The Face of Death

family room. Michael was there, sitting on the couch, naked. He was paralyzed too.

'The Stranger laughed, and patted Michael on the head. 'Boys will be boys. But you already knew that, didn't you, Little Pain? Michael was a nasty boy. He had a video camera going while you were down on your knees. I found the tapes on one of my prior trips here to reconnoiter. Don't worry though, I'll be taking them with me. It can be our little secret.' He yanked Michael off the couch and dragged him across the rug.' She frowns. 'I still had the scalpel. He hadn't taken it away from me. That's how sure he was that I wouldn't try anything.' She shrugs, miserable. 'Anyway. He dragged Michael over to me, and he told me it was my turn. 'Go on,' he said. 'You saw how I did it upstairs. Ear to ear, a big red grin.' I told him no.' She shakes her head, a gesture of despair. 'Like it mattered. Like it would make a difference.'

Her smile is pained and crooked and full of self-hate. 'In the end, one thing you can count on about me--I'll do what it takes to survive. 'Do it,' he said, 'or I'll cut the nipples off your breasts and feed them to you.' ' She pauses, looking down at her lap. 'I did it, of course,' she says in a small voice. She looks up at me, fearful of what I might think.

'I didn't want him to die,' she says, her voice quavering. 'Even though he blackmailed me and made me have sex with him and all those things, I didn't want him to die.'

I reach over and take her hand. 'I know you didn't.'

She lets me hold the hand for a moment before pulling it away.

'God. Michael just bled and bled and bled. God. And then The Stranger had me help him carry the body upstairs. He put him on the bed, in between Dean and Laurel.

' 'It's not your fault,' he said. I thought he was talking to me, but then I realized he was talking to Michael. I was afraid he was going to make me cut him open too, but he didn't.' She pauses. 'I started to get mad. I think he saw it, thought I might actually try to do something, because he told me to drop the scalpel. I did think about trying to stab him. I really did. In the end, I did what he told me to.'

'And you're here and alive,' I say, trying to encourage her.

'Yeah.' Tired again.

'What happened next?'

'He told me to come into the bathroom with him. He went over to the tub, and dipped his hand down into the blood. He started flicking it at me, saying, 'In the name of the Father and the daughter and the Holy Spirit.' He got blood on my face and other parts of me.'

The teardrop spatter I'd seen last night, I think.

'Is that exactly what he said? 'In the name of the Father and the daughter and the Holy Spirit'? Not 'Father and the Son'?'

'That's what he said.'

'Go on.'

'Then he told me it was time to get busy. He said he needed to express himself. He took off his clothes.'

'Did you notice anything about him?' I ask her. 'Any birthmarks, scars, anything at all?'

'A tattoo. On his right thigh, where no one would ever see it unless he was naked.'

'Of what?'

'An angel. Not a nice angel, though. It had a mean face and a flaming sword. Kind of scary.'

An avenging angel, maybe? Is that how he sees himself, or is it just a symbol of what he's doing?

'If I had a sketch artist work with you, could you describe the tattoo?'

'Sure.'

I don't see this perpetrator settling for a design selected from a book. He would have had the tattoo done to his custom and exact specifications. It's possible we could track down the artist.

'Anything else about him?'

'When I saw him naked, I could tell that he shaves his body. Armpits, chest, legs, his cock, everywhere.'

This isn't uncommon for a clever, organized offender. Most make a study of basic forensics and work to reduce their chances of leaving trace evidence behind. Shaving body hair is something serial rapists do all the time.

'What about moles? Scars?'

'Just the tattoo.'

'That's good, Sarah. When we find him, that's going to help us nail him.'

'Okay.' She seems listless.

'He took his clothes off. Then what?'

'He was hard.'

'You mean he was erect?'

'Yeah.'

I bite my lower lip, ask the question I'm dreading. 'Did he . . . touch you?'

'No. He's never fucked me, or tried to.'

'What did he do next?'

'He took two pairs of handcuffs out of the back pockets of his pants. 'I need to lock you down now,' he said, 'so I can do my work without worrying about you running off.' He cuffed my hands behind my back, and then he cuffed my ankles. He carried me into the bedroom and sat me on the floor. I didn't fight him.'

'Go on.'

'He went downstairs and came back up with a big pot.'

'A cooking pot?'

'Yes. He filled it with blood from the tub and then . . .' She shrugs.

'You saw the bedroom.'

He'd had himself a little party. Splashed the walls, finger paints from hell.

'How long did that go on?'

'I have no idea,' she says, toneless. 'I just know that when he was done, there was blood everywhere. He was covered in it.' She grimaces.

'God, he was so proud! He finished up and he stood in front of the window for a second, looking out. 'A beautiful day,' he said. 'God made this day.' He slid it open and stood there, naked and covered in blood.'

'He went swimming after that, didn't he?'

She nods. 'He left me there, left the room, and a few minutes later I heard him splashing around in the pool.' She looks at me. 'I was starting to get fuzzy by then. Starting to go in and out. Getting crazy.'

Who wouldn't?

'Anyway.' She sighs. 'I don't know how much time went by. I just remember lying there, and I felt like I was falling asleep and then waking up, but I wasn't really falling asleep--I don't know. It's like I was fainting, over and over and over. One of the times I woke up, he was back.' She shivers. 'He was clean again, no blood on him. He was looking down at me. I fainted again. When I woke up, I was downstairs, and he was dressed. He had that pot in his hands. 'A little here,' he said. And he tipped it, let some blood spill onto the rug in the family room. Then he said, 'A little there,' and went into the backyard and dumped the rest of the blood from the pot into the pool.'

'Do you know why he did that?' I ask her.

The hard, too-old eyes are back. 'I think . . . it seemed right to him. Like a painting. That spot on the rug, the water in the pool, they needed a little more red to be just right.'

I stare at her for a moment before clearing my throat. 'Fair enough. What happened next?'

'He sat down in front of me with the camera, pointed it at me.

'You've been many things, Little Pain. An orphan, a liar, a whore. My pain-angel. Now you're a murderer. You just killed another human being. Think about that for a minute.' He went quiet then, just pointing the camera at my face and recording away. I don't know how long it went on. I was out of it.

'He undid the handcuffs and told me he was leaving. 'We're almost there, Sarah. Almost at the end of our journey. I want you to remember, it's not your fault, but your pain is my justice.'

'Then he was gone.' She gazes at me. 'I went in and out for a little while. Things went black. The next thing