Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 35

Sammy thought back to his Polaroid of Kathleen. "I'll pay five for something slim, short lightbrown hair."

"I think we can do that. Gotta see your green first."

Sammy had already rolled the bills up with a paper towel. He slipped the wad out of his pocket, touching it only by the edges. He didn't want his prints on the paper. Then he pa.s.sed it to the guy. "How far's the den?" Sammy asked.

"Right around the corner."

Here was more Justice Department slang. A "den" was a private residence, almost always an apartment, and was presided over by a "den mother." Den mothers were female drug addicts who rented out their children to people like this mover in the painter's pants, in exchange for crack money. If a den was connected, as were many of Vinchetti's, it was known as a "safehouse," where middlemen on the move could stay between jobs or hideout when the heat was on. It was not uncommon for den mothers to actually sell their children for lump sums (between 5,000 and 10,000) to mob connected p.o.r.n outfits. According to recent Justice Department statistics, over 30,000 children disappeared per year in the United States. Of that, approximately 10,000 were never seen again, and a majority of this latter third were suspected to be den children sold to support chronic drug habits. Back when Sammy had been in the business, Vinchetti's people paid bonuses to den mothers who kept themselves perpetually pregnant and promised to sell their children to The Circuit once they were four or five.

Broad daylight receded behind them; Sammy followed his mark up an odoriferous stairwell to the apartment. Inside sat a malnourished white woman with stringy brown hair stuffing envelopes in front of a soap opera. She was probably 30 but looked 50; her lined face glowed beneath its waxen pallor when the guy asked: "Katie in her room?"

The woman's head wagged.

Sammy's escort took him down a dark hall that smelled like urine, emesis, and cooked onions.

"I'll wait out there with the broad. An hour, okay?"

"An hour's fine," Sammy consented.

"She's a little hyperactive, and a little f.u.c.ked up in the head. You know. Her mother was drinking like a fish and smoking rock when she was carrying her. So take things easy, all right?"

Sammy'd seen it all before-the kids. The mothers were bigtime addicts. Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, Fetal Cocaine Syndrome. They'd keep up their habit throughout the pregnancy, which debilitated the fetus' brain development. Ruined their IQs attention spans, creative and mechanicalthought abilities. You could always tell an FCS kid: their eyes were abnormally close together, and they'd shake a lot, and stare at things. Some sad s.h.i.+t Some sad s.h.i.+t, Sammy considered, though at the same time his arousal began to glow. "I've never roughed up a kid in my life," he eventually answered his escort. Adults, sure. Street slag, crackheads-that was different. Adults were accountable for the way they chose to live. But the kids didn't have a choice. Sammy was always gentle with them, like the way he'd been with- Kathleen, he remembered.

His mind drifted in memory.

"In here. Her name's Katie."

"Right. Katie."

The guy in the painter's pants opened the door. "Katie?" he said. "I've got a friend here who wants to see you."

Sammy peered in. Fantastic, Fantastic, he thought. he thought. Oh, yeah, that's so sweet... Oh, yeah, that's so sweet... The little doeeyed girl looked up from her perch on a bed. Cartoons chattered on a small black and white TV. She wore a smudged summer dress with flowers on it. She was barefoot. Her obsidiandark eyes seemed immense when she looked up. The little doeeyed girl looked up from her perch on a bed. Cartoons chattered on a small black and white TV. She wore a smudged summer dress with flowers on it. She was barefoot. Her obsidiandark eyes seemed immense when she looked up.

"Katie?" asked the escort. "I have a friend here who'd like to see you, okay?"

The little girl blinked; fidgeted a little.

"He's a friend of your mommy's. Okay?"

The little girl nodded.

Sammy stepped into the room. A gentle smile came to his lips. "Hi, Katie," he said. "I've heard a lot of very good things about you."

The dark gaze glittered. She twitched a little again. She had a chipped tooth. Eight or nine Eight or nine, Sammy figured. Just the right age. Just the right age. Her light brown hair was cut just above her shoulders. Just like Kathleen's when she was little. Her light brown hair was cut just above her shoulders. Just like Kathleen's when she was little.

Sammy stooped down, put his hands on his knees. "I thought that maybe you and I could have some fun together."

"Okay, Katie?" asked Sammy's escort.

She blinked again, twitched, scratched her tiny nose.

The escort's voice grew stern. "You're going to be good, right, Katie? Your mommy wants you to be nice to her friend, so you're going to be a good girl, aren't you, like all the other times?"

The little girl nodded.

"That's right, Katie," Sammy said in his wellpracticed, friendly hypnotic voice. "You and I are going to have a nice time together. A real nice time."

The man in the painter's pants left the room and very quietly closed the door behind him.

(II).

"...firmly planted now in her most delusory state," Simmons claimed behind his desk. Spence noted that the psychiatrist's desk was much more expensive than his own-teak, not industrialgray metal. Perhaps the desks metaph.o.r.ed their personalities, or their hearts. It was an inexplicable observation. I'm gray, I'm gray, Spence thought. Spence thought. My heart feels as gray as my office desk. My heart feels as gray as my office desk.

"In the killer's ma.n.u.scripts she made several references to 'skulls.' 'Skulls mean death.' What's that?"

"Like 'The Cross,'" Simmons replied. "A hallucinatory embellishment of a symbol. Commonplace. Stagepsychopaths frequently see antagonistic figures, and potential victims, with delusory tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, to set them apart. To categorize them. She probably sees most men as deathfigures. It's hallucination. I know of many, many accounts of stagepsychopaths claiming to see a person's skull or bones beneath their flesh. It's actually part of a defense mechanism, triggered by the core delusion and synaptic anomalies."

Spence felt crestfallen. The more he learned of the killer's profile, the less he understood.

"And you're still urging Shade to fake complicity with the killer?" Simmons inquired.

Spence nodded. "She pulled off a great job during the phone call. But now I'm worried about-"

"You're worried about the 'fake' complicity transforming into genuine complicity?" Simmons a.s.sumed.

"Well, yeah. Because-"

"Because now your killer has abducted Kathleen Shade's lover. Shade doesn't like you, she doesn't trust you, and she feels that your only concern is the apprehension of the killer, regardless of the cost. Maxwell Platt is now part of that cost. Shade knows that Platt is more than likely dead, or will be soon, but she will resist that fact consciously, and cling to any hope that he might still be alive. She will do anything to increase his chances of survival. It's possible that she may pursue a genuine complicity with the killer. On her own. Behind your back. And she very easily has the impetus, the motive, and the utility to do that."

"How?" Spence questioned. "We're on her phones, we've got roundtheclock surveillance on her apartment."

"Don't be stupid, Jeffrey," Simmons said. "She's an industrious, creative, and capable woman woman. You're a cold, objective man. man. Under these particular circ.u.mstances, she clearly has the power to fool you. To deceive you completely and utterly." Under these particular circ.u.mstances, she clearly has the power to fool you. To deceive you completely and utterly."

Spence crossed his legs, tapped a knuckle. He felt partly insulted but he knew the psychiatrist was right. Backfire Backfire, he thought.

"From your perspective," Simmons continued, his eyes strangely bemused, "the abduction of Platt is the worst thing that could've happened. You've now lost all control over Shade, who is your only real connection to the killer."

"I f.u.c.ked up," Spence muttered.

Simmons a.s.sented, shrugged in a light, grayplaid jacket. "You should have foreseen the potentiality, yes. But don't blame yourself. After all, you're not a soothsayer. You're not G.o.d."

I'm my own G.o.d, Spence realized. The G.o.d of Inanities, in the Temple of Senselessness. The G.o.d of Inanities, in the Temple of Senselessness. The muse sunk deeper, like a malignancy. "The other day on the phone...you said I still had some investigative avenues left to 'plunder.' What are they?" The muse sunk deeper, like a malignancy. "The other day on the phone...you said I still had some investigative avenues left to 'plunder.' What are they?"

Simmons' face always seemed luminous in some complacent and indecipherable joy. Or was it amus.e.m.e.nt? Spence frequently thought so. Simmons was possibly the only person in the world who liked Spence. So why did Spence, here in the doctor's office, always feel like an object of arcane mockery?

Simmons said: "Watch Kathleen Shade, Jeffrey. Watch her as closely as you can. Go to any extreme to maintain a constant monitor of her whereabouts."

Okay, okay. Spence nodded. He got the picture... Spence nodded. He got the picture...

"What have I been telling you," Simmons asked, "throughout this entire ordeal?"

"Find the nascent."

"Yes." Simmons smiled. "You're boxed out now, Jeffrey. Your ploys have turned on you. That's why a rigorous surveillance of Shade is paramount."

"I don't know what you mean," Spence said.

"Given the turn of events," the psychiatrist elaborated, "I'd say it's quite possible that Shade will discover the nascent before you do."

Chapter 31.

(I).

Going to sleep for a 1,000 years was what Kathleen wished for most. Reverting to a state where she didn't have to think, or feel...anything. She could not think about the killer or Spence. She could not think about Uncle Sammy. She could not think about Maxwell.

I cannot think, she thought.

She lay in her underwear on the couch, gazing up. She was drunk. She'd drunk the second large bottle of ale she'd bought at Berose, plus some wine that had been fermenting in the refrigerator for about a year, hoping the borderline inebriation would carry her senses away. To some safe place. To some demesne where nothing mattered and nothing hurt.

More lies.

"Most of every negative emotion in the psyche, especially despair, is caused by a lack of oral gratification in the formative years," claimed the radio shrink. "That is, the stage of infantile development where the infant experiences a contentedness from nursing, biting, and chewing."

Who could she ask? Dad, did mother breastfeed me? Did you buy me plenty of teething rings when I was a baby? Dad, did mother breastfeed me? Did you buy me plenty of teething rings when I was a baby? She couldn't imagine asking such a thing. Nevertheless, it all sounded like mumbojumbo to her: excuses, psychoa.n.a.lytic ba.n.a.lities. She couldn't imagine asking such a thing. Nevertheless, it all sounded like mumbojumbo to her: excuses, psychoa.n.a.lytic ba.n.a.lities.

The radio drifted away. I should call in sometime, I should call in sometime, Kathleen pondered. Kathleen pondered. Everyone else did. Who would know it was me? Everyone else did. Who would know it was me?

The fifth chapter of the killer's ma.n.u.script remained on her desk. She hadn't yet read it, and still refused to. Doing so felt akin to going to the morgue to identify a dead loved one. She knew she'd have to do it sometime; she simply couldn't now. Not after all she'd read thus far...

"...one big problem," a callin listener was saying. "Whenever my boyfriend tries to make love to me, I suddenly freak out. It's like he becomes someone else, a monster, a killer. Sometimes, I actually start screaming out loud."

"Were you s.e.xually abused as a child?" the seemingly omnipotent radio shrink asked.

"Yes. Yes," admitted the caller. "My brother had s.e.x with me from the time I was eleven 'til I was about 16. Like...every night. Everything... He did everything to me every night..."

The pause crackled. "It's called 'hyperdissociation,'" the radio shrink told the woman. "Your subconscious mind has been preprogrammed to think of s.e.xual acts in a negative mode."

"But I don't know what to do!" the caller suddenly began to sob. "I can't expect my boyfriend to put up with this! Why can't I enjoy s.e.x? Why can't I be like everyone else?"

"You can. It's simple. It takes time but it's simple. You have to fantasize. In your fantasies, you have to kill your brother. Several times a day, especially when you wake up and right before you go to bed, imagine your brother-picture him in your mind along with the scenarios of when he raped you. And kill him."

Kill him, Kathleen thought.

"Kill him?" the caller inquired. "My brother?"

"That's right: kill him. Imagine yourself killing him. With a gun, a knife-it doesn't matter. In your fantasies, in your mind, kill him. If you do this long enough, you'll eventually kill the posttraumatic effect that your brother's s.e.xual abuse inflicted in your subconscious. You'll kill the obstructions. You'll kill the s.e.xual dysfunction, the bodymemories, and the despair..."

Kathleen's own therapists had trained her well as to the same techniques, and it had worked. Until now, Until now, she reminded herself. It wasn't working anymore. The recurring nightmare-of Sammy, the cigar box, and the snake-had resurfaced all that anxiety of years ago. She'd killed Sammy a thousand times in her own fantasies, but now he was back, and not merely in her dreams but in her real world as well. But Sammy's parole couldn't be the trigger; the nightmare had begun before his release... she reminded herself. It wasn't working anymore. The recurring nightmare-of Sammy, the cigar box, and the snake-had resurfaced all that anxiety of years ago. She'd killed Sammy a thousand times in her own fantasies, but now he was back, and not merely in her dreams but in her real world as well. But Sammy's parole couldn't be the trigger; the nightmare had begun before his release...

The killer, she thought. The killer was the trigger, for the killer, too, had been s.e.xually abused. Was that it? And if it were, what did it matter? I'm so screwed up it's pathetic I'm so screwed up it's pathetic, she thought. She squinted at the ceiling, as if trying to see fortunes.

Then she thought of Maxwell...

"...for about two years," another caller was saying.

"Yes?" bid the radio shrink.

"And then I broke up with him."

"Why?"

"I don't know. I really did love him, I guess. But I wanted to see other people, I wanted to do other things. I mean, at first I thought I wanted a serious commitment. Well...I changed my mind."

"That happens," the shrink obliged. "People change their minds all the time. They change their expectations, they change their priorities, they change their views. Change is part of what we all are. You needn't feel guilty about changing."

"I don't," insisted the caller. "What happened was, the night I broke up with him, he was killed in a car wreck."

"I...see."

"If I hadn't broken up with him, he wouldn't have been on that road. He'd still be alive..."

Those last four words seemed to turn to concrete. He'd still be alive, He'd still be alive, Kathleen thought. Kathleen thought. So would Maxwell. So would Maxwell.

"It's tragic, yes, it's a horrible, horrible thing," the radio shrink was saying, "but you can't blame yourself for fate."

Kathleen turned the radio off. It wasn't fate that had caused Maxwell to be abducted. It was me It was me, she told herself. Spence is right. I'm the one who let it happen. I was too stupid to realize the danger, and now he's...gone Spence is right. I'm the one who let it happen. I was too stupid to realize the danger, and now he's...gone.

Gone sounded better than dead; it was easier to cope with. But deep in herself, she remembered Spence's a.s.sertion: that Maxwell, by now, was most likely dead. Tortured to death.

I killed him, she thought. she thought.

She drifted in and out of sleep, lurching awake each time at obscene, atrocious images. Then the phone was ringing. Her limp hand picked it up. "h.e.l.lo?"

"Kathleen?"