Harlequin

He stood and put the bottle of Vicodin down on the counter, slamming the orange container so hard that it fell over and rattled down to the floor. Harlequin stomped out of the infirmary, slammed the door shut as hard as he had slammed down the bottle of Vicodin, and stormed up to the top floor, where the doctors' lounge, now his home, overlooked the facility.



With the same furious energy, he ripped clean clothing off hangers in the closet, tossing the bloodstained garments to the floor--laundry could wait. This could not. He had failed. He let her win, instead of letting her bleed to death.



"I need a doctor." Was that all it took to remind him of the past? He had had a real name once, and a real job, and a real life, but it was gone now and he would have nothing more to do with it.



If he hurried, he could catch her before she got too far.



I kidnapped her once, I can do it again.



-------------



Meagan stood trembling in the air conditioning of the grocery store. The numbness was starting to wear off, and despite the perfectionism of the Harlequin's work, the pain was slowly returning. The Vicodin rattled in her sweatshirt pocket. She opened the freezer door to the Lean Cuisine and leaned the arm in, breathing a sigh of relief. Her hands caressed the frozen boxes. So hungry. Chicken with vegetables, or a treat, lasagna?



She reached in her back pocket again and realized that all she had left was the note he had left her. That son of a bitch. Meagan swallowed back tears, closed the freezer door, and turned to leave.



"Aaagh! I am so sorry, I didn't see you standing there, mister--"



"Don't worry about it," said the man standing in front of her, a smile, almost a smirk, twisting his cruel lips. His grey eyes shone with a sort of glee as he added: "Is something wrong? You look a little upset."



"I know it's not really your problem, but I don't have any money--I was, uh, robbed today. I don't have anything to eat."



"Ahh, that's too bad." He smiled patronizingly down at her. "I'll tell you what. I'll buy you a meal if you eat it with me."



"Oh, I couldn't." She blinked. What am I doing? The man before her was dressed nicely, in a collared shirt and slacks; his soft, black hair was clean, if messy; and he was smiling at her, inviting her to dinner.



"Oh, but I insist. Please. I'll drive."



She laughed shakily. "That's a good thing. I don't actually have a car. Had to sell it after the crash. I lost my job."



He shrugged. "Hey, who didn't."



"Okay. I'll go. But, I mean, I'd feel a lot better if you'd at least tell me your name."



"Oh, of course. Alexander Knight."



"Meagan Compson. Nice to meet you."



"Likewise. Let's go, shall we?"



"Of--of course."



She followed him from the frozen foods aisle, watching nervously as he pulled the keys from his pockets. I get into cars with strange men every day. This is not new. Still, a new anxiety tickled at the back of her mind as she watched him stride confidently to his car and unlock the door, then hold it open for her. No one holds doors.



She got in anyway. The arm was beginning to pain her, and the Vicodin would not stay down if she had had nothing to eat.



Still. Even so.



Her heart thudded in panic when he locked the car doors. Alexander seemed to see, and explained, "It's a dangerous part of town, isn't it?"



"Yeah. I guess that's so." She cleared her throat. "So where are we going?"



"Oh, I don't know." He backed the car out of the spot and pulled out of the lot at an alarming speed, screeching tires, apparently ignorant of Meagan's white-knuckled grip on the armrest. "I might drive up to Saint Charles and out of this shithole, would you like that?"



"I, uh, my mother will be expecting me home."



"Don't tell me I picked up jailbait."



"Oh, no. I just--living with her is cheaper."



"Oh, I see." He took a right turn, signaling properly, an abrupt change from his almost-speeding.



"Where are we going?"



Alexander ignored her and suggested casually, "Why don't you shut up and take your god-damned Vicodin?"



Her first reaction was rage. "You motherfucker, you said I could go! Let me out of this car, or I'll call the police!"



"Oh, with what? Shut up and try not to distract me while I'm driving. I don't suppose you would want to die in a fiery crash. I could do that, though."



"No," she snapped, sullen. "No more fucking mind games. Let me out."



"Have it your way, no more mind games. Spoil my fun." He sniffed. "We'll play a different game. Just give me a little while to think. Oh, I have something for you as well, although I don't think you'll like it nearly as much as having a phone. But you won't be needing that any more."



"You have no right to betray our agreement! You have no right--"



"It wasn't legally binding." From his shirt pocket, Alexander--the Harlequin--produced a syringe and, in one fluid motion, stabbed her leg with it. Before she could shout another angry protest, consciousness once again seeped from her, and she slumped over in the passenger seat of the Harlequin's car.





A/N: That's enough updates for tonight. Massive plot bunny reproduction occurred today. For anyone else who's wondering, no, no, there will be no WAFF or any such between these two. I know I pushed the realism envelope with the Harlequin allowing her to go, but all will be explained in time. However, I could never believe myself as a writer to put together a serial killer and a victim. There just isn't enough Stockholm Syndrome in the whole world.