Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 25

"There's a penalty on early withdrawal," the teller, a longfaced but otherwise attractive brunette, informed him.

"I don't care." He closed one certificate and transferred it to savings, then withdrew 15,000 in cash. So what if he lost a little interest? As the teller commenced with the transaction, Sammy spied school snapshots of her children on her cubby wall. Cute kids Cute kids, he thought. And mama's making another one. And mama's making another one. The teller was pregnant. It reminded him of some of the flicks he'd made. The teller was pregnant. It reminded him of some of the flicks he'd made. Natal Attraction, Natal Attraction, one was called. A couple of logboys doublef.u.c.king some c.o.kedup blonde who was so pregnant she looked like she might break her water before the c.u.mshot. Sammy's circuit produced all kinds of stuff-what the feds called "Underground," the stuff you couldn't get from an ad in one was called. A couple of logboys doublef.u.c.king some c.o.kedup blonde who was so pregnant she looked like she might break her water before the c.u.mshot. Sammy's circuit produced all kinds of stuff-what the feds called "Underground," the stuff you couldn't get from an ad in Hustler Hustler. Animal tapes, "wet" S&M, rape loops, a little snuff. But most of the circuit's orders were for kp. A lot of it came from the Netherlands; the rest they made themselves in the Jersey suburbs. None of the point people wanted the s.h.i.+t from Mexico and South America. They wanted white kids. Private mail drops paid as much as a grand for a 15minute 3/4inch master if the resolution was good; from there they made ma.s.sduplications at each point. A mob guy named Vinchetti ran the works. His net duped a few hundred masters per month, and each dupe was ordered hundreds of times. Big money. Sammy was a production man and a mule; each month he'd drive up to Jersey with orders from the D.C. region, he'd help make the videos, then he'd transport the masters back to D.C. They paid well, a couple of grand per run, but Sammy wasn't in it just for the money.

He liked to see the s.h.i.+t.

The down and dirty, ballbusting s.h.i.+t...

Many a time he'd held the lights while Vinchetti's crew had done a snuff or a wet S&M job on some Jersey junkie. Many a time he'd been cameraman for such bits of cinematic excellence as My Lover, My Trunk My Lover, My Trunk; La.s.sie's Lucky Day La.s.sie's Lucky Day; Legless in Seattle Legless in Seattle; Fist Party Fist Party; Suzy Likes Showers Suzy Likes Showers. Sammy got a real charge seeing what adults would do when they were desperate. That was it: he liked to see see.

And sometimes Vinchetti's men would let him do more than see.

But kp was different-that was Sammy's special thing. He'd never hurt the kids. He'd loved them, that was all. n.o.body ever understood that...

The prosecutors had finished him; Sammy didn't stand a chance when they started showing some of the kp flicks to the jury, and Kathleen's decadeold testimony against him had only driven a few more nails in the legal coffin. They even pa.s.sed his private photos around, and the kiddie mags he was in. Sammy'd ratted out most of the points, the main labs and warehouses on the east coast, and all over Vinchetti's distro drops. PC was part of the deal, plus they'd dropped most of the federal charges. He could spin or he could take 50 years in general pop with no parole. Same as a death sentence...

"Thank you," Sammy said to the teller when she gave him his withdrawal. His gaze flicked to the snapshots of her kids. "You have beautiful children," he said.

Later he was on the road. Sammy's slam allowed convicts to keep their driver's licenses valid as long as you were eligible for parole within five years of beginning your stint. He paid five large for a used Caddie ragtop, bought temp tags and insurance through DCAIF at the dealer's. So what if the cops knew he bought a car? I'm a citizen now, not a convict, I'm a citizen now, not a convict, he affirmed. he affirmed.

It was great to be out on the open road again. He stopped by Big Ben Liquors and bought a cold case. Then he cruised up New York Avenue and booked a room at the Senator.

He wasn't stupid. Sooner or later someone in the net would get wind he was out of stir. Then Vinchetti would put a highfivefigure contract out on him. But Sammy planned to be out of the country long before then.

He just had a few things to do first.

Chapter 22.

(I).

Kathleen hated going to Spence's office. The afternoon traffic was bad enough, and finding a close place to park. But what she disliked further was the office itself-the drab little vault where the sun always seemed to glare in her eyes. Its compactness made Spence, a large man, appear larger. Again, she thought of golems, with hearts and faces of riverbed clay. But better she come to him than he to her, to comment on her housekeeping talents.

"Don't you have a fax machine or email or something?" she asked after being invited through the frostedgla.s.s door.

Spence didn't look up. "Of course. Law enforcement agency use only..." He was reading. "Another ma.n.u.script?"

"'Rome, the pimp." She put the envelope on his desk. "Here are the originals."

"Express Mail," Spence noted. "That's interesting. A different mode of delivery each time."

"Aren't you going to read it?"

"No. I already know what happened to 'Rome. I'll read it later, then send it to our forensic psychiatrist. Right now, however, and as you can see, I'm quite busy with some rather dull periodicals."

The desk was a welter of magazines. Closer study showed her that Spence had procured several dozen back issues of '90s Woman. '90s Woman. "Read carefully. You might learn something." "Read carefully. You might learn something."

"Unlikely. I'm looking for the nascent."

"The what?" Kathleen asked.

"For a writer you don't have much of a vocabulary. Don't you know what nascent means?"

"No, but I know what pedantry means. And specious and pernicious and part.i.tivious. And here's another word I know. a.s.shole." She quickly raised a finger. "Oh, and one more. d.i.c.kbrain."

"Nascent," Spence said with no rebuff. "The focal point by which the killer's identification with you came into development. She feels linked, specifically, to you; otherwise she'd be sending her accounts to someone else. I need to know why. Why you? I need to know the nascent." His large, manicured hands gestured the piles of magazines. "It's got to be here, in your writing. There's no other place it could be. There's no other way that the killer could form a sense of identification with you."

Spence was right, but his point went without saying. Kathleen was about to suggest that perhaps it was her wisdom that appealed to the killer, her apt.i.tude in a.n.a.lyzing problems and rendering credible advice. Spence, however, didn't give her the chance. "But this is all so tawdry," he continued. "Boyfriend problems, infertility and impotence, domestic duress, jealousy. It's all the same. I don't see anything in your column that's even close to being intricate enough to transfix a psychopath. This is all so rudimentary, biased, shallow." Spence shook his head in long, slow movements.

"I'm not going to respond to that," Kathleen said. "Because you want me to."

"I could care less what you respond to."

Kathleen turned for the door- "Don't leave yet. I want to talk to you about-"

-she opened the door- "-your uncle."

Kathleen closed the door. Of course Of course, she thought. He always does this. He always does this. She turned and looked at him, and didn't say anything. She turned and looked at him, and didn't say anything.

"Did you know your uncle has almost half a million dollars in the bank?"

"Inheritance," Kathleen explained. "Shortly before Sam got arrested, my grandfather died; he and my father inherited mineral properties. Sam sold my father his shares and invested it all in tbills or something."

"Graduated CDs," Spence corrected.

"Anyway, I thought I already told you that."

Spence reflected. "All that money, yet no home."

"What did he need a home for?" Kathleen suggested. "When my father was away on business, he stayed at our house-"

"To look after you," Spence augmented.

"-and the rest of the time he was..."

"Making underground p.o.r.nography, mostly of the child variety. Then he'd transport the masters to a mob lab here in D.C. He was smart, actually, in not maintaining a permanent address. It made it harder for Justice to bag him. Unfortunately it makes it that much harder for us, now, to keep track of him." Spence's eyes met Kathleen's for the first time since she'd arrived. "He's in town. That much we do know."

"Why are you telling me this?" By now Kathleen's hatred-yes, she thought she could call it that-held itself in check, like a steady pulse. "I know, Spence," she said. "You keep bringing up my uncle because you think it upsets me, knocks me off balance. You want me off balance, don't you? You think it gives you power over me."

"That's the most ludicrous drivel I've ever heard in my life," Spence very calmly retorted. "I thought I was doing you a favor-"

Kathleen jiggled with laughter.

"-by keeping you informed of a matter that concerns you, and, hopefully, to make you aware of the probability that your uncle is someone you'll never have to worry about again."

This flummoxed her. What did he mean? "Explain," she said.

Spence shot a cuff out of a fine charcoalgray suit, to realign a gold cufflink. "I don't expect you to be wellversed in the machineries of child p.o.r.nography. The reason your uncle skated on the federal charges was due to a plea bargain. So was his parole eligibility. He sang like a canary, in other words. Child p.o.r.nography is almost entirely moboperated. Your uncle stepped on a lot of big toes. The information he gave the feds closed down the east coast kiddie p.o.r.n network for months."

"What's that got to do with my uncle not bothering me anymore?"

"He won't have time," Spence said. "Organized crime takes care of its own. Ever heard the term Philly Shooters? It's not a drink. Your uncle knows full well that people will be gunning for him real soon."

"What, you mean like a.s.sa.s.sins?" The notion was hard to swallow. It was something that happened in Coppola movies. Hit men?

"Sure," Spence said. "He's a marked man. It'll only be a matter of days before he leaves the country. Mexico. Costa Rica. Some place like that. We're watching his account. Today he withdrew $15,000, to get ready. When he withdraws the rest of it, that means he's making his move." This delighted Kathleen on one hand, yet enraged her on another. It didn't seem fair: Uncle Sammy fleeing to a life of luxury with a suitcase full of cash. He was a childmolester, for G.o.d's sake. "Can't you stop him?" she insisted. "Freeze his account or something?"

Spence shook his head. "As far as our judicial system is concerned, Samuel Curtis Shade has paid his debt to society. And we can't freeze bank accounts unless they're comprised of illgotten gains. Your uncle's money is free and legal." He looked at her a moment, cruxed. "You should be pleased. You'll never see him again. Unless he's very stupid."

"In what way?"

"He's on parole. If he does anything-anything at all-that violates his earlyrelease orders, he's back in the Cement Ramada. That includes going anywhere near you, hara.s.sing you in any way, breaking the law in any way."

It still p.i.s.ses me off, Kathleen thought. Something itched at her, deep in her heart. But at least she could work on the book now without any worries about Sammy. Kathleen thought. Something itched at her, deep in her heart. But at least she could work on the book now without any worries about Sammy.

"And speaking of breaking the law," Spence added, "did you know that citizen handgun possession is illegal in the District of Columbia? Did you know that it's a felony?"

Kathleen's stare ran like putty. "Wha-"

"The weapon that Maxwell Platt gave you last night-the illegal handgun-"

Kathleen winced. "You a.s.shole," she remarked. She wondered how many times she'd called him that. No other insult seemed appropriate. "So your undercover crony in that ridiculous van is spying on me? That's inexcusable."

"So you've made the vehicle. Impressive. And remember, that 'crony' may well save your life." Spence paused, creaking back away from the ramparts of magazines, and smiled. "It's an amusing thought, though."

"What?"

"I could put you in jail right now. Right this instant, I could cuff you, book you, and lock you up. I'll bet that'd break some of your starch. Hmm?"

Kathleen couldn't help but laugh. "You're so insecure, Spence. You're so juvenile. I almost feel sorry for you-" She laughed again. "Almost. You think your police badge gives you power, for Christ's sake. Without that, you have no sense of self at all, do you? You've got nothing in your life but this. What's the matter? Didn't you love your mother?"

The look in Spence's eye seemed to dull, and his visage ticked as though what she'd said off the top of her head had ruptured an aspect of his arrogance. Kathleen was nearly taken aback: it was an expression she'd never witnessed in him before.

"That's right," she drew on. "I've got a gun in my home. And we both know you can't do a G.o.dd.a.m.n thing about it."

"Is that so?" Spence queried.

"Yeah, right." Kathleen continued to laugh, the edge of her disdain twirling like pinwheels. "You're going to put me in jail? Me? What a joke. You haven't got the b.a.l.l.s."

Spence's brow lifted high.

"You're like a jigsaw puzzle for preschool kids," Kathleen nearly spat. "You're easy to figure out. If you put me in jail, I'll be out of the picture. And you can't afford that."

"And why is this?"

"You think you're fooling me? Don't make me laugh. I'm the only bait you've got for this killer, and we both know that. Without me, you're lost."

Spence stared.

Kathleen walked out and slammed the door.

Her thoughts divided, then subdivided, like cellular fission. Traffic poured back and forth at the crossing; the DON'T WALK sign never wanted to change. DON'T THINK, she thought, baking in heat and smog.

"Jesus Christ!" she shrieked when she got back to her car. The arrow on the meter indicated EXPIRED; the parking ticket lay flat against the winds.h.i.+eld. She knew she'd cranked in an hour's worth of change-she knew knew it. And she'd been in Spence's office 15 minutes maximum. She knew it. When she started the car-hot as an oven inside-a headache kindled in time with the ignition. It felt like a bristly worm throbbing behind her left eye. She pulled out, flailing curses at traffic, and drove without forethought to Maxwell's. it. And she'd been in Spence's office 15 minutes maximum. She knew it. When she started the car-hot as an oven inside-a headache kindled in time with the ignition. It felt like a bristly worm throbbing behind her left eye. She pulled out, flailing curses at traffic, and drove without forethought to Maxwell's.

He'd left this morning, as usual, without waking her. EACH DAY I LOVE YOU MORE, he'd typed on a sheet of paper in her MemoryWriter, and on her desk he'd left a single red rose...

She heard his own typewriter tapping away behind the door. Would she be interrupting him? Poets were finicky about their creative s.p.a.ce, but then so was Kathleen. The headache raced as she knocked. She nearly fell on him when he opened the door. "Kathl- What's wrong?"

She straggled in more than walked. "I don't feel good. I need to lie down."

"You look terrible," he said, took her purse, and sat her down on the couch. "You look like you've been yelling or something."

"I guess I have been." She kicked off her shoes, closed her eyes. "At myself. I feel like I'm falling apart." This seemed the most pitiful of things to say, and the least like her. "I got another ma.n.u.script from the killer," she added.

Maxwell had his arm around her, delicately pus.h.i.+ng her hair off her brow. "Was it...bad?"

"It was disgusting. It was horrible. Then I photocopied it and took it to Spence."

"No wonder you're so bent out of shape," he reasoned.

"He's the most hateful person I've ever met, Maxwell." Her voice was nearly shrill now, in its incomprehension. "He absolutely hates me. For the life of me I can't figure out why." Kathleen gave in to a sluggish, reflective pause. Her eyes slid over to Maxwell's. "I know I'm a b.i.t.c.h sometimes. I know I can be aloof, contradictory, cold. Sometimes I do weird things. But...hateful? I'm not hateful, am I?"

"No," Maxwell said. "You're not."

"Then why is he?" she contested. "Why does he hate me? Why does he treat me like I'm some kind of floozy, phony, selfinvolved noaccount?"

"Some people are like that. There's no explanation-they just are. The only way they can remain in control of their own lives is to take advantage of people, use them, put them down. It's weakness, actually. They're too weak-and too inadequate-to interact with others positively. So they use negativity instead."

Maxwell's words buffed enough of the edge off her turmoil to settle her down. The wormlike headache lost some of its bite. She tried to refocus, to be thoughtful. Coming here without notice, unloading her problems on him-it wasn't fair. Maxwell had problems too, yet she'd shown no sensitivity toward that.

She leaned against him. His arm around her gently rubbed her shoulder. "Thank you for the rose," she said. "And the note. You really are a very sweet person."

"Oh, yeah?" was all he said. He stroked her hair, continued to rub her shoulder and neck.

It felt dreamy. Just a few words, and his merest touch, diluted Spence's denigration to something faraway and innocuous.

"Did you have a good day?" she asked.

"Yes, a great day."

"I heard you typing. Are you working on a new poem?"

"Yep."