Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 41

"Yeah," Spence said into the Motorola mike.

"Ready for 1089 transfer to Central Communications operator." Static crunched like potato chips. Then: "This is Central Commo. You there, Lieutenant?"

"Yeah," Spence said.

"Shade's vehicle just came back on the DF board."

Chapter 37.

(I).

Kathleen had waited in the commuter lot for hours, every so often changing gun hands. "Kathleen," Sammy had asked. "What the h.e.l.l are we doing?"

"We're waiting," she'd replied.

"Waiting for what?"

"Nighttime."

Sammy thought he'd go nuts sitting there in the hot car with her piece sticking in his side. She never said how she knew so much about that part of his past: the junkie wh.o.r.e and her little house, and the kid. Nevertheless, she knew it all. But Sammy couldn't imagine why it seemed to mean so much to her.

What's she after?

When full dark slid across the sky, she ordered him to start the car and take the interstate back towards D.C.

"How did you find out all that stuff?" Sammy asked.

"Shut up."

"Why do you want to go there?"

"Just shut up, Sam. Shut up and drive."

Sam drove.

None of it made any sense. The broad was dead, and the kid was probably dead too, either that or banging her head against a padded wall in some psych ward. There was no way Kathleen and the kid could know each other: different ages, different schools, different neighborhoods. Different lives, Different lives, he reasoned. he reasoned.

Route 50 coursed on through hot darkness. New and typically disorganized road construction funneled them around split medians and jersey barricades.

The silence was killing him.

"So how's your dad?" Sam asked.

"Shut up!" Kathleen exploded. "I can't think when you're talking! You're distracting me!" The gun jammed so hard in his side he thought it would puncture him.

All right already, he thought. he thought.

Every so often he stole quick sideglances as the TBird glided on. The heat and humidity mussed her hair. Her lips seemed to be moving irreducibly yet they produced no words. The road wound on, tires humming over potholes.

There wasn't much time.

Exits approached. South Dakota Avenue. Earlier, Sammy had told her exactly where the little house was.

"This is our exit, isn't it?" Kathleen very quietly asked.

"Yes."

"Take it."

Just a few more miles. Sammy's palms effused sweat on the wheel. Familiar sights rose up: an auto junkyard, the old Good Will repository, Fort Lincoln Cemetery. Sammy turned right onto Bladensburg, and it got worse. The old neighborhood seemed like a haunting ground. Even the litter felt familiar, the drabness of the tarpatched streets, the grit of the cement. Off in the distance, then, against the tinted dusk, he could see the old war memorial-the Peace Cross-looming over the asphalt rise like an ancient sentinel.

"Let me talk," he whispered.

"What," she said.

"I don't know what you've got planned," he told her, "and I don't know why you'd want to go there. I haven't seen her since the week I got busted. That was over six years ago, Kathleen. She probably doesn't even live there anymore."

"Yes," Kathleen corrected. "She does."

She was commandeering him. She was forcing him back into the past.

Sammy wondered what would be waiting for him when he arrived.

Chapter 38.

(I).

Cramped little cottages, like boxes. Postagestamp yards overrun by weeds. DEAD END read a sign like a bloated yellow face. Perhaps it was Kathleen's imagination but she thought she detected a fetor in the air. Spoiled meat.

A malformed moon seemed to sit atop scrawls of trees. The street looked dead; a few of the houses must be vacant.

But one's not, she reminded herself. she reminded herself.

"Which house?" she asked.

Sammy idled the car down the narrow street. "At the dead end. On the right."

Kathleen ordered him to go all the way down and park at the dead end. "Turn off the motor and the lights." Her hand, after all this time, now felt fused to Maxwell's revolver; her knuckles ached. She gazed at the little house, a carboncopy of the rest, though slightly better kept. The large front window-the living room, she guessed-glowed beige behind its shades.

Maxwell's in there, she thought, chilled. she thought, chilled. Maybe she hasn't killed him yet. Maybe he's still alive... Maybe she hasn't killed him yet. Maybe he's still alive...

It seemed like any typical hope: futile, a splendorous palace built with bricks of lies. But what else could she do?

The little house looked crushed in its solitude and moontinged dark. A cracked sidewalk led to the front door. Then her gaze lengthened; on the side of the house, perhaps a mile off through the trees, she noticed a ma.s.sive stone cross...

The Cross. The Cross in The Window.

Kathleen knew exactly what she was going to do.

If Maxwell's still alive, I'm going to trade Sammy for him.

"Get out," she said to her uncle. She slid out right behind him on the driver's side, the revolver everjabbed. "It's time to pay your daughter, and my cousin, a visit."

(II).

"If you say anything, Sam, if you try anything, I'll kill you."

"I get the message."

The front door was locked. Should she knock? No, announcing herself would give the killer time to prepare. Sammy walked ahead, the gun in his back, and led them around the side to the backyard. The fetor never waned. Clumps of crabgra.s.s sprouted from cracks in the small patio, beyond which the trees and rampant bushes seemed frozen in the hot moonlight. Ever distant, the cross remained visible from its mount at the edge of town.

The back sliding door was unlocked.

"Not one word," Kathleen whispered.

Sammy smirked.

Inside smelled musty. Treadworn carpet pa.s.sed a tiny kitchen to the faintly lit living room. Everything looked old, out of date. An old, dingyshaded lamp. Tacky green couch and armchair, their corners patched or worn. The legged television looked like it came from the 60's. There was even a lava lamp on the end table, its bloodred glop hovering in lit oil.

But this was all Sammy needed to see; he recognized it all. Same furniture, same place, Same furniture, same place, he realized. Then: he realized. Then: She still lives here. She still lives here.

Kathleen seemed transfixed. A card table and chair had been set up. There was a typewriter, papers and magazines. Sammy saw several copies of the rag Kathleen wrote for, '90s Woman '90s Woman.

"My G.o.d," Kathleen whispered.

"What?"

"Your daughter's a murderer, Sam," she told him very quietly. "Did you know that? She's a serialkiller."

Sammy gaped at her. "She was a headcase, a skagbaby. What the h.e.l.l are you talking about? All she ever did was stare at the wall or read books."

"When you weren't busy raping her, you mean." Kathleen almost chuckled in disgust. "You turned your own daughter into a psychopath."

Sammy's gape broadened. He didn't know what she meant. But whatever it was, one thing was clear: the kid wasn't home. The house stood silent. No lights could be seen under the doors of the extending hall.

Unless she's in the bas.e.m.e.nt, he considered. But why would she be there? he considered. But why would she be there?

Then Kathleen demanded: "Where's Daddy's Room?"

(III).

You shouldn't have killed him, honey.

"I know," she sobs.

You have to think.

I know! she wants to scream.

She's in the bas.e.m.e.nt now.

To get rags and garbage bags.

To clean up the mess she made in Daddy's Room.

Her mother is standing next to the prost.i.tute.

She's watching her daughter.

She's looking at the blood on her daughter's pretty hands.

Great stains and splatters have turned dark on her clothes.

They could catch you now, her mother says. her mother says. We're going to have to leave, go far away. We're going to have to leave, go far away.

She continues sobbing gently.

She looks up at her mother.

Her mother is beautiful.