The Doll Brokers Read Online Free PDF Page B

we don’t extend ourselves periodically, then mankind becomes something unconscionably evil. What are we, really, but a snarl of earthbound, frantic souls trying to survive? A hand offered here or there in the dark … it can make the difference in lifting one of us from the morass.”
    Cal drained his drink and stood. “Well, this frantic soul knows better than to try to talk you out of something you’ve already decided.”
    â€œDid you leave her some medicine?”
    â€œIt’s on the bedside table. I’ll charge your account.” They both knew he wouldn’t. “I’ll want to see her again in a week. If she’s been living on the street, God knows what else she’s brought into your house.”
    Patrick couldn’t listen anymore. He’d crept back upstairs to the bedroom his mother had given Ann. He’d leaned against the door to find that it was not only unlocked, but that it eased open beneath the pressure he applied. He crossed soundlessly to her bed, staring down at her as she slept.
    Her breath had been shallow and putrid, wafting up to him for all its lack of force. At ninety pounds she seemed no threat to anybody. But he knew better. He knew even then that she would somehow manage to ruin everything.
    And he had been right. It had taken two more years, but Ann Lesage had struck the first blow toward destroying them all.
    Flames rolling in a red-white ball over the water, billowing then playing out like tongues licking the oil-slicked surface. Matthew’s scream. Then silence. Jonathan taking hold of Patrick and slapping him, hitting him, harder, harder still, then lifting him by the front of his T-shirt and heaving him bodily into the back of the boat. “Stay there. Just stay there. Don’t talk.”
    Patrick jerked free of the memory with an audible grunt. A wide, wet stain spread over his left thigh where his hand had relaxed, tilting his snifter until the Courvoisier spread over his trouser leg like an indelible mark.
    Ann had helped kill Matt and now, after years of manipulating his mother, she had become president of Hart Toy. Irene was right, Patrick thought. He had no choice but to stop her. He had to show his mother who Ann really was. He still had some time. He would make sure Felicia changed her opinion of Ann, and in the process he would end up with what rightfully belonged to him.

CHAPTER 5
    T he small co-op apartment was his private escape. The single room was spare, dominated by a bed, a California king, draped by a luxurious, silk duvet cover in ruby red. Voluminous curtains in a shocking vermilion, and a large formal desk in cherry wood completed the womb-like interior.
    Taking a seat at his desk, he unconsciously drummed his fingers on the blotter. The call was scheduled to take place in ten minutes. Ten more minutes before he knew whether this would be another lead that fizzled.
    He closed his eyes for a moment.
    His widowed mother’s death left him the sole beneficiary of an insurance policy that numbered in the millions. Conservative but intelligent investments, coupled with a frugal lifestyle, had allowed him the freedom to more or less do as he pleased.
    He did not consider his approach to women to be a fetish, or even peculiar, for that matter. He liked his ladies to be loose, with few morals. The looser the better. Whores intrigued him. He paid for their services and there were few complications.
    Occasionally, hookers weren’t enough and he took what he had to have by force. It wasn’t rape. Every woman wanted it. Despite their protests—their tears and begging—he read between the words, understanding that no meant yes, that please meant thank you.
    His victims adhered to his warning. Most believed him when he said that seeking revenge, or contacting the authorities, would lead to dire circumstances. Except for one young girl in New Jersey, who pulled a knife on him.
    He never lost consciousness, but