by Dianne Emley
Plus, he had bigger fish to fry. As rewarding as the immediate pleasure of watching the fear in the hag’s bulging eyes as the blood vessels burst, hearing her final pathetic sounds, witnessing that wonderful, priceless, oh-so-rare moment when the life, the life, faded from her eyes, like a final dying ember that flashes brightly before it turns to ash, it would have been unwise to expose himself to such a risk right now. He needed to keep his eyes on the prize.
He sat at his table and thought of his prize, Nan Vining. Was there ever a moment anymore when he didn’t think of her? Now he luxuriated in his thoughts of her. It was risky. There was danger in getting carried away. His thoughts weren’t all happy. Still, they tempted him. Excited him. The combination of longing and fury, the sweet with the bitter, the idea of total release was enough to make him want to explode.
He felt the excitement and fury rising, his twin towers of passion and doom. They had come up suddenly and threatened to carry him away. He grabbed onto the dinette table as if it was a rickety raft in a turbulent sea. Too often lately, Officer Vining had driven him to these extremes. It was all he could do to keep from breaking up his furniture, running crazily into the street, driving his car onto a sidewalk crowded with pedestrians, or stabbing a total stranger to death in a frenzy.
He had to get ahold of himself. This was not good thinking.
But his mind was a runaway train, going faster and faster. The pressure moved up, up, and up, surging through his chest, out his arms and into his fingers until he could just …
He fumbled to get his keys out of his pants pocket, so frantic, he was whimpering. Keys in hand, he grappled with the tiny combination pen knife and scissors on the key ring. He was sweating now. Trembling.
Control. Control.
It was too late for a pep talk. Pulling the knife blade open, he yanked up his shirt and exposed his soft belly. Without hesitation, he pierced his skin with the knife and made a shallow, two-inch incision. His belly was crosshatched with numerous cuts in various stages of recovery.
The red line hovered for a second, shimmering. Panting, watching, he held his breath, waiting for the release that would save him. Then it happened. The blood flowed. Gulping air, he tittered at the blood. He put his hand beneath it, to catch it, feeling its heat and silky texture. His mouth lolled open. He laughed with release as if he’d learned he’d been the victim of a practical joke.
He grabbed paper napkins from a holder on the table and stuck them to the bloody wound. Calmer now, feeling normal, he went into the kitchen and washed the blood off his hand, watching the redtinged ribbons circle down the drain. Once his hand was clean, he took off his tie, unbuttoned his shirt, and took it off.
He peeled away the bloody tissue. From a kitchen cabinet, he took out mercurochrome, a box of gauze squares, and a roll of adhesive tape. Using the plastic wand in the bottle, he dotted the red disinfectant on the wound, wincing when it stung. He dressed it with the gauze and adhesive.
He returned to the dining room table where he removed the Chip Clip from the bag of potato chips and ate chips, now fully able to enjoy his beer.
When he was finished, he put the chips away in the cupboard and dusted his hands over the sink. He walked the empty bottle outside and put it in a garbage container that was dedicated to recyclables. Back inside, he triple-locked the front door. He was in for the remainder of his night.
He put away his supplies and put a single loose knot in the plastic bags before he stored them in another plastic grocery bag hanging from a nail inside his broom closet. The single knots made them easier to grab when he needed a bag for kitchen garbage or such.
Heading down the hallway, he opened the closed door of the small bedroom on the right. A lamp intended for a child’s room was lit. A small motor made the shade turn, casting soothing blue, violet, and green images of stars, moons, and comets across the walls. Because he had sealed up the window, the lamp provided the only light in the room ever. A large standing, rotating fan churned the room’s stale air that was benefiting from the air-conditioning.
The room was sparsely furnished with an inexpensive chest of drawers, an easy chair, a nightstand, and a bed. In the bed lay Bob.
“Evening, Bob.” He bent over to pick up a plate from the night-stand.
“Why do you hate me?” Bob’s voice was affectless.
“Was it cool enough in here for you today?” He examined the contents of the plate. “You didn’t eat much.”
“Why do you hate me?” Bob again asked in the same dull tone.
“I don’t hate you, Bob. On the contrary.”
“Oh.”
He set the plate back down and picked up a steel bedpan from the bed next to where Bob was lying. He carried it toward the door.
Behind him, Bob asked, “Why do you hate me?”
He took the pail to the tiny bathroom, dumped the contents into the toilet, flushed it, and returned to Bob’s room.
“Why do you hate me?”
“I don’t hate you, Bob. If I hated you, would I look after you this way?”
“Oh.”
He set the bedpan on the mattress within Bob’s reach. He straightened the bedclothes, neatly squaring the edges of the sheet and folding it across Bob’s chest. He pressed his palm against Bob’s forehead. It was still too warm, but not as bad as it had been earlier. The aspirin he’d given Bob appeared to have brought his fever down.
“You hate me.”
“I don’t hate you, Bob. I had to punish you.”
“Punish me.”
“Yes, and you know why.”
“Oh.”
From the nightstand, he picked up a plastic cup from which a bent straw protruded from a screw-on lid. He shook the cup. “You’re not drinking enough fluids. This is Gatorade. It’ll replenish your electrolytes.” He held up the cup and pressed the straw against Bob’s lips.
Bob drank, smacking his lips afterward. “Why do you hate me?”
He set down the cup. “Okay, I’ll see you after I get up.”
“Why do you hate me?”
He closed the door. Now that he was done with his chores, he felt that other urge awakening in his pants.
He crossed the narrow hallway and opened the door of the second of the mobile home’s three bedrooms. There was an overhead light fixture, but he didn’t switch it on, finding the light it cast harsh. He crossed the room in the dark. Reaching out his hand, he found the fireplace and located the switch on the side of the unit. The fake flames jumped to life, casting a warm glow. He’d found the electric fireplace at a yard sale. On the weekends when he wasn’t working, he loved to haunt neighborhood yard sales. You never knew what you might find.
By the light of the flames, he crossed to the long table against the opposite wall. He had draped it with shiny red satin that reached the floor. On top of the cloth were four white pedestals, two feet tall, fashioned from synthetic material to look like marble Corinthian columns. The pedestals had been bases for birdbaths that he’d found on sale in Target’s garden shop. He’d bought all they’d had in stock, and had thrown away the bowls that attached to the top.
He moved along the first three pedestals, turning on the strands of tiny lights that he had woven around the large picture frames on top. The first frame held the official photograph of Officer Clarissa “Cookie” Silva. The second was Ranger Marilu Feathers. The third was Detective Johnna Alwin. All three women were in uniform and posed in front of a U.S. flag. Feathers’s photo also had the state flag of California. He’d downloaded their official photos from the Internet.
The framed photo on top of the fourth pedestal was shrouded with a black cloth. It was his shrine to Nan Vining.
In front of the first three pedestals, a cherished trophy was displayed.
There was Cookie Silva’s blouse. It had been on the ground when he’d cut her throat and had been drenched with her blood. Essence of Cookie.
There was the Ranger Stetson belonging to Marilu Feathers that he’d retr
ieved before it had been carried away by the surf. It had fallen from her head when her horse, with the mortally wounded Feathers astride, had madly galloped away. There was a small tail of blood splatter beneath the front of the brim. Essence of Marilu.
There was the green shirt from the uniform he’d stolen from the gardening service that maintained the grounds of the medical building where he’d stabbed Johnna Alwin. A patch above the left breast said “Hinojosa Gardening.” He’d worn the uniform when he’d stabbed her seventeen times. He’d intended to triumph over Alwin via an elegant, single mortal wound, but she had made some remarks that he didn’t care for and he’d lost his temper. It had gotten messy. Johnna, sweet Johnna. Essence of Johnna.
The space in front of Nan Vining’s pedestal was empty. Only recently, the yellow Brooks Brothers polo shirt that was lavishly covered with her blood had been neatly folded there. He’d made a special trip to downtown L.A. to buy that shirt and had paid top dollar for it because he’d seen the man he was impersonating wearing the same style in that same daffodil-yellow color.
First, he’d covered up her photo, the image he’d worshipped all those long years, but now found too painful to gaze upon. Then, his beloved heirloom, the yellow shirt, began to feel as if a hex had been put on it. It lost its magic to enthrall and instead started to taunt him, to whisper his failure.
He’d once loved the shirt because it reminded him not only of the day he’d attacked Vining, but also of all the careful planning and anticipation. His mastery over his lethal ladies had taken months and sometimes years of methodical planning, but Vining in particular had been hard to nab. He’d set more than one trap, only for her to slip away. Then he had got her. Finally got her.
She should have died.
Her blood on the shirt, instead of thrilling him, had come to make him so, so sad. He still didn’t understand how she had again slipped from his grasp. That day in the El Alisal house had gone perfectly. He had known what she was thinking before she did. She had played right into his hands. He had been so excited, it took all his powers of self-control to contain himself. Later, he’d found out that she’d survived.
This week, he had given her the bloody shirt. While the shirt had lost its allure for him, she was changing, too. She was fucking that detective, and he sure didn’t like that. He’d taken a big risk delivering the shirt, but it had been worth it. Hiding in the darkness of the yard across the street, he’d heard her daughter screaming. Grinning, fists clenched in triumph, he’d witnessed the flurry of activity that had followed.
He was in psychic pain. She should be.
He didn’t see himself as a bad man. He didn’t go after weak or vulnerable women. The women he hunted had been trained to kill and, when tested, had proven their mettle. By taking them on, he had put himself in grave danger. They could have killed him. But none had, had they? They had submitted to his will. He had mastered them. Almost …
Because of Nan Vining, he had stayed in the area much longer than he ever thought he would. Other lethal ladies had attracted his attention. He had newspaper clippings in a filing cabinet. He thought he could love one or two of them. Yet he couldn’t build any enthusiasm for a new pursuit. He told himself to move on, to acknowledge that the battle with Vining had ended in a draw, but he couldn’t. He loved her too much to let her go.
He’d noticed a definite change in her since that day in the house on El Alisal Road. It had taken her a long time to get back on her feet. She was back at work, “picking up the pieces,” as they say, of her life. It all looked normal from the outside, but he knew that she was different. He knew her so well. All it took was finding that bloody shirt to knock her down off that pedestal and send her spinning off again. See? He knew her better than anybody. She probably thought that detective she was fucking, Kissick, knew her, but he didn’t. Not like he did.
He felt his rage rising, that familiar feeling that started deep inside his core. It radiated out, making his extremities tingle and burn as if his veins had been shot full of cayenne.
He forced himself to turn away from the shrouded, dark pedestal at the end of the table. Thinking of Vining would only dull his pleasure. No need to sacrifice more pleasure to her. She’d already stolen enough. This time was dedicated to his other three ladies. He dug his finger into the gauze that covered his fresh cutting. The sharp pain brought him around. Some tricks never lost their magic.
He moved to a couch across from his shrine. Sitting, he untied and removed his shoes. Standing, he took off his belt, then removed his pants, folding them over an arm of the couch. He took off his briefs and laid them atop the pants.
He plumped a throw pillow and reclined. The flickering orange and yellow flames of the electric fireplace cast his pallid skin in a warm glow. It helped to make him feel warm and cozy and safe and in control and … aroused.
With one foot on the floor, he began to stroke himself. As usual, he’d arrived home with a nice erection from thinking about his favorite after-work pastime.
Ignoring the darkness at the end of the table, he looked at his three dead ladies and conjured sweet memories of each one. Memories from when he had stalked them, learning everything about their daily routines, while they’d had no idea he was there. Memories from the magic moment when the day had arrived and they’d looked into his eyes, the last human eyes they would ever see. Memories from that flash of insight when they’d understood that he was going to kill them. Memories of when they’d died.
As his strokes grew faster and more urgent, his mind was drawn to Vining. He couldn’t help it. Their last dance had been the most powerful and poignant yet. He’d squeezed her tightly, yet so gently, holding her pelvis pressed against his as he helped her to stay on her feet. All he’d needed was a few seconds more and he would have had his ultimate release. In his mind, he made it happen. It was happening. Happening now. The life fading from her eyes. Her breaths growing shallower as … as…. as …
Suddenly, he was soft as dough.
Her death was make-believe. He was living a pathetic dream. He was pathetic. She was taking everything from him, even this small pleasure.
He bolted from the couch and stomped across the room. Yanking the scarf from her photo, he confronted her, screaming, “Do you ever see my face when you’re fucking him? Do you? Well, do you?”
Swinging his arm, he knocked over her shrine.
Her photo sailed onto the carpeted floor. The pedestal toppled then rolled off the table onto it, breaking it. The firelight glinted off the spiderwebbed glass.
He dropped to his knees. Clawing with his fingers, he pulled an arrow-shaped fragment of glass free. Cutting himself would calm him and release his mind from this terrible place. Clutching the broken glass in his palm, he felt it press into, then slice his flesh. He opened his hand to see the blood. His thoughts cooperated and stopped swirling. He could see clearly now.
“No more blood spilled for you, my lady.” Dropping the broken glass, he picked up the black cloth and wrapped it around his palm. “Not my blood.”
He flipped over the photo and banged it against the table leg, knocking much of the glass free. He turned it faceup and squared it on the floor, straddling it on the carpet, his fleshy knees bracing it. He again picked up the shard of glass that fate had formed.
“You owe me blood, Officer Vining.”
He dug the glass into her image and made a long cut across her face.
“You owe me.”
He sliced the photo diagonally in the other direction.
“You owe me. You owe me. You owe me …”
He cut and cut and cut.
TWENTY-NINE
KISSICK DROVE ALONG COLINA VISTA BOULEVARD HEADING FOR THE police station and his meeting with Chief Betsy Gilroy. The antique lampposts on the city’s main thoroughfare were decorated with banners honoring the city’s annual Trail Days celebration that took place each fall. Each Christmas the giant fir trees circling the civic center were decorated with thousands of lig
hts. Springtime brought the Iris Festival. Nestled at the foot of the Angeles National Forest, the quaint hamlet had never lost its small-town feel. No freeways crossed it. It had no traffic signals. It was home to no industries. One had to make a special trip to go there.
There was little traffic. Drivers were polite. Crime rates were low. The last murder had been six years ago when two people sitting in a parked car had been shot. It turned out that neither the killer nor victims had any connection to the city. The largely affluent residents enjoyed exceptional quality of life yet were not the type to brag about their zip code, not that anyone would recognize it anyway, which suited them just fine. A few celebrities lived there, but they were not the attention-seeking type, and happily melded into the fabric of the community. Colina Vista was rarely in the news. Like many of the San Gabriel Valley’s picturesque cities, outsiders had seen it often without knowing it, as it was a favorite Hollywood filming location.
Eight years ago, Colina Vista made the news when Betsy Gilroy was sworn in as the chief of police. She wasn’t the first female city police chief in Los Angeles County— that honor belonged to the police chief of Sierra Madre, the neighbor of Colina Vista. But with Gilroy’s promotion, she joined an exclusive but growing sorority of a dozen or so female police chiefs among the state’s 335 city police departments.
Kissick arrived at the civic center and parked on the street. The police station was a single-story Mission-style building that shared its architectural design and a parking lot with City Hall. The police department consisted of eleven sworn officers, five non-sworn employees, and the chief.
Kissick waited in the small bright lobby for Betsy Gilroy to see him. Two civilian employees and a uniformed officer sat at steel desks behind a long, open counter that was not shielded by Plexiglas. The absence of this simple security measure made the station look friendly, homey, and decidedly old-fashioned. There was a wooden swinging door to the left of the counter. At the rear of the front office was a door with a window at the top.
