Anne Frasier - Sleep Tight

He hovered over the unmoving girl, deftly drawing a thick black line on her eyelid, curving it upward at the corner. That was followed by a smidgen of rouge to her colorless cheeks. Next came the lipstick, blood red in a gold metal tube.

He could hear his own rasping breath as he carefully applied the color to lips that had been soft and full but were now chapped and cracked. As carefully as a mortician he worked, and as he did he could feel his heart beating in his head.

He had the desire to kiss her and leaned closer.

Wake up, my princess. My little princess

Her cracked lips opened under his. He felt her deep inhalation sucking the air from his lungs-a cat, trying to steal his breath. He pulled back to see her staring silently at him, her pupils dilated and glassy from drugs and the dark, windowless basement where she'd spent the last two weeks. Had she learned her lesson? Would she finally act like a lady? Would she ask him how his day had been? Would she ask him what he wanted for supper? Later, would she sit on the living room floor near his feet while he listened to music? Would she bring him something to drink, with perhaps a slice of cake, and rub his temples until his headache stopped, saying in the most soothing of voices, "There, there"?

"You're mine now," he told her. "You may as well get used to it."

She continued to stare, and he briefly wondered if there was something wrong with her, if she wasn't quite right in the head.

Unlike the first girl, he felt that this one could be changed. At seventeen, her knowledge of the world was skewed by mall society and MTV. But she was coming around.

Control was the key.

He'd tried taking away her Britney Spears, which he'd put on repeat and played to keep her occupied while he was at work, but she'd been glad when it was finally gone. Evidently even she had a saturation point.

TV would have helped in the training department, but unfortunately he didn't have cable. He could have cut off her music videos if she refused to do what she was told. Depriving someone of what she loved was an effective way to bring about desired behavior. Reward and deprivation. A very good method, to his mind.

Instead, he'd had to resort to drugging her and locking her away. Not a bad method. Seclusion. Isolation. It was how brainwashing worked. He'd read all about Patty Hearst, about how they kept her locked in a closet and in no time she was a new person named Tania.

It was called personality transformation.

Pretty soon she's waiting to hear your footsteps, your voice. Pretty soon she's looking forward to your return, your visit. Pretty soon you're the most important person in her life. Because you are her entire world. You are the one who feeds her and gives her what everyone needs and craves: human companionship. People were funny that way.

"Nobody is looking for you," he told her. Leaving her wrists bound, he coaxed her from the stale, damp room with its dusty rodent skeletons and spiderwebs that caught in her hair.

"Nobody misses you," he told her. "I'm all you have."

He shoved her down until she was sitting on the wooden steps, collapsing like a doll in a strapless red satin dress. Her skin was transparent. He could see the meandering blue veins running beneath it. Her knees were bony and sharp. Had she lost weight? It looked like she had. Quite a bit of weight now that he thought about it. She would have to start eating more. He didn't like skinny girls.

He fussed with her blond hair. Gone was its original vitality. It hung lank and lifeless on either side of her face. It didn't appear to be nearly so light as it had been when he'd picked her up. In fact, the roots were suspiciously dark.

"Do you bleach your hair?" he asked with sudden, deep dread.

"N-no."

"You're not lying, are you?"

"N-no. Of course not. L-lemon juice."

He had to lean close to hear.

"S-sometimes, in the summer, I put l-lemon juice on it."

"Why are the roots so dark?"

"They always get th-that way when my hair needs to be washed."

Satisfied with her answers, he adjusted the f-stop and lifted the camera that hung around his neck until he found her in the viewfinder. He focused, then pushed the button. The shutter clicked, the flash briefly illuminating the gloom of the stairs. Not enough for her eyes to respond. Her pupils, once the film was developed, would be huge and flat. Like a doll's.

Black and white.

He never shot anything but black and white.

He paused, but continued to watch her through the camera. "Tell me that you love me."

She blinked and abruptly seemed to come to life.

Now, he thought with trembling anticipation. Now she would say what he needed to hear.

"I hate you." Her words rang out against the catacomb walls.

He gasped and dropped the camera; it banged against his stomach, caught and suspended by the strap around his neck.

He bent closer and placed a hand on her bare knee, feeling a tremor running through her body. He looked deep into her eyes-and saw fear. "Repeat that," he dared.

She made a sound deep in her throat. Splat-something wet hit his cheek.

Spit.

She'd spit in his face.

The thankless bitch! The thankless little bitch!

Rage roared through his veins until he thought his skin would crack, until he thought his eyeballs might pop from his head. He grabbed her by both arms and jerked her to her feet. "I've been working my ass off every day, out punching the clock, and this is the thanks I get?"

He'd wanted her to be his ingenue. They could have been so right together. They could have been so happy.

He wrapped his hands around her neck. "I slave over you, trying to teach you how to be a woman! You bitch!" He shook her. "You spoiled, spoiled bitch!"

He squeezed and he squeezed, and when she went limp he kept on squeezing until he was certain she would never insult him again.

She was still watching him with accusation in her eyes even after he placed her carefully in the trunk.

There had been a time when the FBI thought it needed to update its image. During that lapse of sanity, younger people like Agent Mary Cantrell were recruited. She began her career at the Academy in the Behavioral Science Unit, but was later transferred to the National Center for Analysis of Violent Crime.

FBI director Nelson Roberts had worried that her age would be a handicap. What he hadn't known was that Mary Cantrell was an old soul, wise beyond her years. While most violent crime agents eventually reached their psychological limit, Cantrell was able to take whatever was thrown at her without flinching. The most horrendous murderers left her unscathed.

Even Cantrell's partner, Anthony Spence, sometimes exhibited signs of a meltdown. There had been rumors of heavy drinking, and then, six months ago, his wife left him. Not an uncommon story among agents, especially if both parties weren't in the Bureau. It was hard to mix two worlds. A guy couldn't be expected to deal with the deaths of innocents by day and take his wife to the latest romantic comedy at night. You couldn't just shut it off. The human mind didn't work that way.

Unless you were Mary Cantrell.

Roberts had taken time to familiarize himself with her confidential bio, a bio that was a part of the agent application process and psychiatric evaluation. He knew she'd survived a childhood tragedy that had left her scarred in ways she probably wasn't even aware of. Ironic, but that very tragedy was probably what made her the agent she was today.

She stood in front of him, waiting to receive new orders. She was dressed in a caramel-colored suit, her straight mahogany hair cut short. Pale skin, dark circles under her eyes, shadows beneath her cheekbones belied the tough, no-nonsense image she normally projected. It had been a month since she'd sustained a gunshot wound to the shoulder, and he could still detect lines in her face. Pain did that. Left its mark.