::FOUR::
Nothing is so interesting to a woman as a thing she can’t have. Yet. And I do have ‘Dr. Baumgard’ to kill and dispose of. I wait until she has looked up again, before I get up to leave. My head is turned away a little, but I don’t need to be looking at her to know that she is watching me. Not so much stand as uncoil, leading with my neck.
Riddick always loved my neck, and sometimes would just watch me, if my throat was turned from him, or trace the lines there, from behind my jaw to the hollow at my throat. I think of his hand on me, tracing up my throat, pulling me with an invisible hand, as I turn to leave the room.
Tuck my white blond hair behind my ears as I do so, drawing attention to myself, and mirroring, in a small way, the woman’s own hair. Women love nothing so deeply as flattery, even if we hate to admit it to ourselves. I don’t need to look to know I have made an impression.
The killing and disposal of the target is routine, a simple task. I don’t even care enough to be creative with it, settling for a poison dart, and a trip down the back hallways of the Midorian to the incinerator. The doctor in a wheeled laundry cart, the rather standard disguise of a white lab coat. To be honest, in this place, a disguise is hardly necessary, and ‘Dr. Baumgard’ isn’t the first murdered person to disappear into the incinerator.
I found the good doctor’s displays to be far more interesting. Not much has survived that time, the early twentieth century that is. So much went into private collections that it’s difficult to find any actual memorabilia left anymore. So the doctor’s collection for this was beautiful. But he was a motivated collector, with his own reasons for keeping the things that once belonged to mass murderers. There were hand guns, and shot guns, and rifles. There were garottes and all sorts of other pieces of equipment that I’m quite familiar with. Some were merely replicas, but most of them were authentic. An expensive collection. The more things change, the more they stay the same, it seems.
Then there was the small red box. A simple paper box, in a dark rich red colour. With the words “Be Mine, Valentine”, in an ornate gold script, on the cover. An old box, it’s edges looking the worse for wear, some of the paper peeling. When I opened the box, I was greeted with the faintest hint of chocolate, just a wisp, before it was gone. I had heard of Valentine’s day. I guess a box of chocolates was the gift that was given, once.
This box no longer contained chocolates, but I did think of love, of Riddick, the moment I set eyes on what was inside. I have been trained in the use of a great many weapons, and, while I like to use knives, enjoying the intimacy, I prefer to use smaller ones. The knife in the box of chocolates was not a small knife, by any means.
I believe that such a knife was called a “bowie knife”, at that time. A large clipped point blade, easily eight inches long, and close to two inches wide, at the widest point of it’s sensual curve. The deep curve of the belly of the knife held a deadly edge, even now. The top third of the back of the blade, it’s own little curve, was also sharpened. A narrow blood gutter ran down the length of the blade, fading to nothing by the time it had reached the curve at the tip. A softer brass back, close to the guard, and a handle that would only fit a man’s hand. Carved, into the steel near the hilt, was one word. A name, actually. Stark.