Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 22

Maxwell's gape lengthened as he glimpsed her through the opened door. Dark smudges underscored bloodshot eyes like soot. She'd been crying. Her hair reminded him of a clump of tentacles.

"I must look like s.h.i.+t," she said and let him in.

"Well..."

Inside was hotter even than outside; it was like stepping into clay oven. "Kathleen," he tried not to complain too pointedly. He turned on the airconditioning and began closing the windows. "You're going to cook in this heat."

"I like it when it's hot," she said, meandering to the couch. "Heat absolves me."

Maxwell made a frown like sucking lemons. "Absolves you of what?"

"Lots of things," Kathleen muttered.

Maxwell refrained from further comment. It saddened him-and made him mad-to see her like this: doleful, saturnine. What the h.e.l.l is wrong now? What the h.e.l.l is wrong now? he wondered. He left her to close the bedroom window, and found the radio on. Some talk show psychiatrist was counseling a caller in a voice like an alien radio transmission: "-history of mankind is more proof than we'll ever need. s.e.xual hara.s.sment is culturally and historically allinclusive. We as women must never forget that it is not a privilege but a basic human right to live free of all manner of s.e.xual hara.s.sment. And I don't just mean in the workplace-I mean at home, on the street, in the bedroom. When we watch television, when we read, when we go to the movie theater or listen to music. Through centuries of subjugation, the male s.e.xual hierarchy has evolved into a monster of diabolical proportions." The counselor lapsed into a heated pause. "When we succ.u.mb to the monster, we fail in all that we are. We must never succ.u.mb to the monster of male exploitation." he wondered. He left her to close the bedroom window, and found the radio on. Some talk show psychiatrist was counseling a caller in a voice like an alien radio transmission: "-history of mankind is more proof than we'll ever need. s.e.xual hara.s.sment is culturally and historically allinclusive. We as women must never forget that it is not a privilege but a basic human right to live free of all manner of s.e.xual hara.s.sment. And I don't just mean in the workplace-I mean at home, on the street, in the bedroom. When we watch television, when we read, when we go to the movie theater or listen to music. Through centuries of subjugation, the male s.e.xual hierarchy has evolved into a monster of diabolical proportions." The counselor lapsed into a heated pause. "When we succ.u.mb to the monster, we fail in all that we are. We must never succ.u.mb to the monster of male exploitation."

"What good is that?" a caller retorted. Her voice, as distant as the psychiatrist's, mixed rage with sobs. "I have two kids and a dead husband. I gotta car that breaks down every week and I can barely even afford the lot rental for my trailer. I have to feed my children tuna fish and crackers every night for G.o.d's sake. If I don't have s.e.x with my boss, he'll give that raise to someone else."

"Don't succ.u.mb," the counselor insisted. "Report the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"Oh, come on! I'm so sick of hearing that. I can't prove it; it's my word against his. Who are they going to believe?"

The counselor had no answer.

"G.o.d." The caller broke into quiet sobs. "It isn't fair."

"No, no it's not."

Maxwell silenced the radio. No answers for anything, No answers for anything, he mused. He was tired of hearing sad things, of people taken advantage of, of souls in turmoil. Despair, it seemed, flourished without surcease, even in the airwaves, and in the dead s.p.a.ce of the ether. he mused. He was tired of hearing sad things, of people taken advantage of, of souls in turmoil. Despair, it seemed, flourished without surcease, even in the airwaves, and in the dead s.p.a.ce of the ether.

He slammed closed the window, sealing out the heat. It would take all night for the apartment to get cool, hot as it was. Unnamed distresses plucked at his nerves like pizzicato. When he went back out to the living room, and asked Kathleen what was wrong, she told him that her uncle was out of prison.

He sat with her on the couch, all the lights off but one. He held her hand as he listened. Her hand felt dry, cool. "At first I thought Spence might be lying," she said. "It's almost like I'm his enemy; for some reason he goes out of his way to keep me on edge, to keep me in pieces."

"The a.s.shole," Maxwell articulated. "But maybe he is is lying. Isn't that possible?" lying. Isn't that possible?"

"No." She craned her head back on the couch, looking up at the ceiling. "I called the prison. There's some new earlyrelease program they're doing, to save money. They're cycling people in and out of there like it's a G.o.dd.a.m.n voting booth. Uncle Sammy was paroled yesterday afternoon. They said he was a model prisoner." She gave a faint, dark chuckle. "Good behavior, they said."

Maxwell cringed for something to say to console her. But nothing came-nothing, at least, that wasn't a lie. What could he say? Don't worry, Kathleen, it's all right? It wasn't all right. You'll forget all about him? She'd never forget, never. How could she?

He wondered what he'd done to her-some obsidian inquisitor in him, with no heart. She'd only implied thus far, never exacting upon details. He thought of dredgers. He thought of rocks turned over to reveal slug slime and nests of worms. No, No, he realized. he realized. I don't want to know. I never want to know. I don't want to know. I never want to know.

But then she told him anyway, as though fate-or premonition-had posted challenge to his negation. It all poured out of her-the blackest ichor tapped through the wounds her uncle had lain into her spirit.

"He'd always call it Sleepytime-that was his cue. He always spoke very quietly and repet.i.tively. He said that there were special secret things that uncles and little girls were supposed to do together. That's why G.o.d made uncles, he said. To show little girls the special Secret Things. It was a special secret from G.o.d and if I ever told anyone, bad things would happen to me, but little girls who kept the secret would always be happy, and good things would always happen to them and their loved ones." Kathleen's eyes remained riveted upward, to the ceiling. She seemed to never blink at all. "He'd always be talking to me while he was doing it, it was always the same quiet voice. He'd be asking me about school, and about my friends. He'd always repeat key words at particular times. He bought me one of those cat clocks, where the tail and the eyes move back and forth, and he'd always position me so that I'd be looking at the clock while he was doing it. It was always from behind, and he'd always move with the rhythm of the clock. The therapist told me years later that he was actually using some fairly advanced hypnotic techniques, an integral system of vocal and kinesthetic reinforcements combined with subliminal persuasion methods."

Monster, Maxwell thought. Pure, unadulterated evil. He was going to tell her not to say anymore, that she didn't have to, but then he quickly realized how essential it was for her to go on. If she didn't get these things out of her, they'd turn to rot in her soul. She'd been left to sit alone with her past now. The savior therapists were long gone-there was only Maxwell, who sat immobile as she continued in a voice like crust, like gravel. Maxwell thought. Pure, unadulterated evil. He was going to tell her not to say anymore, that she didn't have to, but then he quickly realized how essential it was for her to go on. If she didn't get these things out of her, they'd turn to rot in her soul. She'd been left to sit alone with her past now. The savior therapists were long gone-there was only Maxwell, who sat immobile as she continued in a voice like crust, like gravel.

"Sammy never had a fixed place of residence. Evidently he was always going back and forth to New Jersey. He told my father he was involved in some commercial real estate investments; what he was really doing was running kiddie p.o.r.n masters from Jersey to some duplication facility here. But whenever my father was away on business-at least a half dozen times a year, sometimes for weeks at a time-Sammy would live at the house, take me to and from school, take care of the bills, etc. He was always very gentle, he was always very careful with my body. He used contraceptive jelly and a variety of lubricants. He'd always rub up against me at first-he never let me see him. That's another thing the therapists said was typical among expert pedophiles. He'd always insert himself in me from behind. He didn't begin to sodomize me 'til I was older, like 13, 14, but it was always from behind so I'd have to see the clock, the eyes and the tail ticking back and forth. He never came in me-I think he was really afraid that I might get pregnant, especially when I got older."

Maxwell morosely remembered what she'd told him a few nights ago: that though her uncle's abuse of her had started when she was nine, it had continued into her late teens. How many times? How many times? the morbid inquiry occurred to him. How many times had her uncle raped her? the morbid inquiry occurred to him. How many times had her uncle raped her? Hundreds, probably, Hundreds, probably, he realized. he realized. Over all those years? Yes, it had to be. Hundreds of times. Over all those years? Yes, it had to be. Hundreds of times.

"He never came in me," Kathleen repeated. Either tears or perspiration sparkled on her cheek. Her hand tightened in Maxwell's; her gaze remained upward. "It was always the same, the clock eyes switching back and forth with the thrusts, the soft ticking sound and his soft voice behind me in the dark." Now she closed her eyes, squeezing something back. "His voice was so light, so gentle. He'd always say the same thing. 'Almost, almost- Here,' he'd say and then he'd pull out of me and he'd grab my hand and gently guide it behind me and he'd wrap my hand around his p.e.n.i.s, he'd jerk himself off with my hand."

Maxwell exerted himself to try and decipher how she felt and what she was thinking whenever her uncle did this to her, but a void swelled in his mind, a wasteland.

"'Almost, almost- Here,'" she whispered. Then she leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, and she fell silent.

Whatever a spirit really was-Maxwell's plummeted, a stone dropped into a bottomless fissure. Was it the world that had created her uncle? Was it sociology, environment, and chemical brain defects? Or was it simply evil? If the latter, then what had created Maxwell, and the thoughts that now surged in him? In a fantasy, or a vision, he could easily picture himself killing Uncle Sammy, sticking his .38 right into the guy's ear and dropping the hammer. It would be easy. You're a poet, not a hitman, You're a poet, not a hitman, he reminded himself when the image faded. But how was he supposed to feel, after hearing this? Was it evil to want to exterminate someone like Kathleen's uncle? he reminded himself when the image faded. But how was he supposed to feel, after hearing this? Was it evil to want to exterminate someone like Kathleen's uncle?

He waited a long time before he spoke. He sat with his arm around her, thinking and giving her time to calm down. She may even have dozed off for a few minutes.

When she stirred, he reached for the Blockbuster bag.

"What did you bring?" she said. "Videos?"

"Not quite." The bag sat in his lap like something stillborn. "I don't know how you feel about this, but this killer thing has me really worried-the fact that she's writing to you, that she knows your address. And now, with your uncle out of prison, I guess that's one more thing to worry about. That's why I brought this."

"What is it?"

"A gun," Maxwell said. "I mean, you need some kind of protection, don't you? More than some cop in the parking lot who's probably asleep if he's there at all."

"I don't know anything about guns," Kathleen replied, leaning up to look at the bag. "And the killer will never come here. She's deliberately leaving the bodies where the police can find them. She knows the police are well aware of her, and she's smart enough to suspect that they're staking out my apartment. She'll never come here, Maxwell."

"Okay, maybe she won't. But what if your Uncle Sammy does?"

Her refusal to answer was answer enough. She was looking at the bag, at the strange edges formed by its contents.

"I don't think it's a good idea," she eventually said.

"I want you to have it," he persisted. "Just to be safe."

"It's not a good idea. I-" Her voice wandered. "Because if my uncle actually did come here, I'd probably kill him."

So would I, Maxwell thought. Maxwell thought. I'd f.u.c.king kill him. I'd f.u.c.king kill him.

Chapter 20.

(I).

She wonders what it would be like to pull out his eyes with Duplay 3p.r.o.ng cervical forceps.

Or exsanguinate him with an arterial catheter.

Or do a torso job on him.

These are good ideas.

You'll have to remember them, she thinks.

"So why'd you miss your s.h.i.+ft last night?"

The night physical plant manager is fat and bald.

He's scribbling on papers at his desk.

"I forgot I was on the schedule," she says.

"Forgot?"

He has a dark mustache like a caterpillar.

His nose is full of tiny broken veins.

She could cut his nose off with the StilleListon bonecutters.

Are you going to fire me? she wonders. she wonders. Suspend me? Suspend me?

"Don't worry about it," he huffs, never looking up. "Just don't let it happen again."

"I won't."

"I'll mark it off as a vacation day."

"Thank you."

This is very nice of him.

But she still would like to pull his eyes out with the Duplay 3p.r.o.ng cervical forceps.

Later she's downstairs with her cleaning cart.

The ER is empty.

People must not be killing each other tonight, she thinks.

Sometimes she gets depressed.

She wishes she could just sleep and maybe never wake up.

Why are you sad? her mother asks. her mother asks.

"I don't know."

"What?" asks an xray tech coming out of the staff elevator.

"I was just thinking out loud," she says.

I was just thinking about maybe doing a torso job on you. I'd put S,K,&F tourniquets on your arms and legs and then saw them off. I did that once. I'd like to do it to you.

The technician is gone.

She feels better when some EMTs wheel in a bleeding black man on a gurney.

The man is screaming in gusts.

There's a bandage taped to his head, and he's screaming.

A crash nurse takes the bandage off to change it.

There's a small bullet hole in the man's head.

Blood is jumping out of the hole.

In moments several masked doctors are surrounding the man.

"Heart rate's saying byebye," one doctor says.

"Code Blue!" another yells.

They converge on the man to revive him.

Prod paddles slide briskly over Redux conductant paste.

"Charge up!"

"Clear!"

The LIFEPAK 4 defibrillator buzzes, then thunks.

After five attempts someone says, "School's out."

"Been a veggie anyway. Christ, they execute each other in the street these days."

"So what? Saves tax dollars. These gunshot players we see every night? They're all on welfare, they're all knocking each other off in drug deals."

"Come on," one of the doctors objects. "How do you know this guy's on welfare? What, just because he's black means he's on welfare? Just because he's black means he got shot in a drug deal?"

"He got popped in the head with an SNS, for Christ's sake. And 10toone when you read about it in the Metro section tomorrow, it won't even say he's black. If you say he's black, then that's considered racist."

"You're the racist, Mike. Jesus-"