Joshua stepped as far from the bed as the phone cord would allow, then whispered so Sylvia wouldn’t hear, “You’re the one who killed Hendrich.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To leave an arrow pointing somewhere else.”
Joshua processed that. “The gate was locked, how’d you get him in there?”
“The hole in the fence. It’s amazing how compliant someone will be when he believes his life is in danger and that it might be spared.”
“And you banged on the track to alert me? Why?”
“You were cutting it too close. One of the detectives was on his way to your boxcar.”
“But how did you find me? How did you-”
“Colleen.”
“Colleen?”
“Let’s just call it luck.”
Joshua’s heart was racing almost as much as it had when he’d listened to Colleen scream in the boxcar. “When can I meet you?”
“Is that what you want? Is that why you’re doing all this?”
“Yes.”
“Auditioning?”
He hadn’t thought of it exactly that way before. “Yes.”
“What you’ve been doing is child’s play-having someone leave a man in an alley? Coercing someone to drop off a corpse at a hardware store? I’m not sure you’re taking this seriously.”
“I can assure you that I am.”
“Why the hands?”
“Colleen’s?”
“Yes, why did you cut off her hands?”
“My father taught me that, except he did it after they were dead.”
“They?”
“The people he brought to the place beneath the barn. He first took me down there when I was eight. He showed me what to do.”
Joshua expected the man to ask him what’d happened there under the barn, or what exactly his father had taught him to do, or maybe, if he’d eaten Colleen’s hands. But the man did not ask any of those things. Instead he said, “What do you have planned next?”
“Something special. It involves a police officer.”
“Go on.”
Joshua was beginning to get the sense that he’d already shared too much with this man. He didn’t recognize the voice, but he wondered if it might possibly be a law enforcement officer after all. “That’s all I can tell you.”
“I need to know you’re serious.”
“I am. Quite serious.”
“When will it happen? With the officer?”
“Today at twilight.”
“Four twenty-five. To be exact.”
“Four twenty-five.”
“Yes.”
“If I’m impressed, I’ll contact you and we’ll meet. If I’m not impressed, you’ll never hear from me again.”
“We’re the same,” Joshua said, sensing that the man was about to hang up. “You know that. You and I.”
“If I thought you were the same as me, I’d never agree to meet with you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’d be afraid you were going to kill and eat me. But not necessarily in that order.”
And then the line went dead.
71
7:25 a.m.
9 hours until the gloaming
Life is paradox.
That’s what I was thinking when I woke up, sat up in bed, and stared at the phone, trying to decide if I should call Taci.
Paradox.
We want joy, but we read novels that make us cry. We’re desperate to be truly known by others; yet we go to incredible lengths to hide who we really are. We say we want truth, then rationalize it away when it gets too personal.
We want the paradoxical extremes of security and adventure, of independence and intimacy, and if we have neither, or only one or the other, we’re in psychological trouble: anyone who wants only intimacy is clingy and dependent; anyone who wants only independence is self-centered and dangerous.
We want to be free, but not too free; loved but not too tied down.
Paradox.
In essence, to be emotionally healthy, to be well-rounded, somehow we need to find a way to live in the constant tension of our desires; only people in perpetual conflict with themselves come the closest to finding peace.
Or love.
So.
Taci.
I knew her schedule for today, knew she would be leaving for the hospital at eight to work a twenty-four-hour rotation. So, she would still be home right now.
But then gone for twenty-four hours.
I was caught in the middle of human nature’s greatest paradox of all: only when you love someone enough to let her walk away and not hold it against her have you finally found the truest form of love.
But then, it’s too late.
With that thought hovering around me, I didn’t call her, but left for the bathroom to shower and get dressed.
A quick recap.
I ran it through in my mind.
Griffin was dead, Mallory recovering. We hadn’t learned yet if Browning knew about Griffin’s crimes, but this morning Ralph was going to find out.
I was waiting to hear back from Ellen whether Roger Kennedy and Dane Strickland, the men responsible for dumping Dahmer’s possessions in the Fort Atkinson landfill, had known Griffin.
