Stealing Faces - Michael Prescott [107]
He leaned forward, propping himself on the bed with an outstretched arm.
“We’ve had no escapes from the institute since you were our guest. But we have had one almost equally unfortunate incident.”
Kaylie waited.
“The patient in question was a young man who found a most creative way to release himself from his torment. It involved a bedsheet, like this one here.” Cray snagged a fold of the rubber sheet between two fingers. “And that vent I mentioned. The vent cover, with its metal grillwork, is quite securely fastened to the ceiling, and just high enough above the floor that if a person were to stand on the commode and loop one end of the sheet through the grille bars, then take the other end, take it and tie it in a slipknot around her neck ... her slender, fragile neck ...”
Kaylie understood.
This was the gift Cray offered her. It wasn’t enough that he had put her in this room, ravaged her life, made her a pariah and a fugitive. No, he wanted to finish the task of demolition he had begun—to finish it not by his own hand, but by hers.
Anger cleared her mind for the moment, and she saw why Cray had allowed the nurses to unstrap her from the bed, the wheelchair. He needed her ambulatory, at liberty within the cell, so that no artificial restraint would prevent her from taking her own life.
“You fucker,” Kaylie snarled, fury cresting in her like a hot, boiling wave.
“No need for indelicacy.” Cray smiled. “I’m merely passing along a harmless anecdote—”
With a rush of hatred she sprang at him.
Her hands came up fast, fingers hooking into claws, taking him by surprise, and she caught him in the cheek and raked four deep grooves in his skin.
Cray shouted, a hoarse, inarticulate sound.
He had shouted in the desert when she sprayed him with ice to save her life. She’d hurt him then, wanted to inflict a new and worse hurt now.
She swiped at him again, but missed, and then he swung her around, pitching her sideways off the bed onto the hard shock of the floor.
She struggled to rise, couldn’t, because already he was on top of her, straddling her hips as she lay prostrate.
Over her groan of panic she heard commotion in the hall, the nurse shouting, “Dr. Cray, are you all right?”
“I’m fine!” Cray snapped. “No problem, Dana.” He struggled to catch his breath, then added in a softer voice, “No problem at all.”
He released Kaylie and stood. She rolled onto her side, staring up at him. He was huge. He was everything evil in the world.
“Very well then, Kaylie.” He had recovered his composure. She saw him grope in his pocket for a handkerchief, then wipe the threads of blood from his cheek. “You haven’t lost the will to fight, I see. Or the will to live. You’re strong. Stronger than I’d expected. But your strength won’t help you. You’ll die tonight.”
“I won’t,” she whispered. “I’m not going to do it.”
“Oh, I believe you, Kaylie. But that merely means I’ll have to do it for you.”
She pushed herself half-upright and studied him, taking his measure.
“You can’t,” she said finally, working hard to string words together, enough words to make her point. “There are ... people around. They’ll see.”
“They’ll see nothing. Leave the details to me. I’ve got it all worked out. In all honesty, I was hoping you’d oblige me by proving more compliant. But I was prepared for your intransigence. I’m always prepared, Kaylie, for any eventuality. Surely you’ve discovered that by now.”
She was tired, suddenly. She couldn’t fight him, couldn’t bear to listen to him anymore.
“Go away,” she murmured.
“Yes. I think I will. Enough therapy for one day. But I’ll be back.”
Cray moved toward the door, walking slowly, gracefully, in his liquid, leonine way. He was a stalking animal; why could no one see it except her? Why was the whole world blind?
At the door he stopped, favoring her with his insolent gaze. “You won’t have to wait long, Kaylie. When night falls, I’ll make my move. Some things