Part 34 (1/2)

”So now we know,” Spence said, ”exactly what she meant when she called you. Somehow she found out about your relations.h.i.+p with Platt. Platt's a man. She considers any man to be a blight, an element of corruption. Before she can trust you completely, she feels that she must purge you of your corruption.” He turned to the slider, erect as a handsome men's wear mannequin in the finely cut dark suit. ”I hope you're happy,” he said.

Kathleen glared. ”What do you mean?”

”You knew how dangerous the situation was. I warned you. I even told you it was grossly irresponsible to pursue a relations.h.i.+p with Platt while the killer was at large. I told you you were jeopardizing his life, and all you did was scoff. Are you scoffing now? Platt's gone, and it's all your fault.”

”Go to h.e.l.l, Spence!” she spat back. ”And where were your people? You could've prevented this! You should've been staking out Maxwell's apartment too!”

”Oh, sure. In fact, we should be staking out every apartment building in the city. We should have a cop in every bar, every alley, every staircase and street corner. Every shopping center and convenience store. Every bathroom. Every closet.” He looked at her in genuine disgust. ”I barely have the authorization to procure funds for one stakeout a.s.signment much less two. You had to persist, didn't you? You had to egg this guy on when you knew full well what could happen. What the h.e.l.l do you care? Now your book will be even more exciting, won't it? The biographer's lover actually kidnapped by the psychopath...”

”I hate you,” Kathleen whispered. She sat down on the couch. She felt mummified, dried out by shock. But Spence was right. It is, It is, she thought. she thought. It is my fault. It's all my fault. It is my fault. It's all my fault. Somehow she found out about Maxwell, she saw him leaving one morning, followed the cab home. He's...with her now. Somehow she found out about Maxwell, she saw him leaving one morning, followed the cab home. He's...with her now.

Beyond that fact, she could think no more. She began to cry, gritting her teeth, clenching her fists 'til her nails dug into her palms. Her tightened face was a rock from which tears were wrung.

”No witnesses,” Spence related. ”Except for the guard, but she took care of him. Third District Homicide got the gunshot call. Then they called me. I got a TSD crew coming out now, for all the good it'll do. She obviously parked out back in the service alley, to reduce the possibility of a pa.s.serby seeing the vehicle.”

But as hard as she tried to resist it, the question bloomed as a steady pressure in her head, like an artery swelling to burst. Kathleen quelled the silent sobs, her throat shriveling. ”What,” she asked, and gulped, biting off each word, ”do you think-she'll do to him?”

Spence's brow crooked. A bald reluctance flushed his face. ”Who knows?” he responded.

”Is she-going to-kill him?”

”He's lost. There's nothing anyone can do about it.”

”Is she going to kill him!” she shouted.

Spence seemed to chew the inside of his cheek. ”You're going to have to come to grips with the reality of this entire scenario. In the killer's delusion, you are a great woman whose only flaw is allowing yourself to be corrupted by inviting a man into your life-Platt. She exterminates anything she deems as corruptive. It's all part of the delusion. Compa.s.sion is an alien trait to killers of this type. They've been shown no real compa.s.sion in their own lives; therefore, they can't demonstrate compa.s.sion themselves. People aren't people to them. They're objectified things, things, either to be envied, or despised. She despises men because they symbolize the objects of her trauma.” either to be envied, or despised. She despises men because they symbolize the objects of her trauma.”

The question, defeated now, famished, etched out of her mouth. ”Is she going to kill him?”

”Yes,” Spence said.

Every bone in Kathleen's body seemed to fuse. Her jaw fused. Her teeth fused. Her eyes melted.

”In all likelihood,” Spence continued, ”she will kill him after a protracted period of torture. The extent of her torture will probably surpa.s.s that of any of her victims thus far, which is compliant with her psychological profile. For whatever reason, she envies you; you are something she sees as being greater than herself, and anything that dares to corrupt you, or interfere with her fantasy of being allied with you, will call for a particularly ferocious extermination. With each murder so far, she has outdone herself. With Platt she will no doubt outdo herself tenfold. I'm not saying this to upset you, I'm not saying this to amplify your grief. I'm only telling you this because it's important for you to accept and therefore adapt to the gravity of this situation.”

All she could do was look up at him, her teeth ground shut, her throat sealed.

”Furthermore,” Spence went on, ”you must prepare yourself for the rest.”

”The rest-of what?”

”After she dispatches Platt, she will undoubtedly send you her written account. Down to every last detail.”

NeedleWork, she thought. she thought.

The Mummy, she thought. she thought.

Manburger, she thought. she thought.

Her face fell into her knees.

All...my...fault...

Spence was walking away from her, then back. His voice sounded a 100 feet above her as she stared between her knees into the carpet. ”I know how you feel about privacy, and I know that you feel I have invaded yours to reckless abandon,” he said. ”I contest that I have-I'm only doing my job. Nevertheless, I read this only because it happened to be in the perimeter of the crime scene. If I had known what it was, I wouldn't have read it.”

”What are you talking about?” came Kathleen's parched whisper.

”This is obviously for you.”

”What?”

”It's obviously something he wrote for you. It's unfortunate that he never had the opportunity to give it to you.”

Kathleen raised her head. Spence was holding an envelope.

”I found it on his desk,” he said.

The envelope read KATHLEEN. It hadn't been sealed. The poem The poem, she realized when she slipped the piece of paper from the envelope. She blinked hard, to clear her vision, and read:

A KEATSIAN INQUIRY by Maxwell Platt

Quickened to this heaven, and so enspelled, the poet looked at her asleep in bed.

He heard her breathe, and beyond befelled the myriad verities he never said.

Dare he wake her beauty in the moon?

For what he spied-such love!-and in that precious moment didst nearly swoon.

Yet on she slept a lovely sleep; here is the image his love doth reap.

Oh, where is she now, and what are her dreams?

And he remembers how the moonlight gleams, a resplendent angel in fine light dressed.