Hunger (45 page)
Authors: Karen E. Taylor
I was not surprised, just slightly annoyed, when I heard the approaching footsteps. “Hello, Max,” I said curtly, crossing my arms and turning away from the door slowly. “I was wondering when you would show up.”
I looked into the face of a total stranger; his forehead was dotted with beads of sweat, his eyes darted nervously, searching the dark street. “I ain't no Max, lady. Gimme your purse.”
He grabbed at the bag; my hand shot down and held his right wrist in an unbreakable grip. “No, it's mine. But I will give you some money if you want.”
“Give, like hell. I'll take what I want.” He tried to wrench away from me, but finding himself securely held, he reached around and fumbled in his right-hand pocket with his free hand. I tightened my fingers around his wrist in warning and twisted his arm slightly. “On second thought”âI smiled warmly in his faceâ“I don't believe I have any cash at all.” He shifted back and forth on his feet, his left hand still in his pocket. “I don't suppose”âI felt the cracking of bones as I continued my pressure on his wristâ“you would accept a check.”
He didn't answer, but gave a feeble whimper; his face was now drenched in sweat and his eyes filled with pain.
“No.” I smiled at him again and he shrank away from me. “I didn't think so.” One final twist ensured that his arm would be immobilized for a while.
“Jesus, you bitch, you broke my arm.” He stood his ground indignantly, cradling his wrist, tears streaming down his face.
“So I did,” I said pleasantly, climbing the steps and removing the key from my purse. “You should have someone look at it. Go home now. And find another line of work.” I turned away from him with an amused laugh and opened the door. “You don't seem to be smart enough to handle petty robbery.”
The insult must have been the final straw. I heard the shot and felt the burning pain of the bullet enter my left shoulder. I could hear his rasping breathing, and the echoing retort of the gun. The smell of gunpowder was thick in the air.
Anger rose up within me, a terrifying, inhuman anger that I knew to be entirely my own. How dare he try to hurt me, I thought, and then, he must pay for this wound.
I spun around slowly and he was still standing two steps away, amazed perhaps that I hadn't cried out or fallen down. He held the gun awkwardly in his left hand; I kicked it away roughly, breaking his other wrist in the process. Then I reached down, grabbed the fabric of his coat, and held him up to my face. Our eyes made contact, and I smiled at him once more, this time with canines fully exposed.
“You stupid bastard,” I hissed at him. “I gave you a second chance. You should have taken it and run.” His eyes rolled in his head and he whimpered again. “And now it's too late.”
“Whatcha gonna do?” His voice was hoarse with fright. The combination of the smells of his fear and my own blood was intoxicating; I laughed, and his answering shudder was gratifying, fueling my instincts.
I shifted my grip, holding him with one hand and stroking his greasy hair with the other. “Why, lover,” I purred deep in my throat, “I only want to kiss you good night.”
His terror intensified my feeling of elation and anticipation. His feet kicked feebly as I dug my fingers into his hair, roughly pulled his head over, and pierced his neck with my fangs. Although I was not hungry, my anger fueled my instincts and I fed on him for a while, leaving him with more than enough blood to survive. Then I dropped him; his limp body rolled down the steps and he groaned softly when he hit the sidewalk.
Chapter 16
W
hen I arrived inside the apartment I went to the bedroom window. My attacker was slowly pulling himself up from the pavement, looking around, I assumed, for his gun. I knocked on the window and he looked up at me in fear, his eyes rolling slightly, then took off at a slow run. I gave a small laugh while I watched him disappear into the night. “That felt wonderful,” I said, and stood for a moment, savoring the elation of my victory. “Just like being a god.”
hen I arrived inside the apartment I went to the bedroom window. My attacker was slowly pulling himself up from the pavement, looking around, I assumed, for his gun. I knocked on the window and he looked up at me in fear, his eyes rolling slightly, then took off at a slow run. I gave a small laugh while I watched him disappear into the night. “That felt wonderful,” I said, and stood for a moment, savoring the elation of my victory. “Just like being a god.”
When the words escaped my lips, the joy I felt suddenly turned into abhorrence for both the deed and the thoughts that accompanied it. Was this how Max had started his killing spree, with the thrill that complete power over human beings could bring? “No,” I said to my reflected image. “I will not be like Max.”
I turned away from the window, wincing at the pain caused by the movement. This wound will have to be dealt with very soon, I thought, and pulling off my cloak and sweater, went into the bathroom and looked at the wound in the mirror.
There was a blackened hole in the back and a small amount of bruising on the front of my shoulder. I had bled a little, evidenced by the slight trickle of dried blood traced on my back, but my body, strengthened by two feedings, was already healing. Unfortunately, the bullet was still lodged inside; I could feel its alien presence there, a small, nagging pain that I knew would have to be removed. But, I thought as I stiffly twisted my arms around, I wouldn't be able to do it myself.
“Damn,” I addressed my image, “who the hell am I going to get to do this?”
Mitch would be home tomorrow, but I hated to burden him so soon after his release. And any type of hospital was totally out of the question. I prodded my shoulder but could not feel where the bullet had lodged. If I had, I would have cut it out myself from the front.
I took off the rest of my clothes, went into the bedroom, and slipped on Mitch's robe. I picked up my cloak and sweater, examined the holes in both garments, and tossed them into the wastebasket with disgust. I jumped at the sharp twinge the movement caused me. Using my arm was painful, and I had no idea what sort of limitations the injury might impose on me. The bullet would have to come out, that much was certain.
On my way through the living room I picked up the Yellow Pages, then went to the kitchen, opened the second bottle of wine, and poured myself a large glass. Sitting at the table, I leafed through the pages of doctors' numbers. Only a very few made house calls, and I knew none of them. The only doctor I knew at all was Sam, and he could be of no help. I looked up his number anyway, and sat for a while, drinking and staring at the sky through the window. Dawn was still hours away, but I needed to take care of the situation soon.
“What the hell.” I got up and went to the phone. “He owes me for the story I told him the other night.” I dialed the number and a surprisingly alert voice answered on the second ring.
“Sam, this is Deirdre Griffin. I am sorry to call so early; did I wake you?”
“No, I'm on early shift this morning. But what are you doing up already? I thought you were a night owl.”
I laughed nervously. “Actually, I haven't been to bed yet.”
“Oh.” There was a slight pause. “Is something wrong?”
“Well, yes. I was wondering if you could recommend a doctor for me. I have a bit of a problem here.”
“Deirdre, if it's an emergency, you should call for an ambulance right away. Better still, I'll call one for you.”
“No!” I interrupted. “No ambulance. And it's not really an emergency. But I need to find someone who makes house calls, someone who can be trusted, someone who can get here soon.”
“Sure sounds like an emergency to me. I'll be right over.”
“But it's not a mental problem, it's physical.”
“I'm a psychiatrist.” He paused, then continued when I didn't reply. “That means that I'm a physician too. And although I don't usually make house calls, I've got to admit that you've got me intrigued. I can be there in twenty minutes; can you hold on till then?”
“Yes,” I said, wondering how I would answer the questions I knew he would ask. “Thank you, Sam. I really appreciate it.”
“Don't mention it. Now, explain the situation, please, just so I know what I need to bring with me.”
I thought for a moment; if I told him what was involved, he would never come. He would insist on an ambulance and a trip to the hospital. And that could be deadly for me. “We'll improvise; trust me, it'll all be fine.”
“Okay.” I could hear his reluctance. “But I'll bring my bag anyway. See you in a bit.”
I hung up the phone, went back to the kitchen, and poured another glass of wine. I had no idea whether any type of anesthetic would work on me, and I could not allow him to put me to sleep in any event. We would have to do it without any sort of painkiller. I drained the glass, refilled it, and began to make a pot of coffee. Sam would probably need it.
I did not bother to dress, and when the bell rang, answered the door in my robe. Sam smiled, hesitated in the doorway, then entered, quietly closing the door behind him.
“Coffee?” I suggested timidly.
He gave me a curious look. “I thought you had a problem. Let's get to work first.”
“Fine.” Appreciating his no-nonsense approach, I reached up and dropped the shoulder of the robe. “I have a bullet lodged in here somewhere”âI indicated the bruiseâ“and it's in a bad position, so that I can't remove it myself.”
He dropped his coat on the floor and looked at me in amazement. “Remove it yourself? Are you crazy? Besides, it can't be anything recent. May I?” I nodded my permission and he reached over and touched my shoulder, examining the front and back. “I can see that you were shot, but from the healing I would say that it was at least a month ago.” He pulled me over closer to the light. His hands were warm and firm against my flesh. “The blood is recent though. Were you doing something to reopen it? And why wasn't the bullet removed when it happened? Jesus, Deirdre, this is even stranger than I expected. I can't just cut you open here in this apartment; you need to go to the hospital.”
“Absolutely not, Sam. I will not go to a hospital. If you can't help me, then I will find a way to do it myself.” I pulled the robe back up and tightened the sash. “Thank you, I'm sorry I disturbed you.”
Sam laughed, but sobered immediately when he saw my serious expression. “You're not joking about this, are you?”
“No.” I managed a small smile. “I am not joking. I was shot this evening”âI looked at the clockâ“oh, just about an hour ago. I can show you my clothes for proof if you like.”
I walked into the bedroom and retrieved my sweater and cloak. “It would not have been a problem had the bullet exited, but”âI came back into the living room and handed him the garments, wincing at the painâ“unfortunately it has not. It must be removed.”
Sam poked his finger through the bullet holes in my clothes, smelled them, then looked up at me in confusion. “I guess it did just happen,” he admitted reluctantly. He set the clothes down on the couch. “And as far as removal of the bullet, well, I can't argue the fact that it should come out. But I'm not really a surgeon and I'm hardly equipped for an operation. I have nothing but novocaine, and that won't do much good. And even if I had something stronger, I couldn't do anything here. What if there were complications?”
“There will be none. I can promise you that. I heal very quickly.” I pitched my voice at its most persuasive level.
“But”âhe gave me a doubtful lookâ“Deirdre, I can't. It's unthinkable.”
“If something goes wrong, you may call an ambulance and have me put into the hospital. That should prove to you how certain I am that we can handle it here.”
“Well, I don't know.”
“Sam.” I looked into his face and caught his eyes. “I could find a way to convince you. But I would much rather have you uncontrolled and free of any suggestions, willing to do this because I have asked you as a friend.”
“And if I don't do it?”
“As I said before, I will do it myself. Look, I am sorry; it was a mistake to call you, I realize that now, but I knew no one else to call. Now that I think it over, I see that it is better that you not get involved in my life any further. Just forget about it. It is of no importance.” I held out my hands to him, trying but failing to hide the grimace of pain caused by the movement of my arm.
“Okay, I'll do it,” he said abruptly.
“You will?” I was surprised. I had expected him to question me further, but did not really expect him ever to agree.
“Yeah, I will. I think I know you well enough by now, to believe you when you say you'll do it yourself. At least this way, you have a better chance. And when the complications arise, I'll check you into a hospital, where you belong. But”âhe gave me a sly smileâ“if everything goes the way you say it will, you owe me a complete explanation of all of it. I listened to that tape again and I know there are things you wouldn't tell me.”
I eyed him suspiciously.
“Come on, Deirdre, if you want me to do surgery here, you'll have to trust me completely. Anything you say will be kept in strictest confidence.”
I still hesitated, then finally nodded. “Where shall we do it?”
Sam glanced around the apartment. “If you're sure about no hospital”âhe looked at me for confirmation and I nodded againâ“then the kitchen table is probably the best place.”
I picked up my ruined clothes from the couch, and when we went into the kitchen, put them into the trash can there. Sam cleared the few things on the table, set his bag on the counter, and opened it. He wiped the tabletop with a piece of gauze and an antiseptic solution. When he finished, I climbed on the table and lay on my stomach, my head pillowed on my folded arms.
Sam moved my arms to my sides and pulled the robe off my shoulders, tucking it in around my waist. Probing the wound again, he gave an acknowledging grunt, turned to the sink, and washed his hands. I tilted my head so that I could watch his preparations. He wiped the counter with the same antiseptic solution and laid out his instruments. When everything was removed from the bag, he put on a pair of rubber gloves and picked up a syringe. “This will probably sting a bit, but I think I can give you enough to dull the pain. Hold on.”
He swabbed my shoulder with alcohol, and I felt the needle slide into my skin, felt the warmth of the novocaine spread through the area. He gave me several shots, and when he was done, he wiped the area again. I gripped the edge of the table tightly and he gave me a small pat on the shoulder blades. “Relax,” he said with assurance, “it will all be over soon.”
“That's what I'm worried about.” I rested my head on the table and my voice was muffled slightly.
“It's still not too late to get you to a hospital.”
“No.”
“Okay, then, here we go.”
“There is one thing you should know before you start, Sam.”
“Great, now you tell me. What is it?”
“You'll have to be quick. Make your cut as deep as possible, so that you can get to the bullet in time.”
“In time for what?”
“Well, before I start healing again.”
Sam laughed humorlessly. “Oh, sure, don't worry about it. Now, this will probably hurt a little. Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
The novocaine had not worked, but I had expected that. His incision was sharp, clean, and painful. I held my breath and bit my lip as I felt the probe deep inside my shoulder, a cold metal intrusion. I stifled a shiver as he worked his way to the bullet; I felt his breath warm on my neck, felt the twist of the instrument as he searched.
“Ah,” he finally said with satisfaction, “I've got it.” He dropped the probe and the bullet into the sink. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I replied, my voice wavering only slightly. “That feels much better already.”
“Sure it does.” I heard the skepticism in his voice. He applied pressure to my shoulder with one hand, and reached into his bag with the other. “Now, we'll probably need a few sutures here.” He lifted the wad of gauze he had been pressing onto me and peered under it. “Well, maybe only a little tape.” There was a long pause, and I heard him draw in an astonished gasp. “Jesus,” he said, “I don't believe it.”
“What, Sam?”
“Jesus,” he said again, and pulled away from me.
I wiggled the robe back onto my shoulders and sat up on the table, fastening the sash, licking the blood from my bitten lips. “What's wrong, Sam?”
His face was ashen, his expression fearful. He backed away and I slid off the table and grabbed his shoulders. “Thank you, Sam. That was very well done.” I smiled at him, but he simply stared at me in shock.
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