Bleeding Out

'Yeah.'

Frank stepped tentatively into the room, still gripping the dishtowel. She wanted to say something to Kennedy but didn't know what.

'Do you have everything you need?'

Kennedy was propped against her pillows, a magazine in her lap. Fatigue, plus a huge T-shirt, made her look young and fragile, and Frank felt a quick, choking desire to protect Kennedy from every bad thing the night could bring. She wanted to warn her to leave the light on and not close her eyes. Kennedy's smile and contented reply forced the words from Frank's head but did nothing to reassure her. She passed the towel from hand to hand, still groping for what to say.

'How's your neck?'

'It's okay. It's kinda tweaky and tight but nothing I can't live with.'

'You going to be able to sleep alright?'

'If you ever quit worryin' about me and get outta here,' Kennedy grinned.

'Alright.' Frank shifted from her left foot then back to her right. 'If you need anything, just let me know, okay?'

Kennedy nodded, her eyes mirroring the trace of her smile.

'I mean, don't worry if you have to wake me up, okay?'

'Okay.'

But still Frank didn't leave, and Kennedy asked, 'Is something wrong?'

'No. Not at all. I mean, I just...' Frank took a huge breath.

'Look, I don't know, maybe you're...healthier, better-adapted, maybe it won't happen to you, but if you wake up scared, or have a bad dream, I'm just next door, okay? You don't have to go through any of that alone. Just come and wake me up, alright?'

Kennedy's smile faded and she agreed.

'Promise?'

'Yeah,' the younger woman said seriously.

'Okay,' Frank sighed, hugely relieved. 'Get some sleep.'

She returned to the dark kitchen and hung up the dishtowel. Pouring the last of the wine into her glass, she noticed the slight trembling in her hand.

On Friday afternoons he watched the football games at Culver City, or sometimes he'd go to Crenshaw or Inglewood, but he never went back to his old school. He drove by occasionally but would have been ashamed to be seen there. That was where it all started to come undone. He played that game in his head every night, and every night, he stopped battering Jimmy Pierce once he was on the ground. In his head he went on to finish the game, neatly straight-arming blockers, flying into the end zone with the crowd cheering and his father clapping. The scout on the sidelines would be incredulous and he'd ask the beaming coach, 'Who's that kid?'

He missed the game, missed the contact and the release of pounding into the other players. After the games on Friday, if he had enough money, he'd cruise LaBrea or Washington until he found a whore. Then he'd take her in the back seat and slam into her, a towel around her throat silencing her cries.

24

Frank woke up on the couch in the den, fuzzy and slightly headachy from the wine. It was a familiar feeling, and she dismissed it with a glance at the VCR clock. It's gleaming red numbers mocked that it was only half past three. Dark, relentless dream flashes assured her there would be no more sleep tonight, and Frank was glad the lamp was still on. She straightened her legs over the end of the couch and concentrated on Stan Getz soloing on 'These Foolish Things.'

When the song ended, she stopped the spinning CD and walked quietly into her bathroom. She shook out some aspirin and brushed her teeth, then got into bed with a pysch text. She closed her eyes, the book unopened, wondering where he was.

You're out there somewhere. Maybe working. What do you do?

Frank made a list in her head of night jobs. She ruled out all the jobs that involved people. If their profile was right, he wouldn't work well with others, too insecure. She considered delivery jobs.

Nope. You're smart and you'd use that. Your assaults and your bodies would be spread all over. No, I think you go somewhere, not too far from home, and you stay there. Probably drive the same route every night. Comfortable, predictable, no surprises. You don't like surprises, do you buddy? We have a lot in common, you and I.

Frank would have smiled if it hadn't been so true.

J lie here thinking about you and you're thinking about.. .your last girl. Peterson. Bet you didn't even know her name. Bet you never even talked to her. She would have been so scared, so frightened, and I'll bet you just stood mute over her.

Frank thought of standing silently by Kennedy's bed in the hospital that first night, not wanting to console her, crippled by her own fears.

Or maybe you're on to your next girl already. Its been a while. Are you thinking about how you're going to do it next time? Do it better, make it last longer. How you 're going to hurt her? Same way, or are you ready for something new? Simple assault, violent assault, murder...where do you go from here? Do you ever see yourself in the mirror and wonder who you are?

Frank remembered striking the mirror the night she'd had that dream. This wasn't the first time she had compared herself to a sociopath. She thought cops and criminals were really the same animal; the main thing separating them was which side of the law they stood on. Only one was sanctioned to kill.

Where are you, buddy? I see you working alone, something like night security or physical labor. If you were doing a security gig, that would explain why you know so much, why you're so clever at this game. I think you'd be bragging, though. Security guards are wannabe cops. They talk tough, act tough, swagger. But you seem like a lay-low kinda guy to me. And you're a big guy. Physical labor would be easy for you, effortless. Gives you lots of time to daydream, time alone, nothing too intellectually challenging, quiet, no one in your face except maybe a skeleton crew or night shift supervisor.

She considered making a list of all the jobs in the area that ran twenty-four hours, then realized the implausibility of that. After all, this was one of the largest cities in the world. There wasn't even any guarantee he'd work within the area she examined. If he had a night job.

Maybe you're a porno freak and spend all your nights in gummy joints and cruising strips.

Frank tried that on, envisioning him in porn theaters, walking down sidewalks, hands crammed in pockets, hunched over, unobtrusive, inconsequential, no one. She put him in a car, an older one, maybe a sedan or import, something practical, nothing flashy. Maybe an older truck if he did manual labor. It would be dusty and in need of waxing. There'd be litter in it. Not a lot, but some, enough to look messy. She could see him cruising, watching the hookers, building up his nerve, probably spending more time jerking off than picking up.

Nope. I like the night job better. It's more consistent with your hours of attack. You could be doing porn anytime. And you'd need a job to pay rent. You're living somewhere. You did Nichols and Agoura and Peterson inside. Jane Doe was an aberration. You might live with your folks, but at your age they'd expect you to have some money at least.

And you spend your mornings cruising. But you won't be at the parks anymore. I know the black-and-whites are scaring you away.

You're not stupid. Going there for the last two was risky enough. But you had to do it, didn't you? And at the end of the rapes you switched to schools, not just one school but two. You're good, breaking it up, moving it around, but you're still in the locus of Culver City. You haven't moved out of there, and I don't think you will. You're comfortable and feeling good where you are. You've got us running all over.

But why schools? first because you know that's where you'll find girls? Why not just pick up runaways, homeless kids? It'd be harder on us, better for you. Nope. You like them young and innocent. You don't want a street veteran. You want someone who'll offer no resistance, someone who has no clue how to fight back.

Frank recalled the anticipation and pleasure she'd felt after denying Noah's protests and deliberately putting