There's a chill in the morning air, not that common for September. She's naked, and the chill gives her goose bumps and makes her nipples hard.
She stands up and pads into the bathroom. She yelps once as she sits down on the toilet seat; it feels like ice against her ass. She pees, knees together, wipes, stands, flushes. Before leaving the bathroom, she takes stock of her body in the mirror.
Looking good, as always. Too bad that's never been a helpful thing.
Rosemary observes that her breasts are still perky, a perfect 38C. Her belly is still flat, no stretch marks or scars. Her five-five frame isn't slender, but it isn't fat either. She has muscular thighs and a firm ass. Her pubic hair is brunette, just like the waist-length hair on her head. She likes not having to shave down there anymore. Perfect body, but then, why wouldn't it be? I always aborted when I got pregnant, didn't I? Eight times, yes, sir. My uterus is so scarred now, it's doubtful I'll ever have any children. Which is probably a good thing. Kids deserve better than me.
She turns away from this thought by turning away from the mirror, and heads back into the bedroom. She grabs the necklace and hangs it around her neck; a small silver cross on a thin silver chain. She kneels down next to her bed, knees on that hard, cold wooden floor, bends her head forward, closes her eyes, and prays as she does every morning.
"God, thank you for another day of freedom from the sinful life I used to live. Thank you for giving me the force of will to stay away from the temptations and the hungers that still plague me. They're better, Lord, but they still bother me. Sometimes I think about drugs and fucking and I just want to get up and go out and score some coke and booze and suck a nice big cock. Even saying it now makes my pussy a little bit wet. But every day, with your help, I manage not to give in. I turn away from those temptations and I thank you for helping me find the strength to do that, Lord."
When she first started praying, years ago, she never used that kind of language. She used cleaner words, tried to be more pure. She found it unsatisfying. She'd talked to Father Yates about her problem in this area.
Father Yates was in his fifties, but he was pretty cool. He'd give anyone a chance--ex-hookers, recovering drug addicts--as long as he felt your intentions were genuine, he was there for you. Nothing seemed to faze him.
"Rosemary, the things you find yourself wanting to say to God--
the unclean things--tell me how you feel when they come to you."
"Like urges, Father. When I need a drink or a fuck--sorry, Father--
real bad, it's like a bunch of black waves washing over me, one right after the other. If I hold them in, the urges just get stronger. But if I talk about them, if I put words to them, I get some relief."
"Give me an example."
She'd stared at him. "You want me to say it like I think it?"
"That's right."
"I don't know, Father. I'm talking about some pretty dirty stuff here."
He'd chuckled. "Rosemary, I've heard every profane word that exists. I've heard things in confession that would curl your toes--
confessions about bestiality, the fantasies of child molesters--I promise you, I can deal with whatever you want to say."
Looking at him then, she believed what he was saying, but it was still hard. The things she felt, the words to describe those things, were secrets. There was a time when she lived those words, when she said them without a second thought. Times had changed. On the other hand . . .
She could sense that there might be a certain relief to be had by putting voice to the dark things that bubbled up inside her. But, what if . . .
It was the big concern, the greatest one of all, the one that keeps us from owning up to our sins.
"Father, if--if I do . . ." She bit her lip, which trembled. "Do you promise to still like me afterward?"
She couldn't look at him. He grabbed her chin and forced her to raise her eyes. The kindness she saw there made her want to cry with relief.
"I promise, Rosemary. On my love of God."
She'd cried a little, and he'd waited while she did. Then she'd wiped her eyes and had started talking, telling those secrets. The words were like a flood, dark and awful, but so needing to be spoken.
"Sometimes, Father, I just want to fuck, you know? Not make out or make love or any of that stuff. I want a cock in my mouth and in my pussy and I want them there after I've swallowed a bunch of booze and snorted as much coke as I can get my hands on. I want it and even while I fight wanting it, I get turned on, and that makes the wanting even stronger, you know?
"It's always been like that. People think girls like me are victims, and some are I suppose. But I've never been able to get enough. Never. The dirtier the better. Spit on me, piss in my face, make me a fucking whore, it'll all make me come that much harder and stronger. I want it for days, I want it for weeks, I want to be fucked till I stop breathing."
The words had rushed out, uncensored, and then she'd been done. She'd snuck a glance at Father Yates, had been relieved to see no shock or judgment on his face. Perhaps even more precious, in its own way, even more important, was that she didn't see the slightest hunger there. No hint of voyeuristic thrill.
"Thank you, Rosemary. How do you feel, having said all that?"
"Better," she'd replied without hesitation. "The wanting goes away. Kind of like . . ." She searched for a metaphor. "Like squeezing a big old whitehead zit. Hurts to do it, thank God when it pops, you know?"
He'd smiled and nodded. "Yes, I do." His face got serious. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Rosemary, I think saying it is better than doing it, don't you?"
She'd blinked, surprised by this concept.
Was it better? In this society, sometimes it didn't seem so. Say the words suck a cock in public, and you might as well be sucking one on an escalator, you know?
Still . . . there was a big difference between talking about drinking and fucking and waking up from a blackout with a stranger's come in your ass.
"I guess so, Father. Yeah."
"Then my advice, when you pray? Say what you need to say. Don't worry. God can handle it."
It had seemed like strange advice, and to be honest, it had been hard to implement, but she got the hang of it. Some might find it blasphemous, but you know what? Fuck them and their high horses. Truth was, it worked. She talked to God without a censor, and she had almost five years on the straight and narrow as a result. She figured God knew what was up. God knew her love for Him grew every day she made it through without fucking a stranger or drinking a beer or snorting a gram.
She figured God had watched when she turned tricks at seventeen and started making porno films at eighteen. Figured he'd seen her allblack gang bang under the bright lights ( Big black cocks in a tight white hole! The cover of the video had proclaimed) and her foray into dogfucking for the bestiality black market. God had seen her toward the end too. Like when she was on her knees in a hotel room that could only be described as grotesque, as some fat fuck spit on her face and called her a "meat puppet" and she smiled and agreed because she needed some money for blow and because it kind of turned her on too. God had been there the Day It All Changed, she was sure of that. She'd been lying in bed in another shitty room. She was sick with the flu, was sweating and cold, but the guy fucking her didn't care. He'd paid extra to do her without a condom, he had sores on his pecker, but she really didn't give a shit, she'd pretty much accepted that she was on her way out.
He was there above her, his tongue literally hanging out, panting like a dog, and then his face had changed. It had contorted into a look of pure hate. He'd raised a fist and started hitting her. He didn't stop until he'd broken her nose in three places, broken her jaw, knocked out a tooth or two, blacked her eyes shut, broken her left arm, and cracked a few ribs. Then he fucked her again and she passed out.
She woke up in the hospital, and Father Yates was there, sitting next to her bed. He hadn't said anything. He'd just moved closer, had taken one of her hands into his, a
nd had looked down on her with those gentle, gentle eyes.
She'd started crying then. She cried, on and off, for days. Father Yates and others from the church stayed by her bedside until she was ready to be released. They didn't preach or judge or even say much of anything at all. They were just there for her.
She'd come to understand that God was present for the good and the bad, and it wasn't that He was cruel, but that He knew--goodness was a choice. Rightness was a choice. Free will was the road to salvation, and God wasn't going to make you do the right thing. God's job was to be there if you chose Him, there if you didn't. Father Yates and the church had helped her get onto her feet. Helped her clean up, find an apartment and a job. Were there for her in the beginning when she strayed, twice.
She remembers all of these things now, as she often does, and adds some final words to her prayer.
"Thank you God, for helping me, and for listening to my bad fucking mouth and my dirty thoughts, and for letting me say what I need to say so I can stay on the path. Amen."
Dirty words and evil thoughts were her secret things, and you can't stay clean with secrets so God let her spew her bile and never blinked, however raunchy things got.
She stands up and goes to shower. No work today, but discipline was the key to her life now. Waking every day at the same time, not letting herself sleep in or be slothful. Sunday through Friday she ran a mile. Saturday she let herself off on the running, but she still got up, showered, had her coffee, and then went to the church to volunteer. All of which, she reflects, helps keep the real secret, the true dirtiness inside her, at bay. That one terrible thing when she'd--
A knock at the door startles her from this thought. She frowns. Who the hell is that?
She grabs a bathrobe and checks her face in the mirror, chastising herself immediately for this vanity, knowing that this is one habit she'll never break.
She opens the door without peeking through the peephole. It's Saturday morning, and this is Simi Valley, after all. One of the safest cities in the nation.
The man has a gun and a smile. He levels the gun at her face and walks forward, causing her to backpedal.
"Scream and I'll shoot you dead," he observes, calm, cool, collected. He closes the door to the apartment.
"Who the fuck are you?" she asks, voice trembling. He puts a finger to his lips.
"Shhhhhh . . . I have something for you, Rosemary."
He reaches into a jacket pocket and lifts out a bag. She recognizes it right away, of course.
Cocaine, sweet, beautiful, delicious cocaine.
"It's okay, Rosemary. God will forgive you for this, so long as you give yourself up to Him before I kill you. Remember: God is love."
She feels the old familiar demon rise inside her, even now, even after all these years, even with a gun in her face. She feels the truth that she so often reflects upon: she was a Jezebel born, not made. Dear God, I'm scared, I'm so fucking scared, but even so, I want that coke so fucking bad, and (she can't be dishonest talking to God, not now not ever) it won't really be my fault because he's making me do it so that's kind of a relief because it sort of lets me off the hook, you know? Forgive me for that.
On the heels of this, puzzlement:
How does he know I'm a coke addict?
She struggles to remember if she'd seen his face at her Narcotics Anonymous meeting, or at her church.
No, she thinks. I would have remembered those eyes. Those awful eyes.
"Come now, Rosemary," the man says, his voice almost gentle.
"We have work to do."
Does it matter, Lord? Does it matter that I never would have done this coke by myself ? Even though I really want what he's giving me, doesn't it make a difference that I didn't go looking for it?
Rosemary had always felt the presence of God while praying, but never His voice. This time was no different. God didn't speak to her, but, as always, God was there.
He was there when she snorted the coke at gunpoint, He was even there when the end came, with all its darkness.
God never spoke, but He was there, and it was enough. She knew He heard her last thought, her final revelation.
Yeah, it does. It does make a difference. In fact, it makes THE difference. Our Father, who art in heaven, God oh my God, I love you so. She would have died smiling if she hadn't been in so much pain.
11
IT'S A LITTLE PAST NOON AND I AM ON THE PHONE WITH AD Jones.
"Similar crime?" he asks. "Here?"
He doesn't groan, but I know he wants to because I feel the same way.
A killer who hops municipalities is a whole new monster. A man dedicated to his craft, a traveler, spreading the wreckage of his acts across multiple jurisdictions. It creates problems. Locals who don't want us playing in their sandbox. The potential for incompetence on the part of forensics or pathology increases by virtue of increasing the per capita of law-enforcement involvement. Not to mention the simple truth that some victims will fall through the cracks. VICAP, the Violent Crime Apprehension Program, which provides a national database of cross-referenced violent acts, is a voluntary program. Unless a local homicide cop decides to enter the crime into VICAP, it's not there to search for and find in the database.
"It's a headache," I agree.
"What do you want to do?"
I think about it. The truth is, I'm tired, my team is tired, and there's no way we'll be able to keep up our current pace for very long. But . . .
The time he's most likely to err is in the commission of the crime itself. The longer he has to cool down, the more opportunity he has to cover his tracks, and worse, to refine his technique. The first murder, in most cases, is the sloppiest. But this isn't his first now, is it? Maybe not even his tenth or his hundredth.
I sigh. "We'll continue blitzing it for now, sir. I'll fly back and check out the Sonnenfeld murder. The rest of my team will stay here."
"What's the division of labor?"
"Callie and James are processing Lisa's apartment personally. Alan is coordinating with the locals on the Ambrose scene."
"Is he really needed there?"
I consider this. "Probably not. I was going to have him do the passenger interviews, but the locals could do that. I'm sure Virginia forensics will pass muster and, besides, I think Ambrose was a throwaway."
"Big assumption."
"If Lisa wasn't random--and I feel strongly that she wasn't--then Ambrose was a means to an end, not the reason why." I sigh. "He was incidental. He's not going to give me any real insight."
"Then take Alan with you. Have him turn over the Ambrose scene and the passenger interviews to the locals." A pause. "I want you to have a partner with you when possible, Smoky. This guy seems to be pretty intent on getting law enforcement involved. That means he's going to be watching."
I'd already thought of this, but having AD Jones say it out loud sends a small icy shiver down my spine. On at least three occasions now the men I hunt have taken a personal interest in me and my team, and while we're all still alive, we've never walked away from those encounters unscathed.
"Roger that, sir."
"Keep me briefed."
He hangs up without saying good-bye. I dial Alan.
"Let me guess," he says without preamble. "We're going back to LA."
"How telepathic of you."
"Nah. If you hadn't asked me to come I would have insisted."
"I'll come pick you up," I say. " 'Bye."
I've been standing outside of Lisa's apartment to make these calls. I poke my head in.
"Callie!"
She walks out of Lisa's bedroom, digital camera held in gloved hands.
"What is it, honey-love?"
I explain about Rosemary Sonnenfeld. She raises an eyebrow.
"Busy boy."
"Yes. Alan and I are going to fly home and check that out. I need you and James to continue here. Collect everything you can find. When you're done, call for the plane and bring it all back with you."<
br />
"Do we get to sleep after?"
"If not, I'll buy the donuts."
Callie is addicted to miniature chocolate donuts. Loves them, really. It's a passionate affair.
"A fair trade," she says. "I accept."
"See you soon."
"Oh, and, Smoky? Say hi to my man if you see him. Tell him I expect sex when I return. Lots of it."
"I'm sure he'll be pleased to hear it."
She tosses her hair and smiles. "I just want to give him adequate time to prepare for the coming storm."
ALAN AND I ARE SITTING in the car waiting for the jet to arrive. He glances at his watch.
"We should get there by about six o'clock. I already talked to the Simi Valley cops and let them know we're coming. Some guy by the name of Atkins is the primary on the case."
"Where are they at with it?"
"All the forensic work is done, including the autopsy. They don't have any leads."
"Have they released the apartment yet?"
"Yeah."
"Damn."
I won't get the same opportunity I had with Lisa Reid.
"What do you want to do?"
"Let's meet with Atkins, find out everything we can about Rosemary Sonnenfeld, who she was and how she died. See if it takes us anywhere."
"Think it will?"
I glance at my friend and shrug.
"It will take us somewhere. Hopefully that's somewhere helpful."
He stares off and nods. I wonder if he hears it like I do, the hum ming in the stillness. Three newly dead, and more in the oven. My stomach is sour with worry and dismay, and I feel like cicadas are buzzing through my veins.
"ARE YOU COMING HOME TONIGHT?"
We're mid-flight and I'm on the plane's phone with Bonnie.
"I hope so, sweetheart. I miss you."
"I miss you too, but I'm okay. If you need to work, I won't mind."
"Thanks, babe. But I'm really going to try."
A pause.
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