was just interested in one-time-only revenge sex; he had a new girlfriend now. “And now that Tve had you again, ” he said, “I remember you were always rubbish in the sack.”
He said this to her at a party; she ended up with the host of the party, his best friend, a pimply guy named J.J. She knew he had always lusted for her. They didn’t sleep together. A few stragglers who didn’t want to drive home crashed on J.J. ‘s living room floor, and Vanessa and J.J. joined them. He kissed her for a while. Felt her tits. Tried to feel her below, but she kept his focus on her tits.
The next ?norning, J.J. ‘s cell started buzzing while they were all still crashed out on the floor. J.J., feeling full of himself for finally having bedded the elusive Vanessa Reardon. Vanessa, meanwhile, worrying herself into a sickened state. What was she going to do next? She couldn ‘t stay with this guy forever. And she had to go to the bathroom very, very badly. And not just pee, either. But the bathroom was more than ten feet away, off the living room, in the corner of the flat.
J.J. closed his cell. His face was ashen.
“It’s Ken, ” he whispered.
Her ex.
“What?” Vanessa asked.
“Ken’s dead. Donna found him in the bathroom. He bled to death.”
J.J. lost it. He put his hands to his face and wept. Vanessa didn’t understand. Ken? Dead? The prick was only twenty-four years old. Couldn’t have been drugs. Ken was as straight-edge as they come. She’d been with him the previous evening, and …
Wait.
No. That couldn’t be right. The Mary Kates couldn’t transfer that way. They had to be injected directly. For them to transfer through saliva meant that they had to replicate at an unprecedented— and unstoppable—rate.
Unless the Operator had changed the program.
Fuck. That was what he’d done. The mad bastard.
That’s when she first appreciated the depths to which the Operator had sunk. This wasn ‘t about her. This was about every person she loved. Or lusted for. Or kissed.
During her reverie, J J. had pulled himself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. She hadn ‘t been paying attention. Why would she? People went to the bathroom all the time. For men, the morning piss was—
And then it occurred to her.
“J.J.,”she called.
No answer. She stood up, legs full of pins and needles, and stumbled across the sleeping bodies toward the bathroom. No one else was awake yet. She heard running water on the other side of the door. She leaned against it. The bathroom wasn’t that big. Certainly no more than ten feet separating her and J.J., who was probably at the sink, slapping cold water on his face, trying to wash away the tears. You needn’t be embarrassed, she wanted to tell him. Especially not in front of me. The woman who killed your best friend.
“J.J.”
Nothing.
Then came the honible realization, and she flung open the door, and saw J.J. on the cold tile floor, and all of the blood. Everywhere.
4:39 a.m.
Vine Street Expressway/II-616 West
The Operator spent the duration of the cab ride fantasizing about her. He found himself glad she’d survived this long. She had always been resourceful, despite her facade of bookish helplessness. He’d known she would go the distance. He never would have guessed two weeks, though. Vanessa must have tapped into some truly deep wells of ingenuity.
The cell phone in his jacket hummed. He plucked it from his pocket, flipped it open. It was his contact in CI-6. The woman he’d met during their tour of his facility six months ago. Back when he was still flirting around with Homeland Security, showing them a few impressive gewgaws and whatnot.
The one who was handling the buyers.
What was that Pet Shop Boys song about brains and looks and making lots of money? Well, he had the perfect killing machines. She had the contacts. It stood to reason that lots of money would follow.
Thanks to Nancy. His little shop double agent. Pretending to track down this mysterious “Kelly White” on one side of her mouth, arranging a virtual auction with the other. Nancy, with the pouty lips. She was no Vanessa, but… hey, he couldn’t fault poor Nancy for not being Irish. No one would believe that’s why he’d set up operations there in the first place. He loved Irish women.
“I’m in Philadelphia,” he told Nancy.
She mumbled something vaguely apologetic, which was unusual for her. But then again, she had failed him. He’d have to remind her of that when they met again, face-to-face. Now wasn’t the time.
“Have you decided where you’re going to be handling the business?”
“Tijuana,” he said. “Some friends from college went during spring break one year. Kept raving about it. I’ve always wanted to check it out.”
“And it happens to be conveniently located in Mexico.”
“There’s that, too. I’ll call you when I’m settled. Right now, I’m about to pay my last respects to the slut, so I’m turning off my phone. I don’t want anything to disturb our final moments together.”
Not true. If Vanessa were alive, he’d be keeping her alive for as long as she amused him. No need to get Nancy jealous, though.
Zero a.m.
The Dublin Inside Her Head (last call)
It was the sight of J.J. s blood that pushed her over. Something snapped, permanently. What she saw, she was not able to unsee. She would never be the same. She hated the Operator for that.
And for the fact that even when presented with the sight of the blood-soaked corpse of a man she’d been kissing just a few hours ago, the most pressing need on her mind was this: Use the bathroom. She didn ‘t know if she’d have another chance. Maslows hierarchy of needs. She’d learned about it in high school. Urge to eliminate waste versus respect for a human corpse? No contest. The urge would win.
She used the bathroom, her body contorting to avoid touching any part of J.J.‘s body. She hated herself for it. But she hated the Operator worse for having put her through these indignities.
It was the scorched-earth policy from then on.
She’d do what she must to destroy hi?n.
Vanessa mastered many skills in the next few weeks: Meeting married men, seducing them. Not that it took much. Half the time, they were ready to rape her in the bar But she ‘d say, “No, not here. ” She ‘d have them take her to their flat or a hotel room. Preferably a hotel. Buy her room-service dinner. Invite her into bed.
The next morning, she’d call for a cab and insist the driver escort her to it; she ‘d claim her companion had been abusive. Nobody would question that. And the subject would be most likely happy to get rid of her, once she started crying and raving. Happy until about ten seconds after she left. The Mary Kates only needed a few hours to replicate and spread throughout a bloodstream enough to kill.
They usually didn’t scream, which was good. And it didn’t bother her too much after the second subject. These men were adulterers, after all.
By the fifth murder, she thought someone surely would have come after her. The trail of bodies was too long to ignore. Didn ‘t anyone do a blood test? See so?nething a little off in there? She had been hoping for
