by Trisha Wolfe
I’m becoming antsy as I stare at my phone, the noise of the espresso machine grating my nerves. The feed has been down too long. Something isn’t right. I can feel it in my bones.
“Come on…” I will the connection to link up, and just as I’m about to do something stupid, like try to break into The Plaza, my phone dings with a text from Alex’s phone.
Alex: Your boy is in the park.
I read the message again slowly, this time deciphering the meaning. A normal, rational reaction would be to panic. My heart rate remains steady as I mentally pick through the details to find a solution.
Someone in the penthouse sent that message. They said your boy, clearly referring to Alex. He’s in Central Park. Beaten…or worse. This person discovered Alex was there under pretext, and they know about me. Whether or not this person is Ericson or one of Brewster’s men is a deciding factor on how to approach the situation, one more dangerous than the next.
Either way, I’m out of my seat and pushing through the door of the coffee shop. Alex could be anywhere in the park, but I start with the entrance right across the street from the hotel.
I don’t wait for the crosswalk sign to signal it’s safe to cross. I cut across the street, dodging angry cab drivers and tourists. My defenses are up as I shove past people crowding the lamplit entrance.
With the noise of the city behind me, I enter the dark park and search the pathway, the green pond. The crisp air does nothing to mask the smoggy, earthy scent of the park. Alex has to be somewhere nearby; there’s no way anyone had time to take him deeper into the park.
As I head toward the first bridge, I look up to scan the arch above, to make sure no one suspicious is watching me, waiting for me. I enter the tunnel, and I can feel eyes on me. I look at my phone screen, deciding whether or not I should send a reply, demand to know where Alex is right now.
Honestly, I should ditch my phone, but there’s still a chance Alex will contact me. The fact that he hasn’t yet isn’t good.
I continue on around the rock formation, the place where Alex and I spied on Ericson together. He can’t be too far away, if he’s in the park at all. I climb to the top and use the higher ground to search the nearby areas.
No bodies, no beaten, passed-out scientists in sight. I curse and start to head down when a snap catches my attention. I stop and wait to hear it again, my breath held. With slow and deliberate movements, I creep toward the foliage where a high wall of shrubbery separates the street from the park.
The noise never comes again, and there’s no Alex. I exhale, releasing my frustration with the fiery air in my lungs, as I once again start to leave.
It happens in a blink. In the time it takes my eyelids to close, I feel a sharp pain in my neck. A brief moment where I try to bat away an insect—then the stark and terrible realization of the needle piercing my skin.
For the first time since I can remember, my heart rate changes pace. I can feel it slowing, the beat becoming weaker. My pulse thuds in my ears as the sounds of the park fade into the distance.
My muscles go lax, and I’m guided down to the hard ground by strong arms.
My attacker stairs down at me as I lie helpless. Anger courses my blood right along with the drug he injected into my bloodstream. I try to move my lips, to form words, to demand to know why—but my mouth is just as immobile as the rest of my body.
“Not as delicate as your little cocktail,” Alex says, those blue eyes gleaming, “but ketamine more than gets the job done.”
14
Experiment
Alex
In Greek Mythology, fate was decided by three goddesses. Every soul had a life thread, the course of a life woven within the twine. There is one goddess to spin the thread, the next to measure, and the third to cut the twine at the moment of death.
According to the myth, the Fates control every destiny, and no one escapes their doom.
The scientist in me rejects philosophy and mythology on merit. Yet, I can still appreciate the wisdom in the lesson. Because of course, the purpose of all religion is to teach a moral.
We’re not avenging angels, or deities of fate, Alex. Blakely said these words to me—and she had no idea how right she was.
There were no deities of fate in charge the night my sister was brutally murdered.
There was no moral to her story, in what doom befell her. She was stolen, tore from this world in the most violent display.
There were no avenging angels to balance the scales, just a psychopathic killer with a hunger to feed.
I spent months trying to make sense of it, trying to understand how an individual could commit such an atrocious act. I analyzed every book on the subject of psychopaths. Hours upon hours of research and study, and truly, there was no definitive answer. Worse, there was very little conclusive proof that monsters like the one that killed my sister could ever be rectified.
I had given up on psychology completely. It was about as useful to me as mythology. I am a man of science. I am a biomedical scientist. I eradicate disease. This is what I understand.
Then it donned on me, like the Fates themselves wove a shiny new thread right into my life, gifting me the answer.
Psychopathy is a disease of the mind. Not unlike a virus, an infection. A sickness.
I couldn’t bring Mary back, but I could stop the disease from spreading.
In the end, there was only one solution:
Cure the sickness.
The telltale rattle of chains pricks my ears, and my fingers halt over the keyboard.
She’s awake.
Slipping my arms into my lab coat, I move into the sterile white room and draw back the canvas curtain. Blakely lies on a gurney. Her wrists are secured with leather braces, the chains fastened to the cinderblock wall. As she slowly begins to rouse, her eyes flutter open.
This is my favorite part. The subject fresh and new and full of possibility.
“Where the fuck am I?” Blakely’s voice is hoarse from hours of unuse. As she becomes lucid, her eyes dart around the room, taking in her surroundings.
The white walls. The three large monitors. The whiteboard. The steel island with equipment. One side of the curtain is sterile and devoid of distractions. The other side is a laboratory of my design, years of research and dedication.
As her eyesight improves, Blakely’s gaze finally lands on me. Her features draw together in anger.
“Well, not anger,” I say out loud, correcting my observation. “Anger is an emotion felt by a healthy person. Your response is reactive to your circumstance. You’ve learned to display the proper corresponding emotions.”
She tests the wrist restraints and understands quickly that she’s trapped. Her eyes track me as I move to the foot of the gurney. “And what circumstance is that, Alex?”
Any emotionally sound person would be panicking right now. Pleading to be released, begging to know why this has happened to them, what’s going to become of them…
“You’re very intelligent, Blakely,” I tell her, adjusting my glasses as they slip down the bridge of my nose. “That’s why you’re so perfect, and also why I had to subdue you in the manner that I did. You’re so aware of your environment, always alert and on guard. Taking you by surprise was never going to be easy. So, I set the stage for you to expect an attack, to be ready for it, so when that one opportunity presented where your guard slipped, just for a second…” I snap my fingers to demonstrate.
The corner of her mouth kicks up into a smirk. “You sound proud of yourself. How very courageous of you to attack a girl.”
I lift the clipboard strung to the back of the gurney. “Let’s drop all the predictable banter. We both know you’re not just a girl.” I walk toward her and touch the inside of her wrist. She doesn’t flinch away, and I smile. “Steady pulse. Nice and slow.” I make a note on the page, then lift my eyes to hers. “You’re a psychopath.”
Her gaze narrows, her chest rises and falls with measured breaths. Her mind is puzzling out the situati
on. It’s fascinating to watch. What conclusion will she draw?
“Is this some revenge against me?” she asks. “Who hired you?”
I tsk as I pull the swivel stool around and take a seat. “I expected more from you, but I suppose we need to get the obvious questions and assumptions out of the way. No one hired me,” I state. “Though I’m sure there are plenty of vilified ex-husbands who would pay to see you suffer painfully, that’s not why you’re here.”
She tosses her head to clear away the strands of blond that have fallen over her eyes. A sudden yearning to reach out and brush her hair aside grips me. I clench my hand into a fist around the pen, then make a note about my impulse on the clipboard.
Everything must be documented, even my reactions to her. I’m part of the parameters of the experiment. I’m a variable. Plus, I’m human and have human urges; this is normal. I simply need to make sure I’m aware of those urges at all times, as she will try to use them to manipulate me.
“Then why are you doing this to me?”
“As cliché as this sounds—and I apologize—it’s not personal. My twin sister was a victim of a psychopath. A serial killer. Dr. Mary Jenkins was a renowned neurologist at Hopkins. Then a deranged killer without a conscience set his sights on her.” I pause for dramatic effect. “He lobotomized her. To death.”
Grayson Sullivan was never convicted or even charged with her murder, but the authorities knew he was responsible. The murder was perpetrated with his MO. Sullivan escaped custody before charges could be brought against him, and he remains at large.
“I don’t believe you,” she says. “I would’ve found something that extreme online. I searched you thoroughly.”
“I have fail-safes in place. I’m notified every time an article or mention about my sister is posted. I either take it down, or a program I coded directs it to another site and renames the link. I can’t have my subjects stumbling upon this information and making any kind of connection. That would be sloppy.”
Her dark eyebrows draw together. “Subjects,” she repeats.
Out of all that was said, this is the grain she picks out. With a sigh, I situate my glasses. “Yes, you’re now my subject.” I stand and push the stool back. “Well, technically, you’ve been my subject since that first night at the club. Once I identified you as a psychopath, I started analyzing and collecting the necessary information in order to get you to this stage.”
A long pause where she considers my answer, then: “People will notice I’m missing. They’ll look for me.”
She must have learned this tactic from a movie. It’s completely unimaginative. I’m disappointed with our first real interaction. Where is the fiend? Where is the vile, unfeeling creature that I know her to be?
“No one will look for you, Blakely. I know who the people closest to you are. I researched your parents. I looked into Rochelle, one of your main clients. As you’ve built a sheltered life to keep people out, there’s no one who will miss your company. On that point, you’ve done the work for me.”
She doesn’t deny my claim and, unlike the average person in a similar scenario, being told they’re all alone in the world has no real impact on her.
“How long?” she demands.
I inhale deeply. “However long it takes.”
Her features contort, and she shakes her head against the bed. “What is it? However long what takes, Alex?”
I lift my chin. “The cure.”
Confusion settles in the hard creases of her forehead. She still hasn’t made the connection.
“Alex, I’m sorry for what happened to your sister, but whatever you have planned…there has to be someone better, more interesting than me for your purpose.”
“Blakely, let’s not insult each other with mind games and tactics. I know how good you are at reading people and influencing them. That won’t happen here. I’ll answer any question that you have, but please don’t tire yourself or me with pointless arguments.”
The soft expression masking her face dissolves. “You abducted me. Chained me to a fucking gurney”—she snaps her wrists against the restraints—“and you’re actually using the word please? Like this is some social experiment for your fucking lab geeks and I’m a willing participant? Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“I will be civil with you,” I say, my tone level. “I only require you to be the same.”
Her features harden. “I’m going to tear your face off.”
There she is, the monster beneath the facade. “I’m sure you would,” I say, as I walk toward the curtain. “But you won’t be given the chance.”
And to think, just hours earlier I was doubting myself. Questioning my commitment to the project, my choice in selecting Blakely. That one moment between us at my apartment, right before we left, I was on the verge of abandoning it all.
There had been opportunities prior to that where I could have subdued her. We didn’t need to go through the whole farce of the Ericson revenge job. But I had doubts, I had reservations, and I wasn’t sure until that final moment that she was the right choice.
“You know,” I say, as I collect the syringe and glass vial of general anesthetic from the metal tray, “there was a second where I was second-guessing my decision about you. A moment of hesitancy, a bout of conscience, if you will.”
“So what changed your mind? My charming personality?”
A flat smile lines my face. “No matter how focused one is on their goal, the human condition dictates that we should wrestle with the choice to cause another human being harm.” I draw closer to her, so that we’re staring into each other’s eyes. “And then you admitted that you didn’t care what happen to the hooker, that she was collateral damage. Expendable was the word you used.”
I use the needle tip to touch the tender part of her hand, and she jerks away. “In that moment, I knew I didn’t have a choice,” I continue, meeting her eyes again. “You are the perfect subject.”
“Everyone has a choice,” she says, jaw set tight.
“That may be so, but you also had a choice to protect her.” I insert the needle into the vial and fill the syringe. “Instead, true to your nature, you found her expendable. A means to your end. Her life was of no consequence.”
“And yet, did you stick around to help Maybelline, Alex?”
My shoulders tense. “I never entered the penthouse. I used a recorded track from the MMA fight. I removed the background noise and played it for you while you waited to be lured to the park.”
Her lips twist into a smirk. “That’s not what I asked.”
A morsel of shame settles in the pit of my stomach. “Whereas you were negligent with her life in pursuit of money, my aim is for the greater good—”
“Sure. I get the point.” She looks at the needle. Her concern is on herself again.
Holding the syringe aloft, I wait, reveling in the knowledge that soon Blakely will know exactly what it is to feel shame. An emotion I have battled with every failed experiment. How much will that change her?
“This is for the greater good, I assure you. We’re going to make history together.” I check the time on my pocket watch to note the hour before we begin.
The ticking is loud in the chamber, echoing all around me. I wonder if Blakely hears it. As I draw closer to her, the delicate scent of her perfume invades my senses, and the temptation to lean in to her, to touch her soft skin, is a vicious taunt.
With a deep inhalation, I take in the last trace of her and harden my resolve. Her perfume will fade soon, subsequently releasing me from its spell.
“Alex, wait. None of this makes sense. You can’t do this.”
The ticking grows louder. “We’ve already wasted too much time. Precious hours and days lost to the identification process. Thirty-five years, Blakely. That may not be enough.” An approximation of how much time I have to develop a cure. I can’t stop the countdown in my head.
That’s also another factor as to why I chose her. She’s young. H
ealthy. Strong. She can endure the procedure.
“What the fuck are you talking about?” She yanks her ankle against the leather cuff uselessly.
I allow myself one moment of weakness and touch her hair, feathering my fingers through the soft strands to drag them away from her face. “You’re sick, Blakely, and I’m going to cure you.”
For the first time since she awoke to her new reality, I see a glimmer of real fear in her vibrant green eyes. “You’re absolutely mad.”
“We are all mad in pursuit of our passions.”
She tries again to free her arm. “You said this was all to get me to this stage. What fucking stage, Alex?”
I clasp her forearm and band it to the bed. “The testing stage,” I say, as I insert the needle into her vein.
15
Captive
Blakely
When I wake again, my body is numb, my head feels thick. The very texture of the air seems heavy, as if I’ve been submerged under water and it’s difficult to raise my arms or even lift my eyelids. I continue to try, and notice the plastic tubes. One on top of my hand, more in my arm.
I’m wearing a nightgown, like the ones at the hospital. I shift my legs with the jolting realization that a catheter has been inserted. My bladder is empty. I’d be humiliated, if not for the very real awareness that something far more sinister is looming.
I take stock of my surroundings. There are no windows. White cinderblock walls prevent any sounds of the outside world from leaking inside. Which means no one can hear me outside of them. There’s an exposed ventilation system, but the shaft cut into the ceiling isn’t large enough to fit through. I’m sure Alex has thought this through and taken every measure to keep me hidden and trapped.
Underneath the antiseptic smell that infuses this room, I catch the faint scent of water. Not chlorinated water that comes from the tap—but earthy fresh water, as if there’s a source somewhere nearby.
I inch upward on the gurney and touch my forehead. The chains connected to the leather restrains clink against the metal rail of the gurney, reminding me that I’m a captive. I’m drowsy from the anesthesia. I remember him…and the needle…