Part 35 (2/2)

Simmons' face always seemed luminous in some complacent and indecipherable joy. Or was it amus.e.m.e.nt? Spence frequently thought so. Simmons was possibly the only person in the world who liked Spence. So why did Spence, here in the doctor's office, always feel like an object of arcane mockery?

Simmons said: ”Watch Kathleen Shade, Jeffrey. Watch her as closely as you can. Go to any extreme to maintain a constant monitor of her whereabouts.”

Okay, okay. Spence nodded. He got the picture... Spence nodded. He got the picture...

”What have I been telling you,” Simmons asked, ”throughout this entire ordeal?”

”Find the nascent.”

”Yes.” Simmons smiled. ”You're boxed out now, Jeffrey. Your ploys have turned on you. That's why a rigorous surveillance of Shade is paramount.”

”I don't know what you mean,” Spence said.

”Given the turn of events,” the psychiatrist elaborated, ”I'd say it's quite possible that Shade will discover the nascent before you do.”

Chapter 31.

(I).

Going to sleep for a 1,000 years was what Kathleen wished for most. Reverting to a state where she didn't have to think, or feel...anything. She could not think about the killer or Spence. She could not think about Uncle Sammy. She could not think about Maxwell.

I cannot think, she thought.

She lay in her underwear on the couch, gazing up. She was drunk. She'd drunk the second large bottle of ale she'd bought at Berose, plus some wine that had been fermenting in the refrigerator for about a year, hoping the borderline inebriation would carry her senses away. To some safe place. To some demesne where nothing mattered and nothing hurt.

More lies.

”Most of every negative emotion in the psyche, especially despair, is caused by a lack of oral gratification in the formative years,” claimed the radio shrink. ”That is, the stage of infantile development where the infant experiences a contentedness from nursing, biting, and chewing.”

Who could she ask? Dad, did mother breastfeed me? Did you buy me plenty of teething rings when I was a baby? Dad, did mother breastfeed me? Did you buy me plenty of teething rings when I was a baby? She couldn't imagine asking such a thing. Nevertheless, it all sounded like mumbojumbo to her: excuses, psychoa.n.a.lytic ba.n.a.lities. She couldn't imagine asking such a thing. Nevertheless, it all sounded like mumbojumbo to her: excuses, psychoa.n.a.lytic ba.n.a.lities.

The radio drifted away. I should call in sometime, I should call in sometime, Kathleen pondered. Kathleen pondered. Everyone else did. Who would know it was me? Everyone else did. Who would know it was me?

The fifth chapter of the killer's ma.n.u.script remained on her desk. She hadn't yet read it, and still refused to. Doing so felt akin to going to the morgue to identify a dead loved one. She knew she'd have to do it sometime; she simply couldn't now. Not after all she'd read thus far...

”...one big problem,” a callin listener was saying. ”Whenever my boyfriend tries to make love to me, I suddenly freak out. It's like he becomes someone else, a monster, a killer. Sometimes, I actually start screaming out loud.”

”Were you s.e.xually abused as a child?” the seemingly omnipotent radio shrink asked.

”Yes. Yes,” admitted the caller. ”My brother had s.e.x with me from the time I was eleven 'til I was about 16. Like...every night. Everything... He did everything to me every night...”

The pause crackled. ”It's called 'hyperdissociation,'” the radio shrink told the woman. ”Your subconscious mind has been preprogrammed to think of s.e.xual acts in a negative mode.”

”But I don't know what to do!” the caller suddenly began to sob. ”I can't expect my boyfriend to put up with this! Why can't I enjoy s.e.x? Why can't I be like everyone else?”

”You can. It's simple. It takes time but it's simple. You have to fantasize. In your fantasies, you have to kill your brother. Several times a day, especially when you wake up and right before you go to bed, imagine your brother-picture him in your mind along with the scenarios of when he raped you. And kill him.”

Kill him, Kathleen thought.

”Kill him?” the caller inquired. ”My brother?”

”That's right: kill him. Imagine yourself killing him. With a gun, a knife-it doesn't matter. In your fantasies, in your mind, kill him. If you do this long enough, you'll eventually kill the posttraumatic effect that your brother's s.e.xual abuse inflicted in your subconscious. You'll kill the obstructions. You'll kill the s.e.xual dysfunction, the bodymemories, and the despair...”

Kathleen's own therapists had trained her well as to the same techniques, and it had worked. Until now, Until now, she reminded herself. It wasn't working anymore. The recurring nightmare-of Sammy, the cigar box, and the snake-had resurfaced all that anxiety of years ago. She'd killed Sammy a thousand times in her own fantasies, but now he was back, and not merely in her dreams but in her real world as well. But Sammy's parole couldn't be the trigger; the nightmare had begun before his release... she reminded herself. It wasn't working anymore. The recurring nightmare-of Sammy, the cigar box, and the snake-had resurfaced all that anxiety of years ago. She'd killed Sammy a thousand times in her own fantasies, but now he was back, and not merely in her dreams but in her real world as well. But Sammy's parole couldn't be the trigger; the nightmare had begun before his release...

The killer, she thought. The killer was the trigger, for the killer, too, had been s.e.xually abused. Was that it? And if it were, what did it matter? I'm so screwed up it's pathetic I'm so screwed up it's pathetic, she thought. She squinted at the ceiling, as if trying to see fortunes.

Then she thought of Maxwell...

”...for about two years,” another caller was saying.

”Yes?” bid the radio shrink.

”And then I broke up with him.”

”Why?”

”I don't know. I really did love him, I guess. But I wanted to see other people, I wanted to do other things. I mean, at first I thought I wanted a serious commitment. Well...I changed my mind.”

”That happens,” the shrink obliged. ”People change their minds all the time. They change their expectations, they change their priorities, they change their views. Change is part of what we all are. You needn't feel guilty about changing.”

”I don't,” insisted the caller. ”What happened was, the night I broke up with him, he was killed in a car wreck.”

”I...see.”

”If I hadn't broken up with him, he wouldn't have been on that road. He'd still be alive...”

Those last four words seemed to turn to concrete. He'd still be alive, He'd still be alive, Kathleen thought. Kathleen thought. So would Maxwell. So would Maxwell.

”It's tragic, yes, it's a horrible, horrible thing,” the radio shrink was saying, ”but you can't blame yourself for fate.”

Kathleen turned the radio off. It wasn't fate that had caused Maxwell to be abducted. It was me It was me, she told herself. Spence is right. I'm the one who let it happen. I was too stupid to realize the danger, and now he's...gone Spence is right. I'm the one who let it happen. I was too stupid to realize the danger, and now he's...gone.

Gone sounded better than dead; it was easier to cope with. But deep in herself, she remembered Spence's a.s.sertion: that Maxwell, by now, was most likely dead. Tortured to death.

I killed him, she thought. she thought.

She drifted in and out of sleep, lurching awake each time at obscene, atrocious images. Then the phone was ringing. Her limp hand picked it up. ”h.e.l.lo?”

”Kathleen?”

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