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Her eyes widened, startled. Osterman drew his hand slowly away. “I’m sorry, Cait,” he whispered. “I shouldn’t have said that to you.”
Caitlin’s eyes glittered with tears. “It’s OK. I, uh, don’t mind.”
Ah. Working with girls was so gratifying. It was difficult to find extremely gifted girls who fit his exacting social profile, but the ease of management canceled out that disadvantage. Just tell them they were beautiful and special, and the deal was done. It didn’t matter how smart they were. Girls were so vulnerable, so desperate for love and validation.
And he had discovered, by laborious trial and error, that his precious secret baby, the X-Cog neural interface, was easiest to establish and maintain with highly intelligent female subjects.
She batted her eyes at him. “You’ve got a good body,” she coyly said. “For an older guy.” The invitation in her fluttering glance was clear.
Osterman considered it, briefly. These girls were destined for use and discard, so he never had to worry about repercussions. Being married to his work, he preferred to keep his sex life extremely simple.
But all that bucking and heaving took on a tedious sameness after a while. And coming in contact with bodily fluids was unsanitary.
He preferred passions of the mind, when all was said and done.
He stroked her cheek. “Work first, play after. Into the throne.”
She clambered into the chair. Osterman snapped the padded wrist restraints on quickly. “Hey!” She struggled. “What is this? You didn’t say anything about tying me down!”
“Standard procedure,” Osterman soothed, snapping on the ankle restraints. He adjusted the rubber head clamp so that he could position the X-Cog helmet on her head. “Relax. You’re doing fine.”
Her lips really were beautiful, he thought, with a pang of regret. She was babbling anxious questions that he no longer bothered to answer. He was miles above her now, preparing for the grand event.
Cait might have grown into a beautiful woman, given other circumstances, he mused. But she was so damaged. One might go so far as to say he was giving her life a meaning it would never otherwise have had. Progress ground ever forward, for the good of humanity in general. And for Christopher Osterman, MD, PhD, in particular. He slid the needle into her arm, taped it, started the IV drip. He put his own master crown on. Now all he had to do was watch, and hope.
“Fucking pervert,” said a low, grating voice behind him.
Osterman jumped, spun around. He let out an explosive breath when he saw Gordon, his pet assassin, clean-up man and factotum.
Well, “pet” wasn’t quite accurate. Keeping Gordon on staff was like holding a tiger by the tail. One kept a tight grip. The corollary being that Gordon’s grip on Osterman’s own tail was correspondingly tight.
Osterman found the resulting forced intimacy quite unpleasant.
“Do not sneak up on me like that,” he scolded.
“You didn’t answer your phone. I figured you were playing doctor with one of your girlies back here in the pervert playroom,” Gordon said.
Osterman exhaled, and let that insulting comment pass. “Did you take care of that item of business you mentioned in your last call?”
“Ah.” Gordon chewed his lip. “There’s been a new development.”
Osterman waited, hands clenched. “And that is?”
“Kevin McCloud’s brother made contact with the girl.”
Osterman stared. “What do you mean, contact? You were supposed to kill her. How can he make contact with a corpse?”
“I hadn’t concluded the job,” Gordon said. “He talked to her today, at her bookstore. The one that I burned to the ground last night.”
“Burned?” Osterman gaped at him. “Have you gone crazy?”
“You told me to work up a stalker scenario, didn’t you?” Gordon’s voice was faintly sullen. “I took you at your word, Chris.”
“I was thinking dirty letters, slaughtered cats, that sort of thing!”
“I can’t go from dirty letters and dead cats to homicide,” Gordon protested. “You need natural buildup. The violence has to escalate in a way that makes sense. Trust me. I know my abnormal psych.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Osterman muttered.
