by John Philpin
I felt that I was getting to know him better every day. His manipulation of Westphal was masterful. I read through years of memos, watching how skillfully he persuaded the man to do his bidding. There was one memo of recent vintage telling Westphal he’d be away for a while, and asking him to mail a package to Robert Sinclair in his absence. The book of poetry. If Wolf hadn’t been in Vermont at that time, where was he? Playing the part of Robbins, and watching me?
The most chilling files were those that could be opened only with a directory password—“design”—a subdirectory password—“chaos”—and an additional password for each file. Sarah Sinclair’s was “Rimbaud.” The entry was brief:
To the prettiest of my prettiest feathers:
With you, I have put into motion the process of consuming myself. But I have no regrets. The danger is what drew me to you, the curiosity is what clipped my wings. Some of us mate for life. Some of us mate for death. You and I are the latter.
I printed out this file and tried to fax it to Pop, but his machine wasn’t on. Several days passed before my attempts at transmission were successful. Then there was another long wait for him to respond. Nearly two weeks. It was in the middle of the night when I finally heard my fax machine switch on and begin its familiar, gentle purr.
I was in bed, but I wasn’t asleep. I was replaying the whole story of John Wolf in my mind. It wasn’t terror that haunted me; it was the questions. Pop had helped me see what drove Wolf, but what had driven me? I had asked myself that question a hundred times, and each time my hand had drifted up—to touch the rough, parallel scars on my throat. I was within a split second of killing the man, and I understood my rage. If he had to die so that we could live, so be it.
I also knew now why I would continue to work Homicide—why I couldn’t stop, even if it threatened my life again. The quality of life is seldom the same for the victims of other crimes, but they go on living. Sarah Sinclair and forty-one others wouldn’t have that option.
But I didn’t understand Pop. He hadn’t simply reacted to a desperate situation. He had planned to kill Wolf. When he stood in the motel hallway that night and waited for me to lock my door, he knew exactly what he was going to do.
I switched on my reading light and lifted the flimsy sheets of paper from the fax machine.
TO: Lane
FROM: Pop
Sorry to shut you off. Haven’t been sleeping well, and I’m off my feed. Also too much porter. It takes a while to cleanse an aging mind. Haven’t even started on the soul (although I did buy a new CD: Clapton, From the Cradle, but haven’t played it yet).
It’s funny—I don’t know where to begin, but I do know where this will end. I would have preferred to tell you all this over dinner, then take in a movie (a musical? a comedy? do they make those anymore?).
When I got back to the lake, I picked up Max the cat from the friend who was caring for him (not that he requires much). We crossed the water at night, by boat—something he and I have done a dozen times. Max usually wants to sit in the stern with me, but that night he curled up on top of the rope at the bow, glaring at me with hateful eyes. A spiteful cat angry at a neglectful owner (if, in fact, a cat can be owned)? Or a talented predator who picks up the scent of another in the same confined space?
After we were home, he avoided me for two days. Only time he would come out to eat was when I wasn’t around.
When I did sleep, the dreams came. Explosions. Blood. The stench of death (how many bodies did they end up finding in Wolf’s cellar?). And the worst part of all: looking into a mirror and not recognizing the man who looks back at me. I tell you all this for one reason. Never again. Not even for you. I don’t think I’ve ever feared death. Haven’t really thought a whole lot about it. But what I do fear is going out there one time too many, and one inch too far. I’m afraid that I’ll lose myself, that I’ll go irretrievably mad. A single, final thread will snap, leaving me sitting in a puddle of my own waste.
So, please. No more. There is so little that separates us from them.
A man like Wolf feels nothing. He is moved only by vengeance. The destruction he brings to the world is payment for the injustice he has suffered. He believes that only he has endured pain. To be in his mind is to be in a primal black hole of sensory disregard. He is a walking impulse, a bundle of short bursts of static, surges regulated only by his obsession with control and design. We matter to him only as objects, pieces of his community in need of rearrangement. Murder is his way of imposing order on his world. When you are the reaper, you do not fear the reaper.
No doubt the feds are still celebrating their victory—and you, by now, are enshrined as the patron saint of tall, tan, feminist sleuths. But I think you will be as sobered as I was by what follows. It arrived here shortly after I did.
Dear Dr. Frank:
I have so little time to say all that needs to be said. If you are as good as your reputation, you will be arriving soon.
But don’t flatter yourself. You’ve had a willing coconspirator.
Near the end in Hasty Hills, I experienced something I never had before. I believed, for Several minutes at least, that I couldn’t continue, that it would be best if I just stood in place and allowed the inevitable to happen. Obviously, that passed.
I expose myself to death because I refuse to be locked away. And what do you get? A confession? Gladly. I would enjoy talking about my exploits.
If you’re reading this, you beat me. And there’s only one way you could have done that. Was it so grand a conquest? Are you sleeping well? Dreams, Doctor? I don’t share your liability of conscience, or your need to pull back from the edge. This is what gives me my strength. It is also what causes my bouts of weariness.
In Sarah, I found a woman who wanted to die, one who participated in her own death, and in her eyes I saw myself. Think carefully about what you saw in mine, Dr. Frank—and don’t push your luck.
Wolf
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
JOHN PHILPIN is a nationally renowned forensic psychologist. His advice and opinions on violence and its aftermath have been sought by police, newspaper writers, TV producers, mental health professionals, private investigators, attorneys, and polygraph experts throughout the country. He is the author of Beyond Murder, the story of the Gainesville student killings, which was published by NAL/Dutton in 1994. His forthcoming true crime book, Stalemate, which tells the story of a series of child abductions, sexual assaults, and murders in the San Francisco Bay Area, will be published in August 1997 by Bantam Books. He lives in Reading, Vermont, with his wife and son.
PATRICIA SIERRA is an award-winning writer whose short fiction and poetry have been published in several small literary magazines. She has written three young adult novels as well, all of which were published by Avon Books. Her interest in crime and law enforcement led to a brief career as a private investigator. An avid lifelong fan of true crime books and mysteries, Sierra lives in Toledo, Ohio.
THE PRETTIEST FEATHERS
A Bantam Book/May 1997
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1997 by John Philpin and The Patricia Sierra Living Trust
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
For information address: Bantam Books.
eISBN: 978-0-307-42274-3
Bantam Books are published by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc. Its trademark, consisting of the words “Bantam Books” and the portrayal of a rooster, is Registered in U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries. Marca Registrada. Bantam Books, 1540 Broadway, New York, New York 10036.
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