Disturbance

THIRTY-ONE

Nicholas Parrish held the knife up to the light, its blade glistening, feeling its weight and balance. It was a work of art-a skinning knife made with a stag handle. He loved the feel of it as it warmed in his hand.

He owned many knives, but this one was a favorite. It was neither the longest nor the most threatening in appearance from his collection, but he always felt powerful when he held it.

He unlocked the bedroom door, opened it an inch, and waited, listening. The soft sound of her slow and steady breathing came to him, and he entered the room.

The room was dark, except for the faint glow from a small night-light just inside the adjoining bathroom. He used his cell phone to illuminate his path until he stood next to the bed.

She stirred, moving from her back to her side. He thought of how it would feel to run the knife just below her skin, flaying her in sections. Imagined her awakening to find him in control as he began the process of using the knife the way any good hunter would.

The back of her neck lay exposed in the blue-gray light cast by the phone, and he brought the tip of the knife closer, nearly touching her, and considered slipping the blade between her vertebrae, paralyzing her as he had been paralyzed.

A cough sounded in the adjoining room, startling him. He straightened, angry at his jumpiness. It was only Violet, who was hardly in any condition to harm him, after all. He would think more about Violet later.

He turned his attention back to Irene and thought again of ways to harm her. He might cut off small sections of her at a time-the end of a small toe, the toe, all the toes, and so on. Or perhaps just disable her one muscle group at a time.

He frowned. As appealing as these ideas were as revenge, he was dismayed to notice that something essential to his enjoyment of them was missing: the usual sexual response brought on by his rage was utterly absent.

That realization produced a fresh wave of wrath, but he mastered it. Despite a brief image that flashed through his mind, he knew he would leave the room. He refused to become one of those pathetic creatures who raped with objects-a sure sign of emasculation. He would never let that be said of him.

Perhaps Donovan was right. She had lost her appeal. That must be it. The more he thought about it, the more he became convinced it was true. And perhaps he had strayed too far from his original purpose for her. Things were not working out as they should. He sheathed the knife, closed the phone, and thought about this in the near darkness.

Another cough came from Violet’s room, interrupting his thoughts. He again used the light from the phone to navigate his way into the bathroom, then to the door on the other side. He opened it and stepped through, closing the door quietly behind him.

Donovan said Irene could care for the sick. Well, he seemed to be running a damned hospital in here.

Violet was clearly awake. He could have turned on the lights. But he continued to use the phone, enjoying the widening of her eyes when she realized who was leaning over her bed. She was blinking rapidly, one of her occasional tics, exacerbated by fear, he thought. He had asked Kai if she could communicate answers to yes or no questions by blinking, but Kai had said no, the blinking was uncontrolled. “The doctor tried to get her to do that after she fell,” Kai had said. “Kept trying from the time when she was first conscious again, but it didn’t work.”

“Are you keeping secrets, Violet?” Parrish asked her now. “I’m damned sure that was no ordinary fall down the stairs. How long did you lie there, I wonder, before he could bring a friend home to ‘discover’ you?”

The rapid blinking continued. Parrish smiled at her, then leaned over and took her mouth with his. She lay passively, having no real choice to do otherwise. She could have moved her head or bitten him, he supposed, but she let him do as he liked, until he moved a hand to one of her breasts.

She made inarticulate gurgling sounds.

He drew back, angry.

Memories of the seemingly endless hours in which he had lain paralyzed flooded his mind. Memories of making that same gurgling sound. A time when he had first suffered head and spinal injuries, thanks to Irene Kelly.

Infuriated, he moved toward the room in which Irene lay asleep and thought of smothering her to death. Thought of choking her to death with his hands. Let that fucking bitch gurgle!

No. Nothing so quick for her.

Some slight rustling sound, one of the few small shoulder movements Violet could manage, brought his attention back to her.

“Your son has been shot,” he told her and saw her close her eyes. He took her jaw in a strong hand and pressed hard, until she opened her eyes again. “Be good and I’ll try to see that he lives.”

She closed her eyes again, and this time he let go. “I’ve brought a new nurse for you,” he said, but she kept her eyes closed. Ah well. Time enough to have fun with that.

He checked on Kai, who was sleeping soundly, looking more boyish than usual. What a troublesome lad you’ve turned out to be. Parrish recognized a flicker of some strange response to watching him sleep. Not fatherly love. Not even parental affection, really. Perhaps Donovan had said it best-curiosity. What of himself was there in Kai? Would Kai grow, as he aged, to be more like his father?

Or would Kai fail to conquer his impulsiveness?

There was a legacy to protect here, and that brought Parrish’s thoughts back to Irene Kelly.

He suddenly realized that by going out through Violet’s room, he had not locked the door between Irene’s room and the hall. He hurriedly checked to see that she was still there. She was, still sleeping soundly. The windowless room was stuffy. He would come back later, when the drugs had worn off enough to bring her to awareness. No use terrifying someone who would not remember being terrified.