Spotless (16 page)

At the moment, however, and for the first time in ten years, I was back in the car, driving down the Keiyo Dori with her. She was talking about where we would go next—Australia, maybe? I could see the flicker of sadness in her green eyes, concealed by a bright smile. Did she miss the man in Pretoria? Had she perhaps loved him a little?

I was trying to focus on her lips, on what she was saying, but the passersby all had March’s face, even that little dog, so it wasn’t easy.
Suddenly, my mom’s head jerked a little, and she went limp. I watched in incomprehension as her hands slid off the wheel. Had she passed out? Was the blood on her shirt coming from her head? Everything went quiet save for that soft buzzing in my ears. My own voice. I was screaming so loud my throat hurt, but it was muted. I couldn’t hear myself.

The car was still moving. I had no idea how to stop it, and we were almost at the gas station. I already knew what happened next: we were going to crash into that white car, the one with an old man filling the tank. He ran away, dropping the nozzle, and everything felt fast, and slow, and inevitable. When we hit the white car, I was able to hear again—metal crashing and panicked shrieks. The heady scent of gas permeated my nostrils, and I saw the first flames rising from the rear of the white car and licking the blue hood of ours.

Everybody still had March’s face, and they were all looking in our direction, but no one was doing anything. They were certainly afraid to go near the cars, afraid that they would explode. I couldn’t move. My entire body seemed numb, and my head hurt where it had slammed against the headrest. I didn’t open my door because my hands were trembling too much, but someone else did. Another March? No . . . he was the only one who didn’t have March’s face. Well, not exactly. My savior did look a lot like all the other Marches, but he had longer hair, and he was much younger. He cut my seat belt with a small incurved knife, and I thought it was nice for a man to carry a knife around like that. How handy. He cradled me while pulling me out of the car. It almost felt like a hug, but I couldn’t hug him back. My body was sort of paralyzed, and the street, the faces around me were starting to blur into a white haze. I wondered if that man smelled like mint because it was a dream where everyone was March, or if he liked eating mints as well.

I wanted to tell him to save my mom too, that maybe she was okay, but an insistent touch on my face made my eyes flutter open, and I floated back into reality. Someone was tapping against my left cheek, and there was a soft masculine voice.

“Wakey-wakey, sweetheart.”

I squinted. Surrounding me was a blinding light that made my eyes hurt. There was a pungent smell—Listerine, maybe? I felt a little cranky; I wished I had slept some more. I didn’t freak out until I noticed I couldn’t move my arms and legs. Then I felt the particular tightening in your chest that starts when things go wrong. And, sweet Raptor Jesus, they were going extremely wrong. With a quick, frantic motion, I shifted my head right and left, trying to make out the rest of the room through the white light engulfing me. I came to realize that I was in what looked like an old white-tiled hospital room, entirely naked and secured to some sort of black leather operating table.

This mildly romantic setting wasn’t my biggest issue, though. Indeed, possibly worse was the fact that I was now staring into the rainy gray eyes of none other than
holy fucking Creepy-hat
.

You know how sometimes you’ve done something silly and you hear yourself squeak “oops” in your mind? I heard that then; I heard it loud and clear. As I took the time to reacquaint myself with Creepy-hat’s pale and surprisingly smooth skin, one specific moment kept playing over and over, furthering my considerable dismay. Resounding in my ears was the word March had said back in the car, the one I had refused to listen to:
“Don’t.”

So, at this precise moment, the only two bricks my neurons were able to assemble were “Don’t” and “Oops.”

And I wanted to cry very much.

“Oh no, please don’t cry.”

His voice was a syrupy whisper as he took a square of gauze on a nearby metallic tray to wipe tears I hadn’t even felt roll on my temples.

I watched him through blurry eyes. He was wearing some sort of lab coat over his dark suit and white surgical gloves. My gaze lingered on his features, noticing for the first time how strange they seemed: Creepy-hat didn’t look young, yet he didn’t sport obvious wrinkles either. His face was delicate and chiseled, like there was almost no fat
underneath his skin. I hated his eyes. They looked too intense, too . . . eager. I was no longer so sure how old he could be, now that I was seeing him up close. Maybe he was ageless after all, like Dorian Gray. The scar on his cheek looked less impressive than it had when I had first seen it in the glade in Pennsylvania, more shallow perhaps, and it didn’t have a different color than the rest of his pale skin.

The whole situation didn’t feel real. It couldn’t be real. My deal with March, the flight to France, Paulie, Nick, Ilan, Kalahari. All this to end up back to square one, on the infamous table I had been spared from the day prior. Creepy-hat’s hands approached my body, and a wave of nausea contracted the muscles of my stomach as his fingers touched it feverishly. When they reached higher and traced my breasts, I convulsed, letting out a desperate wail.

He didn’t seem to care. “I want to make you feel better about all this. I’m not like March. I don’t enjoy inflicting pain.”

Hearing March’s name gave me the strength to focus. He had suggested he knew Creepy-hat, and the guy seemed to know him well enough too. “You’d better not touch me! March won’t let go of his contract that easily. If you steal his job from him, he’ll kill you!”

I had no idea if this was true, and to be honest, rational logic would have demanded March drop the issue altogether at this point, because I was probably becoming more trouble than I was worth. It’s just that making up that sort of bullshit made me feel better. I half-expected Creepy-hat to brush off my threats as nonsense, but he did worse: he laughed.

His high-pitched cackle echoed throughout the room, sending a painful shiver through my chest. I had never known I could be that funny. Once he had calmed down, he let out a contented sigh. “You’re one of the sweetest patients I’ve ever had. I’ll save a part of your liver for March, if you don’t mind. That will teach him some manners.”

The index finger of his right hand scratched his long scar nervously as he said this, and, apart from being on the verge of passing out at
the prospect that my liver might somehow leave the safe haven of my abdominal cavity, I wondered if March had anything to do with this wound. Was he somehow responsible for Creepy-hat’s scar?

“I hope he kills you!” My voice cracked, and it was becoming hard not to let go and beg for mercy.

“Oh, I love that! He played good cop with you, huh?” His intonation turned seductive, his hand reaching between my legs as he suggested this.

My breath hitched in revulsion.

“Did he play down there, Island?”

I squeezed my eyes and gritted my teeth in an effort not to scream as his fingers probed me. I clenched my fists until they hurt, praying he would stop. He eventually did, and a look of surprise appeared on his features. “Now, that’s . . . unexpected. We’ll have to examine it again.”

I thought I was in hell already with that creep assaulting me and planning to further examine my hymen, but I soon found out that we were only getting started. A cold hand traced my collarbones. “You know . . . March would have brought you back to me anyway.”

“You’re lying. He hates your guts,” I hissed.

“Yes, as he has aptly demonstrated in the past.” He sighed, scratching his scar again. “But it doesn’t matter. Once in the pack, always in the pack. If he had any idea who I’m working for, March would be here right now, crawling at our feet, waiting for a chance to lick his master’s hand.” I tried to make sense of his rambling, in hopes that it would delay the rest of our program.

“March already knows. You guys work for the Board. He told me that,” I said.

“Oh, sweetie, I’m a fickle man. I may take a job from the Queen, but it doesn’t mean I won’t keep an eye open for other opportunities,” he said, still caressing my neck.

I squirmed to escape his touch. “What are you talking about? Did you—”

He pinched my lips shut before I could finish, chuckling softly. “
Chérie
, we’re getting carried away! Take a deep breath and relax. This is for you and me. It’s the most intimate thing you’ll ever share with anyone.”

My eyes widened in panic, and I thrashed desperately against the thick black straps holding me down. “I already told March I know nothing about the diamond!”

He shook his head as he prepared a long needle and several bottles. “All right, all right. I knew you’d say something like that. So, let me introduce you to what we’re doing here. The way I see it, it’s like a reasonable exchange. I’m removing some parts, but if you tell me what I need to know, I put them back. There’s no pain involved. You don’t need to worry about that. I have excellent medical skills.”

I won’t lie. I
was
getting worried. And not just about whether he had an accredited medical degree. “W . . . what are you talking about? Please . . . don’t do this!”

“Calm down, Island. As I mentioned, ultimately you decide if I put them back. I’m your slave here. All you have to do is talk.”

I was crying again, and losing it for good. Of course, as a beginner, I immediately fell straight into torture’s most common psychological pitfall: hoping to escape the treatment by offering to confess everything and anything upfront. I was shaking and sobbing so much I’m not even sure if I made any sense. “I-I get it! I stole the diamond! I’ll tell you where it is if you let me go, please!”

He laughed again, and this time there was an edge to it. He was excited. “Island . . . I know you mean well, but years of experience have taught me that the amount and quality of the information you’ll provide simply
isn’t
the same once you’re staring at your own kneecaps on a steel plate.”

I’ll never know where I found the strength to control my aching bladder during this conversation. By the time he was done talking, he had a syringe ready, and my lungs were giving up on me. When he stabbed
my right thigh and injected its contents, I produced a sound I didn’t know I was capable of, which probably qualified as a scream. A distant part of me thought I sounded like a million shards of glass were exploding in my throat, ripping it from the inside.

“Please, please don’t cry. You’re beautiful, you’re sexy, you’re confident—” His voice was trembling with excitement, and his gaze was fierce. He was kneading my thigh, and soon I couldn’t feel his hand so well. My leg had grown numb.

After having massaged my flesh for a while, he gave my skin a strong pinch that elicited no pain. “See? Like I promised.”

He moved to kiss my forehead, and I cried even harder, no longer able to process anything. I shut down as he prepared his instruments. My eyelids slid closed, I stopped feeling the cold drops of sweat running all over my body, and I was no longer listening to him, retreating into a world of my own, filled with math and mints.

Creepy-hat didn’t like it, not one bit. He slapped me twice, and when I opened my eyes, he looked frustrated. “Island, don’t drift off on me like this. I need you focused, honey!” He was starting to sound a little hysterical. Was he angry?

Satisfied that he had some of my attention back, he allowed the grin to return to his lips. “Now, give me a smile!”

It’s funny. It was only when I heard him ask me to smile for him that it hit me. This guy wasn’t bad or cold or whatever . . . he was clinically insane.

I complied, although I didn’t know why. It was more of a rictus, anyway, that grew wider, which Creepy-hat seemed particularly pleased with. Once he was ready, he started to work, shaking his hips as he mouthed some little song in his head. Within seconds, he was done drawing marks around my thigh to guide his hand, and a small scalpel was tucked between his thumb and forefinger. I lay motionless and broken. Tears were still running down my temples, but it didn’t feel like I was crying. All I could do was stare at the massive lamp above me.

The human sense of self-preservation is a wonderful thing. I didn’t have much experience on how to proceed when you’re about to fight a battle for your survival, but the right words came anyway. Creepy-hat’s blade had already started biting into my skin, an inch above my knee, but I couldn’t feel it; I think that’s what allowed me to collect myself. “Did March do that? That scar on your cheek?”

His hand stopped, and his gaze shifted from my leg to my face. “Yes. Why do you ask, sweetie?”

I struggled with the lump inside my throat and went on. “It looks like it must have been painful. Why did he hurt you like this? What happened?”

The blade in his hand hovered above my skin, grazing my belly, breasts, and neck until it settled on my cheek, in the same area that March had wounded Creepy-hat. At that point, I did start to question my strategy.

“We were hired together for a mission in Colombia two years ago. He was expected to recover the client, who was hiding in the jungle. Las Cotudos . . . charming place, have you ever been there?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“He did his job, and I did mine, which was to interrogate the client. Now that we’re together, you can see it isn’t so bad, right?”

“Yes.” Now, that’s a yes that cost me
a lot
, mind you.

“Well, March wouldn’t agree with you. He interrupted me when I was almost done with our client, and—wait for it—demanded explanations. As if . . . as if he himself had never questioned anyone before!” His voice had become a little hysterical again, and I gritted my teeth as he went on. “You know me, I don’t pick fights, so I merely told March that most clients prefer my methods to the kind of brutal approach men like him profess. You agree, don’t you? Would you rather I break your fingers?”

“No . . .” I breathed.

This conversation was getting completely surreal . . .