Chapter 5
The man stood in the snow, shivering, wishing that he'd worn something heavier. He wasn't used to these winters, that was already becoming apparent. They'd only transferred him here four months ago, and that had been when the weather was still warm. Now, snow covered the ground, and he wasn't used to the biting cold that ripped through his coat like it was a sieve.
He brought the binoculars to his eyes one more time, as if, in the fading light he might yet be able to discover something that he'd overlooked before.
The lenses were already focused for the distance. He'd stood here for roughly half an hour.
There were two patrolmen guarding the site next to the large red-brick building. There was a rope cordoning off the entire area. POLICE INVESTIGATION-DO NOT PASS read the signs posted.
And again the absurdity of the situation pounded into his brain. It was incomprehensible. To have waited so long. To have had the impulses simmering in his brain, to have wanted so desperately to feel that magical moment when he'd brought his fingers around her neck, when he'd tightened his grip--!
And to have failed. It was incomprehensible. It was true. He felt another wave of near nausea roll Over him. There was no denying it. He had failed. It was beginning to occur to him that quite possibly, he was indeed losing his mind. How could he have been wrong?
Once again, he thought back to the moment when she'd emerged from her house ... then, the other one. Both of them. He'd known. It was them. There was no mistaking that walk.
Bundled though they were in scarves and hats ... wrapped in coats that hid those immaculately sculpted bodies ... he'd known. It had been them. It had to have been them!
They'd split up as they entered the campus, and he'd followed the one without a companion. One at a time. That had been his plan. For so long. One at a time.
He remembered now the feeling, the sense of thrill, the surge of tension, the sudden heat in his brain, as he stalked his quarry. Four months had been long enough to learn the rhythms of this place, to understand the flow of people, to know what areas were safe, and what areas were crowded. He'd known!
But as he lowered the binoculars one last time, after another fruitless search for clues that he'd have been powerless to explain or even understand, he knew that he'd done no where enough planning. He felt the bitter taste of failure rising once more in his throat. For so many years, the image had been burned in his brain, to the point where he had lost all control of it, and to a certain extent, even had lost awareness of it. It was more of an unconscious motivation now, and had been, moving him robot-like over the hills and the snow covered streets of the Fenwood campus, bringing him closer and closer, closer and closer, until, just as she reached for the door knob, he was on her! Quick! Silent! Efficient! As his years of training had taught him!
And then, he'd turned her to him, so that in those last awful moments of her life, she might see, and know, and fully comprehend the circular path that her life had taken.
And then he'd seen. It was the wrong face. The wrong face! The utter absurdity of it had snapped something inside his mind. Such a mistake was simply not made! Not by one of his talents. NO! NO! NO!
He could still feel the humiliation, the frustration, as he'd watched life draining from the wrong face. And then, he remembered his rage. His mad, mindless rage, creeping up on him like the fog, coating what was left of his reason in the same way the snow now covered the campus ... smothering it ... freezing it....
How dare she be the wrong person? It was unthinkable. Under such circumstances, wasn't his revenge warranted?
Trixie sat up in bed and looked at the window outside. For a second, she was confused. Who turned out the lights, she wondered.
And suddenly, she realized that it was night. The last rays of the setting sun could be seen as simply a faint orange line on the horizon, visible between the houses and buildings on and around the campus. She quickly ran to the wall switch and turned on the light.
There was a muffled groan from the bed as Rixie stirred, throwing her hand over her face.
"What's going on ... " she mumbled, scarcely conscious.
"Nothing yet," muttered Trixie, "but it's late, and I feel weird about it. We fell asleep."
"So, what's so strange about that?"
"Nothing. What's strange is that nothing woke us up."
She looked at the clock on Rixie's wall. "Look, it's after six-thirty. There should have been some kind of noise in the house or something. Or at least a detective coming back to ask us some more questions about Marjorie. I don't know why, but I feel strange."
"Come on," said Rixie, still very drowsy. "You're sounding paranoid. I'm glad we were able to sleep. I think I needed it."
Trixie looked over at her sister. They were identical, and yet, so very different. Once again, Trixie had a feeling that Rixie was somehow not quite in this world, a feeling that she'd gotten from time to time ever since the aborted plane ride. The girl's seeming withdrawal from the everyday world, her lack of sexual fulfillment ... her possible sixth sense, something that Trixie herself had no faith in, but which nonetheless she found disturbing in Rixie ... it all suggested almost a separate reality. Now, she once again felt it. The girl's inability to recognize the obvious danger in that tramp that she'd brought home this morning, and to see his obvious guilt ... and now her lack of concern about the inactivity were just the latest in a series of refusals to deal with the world. But then, Rixie might very well wonder just what the purpose of dealing with the real world would be. She seemed to have managed to function rather well on her own, in her own little corner of reality, wherever it might be.
"Oh God, Rixie," she blurted out, suddenly seized with a wave of love and affection for her sister, "did he ruin you so totally."
Rixie looked up at Trixie. She knew that her sister wasn't talking about Dennis or anyone else, except for one particular person.
"Come on Trixie, don't be maudlin. That was a long time ago."
Trixie couldn't believe her ears. Had the girl already forgotten what had just taken place between them.
She walked over to the bed and placed her hand on Rixie's naked breast.
"What happened between us was only two hours ago. Do you think that would have been possible if he hadn't done all those things to us?"
She felt Rixie's body tense up. And then, instead of relaxing, her muscles grew more and more tense. The girl began to shake, slightly at first, only as a series of barely perceptible tremors, but it kept up, and grew stronger all the while.
"Rixie? Rixie? Are you all right?"
Rixie finally looked up at Trixie. She seemed to be relaxing a little now.
"I ... I don't want to think about him. All right? I just don't want to think about him."
"Rixie, it happened, just like what went on today happened. It's something that can't change, and it doesn't need to be changed. But you have to accept it. It's a part of you."
Rixie's eyes went to the darkened window. The faint line of orange that Trixie had seen moments ago was now gone. A dull, red glow, that too rapidly fading, was in its place. It looks like blood, thought Rixie. She wondered if Marjorie's blood had been that red.
The man was walking now, feeling himself growing stronger in the dark. In the shadows and in the dark, he could be himself. He functioned best in the dark. He thrived in the dark.
His thoughts, if someone else could have possibly tuned in on them, were a jumbled mess. like the collages that sometimes decorated college girls' walls, there were only chaotic images, voices, and noises. Spirals of color, patches of gray, and large unexplained blank areas were the stuff of his mind. He was beyond thought. He was beyond reason. He was propelled now only by that ancient lust, that blood bond, that thirst, once moderately satiated, but ignored for so long that at last, it had burst forth to claim him. He couldn't even remember now, the origins of the situation. Only that there was a need that had to be filled. And the campus of Fenwood University was the only place that he could possibly fill it. He trudged on through the snow, and felt his feet getting lighter and lighter. He stopped at a phone booth and dialed a number. When the voice answered on the other end, he responded, not with words, but with numbers. The numbers were a code. The person on the other end knew immediately upon hearing the code, that there could be no possible questioning the authority of the directions that followed.
"Has it been taken care of?" asked the man.
"Yes sir. Just as you requested. I'm still not sure that I understand...."
"You have no need to understand. You were informed that this is no longer a local matter. This case now has federal jurisdiction. Your only concern is how you will stay out of jail if any of this is leaked. Do I make myself clear?"
"Yes sir."
"Where are they?"
"They informed us that they would find other accommodations for the evening. They wondered about the other two, however."
"They're being taken care of. There's no chance that they'll return tonight?"
"No sir. None whatsoever."
"Good. Several peoples' lives depend on that being a true statement."
"I understand, sir."
"I wonder."
And then, the man hung up, confident that this time, he would succeed. Nothing would stand in the way. Nothing at all."
In the county jail, Sheriff Jack Thompson was puzzled. He was also pissed. Outside, there was a flock of reporters waiting around for some statement as to the status of the case. Which case? THE case. The only murder case this town had ever seen since he'd been elected Sheriff.
Damn! he swore again to himself. Why now? Next month he was going to kick off his re-election drive, and as the posters that were already printed up proclaimed, Jack Thompson had taken care of the folks in this county, even those smart-assed punks at Fenwood, damn them all to hell.
Yes sir! He'd taken care of everybody. Which was another way of saying that so far, nothing had gone wrong.
Well, today, something had gone wrong, and from the moment that poor girl had gone screeching down the halls of the Diffenbaugh Building screeching at the top of her lungs "BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD!! , ! ! ! ", the day hadn't been worth a shit on the ice.
Lord, what a mess. They'd tried to be real careful collecting the body and all, but what with medical attendants getting down on their hands and knees to upchuck their lunch, it got all pretty confused.
And then, there was this drifter sort they'd rounded up right from the victim's house, no less. That was really getting on his nerves. If there'd ever been a more likely suspect, that was it. Sonofabitch couldn't account for a single place that he'd been in the last five days. Wouldn't tell them a damn thing.
If Jack Thompson had his way, he'd just call up Ruppert Simms and a couple of his cousins and give 'em all rubber hoses and tell 'em to talk to the bastard till he decided to talk back.
That's just what he'd damn sure do.
Jack Thompson knew a cold blooded killer when he saw one.
But no ... the bastard said he had the right to one phone call, something that Jack couldn't very well dispute, and there it was. Somebody had just called up and said a few words that Jack couldn't very well ignore.
Scared the ever loving fuck out of him, that's what it did. How the fuck did those people know about him getting Mable Cruthers pregnant last summer and paying for the abortion. Or that kickback money he took from Willard Murdoch's lawyer to burn that folder of evidence they'd gathered on Willard's lousy construction job on the new hospital. Or....
Oh hell. The list just went on. It was the weirdest thing he could think of though, and it gave him chills, that's what it did. Gave him chills all up and down his fucking backbone. Whoever that smart-assed sonofabitch was, he had a lot of powerful friends, and when the chips were down, they played for big money. They knew every damn thing there was to know about Jack Thompson, and if they started spilling the beans, the only thing he'd be running for in a month was his life.
"Understand us, Mr. Thompson, we have no interest in you. You are insignificant, and whatever your lowly crimes, they will affect no one beyond your forgettable county. This is the highest authority. Absolutely the highest authority. Your prisoner is the wrong man. Set him free, and provide him with transportation to anywhere he requests, or I assure you, your public service career is over. And you will be behind bars before the year is out. We promise you."
The voice that had spoken those words to him over the phone had been so calm, so patient, and so understanding in its tone, the Jack almost believe him when he said that there was nothing personal in this. Damn. What kind of power did those people have, anyway?
Well, fuck it. Jack Thompson hadn't gotten to be where he was by being stupid. He'd always known which way the wind was blowing and he sure as hell knew how to bend with it. like a fucking tree. Yes sir.
But there was still the problem of the reporters outside. They'd tried to keep this case quiet, but already word had spread like wildfire. Rumor was they'd already nabbed the man. What the fuck was he going to do now, that he had to let the guy go. He dreaded the press conference.
I "No, I'm sorry, I cannot tell you why we let him go. I still don't even know the dumb bastard's name."
He shuddered. The press would have a fine time with that.
Oh well. Nothing to be done for it.
He heaved himself out of his chair, picked up the key ring from the wall hook and lumbered back towards the cells. The prisoner was lying on the cot, staring up at the ceiling.
"All right kid, you can go. Guess you run with the right crowd."
The kid smiled. Hmmm, thought Jack, on closer inspection. He didn't seem to be such a kid after all. Not when you really got up close to him. As a matter-of-fact, he looked like he knew pretty well how to take care of himself.
"Don't you have anything to say?" asked Sheriff Thompson, hoping for some slip that would give him an excuse to keep him here. But even as he said it, he knew that there was no way that guy was staying here. He reconsidered and knew that he wanted this creep out of his jail just as soon as possible. Anyone with access to that kind of information....
"I told you, Sheriff, I'm innocent."
"Well, I don't know about that, but you Feds sure have taken a strange interest in that poor little girl who got her tits tore off."
"What makes you think I'm interested in that case?" asked the kid, looking, in spite of his words, damned interested.
"Well, first there's this shit with you, and then there's that crap about getting those two guys out of the house that little girl lived in...."
"WHAT!"
Sheriff Thompson was surprised. It somehow did him good to see him get a rise out of that smug bastard.
"Hey, hey, take it easy there, sonny ... it's gonna be all right. We done it. Just like you asked. But I'll tell you, if you're all so damned worried about the guy showing back up, don't make sense to leave those other two girls there, does it?"
The former prisoner was staring hard at Jack now, his face turning white.
"Sheriff, I hope that you haven't fucked up as badly as you seem to be suggesting. I really do hope. I'll need a car. Fast. FAST!! "
There was something in the man's tone that made Jack Thompson move faster than he'd ever moved before in his life.