Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 27

All she said in response was, "Sounds like an interesting job. I'm a ma.s.seuse."

Ma.s.seuse? he thought. Some job. Some job.

"I give good back rubs," she said.

Johnny had to lean against the bar, not because he was drunk, but because her looks were turning his knees to jelly. Back rubs Back rubs, he thought. Ma.s.seuse. Jesus Ma.s.seuse. Jesus. She looked like she'd been poured into her gray designer jeans. Up top she wore a light black jacket over a transparent black blouse. When she reached for her gla.s.s of wine, Johnny could see it all in the jacket's sharp V: t.i.ts big and firm as grapefruits; dark, erect, robust nipples. This peach is gonna get the Johnny Duff f.u.c.kover to end all f.u.c.kovers This peach is gonna get the Johnny Duff f.u.c.kover to end all f.u.c.kovers, he avowed to himself. Gotta giant j.i.z.zer for my baby tonight. Gotta giant j.i.z.zer for my baby tonight.

"I guess we all have some things, you know, little obscure things about ourselves that we're especially proud of."

"Sure," Johnny concurred. Who knew what the f.u.c.k she was talking about? Little things? Johnny's got a big thing that you can take care of just fine, Little things? Johnny's got a big thing that you can take care of just fine, he thought. he thought. And a couple of rocks that need a bigtime draining. I'm gonna come so hard in your box my spooge'll be shooting out your nose. And a couple of rocks that need a bigtime draining. I'm gonna come so hard in your box my spooge'll be shooting out your nose. "You're right. A lot of times it's the little things we do that mean the most." "You're right. A lot of times it's the little things we do that mean the most."

She smiled. She sipped her drink. She recrossed her legs and said, "It's getting late, isn't it?"

"Yeah," Johnny drifted more than spoke.

Another smile, another sip.

The perfect teeth gleamed.

The perfect press of her perfect b.r.e.a.s.t.s shone darkly through the transparent black blouse.

"Yeah," he repeated.

Her beauty was knocking him out: the call of her flesh, and the heady l.u.s.t, like a silent litany instilled into his blood by the reckoning of her parts, and the whisper, a spirit, as one perfect thigh slid across the other, and the perfume, an angel's presence, in her angel's hair, all a bright light, a simmering blinding blaze in his face. And then her eyes. Those big blue green gray neverblinking eyes.

Chapter 24.

(I).

Spence let the day die behind his back. Past midnight he was still in his office; it never occurred to him to go home. All day, and as headquarters changed s.h.i.+fts at 11 p.m., Spence had remained behind his desk, reading and rereading every word Kathleen Shade had written for '90s Woman. '90s Woman.

He couldn't say he was engrossed. Shade proved a talented wordsmith and a.n.a.lyst; her "Verdict" column-over 50 entries since she'd been hired-instead cast Spence out in some vague cryptic alienation. It was more than the psychical differences between men and women, but something impartially, and simply, human. Had Spence been a woman, in other words, he felt certain the barren alienation would remain.

That, and the sheer lack of answers to the teeming question. The relative common denominator-the nascent. The word itself seemed cryptified too, more so than his own hollow feelings.

Not one single "Verdict" entry involved s.e.xual abuse, delusional behavior, or psychiatric illness. Almost all, instead, responded to interpersonal relations.h.i.+p problems: infidelity, incompatibility, jealousy, divorce, estrangement, etc. No link whatsoever that might shed light on the killer's solicitation of Kathleen Shade. Impulsively, Spence s.n.a.t.c.hed up the phone, punched in Simmons' home number. He did not apologize for calling so late, nor did he even first identify himself when Simmons answered. Instead Spence merely said: "It's not here."

"What's not?" Simmons inquired.

"The nascent."

"Ah," Simmons replied at once. "The christening of the icon. Your keystone is eluding you, eh? Or are you eluding yourself?"

Spence didn't quite know what he meant, but it sounded like one of the good doctor's discreet implications. Was it Spence's maleness that obscured his perceptions? Or, conversely, was it that he'd never, ever in his life, been close to a woman? I'm gay I'm gay, he casually told himself. Was that it? He knew less about how women thought than he knew of quantum physics, nonEuclidian geometry, the Crimean War. But...

No, he thought a moment later. It isn't that I'm not seeing something, it's that there's nothing here to see. It isn't that I'm not seeing something, it's that there's nothing here to see. "I'm not eluding myself," he spoke. "It's just not here." "I'm not eluding myself," he spoke. "It's just not here."

"You've read all over Shade's magazine writing?"

"Yes. All of it. And it's not here."

"You're quite sure?"

Spence tried to fully a.s.sess the question. "Yes," he said. "And I'm not missing it. It's just...not...here."

"Hmm," Simmons said.

"Maybe you should look at it," Spence ventured.

"Why, Jeffrey? Do you doubt your perceptions?"

"No."

"Then what practical use can there be in redundancy? If the nascent is not in Kathleen Shade's magazine writing-" Simmons lapsed, chuckled like a whisper. "-then it isn't in Kathleen Shade's magazine writing."

"Thanks. That helps me immeasurably."

"This killer," Simmons drifted. "This maniacal, incalculable psychopathic murderess... You want her very much, correct?"

"Yes," Spence said.

"Dead or alive, correct?"

"Correct."

"In fact you want her more than you've ever wanted anything in your life." Simmons' pause seemed like a stone wall. "Correct?"

Spence closed his eyes, suspended himself in the possibility. Eventually he answered, "Yes."

"That's quite sad, Jeffrey." Simmons' lax, easy tone changed at once to something almost scolding, or critical. "It's nearly pathetic: that the apprehension of a purveyor of death should be all that you look forward to."

Spence dwelt on this also. It's true, It's true, he realized. he realized. It It is is pathetic pathetic. Then he said, "I don't care."

"Have faith, Jeffrey. There are still investigative avenues for you to plunder."

"Oh, yeah? Where?"

"Tomorrow," Simmons said. "Come and see me tomorrow."

"But I want to know now," Spence dryly pleaded.

"Go home, Jeffrey. Go to sleep."

"But I don't want to go to sleep."

"Goodnight, Jeffrey."

CLICK.

Ballbreaker, Spence thought. He drummed his fingers on the blotter. His muscled forearm looked like a bad wax carving in the lamp light. Through the window, he could hear sirens shrieking miles and miles away... Spence thought. He drummed his fingers on the blotter. His muscled forearm looked like a bad wax carving in the lamp light. Through the window, he could hear sirens shrieking miles and miles away...

He grimaced at the stacks of magazines. The nascent isn't here. Period. And if it isn't here, then where the f.u.c.k is it? The nascent isn't here. Period. And if it isn't here, then where the f.u.c.k is it?

His eyes, then, tracked to the window, to the frame of black gla.s.s beyond which churned the city, the world.

And the primeval night.

(II).

"I sewed your lips shut," were the first words he heard.

His consciousness seeped back into his head like slow, steady drips building to a stain, then a puddle, then a pool.

I'm in h.e.l.l, were the first words he thought. were the first words he thought.

Johnny Duff couldn't move. An etching pain radiated about his face. Low to his right, a small fluorescent tube glowed but that was the only light. The rest of the room-if this were a room at all-seemed formed of slabs of dark and halfdark. The pain flared when he tried to speak, his tongue frantic in his mouth against the fresh, tight st.i.tches, and again he thought: I'm in h.e.l.l.

The form-blurred, alabasterwhite-swept closer.

"Usually I sc.r.a.pe the eardrums, and glue the eyelids shut too. The energy from every sense I shut down goes directly to the only sense that's left. That's the theory, anyway. I like it."

I'm going to die, Johnny Duff thought. But the thought was more like a squirming, hopeless flight. Johnny Duff thought. But the thought was more like a squirming, hopeless flight.

The soft voice continued from the slablike dark. "In other words, the less Daddy can move, the less he can see, hear, or speak, the more he can feel."

The white blur blended back.

To the left, a window hovered. She seemed to be staring out the window.

He'd been handcuffed to the bed, ankles and wrists. He'd been stripped. He inclined his head against the zipper of pain that was now his mouth, and saw his naked flesh alight on one side. And the other side: pure darkness.

His memory squirmed along with the damped, smothered horror. Eventually, he remembered what sequence of events had brought him to this little cranny of h.e.l.l: Her heels clicked down the cement ramp of the underground parking garage on l9th, her a.s.s sliding deliciously in the gray jeans. "This is your car?" she asked, surprise in her voice.

"Sure," Johnny replied in his n.o.bigdeal tone. He opened her side, let her in. When he was in himself, he gunned the Nissan's OHC V6 Turbo a little, and cruised out of the lot.

Not much of a talker, he a.s.sessed. Good. Good. She sat back in the leather seat, legs crossed. "I like nice cars," she said a little while later. "Wow, even a car phone." She sat back in the leather seat, legs crossed. "I like nice cars," she said a little while later. "Wow, even a car phone."

"Gotta have it, you know. For the job," he lied. "These agents in New York, they don't like to leave messages."

"I love nights like these," she said.

Johnny frowned. It was like she didn't even want to hear his bulls.h.i.+t. Most girls went gaga. Who cares? Who cares? he conceded. he conceded. I'll be jamming her silly in a few. I'll be jamming her silly in a few. He could feel his herpes itch, and he smiled. He could feel his herpes itch, and he smiled. I'll pop a big one for ya, Ditzy I'll pop a big one for ya, Ditzy.

He followed clipped directions. Michigan Avenue. Right onto South Dakota. Left onto Bladensburg. Suddenly she leaned over, put her arm around him. "Don't touch me yet, okay?"

Johnny's brow did a jig. "Okay."

"You just drive, and I'll touch you, okay?"

"Whatever you say."

"I mean, just wait 'til we're there before you touch me, okay? You have to promise."

Jesus, what a weirdo. "I promise," he said.

She leaned closer. He could feel her breath on his neck as he took the Nissan through each vacant light. They were heading out of the city. Her perfume baited him; her right hand stroked his legs...

Then she was kneading his groin through the loose, Savane slacks. Gonna be pitching a tent like Ringling Brothers, Gonna be pitching a tent like Ringling Brothers, Johnny thought, tensing up a little. Kneading, kneading. It was so delightfully lewd: the perfume, the hot breath a halfinch from his neck, and her hand working him up. Johnny thought, tensing up a little. Kneading, kneading. It was so delightfully lewd: the perfume, the hot breath a halfinch from his neck, and her hand working him up. Careful you don't tap that geyser, Ditzy. I'm kind of planning on saving it to shoot up your a.s.s. Careful you don't tap that geyser, Ditzy. I'm kind of planning on saving it to shoot up your a.s.s. Each time he glanced left he could see her gorgeous right breast just sitting there in her jacket V. He could see the triangle of her jeans, so tight a gap formed. Johnny was getting hot around the collar. Each time he glanced left he could see her gorgeous right breast just sitting there in her jacket V. He could see the triangle of her jeans, so tight a gap formed. Johnny was getting hot around the collar. You keep this up, and I'm gonna pull into the nearest alley and bust into that p.u.s.s.y right now. You keep this up, and I'm gonna pull into the nearest alley and bust into that p.u.s.s.y right now.

This was great. Through the next several traffic lights on Bladensburg, she was actually panting. She's feeling my c.o.c.k through my pants and she's getting hotter than the lid on a potbellied stove. She's feeling my c.o.c.k through my pants and she's getting hotter than the lid on a potbellied stove. This would require some special considerations. A chick this goodlooking, this hot? This would require some special considerations. A chick this goodlooking, this hot? Johnny's gonna have to dream up a special f.u.c.kover for Ditzy here, Johnny's gonna have to dream up a special f.u.c.kover for Ditzy here, he resolved he resolved. I'm gonna rock on this all night. If only he could get her to let him tie her up, then the rest would be cake. She seemed kinky enough; weird girls liked kinky things. He wondered what she was into. If only he could get her to let him tie her up, then the rest would be cake. She seemed kinky enough; weird girls liked kinky things. He wondered what she was into.

"Next left," she whispered. Her hand came away. Just in time, Just in time, he thought. He turned down a dark street, pa.s.sed a fire station, and rows of dark little houses. Johnny had expected an apartment. "You live in a house?" he thought. He turned down a dark street, pa.s.sed a fire station, and rows of dark little houses. Johnny had expected an apartment. "You live in a house?"

"I inherited it from my mother."

"You got roommates?"

"No. There's only me."

So mama's dead, huh? Well that's too bad, 'cos I'd f.u.c.k the stuffing out of her too. Any mama that could give birth to a brick s.h.i.+thouse like you deserves only the best. Johnny feigned interest. "What about your father?" he asked. Johnny feigned interest. "What about your father?" he asked.

She stalled.

Bad move, Johnny thought. Nothing turned a chick's p.u.s.s.y off faster than the wrong question. Johnny thought. Nothing turned a chick's p.u.s.s.y off faster than the wrong question. Her old man probably died of brain cancer or something, and I just blew the whole ballgame. Her old man probably died of brain cancer or something, and I just blew the whole ballgame. But then she said, in a drier voice, "He was never really married to my mother, he just came around a lot. He...left...a long time ago." But then she said, in a drier voice, "He was never really married to my mother, he just came around a lot. He...left...a long time ago."

Johnny nodded, pretended to be sympathetic. "My dad ran out on my mother too," he lied, "when I was a kid."

Now her voice reverted to something close to a croak. "My father...didn't...run out."

I better get off this subject. "Nice houses," he commented. Actually they were cracker boxes, dumps. "Quaint, cozy." "Nice houses," he commented. Actually they were cracker boxes, dumps. "Quaint, cozy."

"End of the street," she said. "On the right."

A yellow sign read DEAD END. A burned out streetlight left little to be seen. Her joint, the best he could tell, looked the same as all the others: brooding, run down a little.