J. Konrath - Rusty Nail

“You know it’s abuse as an adult. How about as a child? Did you understand your father was unfit?”

“I knew Father was different, but I didn’t understand he was crazy until years later. I didn’t question the abuse. I just tried to cope.”

“By killing cats?”

Alex smiles. Dr. Morton has probably been waiting to slip that in.

“Among other things. We lived in constant fear, and did things to help with the fear.”

“What things?”

“I would cut myself, sometimes, on my legs. Isn’t that strange? Here I was, a kid, being horribly abused, and I abused myself even more.”

“Perhaps you were doing it to express the pain you were feeling inside.”

Alex digested this.

“Or perhaps I began to like the pain.”

“Do you enjoy pain, Alex?”

Alex sneaks a glance at Dr. Morton. The good doctor is calm and composed, as usual.

“I’m not sure. I was always terrified of being hurt. But after a while, it was kind of like a challenge. Sort of like, I can handle this, what else have you got ? I don’t think I enjoy the pain so much as I enjoy mastery over it.”

“How about the pain of others?”

Alex grins, full wattage.

“Oh, now that I love.”

“Hence the cats.”

“Yeah. Hence the cats.”

“But you know now that it’s not beneficial for you to harm animals.”

Alex nods. “Right. No more animals. I’m clear on that.”

Dr. Morton makes a grunting sound, perhaps trying to convey approval.

“What are some of the other things you did to cope, Alex?”

“Sex. I had sex.”

“Were you sexually abused by your father?”

“No. Never. For Father, sex was something perverted. Unnatural. The devil’s work.”

“Is that how you feel about sex?”

“No. I think sex between two people who love each other can be a beautiful thing.”

“How old were you at the time?”

Alex thought about it. “Fourteen.”

“And the person you had sex with?”

“Fifteen.”

“Were you in love?”

Alex’s eyes close, and the memories seep in. Stolen kisses. Sideways glances. Shameful caresses that felt so good, they couldn’t be the devil’s doing.

“Yes. Yes, I was in love.”

The timer on the desk beeps.

“We’ve come to the end of another session.” Dr. Morton stands up, smiles benevolently.

“Same time tomorrow?” Alex asks.

“Unfortunately, no. I’m booked for the day.”

Alex’s mood darkens. “You told me we could have daily sessions. I’ll only be in town for a short time, and I have a lot to figure out.”

Dr. Morton pats Alex on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. I can see you the next day, same time.”

“I’d really like to see you tomorrow.”

“Impossible. But if it matters, I think you’re coming along wonderfully.”

Alex blinks. “I am?”

“You are. You’re well on the road to recovery, Alex. The progress you’ve made in these last few sessions is tremendous. Take a day off. Do something fun. Enjoy yourself.”

Alex stands, extends a hand.

“I’ll do that. Thank you, Doctor. See you tomorrow.”

Dr. Morton smiles. “The day after tomorrow, Alex. You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Alex walks outside, to the rear of the rental car. Looks carefully up the street. Down the street. No one is around. Alex opens the trunk.

Dr. Francis Mulrooney stares up, eyes wide with terror. Clothesline binds his wrists and ankles, tight enough to be cutting off the circulation. It’s probably excruciating, Alex thinks. The graphologist’s hands are an ugly blue. Deprived of blood, necrosis is already setting in. Like dead fruit, rotting on the vine.

It doesn’t matter. He won’t be needing his hands ever again.

Mulrooney tries to scream, but the gag muffles it. Alex shushes him.

“It’s okay. My psychiatrist says I’m making a lot of progress.”

Mulrooney had been incredibly easy to locate; a quick call to the university did the trick. And kidnapping is child’s play. All a person needs is some Rohypnol, available over the Internet, and a used wheelchair. Jab a man on the street, sit him down as the drug takes immediate effect, and take him anywhere. He won’t even complain.

Alex opens the kit bag by Mulrooney’s feet and removes a syringe.

“Nighty-night time. When you wake up again, we’ll be at my new place. I’m going to see how much of your skin I can peel off before you die.”

Another muffled scream. Alex jams the needle into his biceps and injects the drug.

It will be a pleasant warm-up for Jack. Alex is pleased that the lieutenant survived. It would have been a shame for her to die without getting to know her.

Mulrooney’s eyes begin to flutter. Alex pats him on the cheek.

“I have to enjoy myself. Doctor’s orders. But first, we need to stop at the hardware store and get some tools. Can’t skin you without tools.”

Mulrooney continues to scream as the trunk is closed.

“WHAT HAPPENED TO your hair?” The stylist frowned at me. “Did you have the hair dryer on too long?”

“Something like that.”

I disliked getting my hair done, which is why I kept it long and dyed it at home. Sitting still while someone fussed over me made me nervous.

Unfortunately, the fire had done some major damage, making it impossible to get a comb through it. So I sought professional help. This particular stylist was named Barb. Her own hair was pink, and she had enough facial piercings to set off a metal detector.

“The ends are melted here. You see that?” She held up my bangs and frowned at my reflection in the mirror.

I shrugged. “Cheap shampoo.”

“You get what you pay for. We only carry Vertex hair care products. The shampoo is seventy dollars for a thirty-two-ounce bottle.”

“Seventy dollars? Is it made out of caviar?”

“Kelp. And biotin.”

“Can I pay on installments?”

Barb smacked her gum. She didn’t find me funny.

“When I finish cutting, should we do something about these gray roots?”

I didn’t find that funny.

An hour later I’d lost six inches of hair, gained some auburn highlights, and was out almost three hundred bucks – but that included the tip and a bottle of Vertex, with biotin and kelp.

While vanity wasn’t one of my hobbies, I really liked the new cut. It softened up my appearance, and I daresay, made me look a little younger.

My next stop was an auto supply warehouse. I brought in the two side mirrors I’d picked up in the alley behind Diane Kork’s house, and a helpful guy named Mitch found the parts number.

“They’re from a Dodge Stratus, a Mitsubishi Eclipse, or a Chrysler Sebring. Coupes and sedans, going back a few years.”

“It could be from any of those?”

“It fits any of those. Parts manufacturers sell to different car companies.”

“Any way to narrow it down?”

“I could try to match the paint. There’s some flakes from where this one broke off.” He used his thumbnail to scrape some paint chips onto the white counter, then hauled out a book of colors. “I’m not sure if that’s Magnesium or Graphite Metallic.”

“Looks like plain old dark gray to me.”

Mitch rolled his eyes. “Gray is boring. No one would buy a gray car.”

He went back to his book. I neglected to tell him that I had a gray car. Or perhaps it wasn’t really gray. Perhaps it was Silver Dusk. Or Sissy Black.

“No to Graphite Metallic. And Magnesium doesn’t match either. Which means it has to be Titanium Pearl.”

“Naturally,” I said. “I’m surprised it took you so long.”

I got another eye roll. “Graphite Metallic and Magnesium are colors used by Dodge and Chrysler. If it isn’t one of those, it has to be Mitsubishi. They call their gray Titanium Pearl.”