Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 43

(II).

It felt like a great, wobbly bubble rising from deep water. When Kathleen awoke, she thought she was dead. She remembered in guillotinelike s.n.a.t.c.hes: the room, Maxwell's entrails and limbs strew about the floor, then Sammy- Killing me, she thought. she thought.

Pain burned at the back of her neck; her brain had winked out like a light. But-I'm not dead, But-I'm not dead, she thought. How could she be? She lay face down in the hall. Alive. she thought. How could she be? She lay face down in the hall. Alive.

In increments, she was able to lean up, look around.

What she saw seemed like a loud, thunking nightmare.

Two dark figures, one tall, one short, struggled behind her in the hall. "Daddy!" shrieked the taller. "You're back!" The smaller figure was but a puppet thrown to and fro against the wall. Each impact of the skinny form resounded through the house. It was like watching a dog shake a ragdoll in its jaws. THUNK...THUNK...THUNK...

Then the shorter figure collapsed.

"Aw, G.o.d, baby, please. You don't understand."

The tall figure leaned over, tremoring in some weird form of delight. "Daddy's back, Mother! Look! He's come back to us!"

"Baby, please, I love you," croaked her uncle's wasted voice. "You're my child."

"Come into Daddy's Room," he was answered.

"No, Jesus Christ nooooooooooo nooooooooooo-"

"Come in with us..."

Sammy, then, was dragged into the charnel room.

The door slammed shut.

Kathleen tried to rise but then pa.s.sed out again.

Chapter 40.

(I).

Spence whispered into his Motorola, "I want the biggest signal 13 in the history of the law enforcement."

"What's that, Lieutenant?"

"Scramble every car, every helicopter, everything you got. I want every TAC guy in the city here in five minutes."

The pause reflected the dispatcher's confusion. "I don't get it. What's going o-"

"Just do it," Spence ordered.

"But...why?"

"Shade," Spence whispered. "I got no idea how, but Shade found out where the killer lives."

"You mean...your psycho?"

"That's right." Spence gulped. Only now was it sinking in. "This is the killer's house," he said.

"On the way."

Spence clipped the radio back to his belt. His back to the house, he checked his Smith snub in the moonlight, checked his speedloaders, and took several deep breaths. Darkness hung still in the cramped backyard. Spence wondered how many bodies were entombed here.

The window was too high to get in quietly. He didn't really want to go in that way anyhow; he remembered the quick glimpses: all the blood and entrails, sawed limbs. There'd even been something on the floor that looked like a steppedon brain. Poor f.u.c.kin' Platt, Poor f.u.c.kin' Platt, he thought. he thought. What a way to go. What a way to go.

He crept back around the side. The foundationlevel bas.e.m.e.nt windows were dark, and one, tested by Spence's foot, was not locked. He knelt and s.h.i.+ned his penlight in, saw nothing but blocks of scary black. Here goes, Here goes, he thought. He ought to wait for the TAC teams but- he thought. He ought to wait for the TAC teams but-Shade's in the house somewhere. Every second I wait is another second she can die in. He squeezed through the little open window, lowered himself down, and- He squeezed through the little open window, lowered himself down, and- Good G.o.d...

-almost threw up from the stench. Meaty, dank rot. Sweat, blood, excrement. His penlight found a caged bulb hanging. He yanked the string and filled the bas.e.m.e.nt with light.

And stared.

A starved, redhaired woman had been chained naked across a bench. Her skin gave off a tint like spoiled cream.

Eyes glued shut. Mouth closed by surgical st.i.tches. She was so skinny the slats of her ribs looked like fissures.

Dead, he concluded, applying a finger to her jugular. he concluded, applying a finger to her jugular. It was Creamy, It was Creamy, he realized, he realized, 'Rome's hooker. Starved to death down here. 'Rome's hooker. Starved to death down here. That's how the killer had thrown him offtrack. Leaving the prost.i.tute's prints, and strands of her hair on the evidence. It seemed brilliantly macabre... That's how the killer had thrown him offtrack. Leaving the prost.i.tute's prints, and strands of her hair on the evidence. It seemed brilliantly macabre...

Another workbench against the cinderblock wall. Bloodencrusted tools lay in disarray. Buckets and plastic garbage bags-Spence frowned into each one. Clumped blood and sewage filled the buckets; b.l.o.o.d.y clothes filled the bags. And shoved under the bench...

A shoed foot.

Then the foot moved.

Spence dragged out a figure lashed by ropes into a fetal position. The figure trembled. Still alive, Still alive, Spence thought in a grim rejoice. The long blond hair gave it away. Spence thought in a grim rejoice. The long blond hair gave it away.

It's Platt.

Eyes glazed by terror bugged up. Spence untied the knots, peeled off the duct tape which sealed the poet's lips.

"I believe in G.o.d now," came Maxwell Platt's desiccated whisper.

"How bad are you hurt?"

"I'm all right, I think. I think she was saving me for later."

"Okay." Spence helped him up, crutched him toward the window. "Everything's gonna be all right," he said. "I want you to get out of here right now. Don't make any noise, just get out. A whole s.h.i.+tload of cops are on the way. Get out and start running, and don't stop."

"Kathleen," Platt whispered. "Is she-"

"She's fine," Spence lied. "She's at her apartment. Just run to the main road and call an ambulance for yourself."

"Thank you," Platt mumbled, "Thank-"

"Just shut up and get out of here, will ya?"

Spence helped the shaken poet up through the window and out. He stood a moment amid the stench and pale light. What could be scarier than a psychokiller's bas.e.m.e.nt? What could be scarier than a psychokiller's bas.e.m.e.nt? he asked himself. he asked himself. Answer: a psychokiller's bas.e.m.e.nt when the psychokiller's still in the house. Answer: a psychokiller's bas.e.m.e.nt when the psychokiller's still in the house. But was she? Was the killer upstairs right now? And where was Kathleen Shade? But was she? Was the killer upstairs right now? And where was Kathleen Shade?

Was that Shade's guts I saw on the floor? Was that Shade's brain?

Spence shucked his snub. Then he began to move up the stairs to the first floor.

The silence irked him. His noiseless footfalls sounded, to him, like a goon squad clamoring up the staircase.

On the landing, he peered forward. A hallway led to a faintly lit living room; he saw a typewriter on a table. An open door stood just to his left. Spence threepointed into the room. Empty. It was a bedroom...

A veil of more light seemed to sift from an open closet.

What the f.u.c.k's this?

Gun in lead, Spence stepped into the closet.

What faced him, objectively, was a large pane of gla.s.s. But what he saw in that pane made it something else altogether.

It was an interstice. It was a portal to h.e.l.l.

A tall, sleek woman leaned over a bra.s.s bed. Spence couldn't see her face. His eyes quickly cataloged the room, the same room he'd seen outside. Entrails spilled on the floor. Ribbons of goresodden clothing. Sawn limbs and the squashed brain. Under the window stood a dresser topped by surgical gear and power tools. A large wooden cabinet, its doors open, sat atop the dresser too, and tacked to the insides of the door were what appeared to be old newspaper clippings. In an opposing closet he saw at least half a dozen wigs on faceless mannequin heads...

His eyes darted back to the bed. A man, ankles and wrists handcuffed to the rails, tremored on the mattress. Spence remembered the mugshot.

It was Samuel Curtis Shade.

Twoway mirror, Spence realized. He was watching the killer about to start working. And- Spence realized. He was watching the killer about to start working. And- She can't see me, She can't see me, he knew. he knew.

Yet the initial horror left him rigid as a wood post driven into the ground. His eyes could not move away from their witness.

Samuel Shade looked only barely conscious. The woman had cut his clothes off and was now sewing shut his lips...

Line up, he thought. Spence a.s.sumed a firing position called The Weaver Stance, both elbows slightly flexed, his face behind his gun's tiny sights. The .38 standardpressure round would penetrate the twoway mirror without much deflection. He decided to fire doubleaction rather than c.o.c.k the snub's cut hammer and risk the click giving him away. he thought. Spence a.s.sumed a firing position called The Weaver Stance, both elbows slightly flexed, his face behind his gun's tiny sights. The .38 standardpressure round would penetrate the twoway mirror without much deflection. He decided to fire doubleaction rather than c.o.c.k the snub's cut hammer and risk the click giving him away. Midlumbars, do it now, Midlumbars, do it now, he thought. he thought.

Spence never heard the shot. The little gun bucked. The mirror shattered and fell like a rain of tinsel. Spence blinked cordite out of his eyes. Sooty powder, Sooty powder, he managed to think despite the fact that he'd just shot a woman in the back. he managed to think despite the fact that he'd just shot a woman in the back. Change brands. Change brands. He looked into the heinous room and saw the woman lying splayed on her stomach. The bloodspot seeped just right of the spine, a few inches. He looked into the heinous room and saw the woman lying splayed on her stomach. The bloodspot seeped just right of the spine, a few inches. Take some cla.s.ses from the armorer, Take some cla.s.ses from the armorer, Spence suggested to himself, still strangely calm. Spence suggested to himself, still strangely calm. You were aiming for the spine on a stationary target and you missed, you a.s.shole. You were aiming for the spine on a stationary target and you missed, you a.s.shole. But with a .38 wadcutter in the kidney, he doubted she'd be getting up again. But with a .38 wadcutter in the kidney, he doubted she'd be getting up again.

He went out into the hall, keyed his Motorola. "This is Spence, I just took down the killer. Get an ambulance here right n-"

BAM!.

A chunk of wall exploded to his right. Spence urinated in his slacks and dropped the radio. The low muzzleflash gave him the killer's position: on her belly firing up from the bottom of the doorway. But Spence was a sitting duck; he was standing in the middle of the hall with no cover. He put his back to the left wall instinctively, fired four shots lefthanded at the lower doorway- bambambambam!

-ejected the spent sh.e.l.ls, popped in five fresh ones with his first speedloader- BAM!.

-winced at the colossal concussion of the return fire, thought This b.i.t.c.h must be shooting artillery at me! This b.i.t.c.h must be shooting artillery at me! then put five more .38's down toward the muzzle flash, reloaded again as his bladder continued to betray him, aimed and- then put five more .38's down toward the muzzle flash, reloaded again as his bladder continued to betray him, aimed and- BAM!.

Spence went down.

Chapter 41.

(I).

Kathleen's consciousness seemed to revive like hard slaps to a tired face. She heard one of the loudest sounds she could imagine-a heavy, tonerous BAM!-then four little pops, then another BAM!

Then a thunk from down the hall.

She leaned up and saw the bedroom door creak shut.

Get out, was her first thought. She crawled forward, the back of her neck burning as if a nugget of hot gla.s.s had been embedded there. She squinted down the dark hall, saw a large figure lying before an open, black doorway. was her first thought. She crawled forward, the back of her neck burning as if a nugget of hot gla.s.s had been embedded there. She squinted down the dark hall, saw a large figure lying before an open, black doorway.

She heard an unpleasant, wet spitting noise.

It's Spence, she thought.

She used the kitchen wall for balance. She stood up. Get out, Get out, the thought returned, but the wet spitting noise continued. It reminded her of someone crinkling up wrapping paper. the thought returned, but the wet spitting noise continued. It reminded her of someone crinkling up wrapping paper.

It's Spence, she thought again. she thought again.

With all the effort she could muster, she walked past the closed bedroom door to the end of the hall and knelt before Spence.

The right side of his dress s.h.i.+rt, beneath his jacket, was soaked with blood. She put a hand to his cheek. His eyes bulged either in pain or outrage, and for some reason Kathleen suspected the latter. A froth of blood bubbled at his lips.

"Spence... Jesus," she uttered.

He grabbed her blouse. His voice sounded like someone talking with a chest cold: "Get out of here."

"But you're shot!" she whispered. "I've got to get you to a-"

Fluid rattled in Spence's throat as more blood bubbled up. "I'm dying, it hurts," he said inanely. "Don't waste your time." He coughed twice, and winced. "TAC team's on the way. Go downstairs, crawl out the bas.e.m.e.nt window. When you get outside, put your hands up or else my people will shoot you." Even more inanely, then, he began to jabber, "G.o.dd.a.m.n standardpressure rounds, I knew I should have used custom loads or something, you know?" He blinked up at her. "I've never been in love, isn't that funny? Aw, Christ, I don't want to die."