Page 3 of So Insane

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Faith opened her eyes and stared up at the ceiling.

She had started to feel like the last girl in a horror series, the one that, against all odds, ended up being the last person to survive. She had endured a seemingly endless assault of death, destruction and sorrow, but she always emerged triumphant. The killer was always caught, and Faith always rode off into the sunset, her trusty dog by her side.

And that was how it was supposed to be. She was Special Agent Faith Bold, detective extraordinaire, darling of the FBI and champion of justice, one of the people who were supposed to show up at the end of the movie along with the flashing lights, not one of the hapless victims left to rot in the wake of the killer’s rampage.

Instead, she lay alone in her apartment, her body bruised and battered, her mind ravaged. Once more, a crazed murderer had beaten her nearly to death. Once more, she had come in, guns blazing, just like a hero should, and once more, the villain had reminded her that movies were just that and real life didn't discriminate between good and evil.

This time, though, she lived not because the other hero had rescued her but because the killer had decided he wasn’t done with her yet. He wanted her to know that he did own her after all, that she lived, died, thrived and wasted at his pleasure. He would kill her when he was ready, but not before he had broken her, worn her down so that nothing was left of her but skin and bones, a bleached skeleton wrapped in the shroud of her own empty existence.

With little to do but think and remember, she remembered Jethro Trammell and Franklin West, Donkey Killer and Copycat Killer, master and apprentice though as far as she knew, the two of them had never met. The only connection they shared was an affinity for torturing people to death and a special interest in a once brash and confident FBI agent.

She could see Trammell’s leer, hear his shockingly high-pitched lilt as he said, Let’s see you bleed, little girl, just before slicing the tendons of her right knee in half.

She could see West’s kind smile, his almost self-effacing condescension, as though he was aware that he was a perfect stereotype of the Freudian therapist, right down to his wire-rimmed glasses and sharply pointed goatee. She could see his contemptuous sneer as he stared down at her beaten body and lamented that she was far from the challenge he hoped she would be. She could hear his voice as he said, I want you to look around and see nothing but the shattered remnants of your life, and only when all that is left is ash and splinters do I want you to admit defeat.

These images tortured her, but they paled in comparison to the knowledge that Turk was out there somewhere in West’s clutches.

If he was still alive.

She imagined Turk being shot in the shoulder but continuing to attempt to protect her. She imagined him shot in his legs, saw them buckle underneath him. She imagined him shot in the head, in the torso, over and over, trying and inevitably failing to protect his handler, a woman whose obsession with the past had endangered him in the first place.

It occurred to her that West wouldn’t shoot Turk. That would be too simple for him. West wasn’t a killer so much as he was a sadist. He would want Turk to suffer. He would want to hear the yelps and cries, hear the growls as Turk tried to maintain his courage. He would want to see Turk struggling to fight, growing weaker with every second, his expressive eyes showing the growing frustration, then desperation, then finally resignation as West foiled every attempt at escape and revenge. He wouldn’t allow Turk to die until every ounce of fight was gone from him, until he finally accepted that he was completely and utterly at West’s mercy. West didn’t want to be the devil. He wanted to be God.

Faith rolled out of bed, gritting her teeth against the aches and pains that still troubled her. She had spent four weeks in the hospital and now two at home, and the broken bones had healed, but the bruising would linger for another month. She felt far older than her thirty-three years. What was that old movie quote? It ain’t the years, it’s the miles? Something like that.

She went through the motions of making herself breakfast. Dr. Gunner had told her that it was important to get into a routine. Doing so gave the body and more importantly the mind something to focus on other than pain.

Well, she had followed the same routine religiously since returning home. Fall asleep, have nightmares, wake up, stare at the ceiling, get out of bed, make breakfast, shower and hopefully not collapse on the couch weeping before Michael showed up.

Speaking of Michael, he was either early this morning, or she had woken late because she had just finished her pancakes and bacon when the doorbell sounded. She smiled faintly and threw a few more strips of bacon on the griddle. Michael would refuse breakfast when she offered, but he would eat it when she set the plate in front of him anyway.

If anything in her life could be said to be a silver lining after all of this, it was Michael’s steady presence as she healed. Just before going after West a second time, Michael had all but confirmed that he no longer considered Faith a friend after Faith’s obsession over the Copycat Killer had led her to accuse Michael’s fiancée, Ellie, of being the killer herself. Ironically, West had turned out to be Ellie’s ex-husband, so in a way, Faith was on the right track.

Not that Michael would ever understand that or that Faith would ever expect him to. The fact that he was here at all was a miracle.

Faith could use all the miracles she could get.

She opened the door and managed another smile, though it disappeared from her face nearly instantaneously. “Bacon’s almost finished grilling,” she said, “pancakes will be another few minutes.”

“I’m not hungry,” he said.

“Coffee’s in the pot,” she said, ignoring him. “It’s that Jamaican stuff you like.”

He lifted an eyebrow. “Blue Mountain? That stuff’s like a hundred fifty dollars a pound.”

“You better not waste it, then,” she said, pouring two mugs and handing Michael one.

Michael looked like he wanted to protest further, but in the end, he just sipped the coffee and sat down. When Faith handed him a plate of pancakes and bacon, he dug in just as Faith knew he would.

She sat across from him and forced her own food down. She hadn’t really been hungry since she woke up in the hospital two months ago.

“Any news on West?” she asked.

Michael sighed. “Faith, I’m not doing this anymore.”

“He has Turk, Michael.”

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