He ejaculated as these thoughts came to him. And when his erection subsided, and as the pleasure of his ejaculation slowly left him, he looked down at his stained blue robe, and he felt suddenly, completely, and terribly alone.
Patricia David stared at the body splayed out in the bottom of the empty Dumpster on East 75th Street and said to the detective with her—a heavyset, jowly and, as legend had it, deadly serious middle-aged man named McBride, "This is a copycat killing."
"Is it?" said McBride. "How can you tell?"
"Look at the wounds." She played her flashlight along the length of the naked body. "It's like someone went after her with a lawnmower, for Christ's sake. There's no finesse here."
McBride harrumphed his agreement.
"This is not a good thing," Patricia said.
"It's a terrible thing," said McBride.
"I mean that we have a copycat killer," Patricia said. "One killer was awful, but two is really lousy." McBride gave her a disapproving look.
"You don't agree?" Patricia said.
"With what?"
"That two killers is really lousy."
"I don't think 'lousy' is the word I'd use under these circumstances."
"Oh," Patricia said.
"I think 'tragic' is more the word I'd use."
"Sure, it fits."
"This young woman"—he nodded at the corpse—"was someone's daughter, someone's sweetheart, someone's mother, perhaps."
"Conceded."
"And she has been reduced to . . . this." He looked at the body. "You know, she looks like . . . her face looks like the face of a girl I took to a dance, once. I think it was a dance. It might have been a movie." He glanced confusedly at Patricia, then at the body again. "I think it was a movie. Breakheart Pass, I think. With Charles Bronson." He glanced at Patricia again, held his hand out for the flashlight; she gave it to him. He shone the light on the corpse's face. "Jesus, she's the spitting image of that girl. Her name was Brenda. Pretty little thing." He held the light on the corpse's face for a long while, without speaking.
"And?" Patricia said.
"And not a whole hell of a lot," said McBride. "This isn't Brenda. It couldn't be. Brenda's my age now."
"Of course," said Patricia.
"But she could be Brenda's daughter. I don't think she is Brenda's daughter. But she could be." He shone the flashlight down the length of the body. "Jeez, I hate to see this sort of thing. Don't you hate to see this sort of thing? It's so . . . disrespectful."
"At the very least," said Patricia.
"I mean, she could be somebody's mother,for God's sake. Or somebody's sister."
"Yes," Patricia said.
"And now here she is. In a Dumpster! No one deserves to end up in a Dumpster, wouldn't you agree?"
Patricia said nothing. She guessed that his question was rhetorical.
He looked at her. "Well, don't you?"
She nodded quickly. "Yes. I agree. It's a horrible place to end up."
"Damn right. I mean, it's not like she's a transient or something. Good Lord, she could be somebody's mother."
Chapter Eleven
The man thought, I am powerful, and I am in control.
He had photographs. He'd developed them himself in a rented darkroom, and they were spread out in front of him on his kitchen table.
He lived in one room and shared a bathroom with nine other tenants on the second floor of his building. The building was on 123rd Street, and it was rambling, nasty, and decrepit.
The man thought he was a very good photographer. He had used his new flash attachment well; he had illuminated the woman's body without causing harsh reflections, and without making her loom out of the dark background like a phantom. He had many talents, and photography was only one of them.
Murder, he guessed, was another. This first ambitious effort, at any rate, indicated that he had much potential.
And it was unfortunate that the Post had referred to him as a "copycat." When a man embarks on a new endeavor, he has to start somewhere. Why not on a path that has led another to glory? Later, he could make his own path.
He loved his photographs. They were the best he'd ever done because they were real. No poses, no artifice. Just reality—hard, cold, and pungent!
A knock came at his door and he snapped his gaze to it. No one had ever knocked at his door. He paid his rent on time and stayed away from the others who lived in the building, so who could be knocking? Certainly not the police. He was too smart for them. And they wouldn't knock anyway.
Another knock—soft, but insistent.
"Who's there?" he called.
"Who's there, indeed," he heard. It was a woman's voice.
This was wonderful. Fortuitous. Karmic. A woman at his door!
He stood, glanced at his photographs, thought briefly of hiding them, decided that the woman at his door would be impressed with them, went to the door, opened it quickly.
She was beautiful. Beyond beautiful. Sky-blue eyes and hip-length auburn hair and a body that was the promise of pleasure. "Do you know me?" she said.
"No," he said, grinning obscenely. "Not the way I'd like to."
"And you are?"
"Roger," he said.
"Well, then, Roger," she said, and moved past him, into his room, "I have something for you."
He watched her move, loved the way she moved, thought she would look good to his lens, and to his weapon, and then to his bawdy instrument.
She was turned away from him. She was perfectly configured, he thought. Perfectly wrought and conceived. He said, "Oh, what?"
And she turned as quickly as a snake and plunged her hand deep into his gut, into his colon, and snarled, "Oblivion!"
Chapter Twelve
Thirty-seven Years Earlier
Early August in the Adirondack Mountains
Near the house on Four Mile Creek
This is good here, the woman thought in so many words. She was inclined to such thoughts. She was a poet, and her work had been published in several university journals and small literary reviews. She had even had a nibble of interest from a New York City book publisher, though she had been giving the whole idea of book publication more than a few second thoughts because she wasn't sure that she was quite ready. She did not believe that her work was yet mannered enough. It tended, as well, toward the darkly romantic, and it was filled with unfortunate angst, worry, and despair. She needed to cultivate a lighter attitude, although poetry, she maintained, should not be about love; it should be about hope, which was so much more than love. It was more than sex, too, of course, which was, itself, so much less than love or hope.
She smiled as these thoughts came to her on this warm and sunlit afternoon. She smiled because she could not remember having had such fanciful thoughts before—perhaps she could work them into a poem before long. She smiled, too, because the birds were gaily chattering at her, and because the squirrels were gamboling playfully among the oaks and tulip trees, and because the honeybees were busily foraging among the wildflowers.
It was surely a poet's day!
She was happy there was no one else about. Happy that Thomas had found this secluded place for them to raise their three young daughters. As a family, they could choose when to engage in social relationships, and they could choose when to employ solitude, which was what she had chosen for herself today. She thought that she would like to lie down in the tall, pale green grass. It was something she had never done before, though she had seen it depicted in paintings. She had always been a little leery of doing it herself because meadows such as this were alive with insects and spiders. But she thought that should be of no consequence to her. Insects and spiders were, after all, a part of the natural and benevolent world to which Thomas had brought her and the children. He might not be a kind and benevolent man himself, but Thomas Erthmun was thoughtful enough to put his wife and daughters in a kind and benevolent place.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement in a line o
f trees not far off, as if someone were running. She turned her head quickly, but saw nothing. She sighed. Who could be here? It was miles to another house, and besides, their land was posted. Perhaps she had seen a deer, or a fox. Yes, of course. There was no doubt of it. She had seen a deer or a fox. It made her glad, and she smiled again.
But she did not lie down in the weeds right away. She kept her eyes on the line of trees where she had seen movement until, at last, a chipmunk appeared on the side of a great oak and she sighed again and thought, Well, that is what I saw. A chipmunk. And she lay down in the tall weeds, adjusted herself so her head was comfortably on a clump of earth, spread her arms wide, closed her eyes, and let the warm sunlight play on her face. This was wonderful, she thought. This was heaven. Alone with the works of nature. Alone with what God had wrought. Somewhere in this experience there was a poem.
She heard movement in the weeds nearby. Her eyes popped open. She thought of calling out, "Who's there?" But she kept silence. Who could be there? Who would disturb this perfect and poetic moment, these minutes stolen from eternity, this time that she had given to her soul so it could breathe? But still, she turned her head a little and looked in the direction where she had heard movement. She saw the tops of oak and tulip trees, a coagulated mass of pale green grasses, a praying mantis moving on the earth close to her face. She listened. After a minute, she closed her eyes again and let the sunlight play on her skin, and let her soul breathe.
She was dressed well, in a long, flowing, earth-colored skirt and a green cotton long-sleeved blouse that had no pockets, and which billowed nicely around her breasts, and hugged her waist. Her hair was red, and she wore it long. Thomas had told her often that she was an attractive woman, and she knew that it was true, but she did not want to cultivate this attractiveness because that would be superficial.
Sleep had never come with difficulty to her, and it did not come with difficulty now. The sun was warm, a leisurely breeze was stirring the tall, pale green grasses, and she was alone in the meadow, except for her soul, which could soar on the wings of this glorious day.
So she slept.
And dreamed.
And, in her dream, she saw the face of an angel above her. It was a dark and perfect face, and its eyes were sky-blue, and enormous passion was in its mouth.
And then she felt her own passion responding, felt it swelling up from within her, heard the moans that came from her own mouth, and felt, too quickly, too quickly, the inrush of seed and love and man.
And she awoke breathing very hard, and saw that her earth-colored skirt was around her waist, and that her panties were torn, and her legs wide, and that the insides of her thighs were chaffed and wet. And she heard something moving swiftly off through the sunlit weeds.
And when she turned her head to look, she saw flowing dark hair, and a naked back.
And she screamed.
Chapter Thirteen
Patricia David had never visited Erthmun at his apartment in the West Village. She had never needed to—she'd always assumed that their relationship was strictly professional. She had suspected, in fact, that she didn't like him very much. She respected him as a cop, but he was often humorless, distant, off-putting, at times even rude. He was clearly a man who valued his privacy, and she had always been more than happy to give it to him.
So she was a little perplexed as to why she was ringing his buzzer and waiting for some response from him through the building's intercom. She could have telephoned. She had no reason to believe—now that their professional relationship had been put on hold—that he needed to see her any more than she thought she needed to see him.
She rang the buzzer for a third time. Shit, it was obvious that he wasn't home. She reached behind her, found the knob for the outside door.
"Yes?" she heard through the intercom. She hesitated, let go of the knob, pressed the talk button. "Jack?" she said tentatively.
"Yes."
"It's me. Patricia."
Silence.
"Jack?"
"I'm here. What is it?"
She sighed. "I don't know. I was a little . . . concerned."
"Concerned. Do you want to come up?"
"Not if I'm disturbing you. Am I dis—"
The inner door clicked; she grabbed the knob, opened the door, heard, "You know the apartment number?"
She stretched her arm back for the talk button and called, "Yes. It's how I buzzed you in the first place."
"Oh, of course," Erthmun said.
He had wrapped himself in a green quilt to answer his door. She thought that he was shivering a little beneath it, and that he did not look rested or happy. He even seemed to be having trouble keeping his eyes open.
"You were asleep, Jack?" Patricia said from outside the door. "I'm sorry." She glanced at her watch, saw that it was barely 8:00 p.m., gave him a look of concern. "Are you ill?"
He shook his head. "Ill? No, it's all right." His voice was hoarse. "Come in." He backed unsteadily away from the door.
She looked past him, into the apartment, first. It was dark, except for light filtering in from beyond the windows. She said, "Could you turn a light on, Jack?"
He nodded and flipped a switch next to the doorway.
A low-wattage overhead copper fixture bathed the room in a soft, yellowish light. She saw a threadbare, red couch under the windows, a white enamel dining table and two white wooden chairs, a small refrigerator; a black clock radio stood on top of the refrigerator.
Jack took another step back. "Are you coming in?" he said; he sounded peeved.
But she thought she wasn't sure if she was coming in. Perhaps this had been a mistake. Jesus, the man lived like a hermit, and from his tone and demeanor, she was the last person he wanted to see tonight.
"Patricia, please," he coaxed. "I'm glad you're here."
"You are?"
He managed a lopsided smile.
She stepped into the apartment. He closed the door. She stood quietly for a moment, then said, "This is very Spartan, isn't it?"
"It's my taste," Jack said; he was standing behind her, at the door.
"No TV?" she said, because she was an avid TV watcher. She glanced around at him.
"No TV," he said, and managed another smile. She thought he was doing more smiling now than he had ever done during their shifts together. "Why don't I put some clothes on, Patricia." He went to his bed, where he'd draped a pair of jeans and a gray sweatshirt over the footboard, scooped them up, went into his little bathroom, and reappeared moments later. He smiled again; it was a good and comforting smile, she thought, though she did not feel comforted by it, and wasn't sure why. "Okay," he said, "what can I do for you?"
She shrugged. "Nothing, really." She looked around for a chair, saw that there was only the threadbare couch and white wooden dining chairs. She gestured at them. "Can I sit down, Jack?"
"Can you sit down?" Another smile; he seemed amused. "Why wouldn't I let you sit down, Patricia?"
She shrugged again. She realized how nervous she looked, and it embarrassed her—they'd worked together for over a year, after all. She nodded, went to one of the dining chairs, pulled it out, sat on it.
"You could sit on the couch, Patricia," Jack said.
"No, no. This is good. I've always liked sitting in kitchens."
"I don't have a kitchen."
"Sure, well, this is a kitchen," she said, meaning the dining table and chairs, the refrigerator, the little gas stove.
He sat across the table from her, smiled again his good and comforting smile, and she thought she was beginning to feel at least a little comforted by it. "It's pleasant to see you, Patricia," he said. "I'm glad you came."
"I should have called first," she said.
He shook his head, then smiled again. "Do you want something? Some coffee, a beer, maybe some tea?"
"Thanks, no. I'm not staying long—"
"Why?"
"Why?" The question took her aback.
Erthmun said
, "You can stay as long as you'd like." He reached across the table a bit, as if to touch her hand, though his reach didn't extend far enough. His fingers fluttered for a moment in the air between them; then he laid his hand flat on the white enamel tabletop.
Patricia lowered her gaze because his gaze was so . . . expectant. "Jack, I'm sorry . . . did you believe that I—"
"Did I hope that you were coming on to me?" Another smile. "Perhaps."
She shook her head, gaze still averted. "I was concerned about you, Jack. Only concerned. And I thought you might like an update." She heard a little tremor in her voice, as if she were lying; it surprised her.
"An update," Jack said.
"On these murders."
He nodded a little. "On these murders. Yes. I'd like an update."
She wasn't sure if she believed him. She said, "Actually, there's not a whole hell of a lot to report." Again, she heard a tremor in her voice. "You know about the copycat—"
"I read the papers."
"Then you know that he was murdered?"
"Yes."
She took a breath. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, Jack, since you're not involved with the investigation anymore—" She hesitated as if uncertain how to continue.
"Go on," Jack coaxed.
She nodded stiffly. "He had the same things done to him that the killer did to the women."
Erthmun didn't miss a beat: "You mean the chocolate in the mouth, et cetera?"
Patricia tried to gauge his demeanor; his tone seemed oddly flat. "Yes," she said.
He nodded a little, his dark eyes closed as if he were in thought. He said nothing for a long moment:
"Jack?" she said.
He opened his eyes. She saw something indefinable in them—a strange combination of desperation, panic, memory. He said, "Then his killer was the same person who killed the two women."
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