"Tread carefully," Harlson warned.
"As I stroll by the stream where you stray, a beam is reflected afar, which seems, on the waters, a ray - the ray from a luminous star. What is it that sweetens my sight- that lightens the leaf-burthened skies? What is it, my Love, but the light- the light of your beautiful eyes?" Ricky Lee recited to the air.
"That's good. Did you write that?" Harlson said, intent on buttering the psychopath up.
"No. It was written by A. H. Laidlaw. The Light Of Your Beautiful Eyes. It's my favorite poem."
"Never heard of it or him."
"That's because you're an unintelligent cop," Ricky Lee teased him.
"It seems a little sappy to recite that to a woman you tried to kill," Harlson observed. "You sound like you love her."
"I don't know if I would say that, but she is special," Ricky Lee conceded. "I have been thinking about her since I woke up here. Sally is the only victim of mine to have survived. There's something significant about that."
"And, hey, we can talk about that another time," Harlson said, steering Ricky Lee away from Sally Lane. "You want me to pass her a note or something, then tell me about the Keepsake Killer. That is what is important right now. Help me out and I will try to set you and Sally up for a meeting. With glass between the two of you, obviously."
"I may be insane, but I am not stupid," Ricky Lee said, resentfully.
"Come on. Who is the Keepsake Killer?"
"Hey, I'm insulted," Ricky Lee chuckled. "I thought you were here because of me."
"Oh, we have plenty of time to focus on you. You aren't going anywhere. If you have anything on the Keepsake Killer, you should start sharing. Now. Cooperation might save you from the Death Penalty."
"I am not afraid to die," Ricky Lee sneered. "Are you? Besides, the whole world is going to collapse in a few months anyway. So who really gives a shit?"
"There are things for you to gain here," Harlson explained. "You might be too stoned from the medicine to realize it right now, but you could walk away from this with some serious concessions."
"You aren't in any position to make a deal like that," Ricky Lee argued.
"No, but I can get someone in here who is. Just throw me something."
Ricky Lee stared intensely at Harlson. “You'll never catch him."
“Who is he?” Harlson asked again.
“He’s Jesus Christ and I’m his lowly disciple.”
“Give me a name."
“His name is death.”
“Is that a first or last name?”
Ricky Lee laughed. “You’re funny, for a pig.”
“You don’t know this guy, do you? You’re just dicking me around, right?"
“Could be. Or his address could be flashing in my mind as we speak.”
“Care to share it with me?”
“No.”
“So, why am I wasting my time on you?”
Ricky Lee grinned. “That’s what I was just wondering.”
Harlson grunted good-naturedly and he rose from his chair. "Thanks for your time, Mr. Charney."
"You tell them something for me," Ricky Lee said. "You tell the feds that I will only talk to Agent Sally Lane. No one else."
"Talk about what? The Keepsake Killer?" Harlson asked.
"I would never talk about him," Ricky Lee declared. "Even if I had something, I wouldn't give him up. He is my counselor in blood."
"So what do you have that would interest the feds enough to put Agent Lane in a room with you?" Harlson said.
"I have information about my crimes," Ricky Lee said. "If they want to know where all of the bodies are-"
"You kept a journal," Harlson interrupted him. "I could strangle you to death with your I.V. right now and this investigation wouldn't miss a beat. What kind of moron keeps something like that around?"
Ricky Lee suddenly looked distressed and confused. "Well, I didn't put everything in there. There are others. And besides, I'm special. They will want to study me. Use me to catch other killers."
"I got news for you, kid. You are a murdering, dysfunctional loser who has read too many suspense books," Harlson said, and he took great pleasure in bursting the bastard's bubble. "You killed and got caught in Texas, sport. The only thing they are going to be anxious to do with you here is stick a needle in your arm. You came to the number one state for executions."
"You tell them anyway," Ricky Lee said, growing angry. "They'll want to talk to me and make a deal. I know things. You tell them I want to speak with Sally!"
"Fuck you, kid. I'm not your errand boy," Harlson said, pressing open the hospital room door and leaving.
CHAPTER 31
Dreg stepped outside and he met the afternoon. He had stayed up until dawn, praising Le Loup until the silver fell from the sky. He sat down on the edge of the porch. He wore trousers, a dingy nightshirt and suspenders. He dangled his feet above the ground and he surveyed his surroundings. The day was bright and pleasant. He yawned and stretched his arms over his head, his back cracking. There would be a large part of Le Loup in him this night. This would probably be the last night for him to collect human prey in this area.
The voice in his head was already cautioning him on the hunt that night, but he had a clever plan that would compensate for the risk. He had leashed the wolf the night before, settling for scrawny prey. He would not be able to do so this night, especially since it was his last kill for the season in Texas.
Yes sur. He was a wise old wolf because he had a plan that would allow him to hunt and it would camouflage him from the cowboy-men. He turned the plan over in his head again, and then he nodded and smiled at his craftiness.
Dreg rose and he stepped off of the porch, wadding into the field for an appropriate place to piss. He found one in a low clearing and then he relieved himself. Dreg never pissed in the high grass because you could catch chiggers that way.
He felt especially good, and he had no real clue why. He was still an old, lonely wolf without a louve or a pack to lead, but something inside of him felt a change coming.
Dreg tucked himself back into his pants and he opted for a stroll through the woods.
***
“You didn’t say anything about doing this on foot,” Lorrie complained, as she and Shaw walked down the shoulder of the 610 loop.
“That’s the whole point of a pilgrimage, baby,” Shaw said, wrapping his arm around Lorrie’s shoulders. “It’s a trek. An odyssey. We’re on a path of spiritual enlightenment.”
Lorrie wilted in the heat. She shrugged Shaw’s sweaty arm off of her. The traffic on 610 was bumper to bumper, and the fumes from the vehicles made her head swim.
“I don’t see why we couldn’t drive down the path,” Lorrie said, hiking her backpack up. Her armpits were already chafed by the straps.
“Look, you’re missing the whole point,” Shaw argued.
“Forget this,” Lorrie said, turning around. “Look, your parents are gone. Let’s go back to your place and take your car. I’m real hot and real tired, so we’ll hang out at my place until we’re rested, okay? Like, we could wait for dark before we head out, since the air conditioning in your car isn’t working. My mother won’t be in until midnight, so we have plenty of time.”
“But that’s not a pilgrimage,” Shaw said, exasperated.
“Neither is exhaustion and dehydration. Either we take the car, or all bets are off.”
“Okay,” Shaw gave in. “But you’re ruining the whole experience.”
“No,” Lorrie corrected him. “I’m saving our lives. It’s burning up out here. Look, let’s head to my mom’s after we get your car, drink some cold tea, and fool around until it gets a little cooler out here.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Shaw replied, suddenly agreeable to the alterations.
***
Luke sat in his easy chair as Tammy packed for their trip. He already felt bored. Every time he had tried to sneak a phone call to Harlson, Tammy had appeared and fussed at him. He was be
ginning to suspect a psychic glow to his wife. So he quietly watched the afternoon news, which availed nothing to him but the same sketchy details that Tammy had heard.
The police commissioner was promising a press conference for tomorrow, so Luke turned off the television and he settled back in his chair. He gazed out of the window at two boys throwing a football on the quiet street.
He had a bad feeling. He couldn’t reason the dread away, and he couldn’t pinpoint the source of his anxiety. Perhaps it was the future that loomed ahead of him. He had no reason to be apprehensive of his situation, though. Spending a calm life with Tammy had always been his fantasy. Now it was happening.
So why was he feeling anxious? Why was there a nervous tingle in his stomach? His affiliation with the case was over, and his sleep the night before had been one uninterrupted by strange dreams.
So why did he fear that the world would soon come crashing down around his ears? That oblivion was rushing headfirst at him?
“What is going on in that head of yours, mister?” Tammy said, appearing in the living room and pulling him away from the anxiety.
“Nothing,” Luke replied, trying to be pleasant. He smiled above the concern.
Tammy cocked her head in sympathy. “Are you still hurting? Do you need a pain killer?”
“No, I’m fine. I’m just trying to assimilate. I’m so used to my old routine. I guess I sort of miss it.”
“I know you do. That’s why we’re getting out of here tonight. When we come back, we’ll both figure out what to do with ourselves. I suppose you’ll want to write another book.”
“Oh, yeah. I feel at least three more books stirring around in my head. After that, I thought maybe I would go on a lecture circuit or something. Non-strenuous stuff, of course. I really feel I have a lot to offer people, especially budding psychics.”
“That’s wonderful. I have a few ideas for a business myself, but our first priority from now on is leisure. We’ll discuss the business stuff later. I’m going to get back to it now. Do you need anything?”
“Just you.”
“Then you’re set,” Tammy said with a smile, and then she stepped back into the bedroom.
Luke gazed back out of the window, and his perception was a little sunnier. The feeling in him was a resistance to change, he figured. And though the feeling was still strong, still a persistent aggravation to his nerves, he would not consider any other possibility. His life had been torn from his hands, shaken and changed suddenly. He needed time to adapt.
That was all.
CHAPTER 32
“We should never have let things come this far,” Sally said to Thomas.
He was standing behind her on the terrace at Sally's small apartment which was located near the Galleria. She preferred to stare out at the bustling mall crowd on Westheimer Street as she spoke rather than look at Thomas as she destroyed their romantic relationship.
“Things are getting out of control between us," she added softly.
Sally wore a robe and she clutched a cup of coffee in her small hand. Her face was bandaged and the wound had taken fifteen stitches to close. There would be a scar- her badge of honor. The fighter in her thought that scars on your face was preferable to having them on your ass, but she still was considering plastic surgery. But the wound was easier for her to deal with than Thomas.
He stammered for a second, a trait unusual for the secure man. “So it’s over?”
Sally turned, facing him finally. “Yes,” Sally replied, trying not let her eyes grow foggy. “We can’t let our feelings cloud our judgment, or our duty any longer. When we started this, we agreed that we could maintain our professional appearance. That scene with Ricky has proven to me that this isn’t going to work.”
“I was concerned, Sally,” Lubin protested. “You had blood smeared all over your face and that psycho bastard was snickering about the incident. I lost it. Granted. But don’t you think you’re making a bigger deal out of this than it’s worth?”
“What about the next time, Tom?” Sally replied. “What if I get my brains splattered all over the pavement?”
“Don’t say things like that,” Lubin groaned.
“It could happen,” Sally snapped. “It could happen right in front of you. I accept the danger. You don’t. That’s why I want that part of our relationship ended. You care. You care so much for me. And that’s going to make you sloppy and it could be you, me or someone else who pays the price for it. And I can’t handle that.”
Thomas shook his head silently. He suddenly looked lost and afraid. He no longer resembled the vital and confidant mentor or caring and attentive lover. He looked like a man who had lost the thing he treasured the most in the world and Sally had to turn her back to him once again. She would lose her resolve to that sad face, as she had before. She meant it this time and Sally would not allow Thomas the opportunity to work his emotional manipulation.
“It’s not your fault, you know,” Sally said softly, her gaze going back over the terrace. “I dated a few professors when I was in college. I guess it’s some obsession with people in authority that I have.”
“Can we please sit down inside and talk?” Thomas asked, patiently.
“No,” she replied. “I have a habit of getting into relationships like this. It’s a routine I have to give up."
“I thought we were more than a fling,” Lubin said, sounding offended. “I certainly felt more.”
“So did I. But it’s over.”
“So you’ve learned all you can and it’s time to move on, is that it?” he said, harshly.
Sally gritted her teeth but she refused to turn around. “That’s the most insulting thing I’ve ever heard anyone say. I would never have expected that from you. Please leave,” she said, resisting the urge to assail him with every shortcoming her mind could quickly assemble on him.
“I’m sorry, Sally,” he said, sighing. “That’s not like me. I’m just so upset.”
“I am too,” she replied, wishing he would just leave and quit torturing the both of them.
She felt him come closer. “Don’t, Thomas,” she urged, her mind made up. She gripped the small iron wrought fence that circled her terrace. “It’s better this way.”
Thomas slowly shrank away from her.
“I’ll always love you,” he vowed. “I’ll always be there for you.”
“I know,” Sally whispered, the emptiness finally hitting her as she heard Thomas open the door and leave.
***
Harlson sat unceremoniously on the sticky floor of the precinct restroom. He was in a locked stall and he clutched the toilet with both arms. He could smell piss and it heightened the growing nausea. His stomach twisted with agony. He sweated profusely and he had exceeded his medication for the day already when he felt the first bud of pain start to kick in him an hour ago.
His time was growing shorter, and he was running out of options. He had to apprehend the Keepsake Killer. It was his destiny. His mark. His mind raced with scenarios, but his pain demanded his full attention. He finally retched into the dingy bowl. His vomit was crimson, and Harlson knew that his end was coming early.
No, he thought, wiping his face with toilet paper. I won’t let it end like this. It can’t end like this. There has to be something I can do.
Harlson cradled his burning abdomen until the pain settled down.
There was a knock at his stall.
“William?” It was Sergeant Skinner’s voice. “Is that you in there? Are you okay?”
“Yes,” Harlson spoke in an agony-riddled voice. “I’m fine. Just a hang over. Don’t worry.”
“You sound like shit. Congrats on the collar, but don’t celebrate so hard next time. Maybe you should head home.”
“Good advice,” Harlson muttered, trying to keep his voice steady.
He waited until he heard George leave the restroom and then Harlson pulled himself up. He sat on the bowl, his limbs quivering. It took him a long time to collect enou
gh strength to leave the restroom and when he did, he took George's advice.
All for nothing, he thought, leaving the station without telling anyone he was going home. The pain had subsided somewhat, but an occasional spasm still shook him. It was getting bad.
And it would only get worse.
***
Dreg napped on his cot. He was reserving his energy for the hunt that night. His legs quaked and he moaned in his sleep. He dreamt. In his mind, he was the wolf, stalking prey in the woods. He was about to fell a doe when the hackles on his neck stood at attention and his senses were drawn away from his quarry.
Above the peak of dark trees, a light grew, and the evil couchemal rose into the sky. It was a tremendous apparition- the ghostly spirit of an infant with hideous feline eyes filled the night above Dreg, blocking off even Le Loup. The light that radiated from the colossal spirit was blinding, and Dreg darted toward the scattering shadows, his tail between his legs, as the couchemal began to descend toward him.
“Little pup,” it spoke in a booming demonic voice. “You hunt be ended. I come to deal wit' you good and proper, yeh-heh? The pack end wit' you, traiteur. You be the last one.”
A surge of courage swept through Dreg and he stood his ground, snarling at the demon. Le Loup, give me strength, he prayed, his paternoster falling on deaf ears as the couchemal laughed insidiously. Its deceptively innocent face formed into a mask of pure evil as it scooped the wolf into the air with its giant infant hands and tore him apart.
Dreg was awakened by a scream.
His own.
His terror echoed through the forest, sending flocks of birds into the air. He was drenched with sweat and he shuddered.
“Jes’ a bad dream,” he realized, placing a gnarled hand over his hammering heart.
He occasionally had nightmares about the couchemal. They had never been as intense as this one, though.
Dreg sat up on the cot, still quaking with fear. It's not real, he thought, trying to soothe himself. Couchemal can’t hurt me. It be in the swamp, cursing the den. Can’t never hurt me. Le Loup watch over me. Jes’ a bad dream. Never eat again ‘afore you sleep.
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