Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 31

What about YOU, Jack? Huh? What did you ever love in your life, I mean besides yourself, and your f.u.c.king land deals and condos? Three days after your own f.u.c.king wife's funeral you were flying to California to buy up some new waterfront. At least I was with her, Jack. At least I was here when you were too busy to be a father.

And I never hurt her...

Sammy ground the memory away with his teeth.

DIGIDAK ADDRESS LOG read the letters on the bizarre device. It sat on the desk, no bigger than a wallet. Some newfangled computer thing, Some newfangled computer thing, Sammy equated. The world had changed while he'd fermented in prison. Sammy equated. The world had changed while he'd fermented in prison. What the f.u.c.k happened to the good old fas.h.i.+oned Rodolex? What the f.u.c.k happened to the good old fas.h.i.+oned Rodolex? He blew 10 minutes figuring out how the thing worked. INDEX one b.u.t.ton read. Sammy pressed S, for Shade, then SCROLL. No Shades. Then he pressed K, for Kathleen. He blew 10 minutes figuring out how the thing worked. INDEX one b.u.t.ton read. Sammy pressed S, for Shade, then SCROLL. No Shades. Then he pressed K, for Kathleen.

And there it was.

He jotted the address and number down on the back of his parole officer's card. Then he made to split.

It was just something he had to do before leaving, an intercession perhaps. He would not ask for forgiveness-love wasn't something he felt the need to apologize for. It was something else, deeper. Just to see her again, to talk to her one last time before he disappeared...

He stood in the foyer. Get out Get out, a voice told him. You can't be getting caught in here. But... You can't be getting caught in here. But...

The memories whispered to him, as gently as he'd whispered to little Kathleen. Immediately, he felt violated, crushed by the vehement misunderstanding of others. They'd stolen from him-they'd stolen six years of his life. They'd stolen his entire past...

Then he remembered.

Next, he was mounting the curved, banistered stairs, up and around, to the long hall. Some of his past was still here, wasn't it? A little piece? After all this time, he'd forgotten.

When Sammy'd stayed to look after Kathleen, he'd had the spare room. Last room on the end, on the left. Here he was again now, after years and years. His fingers touched the k.n.o.b. The hinges actually grated from disuse when he pushed open the door. Figures, Figures, he thought. The room had not been touched. That was his brother's style, to write things off as if they'd never existed. Just one glance a.s.sured him that the room had not been cleaned-it probably hadn't even been entered-since his arraignment. he thought. The room had not been touched. That was his brother's style, to write things off as if they'd never existed. Just one glance a.s.sured him that the room had not been cleaned-it probably hadn't even been entered-since his arraignment.

Dust lay an inch thick on everything. The entire room was gray. Cobwebs rounded the corners, and hung like tendrils of rotted fabric from the ceiling. The bed was gray. The dresser, the night table, the walls-all gray. Even the oncevibrant plum-colored carpet was gray by years of dust.

Sammy had never had much of a personal supply of p.o.r.nography; being on the road most of the time prevented that. When he'd been busted, he'd been staying in a motel. The feds had grabbed everything, including the several cigar boxes of Polaroids Sammy kept for personal use. They booked all the masters he'd been carrying as evidence, and they'd also booked the cigar boxes. Sammy could've keeled over when the prosecutor had pa.s.sed those cigar boxes along to the jury: all those snapshots, all those kids.

Vinchetti's crew didn't mind Sammy snapping a few pix for himself every now and then. There'd been a few mags, too, mostly imports from Amsterdam, and a few vintage domestic jobs. But those cigar boxes-his little treasure chests-were gone forever. Except one.

He knelt in dust. He reached under the bed. He knew it was still there even before his fingers touched it: the one box they never got. Sammy'd kept it secreted in the box spring, beyond a tacked flap in the cheesecloth lining.

Still here, he thought. he thought.

He opened the box. He gazed down into it, as if into a holy light. A foreign mag called Jubilaum! Jubilaum! Dutch kids, or Germans. And one of Vinchetti's mags from the 70's, before he'd graduated to the wonder of video tape. Dutch kids, or Germans. And one of Vinchetti's mags from the 70's, before he'd graduated to the wonder of video tape. Come Play With Us, Come Play With Us, read the t.i.tle. A third mag- read the t.i.tle. A third mag-Santa's Coming!-starred Sammy himself, dressed up as Father Christmas. Sweet kids, Sweet kids, he reflected, thumbing through the glossy pages. he reflected, thumbing through the glossy pages. Christ, I had a whole head of hair back then. Christ, I had a whole head of hair back then. But in the bottom of the box was a single envelope. And in the envelope was a single Polaroid... But in the bottom of the box was a single envelope. And in the envelope was a single Polaroid...

The snapshot s.h.i.+ned in his hand. Yes, his past. One little tiny piece of Sammy's past that had not been taken from him.

It was a snapshot of Kathleen.

Eleven, twelve, he guessed. Whenever he was finished, he always talked her gently into sleep. He'd taken several pictures of her, but this was the only one left.

So beautiful, he thought, staring at it. he thought, staring at it.

It was the only one he needed.

This house, this picture, this room-it all took him back to another time. His memory was a sweet whorl. Kathleen, Kathleen, Kathleen, Kathleen, he thought. But there was another room too, wasn't there? Another vault of his past? he thought. But there was another room too, wasn't there? Another vault of his past?

Kathleen's bedroom, two doors down, lay in the same state: festooned by cobwebs, bedrabbed in dust. The furniture of her tender years, of course, was gone, replaced-Kathleen had lived in this house through college-but that wasn't the point. This was still her room, the the room... room...

No, Kathleen hadn't been like the others at all. Sammy really had loved her-it was just that people didn't understand how complex real love could be. In the joint, they'd had special names for pedophiles: 'Lester, Kiddie f.u.c.ker, Short Eyes. Well, they could all f.u.c.k themselves now. 'Cos I'm out, motherf.u.c.kers, and you're not. 'Cos I'm out, motherf.u.c.kers, and you're not. A month from now Sammy would be partying on the beach, with enough cash to set him for life. Lotta guys would've folded, but Sammy had played it right, the plea bargain, the spin on Vinchetti, the whole deal. A month from now Sammy would be partying on the beach, with enough cash to set him for life. Lotta guys would've folded, but Sammy had played it right, the plea bargain, the spin on Vinchetti, the whole deal.

But how right am I playing it now? he wondered. he wondered.

He couldn't help it.

He just...couldn't.

Sleepytime, he thought. he thought.

He lay on his side, on the bed and on his memories. He was looking at the picture of her, nearly in tears. He unbuckled his pants...

He couldn't help it.

The cat clock was long gone, but he could still see it... Softly ticking as he whispered. It's Sleepytime, Kathleen. You know your Uncle Sammy loves you, don't you? This is the special thing that uncles and little girls do. It's a special secret from G.o.d. Sleepytime, Sleepytime. It's Sleepytime, Kathleen. You know your Uncle Sammy loves you, don't you? This is the special thing that uncles and little girls do. It's a special secret from G.o.d. Sleepytime, Sleepytime. It didn't take long. She was so pretty. He loved her so much. It didn't take long. She was so pretty. He loved her so much. Almost, Almost, he thought. he thought. Almost. Alm- Almost. Alm- "Here," he whispered.

(II).

"-want to do my story?" asked the voice on the tape.

"Yes."

"You agree, then. It's an important story."

"Yes," Kathleen Shade answered. "I've already begun to work on it."

"Skulls mean death."

Spence pressed the PAUSE b.u.t.ton on the tape player. He seemed more rugged today, he hadn't shaved. He twiddled his thumbs behind the big metal desk. "Skulls mean death." he said. "What do you suppose she means by that?"

"I don't know," Kathleen said.

"Is this the first time she's called you?"

Kathleen laughed with little humor. "You've got a lot of nerve asking me that. You've been tapping my phone."

"Well, she could've called you before we put the tap on. Did she?"

"Isn't it against the law for the police to tap somebody's phone without their permission?"

"Under ordinary circ.u.mstances, of course. But under exceptional circ.u.mstances? Such as these? We don't need permission when such a surveillance is deemed by a judge to be relevant. When a citizen's life is in reasonable danger. And when such a surveillance would provide a positive utility regarding the active investigation of a grievous crime. Check Section XI, paragraph 2a of the District Annotated Code: Telephone Surveillance and Protocol Pursuant to Investigative Operations of Major Crimes."

"This isn't China, Spence. I shouldn't have to worry about your big ears in my apartment every time I pick up the phone."

"And as I've striven to remind you, quite often, our surveillance is also for your protection."

Striven? she wondered. "Uhhuh. And I'll bet you own the deed to the Empire State Building." she wondered. "Uhhuh. And I'll bet you own the deed to the Empire State Building."

Spence set his chin in his palm. "Are you going to answer my initial question? You always evade questions that you don't want to answer."

"Yes," Kathleen stonily stated. "This was the first time the killer has called me."

"But you'd like her to call again, as frequently as possible. Wouldn't you? For the book?"

"Yeah. And maybe if she calls enough times, you nimrods will be able to catch her."

Spence had explained last night's debacle, the traces, the DF, the helicopter ride for nothing. Could the killer really be that much smarter than Spence and all his technology? Someone must have faith in the man, to put all those resources, all those men and all that equipment, at his instant disposal. But if I was the police chief, But if I was the police chief, Kathleen fantasized Kathleen fantasized, Spence would be cleaning the toilets.

"Jonathan Duff, Arlington, Virginia," Spence noted to her. "He had phony plates on his car. I wonder why... Anyway, he's the seventh victim, at least that we're aware of. She's maintaining a formidable accretion of bodies."

Yes, she was. And Kathleen knew that the account of this latest victim would be in her mail soon. Perhaps tomorrow. Perhaps today.

"Let's listen some more," Spence said. "Shall we?" He pressed the PLAY b.u.t.ton: "You are a great woman," the voice drew on, "to be what you are, to rise above. Like me. We are both great women. You'll see."

"I don't know what you mean," Kathleen said on the tape. In the background, the car engine could be heard, and every so often, a dismal moan.

"You'll see," the voice repeated. It paused-perhaps she was turning. Then: "There it is! I can see it!"

"What? What can you see?"

"The Cross. It's... I can see it. It's beautiful."

"You're religious?" Kathleen asked.

"No."

"Tell me about The Cross."

"No. We all have our crosses. I do. You do... Sometimes, I can look at a man's face and see his bones. I can see his blood in him. My mother shows me their blood."

"Tell me about your mother."

"She..."

"Did you love her?"

"She tells me things. She tells me how to be honest, and smart."

"But your mother's dead. You said so in the first ma.n.u.script."

"She's not dead. She'll never be dead, not really. Don't you know what I mean? Like, when you really love somebody?"

Kathleen remembered the pause which followed. She remembered trying to think of some tactic to keep the killer on the line, some way to feign a bond. How complex was the killer intellectually? Would she see through such a ploy? "I'd like to be your friend," Kathleen said. "We should be friends, we should meet."

"Now you're lying. If I agreed to meet with you, you'd lead the police right to me."

"No, I wouldn't," Kathleen b.u.mbled back. "You should trust me-we should trust each other."

"Why?"

"Because then we'll be stronger. Against them."

Another static hesitation. Was it working?

"Against who?"

"All the men out there who would hurt us," Kathleen answered. "There're lots of them. They're all over, everywhere. We have to be careful."

"So...well..." The voice receded again to the faint, grainy drone of the car's engine. "Then I guess I should tell you where I live, or some place to meet me."

She's testing you, Kathleen had realized. "No," she said, "don't do that! The police are probably bugging my phone." Kathleen had realized. "No," she said, "don't do that! The police are probably bugging my phone."

Spence paused the tape player again. "I'm impressed by your intuition," he told her. "At least I think I am. You knew that the killer was baiting your motives."

"Of course," Kathleen replied. As always, the sun glared in her eyes from the window behind Spence, to deform her frown. "The only way I can gain her trust is to act as though her delusion is real. Otherwise she'd never believe a conspiracy proposal. If I'd asked her where she lives, she'd have hung up."

"Good," Spence approved. "Very good." He turned the deck back on and slightly increased the volume.

"But if the police are bugging your phone, then they just heard you say that," the killer's strangely gentle voice continued. "What would they say? What would this... Mr. Spence...say about that?"

This had surprised Kathleen. How did the killer know Spence was involved with the case? "To h.e.l.l with the police," Kathleen answered, "especially that a.s.shole Spence. They can't touch me. I can do whatever I want, I can talk to anyone I feel like talking to. It's a free country."

She hoped that the pauses after each of her statements meant that the killer was thinking, making considerations of trust; Kathleen needed her to believe she was on her side. This time, though, the killer responded: "The Cross is like a big star that takes the pain away. That's why I look at it. Everybody has a cross to take the pain away we all have pain I can see The Cross even when my eyes are closed I glue their eyes closed taking away the pain is what I'm talking about Mother I know don't be upset I take the pain and give it to someone else I put it somewhere else all the pain that Daddy made my mother feel all the things he did to her when he came over he always made me watch he'd f.u.c.k me while he made me watch people do things to my mother but now I know how to take away the pain you should have seen the way this one lurched when I cut it off sometimes they pa.s.s out from the pain so I wait 'til they wake up I sew their lips shut so they can't make noise and I think about The Cross while I'm working on them and it puts the pain into them it takes it out of me it takes it out of my mother and puts it into them it's our power, did you know that? No I guess you don't know that yet."

Kathleen's own voice turned dark with the question. "What? What's our power?"

"Pain."

In the next pause, a car horn honked. She seemed to be making a turn, and muttering something inaudible. "It's time for me to go," she said next. "I'll be in touch. You're almost ready."

"Ready for what?" Kathleen asked.

"But first you need to be purged."

"What?"

"You're still corrupted."

"In what way?"

"I will show you away from your corruption," the killer avowed. "I will purge you."