The Dollmaker(The Forgotten Files #2)(5)
“What do you mean, right?”
Knox shoved his hands into his pants pockets as he turned. “Look at the files.”
Sharp blocked the older man’s attempt to leave. “You know who fed her the drugs?”
“I think if you look at the files, you’ll see things I didn’t.”
The heaviness on Sharp’s shoulders grew, but he didn’t attempt to shrug it off this time. Kara’s death was his burden to carry alone now.
Knox looked past Sharp toward the headstones. “I’d go to my grave willingly if this case were closed and I thought the person responsible for Kara’s death were caught.” He shook his head. “Maybe I spent too much time with RB. But I don’t think the kid accidentally overdosed.”
Sharp glanced back at the funeral attendant as he removed the flowers Knox had brought from Roger’s casket. The man’s gaze met Sharp’s. When Sharp nodded, the attendant signaled two gravediggers to lower the casket into the vault and seal it.
“Send me the files.”
CHAPTER TWO
Monday, October 3, 3:00 p.m.
The Dollmaker gently touched his newest creation’s face, knowing it was still tender. The redness and swelling had faded, and the skin had shed the damaged cells, leaving healthy skin in its place. Still, her face would be sensitive to touch, and he didn’t want to hurt her.
Her skin warmed his fingertips as he traced the outline of her thin dark eyebrow, then slowly along high cheekbones dotted with freckles, and finally over bright-red heart-shaped lips.
She was perfect.
A living doll.
Four weeks ago when they’d met again, her face had been lovely in an ordinary sort of way. She was in her late twenties with long limbs, a trim waist, and perky round breasts. But she’d reached her full potential, which was sadly destined to fade with age. So he’d intervened, rescued her from her predictable life, renamed her Destiny, and enhanced her beauty by painstakingly tattooing her face.
Experience taught him flawless tattoo art began with detailed prep work. And knowing Destiny deserved the best, he took his time, first sedating her, then cutting off her brown hair and shaving her scalp and eyebrows until the skin was as smooth as glass. Next he used alcohol pads to clean the skin so there’d be no risk of infection.
Only when the canvas was ready did he reach for the first tattoo gun loaded with the finest of needles. It took a full day of meticulous work to cover the key portions with the base coat of white ink. And though there were times when his hands ached and his back stiffened, he refused to rush. Finally, when all the base color had been applied and the tiny amount of blood wiped clean, he tattooed gracefully arching eyebrows. Next came the rosy blush of color on the cheeks. Stippled freckles. Heart-shaped lips. He saved the eyes for last, permanently lining the upper and lower lids with the steady hand of a seasoned artisan.
Toward the end of the transformation, she began to wake, so he injected a fresh syringe of sedative into her IV line. Very quickly she drifted off to sleep again. The transformation had taken more time and drugs than he’d planned, but the end result was worth the complication of restocking his drug cabinet.
After the job was complete, he wrapped her head and face, knowing the healing process was critical to the best tattoo work. Infection and neglect ruined tattoos. He changed her bandages four times daily, understanding his work at this stage was akin to an open wound.
For her safety, he kept her drugged and hydrated with an IV bag hanging over a special reclining chair. And as she slept, he spent hours embellishing and tailoring the clothes to match her flawless features. Again and again, he gently removed her bandages and carefully washed her face.
Ten days of healing had passed, and he now stood back and studied her. All the hours of labor and the extra days of recovering had been worth it. The colors on her face were vibrant and vivid, the lines clear and sharp.
He’d dressed her in a plaid skirt and a white top that was formfitting but not overly tight in a vulgar sort of way. He turned toward the collection of wigs and vacillated between blond and auburn. Finally, he chose the blond wig with long locks that curled gently at the ends. All the wigs were natural, the best on the market. He’d even taken extra care to trim the bangs on this particular model so delicate wisps of hair brushed the tops of her painted brows.
The Dollmaker carefully settled the wig on her head, centered it, and after brushing it, braided the strands into two thick ropes. He slowly rolled on knee socks, savoring the silky smoothness of her freshly waxed calf, and then folded the white cotton neatly at the top. He slid on patent-leather shoes and fastened the buckles so they were snug but not too tight.
Destiny’s finishing touches included a small bracelet with a heart charm on her left wrist, and on her right hand, a delicate pinky ring. He painted her fingernails a pale pink, fastened delicate earrings, and dabbed hints of perfume behind her ears and on her wrists.
He stepped back, pleased. She was his living doll. A perfect mate.
He lifted her listless body and placed her on a red couch in front of a photographer’s screen. He angled her face to the side and propped it up with a silk pillow. He arranged her braids on her shoulders and fluffed her skirt. Reaching for his camera, he snapped a couple of pictures as he did with all his dolls.
Glancing in the viewfinder, he frowned, not liking what he saw. Her eyes were closed. And to have the right effect, they needed to be open.