Page 8 of Her Last Promise
The sunlight seemed even brighter when they emerged from the building, almost painful after the artificial lighting and the pallor of death inside.Rachel squinted against it, her mind still in that sterile room with its steel tables and silent occupant.
"What are you thinking?"Novak asked as they walked back to their car.
“I honestly don’t know yet,” Rachel said.“But it’s pretty clear that this case is going to be go a bit deeper than we’d originally thought.”
The December wind whipped around them, the chill overriding the surprisingly bright sun.As they drove away from the coroner's office, Rachel looked out to the streets, thinking it over.A judge with such a history…finding a single person that might hold a grudge against him was going to be a monumental task.She just hoped they had time to figure out some way to narrow the field down before their killer had time to fully escape.
Or worse, to attack again.
CHAPTER FIVE
The door creaked open slowly, darkness from the hallway spilling into the wood-paneled room like ink.He paused in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior.The small lamp on the battered dresser cast weak shadows across the walls, making the water stains in the corners look like spreading decay.The room seemed different without the judge in it.Those old, oppressive wooden panels from the seventies seemed much more expansive now, as if the room was an old, massive chamber rather than a small, confined space.
The wood-paneled walls seemed to close in around him as he made his final checks.The room was perfect in its awful simplicity.No decorations to distract from the purpose.No comfort beyond the basics needed to keep his guests alive—for as long as he chose to do so.The water stains in the corners had spread over decades, marking time like rings in a tree, testament to all the suffering these walls had witnessed.
He looked to the second bed in the room (the first having, until recently, contained Judge Smith) and stared for a moment at the woman lying in it.Dr.Patricia Walsh lay motionless on the narrow bed against the far wall, her chest rising and falling in the slow rhythm of drug-induced sleep.Her face was slack and pale, the opposite of the bright and fierce expressions he’d seen on her in the past.Dark circles had formed under her eyes, matching the bruises on her wrists where the restraints held her in place.
He moved closer, his footsteps silent on the thin carpet.The IV stand beside her bed held two bags—one clear, one milky white.Both were necessary.Both had to be perfectly calibrated.He wouldn't make the same mistake he'd made with the judge.That failure still burned in his gut like acid, making his hands shake slightly as he checked the drip rates.
"You'll have to forgive my attention to detail, Doctor," he whispered, though he knew she couldn't hear him.She was pretty much out cold."But after what happened with Judge Smith...well, we can't have any more accidents, can we?"
The mention of Smith made his jaw clench even when it was from his own voice.He hadn't meant for the judge to die so soon.It had been sloppy—a miscalculation in the dosage, perhaps, or maybe the old man's heart had been weaker than expected.Either way, the judge hadn't suffered long enough.He hadn't truly understood what it felt like to be trapped inside his own body, aware but helpless.And that had been the goal all along.
He adjusted the IV flow with practiced precision.Dr.Walsh would need to stay under while he was away.He had preparations to make, another guest to arrange for.Someone to take Smith's place in his carefully orchestrated demonstration of justice.And he already had a fitting candidate.
The television's blank screen caught his reflection as he passed by, and he studied himself in its dark mirror.He looked ordinary—deliberately so.The kind of man who could walk into a hospital or courthouse without drawing a second glance.The sort of person who could knock on someone's door and be invited in without hesitation.It was one of his greatest gifts, this ability to be forgettable.
But there was something else in his reflection now, something in his eyes that he usually kept hidden.A darkness that had been growing since his mother had been confined to that hospital bed, since certain people had decided her fate with their laws and their ethics and theirprofessional opinions.
He turned away from his muted, darkened reflection and began his methodical check of the room.The wood paneling absorbed sound well—he'd chosen this house partly for that reason.The old television didn’t work.It hadn’t since he’d been a child.But it had been here for his mother's entire life, and he'd be damned if he would move it or change the room in any way at all.The dresser held supplies: extra tubing, fresh bags of solution, the carefully measured medications that kept Patricia Walsh hovering between consciousness and oblivion.That was the only change he’d made to the room.
Everything in the dresser was organized, everything in the room controlled.Or so he’d thought; the loss of Smith still bothered him, that loss of control.He prided himself on precision, on careful planning.The judge's death felt like a personal failure, a crack in his otherwise perfect execution.Judge Smith's death had been regrettable, but it hadn't stopped anything.If anything, it had strengthened his resolve.These people needed to understand what they had done.Needed to feel the helplessness, the trapped awareness, the slow tide of despair that came with being imprisoned in one's own body.
He reached out and touched Dr.Walsh's hand.It was cool, but not too cool.Her nail beds still showed good color.Her breathing remained steady and even.All vital signs are exactly where they should be.
"You'll have company soon," he murmured, straightening her blanket with almost tender care.
The chemical smell seemed stronger now, or maybe he was just more aware of it.It reminded him of his mother’s room, of antiseptic and despair and machines that breathed for someone who wanted to stop breathing.He wondered if the stupid IV was somehow giving it off.Or maybe he was just imagining it, his brain playing tricks on him.His mother had been trapped in that sterile hell while these people—this woman, the judge, all of them—had decided she needed to stay there.That her wishes didn't matter.Thathiswishes didn't matter.
He checked his watch.He had work to do.Another guilty party to collect, another lesson to teach.He'd already chosen the next one, had studied their habits, their schedule, their vulnerabilities.It would be easier this time.Cleaner.No mistakes.
He moved toward the door, his shadow stretching long across the floor.The lamp's weak light caught the IV bags, making them glow like ghost-light.Dr.Walsh didn't stir as he paused in the doorway for one final look.
The room was exactly as it should be.Exactly as it had been for Judge Smith.Exactly as it would be for the others.A place of contemplation.Of understanding.And if he was being truly honest and transparent…a place of revenge.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Dr.Walsh alone in her chemical sleep, surrounded by dark wood and darker purpose.In a few hours, he would return with another guest.Another participant in his demonstration of consequence.
The house creaked around him as he climbed the stairs to the main floor.Old houses had such voices, he thought.They spoke of secrets kept and lives that had been lost.This one had been speaking to him for years, ever since he'd first learned to walk.He knew it intimately…how its cramped spaces and aged walls could serve his purpose.
He emerged into the normal world, where sunlight streamed through windows and the air was free of chemical taint.Where he was just another unremarkable man going about his unremarkable business.No one who passed him on the street would guess what lay below.No one would see the darkness behind his eyes or understand the righteousness of his cause.
His car waited in the driveway, as ordinary as he was.He started the car, checking his reflection in the rearview mirror.The darkness in his eyes was hidden now, tucked away behind the mask of normalcy he wore so well.He was just another face in the crowd.Another shadow is moving through the world.
But below, in that old room—the same room where, not too long ago he had come to the realization that he was going to lose his mother, Dr.Patricia Walsh slept on.And soon, very soon, she would have company in her contemplation of consequences.
He pulled out of the driveway, leaving the old house and its secrets behind.There was work to be done.Lessons to be taught.
And he was nothing if not thorough in his work.
