Chapter Eighteen: Ready Steady Go
Laurie's vision was getting blurry. The button for the elevator seemed to develop a twin as he tried to press it. He hadn't slept in over twenty-four hours. That had to be some kind of personal record. Even in medical school, he had always managed to collapse for at least an hour or two a night. But every time he shut his eyes he just kept seeing Callie's face.
"Dr. Gregg."
Recognizing Ray's voice, he did not turn around. He had worked with his father a long time ago, in a building very similar to this one. He was used to the detectives not liking what he had to say. Nobody wanted to empathize with criminals. Nobody wanted to feel sorry for them and think about the horrible lives they had lived that drove them to crime.
He was a bleeding liberal. He knew it. Still, it had led him to success and he wasn't one to second guess success.
"I'm going to try and catch a few hours sleep," Laurie told him as he reached his side. "I probably won't get it but I'm going to try."
Ray nodded. "You know, what you said before. About guys like this Vincent being created by abuse—"
"Yes."
"Well, before I was undercover, my first assignment was homicide. We caught a guy – he was a contract killer for the mob. Perfectly normal suburban family. Parents loved him. Had a good childhood. He got into the killing business because he wanted to be respected and feared. He was the coolest sociopath I'd ever had the displeasure of meeting. Hated anybody and anything that was more affluent than him. Which meant he hated a lot."
Laurie raised an eyebrow, expecting the point.
Ray went on. "Another guy, a hit man, we grabbed him on sheer luck. This guy was connected. His lawyers managed to fuck the case so we couldn't make anything stick but he had a wife, a family. Two kids, the whole picture. Was never smacked around a day in his life. Doctors diagnosed him as having a multiple personality disorder. Was never caught or treated because the other personality kept itself so perfectly secret. That was one for the books."
Laurie looked at him, patiently.
"My point," Ray finally said, "is that not everybody who does terrible things does them because they're acting out some deep-set childhood trauma. Not all monsters are made monsters. Some are just born them. Some people are just plain evil."
Laurie nodded. "True. They are. There are all kinds of reasons people do the things they do. But this one," he said, meaning Vincent, "this one I know better. This one has your sister not because he wants to harm her, but because he can't hurt her."
Ray met his eyes levelly for a long moment. Then he said, "Whatever I have to do to get my sister back, I'll do it."
Laurie nodded. He didn't feel bleary anymore. "I think I have a few ideas."
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Callie had slept deeper than she realized.
When she woke up, she was aware of something…no, someone…pressed against her back. Curled around her, intimately. Warm, firm…dammit, it had to be Vincent. Apparently, he had had some second thoughts since their previous conversation.
She didn't move for several long moments. She couldn't be angry at him. It was her fault. If she hadn't initiated it, nothing would ever have happened. He made a promise and he had been keeping it. She was the one who blew it. Could she expect him to flip on and off like a lightswitch? She couldn't even ask that of herself, because…well, it felt nice.
His hand was on her hip, moving slowly back and forth up her ribcage and then down again. His fingers danced, making circles and other patterns through her bedclothes.
She was touched than he was still feeling playful, even after all their talking. She was sure, when he'd told her to take the bed, that he was very hurt. As much as he could acknowledge being hurt, and even then that couldn't be much.
She had read his file in the office, the one Ray had brought to her. She remembered the records from his childhood, the neglect and abuse he'd suffered from his father. She couldn't image being just a baby, an innocent, blank-slate-of-a-baby, and having your closest living relation loathing your existence. It broke her heart to think about it.
His strokes were getting a bit more…sexual, now. He had dipped under her nightshirt and was slowly pushing down the waist band of her shorts. He leaned over, and nuzzled his face into the crook of her neck.
"Vincent," she said, turning just a little. "We can't—"
"I'm not Vincent."
The words stopped her cold, and she realized that the hair that was in her peripheral vision was dark, not gray. The facial hair that scratched her skin was fuller and softer, not Vincent's perpetual salt-and-pepper shadow. And with a great jerk of her muscles, she tried to turn, but he grabbed her hard, throwing one leg around hers, imprisoning them, and one hand curling up from below to clamp around her neck.
Rochester.
She opened her mouth to scream. She got out a good start of it, but he was fast. Something was suddenly stuffed between her jaws, and she gagged to realize it was a wet hand towel.
"I know what you're thinking," he said, casually, yanking her back and pressing against her, rubbing his hips suggestively against her backside. "Haven't we done this before? Certainly. Isn't it getting a little old? Yes. Which is why I'm afraid you probably won't ever be getting out of this bed again, Callie. I've done a lot more than thrown the deadbolt – those things can be jimmied. I've got the entire door braced that will keep your new lover from coming to the rescue."
He seemed to fold around her like a human blanket. His leg wrapped around her thighs made any kicking she did with her lower legs useless. She squeaked and gargled through the gag but he seemed to respond with arousal to her outrage.
"You dirty little bitch," he said in a nearly affectionate tone. She winced as she felt his hand slip under her nightshirt and grasp her breast. The worst of it was, he wasn't being crass about it – his fingers started to play with the object and stupidly it responded, a dog panting eagerly for a stranger who showed it kindness. She gave a little jerk but she could feel his amusement rumble against her back in a chuckle. "What, I thought bad boys turned you on, sugar! You certainly seemed to get all wet for a former assassin who held you hostage."
She almost choked on the gag. The thought that this creep was aware of the previous night made her sick. Worse, had he been listening in? What disgusting things had he been doing while--?
Alarm suddenly spread through her when his hand left her breast and dipped down, going to the waistband of her shorts. He'd already pushed them down by a few inches and her naked hip was exposed to his touch. Still, he seemed intent on going farther. She gave a jerk, trying to shake him off. He laughed.
"You know, I had you pegged for liking the rough stuff, but you're just like any other girl. Seems its Vincent who's gone soft. I'll bet he was even gentle with you without asking." He had his hand under the waistband now. She gave a strangled cry of distress. "Well, I can be gentle too, baby. I can take it slow. As slow as you like."
She suddenly realized that his other hand was grasping tighter around the cords of her neck, and it was getting harder to breathe.
"Or maybe you're bored with that trite bullshit and would like something a little more… raw."
Callie closed her eyes, desperately trying to think. She didn't have any access to weapons, her body was completely imprisoned. The only kind of escape she could muster was a mental one.
Laurie's voice was clear in her mind. Men like Rochester got their rocks off by inducing fear and panic in their victims. The struggle was the payoff – the harder the fight, the sweeter the victory. He wanted her to fight him – he wanted her to kick back. Sure, he would hurt her worse; break her down into little pieces. But that was the point.
There was no use in breaking something already broken.
Suddenly, she made herself go limp. She even fought against the instinctive self-preservational force that made her fight for air against his grip. She had been in this half-dead state before – she had gone into shock right after Vincent had shot Annie. She just had to get her head into the right place---
He let go of her neck. Apparently, he thought she'd fainted from lack of air, but as he pulled her closer to him, he quickly reassured himself that he hadn't squeezed that hard. She made her eyes go blank, staring into nothing. He jerked her and her head lolled on her neck, a broken doll.
He pulled himself up on his arm and she was almost under him now, and he stared down at her, into her face. She saw flickers of anger but ignored them. She couldn't show anything, not a single flash of emotion. If she didn't care what he did to her, it would piss him off. And an angry man was a man who made mistakes.
Sure enough, the hand came down and whacked her hard across the jaw, causing her head to turn into the sheets. She didn't flop back up, and he had to pull her back to face him. He was starting to show his irritation now, his lips twitching, his eyes glinting.
"Going to make this unpleasant for both of us, yes?" he said in a clipped tone, and then, to her internal horror, he smiled. "Guess I'll just have to hurt you more."
He slapped her again. This one sent a trickle of blood down her nose and across her cheek. And the pain sent a flash of something through her head. A picture.
A picture of a gun.
A picture of a gun stuffed into the mattress just below her.
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Vincent sat up on the lounger with a bit of a start. He had fallen asleep harder than he realized. It must have been all the activity. And the emotional strain. He wasn't used to that sort of encounter from before, so logic only dictated that it would take itself out on him physically.
He'd been dreaming. It was a dream he hadn't had in a very long time. He was a child, and he was locked on a room. It was dark, nobody was home, he was alone. He was hungry and there was another, unpleasant sensation, not like pain, but definitely upsetting. He was calling and calling, but nobody came. He was trapped there, forgotten, alone.
It quickly faded. It always faded when he'd had it during his youth. He never expected to have it again. His heart was beating too rapidly in his chest and he had to sit there a moment to catch his breath. Sweat dripped down his temples and down into the palm of his hand, pooling on his skin. He considered it while he forced his body to relax. He had always had complete control of his physical reactions. Most of them.
Callie had done this to him. An irrational anger flamed through him. She slept, as heavily as he had a few moments ago, and her snores were soft and rumbling. In the bed, where they had been together. They had been together and now they were apart.
She had undone him. He knew this, had been telling himself this for several days, but the full impact was now becoming very apparent to him. This could mean his life. This could mean the end of the world as he knew it. Before, that hadn't sounded so bad. His world hadn't interested him for a while now. His life was devoid of meaning, of purpose. Why did he care if he lost it? Death had never scared him so much. It was only the knowledge that when he died, nobody would have known that he had existed. Nobody would have cared.
She cared. Or at least she was supposed to care. That gave him…hope. But still, forever the wedge. Forever the distance and the strain. She wouldn't be with him. The cost was too high. For him as well. And yet he still wanted. Irrationally wanted.
The anger flamed higher.
He stood, pulling with him the Glock he kept secured under the cushion. He always slept with a gun within arm's reach. He moved it without thinking if he ever changed sleeping places. Before it had been under the bed mattress. He'd gotten these off Peter's boat and packed them into his luggage. There was another, still secured under his socks and underwear, loaded. He had never needed more than one gun, but he'd taken two. He realized now he'd meant to give it to Callie.
She was a good shot. He remembered the pictures, the confidence in her stance. Sure, her skill was probably stemming from fear of him, of the consequences of their previous encounter, but he doubted that now things had changed between them that she had lost that skill. Rochester would be enough to keep it sharp.
He sighed. Too complicated. He needed simple. And he was still angry, he realized.
He was angry at her.
Delayed reaction. This anger should have come sooner, but instead he'd gone with groveling. It felt…humiliating, in retrospect. Begging her. He did not beg anyone. Now it was too late, but he couldn't shake it. He paced, his bare feet silent against the thick carpet. He wanted to wake her up, but knew it was pointless. He'd just be feeding the beast. Making things more complicated. Besides, they had already exchanged all the necessary words.
This had to end. He had said as much before. The only way to end it was to bring Rochester out into the open. And the only way to do that…
Vincent sighed again. He didn't want to do it. But not doing it was only making things worse. He was delaying the inevitable.
He went to his suitcase and pulled out the extra Glock. He pressed a fully loaded clip into it and cocked the gun, putting one bullet in the chamber. Then he walked over to the bed.
"Callie," he said, tapping her shoulder.
She stirred, but didn't wake. She would be groggy when she woke. Maybe she wouldn't understand him. Still, something would not let him let it go.
"Callie," he said, leaning down into her face. He shook her until her eyes opened, but he could tell by the dilation of her pupils that she was not awake, merely reacting to him. Maybe she would remember. Stress sometimes did miraculous things to people.
"I'm putting this gun –" he showed it to her, saw her eyes flicker, but nothing else, "—under the mattress." He reached below and shoved the gun deep under, until it was almost directly below her, on her side of the bed. Rochester wouldn't stumble upon it.
She nodded, hummed an affirmative, and then went back to sleep, snoring again in seconds. Vincent turned to the closet and pulled out the pale gray Armani suit he had also gotten from Peter's yacht.
It was very similar to the one he'd worn the night he met Callie.
He got dressed and left the hotel room.
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It took everything in her not to kick against Rochester as his hands pressed against her windpipe. She told herself, over and over in her head, that he wasn't going to kill her. She hadn't suffered enough. He hadn't played with her enough. She would pass out, he would let go, and she would revive. It was hard to hang onto those thoughts. The world started to grow blurry and then glow with a thousand dots of light. She vaguely heard him start swearing at her – he had been sure, she knew, that choking her would get her to react. At least get her kicking.
More slapping. His hands pulled away from her throat as he viciously dragged her back to consciousness. The force of the blows knocked the gag from her mouth. Her cheek was streaked with blood from her nose, now possibly in the shape of his handprint. He grabbed her face, squeezing her cheeks together, making her lips pucker out. Her mind briefly flashed to the encounter at St. Anthony's in the closet, with Vincent. In spite of herself, she gave a twitch.
He smiled at her. Then, of all the disgusting things, his tongue was suddenly against her cheek, lapping up the blood. Then he was kissing her, that same tongue shoving into her mouth, and the taste of her own blood made her retch. Against, she gave a twitch.
He had to throw her off the bed. She had to make him so angry that he would toss her off the side. But how? There was no way to predict the actions of this man. His tongue slid around her mouth, the tip tracing her teeth before he plunged further, triggering her gag reflex. She considered biting down, but found that her fear stood in her way. If she really hurt him, what would he do to her? He had already promised a hundred grizzly things. But she reminded herself that Rochester, like Vincent, was to be feared the most when he was calm. Shatter the calm, shatter the fear.
Her body made the move for her. Unable to stand the intrusion any longer, her throat muscles contracted and she coughed, making her teeth rattle and bite down. He gave a squeak, pulled back and looked at her, eyes glittering.
"You sure can spoil a good time, you know that?"
She was still coughing, unable to yank it back. His weight pressed against her chest made it nearly impossible and she was going to choke again. He seemed to sense this, because he eased off and rolled her over, pressing her face down on the bed. She felt his hands on her back, slipping under her shirt, fingers spreading over flesh. His leg looped over hers again, making sure she didn't try anything.
"Don't want you to die yet, not before we've had our fun."
"Why now?" she managed, once the pipes were clear for a split second. She coughed again, several more times, painful hacks that made her want to spit up. She didn't dare. He'd push her face into it. "Why do this now? You finally run out of patience?"
"Oh, the heart has reasons that reason cannot know," he sing-songed. "But if you want to know the truth, the opportunity to torment your new lover was just too overwhelming. I'm pretty sure he's going to come pounding at that door any second now, but I've made damn sure that he won't be able to get in here. The only thing getting through that door is your screams."
"Fuck you."
"Hmmm…now we're talking." Callie ground her teeth. She'd let him bait her. He squirmed against her backside, one hand starting to roam freely. Fingers slithered along her curves and past her hip, resting on one of her rear cheeks. The journey was leisured. "Don't get any silly ideas that you'll be able to get through this by closing your eyes and pretending its Vincent." His hand had moved up to the waistband of her shorts and was very purposefully pulling them down. The alarming sensation of air against bare skin made her shut her eyes, desperate to think of something, anything to delay this. "I have a very definitive style." He buried his mouth in the hairs at the base of her neck. "You'll be able to tell."
A whimper lodged in her throat and she swallowed it down. "So the plan is to rape me while Vincent listens outside?" she asked. "What happened to all your romantic plans? The part about it lasting for a few days?"
"Oh, it will," Rochester chuckled. The shorts were past her hips now, tangled at her knees. Any second now and his hand was going to invade a place where she wouldn't be able to think clearly.
"Please," she snorted, forcing herself to sound calm. "Whatever you think, I don't care if you put up a cement wall against that door, Vincent will find a way to get it down. He's smarter than you."
He reached around, grasping her chin and pulling her head back, causing her spine to arch painfully upwards. She could almost see him if she turned her eyes all the way. In her ear, his mouth said wetly, "If he's so smart, then why did he leave you all alone when he knew damn well I was here?"
"Maybe it's a trap," she said. "And I'm the bait."
He laughed, the air whistling into her ear canal and causing shivers to go all down her body. "Vincent would never use his precious Callie as bait. How stupid do you think I am?"
"Pretty stupid," she said, pushing the button. "You walked into the trap, didn't you?"
He smiled against her skin. "If it really was a trap, Callie," he said, his voice much more serious, "you never would have told me."
"And if it really was a trap," she countered, "Vincent would never have told me."
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Vincent paced around the lobby. It was too early in the morning, nobody was awake yet, except for the night duty clerk, who smiled at him cheerfully and wisely kept his mouth shut. Vincent picked up the newspaper, The Los Angeles Times, which always came ridiculously early, and sat down comfortably. He flipped through it, waiting patiently for The New York Times to show up.
Glancing at his watch, he realized he didn't have time. He'd left the cage open long enough. If the animal hadn't wandered in by now, it wasn't going to at all. And it was a foolish plan anyway, really, when he thought about it. Too obvious. Rochester wouldn't fall for it.
Then again, he'd very proudly displayed his desire to antagonize Vincent by attacking Callie at the pool. Obviously Rochester wanted him as much as he wanted her – probably more. But it was safer to do it here. Away from Callie's family…
There it was again. Vincent felt irritation. He was trying to turn his skin back into steel and he just kept letting her get under it. Even the reason he was going back upstairs so soon, was because he didn't want to leave her exposed so long that Rochester could actually harm her before he got there.
He was already headed for the elevator, the Times discarded on the end table. He pressed the button, and in the privacy of the mirrored car, he reached into his breast pocket for the particular tools he had brought with him from the hotel room.
He hadn't been sure, while on the yacht, what he would need, but Vincent liked to be prepared for all possibilities. It was a small tool kit, no bigger than an oversized marker – magnetized screwdriver heads rattled around the bottom as he detached the base. This was an older hotel, why he'd picked it – most of the modern ones didn't have hinges outside in the hallway for exactly these kinds of reasons. The doors usually opened inward.
Not this hotel. Here, the doors opened outward. Which meant the hinges were outside.
Vincent did not knock. When he reached the correct room, he pressed his ear to the door. He could hear vague noises – he did not like to think about what they were. But it was obvious that Callie was not alone. She wouldn't be talking to herself, certainly not in those tones. Instead, he turned his attention to the door hinges.
He reached up and felt with his fingertip the kind of screw head that held the hinges in place, and quickly put the proper tip in place on the screwdriver's base. He stretched hard – in spite of appearances, he really was not a very tall man. He was usually able to fake a few inches just by being so damn intimidating – and when push came to shove, lifts in his shoes. The tip of the screwdriver when into place, but the hinge was old and didn't want to turn. In this awkward position, it would take more time than he liked to get the door open. He couldn't get his arms positioned to use the right muscles to get it done faster. But he pushed as hard as he could anyway, until the join of his shoulder was screaming for him to stop.
Vincent had long since trained his body to endure simple things like pain. He compartmentalized it, and the surge of victory he felt when the screw went loose and wobbled so that he could grasp and pull it the rest of the way with his fingers was almost worth it. The lower screw was easier, as he was pushing downward and had better leverage.
Now, came the real trick. Getting the door open from the opposite way without alerting the party inside. He hadn't even attempted the lock, knowing that Rochester's ears would be attuned to listening for any small sign of his return. Getting a door to open from the opposite direction was much, much noisier business than rattling a key in a lock.
Gently, delicately, and much more slowly than he wanted to, Vincent grasped the empty hinges and started to tug.