The Killing League

34.

Florence Nightmare

She hadn’t slept a wink. All night, flat on her back, in her room at the end of the hall. The last time she had traveled was an hour from her home to a medical training seminar that was required for her nursing license. She hated traveling.

Ruth Dykstra could still picture every bump and ridge in the plaster work of the hotel room’s ceiling, as it was lit by the sliver of moonlight driving through the narrow gap in the curtains.

The ceiling’s textured ridges had looked like little mountain ranges to her, and she had imagined miniature deer and elk running across the plaster work, chased by giant grizzlies with enormous razor sharp claws catching them and ripping them into bloody chunks of meat, splashing the snow with Pollack like strands of blood and guts.

Fatigue, however, was not affecting her in the least. Strangely, she felt fresh and alive. The anxiety of traveling, of a new city — who could have ever imagined she would visit Omaha, Nebraska? The stress was there, definitely, but she had beaten it back, and focused on the here and now.

She was here for one reason and one reason only. To find out who had invaded her home, her private life, and delved into her little hobby, as she liked to think of it. Her achievements.

Ruth Dykstra planned to find that person, and make sure they never bothered her again. Ever.

She spotted the KL placard and walked into the conference room. She spotted the big oak tree of a man standing by the door. Was he the one? Ruth ruled him out, he looked like a hired security guard or something.

Her attention was drawn to the guy slouching in the fancy suit with the wavy hair and flashy watch. Was he the one?

No, she immediately discounted that idea. He didn’t look like a leader. He looked like a spoiled brat. So, was he a person with a “hobby” similar to hers? Ruth couldn’t imagine it. He looked like a little smarty pants weasel boy. Like one of the rich doctors who liked to flash their money around and try to show off for the younger, prettier nurses.

Ruth went to the semicircle of chairs and took a seat as far from the spoiled, rich boy as she could. He glanced at her, then looked away. A sneer on his face.

Well poo on you, too, Ruth thought.

She took a deep breath and imagined she was back in her living room. Her mind recreated every one of her paintings, one at a time. The swirls of paint captured agony in its various incarnations. Her achievements came to life in her mind and Ruth relaxed.

Bring it on, she thought.