Part 32 (1/2)
Next came abrupt, nondescript sounds. Thunking. Mumbling. A long, low moan-distinctly male.
”Don't hang up!” Kathleen pleaded. ”Are you there? Are you still there?” She made this plea for many minutes more, until she heard the sirens, the helicopters...
Spence punched off the tape. ”She's very calculating,” he suggested. ”She deliberately didn't hang up, even when she left the vehicle. She had a good idea that we were trying to trace the call and DF the mobile phone signal. She was toying with us.”
”Where did she disappear to?” Kathleen wondered.
”No doubt she'd previously parked her car somewhere nearby, probably in one of the alleys off the main road, or somewhere in the industrial site. She drove away five minutes before our units arrived.”
Kathleen felt uncomfortable in the hot seat, the sun in her face. ”How did she know about you?”
”'Rome, the pimp. I'd talked to him the day before we found his body.”
”And what was all that stuff... Most of the conversation she sounded very clearheaded, coherent. Then she goes into the bit about the pain, taking her mother's pain away, and all that.”
”Psychiatrists call it word salad,” Spence enlightened her. ”A fairly common trait in bipolar psychosis. One minute she acts and sounds normal, the next minute she's completely dissociated, completely submerged in her delusions, to such an extreme extent that only she can understand herself.”
”Like split personality?”
”No, no, nothing like that. It's a conversion of mental dispositions, an exchange from the reality state to the delusory state. That's why we're having such a hard time catching her. In the reality mode she's very sharp, even rational. She's able to keep control over the delusion.” Spence took the ca.s.sette out of the tape player, appraising it with his gaze. ”But it's...chilling, isn't it?”
Kathleen fumbled with an unlit cigarette. ”What do you mean?”
”The voice, or I should say the idea. The idea that the voice we just heard belongs to a woman who's tortured and murdered at least seven men.”
Chilling? Kathleen thought. Suddenly she was famished, like she could eat a whole box of sugary cereal, or an entire pizza. She could eat a whole jar of peanut b.u.t.ter 'til it lodged in her throat. ”I wouldn't say chilling as much as alien. Like something inhuman speaking in the voice of a beautiful woman. I wonder what she looks like. I wonder if she's beautiful.” Kathleen thought. Suddenly she was famished, like she could eat a whole box of sugary cereal, or an entire pizza. She could eat a whole jar of peanut b.u.t.ter 'til it lodged in her throat. ”I wouldn't say chilling as much as alien. Like something inhuman speaking in the voice of a beautiful woman. I wonder what she looks like. I wonder if she's beautiful.”
”More than likely, she's very beautiful,” Spence said. Today he wore an unusually wide, striped tie, but it looked crumpled. ”Serial killers frequently take the specific element by which they were abused as children and turn it against the people they perceive to be their enemies. Her father s.e.xually abused her, her father was a man, so now she's utilizing her s.e.xuality to put her in a clandestine position of power over men. Every man she kills, to her, is her father.”
Daddy, Kathleen thought. Kathleen thought.
Spence pushed back his rather unkempt hair. ”But I wonder what she meant when she said that you were corrupted, and that she would purge you of your corruptions?”
”I wish I knew.”
”It's a little scary, isn't it?”
”No,” Kathleen said. Somehow, it wasn't scary at all. Again, she thought it more alien than anything else.
”Well, whatever she means, we can use it to our advantage. She's beginning to trust you. She's beginning to believe that you desire to be in league with her, for the sake of her 'story.' It's important that you do everything you can to make her continue to believe that. Keep acting as though the police are not only her enemies, but yours too. Moreover-and obviously-she hates men. If she believes that you, too, hate men, then eventually she'll trust you enough to arrange a meeting, or perhaps to make an unscheduled visit.”
More games, Kathleen thought. Spence had actually been tolerable today, until now. Kathleen thought. Spence had actually been tolerable today, until now. Trying to scare me. Trying to rattle my cage, Trying to scare me. Trying to rattle my cage, she thought. she thought. Next, he'll probably mention Uncle Sammy. Next, he'll probably mention Uncle Sammy.
”Not to change the subject,” Spence went on, ”but I just want you to know that we're still trying to locate your uncle.”
”For my protection, right?”
”Yes.”
”And because any outside interference from my uncle could botch your investigation, destabilize your human bait, right?”
”In a sense, yes.”
”Thank you at least for not lying to me, like you usually do. We get along much better when you don't lie to me. I might even like you some day.”
”Implausible. And it's even more implausible that I I would ever like would ever like you you,” Spence said, back to his stonecold face. ”Condescending, reactionary, unrealistic, feminist-”
”You really are a p.r.i.c.k-”
Spence offered a dismayed look. ”You just got done saying that you want me to be honest.”
”-a humorless, unfriendly, unmitigated p.r.i.c.k p.r.i.c.k.”
”And as I said before, the more she trusts you, the greater the chance that she'll make an effort to meet you. I can't imagine why, but to her you're a 'Great Woman.' You represent something that she absolutely envies. Which leads me to my next point.”
Kathleen lit her cigarette, dragged deep, and spewed smoke toward Spence.
”Regarding a certain unregistered, illegal handgun that your boyfriend gave you? Which, in addition, I've been lenient enough not to prosecute you for possessing?”
”What about it, Spence?”
He gave her the oddest look, as if making a consideration against some nameless physical strain. ”Keep it close at hand,” he advised. ”And keep it loaded.”
Chapter 27.
(I).
Maxwell felt dissipated, like he'd done 12 hours of road work. It was a joyous exhaustion, though. Writing, even to the point of physical stupor, always left him radiant. In joy.
He stood now on his balcony. Mid-afternoon nailed the city down with planks of heat. Below, traffic jerked up and down P Street. All he need do, at any given moment, was glance at the city's slog of traffic to be grateful he didn't own a car.
He didn't need a car. All he needed was his muse, his fingers, and his typewriter.
And Kathleen, he thought. The missing piece of my life The missing piece of my life.
But, no, she wasn't a piece. She was an ent.i.ty. She was a beautiful, wonderful woman whom he loved. That must be it, That must be it, he postulated. So unadorned, so simple. he postulated. So unadorned, so simple. Isn't that what everything is all about, from the beginning to the very end of the world? Love? Isn't that what everything is all about, from the beginning to the very end of the world? Love? It sounded so blatantly idealistic, but he knew it was true. It was the meaning of life. It was the meaning of- It sounded so blatantly idealistic, but he knew it was true. It was the meaning of life. It was the meaning of- Everything...
Okay. Great. But does she love me? She'd said she did, but didn't people often say things they didn't mean? Wasn't human love, in all its import, partly or even fully impossible to define? She'd said she did, but didn't people often say things they didn't mean? Wasn't human love, in all its import, partly or even fully impossible to define?
Did Kathleen even know what love was?
But these questions were futile. I can't spend the rest of my life weighing questions, I can't spend the rest of my life weighing questions, Maxwell substantiated Maxwell substantiated. I have to live my life based on the things that I KNOW about myself.