Death sidled up to James, breathed into his ear, telling him exactly what had happened between the two men. He had no reason to question Death’s assessment. Death never lied. It was part of their agreement; James fed Death, and Death was loyal to him.
Death didn’t speak of the woman. She was alive and of no consequence to Death. But she captivated James.
Her naked torso wore blood like body paint. Despite the coating, James could see a jagged ring of tooth marks marring her left breast. A human animal had masticated her. A prelude to rape—foreplay for the perpetrator. The wound itself wasn’t that remarkable. He’d seen that kind of injury on no fewer than a dozen women during his career. He had granted Subject 57 that experience.
He could still remember the tremendous pressure it took to bite through Subject 57’s breasts. Human teeth weren’t designed for biting and chewing raw flesh.
The reason James had been watching Lathaniel—the entire reason—was to figure out how a lowly special skills consultant obtained hair and a tooth from a victim not yet discovered by the authorities. And the eye. He’d somehow found the eye. There was no conceivable explanation. James’s answers had vanished along with Lathaniel’s life.
An idea slid out of James’s mind, squirming and wriggling like a freshly birthed babe: Take the woman. She and Lathaniel were obviously lovers; he could get answers from her.
A thrill of electric energy raced up the back of his neck. This was what had been missing from his kills. Spontaneity. But spontaneity led to mistakes. Spontaneity was just another word for losing control. Control was more than his religion; it was his Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
So, take control of this scene. Wouldn’t be hard to do. With Lathaniel dead, no one would ever suspect the Strategist.
Another idea—a twin to the first one—birthed: Set the scene. Arrange the evidence to indicate she killed the two men and then fled. While the local law enforcement officers searched for her, she’d be imprisoned in his bunker.
*
She hadn’t regained consciousness. That worried James. And worry wasn’t a skill he cultivated. He’d planned every minute detail of every experiment he’d ever conducted so he wouldn’t have to worry. But with this situation, nothing had been planned and everything was impulsive.
He carried her across the bunker to the small bathroom. The space looked more like a studio apartment—one giant room that housed his computer station, his living area, the kitchenette, and the bathroom—than an impenetrable fortress designed to keep him safe in the worst of worse-case scenarios.
With a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed, he settled her in the bathtub and turned on the tap, adjusting the water until it reached the perfect temperature. The blood covering her from root to tip had dried, mottling her in shades of crimson and rust. She looked like the heroine from a B-rated horror flick, and yet, he found the gore and her nakedness resplendent. He wanted to leave her that way, but the biological material was already decomposing. In a few hours, the stench would be unbearable.
Crimson streamers began trailing off her wet skin, coloring the water. He wet a washrag and wiped the blood from her face. With stroke after stroke of wet rag to bloody face, her skin was revealed.
A scar damaged one side of her mouth, pulling it up unnaturally. Without it, her face would’ve been one of the few examples of perfect symmetry—a biological indicator of beauty. An ugly stain of deepening red radiated out from her temple, engulfing her eye, her cheek, and part of her forehead. In a day or so, the bruise would deepen and darken and deform her face with its swelling. She probably had a concussion.
He removed the splint from her hand and examined her fingers. No swelling, no bruising. Looked normal.
The bathwater had turned shark-attack red, but he continued to use the rag to wipe the blood from her body and rinsed it from her hair. He drained the tub, refilled it, and then repeated the process two more times before the water remained clear. Only then did he soap up another cloth.
He toiled over his cleaning of her. He ran the cloth over her chest, around her breasts—careful of the beautiful bite—over her stomach, down each leg, and between her toes. He watched her face as he slid his cloth-covered hand between her legs and scrubbed her cleft.
His penis engorged.
He’d raped women. Men too. All in the name of research, but he hadn’t really enjoyed the process. He’d always needed Viagra during those times. With the level of planning required for each experiment, the act had turned mechanical. But this, cleaning her while she was unaware, was more stimulating than anything he’d felt in years. He let his fingers slip out of the washcloth, let them explore her by touch. He felt like a teenager. He wanted to masturbate with one hand while he caressed her with the other.
So he did.
When he finished, he cleaned himself with the same rag he’d used on her—a perfect symmetry. One he normally would’ve relished, but his neck cramped and his body felt tense and uncomfortable inside his skin—a sensation he hadn’t felt before. He paused to examine the feelings, to put a name to them. The answer that came to him was so unexpected he could barely acknowledge it.
Guilt. He felt guilt for what he’d just done to her. But why? It was trivial. He’d done far worse during his experiments. Maybe that in itself was the answer. He wasn’t looking at her the same as he looked at his test subjects. He was looking at her like a human being.
He drained the water from the bathtub—didn’t want her accidentally drowning like an unattended baby—and went to the bed, spreading a layer of clean towels on the mattress.
He lifted her from the tub. Her skin was slick and warm, and he knew that one day he wanted to touch her while she was awake and aware and make her enjoy it. He settled her in the bed.