'Yes. I was divorced fifteen years ago.'
'Children?'
'Not that I know of.'
Pleasant laugh. 'Education?'
'Northwestern. Bachelor of Arts.'
'What was your major?'
What the hell was my major? 'Political science.'
'Do you have any hobbies?'
Was insomnia a hobby? 'I play pool. I like to read, when I have the time.'
He paused frequently to write things down. I reviewed in my mind what I'd said so far and was less than impressed. I was coming off like the most boring person to ever walk the earth. Unless I wanted to get hooked up with someone who was comatose, I needed to spice up my answers.
'I got into a fight the other day. Bar fight. See the bruises?'
I pointed to my face and grinned. My painkiller high had overtaken my better judgment.
'And the other day I got shot. A maniac broke into my apartment.'
'My goodness. Where were you shot?'
'My leg. It goes with the job. Maybe you saw me on the news yesterday.'
And from there it went downhill. I talked about my acts of heroism. I talked about being a great kisser. The interview ended after I let him feel my muscle.
Then he led me to another room where he took my picture and my money; a chunk large enough to knock me out of my good mood. Before I had a chance to reconsider, I was handed a sheaf of men's data sheets, patted on the shoulder, and walked to the door.
I was silent during the cab ride home. Gradually the painkiller wore off and my leg began to throb again. Even worse than the pain was the growing sense of humiliation. I felt like I'd won the Kentucky Derby for horses' asses. I'm sure that when I left, Matthew had a firm opinion on why I needed a dating service in the first place. To add injury to insult, I was out almost eight hundred bucks, and all I had to show for it was a list of men who Matthew thought would be compatible with the idiot I'd become.
I put the Vicodin in the medicine cabinet and took four aspirin. My cell phone rang, and I flipped it to my face, half hoping it was my surveillance team calling to say the Gingerbread Man was standing behind me with a gun. I would have let him shoot me.
'Jack? Herb. I know you're resting, but you'll want to hear this. We've got a positive ID on the second girl. Her roommate called in. Are you up to move on it?'
'I'm up. I'll see you in ten.'
I called my team and told them the news. Much as the job was wearing me down, it did help me to forget my life, which was what I needed at that moment.
Clearheaded, I managed to start my car on the third try. During the drive I tried to shake the image of being the last kid picked for a backyard football game.
I couldn't.
Chapter 23
HE KNOWS WHAT JACK IS DOING. All those lies. All those insults. She's trying to flush him out. Force him to make a mistake. It's a clever move on Jack's part, and even helps her save face after the pain she suffered the other night.
But it still burns. The city isn't likely to tremble in fear if they have an image of the Gingerbread Man being cowardly. He has to correct that image, and make Jack pay for the lies. It's all about power. That's all it has always been about.
He knew he was different at a very young age, after he tied up the family cat with yarn and poked at it with a stick until its insides oozed out. Father beat him with a studded belt when he found out, demanding to know how he could do such a horrible thing.
But it isn't horrible to him. It's exciting. Thrilling. The fact that he knows it's wrong makes it even more so.
Throughout adolescence he continues to pull the legs off frogs, and throw lit matches at his sister, and call people up and say he's going to kill them. Because it's fun.
Sometimes he tries to determine why he is the way he is. Throughout his life he's never felt anything. Certainly no love for anyone other than himself. No guilt, no empathy, no passion, no pity, no happiness. It's a sad thing not to know how to laugh, when everyone around you is laughing. Humans could have been a completely different species, for all that he understands their interactions, their society, their culture.
As he grows, he learns how to fake emotions so he doesn't stand out. He's a spectator in a strange world, a chameleon that can blend into the scenery but is never truly part of it.
Until he learns to feel something, by killing the cat.
It's enthralling to kill the cat. It makes his heart pound and his palms sweat. The feeble escape attempts of the cat are genuinely amusing, and Charles laughs for the very first time. And when the cat finally dies, when it's lying there inside out with its blood turning the ground to mud, he feels something more than amusement. He feels sexual arousal.
Why does the death of a simple kitty cat bring out all of this in him? Charles has only one answer -- power. Power over life and death. Power over suffering. Suddenly, he can feel. The blind can see and the deaf can hear and he knows what his purpose is.
