“This belt would go perfectly,” the saleswoman said, hooking the gold-braided patterned belt around my waist. It clinked softly as it settled against the fabric.
“We’ll take it,” the man said decisively.
“Do you have earrings that would match?” I asked. The saleswoman scuttled off to find them.
“Earrings?” the man asked, frowning. “I don’t know if she wears earrings.”
“Trust me, she wears earrings,” I said. I didn’t know what this character was, but if she wore this dress, she would definitely wear earrings.
“Fine,” the man grumbled. “Leave the dress on, and cut the tags off.” He took out his credit card and left it on the counter. I turned sideways in the dress, admiring myself and fixing my hair. He went to make a phone call while the saleswoman rang up the purchase.
“All set?”
He held out his arm, and I tucked my hand into the crook of his elbow. So what if I was playing an escort? I could get into that role. I could get into any role.
Outside of the dress shop, a black sedan idled.
“This is our ride,” the man said, opening the back door. “Get in.”
I hesitated for a moment. Wasn’t this how horror movies started? A woman getting into an unmarked black sedan with some rich guy she didn’t know? This guy hadn’t even told me his name yet. What if he wasn’t from Paramount? What if he was taking me out to the back woods to kill me and wear my skin? Okay, okay, so I had an overactive imagination, but still.
“I’ll explain everything,” the man said, his finger tapping against his thigh. “Once we’re on our way.”
“Look, I just want to know what I’m getting paid,” I said. A fifty dollar extra role wasn’t worth this risk, and even though I was curious who this guy was, I had to go out and find another job.
“One thousand dollars,” the man said. “In cash.”
“Okay, then,” I said, sliding into the back of the car before he could change his mind. I didn’t know what I was doing, but Roger had just gotten me the best paid gig I’d had in years. And if the guy turned out to be a murderer, well, maybe I could escape and sell the story rights to Paramount. Win-win.
CHAPTER SIX
Rien
I cut through the brain, paring away the outside layers. The claustrum is down on the very underside of the neocortex. Right in the center of the brain. It’s amazing how our bodies try to protect us from being turned off, it really is.
I used the small scalpel to carve out that little curved piece of brain tissue. Gently, gently, I put the center of Bob’s consciousness on the metal surgical plate. It was a perfect specimen, the tissue as thin and unblemished as any I’ve ever come across. I smiled.
Bob was a typical Los Angeles businessman, I imagined. Faker than a three-dollar bill. His suit was a cheap Armani knock-off. I didn’t even mind sending it down into the incinerator with him. But he must have messed with the wrong people.
You only get sent to me if you mess with the wrong people.
The small chunk of brain went into the formaldehyde bath. I took Bob’s body and shoved it down into the incinerator, the surgical drapes going right in after him. You might think the smell of burning human flesh is bad, but really the plastic sheeting smells much worse. I lit a vanilla-scented candle and went back to work on my trophy.
The brain tissue was set, and I took it out of the formaldehyde with gloved hands. The next step was tricky. I put the tissue in a acetone bath and stuck it in the freezer. The acetone would suck out the organic tissue and replace it with acetone. This would take a while, but I had other things to do.
Like cleaning up the blood.
The song playing on the stereo transitioned to a faster beat, and I moved to the rhythm of the music as I got the brand-new mop out of the closet. Bleach and water and a nice mopping. The smell of the bleach mixed with the vanilla bean. Sterile, but homey. Just the way I liked it. The mop smeared the blood over the white tile, then soaked it up. Three passes with a new bucket each time, and the tile grout was pristine.
Four hours to go.
I took the brain tissue out of the acetone bath. It was frozen, the crinkles in the brain fixed eternally in the position it had been in when Bob had died. This was the last step. I transferred it into another tub, this one filled with epoxy resin. It was the same stuff that you would put on your hardwood floors, if you were as wealthy as my victims. The acetone took the place of the brain, and the epoxy resin would take the place of the acetone. And when it was all done, we’d have a nice plastic copy of the brain. Well, part of the brain. The important part. Francis Crick, the man who helped discover DNA, said that the claustrum was like “a conductor coordinating a group of players in the orchestra.” I liked that.