Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 29

"Well..."

"How much did you read?"

"'A Keatsian'-and that's all."

Maxwell hesitated. "I don't think I believe you."

"I don't care!" she said. "And you're hardly in a position to be giving me a ration of c.r.a.p. Who's Barbara?"

Maxwell leaned forward. "Who?"

"Who?" Kathleen haughtily mimicked. "You know who. Barbara, your dream girl."

"Kathleen, I don't know what you're-"

"You said her name in your sleep."

Maxwell fell silent a moment, deliberating. "Barbara? But I don't even know any- Oh, wait a minute. The movie."

"What movie?"

"While you were sleeping I had the USA network on. They were running Night Of The Living Dead Night Of The Living Dead. One of the characters' names was Barbara."

"Come on, Maxwell," she replied. "Can't you lie better than that?"

"I'm serious," he insisted. "This guy with gla.s.ses was saying 'They're coming to get you, Barbara,' and then this zombie started chasing her. I think he wanted to eat her."

Well, I guess he's not lying, Kathleen concluded. Kathleen concluded.

"Aw, can you believe it?" Maxwell complained. Scores flashed on the silent TV. "The Yankees lost again. Looks like I'm going to owe Chizmar another case of beer this year. Highest paid batting staff in baseball and the best of them couldn't hit a beachball with an ironing board. n.o.body loses to Baltimore four times in a row. n.o.body."

"I have to go now, Maxwell," Kathleen said. She slipped on her shoes and picked up her purse.

"It's almost four in the morning," Maxwell protested.

Was it that late? "I really should go-"

"But I don't want you to go. Stay here with me."

"I need to get up early," she excused. "I'm pretty much done with the outlining. I'm ready to begin the actual text."

"Text? What text?"

"For the book, Maxwell. The book about the killer."

Maxwell let that one sit a while. He seemed to percolate from the couch. "What does the book have to do with you not staying here tonight? Did I forget to use my deodorant?"

"I like your deodorant, Maxwell."

"It's foolish to leave now. You shouldn't be driving home through the city this late."

"I'm a big girl," she said. She knew she must be confusing him now, sending mixed signals. But she wanted to go home. She wanted to be fresh in the morning to begin. Perhaps she'd even begin tonight. Nighttime seemed the best time to start such a book. The dead of night The dead of night, she thought. "I'll call you tomorrow," she insisted. "Besides, you need to work on my poem."

"I never see you long enough to give it to you. I guess I could always give it to Barbara."

"And I guess I could kick you hard in your poetical a.s.s, couldn't I?" She quickly kissed him on the lips.

"Why don't you reconsider and let me make love to you?"

"I wouldn't be very good tonight."

"I would," he said. "Guaranteed. I'll give you boundless o.r.g.a.s.ms."

Yes, you probably would. The extemporaneous suggestion sparked a crude l.u.s.t, but it didn't feel real. She felt too distracted for s.e.x right now, too pent-up in other things. Better that she wait, when it could be real, and good for both of them. The extemporaneous suggestion sparked a crude l.u.s.t, but it didn't feel real. She felt too distracted for s.e.x right now, too pent-up in other things. Better that she wait, when it could be real, and good for both of them.

"Soon," she promised. "You'll see."

"Is that what you tell all the guys?"

"No, just you. All the other guys I lie to."

"Oh, well, in that case..."

He looked forlorn sitting there in the dark. He seemed to fidget, hands clasped. "I love you," he said.

She kissed him again and left.

Her shoes clapped rapidly down the steps. In the lobby, the desk guard glanced up from a magazine with the bizarre t.i.tle Palace Corbie. Palace Corbie. He eyed her, pinchfaced, as she pushed through the exit doors. P Street lay before her, abandoned. The warm night air refurbished her antic.i.p.ations about the book. She hustled across the street, heels scuffing asphalt, and when she was halfway into the parking lot, Maxwell's voice echoed high to her rear. He eyed her, pinchfaced, as she pushed through the exit doors. P Street lay before her, abandoned. The warm night air refurbished her antic.i.p.ations about the book. She hustled across the street, heels scuffing asphalt, and when she was halfway into the parking lot, Maxwell's voice echoed high to her rear.

"I love you," he said.

The words boomed in the street, a swarming concussion. Kathleen turned and looked up to see Maxwell standing on his dark, secondstory balcony. A tepid breeze sifted the fine, blond hair.

"I guess that sounds pretty corny," he considered. "Such words, spoken from a balcony, in the middle of the night."

"I doesn't sound corny, Maxwell," she said, and laughed as she unlocked her car door.

His next words echoed louder. "Come back up here so I can make love to you. We can do it all night."

Kathleen's face turned hot red. "Maxwell! The whole neighborhood will hear you!"

Maxwell shrugged. "So? I want them to know; I want everybody to know that I love you."

The empty street amplified the words to something greater than words, it seemed. She and Maxwell could've been the only two people in the world just then. She looked up at him, nearly staring, as if adrift. "I love you too," she said.

"What? Hey!" Maxwell almost fell off the balcony. "What did you say!" he shouted.

Kathleen slid into the TBird, closed the door, started the engine. She could still hear him shouting: "What did you say! Did you say what I think you said? Say it again!" Now I've done it, Now I've done it, she thought. She pulled out of the lot and drove off. Maxwell's booming voice followed the car all the way up to Dupont Circle: "Come back here, Kathleen! Say what you just said a minute ago, d.a.m.n it!" she thought. She pulled out of the lot and drove off. Maxwell's booming voice followed the car all the way up to Dupont Circle: "Come back here, Kathleen! Say what you just said a minute ago, d.a.m.n it!"

She laughed in spite of the consequences; it had seemed so unconscious, and so easy all of a sudden. Kathleen rarely said things she didn't mean to people close to her.

I guess I meant it, she realized. she realized.

The city remained empty all the way home, the pallid sodium darkness deepening its alleys, its littered streets and cement. Back in her own parking lot, she stuck her tongue out at the van. Randolph Carter Contractors my a.s.s, Randolph Carter Contractors my a.s.s, she thought. They moved the van every afternoon; it wasn't hard to figure. she thought. They moved the van every afternoon; it wasn't hard to figure. Solely for my protection, huh, Spence? Just more bulls.h.i.+t Solely for my protection, huh, Spence? Just more bulls.h.i.+t. Spence needed someone close by in case the killer decided to drop in for a visit, that was all. In fact she felt sure Spence hoped that would happen. He could care less what happens to me, so long as he catches his killer. He could care less what happens to me, so long as he catches his killer.

She shouldn't even think of him; the mere sound of his name in her head-Spence, Spence-pummeled her mood.

Up in her apartment, she bolted the door, opened the slider and some windows, and shed the hot tank dress. She lit a Now 100, poured some iced tea, then sat down to appraise the disheveled papers on her desk. Yeah, Yeah, she decided. she decided. I'll start tonight. I'll start tonight. The book's first segment should detail the sociological considerations of mental illnesses, and their effect on longterm pattern behavior-things she already knew about from college, and from her experience at the magazine. The book's first segment should detail the sociological considerations of mental illnesses, and their effect on longterm pattern behavior-things she already knew about from college, and from her experience at the magazine.

But what should I call it? There was a question. What t.i.tle would she give the book? There was a question. What t.i.tle would she give the book? How about... Female Serial Killer? Ridiculous. Or... Murderess? No, no, that stank too. Too generic. How about... How about... Female Serial Killer? Ridiculous. Or... Murderess? No, no, that stank too. Too generic. How about... She paused on the thought. She paused on the thought. How about... Portrait of the Psychopath as a Young Woman? How about... Portrait of the Psychopath as a Young Woman? She paused further, then: She paused further, then: Yes, Yes, she thought. she thought.

And at that same moment, as she confirmed the book's t.i.tle, she looked at the clock, saw that it was 4:12 a.m., and realized that the phone was ringing.

(II).

Spence awoke from a deafening dream of the sound of helicopters, looked at the clock, saw that it was 4:18 a.m., and realized that the phone was ringing.

Helicopters? he queried. he queried. Why dream of those? Why dream of those? The night conspired to confuse him: the phone ringing, his grogginess, and also the sound of his beeper going off. He blinked himself awake, in the cloying dark, tried to shove away the dream's sonic thud. The night conspired to confuse him: the phone ringing, his grogginess, and also the sound of his beeper going off. He blinked himself awake, in the cloying dark, tried to shove away the dream's sonic thud.

Then he answered the phone. "Yeah," he said.

"This is Central Commo," a brisk male voice announced. "Lieutenant Spence?"

"Yeah," he said, and suddenly it occurred to him that the heavy whopping sound of the dream-the helicopter-was still in his ears.

"Six minutes ago, the killer made telephone contact with Kathleen Shade," the commo man said.

Spence moved as fast as his heart, jerking up, turning on the lights, clearing his mind. "Trace the call through the public index," he ordered. "Did you trace the call?"

"Trying, sir, but-"

"What the f.u.c.k do you mean trying?" Spence profaned. "It only takes two or three seconds to trace a station nowadays. Are the f.u.c.king computers down?"

"No sir."

"The MSC flag is locked into the program; the mainframe will lock onto the signal binaries. If the trace isn't coming up on the public station index, then it's got to be cellular. It's either a portable phone or a mobile phone. Do I gotta tell you guys everything? DF the f.u.c.king signal."

"That's what I'm doing, sir. A cellular trace takes time."

Spence was p.i.s.sed. "How long did the phone contact last?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you, sir. The conversation is still in progress."

Spence yelled "Call S.O.D. right now and-"

"I've got six triangulators on the road already, Lieutenant, and every patrol car in the city on priority standby. I've also got three helicopters up. One of them should be at your address any minute now."

It was no dream at all. The sound of helicopter rotors grew closer, louder. "It's already here," Spence said and hung up. He dashed about the bedroom, hauled on slacks and a s.h.i.+rt, stepped into his shoes without socks. He grabbed his gun, his ID, and, inexplicably, a tie. Then he was out the door and jumping down the stairwell three steps at a time.

The neighbors'll love me, he thought, and then stepped out into what had to be the most ludicrous scenario of his life. He could imagine how he looked: A man in crushed clothes and unb.u.t.toned s.h.i.+rt, hair sticking up, waving his police badge into a onemillioncandlepower helicopter spotlight. In the middle of a quiet apartment parking lot. In the middle of the night. The spotlight swelled. The helicopter-a rebuilt white Bell JetRanger-descended amid the chugging cacophony of its props, and a mad wind siphoned about Spence, which nearly sucked his unb.u.t.toned Christian Dior s.h.i.+rt off his back. he thought, and then stepped out into what had to be the most ludicrous scenario of his life. He could imagine how he looked: A man in crushed clothes and unb.u.t.toned s.h.i.+rt, hair sticking up, waving his police badge into a onemillioncandlepower helicopter spotlight. In the middle of a quiet apartment parking lot. In the middle of the night. The spotlight swelled. The helicopter-a rebuilt white Bell JetRanger-descended amid the chugging cacophony of its props, and a mad wind siphoned about Spence, which nearly sucked his unb.u.t.toned Christian Dior s.h.i.+rt off his back.

A ladder rolled out of the open cabin, and Spence climbed in.

"Lieutenant Spence, I presume," the pilot shouted, in a bulging black PAC helmet that looked like and insect's head.

"Get this thing up," Spence said. He fumbled to b.u.t.ton his s.h.i.+rt. "You're going to raise my condo fees."

"Welcome aboard. I'm Geralds, Aviation Section night commander." He thumbed over his shoulder. "The cowboy behind you's Fisher."

A black guy in tac utilities nodded from the seat behind the pilot. Headset under a Kevlar helmet. Ballistic gla.s.ses. A long semiautomatic rifle with a mean scope in his lap. S.O.D. sniper, S.O.D. sniper, Spence realized. Spence realized. Probably itching to blow something away. Probably itching to blow something away.

"Strap in, Lieutenant, unless you want to go through the roof of Const.i.tution Hall." Geralds pulled back on the pedals, jammed throttle, and the helicopter rocketed off and up. Spence saw lights blinking on in his apartment building as he fastened his belt.

"Got Central Commo screaming for you, sir." Geralds handed over a headset. Fisher plugged him in, then gave clipped instructions as to the a.s.signations of the mode selector. "One is Central Commo, sir. Two, Cabin. Three and four Airborne units and All Units, respectively. Five, Auxiliary."

Like I'm supposed to remember that? Spence thought. He felt for the selector switch, clicked it to One. "You've DF'd the signal, right?" he said. Spence thought. He felt for the selector switch, clicked it to One. "You've DF'd the signal, right?" he said.

"The triangulation reads positive," Central Communications told him, "but it's not holding long enough to put a tack on the board."

"That means it's definitely a mobile phone; that means she's moving. Keep the f.u.c.king DF on the f.u.c.king signal."

Spence, not ordinarily a profane man, imagined every profanity. Beyond the winds.h.i.+eld there was only blackness, oblivion, yet somewhere in that void, the killer was awake, alive, talking...

"Lieutenant? You there?" the dispatcher asked.

"Yeah, quiet," Spence said, rubbing his eyes. "Let me think a minute. I can't think in a helicopter."

The sound of the turboshaft beat against his skull, and his stomach tossed against Geralds' overthetop piloting. "Is the connection still in progress?" Spence asked.

"Affirmative," replied the dispatch.

"How long for a positive directionfind?"

"Depends on the lay. Couple of minutes if the weather's clear but she's got to stop or at least slow down. And the second she hangs up, we lose the DF."

"f.u.c.k, p.i.s.s," Spence said. "Of all the f.u.c.king things."

"I'm keeping on it."

Spence thought of a T-bone steak being dangled before a chained dog. The universe is walking all over me, The universe is walking all over me, he thought. he thought.