Chapter Two: Put the Gun Down
Mid-morning rays of sunlight shimmered brilliantly from behind a cluster of dissipating clouds. Although the rain had ceased for nearly an hour, a harsh wind threatened to deliver another downpour onto Gotham. In Robinson Park, a fledgling cop secured the crime scene with yellow caution tape. James Gordon patiently waited for his partner beneath an expansive elm tree. Droplets of water fell from the leaves above, dampening the officer's neatly trimmed hair. Harvey Bullock strolled lazily up the cobblestone path; a dark brimmed hat shielded his eyes.
"What do we got?"
"Nice of you to show up." James smirked. His partner only offered a shrug in response. The two officers left the shelter of the canopy and approached their latest victim. Sprawled on the lush grass, laid a soggy middle-age man with sunken eyes and a receding hairline. His pasty plump abdomen peeked through an unbuttoned shirt. Thoughtfully, Harvey sipped from his coffee and studied the corpse.
"It's such a shame." Harvey turned around and lifted the lid from his steaming beverage. "There are grounds in my coffee."
"Do we have a positive ID of the victim?" James asked, choosing to ignore his partner's complaint. Edward Nygma, the police department's forensic scientist, hovered over the body. No one answered James's question. Nearby, Harvey poured a portion of his coffee onto the lawn. "Hey, watch it! You are going to contaminate everything."
"I can't drink it with all this junk floating at the top. Relax, partner. Nygma can handle a few splashes of java. Ain't that right, Ed?" Harvey replied casually, attempting to take another taste of his coffee.
"Say you'd never seek to lose me, while you live we cannot part, I must dwell lifelong inside you, locked within your beating heart." Edward chanted happily. Both James and Harvey raised their eyebrows in unison.
"Are you coming onto me?" Harvey squinted at the scrawny forensic scientist.
Pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, Edward blinked in confusion. "What? No. No! Goodness. It's a riddle. Do you get it?"
"Tell us what you found, Ed." James kept the conversation on track.
"Blood. Um, well... the absence of it actually. The victim has been completely drained. Not an ounce left!" Edward explained eagerly. Excitement caused his voice to quiver. "There is a single bullet wound to the chest-"
"Are you telling me that some sicko took this guy's liquids. Shot him, then dumped him on the street?" Repulsed, Harvey finally returned the plastic lid to his styrofoam cup.
For a moment, Edward considered the question. "Potentially. He may have been shot, drained, then dumped here. Or alternatively, dumped here, shot, and then drained. Or even-"
James grabbed Edward's shoulder. "We get it."
"Right." The forensic scientist hugged his clipboard. "There is something else the two of you should see." Motioning the officers forward, Edward returned to corpse. He cautiously knelt next to the body and used a pen to peel back the man's tattered collar. The skin of the victim's neck was punctured in several places; pallid tendons ligaments were visible through the gaping holes.
"Are those bite marks?" James inspected the unusual pattern from afar.
"From an animal. A pretty sizable beast too. If I had to guess, I'd say that it was a hyena." Edward speculated.
"A hyena in Gotham… with a gun." Harvey reiterated placidly. "Well, I didn't see that one coming."
A brief silence fell over the team, as the men considered the implications of the evidence. No identity. A gunshot wound. No blood. Bitemarks? "Good work, Ed." James was the first to break the lull. With a grin, Edward nodded and left the two detectives to discuss their new case. Putting his hands in his pockets, James turned toward Harvey. "Have we received any reports of animals escaping from the City Zoo?"
"Not that I've heard." Harvey replied. He held the caution tape up for his partner to walk under. "There are plenty of hungry strays in this neighborhood though." They treked through the park toward the perimeter street, where James had parked the patrol car.
The younger officer finally shook his head. "I don't know, Harv. A stray wouldn't do damage like that. And the bullet? The blood? There is something really unsettling about all of this." James opened the driver's side door and leaned his elbows on the roof of the vehicle.
"You get to fill out the paperwork on this one then." Harvey snorted, bringing the beverage to his lips again. An expression of disgust flashed across his face when the brew hit his tongue. He dumped the remainder of the coffee on the curb and bitterly chucked the cup under the car.
"Really? Littering?"
"What? Are you gonna write me a ticket?" Harvey pulled opened the passenger door and slid into the vehicle. "Shut up and drive the damn car."
An intense static crackled over the loudspeaker. All available staff please promptly report to the third floor auditorium to receive Professor Strange's message. The disembodied voice spurred the patients into a sudden cacophony of disorder: Confusion, anger, and fear resounded off the building's crumbling concrete walls.
"All available staff? Has management gone completely mad?" Frustrated, Erin attempted to pacify her patients in a gentle manner. "Please, Mr. Day, keep your clothes on! Mr. Wesker come out from under that table. There is no reason to- No! Otis Flannegan, you put that dead rat down this instant!" No one listened. The orders expired the moment Erin opened her mouth. "I need assistance in here! Now!"
Two exhausted technicians rushed into the room to isolate and sedate the unruly mob. With the additional support, Erin and her associates were able to suppress the chaos. Brilliant. There goes the rest of today's session, drowned in a cocktail of sedatives. Silently, Erin shuffled into the hallway, ran a hand through her hair, and started toward the auditorium. This is a complete waste of time and energy. A message from Professor Strange? Hardly. More like declaration of pretension.
Striding at a brisk pace, Erin nearly missed Cookie. Unlike the other patients, he seemed perfectly delighted not to engage in the morning's mayhem. Instead, he ran his hand along the wall and inspected the cracks. Upon noticing his former therapist, Cookie rushed to match her pace. His presence was almost playful, the way he bounced along at her side. A small smile formed on her lips.
"I'm sorry Cookie, but I have to go to a meeting." Erin apologized.
Cookie pointed at himself and cocked his head to the side.
"No. Unfortunately, you can't come along. You won't be missing much though. It will be very boring. Not like baking." A pressure constricted Erin's heart, when she saw excitement flash across his eyes. How can I break it to him that soon he won't be in the kitchen anymore? The little man grabbed her hand suddenly. Erin tensed, but remained calm. Cookie tenderly stroked the bandage wrapped around her knuckles. An undeniable gesture of concern for her well-being. Erin reached out and touched his shoulder. "I am alright, Cookie. Don't worry about me." With an understanding nod, the stout figure hobbled away, back to supervise the fissures in the wall. I promise I won't let him hurt you. Picking up her pace, Erin continued toward the assembly.
Careful not to attract any unnecessary attention, Erin discreetly pushed passed the auditorium's swinging doors and situated herself at the rear of the room. Although there were plenty of empty seats, Erin refused to relax. Instead, she folded her arms, straightened her spine, and squared her shoulders. The record would show that she was in attendance, but not openly pleased about it. Hugo Strange already stood on stage, resting his palms on a podium. The shades on all the windows were drawn. An ominous glow from the dusty floor lights beamed up and reflected in his glasses. As he spoke into the microphone, the meager assembly nodded their heads enthusiastically. What rubbish does he have these people believing now?
"In the next few months, we will change the world." Hugo continued. An apprehensive feeling washed over Erin; she sensed his gaze fall directly at her. "Recently, I have received a multimillion dollar grant from a private enterprise to study deferential behaviors. Our great city of Gotham is plagued by depravity. Everyday, innocent civilians are exposed to horrendous crimes. Fathers murdered. Mothers raped. Children molested. Gotham needs a solution. Our solution."
You are so full of shit.
"This study will change the way we interact with violence. There will come a time when your loved ones can walk down a street without fear. What we do here will revolutionize the prison system nationwide-"
Gradually, Erin tuned out the professor's benevolent speech. This study is good for me. It's good for you. It's good for Gotham. What about all these patients who need our help? Is your study good for them? Erin scoffed aloud, but no one noticed. Her thoughts drifted to Cookie. You are going to take a pleasant old man, dope him up, and parade him around as your timid little pet? Clever.
"With the grant, we will be able to purchase new medical instruments, advanced security, and even bonuses for those attendants who participate." Hugo explained. The assembly exploded into a commotion of whispers. Money was the best incentive.
Erin could not stand to listen for another moment. Hugo Strange was not the messiah, he was a cunning racketeer. I am going to make damn sure that everyone who reads your report knows that Cookie was harmless because of my work... not yours. Unfortunately, in her haste to deliver her patient to Hugo's office the day before, Erin had neglected to complete all of the necessary discharge paperwork. Soundlessly, she slipped back out into the hallway. The professor's voice faded the farther she traveled down the corridor. If she were lucky, the file would still be on the Hugo's desk where she deposited it yesterday afternoon.
Just a quick in and out. He won't be the wiser. Erin paused in front of Hugo's office to survey the area. Her hand met the cold brass of the knob as she nudged open the door. Guilt was the farthest feeling from her mind. There is no privacy in Arkham. Besides, who is foolish enough to leave their door unlocked in a mental institution? Hurriedly, Erin approached the desk. Fuck. He must have moved it. She sifted through the top drawer. Nothing. A compartment to the left appeared promising. Where is that blasted thing? Erin sifted through a stack of manilla envelopes and loose documents. Charles "Cookie" Randell.
"Finally." Erin breathed a sigh of relief. Grabbing a pen from the desk, she scribbled in her final notes before officially discharging Cookie from her care. She tucked the document neatly back into the folder. As Erin moved to return the record, a peculiar metallic flash caught her eye. A golden seal stamped onto an exposed letter.
Dear Mr. Strange,
Your letter from the 12th of July is acknowledged and my reply is as follows: The Government of Santa Prisca has agreed in principle to process the transfer applications of 32 inmates from Peña Duro to Arkham Asylum. You will be informed of the outcome in due course.
Yours sincerely,
Antonio Tempesta, Secretary for Security
An uncontrollable heat rushed to Erin's ears. "That son of a-"
"Can I help you with something Ms. Collins?" Hugo asked standing in the doorway. It was not fear that caused Erin's heart to pound against her ribcage, but outrage. Adrenaline caused her hands to shake. She pulled the letter from the drawer and slammed it on the counter.
"What the hell is this?" Erin demanded. Parading around like a pompous arse is tolerable, but this... "You are having inmates transferred to Arkham, when we can't even handle the patients we have? There is no way Director Marks approved this."
"Perhaps you are just not familiar with all of our cultural nuances yet, but Americans find it very impolite when someone goes through their private affairs without permission." Hugo chided pleasantly, as if she were a child. You condescending- "The director will be perfectly understanding about the transfer. After all, I require these subjects for my experiment. Everything will be handled and paid for without a hassle. You needn't worry yourself with such matters." The professor approached his desk and reclaimed the letter. "Now, if you could excuse yourself from my office. I am very busy."
It was not a request. Erin did not break eye contact with Hugo, even as she started out the door. Arkham can't help more people while we are so understaffed. This man is going to run this place into the ground. Hugo slammed the wooden door, causing the frosted glass window to rattle in protest. Allowing her anger to wane, Erin walked toward her own office, where she collapsed in a chair and covered her face. How can I expect to win against a man with so much influence? They'll sooner run me out of Arkham. Erin reached into her pocket and stared at her phone. An outside opinion would help organize her thoughts.
The rusted latch on the guitar case fastened shut with a powerful snap. Mia had spent all morning preparing for her audition. The instrument was tuned to the perfect pitch. She practiced the song repeatedly in order to break in the strings and warm up her vocal cords. Her cellphone vibrated vigorously on the nightstand. Erin Collins. With a confident composition, Mia swiped the screen to answer the phone.
"I didn't expect to hear from you until later tonight." Mia tucked the phone between her ear and shoulder.
"Did I catch you at a bad time?" Erin asked placidly. Huh, she sounds off. I hope everything is alright. Mia shoved her wallet and keys into her purse, slung it over her available shoulder, and stooped to grab the guitar case.
"Nah. I'm only just now heading out to catch the bus. We can talk while I wait." Closing the bedroom door behind her, Mia shuffled to the kitchen.
"How did everything at the museum go?"
Mia lowered her voice a degree, unsure of exactly where her father was lurking. "The plan went off without a hitch. He fell right into the act. I have the audition today at three. Themis isn't happy about the situation though." Ambiguity helped keep the walls from knowing the entire story.
"What brother wouldn't be upset? You are knowingly putting yourself in danger." Erin explained flatly. The comment did not bother Mia in the slightest; her friend's honesty allowed her to ground herself in reality. Mia put down her case, grabbed an apple, and crunched into it. Can't perform on an empty stomach.
"What's up with you anyhow. You sound a bit... preoccupied." Crunch.
"I just fucking hate the politics of this place." There we go. See how easy that was?
"What happened?" Mia asked through a mouth full of Granny Smith.
"This guy... he doesn't care about Arkham or the patients. I doubt he cares about anyone actually. You see, he got this multimillion dollar grant to do research. Who gives a man like that millions of dollars?"
"Maybe he slept with the right person." Mia suggested playfully.
Erin strained a laugh. "Unlikely, but none of that matters. It just aggravates me that he used his power to take away my patient. He is even transferring a group of inmates to our facility, even though we don't have the manpower to care for them. It's as if he doesn't think of them as people. They are just a means to an end."
"Who is this guy anyway?" Mia chucked the apple core into the bin, grabbed her guitar case, and started down the stairs. Using her free hand, she brought the phone to the side of her head. Erin's hesitation intrigued her. "Come on. It's not like I am ever going to meet him."
"His name is Hugo Strange. He is a big shot professor from the university."
"Hugo Strange? Sounds like a creep." Mia chuckled as she walked past her father and his client. Avidan meticulously measured the height of the adolescent boy, while his silver haired caretaker watched pensively. How adorable! "I'll give you a call later, Pops." Mia kissed him on the cheek.
"Good luck, dear." Avidan smiled kindly. He promptly returned to his patron. "You may lower your arms now, Bruce."
"He's practically a criminal." Erin growled. Mia returned to the conversation. "I just wish I could do something about it."
Mia ambled onto the street, her sights set on the distant bus stop. "Relax. Just be rational about it. What are your options?"
"There is absolutely nothing I can do. No one is going to back me."
"So what if this guy has money and fame? You just need to show everyone that your methods are valuable too. Show your boss that your program will save the asylum more money in the long run."
"I suppose I could write up a report. Organize the numbers."
"Exactly. Now you are thinking!" Mia smiled kindly at a homeless man sitting on the curb with a shaggy dog at his hip and a plastic change bucket at his feet. Juggling her possessions, the girl slipped a hand into the pocket of her slacks and retrieved a five dollar bill. She planted it in the man's collection pail. "Money is what drives Gotham after all. It's the only language that anyone understands." The stranger nodded gratefully at her, and Mia pressed forward.
"That's true. Thanks for listening."
"Just remember, if the report doesn't work... then you can move onto sabotage and deceit." Mia chuckled. That's one way of making them believe you.
"Stop that." Erin finally laughed. "Don't ruin your motivational speech with lunacy. Your first piece of advice was so wholesome and uncomplicated."
"Your loss."The bench at the bus stop was crowded with plump elderly women. A bearded man with a bald head rubbed his nose on his sleeve and leaned against the stop's awning. "Hey look, I can see the fifty-five coming. How about I stop by your apartment later tonight so we can talk more?"
"Sounds good to me. You can tell me all about your audition. Plus, I know that I am going to need a stiff drink after today."
Holding back a laugh with a snort, Mia agreed and hung up the phone. She slipped the device into her pocket. Public transit was not her favorite mode of transportation, but it was reliable for the most part. The bus hissed into position and opened its doors. Mia picked a seat near the middle, where she situated the guitar case between her legs. Men and women filtered off and on the bus as it carried the passengers downtown. The urban scenery blurred into a series of colors and shades passing by the window. Losing count of the stops, Mia watched for landmarks to tell exactly how far she had travelled. After forty patient minutes, she wrapped her fingers around the hanging cord and tugged gently. Looks like I will be right on time. The driver parked the bus at the next stop, directly across the street from Oswald's Nightclub.
Adjusting her leather jacket, Mia carefully crossed the busy road. The building itself was not impressive from the outside. A standard wall of concrete, without any windows. An unlit neon sign featured prominently near the burgundy door. An umbrella. Seems appropriate. Mia rapped three solid knocks on the door frame and waited. No answer. Again, the young musician beat on the entrance. Silence. Mia moved to try the knob, but it pulled away before she reached it. A broad-shouldered man stood in entryway.
"We aren't open yet." The man explained adamantly.
"I'm actually here for an audition." Mia gestured to her guitar case lamely.
"Ah," His gray eyes surveyed the woman curiously. "You must be Mia then." The man stepped aside to let her inside. Mia hurried past him, into the dimly lit lounge. The door closed behind her, forcing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. "I'm Butch. Butch Gilzean. I help Oswald manage the place."
Careful not to trip over her own two feet, Mia squinted and followed the edge of the wall. "It's nice to meet you, Butch. I was worried for a moment that I was at the wrong location."
"Nah. You're in the right place. Most of our guests just open the door though." Butch explained lightly. Right. That's what I get for being polite then.
The club's interior reflected an elegance that its exterior did not. Amethyst lights showered the central stage. A neat arrangement of tables with pristine white cloths checkered the ground floor. Above, a mezzanine opened up to a high vaulted ceiling decorated with crystal chandeliers. The mahogany bar stretched toward the entrance, stocked full of overpriced liquors. Mauve umbrellas dangled from the ceiling and walls, providing shade from the artificial light. Butch led Mia through the labyrinth of tables and helped her up the steps of the platform.
"I'll go get Oswald for you. If you need anything before you get started, just let one of the technicians in the back know."
"Thank you." Mia dropped her case on the stage and stared out at the empty tables. Butch disappeared into the back room. For the first time in a long while, Mia felt the butterflies. Carnivorous, winged little insects swirling in her abdomen, stripping the lining from her stomach. She loved that feeling.
Torture a man, and he will confess to anything. Oswald stood rigidly in the alley, watching the two heavy-set men force his prisoner's head into a trough of overpriced vodka. The confession did not matter to the nightclub manager; he already knew the answer. The captive struggled to escape their grasp, but failed to break free. Grinning wickedly, Oswald raised his hand. The two henchmen obeyed the silent command by wrenching the victim's face from the alcohol. Sputtering, the helpless man choked up liquid and shut his burning eyes.
"M-Mr. C-Cobblepot, puh-pla-ease!" He managed. The four missing bottles of Johnnie Walker Blue Label added up to nearly eight hundred dollars of misplaced product. Oswald had watched the video surveillance from the night before. The dim-witted waiter, Vince Hollins, did not even think to shield his theft from the cameras.
"Just tell me the truth. That is all I have ever asked for."
"But I t-told-"
"Again." Oswald ordered with a sigh. Imbecile. Do you think I am that stupid? The men dunked their captive's head back into the trough. At least it is entertaining to watch.
Footsteps echoed off the walls. Unperturbed by the scene before him, Butch approached Oswald. "That girl is here."
Puzzled, Oswald wrinkled his nose."Girl?"
"Mia." Butch elaborated.
Exasperation filled Oswald's lungs as he exhaled in irritation. "Right. I actually should have expected her to show up and on time nonetheless." In the background, Vince thrashed wildly. Gradually, he slowed to a near stillness. Oswald looked over. "Pull him out. I don't want him dead yet." They pulled the man up for air and threw him on the ground. Delirious from alcohol consumption, Vince wretched causing his chest to rattled in exhaustion. "I suppose we can put this on hold for now. Mr. Hollins, please think about my question some more. It would be a real shame if I had to terminate your employment." That would free up a space on our staff. We can't have that now, can we? Turning on his heel, Oswald limped back toward the nightclub. Butch held the back door open for his boss.
"I thought we weren't signing any new contracts." Butch pointed out blandly. Without any empathy, Oswald scowled at his assistant.
"We aren't."
"Then why-" Butch started.
"We will listen politely for a few minutes, then gently tell her to shove off." Oswald had already made up his mind about Mia. He walked through the door.
Butch frowned, under his breath he mumbled. "I don't know why anyone would want to work here willingly anyway."
"What did you say?" Go on, speak your thoughts. You'll find yourself worse off than Hollins.
"Nothing important." Butch smiled grudgingly.
The two men entered the main gallery, a heavy silence hanging between them. On stage, Mia adjusted the height of the microphone. A strap rested across her shoulder, allowing the acoustic-electric guitar to dangle by her side. Their entrance went unnoticed, which gave Oswald a chance to study her in depth. For a moment, Mia seemed less threatening to him. Delicate, even. Malevolent jeers and taunts were far from his mind. Instead, viewing her up on the stage reminded him of their occasional rooftop conversations.
What if I fall? You aren't going to fall. Why can't we just feed the birds down in the park? Because birds are born with wings. What does that even mean? If you had wings, would you want to stay on the ground? The girl was nonsense, wrapped up in layer of charm. To some extent, it was refreshing. Mia looked up from her instrument and their eyes connected. For Oswald, the moment was lost once again to indignation. He could not bring himself to hold her gaze, and that silently angered him.
"Mia! How good it is to see you again!" Oswald forced a smile for civility. He spun a chair around and sat backwards, with his arms propped up on the posterior. Butch did not take a seat, but stood behind Oswald and waited.
"It's good to see-"
"What will you be singing today?" Oswald cut her off.
"Put the Gun Down by ZZ Ward." Mia replied gently. "I am open to requests though."
"A song is a song. You just need to impress me." Oswald folded one forearm over the other and rested his chin atop the formation.
The musician nodded, checked the amp cable, and pulled the guitar in front of her calmly. Her eyes fell to the strings. Instinctively, her fingers met the frets and the chords rifted out into a blues beat. I got ten fingers to the sky. My back to the wall. My white flag high. Hair, lips, just like a gun, she's got silver bullets on her tongue. As Mia sang, she tapped her boot to keep rhythm.
Both Oswald and Butch stared motionless, paralyzed by the girl's honeyed voice. Oh, Adeline, have mercy! You don't wanna break my heart. Take what's mine, don't hurt me. Steal my money, steal my car. Don't take my man. Don't take my man. I said, don't take my man, 'cause you know you can. Put the gun down. Was this the same Mia? The woman from the museum who could barely function at her daily job.
She won't give up until I'm gone. I think I'm cursed. I had him first!
A broad smile plastered to his face, Butch sat down next to Oswald. The nightclub manager failed to notice. His piercing blues eyes fixed on the entertainment.
Put the gun down. Put the gun down. Put your finger on the trigger now. Put it down! Put it down!
Mia rocked from her heels to her toes, strumming the guitar in tempo with the raw emotion of the song. Put the gun down. Or I'mma set fire to the whole damn house. Put it down! Put it down! Each bluesy note flowed over her tongue like sultry liquid. Mia finally drifted into wavering final note, and her guitar fell silent. She allowed her arms to hang over her guitar. Both Butch and Oswald remained in quiet contemplation.
The lull made Mia noticeably uncomfortable. "I can sing another if you like."
Oswald shook his head, while Butch nodded enthusiastically. "No, that is quite alright." I did not expect for her to be this good.
"She's good boss. Better than a lot of the other performers we have here. I know what you said but-"
"Don't you think I know that?" Oswald snarled out a whisper. In a gentler tone, he addressed Mia from across the room. "Come down here so we can talk formally."
Diligently, Mia unplugged the cable to her guitar and tucked the instrument into its case. She snapped the latch shut, hopped off the stage, and approached the table. Well, I won't make this last part easy for her.
"Do you play any other instruments?" Oswald asked.
"Yes. Piano and violin." Mia responded. "And I learn quickly, if you need someone with particular skills." Oswald motioned for her to take a seat. She obeyed graciously, all the while smiling at him. How fast can I wipe that smile off your face? I bet if I said get lost, you might even cry.
"I have to admit, Mia, I did not intend to hire you today." Mia's face fell a fraction, but her disposition remained hopeful. She's stronger than she lets on. "I suppose it would be a waste for such potential to walk out my door. We might be able to work something out."
Unexpectedly, Mia jumped from the table. Her enthusiasm caught him off-guard. "Oh, thank you Mr. Cobblepot! Truly, it's an honor!" Butch scoffed back a laugh, but no one seemed concerned.
"Call me Oswald. We were childhood friends, after all."
"Thank you, Oswald." Mia repeated happily.
"There are a few stipulations." Oswald wanted to know how far her could push her dedication. "You need to pull your own around here. If you want to sing on stage you'll have to waitress on your off nights. We just lost one of our beloved waiters in a tragic drinking accident."
"I'm sorry to hear that. I wouldn't mind helping out at all though. Whatever you need." Mia agreed immediately.
"It is also standard policy that you cannot hold any other job while you work here." Oswald continued.
Butch scoffed again at the lie. If you scoff again, I will gut you Gilzean.
"That's fine." Mia replied. There was no job to have to quit, so she felt no desire to complain.
"You will receive a server's salary and we do not offer our employees benefits."
"I've worked for tips before. It's perfectly alright with me."
Oswald was running out ways to make the position less appealing. "You can expect to be here every night for the next few weeks." The pressure of the situation caused his eye to twitch. He had no valid reason to reject Mia, but he vowed internally to make it severely uncomfortable if she decided to stay.
"I can handle that."
"Great." Oswald smiled pleasantly, though on the inside his muscles clenched. "Let's sign some paperwork."
Six o'clock. For Erin, the burdens of the day were finally over. All of her patients were in the capable hands of the evening staff. The lights in her office were off. The office door was securely locked. If I forgot anything, it can wait until tomorrow. I am going to go home, plant myself on the couch with some wine, and enjoy the company of my friend. As Erin proceeded along the corridor toward the exit, she mindlessly sifted through her purse for her keys. Where the hell did I put them? An abrupt movement in her peripheries caused Erin to pause.
To her surprise, Erin found herself standing directly in front of the kitchen. Beneath the faulty light, Cookie dutifully stood at the wooden counter kneading a sticky pile of dough. Erin scanned the area intuitively; no nurses or attendants were around to supervise her former patient. What if he burned himself? What if he forgot to turn off the oven and the whole place caught fire? Figures. No one wants to be responsible, so it is up to me once again. Watching Cookie continue his routine gave Erin confidence that her former patient would one day be able to function on his own. I suppose I can stick around to keep an eye on him for a little while. Considerately, Erin knocked on the door frame to announce her presence. Cookie did not look up, but increased his momentum into the mixture. The oven door was wide open, allowing heat to radiate intensely throughout the room.
"So Cookie, you are in here all by yourself?" It was a rhetorical question. The mute continued pulling at the dough. Erin stepped into the kitchen, her heels clicked against the peeling linoleum floor. Cookie rolled the dough against the floured cutting board, reached for the rolling pin and began flattening his creation. "What are you making tonight? A pizza maybe?" Pizza. That sounds delicious. The warmth from the open oven caused the little man to sweat profusely. Beads of perspiration rolled off his nose onto the food. Maybe, not pizza then.
Smiling, Erin approached the counter and put her hands on the table. "Why do you have the oven open so soon? You must be so hot." She slipped behind the focused baker in order to close the oven door. "We'll just keep this closed until you're ready, okay? That's how we save energy-"
A sharp blow cracked Erin in the temple. The force sent her spiraling to the floor. White sparks blinded her line of vision. Before the therapist could recover, another force struck her in the chest fracturing several ribs. The room whirled around Erin. Fresh blood trickled down her face and matted her hair. In desperation, Erin quickly rolled onto her side and shielded her head as the next blow came down. Reflexively, the injured woman reached out for any object she could use to protect herself against the attacker. Pain exploded in her forearm. Cookie's face came into view, his teeth sunk deep into her limb. His left arm raised high above him to deliver another savage blow with the rolling pin. Erin's searching hand grazed the edge of a glue-trap. Without hesitation, Erin smashed the sticky paper into Cookie's face. Although the paper blinded her assailant and forced him backwards, he continued to flail wildly in her direction. Smacking down the heavy rolling pin on the floor near her face. Weakly, Erin attempted to pull herself up using the counter.
Before Erin could ground herself, Cookie lashed out again. Her hands gripped the splintered cutting board, which she threw up to deflect the next savage onslaught. Without the counter to balance her, the old man forced her back to the floor. Distant cold-blooded laughter filled her ears. Ya were way in over yer head, Lass. Think killin' our police officers is a game? Here's a game fer ya then. The boys and I are gonna fuck ya, cut yer throat, then dump yer body in the Lagan. That's what ya get for helpin' them dirty republican types. No. No. No!
"Stop!" Erin screamed.
With every ounce of remaining energy, the woman scrambled to her feet with the cutting board and rammed her weight toward her attacker. The wooden pin flew from his hands and rolled across the room. Cookie was on the floor, pinned beneath her. Violently, he reach out and grabbed a fistfull of her hair. Erin smashed the wooden board into his face. Over and over, she beat the block into his skull. Even after his grip on her hair fell limp, Erin continued. Hands shaking, she stopped only because the nurse pulled her off of the man. There was no pain. Only numbness. Stumbling to the wall, Erin propped herself up and stared back at the blood pooling into the kitchen drain. Nurses and doctors filtered into the room in slow motion. Cookie lay sprawled, in his usual silence, dead on the floor.