Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 18

Maxwell was bending over, clumsily taking off his pants. Something joggled her as she watched him. He had slim legs. His jockey shorts looked tight on his slim b.u.t.tocks.

Was it spontaneity? She thought it must be something even less complex-her own una.s.surance of herself, or of her desires. "Maxwell," she said. "You have a great a.s.s."

"Oh, yeah?" He looked over his shoulder, still bent, as he slipped off his underpants. "Women tell me that all the time." Then he stripped off his s.h.i.+rt and cast it to the floor. Kathleen's toes dawdled in the carpet. She was staring at him.

"I thought you just wanted to sleep," he said.

"Well, I guess I changed my mind," she said.

The next procession of minutes didn't seem like time at all. She leaned up to look, she liked to look at him. It made her happy to see his mouth burrowed in the fur of her s.e.x, and happier still to feel him. The wet sensation bloomed, sending antsy s.h.i.+vers up her stomach. She cradled the back of his head and sighed.

Next he stood up right in front her, brazenly naked, his p.e.n.i.s erect before her face. "I want you to put it on me," he whispered. He placed a condom packet in her hands.

When she opened it and began to slide it down, she thought what silly things they were. Rubbers. Even the name was silly. She could smell the gritty scent of the lubricant.

"Okay, now," he said. He sat down on the edge of the bed. "This is a special technique I read about. You're supposed to sit on me, like this."

His hands guided her hips. She sat down in his lap, facing him. She put her arms around his neck, wrapped her legs around his back.

His p.e.n.i.s slipped right into her, to the base.

"Maxwell, this is kind of-"

"It's called the Vertical Pelvic Alignment Technique. It's supposed to ensure female o.r.g.a.s.m."

"Yeah, really?" It felt weird just...sitting on him. "Are you making this up?"

"No. I read about it in a magazine. You'll never guess which one."

"What, Penthouse Penthouse?"

"'90s Woman."

G.o.d knew, he probably had. Maybe one day I'll start to read the magazine I write for, Maybe one day I'll start to read the magazine I write for, she thought. But this "technique..." she thought. But this "technique..."

"Aren't we supposed to, like, you know..."

"No," he said, "not according to the article. We're just supposed to hold each other and rock back and forth a little."

She felt like a monkey wrapped around a tree. Maxwell gently rocked her, running his hands up and down her back, kissing her shoulder and up under her throat.

At first it seemed awkward just sitting on him like this. A moment later, though, it began to feel...nice.

He wasn't thrusting at all. He was just in her. As they rocked, her pubis rubbed against his. Oh, G.o.d Oh, G.o.d, she thought. Soon she was feeling things she'd never felt before-soft lovely waves diced by knifelike flashes of heat.

"Doesn't this feel good?"

"Yes," she nearly gulped into his ear. She clung to his neck, wrapped her legs tighter. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s pressed flat against his chest, the nipples p.r.i.c.kling. Maxwell lowered his arms to gird her waist, and the slow, deep gyrations of their hips intensified. The combination of feelings-his p.e.n.i.s all the way up in her, and her pubis steadily rubbing against his-induced a delicious hot churning sensation, spreading upward. Moments later she was mad for the contact, driven for it; she held him tighter and gyrated her b.u.t.tocks more quickly in his lap.

"Kathleen..."

"Maxwell," she panted, "I'm going to-"

"I want you to."

Her o.r.g.a.s.m seemed to implode. It knocked the wind out of her and filled her with dense, earthy heat. Fervid contractions went off like bombs as Maxwell continued rocking her, her pubis rubbing, rubbing, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s hot and squashed to his chest. Each time she thought it would end, another contraction seized her, every nerve alight. In spite of the condom, she felt Maxwell come too; his breath raged into her bosom as his arms went rigid about her waist. They fell back onto the bed, spent, coc.o.o.ned in one another.

"I really do love you," he whispered.

Kathleen couldn't move, she could only lie there splayed on him. She couldn't have said a word even if she'd wanted to.

Asleep, she dreamed. The darkness dripped or ticked. The faceless figure, the abbess of the nightmare, leaned over. The pictures glared, the snake coursing toward her open s.e.x as she lay in naked paresis on the bed.

"Embrace your hatred," the figure said.

In the first picture, the snake's big angled head was just nudging into the opening of her s.e.x.

And in each succeeding picture the snake burrowed deeper, deeper- She awoke shrieking. Maxwell quickly turned on the light and held her, stroking her hair. "It's all right," he whispered. "It was just a dream, just a dream."

Her eyes felt lidless. She s.h.i.+vered in the heat.

"Kathleen, you have to tell me what's wrong. You can't keep it in anymore. It's tearing you up... Tell me."

Minutes ticked by in his embrace. Her coat of sweat felt like paste. Eventually she said, "A serial killer has been in contact with me for about a week."

(III).

Skulls mean death, her mother whispers. her mother whispers.

The heavy revolver feels light in her hand.

It was Daddy's gun, big, awkward.

She found it in the closet a long time ago, the same week- Skulls mean death, her mother repeats, interrupting. her mother repeats, interrupting.

The Cross s.h.i.+nes in The Window.

His face looks like a skull.

"What are you do-"

She can sense her mother's smile behind her at The Window.

The black man is shackled to the bed.

Daddy's Room used to be a den. Where Daddy's friends would do things to her and her mother. It's a mock bedroom now. It's where Daddy f.u.c.ked her all those times. It's the room with The Window. This is where she sleeps now. Often on bloodcrusted sheets. Sometimes she even sleeps with the corpses the night before she gets rid of them. She has to sleep here. So she can see The Cross in The Window.

"You are one crazy psycho bit-"

"Shut up," she says to the black man.

Then: "Creamy," the black man says vaguely. "You have something to do with Creamy, don't you? The cops are looking for her."

"Of course they are. When did the police talk to you?"

"Last night."

"Who?"

She puts the big gun to his head.

"Who talked to you?"

"A guy named Spence."

Spence, she thinks.

She'll have to remember that.

"What are you-" The black man tenses up against his restraints.

She Amytals him with a 3cc LuerLok disposable syringe.

Then she gets ready for the rest.

Chapter 16.

(I).

Maxwell saved the rampage 'til next morning. Kathleen smirked at him as he stomped circles around the living room. "You're moving," he said. "You'll move in with me."

"Maxwell, I'm not ready for that. I-"

"Don't argue with me!" he suddenly yelled. "A killer knows where you live, for G.o.d's sake!"

She crinkled her nose, sipping tea. He shouldn't yell. "I'm not moving," she proclaimed. "It isn't necessary. I refuse to be run out of my home. Besides, there's an undercover policeman in the parking lot day and night."

Maxwell peered skeptically out the slider. "I don't see any f.u.c.king undercover policeman."

It was the first real cuss word she'd heard him say, and it immediately disappointed her. "Don't cuss, Maxwell. It's so inarticulate. And there is an undercover policeman out there. Spence said he's in a surveillance car or something."

"Who the h.e.l.l's Spence!" Maxwell yelled.

Kathleen flinched. "He's the detective running the case. You saw him-the guy at the writers' lecture."

"And-what?" He leaned over, to stare at her. "This killer wants you to write a book about her?"

Kathleen slumped on the couch. "Yes, Maxwell. She's sending me accounts of her murders. I'm going to intersperse the accounts with commentary, psychiatric and sociological a.n.a.lysis. If the police catch her, hopefully I'll be able to interview her. It'll be a good book."

Maxwell was rubbing his chin, looking sourly contemplative. "Accounts? She's sent you accounts of her murders?"

"Yes, Maxwell. That's what I said."

"Let me see them."

This request-or demand-locked her up. No, she could never show him the chapters the killer had sent. He'd be disgusted, horrified...

"No," she said.

"No? What do you mean no?"

Kathleen faintly smiled. "The word denotes a negation, denial, or disagreement. It's an adverb."

"Don't be funny," Maxwell said. "Where are the accounts? In your desk?"

"No," she said.

"They're in your desk, aren't they?" He trod to the desk, began rummaging through the drawers. "I'll find 'em."

"Get out of there!" Kathleen shouted.

"Make me."

"You're so juvenile! You have no right to go through my desk!"

"I have every right," he muttered. "You have no idea what you may be getting yourself into." He paused, his mouth turning down. He held up a sheaf of papers. "Is this them? 'Initiatory Rites? Childhood Memories?'"

"No."

"This is them." He sat down and began to read.

"Don't read it!" she yelled. "It's-"

"Be quiet so I can concentrate, huh?"