NINE

The Dresser Drawer/All His

When Donovan enters Catherine's suite the following afternoon, she is barely awake, following yet another sleep marathon. She hears him call out to her, and, a moment after that, sees his mid-section directly before her eyes. She exhales, and looks up from bed, in order to find his face.

The men of this world who have the natural right to power and to control, and who take it, are to be followed, respected and obeyed, no matter how outrageous, painful, or demeaning. Where did I learn that? And Tristan most definitely is one of those men, and he has taken control.

Donovan's purpose is to inform Catherine that the morgue received a Jane Doe, and that Tristan wants his newest “employee” escorted there in order that she attempt to identify the remains. The corpse is in such “rough” shape that identification by photo cannot be definite. But it is believed that the deceased is Malika. Was.

“Catherine, get dressed. Let's go,” Donovan orders, before exiting her room.

Feeling ill at the news, Catherine cannot move a muscle at first. When this paralysis passes, she takes a deep breath before slowly slipping out of bed, dressing herself, and then grabbing the torture-device that goes by the name of crutches. Pale and looking most unwell, she is soon following Donovan to the car, wincing now and then as physical pain shoots through her, adding to the other.

Twenty minutes later, Catherine enters the building of the big dresser, alone, and tells staff there what she was told to say: that word on the street is that another body has been found, and that she may be able to identify it. She soon finds herself in the dresser-room again, as police are eager to have their Jane Doe identified.

“Could’ve been you,” she hears an officer say, as he walks by her to exit the room. The thought has already crossed Catherine’s mind, but fearing for Malika has occupied it more.

When the male attendant in the room opens up one of the drawers and slides out a covered body, the woman working with him looks at Catherine before pulling back the white sheet, since she knows what sight awaits the visitor. And, indeed, when Catherine sees the sheet’s secrets revealed, she quickly turns away, takes two steps towards a garbage close by, and uses it as a collector for what she throws up, as a means to stop the mess. The sound of her crutches hitting the floor as she does so echoes in the otherwise silent room. 

The two other bodies that Catherine was shown when last in this room had been sewn up and had not been as visually disturbing. The body she had just seen, however, had been in pieces. Many pieces. And yet, that alone had not been what had made her stomach spit up mostly acid and little pills, since she is tougher than that, most of the time. What had cut her to the core had been seeing what was stuck into the corpse’s neck: that distinct, unique choker that Malika always wore, that she made herself. Seeing it there had pressed Catherine’s pain buttons all at once, as, although it was difficult to identify the remains themselves, that choker was definite proof. There was no denying it. And yet . . .

"She was wearing that choker when she died?" Catherine nevertheless irrationally asks, in a small voice, crushed. “Maybe it was put on whoever this is, after death?”

"It's stuck into her neck. She died with it on,” the man factually replies.

"May I see the other personal effects that were with her? It's difficult to tell from  the . . . the . . . body. I know that that’s my friend's choker, however."

The woman leaves the room and soon returns with a clear plastic bag. Catherine slowly extends already trembling hands towards it, as her eyes have already seen enough of its contents to know.

“You can’t open it. It’s evidence in an active case,” the woman warns her.

Catherine slowly nods her head as the dresser-attendant transfers the bag to her. She then flips it, this way and that, in order to peer through smaller bags within it, each containing an item. There is no doubt in Catherine’s mind that everything belonged to Malika.

After a moment, the visitor hands the bag to the woman, returns to the body without her crutches -- but hardly feels any pain as she does due to shock --  and forces herself to look at the remains once again, to study them. She then decides that the gathered pieces, which are all lined up in their appropriate place for display, form the right height and offer the correct idea of weight, that what is left of the hair is the right colour, and that the one fingernail that remains on the body is painted a colour that Malika wore countless times. The breasts, however, have been severed so Catherine cannot tell if they fit Malika's shape, figure.

A moment longer, and the visitor turns her face towards the attendants before sharing her conclusions, enumerating the reasons why she believes that the remains are Malika’s, and even offering her certainty. Catherine does not know if the two are medical examiners, or police investigators, but trusts that they will pass on her words. Her eyes then fall to her crutches on the floor, and, after the man picks them up for her, she walks away with their help, shutting down her stomach’s new threat by pointing out that it has no ammunition left to intimidate her with.

Catherine, it was that part of town, and the lifestyle, that were responsible. Not your friend pool. Not the chain. Not your leaving it. Others were murdered as well who had nothing to do with you.

Shut up. Whatever the reason, she’s dead.

“We’ll enter a positive identification,” the man comments, just as Catherine reaches the door. She sends a hand to press a button that opens it for her, and then steps out when she can.

“Quite articulate,” the woman remarks to her colleague, in a low voice. She then slides the dismembered doll back into her drawer.

Catherine hears the woman’s words as well as that awful noise that follows them, before she heads further down the hallway. Away.

A few minutes later, when she exits the building and the sun hits her eyes, Catherine feels dizzy. Mocking me. Mocking Malika, and so, you shine. Of course. Such light and warmth out here, but inside, such darkness and cold, such markers of violence. The contrast, shocking. But you don’t care. No one does.

From the car, Raleigh and Donovan immediately know from Catherine’s face that she saw what she did not want to see. They do not help her to reach them, since they were instructed not to, and, instead, continue to watch her as she slowly makes her way back to the car, with her crutches and injuries not the only reasons behind that pained pace, that awkwardness. And yet, she is in control of herself, overall. She soon opens a door to the backseat and does not slip nor slide into it, but, due to her injuries, rather clumsily finds a way to drop-position herself on instead.

"It's her,” she tells the men, her glistening eyes fixed straight before her. She pops two pills into her mouth.

Once they are at the hotel, Donovan and Raleigh escort her directly to Tristan's suite, keeping under control their impatience at the slow pace of their advance, and then leave her standing there, alone, as she waits for their employer. He enters five minutes later.

"It was obviously her,” Tristan comments, seeing her eyes. “Oh well.”

Catherine looks away before returning her eyes into his. “Is it in your DNA, that coldness of yours?” She evenly asks.

“I’m a man. You had doubts?”

“You manipulate all your fans. You . . . “

“It’s fun. What I’m thinking, when they’re doing what they’re doing. Not compatible, they would say. So, so evil. But it’s how it should be, out loud. How reality should be. Real. We are what we are.”

“How they adore you, and you just . . .”

“They worship the devil and have no clue,” he interrupts. “No wonder women are regularly kidnapped, raped, killed. Stupid little things.”

“You had to threaten me to be here. I’m not stupid. And . . .”

“The game is new yet,“ he once again interrupts. “Time will tell. First time you saw me, you stayed close to the door. You weren’t drawn in. First time for everything.”

“If I’d walked towards you like your possessed groupies do, as you see them, then I wouldn’t be here right now? My acquaintances would still be alive? My good friend?”

“Doubtful. But I certainly wouldn’t put up with so many words from you, if you were just one of them. And speaking of limits, you’ve now reached yours. Shut up.”

“I . . .”

“Shut up, Catherine.”

She does. Looks away.

Tristan studies her. She is his now, all his, because she has no one left but him. When he takes a step towards her and places his hands on her shoulders, it takes Catherine a few seconds to interpret his intent. She wants to take a deep breath, but wills herself not to do so, as it might be interpreted correctly by Tristan, and anger him: she does not want what he wants. She nevertheless follows him where he leads her: to bed.

Still dazed from Malika’s death, she at first removes her clothing without much attention paid to Tristan, but then focuses, after realizing her mistake. She also makes herself ignore, as best she can, the pain of standing on that ankle. When she soon pushes him to bed and attempts to climb on top, however, all the while controlling her wincing from pain, he once again does not allow it.

As Catherine looks into his eyes before being manipulated in the way that he desires, she recalls words written by an older prostitute, one recently murdered. From her own observations of life, this streetwalker had wanted to write a book about human behaviour, but it is the lot in life of most people to want things that they are never allowed.

“For most men, woman on top means man in control, and with all the power, since he merely lies there while being serviced by moves that are not as effortless, as undemanding, as relaxed, as natural, nor as conducive to closeness for the couple, with her in that position, rather than not,” Catherine recalls reading. “She puts on a show; she performs; she is at work and just wants to punch out, or is fed up with the workout session, feeling as if she is at the gym. And add a full day’s work outside the house, and she, of course, looks forward to neither more work nor the gym, often preferring to just shut down instead. And yet, the inverse, man on top, means man in control as well, due to male size and to his confinement from above of the woman beneath him as he thrusts, which, contrary to her forced and showy moves, is an easy, effortless, undemanding, relaxed, and natural hip movement for a male, as he is well supported in that position. Closeness also ensues. And she does not mind the overtime, then, since, once a mate is chosen, most women love to be possessed by him. On top for her, however, offers nothing of that possession. Even with the space and separation created between the two when she is being taken from behind by him, still through natural male-female genital connection, that position is still better than her on top, for that same reason. Possession. Men would have more sex with their female partner if they kept that in mind, and of course, if they did not make the bedroom work for her. Trust me. Trust the professional.”

I think that she was right about control, Catherine thinks to herself. But why doesn’t Tristan agree?

For all of his dalliances, however, Tristan had indeed embraced that way of thinking as well -- that is, the male-control part of it, with woman on top as man in control -- but when it had come to Catherine, from that very first time, with those eyes of hers impossible for him to ignore, he had felt that, in her case, she had to be possessed, lest she possess him. In more ways than one.

And therefore, so it is right now that he towers above her, able to disregard her glistening eyes, even if not her eyes altogether. The tears do not stream down her cheeks today.

Won't cry even for her best friend, he tells himself. Maybe if she didn't numb herself . . .

Catherine looks away, obviously concentrated upon not wincing too much, and Tristan allows it, allows her not to keep her eyes on him this time, since he knows that he is causing her a different kind of pain due to her injuries, seizing her the way that he is and in no way being any more gentle because of  their existence.

After he has taken and has made her give what he desired despite her pain, he heads for the shower, while she remains in his bed. She should leave, but Malika returns to mind and demands all of her attention. So young to be dead, and such a violent death. She must have suffered terribly, Catherine thinks to herself, before a policeman’s comment that the killer is becoming more and more aggressive returns to her. Severing more body parts certainly qualifies as that. He must truly hate women, or be afraid of them. One is much easier to understand than the other.

She is staring off into thin air minutes later when Tristan exits the bathroom in a towel. He walks towards her, and she does not exit her deep thoughts even when he comes to stand right before her.

Such beauty, he thinks to himself. Defined by . . . Physically, seventeen or so, he once again tries to guess. But her eyes . . . often older. What's your secret Catherine? I'll find out before the game’s over.      

Catherine has not admitted her age to anyone, not since she was found wandering near Kirkland beach. She does recall, however, is almost certain that she does know, how old she is. Some people look older than their true age. Like Tristan does. And some people, younger. And age is on Catherine’s mind at the moment as well-- Malika’s young age that is -- before she is startled to realize that Tristan is standing so very close to her.

One look into his eyes, and what happened before he showered returns to her, striking her hard in the chest because of what that behaviour wants to hook up with and drag back up with it to the light, to the surface. That feeling of hook lowered upon a pile of hooks, that threat, she feels it. No.

While immediately apologizing for still being in his suite, Catherine quickly slips out of Tristan’s bed -- as quickly as she can in her present condition -- and, after slipping on one of his robes, which was easier to grab than her scattered clothing on the floor, she then tries to exit the room just as swiftly as well, but her injured ankle, however, almost sends her crashing to the floor. Since recovering her balance from that near fall sends shooting pain through her and stops her progress to the door, she takes a deep breath.        

After a moment, and after shaking his head, Tristan picks up her crutches and brings them to her. When the door shuts behind her a moment later, only then does he look away from it, from her.  Donovan and Raleigh are called in next.

"So, they're all taken care of?" Tristan double-checks with them, with the men who are his closest attendants. Both are attractive in their own rights, in great shape, intelligent, loyal, early-thirties and late-twenties, respectively.

"All of them. Catherine was very shaky when she walked out of the morgue. We were told that she threw up. All the effects that came in with the body, including an original, one-of-a-kind choker still doing its thing on the corpse’s neck,  they all belonged to Malika,” Donovan replies.

"Get me a picture of that choker, and get your hands on those belongings,” Tristan orders. It does not matter to him that they are part of a police investigation.

“We have a copycat?” Raleigh brings up.

“Not anymore. He can be it all by himself now, and take all the glory,” Tristan replies.

The following day, when Catherine summons up the courage to telephone Malika's father, Tristan listens in, since the hotel operator informed him of Catherine’s intent before placing the long distance call. He makes use of a device that he and others from his world do much to guard against, when using any phone. But no protective method is fail proof.

"Hello, Mr. Welsh?"

"Yes,” the man replies.

"I'm a friend of Malika's,” Catherine adds.

Malika's mother is dead. She drank herself to her grave, and, after that, Malika’s father, an army man, became unbearable to live with. “Unbearable” perhaps included the demand of services that should not be asked of a daughter, but Malika instead spoke of other relatives in her life who, after her mother’s death, became the authors of such demands.

Catherine does not absolve the man for the things that he did, nor for not stopping what others did to his daughter, but in her present time of grieving, she gives him the benefit of the doubt when it comes to the second worse offence that can be perpetrated by a father upon his daughter -- incest -- the first being killing her altogether. She does so because Malika never directly spoke of her father in that way.

"What do you want?" The man abrasively asks.

"Mr. Welsh, Malika has passed away."

"Am I supposed to care that there’s one less little whore in the world?"

"No, but I thought that you might care that there’s one less daughter of yours in the world,” Catherine evenly replies.

"She hasn't been a daughter of mine since she abandoned me." Beep. Click.

Catherine sighs into the receiver, and then hangs it up. Of course he made it about him. What a shock.

Tristan is somewhat sensitive to disowned daughters since his mother’s sister was repudiated, an aunt that he had loved very much as a child. He nevertheless understands, however, that, in certain situations, men must do such things, but his mother had so vehemently defended his aunt's side of the matter at that time that Tristan had made himself a promise right then and there that he would live his life in a way that would allow him to forever avoid any situation where he could be faced with making such a decision himself. That is how much the occurrence had marked him.

In his mother’s hands, young Tristan benefited from lessons in which he could not ignore his heart, while in his father’s, he was taught the importance of honour, of the family business, of defending himself both physically and beyond, and, in short, of everything typically male in the world, above all else. No heart required.

Naturally, his father's teachings easily won out and to this day still guide Tristan’s existence. The subtle teachings that his mother instilled in her son do still come to him, however, although not into his heart and mind, but instead, as the pervasive force behind the songs that he writes to please his female fans, as well as behind the fashioning of his persona that drives them crazy. He thus makes whores and deviants of all of his mother’s teachings, as he uses them that way and in no other manner, and, since he does love being adored by millions of girls and women all over the world thanks to the manipulation that those lyrics and persona allow him, he has no intention in making them honest again. Since he has the benefit of men's respect in his world, because they know the real him, while maintaining women's adulation in the outer world, he is content.

Tristan turns off the spying device and considers Malika’s case one more time. Who killed her? Does it matter? He hates not knowing. Pecks at his sense of control.

A few minutes later, when he opens the door of his suite on his way out, he sees Catherine waiting for him in the hallway, leaning up against the wall opposite his door. He does not say a word as he extends an arm as a signal for her to walk with him to the elevator. She of course, would rather not walk, but slips her crutches into place and does.

"You have difficulty understanding the words 'stay out of my way unless I ask for you,' don't you? Remember that word-to-the-wise thing that I have high hopes for in you? In contrast to that one lesson-needed-thing that almost got you killed?”

"I was just waiting,“ Catherine softly replies, aware of the threat in his words. “I can’t wait in the hallway? I have no one else to go to, do I?"

Small smile upon Tristan’s lips. What lovely words to hear. "So, what do you want now?" He asks, even though his intention had first been to have her walk with him, and then to send her back to her suite without allowing her a word in. But then she had said those words.

"I, uh, would like some . . . funds, to bury Malika decently,” she replies, just as they reach that elevator.

"The state will take care of that, Catherine."

"Yes, they'll take care of her like she's a dead animal they found on the side of the road.“

“But all your other croaked acquaintances, that’s good enough for them?“

“I can’t ask for that much. You've explained our arrangement, and I know that I can’t do more for you, since everything is what I’m to do for you. But just . . . buy me regular food or whatever. Less.  When I was first on the streets, she didn’t let me walk by. I would’ve just kept walking, but she stopped me, and she took me in. I wasn’t talking, and I was in my own little world, and . . . Maybe without her, you never would’ve seen that picture of me. "  

"Go on, Catherine, I'm listening,“ Tristan instructs her, as he is most interested in hearing more in order to put together her story.

He would be very surprised to learn that, approximately one year ago, Catherine had a child. He can always tell, of course, either from stretch marks or from spaciousness where a man wants none, when a woman has had a child. But Catherine, however, has neither. Not that Tristan often engages in that mutual, natural way of  intimacy that allows for such a discovery, since there are more appealing ways to sexual gratification, more male-centered, master-centered ways that are so much more satisfying exactly because they leave the female not experiencing sex, as what is being done is completely about him, for him. As Catherine’s deceased would-be-writer acquaintance would be quick to add: “would a man whose tongue pleasures a woman’s genital area and who is then forced to just go to sleep with nothing more, be satisfied, believe that he has had sex? Would he accept that his brain is to be his greatest sexual organ, that sex is to be all in his mind, as his literal, true, so-assigned sex organ goes ignored and unsatisfied? No. He would rightly believe that woman extremely selfish. And yet, roles reversed . . . ”

What Catherine does possess, in lieu of stretch marks or spaciousness, are ridges, of sort, within her, that Tristan cannot explain in a woman’s body, but that make her feel so, so very good to penetrate and enjoy. They continue out onto her prominent lips, which grab a tight hold of a man as they extend that area of pleasure outwards, and, in Tristan’s case, as they therefore allow him to insert much more of his impressive self into the object of his desire. Fortunately for Tristan, from the very first time that he took her, he had wanted to possess her, and, therefore, that secret treasure had been stumbled upon.  Her eyes had struck him in a photo; her presence and those eyes in person had then added to his interest, and after that, that third powerful attraction had been discovered.

As for Catherine, she would herself be very much surprised to learn that she had a child approximately one year ago, and as for those ridges, she would be shocked to learn how they came to be. What she next reveals of herself, therefore, includes neither subject.

"I was . . . ill when I came out here a year ago,” she carefully continues, both for her sake when before him, and for her own within herself. Her present purpose of doing this one last thing for Malika makes her speak to Tristan as if he is a friend, her only one, and not an employer. But employers do not want their employees to go on and on. It is quite inappropriate. 

"And . . . " This employer nevertheless asks, his eyes into hers.

"I couldn't talk. I wouldn't talk. Malika took me away from the box that I'd been living in, literally, and she let me sleep in her room. She set me up with Tate. I wouldn't be here right now if it weren't for her -- and maybe that's worth something to you,” she brings up once more.  “I just know that I can't let her be buried like road kill,” she adds, the description forcing her to take a deep breath, after having seen her friend’s body the way that it was. "I spoke to her father. He doesn't care. What a shock. So it's up to me.”

Tristan looks away, and out the window in the hallway. “I suppose that I might owe her something for having played a hand in getting you here. A finder’s fee. Others were paid, after all,” he concedes, returning his eyes into hers, after making a point of explaining why he will grant her request: business. Malika, under contract, and Catherine as well. “Donovan will take care of it,” he then adds, before stepping into the elevator that is being held by the man that he has just mentioned. Once within it, he turns and looks out into the hallway once again.

"Thank you,” Catherine then tells him.

The look that accompanies her words sends a chill down Tristan’s spine, and he once again finds himself both amused, as well as annoyed.

Two days later, Catherine attends Malika's funeral, as do other street acquaintances of the deceased’s whom Catherine does not know. Their presence makes her uncomfortable. Nervous. When they speak to her, she answers briskly, and looks away, doing so for their own protection. Not the chain. But maybe the killer, whoever he is, maybe he hates me, and . . .

There are beautiful flowers delineating Malika's grave, her place. Forever. Catherine takes a deep breath and manages to retain control of herself. Even? Even enough. Pills. And so it strikes all around me again, that dark everything that comes along when I don’t just float along. I cared, and I brought them all bad luck, if nothing more. If not the chain right to them because of my disappearance from it. If not a killer who sought to hurt me. I killed again, just by knowing them. Killed them too. So, what now of Tristan and of all those around him? All around me now. Are they next? Do I care?

During the ceremony, when Catherine instinctively looks behind her at a road several feet away, she sees Tristan’s face through a half opened SUV’s darkly-tinted window. His eyes had obviously sought hers through the back of her head since they are within them as soon as she turns her face.

When the service is over, Catherine throws a handful of earth onto Malika's coffin, looks at it there for a moment, takes a deep breath, and then walks towards the black SUV. She stops a short distance away from it, however, and waits for instructions. Tristan’s hand then points to the vehicle in which Donovan and Raleigh are riding, and, once she is seated, crutches beside her, the convoy of six vehicles then heads straight to the airport, where Tristan's private plane awaits them.

Once at the airport, Catherine is carried up the steps by Donovan, but immediately deposited at the top of the stairs in order that she board the plane herself. As she steps into the deluxe plane, she remarks to herself that it has been a long time since she has flown, even though she has no idea when that last time was. Nothing of its luxury wows her.

The flight to New York city is uneventful: not a word is spoken to Catherine, nor by Catherine, as she keeps her eyes out a window and looks at the open, blue sky, with all of its lovely white clouds. She thinks of the dead, and of how they are unaware of it all, unaware of all the beauty of being conscious of all the beauty.

Once in the Big Apple some time later, Tristan is immediately whisked off to a sound check, and Catherine is escorted to her suite. She wishes to remain there, as she no longer feels any interest in Tristan’s insincere, deceitful, and hypocritical music. She does not know, however, if she will be allowed to stay away. As she looks out the many windows around her at the city beneath/before her, from a suite on the top floor of an opulent hotel, nothing there wows her either.

Three weeks ago, Tristan Maller came into my life, and now . . . And now I’m starting over, again, without a friend in the world. And Tristan . . . Tristan will turn on me as soon as I run out of tricks to keep him entertained. But I have a big bag of tricks, don’t I?

Catherine, stay off that path.

Big deal, she answers the voice, I know that I know how to do . . . things . . . They just come to me.   And I feel that there are many more tantalizing recipes in the kitchen, locked up somewhere, recipes on how to provide Tristan with palatable pleasures that will keep me alive until his taste buds are bored with my bound-to-become routine menus. Because that can’t be helped, as there is only so much that one can do, until the time comes when the only way for a man to feel newness, variety, is for him to do those things with a new partner.  Same old things then, however, with that new partner, as sex does not offer an infinite variety of dishes. And many young men ruin much of that menu right off to begin with, in youth, if not even in childhood nowadays, by watching so much porn right off, rather than exploring and enjoying all that newness for themselves, with a blank slate allowing for the best tasting experience. The most fulfilling. Where did I hear that? Catherine wonders. Television somewhere. Women discussing at a table, no doubt. Well, when my recipes run out, then what? I can’t remember what I can do until something comes to me. I wish that I could take stock of what I have.

No.

When it happens, then I will be the fourth. And I don’t want to be in a box, and have . . . I don’t want to be in a drawer like . . .  Contained . . . Seeing death, having it reach out to me like it did . . .

May I suggest “even?”

Get even?

Not amusing at all, considering the world that you’re now a player in. Catherine, emotions will be your downfall. This grief over Malika is not “even” as it should be. If you don’t allow me and my helpers to do more, like we did before . . .

I asked you to do more and you didn’t!  My pills did more! Do more! And I haven’t even cried! Everything that I felt and that I feel, and yet . . .

That’s good. Because it may take just one tear to make that bucket overflow, and then . . .

I didn’t cry! I . . . Wouldn’t it help to cry? For Malika, for them, for myself?

And open up what, with the flood? Trust me, like you did when you put me in charge.

It’s not my plan that anyone else should get hurt.

But you are who you are, Catherine.