by phuc
None of it made any sense. The broad was dead, and the kid was probably dead too, either that or banging her head against a padded wall in some psych ward. There was no way Kathleen and the kid could know each other: different ages, different schools, different neighborhoods. Different lives, he reasoned.
Route 50 coursed on through hot darkness. New and typically disorganized road construction funneled them around split medians and jersey barricades.
The silence was killing him.
"So how's your dad?" Sam asked.
"Shut up!" Kathleen exploded. "I can't think when you're talking! You're distracting me!" The gun jammed so hard in his side he thought it would puncture him.
All right already, he thought.
Every so often he stole quick sideglances as the T Bird glided on. The heat and humidity mussed her hair. Her lips seemed to be moving irreducibly yet they produced no words. The road wound on, tires humming over potholes.
There wasn't much time.
Exits approached. South Dakota Avenue. Earlier, Sammy had told her exactly where the little house was.
"This is our exit, isn't it?" Kathleen very quietly asked.
"Yes."
"Take it."
Just a few more miles. Sammy's palms effused sweat on the wheel. Familiar sights rose up: an auto junkyard, the old Good Will repository, Fort Lincoln Cemetery. Sammy turned right onto Bladensburg, and it got worse. The old neighborhood seemed like a haunting ground. Even the litter felt familiar, the drabness of the tar patched streets, the grit of the cement. Off in the distance, then, against the tinted dusk, he could see the old war memorial the Peace Cross looming over the asphalt rise like an ancient sentinel.
"Let me talk," he whispered.
"What," she said.
"I don't know what you've got planned," he told her, "and I don't know why you'd want to go there. I haven't seen her since the week I got busted. That was over six years ago, Kathleen. She probably doesn't even live there anymore."
"Yes," Kathleen corrected. "She does."
She was commandeering him. She was forcing him back into the past.
Sammy wondered what would be waiting for him when he arrived.
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Chapter 38
(I)
Cramped little cottages, like boxes. Postage stamp yards overrun by weeds. DEAD END read a sign like a bloated yellow face. Perhaps it was Kathleen's imagination but she thought she detected a fetor in the air. Spoiled meat.
A malformed moon seemed to sit atop scrawls of trees. The street looked dead; a few of the houses must be vacant.
But one's not, she reminded herself.
"Which house?" she asked.
Sammy idled the car down the narrow street. "At the dead end. On the right."
Kathleen ordered him to go all the way down and park at the dead end. "Turn off the motor and the lights." Her hand, after all this time, now felt fused to Maxwell's revolver; her knuckles ached. She gazed at the little house, a carbon copy of the rest, though slightly better kept. The large front window the living room, she guessed glowed beige behind its shades.
Maxwell's in there, she thought, chilled. Maybe she hasn't killed him yet. Maybe he's still alive...
It seemed like any typical hope: futile, a splendorous palace built with bricks of lies. But what else could she do?
The little house looked crushed in its solitude and moon tinged dark. A cracked sidewalk led to the front door. Then her gaze lengthened; on the side of the house, perhaps a mile off through the trees, she noticed a massive stone cross...
The Cross. The Cross in The Window.
Kathleen knew exactly what she was going to do.
If Maxwell's still alive, I'm going to trade Sammy for him.
"Get out," she said to her uncle. She slid out right behind him on the driver's side, the revolver ever jabbed. "It's time to pay your daughter, and my cousin, a visit."
(II)
"If you say anything, Sam, if you try anything, I'll kill you."
"I get the message."
The front door was locked. Should she knock? No, announcing herself would give the killer time to prepare. Sammy walked ahead, the gun in his back, and led them around the side to the backyard. The fetor never waned. Clumps of crabgrass sprouted from cracks in the small patio, beyond which the trees and rampant bushes seemed frozen in the hot moonlight. Ever distant, the cross remained visible from its mount at the edge of town.
The back sliding door was unlocked.
"Not one word," Kathleen whispered.
Sammy smirked.
Inside smelled musty. Tread worn carpet passed a tiny kitchen to the faintly lit living room.
Everything looked old, out of date. An old, dingy shaded lamp. Tacky green couch and armchair, their corners patched or worn. The legged television looked like it came from the 60's. There was even a lava lamp on the end table, its blood red glop hovering in lit oil.
But this was all Sammy needed to see; he recognized it all. Same furniture, same place, he realized. Then: She still lives here.
Kathleen seemed transfixed. A card table and chair had been set up. There was a typewriter, papers and magazines. Sammy saw several copies of the rag Kathleen wrote for, '90s Woman.
"My God," Kathleen whispered.
"What?"
"Your daughter's a murderer, Sam," she told him very quietly. "Did you know that? She's a serial killer."
Sammy gaped at her. "She was a headcase, a skag baby. What the hell are you talking about? All she ever did was stare at the wall or read books."
"When you weren't busy raping her, you mean." Kathleen almost chuckled in disgust. "You turned your own daughter into a psychopath."
Sammy's gape broadened. He didn't know what she meant. But whatever it was, one thing was clear: the kid wasn't home. The house stood silent. No lights could be seen under the doors of the extending hall.
Unless she's in the basement, he considered. But why would she be there?
Then Kathleen demanded: "Where's Daddy's Room?"
(III)
You shouldn't have killed him, honey.
"I know," she sobs.
You have to think.
I know! she wants to scream.
She's in the basement now.
To get rags and garbage bags.
To clean up the mess she made in Daddy's Room.
Her mother is standing next to the prostitute.
She's watching her daughter.
She's looking at the blood on her daughter's pretty hands.
Great stains and splatters have turned dark on her clothes.
They could catch you now, her mother says. We're going to have to leave, go far away.
She continues sobbing gently.
She looks up at her mother.
Her mother is beautiful.
Radiant in love and understanding.
She is smiling at her daughter.
But it's all right, honey. It'll be okay.
"I'm so sorry. I'm so stupid!"
No, you're not. You just made a mistake. It's okay.
She gathers up some bags over by the work bench.
Then her mother's ghost hand touches her sleek shoulder.
"What's wrong?"
Her mother leans over to whisper, Honey, there's someone in the house.
(IV)
"Kathleen, I don't know what you're t "
"You know what I mean, you asshole." She jabbed the gun again. "Daddy's Room. The room with the two way mirror. The room where you watched your ‘dupes.' The room where you let your porno pals rape your wife and child."
All Sammy could think was: How the hell did she find out about all this?
"Where is it?" Kathleen insisted.
"Down here."
She followed him to the hall. The house was so silent, he thought he must be hearing things.
Nearly inaudible creaks. A distant ticking. The most tiny of sobs.
Gym equipment cluttered the first room o
n the left, and on the right was the room where the kid had slept. Next door down, though, was Sammy's old party room. Whenever he brought in the masters or first dupes from Jersey, the lab guys would sample them here for resolution and quality. And, sure, as a favor Sammy would fire up the whore and let the guys have some fun with her. And if the whore was out peddling, he'd let them tear a piece off the kid while he counted his payoff. Just a favor, no big deal.
But how did Kathleen know about this room? How did she know about any of his secret past?
And what was all this shit about the kid being a killer?
Fuck it, he thought. A few more silent steps. He'd worry about all that later.
Right now, he had to get ready to make his move.
Sammy turned the knob.
The door swung open.
The room stood dark.
All he could really make out was the window, which framed the far off memorial cross.
He slid his hand up the wall and flicked on the light.
Holy motherfucking shit, he thought. What is this? A fucking slaughterhouse?
The room blared at them, like a shout. Handcuffs hung off the corners of a brass framed bed. The bed's mattress looked like a sponge sodden with bright red paint. It's blood, he instantly realized.
Guts lay in shiny piles on the wood floor. Atop the dresser was a strange wood box and things that looked like surgical instruments. Plus a hacksaw and a power drill. Before the bed lay piles of blood drenched clothes, and...pieces of things.
Body parts.
Both Sammy and Kathleen each stood staring. It seemed like they both stood there for full minute. This is crazy, Sammy was thinking. But the next instant, Kathleen broke and went fucking nuts...
"No, no, my God no! Not Maxwell! No no no no no!" she screamed in a shrill that didn't even sound human.
And this was Sammy's mark. Now! he ordered himself. The distraction only lasted a second but a second was all he needed. Kathleen, in this mysterious screaming grief, took her eyes off Sammy for a split moment. Sammy's hand chopped down.
The gun fell.
Next second his hands clamped about her throat. Kathleen kicked and flailed, and they tumbled back out into the hall. Sammy's muscles corded up like bunches of spun metal; he took her down easily, straddling her, digging his thumbs deep into the hollow of her throat. Her screams sliced right off; now, she couldn't even gasp as Sammy's grip choked off all her air.
Steady, steady now, he thought, baring down. Yeah, this'll do the job. She squirmed between his legs. Her tongue wagged feebly in her open mouth, and her eyes bulged forward. Despite the shock of what he'd seen the blood and guts in his old room, and all that Kathleen had said some tiny yet raging kernel of his spirit felt ablaze. He was getting a hard on. His groin tingled above her thrashing hips. Part of him even thought that he wouldn't mind giving her a last pop before checking her out.
No time, he rescinded. Her throat squeezed down in his grasp. All he had time to do was finish her off and get the fuck out of this gore hole. When her face turned blue and her flailings ceased, he let go and flipped her over. He had to make sure who could prove that he did it? Up in Jersey he'd seen some of Vinchetti's freelance cocks do it while they were taping for a snuff flick. Just twist the head way back to one side and pull up hard: the neck would snap like a dry twig. It was a neat sound.
Harder, harder, he told himself. He twisted up, pulling, pulling, with his knee vised hard into the bone at the top of her spine.
Harder, harder, he thought. He felt glowing. He wanted to hear it. He wanted to hear that quick glass rod snap of her neck.
And in the process of killing her, he even made the effort to whisper: "It's Sleepytime, Kathy, Sleepytime..."
Then a shadow snapped into view.
Sammy stared forward, released Kathleen's head.
Very slowly, he glanced back over his shoulder.
The sultry figure looked huge. He couldn't see her face, but then he didn't need to.
"Daddy," the figure said.
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Chapter 39
(I)
Spence leaned on his car horn. For God's sake! he thought.
Some big beat up white Plymouth station wagon had had a fender bender at the corner of Bladensburg and South Dakota Avenue. The drivers stood in the middle of the street yelling at each other.
"Hold on," Spence said to Central Commo in his mike. "I gotta pissant signal 9 here."
"Standing by."
Spence got out and stormed up. The guys raged, one big redneck in a T-shirt and jeans with his gut sticking out like a woman nine months pregnant, and a guy in a suit. "You guys gonna hold up traffic all night or are you gonna get your shit together and clear the goddamn road?" Spence yelled.
The redneck, already having a bad day, bulled right up. "Fuck you, dweeb! Mind your own goddamn business!" Then he put a hand on Spence's shoulder.
"Buddy," Spence said very quietly. "This jacket is a 100% Italian wool special. It cost more than you make in a month of hanging sheetrock." Then he stuck his badge and ID in the guy's face. "If you don't take your hand off my jacket, and I mean right now, I'm gonna throw your ass in D.C.
Jail for 90 days, and I'm gonna order Traffic Branch to tow this piece of shit away and have it cubed."
The redneck glared, and backed off.
"You guys settle your score after you clear the road," Spence continued. "You get this land yacht out of here. Now."
Spence sputtered back to his car as the redneck travailed to move his station wagon. "I'm back,"
Spence said into the mike. "What's the line?"
"Okay, Lieutenant, I gotta positive DF on the board now sure as shit," the dispatcher said. "Looks like about two miles west of the district line down Bladensburg."
"I'm there now."
"Gimme a second for the grid."
Spence passed the fender bender, frowning. He hit the gas and sped down Bladensburg, ignoring two municipal cops parked in the entry of the Frito Lay factory.
Central Commo came back. "We got no plats or exact address grids, technically you're in Maryland. I'm gonna follow your bead and you turn when I tell you."
"Right," Spence said. Just when he would pass an old Scot station, and a Hungry Herman's on the right, dispatch said, "Take a left right now."
Spence turned through a red light and got a few honks. Then he was passing a town cop station and firehall that advertised BINGO! BINGO! EVERY SUNDAY NIGHT!
"Slow it down, Lieutenant. There any roads to your right?"
"Yeah, a bunch," Spence observed. "It's a residential neighborhood."
"Slow...slow..."
"How's Shade transponder signal?"
"Like Haley's Comet... Slow it down, Lieutenant."
Spence reduced his speed to a crawl. What would Shade be doing in this out of the way little burg? Did she know someone here? Why the hell did she snatch her uncle and bring him here?
"Stop," dispatch said. "Take your next right."
Spence was right on it. Thank God for technology. He pulled a right and idled down another residential road lined with small cottage type houses. Then he passed a sign: DEAD END.
"It's a dead-end," he complained. "It must be an adjacent road."
"No way, sir. Your signal's kissing Shade's."
"You sure?"
"Affirmative. You're there, Lieutenant."
Then Spence spotted Shade's T Bird nosed into the dead-end. "I got it. I'm parking and getting out."
"I'll be here."
Spence unplugged his Motorola, clipped it to his belt, and stuck in his earphone. He parked right behind the T Bird, cut his lights, and got out. Shade's car was empty. He peered stupidly back down the dark street. Shit. How am I supposed to know which house she's in? He could send for some uniforms and do a door to door, but that would be inane. What if he was wrong? What if she didn't really snatch her uncle, and was simply visiting a friend? Spence could imagine the harassment charge... Unauthorized el
ectronic surveillance of a district citizen. Unauthorized use of department equipment and facilities. IAD would bust my chops.
