by James Hunt
Finished with the final threading, I set aside the needle and spool and lifted the dress up against the fluorescent lighting. The dim bulbs in the ceiling cast an eerie glow on the dress that didn’t do my work justice. But the dress would look better once it had a pretty girl to keep it upright. Just like Katy Matthews.
I hung the dress on the back of my chair and then walked to my work station. Space was cramped, and I had all of my equipment huddled onto a single table. Glass beakers, tubes, burners, everything I needed to make the ultimate medicine.
It had taken a long time to get the mixture right, to make sure that it killed the girls without causing pain. They had gone through enough pain.
And while some might argue that pain was better than feeling nothing, those were the people who had never experienced real pain. The kind of pain that kept you bedridden, avoiding the disappointments and harsh realities of life.
But my medicine ended all of that pain. It ended the bad choices, the fear, the troubled minds. It calmed their restless souls.
It wasn’t their fault. I knew that. The girls were addicts too weak to break free of their chains. But I wasn’t weak. I could release them from their prisons.
But going down this path meant making a choice, a choice that could not be undone. It was as permanent as death.
Now, I had to choose who came next.
I turned my attention to the wall. I had collected the pictures over the past year, biding my time and picking carefully. And it had been worth the wait. Watching the realization in Katy’s eyes when she knew it was happening, when she knew that all of the bad things were over, was priceless.
The pictures were arranged in a grid and covered the plaster wall from floor to ceiling. It was always difficult to decide who needed to be saved the most. All aspects of the individual were carefully examined and dutifully studied. It was only the most desperate that could be called home by me.
Each of the pictures was more heartbreaking than the one that came before it. All these girls, all their futures wasted by drugs and evil.
My knuckles cracked and turned white against the wood as I gripped the edge of the desk so hard that my hands hurt. But I controlled it and brought myself back from the ledge. I was in control.
After the anger died down, I plucked two girls’ pictures from the wall. I possessed two photos of every girl, one before their life of addiction, and one after.
The first girl was pretty. She had blonde hair and brown eyes. The hair was dyed, her natural color brown, but she looked good as a blonde. She was sixteen when she first ran away from home, and at nineteen was currently working the streets as a prostitute, selling her body to feed her drug habit. Three years on the streets, three years of inviting strangers to take part of her most intimate moments. Three years of sticking a needle in her arm and slipping into a world of madness.
The second girl had red hair wound in tight coils. Freckles dotted her cheeks, and she sported a big smile. It accentuated the blue in her eyes, as did the blouse. It was a spaghetti strap, exposing pale shoulders that were peppered with more dark freckles. She was petite, but just looking at the picture, I knew that she was bursting with energy. Before she was sucked into the world of drugs, she was probably a happy girl, always quick to smile, to laugh. I bet she had a killer laugh.
But the most recent photo showed a girl that had lost her smile, along with some of her teeth. The brightness in her blue eyes had dulled, and her body was covered. The poor girl had collapsed inward, like a dying star that no longer shone brightly in the night sky, but instead only added to the darkness of the universe.
I had seen this redheaded girl in the act of selling her body for drugs. I watched from a distance, cloaked in darkness, and grimaced as she was defiled. It was nothing more than a transaction.
But after it was finished, the girl took the drugs that she had earned to an abandoned construction project, and she lay on a crumpled and dirtied mattress, stained with the fluids of her passerby lovers.
I walked to her slowly, watching her gradually shift from side to side after she stuck the needle in her arm. I walked until the tips of my shoes nudged the mattress, jolting her attention toward me.
When she finally looked at me, her eyes were glassed over, the blue faded and dull. The drugs she’d taken had pulled a veil over her eyes. She could see, but she did not recognize me. She lifted her hand and uncurled her fingers from the fist and slowly extended her hand to me, beckoning me to come and join her on the mattress as she opened her legs.
I thought of the men who had used her, men who didn’t even know her name. A name was given to her by her mother and father who missed her so much that they would give anything to have her come home. I remember because I spoke to them. I remember the grief of her mother’s eyes and the anger that had consumed her father. The pair had spent every last dime to their name to try and help her, but no matter what they did, no matter how hard they worked, they just couldn’t bring her home.
I still remembered seeing all of those pictures of her when she was a child, pictures that showed a little girl who loved to gather flowers from the hill behind their house. A little girl who sang in the church choir. A little girl who loved playing hide and seek with her father.
I also saw the woman who had strayed from her path. The streets had taken that little girl, chewed her up, and spit her out. She was gone.
Both girls needed to be saved, but there was only one that I could handle, for now, just one that was speaking to me the loudest.
I picked up the redhead girl’s picture. She had gone furthest from her former self. It was time for me to bring her home to a loving family who missed her. I would be her angel of mercy.
6
Susan sat up on the mattress, her brain like jelly, and rubbed her eyes. When her vision adjusted to her surroundings again, coming down from the high, she saw that Allie was gone, most likely working the corner. It was time for her to leave.
Despite already being tired and hungry, Susan chose to walk home. It gave her time to think, to clear her head.
Starving, the only place Susan knew would be open was Ryan’s Deli. It was one of the rare late-night spots in the city, catering to the drunk and the wandering. The sandwich was good, the bread slightly warm since Ryan’s also doubled as a bakery, and it was one of the few places in Seattle that didn’t smell like fish. She hated fish.
The bread of her sandwich didn’t stay warm for long after she stepped outside, and she ate quickly, practically devouring the sandwich in five bites. Finished, she tossed the wrapper into a trash can, shooting from what she thought was the three-point line, missed, and then picked the wrapper up and dunked it to make herself feel better.
Susan’s apartment was close to downtown, and far from the south side where she performed most of her undercover work. She was amazed at how traveling just a few blocks could transport her into a completely different world.
The moment she entered her building, she was greeted with the warmth of functioning heat and immediately sighed in relief. Her skin tingled as it warmed, and she took the elevator up to the third floor.
Susan closed her eyes and leaned against the wall, thankful to be in a safe place. Six weeks of looking over her shoulder had taken its toll, despite the training she received at an early age.
Instead of playing with toys and enjoying family dinners, Susan’s earliest memories were of her father passed out on the couch as she took the still-burning cigarette from his fingers and put it in the ashtray with the pile of nubs that he’d smoked all morning.
Susan had stuck around for a few years in their small little town, feeling obligated to try and take care of her father, but his example had already led her down her own path of addiction. After her father’s funeral, Susan managed to clean her act up and found her way to Seattle, which was as far a plane ticket as she could afford.
The elevator pinged and the doors opened. Susan pushed off the back wall and stepped into the hallway,
her hand already in her pocket as she walked toward her apartment.
The building was clean and quiet. Susan didn’t know most of her neighbors and made no effort to change it.
Almost to her apartment with the key in hand, Susan stopped when she saw her door was already cracked open, light from inside spilling through the opening. She unholstered her pistol and leaned her ear into the crack, but heard nothing inside.
Pistol gripped in both hands, Susan entered. The one-bedroom apartment was small, and the front door opened to the living room with the kitchen on the right-hand side. The living room lamp was the source of the light, but she found no one inside, the place untouched.
Susan glanced down at the floor, and she found boot prints on the hardwood. One pair, large, most likely men’s, and while she saw the prints entering the apartment, she didn’t see them leave.
Susan followed the boot prints to the bedroom where her door was open. She swung wide left, passing over the bedroom’s entrance so that she could get a quick look inside, but she saw nothing.
A toilet flushed, and Susan tensed. With the sink running, she stepped into the bedroom and aimed the pistol at the closed bathroom door. When it opened, she placed her finger over the trigger. “Freeze!”
The man jumped, throwing his arms in the air immediately in surprise.
Susan immediately lowered the weapon when she recognized him. “Charlie?”
Charlie Thistle kept his hands raised even though the weapon wasn’t pointed at him anymore and struggled to catch his breath. “Christ, Suze, what the hell— will you put that away?” He finally dropped his hands, and Susan holstered her pistol.
“I could have shot you.” Susan’s heart pounded, and she knew that it would be hours before she’d calmed down again and catch up on her much-needed sleep. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Charlie swiped his palm over the top of his head; his hair was buzzed down to the nub, the sides faded until there was nothing but skin. He stepped from the bathroom doorway but kept his distance. “I heard about the Laundromat. Marco isn’t happy. He has people looking for you.” He shrugged a little, his tall, lanky body jerky in the random spasms it did whenever she saw him be nervous or embarrassed. “I wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“I’m fine,” Susan said, her tone harsher than she intended. “You pick the lock?”
Charlie smirked. “Didn’t think you’d mind.” He stepped toward her, and she didn’t stop him when he kissed her, but she didn’t kiss him back. He noticed. “What’s wrong?”
“You shouldn’t be here.” Susan stepped away, heading toward the front door. She poked her head out into the hallway, checking to make sure they hadn’t drawn anyone’s attention before closing it. When she turned around, Charlie was standing in the bedroom doorway.
“I told you I just wanted to make sure you were all right,” Charlie said. “I don’t think you understand what Marco does to the people who double-cross him.”
“And what makes you think he thinks I’m the one who double-crossed him?” Susan asked. “As far as he knows, Susan Pritcher will be spending the next eighteen months in a women’s correctional facility before being transferred to a location in the southeast due to prior convictions.” She crossed her arms. “You shouldn’t have broken in here. If someone saw you, they could have called the cops.”
Charlie dismissively waved his hand. “Ah, I’d just tell them that I know a cop—”
“I’m serious, Charlie.” Susan raised her voice, and the lashing was harsher than she intended, but she needed to make sure he understood. “Who I was earlier today, who you saw for the past six weeks, that’s not me. That was a job.”
Charlie dropped the playful act and then nodded. He pushed himself off the door jamb and then stepped to the center of the room. “I know what you are. I know what you do. But it wasn’t all fake.”
“I’m better at pretending than you think.” Susan stepped aside and opened the door, leaving space for Charlie to go.
Charlie looked at the open door, then looked to Susan. He stepped toward the door, stopping next to her. He glanced down at her and Susan’s breath quickened, her heart racing.
Charlie then slowly closed the door, keeping himself in the apartment, and then stepped toward her, lifting her chin, so she looked him in the eye. “You’re not as good as you think.”
When he leaned in for the second kiss, she didn’t hold back.
7
The wind howled outside of the van, and the cold seeped through the windows and doors even with the heat blowing full blast from the vents. The red head’s picture in hand, I cruised the south side streets.
I checked the usual spots, but I couldn’t find her. With dawn only hours away, I was running out of darkness. But there was one more place to check.
I drove away from the south streets and headed northwest where I found street parking between two buildings on the edge of Seattle’s downtown. I didn’t visit this area often, but I had parked my van in that same spot before and had never had a problem, and I didn’t anticipate one tonight.
I gathered my backpack, leaving nothing behind in the van that could raise any suspicion if the unthinkable happened, and then trudged down the streets in the frigid cold.
Even with the layers and my collar flipped, the cold still bit through to my bones. It was weather I thought I would have been used to by now, but every new winter surprised me.
The longer I searched through the streets, the more anxious I became. I had already put so much thought into getting her tonight that it was becoming difficult to get her out of my head. The only thing that I could imagine was taking her back to the lab and watching her choose. A few minutes later, I still couldn’t contain my excitement as I neared Box Town by the docks.
Box Town was a network of old portable homes that addicts used whenever weather conditions became unlivable for anyone outside of a building, and they all huddled together for body heat in the small units that had once been used as overflow classrooms for public schools going under construction or had been permanently overcrowded.
I had made sure to put on my old coat, which was ratty and torn so I would blend in with Box Town’s residents. Blending in wasn’t hard. A little dirt on my cheeks, some old clothes with holes in them, capped off with a hat and no one was the wiser.
I saw the cluster of old portable units up ahead. Careful to keep an eye out to make sure that no one was following me, I walked around the outskirts of the portables, keeping to the edges and listening for any movement inside. I heard nothing.
I walked around to the west side, which faced the harbor, and found the portable’s windows. One by one I checked the insides, searching the floor for that bright spot of red. The first three were empty, but when I checked the fourth, I saw a few bodies lying on the dirtied tile. Each of them was covered with old rags, blankets, newspapers, anything they could use to keep warm. I squinted, my eyes straining to find my girl, and just when I thought she wasn’t inside, I spotted the flash of red.
My heart fluttered with excitement, but I had to be careful. Aside from the girl, I counted three others inside, though I knew that most of them were probably high.
I removed my backpack and prepared the syringe and needle. The sedative would knock her out, allow me to grab her without any trouble. It was a bit of a risk taking her with other people around, but I was so close that I could taste it. I had come too far to turn back now.
I walked back to the front of the portables and opened the door quickly. There was some movement when I stepped inside, but it ended quickly the moment I shut the door.
Twice the floor groaned in defiance of my weight, and while I paused to see if anyone woke, there was no movement. Only a few dreamless murmurs that fluttered through the air.
The closer I moved to the girl, the more excited I became, and by the time I stood over top of her, I was shaking. I shut my eyes, calming myself, and then bent down and stabbed her arm with the needl
e. Once I was sure she was unconscious, I scooped her in my arms where she remained lifeless. She was lighter than I had expected, but it made it easier to walk.
And just when I was only a few feet from the door, a voice caused the hairs on my neck to prick upwards.
“What-the-hell-you-doing-fucker?” The man slurred the question into nearly a single word. He rustled, and the other two in the room grumbled.
It was the fear of being caught that hastened my pace, but when I opened the door, between balancing the girl and moving quickly, my foot struck something, sending both myself and the girl to the ground.
I let her go, sending her limp body rolling to the pavement like a rag doll, rolling a few rotations before coming to a stop.
I thrust out my arms to brace myself from the fall, but the ice on the ground caused me to slide forward, and my nose struck against the asphalt.
Scrambling to my feet, all the blood in my body rushed to my head. I quickly picked the girl off the ground and walked swiftly through Box Town.
“Hey!” Someone shouted from behind me. “Where you taking her? Hey! I’m talking to you!”
I tried to keep my head down, keep moving, but my face was warm, and I looked down to realize that I was dripping blood on the girl. “Shit.”
To my left and right, I saw people starting to move from their tents. This wasn’t how it happened before, no one bothered me before, they were all too concerned with themselves.
Before I drew any more attention to myself, I sprinted to the van, my feet pounding against the pavement, the cold stabbing my joints every time my foot hit the asphalt. By the time I reached the van, every muscle in my body burned.
I opened the back doors and tossed her inside, moving quickly toward the driver-side door. I checked to make sure no one followed me and then climbed inside.