On the other side of the room, there was a wheelchair, and a pegboard, on which a wicked assortment of knives and saws hung. Next to that…
An old wooden chest, with Jack’s baby sling resting on top.
“Good morning, sunshine.”
Martin walked into view. He looked happier than he had in a long time.
“Martin, where’s Jack? What’s going—”
His hand lashed out, hard and fast, slapping Sara on her right cheek and rocking her head back. Sara felt the blood rush to her face, then the inevitable sting.
“Don’t be stupid, Sara. You must have figured it out by now.”
Sara took a moment, until she was sure she could speak without breaking down. The betrayal was so unexpected, so absolute, she felt she had to make sense of it.
It hit her all at once, and she understood.
“I see it in your eyes,” Martin said. “You finally get it. Please. Enlighten me.”
Her voice was soft, and sounded hollow. “When Joe went missing. You were with him, on his boat. You came here. Martin… where’s our son?”
“Finish the story, then I’ll tell you.”
Sara felt like she was listening to someone else talk, even though the words came from her mouth. “Plincer must have gotten you both. The cannibals brought you to him.”
“Lester got us, actually. Back then there weren’t nearly as many of the ferals, and they weren’t organized.”
Martin pulled up a folding chair, set it up near the bed.
“Did you know it was Plincer’s Island?” Sara felt like she was teeter-tottering between depression and hysteria.
“No. What I said in my campfire story was true. Joe and I and six others. You were actually supposed to come with, do you remember? We were dating at the time, but you were under the weather. But I swear, I do hold that against you.”
He sat down. Sara said nothing. This was too much, too fast.
“One of the women actually did get seasick. And we did beach the boat. And the cannibals did attack. Joe and I got away, but Lester found us. Took us back to the Doc.”
Martin rubbed his eyes. They were tinged with red, like they always got without his Goniosol medication. The holes in his cheeks had stitches in them.
“Plincer made you evil,” she whispered.
“That’s not quite how it works. The procedure enhances the parts of the brain that process aggression. The doctor simply enlarged these portions, making violent acts not only more appealing, but necessary. Sort of like the sex drive, except this is the violence drive.”
Martin lashed out again, slapping her harder this time. Sara’s cheek burned.
“Doing that to you, it gave me a huge rush. I can feel the serotonin spike, my dopamine receptors feasting on it. Better than any high I’ve ever known. And especially sweet, since I’ve wanted to do that to you since the day we married.”
Sara couldn’t help the tears now, but she managed to keep from sobbing.
“The orange ribbons on the trees…”
Martin nodded. “That was me. After I did my disappearing act at the campsite, I changed the ribbons to lead us to the prison. The next morning, I was going to lead everyone there, and we’d be met by Lester and Prendick. It was supposed to be nice and easy. No running around in the dark. Nobody dying until they had to. But those feral fuckers got the jump on me. I was so caught up in playing Mr. Nice Guy Martin, telling scary stories, I forgot to take the gun in my backpack. You really did save my life, Sara. Allow me to thank you for that.”
He hit her again, this time with a closed fist. Sara had been expecting it, though, and turned her head in time, so his knuckles met the top of her skull.
“Bitch,” he said, shaking his hand and then blowing on his knuckles. Then he laughed. “I’d feel that if I wasn’t on painkillers. You’re going to pay for that.”
Sara’s eyes blurred with tears, her nose ran like a faucet, and her voice was a pitiful wail. Even though she didn’t want to, she glanced again at the trunk, Jack’s sling draped across the lid.
“Where’s Jack, Martin? What have you done with our son?”
“Our precious little Jack? Are you worried you’ll never hold him again? Never gaze into his adorable little face and tickle him to make him laugh?”
Martin leaned over, his face inches from hers.
“Maybe later I’ll let you hold his tiny little corpse.”
Sara looked for the lie in his eyes. All she saw was malice and glee.
Something inside her shattered.
“You didn’t… Martin… no…”
“You want to hear what happened to the others? Plincer gave Laneesha to Subject 33. He’s had her for a while now. I doubt there’s very much left of her. He’s got some sort of device he uses on them. Personally, it gives me the creeps. And Georgia? Bad girl, that one. We both knew she was faking her remorse. I think she was hiding more than that. We’re taking good care of her.”
“Martin,” Sara was only mouthing her words now, without any sound coming out. “Why?”
“Why do you think I married you so soon after Joe’s disappearance? Love? I never loved you. I used you as a cover. Marrying you was the perfect way to indulge in my particular tastes without being detected.” He winked. “Plus, I couldn’t have opened the Center without you.”
Sara realized where this was going, and she shook her head. “No…”
Martin smiled. “Do you really think we’ve had eleven runaways? Wasn’t that statistically high?”
He stood, walking over to the dresser. Keeping his eyes on Sara, he opened the top drawer.
“Remember Chereese Graves? One of our first court-appointed cases at the Center. Also our first runaway.”
Martin reached into the drawer. Sara didn’t want to watch, but she couldn’t turn away. He pulled out what looked like a brown shirt. But then he held it up, letting it unroll to full length.
Sara gagged, throwing up on the cot mattress.
“Not my best work,” Martin said. “Skinning isn’t easy. Especially when the person is still alive. All that flinching and bleeding. That’s why there are all the holes on this one. Take a look.”
Martin tossed the skin across the room. It glided, almost like a kite, then landed on Sara.
The hair was still attached, and it fell on Sara’s chest. She shook it away, and it slid across her neck. The texture was stiff, rough, not unlike burlap, and it carried an odor of salt and beef jerky. Gravity took the hide over the edge of the bed, and Sara tried to twist away from it, watching as the legs and feet—complete with toenails—fell onto the floor.
“Poorly done. I know. But I got better, as time went on. Here’s Jenna Hamilton.”
Martin tossed another skin at her. “And Rich Ardmore.” He threw that too.
Sara managed to dodge the first, squirming backward on the cot, but Rich landed directly on her face. She screamed, shaking her head back and forth, able to see Martin through a hole that was actually Rich’s mouth.
Martin tossed another at her.
“Here’s Miranda Walker.” The skin landed on Sara’s legs. “And remember Henry Perez, liked to start fires? I gave him a nice, charred finish.”
Sara freed herself of Rich, only to have Henry smack her in the head. He smelled like burned bacon. She managed to scootch back into the corner of the bed and get onto her knees. The skins piled up around her like tangled sheets.
“Here’s one you were particularly fond of, from just last month. Tonya Johnson. All set to straighten out her life, start fresh. Then I brought her here. She doesn’t smell so fresh now.”
Tonya’s skin hit Sara hard, with a slapping sound. It was still moist, and left a pink, wet splotch on Sara’s sweater.
“Martin… no more…”
“No more? But we’re just getting started, Sara honey. I’ve been forced to live a lie with you these past few years. Ever since the procedure, do you know how difficult it has been to restrain myself? To push down my urges? I had to pretend to be a responsible, upstanding adult, a caring psychologist, and a decent husband, while all the time thirsting for my next opportunity to cut someone apart.”