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through. Dr. Martin readily agreed—the process of sublimation seemed to be working very well—and so from then on it was simply a case of waiting for the proper opportunity to decrease the treatment further. Eventually it was down to once a month, and then complete termination, with the understanding that Harry would call the doctor immediately if he started feeling anxious or upset in any way.
Harry had waited for exactly the right moment to take the final step. The international syndicate that Harry had conceived and helped organize with Von Landor had proven to be a tremendous success. So much so that a subsidiary syndicate had been formed and was now functioning successfully. The innovations and imagination that characterized the project were so remarkable Fortune had done a full-length article about Harry White, one of the brightest young men in American business. In the article Harry was quoted as saying that there was a time when he had had a few problems that caused him anxieties and tension, but a Dr. Martin had helped him cope with these problems, and, as you can see, I am certainly capable of functioning at absolute peak efficiency now. It was after the publication of this article that Harry and Dr. Martin terminated their relationship with a handshake and smiles.
As a result of the termination Harry felt a sense of release. He felt free to indulge his own answers rather than search for problems. In many ways he was more relaxed after the termination. He had known he could not tell Dr. Martin what he was doing, though he had felt obligated to do so. He had been constantly on guard to be certain he did not say anything that might somehow lead to his being forced to tell him the truth. And, underneath it all, had been the urge to tell him everything—and so he had been involved in additional conflicts.
One Sunday Harry told Linda he was going to take her for a drive. I want to show you something.
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They drove through a less populated area, then through the gate of an estate that was completely hidden by huge trees. Harry parked in front of the house. O.K., everybody out.
What is this Harry? Who lives here?
A friend. Come on. I want to show you something.
They walked around to the rear of the large Colonial stone house. There were gardens that gradually sloped into endless trees—primarily birch.
O Harry, this is beautiful. Absolutely breathless. I have
never seen anything like this in my life. How many trees are
there?
A couple of acres.
My God, its incredible. What is all this? Why did you bring me here?
Its Whites Woods.
Whites Woods? I dont understand, shaking her head in complete confusion.
Its called Whites Woods. Or if you prefer longer names: The Woods and Estate of Mr. and Mrs. Harold White, gesturing with an arm and bowing slightly.
Mr. and Mrs.... You mean this, waving her hand and looking around, all of this . . .
Thats right. Its ours.
Linda sat on a stone bench by a lily pond and briefly returned the stare of a frog, sunning himself on a pad. I dont know what to say. Its overwhelming.
Well, its ours. All of it. And up there, back in the woods— you can see it from that balcony up there—theres a small stream of cool, clear water. A veritable babbling brook.
I just cant imagine it. I just cant imagine this—all of this—
being ours.
Well, its not as big as the Wooddale Country Club, but it will do for now. Come on, I/ll show you the inside.
Harry stirred slightly when Linda got up at night to feed the baby, but went right back to sleep. But even if he did not
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get enough sleep, that would not explain his feeling so goddamn edgy. He thought of his success: the money, the feature articles about him in Fortune, Wall Street Journal, Dun & Brad, their new home and Whites Woods, and his family. He had everything, including the respect of his peers. What in the fuck was wrong? clenching his teeth and squeezing his hands into white-knuckled fists. Thinking of all these things —the possessions, the accolades, the love—did not help. He had money, property and prestige, but he still felt that vague discontent and edgy tension gnawing at him.
He had discovered a relatively safe way to relieve these feelings, certainly superior in every way to the previous solution he had utilized, but now that was starting to prove as fickle and unreliable as the first. It still worked, but for shorter and shorter periods. Lately he had been timing his little projects so that he would be leaving just as the security guard was entering. Jesus, the excitement was great. Actually it was better than fucking some broad. And he did not have the fear of disease. But he was running out of methods to keep the excitement at the pitch necessary to relieve him of the gnawing tension.
He went back to the same office three consecutive weeks, and each time he could feel more and more sweat rolling down his back. They would have to have additional men on guard sooner or later, or at least change their schedule, but after three weeks everything was exactly the same. The fourth week he did not enter the building through an alley and the basement, but through the front door and smiled at the guard as he signed the register and went back to the same office. He emptied the petty-cash box and left a thank-you note, then went down to the lobby and signed out, smiling at the guard once more and wishing him a happy evening.
The exhilaration from this venture was intense, but after a few days he was fighting that same edginess and was developing a problem concentrating on his work.
Pilfering offices was just not working anymore, and he once more started drifting from the midtown area toward the water-
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front. He set up an elaborate system for finding the best place and for determining the police schedule and how to get in and out in just minutes, or less, before the police were scheduled to make their rounds. This preliminary stage continued for many weeks and the old release and excitement surged through him as he walked through the gray and littered streets; he was once more able to concentrate properly on his work.
The first place he broke into was a small printing shop. He pried open a rear window and crawled through, carefully tucking his tie in his shirt first so it would not get caught on anything. He walked carefully through and around the cluttered area, eventually searching the office and emptying the petty-cash box. The entire structure wasnt much more than a shed and had a chilly and gloomy atmosphere. He walked around, looking at the material being printed, and at his watch. When he knew the police would be in the vicinity within a few minutes, he left the shop, closing the window, then stopping and going back and opening it again before walking down the alley.
He walked slowly along the street, toying with the clump of bills and change in his pocket. His pulse quickened, but his pace did not, as the prowl car passed him and continued down the street.
He went back to the same area a few more times the following month. Then he had to go to another area and another, and make the trips more and more often. In just a matter of months he was desperately trying to think of some way to keep himself relieved of the tension and satisfy that discontent and keep that excitement alive. Then one night he broke into a small dry cleaning plant and left just as the prowl car was turning onto the block. He walked slowly along the street and then flagged them down and asked how to get to a fictitious address. But it didnt do anything for him. There was no surge, no twisting of apprehension as he approached the car, no excitement, no release.
The next day he sat in his office, with the door closed,
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trying to literally lose himself in his work, feeling as if he were being tugged and yanked apart. He wanted to go right home that night, but knew that he wouldnt, and as long as he fought that fact he continued to feel torn. Slowly, as the day progressed, he stopped fighting the inevitable and accepted the fact that he would have to find another place to break into that night, and he gave an inner sigh of relief and he was able to concentrate fully on his work.
He did n
ot consciously plan on where to go, but more or less allowed himself to be led by some inner force. He ended up in the dark and stinking rear of a meatpacking plant and somnambulistically opened and closed doors and drawers and looked, then left, and walked listlessly through the streets until he eventually stood on the edge of a subway platform.
From time to time he automatically looked down the tracks and into the darkened tunnel for the the lights of an oncoming train. Soon he saw them. He continued to watch, then stared. He stood frozen, leaning over the edge. He could hear the train. It got louder, and louder, the lights closer. Suddenly it seemed to break through some invisible barrier and thrust itself at the station. Harry continued to stare, his eyes and ears hypnotized by the onrushing train, and he could feel himself being drawn toward the tracks and could feel his body slowly being pulled forward into the path of the oncoming train so that he would be shattered into dozens of pieces and his rotting brain splattered all over the station, and he quickly wondered what it would be like just to leap in front of the train, and at the same time he knew he was going to leap in front of it, that he could not stop himself, and it felt right, it felt good, it felt exciting, his whole body trembling and screaming as the train roared closer and closer and he leaned further and further over the edge of the platform and the train shot past him and his vision suddenly became a blur of windows and heads and bodies. . ..
He got on the train and
rode to Grand Central. It would be over an hour before he got home, but the time passed almost in an instant. He had never
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experienced such a sensation in his life. He couldnt sit. He had to stand and hold on to a pole. Never had such excitement pounded and pounded itself through him as it did now. God in heaven, what an experience. What an incredible experience. It was, for Harry, so fantastic that he could not think about it. Not now. He could only experience it. He understood nothing. Was aware of nothing other than how he felt. Wanted nothing. It was as if he were separate and distinct from himself. He simply clung to the pole. Somewhere within him he was experiencing the answer of answers. It whirled through him. It pounded through him. It screamed through him. He held on tight to the pole. Sometime, soon, he would know what was being told him.
He no longer had to steal. He no longer had to worry about following women through the streets or spending time in rat-infested rooms. It was not a conscious realization, but an inner knowledge, something that he somehow accepted axiomati-cally.
But the inner man knew that when you take something away that a life is dependent upon, you must replace it with something of value. And that something of value was evolving like a fetus in the dark security of the womb. And Harry nurtured it slowly. And caressed it. Allowing it to seep slowly into his mind. Not forcing it, but allowing himself to be tantalized by the little hints of where it was going. This life-changing something remained undefined for many, many weeks, and as he continued to surrender to this inner feeling, Harry became more and more withdrawn and gave the appearance of extreme serenity. There was a constant smile on his face that reflected an inner glow, as if he had a secret no one else was privy to.
And there was an excitement too. An excitement that grew and grew as did the fetus. An excitement of anticipation and apprehension that was incredible, that was unlike anything he had ever known or dreamed of, that was undefinable, it
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had to be experienced. He could not consciously define, as yet, exactly what was going to happen, but his gut knew, and with the passing of each day he came closer and closer to knowing. And the closer he came, the more intense became his excitement.
When he finally did realize what he would be doing, he was surprised that it had taken him so long to become aware of it. It all seemed so logical and simple. And obvious. And with the conscious realization came a new surge of excitement, an overwhelming thrill. If he could feel so relaxed, so free, so complete while only aware of something happening but not what, then how great was his excitement now, now that he not only knew he would be killing someone, but would be contemplating each and every action before, during and after. Just the briefest thought of, the most cursory glance at, the situation almost paralyzed him with excitement. God, what joy. What exquisite joy. And he could go back to this thought any time he wanted to. Whenever the edginess was starting to affect his work, or he got that goddamn antsy feeling, he could just stop, thats all, just stop and think of how he was going to kill someone. He did not have to go anywhere, do anything, just stay wherever he was at that particular moment and contemplate the execution and he experienced not only instant excitement, but instant relief from the gnawings that had haunted him. Just like that. Anywhere. Instead of taking a cab to Grand Central, he started riding subways just to test the efficacy of this new answer. He would allow himself to be shoved in the train with the others and be jammed up against a door, or would hang from a strap, crushed by the surrounding bodies, and simply think of what he would be doing someday, and then he was oblivious to his surroundings. He simply experienced an inner feeling of peace and power. Incredible power. Undeniable power. Power that made him invulnerable to the lashings that he had been cringing from.
And with this new consciousness came the pleasure of being able to make a game out of it. At least for now. Someday the killing would have to be a reality, but for now just the con-
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temptation of it exalted him. That was one of the great things about this experience. He could delay the action almost indefinitely, and it added to the excitement. Nurture, pet and caress the anticipation. That was the thing to do. And he would. He would tantalize himself just as long as possible. Someday the act would be a part of history, but now he would just dangle it in front of himself. He could create his own suspense. And master it!
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19
It was many weeks before Linda
sensed a change in Harry. The caring for two children made demands on her time and energy. Harry insisted that she get additional household help, but she still maintained that she was the childrens mother and insisted that she was the only one who would take care of them.
She wasnt certain what the change was, but she liked it. It was true that Harry had become quieter again and did not joke and kid as much as he used to, but she enjoyed it. She liked the quietness. Taking care of two children can help make you appreciative of a little quietness.
But as the weeks became months she began to feel that Harry was more withdrawn than quiet. He still smiled and chatted, but something was different. She could not isolate what it was, but whatever it was disturbed her. There was no reason for thinking that something was wrong, yet that was
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how she felt. It was very disquieting because she almost felt threatened.
One of the things that made it impossible to discuss this with someone else, or Harry, was the fact that there was nothing tangible to point to. He did not abuse her—or ignore her. There was not that cold indifference—but at the same time he just did not seem to touch her as much as he used to. Or was that her imagination? Sometimes she was so tired from getting up at night with the baby and taking care of the children all day that she could not be certain if all this speculation was due to her imagination.
Then she would think about it again and realize that it must be her imagination. There couldnt be anything wrong. After all, what was so strange about people becoming a little more quiet with time? Especially when you have two children and are so busy during the day. She would chuckle to herself and playfully reprimand herself for getting so caught up in her life, and work, and the children, that she could forget that Harry was a very busy man with tremendous responsibilities and naturally would look forward to a little peace and quiet when he got home at night. She chuckled again, After all, we/ve been married eight years and are not as young as we used to be.
Harry rode the subway a couple of times a day now. Not only to prove he could detach himself from the hor
des around him, but because he loved the thrill and feeling of power he experienced when the train came flying into the station and he stared at it as it approached, pulling him toward it, the roar filling his ears, and feeling the sudden gust of wind as it roared by. He could smell the air that was packed in front of it and could almost distinguish the color of the eyes of the motorman.
But the passing of time and change are inevitable, and Harry started feeling that time was running out. There was a limit to how long he could play this little game—this he always
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knew—and he was fast approaching that limit. Thinking contemplating, planning were no longer ends in themselves The action had to be taken.
How he would kill someone had been obvious to him for months. It was simple. And there was no danger of being caught. Most murderers (the word sounded strange, and he knew it did not really apply to him) were caught, or at least identified, because the motive was obvious. But even if it wasnt, they were always personally involved with the victim, and there was no way that involvement could be concealed.
A man is obviously involved with his wife. If she is killed, he is always a suspect. He is always investigated thoroughly. And they usually find a girlfriend. Or an insurance policy. Or something to prove he would profit from his wifes death. Always an obvious motive.
And most killings were stupid. Lacking in imagination and intelligence. Usually committed in a fit of temper or despair. The connection between victim and perpetrator obvious within minutes of the discovery of the body. Actually, from what Harry had learned through reading a few books on the subject, a mentally retarded orangutan could solve most murders (he hadnt meant to use that word again). They usually solved themselves.
But Harry was not going to kill for profit—at least not in the usually accepted sense of the word. There would be no monetary gain. No gain in power or influence. No fulfilling of a vendetta. No wounded pride or broken heart ... no personal connection. So there was no danger. No fear of exposure. He would not have to taunt the police and court apprehension as he had with the buglaries (strange how foreign that word sounded, as if it had nothing to do with him). There just wouldnt be any way he could be connected with the killing. It was that simple.
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