Well, Syd thought. If it’s not one, and it is two, he’s going to wish it was three.
His message came on, “Hi, this is Ryan Magee, sorry I missed your call. Please leave a message.”
Syd thought about just hanging up, but there actually could be an innocent reason for the call not going through, so she said, “Hey Ryan, it’s me. Three boys raped Alice that night: Colin, Adam and a guy named Blake Hunter. He lives in Malibu, 22756 Pacific Coast Highway. It’s nine forty-five now, I should be there in less than an hour. Call me.”
She disconnected then refocused on her top priority. The Lady in Red.
FORTY-FIVE
The Vest Pocket Colt .25, with its miniscule two and a quarter inch barrel was designed to shoot at targets five to eight feet away. After that, luck has as much to do with hitting a target as skill.
This was only the second time Blake had ever fired a weapon; the first was high school when they took Adam’s father’s .44 Magnum to the city dump and shot at rats, so his skill level was low. But Blake’s luck was good and he hit his target.
Alice screamed as the bullet ripped into her shoulder, blood spurted as the slug shredded her deltoid muscle, just missed the cephatic vein before nicking her clavicle bone, tumbling through the trapezius muscle and bursting out of her shoulder before finally plowing into the living room wall.
The force of the bullet hitting Alice spun her around, and her brain was already calculating how she was going to survive a battle with a man with a gun when she’s just got a small scalpel.
So she instinctively let the spin knock her off her feet and she tumbled to the ground. There was no way for Blake to know exactly where he hit her, Syd realized, so she shuddered once and then went still.
Dead still.
Blake stared at the lifeless body. God damn her, he thought. He was counting on a lengthy interview to stitch together his documentary. And her murder trial would have been the icing on the cake. Fiery statements from the D.A. intercut with righteous indignation from the defense. Mix in a few shots of the beautiful defendant and you’ve got real drama. But now, all he’d have was a funeral.
Of course, a funeral makes for a much more definitive ending, and his own role in the story had been enhanced. Enhanced big time, he suddenly realized; he’s become the fucking star. After capturing the Lady in Red, he had to fight it out with the desperate serial murderer, finally killing her with her own weapon.
And then it hit him, documentary, hell! This should be a feature fucking film. Someone sexy but deadly would play the Lady in Red: Angelina Jolie, Scarlett Johansson, or maybe Keira Knightley. And an A-lister like Brad Pitt or Matt Damon would play Blake.
He’d write and direct, the first time ever a victim/hero told his own story on screen. What a publicity dream.
He looked at Alice’s body.
Did she just breathe?
He thought he saw some movement. He aimed the gun at her. He should put a couple of more shots into her to make sure, he decided. He centered the muzzle at the back of her head, tightened his finger on the trigger and squeezed.
Then stopped.
The cops would be able to figure out the trajectory of the bullets, determine that he was standing and she was on the ground. Realized he’d shot a defenseless victim.
Not very heroic.
How would an audience feel watching Brad Pitt shoot the inert body of Scarlett Johansson just to make sure she was dead?
They’d hate it. It seemed so cowardly.
But what if she was still alive? He was sure he saw her move.
Keeping the gun aimed at her, Blake slowly stepped toward the body. When he reached her he saw a pool of blood gathering beneath her.
That’s good, he thought. But blood alone wasn’t enough to prove she was dead. He nudged her stomach with his foot.
Alice’s right hand shot out, the scalpel slashing Blake’s ankle, severing his Achilles tendon.
Blake’s leg collapsed. Furious he pulled the trigger, but too late, his aim ruined by the fall. Three shots went harmlessly into the ceiling.
His back hit the ground first, followed by his head and gun hand. The force of the impact popped the gun out of his grip and sent the Colt skittering across the floor.
Alice pounced on him. She straddled his chest and began slashing his face with the scalpel. Blood spurted as the tempered steel of the #10 blade sliced down his left cheek, up his right cheek, across his chin.
Blake screeched in pain. He looked into Alice’s maniacal face; she was pure animal now desperately fighting for her survival.
In his periphery vision Blake could see the gun on the floor, eight or nine feet away. He had to get her off him and reach the gun.
She slashed again, this time the knife sliced across his forehead, opening a flap of skin and sending a river of blood into Blake’s eyes.
He let out a roar, placed his hand on her chest and shoved as hard as he could. Alice fell back, tumbling off him. He was free.
Blake clambered toward the gun. His right leg was useless, so he pulled himself across the floor with his hands as his blood drenched the floor.
He could hear Alice scrambling to her feet behind him. He reached out, his fingertips touching the gun. Got you, he thought.
But as he tightened his grip on the Colt, Alice drove the scalpel through the back of his hand pinning it to the floor.
He screamed in agony.
Alice plucked the gun off the floor, turned it on Blake. Blood poured from the gashes in his face. He looked at her, terrified. “Don’t shoot.”
Hate simmered off Alice. The rape was Blake’s idea. She’d watched him direct her degradation. He was actually going to try and use her rape to re-launch his movie career. And now he was begging for mercy.
“I know people,” Blake pleaded. “I can help you get away, out of the country with a new identity and plenty of money. Just please, don’t shoot.”
Alice thought about it then slowly lowered the gun.
Unexpected hope filled Blake’s eyes.
And that’s when she shot him — right between those hope-filled eyes.
Alice dug through the medicine cabinet in Blake’s bathroom. It was a veritable drug store. Her bloodstained hands shuffled through bottles of Xanax, Ativan and Valium. Depressed much, Blake, she thought.
There were also bottles of Viagra and Cialis, for fun she assumed. There were bottles of Vicodin and Percocet, no doubt for pain. She wasn’t looking for pain pills, but she knew the dull pain in her shoulder would detonate later into agony so she pocketed the Vicodin. There were bottles of Ambien and Lunesta for sleep. There was also a bottle of Valtrex which she knew treated herpes. No surprise there.
She pawed through a variety of drugs she never heard and didn’t care about. What she wanted was an antiseptic, something to disinfect her shoulder wound. And a couple of thick bandages.
Nothing more in the cabinet so she looked under the sink.
Bingo.
She pulled out a bottle of Betadine and a first aid kit with a variety of bandages. She poured the Betadine onto a washcloth then applied it to the entrance wound. She gasped and nearly collapsed as pain engulfed her.
She sat on the toilet, poured more Betadine onto the washcloth and using the mirror to guide her, pressed the washcloth onto the exit wound. This time a soft moan escaped from her lips as the pain crested quickly, then slowly receded.
She ripped open one of the large bandages. She dribbled a little Betadine onto the gauze then placed it over the entrance wound and pressed hard attaching it. It stung like crazy but she was getting used to it. Then she ripped open a second bandage, added a little antiseptic and, using the mirror as a guide again, stuck it on. Okay, she thought. That should stem the bleeding and take care of any infection.