Authors: Jada Ryker
“I’m being discriminated against because I am Goth. I want to file a complaint against my supervisor.” Clarinda’s straight black hair swept the shoulders of her black blouse as she emphatically nodded.
“Let me get this straight.” Marisa refrained from rubbing her pounding head. “You’re a Radiology Technician. Your supervisor allows you to dress in the Goth fashion of black lipstick, white makeup, and black clothing. But that’s not enough. You want to use a lap guard with skulls on it.”
Clarinda’s black lips twisted. “Jim’s a racist. He said he thinks the lab guard will scare the patients. He said because they’re already dealing with illness, injury, and pain, we shouldn’t add skulls. He’s using it as a cover to discriminate against me.” She shook the lap guard in Marisa’s face. “See, the skulls are friendly. They’re smiling.”
“They’re not smiling, Clarinda.” Marisa pushed the macabre apron out of her face. “The teeth are exposed because they don’t have any skin. They’re creepy.”
“You’re a racist, too, Ms. Adair. I’m going to call the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. The EEOC will force you to let me use my lap apron.” Clarinda pulled her cell phone from her black purse and waved it threateningly.
The office door rattled with an urgent knocking.
Marisa rose from her desk. “Goth is a lifestyle choice. It is not a protected category like age, race, national origin, etc. Call them. They’ll tell you the same thing.” She strode to her door. “I’m sorry I can’t help you, Clarinda.” She opened the heavy wooden door.
“Marisa, I rushed here as soon as I heard about the shooting.” Barbara Adair fell onto her daughter.
Although Barbara Adair was a petite woman, Marisa staggered under her mother’s weight. “Mom, what are you doing here?”
Clarinda flounced past them. “I’ll research my options, Ms. Adair, and then I’ll be back.”
Barbara stared after the younger woman. “What’s her problem?”
“Just a work issue, Mom.” Marisa’s headache intensified. “Why are you here?”
“I saw the news report about the shooting,” Barbara answered. “It showed you and Alex leaving the scene. Alisa was on a stretcher.”
Marisa blinked down at her mother. “Alisa? You saw the school bully and Mosely’s own personal tormentor?”
“The news report said you shot her. Great job! And you didn’t even get arrested. That’s my girl.” Barbara hugged Marisa.
Marisa disentangled herself. “What are you talking about? That woman’s name was Tamara.”
“I recognized her on television. When they called her Tamara Greenup, I was surprised. I used Mosely’s computer to pull up Tamara on Phiz Phase. I compared the Tamara and the Alisa profiles. She used an old picture for her Alisa page, and a current picture for her Tamara profile. Both profiles show the same hometown, graduating class, and date of birth. They’re the same person.”
Marisa closed her eyes and concentrated on Alisa. She mentally aged her old nemesis. “You’re right.” She opened her eyes in amazement. “Tamara’s heavier and older, but she’s Alisa.”
“Alisa/Tamara doesn’t deserve to live. She uses her Alisa profile to bully people online. She used her Tamara profile to solicit donations for a child who wasn’t sick. Thank goodness she got caught for fraud. Now she’ll probably open a kickstarter campaign for her hospital bills and legal expenses. Someone posted on the Tamara page that her husband Brent framed her for the shootings.”
Marisa filled in her mother on the day’s events.
Barbara nodded. “I bet she sues you for shooting her.”
“That’s all I need.” Marisa wheeled toward her desk, needing an over-the-counter pain reliever for her headache.
Too bad it won’t cure my other ails, like a potential civil suit by my childhood enemy.
Barbara grasped Marisa’s arm and shook it. “Don’t worry, honey. I’ll finish the job. I’ll kill Alisa Atkins for you and for Mosely.”
A rustling noise caught Marisa’s attention. She noticed the door to the outer office was ajar. She shoved it open. “Clarinda, what are you doing here?”
Clarinda’s laugh sounded forced. “I was so upset, I forgot my lap apron.” She snatched it from the floor next to the visitor’s chair. “Don’t worry, I didn’t hear a thing.” She ran, the lap apron fluttering like a pirate’s ship flag behind her.
“You scared her.” Marisa wasn’t sure if she was impressed or appalled, or both. “I don’t think she scares easily, but you did it.” She stared directly into her mother’s excited green eyes. “No one is going to ‘finish the job’, Mom. She’s in a hospital room, guarded by the police.”
“Alisa is here? In this hospital?” Barbara threw herself into the chair. “We have to speak with her.”
“We can’t.” Marisa waved a hand. “She’s under arrest.”
“If you won’t let me kill her, then we have to at least talk to her.” Barbara ran her thin fingers through her short, spiky hair. Her face scrunched, deepening the wrinkles around her eyes and her mouth. She brightened. “We’ll come back at midnight.” She looked down at her pink Capri pants and pink-and-yellow striped top. “We’ll dress up in nurses’ outfits. Then, we can get past the guard and into her room.”
“No, Mom,” Marisa said. “It’s quiet at night. Strangers stand out, even in hospital uniforms.”
Barbara leaped to her feet. “You’re right. We’ll go now. The hustle and bustle will give us cover.” She darted out the door and into Marisa’s outer office. “We’ll find the right psychological moment and use it to our advantage.”
Psychological moment? I’m going to regret this.
Marisa grabbed her keys and followed her mother.
* * * * *
“I thought the Intensive Care Unit was kept locked, with visitors allowed inside only ten minutes each hour.” Barbara watched in astonishment as a couple, trailed by three children, one of whom was a toddler holding a sippy cup, passed through the open double doors to the ICU. “
Adult
visitors.”
“It’s the new hospital policy. The nursing director read about it online and wanted to try the idea. It’s called family-centric care.” Marisa pointed to the new sign on the wall. “Entire families can visit.”
“What a bunch of crap.” Barbara led the way through the doors. “It’s not a healing environment for sick people. They need peace and quiet, not chaos and turmoil.” She skipped out of the way of two boys tearing through the hall and screaming at the top of their lungs. “That was a close one. If those boys knock me down and break my hip, I’ll have a new way of getting us close to Alisa.”
As Barbara and Marisa passed the nurses’ station, a short woman with tears and mascara running down her cheeks popped out of a room and directly in their paths. Marisa touched her mother’s arm to stop her.
Ignoring them, the woman lunged to the counter. “I’m his mother, and you can’t keep me from visiting him!”
Marisa drew her mother away from the enraged woman and the gathering nurses. “There are officers standing outside that door. It must be Alisa’s room, since she’s under police guard.”
Officer Josh Landis looked up from his phone. “Wanda Bra Woman! I mean, Miss Adair.” He looked clean and official in the chaotic hallway.
The other officer grinned, his round face alight with recognition. “Marisa Adair, the last time I saw you, a crazed murderer had you trapped in his lair.” He turned to Landis. “I arrived just in time to save Marisa, her boyfriend, her neighbor, and her neighbor’s nasty little dog, which bit me.” He reached down to rub his ankle.
He couldn’t save Mosely. No one could.
Marisa tried to smile as she ruthlessly pushed away the memory of her brother on the floor, shot and bleeding, his green eyes confused and frightened.
She concentrated on the policeman. His crescent-shaped eyes, blocky teeth, and bald head made her think of a jack-o’-lantern.
Come to think of it, the first time I saw him, he was covered in orange spray tan.
“Officer Daviess, aren’t you supposed to say ‘alleged crazed murderer,’ since he hasn’t been tried yet?”
“You remembered my name!” His dark eyes rolled in ecstasy.
Marisa refrained from pointing to his name tag. “Thank you again for saving our lives. And since you’re rubbing your ankle, Verna’s bad-tempered dog Punky must’ve bit you on the ankle. I feel your pain, since I’m on his list of human victims. I bet Verna has a bunch of human silhouettes on that dog’s blanket, with an X across each one.”
Daviess laughed. “Like flying aces who showed their kills on the sides of their planes.” His utility belt creaked as he tugged up his sagging uniform pants over his rotund stomach.
Landis slid his phone into his pocket. “What are you doing here at the hospital?”
Marisa pointed to her identification badge, pinned to her sage jacket. “I work here. And this is my mother, Barbara Adair.”
Landis stared past them and frowned. “I think we have a situation, Daviess.”
Her messy topknot of blonde hair wobbled as the upset woman wiggled herself up onto the nurses’ station counter. “I’m his mother and you can’t keep me from visiting him. He tried to stop a punk from jacking his car, and the punkhole drove right over him. My baby needs me.” She knocked a vase of flowers to the floor. The glass vase shattered and water splashed. “I couldn’t be with him when he was little because I was in prison, but I’m here now.”
“Ma’am, please get off the counter.” Director of Nursing Tom Cordon, his face and neck flushed with agitation, pushed his way between Marisa and her mother and the officers.
The woman spun on her behind on the counter, her short skirt riding up her thick thighs. Her cleavage jiggled in fury. “Family-effing-centric, my ass!”
The officers exchanged concerned glances. “Should we intervene?” Landis pulled out his phone. “Let me check the regs.”
“Yes, that’s her ass. That woman’s not wearing underwear.” Barbara’s voice rose in shock.
Both officers pivoted toward the nurses’ station.
His bright red hair standing on end, Tom angrily pulled his lab coat straight. “If you don’t calm down, we’ll have to call security.”
The officers moved as one unit and joined Tom at the counter.
Marisa tugged at her mother. “We’re not going to get a better psychological moment. Let’s go in her room.”
* * * * *
Spread on the white pillow and framing her pale round face, Tamara’s red hair was a tangled blaze of color. Her wrist was handcuffed to the bed rail. Her head turned listlessly on the pillow until her gaze fell on Marisa. Her eyes widened. “You psycho bitch! You shot me! Help! Police!”
Barbara closed the door and lowered the shade at the window. “There’s no one to help you.” She ran to the bed and moved the call light out of reach to the nightstand. “Just like there wasn’t anyone to help Mosely Adair.”
Tamara’s mouth opened. She jerked her wrist, rattling the chains of her handcuffs. She struggled to sit up.
Barbara pointed. “That psycho bitch is his sister, Marisa.” Her festive pink clothing at odds with her grim face and stiff body, she tapped her striped chest with her rigid finger. “And I’m the queen of the psycho bitches. I’m Mosely’s mother.”
Panting, Tamara collapsed against the sheets. Her eyes narrowed, and then widened in feigned surprise. “Who in the hell is Mosely?” She cocked her head in innocent inquiry.
“Too late. You recognized his name. We’re here for revenge.” Barbara advanced on the bed.
Marisa put a restraining hand on her mother’s arm. “We’re here for answers. On the rooftop, you told Alex and me that your name is Tamara. But you have another Phase Page under the name Alisa Atkins.”
Tamara licked her cracked lips. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“My brothers and I went to school with you, Alisa.” Marisa tried to quell her rising temper. “You were so beautiful, with your long, naturally curly red hair and translucent skin. With your flowing dresses, you looked like a delicate porcelain doll. You were also the ringleader for the meanest bullies in school.”
Barbara was stiff with rage. “You called Mosely ‘Brace Boy,’ because of the steel braces on his skinny legs and his crutches. He couldn’t help it if he was born club-footed. But you and your gang of bullies refused to leave him alone.”
“Alex Caldwell was the only one in school who tried to stop you,” Marisa said. “He was small and hadn’t hit his growth spurt yet. You were tall for a girl. You punched him so hard that he fell and broke his arm.”
Tamara looked away. “Marisa, we were just kids.”
“You weren’t a child when you found Mosely online and stalked him,” Barbara said. “You haunted the same chat rooms. You posted on the same forums. You wrote lies about my son.”
Alisa was silent.
“My brother wasn’t perfect,” Marisa said. “He was an alcoholic. But he wasn’t a child molester or a racist, and he never beat up homeless people.”
Barbara stepped nearer to the bed. “You even created real-looking news reports, complete with photographs. Your current network of bullies helped you spread the lies throughout the internet. Mosely posted his protests and even contacted the sites, but nothing changed.”
“You can’t prove any of that.” Alisa was defiant.
Barbara choked, tears streaming down her face. She drew the paper stained with splashes of brown from her pocket. She shook it at Alisa. “Mosely tried to kill himself. He wrote a suicide note. He wanted to die because of your online stalking, Alisa. Months later, he deliberately put himself in the path of a cold-blooded killer, who finished the job for him.” She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking.