Page 67

Joe

I’ve never felt so alive. Maybe this is why lords hunt foxes.

There was that novel, decades back, where the victims were released and the teams took up chase.

It’s exhilarating, the thought that my little patient is on the run, her heart beating fast inside that young chest, her adrenaline pushing her to keep going despite the fatigue her muscles must be facing.

She’s not the first to escape. The last was a patient for over four years.

Her muscles had atrophied, her health was poor, and I caught her easily, on the ridge, just a quarter-mile from the road.

It was a close enough call for us to install the fencing, which is why I’m not too concerned about this little event.

Had she taken the Excursion, it would be cause for alarm.

But I have the key to that in my pocket, and on foot, she would never make it.

She might make it to one of the fences. But try to crawl over them, and she’d be hit with five thousand volts of electricity.

Not enough to kill, but enough to ensure she wouldn’t try again.

I didn’t see her on the road from the clinic to the house, so she is likely in the woods.

That’s fine. I open the coat closet and grab a windbreaker, the thick one, which will protect me from the branches and thorns of the forest. Tossing it on the couch, I shed my suit jacket and stop at the fridge to grab a bottled water.

Maybe she’ll change her mind and come back to the clinic. I’ll pull up and see her huddled outside the door, her face apologetic, her arms scratched up, feet bloody. She’ll beg forgiveness and I’ll grant her some initial mercy.

From that moment, though, our relationship will have changed.

Dinah has ruined this one for me. I chug the water and think about all the wasted hours, all my notes and plans.

Jessica was so close to breaking. Today, in fact, probably would have been her moment.

Yes, I killed my mother. I remember it. I remember why I did it.

It would have been beautiful. Glorious. And now it’s gone.

I take in the last drop and crumple the water bottle in my fist, then open the drawer to the trash can and chuck it in.

Reaching up, I undo the top button of my dress shirt, then begin to work my way down.

Moving around the island, I head to our bedroom.

Another thing that will need to change. No sense in two beds if Dinah will be staying at the clinic.

I’ll give her the biggest room, of course.

She is, at least for now, still my wife. She—

I stop and take a step back, then another, unsure of what I’ve seen out of the corner of my eye. Retracing my steps into the living room, I peer at the small wet clump on the floor by the front door. It looks like a washcloth. I walk over and bend down, getting a closer look at it.

Wet socks, with the familiar gray pattern of anti-slip tread on the bottom of them.

She’s here.

I straighten, my heart beating faster as I absorb the possibilities. I stand and look around the room, gauging the potential hiding spots. Easing around to the left, I check behind the couch and then reopen the coat closet, flicking on the light switch and exploring the small depths.

No twenty-year-old girl. I close the door quietly. So, the bathrooms or bedrooms. I should have visited the garage first and grabbed one of the hunting guns—not that a big weapon is needed with a girl her size. One hard punch would send her to the floor.

Still, I swing by the kitchen and grab my favorite knife from the butcher block, verifying that all the others are there.

Maybe she is no longer here, but unless she’s an Olympic runner, the timetable makes it likely that she’s still in the house.

Holding the knife in my right hand, I ease toward the bedrooms. I check the small bathroom first, but the walk-in shower and small space is empty.

Next is our bedroom, and I hesitate in the doorway, aware that if I move inside, she might run from the other room and to freedom.

It’s a risk I’ll have to take, so I step into the room and quickly scan the interior.

It looks as it did this morning when I left.

Neat and in order. The door to the bathroom is open, but first I crouch and look under Dinah’s bed skirt.

A blur of activity happens in my peripheral, and I lift my head up in time to see her streak out from behind my bed and toward the hall.

I stick out my foot, and she trips over it, her arms swinging out in an attempt to catch herself, her head banging on the wall with a loud thump.

She immediately is in movement, rolling back upward and trying to lunge to her feet, but I tackle her to the floor and straddle her waist.

“Be still,” I threaten her, and pick up the knife, which fell in the activity.

I bring it to her face and she immediately freezes, her eyes going wide.

Funny how so many are so scared of a simple little blade.

Is it vanity? Or the fear of a pain they have never experienced?

To be honest, the stab doesn’t really hurt—not at first. It takes a moment to even realize it has occurred, and then .

.. then the pain follows. Like a blood pool spreading faster and faster, the associated pain receptors all coming to life at once.

It’s fascinating to watch, and each one is different.

“Please,” she begs. “Please. Just let me go.”

So ungrateful, these patients are. They don’t realize that they’re making history. Granted, she won’t. I might as well cut her throat right now. Not here; that would be too messy. But maybe in the guest-bathroom shower. I consider the distance and the best way to get her there.

“Stay there.” I hold the knife against her neck and press on her chest with my other hand, pinning her to the floor as I stand. Straightening, I put my shoe on her sternum and lean on it until she lets out a painful gasp.

She’ll walk to her death.

They always do.