by phuc
"But I don't know what to do!" the caller suddenly began to sob. "I can't expect my boyfriend to put up with this! Why can't I enjoy sex? Why can't I be like everyone else?"
"You can. It's simple. It takes time but it's simple. You have to fantasize. In your fantasies, you have to kill your brother. Several times a day, especially when you wake up and right before you go to bed, imagine your brother picture him in your mind along with the scenarios of when he raped you. And kill him."
Kill him, Kathleen thought.
"Kill him?" the caller inquired. "My brother?"
"That's right: kill him. Imagine yourself killing him. With a gun, a knife it doesn't matter. In your fantasies, in your mind, kill him. If you do this long enough, you'll eventually kill the post traumatic effect that your brother's sexual abuse inflicted in your subconscious. You'll kill the obstructions. You'll kill the sexual dysfunction, the body memories, and the despair..."
Kathleen's own therapists had trained her well as to the same techniques, and it had worked.
Until now, she reminded herself. It wasn't working anymore. The recurring nightmare of Sammy, the cigar box, and the snake had resurfaced all that anxiety of years ago. She'd killed Sammy a thousand times in her own fantasies, but now he was back, and not merely in her dreams but in her real world as well. But Sammy's parole couldn't be the trigger; the nightmare had begun before his release...
The killer, she thought. The killer was the trigger, for the killer, too, had been sexually abused.
Was that it? And if it were, what did it matter? I'm so screwed up it's pathetic, she thought. She squinted at the ceiling, as if trying to see fortunes.
Then she thought of Maxwell...
"...for about two years," another caller was saying.
"Yes?" bid the radio shrink.
"And then I broke up with him."
"Why?"
"I don't know. I really did love him, I guess. But I wanted to see other people, I wanted to do other things. I mean, at first I thought I wanted a serious commitment. Well...I changed my mind."
"That happens," the shrink obliged. "People change their minds all the time. They change their expectations, they change their priorities, they change their views. Change is part of what we all are. You needn't feel guilty about changing."
"I don't," insisted the caller. "What happened was, the night I broke up with him, he was killed in a car wreck."
"I...see."
"If I hadn't broken up with him, he wouldn't have been on that road. He'd still be alive..."
Those last four words seemed to turn to concrete. He'd still be alive, Kathleen thought. So would Maxwell.
"It's tragic, yes, it's a horrible, horrible thing," the radio shrink was saying, "but you can't blame yourself for fate."
Kathleen turned the radio off. It wasn't fate that had caused Maxwell to be abducted. It was me, she told herself. Spence is right. I'm the one who let it happen. I was too stupid to realize the danger, and now he's...gone.
Gone sounded better than dead; it was easier to cope with. But deep in herself, she remembered Spence's assertion: that Maxwell, by now, was most likely dead. Tortured to death.
I killed him, she thought.
She drifted in and out of sleep, lurching awake each time at obscene, atrocious images. Then the phone was ringing. Her limp hand picked it up. "Hello?"
"Kathleen?"
"Yes."
The pause seemed to struggle, a sprout desperate for light.
"Who is this?" Kathleen asked.
"It's me, Kathleen," she was told. The slippery male voice reached up, like hands groping from a grave. Then it finished: "This is your Uncle Sammy."
(II)
"I know," he whispered. "I know what you think. But there's so much you don't understand." The few simple words she'd said thus far wrung ingots of sweat from his brow. Her voice. Her words.
After all this time... "Nobody understands anything."
"I understand that you're a sick piece of shit, Sam," Kathleen replied quite calmly. "I can't believe you're calling me. My phone number's unlisted. How did you get it?"
"Doesn't matter." Footsteps snapped on cement behind him; the subway closed in an hour. The turnstiles clacked. "I just wanted to hear your voice. I wanted to talk to you before "
"I know, Sam. Before you run off with your bank roll. I know all about it. You're going to leave the country because you've got hit men coming after you."
"Something like that." But what could he say now? He wasn't even sure why he'd called at all; he just knew it was something he needed to do. "I guess I'm calling to say that I'm sorry."
"Eat shit and die," Kathleen said.
Sammy frowned. Hearing her voice, despite her rancor, aroused him. It showed him the photograph. It took him back. "All right, all right," he said. "You hate me I know that. But back then, I was just a player, I was part of the machine. It's not my fault the world's the way it is."
"My God, you've got some audacity. You were part of a pornography ring, Sam. A lot of the stuff was child pornography; you were even in some of the films yourself!" Now her calm began to corrode. "I saw them at the trial. You had sex with children, Sam! You had sex with me from the time I was nine years old!"
"Did I ever hurt you, Kathleen?" Sammy asked.
"Hurt me? You devastated me! You destroyed my whole childhood! You took something away from me that I can never get back."
"That's a bunch of psychologist crap and you know it."
"You're such scum, Sam. How many kids were there? Do you know? How many innocent kids did you fuck?"
"You just don't understand," Sammy defended himself. "Sure, there were lots of kids, but I never hurt any of them. I loved them, just like I loved you, Kathleen."
And it was, he knew. It was love.
"And what about those other things, Sam? Are you going to justify that too? Your network or whatever the hell it was made films and magazines with women having sex with animals!
Women being tied up and whipped 'til they bled, or burned with curling irons. For God's sake, Sam, I remember one magazine where men put safety pins through a woman's nipples and then defecated on her!"
Ho, boy, Sammy thought. Yeah, there'd been some pretty groaty underground, all right, and Sammy had been involved in his share of that too, not just the kp and prepubes. Scat, water sports. Wet bondage and S&M (The "wet" prefix meant blood was drawn) and the "nek" flicks.
Nek wasn't like snuff: sometimes a chick would overdose on the set and die; nobody killed them, for crying out loud. He remembered one he'd worked on ( Poke Her ‘fore She's Cold, it was called ) and he pretty much just shrugged. If some people wanted to see that sort of thing, well then... Supply and demand, he thought. But Kathleen needed to be straightened out on some things. "Like I said," he repeated, "it's not my fault the world's the way it is, and it's not my fault that certain people get off on watching that kind of stuff. If clients didn't order it, we wouldn't make it. Don't blame me, blame the customers. And the women in all that stuff? First off, they were all adults, and second, most of them were drug addicts. Is that my fault too? They came to us. We gave them what they needed, and they gave us what we needed. Of their own free will, Kathleen. Nobody forced them to be in any of it. And you want to know something? We had so many women begging to be in our productions, we had to turn some of them away." The snuff, of course, and the rape viddies were different, but Sammy thought it best not to bring it up. Hell, most of those girls were about to spin anyway, or O.D. When you lived in the fast lane, sometimes you died in the fast lane another doctrine of real life. Hard world, hard rules. Besides, it was Vinchetti's crew that handled all the snuff. So what if Sammy had helped out with some of the other productions? At least he'd never killed any of the girls...
"Are you going to condemn me for the rest of my life?" Sammy asked. "For something that happened years ago?"
"Yes," Kathleen said.
"You ever heard of regret, Kathleen? You
ever heard of forgiveness?"
"You're unforgivable." Silence. Next: "Why did you call me, Sam?"
"I " But why had he called? Really? "Just to say...," he started to say. "...that what went on between us I'm not talking about the films and the magazines, my job, and all that. That was something else. That had nothing to do with us. I'm talking about us. Back when I stayed with you at the house, when your father was out of town. Do you remember?"
"Yes," Kathleen more or less croaked.
"That was us. That was you and me. Those times..." The words drifted a moment. Sammy's arousal throbbed. "I'm calling to say that what went on between us, during those times, was...love."
"You're despicable. I was only a child, Sam. A child, for Christ's sake..."
He couldn't help it. Her voice over the line seemed as warm as her body had been. He couldn't help it. His pants were open. His hand was moving.
Almost, he thought.
No one could see. The metro station was nearly empty, his back to the flank of ticket machines.
No, no one can see me, he knew.
"Say something," he begged, panting.
"My God," Kathleen croaked. "What are you d "
Almost.
The line went dead.
"Hey!" barked a voice. "Hey, you there!"
A subway cop on the other side of the turnstiles was glaring at him at the phones.
"What the hell are you doing!"
Sammy, dotted with sweat, zipped up his fly and scooted out to the parking lot.
It wasn't fair. When he spun wheels out of the metered space, he kept the lights off; if the cop came after him, he didn't want his temp tags visible. He wheeled around the exit to Route 50, heading back for the motel.
Nobody understands anything, he thought.
| |
Chapter 32
(I)
"Are you all right?" Spence said into the chained gap.
Kathleen let him in the apartment. She looked liked something that had fallen apart and been put back together: ragtag in her robe, her hair disheveled. She didn't answer as she padded toward the lit kitchen.
"I figured you might be upset."
"Why?"
"Well, the phone call. We picked it up on our trace. It was your uncle, right?"
"Yes," Kathleen said. "Would you like some wine?"
"No. He was calling from a pay phone at the New Carrolton subway station. I dispatched P.G.
County and Cheverly police to try and pick him up, but he was gone by the time they got there."
"Forget him," Kathleen said. She hadn't yet even looked at Spence. She poured wine into a small glass and closed the refrigerator. "He doesn't matter."
"Why did he call?"
"To masturbate, I think."
Spence frowned at the reply. "Are you sure you're all right?"
The question appeared to ruffle her. "Some guy who molested me years ago calls up and you immediately assume that I'll go off the deep end?"
"Well...," Spence faltered.
Kathleen glanced at the kitchen clock like an after thought. It was past 11 p.m. now. "What are you doing here anyway?"
"I happened to be in the area when our communications people radioed me about your uncle's phone call. So I thought I'd stop by to see how you're doing."
"How thoughtful." She slipped by him into the darkened living room and switched on a lamp.
Beside her heaped desk she'd set up the rented photocopy machine. "You saved me a trip," she told him. "Here're the originals."
Spence took the manila envelope. Jonathan Duff, no doubt. Spence remembered Kohls'
comments during the autopsy. "This feels thicker than the others," he observed.
"She sent two chapters this time," Kathleen said. "I haven't read the second one yet. Couldn't."
"I understand."
Suddenly Spence felt lost here; he felt awkward. What could he say to her, with Platt more than likely dead and the killer still at large? And with me no closer to catching her now than the day I got the case?
"It's hot in here," he said. He felt stifled in his suit, sticky. Why didn't she turn on the air conditioning?
"Would you leave now?" she said. She lay down on the couch as if settling into a casket. Hot darkness provided her shroud. "I'm tired, and I don't feel well."
"All right. If there's anything you need, let me know." Spence frowned again. Why on earth say that? Formalities were just more lies. What could she ever need from me?
"Keep in touch," he said as stiffly as possible. He mustn't lose the cold tact she expected of him.
When he left he made sure to lock the door behind him. Christ, it's hotter in there than it is outside, he realized, taking the stairs down to the parking lot. The hot night's dark struggled against sodium lamps.
Liar, he thought. You're such a liar. He felt he had to be, to be an honest cop. I just happened to be in the area... A lie. He'd just happened to be on his way over with the transponder when Central Commo radioed him about the phone trace. Larkins, the black bodybuilder, stepped out of the surveillance van, pumped up in his contractor's shirt. "Hey, Lieutenant," he gestured.
"How're things in the wasteland?"
"Hot. You know, each summer is hotter."
"You're right."
"And we haven't had any real snowfall in the last couple of years. When I was a kid we'd get several feet each winter, we even had blizzards. But not any more."
"Global warming, man. PCBs and fluorocarbons. One day the ice caps'll melt, the Potomac and Anacostia'll rise about 50 to 100 feet. D.C. will be another Atlantis."
Larkins shrugged. "No matter. Phoenix has a police department."
"Yeah, but by then the average temperature'll be around 140." Spence's gaze surveyed the parking lot: still cars ticking in heat. "Where's Shade's T Bird?"
Larkins pointed down the front row; a big gunbutt stuck out of his belt. "What's going on?" he asked.
"Let's just say that I'm being vigilant," Spence answered as noncommittally as he could. He approached the shiny black Ford's rear bumper, and got down on one knee. Following Simmons'
cues was all Spence had left. Watch Kathleen Shade, Jeffrey, the doctor had advised. Watch her as closely as you can. What did Simmons fear? Maybe it was best not to know exactly what.
Yeah, I'll watch her, all right, Spence mused. The device was about the size of a pack of Lucky's: a field triangulation transponder with a selectable frequency. A special cadmium battery lasted for weeks. With this, Central Commo could monitor the location of Shade's vehicle on their direction finding board, right down to a specific city block, sometimes even a specific plat number or address...
Spence stuck the transponder, via magnet, to the inside of Kathleen Shade's rear fender.
(II)
The cat clock's eyes switched back and forth.
tick tick tick tick
Kathleen lay immobile in the familiar scape of the nightmare: splayed naked like a frozen starfish. There was such torture in sleep, such terrifying vulnerability. The ubiquitous woman-figure knelt at the bedside, a subcarnate attendant. Hands of ink black bones displayed the dream pictures, the Polaroids.
"No pictures anymore," whispered the soft, feminine voice. "They've changed, as you're changing."
Kathleen's eyes darted to the splayed Polaroids. Each square white border framed a field of shiny black. She remembered the Polaroids from the previous dreams. The photo of the snake in the cigar box. And the succeeding photos of the same snake slithering across the mattress toward her sex.
"See?" said the black abbess.
"How have the pictures changed?" Kathleen asked in night parched voice. Her flesh trembled against her paralysis.
"They've become real, as you have become real."
What did that mean? This is a dream, Kathleen reminded herself. Dreams weren't real, nor where the things in dreams. They couldn't be. Her sweat turned cold as it oozed from her hot skin, and the moon in the window lay white glare ac
ross her eyes.
"See? You're just like me," the figure said. The sound of each word skittered like a dead leaf across pavement. "You and I, we're the same."
"This is a dream," Kathleen croaked. She felt terrorized to keep reminding herself of that. "We're not the same. You're a killer."
"But so are you."
Something more than shadow, but as black, seemed to disgorge from the room's darkness. It was another figure, which brought with it a faint, indescribable fetor. Like a guillotine falling, the moonlight divested the features.