Ravaged

by C. R. Lacerte

  The girl simply stares at him, unflinching. She’s beyond feeling shame now, beyond feeling anything. Her eyes are dead, and expressionless. A twinge of sympathy threatens to brush against my heart, but I flick it away. I haven’t time for emotions tonight.

  My target’s hefty mass disappears from the window, and every fiber of my being is run through with a powerful surge of adrenaline. Here we go.

  I open the door of my black SUV and close it silently behind me. I’ve observed my target long enough to know his every habit. After he’s blown his load onto the body of some helpless woman, he likes to enjoy a cigarette on his balcony, overlooking the sprawling beach and churning Atlantic. Tonight, he’s going to have a little unexpected company on his smoke break.

  Slinging my rifle over my shoulder, I move through the shadows of neighboring beach houses, scowling at all the tasteless signifiers of new money. I don’t mean to be a snob, but no one with an infinity pool deserves to be able to afford one.

  I reach the trellis leading up to my target’s terrace, shaking my head in amusement. Why didn’t he just leave a damned ladder waiting for me? The endless stupidity of simple, corrupt minds is sometimes too staggering to even consider. The enormity of this villain's false sense of superiority and invincibility is stunning.

  I vault up onto the balcony, listening as my target’s heavy footsteps approach. Skirting into the shadows once again, I watch as the lumbering fool makes his way through the French double doors. The sudden blaze of a lighter and simmering glow of his Cuban cigar are the brightest point in the lightening dawn. He heaves a satisfied sigh and stalks across the terrace, gazing out toward the horizon. There’s a smug half-smile plastered on his jowly face. He probably feels like the king of the world in this moment.

  I’m more than happy to rob him of that conviction.

  “It looks like rain,” I say casually, keeping hidden within the shadows.

  My target whips around, his bloodshot eyes as big as saucers. “Who’s there?” he calls, “Who the fuck are you?”

  “A concerned citizen,” I reply, taking the smallest step forward. I want him to be able to see the outline of my looming, capable body. I want to him to know from the very start that he’s no match for me.

  “You’re trespassing on my private property,” the man says, cigar still clenched in his teeth. “Leave now, or I’m calling the police. I’m warning you.”

  “Is that so?” I reply, taking another step toward the disgusting man. “You’re going to call the police while eight underage sex slaves lounge around upstairs with your DNA all over them? I rather think not.”

  My target narrows his eyes, trying to get a good look at me. I’m dressed in my typical work uniform—black jeans, black tee, black leather jacket. My face is perfectly visible. I have no reason to cloak my identity while I work. After all, it isn’t as though I ever leave an eye-witness behind.

  “What are you, some kind of vigilante?” the man demands, trying to keep the fear from his voice as he spots my rifle. “Are you here to scare me with talk of human rights and all that bullshit? Because I’ve been pitched that kind of nonsense before, and you know...I’m not in the market.”

  “No,” I say, “The only thing you like to pay for is sex with women who don’t happen to be your wife. I don’t blame her for refusing you. Have you fucked her once since your daughter was conceived? Or were you already a sniveling mess by then? I’ve always found men who purchase hookers’ favors to be unspeakably repulsive. It must be so emasculating, knowing that the only way you can possibly sink that flaccid dick of yours into a woman’s body is by shelling out cash.”

  “I find it thrilling,” the target retorts.

  “Thrilling?” I laugh, “It’s thrilling to be such a repulsive piece of shit that not only do you have to pay for sex, you have to get it from helpless underage slaves?”

  “That’s a very fine speech,” my target sneers, “I’m sure you’ll get to give it again once the authorities show up.”

  “The authorities won’t be making an appearance tonight,” I tell him.

  “On the contrary,” he says, “My property is guarded by a dozen different silent alarm systems. You’ve undoubtedly tripped about five in the time we’ve been speaking. Even at this moment, twenty private security offers are on their way to arrest you. And let me assure you, they’re not being paid to ask about the girls in my bedroom. You’re not the first person to try to intimidate me, you know.”

  “I’m not here to intimidate you,” I tell the man, shrugging the rifle off my back.

  “Good luck,” the man cackles, almost hiding the fear in his puffy eyes, “Any second now, the cavalry will arrive. And even if you make a run for it, I’ve got fifty security cameras trained on you right this very second. You’ll make it about ten paces before they find you and have their way with your ass.”

  “You must be used to dealing with amateurs,” I say smoothly. “There will be no cavalry galloping up to rescue you. There will be no intervention, no pursuit. There won’t even be any mess to clean up. The rain will take care of that. I’ve disabled your security systems. And your cameras. I’d rather hoped that you’d pose more of a challenge, quite frankly. It would have given me a great deal more satisfaction. At least I’ll have the pleasure of knowing that you’ll be rotting in the ground somewhere once tonight is through. I like that idea quite a bit. Auf Wiedersehen.”

  “Wait—” he cries, staggering forward. But I’ve already brought my rifle down and pulled the trigger before he can get another word out. The silenced blast is muted as my bullet tears into the man’s well-padded chest, through his heart, and exits out of his back.

  It’s a direct hit at point blank range, and the blood spatter is spectacular, as usual. A crimson rose blooms on the front of his terrycloth robe, and his pockmarked face goes slack. Pink spittle bubbles over his many, many chins as he topples to the ground, lifeless.

  The target is lying face down in a pool of his own thick blood, the cigar still burning in his fat fingers. A wet droplet dashes itself against my cheek. A little fall of rain will wash this all away.

  Back down the trellis and into my car I fly, leaving the headlights off as I pull away from the beach house. I grab a pay-as-you-go cell phone from my glove compartment, where it rests with a dozen others just like it. Peeling onto the highway, I dial three very familiar numbers.

  “Hello, I’d like to report a crime,” I say in a flawless American accent. “There are some underage girls in trouble at 485 West Ocean Boulevard. I heard some commotion over that way. I’m just a concerned neighbor, but I’ve been suspicious of that man who lives there for quite some time. I just thought that you should know.”

  Without waiting for an answer, I toss the phone out of my car window, watching it shatter as it hits the asphalt. An eighteen wheeler rushes over the debris as I look on smiling. I turn on the car radio and take a deep breath as Elton John begins to croon about Mona Lisas and Madhatters. Heavy rain splashes against my windshield as the rising dawn is obscured by the storm. The world may be rid of one more heinous monster, but the rain is still sure to fall hard as ever. It always does.

  Chapter Seven

  -Hannah-

  The week flies mercifully by, thanks to a few extra shifts in the ER. One of the other nurses on staff came down with a nasty head cold and was more than happy to give me a few extra days of busy relief on duty. She looked at me like I was out of my mind when I happily accepted her shifts, but it’s nothing I’m not used to. I probably could have acted a little less elated about the fact that she was too sick to work, but oh well.

  Every night leading up to my first shift at the Roth residence, I sleep more soundly than I have in months. The nightmares that have been plaguing me since my breakup with Sloan are finally petering off. I wake up feeling rested, and oddly excited for the day ahead. More than once, I’ve woken up from a deep sleep feeling more than a little turned on. I can never remember the exact details of my nig
htly wanderings through dream world, though.

  I have my weekly therapy session penciled in after work today. One of the perks of working at a hospital is access to a great team of health care professionals. And thankfully, the psychologists that we refer patients to don’t have offices anywhere near the hospital. I can keep my weekly pilgrimages to myself, rather than have the entire hospital staff know that I’m in therapy. I know that seeing a psychologist is nothing to be ashamed of, but it doesn’t exactly match the cheery disposition I affect at work.

  I give report to my relief nurse about the patients we’re currently treating and head on over to Dr. Perkins’ office on the other side of town. Sophia’s actually the one who recommended Dr. Perkins to me. She’s struggled with depression all her life, part of the artistic temperament, she says. I don’t exactly buy that, but I’ve hit it off really well with Dr. Perkins anyway. She’s a lovely, straight-shooting woman in her mid-fifties, with a long mane of curly gray hair and a dozen pairs of cat’s eye spectacles. Dr. Perkins is kind of like the zany aunt I never had. All my aunts are Daughter of the American Revolution. Not exactly a crowd known for its zaniness.

  Dr. Perkins is waiting for me when I arrive to the office. As I settle down onto her comfortable chintz couch, she places a cup of lemon ginger tea down in front of me.

  “This stuff is like ambrosia for the nerves,” she says knowingly, taking a sip from her own cup. “I sometimes think that if Hitler and Stalin sat down over some lemon ginger tea...well. Things may have turned out differently.”

  “That’s not hyperbolic at all,” I mutter, shaking my head.

  “So, fill me in,” Dr. Perkins says, settling back in her arm chair. Her office really does look more like a tea house in Greenwich Village than a shrink’s office. I suppose that’s what I like so much about coming here.

  “Well, I do have a spot of good news,” I begin, “Do you remember that job I was telling you about last week, the private duty gig?”

  “You got it!” Dr. Perkins says happily, “I knew you would. I could tell how invested you were in the patient just from the way you talked about her. I’m sure that came through in the interview.”

  “I guess so,” I smile. “I start in just a couple of days.”

  “You must be feeling relieved, now that you’ll have more to occupy your days soon,” says Dr. Perkins. I appreciate the fact that she never tells me I’m being a workaholic or running away from my problems. She knows that, right at this moment, the best thing I can do for myself is to stay busy.

  “Very relieved,” I tell her, “I’ve been sleeping better.”

  “Lovely,” she says, “That’s a great sign. The nightmares are starting to fade?”

  “They are,” I say. “Ever since I got this job, they’ve actually been displaced completely.”

  “Huh! By what?” she asks.

  “I can’t say for sure,” I tell her, “These new dreams are so vivid, but once I wake up I can never remember them entirely. I have a feeling, though, that I might know who they involve.”

  “Do tell?”

  “I think...I’ve been dreaming about my new employer. Mr. Roth,” I admit.

  “You’re blushing, Hannah,” Dr. Perkins says. “Could it be that you’re a bit attracted to this new boss of yours?”

  “He’s very attractive,” I tell her, “Ridiculously handsome. Well-built. Just poised enough without seeming polished. I’d be crazy if I weren’t attracted to him. I have no idea what he’s like as a person, of course. We’ve only just met. I’m sure he’s a stuck up rich boy, at his core, but—”

  “Why do you say that?” Dr. Perkins interrupts.

  “I don’t have a very high opinion of rich boys, I guess,” I say dryly.

  “You can’t hold an entire class of people responsible for the actions of one stupid boy,” she reminds me.

  “Can’t I though?” I reply, “Wealth breeds entitlement. Entitlement breeds disregard for other people. It’s no coincidence that Gregory’s parents owned three houses and a stable, yet he was able to act like an animal when he attacked me.”

  “Sloan isn’t wealthy,” she says quietly.

  “...No,” I admit, my ex’s name hitting me in the gut like a well-placed punch.

  “Cruelty is not the product of wealth, nor the lack of it,” Dr. Perkins tells me, “Just as kindness and compassion can exist in anyone, rich or poor. I know that you associate wealth with your parents, who were themselves cold and distant. But you might be judging this Mr. Roth too quickly.”

  “You’re not suggesting that I explore my attraction to him?” I ask, surprised. “He’s going to be my boss!”

  “I’m not suggesting anything of the sort,” she says, “I’m only saying that you shouldn’t judge him too harshly. There are many kinds of affection, Hannah. You can admire and respect a man without loving or wanting him sexually.”

  “I’m sure that’s true,” I reply, “Though I can’t say I’ve ever experienced it firsthand.”

  “It is possible, I assure you,” she says. “It’s healthy, even. To have male friends.”

  “I guess I’ve never been allowed to have any,” I say. “When I was a kid, my parents forced me to hang out with my girl classmates, for fear of what the boys might do. Ironic, I know. And once Sloan came into my life...Well, male friends just weren’t permitted. Sloan made his point loud and clear when he attacked Dr. Collins. I suppose I’ve never known how to have a man in my life who’s anything but a stranger or a lover.”

  “Maybe Mr. Roth will be good practice for you, then.”

  “And Mr. Thomas.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “The butler,” I smile.

  “The butler?” Dr. Perkins cackles, “You weren’t kidding about the rich thing, were you? At least you know you’ll be compensated well.”

  “I’d probably do the job for free,” I tell her, “My patient, Gertrude, seems to be an amazing woman. She’s been through so much, but she’s still so vibrant and full of heart. Even though her life is nearly over...kidney failure really only has one outcome at her age.”

  “She’s lucky to have you,” Dr. Perkins says.

  “I’m lucky that they’re taking me on,” I say, “I really don’t feel safe being alone with my thoughts right now. Especially not with Sloan...” I catch myself. I hadn’t wanted to bring up Sloan’s continued attempts at communication.

  “Is he still trying to reach you?” Dr. Perkins asks, her brow furrowing.

  “...Yes,” I allow.

  “Are his attempts growing more or less frequent?” she goes on.

  “They’re...uh...”

  “You can tell me the truth, Hannah,” Dr. Perkins says, leaning toward me. “I know that your impulse is to protect him. God knows, you had enough practice with that while you were together. But Sloan is a dangerous presence in your life, Hannah. He’s no one that you need to protect. The person you need to worry about protecting is yourself, remember?”

  “I know,” I say quietly, shoving my hand through my hair. “His calls are getting more frequent. Two voicemails a day, rather than one.”

  “He’s panicking,” Dr. Perkins says, “He can feel you leaving him behind, and he’s doubling down. This is an extremely crucial time for your recovery, the time at which you’re most likely to slip and let him back into your life. I couldn’t be happier that you’re starting this new job right now, Hannah.”

  “Me either,” I say, “It’s so hard not to pick up the phone. I know it’s crazy, but...I miss him.”

  “I know you do,” Dr. Perkins says, “You just have to stay strong. Eventually, with a little more distance and hindsight, you’ll be able to see him clearly. And you’ll never want to go back to him again.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I sigh.

  “I’m often right,” she smiles.

  We wrap up our session on a happier note, and I head back home to catch some shuteye before my shift tomorrow. In a few short days, I’ll be
free of any spare time once again. Most people would find a setup like that to be horribly oppressive, but I can’t wait until that’s the case. I sleep as soundly as ever that night, while dreams of moonlight and murmuring fountains score my slumber.

  The hours roll along until, finally, I find myself wrapping up my last shift before starting work at the Roth’s home. I feel elated, and even buoyant, as I finish up the tasks I’ve started during my shift. I can’t wait to settle down with Mrs. Roth and really get to know her. Who knows how much time I’ll actually be able to spend with her before her time comes, after all. I want to enjoy every minute of her company while I still can.

  As I’m pulling on my jacket and heading for the door, one of the ER receptionists waves me over to the front desk. I veer over in her direction, impatient to be on my way.

  “What is it, Irene?” I ask.

  The big-boned receptionist hands me the telephone receiver. “You have a phone call,” she says shortly.

  “Who is it?” I ask, before grabbing the phone.

  “Your super,” she replies, “Some problem with rats in the apartment, I guess.”

  “Great, I mutter, bringing the receiver to my ear. “Jerry,” I say, “I thought we had the exterminator in just last week?”

  “Hope he acted like a gentleman, since I wasn’t there to protect you,” says an all too familiar voice. The gruff baritone sends icy shivers down my spine, rooting me to the tile floor.

  “I guess I have a rat problem after all,” I say through gritted teeth, “What do you want?”

  “That’s no way to talk to the man who loves you.”

  “I told you not to call me at work, Sloan,” I hiss, turning away from Irene’s curious gaze.

  “You’re shift is over. What’s the big deal?”

  “How did you know my—?”

  “You’re crazy if you think I don’t keep tabs on you,” Sloan laughs. “Hell, you’re crazy anyway for carrying on with this goddamn temper tantrum of yours. Are you finished with your hissy fit yet, baby girl?”