Part 35 (1/2)

Sammy thought back to his Polaroid of Kathleen. ”I'll pay five for something slim, short lightbrown hair.”

”I think we can do that. Gotta see your green first.”

Sammy had already rolled the bills up with a paper towel. He slipped the wad out of his pocket, touching it only by the edges. He didn't want his prints on the paper. Then he pa.s.sed it to the guy. ”How far's the den?” Sammy asked.

”Right around the corner.”

Here was more Justice Department slang. A ”den” was a private residence, almost always an apartment, and was presided over by a ”den mother.” Den mothers were female drug addicts who rented out their children to people like this mover in the painter's pants, in exchange for crack money. If a den was connected, as were many of Vinchetti's, it was known as a ”safehouse,” where middlemen on the move could stay between jobs or hideout when the heat was on. It was not uncommon for den mothers to actually sell their children for lump sums (between 5,000 and 10,000) to mob connected p.o.r.n outfits. According to recent Justice Department statistics, over 30,000 children disappeared per year in the United States. Of that, approximately 10,000 were never seen again, and a majority of this latter third were suspected to be den children sold to support chronic drug habits. Back when Sammy had been in the business, Vinchetti's people paid bonuses to den mothers who kept themselves perpetually pregnant and promised to sell their children to The Circuit once they were four or five.

Broad daylight receded behind them; Sammy followed his mark up an odoriferous stairwell to the apartment. Inside sat a malnourished white woman with stringy brown hair stuffing envelopes in front of a soap opera. She was probably 30 but looked 50; her lined face glowed beneath its waxen pallor when the guy asked: ”Katie in her room?”

The woman's head wagged.

Sammy's escort took him down a dark hall that smelled like urine, emesis, and cooked onions.

”I'll wait out there with the broad. An hour, okay?”

”An hour's fine,” Sammy consented.

”She's a little hyperactive, and a little f.u.c.ked up in the head. You know. Her mother was drinking like a fish and smoking rock when she was carrying her. So take things easy, all right?”

Sammy'd seen it all before-the kids. The mothers were bigtime addicts. Fetal Alcohol Syndrome, Fetal Cocaine Syndrome. They'd keep up their habit throughout the pregnancy, which debilitated the fetus' brain development. Ruined their IQs attention spans, creative and mechanicalthought abilities. You could always tell an FCS kid: their eyes were abnormally close together, and they'd shake a lot, and stare at things. Some sad s.h.i.+t Some sad s.h.i.+t, Sammy considered, though at the same time his arousal began to glow. ”I've never roughed up a kid in my life,” he eventually answered his escort. Adults, sure. Street slag, crackheads-that was different. Adults were accountable for the way they chose to live. But the kids didn't have a choice. Sammy was always gentle with them, like the way he'd been with- Kathleen, he remembered.

His mind drifted in memory.

”In here. Her name's Katie.”

”Right. Katie.”

The guy in the painter's pants opened the door. ”Katie?” he said. ”I've got a friend here who wants to see you.”

Sammy peered in. Fantastic, Fantastic, he thought. he thought. Oh, yeah, that's so sweet... Oh, yeah, that's so sweet... The little doeeyed girl looked up from her perch on a bed. Cartoons chattered on a small black and white TV. She wore a smudged summer dress with flowers on it. She was barefoot. Her obsidiandark eyes seemed immense when she looked up. The little doeeyed girl looked up from her perch on a bed. Cartoons chattered on a small black and white TV. She wore a smudged summer dress with flowers on it. She was barefoot. Her obsidiandark eyes seemed immense when she looked up.

”Katie?” asked the escort. ”I have a friend here who'd like to see you, okay?”

The little girl blinked; fidgeted a little.

”He's a friend of your mommy's. Okay?”

The little girl nodded.

Sammy stepped into the room. A gentle smile came to his lips. ”Hi, Katie,” he said. ”I've heard a lot of very good things about you.”

The dark gaze glittered. She twitched a little again. She had a chipped tooth. Eight or nine Eight or nine, Sammy figured. Just the right age. Just the right age. Her light brown hair was cut just above her shoulders. Just like Kathleen's when she was little. Her light brown hair was cut just above her shoulders. Just like Kathleen's when she was little.

Sammy stooped down, put his hands on his knees. ”I thought that maybe you and I could have some fun together.”

”Okay, Katie?” asked Sammy's escort.

She blinked again, twitched, scratched her tiny nose.

The escort's voice grew stern. ”You're going to be good, right, Katie? Your mommy wants you to be nice to her friend, so you're going to be a good girl, aren't you, like all the other times?”

The little girl nodded.

”That's right, Katie,” Sammy said in his wellpracticed, friendly hypnotic voice. ”You and I are going to have a nice time together. A real nice time.”

The man in the painter's pants left the room and very quietly closed the door behind him.

(II).

”...firmly planted now in her most delusory state,” Simmons claimed behind his desk. Spence noted that the psychiatrist's desk was much more expensive than his own-teak, not industrialgray metal. Perhaps the desks metaph.o.r.ed their personalities, or their hearts. It was an inexplicable observation. I'm gray, I'm gray, Spence thought. Spence thought. My heart feels as gray as my office desk. My heart feels as gray as my office desk.

”In the killer's ma.n.u.scripts she made several references to 'skulls.' 'Skulls mean death.' What's that?”

”Like 'The Cross,'” Simmons replied. ”A hallucinatory embellishment of a symbol. Commonplace. Stagepsychopaths frequently see antagonistic figures, and potential victims, with delusory tr.i.m.m.i.n.gs, to set them apart. To categorize them. She probably sees most men as deathfigures. It's hallucination. I know of many, many accounts of stagepsychopaths claiming to see a person's skull or bones beneath their flesh. It's actually part of a defense mechanism, triggered by the core delusion and synaptic anomalies.”

Spence felt crestfallen. The more he learned of the killer's profile, the less he understood.

”And you're still urging Shade to fake complicity with the killer?” Simmons inquired.

Spence nodded. ”She pulled off a great job during the phone call. But now I'm worried about-”

”You're worried about the 'fake' complicity transforming into genuine complicity?” Simmons a.s.sumed.

”Well, yeah. Because-”

”Because now your killer has abducted Kathleen Shade's lover. Shade doesn't like you, she doesn't trust you, and she feels that your only concern is the apprehension of the killer, regardless of the cost. Maxwell Platt is now part of that cost. Shade knows that Platt is more than likely dead, or will be soon, but she will resist that fact consciously, and cling to any hope that he might still be alive. She will do anything to increase his chances of survival. It's possible that she may pursue a genuine complicity with the killer. On her own. Behind your back. And she very easily has the impetus, the motive, and the utility to do that.”

”How?” Spence questioned. ”We're on her phones, we've got roundtheclock surveillance on her apartment.”

”Don't be stupid, Jeffrey,” Simmons said. ”She's an industrious, creative, and capable woman woman. You're a cold, objective man. man. Under these particular circ.u.mstances, she clearly has the power to fool you. To deceive you completely and utterly.” Under these particular circ.u.mstances, she clearly has the power to fool you. To deceive you completely and utterly.”

Spence crossed his legs, tapped a knuckle. He felt partly insulted but he knew the psychiatrist was right. Backfire Backfire, he thought.

”From your perspective,” Simmons continued, his eyes strangely bemused, ”the abduction of Platt is the worst thing that could've happened. You've now lost all control over Shade, who is your only real connection to the killer.”

”I f.u.c.ked up,” Spence muttered.

Simmons a.s.sented, shrugged in a light, grayplaid jacket. ”You should have foreseen the potentiality, yes. But don't blame yourself. After all, you're not a soothsayer. You're not G.o.d.”

I'm my own G.o.d, Spence realized. The G.o.d of Inanities, in the Temple of Senselessness. The G.o.d of Inanities, in the Temple of Senselessness. The muse sunk deeper, like a malignancy. ”The other day on the phone...you said I still had some investigative avenues left to 'plunder.' What are they?” The muse sunk deeper, like a malignancy. ”The other day on the phone...you said I still had some investigative avenues left to 'plunder.' What are they?”