Shatter Point

by Jeff Altabef

  “It’s worth a try,” Jack said, even though he couldn’t see how it would pay off. Still, Tom needed a puzzle he could solve or this thing would swallow him whole. He was strong, but he had limits, and Jack saw the strain on him.

  “How could someone take Mom?” Tom turned toward him, eyes wide and moist. “She wouldn’t hurt anyone. I just don’t understand it. How could she have kept this secret from us? We could have protected her.”

  “Don’t go negative. We’re going to rescue her. We’ll do whatever it takes to get her back.”

  “She still makes my lunch, Jack. I tell her not to, but she leaves a sandwich in the fridge every day.” Tom rubbed his eyes. “She’s sacrificed everything for us.”

  Jack shook him by the shoulders. “We will find her, and when we do, Cooper is going to wish he had never been born.”

  Mary joined them. “Rachel wants us upstairs.”

  A distinctive-looking man stood stiff and straight next to Rachel’s desk, nervously stroking a neat white goatee that contrasted with his dark skin. Sweat glistened off his clean-shaven head. He looked uncomfortable in a button down, long-sleeve shirt that hung loosely on his rail-thin frame.

  Jack noticed his hollow eyes shift around the room as if he were seeing ghosts. They were eyes that had seen too much bad in the world and expected the worst at every corner. Jack knew those eyes. Lately, he had seen them in the mirror.

  Mary closed the door behind them.

  “This is The Professor,” Rachel began. “He’s an expert psychological profiler. I’ve asked him to review the letters and give us his best profile on Cooper.”

  Jack had heard rumors about The Professor, but had never seen him. The preeminent profiler in the early 2030s, The Professor had enjoyed a number of major successes. He took down the Ben Franklin Killer, who was credited with 32 deaths via electricity. Beside each victim, he left a small kite and key as his unique calling card. As a purely intellectual pursuit, The Professor had profiled each founding father, and had exercised poor judgment in publishing his findings, not all of which were flattering. The Originalist government had branded him a traitor and forced him into hiding.

  Aunt Jackie leaned back on the couch and murmured, “What crap.”

  Jack smiled. The old bat was a handful, but she was honest. It wasn’t hard to figure out where you stood with her.

  The Professor smiled reluctantly, as if unaccustomed to making the simple facial expression. “We don’t have a large sample of writings, but I think we have enough for me to work up a simple profile.”

  He pressed a button on a remote control, and the video feeds from Rachel’s computer vanished. One large screen with the fourteen letters and the first note displayed on it took their place.

  “First, the handwriting offers us some informative clues.” He clicked another button and perfectly formed letters appeared highlighted and enlarged. “The letters are all neatly-formed, consistent block letters. That indicates a bright, orderly mind, one that is able to effectively departmentalize different parts of his life. The subject likely appears to be a well-adjusted, successful man, but we know better.

  “The signature is also instructive.” The letters vanished and all fifteen signatures appeared on the screen, each nearly identical. “He developed an elaborate signature early in his life, and the signature stayed consistent through the years. This shows classic signs of narcissism. He obviously thinks quite highly of himself.”

  The signatures disappeared and particular phrases took their place. “From his word choice and writing style, I’m sure he was born and raised in the Northeast—most likely a big city like New York, Boston, or Philadelphia. He went to school at an Ivy League institution. You might check them out as a lead. From his comments in the letters, it’s clear he feels entitled to success, that it’s his birthright. He probably did better his first two years than the last two, and finished somewhere between the middle and top-third of his class. Once the workload got tougher, he would have grown disinterested.”

  “How could he have fallen in love with Mom when he was so young?” Tom asked.

  The Professor frowned. “He says she belongs with him, but he never says he loves her. He knows, at least in his subconscious, that he has no real feelings for Maggie. He thinks she’s well below his station in life and has no genuine interest in her. It’s obvious from the letters.”

  He pressed a series of buttons, and numerous phrases appeared on the wall. “It’s a shame you never went to college,” and “I don’t know how you can live in such a small house,” and “It’s unfortunate Paul can’t provide for you” were just a few.

  Jack had noticed the tone and disdain dripping from the letters.

  Tom sighed. “If he has no real feelings for Mom, then why stalk her for so long? Why not just take her earlier?”

  Jack heard the desperation and futility in his voice. Math and the physical sciences couldn’t help Tom here, and that threatened to bury him.

  The Professor stroked his goatee. “The duration of most stalking events is one and a half years or shorter. Longer ones have been recorded, including some exceeding forty years, but those are rare. I don’t think the subject is a classic stalker. His personality would more likely be diagnosed as a malignant narcissist.”

  The Professor paused at the blank stares around him, and continued in a somewhat less confident voice. “Malignant narcissists are extreme psychopaths who enjoy inflicting pain on their victims, and they possess a grandiose opinion of themselves. The subject clearly enjoys hurting women. Maggie rejected him when he was young. This hurt him. He wants to hurt her back and keep hurting her.

  “He has combined those two feelings—his desire to repay her for rejecting him as a youngster, and his desire to hurt women in general—and the two have become inseparably intertwined in his mind. He’s delayed going after Maggie for so long because terrorizing her thrills him. When he captures her, he’ll lose his pretense for causing such pain in the other women. That scares him. Without Maggie, the reality that he’s nothing more than a monster who enjoys hurting women will come to light.”

  “So he’s using Mom as an excuse to butcher those other victims?” Tom asked.

  “Exactly. But it’s more complicated than pretense. Sending the letters and photos to Maggie provides the subject added excitement. He doesn’t consciously understand it, but he feeds off punishing her.”

  The diagnosis didn’t surprise Jack. He had gotten the same feelings when he reviewed the file.

  The Professor continued. “Each letter is laced with subtle and explicit threats to those close to Maggie.” The screen filled with dozens of threats. “He goes out of his way to mention specific developments in their lives, even including pictures of her sons. Again, he’s making it clear to her that she cannot hide from him. He uses the threats like a dagger to inflict pain on her, revealing his sadistic tendencies. I believe he would have fulfilled his threats if Maggie had ever gone public with the letters.”

  “What about the victims? Who would mutilate people like that?” Tom blurted out.

  “The women are all Maggie substitutes, with the possible exception of this one.” The professor pressed a button, and all the photographs appeared side-by-side on the wall, with one enlarged over the rest. “This particular victim is different in physical appearance than the others. Her hair is lighter and she seems older with more muscle tone. Also, her wounds are similar, but the subject took less care hurting her. He was less precise, as if she wasn’t as interesting to him as the others. She’s dressed and posed the same way as the other victims, so it’s impossible to say why he killed her. Maybe his blood lust was heightened to an uncontrollable pitch and a more suitable Maggie substitute was not available.”

  The Professor paused. “All the other victims resemble Maggie when she married in her early twenties. His view of her is childlike. The victims never age. The injuries are similar in style but become increasingly violent over time. He cuts these women. It’
s hard to tell in the photos, but I think he removes their hearts. It’s likely he keeps a collection of them. He’s symbolically looking within these women to determine why she rejected him. He cannot understand it. He rips these women apart, looking for some secret he cannot fathom.”

  “What a monster,” Mary whispered.

  “Yes, he is indeed a monster, but don’t be fooled by that nomenclature. He’s very smart and shows no remorse for the hideous acts he has performed. He has likely never stayed at one job or profession for long. He bores easily, and when the learning curve becomes laborious, he moves on to something new, fooling himself into believing that he’s too important to waste his time on any one task.

  “In reality, he’s unwilling to work hard and afraid that he might fail. He has no close friends. I doubt that he’s married, unless the marriage is one of convenience. He’s in good shape and enjoys some thrilling sports, but the risks involved are all containable. I would think something like mountain climbing, but not skiing. Most people find him attractive and charming. He has no problem manipulating people to achieve what he wants.”

  “How long does Maggie have before...?” Rachel shrunk in on herself.

  The Professor’s right eye twitched. “It’s hard to say exactly. I would have a better guess if I could study the latest letters. I understand that he showed more rage in the recent ones. Taking Maggie suggests that he’s under some external strain. He feels a certain loss of control in his life, some kind of stress from expectations placed on him by others close to him, perhaps a parental figure.

  “Malignant narcissists often have one domineering parent. Those circumstances create incredible pressure, pressure he fools himself into believing will be relieved by grabbing her.” The Professor hesitated for a moment, as if pulling together his thoughts from different compartments in his mind. “He will not hurt her immediately. He thinks she loves him but has been unable to express it. If she resists him, he will anger quickly. At most, she has a few days.”

  “And if she doesn’t resist him?” Mary’s voice cracked.

  The Professor sighed. “He’s at what we in the business call a Shatter Point—the point where his mind will splinter into a million shards as a result of stress. Once it shatters, he’ll lash out. If she cooperates with him, he’ll realize he doesn’t actually love her. He desires a fictional version of her from his childhood. He wants the girl that rejected him. That will cause him to shatter. It might buy her an extra day or so, but he will shatter. He’s a very dangerous man.”

  Stunned silence filled the room.

  Aunt Jackie broke the tension. “When I put a bullet in his brain, will he die like anyone else?”

  The Professor assessed her for a few moments, a spark of curiosity replacing the hollow look in his eyes. “Do not underestimate him. Show him no mercy.”

  Mary’s phone pinged, and she checked the screen. “I have a hit on the logo.”

  Charles Sheppard hovered his hand over the chessboard. His fingers fluttered and settled on his queen. He slid the piece diagonally to Rook Three.

  Jacob Benjamin sat across from him and clucked his tongue. They were in Charles’s luxurious penthouse apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. He glanced at his opponent with steel gray eyes and a wrinkled, thin face. “What’s on your mind, Charles? You’re certainly not thinking about the match.”

  Charles smiled. “Have I played so poorly?”

  Jacob moved his knight. “Checkmate. Now tell me what’s troubling you.”

  Charles rose from his seat and strolled to the balcony. The real estate agent had said he could see five different airports from here. Why would I care, he’d thought at the time.

  His gaze lingered over Central Pepsi Park, an oasis in the middle of the city. “What do you know about Gabriel and Moses? The two intrigue me. How do they work together?”

  Jacob slid to Charles’s side. “They’ve been partnered for ten years. Originally, Isabella White brought them together. She was Moses’s sister and Gabriel’s lover. I’m sure you’ve seen her from the file. She was a rising star in the ghettos before disappearing six years ago.”

  “Yes, she seemed like a real force. She could have united the ghettos if she hadn’t vanished.”

  “We’ll never know, but the two have done well without her.” Jacob, ever the pragmatist, shrugged. “Most people believe Moses is the brains behind the operation while Gabriel supplies the muscle.”

  “That’s what I was told, but I don’t believe that’s right. Moses does most of the talking, but it seemed like Gabriel called the shots. I used an obscure quote from Winston Churchill and Gabriel caught it. Still, there’s something special about Moses I cannot put my finger on.”

  “Trust your instincts.” Jacob placed his hand on Charles’s shoulder. “You have an extraordinary gift for reading people. Either way, we need to work with them. They have become the most influential ghetto leaders. If we can forge a working relationship with them, much can be accomplished.”

  “They have serious misgivings about Peter. I can’t say as I blame them. I don’t know him well, but his disdain for the lower classes seems plain. If he becomes president, they think his election will trigger a violent response from all the ghettos.”

  “We have time before then. Politicians can be persuaded.”

  Charles’s secure mobile rang. “Hello?”

  “Bacchus, it’s Merlot. We have a serious problem. Homeland Security is going to sweep the Westchester Ghetto and grab Moses and Gabriel soon, maybe as early as tomorrow.”

  A few months earlier, Charles had organized a group of powerful business people into a loosely formed organization to support change in America. He’d persuaded them that it would be best for everyone to reinstate fairness in the country, give the middle and lower classes a real chance at success, and bring the country back to its true roots. They called themselves the Wine Merchants. Each member used a different grape variety as a code name, except Charles who went by the Roman god of wine.

  “I can’t believe they would sweep into the ghetto. It would be a very dangerous operation,” Charles said. “Are you sure?”

  “Apparently they have a man on the inside. He’s in their Inner Circle, whatever that means, and knows all their hiding places.”

  “Who authorized the operation? I’m the Secretary of Domestic Priorities. Ghettos fall under my domain! I should have had advanced warning about any plans to move against a ghetto.”

  “I’m not sure. My source heard it from the Vice President’s team. His chief of staff might have authorized the sweep, or it could go all the way to the top. I’ve got to go. That’s all I know.”

  Charles glanced at Jacob. “Merlot called. We have a big problem.” He relayed the details of the call.

  “The timing could not be worse for us, Charles.” Jacob tented his fingers and brought them up to his chin. “They are important to us, but this makes them too risky. Everything we’ve worked for could be jeopardized, including the Fourteenth Colony. We’ll have to find another way. You’ll have to distance yourself from them, and we’ll need a cover story, some reason you went to visit them, if they talk.”

  Charles leaned against the metal balcony, his mind spinning fast. A mischievous grin spread across his face. “We need them. Maybe this problem provides us with an opportunity.”

  “This is too risky. You could be compromised.”

  “I’ve taken bigger risks before. It was risky for me to see them in person, yet I went.” He glanced at Jacob, but his older companion didn’t understand him. He needed to take these risks. With every risk, he confirmed his commitment to action. Each risk pushed him farther along the path.

  He’d made no alternative plans, no secret identities or hidden wealth to fall back on. If discovered, he would be doomed, but without that pressure, he was lost. He thrived on it, inhaled it... needed it. His poor biological parents demanded it from him. Those people who worked at his company’s factory line in Pennsylvania re
quired it. All the risks he took were calculated. Still, he wanted everything on the line, or he was afraid he would retreat and abandon those who relied upon him.

  “If they are taken, Homeland Security will brand them as terrorists and we will never see them again,” Charles said. “But if we save them, we gain months of goodwill and trust in one stroke. Time is running out for us. Either we push for change or events will overwhelm us.”

  “Even if we save them, they might not trust us. The timing is too close to your first meeting. They’ll believe it’s a setup.”

  “You’re right.” Sheppard rubbed the face of his antique Rolex for luck. “We’ll need something else, something indisputable to earn their trust.”

  Terry had told her to wear something pretty, so Maggie sorted through the fashionable clothes that hung in the closet and found a simple white cotton dress—custom made with soft, luxurious cotton and expensive lace around the neck. The dress draped wonderfully in long smooth lines, but she fought hard against the urge to rip it to shreds. At least there was no pink.

  Something odd about the label caught her attention. Bringing it close to her eyes, she saw a faint red stain—a micro-spot of blood.

  Her hand trembled. The dress had been bought for one of the other girls, one from the photographs.

  Her legs started to buckle, and she raced into the bathroom just in time to throw up into the toilet.

  Maggie glanced at her image in the bathroom video monitor. A stranger stared back at her. She splashed cold water against her face, leaned against the counter, and considered remaining dressed in the bathrobe, but a little voice in her head told her that was a bad idea. That little voice had kept her out of trouble, found a way to survive, found a way to make enough money to feed her boys.

  How many of the other women wore this bathrobe?

  Her skin crawled. That was a bad thought, negative, terrifying. She drove it from her mind and slipped into the dress. At least she felt whole in the dress, adult even, if she tried hard enough. It restored a measure of her dignity—not a big measure, but something to build on.