Fist of the Spider Woman by Amber Dawn Page B

the one she got when it was too quiet and she had strange ideas. Her fingers fumbled with the light switch and flicked it on quickly. The light changed everything. She could breathe. And she did not have to look. She swung the bathroom door almost closed on her way out. Those turned-down sheets whispered under the weight of one body. Kate kept the lamp on, curled under the covers with her arms around a pillow. There was a steady ringing in her left ear, and she thought she heard her cat, Gracie, in the bathroom. With her eyes shut she saw Daniel’s face dissolve into the lightning in her eyelids.
    Dinner by herself the next night did not seem so dire as long as she kept the television on. Gracie sat in the hall with the tip of her tail twitching irritably and watched Kate eat her readymade lasagna. She lost herself in the motion of the fork from her plate to her mouth and in the news story that kept coming up on every station. For the last five weeks, all of the local and some of the national stations had been covering the Chicago serial murders. Three women brutally killed in their own homes—all single, their houses untouched but for their mutilated bodies, and no leads. All suspects in custody released. Little physical evidence. No comment. The new story, though, was about another woman, same M.O. But this woman was alive.
    The reporter looked gravely into the camera. His voice was sincere and impartial. Kate felt nauseated as she watched the newscast show fuzzy photos of the crime scene. “Last night, a woman was brutally attacked in her one-bedroom apartment at Highway 70 and Belgium Street. Neighbours claimed they heard screaming, and one couple called the police. Upon arriving, the police found her on her bathroom floor. They transported her to St. Bethany’s Medical Center, where she stayed in critical condition until this afternoon. The doctors are confident she will recover. The police believe that this was the work of the serial killer they’re calling the Surgeon.”
    The report cut from the news desk to a Hispanic woman from the victim’s apartment complex with her three-year-old daughter propped on her hip. “We’re keeping everything locked, but I wish we had bars on the windows, you know? What else can we do?”
    The camera cut to a business woman on the street. “My friends and I are terrified. We try not to stay out too late, and we don’t go home alone. But that doesn’t really help, does it? This guy gets these women in their homes . It’s horrible.”
    Cut back to the reporter. “As is typical for the Surgeon, there was no forced entry, and the police could find no physical evidence on the scene. An anonymous tip from the police department stated that all four women share a similar medical condition, but that the specific details are being withheld. More on this breaking story as it develops.”
    Because she worked at St. Bethany’s Kate knew a little more than the reporters, although she was not supposed to. Lila, a nurse from Emergency, came by at the end of Kate’s shift as a receptionist in Psychiatrics, dying to tell somebody.
    White female, late thirties, no allergies, acute blood loss, lacerations all over her body with particular attention paid to the stomach, the face, and the breasts. The wounds were too cleanly cut and too particular to be the work of an amateur. The first few articles called the killer the Plastic Surgeon because of his skill and the focus of his attentions, but the pseudonym was eventually shortened to the Surgeon. After all, the killer wasn’t putting anything into them. He was taking things out.
    â€œYou wouldn’t believe it,” Lila said, sitting on the bench across from the bathroom sinks. “I mean, the others pretty much went straight to the morgue. This one’s strong; blood pressure’s finally stable after transfusions, although she’s still unconscious. We don’t