Part 21 (Warning- language)

Kermit made one last call to the precinct. He was about a half hour from the cabin and he wanted to know what else had happened. He had the strangest feeling that the two "floaters", the bodies in the river, were connected in some way to the current string of homicides. The timing of each death, one after Tom Johnson’s murder and another after Jennifer’s murder, was too coincidental. Gut instinct told him that there were no coincidences in life. He was sure that there was another body feeding the fish somewhere that would be aged as long as Billy Grayson had been dead. The different methods of killing in obviously connected homicides said that the killers had to be working together. Killers rarely worked together well, however.

"Any word from Peter, yet?" Kermit asked the Captain when she answered?

"None," she said succinctly. "We’ve had a development in the floating bodies department, however. Ballistics has definitely identified the bullets as coming from the same gun. There may be someone else out there we need to watch for, as well."

"What about the bullet from Billy Grayson? Does it match with the other two?" Kermit knew that he was shooting blind, but sometimes you get lucky.

"Whatever made you ask that?" the Captain questioned. "No, the gun used to kill Billy was small caliber. If the killer hadn’t been at point blank range, it probably wouldn’t have been fatal. The other two were .38 caliber."

"It was just a hunch I have. Old paranoias die hard." Kermit said his goodbyes and disconnected. He’d be at the cabin soon, and he needed to concentrate on what he was going to do to Peter Caine.

***

. . . 8. . . 9. . . 10!" Jessica finished her countdown, then watched as Peter jerked into awareness. There was a confused look on his face for a nanosecond, then he realized that he was bound to the chair. The bunny-in-the-headlights-of-an-oncoming-tractor-trailor look replaced confusion in his expressive hazel eyes. He struggled frantically without success. For a moment, Dr. LaKaisen thought he would overturn the chair, then his frenzy slowed. A few last attempts at escape and Peter settled for moving the only thing that he could, his head. He darted glances all through the room, trying to get a handle on his situation.

"What the Hell are you doing to me, Doc? Is this some sort of new shock treatment?" He had calmed down considerably, at least outwardly. His heart was still pounding though, and his mind raced. Images flashed through his consciousness, images that made no sense. He saw a black man, a syringe, Dr. LaKaisen--naked! What was happening to him? As quickly as consciousness had returned, the memories flooded back.

"Do you ‘treat’ all of your patients this way, Doctor? Does the department know what it is getting for it’s consulting fee?" Peter’s tone was pure acid. He had no idea what was going on here, or why the doctor had done the things she had done. All he knew was that she was one sick lady. The memories of her skin against his caused his face to flush with shame. He had gone along with her perversions, had made love to her. *NO!* he corrected. *I had sex with her. It’s not the same thing.*

Dr. LaKaisen laughed, a joyful laugh of a child who had gotten what she wanted for Christmas.

"This is everything I ever hoped for, Peter Caine. The look on your face is priceless. You must be remembering the two of us. . . together." The doctor extended a hand to tenderly stroke Peter’s cheek. He jerked away as if he had been stung. "Oh, Peter, there is so much more you don’t know. Remember your dry cleaner, Tom Something or another? How about poor Jennifer Cochran. She didn’t even know you. Her sister did. Didn’t she?" Jessica waved photographs, one by one, in front of Peter, carefully holding each with a piece of tissue. He tried to look away, but couldn’t force his eyes away from the bloody scenes. Each was more ghastly than the last. She scattered the pictures on the table in front of him, making sure that each picture’s most horrible facet was still visible.

As the woman continued, laying hurt upon hurt, Peter’s confusion and fear turned to fury. This bitch had taken control of his life and dragged him behind a speeding train of guilt. She had destroyed people to hurt him.

"Did you kill them, or did the guy with the needle do it?" Peter demanded. "What kind of a heartless bitch are you?" A red haze clouded his vision. His anger threatened to explode his entire body.

"Oh no, Peter, it was much more carefully planned than that." She continued to trace a finger along his temple, his forehead, along his nose. He refused to give her the satisfaction of a second flinch. "I told you that I was doctor to both the police and the men they hunted. Well, some of the men they hunt don’t object to killing under hypnotic suggestion. . . with the right motivation that is. I know how to motivate them."

"Did you fuck them, too?" Peter wanted to strike out, to hurt her as she hurt him. He couldn’t use his body, so he used the only weapon he had left--words.

The words ricocheted off Jessica without effect. "No, Detective Caine, only you. The others wouldn’t hesitate to betray a lover. You, on the other hand. . ."

"I was never your lover!" Peter spat. The thought of the woman in front of him as a lover turned his stomach. There was a decay about her soul that fouled all she touched. Why hadn’t he sensed it earlier?

"That’s what you say now, but your body sang a different song before, didn’t it? Only a lover would have touched so gently, kissed so tenderly. . . felt betrayal so deeply. Tell me, Peter, what does it feel like to make love to the very person that is tearing your world apart?" Her tone was patronizing. Each moment with him brought back her life with Charlie. An ache in her deepened with each breath that the helpless detective in front of her took. It was time for the killing blow.

"How did it feel to sleep with the one that killed your little friend? What was his name? Billy?" She watched his eyes, smiling as what she had just said hit him. "That’s right, Peter Caine. I did Billy myself."

"NO!" Peter screamed, not wanting to hear anymore. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to rid himself of the image of Billy lying in the race car bed, devoid of life.

"Yes, Detective. I went to his house and told him that I was a reporter doing a story on the pathetic little team he played with."

"No more," Peter pleaded, the pictures of Billy now superimposed on sensations of skin on skin.

"He even got dressed up in that loathsome uniform for me. We went up to his room and. . ."

Peter’s head was pounding, his heart lay in tatters at his feet. Nothing he had ever experienced compared to the torment he suffered. "Please, no, stop," he begged.

". . .and I stood real close when I pulled the trigger. It just sort of made a little pop, like a balloon exploding."

Sobs wracked Peter’s body as he reached his breaking point. . . and passed it.

"There was hardly any blood at all. I did so want to leave it neat for you, Peter. When they are bloody you know right away that they’re dead. When it’s neat, you can hope for a moment that they are just sleeping. Is that what happened, Peter? Did you think he was just sleeping?"

"You fucking bitch, why are you doing this to me?" Peter gasped out. He was spent, emotionally and physically. There was not even enough energy to cry out for the agony he felt. All his strength was gone, and with it his hope. At that moment, all he wanted was the sweet release of death.

"Because you killed the only man I have ever loved. Does the name Charlie Randall mean anything to you?" Jessica hissed at him, all of her mirth gone.

Peter paused a moment, trying to remember the name. The cause of all his pain should be someone that he could remember. Why couldn’t he picture the man. Suddenly it came to him. "The guy who beat his wife and kids to death with a baseball bat?" Peter croaked out. His voice was hoarse and his throat dry. "I didn’t kill him, he died in prison."

"You killed him as surely as if you had slashed his wrists yourself. Charlie was sensitive. He wasn’t meant for prison life," Jessica spoke, lost in memories of her wonderful lover.

"He should have thought of that before he killed his family." Peter saw the opportunity to inflict pain and took it. He was rewarded with a slap that rattled his teeth.

"Don’t you degrade him. She drove him to it. Her and her nagging. Always at him. When I first met him, he came to me as a patient. He tried to get control, to stop letting her make him so angry. She wouldn’t let him, though. She kept pushing his buttons until he’d hit her again. Then she’d go running to the cops. . . and those whiny little brats would lie for her and back her up He was going to dump them and come away with me, but she wouldn’t let him be. She kept pushing him until he had to kill her. The bitch got what she deserved. She ruined it all for me." The psychiatrist paced like a madwoman. Just thinking of Charlie’s wife sent her into fits of fury.

"Yeah, I’ll just bet she did it on purpose," Peter said sardonically. "After all, everything that anyone does revolves around you, doesn’t it?"

The doctor drew back her hand to slap him once again, but found Jaisen gripping her wrist. He had heard her voice increase in volume from outside.

"Come on, Doc. You said you didn’t want him bruised. Stop." The handsome black man spoke gently. He truly cared for this crazed woman, as much as he cared for anyone. On the practical side, he also knew that if she blew it now, there would be no chance either of them would get away undetected.

Peter dropped his chin against his chest, no longer possessing the will to hold it up. He had a moment of hope that in her madness, the woman might make a mistake that would release him. With the two of them, there was no chance.

"Doc," the man spoke. "Let’s get this over with."

[end part 21]

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Part 22

Dr. LaKaisen took Peter’s face none too gently in her hands. She forced him to look up at her. He closed his eyes to block out the ugliness he saw in front of him, but he could do nothing to block out her words.

"This is where I get my pay back, Detective Caine. You are going to die just like Charlie did, with your blood draining from your body. You will slit your own wrists and watch the blood flow until you’re no longer able to watch anything. . . and you’ll do it willingly," she told him, letting him in on her gruesome plan.

"Go to Hell," he spat at her.

"No, Peter, you will be going to Hell. Just remember, if you don’t do this, more of your friends will die. Remember--the lambs shall suffer for the sins of the shepherd? Until I watch you die, my hunger for blood will grow ten thousand-fold. No one you have ever spoken to will be safe. People will shun you to save themselves and their loved ones. You’ll be alone, all alone."

"Just cut me loose and I’ll do it," Peter spoke, trying to sound convincing.

"Oh no. That’s not how it works. I know you. You’ll try to figure a way out. I don’t trust you. Knowing who I am you’ll try to stop me. I have a better way. Think back on all those sessions we had in my office, Peter. Why didn’t you remember them before?" she asked, enjoying being in control once more.

"You bitch. You drugged me," Peter snarled, dropping the pretense of cooperation.

"That and so much more. The combination of hypnosis and drugs works wonders. I didn’t ask you to do anything that you wouldn’t do in "real" life. I did find some rather interesting psychological triggers, though. You hold on to guilt, Peter Caine, and it* will* be the death of you. Guilt and a martyr complex will let me destroy you. You will kill yourself to save your friends, and do it gladly to escape the guilt for those that have already died. I would love to stay and chat, but the longer we remain, the greater the chance that someone will discover my little secret. I guess this is it, Peter." She kissed him long and hard, ignoring his lack of response.

"Dostoevsky," she said, somewhat sadly. The change in Peter’s expression was instantaneous. Where there had been anger and hatred a moment earlier, there was only docility. His eyes questioned, asking what she wanted him to do.

"Jaisen, cut him loose and make sure you get every scrap of that stuff gathered up. When you’re done, make sure that you have wiped everything that either of us might have touched. I haven’t left this room, so you don’t have to worry about my prints anywhere else. We need to get him out of that strait jacket and back into his shirt."

Her mind was racing. Putting on latex gloves, and handing Jaisen a pair as well, the doctor put her plan into action. She pulled an amber bottle from her purse, the one filled with the actual medication that she had prescribed for Peter. Counting carefully, she made sure that there were exactly as many pills as would have been had Peter been taking his daily dosage. She opened the bottle and placed it on the table. Getting bottle of Jack Daniels from the stocked bar, she placed the unopened bottle beside the medication. One more trip, this time to the desk in the room that looked like a study. She searched the desk until she found a sheet of blank paper and a pen. Then, the final touch. . . she drew a knife from the rack by the kitchen stove. She could see the edge had been carefully maintained. It didn’t matter. If the knife was dull, Peter would simply saw at his flesh until he opened the veins. This way *was* cleaner, though.

The knife in place, she went to Peter to give instructions. She had to be very careful, and very specific.

"Peter, I know how you have suffered from the death of your friends. . . I know the hurt that you feel. . . Look at the pictures, Peter. . . Pick each one up and see what you have caused. . . You did all this. . . You are responsible. . ." she began. The woman held back a smile when she saw tears forming at the corners of his eyes. He touched each picture. *That’s it, Peter, leave a nice clear set of prints in case forensics dusts them. I want yours to be the only ones there. They will have no doubt that you stole the evidence. This will confirm that no one else was here.* "I want to help you feel better. . . I brought you some nice pills to help with the pain. . . I want you to take all of them and wash them down with the cola in this bottle." She handed him the bottle of antidepressant drugs and the whiskey. He tossed back the entire contents of the amber bottle and after opening the bottle, took a healthy swig of the liquor.

"You need to make sure all of the medication goes down, . . . so I want you to drink down more of the cola." Peter drank another 4 or 5 ounces of whiskey, pausing only once for air. He sat the bottle on the table and awaited the next instructions.

"It is time to write a little note, Peter. . . If you ask for forgiveness, the guilt will stop. I will tell you what to say, and you write, understand?" Peter nodded slowly.

"Write ‘I just can’t live. . . with the guilt of their deaths. . . on my hands. . . . Please forgive me’. . . and sign it ‘Peter’," she instructed. He scrawled the words, his hands not really wanting to cooperate. Deep in his eyes, she could see the inner battle going on. He was fighting the suggestions. Somewhere, under layers and layers of drugged hypnotic suggestion, awareness existed. *Damn it,* she thought. *I’m going to have to rush this.* She stood impatiently as he finished writing.

"Peter, people have died because of you. . . Your coworkers are afraid to be near you, scared that they may be next, or their wives or kids. . . You bring pain and death to all around you. . . Only you can stop the killing. . . As long as you are alive, no one is safe. . . not Annie. . . not Caroline. . . not Kelly. . . not even your father." Jessica spoke the words slowly, watching him recoil from each sentence as if he’d been hit. The triggers were being tripped.

"The only way to stop the killing is for you to die. . . Each breath you take means that another person is in danger because of you. . . There is a knife in front of you, Peter. . . Pick it up. . . Test the edge on your right wrist." Tears were running down Peter’s face by that time, the inner turmoil tearing at his soul while her words made mincemeat of his heart. He clutched the knife firmly in his left hand and drew it diagonally, with slow deliberation across his other wrist. The blood beaded instantly along the thin line, the beads joining to form streams.

"Now the other arm. . . higher up. . . between the wrist and the elbow. . . deeper." He followed her directions precisely. Red life-fluid was everywhere, soaking his clothes, dripping to the floor. The injured man sat unmoving, staring at the scarlet river flowing from his veins. His expression was almost one of relief.

[end part 22]

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