'It's funny how so many other fears seem to spring from the basic fear of abandonment, isn't it?' he said.
Lee looked into his glass of scotch, the tawny liquid catching the light refracted by the cut-crystal glass. 'Yeah. You know, that's even true for…' He broke off without finishing the thought, and looked away.
'What? True for who?'
'I was thinking about the case.'
Nelson sat back in his chair. 'I'm listening.'
'I just didn't think it was right, under the circumstances-'
'For God's sake, man, you've piqued my curiosity now!' Nelson roared. 'And do you think I want to spend all night moaning about Karen's death? Please-distract me!'
'Okay. It's not that big a deal, really. I was going to say that for him it's also about abandonment.'
'For the Slasher?'
'Yes. Control, yes-but the roots are fear of abandonment.'
'But what does it get us-or where does it get us, I should say, that we haven't already been?'
'He can't even allow himself to experience normal sexual impulses toward women. I think they may be irretrievably locked for him now-sex, religion, and death-to the point where, in his mind, they represent the same thing.'
'And there's the sadomasochistic aspect of Catholicism: the suffering Jesus, bound and bloody on the cross.'
'And Mary-always depicted as young and beautiful-looking up at him with adoration in her tear-swelled eyes.'
'You know, you're right,' Nelson said. 'I never thought about it. If Jesus really is thirty-three when he dies, then Mary has to be at least in her fifties, right?'
'Right. And this is in a sun-drenched climate before Botox and face-lifts, or even decent dental care. She's going to look her age.'
'But she's always depicted as young and beautiful-as if she were his sister rather than his mother.'
'Right,' Lee agreed. 'Even more confusing for a young man who's having trouble escaping a clinging mother.'
Nelson took a long swallow of scotch. 'The less said about Catholic mothers, the better.'
Nelson had said very little about his own mother to Lee over the years, and always seemed to steer clear of the topic.
'Which borough do you think will be next?' Nelson asked.
'Chuck asked me the same thing. I wish I had an answer.'
Nelson stared out the window.
'How do we do it, Lee? How do we sift through the mountains of misery life throws up at us and keep going?'
'I don't know,' Lee said. 'Some of us don't.'
'Yes, but most of us do, that's the amazing thing,' Nelson said, rising from his chair to pace restlessly, hands shoved into his pockets. 'You know, Karen talked about ending it all as her disease got worse, in spite of her faith. I even talked about helping her. In the end, though, we cherished every last moment together, even when it was really hard. But that's different, isn't it? I mean, anyone with a terminal illness is going to think about ending it, even if they don't act on that, right?'
'I'm sure anyone would at least consider it-unless their faith prevented them from it.'
Nelson snorted. 'Faith. One of mankind's greatest lies. Do you know I still have the cross she wore? She had her faith right up until the end. I think I envied her that, even though I never shared in it.'
The phone rang. Nelson grunted, balanced his drink on the arm of his chair, then rose to answer it.
'Hello?' There was a pause, and then he said, 'Who is this?' Another pause, and then he hung up.
'Who was that?' Lee asked.
'That was really strange,' Nelson replied, shaking his head. 'All I heard on the other end was music playing.'
'What kind of music?'
'It was an old Rodgers and Hart song, actually-one I recognized.'
'Which one?'
''Manhattan.''
'Oh, God,' Lee said. He sank back his chair. 'Good lord…so he knows you're on the investigation.'
'Obviously.'
'Your number's unlisted, right?'
'Right.'
'Caller ID?'
Nelson glanced at the receiver. ''Unavailable.' Probably using a phone booth somewhere. We can track it, but I doubt it'll give us much. If he's smart-which he is-it won't be anywhere near his home.'
'Well,' Lee said after a moment, 'at least we can stop wondering which borough is going to be next.'
Chapter Forty-five
The wind took the barren black branches of the trees and swung them back and forth in a kind of mad dance, a tango of bad weather to come.
They didn't know they were being bad, these soft-eyed girls with their white hands and even whiter throats- little lambs, really, innocent white lambs with their trusting, open faces. They trusted him, and why shouldn't they? He was there to save them, after all, to make sure their souls went up to heaven, instead of down there, that horrible place his mother kept talking about, where demons ate your flesh and you lived in eternal damnation.
He walked along the creek bed, stepping carefully on the stones so as not to get his feet wet. He tried to shut out the sound of his mother's voice in his head, but it was to no avail.
Samuel! Sam-u-el! Are you listening to me? They'll tear at your flesh, and you'll be forever damned-trapped down there in eternal torment! And do you know what the worst thing of all will be? You'll never get to see Jesus again! You'll be eternally banished from His presence. Think about it, Samuel. Never to see Jesus again, never to look upon His divine presence!
He did think about it. It would be too bad, he supposed. But then again, it might be a kind of relief. Jesus' eyes were so sad, so tormented. Samuel felt bad just looking at the carved figurine of Jesus, garishly painted blood dripping from His side, on the cross above his mother's bed. It was as if Jesus were begging Samuel to come save Him from torment, but he couldn't. He wanted to, but Jesus was already dead-they had already killed Him. And yet, somehow, here he was, hanging above his mother's bed, his beautiful doelike eyes begging for mercy-begging him, Samuel, for deliverance, for release from his agony.
Well, Samuel couldn't do anything about Jesus, but he could help those girls. He could release them, point them the way to eternal salvation.
He smiled. It had to be right, what he was doing, because it felt so good. He was delivering them from sin and temptation-and yes, evil. Deliver us. Deliver us. The words rang a tattoo in his head, rhythmic as a pulse. He sniffed at the air like a bird dog on a scent. The wind was blowing in from the river, carrying the smell of salt air and fossilized sea creatures. Forgive us our trespasses. Tonight he would get to work.
Chapter Forty-six
Sophia wanted a cigarette. She knew she shouldn't smoke, but she desperately, dreadfully needed a cigarette. She sat at the desk in her dorm room trying to concentrate on the book in front of her: Film Analysis by R. L. Rutsky and Jeffrey Geiger.
