Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 34

"So now we know," Spence said, "exactly what she meant when she called you. Somehow she found out about your relations.h.i.+p with Platt. Platt's a man. She considers any man to be a blight, an element of corruption. Before she can trust you completely, she feels that she must purge you of your corruption." He turned to the slider, erect as a handsome men's wear mannequin in the finely cut dark suit. "I hope you're happy," he said.

Kathleen glared. "What do you mean?"

"You knew how dangerous the situation was. I warned you. I even told you it was grossly irresponsible to pursue a relations.h.i.+p with Platt while the killer was at large. I told you you were jeopardizing his life, and all you did was scoff. Are you scoffing now? Platt's gone, and it's all your fault."

"Go to h.e.l.l, Spence!" she spat back. "And where were your people? You could've prevented this! You should've been staking out Maxwell's apartment too!"

"Oh, sure. In fact, we should be staking out every apartment building in the city. We should have a cop in every bar, every alley, every staircase and street corner. Every shopping center and convenience store. Every bathroom. Every closet." He looked at her in genuine disgust. "I barely have the authorization to procure funds for one stakeout a.s.signment much less two. You had to persist, didn't you? You had to egg this guy on when you knew full well what could happen. What the h.e.l.l do you care? Now your book will be even more exciting, won't it? The biographer's lover actually kidnapped by the psychopath..."

"I hate you," Kathleen whispered. She sat down on the couch. She felt mummified, dried out by shock. But Spence was right. It is, It is, she thought. she thought. It is my fault. It's all my fault. It is my fault. It's all my fault. Somehow she found out about Maxwell, she saw him leaving one morning, followed the cab home. He's...with her now. Somehow she found out about Maxwell, she saw him leaving one morning, followed the cab home. He's...with her now.

Beyond that fact, she could think no more. She began to cry, gritting her teeth, clenching her fists 'til her nails dug into her palms. Her tightened face was a rock from which tears were wrung.

"No witnesses," Spence related. "Except for the guard, but she took care of him. Third District Homicide got the gunshot call. Then they called me. I got a TSD crew coming out now, for all the good it'll do. She obviously parked out back in the service alley, to reduce the possibility of a pa.s.serby seeing the vehicle."

But as hard as she tried to resist it, the question bloomed as a steady pressure in her head, like an artery swelling to burst. Kathleen quelled the silent sobs, her throat shriveling. "What," she asked, and gulped, biting off each word, "do you think-she'll do to him?"

Spence's brow crooked. A bald reluctance flushed his face. "Who knows?" he responded.

"Is she-going to-kill him?"

"He's lost. There's nothing anyone can do about it."

"Is she going to kill him!" she shouted.

Spence seemed to chew the inside of his cheek. "You're going to have to come to grips with the reality of this entire scenario. In the killer's delusion, you are a great woman whose only flaw is allowing yourself to be corrupted by inviting a man into your life-Platt. She exterminates anything she deems as corruptive. It's all part of the delusion. Compa.s.sion is an alien trait to killers of this type. They've been shown no real compa.s.sion in their own lives; therefore, they can't demonstrate compa.s.sion themselves. People aren't people to them. They're objectified things, things, either to be envied, or despised. She despises men because they symbolize the objects of her trauma." either to be envied, or despised. She despises men because they symbolize the objects of her trauma."

The question, defeated now, famished, etched out of her mouth. "Is she going to kill him?"

"Yes," Spence said.

Every bone in Kathleen's body seemed to fuse. Her jaw fused. Her teeth fused. Her eyes melted.

"In all likelihood," Spence continued, "she will kill him after a protracted period of torture. The extent of her torture will probably surpa.s.s that of any of her victims thus far, which is compliant with her psychological profile. For whatever reason, she envies you; you are something she sees as being greater than herself, and anything that dares to corrupt you, or interfere with her fantasy of being allied with you, will call for a particularly ferocious extermination. With each murder so far, she has outdone herself. With Platt she will no doubt outdo herself tenfold. I'm not saying this to upset you, I'm not saying this to amplify your grief. I'm only telling you this because it's important for you to accept and therefore adapt to the gravity of this situation."

All she could do was look up at him, her teeth ground shut, her throat sealed.

"Furthermore," Spence went on, "you must prepare yourself for the rest."

"The rest-of what?"

"After she dispatches Platt, she will undoubtedly send you her written account. Down to every last detail."

NeedleWork, she thought. she thought.

The Mummy, she thought. she thought.

Manburger, she thought. she thought.

Her face fell into her knees.

All...my...fault...

Spence was walking away from her, then back. His voice sounded a 100 feet above her as she stared between her knees into the carpet. "I know how you feel about privacy, and I know that you feel I have invaded yours to reckless abandon," he said. "I contest that I have-I'm only doing my job. Nevertheless, I read this only because it happened to be in the perimeter of the crime scene. If I had known what it was, I wouldn't have read it."

"What are you talking about?" came Kathleen's parched whisper.

"This is obviously for you."

"What?"

"It's obviously something he wrote for you. It's unfortunate that he never had the opportunity to give it to you."

Kathleen raised her head. Spence was holding an envelope.

"I found it on his desk," he said.

The envelope read KATHLEEN. It hadn't been sealed. The poem The poem, she realized when she slipped the piece of paper from the envelope. She blinked hard, to clear her vision, and read:

A KEATSIAN INQUIRY by Maxwell Platt

Quickened to this heaven, and so enspelled, the poet looked at her asleep in bed.

He heard her breathe, and beyond befelled the myriad verities he never said.

Dare he wake her beauty in the moon?

For what he spied-such love!-and in that precious moment didst nearly swoon.

Yet on she slept a lovely sleep; here is the image his love doth reap.

Oh, where is she now, and what are her dreams?

And he remembers how the moonlight gleams, a resplendent angel in fine light dressed.

And the poet thinks: Yes, I am blessed.

Only a moment in the quiet of the night, an angel-yes!-in linens of light.

And now, my love, my Kathleen, awake.

Open thine eyes for providence' sake, and for my joy now adrift in nether.

My love for you goes on forever.

All pa.s.sion's night, and Muses' day, and to his heart he then did pray for the power to speak!

So shall he say it now, so the truth shall be: Kathleen, will you marry me?

Kathleen reread the last line through fisheye tears. Then she looked up at Spence. He was standing away from her, facing her. His suit jacket hung unb.u.t.toned, and inside of his waistband she could see the small clipon holster and his gun. She wasn't sure how long the moment lasted, or the desire, but she wanted to reach inside his jacket, take the gun, put it to her head, and pull the trigger.

(III).

When Maxwell's consciousness bled back into his brain, there seemed to be blobs of light hanging frozen before his vision. A clack resounded. He heard someone breathing. Then one of the lightblobs approached, its details turning crisp, and he remembered. Her, Her, he thought. he thought.

Clad just in black panties and a bra, the beautiful body stood to his left. He could see the trim, alabaster abdomen, the bellyb.u.t.ton, the twin bottoms of b.r.e.a.s.t.s satcheled in the black bra.

The beautiful face stared down.

I've got to get out of here, came the stark, moronic thought. came the stark, moronic thought.

Then she raised her left hand.

Oh, my- She was holding a power drill.

-G.o.d.

"Are you ready, Daddy?"

Her finger squeezed the plastic trigger. The drill's motor engaged, filling the confines of this place-and the confines of Maxwell's soul-with the scream of its h.e.l.lish, unending shrill.

When Maxwell tried to move his legs, he couldn't. When he tried to move his arms, he couldn't.

When he tried to open his mouth to scream...he couldn't.

So he screamed in his mind. His body tremored. His muscles cramped. His eyes pushed forth in their sockets.

The drill screamed on.

Chapter 30.

(I).

The feds called them "Short Points," outoftheway bars or p.o.r.no places where requests for certain desires could be made. Sammy felt secure that Vinchetti's people didn't know he was out of stir, but he didn't want to take a chance by going to a place where he might be recognized. A short point was safer. It cost more but it was worth the piece of mind. Short points were hard for the cops to get a handle on because transactions were never made on the premises. You paid for a middleman.

Sammy still remembered a few.

New Carrolton, in P.G. County. A few blocks off the main drag. NEWSSTAND vibrated the sign in tacky red neon. Local laws made them cover their windows. The insides of these places always smelled the same, like pine cleaner and grunge. Sammy walked in to find the joint empty, save for an oriental guy behind a high counter. Adult video tapes lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Pap, Pap, Sammy thought. The legal, licensed s.h.i.+t. The current trend seemed to be flicks with names that mocked Hollywood productions. Sammy thought. The legal, licensed s.h.i.+t. The current trend seemed to be flicks with names that mocked Hollywood productions. Rambone. Sperminator II. Backside To The Future. Edward p.e.n.i.shands. Rambone. Sperminator II. Backside To The Future. Edward p.e.n.i.shands. Sammy chuckled aloud. Even the gay section sported such t.i.tles: Sammy chuckled aloud. Even the gay section sported such t.i.tles: All Hands On d.i.c.k, Sleeping With The Enema, Rear Admiral. All Hands On d.i.c.k, Sleeping With The Enema, Rear Admiral. A mag rack stretched through the center, 10% of which was, also via local ordinance, devoted to regular magazines like A mag rack stretched through the center, 10% of which was, also via local ordinance, devoted to regular magazines like Newsweek, Sports Ill.u.s.trated, Newsweek, Sports Ill.u.s.trated, and the like. Sammy even noticed a copy of and the like. Sammy even noticed a copy of '90s Woman '90s Woman staring him in the face. Hardcore p.o.r.n mags weighed down the rest of the rack. staring him in the face. Hardcore p.o.r.n mags weighed down the rest of the rack. c.u.mshot Revue, Pizza s.l.u.t, The Hot, Wet Best of Selena Steele! c.u.mshot Revue, Pizza s.l.u.t, The Hot, Wet Best of Selena Steele!

Sammy picked up one called c.u.m Bath c.u.m Bath and set it down on the counter along with a crisp $100 bill. The lingo was like a pa.s.sword. If you didn't get the lingo right, you didn't get s.h.i.+t. and set it down on the counter along with a crisp $100 bill. The lingo was like a pa.s.sword. If you didn't get the lingo right, you didn't get s.h.i.+t.

"Anything short these days?" Sammy asked.

The counterman didn't look at him. "You a cop?" That was the first thing they always asked, to beat a bust with entrapment.

"No," Sammy said. "Are you?"

"No. Live stuff or something to eye?"

"Live. Of the doublex variety. Can you help me out?"

The counter guy made a quick call, murmuring only, "You open? Gotta double x." Then he hung up, pocketed the 100, and told Sammy, "Here're some slugs. Last stall. Fifteen minutes. Okay?"

Sammy nodded and went to the back, after picking up some box slugs the proprietor had slid across the counter. Through a curtain, on either side, were video stalls. Sammy slipped into the last one next to an EXIT sign. The lights went out when he dropped some slugs into the box, on which had been affixed a label: WARNING! THIS COIN BOX IS PROTECTED BY A MOISTURESENSITIVE ALARM! Sammy, bored, punched through the eightfeature selector and looked at the screen. It was all conventional fare: generic p.o.r.n queens with siliconembellished b.r.e.a.s.t.s and electrolysized pubic regions doing it every which way with equally generic nineinch California golden boys. They all looked the same, and even sounded the same in their waves of fakeo.r.g.a.s.mic groans. The hard underground Sammy used to make made this stuff look more tame than Barney the Purple Dinosaur. The average chump who rents this s.h.i.+t probably doesn't even know hard underground exists, The average chump who rents this s.h.i.+t probably doesn't even know hard underground exists, he thought. he thought. No way in h.e.l.l you'd ever catch any kp or prep.u.b.es here. No way in h.e.l.l you'd ever catch any kp or prep.u.b.es here.

A few minutes later there was a knock. Finally, Finally, Sammy thought. He opened the stall to face a tall white guy in painter's pants and a buzzcut. "You a cop?" he asked. Sammy thought. He opened the stall to face a tall white guy in painter's pants and a buzzcut. "You a cop?" he asked.

"No," Sammy said. "Are you?"

"No. Right out back. Fiveminute ride. That square with you?"

"Sure."

He followed the guy out the back exit door and got into a primerpatched old Chevy Nova. The car pulled out of the lot onto a road lined by subsidized apartment buildings. "You want a girl, right?"

"Yeah," Sammy said. "Prep.u.b.e. Doesn't matter."

"Okay, two bills for black, three for white, four for a blondie."