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She weaved her way into the four-story tenement, so unsteady on her feet that she could barely make it. No surprise given the number of needles she’d probably stuck in her arm this past week.
She looked strung out. Which meant she wasn’t as high as she needed to be. That was good news. She’d be more susceptible to pain.
That was mandatory. She had to feel every life-draining slice of my knife.
For the third time, I vomited in the street. I’d overdone it on the morphine. I knew it would make me sick, but I had no choice. How else could I dull the pain enough so I could drive down here and satisfy the demons?
I never do this during the day. And never right out in the open. But I’m desperate. The demons won’t let me sleep until I give them what they want. Now.
I know she’s alone. Her two “roommates” left to go shopping. They’ll be gone for a while. Not that anyone will notice. No one gives a damn who walks in or out of this dump they call a “resting house.” A lovely euphemism for the basement where whores live when they’re not at work. Late night is when their “careers” soar, when they go to that garish brothel on East Broadway and service the men.
Not this ji nv. Not tonight. She won’t be alive to service anyone.
I don’t know why the demons chose her, nor do I care. I’ve seen her come and go from the brothel a dozen times, even followed her here on two separate occasions. She’s been doing her job the longest. The demons must know that and have deemed her the one to punish. And made me their messenger.
Even so, I’m furious that she’s forced me into this vulnerable position. My hands are starting to shake. The rage is beginning to pound through my body. Damn, I hate her, more every second. I can’t wait to carve her away, bit by bit.
One more minute—enough time to sit down, get her fix ready, maybe even tie the tourniquet around her arm. But not enough time to inject the heroin. I want her alive, awake, aware, and terrified.
And then I’ll send her to hell.
It’s time.
I walk down Eldridge Street, past a bunch of punks who look as seedy as the block we’re walking on. There’s garbage strewn everywhere. The sleazy teenagers are darting into doorways, probably picking up their Xstasy to sell tonight. They’re high as kites themselves, and wouldn’t remember my hooded sweatshirt or black gym bag if they fell over me.
The stench of the tenement is vile—a combination of sex, filth, and drugs. I retch, but there’s nothing left to vomit up except bile. The staircase to the basement is cluttered with needles. I expected that, having followed her here before. The demons must have been preparing me.
As assumed, I find her in the basement, crouched down on the concrete floor. Her back is propped against the wall as she concentrates on arranging what she needs for her next fix. The rest of the place is as still as death.
I pull on my latex gloves. Then I shut the front door behind me and turn the lock.
She looks up. Not surprised. Not anything. No emotion at all in those dark, almond-shaped eyes.
“No,” she informs me. Her words are slurred, and the rest she mutters in Fukienese. But I understand enough. She’s instructing me to come to the brothel and make an appointment with “Susie.” She has the additional audacity to tell me she’s very busy and that she takes cash only.
My hatred and revulsion escalate.
“I’m not a client,” I respond in her dialect. Calmly, I unzip my bag and take out the photo equipment. I extend the tripod legs, set it in place, and anchor the video camera. I arrange it at the perfect angle so I can capture everything on tape.
She looks vaguely puzzled, and asks who wants a picture of her.
“I do.” I press record, finishing up that part of the ritual. Then I cross over to her, whisk out my prefilled hypodermic, and inject the ketamine in one quick stab to her thigh.
She opens her mouth to yell in pain. I stuff a rag in it. Then I press her against the wall and hold her there, waiting for the ketamine to do its job.
She fights like a wild animal. I restrain myself, knowing I’ll have all the time in the world to vent my fury—until she reaches up and slashes her nails across my neck. My neck. None of them has ever touched me before. I’ve been too strong, too focused. It’s the morphine doing this—and the slut.
She does it again. That pushes me over the edge. Rage courses through me, stronger than my will. I don’t care that the ketamine hasn’t taken full effect. She touched me. She dared to lay one of her filthy hands on my body. I’m sickened.
I backhand her across the face, calling her what she is. “Chao ji bei,” I snarl, backhanding her again. She lunges like a tigress, clawing at me and trying to lurch up and escape.
I take out my com
bat knife, slash across her chest, up her neck, and down her arms.
She screams silently, the rag absorbing the sound. She stares at the blood oozing down her body, and then stares at my knife.
This time I see fear. Fear and pain.
