IMOLA, Richard Satterlie's sequel to AGNES HAHN, is now in bookstores.

Chapter 1

My name is Agnes Hahn. I'm a serial killer, emasculator of men. And I'm not. I've seen the pictures, heard the descriptions. If the voice isn't real, like they've told me, then how can the actions be real?

We have cable television here at Imola, but they don't let us watch what we want. Figure that. At home, I liked to watch those real doctor shows' actual surgery. The only thing that bothered me was the initial incision. The first slice of the sharp scalpel through fresh skin gave me a sick feeling in my stomach. It made my fingers curl into fists and my toes grip the soles of my shoes. I always had to look away. That's why I don't understand how I could have cut all of those men. Dr. Leahy says they were hurt by my hands, but, she says, my hands weren't controlled by my mind. How can that be? I know my hands, and my hands couldn't cut through skin.

Once the skin was opened in the TV shows, I was fascinated by the surgeries. The human body is a remarkable machine. The most incredible thing is the way the body heals itself after such an invasion. It can be opened and a piece removed, and if properly stitched, it will heal like nothing happened. Too bad the same can't be done to the mind. It's easy to find the junction between the small and large intestine, locate the appendix, and cut it out. But one can't remove a few brain cells and expect a bad memory to go away forever. Not without removing a lot of other memories.

For me, it's impossible to forget small parts of the past without forgetting all of the past. Same thing for remembering. Now, Dr. Leahy wants me to remember things I don't like to remember. About Lilin. About our father. What he did to her. She wants to know about specific things that happened, but more than that comes back. She wants a bucket of water, but wave after wave crashes on the beach to fill that tiny bucket. She says it will help me. Helping shouldn't hurt.

Hurt her back.


Chapter 17

Agnes blinked several times, each time forcing her eyes closed. She rubbed her eyes with her fists. The scene came back the same. No green walls, no Day Room, no grassy grounds with oak trees. No Imola. Instead, she stood next to a two-lane highway. Across the road was a marsh-like expanse with thigh-high weeds. A water-filled channel cut a serpentine path through the marsh and opened to a large body of water in the distance. On her side of the road, rectangular flooded fields, bounded by earthen levees, were partially full. On the banks where the water had receded, a white precipitate covered the dirt. It looked like sugar. No. Salt. She scanned her memory banks. Could it be the northern reaches of San Francisco Bay?

A car whizzed past and blew the tails of the white coat that hung loose from her shoulders. She looked down. Baggy pants, several sizes too big, were cinched to her waist with a belt that was punched through well beyond the original buckle holes. The tail of the belt dangled to mid-thigh. The white coat, like the ones the doctors wore, covered the pants down to her knees.
She pulled out on the coat lapels and gazed downward. She didn't have anything on underneath. No shirt. No bra. She released the lapels like they were hot. A badge caught her attention, pinned just above the left breast pocket. She pulled it out and twisted it. "Dr. Wilhelmina Smetzer." She'd heard the name. She looked around again as a car blew past on the opposite side of the road.

How had she escaped from Imola, and how had she ended up here, so far from anything resembling civilization? And whose pants was she wearing? The gaps in her memory triggered a painful thought. Where was Lilin, and what had she done?

She looked back. A car appeared in the distance, getting larger.
Put out your thumb.

Agnes jumped. She'd never hitchhiked. Even during her college years.
Put it out. Now.

Her arm rose. Her thumb was limp, barely projecting from her fist.

The car slowed and went past. The brake lights flared against the low morning sun and the car swiveled onto the shoulder, raising a cloud of dust. White lights went on next to the red ones, and the car shot backward toward her. It skidded to a stop just short of where she stood. She watched the driver lean over, the passenger door open.

Hurry. Get in.

Agnes walked up to the open door and bent over to peek in. She remembered she was braless as her coat fell away from her chest, and she pulled her arms up to press the fabric against her chest. The driver was young, maybe ten years her junior.

"Where you going?" he said.

"Santa Rosa," she said without hesitation. She didn't know why it had come out, but it had. There was no deliberation.

Good girl.

The man patted the seat. "I'm going to Cotati. I go to school at Sonoma State. I can take you that far."

Agnes swiveled into the seat and clicked the seat belt. The driver's jackrabbit take-off flung the door closed.

"Name's Roger." He held out a hand.

Agnes shook it. "Agnes."

Don't use your real name.

He pointed at the name tag. "Agnes?"

She looked down, and her next inhalation caught in her throat. She felt like she was going to cry. The next breath came easier, and she held it. And exhaled. "Would you go by Wilhelmina?"

Roger laughed. "Are you a doctor?"

She looked down again.

Ph.D.

"Not really. I'm a psychologist."

"A hitchhiking psychologist. That's a good one. Out in the middle of Sears Point Road?"

Your car broke down.

"My car broke down."

"Where? I didn't see a car."

"A ways back. I pulled if off the road a bit. I've been walking for almost an hour."

"It would have been closer to go back the other way."

Change the subject.

Agnes shifted in the seat. "What's your major?"

He looked over and smiled. "I'm in the honors program. I get to design my own program of study. It's called interdisciplinary studies. I'm combining biology with philosophy and ethics. With the new genetics and molecular techniques, legal and ethical problems are popping up by the bushel. I'll probably go to graduate school after I finish. The University of Chicago has a great program. Either that or law school."

Agnes didn't want him to stop talking. She wanted time to speed up, the miles to fly by. She wanted out of the car. A trickle of sweat bubbled on her forehead. She felt dizzy, like she was going to throw up. She swallowed hard.
Not now. Get control.

Roger looked over. "Are you all right?"

"I'm not feeling too good."

He pushed a button and her window whirred down. "Maybe some air will help. Do you want me to pull over?"

The breeze caught her breath, and the nausea receded. "No. Thank you."

"Let me know if you do. I just got the car." He patted the steering wheel. It was one of the new Volkswagen Bugs, metallic silver. An artificial flower stuck up from the dashboard, nodding with each bump like a bobblehead doll.
Agnes smiled. "I'm all right now." She pushed her window button and stopped it when the window was an inch from the top.

They skirted the northern reaches of San Pablo Bay, crossed a small bridge, and lost sight of the water. Roger turned on a small, paved road and headed inland. "I use the back roads from here. It cuts about fifteen miles off the trip." The road wandered between shacks, undeveloped hills, and a few scattered ranches. They picked up a slough for a short time and then left the water for good. Oak trees appeared again, with dense stands of eucalyptus.
The smell of freshly cut grass came and went.

The road narrowed a little, and signs of habitation thinned. Roger guided the VW on the curvy road like he'd designed it.

Say you're going to be sick. Now.

Agnes looked at Roger, then at the road. She swallowed hard.

Do it. Now. Have him pull off the road.

Agnes rolled down her window.

Hurry.

She mopped her forehead. "I'm sorry, but I think I'm getting ill. Could you pull over? I don't want to mess up your new car."

Roger accelerated. "There's a small dirt road just ahead. Can you hold it?"
Agnes nodded and put her hand to her mouth.

He hit the brakes hard and nearly slid into a ditch that guarded the double-rutted road. He was ten yards off the main road before he pumped the VW to a stop.

Agnes unclipped her seat belt and threw open the door. She staggered from the car.

Farther away.

She walked into the thigh-high brush and crested a small rise.

Farther.

She walked a few steps and hunched over. The Volkswagen was no longer in view. She crouched. And waited.

Take off the coat.

Agnes hesitated. She didn't have anything on underneath.

Take it off and kneel on it. Bend over like you're sick.

Agnes slipped the coat off and spread it on the dry, grass-like weeds, pressing them to the ground. She put her knees on the coat and turned to look in the direction of the Volkswagen. No movement.

A voice startled her. "Are you all right?"

Say no.

She tried to speak, but nothing came out. She was feeling sick, for real this time.

"Agnes?"

Ask for help.

She suppressed a retch and burped. If she opened her mouth, she wasn't sure what would come out.

Say it.

She took in a deep breath. "Can you help me?"

Now, bend over. Hands and knees.

Agnes fell forward, onto her hands. A light breeze gave her a chill.

She heard Roger's footsteps crest the rise, then stop. "Are you all . . ."

Agnes held her position. Her breasts dangled in full view. "I need help."

Roger walked over. His steps were slow.

Cautious?

"I have a blanket in the car."

No.

"No. I'm feeling better now. Can you help me get up?"

Roger didn't move.

Agnes peeked at him. "I'm sorry. This must look really strange. I'm really feeling weak."

The right coat pocket. Get it.

Roger stepped forward.

Agnes's hand slipped into a pocket of the splayed coat. It was empty.

The other one.

She fumbled with the fabric. Where was the other pocket?

Find it.

Roger's foot crunched a twig, close by.

Agnes jumped as her hand found the other pocket.

Grab it.

She reached inside.

Roger leaned over, his voice close. "Here. Take my hand."

She felt a knife--a folded pocketknife, larger than a Swiss Army knife. A single blade bulged from the handle.

Open it.

"Agnes?"

Agnes? No. Not now. Don't go away on me.

Roger touched her shoulder. "Here. Take my hand."

Don't go away. We can do it together. I'll help. You'll learn. We need to do it.

She turned and grabbed his hand. When he pulled, she rose in one quick motion and threw her arms around his shoulders, pressing her breasts into his chest.

Her hands met behind him and pulled on the knife blade.

His hands wrapped around her hips. He held the hug.

Take off his shirt.

Agnes shifted the knife to her right hand and grabbed the edge of his sweatshirt with her left and lifted. He leaned back and crossed his arms, grabbing the lower edges of the sweatshirt. He pulled it over his head and peeled it from his arms in a quick motion. Agnes kept the knife hand behind his back.

She grabbed the sweatshirt, tossed it to the ground, and pressed back into the hug. She felt his warmth against her breasts.

Agnes. We can do it. We'll do it fast. You'll like it. A quick slash. We have to go deep. In the neck.

She tightened her hug, and he responded by dropping his right hand around the curve of her left buttock.

It's okay. We can do it together. Just stay with me. I want you to see it this time. How easy it is. You'll love the feeling. The power.

She brought her left hand to his right cheek and stroked his jaw. He dropped his left hand onto her butt and pulled her abdomen tight against his.

She grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head to the side. Hard. She hesitated. Her mind flashed on the doctor shows. The initial incision.

It's okay. I'll do it.

The knife blade flashed in the sun as it dug into Roger's neck.