Stockholm Syndrome

by Melissa Yi

  He checked out the stains on my scrubs, but that started up the boobie hypnosis again.

  This was ridiculous. Barely anyone pays attention to my breasts, ever. They’re so small, one of my supposed friends joked that they’d been put on backwards. Why on earth would he be so taken with them, when he claimed he was on a mission for Casey?

  My brain clicked into gear, and I said, “I wouldn’t want to hurt Casey and your baby. With all this blood.”

  He jerked his head from side to side like a dog tossing water droplets out of its ears. “Casey,” he repeated.

  “Yes. The woman you love, who’s having your baby.” Casey might not want to hear this, but I needed to employ every weapon right now, including storytelling, like a Scheherazade on steroids.

  “Casey. My baby.”

  “Right.” He was a bit red in the face, as well as dumbly repeating my words. Maybe he was starting to lose it, too? Perhaps shooting people and holding hostages was taxing work, and he was starting to get tired and slow. One can only hope.

  I smiled at him, because his thoughts seemed to be staggering in the right direction, but then he fixated on my lips.

  Ryan once told me I had a sexy mouth, right before he did something X-Rated with it. So this was not the kind of attention I wanted.

  Maybe I should pick up the burqa.

  In fact, that was a great idea. Not that I wanted to share clothes with the guy, but I’d rather do that than get raped. So I said, “I’m cold.”

  “I can see that,” said Bastard, his gaze drifting down to my chest again.

  For a second, something flickered in my hindbrain. I’ve seen other girls use their looks to get ahead. It’s never been an issue for me. Not because I’m so heinous-looking, I think, but because it’s only in the past few years that Asian beauty has gone mainstream, that I’ve outgrown the “Flat nose! Four eyes!” comments, and because I’m really focused on school, not beauty pageants. I mean, Montreal has rained men down on me, but Ryan and Tucker are the exception, not the norm.

  Totally my luck, if I suddenly transformed from a forgettable duckling into a swan while being held hostage.

  But far more likely that Bastard was hopped up on adrenaline and wanted to jump anything with ovaries but no Ebola.

  I said, in a high, strained voice, “I’m just going to make sure I can find a change of clothes, okay?” while Tucker advanced toward the bathroom doorway and said to Bastard, “Maybe I can give you a hand.”

  “Don’t move,” said Bastard, but from the way he twitched his head to the right, he was talking to Tucker, in the main room.

  Tucker paused, but his dark eyes were fixed on mine, telegraphing, I’ll get you out of this.

  I shook my head slightly and pointed back his way, toward the delivery cart. “All the gowns are in the room. I’m going to go find one.”

  “I already looked, Hope.” Tucker sounded grim. “I don’t even see any disposables. You’d have to change back into your scrubs, if that’s all right.”

  “Let me have a look, okay?” I said, grinning at Bastard like a Hallowe’en skull before I thought to lower my eyes and glance up at him beneath my lashes. Hell, it works in cartoons.

  After a long minute, Bastard said, “I’ll come with you. You can wear one of those yellow things.”

  I’m telling you, if I get out of here, I am never looking at those MRSA isolation gowns the same way again.

  But at least he twitched his body out of the way so that I could edge past him without giving him a lap dance.

  Tucker stared at me as I passed by, and I tried to communicate, Trust me. I’ve got a plan.

  Sort of.

  I poked around in the delivery cart, but Tucker had already searched it, so I lifted a few cloth-wrapped shapes half-heartedly and said, “Hmm. I definitely don’t see the yellow ones you like.”

  “Stupid fuckers,” said Bastard.

  “Let me check around the bed,” I said, and when he didn’t say no, I carefully migrated to the side of the bed and scooped the burqa off the floor. “I’ll just put this on, and I’ll be fine.”

  “It’s too big,” said Bastard, but I was already fighting my way into it. It was like a bag, really, with the mail slot for the eyes, plus sleeves.

  I aimed for the eye hole first. I was trying not to panic, because I couldn’t see, and I could smell him in the cloth.

  Stale sweat and cheap deodorant and marijuana and beer and just the primal nastiness of wearing a murderer’s disguise. Plus whatever blood and amniotic fluid it had stewed in on the floor. But I forced myself to calm down. Better this than swallowing his semen.

  I swam my way through the material until I got to the eye hole, and then I flapped into one sleeve, and then the other.

  Bastard started cackling.

  I probably looked ludicrous. The sleeves were what felt like half an arm too long, and once I figured out the bunched-up hem and ushered it past my waist, it fell to the ground in a pool of material. He must’ve thought I looked like a kid dressing up like a black ghost for trick or treats.

  Even Tucker bit his lip like he was trying not to laugh.

  “I’m six foot two,” said Bastard.

  Okay. Taller than I thought. A foot more than me, not counting my quarter inch (Hope and the angry quarter inch! Could we make a musical about this? Bastard was even a drag queen, technically!).

  I guess we were all teetering on the brink. Whatever you wanted to call it, Bastard started laughing, a stupid hee-haw that tugged at the corners of my mouth, and Tucker shook his head and smiled at me while he mouthed, I love you.

  I love you, I mouthed back, and then it occurred to me that neither he nor Bastard could see my lips move. I might be kissing the same fabric that had caressed a killer’s mouth, but at least I had the freedom to mouth Die, motherfucker from behind the cloth.

  Which felt surprisingly good.

  Bastard finished laughing, and then he said, “You look stupid. Take it off.”

  Ugh. I hated that I had so little control over my own body that I couldn’t even wear his cast-offs without permission.

  “Now. And take a shower,” he said. From the look in his eye, he was looking forward to it.

  CHAPTER 35

  The burqa wasn’t working its magic yet. It’s supposed to help you keep your chastity because men won’t be tempted by your shape, but I guess these operative scrubs were just too, too sexy. I had to create a new game plan.

  Bastard gestured at Tucker. “Your boyfriend’s gonna use that thing to mop up in here anyway.” He held out his hand for the burqa.

  I considered resisting, but that hadn’t worked out for anyone else so far.

  The only thing that worked was outwitting him with Ebola. So I had to use that, had to gross him out, and remind him that I, too, was unclean.

  I started prolonging my exhalations. I’d play the asthma card again while I figured out what to do.

  Bastard dropped his eyes down to my chest once more. This time I was heaving, not in a come-hither way, and covered by heavy cloth. Still, it made me a little nervous, and I was already claustrophobic and a bit hot in the burqa, so it was easy to start wheezing. Just at the end. But definitely high-pitched and noticeable in the close confines of this room.

  “Aww. Your asthma’s acting up again?” said Bastard, in a concerned voice.

  I nodded my head. The burqa material bobbed up and down with me, but even the head part was too big. It drooped over my eyes. I shoved it back.

  “I guess you’ll be wanting this,” said Bastard. A grin crept across his face. He dug the puffer out and showed it to me with his left hand. He still had the gun in his right, but he was a little distracted by his own awesomeness right now.

  If we were going to attack him, now was the time. Right?

  I took a step forward, but the burqa material rippled, distracting me. If I was going to fight, I’d have to practice in this thing first.

  “Here, kitty, kitty,” said Bastard,
shaking the puffer at me. It rattled, and he laughed. Oh, he was having a grand time. Too bad nobody else was.

  Tucker said, “Dr. Sze.”

  “Shut up, motherfucker,” said Bastard, without turning around. Clearly, he wasn’t swayed by the fact that I was a doctor. Hell, maybe it would encourage him. At least, naughty nurse fantasies seemed to be pretty common. “I’m talking to her. And I’m telling you, Doctor Zee, that if you want this, you gotta do something for me.”

  Like delivering a baby wasn’t enough? “You want me to find Casey and deliver your son?” I said, playing dumb in order to reactivate fond memories of his baby mama.

  “Yeah. That,” he said.

  “Okay—”

  “And take your top off,” he said.

  My eyes shot back to his, startled, and he licked his lips and grinned. “Your bra. Everything. You gotta get naked for your shower anyway, right?”

  “No,” said Tucker, even before I could.

  Tucker walked around and stood in front of him. Between us. “She’s a medical doctor and deserves to be treated with respect.”

  Bastard laughed. “I’m treating her with respect, buddy. If I hadn’t, I’d already have her bent over.”

  This was not happening. I unlocked my lips. “What about Casey? I think I heard something.” I remembered to wheeze, but not too badly. I didn’t want him to believe this was a life or death issue in case I got distracted and forgot to wheeze.

  “What?” Bastard’s grin stretched across his face, wide enough to show a metal crown on his bottom left. “That old trick? You think you can grab the puffer out of my hand while I’m not looking? Dream on. And take that shit off. I bet you look all right under there.”

  At least he wasn’t drooling. Yet. “I’m serious,” I said. “Let’s talk to Olivia.” I took two steps toward the head of the bed, and the intercom, but Bastard grabbed me by the right arm and said, “Don’t make me rip this thing off of you.”

  Ah. The arm squeeze. I felt my hand veins bulge with a dreadful familiarity. I could sense the pressure in my arm, but not watch my veins react, through the burqa.

  “Let her go,” said Tucker. His voice sounded strangled. He was looking at Bastard, so I couldn’t see his face, even if the burqa didn’t keep dropping a curtain over my eyes.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I just want to talk to Olivia. I bet she has more news. OLIVIA!” I hollered, and Bastard’s hand clamped down like a live snake bracelet, but the intercom crackled to life.

  “Did you call me?” came Olivia’s calm voice, and somehow that broke the tension in the room, like a teacher suddenly bringing us all to order.

  I sagged inwardly with relief, but what I said was, “I thought I heard something. Do you have any news about Casey Assim?”

  “We’ve located her place of residence,” said Olivia.

  Bastard released my arm so he could yell at the intercom. “You found her fucking house? What kind of detectives are you? I need you to bring me my woman and my baby. Is that so hard?”

  Olivia said, “We’re doing our utmost, sir. We’ve contacted her family members.”

  “I’m her family, goddamn it! I’m the father of her child. Don’t you get that? Are you so fucking stupid?” He kept railing at her, and I thought, Good. Vent. Get it all out, so that you don’t need to rape me to prove what a fucking man you are.

  Tucker backed toward me, circling around Bastard and coming up on my right side, trying to cut between me and the bed. He was obviously eyeing Bastard, who stood on my right but slightly behind me, shouting while wielding the almighty gun. “Do you even know where Casey is? Huh? Do you have any fucking clue? Because if not, these doctors aren’t doing me any good. I could kill them any second. You think of that, bitch?”

  Tucker turned sideways, but he couldn’t quite wedge between me and the bed. I didn’t dare move, because that would draw attention to both of us, but when Tucker’s right arm slipped forward, I clutched his hand in my left.

  Tucker squeezed back so hard that it hurt. I knew what he was thinking. This was his line in the sand. He’d watched Bastard break down two doors. He’d watched him shoot June. He’d watched him threaten Manouchka and David. He’d watched Bastard hold me at gunpoint. He’d watched Bastard backhand me.

  But he wasn’t going to let the guy strip me and fuck me. He would die first.

  CHAPTER 36

  Tucker tightened his pressure on my hand even further. I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but for a second, he reminded me of Bastard.

  I closed my eyes, willing myself to breathe through the pain.

  This was so surreal. I was draped in a killer’s burqa, holding hands with Tucker, while the madman threatened to kill both of us.

  At least we’d saved Manouchka and David.

  Olivia spoke next. “Those doctors are valued members of our team.”

  It sounded like she was reading a script, and maybe she was. My heart dropped. If she wasn’t good at playing Bastard psychologically, he’d freak out. Sodomize me, shoot both of us, who knew.

  Bastard barked out a laugh. “They’re on my team. If you get Casey here in the next twenty minutes, and they deliver my baby, I’ll let them live. If you don’t, I’ll kill ’em. Simple as that.”

  “We need the doctors alive,” said Olivia.

  “Did you hear what I just said, bitch? They’re alive.”

  “We need you to show us. Right now,” said Olivia.

  Bastard paused to compute that. “Didn’t you hear the girl yelling?”

  “I need to hear both of them,” said Olivia.

  “Are you getting me Casey?”

  “We’re doing our utmost, sir.”

  He snorted. “Prove it.”

  “We know that you were living together at 2363 Giroux Road, Apartment B6, until three weeks ago. We know that she left that apartment—”

  “Ancient history,” said Bastard, although I wanted to hear it. Why had she left the apartment, and where did she go? Bastard had so few Achilles heels. One of them was Casey. Another was his son. We’d have to exploit them in the next twenty minutes in order to survive.

  “She talked to her sister this morning.”

  “Tara?” Bastard sounded distracted.

  “Yes. Tara, at 9:19 this morning.”

  “What did she say?”

  “We don’t have a recording of her call, just the record of her cell phone usage.”

  “So where is she using it, bitch? I know you’ve got a GPS and shit like that. Why aren’t you using it?”

  “She’s not using her cell phone right now.”

  “Probably the battery ran out. Stupid cow,” he said, but with some affection. You know how they complain that rappers are always calling women bitches and hos? I guess I finally met someone where that’s true. ‘Cow’ was a step up for him.

  “We’re finding her, sir. We’re holding up our end of the deal. Now we need you to hold up yours. We need proof of life for Dr. John Tucker and Dr. Hope Sze.”

  “Fine,” said Bastard, and let go of my arm so he could swing his left fist at Tucker’s face.

  Tucker ducked. He hadn’t let go of my hand, so I was jerked downward and sideways by his movement, before I belatedly caught my footing. I yelped.

  Bastard said, “Jesus. I’m just messing with ya.”

  Tucker didn’t take his eyes off of him as he slowly straightened his legs, keeping his knees soft. Ready for a fight.

  WTH?

  My brain calculated one thing: Bastard had jumped the shark.

  True, I doubt many people in their right mind start shooting and kidnapping hospital people in the first place, but at least he’d been consistent until the last twenty minutes or so. In some ways, it worried me more that he was regaining his sex drive and telling supposed jokes. What other lines would he cross next?

  Bastard chuckled, oblivious. “Now say hello to the nice lady.”

  Tucker squared his shoulders. He interlaced his fingers with
mine, which meant letting go of me for a second, but only so that he could weave our fingers more tightly. I thought that was symbolic, but before I could make a whole metaphor out of it, Tucker started speaking. “This is Dr. John Tucker.” His voice was firm. He took a breath to search for the next words. “Dr. Hope Sze and I—”

  “Shut up, Blondie, and let the chink speak for herself.”

  Tucker’s teeth clicked closed. He didn’t like that one bit.

  Neither did I, although the slurs had lost their shock value a long time ago. “This is Dr. Hope Sze,” I announced. If we said “doctor” enough times, maybe it would help ward off evil. My voice sounded weird, echoing in my own ears within the burqa. “Dr. Tucker and I promised to deliver—”

  “Shaddup. They don’t need your life story,” said Bastard.

  I breathed a little more easily within the confines of the material, though. I’d rather he told me off than ripped off my clothes.

  Of course, those two things weren’t mutually exclusive. I just prayed that invoking Casey, even subconsciously, would have some protective effect.

  “We do need to know if you’re in good health,” said Olivia.

  “Physically intact, psychologically stressed,” Tucker replied immediately.

  I thought that summed it up, but Bastard said, “I’ll fucking give you stress, Blondie. Quit holding hands with your girlfriend and scrub that floor. I want it nice and clean for my woman.” He raised his voice and his head toward the intercom. “You hear that, bitch? I expect Casey walking through that door in eighteen minutes. Clock’s a-tickin’, bitch.”

  Too many bitches. A girl could get confused. But this time, I was pretty sure he was talking to Olivia.

  “Sir, we’re doing our best. We hear you. The time limit is impossible.”

  “I already gave you all the time you needed. Hell, the nigger woman delivered a baby! What are you doing besides sitting with your thumb up your ass! I want Casey and my boy!” He lifted his gun and pointed it at Tucker. “Get on the cleaning, Blondie, or you’ll be looking at the hole in your own head.”

  Shit. He was definitely starting to crack.