He dots the exclamation point with a punch, and the blade snaps in his fingers. The tip of the razor impales his palm, oozing blood.
Mark smiles.
He takes the remainder of the sharpener blade—what is left is shaped more like a square than a triangle—and slips it gently into his other palm. Then he slaps the center of the board with both hands.
In dark red blood that dribbles down the blackboard, smearing Mr. Limner’s ugly chalk earthworm, Mark writes in broad letters that sing sparks down his spine: WITH MY HANDS.
Dizzy, his hands all sticky and raw, he gathers his bag and runs from class, knowing that he will never turn back, will never see Mr. Limner, nor Ida or Ward, ever again.
The photograph spits out from the camera in his hands, and now he sees the desk drawing imprinted on paper, the photograph he always wanted to take…only this time it’s real, and much, much better….
His hands tingle as he grips the photograph, trying to give his palms paper cuts with the edges. It does not work. Instead, he holds the cold wet picture against his hot eyes. And cries…
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I.
The gym was empty now, evacuated. Splatters of ink in puddles of red, yellow, green, and blue littered the convention floor and canvas booths like gigantic raindrops of color. Many balloons still remained to be checked, and a group of uniformed police were patrolling the scene—avoiding the rookie, Krantz, who had just lost his partner—looking for any parts of Collins’ debodied flesh that they could find (in addition to the popped head, the two puffy hands and the air-filled scrotum sac that they’d found). There were no organs discovered—just flesh and blood. A coroner was scrambling for fresh blood samples, gripping a wad of plastic bags in his palm. Lockerman was nowhere to be found.
Roberts helped Corky load his equipment. Despite the sickness he had witnessed, he felt guilt more than any other emotion: if any revulsion was inside him, it was at himself. For doubting Corky, for mistrusting him. It was stupid, really, thinking for one second that Corky might be the Tattoo Killer. Roberts couldn’t understand it: his mistrust was like the ink inside of the balloons, hidden and suppressed, the scene with Lockerman forcing it to burst out in his own hands. He felt much like Krantz had when he realized that the sick balloon in his hands had the face of his own friend…only in Roy’s case, the friend was Roberts himself. He recognized his own paranoia, and it had now stained him.
He felt a need to make it up to Corky somehow. To undo his own thoughts, to cleanse himself. “Corky,” he said, filling a cardboard box full of gear. “I’m really sorry about what happened.”
Corky opened up a folding chair, sat down, and lighted a cigarette. “Forget about it, man. I was asking for it, doing that copycat tattoo.” He blew gray smoke out of his nostrils. “But I wasn’t the only one doing them—lotsa bros around here were getting requests for that stupid cat tat, and other pictures of that psycho’s work out of the papers. Sick stuff, but I guess it’s the latest trend or something.”
Roberts looked up, frowning. “The latest trend?”
“Yeah, shit happens. Some fool gets one thing inked permanently into his flesh, and others follow the lead. They got no imaginations, if you ask me. First it was the Kilroy tattoo in World War One, then came the Screaming Mimi tat…shit, just a few years back I must have done twenty Batman logos. Crazy, man, crazy. Fads come and go, but this shit is there forever. People are stupid.”
Roberts couldn’t believe it. Just hours ago he was thinking that the convention was doing damage to the Killer’s psychic grip on the public, and now it turns out that the convention actually helped him.
“That ugly scene with the balloons might have changed people’s minds, though. Who knows?” Corky sucked hard on the cigarette between his lips. The green ink on his arms was now dirty, the color of bile.
“What is it with people these days?” Roberts asked, ignoring Corky’s last comment. “Do they get off on other people’s pain? These fuckers are sick, man. You gotta be psycho to get the Killer’s shit put on your body…”
“No biggie,” Corky said. “Folks still get swastikas put on their foreheads, too. Even in this day and age. Who’s gonna stop them? To each his own…that’s the whole point, good and bad.”
Roberts cursed, carried the cardboard box out to Corky’s van (which Corky called a “cage”). The air outside brought a sense of reality back to his mind; the whole affair had been dreamlike, unreal. On his way back inside, he saw the KOPT van, and remembered that a cameraman had been at the convention the whole time—and probably got some of the Killer’s latest on tape.
There goes the “good news” theory, along with everything else this fucking convention was supposed to accomplish. He regretted ever waking up.
He returned to Corky inside the gym. He could smell the ink in the building, like medicine.
Corky watched him as he approached. “Don’t look so glum, typewriter man. It’s over now. Nobody got hurt, and, well, that guy who got turned into balloons was already dead, probably long ago. You didn’t cause any of this; the psycho out there did.”
“I’m just pissed that my friend—that cop who stuck a gun in your face—got drunk! What an asshole! Maybe he could have stopped all this from ever happening.”
“Well it sounded to me like he’s taking this Tattoo Killer thing a bit too personally. Not that I wasn’t looking out for the fucker myself…” Corky smirked. “But all that bullshit about ‘my Tina,’ or whatever. Sounds to me like your friend could use a good talking to.”
Roberts stared at him. “He had a gun in your face, and you forgive him?”
“I didn’t say that. I’d like to kick his fuckin’ ass for scarin’ my customers like that, and pulling that bullshit while I was in the middle of a job.” Corky chuckled. “But he’s your friend, and that’s what I’d do if the shoes were switched. Lord knows I’ve had my share of guns pulled on me. Some folks just need someone to talk to.”
Roberts shook his head. Now he felt even more guilty; Corky was just too damned good to be put in the same category as the Killer.
Corky returned to the back of the booth, avoiding a large splotch of yellow ink. He sorted out some useless things he had brought, and began boxing them. “You guys will catch the guy, I’m sure of it. All it takes is a little determination.” He grunted, lifting an electrical device into the box. “Didn’t I see a guy from your station walking around with a camera?”
“Yeah, this shit will be all over the news…”
“Well, maybe they got something on tape that’ll help you get the psycho. Hell, he was probably here the whole time.”
Roberts nodded, feeling a bit cheered up. “You’re right, I suppose. I don’t know. I’m learning to not do too much wishful thinking anymore.”
Roberts toed a puddle of ink, staining the tip of his white tennis shoe.
“Wanna get the shit on that table?” Corky said, lifting the box he had filled, and walking out to put it in his van.
Roberts obeyed. He stacked the list of interested customer’s names and addresses atop a rubber-banded group of pamphlets called The Ancient Art of Tattoo. Beside these were two binders, one red, one black. The red one was full of Corky’s flash drawings, mostly in magic marker and colored pencil. The black binder was like a photo album, filled with snapshots of Corky’s tattoos on proud flesh.
In the back of this book, he discovered a photograph of his own tattoo. The monster journalist on his shoulder blade reflected the light from the flashbulb, shiny and hideous. Looking at it in comparison to Corky’s earlier tats, he felt a resurgence of pride in being one of the best of Corky’s clients.
Corky returned, grinning. “You like what you see?”
“Hell yeah, especially this one.” He pointed down at the photo; Corky looked down at it and laughed.
“So that’s what the camera was for…I didn’t know you took pics of all your work.”
“I don’t. Just the best ones.”
“Hey, thanks…”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” Corky smiled. “I just had a blank page to fill in that there book.”
Roberts chuckled, flipping through the pages of the binder, admiring the other tattoos. Corky patrolled the booth for anything he might have missed—equipment, loose change, missing wallets, and so on.
About ten pages from the front of the book, Roberts saw another “copycat” tattoo. It was an exact replica of the illustration to Corky’s—or J.R. Corcorrhan’s—story “Burn Out.” The inked-in Doberman had spit-drooling fangs, dangling a gold nametag with the word PATRICK stamped on it. In the background, the wheelie-chopper peeled out across anonymous muscular skin.
“Hey, Corky. Here’s that ‘Burn Out’ tattoo you did from your story in that biker mag. Who the hell did you sucker into getting that stitched into their skin?”
Corky called over his shoulder. “Oh, that one. Yeah, I kinda liked the picture, so I copied it. That don’t make me some kinda copycat junkie, now, you gotta understand that. Though we do learn how to beat others out through imitation. Anyway, I did that one for the guy who gave me the idea for that silly story.”
“What do you mean?” More plagiarism?
“Well, he didn’t give me the idea, per se. I just thought about him when I wrote it, ‘cause he kinda reminded me of the bad guy in that tale. He was my inspiration, so to speak, for the villain. You know, the one who tattooed his name on that woman? Anyway, the real guy’s not all that bad, actually. He’s a loner; I never see much of him these days, except during rent time. He’s the shy, quiet type. But he’s just got that look, ya know? The look of a killer, all stone-faced and squirrelly. Anyway, I gave him that tattoo because—well, I didn’t tell him all that shit I just told you, of course—but because he let me use his name, and he liked it.”
“Oh…Patrick. I get it.”
“No, not really. See, he’s that tenant I told you about. Killer. His real name is Kilpatrick, but I just cut it down to Patrick because Killer’s his handle, and I’m sure he didn’t want people walking around calling him by the name his momma gave him. Just like I don’t want you calling me J.R. Get it?”
“Got it.” Roberts chuckled smugly. “Yeah, Killer sure is a name to be proud of. So what does this Killer do for a living? Burn off tattoos? Or is he a hit man for the mob?”
Corky grinned. “Dare you to say that to his face…” He lit a cigarette. “Nah, I don’t know what he does for a livin’ these days, and I don’t think it’s any of my business, so long as he makes his rent payments.” Corky squinted an eye and cocked his head to one side, blatantly trying to look retrospective. “He used to do tattoos, but since he didn’t have any talent he went out of business. Had a shop called ‘Killer’s Ink’—a play on Killers Incorporated, or something stupid like that—which he ran out of his garage. Had a lot of balls, but his artwork wasn’t very good. In fact, it sucked. All he could do was other artists’ flash. No imagination at all. Gotta give him credit for tryin’, though.”
Roberts just shook his head, smiling, wondering why Corky always made such a big deal out of names.
“I wonder why that bastard didn’t show today?” Corky asked aloud as Roberts closed the book of photographs and returned to packing it all up.
II.
Kilpatrick opened his eyes.
He looked over at Schoenmacher, slumped on the floor. He slid the photo of Judy Thomas into his back pocket, which was wet with sweat. The picture was warm from holding it against his eyes for so long, warm with tears.
He walked over to the weatherman and checked his breath. It was shallow, weak, but he was still breathing, still alive. That was good. He wanted him to be able to come back to consciousness. Otherwise, his plan would be ruined. Another waste of time—another botched job of going public.
His fingers gripped down into Schoenmacher’s neck, turning the flesh white. “What are you doing here, weatherman? It’s too early for you…” Kilpatrick rattled his neck, shaking his drugged head from side to side. “Tsk, tsk, tsk…guess I’ll just have to speed things up!”
He dropped Schoenmacher’s head to the floor, where it made a dull, hollow thud. Kilpatrick stood, walked over to the bed, and pulled the red satin sheets over Judy’s nude back. With a latex-gloved hand, he ran his fingers through her hair. “Guess you didn’t get my letters, huh? Well that’s okay, baby. That’s fine. You got ‘em now.” He slid a hand down to cup a breast, the smooth flesh wet with ink, and scarred with fresh needlepoint etchings and grooves.
Kilpatrick laughed, looking over at Schoenmacher. “Well, lovebirds, I wonder what you two were gonna do together? And why aren’t you at that fucking convention, hmm?” He grabbed his self-made inkgun, using the sharp tip to dig black ink out from a fingernail. “I mean, come on. Did you really think I was so stupid that I’d go to that circus myself, like some rat being led around a maze, when it’s all an obvious trap? Well, I did go, of course—you’ll find out about all that later, when you go on the air.” He grinned at himself. “Yeah, I snuck inside your little trap early and stole the cheese!”
Schoenmacher groaned.
Kilpatrick looked over at him, frightened. It was the first time anyone had ever done such a thing after he’d injected them, showing signs of consciousness.
He sprang over to him, and kicked him in the temple with his steel-toed boot. The weatherman’s head snapped violently back. Kilpatrick squatted, gave him another dose.
“I’m sorry,” he said to the vein as he inserted the hypodermic needle. “But I gotta do this. Hate to, after all you’ve done for me. You’re my good-luck charm, did you know that?” He slipped out the needle, and patted Schoenmacher’s head. “After all, if you weren’t home with my love over there that night when I sent you the message on your cat, then I would never have been able to follow my love home, now would I? And I wouldn’t have found that fat cop who was hiding outside your house, either—man, he was good. Lotsa extra skin.” Kilpatrick cocked his head to one side, sizing up Schoenmacher’s flesh. “You’re not bad, yourself.”
Kilpatrick crawled over to Schoenmacher’s feet, and yanked off his shoes. “Let’s see the rest, okay?” He slipped off his socks, and continued to strip him down.
“Nice…ooh, I can’t wait.”
III.
Lockerman was sitting on Roberts’ doorstep when he pulled up, a nearly empty bottle of Johnnie Walker between his legs. Roberts got out of his car and walked toward the cop, jingling his keys and staring at him. Lockerman avoided his eyes.
“What the hell kind of bullshit was all that at the convention, huh?”
Lockerman smirked, took a sloshing tilt of the bottle.
Roberts stood in front of him, staring him down. “What kind of cop are you, anyway? You get all fucked up at the convention, almost shoot my friend Corky—and your own rookie, too—and leave in the middle of the thing!” Roberts slapped his thigh, rolling his eyes. “What is it with you, huh?”
Lockerman put his head in his hands. “I don’t know, Roy. Honest. I just wanted to catch the fucker in the act, and the next thing you know the captain’s pulling the rug out from under me. How the hell was I supposed to get the Killer with just a rookie with an attitude problem and you—Mr. Tattoo himself—for backup? Huh? Tell me that!”
Roberts grabbed the bottle out of Lockerman’s hands, and swung it back to toss it in his neighbor’s yard. He stopped himself, and took a drink. Talk to him, Corky had said. “I don’t know, man, but you shouldn’t have given up.” Roberts sat down beside his friend on the concrete doorstep. “The Killer was there; we missed him. Put these sick balloons up…”
“I know. I heard on the radio.”
�
�Well then you already know that one of your rookies got killed…”
“Collins was an airhead, anyway. Couldn’t look out for himself.” Lockerman grabbed the bottle, and took a drink, chuckling.
“You’re drunk, Lock. Fuckin’ drunk. That kid got killed because…” Because of YOU, Roberts thought, holding it back. “…well, because the Killer must have spotted him staking out Schoenmacher’s house.”
“I don’t care anymore.”
Roberts angrily stood up. “Just go home, okay? Go sleep it off. You’re talking nonsense, and I don’t want to listen to it.” Lockerman stayed where he was, looking at the rim of the booze bottle as if he wanted to kiss it. “There’s nothing we can do tonight anyway, since you’re piss-drunk and I’m pissed off. Tomorrow we’ll both have clear heads, and I’ll look at that videotape from the convention…you’ve got quite a mess there to clean up, too…so, maybe we’ll get lucky and find something.”
“I told you, I don’t give a fuck. Do what you want.”
Roberts kicked Lockerman’s shoe and pointed at his house next door. “Go.”
Lockerman stood, slipped, gripped the railing. He swaggered over to Roberts. He patted his shoulder drunkenly, and then waddled over into his yard, his feet crunching on dead grass.
Then he spun around, caught his balance, and looked up at Roberts from across his yard. “Today was her birthday, Roy.”
“Who…Tina?”
Lockerman didn’t hear him. “It was her birthday, and in the midst of all this fucking bullshit, I forgot. I forgot all about her!” He swung his his arm back and threw the bottle of Johnnie Walker against his own doorstep. Its smash was hollow, dull, as if the bottle were made of papier-mâché. “I just…forgot.”
“Go to sleep, John.”
Grave Markings: 20th Anniversary Edition Page 30