Portrait of the Psychopath as a Young Woman - Edward Lee.wps

by phuc

She told her that The Cross would protect her.

  She told her that skulls mean death.

  Several months later she overheard Daddy on the phone. He said that he'd inherited money from his family and that once it was out of probate, he'd be rich. "I'll still be making runs 'til everything's settled. Then I guess I'll off the kid and head west, start living a little of the good life."

  Her mother told her she must be very careful.

  Daddy was going to kill her.

  You'll have to kill him, her mother said. Skulls mean death.

  She could see Daddy's skull now whenever he was home.

  She'd looked in the cigar boxes in the closet. Some were full of pictures. Some were full of money. But one of the boxes had the big gun in it.

  But she never needed to use the gun.

  Daddy left the house one day, and he never came back.

  She read about it in the papers.

  She was all alone now.

  Daddy and some of his friends had been caught by police.

  Interstate transportation of obscene materials, the papers said. Violations of Titles 17 and 18 of the United States Code. Violations of the Child Abuse Act. Violations of child pornography laws.

  While Daddy was in jail awaiting trial, she had to take care of things.

  Whenever a bill came to the house, she'd take some money out of one of the cigar boxes, get a money order from the Wagon Wheel, and pay the bill.

  It was easy.

  She was alone a lot now.

  On her days off, she'd go to the library and read.

  Sometimes she felt happy.

  Sometimes she felt so sad she wanted to die.

  But she still had her mother.

  Don't be sad. I'm here.

  Eventually she got hired as a custodian at the hospital.

  Sometimes she felt like she could explode.

  There was no one else in the world like her.

  Or at least that's what she thought.

  She read about the trial.

  Daddy got sentenced to 11 years on a plea bargain.

  One of the people who testified against him was a woman who said that Daddy had sexually abused her for years.

  He'd done the same things to this woman that he'd done to her.

  So that made her happy.

  To know that there was someone else in the world like her.

  The woman was a magazine writer named Kathleen Shade.

  It made her see things.

  It made her think.

  Kathleen Shade had done something.

  She'd risen up from the pain, and had done something to give it back.

  To give the pain back...

  She wanted to be like Kathleen Shade.

  She wanted to do something too.

  As each day passed, she felt like she would fall apart or dissolve or burst into flames from the pain if she didn't do something.

  Then her mother began to talk to her a lot.

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  Chapter 34

  (I)

  "Spence, MCS," Spence answered.

  "Central Commo. We gotta fly line from MCS Surveillance Unit One, sir."

  A fly line was the opposite of a land line; a field radio transmission relayed through Central Commo's telephone. Spence felt tired. Almost noon, he thought when he looked at his desk clock. "Put him on," he said.

  "Lieutenant Spence? This is Larkins. I'm off shift at noon; I just wanted to let you know that Shade left her apartment at about eight this morning, and she looked like she was in a hurry."

  "She back yet?"

  "No. "

  Spence scratched his chin. Where would she be going?

  Her boyfriend's abducted, probably dead. She works at home, she's got no office to go to.

  Where's she gone for the last four hours? "Thanks," Spence said. "Have the next shift call me the minute she gets back." He switched back to the central communications operator. "Triangulate the following prefix," he said, and gave the unit code. He heard computer keys tapping.

  "Working," he was told.

  Spence waited, glancing blankly down at the killer's most recent manuscript. Manburger. More Childhood Memories. The former was typically revolting, yet the latter seemed...arcane. He tapped the manuscript with his finger. A gold link on his cuff from a set his mother gave him when he graduated from high school winked like a dying star.

  More Childhood Memories, he pondered. Just another account of the killer's past, her father's abuse. But this chapter didn't seem congruent at all. It seemed vague.

  Had Kathleen Shade seen something in it that Spence had not? Woman's intuition, he thought.

  Women made him feel blind as a bat. She read this shit and then went somewhere?

  Was there something in the chapter that gave a clue to the killer's whereabouts? Spence frowned.

  He didn't see any way that that could be.

  So

  "Got it, sir," Central Commo related. "Seventeenth and Connecticut grid."

  "What's on the block? Any residences?"

  "No, sir. Just TA's. Stores, offices, banks. You want me to plot the exact location on the grid?"

  "No," Spence whispered. "I'll be on the road keep me posted."

  Spence hung up and dug out his unmarked's keys. TA's, he thought. Stores, offices... Then:

  "Banks," he muttered.

  (II)

  All right, all right, Sammy thought. The thoughts pulsed like fire. Fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em all.

  Especially Kathleen.

  What did he care? He was rich now, his past buried behind him, his future bright. And of his past, he regretted none of it. He'd accepted the world for what it was and what he was in the scheme of things. What could be more honest than that? At least he wasn't a liar. At least he wasn't phony...

  He'd made a living, for years, in hard underground pornography. He'd set women up, addicted them to drugs, and had helped perpetuate the most heinous things. He'd run master tapes for probably thousands of flicks. He'd been cameraman for rape viddies. He'd tied women up for wet S&M, and had stepped back as the camera cocks had pissed on them and sunk needles into their breasts. He'd held the lights at snuff films...

  And in his time he'd had sex with hundreds of children.

  That was the way the world was. Period. He didn't make the world, he just lived in it. And he did what he had to do, day by motherfucking day, because if he didn't, some other snide Charlie would. Sammy had come to grips with the past. Was it his fucking fault that other people couldn't?

  I did my time, and I paid my dues, and if that ain't good enough for the rest of them, then they can eat shit.

  Actually, despite his emotional furor, he felt good. He'd tried to make his peace. No one else had.

  So that was that. He remembered his main crib back in the good old days. So what if he'd strung the bitch out on skag and used her as a kink for his people between runs? And that weirdo kid of hers? Sure, he'd put the blocks to her plenty of times, but it wasn't like he'd strung her out or anything. He'd always stuck to his rule: Never hurt the kids. Adults were different; they got what was coming to them. But never kids. Was he that bad, that absolutely awful, because he'd adjusted to the real world and the others hadn't?

  The junkie had said the kid was his. Sammy didn't care. Spunk was spunk. He'd plowed the bitch big time in the early days. Big deal. Is it my fault she was looking for a candyman and wound up getting pregnant? Jesus, sometimes it seemed like the whole fucking universe was against him.

  The junkie had made for a good, discreet crib between runs. In the business, you had to find one.

  You needed a place to lay low when the feds were antsy. And, yeah, down the road he'd had to hot shot the junkie shit, she was going nuts, she probably would've ratted them all out but, again, it was the rule of life. You had to do what you had to do.

  Sometimes, though, even now, he wondered about the junkie's kid. She'd been a good pop for years.

  Where is she now? he won
dered. Shit, she must be in her mid 20s now. Did she wind up like Kathleen? A pressure cooker of hate? An unforgiving psycho cunt?

  Again, Sammy didn't care. The way he felt now, he had no qualms whatsoever. He'd string them both out if he had the chance. He'd put the junkie's kid in some animal and scat films. See how she liked a 20 man butt bang, then make her fletch each guy clean. The fantasy tranquilized Sammy; it was something nice to think about. Too bad the kid's mother was dead they could do some more numbers on her too while the kid watched. It'd be even more fun to maybe set up a queer loop for his brother Jack. No sir, there was nothing like a good old all American Crisco & Fist Party. How's the fit, Jackie Boy? A little snug? Then make him suck off some trade. Yeah, the fantasy was sweet.

  And Kathleen? Sammy got hard pondering that one. Yeah, I'd set up something real special for her, like maybe an animal loop. When the Dobermans were done, bring in a couple of logboys to do a scat job. Get the camera real close. Smile and say cheese, Kathleen. My friend Roscoe here is gonna shit on your face.

  Yeah, fuck ‘em all, Sammy thought. The fantasies trailed away. Time to get back to the real world. The caddie cruised down 17th. To his right stood the Old Executive Office Building, the Vice President's headquarters. Shit, Sammy didn't even know who the Vice President was. Some guy named Gore? He's probably up there spitting on his dick. The immense pillared edifice looked like a gothic ruins. Further down he passed the American Red Cross Building, which reminded him of a miniature White House. Right across the street a Metro cop was rousting a bum in rotten clothes, prodding him off a bus stop bench with his nightstick.

  The city was a cesspool, and its bilge: contradiction, inequity, voodoo politics, and cracked asphalt. But what would the next city be like? Sammy needed to put distance between himself and Vinchetti's guns. He considered Russia, where 10 or 15 grand in U.S. paper made you a millionaire on the ruble economy. Sammy had a lot more than that, but what good was it when the stores were all empty? Mexico sounded like the best bet. Someplace way, way south, away from the tourist holes. Vinchetti's shooters would never get a line on him down there, and Sammy would live like Henry the Fucking VIII. Down there, in deep interior Mexico, a kid for the night set you back all of $10. He'd have all the young pop he ever needed for the rest of his life.

  Cashing out would be the hassle, though. You didn't just walk into a bank where you had 400

  large in CD's and say "Put it all in a duffle bag." He'd bite the interest penalty, take as much cash as they'd give him, and then take the rest in a lot of certified bank money orders. Then he'd cash them out along the way. By the time he made the border, he'd have the caddie's trunk full of cold, hard U.S. green.

  New clothes were in order, though. And maybe a beard, a hairweave, sock on some weight. Cash never had your name written on it. He'd also need a piece. He remembered the old Webley he had, but that was back at the bitch's crib, and the kid probably didn't even live there anymore.

  Probably in the nuthouse, he considered. Or in the ground. A schizo retard like that probably got snuffed in the first alley she ever walked past. Sammy wasn't sentimental: the past was the past.

  Even if it was his spunk that made the kid, big fucking deal? He'd probably knocked up all kinds of kids along the line. What difference did it make?

  At least she was a good pop.

  Kind of like settling back with a good, dry 'tini after a hard day's work. The kid was always there, and he'd programmed her well. Yeah, she'd been a good little tumble all those years. Sammy'd lost interest in her once she got older; he preferred his squeeze young. But she had a body on her, all right. Full tilt house of bricks and a pussy tighter than a cat's. And as for copping a gun, that wouldn't be too hard either. Fucking politicians. Were they all nuts? Even with this Brady Bill shit you could walk into plenty of pawn shops all over the place where a little extra lube of the palm got you a gun without even telling them your name. Thank God for the Right to Bear Arms, Sammy thought. Along Connecticut he found a vacant spot. He even put money in the meter. I'm no scofflaw, he thought with a laugh on his lips. I'm a rehabilitated citizen. The bank seemed to glow across the street. Sammy turned the meter crank

  "Hello, Sam."

  and jerked around.

  The sun blazed in his eyes.

  "Don't do anything stupid."

  His focus shifted.

  A woman stood before him. A little plump but cute. Nice clothes. Plain brown hair, and a face that would be pretty if it weren't for the tense, pinpoint expression.

  "Who are "

  "See that parking lot over there?"

  But he didn't really hear her. By then, he knew. "Kathleen?" he said.

  "We're going to walk over to that parking lot," she said, speaking so calmly her lips barely moved. "And you're going to walk ahead of me," she added. Then the back of her right hand raised, to push a few locks of hair off her hot brow.

  At the same time, her left hand eased forward, over which had been folded a copy of the August issue of '90s Woman.

  Hidden in the tent of the fold was a .38 revolver.

  | |

  Chapter 35

  (I)

  They were doing it again.

  Last night.

  She'd been on her way back from the 4th floor laundry unit.

  It was her job to empty the hampers and change the drop bags.

  She liked to look at the bloody sheets.

  Sometimes she'd close the door and look at the bloody sheets for a long time.

  The pretty red stained into white.

  And on her way back to the staff elevator, she passed the new ICU ward.

  She peeked in.

  Her vision swam in red.

  Like the pretty red stained sheets.

  They were doing it again.

  "Harder, honey."

  They looked like ghosts in the dark.

  Ghosts jerking.

  Frantic ghostflesh slapping.

  The handsome phlebotomy technician stood with his white staff pants down behind the fat charge nurse, who was bent over the elevated convalescent bend, her white skirt pushed up.

  She knew the phlebotomy tech was sodomizing her because every few minutes the nurse would whisper "More spit," and the phlebotomy tech would stop and his head would tilt and she could hear him expectorate, and then he'd start again.

  Yes, they looked like ghosts with the lights out in there.

  She knew that if she could see their faces, she would be able to see their skulls.

  Because skulls mean death.

  They were all just like Daddy, all of them.

  Later, right before the end of her shift, she saw him smiling at her.

  PHLEBOTOMY, his plastic nametag read. WALLACE, M.

  She was pushing her mop cart out of the ER.

  Cherry suds floated in the mop water.

  "Hi," the phlebotomy tech said to her. "I'm off in a half hour. Can I treat you to breakfast?"

  She could see his skull beneath his smile.

  "No thank you," she said.

  She would cut all the skin off his penis.

  She would inject nitric acid into his seminal vesicles and prostate.

  She would lobotomize him through his sinuses.

  "You sure now? They make great Spanish omelets at the Booeymonger's."

  She'd do it very carefully, so he wouldn't die.

  A 003 gauge autopsy pin was strong enough to break the thin nasal septum bone.

  Then she'd tickle the ultra sensitive temporal poles with the needle.

  "Oh come on. Don't break my heart. I promise I won't bite."

  "No, really, I have to go home. Thank you anyway, though."

  The temporal poles would really get him jerking.

  And then maybe she'd put Daddy's big old revolver into his anus and pull the trigger.

  See how he liked people putting things up his ass.

  "Well, if you change your mind, let me know."

  The phlebotomy technician
walked away.

  Yes, Daddy's big revolver right up his ass.

  It was just a fantasy.