The Shark (Forgotten Files Book 1) (32 page)

THE FORGOTTEN FILES BOOK 2

THE DOLLMAKER

by Mary Burton

Monday, October 4, 3:00 p.m.

The Dollmaker touched his newest creation’s face gently, knowing it was still tender. The redness and swelling had faded, and the skin had shed the damaged cells leaving whole, healthy skin in its place. Still, her face would be sensitive to touch and he didn’t want to hurt her.

Her skin warmed his fingertips as he traced the outline of her thin dark eyebrow, then slowly along high cheekbones dotted with freckles, and finally over bright-red heart-shaped lips.

She was perfect.

A living doll.

Four weeks ago when he’d first taken her, the woman’s face had been lovely in an ordinary sort of way. She was in her late twenties with long limbs, a trim waist, and small round breasts. But she’d reached her full potential, which sadly was destined to fade with time. So he’d intervened, snatched her from her predictable life, renamed her Destiny, and enhanced her beauty by painstakingly tattooing her face.

Experience taught him that the best tattoo art began with detailed prep work. And knowing Destiny deserved the best, he took his time, first cutting off her brown hair, then shaving her head and eyebrows until the skin was as smooth as glass. Next he applied alcohol to clean the skin so there’d be no risk of infection.

Only when the canvas was ready did he reach for the first tattoo gun loaded with the finest of needles. It took a full day of meticulous work to cover the key portions with the base coat of white ink. And though there were times when his hands ached and his back stiffened, he refused to rush. Finally, when all the pale color had been applied and the blood wiped clean, he tattooed gracefully arching eyebrows. Next came the rosy blush of color on the cheeks. Stippled freckles. Heart-shaped lips. He saved the eyes for last, permanently lining the upper and lower lids with a steady hand.

Toward the end of the transformation, she began to wake, so he set up a fresh IV bag of propofol so she drifted off to sleep again.

After the job was complete, he wrapped her head and face, knowing that the healing process was critical to the best tattoo work. Infection and neglect ruined tattoos. He changed her bandages twice daily, knowing his work at this stage was akin to an open wound.

For her safety, he kept her drugged and hydrated with the IV bag that hung over a special reclining chair. And as she slept, he spent hours embellishing and ironing the clothes that would match her flawless features.

Once, he had allowed his doll to partially wake so she could see how beautiful she was becoming. She had roused from her deep slumber and immediately tried to sit up.

Her long delicate fingers tried to rise to her bandaged face. “What’s wrong with me?” she said, her lips still swollen.

Gently he laid his hand over hers. “Shh. You’re safe,” he soothed. “You’re fine. Your body just needs time to heal.”

“My face.” She tried to raise her hands but discovered straps bound them to the chair. “What’s going on?”

“No touching yet,” he said.

She stared at him through a haze of drugged confusion. “My face hurts.”

He reached for a bowl of oatmeal and ladled a small amount on a spoon. “I know. It’s healing. Soon you will be just fine. But you need to eat now. You won’t heal properly if you don’t eat.”

Panic brightened the color of her eyes. “What happened? Was it an accident?”

He teased her mouth open with the spoon and she opened, like an obedient child. “I’m making you perfect. Don’t worry. I am taking great care of you. When you wake up again, it will be over.”

She ate a few bites before she shook her head. “I can’t eat any more.”

The Dollmaker looked in the bowl and saw that she’d almost eaten half. Not as much as he hoped, but sufficient. “Enough for today.” Setting the bowl aside, he reached for the nearly empty IV bag and replaced it with his last bag of propofol. Soon she was in a deep sleep.

As the tension relaxed from her face, he couldn’t help but be pleased. The extra sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose was exactly the right amount, and he was glad now he’d not added more.

Ten days had passed since he’d first done the work, and he now stood back and studied her. All the hours of labor and the extra days of healing had been worth it. The colors were vibrant and vivid, the lines clear and sharp.

He’d dressed her in a plaid skirt and a white top that was formfitting but not overly tight in a vulgar sort of way. He turned toward the collection of wigs and vacillated between blond and auburn. Finally, he chose the blond wig with long locks that curled gently at the ends. All the wigs were natural, the best on the market. He’d even taken extra care to trim the bangs on this particular model so that delicate wisps of hair brushed the tops of her painted brows.

The Dollmaker carefully settled the wig on her head, centered it, and braided it into two thick strands. He slowly rolled on knee socks, savoring the silky smoothness of her calf, then folded the white cotton neatly at the top. He slid on patent-leather shoes and fastened the buckles so that they were snug but not too tight.

The finishing touches included a small bracelet with a heart charm on her left wrist, and on her right hand, a delicate ring on her pinky finger. He painted her fingernails a pale pink, fastened on delicate earrings, and dabbed hints of perfume behind her ear and on her wrist.

He stepped back, pleased. She was his living doll. A perfect mate.

He lifted her listless body and placed her on a red couch in front of a photographer’s screen. He angled her face to the side and propped it up with a silk pillow. He arranged her curls around her shoulders and fluffed her skirt. Reaching for his camera, he snapped a couple of pictures. Glancing in the viewfinder, he frowned, not liking what he saw. Her eyes were closed. And to have the right effect, they needed to be open.

Time to wake up.

“Destiny,” he whispered close to her ear. “Time to rise and shine.”

When she didn’t stir, he pulled an ammonia caplet from his pocket. But before he snapped it, he stopped to admire her again. He ran his hand over her cheek, along the smocked edge of her blouse, and over the swell of her round breast. Drawn by her seductive lure, he squeezed her nipple. His body hardened, and unable to chase away temptation, he slid his hand under the skirt and touched her between her legs.

She wasn’t ready for him yet. But she soon would be. He needed to wait.

Drawing his hand back, he snapped the caplet, and held it close to her nose. She inhaled sharply as the acrid smell chased away the haze.

His doll glimpsed her creator with a lovely face of bewilderment. Yes, her open eyes completed the look.

He snapped his fingers. “Time to wake up.”

She stirred and her eyes fluttered, but the sedatives still lingered. She was confused as she stared up at him. “Where am I?” she asked. “Am I getting better?”

“You’re perfect.”

She blinked, focused, and looked down at her hands, now tattooed white like her face. She tried to rub off the ink, and when it didn’t smudge, confusion turned to worry. She pushed off the couch, but her legs wobbled as her head no doubt spun.

“Not too fast, Destiny. It will take time for the drugs to clear.”

She staggered a step, crumpled to one knee. “What’s happening? What have you done to me?”

“I’ve made you perfect.”

She looked at her delicately painted fingernails, and as her gaze rose she caught her reflection in a large mirror he kept in his studio. She froze, shocked. Tears mingled with disbelief. “What have you done!?”

He didn’t like the judgment in her voice. A perfect doll didn’t judge. It didn’t get angry. A perfect doll was still.

“Shh,” he said. He put his camera aside and reached for a drink cup with a straw. “It’s okay. You’re fine.”

With a trembling hand, she touched the wig and then her bow lips. “I look like a freak!”

Worry crowded out his happiness. “Don’t say that. I’ve made you perfect.”

“I’m a monster!” Her hands began to tremble. Red-rimmed eyes spilled more tears.

He hated to see a woman cry. “Don’t be ungrateful.”

Shaking her head, she raised her hand to her head and the wig “My hair?”

When she tried to tug the wig free, he brushed her hand away. “Don’t do that,” he said, trying to remain calm. “It took me a lot of time to get it just right.”

“It’s not my hair. Not my skin.” She forced herself to stagger toward the mirror. Her face inches from her reflection, she gawked.

“You must be pleased with the work. You’re one of my best creations.”

She rubbed the round blush on her checks and the dots of freckles. Worry ignited in her eyes. “What have you done to me?”

“I’ve made you beautiful.” He snapped more pictures, enthralled by this instant of discovery. She might be shocked now, but she would be beholden to him when she realized the beauty of his work.

Her fingers curled into fists. “You have ruined me.”

“I’ve made you a living doll.”

With a yank she pulled the wig off and smoothed her hand over her bald head. She screamed. The shrill sound cut through his head, shattering his calm.

With growing horror she glanced wildly around the room at the large four-poster bed, the rocking chair, and the small table with tea set. When she saw the door, she stumbled toward it. Her knees wobbled as her skirt skimmed the top of her shins.

She yanked on the knob, and realizing it was locked, she screamed. “Let me go!”

“No one can hear you.”

She pounded her fist on the hard wood, crying for help and mercy. “You’ve ruined me.”

“You need to calm down. It’ll be all right. I have taken such good care of you.”

Her eyes blazed hate and disgust. “You have ruined me, you fucking freak!”

Her harsh words belied the angelic features. “That’s not necessary.”

“Like hell it’s not! Let me out of here! Let me go!”

As her raw words mingled with more weeping, he knew he had to silence her. Dolls were not supposed to speak, and Destiny was not supposed to cry.

He moved to his worktable and hurriedly dumped a powder into a glass. As she shrieked louder and pounded on the door, he added fruit-flavored water because he knew she’d like the taste.

Mixing the drink with a straw, he stood beside her. “Here, drink,” he said, raising the straw to her lips.

She slapped at his hand. Red drink sloshed on her white skin. “Get away from me. I’m not drinking anything else.”

“You have to drink,” he coaxed. “It will help you, and when you wake up, you will be just like you were.”

“How can I be who I was? This shit is all over me.” Her hands clutched into fists, she slowly slid down the wall to the floor, her legs crumpling under her like a real doll.

“I promise. Drink this and you will be fine. You’ll see.” He pressed the tip of the straw to her lips that now always smiled. “Drink.”

“I don’t want to drink.” She tried to stand but couldn’t rise. “I want to go home.”

“And I want you to go home.”

The Dollmaker wiped the tear from her cheek with his fingertip, pleased that her face remained unspoiled. No smudged mascara. No faded blush or lipstick. “It’s okay.”

She stared up at him, eyes large with fear and hope. Finally, she sipped, her throat and mouth clearly parched.

When she finished, he pulled the straw away and dabbed the corners of her mouth. “You like the taste of cherry, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“That’s a good girl.”

As she stared up at him, her breathing hitched as she tried to suck in air. She drew a stuttering breath. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s okay. This is what’s supposed to happen.” The Dollmaker smoothed his hand over her bald head, already eager to put the wig back on her. “Soon your lungs won’t work at all and you will stop breathing forever.”

“What?” she gasped.

“Don’t worry. I’ll be right here with you. I would never leave you alone at a time like this.”

“You’re killing me?” Her voice was now a hoarse whisper.

“No. I’m finishing the job.”

The doll tried to speak, to scream, but her lungs were paralyzed. She was afraid, but her fear would soon fade. Gently, he tilted her back so that he could peer into her eyes and watch as the life drained from her body.

Her hand rose to his arm in one final attempt to cling to life. Her grip was surprisingly strong for someone who teetered so close to death.

He let her hold on to him, smiling and touching her cheek gently. “Shh. Just let go.”

Her fingers twitched and slackened a fraction. No more tears pooled or ran down her painted cheeks. Death pulled.

The Dollmaker leaned forward and kissed those still-warm lips. Slowly her fingers slackened and her hand fell away, and all the remaining energy faded from her body.

When her eyes closed, he removed a clean tissue from his pocket and wiped her face, savoring the peaceful stillness that settled over her.

God, she was a perfect creation. In all his years of practice, he’d never made anything so beautiful.

“Death has made you my permanent little Destiny doll.”

He kissed her lips again, savoring the sweet tranquility. “I wish I could keep you forever, but we only have a few hours. But, don’t worry, I’ll be as careful as always. You’ll see how much I love you.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Photo © 2015 Studio FBJ

New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling novelist Mary Burton is the highly praised author of twenty-six romance and suspense novels and five novellas. She lives in Virginia with her husband and three miniature dachshunds.