Catherine Nelson - Zoe Grey 02 - The Trouble with Theft (28 page)

“I learned killing
served a purpose.”

“Martha was protecting
you and your sister. Your uncle had been abusing you both, and he threatened
your grandmother.”

“That hag wasn’t my
grandmother! She was never around when I was growing up, when I
needed
her. Then when she did come along, she took us away from our family, our home.
And Wayne wasn’t abusing us. He loved us. He wanted us to feel special. We made
each other feel special.”

Uh oh. Desirae was
way
more messed up in the head than I’d originally thought. I also suspected her
sexual abuse went back way further than just her uncle if she could talk this
way about it. Her mother had been a prostitute. It stood to reason Mom brought
some of her clients home. It also stood to reason some of those clients got too
friendly with Desirae and her sister. It broke my heart and made me feel sick.

“You hated Martha for
what she did,” I said.

I thought it was a
good idea to keep her talking. My first objective was to free myself, and since
I had no real idea how I was going to do that, I needed to stall for time. I
could only hope Natalie and Priscilla had time.

“Back to therapy?” she
spat. “Then let’s talk about you.” She turned and picked up a potholder as she
spoke, then she reached into the pot and pulled out the knife. “You have a lot
of scars on your body. Want to tell me how you got them?”

I’m not normally the
sharing type, but I thought I could make an exception. I wanted to keep her
talking. If this was what she wanted to talk about, I’d go with it.

“Most of them came
from my father,” I told her. “He was an angry man.”

“He ever do anything
else to you?”

She picked up her
chair and carried it over, setting it directly in front of me. When she sat,
our knees were only a few inches apart.

“Like what?”

“Like touch you?”

“No, he was interested
in my brother.”

She leaned forward,
one elbow on her knee. She was still holding the knife.

“Were you jealous?”

What the hell kind of
question was that? Had I been able to, I’d have smacked her.

“There was nothing to
be jealous of.”

“What do you mean? You
said he touched your brother.”

“No, I said he was
interested in my brother. He never got the chance to touch him.”

“Why not?”

“Because I killed
him.” I never tell this to anyone. Ellmann’s family had been the single
exception, and that was only because my hand had been forced. I hadn’t even
told Ellmann; he’d had to look it up. But, I figured it didn’t matter now,
because the best I could work out my current situation was that either Desirae
or I would be dead when it was all over.

This seemed to take
her aback. She leaned back in the chair, the knife in her hand on her lap,
watching me, thinking.

“Some of those scars
are newer,” she said finally. “Where’d they come from?”

I shrugged. “Here and
there. A few weeks ago, I was shot a couple times. There was a rollover
accident, too, and I got pretty banged up in that.”

She smiled that same
creepy, dark smile.

“You must have gotten
in someone else’s way.”

“Yeah, drug dealers,
actually,” I said lightly. “It was mostly by accident, but they didn’t seem to
care.”

“Too bad they didn’t
kill you. It would have saved me the headache.”

“Actually, I killed
them. Maybe you should keep that in mind.”

She watched me for a
beat, trying to determine if I was telling the truth. She wanted to believe I
was just talking tough, but something caused her to doubt herself. Desirae
Dillon may have been as nutty as trail mix, but she wasn’t stupid. And that was
not a comforting thought.

“Yeah, well, maybe the
drug dealers should have taped you to a chair,” she said, clinging to her
confidence. “It’s hard to kill people if you’re taped to a chair.”

“We’ll see. By the
way, where’s Natalie?”

She tipped her head
over her shoulder in the direction of the bathroom where I’d seen Priscilla.

“Over there,” she
said. “I decided to rearrange the schedule.”

“I’m honored you could
fit me in.”

“Your sarcasm won’t
save you from the pain.”

She leaned forward,
holding the knife in her left hand.

“I sometimes like to
use a scalding knife,” she said, “because the heat from the blade cauterizes
the wound. That way there’s no bleeding. It prevents the person from bleeding
out before I’m through with them.”

She lowered the knife
toward my left thigh. Without hesitating, she pressed the blade to my skin,
pushed down slightly, then dragged it back toward her.

The skin on my leg burned from the
heat of the blade as Dillon sliced it open. She watched me, waiting for some
sign of pain. I stared straight at her, my face blank.

This is a skill I’d
mastered a long time ago. My father, sick bastard that he was, took enjoyment
in beating people up. He liked to see the pain he inflicted. I’d learned
quickly how to hide it. I was drawing on that skill now. I wasn’t going to give
my torturer the satisfaction of knowing she’d caused me pain. That’s me—defiant
until the very end.

Of course, I’m not
stupid. I realized she was just getting started. She was truly crazy, and
whatever she had in mind for me was only going to get worse. I didn’t think I
could hide the pain for very long, but I was damn sure going to try.

Dillon watched my face
as she cut me then sat back, laughing.

“You have a high
tolerance for pain, huh? I guess that’s not surprising, given all your scars.
Fortunately, I’m prepared for that.”

She stood and set the
chair aside.

While she had her back
turned, I gripped the arms of the chair and pulled up, trying them for any
give. There wasn’t much. Getting out of this chair right under her nose seemed
impossible, but I didn’t have it in me to just throw in the towel.

“You haven’t told me
what you want,” I said casually. “Isn’t that sort of like cheating?”

She laughed. “My game,
my rules.”

She returned the knife
to the towel and reached for the needle-nose pliers.

“Maybe you could tell
me anyway.”

She walked with the
pliers over to my left side and reached down for my hand. My initial reaction
was to ball my hand into a fist. But it would have been futile, merely delaying
the inevitable.

She took my pinky
finger and held it in her right hand. The pliers were in her left.

“I thought you’d be a
fighter,” she said. “You’ve been nothing but a pain in the ass so far.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I
won’t disappoint you.”

She pinched the end of
my fingernail with the pliers then anchored my finger as she began to pull up.
The pain of having that fingernail ripped off was unlike anything I’d ever
experienced. I couldn’t hide the tears that filled my eyes, but I stared into
her face the entire time and never blinked, never winced.

She dropped the nail
to the floor and released my finger, carrying the pliers back to the towel.
While her back was again turned, I rocked back and forth in the chair. When I
scooted forward, there was a noticeable sway in the chair under me. One of the
chair legs was loose.

“No one told you the
threat of pain is more effective than pain itself, huh?” I asked.

“Effective for what
means?” she asked without turning toward me.

“I think you take sick
satisfaction in causing pain in other people. But more than that, you want
something from me. I think you wanted something from everyone you tortured.”

She picked up
something long and metallic and carried it over to the stove, placing it in the
pot, then returned to the island.

“Oh, really? And what
would that be?”

I rocked the chair
back and forth while her back was turned to me, continuing to weaken the
joints.

“I think you tortured
Priscilla because you wanted to get to me,” I said. “That’s probably how you found
Natalie.”

“Oh, Natalie’s a good
one,” she said, turning to me and smiling with wicked excitement. “I can hardly
wait to finish with you so I can bring her back in.”

“You enjoy hurting
people, don’t you?”

Her face turned cold
and ugly.

“That’s all they did
to me. Now
I’m
the one who hurts people.”

I understand this.
After I was raped, I vowed no one was ever going to hurt me again. I decided to
hurt them first. Occasionally this was physical, as I did get into quite a few
fights, but mostly it was emotional. I’m ashamed to say there is a wake of
broken hearts, damaged egos, and lots of tears behind me. The difference
between this woman and me is that I never took pleasure in what I did. I did it
because I thought it was the only way to survive. She just does it because her
mind was broken beyond repair a long time ago and now she thinks it’s fun.

She picked up a knife
from the towel, a smaller one this time, and came over to me. I looked up at
her, my eyes locking on hers. She touched the tip of the blade to my right
cheek, and I felt the point puncture my skin. Watching me, she turned the blade
on its side and dragged it over my cheek harmlessly. She continued down my
neck, moving particularly slowly over my carotid artery, watching my face
closely for signs of fear. I showed none. She then dragged the knife over my
left collarbone, pressing it against the bone. I felt the blade bite into the
skin above the bullet-wound scar. She pulled, opening the skin several inches.

I felt the blood
running down over my chest, hot and sticky, soaking into my clothes. The drop
on my cheek had finally fallen, streaking down my face and dripping off my
chin. She stood over me, holding the bloody knife and studying me. After a
couple minutes ticked past, she turned away, placing the knife back on the
towel then retrieving the long metal thing from the pot. She held it up and
walked back to me. It looked a lot like a skewer, only longer and thicker. The
tip was pointed, and the long shaft was round, probably a quarter of an inch
thick. She reached out and touched it to the inside of my right arm. The two or
three inches of my skin that came into contact with the side of the shaft
burned and sizzled. The scent of burning flesh wafted up my nose, and I felt
like I was going to puke. The smell was awful. The pain was horrible. I wanted
to scream. I bit my tongue to keep from doing this.

She could see I was
struggling to hide the pain, because her grin revealed her self-satisfaction.
She walked back to the stove and dropped the skewer back in the pot then picked
up a knife and returned. She took the hem of my shirt and held it, slicing the
shirt open up the middle to chest level. Pushing the pieces of fabric aside so
my belly was exposed, she replaced the knife and collected the skewer from the
pot.

Standing over me, she
lowered the point of the skewer to my abdomen, holding it an inch from the
skin. Then she slowly moved it around, as if deciding where to place it. I’d
wondered from the first moment I’d seen the skewer if she would stab me with
it. Now I wasn’t wondering anymore; I’d pretty much accepted it as fact. I
gripped the arms of the chair, knowing the next part would hurt like hell.

She grinned her
horrible, demented grin as she watched me preparing myself. Finally deciding on
a place on the upper left side of my abdomen, she put the point of the skewer
to my skin and leaned forward, pushing it into me. The heat from the metal
burned my skin and tissue as it came into contact. I was holding my breath,
sweating from the pain, tears streaming from my eyes, my jaw clenched tightly
so I didn’t scream.

I felt the tip pierce
through my back. Dillon held it there for a moment, looking almost euphoric,
then slowly pulled it back out, twisting the thing as she did. My chest was
heaving, and each breath was rushing in and out of my nose. I felt the sweat
dripping off my forehead, running down my spine and between my breasts. The
desire to throw up was stronger, and I felt slightly dizzy.

I had no doubt she
could do this all night. I, on the other hand, could not. My strength would
only decrease now that I was bleeding. Whatever my plan was, I needed to put it
into action soon if I wanted to have any hope of pulling it off.

__________

“How did you find me?” I asked.
“Neither Priscilla nor Natalie know where I live.”

She shrugged. “I
followed you.”

Apparently there had
been a lot of people following me the past couple of days. I wondered if
Desirae and the Cadillac driver had ever bumped into one another. Then I
thought the chances of being followed by two different people at the same time
seemed pretty remote. I’d picked up the Cadillac after visiting Lyle Young.
Understanding Young and Desirae were so tight, it would make sense if she were
the one following me. I also picked the Cadillac back up after visiting Eric
Dunn and Grandma Porter’s house. Dunn was somehow connected to both Dillons and
Lyle Young, and Porter had been Desirae’s grandmother.

“You killed your own
grandmother,” I said.

“I told you, she
wasn’t my grandmother!” she shouted.

“Why did you kill her?
You tortured her. What were you looking for?”

“My stupid sister, of
course,” she said, as if this was obvious. “And
you
led me there. Dani
hadn’t been to see the old hag for years. But when you started looking for Dani,
you went to see her. I thought it was worth a visit; maybe she knew something
she hadn’t said.”

“Wait, you’re looking
for your sister?”

That made me feel a
lot better. If she, sister and crazy criminal that she was, couldn’t find
Danielle, there was no way
I
could.

“Of course I’m looking
for her.”

“What did your gra—Martha
tell you?”

“Nothing. Stupid, old
bitch didn’t say a word. I think she knew where Dani is, and if I’d had more
time with her, I probably could have gotten it out of her.”

“Old people,” I said.
“They just can’t withstand torture the way young ones can.”

“Do you think this is
funny?” she snapped. “Is this all some kind of joke to you?”

“No,” I said in a
deadly tone. “I take it very seriously when people hurt me.”

She studied me closely
for a moment. Then she picked up a box cutter from the towel and walked over to
me. She used her thumb to push out the blade then lowered it to my thigh. Very
deliberately, she made a single one-inch slice near the first, larger one. Then
another directly below it. Then one more, directly below the last. Then she
stood and walked to the refrigerator, returning with a bottle of lemon juice.
Flipping the lid, she turned it over and squirted it onto my leg. The acidic
juice ran into each laceration. I’ll never be able to accurately describe that
feeling. It was beyond painful.

“Where’d Lyle go?” I
asked, panting, after the initial pain subsided.

She set the bottle of
juice on the island beside the towel.

“He doesn’t really
like blood. Well, the
bleeding
, I should say. Or the screaming.”

She picked up the
skewer again, along with a hammer. Suddenly the skewer looked a hell of a lot
like a stake. She carried them over then placed the tip of the skewer on my
right forearm, about three inches from my wrist. She paused and glared at me.

“You know, this would
all be a lot easier if you’d just scream,” she said.

“How do you figure?”

“I would know you’re
ready to cooperate. We could move on.”

“What’s the next
part?”

She smiled. “It’s the
part of the game I like to call ‘Question and Answer.’”

“So you
do
want
something from me.”

I wondered how long
we’d been at this. My sense of time was warped by pain and anger. I’d long
since had my fill, but I still hadn’t quite worked out an escape. Which meant,
for the moment, I wasn’t going anywhere. If we hadn’t even gotten to the main
purpose of this little exercise, it seemed clearer than ever Desirae Dillon, in
her mentally fractured state, was like the damn Energizer bunny and could just
keep going and going and going. I didn’t think Priscilla or Natalie could, and
I knew I certainly couldn’t. Already I could feel weakness and fatigue settling
over me. I didn’t know how much longer I could continue. 

She waved both arms.
“Of course I
want
something from you,” she said, as if the class idiot
had finally caught on to the lesson. She moved slowly around the chair as she
talked. “What, did you think I just brought you here to torture you?”

Actually, that thought
had crossed my mind. For Desirae, torture might have been used to extract
wanted information, but she also enjoyed it. A lot. At this point, she probably
only used the idea of extracting information as justification for something that
gave her a great deal of pleasure.

“What could you
possibly want from me?”

“Right now, I want you
to scream,” she snapped.

“Sorry. I don’t
cooperate with kidnappers.” I shrugged. “I sort of already set that precedent.
I can’t change it now. It’d look like playing favorites or something.”

She smirked, insanity
gleaming darkly in her eyes. “Fine with me.”

She stepped closer and
placed the skewer against my forearm, raising the hammer. She wacked the end of
the skewer with the hammer, as if doing nothing more consequential than staking
a tent. But her agitation or excitement caused her to hurry, and in her haste,
the stake was poorly placed. I felt it glance off the bone as she hammered it
through.