Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 39

The sun blazed in his eyes.

"Don't do anything stupid."

His focus s.h.i.+fted.

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. '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 4thfloor laundry unit.

It was her job to empty the hampers and change the dropbags.

She liked to look at the b.l.o.o.d.y sheets.

Sometimes she'd close the door and look at the b.l.o.o.d.y sheets for a long time.

The pretty red stained into white.

And on her way back to the staff elevator, she pa.s.sed the new ICU ward.

She peeked in.

Her vision swam in red.

Like the pretty redstained 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 s.h.i.+ft, she saw him smiling at her.

PHLEBOTOMY, his plastic nametag read. WALLACE, M.

She was pus.h.i.+ng 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 p.e.n.i.s.

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

Then she'd tickle the ultrasensitive 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 a.n.u.s and pull the trigger.

See how he liked people putting things up his a.s.s.

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

The phlebotomy technician walked away.

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

It was just a fantasy.

That's why she couldn't wait to get home.

At home the fantasies are real.

When she gets home, she goes into Daddy's Room.

Where Maxwell Platt is waiting.

Blind.

Deaf.

Dumb.

But still alive and waiting.

She didn't glue his eyes shut like the others.

She used tape.

Because sometimes she wants him to see.

Now she peels the tape off.

The autopsy pin glimmers.

"Here's something I want you to see," she says.

She can see his skull beneath his face.

(II).

"Do you believe in vibes?" Spence asked.

"Of course not," Simmons replied with a smile. "I'm a psychiatrist."

Spence sat down as if exhausted. He explained to the doctor: "This morning Kathleen Shade rushed out of her apartment and took off in her car. Then she waited two and a half hours in a pay lot on Connecticut Avenue."

"How do you know? You followed her?"

"Well, no," Spence said. "I had Central Commo DF her vehicle."

"Shade doesn't sound like the kind of woman who'd give the police consent to put a DF transponder on her car."

"Well, she didn't actually give consent. I just-"

"Took it upon yourself."

"For her own safety, for Christ's sake."

"Of course," Simmons remarked. His smile settled back with him in his chair. "Be careful, Jeffrey."

"To h.e.l.l with careful," Spence came back. "She's my only real link to the killer and now she's being distracted."

"Distracted by what?"

"By her f.u.c.king uncle. That parking lot? It's right across the street from her uncle's bank. She knows the guy's going to blow town soon. I think she staked out the bank. I think she kidnapped the guy."

"What makes you think-"

"Because I checked with the bank. Her uncle didn't make a withdrawal, but his car's still on the street. A ragtop Cadillac with temp tags he bought a couple days ago."

"It could be a coincidence, Jeffrey. Is Shade's car still in the parking lot?"

"No," Spence said, disgusted. "A couple of hours ago it took off down New York Avenue and drove right off the district DF grid. I got no way of knowing where she is, but I'm certain-and I mean dead certain-that she's got her uncle with her."

"Vibes?" Simmons asked.

"Yeah, vibes. All the pieces fit, at least."

"So you're angry. Shade's uncle is distracting her from your serialkiller case."