Guilty

Chapter 4

Perry was drifting in and out of consciousness. Gradually reason returned, and with it came several realizations. First, he was cold. Very, very cold. There was some kind of draft coming from a vent, either overhead or from a wall. Second, the darkness that swallowed the space was absolute, which confused his already jumbled mind. How can a room that is nearly solid white be so dark? Or did I dream the stark, blank walls . . . Regardless, one thing is certain: if the lights are off, Ainsworth isn't back. Third, Paul's absence was starting to concern him on a bone-deep level.

Paul! What did that maniac do with Paul? He was with me. Or was he? Yes, he hasn't left my side since . . . Did Paul get killed? Why can't I remember? Has he gotten to Della?

Della. Sight and sound pictures of her floated through his memory. The way she walked from her office into his. The way she tilted her head in that characteristic way, not necessarily contradicting him, but making him stop and think through a matter a little longer. The way she laughed at his jokes. The way she smelled, like fresh soap and scented perfume. The sound of her voice. The way she said his name.

Tears formed in his eyes, burning them with the salt. Della! If Ainsworth has gotten to you, I will find a way to . . . You can't be gone. I haven't told you yet! Why, oh why, didn't I tell her how I . . .

He shifted as best he could, then remembered he was bound. Something pricked underneath his thigh. The scalpel. I need to get going on these restraints. I need to escape. I need to . . .

Suddenly the room was flooded with light. Perry closed his eyes against the glare's assault, willing himself to regulate his breathing. Using his other senses, he felt a slight change in the air around him. Someone was moving. He heard the door close, and risked opening his eyes as he turned his head to see Ainsworth enter the room.

Something was wrong with his vision! I must be hallucinating! There are two of him! He blinked several times in an effort to clear his double vision. It didn't work. Either I'm going to need glasses, or Ainsworth has multiplied! Did I know about a brother or cousin? Did I really know anything about him other than what I witnessed? No. I never had Paul investigate him in the leadup to the trial. It would have been prejudicial, and I would never have harmed Burger's case like that. But once he escaped . . . Paul had his men on security detail. There wasn't any way he could also do a background check on him. Damn!

"Ah! I see that my patient is awake." The voice was calm, conversational even.

Perry's fear, having been kept under rigid control for the last few minutes, resurrected with twice the strength as before. Now what he felt was sheer, unadulterated terror. Death, no longer an abstract idea to be reasoned away, was, all of a sudden, certain. He turned his head away from Ainsworth, closed his eyes again, and feigned indifference.

"May I stay and watch?" The voice was more animated than before. There was a higher register to it.

So there are two of them! Paul, I need to tell Paul! This must be how Ainsworth could be two places at once.

The conversation between the two men continued, irrelevant from Perry's thoughts. "No, not this time. It will be better if I attend to some of the preparations myself."

"But you promised!" the second voice whined. "You said I could watch! You promised!" The plaintive wail was followed by the stamping of feet.

Perry was just turning back to see which Ainsworth matched which voice when a slap crackled the air as it landed, sending an echo around the room.

"Go back to your room this minute!" The voice was calm, but firm. There was no room for disobedience. Whichever Ainsworth this was, he was the dominant.

Perry watched enough to see Ainsworth forcibly shove the man from the room. He slammed the door, turning the lock. Gathering himself, he paused only a moment before he deliberately stomped back to the operating table. Behind him, the door shook with the force of the fists pounding on it.

"Sometimes…"

He slapped his hands on the counter in frustration, then reached over to turn on the portable radio sitting on the counter. Twisting the knob until he found a station playing classical music, he raised the volume to drown out further sound. Satisfied that he could concentrate on his work, he once again began methodically laying out his instruments of death.

The music was a blessing in disguise. While Ainsworth was concentrating on his task, Perry managed to grasp the hidden scalpel. With his limited mobility and his hand restrained, cutting through the restraint was awkward. He bent his hand back, using the dexterity of his fingers to align the blade with the restraint. On the first try, he felt it slip, then felt the blade nick his wrist. He took the pain, not even allowing himself to wince.

Don't give yourself away. God, don't let that stupid mistake bleed too much! Keep him from noticing . . .

On the second attempt, he managed to move the instrument and connected to the strap. Carefully moving the blade back and forth, Perry began working at the restraint.

A rustle of clothes alerted him. Ainsworth was moving away from the counter toward him. He secreted the blade under his thigh once more and closed his eyes.

Pushing the rolling try to the side of the table, Ainsworth smiled, then gave an evil chuckle. "There's no sense playing possum, Mason. I know you've been watching me with great interest."

At his statement, Perry flinched in a moment of real panic, thinking the man had also seen the scalpel.

"Of course you would be curious about your upcoming death. How it's going to happen, what is going to precede it. Rest assured I will keep you informed every step of the way. It will be a long process. I do so hope you will be with me longer than the others."

Perry's jaw set. "Why toy with me? Haven't you had your fill with the others? Or are you feeding something you can't control? Does this need force you to be sadistic? Is that the only way you can be satisfied?" He turned his cool blue eyes on the man, taunting him, deliberately provoking a response. "Surely you don't expect me to help you! Why don't you finish me now and be done with it?"

Ainsworth slapped him so hard his teeth rattled and he actually saw stars.

"Because you are my last, my finest, my pièce de résistance! Everyone will remember me because of your death! The news reporters will run out of adjectives trying to describe me. No one will—"

My last . . . Della is safe, then. "Yes, yes, yes," he mocked, interrupting Ainsworth's diatribe. "In a few days no one will remember your name. What is it they call it? A footnote in history. I'm no one important. But even if the media does play up my death, they will talk about how I died a martyr. Any mention of you will be limited to your psychopathy. They will analyze your psyche, label you a sadist or more, and then . . ." Perry managed a shrug. "Drop you."

Ainsworth let out an animalistic howl, gripping him around the throat and squeezing. As Perry started to black out, he said a silent prayer of thanks that he would be spared whatever horror Ainsworth had planned for him. Then the pressure suddenly stopped and the hands released. He gasped for the breath he so desperately needed, then fought a bout of coughing.

Ainsworth stood over him, mopped his brow with a towel, glaring. "Forgive me, Mason. The shrink said I have anger management issues. I told him to—well, let's just say it didn't end well."

Perry refused to take the bait, trying to once again calm his breathing.

"I can see now what a success you were in the courtroom. How, without any instruments to use, you wield your words as weapons. I respect that. You know how to cut through the periphery and get down to logistics." He looked over at his tray. "As a show of my respect, I will leave off with the pedantic conversation and get down to business. Let's begin."

Ainsworth took hold of a tube of something, uncapped it, then squeezed. He slathered white cream over Perry's chest. "I hope this isn't going to sting. I don't believe in warming water. As I promised, this is what will happen first. I am obviously going to remove this obstacle. Then we will resume opening your thorax. Please hold still."

Then picking up a razor, and with methodical precision, he began to shave the dark hair covering Perry's massive chest.

As strains of a Vivaldi masterpiece played from the radio, the pounding on the other side of the door gradually invaded the room. To Perry, is sounded like an up-tempo death march. With every ounce of his being, he controlled his fear, and instead channeled the one simple, all-important thought . . . Della is safe. Della is safe. Della is safe . . .