by phuc
Spence steepled his fingers on the desk. "I can tell you that. You want me to be honest with you, right? It's not difficult to figure out. You're an unfulfilled columnist for a militant feminist magazine who doesn't even make a living at it. We have a psycho killer on our hands, and for some reason, that psycho killer is very impressed by you, impressed enough to actually write to you, and to send you physical proof of a very heinous crime. The killer's note indicates that she wants to collaborate with you; she wants you to write her story. I'm certain that this idea appeals to you it's the only chance you'll ever have for real fame. You want to turn this very sick person's life into a sensationalist book that will make you rich and famous."
"You're an asshole," Kathleen reasserted.
"But that's not even my chief complaint. That's not the complete reason I don't like you."
Kathleen stood up, glaring down. "What is?"
"I believe that your selfish, contrived, and very militant magazine writing has directly incited someone to commit an appalling murder, and that because of your written insights, this person will continue to murder people."
"I'm leaving," Kathleen said.
"You're free to do so. In fact, I encourage you to do so because, to be blunt, your presence in my office unsettles me. But before you go, I'd like your permission to put a tap on your phone and to have your mail rerouted to our technical services division."
"If you do either of those things, I'll sue you. I'll also write a feature article about you and your inexcusable treatment of me. '90s Woman has a circulation of 750,000. I will nail you to the wall in print, Lieutenant. By the time I'm through with you, you'll be walking a beat in Alaska."
Spence nodded. "And don't get any ideas about concealing evidence."
Kathleen wanted to slap him. She actually wondered what would happen if she did. Would they put her in jail? "As usual, I don't have any idea what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do. Whether you like it or not, you are very much involved in this case. Anything the killer sends you is district evidence, and if you fail to notify us of your receipt of any such evidence, I will have you arrested for misprision of a felony, obstructing a criminal investigation, citizen failure to report the knowledge of a crime, and tampering with evidence." He gave her his card, staring at her, his face forever deadpan. "Anything you even think might be correspondence from the killer you will not open or even touch. You'll call me, and I'll send a forensics technician to pick it up. I'm quite serious about this. Do not tamper with evidence."
Yes, she thought, I really should slap him.
"Because," Spence finished, "there's one thing you can count on. This killer, this sick, demented, sociopathic madwoman, is going to be contacting you again very soon."
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Chapter 3
(I)
A long drooping banner hung along the front of a Mass Avenue hotel: 75 YEARS OF
THINKING OF THE FUTURE.
The future of what? Kathleen wondered as the banner floated by in the windshield. The city commingled with itself, like something pressured together by force: the endless crush of cars, bodies, cement, and heat. Summer wrung sweat out of the air.
The future of what? she thought again, and stopped short. Pay attention! Pedestrians plodded sightlessly, their faces wet and pallid under the beating sun. Car exhaust hung in sheets.
In spite of the heat, Kathleen kept the a/c off. Washington felt more real with the windows down; she could taste its clarity and its hot, noxious scents. Her own sweat drenched her in minutes as the T Bird lurched on, and her period felt like a hot living sponge, tickling her. Did the heat purge her? And if so, what did it purge her of? In the packed, ornery traffic she felt free in open space. The chaotic pedestrian droves made her feel joyously alone.
Perhaps she was alone in her own mind. Her mind hummed.
She passed a row of newspaper boxes; each hosted a plastered sign. SILENCE = DEATH.
STRANGE BOUTIQUE/MAGAZINE w/HOWARD DEVOTO at D.C. SPACE! And an old one: U.S. OUT OF EL SALVADOR!
A young man in a business suit read The Washington Times before the DON'T WALK light.
Kathleen eyed him. He looked successful, handsome in some keen way. A pang of animal lust flared, then abated as quickly. Someone like that, her insecurities calculated, most likely would not even pass the time of day with her, or at best he'd acknowledge her only long enough to hump her and climax. Animal lust was relative, she supposed. What would the radio shrink say? she wondered. "Your open negativity, your activated cynicism and distrust of men, has become the fulcrum between your failed romantic experiences and your unfounded low self concept," she'd accounted to one caller.
"Am I the same way?" Kathleen asked herself.
The image relit: the lust. She gasped for real. The man with The Washington Times, now bereft of business suit, was very adroitly pressing her knees back to her face, drawing his penis, which felt long and thin, in and out of her. He's so attractive, she thought, catching breath. Her bed felt like clouds, it seemed small. The man didn't say anything in the slow ministrations of his pelvis.
Kathleen felt much more secure in silence; she could concentrate more deeply. He parted her legs, grasping the backs of her knees, and she leaned immediately up to watch. She could see his penis going in and out of her, which seemed fascinating. It seemed like proof of something.
"Almost. Almost. Alm Here," he said.
But the voice could not have been his.
At once something crushed her. Some sad, disillusioning truth. A child's hand reached forward in bedroom daylight...
Behind her, a carhorn brayed. The light had changed, and the image exploded. "Oh, blow me!"
she shrieked as the horn behind her continued to blare. The T Bird jerked through the light. In her rearview, the accosting driver's head jiggled in silent tirade, a black with one of those anvil haircuts. He leaned on the horn. "Inconsiderate anal retentive type A asshole!" she screamed when the car whipped by. Traffic backed up at the very next street. You can walk faster in this city than you can drive! Rows of cars percolated, going nowhere in the still heat.
Was Spence the cause of her bad mood? She didn't think so. One thing she prided herself on was her skill at leaving unpleasantries behind her, or at least so she thought. Up ahead she spied A.V.'s, a wonderful Italian Ristorante where they served delicious, crunchy fried squid. A grad student had taken her there the year she'd finished at Maryland. Kathleen remembered that she'd liked him a lot a snapping wit, short blond hair, blue eyes, and a well lined tanned face yet she couldn't remember his name. He'd been working on his masters in business, at Georgetown, which she'd heard was one of the best schools in the country for that curriculum, and one of the most expensive. She'd slept with him, and he'd never called her back. Months later she'd run into him at the Torpedo Factory Art Gallery in Old Towne. He'd pretended that he didn't know her.
Am I that bad in bed? she wondered now, in traffic. Am I that fat and dull?
Just before the light changed, she saw Uncle Sammy.
Her knuckles whitened on the wheel; blood seemed to tint her vision. In less than a few seconds Kathleen was out of the T Bird and running down the sidewalk, a flowered billowy blur whose feet pounded with her consciousness. Long, unpleasant looks chased after her.
"Sam! Damn you, Sam! Stop!"
He'd been sentenced to 13 years: Lorton. Though it had been part of a federal sting, Sam had plea bargained out of the longer federal charges, 30 years' worth. One of the bailiffs had told Kathleen's father, "Lorton's one of the worst cuts on the east coast. It's bad time," which was fine with Kathleen. And the prosecutor's office had guaranteed that Sammy wouldn't even be eligible for parole until late next year.
Liars! She wanted to cry she was so mad. She flew down the sidewalk like something on rails...
"Goddamn you, Sam, you goddamn bastard! STOP!"
He didn't stop. Kathleen's shoes flew off. Way behind her a cacophony of car horns lowed like a
nimals dying en masse. Kathleen stumbled, nearly fell, and sprinted on.
She nearly collided with the oblivious back. She grabbed the shoulder, wilting at the contact, and spun him around. Her entire face felt wilted shut as she shrieked "What the HELL are you doing out of pri "
The incredulous face looked contorted.
"Lady, you must be nuts."
Oh my God.
It wasn't Uncle Sammy at all. The summer weight suit looked like good material, a plush pinstriped tan. Stuck under a crisp sleeve she recognized in dread The Washington Times.
From somewhere faraway, so distant it wasn't even real anymore, a voice said: Almost. Almost.
Alm Here.
"I'm very sorry. I "
The young man jerked a shock of blond hair off his brow. "You better be. I'm a fucking lawyer.
You go grabbing people like that in public and you'll wind up getting sued."
"I'm so sorry," Kathleen said. She blushed, then turned slowly white. "I thought you were someone el "
"Yeah, well next time be more careful."
The man with The Washington Times turned crisply and walked away.
Kathleen thought of a child's plastic cat clock, eyes ticking.
The city surged on.
«« »»
She wanted a cigarette but her rule was only one per hour. More than that she wanted a drink but she rarely kept liquor at home. "I'm losing it," she said aloud. She closed the door and locked it.
Am I hallucinating now? Am I seeing things?
She examined her mail on the kitchen counter. New Woman, Vogue, Woman's Day, and a junk ad selling special cylindrical lightbulbs that cut your electricity bill but cost $15 each.
That was all.
She turned on the radio Sports Talk and turned it back off. She'd already finished this month's column; there was nothing to work on, and the lady shrink's show wouldn't be on for hours. She took off her dress and bra and sat on the couch. The TV fizzed on: soap operas. Their progressiveness, or degeneration, (Kathleen wasn't sure which) amazed her. No more neo victorian love/anguish stories; soap operas, today, rose with the times. Hackneyed plots of ransom schemes, murder, blackmail, sex scandal. Here was one fatally attractive man revealing to his bride that he was gay, while the astonished woman burst into tears, wearing skimpy purple and black lace lingerie. On another channel a young couple lay in bed, trying to figure out who kidnapped Candice's baby? Was it her estranged husband? Her bartender boyfriend Carl? Or Sally Ann, her true love? Yes, television had come a long way. The woman was obviously nude beneath the sheer bedsheets. Kathleen turned off the set and closed her eyes.
The killer was abused as a child, you were abused as a child.
Spence.
How had he known?
The bitter anger had drained. Spence was just an obnoxious, typical policeman, an annoyance. If I let him bother me, he wins, she realized. She could feel the perspiration dry up on her skin. She wished she could lose some weight, start exercising, help herself look better. Her inability to do so made her feel envious, and Spence had implied the same thing, hadn't he? He'd implied that she was a smalltime writer looking for the bigtime. The words tapped out in her mind again, in bold film ribbon print:
WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO MY STORY?
Would I?
The answer fell on her, like bricks dumped out of a wheel barrow.
Yes.
Spence was right, on the wrong grounds. He can go to hell, she dismissed. Of course she wanted to do the story. What writer wouldn't? Spence branded her as a phony opportunist looking for any chance to get out of the rut. But I'm not in a rut, she reminded herself. If a story did come out of this, then she'd do it only because it was a story that deserved to be told.
Ick, she thought. She hated wearing clothes when there was no reason, and her panties qualified as clothes. She couldn't very well take them off now she needed them to hold the Always pad in place. At least nature had graced her with little periods, not the great red tides that many women complained of. She seemed, though, to sense them getting even smaller as she aged. Disuse, she thought. Perhaps her psyche had given up on the prospect of her ever having children and her reproductive system was drying up as a result. Once a reader had written to her, a paraplegic. I feel atrophied, she'd said. I feel like rotting fruit. The radio shrink commented one night about tubal ligation, citing essentially the same thing. "Sex drive will often diminish, as the body realizes that the capacity for reproduction no longer exists." I'm rotting fruit, Kathleen thought now. She envisioned her ovaries as desiccated plums, their seeds old and dead. Her vagina felt like a shriveled flower. No taproot to give it fleshy life, just unrequited desire dry as salt. She rarely even masturbated, which seemed pointless and just as dry. It only bottled up her lust, pressing the cork deeper. The red circle on her calendar caught her eye. Oh, Jesus. Tomorrow she had a speaking engagement, a local writers group. TWAW, they called themselves: The Writer's Association of Washington. Kathleen wondered if there was a similar group in Tucson, and hoped not, considering the initials. Suddenly, she didn't want to do it. I'd rather think, she thought.
Think about what? some other voice asked.
The bizarre query letter reformed in her mind.
YOU ARE A GREAT WOMAN. IN THE FUTURE I WILL BE SENDING YOU MY STORY.
CONSIDER IT A PROPOSITION. IT IS A VERY IMPORTANT STORY.
WOULD YOU LIKE TO DO MY STORY?
Kathleen stared.
Should she feel guilty? Was she really just a sensationalist? Something awful had happened, after all. Something unspeakable. Something disgusting.
But the idea of doing this story excited her. It excited her to no end.
And in her mind, the cat clock ticked, its plastic tail and eyes switching back and forth...
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Chapter 4
(I)
She bites down hard on the towel.
She needs to be careful.
Her beauty is her power.
Her teeth are beautiful, and she doesn't want to break them.
The pain is extraordinary.
The needle sinks again.
She thinks of The Box of Souls.
The sad, little pile sinking into itself.
Newspaper clippings turning yellow like jaundice on the old people at the hospital.
She thinks of her mother.
She thinks of Daddy.
She thinks of Daddy's Room.
Go ahead, Rocco, give 'em both a pop.
It hurts so much.
But the pain absolves her.
In pain there is truth.
The pain makes her beautiful.
The needle sinks again.
She still has the book. Bizarre World, it's called. Warning label: NOT FOR SALE TO MINORS.
She'd found it in Daddy's Room. It's black, hard bound. It makes a little crunching noise whenever she opens it, sort of like the crunching noise when she stuck the Yale 13 gauge biopsy needle into that U Street guy's brain stem to see how long he could live with a subdural membrane full of motor oil. He hadn't lived long. It was still fun, though.
The book whispers many things.
Secrets.
It's all tribal.
INITIATORY RITES is her favorite chapter.
Even today, society is a tribe, no different in function than the Uru Wau Waus, the Kushites, or the Druids of eons ago...
Pain presses tears from her eyes.
She looks up in the mirror. She's placed her feet against the warm glass.
She sees her face there, between her pretty legs, looking back.
Her face so red from pain it's nearly purple.
In the mirror she sees her fingers poised.
In the mirror she sees her sex.
In her eyes she sees The Cross.
Of course! Her story!
This will be the first part of her story!
She'll begin it tonight.
She'll share her secrets.
After al
l, they're both women.
They're both from the same tribe.
She'll share her secrets with Kathleen Shade.
But for now...
The needle sinks again.
She rests awhile. Minutes or hours. Time means nothing to her. She looks at her pretty, bare feet against the mirror, wriggles her pretty, painted toes.
She's very smart.
