park the Cadillac in the dimly lit underground garage. His was the only car.

  “This is a little spooky, Julian,” Genevieve said, her fingers dancing on the cell phone keypad.

  “Sorry. The garage does look like a dungeon. I’ve completely renovated the building. But I haven’t had time to deal with the garage yet. It seems less important than the rest of the place. My loft spans the entire second floor, and I don’t mind saying that it’s remarkable. The architects who rent the lower level are rarely here, so I pretty much have the place to myself. It’s hard to find that kind of privacy in downtown San Diego.”

  They stepped into the elevator and the moment the door closed, Julian’s arms were around her and he kissed her long and hard. This had not been his intention, not part of the plan. His actions were purely of a primal nature. He almost forgot why he’d brought her to his loft.

  It’s the alcohol, Julian. Stay on task.

  She backed away slightly, nearly out of breath.

  Julian recognized that he was heading down a dangerous path. What was he thinking? If he wasn’t careful, he could easily get distracted. He couldn’t afford to jeopardize his research in any way. But kissing this lovely, young woman so passionately brought back images of Rebecca and Marianne, visions of the dark shed behind their house, and of the game they had forced him to play so many years ago, a game that helped mold his sexuality.

  “You don’t waste any time, do you?”

  “I’m a very impatient man.”

  “Can we slow down just a bit?”

  The reality of it all was unfolding in a way he hadn’t imagined. He never thought he’d get sidetracked. But images of sexual grandeur tugged at his conscience. He had to remain focused on his only goal: recognition for his breakthrough research. He could not afford to lose sight of his primary objective.

  Her knees nearly buckled at a vision of Julian making love to her. She’d been with her share of men, some inhibited and insecure, others like charging bulls. But she felt certain Julian was a different breed, and guessed that soon she’d be in his bed. She felt inexplicably attracted to him. Out-of-control attracted to him. So much so, that she’d abandoned all reason. As much as she wanted to ravish him, that little voice in the back of her head waved a red flag.

  She had not been truthful with him. He wasn’t the first man she’d picked up in a bar. Far from it. But unlike with other men where she was merely looking for a wild evening with no strings attached, with Julian she wanted more. Genevieve could not fathom why—she hardly knew him—but of this fact she was sure. She imagined meeting him for coffee, sharing a romantic dinner, taking long walks on the beach—all the corny things she’d seen in a hundred chick-flicks. She could also see him clearing off the dining room table, tearing off her clothes, throwing her down, and taking her. But if she gave him what he wanted tonight, there might not be flowers, or candy, or courting. It puzzled her that at such an early juncture she fantasized about a storybook outcome. Something about Julian set her heart ablaze.

  For a moment, she thought about coming up with a believable excuse of why she had to leave. When the elevator door opened, long before she had a chance to step out, Julian’s arms surrounded her again, but this time he kissed her gently. It wasn’t like his last kiss. It was more of a first-date kiss, with an all-consuming intensity.

  “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  The spacious loft was anything but humble. It looked like something you might see on the cover of House & Garden magazine. From the Brazilian cherry floors to the granite countertops and gourmet kitchen to the Ethan Allen furnishings, it looked like a hip loft you might find in SoHo, New York.

  “Humble isn’t quite the adjective I would choose to describe this place,” Genevieve said.

  “Charming, isn’t it? How about a little snifter of Bailey’s or Grand Marnier? Just to take the edge off.”

  She certainly needed to take the edge off. She remembered what he’d admitted about alcohol and his behavior. “Are you having one?”

  “I’m already past my limit.”

  “In that case I’ll have just a whisper of Bailey’s, please. On ice.”

  Julian pointed to the Victorian sofa. “Make yourself comfy while I get the drinks.”

  He went into the kitchen to the wet bar where he kept a generous assortment of wines and liquor. Julian kept his back to her and spoke over his shoulder while doctoring her drink. “Would you like a snack—crackers and cheese, bruschetta with some crusty bread, Godiva chocolate?”

  “Mmm. How could anyone turn down Godiva?”

  He put a few ice cubes in her snifter, added some Bailey’s, and stirred her drink to be sure the potent drug dissolved. He sat next to her on the sofa, handed her the drink, and set the box of truffles on the cocktail table. He gestured toward her with a glass of sparkling water.

  “To you, Genevieve. May all your dreams come true.”

  Julian stood over Genevieve, alarmed that she was still sound asleep. She hadn’t so much as uttered a sound. Had he miscalculated the amount of sedative he’d given her when he had spiked her drink? As he was about to check her vital signs, she moaned, turned her head, and opened her eyes.

  “Welcome back,” Julian said. He smiled warmly, then turned away from her and adjusted the flow on the IV bag. When finished, he sat on the edge of the bed. Genevieve turned her head away from Julian and he noticed her gaze at the video camera mounted on a tripod.

  Her voice barely audible, she whispered, “Why are you doing…this?”

  “I don’t have a choice, Genevieve.”

  “You…do have a choice. You can cut these damned straps…give me my clothes…and let me go.”

  “I’m afraid we’re beyond the point of no return.”

  “I don’t understand what you mean.”

  “The wheels of fate are already in motion.”

  This was now a game of riddles. “What did you do to me…while I was unconscious?”

  “I undressed you and covered you with a sheet.”

  “You raped me, didn’t you? Videotaped yourself…fucking me.”

  “I’m not a rapist.”

  “Then why am I naked?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “You’re a fucking liar!”

  “If I had raped you, you’d know it. Wouldn’t you sense that your body was violated?”

  “I can’t even see straight. How would I know if you—?”

  “Your anger is only going to make it more difficult.”

  Genevieve began to sob. “Please…don’t
hurt me. Please let me go.”

  He stood up and walked to the corner of the room. Several minutes later, Julian returned to her bedside wheeling an LCD screen mounted on a steel pole with tripod legs and squeaky wheels.

  “Is that a…heart monitor?” she asked.

  He sat on the corner of the bed and gently stroked her arm. “Have you ever heard the quote, ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few’?”

  She shook her head.

  “Spock said that in one of the Star Trek movies. But he plagiarized. Aristotle, in a much more complex and philosophical way, said basically the same thing thousands of years ago.”

  “What does Spock’s quote have to do with anything?”

  “Unfortunately, Genevieve, you represent the few.”

  Sami Rizzo raised her wine glass and motioned toward Alberto Diaz. “To you, my dear.”

  He returned the gesture and gently clicked his glass of non-alcoholic beer against Sami’s glass of Merlot. “I can’t believe we’ve been a couple for two years.”

  She reached across the table and laid her hand on top of his. “Any regrets?”

  “Only that I should have fessed up a long time ago. We should be celebrating our fourth year together.”

  “It’s all about timing. And yours was perfect. Any sooner and I wouldn’t have been ready for more than friendship.”

  “I do wish I could toast you with a glass of wine,” he said.

  “I’m afraid that you and alcohol will never be friends again.”

  “Booze and I never were friends.”

  Considering what he was about to tell her, Al wished he had a stiff drink in front of him. Since Sami’s brush with death at the hands of Simon, the serial killer who held her hostage in his Room of Redemption with the intention of crucifying her like he’d done to four other women, Al and she had agreed never to speak of Simon again.

  But in spite of their efforts to manage the residual shockwaves, Sami still suffered from violent nightmares. Although the frequency of these graphic and terrifying dreams had decreased considerably—thanks to a solid year of intense therapy—not a week passed without Sami bolting upright in the middle of the night, dripping cold sweat, and shaking uncontrollably. She had shared these episodes with Al many times. The memory of the breathlessness she felt as she hung on that cross, and how it made her heart pound out of her chest. Al wondered how many times she had felt the cold steel piercing her wrists. How often were her dreams so real that she was sure someone was driving spikes into her feet? After over one hundred sessions of therapy, she still had a long way to go.

  For several days now, Al felt that he should break their pact and ask Sami if she’d heard the news. It was all over the newspapers and on every TV station, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about it. It was possible that her crazy schedule shielded her from current events. She was taking four difficult classes at San Diego University, tending to her daughter, and spending some time with her mother, who of late had not been feeling well. But this was a news item that would most certainly interest Sami.

  “Have you been watching the news lately?” Al asked.

  “And when would I find time to do that? I barely have time to pee. No one knows that more than my terribly neglected lover.”

  He didn’t need to be reminded. They hadn’t had sex in…what was it now, a month, six weeks? And as much as Al loved Sami, adored her, this platonic aspect of their relationship was starting to take its toll. Angelina was sound asleep, rarely known to awaken in the middle of the night, and considering that today they celebrated their second anniversary, he hoped the evening would end with some quality lovemaking.

  “Simon refused an appeal,” Al blurted. “Some nonsense about wanting to appeal to a higher power.”

  Sami fixed her stare on Al but didn’t say a word.

  “It usually takes years to execute a murderer, but once Simon refused an appeal, Judge Carter, a woman with bigger balls than a gorilla, had no problem pushing the law to its limits. No mercy from her.”

  “Death by lethal injection?” Sami asked.

  Al nodded.

  She processed his announcement for a few minutes. “That’s too damned merciful. I wanted the bastard to rot in jail for the rest of his perverted life.”

  “It might take awhile before they do him in.”

  “One can only hope.”

  “Sorry I broke our agreement, but—”

  “I’m glad you told me.”

  Sami excused herself, went into the kitchen, returned with two steaming hot dinner plates, and set them on the table.

  “Looks wonderful,” he said. He tasted a forkful of the sea bass and made a yummy sound. “You kept your promise.”

  “What promise is that?”

  “In two short years you’ve gone from frozen pizzas and Chinese takeout to wonderful home-cooked meals. I can’t imagine how you manage things with such a crazy schedule.”

  “Love can make a woman do a lot of things she didn’t think she could do.”

  “You’re going to make me blush.”

  “You’re blushing because I love my daughter?” Sami could barely suppress her laugh.

  He laughed. “I’m glad your workload hasn’t diluted your sense of humor.”

  “Hey, if I lost my sense of humor, you’d be in a heap of shit.”

  They ate dinner, sipped their drinks, and engaged in small talk. Sami served dessert—New York–style cheesecake with fresh strawberries.

  “Do you miss detective work?” he asked.

  The question caught her off guard. “I get my fix through you.”

  “Is a fix enough? What I mean is, now that you’ve been away from homicide for a couple of years, do you still feel as strongly about becoming a social worker?”

  “My view of social work has been somewhat tainted. There’s quite a difference between my idealistic image and the real world. Two of my professors have been more than blunt about some of the challenges social workers face. And to be honest, I’m not totally positive I can deal with the political BS.”

  “Just to be the devil’s advocate,” he said, “don’t you have to deal with politics no matter where you work?”

  “True, but I paid my dues as a detective and learned how to work the system. With social work, it’s uncharted water.”

  Al helped Sami clean the table and load the dishes in the dishwasher. When they finished, he pulled her toward him and gave her a firm hug. “This is a bit cliché, but you really light up my life.”

  “Don’t ever apologize for saying something sweet.”

  He kissed her softly on the lips and handed her a beautifully wrapped present. “Happy anniversary, Sweetheart.”

  She looked at it for a moment and slowly peeled the paper away. Inside the velvet box she found a diamond-studded heart on a gold chain. “It’s beautiful. Thank you so much.” She looked at the floor and shook her head. “Um, I didn’t get you—”

  “Let’s go to bed and make love all night long.”

  “That’s a wonderful idea.”

  Genevieve watched Julian adjust the IV, increasing its flow. She tried desperately to fight, but with her arms and legs securely bound to the bed, there was little she could do. Moments after her fruitless struggle, she felt dizzy and nauseous. Her body and mind seemed suspended in a barely conscious twilight state. Julian carefully placed the heart monitor electrodes, ironically, at places that might be a lover’s point of caress, four on her bare chest, one on each wrist, one on each shoulder, and one on each ankle. He turned on the heart monitor, and Genevieve, eyes fighting to stay open, could see the rhythm of her heart displayed across the LCD screen. She wasn’t sure what a normal rhythm looked like, but she could barely see that her pulse rate was ninety-seven beats a minute.

  Dressed in green hospital scrubs, Julian turned on the video camera and stood at the edge of the bed beside a small table crowded with various surgical instruments. He treasured these brilliantly crafted tools. To som
e, they were merely cold steel. But to a surgeon, they had sacred meaning. He examined each one, making certain he had everything he needed. He checked Genevieve to be sure that the anesthesia rendered her completely unconscious. Once that was confirmed, he selected a scalpel and stood frozen for a moment over her naked body, poised to make the critical first incision.

  He realized that he faced certain limitations. If he were in a hospital surgery room, he’d be working with other surgeons, an anesthesiologist, several nurses, and a surgical technician. But he stood alone. And his loft, of course, was not a sterile environment. On the other hand, infection was not an issue he needed to be concerned about because none of his subjects would survive the experiments.

  From this moment forward, everything Julian held sacred about his life, career, his relationship with family and friends, and his conception of the Hippocratic Oath would forever change. Once he found the courage to press the scalpel against her sternum, he could never go back.

  He forced himself to focus on the most important goal of the research: global recognition. He longed to be validated as a pioneer among surgeons.

  Looking at her exquisitely proportioned body, its total vulnerability, the soft curves from shoulder to breasts to hips, her perfectly manicured Brazilian wax, he retracted the scalpel. As much as it violated every ounce of reason remaining in his conflicted mind, he wanted her. Oh, how he wanted her. If he took her, he had only his conscience to deal with.

  He hadn’t noticed the resemblance until now, but Genevieve reminded him of a girl he had dated in college. Well, it could hardly be called “dating.” She had been a senior and he a sophomore. Eva something or other. A foreign student from Iceland. He could never pronounce her last name. In fact, no one could pronounce it. It was as long as a city block.

  Until he had met Eva, a wild-eyed party girl with natural platinum hair and the shapeliest ass he had ever seen, Julian never realized that he could derive so much pleasure from bondage. Before Eva, he’d had a dim view of anything kinky, particularly bondage, and felt that anyone who found twisted sex enjoyable should be locked in a padded cell.