Not Like Us (An Ilse Beck FBI Suspense Thriller—Book 1)

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER TWO

The wide, pale eyes of a child peered up at the scissors…

“Come here, Hilda,” the voice murmured in the dark basement. “Come here now.”

The child hyperventilated, shivering and standing in dusty, dirty clothing to match the basement itself. Her eyes traced past the man with the scissors, toward the stairs behind him. Concrete slabs led up to a locked metal door.

Her gaze swished back to her father… back to the single, blunt metal key dangling around his neck.

She swallowed once, hearing the soft whimpering sounds of her siblings behind her, where they lay on their sleeping blankets on the cold concrete.

“Come here, Hilda,” the voice repeated, sharply. “I won’t repeat it again. I’m only going to cut your hair. I promise.”

The child stood stiff, braced like a rabbit ready to bolt. Her father was already breathing heavily, one hand buttressed against the bottom of the stairwell, a thin veneer of sweat across his forehead, his eyes fixed on hers. She could smell the anger, sense it in his every flickering motion. See the rage boiling beneath.

The moment he’d picked up the scissors, she’d run… Run fast, around and around the dusty, dilapidated furniture as he’d tried to catch her. She’d dove beneath the old oak table used for “family meals.” She’d run, even knocking over a chair. The moment she’d heard the splintering sound, she’d known she would pay. Still, of all her siblings, she was the one who ran most. Fleeing the inevitable.

“Only my hair?” she whispered, a tinge of hope to her voice.

“Yes, Hilda. Why must you make this so difficult? Come here. Look, see—just a haircut. Don’t run again, Hilda, or I’ll have to hurt you.”

The child stared at her father, wincing. His mismatched eyes glared down at her—one blue, one brown, both full of rage. She knew he was probably lying. He often did. The kinder his tone became, the gentler it was, the more likely the dishonesty.

Then again, what choice did she have? Eventually, if she kept trying to avoid him, her father would call one of her bigger siblings. They’d restrain her, and he’d use the scissors anyway.

She sighed in soft resignation and stepped forward, toward the base of the stairs where her father stood.

He pounced with a victorious cry, his face twisting now into a tapestry of rage. His hand yanked at her small arm, dragging her forward; the scissors flashed down.

Only your hair.

Of course, he’d been lying. He always did…

Ilse Beck’s eyes snapped open, fixating on the client who sat across from her on the soft couch. The memories of ten-year-old Hilda Mueller were replaced now by those of thirty-two-year-old Ilse Beck. Ilse stared wide-eyed for a moment at her client—whose eyes were also closed for the memory exercise. Ilse swallowed, clenching her fist slowly, one hand reaching up to probe at her ear… Part of one lobe missing, long since scarred. A wound from more than twenty years ago.

She shivered at the memory, her fingers trailing along her cheek with the healed scar. As the silence stretched, she recited the words in her mind, Lindholm. Brown hair. Blue eyes. Twenty-eighteen. Four victims. Released. Compulsive behavior… Slowly, her eyes settled on her client across from her; she forced herself to calm, glancing over her client’s shoulder, through the glass patio windows at the gray lake surrounded by large homes and green trees.

For a moment, her gaze on the swishing, chill waters beneath the dark skies, she found her heartbeat steadying. Inhale, exhale, slowly. The scent of the water, the chill air through the mosquito screen wafted over her cheeks. She glanced down at her clothes—a turtleneck sweater and sweatpants. Good enough for work. The clients never seemed to mind. Besides, many of them found the unprofessional, relaxed nature of her lakefront home office and easy demeanor to be calming.

Then her client, eyes still closed, murmured, “I’m sorry, Dr. Beck, but I don’t think this is working.”

Ilse’s attention fixated back on her client, zeroing in. The woman had neat blonde hair tied back in a ponytail, and two heart-shaped earrings framing a pleasant face.

Ilse’s own hair was more black than brown. She reached up and brushed at her bangs. Unlike most women, though, instead of pushing her fringe back behind her ear, she brushed it forward, hiding the missing lobe and most of the scar.

“That’s quite all right, Samantha,” she said, softly. “We can try something else.”

The blonde-haired woman opened her eyes. “Just Sam, please.”

Ilse held up an apologetic hand. “Sam, great. I know this is only our first session, Sam, but I hope you know I’m here to help.”

“I know… I—It’s just…” Sam’s voice trailed off, an edge to it. Her eyes shifted toward the door. For a moment, it seemed like she might bolt.

“We can go at whatever pace you like,” Ilse said, in a soft, soothing voice. “It’s your call. It’s under your control.”

Sam braced in her chair, her fingers white against the armrests, but she seemed to calm a bit. “He’s hunting me,” she whispered. “I know it. I’m not making it up.”

Ilse continued speaking in her soothing tone. “The memory exercise will help us. I promise. Would you like to try again?”

Samantha paused for a moment, biting her lip. Her eyes wide, pupils dilated—terror across every inch of her posture. She gave the faintest, most furtive shake of her head, glancing once more toward the glass door of the patio that led to the hall, and the exit.

Ilse uncrossed her arms, placing them delicately on the armrests of her chair. An open posture, subtle but physical communication. She brushed a thumb past her ear, pushing her hair forward again. She liked wearing her dark hair long and loose. No scrunchies or headbands except when she trained at the gym.

Her features were unmistakably feminine, though she didn’t go out of the way to advertise. An upturned, celestial nose and large, searching green eyes made her pretty in a natural, understated sort of way. Ilse had a preference for sweaters and turtlenecks, sweatpants and sandals. She didn’t wear makeup, though she was a big fan of cleanliness and grooming. She had no piercings, and only a single tattoo around her wrist. She glanced down at it, rubbing at the long sleeve of her sweater. The tattoo was visible just beneath the cuff, looping her wrist like a handcuff or a manacle. The words of the tattoo read:

Take captive every thought…

Her new client, Sam, leaned back, wincing and crossing her own arms. A defensive, guarded posture. It was only their first session after all. Samantha Wright had been referred to her by a colleague. From what little Ilse had been told, Sam was exactly the sort of case she specialized working with.

But so far, Samantha seemed hesitant to open up.

Ilse considered this a moment, considered the defensive posture of her client—the crossed arms, the tightened lips. The fluttering eyelids even when closed; the askance glances out the window and toward the door. Ilse ran through the likely culprits, the thoughts coming as easily to her as lyrics from an old tune: Non-integrated emotional trauma. Paranoia? Perhaps. Minimal temperamental and environment protective factors. Psychosomatic anxiety, manifesting in guarded behavior.

Ilse got slowly to her feet, moving over to the desk placed beneath one of the open windows. She made a big show of opening the window a bit further, and then she sat, resettling in the chair by the desk.

The window was irrelevant, but in this new sitting position, they were now a bit further apart, and instead of sitting directly across from Sam, Ilse was facing the lake as well, shoulder to shoulder. A non-confrontational posture. Diminishing necessity for protective defenses. Ilse went quiet, breathing in, out, slowly, waiting, allowing Sam to speak first.

Control. Allowing the client control over the session. Control over her attention. Control over the pace of conversation.

Small methods, but all of them designed to help relax the client, to allow Ilse to help.

“I—I’m not crazy,” Sam murmured.

Ilse looked up, but not over, though she could still track her client out of her peripheral vision. Eye contact could be perceived as a threat. She kept her gaze focused on the window, staring out at the lake. Again, Ilse said nothing.

Sam winced, inhaling shakily, her breath rattling in her chest like a wheeze. “I—I hate that I can’t remember.” For a moment her voice cracked, but then she hid it in a cough, choosing anger now. “I couldn’t have been much older than seven, maybe eight…”

Ilse blinked now, her own memories surfacing for a moment. She pressed a finger to her maimed ear, but then lowered it again. Now her focus was on the client. On Samantha’s emotions. Samantha’s past mattered more in the hour they’d set aside.

“That’s very young. Only seven or eight,” Ilse murmured, simply mirroring back the words. Playing a role, though, repeating the thought aloud to prompt subsequent thoughts.

“I’ve lived in Seattle my entire life,” Sam murmured, softly. She glanced at Ilse, now, watching the other woman for a moment. “There are more serial killers in the Pacific Northwest per capita than anywhere else. Did you know that?”

Ilse had known that, and her frown flickered. Just this morning, on the radio, she’d heard word of a body found off an old trucker’s lane in the forest, near Seattle. Another serial killer, perhaps?

Take captive every thought… She shook her head. No sense allowing considerations of a killer to intrude. Her client needed Ilse’s full attention. Serial killer or not, Ilse wasn’t in the business of dealing with the dead victims of murderers. Rather, she specialized in the ones that killers left alive, whether on purpose or by accident.

“I don’t like sleeping,” Samantha said. “Or dreaming. I see him there. I always see him there. I don’t remember what he did… Why I managed to escape.” She shivered, shaking her head. “It’s all so horrible.”

Survivor’s guilt? PTSD, clearly. Ilse considered each for a moment.

“And these memories,” Ilse said, glancing over now. “They started surfacing in dreams?”

“Yes. Yes, horrible dreams. b****y dreams.” Samantha whimpered, pulling at the sleeves of her sweater and shaking her head. “My mother doesn’t talk about it—she lies about it sometimes. But she always gets scared, quiet, when I ask her.”

“Ask her about what, Sam?”

The woman shook her head, staring at the lake, her eyes wide, unblinking, fixated as if on something in the distance. “The a*******n,” she murmured. “How he took me…”

“You were only a child?”

“Seven, I think. Like I said, my mother lied about it.” Sam turned to Ilse sharply, staring at her. “I’m not crazy!”

“I don’t think you are.”

“No, really, I’m not! My mother doesn’t want me to think about it. She wants to pretend it never happened… But now… now I remember…” Samantha’s voice squeaked and she swallowed, blinking back tears all of a sudden.

Ilse was careful with this next question. Too strong, and she might trigger the PTSD; too light, though, and she’d be of no help at all. “And you don’t remember what he looks like?”

Sam froze for a moment, as if glued to her seat, her arms motionless, her fingers stiff against the cushions of the couch. “I try to,” she said, her voice shaking. “I try…” She looked over, her eyes fixated on Ilse. “But no. I don’t remember. Just glimpses and snapshots…”

Ilse smiled in a comforting, sad sort of way. She said, “I’m happy to help you remember, if that’s what you want.”

But the woman blinked, frowning now. “Remember? I—no, Dr. Beck, that’s not why I’m here. At least, not completely.”

Ilse didn’t betray her confusion, keeping her expression docile. “Oh?”

“I’m here,” she said, her voice rising in volume and pitch, anxiety and fear tinging her tone, “because he’s still out there!”

“The serial killer who abducted you?”

“Yes! He’s still out there. And he’s re-targeting me! I know he is. I can tell.” The breeze brushed the window and tapped lightly against the glass. But it might as well have been a gunshot, as Sam turned wildly, gasping and staring at the swinging frame.

Ilse reached up gently, wedging a book beneath the window, keeping it in place. Slow, careful movements. “You believe he’s coming after you again? After all these years?”

Ilse pictured her own memories surfacing… More than two decades since that scene in the basement. Two decades, nearly, since she’d seen him. She shivered, but gritted her teeth, forcing her attention back to Samantha.

“I’m not crazy,” her patient repeated. “I can… can feel it. Someone was watching me at the grocery store last week. It could have been him. I don’t know—I ran.”

“So you think he’s coming back for you?”

The woman wagged her head, nodding. “Yes, Dr. Beck. I know it! I’m not safe. I need your help. To remember what he looked like—not to remember for remembering’s sake,” she swallowed, “but so I can protect myself. So the police can catch him. I know he killed people. I just don’t remember how many, or who.”

“Or what he looked like?”

Samantha shivered and didn’t answer, pausing for a moment and rubbing at her elbows. She looked lost, tired, like a rabbit trembling in a hutch. Ilse’s heart panged with compassion, but at the same time, her own troubled thoughts swirled.

Should she call the police? Was Samantha delusional? The fear seemed real. The dreams… the haunting thoughts returning seemed likely.

But the lying mother? The non-concrete details? Possible for repressed memories. Probable, even. Ilse glanced up at the clock. 9:58. She stared at the second hand, watching it tick by. The session ended at 10:00. Ilse felt a flicker of unease swirl in her stomach, staring at the second hand. 9:59. She winced at the number, feeling her fingers quiver. Ilse hated imprecise numbers—the way they hung suspended, like an unanswered question. One had to be precise with time. Imprecision bred anxiety, and anxiety compromised excellence.

She could feel Samantha’s fear, feel her sense of defeat. It would perhaps be best to call the session.

But it was only 9:59. Imprecise.

The session ended at 10:00.

And so, in silence, she waited, watching the second hand like a runner waiting for the sound of a starter pistol. Ilse swallowed, dabbing at her lip with her tongue, breathing slowly, shallowly.

The second hand ticked past the twelve.

Ten o’clock exactly.

“I’m afraid we’re out of time,” Ilse said, exhaling in relief along with the words. Schedules had to be kept. Time mattered. Preciseness mattered.

Samantha seemed relieved at this declaration and she sprang to her feet, rubbing and twisting her hands in front of her, nodding in gratitude. “Thanks, Dr. Beck,” she said, softly. “I—sorry I couldn’t be more help. I—I just… I know he’s coming. I can feel that he is. I need your help.” Her next word came out strangled and desperate. “Please.”

Ilse rose as well, her features arranged in a comforting, conciliatory expression. She didn’t touch her client, but swept her hand past the woman’s elbow in a sort of comforting, patting motion, without actually making contact. “You have nothing at all to apologize for, Sam,” Ilse said, softly. She gestured with a hand toward the door, nodding as she did. Exactly ten o’clock. She didn’t have time to wait, though, as she had a meeting of her own at 10:30. She was going to be late if she didn’t hurry. Then again, this case was fascinating and heartbreaking all at once. She could feel a swirl of compassion for this woman. At the same time, she could feel a sense of foreboding. She felt troubled, too…

So many of Samantha’s disjointed, distant memories reminded Ilse of her own past… her own family… her father.

She shivered as her client stepped past, pulling her sweater tight around her, shoulders slumped, head bowed in a posture of defeat.

“I don’t want to make you wait a full week,” Ilse said, blinking and following after her client toward the front door of her home. “So how about tomorrow? Same time?”

Samantha’s expression flushed with sudden gratitude and relief. She paused in the doorway, one hand on the brass knob. She swallowed, then nodded once. “Thanks. Really, thank you. All right, Dr. Beck. Tomorrow.”

“See you then.”

The woman’s shoulders only seemed to slump further as she stepped out the front door, moving out beneath the gray Seattle sky. She pulled her arms tight around her, and then moved toward the Jeep she’d parked in the gravel driveway.

Ilse watched the woman leave, one hand braced against the door. She winced, still considering her own memories, rising, swirling to the surface. As she watched Samantha get into her Jeep, Ilse could feel tremors along the backs of her hands. She frowned now, and then murmured, “Bundy. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Forty-two. Thirty victims. November twenty-fourth. Forty-six.” She listed the words quickly, precisely. “Antisocial disorder. Possible multiple personality disorder.” Then repeated them. Slowly, as she did, her breathing regularized, and she began to calm.

The Jeep pulled out of the driveway, kicking up dust as it reached the road, and then pulled along the winding forest trail, away from the lakefront house.

“Dahmer. Blond hair. Ninety-four. Seventeen victims. May twenty-first,” she recited from memory, rattling off the description. “Schizotypal personality disorder. Borderline personality disorder. Psychotic disorder.”

Morbid though the recitations were, they helped calm her nerves. Helped her focus. And Samantha needed Ilse’s focus—all of it. Was the woman delusional? Or was she right? Was a serial killer actually re-targeting her? If she was telling the truth, how had she escaped all those years ago, as a child?

How did you escape? a soft voice echoed in her mind. Ilse shivered once more, and shut the door to her home with a click.

She felt a tingle of anticipation, picking up her pace. If she didn’t hurry, she was going to be late for her meeting.