"Chandler never got quiet?"
"Got real quiet. Dead quiet." A tear tracked her face. "He got into an argument with another boy in one of the riverfront joints. Chandler asked him to step outside. The other boy had a knife. Chandler didn't. He was twenty–two. I was still in high school then. Thought I'd never stop crying."
I lit another smoke. "Some people, they never get to find their love."
"You ever love a woman, Burke?"
"Two."
"Where are they?"
"One's dead. One's gone."
"The girl's who's gone…why'd she go?"
I dragged on the smoke. "The woman who died, Belle, it was my fault. It didn't have to be. I used to think all the time about the woman who's gone, Flood. Why she left. Now, maybe I know. Maybe she knew what you know. Didn't know what to call it, but she knew."
"Trouble–man," she whispered, coming to me.
103
LIGHT WAS BREAKING across the bedroom window. Blossom lying on top of me, wetness still holding us together below the waist.
"Trouble–man," she said. "Troubled man, you are. What did you go to prison for?"
I looked into the center of her eyes—the way you do with a parole officer. "For something I didn't do."
"And what was that—what was it you didn't do?"
"Get away," I told her.
Her body trembled against me, giggling. "You want a cigarette?" she asked.
"Yeah."
She lit one for me, supporting herself on her elbows, holding it to my mouth.
"Cigarettes are an addiction."
"Bullshit."
"You could stop anytime you wanted?"
"Sure."
"I know how to do a lot of tricks I never actually did myself. Listening to the girls. You want to see?"
"Un–huh."
"Close your eyes."
I put my cigarette in the ashtray, felt her eyelashes flutter on my cheek. "That's a butterfly kiss. You ever have one before?"
"No."
"You like it?"
"Do it some more."
"Keep your eyes closed." A wet slab sliding across my face. I opened my eyes. Blossom was licking her lips, smiling. Licked me again. "That was a cow kiss."
"Ugh! Save that one for the farmers."
"I told you, baby"—her voice play–sexy—"I never tried these tricks before." Her voice turned quiet, little–girl serious. "You could really stop smoking?" Raising herself higher on her elbows, rolling her shoulders so the tips of her breasts brushed my chest.
"That's what I said."
"Why don't you?"
"Why should I?"
"I'll make you a deal, trouble–man. The best deal you ever had in your hard life. You stop smoking for one week. Seven days. You do that, I'll do whatever you want. For one night. Whatever you want to do, whatever you want me to do. Show you some of those tricks I never got to try. Her eyes were wide, mocking. "What d'you say?"
I put the cigarette in my mouth, took a long, deep drag. Ground it out.
104
BLOSSOM WAS all in black and white the next morning. White wool jacket over a black silk blouse, white pleated skirt, plain black pumps. Black pillbox hat, white gloves. She'd worked the makeup expertly around her eyes so she looked older.
"You going to need your car today?"
"Sure."
"Not a car, your car. You could take mine. I figure, the Lincoln, it'd make a better impression if anyone's looking."
"Where?"
"At the hospital. I'm up here for the summer, visiting my relatives. Thinking about doing a paper on medical responses to child abuse emergencies. So I figured, I'd stop by the hospital, make some friends. Get some questions answered. Your questions."
I handed her the keys.
"Is it hard?" she asked, pulling on her gloves.
"You mean still?"
"I mean giving up smoking, you dope," she said over her shoulder, walking out.
105
I WAS IN THE back in the prison yard, walking the perimeter with my eyes, checking the gun towers. The Prof materialized next to me. Like he'd always been there. He didn't have to ask what I was doing.
"First place to look is inside your head, schoolboy. Over the wall don't get it all."
I took out a smoke. Fired a match. Remembered. Blew out the match. Started to look for the sniper. Inside my head.
I've known a few. A nameless Irishman working in Biafra—a big, unsmiling man who got his training on the rooftops of Belfast under the blanket of blood–smog. A desert–burned Israeli, part of a hunter–killer team meeting at the Mole's junkyard. El Cañonero. The FBI said he was a terrorist. And Wesley. Terror itself.
Faceless men, with interchangeable eyes.
Even in wartime, they stood apart from the soldiers.
Wesley once told me, you don't shoot people, you shoot targets.
But the freak who stalked the lovers' lanes—he hunted humans.
106
I TRIED THE Interstate joint. No sign of the Blazer. When I swung past Blossom's house, the Lincoln was out front.
She was sitting at the kitchen table, still in her black–and–white outfit, a bound sheaf of computer printouts in front of her, drinking her coffee.
I stepped behind her, put my hand on her shoulder. She reached up, brought it to her face. Sniffed deeply. "You're not smoking," she said, not looking up. Kissed my hand, put it back on her shoulder.
"What'd you get?"
"This is a sample," she said, all business. "They gave it to me. For my research." Accenting the last word, sneering at someone being naive. Maybe not them. "Here's the way it works, Burke. There's an 800 number. State–wide. Where you call if you have a case of suspected child abuse. Everyone calls the same number: social workers, ER nurses, schoolteachers, next–door neighbors. The call goes to Indianapolis, where they keep the Central Registry. Then the call gets dispatched back out to a local agency. That agency sends someone out to investigate. Then they make a report: it's real or it's not. Either way, the report goes back to Indianapolis. Every report's in their computer."
"How long do they keep the records?"
"Near as I could tell, they never get rid of them. They have records go back a couple of generations anyway. But the computer, it only has data for about the past fifteen, twenty years.
"They break it down by county?"
"Yes. This is Lake County. All the records for the region are in the DPW Building"
"On the computer too?"
"Yes. But all the computer has is the information that's on this form," she said, pushing a dull green piece of paper across to me. It looked like a police pedigree: name, age, date of birth, address, check–places for type of suspected abuse or neglect.
I scanned the paper. I'd seen it before. They all use the same form. "You actually see the computer?"
"The central data–bank's not there. But there's terminals all over the place."
"On–line access? Twenty–four hours a day?" She nodded.
"They segregate the local data?"
Blossom nodded again, watching closely now.
"Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Just okay. See you later tonight?"
"I'll be here."
"Blossom…"
"What?"
"Give me my pistol."
107
THE RAIN STARTED about ten. The building was dark, lights burning on the third floor. Rebecca was at the wheel, me next to her in the front seat, Virgil in the back. They both smoked in silence, waiting for me.
B&E. Back to myself, back to crime. Started to think like myself then. Working with what I knew. Knowing when a woman spreads her legs, it's not the same thing as opening up. Blossom was compartmentalized, and I hadn't looked inside all the boxes.
It was eleven before the lights went off. Almost midnight when we heard the back door open, close. A dark–colored compact came down the driveway, braked, took off slowly to the left.
>
"Cleaning lady," I said. "She must work six to midnight."
We gave it another two hours. A police cruiser went by in the darkness. Didn't stop. No foot patrols.
"Nothing anybody'd want in there," Virgil said. My birth certificate told how right he was.
108
THE RAIN was pounding harder as I drove back to Hammond. A light flicked on as I turned off the engine. Blossom was in her robe in the kitchen, no sleep–signs on her face.
"You want something to eat?"
"No, thanks."
"Have just some dry toast. You don't want to take this stuff on an empty stomach."
"What stuff?"
"What's it look like to you?" Moving her shoulder to indicate the kitchen table.
"It looks like three fat gray coffins and a red dot," I told her, sitting down.
"The big ones are Vitamin C. The red one's the beta–carotene."
"You bought this stuff?"
"This afternoon. While you were out prowling around."
"Thanks."
"It was the least I could do. You've been a good boy."
My eyes went up to her face, voice soft, wanting her to understand. "I'm not a boy."
She brought the toast over to the table, a glass of cold water in her other hand. Put them down. Smoothed her robe over her hips and sat on my lap, primly, one hand on the back of my neck for balance.
"All men are boys. Different kinds of boys. You're a bad boy."
"Blossom…"
"A bad boy. Not a mean one. Eat your toast. Take your vitamins."
I ate slowly, feeling her warm, solid weight on me. Only her feet and a piece of her calves showed under the hem of the robe. Dark nylon stocking on one leg, the other bare.
I swallowed the last vitamin. She bounced sweetly in my lap. "Let's go see," she said.
109
LATER. The rain slapped the house. Blossom's cheek against my chest, blonde hair trailing halfway down her back. Legs slightly parted, one sheathed in the dark stocking, the other bare.
"Tell me about him," she asked, a tiny tremor in her voice.
I didn't answer her, translating inside my head, putting it in a package.
"You know what DNA is?"
"Yes."
"One thing you'll always find around any lovers' lane, discarded condoms. The cops didn't collect them from the murder scene. They'd done that, maybe they'd have his fingerprints."
"You mean…"
"Yeah. He's not a mass murderer, he's a serial killer."
"What's the difference?"
"A mass murderer, he straps down, walks out the door to do his work. Hunting for humans. He's not coming back. Like that maniac who strolled into McDonald's, turned it into a splatter film. Those kind, they walk, understand? When they hear the music, they march. Like a Geiger counter. The ticks start to run close together, it's a hum in their head. They pull the trigger, make it stop. Leave a lot of bodies around."
"Like that girl who killed all those schoolkids? Just outside of Chicago?"
"Just like her. She had to do her work. Her work was done, she was too. That's why so many of them kill themselves. Right after their work is done. Not because they can't face going to jail. It's just…over. The humming stops. What they need is a lot of humans in the same place. Doesn't matter which ones."
"The one who killed my sister…"
"That's not him. He's the other side of the moon. The human–hunters, they kill to stop the humming in the head. This guy, he looks for it. Only way he can get it is kill. Then it starts. He wants to hear it again. That special song. The one only he hears. So he goes again."
"So he wouldn't kill himself?"
"Never."
"It was just…random, wasn't it, Burke? You don't think he was tracking anyone in particular…like my sister?"
"No. He's no man–stalker. I think he looked a long time before he did this. Started slow. They have trigger–signals. It's different for every one. Like a message, only for them. I talked to a guy once. Slasher–rapist. He told me, the women, they asked him to do it. Sent him a message. Not every woman, just some."
"What was the message…his message?"
"He said, if he could see the panty–line under their skirts, that was it."
"God."
"If there's a God, someone needs to sue him for malpractice."
She shuddered against me.
110
JUST BEFORE LIGHT. "Burke, do you know what his signal is?"
"I think so. Some of it anyway. It's his way of having sex. The only way that works for him. He knows he's a beast. A lonely beast, the only one of his species. He can't find a mate. He sees the mating act, sees sex. It's like they're laughing at him. Waving it in his face. When he started shooting, the first time, maybe it was rage. Like he was being mocked. Then one time, he fired, saw someone go down. And he got off. Came. Released. He went over the line then—now it's the only place where it can happen for him. He wouldn't go back if he could."
She shifted her weight against me, listening with her whole body. "One thing Mama always said—the most dangerous thing a working girl could do was laugh at a trick."
"She knew, your mother. This guy, I think he's rooted. Close to home. His base. He doesn't live in a furnished room, out of the back of an old car. Most serial killers, they're drivers. Nomads. Cover a lot of territory. Not this one. He's hit at least twice. Close by, each time. We'll check those news clips, maybe we'll know more. One thing I know already—he's not a team. He's more alone than anyone in the world."
"You sound like you feel sorry for him."
"I'm trying to feel him, Blossom. Be him, in my mind. Get close. It's the only way."
"You can do that?"
"Yeah."
"How can you be sure?" She felt the chill from me. "I'm just playing devil's advocate," defensive sound in her voice.
I remembered something the Prof told me once. "The devil don't need advocates, Blossom. I know because they taught me. We're all branches from the same root."
"All men…all people?"
"No. Not all." I closed my eyes. Saw a sturdy little boy, big eyes almost hidden under a thick thatch of hair. Standing in the corner of Lily's office, face a mottled patch of red and white pain. Holding the arm of a teddy bear doll in one tiny fist, the stuffing coming out the end. The battered doll lying in the corner where he'd thrown it. "I hate Teddy!" he cried. "I told him what they did. I asked him to make it stop. He was my friend. And he wouldn't. He wouldn't make it stop." Lily held him on her lap, telling him it wasn't Teddy's fault. Teddy did his best. Teddy loved him. And so did she. He was safe now. The child cried against her chest, still clutching Teddy's ripped–out arm. Lily looked over at me. Her Madonna's face was composed, watching me. I caught the fire–dots in her reflective eyes. Then I went out to do Teddy's work.
"It's a Zen exercise," I told Blossom. "Dark Zen. You have to cross over the line to where he is, you want to find him. I can do that."
She nestled against me, half asleep. Murmured something that sounded like agreement.
I didn't tell her the rest—getting over the line is the easy part.
111
I WATCHED BLOSSOM dress in the morning. Not talking, not moving. Sweet smells, soft motions. Round–top little chair at her dressing table, padded seat like a piano stool. Blossom in her slip, walking to it, humming to herself. Her shoulders moved in line with the stool, knees bent as she swung her hips onto it. Hips moving a microsecond slower than the rest of her, after–image of the rounded swelling touching down.
"You can talk to me now, trouble–man."
I watched her in the mirror, blonde head bent forward, working on her nails. Said nothing.
"You miss your cigarettes?" she asked.
I didn't tell her. How you give up cigarettes every time they lock you up. How guys throw the Miranda decision out the window when the cop offers his pack in a friendly gesture. How you don't borrow anything inside the walls. Sooner
or later, you make your own connections. Stopping isn't quitting.
"Come over here. Give me a kiss, tell me I look nice."
I got off the bed. Blossom slipped a wine–red light wool dress over her shoulders, cinched it with a wide black belt. She held out her hands to me. Clear lacquer on her nails except for the index finger. That was the same red as her dress.
I took her hand. "How come?" I asked her.
"Remember last night? When I was sitting on your lap, feeding you your vitamins? Remember when you noticed I only had one stocking on?"
"Yeah."
"Remember how bad you wanted to see? Remember how I looked, lying on the bed, one dark stocking?"
I did.
She put one hand on my shoulder, steadied herself as she slipped a spike heel on her foot. "I'm going to see the reporter this morning."
Blossom Page 17