“The same with people. In the name of survival and evolutionary progress I think we are genetically coded to be drawn to people with certain facial traits—large, wide-set eyes, high cheekbones, full lips, clear skin, a short nose, short square chin. Look in any fashion magazine, and you’d see what I mean. And that’s true for men and women. What we consider beauty is a genetic code for evolutionary advantage. Are you following me?”
“Mmmm. But doesn’t culture shape that?”
“You mean do cultural values affect our perception of beauty? Of course, but there’s a set of facial features which is universally appealing irrespective of the culture of the perceiver. I won’t bore you, but my point is that beauty has basics—the golden ratio we talked about. Think of the great Hollywood beauties or supermodels. Each is a subtle variation of the phi archetype.”
“Uh-huh.” But her brain had turned to fuzz.
“Of course, there are subjective individual ideals—what psychologists call imagoes. Do, you know the term?”
“Imagoes. No.”
“We all have them,” he said. “They’re the embedded ideal of one’s parents.”
A strange intensity had lit in his face.
“For some individuals, the imago parent is the prototype which determines the way he perceives himself and others. Some say it’s an innate force second only to the longing for God—a yearning underlying all others.”
She nodded, but was having a hard time concentrating on what he was saying.
“Perhaps because it’s always been an unattainable goal.”
“What is?”
“To become one with the imago, to lose oneself in it, to become totally absorbed by it.” His hands moved to the keyboard again. “For the rare individual, it’s the ultimate fulfillment. The ultimate destiny.”
She tried to stand but flopped back down. “I don’t feel well.”
“It’s just the blood rushing to your head.”
No. I’m feeling faint, like I’m going to pass out.
“Here,” he said. He tapped the keys then turned the screen for her to see.
For a moment as the image came into view she had no reaction as her mind told her she was peering into a mirror.
Then it occurred to her that staring out from the monitor was her own face. And she had long, fluffy, coppery hair.
He grinned at her. “See?”
88
Steve called Dana’s numbers again, and still no answer. He called Lanie Walker, who said she didn’t know where Dana was. He called Jane Graham, two colleagues at her school, but they had no idea either. The same with her aerobics teacher, who had not seen her for at least a week.
His blood was racing. He made another call. On the third ring he heard Mickey DeLuca answer. It was about one o’clock and the afternoon dancers were on the stage warming up the beach crowd. “I’ve got a few questions for you.”
“I’ll do my best, Detective.”
“I’m looking at photos of Terry Farina a.k.a. Xena Lee. She looks different in the older ones than your Web site shots.”
“Yeah, and that’s because couple of months ago she got a new rack.”
“A new rack?”
“You know, inserts, breast enhancements.”
“Yeah, I can see that.”
“Came back with friggin’ musk melons. What a difference! I mean, like, the guys went wild.”
“I’m sure. But the thing is her face looks different also. Her features…”
“Yeah, she got a paint job, bright red hair. ‘Xena on Fire’ is how we billed her.”
“I’m talking about her face. Her eyes and mouth look different. Know anything about that?”
“No, not really.”
“Did she ever mention getting any plastic work done on her face?”
“No. I mean, she was in her upper thirties, and girls sometimes do that, because customers like them young. But she never said anything about a face job.”
“When she took those weeks off in May, did she say anything about having some work done, maybe getting away to recover?”
“She never said.”
“Did she ever mention a plastic surgeon, or ever say where she got her breasts done?”
“Not a clue. The girls don’t talk about their personal lives. We’re pretty strict.”
“Know any friends who might know?”
“Not a clue.”
“Other girls or staffers up there?”
“Not a clue.”
His answer would probably cover any known subject in the universe. When he hung up, Steve dialed Katie Beals. He got the answering machine and left the message to call him on his cell phone as soon as possible. It was urgent.
His eye fell on the map with markers of where the women lived—a hundred-mile circle around Boston. All the victims were around forty and in professions where a premium is put on looking younger than their age.
All were in transition from relationships, starting over, reinventing themselves.
All were killed within weeks of having cosmetic surgery.
All dyed their hair red about the same time they had their cosmetic makeovers.
All had the same heart-shaped face with wide cheeks and forehead and angular jaw and full lips.
He dialed Dana’s number. Again he got the answering machine. Steve tried to control his voice. “It’s me again. It’s urgent. Call me immediately.” He dialed her cell phone. He got her voice mail. He left the same message.
Almost seems like a progression.
Jackie’s words cracked across his mind like an electric arc.
89
“Aaron, you’re hurting me.”
“Sorry, I don’t mean to.”
He loosened his grip on her arm as he led her out of the office and down the hall. Her legs moved as if they were made of wood.
“I think you need to lie down.”
But she didn’t want to lie down. “I want to go home.”
She tried to concentrate on putting one foot solidly in front of the other. They were moving down the corridor from his office. The fluorescent lights were making a harsh glare in her eyes as she moved.
“There’s a bed in here,” Aaron said as they approached a room. “I’ll give you something to make you feel better.”
Through the haze she heard herself say, “No, I want to go home.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. The water’s choppy. You might get seasick. Tomorrow will be better.”
She made a feeble attempt to free her arm, but he only held her more firmly. In a part of her brain that was still lucid she wondered, What happened to the nice doctor? Why is he being rough with me? Why won’t he take me home?
She continued shuffling down the hall with Aaron steering her. They turned into a dimly lit room where he led her to a reclining chair. He guided her onto it.
“You’ll feel better,” he said, and patted her hand.
“I want to go.”
“Tomorrow. I promise. I’ll get you something to make you feel better. Okay?”
She did not respond. She was having a hard time focusing on his face as he stood beside her.
“Just relax. Think of something pleasant like cruising in the Caribbean. You’d like that wouldn’t you? Martinique?”
“Mmmm.”
“Maybe I’ll take you with me.”
Someplace behind her she heard a telephone jingle.
“You stay put and relax. I’ll be right back”
“I want to go home,” she mumbled. She watched him leave the room. I don’t feel good.
She got up from the chair and steadied herself as the rush of blood to her head set her spinning. She shuffled to the door and opened it.
The bright lights of the empty corridor filled her eyes. Across the way was a white door. Hoping it would lead her outside, she moved to it and pushed it open, telling herself that she had to get out of this house, off this island. Things were happening that she didn’t understand. She had been brought here for a dinner party, but no one else was here, and Aaron was acting strangely. And why that picture of her with fluffy red hair?