“This needle is called a Tubex,” he said. “It's preloaded with thiopental sodium, which is a barbiturate. Does barbiturate-sounding things.” He squeezed out a thin squirt of the brown liquid. It looked like iced tea, and it was not something she wanted injected into her veins.
“What does it do? What are you doing to me?” she screamed into the tight gag. “Please take this gag out of my mouth.”
She was covered with sweat, and her breathing was labored. Her whole body felt stiff, anesthetized and numb. Why was he giving her a barbiturate?
“If I do this wrong, you'll die right now,” he told her. “So don't move.” She shook her head affirmatively. She was trying so hard to let him know that she could be good; she could be so very good. Please don't Ml me, she silently pleaded. Don't do this.
He pricked a vein in the crook of her elbow, and she could feel the painful pinch there.
“I don't want to leave any unsightly bruises,” he whispered. “It won't take long. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, you, are, so, beautiful, zero. All finished.”
She was crying now. She couldn't help it. The tears were streaming down her cheeks. He was crazy. She squeezed her eyes shut, couldn't look at him anymore. Please, God, don't let me die like this, she prayed. Not all alone out here.
The drug acted quickly, almost immediately. She felt warm all over, warm and sleepy. She went limp.
He took off her tank top and began to fondle her breasts, like a juggler with several balls.
There was nothing she could do to stop him.
He arranged her legs as if she were his art, his human sculpture, stretching the leather thong as far as it would go. He felt down between her legs. The sudden thrust made her open her eyes, and she stared up at the horrible mask. His eyes stared back at her. They were blank and emotionless, yet strangely penetrating.
He entered her, and she felt a jolt like a very powerful electric shock running through her body. He was very hard, fully aroused already. He was probing inside her as she was dying from the barbiturate. He was watching her die. That's what this was all about.
Her body wriggled, bolted, shook. As weak as she was, she tried to scream. No, please, please, please. Don't do this to me.
Mercifully, blackness came over her.
She didn't know how long she'd been unconscious. Didn't care. She woke up and she was still alive.
She started to cry, and the muffled sounds coming through the gag were agonizing. Tears ran down her cheeks. She realized how much she wanted to live.
She noticed that she'd been moved. Her arms were behind her and tied around a tree. Her legs were crossed and bound, and she was still tightly gagged. He had taken off her clothes. She didn't see her clothes anywhere.
He was still there! “I don't really care if you scream,” he said. “There's absolutely nobody to hear you out here.“ His eyes gleamed out of the lifelike mask. ”I just don't want you to scare away the hungry birds and animals.“ He glanced briefly at her truly beautiful body. ”Too bad you disobeyed me, broke the rules,” he said.
He took off the mask and let her see his face for the first time. He fixed the image of her face in his mind. Then he bent down and kissed her on the lips.
Kiss the girls.
Finally, he walked away.
Alex Cross 2 - Kiss the Girls
CHAPTER 4.
LOST OF MY RAGE had been spent on the furious footrace to St. Anthony's with Marcus Daniels cradled in my arms. The adrenaline rush was gone now, but I felt an unnatural weariness.
The emergency-room waiting area was noise and frustrated confusion.
Babies crying, parents wailing out their grief, the PA incessantly paging doctors. A bleeding man kept muttering, “Ho shit, ho shit.” I could still see the beautiful, sad eyes of Marcus Daniels. I could still hear his soft voice.
At a little past six-thirty that night, my partner in crime arrived unexpectedly at the hospital. Something about that struck me as wrong, but I let it pass for now.
John Sampson and I have been best friends since we were both ten years old and running these same streets in D.C. Southeast. Somehow, we survived without having our throats slashed. I drifted into abnormal psychology, and eventually got a doctorate at Johns Hopkins. Sampson went into the army. In some strange and mysterious manner, we both ended up working together on the D.C. police force.
I was sitting on a sheetless gurney parked outside the Trauma Room.
Next to me was the “crash cart” they had used for Marcus. Rubber tourniquets hung like streamers from the black handles of the cart.
