Page 28 of SKIN

“Dr. Cohen Michaels,” the stranger hummed. “It’s a pleasure to meet your acquaintance.”

“Not a doctor,” I grunted as I eyed the fucker from head to polished toe. Not a hair was out of place, his shirt perfectly ironed and tucked into his designer dress pants. His belt and shoes real leather from the looks of them. When my glare landed on his square jaw, perfect teeth on display with the catlike smirk curling his lips and dark deadened eyes, I added, “Do I know you?”

I knew I didn’t.

He shrugged a shoulder before snapping his fingers. His coat was collected by some kid I didn’t even see standing behind him, and then the fucker lowered himself down on the vacant stool between us. The guy looked out of place in this hole-in-the-wall bar. But then again, so did I. For a totally different reason.

“I know you, Dr. Michaels. And that’s all that matters.”

“Already told ya not a doctor.” I returned my attention to the amber liquid coating the bottom of my glass before chugging the rest of the contents and pushing to my feet. “Thanks for the drink.” I slammed it down again and moved to shove back from the bar.

His hand clamped onto my shoulder for a second time. “I wouldn’t if I were you…”

This had one side of my mouth lifting into a grin. The other side was long since dead. “And why’s that…?”

“It wouldn’t be good for your health.”

I barked out a loud laugh that had half the room looking in my direction. Good thing I was used to them looking. “And what makes you think I give a shit about my health?”

“Emily Shaw: female, age nineteen, seen at Mercy General on the 28th of October for a scheduled D&C. Four-hundred micrograms of misoprostol administered orally three hours prior to scheduled procedure. Evacuation completed by attending without incident. Patient alert and oriented times three before discharged to care of emergency contact with aftercare instructions.”

I swiped my glass off the bar top, slamming it down until it shattered, then grabbed the largest shard and pressed it to the fucker’s jugular vein. I didn’t know what kind of nonsense he was spewing while the ethanol flooding my neurological pathways had me swaying on my feet, my cognitive functioning too dulled to piece together everything he was telling me without telling me.

What I did know was he said her fucking name. And that shit had my blood boiling beneath the surface.

He laughed and dipped his head forward until the glass bit into his throat, and a small trickle of blood streamed down his Adam’s apple before it was soaked up by the white collar of his dress shirt.

“Thought that might get your attention.” He grinned while waving a dismissive hand at the kid still hovering at his back.

“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck do you want?” I tossed the shard across the counter and signaled for a top off. There wasn’t enough liquor in this bar for me tonight.

“The man whose business you’ve been stealing, it seems.” He tugged off a leather glove and offered me a steady hand. “Dr. Adrian Lambert. But everyone 'round here calls me The Surgeon.”

37

COHEN

The towering iron gates flanked each side of the town car, the name Briarwood Sanitorium dangling from a broken chain as we pulled up the long driveway that curled around the front of the abandoned mental hospital. I would say it was the thing of nightmares but that’d be a lie.

I saw far worse shit than this every time I closed my… eye. Every time one of the wounds on my face oozed and my poorly sutured fingers bled. Every time I poked around the empty socket in my head with a pair of sterilized tweezers and tried to locate what was left of my optic nerve. So if Mr. Fancy-Ass Surgeon was looking to intimidate me, it would take a lot more than some rundown looney-bin in the middle of nowhere.

I stepped out of the military-looking SUV and onto the gravel walkway, not believing for one second this was a government-sanctioned facility. The large metal double doors appeared to open the moment we approached. Which told me they were automated or we were being watched. Maybe a little of both. I glanced up, noting row after row of barred windows before following the suit and his silent henchman inside.

The place smelled of death. But not like formaldehyde and cadaver bone. Not old death. No, it smelled like blood. Fresh blood and newer flesh. Like an operating room more than a former sanitorium. It was clean too. Sterile. A blinding white from floor to ceiling. Much more modern than the exterior would suggest. There were doors stretching out in every direction in front of me, cameras staring down at us from every angle.

This was some serious surveillance system for a simple mental hospital. Though something told me these fuckers weren’t looking for a quick consultation. If they were bringing me here to pick my brain, it would definitely be in the more literal sense. Full-on lobotomy style.

“Who we got here?”

I looked up, towards the sound of the disembodied voice that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. My boots squeaking on the tile floor as I pivoted in time to watch a shadow jump down from one of the rafters in the ceiling. Spring off his fingertips into a cartwheel and push to his feet in front of me. Silent. Not a sound echoing off the walls. No footsteps, no audible inhalation of breath. Nothing that would indicate the guy was more than a visual hallucination if it weren’t for the fact I was certain everyone else saw him too.

He stepped around me, his movements still soundless and half his face done up like someone forgot to tell the guy Halloween was over a few weeks ago. “Those are some gnarly scars, Frankie.” He grinned.

“That ain’t my name,” I grunted as the fucker continued to watch me with a slight cant of his head.

“It is now.”

“Casper, enough.” Adrian cleared his throat, his glare flicking from The Skeleton King back over to me. “Dr. Michaels, why don’t I give you a tour. Show you a bit of what my facility has to offer…”

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