The Enemy Inside (47 page)

She screamed inside.
Don’t give in!
But she was so tired of fighting. Her weak voice faded away, replaced by a stronger, more insistent one.
 

He’s just another man
, it whispered.
 

Recognizing its opening, the dark rushed at her, engulfing her in shadows until she no longer existed. The last shreds of her strength dropped away under the crushing pressure, shattering like fragments of fine glass. The black flowed through her body like an oil slick, creeping down her spinal column to invade torso, limbs, fingers, and toes.
 

She tightened her finger on the trigger.

Leigh laughed with glee.

Berg turned to her right in a single, fluid movement, leveling the gun with a now steady hand and pulling the trigger in a flash.
 

Leigh was caught off guard, the bullet hitting her between the eyes before she even had a chance to get off a round of her own. Leigh fell to the ground heavily, like a crumpled doll.

Berg stepped up to the body calmly, all trace of feigned emotion now gone.
 

“Who’s broken now, bitch?”

Epilogue

Berg sat in the overstuffed office on a leather chair. Chintz-covered couches and large, fluffy pillows surrounded her. Every wall was covered with calming images of the ocean, except for the wall covered with an impressive array of framed diplomas.
 

A lightly scented candle burned on the table next to her, the flame occasionally flickering in the still room.
 

The therapist had offered her the more comfortable and clichéd chaise longue at the beginning of the session, but Berg felt she needed to sit up and face her inevitable diagnosis head on.

Not that she was in any doubt about what that diagnosis would be. She was obviously crazy. Not the charming, eccentric kind of crazy, but the voice-hearing, risky sexual behavior kind of schizophrenic crazy.

The kind-looking therapist sitting opposite her had listened patiently, rarely interrupting as Berg’s past and present spilled forth like word vomit. Word vomit being the most appropriate descriptive phrase, as she couldn’t seem to stop every horrible, sordid detail of her life from spewing out of her mouth.

Berg spoke in a trembling voice of the abuse and rejection of her childhood, her need to undertake painful sexual acts just to escape and feel normal, the feelings she had for Jay, her mother’s voice in her head that seemed to want to derail any gains in self-esteem, and of course, her twelve hours of hell being forced to listen to Leigh’s manipulations while watching her partner die.
 

She even spoke about how close she’d come to giving in to those manipulations, how easy it would have been for her.

She explained how falling into the dark for a few moments had felt good, as had killing Leigh.
 

But just as the blackness claimed her, she heard a faint voice in the back of her mind. It was Jay’s voice reminding her that she was worth something, and there was always hope.

She had clung to it as she clawed her way out of the hole.

Berg finally fell silent, listening to the clock on the desk tick as the therapist scribbled down some notes in her thick notebook.
 

She had told the therapist everything.
 

Almost.

“So,” Berg said, desperate to interrupt the silence. “Can I ever be normal?”

The therapist almost smiled as she put her pen down carefully and leaned forward, interlocking her fingers and placing them under her chin, her elbows resting on the desk.

“You
are
normal, Alicia. You’re not even unusual. You’ve just developed a pattern of behavior to cope with the deep feelings of shame and worthlessness you’ve been carrying around since you were a child. Unfortunately, the shame you feel following your acting out just compounds your feelings of worthlessness, and thus the vicious cycle continues.”

“But nobody else seems to do what I do. I mean, I’ve lost my partner, nearly lost my job, lost the respect of my colleagues . . . all because I can’t control myself.”

“Did you know the fastest growing group of sexual addicts are young, single, female professionals?” the therapist asked.
 

Berg shook her head.
 

“Your sexual acting out is no different from that of someone addicted to alcohol, drugs, gambling, or even food. It’s just a method of self-medication. I’m not going to bore you with brain chemistry and how satisfying an addiction releases dopamine. But it’s pretty clear you are clinically depressed, Alicia, and have been for a long time. It’s a testament to your strength that you’ve managed to get this far in your life and career.”

“But what do I do? I can’t stop,” Berg whispered, tears forming. “I even tell rape victims to move on, yet I can’t do it. What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing,” the therapist replied. “You are just reenacting a conditioned behavior. What your stepfather and mother did to you was not your fault. You did nothing wrong. But as children, we don’t understand this. We think it’s somehow something we did, that somehow we were at fault, that there is something wrong with us. We see our parents as God-like, all powerful, because we rely on them for our survival. So when a parent rejects us, we blame ourselves. But, Alicia, parents are just people, they are just as flawed as anyone else, and they did the wrong thing. But with a little time, and possibly some medication, you will—”

“No medication,” Berg said. “I am not interested in coming out of one addiction with another. No medication.”

“Okay, well, we’ll see how it goes. But you are going to have to feel things, Alicia. Some of them will be unpleasant. And it’s going to take some time.”

“But what about the voice in my head? Doesn’t that make me crazy?”

“Parasitic or intrusive thoughts are common in people with depression, Alicia. You’ve just carried on hearing your mother’s voice from your childhood. The real question here is not where the voice comes from but why do you listen to it? Why do you believe what it says?”

Berg walked down a squeaky corridor in the hospital. It was late and her footsteps echoed in the deserted ward. She hesitated for a moment, then knocked gingerly on Jay’s door and opened it.

“Come in,” Jay called from the bed.

Berg walked into the room hesitantly. He had so many bunches of flowers it looked like a hyperactive florist had a nervous breakdown in the tiny space. She closed the door behind her.
 

“Hey, partner,” she said. “Although that’s not true anymore, is it? Congratulations,” she said with a smile.

Jay smiled back. Word had come down from above earlier that day that Jay was the new captain of the precinct. It seemed his natural leadership qualities had not gone unnoticed.

“Yeah,” he said, sitting up in the hospital bed slowly, wincing. “It seems the best way to get promoted these days is to completely ignore direct orders, carry out an investigation off the books, and then get captured and tortured for a few days. I highly recommend it.”

Berg laughed before her smile faded as she remembered the hours after Jay’s rescue.
 

It had been touch and go, and for a while Berg thought he might not even survive. Between being beaten and stabbed, Jay lost a lot of blood and had several broken bones. He needed an immediate blood transfusion and surgery on the stab wounds.
 

She sat in the emergency waiting room for sixteen hours while they worked on him, unmoving, praying against fear that her involvement in his beating had not made him worse.

She thought back to their capture and how she had held her breath as she’d beaten him, hoping the blows looked real enough for Leigh’s benefit, so the crazed captain would believe Berg had been successfully manipulated.

Once she was sure Leigh was dead, she rummaged through the pockets on the body, praying for a cell, to no avail. Berg had sprinted two hundred yards east to one of the new townhouses down the road, alarming a family by barging in and dialing 911 before they even registered her bloody appearance.

Eventually, ambulance officers arrived at the old home, followed by the detectives of the 12th who had been madly trying to track her car using traffic cameras. They found Berg cradling Jay in her lap, rocking him in her arms and begging him to survive.

Live! Berg repeated to him desperately.

Leigh had stabbed him twenty-eight times. Not happy with his pain from the knife, she poured lemon juice into his open wounds.

Berg shook free from her memories. Jay had been in hospital for almost two weeks, his livid bruises still fading, his arm and ankle in plaster.
 

Still, it could have been worse. He could have joined her unfortunate
henchmen
, the hitchhikers. Rosario’s body had been found in the woods the following day. The women had served their purpose, and Leigh, finding them wanting, evidently thought there were plenty more vulnerable targets where they had come from.

Berg knew from firsthand experience there were.

She looked up at Jay and they stared at each other for a long moment, not sure what to say.

“Thanks for saving my life,” Jay whispered. “Although next time, do you think you could arrive a little faster?”

Berg smirked. “I’ll do my best.”

Jay smiled before they both fell silent again.

“Can I ask you a question?” Berg asked to break the silence.

“Sure,” Jay said.

“Did you really ask for a transfer?”

Jay looked away. “I can explain . . .”
 

“It’s okay,” Berg said, holding her breath for a moment to stop the tears. “You don’t have to say it; I understand.”

“No, I do,” Jay said, trying to catch Berg’s eye. “I thought it was for the best. It was only because of the way I feel . . . oh, hi.” Jay directed the last remark behind Berg.

A tall, pretty blonde with big blue eyes entered the room carrying a jug of ice water. “Here you are,” she said, placing it on Jay’s bedside table. “Sorry it took forever. Don’t know what those nurses are doing. You wouldn’t want to be desperately thirsty,” she joked as she poured some of the water into the glass beside Jay.
 

The blonde kissed him on the cheek, ruffling his hair affectionately as she sat herself back down in the chair next to the bed, the chair Berg now realized she had only vacated moments ago. The woman looked at him tenderly and clasped her fingers around his. “Oh, hello,” she said, only just noticing Berg standing in the corner.

“Uh, hi.” Berg stared at their intertwined fingers.

“And you are . . .” the woman asked.

“Oh.” Berg dragged her eyes away from their hands. “Uh, Alicia Raymond, Detective Raymond,” she replied. “Jay’s . . .” She was going to say partner, but that was untrue.

“Oh!” the woman said, jumping up from her seat and running to give Berg a hug. “I have you to thank for saving my number one man here.”

Berg stood dumbfounded as she endured a tight hug from the woman. She noticed in annoyance that the blonde was beautiful and perfect. The kind of woman Jay should be with. The bitch even smelled like roses.

“Berg,” Jay said, “this is Lizzy.”

“Hi . . . um, well.” Berg extricated herself from the hug. “I better go . . .”

Lizzy sat back down and once again placed her hand in Jay’s. “But I need to tell you how grateful I am,” she said to Berg, pleading. “We nearly lost him!”

“Yeah. Stay, Berg, please?” Jay added. “We need to talk . . .”

Berg looked at the pair in front of her, the love shining between them. “I . . . I can’t,” she said. “Heaps of paperwork to do, you know. It’s not every day you kill your superior officer.” She laughed hollowly. “Take care. I’ll see you back at work.” She practically ran to the door.

“Stop, Berg. I love you!” Jay blurted, leaning forward and then grunting from the pain.

Berg stopped dead halfway out the door. She turned back slowly. “What?”

“I suddenly have something very important to do . . . elsewhere.” Lizzy walked past Berg and softly closed the door behind her.