“And this killer—”
“May be a similar creature. He kills Kara Rider and Jason Warren because they are the children of his enemies.”
“But killing Stimovich and Stokes?” Angie said.
“No motive at all,” he said. “He does it for fun.”
A light, misting rain speckled our hair and jackets.
Bolton reached into his briefcase and handed Angie a piece of paper.
“What’s this?”
Bolton squinted into the mist. “A copy of the killer’s letter.”
Angie held the letter away from her, as if its contents might be contagious.
“You wanted in the loop,” Bolton said. “Right?”
“Yes.”
He pointed at the letter. “Now you’re in the loop.” He shrugged and walked back toward the schoolyard.
30
patrick,
the issue is pain. understand this.
initially, there wasn’t any grand plan. I killed someone almost by accident, really, and I felt all those things you’re supposed to feel—guilt, revulsion, fear, shame, self-hatred. I took a bath to clean Myself of her blood. sitting in the tub, I vomited, but I didn’t move. I sat there as the water stank with her blood and My shame, the stink of My mortal sin.
then I drained the tub and showered and…went on. what do humans do, after all, once they’ve done something immoral or inconceivable? they go on. there’s no other choice if you’ve slipped past the grasp of the law.
so I went about My life and then those feelings of shame and guilt went away. I thought they’d linger forever. but they didn’t.
and I remember thinking, it can’t be this simple. but it was. and pretty soon, more out of curiosity than anything, I killed someone else. and it felt, well, nice. calming. the way a cold glass of beer must feel to an alcoholic coming off a dry spell. the way the first night of sexual intercourse must feel to lovers who’ve been kept apart.
taking another life is a lot like sex actually. sometimes it’s a transcendent, orgasmic act. other times, it’s just a so-so, okay, no big deal, but what’re you going to do? sort of sensation. but it’s never less than interesting. it’s something you remember.
I’m not sure why I’m writing you, patrick. who I am as I write this isn’t who I am during My day job, nor who I am when I kill. I wear a lot of faces, and some you’ll never see, and some you’d never want to. I’ve seen a few of your faces—a pretty one, a violent one, a reflective one, some others—and I wonder which you’ll wear if we ever meet with carrion between us. I do wonder.
all guiltless, I’ve heard, will meet reproach. maybe so. and so be it. I’m not sure the worthy victims are worth all the trouble actually.
I dreamed once that I was stranded on a planet of the whitest sand. and the sky was white. that’s all there was—Me, spilling drifts of white sand as wide as oceans, and a burning white sky. I was alone. and small. after days of wandering, I could smell My own rot, and I knew I’d die in these drifts of white under a hot sky, and I prayed for shade. and eventually it came. and it had a voice and a name. “Come,” Darkness said, “come with me.” but I was weak, I was rotting, I couldn’t rise to My knees. “Darkness,” I said, “take My hand. Take Me away from this place.” and Darkness did.
so you see what I’m teaching you, patrick?
best,
The Father
“Oh,” Angie said, tossing the letter on her dining room table, “this is good. This guy sounds sane.” She scowled at the letter. “Jesus.”
“I know.”
“People like this,” she said, “exist.”
I nodded. In and of itself that was horrifying. There’s enough evil in the average person who gets up every day, goes to work, thinks of himself as good as much as possible. But maybe he cheats on his wife, maybe he fucks over a co-worker, maybe, in his heart of hearts, he thinks there’s a race or two of people who are inferior to him.
Most of the time, our powers of rationalization being what they are, he never has to face it. He can go to his death thinking he’s good.
Most of us can. Most of us do.
But the man who wrote this letter had embraced evil. He enjoyed the pain of others. He didn’t rationalize his hate, he reveled in it.
And reading his letter was, above all else, tiring. In a uniquely sordid way.
“I’m beat,” Angie said.
“Me too.”
She looked at the letter again and touched her palms to her shoulders, closed her eyes.
“I want to say it’s inhuman,” she said. “But it isn’t.”
I looked at the letter. “It’s human all right.”
I’d made myself a bed on her couch and was trying to get comfortable when she called to me from the bedroom.
“What?” I said.
“C’mere a second.”
I walked to the bedroom, leaned against the doorway. She was sitting up in the bed, the down comforter spread over and around her like a rose pink sea.
“You okay on the couch?”
“Fine,” I said.
“Okay.”
“Okay,” I said and headed back for the couch.
“Because—”
I turned back. “Huh?”
“It’s big, you know. Plenty of room.”
“The couch?” She frowned. “The bed.”
“Oh.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “What’s up?”
“Don’t make me say it.”
“Say what?”
Her lips turned up in an attempt at a grin and it came out looking horrible. “I’m afraid, Patrick. Okay?”
I have no idea what it cost her to say that. “Me too,” I said and came into the bedroom.
Sometime during our nap, Angie’s body shifted and I opened my eyes to find her leg curled over mine, wrapped tightly between my thighs. Her head was tucked into my shoulder, her left hand draped across my chest. Her breath fluttered against my neck, rhythmic with sleep.
I thought of Grace, but for some reason I couldn’t picture her fully in my head. I could see her hair and her eyes, but when I tried to form an image of her face, whole, it wouldn’t come.
Angie groaned and her leg tightened against mine.
“Don’t,” she mumbled very softly. “Don’t,” she repeated, still asleep.
This is the way the world ends, I thought, and faded back to dreams.
Late in the day, Phil called and I answered on the first ring. “You awake?” he said. “I’m awake.”