| |
Tilda sighed with contentment as the warm water pounded her body, washing away the sweat, blood, gore, dirt, and uncertainty. It had been a long day, but all in all, a great day with very few worries. As she lathered soap all over her, she thought of Nicholas and the many times they had showered together in his executive bathroom attached to his office. She reached for her own specialty shampoo that smelled of violets. Nicholas loved the smell of the richly lathered shampoo and always said her hair smelled divine. She applied the thick concentrate to her hair and massaged the soap into her scalp. It felt so good.
She sat on the tile bench in the shower and picked up her razor and shaving cream. She shaved her legs, paying careful attention. The last thing she wanted was a scar from shaving on her long, tanned legs. She loved the feel of the razor against her flesh. A razor was great little tool. There was a lot of power in one little blade. The power to maim, disfigure, and kill, all with one or two swift movements. Tilda had cut herself a few times, probably from the emotional pain she suffered from not seeing Nicholas enough. Once he had seen where she’d cut herself and had been disgusted. He told her to never do it again. Tilda had hung her head in shame and promised him she wouldn’t. Ever since then, she had been good about it. She hadn’t cut herself, but she had cut other things.
Her favorite thing to do as a kid had been to break chicken necks... she hated chickens. When she turned sixteen and started to shave her legs, the razor had opened up a whole new spectrum of opportunity. Her favorite tools of all time were box cutters, and she always carried a box cutter with her. And, she used them a lot. She used the box cutters on things she should cut and on things she shouldn’t. She loved razor wire, too. It made a perfect slice. She continued to dream and lather herself. She'd be beautiful for Nicholas in just a few more minutes.
She stepped out of the custom-designed shower, stepping on the luxurious bathmat and toweled her hair dry. She reached inside the secret panel drawer built under Nicholas's closet, and removed a black Victoria’s Secret bra and thong and put them on. She strutted in front of the mirror and admired her body. I look great. She touched her skin, and it was soft and moist. She reached for her signature body lotion and slathered her arms and legs and other “special” parts. As she massaged the lotion into her skin, she remembered one of the special times she and Nicholas had spent. They had ordered Sushi and dined by candlelight on his desk, showered together, and then spent several hours enjoying the benefits of his nitrous oxide tank. They’d made love, laughed and giggled for hours, and then done it again. She smiled when she remembered how much fun that had been. Tilda applied fresh makeup and slid into a pair of tight jeans, boots, and a silk blouse. She picked up her cell phone and went into Nicholas's office.
She decided she needed a glass of wine. She walked over to Nicholas's midsize refrigerator and removed a bottle of pinot grigio. She deftly removed the cork, selected a glass from the cabinet, and poured herself a glass of the white wine. She seated herself on a beautiful upholstered antique Jacobean revival chair in radiant viridian green and sipped her wine as she repeatedly dialed her lover’s cell phone, her anxiety mounting each time the voicemail picked up. Tilda poured herself a second glass and drank it quickly. She was startled when her phone rang.
She picked it up quickly and spoke in her most sensual voice. "Hello, who is this?"
She was shocked when Wilbur responded.
"Where are you, Tilda?" he questioned, his voice quiet and subdued.
"I'm busy," she said. "I've just now gotten to the office, and I'm going through the messages. I need to see if that man has called. I'll be home sometime soon,” she promised.
"I had a call from the police, and they want to talk to you."
"The po-leese?” Tilda laughed aloud. “What could they possibly want with little old me?” She paused and waited for Wilbur to respond, but he was silent. “That’s ridiculous,” she added when he didn’t respond.
Still nothing.
“Wilbur, are you there? Answer me.” Tilda raised her voice. It was then the voices started again. You’re in trouble, you’re in trouble, you’re in trouble, they chanted in rhythm, over and over again. The sounds started in a low pitch, but by the time the word trouble came around, the voices were screeching in her head. Tilda covered her ears to block out the sound.
“Get home, Tilda, now, they’re coming back to see you.” When Wilbur finally spoke, his voice was ominous.
Tilda was silent as she tried to block out the voices.
“For God’s sake, Tilda, what’ve you done?” Wilbur cried with fear in his voice. “Have you hurt someone?”
“I haven’t done a damned thing,” Tilda screamed as she slammed her phone to the floor. She reached for the wine bottle and poured another glass. Anything to make the voices stop. She sat there for about a half an hour and her cell phone rang again. She checked the digital display to see if it was Wilbur. It wasn’t. It wasn’t a number she recognized. She took a chance and clicked the green button.
“Hello,” she said in a subdued voice... a voice that didn’t sound like her own.
“Come and get me, sweetheart. I’m hurt,” Nicholas cried, his voice weak and exhausted.
Tilda’s heart jumped for joy. “Nicholas, Nicholas, is that you? You sound so funny.” Fear edged up her spine.
“Yes, I know. I’m badly hurt. Please come soon. I’ve lost a lot of blood,” he said in a shaky voice.
Tilda’s heart raced in the anticipation of rescuing her man. “All right, I will. But where are you, sweetheart?”
“At the barn, the one near the winery, near the river where we had the picnic. Bring my gun, don’t forget, and some bandages.”
”I will, my love, I will,” Tilda said wildly, furious because someone had dared hurt the love of her life. “Who did this to you?”
“Later, just come. Hurry and don’t forget my gun.”
“I’ll be there soon. Hang in there. I’m on my way,” Tilda promised as she searched her purse for the key to Nicholas’s desk. The keys were in the zippered compartment of her purse. She quickly opened his bottom drawer and pulled out his Glock and several magazines of ammo. Then she ran into the utility room, grabbed a laundry basket full of towels and picked up antiseptic from the medicine room. And a handful of narcotics.
She reached for a canvas bag with Dr. Smirkowitz’s picture and the office logo printed on the side and dumped the antiseptic and gauze bandages in the bag. Then she noticed the large silhouette of a man in the outside light near the office front door. She heard a knock and stood in the front office debating what to do just as the voices started to scream again in her head. GET IT. GET IT. GET IT. ANSWER THE DOOR. ANSWER THE DOOR. ANSWER THE DOOR.
The knocking was deafening as Tilda dashed down the hall and left quickly through the side door, with the gun, canvas bag, and laundry basket in her arms. The voices were screaming in her head. They were so loud she could hardly think. She pushed her way through the bushes and moved quickly and quietly to her truck. She opened the door, got in and started the engine, just as she saw the large man directly in front of her with his hand in front in her vehicle as he signaled her to stop.
Tilda pressed the unlock button and lowered the side window. “What do you want? I’m in a hurry,” she growled at him. She noticed the man was hatless and bald.
“You’re Tilda, aren’t you?” the man said. “I’m Oleg, I’m Nicholas’ friend. I must find him. He’s in grave danger,” the man pleaded. “Do you know where he is?”
Tilda could barely concentrate on what the man said, but she noticed the Russian accent. She pressed her hands against her head to try to quiet the voices. “What did you say?”
The man moved closer and looked into Tilda’s eyes. Her eyes were huge, her pupils dilated, and she appeared confused, crazed. Perhaps she is a psycho just like they said. He tried again, “I am Oleg and Nicholas is my friend and I must find him. He’s in danger.”
Tilda stared at the man as his face became distorted and unrecognizable. He was the enemy. The voices changed their tune, KILL OLEG, KILL OLEG, KILL OLEG. Tilda gave Oleg an uncertain look as her heartbeat rose rapidly. He was the enemy. She knew it.
The man walked closer to the truck, his hands held up in surrender.
“Please, let me help you,” he said gently. “We both love Nicholas. He’s like a son to me. Let us go search for him together.”
Tilda was uncertain. The voices persisted. KILL, KILL, KILL. DO IT, DO IT, DO IT. She couldn’t stand it anymore. She reached for the Glock on the seat beside her and put two slugs dead center into Oleg’s chest. He fell immediately, blood pooling on the white snow. Tilda stared at what she’d done and backed up the truck and ran over his body on the way out of the parking lot.
The voices were quiet. She picked up speed and headed toward the 295 Bypass as her body gradually relaxed.