Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 30

"We just got something on the DF board," Central Commo announced. "Then we lost it."

"Well then find it again!" Spence yelled. "This is a f.u.c.king disgrace!"

Geralds' brow rose. Fisher stared blankfaced.

"There it goes again, Lieutenant," the dispatcher affirmed. "We just got another positive DF, but it winked out before the board could process it."

"f.u.c.k!" Spence yelled.

"And-yeah-there's another one."

"So the killer's still on the line with Shade?"

"Affirmative."

This was infuriating. "There's gotta be some way you can at least grab a general loke."

No reply, just a pause shuddering with the props. Then: "Got it!" the dispatcher rejoiced. "Upper east Northeast, it looks like, sir."

Spence's heart was racing. The prop chugged like a flak cannon. He knew he must look to Geralds and Fisher like a pansy sweating the schoolyard bully. His stomach wobbled vigorously. He sat back in the hard metal seat, to catch his breath, to try and regain his cool. I'm running this whole show and I'm almost p.i.s.sing my pants, I'm running this whole show and I'm almost p.i.s.sing my pants, he thought. Geralds frowned as Spence began to put on his tie. he thought. Geralds frowned as Spence began to put on his tie.

Then the commo dispatcher confirmed: "You're right, sir. The trace came through, Bell Atlantic Cellular, listed subscriber is a Jonathan Richards Duff, address-"

"I don't give a s.h.i.+t where he lives," Spence said. "Give me his car. Give me something we can see."

"Subscriber vehicle listed as a '96 Nissan 2door, 300ZX, 6cylinder, orange."

"Put an allpoints out on that vehicle-now," Spence commanded. "I want everything that moves heading uppereast Northeast."

"Roger," confirmed the dispatcher.

"You got that, Geralds?" Spence asked.

"Uppereast Northeast, yes sir."

"So start flying this thing like you got a pair. Make me throw up."

Geralds and Fisher smiled. The pilot's hands and feet jerked to opposite positions; suddenly the prop noise revved and Spence's heart was in his intestines. Geralds veered to such an extreme that the helicopter made the turn on its side. "I'm falling-help!" Spence cried. Gravity snapped him against the seat straps. His gun flew out of his lap and began to bounce around the cabin. Geralds and Fisher were laughing aloud.

Then the helicopter evened out, soaring through dark. Spence had been one pulse short of vomiting.

"Here's your weapon, sir." Fisher gave Spence back his snub. "You all right?"

Spence gulped, nodding. In the observation ports, the city's streets looked like an arteriogram, lit blood pa.s.sages coursing through cluttered darkness. Tiny flas.h.i.+ng red and blue lights, dozens of sets, could be seen racing along the veins all in the same direction. I got three helicopters, six commo vans, G.o.d knows how many S.O.D. vehicles, and every patrol car in the city under me, I got three helicopters, six commo vans, G.o.d knows how many S.O.D. vehicles, and every patrol car in the city under me, Spence inventoried. Spence inventoried. If I can't catch her with all of that, then I should be pumping gas. If I can't catch her with all of that, then I should be pumping gas.

In another second, Central Commo was back on his headset. "I gotta positive DF, Lieutenant. Shade's still on the line. The signal isn't moving anymore."

Again, Spence bellowed: "Give us a-"

"All units," the dispatcher announced, "Signal 5 to 2500 block South Dakota Avenue, 31st Street and Ames. Orange Nissan 300ZX. Confirm ID and standby."

Spence's free ride through the heavens felt like a trolley on bad tracks. Geralds had one eye on radar and the other on a small terminal roving a D.C. grid map. The city was less than six miles wide. "How long 'til we're there?" he asked.

"Thirty, forty," Gerald's answered.

"You're s.h.i.+tting me! Thirty to forty minutes?"

"No sir. Seconds... Hold on."

The helicopter plummeted. Now they were close to rooftops; below looked like an industrial section. Come on, Come on, Spence thought, Spence thought, come on, come on. come on, come on.

"Will you be una.s.sing, sir?" Fisher asked.

"Huh?"

"Will you be getting off the aircraft?"

"Uh, yeah," Spence said.

"Hook him up with a handheld and earphone," Geralds advised. "Gonna be louder than the Super Bowl down there. Give him the megaphone too."

Fisher affixed both to Spence's beltloops, then plugged in the earphone. Spence, pointing to Fisher's scoped rifle, said, "I may need you to use that."

"Just tell me which eyeball, sir," Fisher replied. "But try to get me in close, like not past 300 meters."

Jesus, Spence thought. Spence thought. These guys think in meters. These guys think in meters.

Long flat buildings swept past them below, giving way to darkly lit streets. Patrol units were easily seen now flying through turns and around corners. Then Geralds said, "There it is."

Spence pressed his face against the door window. A residential section opened up past the industrial park. Beyond that, through building alleys, he could see South Dakota Avenue. Parked on a main street, by itself, sat the orange Nissan.

"You run the radio show from here," Spence ordered Geralds. "n.o.body shoots unless I say so. Got it?"

"Yes sir."

"Now let me out of this thing."

"Sir, it might not be such a hot idea for you to go down there. Let Fisher go, he's gotta vest."

"Let me out," Spence ordered.

"Unb.u.t.ton," the pilot said to Fisher. "You heard the man. Then take your firing post."

The spotlight grew on the street, and the Nissan. Suddenly it looked like daylight. Another helicopter appeared like magic to their right. Fisher, umbilicaled by canvas straps to metal hooks, slid open the cabin door and threw out the ladder. The helicopter hitched down in jagged increments...

"Commo check," Spence heard Geralds say through the earphone on his handheld. Spence pressed his mike b.u.t.ton, said "Test," for lack of anything else. Geralds nodded and Spence climbed out.

Fisher sat out on the edge of the cabin, aiming the rifle. Spence took three or four rungs down the ladder, then dropped the rest of the way to the street. What good were all those years of weight training if he couldn't take an eightfoot drop? He hit the street, stumbled, and fell, tearing the knee out of his slacks. Come on, Curly! Come on, Curly! he thought. Mobile units poured in all around him, tires screeching, cops spilling out of doors to a.s.sume defensive positions behind their vehicles. When Spence got up, he was standing in a lake of insane, throbbing light and noise. He heard Geralds delegating orders in his earphone: "All units hold your fire until you've received the firing command. Acquire target: occupant of orange Nissan, white female, red hair, pa.s.senger side..." he thought. Mobile units poured in all around him, tires screeching, cops spilling out of doors to a.s.sume defensive positions behind their vehicles. When Spence got up, he was standing in a lake of insane, throbbing light and noise. He heard Geralds delegating orders in his earphone: "All units hold your fire until you've received the firing command. Acquire target: occupant of orange Nissan, white female, red hair, pa.s.senger side..."

Yes, Spence could see her now. He stood twenty feet before the car, and he could see her, the tumult of red hair, the unearthly face staring back at him through the winds.h.i.+eld.

"Watch for crossfire and standby," Geralds was saying. "Do not fire until you've received the firing command. If you receive the firing command, do not not shoot the guy in the white s.h.i.+rt..." shoot the guy in the white s.h.i.+rt..."

Stepping forward, Spence raised his small revolver. To his rear, waves of guns c.o.c.ked, and more vehicles screeched to halts, popping with lights. Then the third helicopter appeared above the alley which sided the car, a sniper with a laser sight aiming down from the cabin.

Spence's stare seemed to pour over the pallid face behind the winds.h.i.+eld. Something premonitory a.s.sured him that if he emptied his Smith snub right now, all five rounds would land in the visage that opposed him. However...

"Get out of the car!" he yelled into the GE megaphone.

The face, like a big pale egg lain in a crimson nest, only stared back in reply. Spence could see her blinking slowly. His gun felt like a component part of his hand. Not at his professional best, he yelled again into the megaphone: "Get out of the car right now G.o.dd.a.m.n it and put your hands up in plain sight or I'll f.u.c.king kill you! Do you hear me? I'll f.u.c.king kill you!"

But again the only response was that uncanny and nearly astral blank stare.

"Lieutenant," Geralds radioed. "Fisher's got a perfect bead..."

Spence was thinking of Simmons, and the phasecla.s.sifications of this particular insanity. The last phase, the Capture Phase. Is this it? Is this it? he wondered. A reactive depression leaving the killer helpless against a sweeping urge to die? In the winds.h.i.+eld, the woman continued to blink. Her discolored mouth seemed to droop. he wondered. A reactive depression leaving the killer helpless against a sweeping urge to die? In the winds.h.i.+eld, the woman continued to blink. Her discolored mouth seemed to droop.

A moment later, though, Spence thought: No, no. No, no.

"We gotta bead, Lieutenant. Just give the word."

No, no, no, he went on thinking. He dropped the megaphone and unclipped the handheld. "Hold your fire," he directed. he went on thinking. He dropped the megaphone and unclipped the handheld. "Hold your fire," he directed.

Then the woman lurched- "She's moving!" Geralds yelled. "You better let us- "Hold your f.u.c.king fire!" Spence yelled back. He could've cried. "It's...not...her," he said.

No, he could see that it wasn't her. He could see that it wasn't even a woman...

Spence put his gun in his pocket. As he walked around to the Nissan's pa.s.senger side, a halfcircle of gunpointing cops followed him up.

He opened the door. The occupant fell out onto the curb. Not a woman at all but a lean man in red panties and a stuffed, redlace bra. His skin looked fishbellywhite. The sprawling red wig slid off against the cement.

Despite the scene's din, Spence heard nothing now. He knelt down. Blood was running like an open tap from somewhere. The dying man's cool hands groped up as if to fondle oblivion. Spence noted the severed st.i.tches encircling the lips, bandaged ankles and knees, and eyes so bloodshot they shone full red.

"Help us find her," Spence pleaded. "We need to know where she is, where she took you, anything-any detail."

The man died.

Jesus...

On the dashboard a typed note had been taped. It read:

SORRY I MISSED YOU, MR. SPENCE.BUT MY MOTHER AND I WILL DEFINITELY KEEP IN TOUCH.

CREAMY.

Jesus, Spence thought again. Spence thought again.

A frantic voice squawked from inside the car. Spence looked past the bloodfilled pa.s.senger seat and saw the car phone dangling from the wheel.

"Are you there? Are you still there?" Kathleen Shade was saying on the other end. "Don't hang up. Are you there?"

Spence hung up the phone.

Chapter 26.

(I).

No, they never understood. None of them did.

Like Sammy's one and only brother, Jack. Big developer now. Invested half his inheritance into commercial real estate and some construction projects, and kept the shares Sammy sold him on the side. A successful, respected business man. Sammy remembered Big Brother's parting locutions quite well: "If I ever see you again, Sam, I'll kill you-" (cool voice, calm, very in control) "-and if you ever go near my daughter again, on our father's grave I swear I'll kill you. You're a degenerate, a disgrace." These amicable words had been spoken to Sammy at the D.C. Courthouse, the day he'd been sentenced. And what had Kathleen said? "I hope you hang yourself in prison."? Something like that.

p.i.s.s on all of them, he thought. he thought. Why should I care what they think about me? Why should I care what they think about me? At least he was honest. At least he didn't deny the things he'd done in his life, nor the desires that motivated him. A degenerate? A disgrace? He smiled, taking the Caddie ragtop down Patrick Henry Boulevard. Who could define those terms? And by what criteria? It was bulls.h.i.+t. There was no good and evil. There was only the world and the people in it and the things they thought and they things they did. That was all. Sammy didn't give a s.h.i.+t about people who didn't give a s.h.i.+t about him. Why should he? It was supply and demand-hey, if he didn't make the flicks and mule the masters, then somebody else would. Evil had nothing to do with it, nor criminal intent, nor degeneracy. If people wanted something, then someone would provide it, whether it conformed to the law or not. If people got off watching snuff or wet S&M or rape loops, then they would have it. At least he was honest. At least he didn't deny the things he'd done in his life, nor the desires that motivated him. A degenerate? A disgrace? He smiled, taking the Caddie ragtop down Patrick Henry Boulevard. Who could define those terms? And by what criteria? It was bulls.h.i.+t. There was no good and evil. There was only the world and the people in it and the things they thought and they things they did. That was all. Sammy didn't give a s.h.i.+t about people who didn't give a s.h.i.+t about him. Why should he? It was supply and demand-hey, if he didn't make the flicks and mule the masters, then somebody else would. Evil had nothing to do with it, nor criminal intent, nor degeneracy. If people wanted something, then someone would provide it, whether it conformed to the law or not. If people got off watching snuff or wet S&M or rape loops, then they would have it. And if some people like to watch viddies of adults having s.e.x with kids, And if some people like to watch viddies of adults having s.e.x with kids, Sammy reasoned, Sammy reasoned, then what's wrong with that? then what's wrong with that? At least to Sammy, demand legitimized supply. To h.e.l.l with society's definition of evil, of criminality, etc. None of it made any sense. At least to Sammy, demand legitimized supply. To h.e.l.l with society's definition of evil, of criminality, etc. None of it made any sense.

It wasn't Sammy's fault, was it? It wasn't his fault that there were plenty of people out there who liked to watch underground flicks. Some people got off on that, fine. Sammy himself did too, and he freely admitted this. It turned him on-seeing the heavy s.h.i.+t. And if it turned him on-and if it turned hundreds of thousands of other people on-then there must be a reason. The reason was instinct, he felt sure. Not some forced desire to be evil, not some conscious willingness to like things that the majority of society says you're not supposed to like. Christ, in Jersey they had women begging to be in Vinchetti's productions; n.o.body was forcing the chicks to do that s.h.i.+t-they volunteered. And why? Because the price was right. Quid pro quo. Vinchetti needed fresh inventory, and the women needed their crack. And the f.u.c.king clients wanted the tapes, so what was the problem? It didn't matter what it was. It didn't matter if it was a Disney flick or a snuff flick. People wanted it. Christ, the month before he got busted, Sammy helped Vinchetti's crew make one flick called Barnyard Babes Barnyard Babes that got a 2,000copy order the instant it hit the points: a couple of biker chicks burned out on PCP, doing the works with horses, pigs, sheep. There was even one flick they duped, a bootleg from Amsterdam where some c.o.ke addict put a live eel in herself. This wasn't bulls.h.i.+t, it was true. And it was still supply and demand. If clients didn't buy the s.h.i.+t, then Vinchetti'd have no reason to make it. There were 40 million alcoholics in the country but you don't blame the f.u.c.king guy behind the counter at the liquor store. Cigarettes killed 400,000 people per year but you don't send the tobacco farmers up on murder charges. that got a 2,000copy order the instant it hit the points: a couple of biker chicks burned out on PCP, doing the works with horses, pigs, sheep. There was even one flick they duped, a bootleg from Amsterdam where some c.o.ke addict put a live eel in herself. This wasn't bulls.h.i.+t, it was true. And it was still supply and demand. If clients didn't buy the s.h.i.+t, then Vinchetti'd have no reason to make it. There were 40 million alcoholics in the country but you don't blame the f.u.c.king guy behind the counter at the liquor store. Cigarettes killed 400,000 people per year but you don't send the tobacco farmers up on murder charges.

And, all right, maybe it was a little different with the kp and the prep.u.b.e stuff-Sammy knew that. Most of the time the kids were abducted, or traded along in the regional circuits-but that was Vinchetti, not Sammy. It wasn't Sammy who was s.n.a.t.c.hing the kids from malls and playgrounds. All Sammy did was help make the flicks and transport the masters to the dupe labs in his point, and, yeah, every now and then they'd be short a camerac.o.c.k, so Vinchetti's production men would let Sammy step in and do a little of the rodwork. By then most of the kids were deprogrammed anyway, and he'd never been rough with any of them. Hurting the kids would be unthinkable. n.o.body understood anything these days. There were societies out there now, organizations where members actually paid dues. The North American ManBoy Love a.s.sociation, The West Coast AdultChild Care Chapter, and even one called Christian Parents For Positive s.e.xual Enlightenment. It wasn't just Sammy, it was a lot of people, whole communities of them.

Sooner or later, Sammy reasoned, Sammy reasoned, the world's gonna come around and see the light. the world's gonna come around and see the light.

Back when Sammy'd been making flicks, he'd covered his back. He'd duplicated all of his keys-to everything-and kept them in a safe place in case he ever went down. Also, copies of point lists, maildrops, various addresses. Private mail boxes and safedeposit boxes were hard to trace. You could rent a safedeposit box or you could buy one outright. When you bought one-a couple of grand-there were no questions asked. Sammy headed out to Glen Burnie that morning-if the place had gone under, then his s.h.i.+t would be gone and that would be that, but: Jesus saves! Jesus saves! he thought. Behind the little strip mall, just off Route 2, the same redlettered, white sign loomed. EZ MAIL, POST BOXES, SAFE DEPOSIT, REASONABLE RATES. he thought. Behind the little strip mall, just off Route 2, the same redlettered, white sign loomed. EZ MAIL, POST BOXES, SAFE DEPOSIT, REASONABLE RATES.

It was all still there in the little combolock metal box.

The keys-a big clump of them on a silver ring-were what he wanted. Keys to the warehouses, the processing labs, some storage joints; no doubt, all of these places had been closed down years ago. There were also some keys to a few droppoints and hideouts. They'd all probably bitten the dust too, after all this time. But Sammy didn't give a s.h.i.+t about any of that... The ring also contained the keys to his brother's house.

And no doubt, somewhere in his brother's house would be an address book. And somewhere in that address book would be the one address and number Sammy needed to have: Kathleen's.

First, he called the house number- "This is Jack Shade. I'm not available now, so please leave a message after the beep." Sammy hadn't left a message. Then he'd called his brother's office number, identifying himself as Richard Hertz of F.O. Day Construction, Inc. "I'm sorry, Mr. Hertz," the secretary had informed him, "but Mr. Shade is in Los Angeles right now, attending a realty convention. He won't he back in town 'til the weekend."

"Thanks very much," Sammy said. "I'll get in touch with him next week."

It was a leisurely, sedate drive to Northern Virginia. He grabbed a quick bite at a restaurant he remembered called R.T.'s, had PanFired Louisiana Shrimpcakes and a side of Southern Fried Squid. Yeah, I ate like this every day in the joint, sure, Yeah, I ate like this every day in the joint, sure, he joked to himself. On the wall was a signed picture of the President, along with the plate he'd eaten off of, for G.o.d's sake. It was funny, though, how when you were in the joint, the outside world became something completely alien. You didn't give a s.h.i.+t who was President. You didn't give s.h.i.+t about wars. he joked to himself. On the wall was a signed picture of the President, along with the plate he'd eaten off of, for G.o.d's sake. It was funny, though, how when you were in the joint, the outside world became something completely alien. You didn't give a s.h.i.+t who was President. You didn't give s.h.i.+t about wars. The Gulf? Bosnia? f.u.c.k it, kill 'em all. North Korea building nukes? Let 'er rip. Drop one on the Capitol. The deficit? Gimme a break! The Gulf? Bosnia? f.u.c.k it, kill 'em all. North Korea building nukes? Let 'er rip. Drop one on the Capitol. The deficit? Gimme a break! In stir was like being on another planet. In stir was like being on another planet.

Back on the road, Sammy let his thoughts sail with the wind over the Caddie's open top. Good things come in threes, Good things come in threes, he remembered the wives' tale. he remembered the wives' tale. One, my keys still in the box, two, Jack out of town... One, my keys still in the box, two, Jack out of town... Somehow, Sammy knew that fate would grant him a third kernel of good luck: that his brother had not changed the locks on the house... Somehow, Sammy knew that fate would grant him a third kernel of good luck: that his brother had not changed the locks on the house...

He turned quickly off of Duke, and headed down toward the Old Towne waterfront. North of the main drag came the ritzy communities. The subtly pretentious architecture seemed New Englandish somehow, old Colonial styles, fastidiously renovated. He spotted the house and parked around the corner. Manicured lawns and lush trees teemed in the summer sun. Between the houses the water glimmered. Jack Shade's house looked exactly the same, though it seemed larger. Everything seemed a little larger to Sammy now; six years in stir, in a 10x8 box of bricks, had a way of distorting one's sense of proportion. Just walk up like you own the place, Just walk up like you own the place, he thought. He whistled up the driveway, then up the fieldstone walk. He noted no neighbors milling about, no traffic. The same Arrowhead alarm plate blinked red twice a second when Sammy stepped onto the porch. The system's on, and that means no one's inside. Sammy raised the tubular alarm key, took a hopeful breath, and turned off the system. he thought. He whistled up the driveway, then up the fieldstone walk. He noted no neighbors milling about, no traffic. The same Arrowhead alarm plate blinked red twice a second when Sammy stepped onto the porch. The system's on, and that means no one's inside. Sammy raised the tubular alarm key, took a hopeful breath, and turned off the system. Yeah, good things come in threes, Yeah, good things come in threes, he thought. He unlocked the front door and walked in. he thought. He unlocked the front door and walked in.

Fine. Good, you're in. So don't f.u.c.k around. No address book in the kitchen. He remembered a basket beneath the phone, containing spare car keys and an old address book. No address book in the kitchen. He remembered a basket beneath the phone, containing spare car keys and an old address book. f.u.c.k, f.u.c.k, Sammy calmly thought. The big butcherblockwood country kitchen remained, but the basket was gone. Sammy calmly thought. The big butcherblockwood country kitchen remained, but the basket was gone. Den, Den, he directed. he directed. Big Brother's office. Big Brother's office. The quiet opulence seemed to shout in his face. High, dark genuine paneling. Huge teak desk. Crystal and puregold carriage clock on the mantel, ticking slowly. The ticking reminded Sammy of another clock, from his past-the clock he'd bought for Kathleen when she was-what? Nine? Ten? The moment flashed a warm vertigo, and an image: The plastic eyes and tail switching to and fro, tick, tick, tick, as Sammy's hypnotic, gentle whispers lulled her into the trusting trance... He moaned audibly, right there in his brother's den, thinking of his brother's daughter. The quiet opulence seemed to shout in his face. High, dark genuine paneling. Huge teak desk. Crystal and puregold carriage clock on the mantel, ticking slowly. The ticking reminded Sammy of another clock, from his past-the clock he'd bought for Kathleen when she was-what? Nine? Ten? The moment flashed a warm vertigo, and an image: The plastic eyes and tail switching to and fro, tick, tick, tick, as Sammy's hypnotic, gentle whispers lulled her into the trusting trance... He moaned audibly, right there in his brother's den, thinking of his brother's daughter. All I ever did was love her, Jack. I didn't hurt her. All I ever did was love her, Jack. I didn't hurt her.