William Bernhardt - Strip search

Amir took a closer look and realized that it was not a poker. It was a branding iron. At the far end of the metallic prong, glowing at him like a fiery monogram, was the letter K.

Amir stepped away from the pulsating heat, cowering, begging for mercy. "Please," he said. "Do not do this to me. Please!"

"Friend, this is just the beginnin'." Tucker brought the iron nearer; though still inches away, Amir could feel it cooking his skin. "No! Please, no!"

Tucker pressed the brand into the man's solar plexus.

Amir screamed. With a howl that might've been heard for miles-if anyone was awake within miles-he cried out as the searing metal burned into his flesh. His knees buckled, he lost all control of his body, he wet himself. The skin on his chest began to blister and water rushed from the surrounding tissues in an ineffectual effort to cool the piercing wound. He went into shock, looked as if he might have a stroke…which would make the rest of the plan far more complicated.

He untied Amir's bonds-there was no risk that he was going anywhere on his own-and walked him over to the deep fat fryer, still burning at full boil, still bubbling with the super-heated oil that had flash-fried thousands of frozen potatoes that day. Tonight, the recipe would be somewhat different.

"No," Amir said, crying, barely able to muster a whisper. "Please. No."

"You are part of the Sefirot," Tucker intoned. "The time for the termination of your predestined number has arrived."

"Number," Amir whispered, the aching in his chest still making it difficult to think, much less resist. "I tell you-I have done nothing wrong. This is…this is madness!"

"It ain't madness that's doomed you," Tucker said, as he lowered the man's face toward the bubbling cauldron. "It's math."

With a decisive thrust, careful to keep his gloved hands out of it, Tucker pushed Amir's face into the churning pool of boiling oil.

Had he been able, the man would surely have screamed. But the intense three-hundred-fifty-degree heat melted his mouth, his lips, the skin on his face, even his tongue, long before any such response was possible.

July 12

I actually stuck my hand out of the shower and said, "Would you hand me a towel, sugar bear? I can't-" Before I stopped myself.

Even after all this time, my brain still blipped, and I expected David to be standing on the other side of the fogged-up shower door. "Idiot," I said, slapping myself on the forehead for good measure. As if that minor blow might get my brain working right.

Mind you, I had made progress. I didn't have conversations with him anymore. I didn't see him at night during that twilight time just before you fall asleep. And I had fully and formally forgiven him for…well, whatever I thought he needed to be forgiven for. But some part of my brain, especially when I was deep in thought about something else, still instinctively expected David to be there. We had spent so much time together, so many happy times.

I've read that people who lose limbs in adulthood experience something called phantom pain-the arm or leg they no longer possess still seems to hurt. I guess I have a phantom husband.

And it still hurts.

Back when I was in detox, I hated Dr. Coutant. Of course, I was forced to see him three times a day. If I had refused I would've never been discharged, not after what I'd done. So I went to his little closet at the clinic, always refusing the couch, and rambled on about whatever pleased him, blowing off questions whenever possible, deflecting them when I knew he was getting too close ("Okay, like now could we talk about my other parent for a while?") and never never never letting him start in about David. If he wanted to call me a drunk, let him. If he wanted to harp on my dismissal from the detective squad, losing my house, losing custody of my niece, he had that right. But my husband was my business. It was insulting, really. After all, I'm a trained psychologist. Was I supposed to believe he could lord it over me just because he went to school a few more years and could prescribe drugs? I was an experienced, educated career woman. And yet, for the entire six days he had me in his clutches, he treated me like I was some barely potty-trained street junkie.

Actually, I still hated Coutant. But these days, it wasn't because I didn't think he knew what he was talking about. It was because I knew he did.

"How long has it been?" This was always his first question. I made a point of calculating my answer before I arrived.

"Five months, two days, and about fourteen minutes."

He seemed genuinely pleased. "That's very impressive."

"Hardly a lifetime."

"For an alcoholic? It's several lifetimes. I know people who've been under considerably less stress than you who haven't made it half as long. Still…" His pencil slowed, and he made sure I was looking at him. "If you think the struggle is over…it isn't."

"I know that."

Coutant was a short, round man with a full beard and round-rimmed glasses, but now that I was seeing him in his private office, he didn't wear the white coat. His office was tastefully decorated in soothing colors, mostly beige. Like he borrowed his interior decorator from Banana Republic. "Can you still remember what that last drink tasted like?"

"Well, that last drink was laced with a hypnogogic drug that led to me getting kidnapped."

He batted his eraser on his legal pad. "Okay, the last drink you enjoyed."

I thought for a moment. A long moment. "Actually, no."

"That's a good sign. It tells me you were well past the point of drinking for pleasure. You were drinking to relieve stress, to deal with your demons. Neither of which booze accomplishes. If you can remind yourself of that, if you can remember that it isn't actually fun for you and never will be again, it'll be a little easier to keep off the sauce."

I saluted him. "Message received and understood."

"The problem is-the demons may still be there. Have you been depressed lately?"

I hesitated. "I am a little…lonely. I miss having Rachel at home. And I miss…" I didn't have to finish the sentence.

"Unfortunately, depression and anxiety are not uncommon in your profession, Susan. Much less to someone who's been through everything you've been through."

"Don't you have some kind of magic pill you can prescribe? Prozac, or whatever's trendy these days."

"I could, but I'm not going to."

"You prefer to let me suffer."

"I think we both know that you have an addictive personality, Susan. I can't in good conscience recommend anything to you that might create a dependency. Hell, if I could, I'd restrict you from drinking coffee."

"You are a cruel bastard."

"Yeah, I get that a lot." He smiled. "I'd still be happier if you were in an AA group."

"I'm not the talky-feely type."

"Nonetheless, AA has the highest recovery rate of any program-"

"You're assuming I need a program."

He rubbed the rim of his glasses. "Susan, when will you get it through your head that you do not have to do everything on your own? There's nothing shameful about getting help. You have many friends who love you. Amelia, Rachel, Darcy, Chief O'Bannon." He paused. "Me. Let us help. Talk to people who've been through what you're going through. Even if you don't join an AA group, I could find you a sponsor-"

"Please don't."

"I'm sorry, Susan, but I can't help but think this…insistence on doing everything yourself is another indication of your self-destructive behavior. The same instinct culminated in you beating some poor frat boy to a pulp in-"

"That's not fair!" I shot back. "I was out of my head. I thought he was a drug kingpin." I took a deep breath. "Besides, he had the sorriest pickup lines you've ever heard in your life."