wish you'd just-'
'I know what you're going to say. Now let me say something. I need this case, okay? If we allow him to win, I'll never be able to get over it. Besides, we don't know for sure that whoever is after me is really the Slasher.'
Chuck folded his arms. 'No, we don't. But what do you think the odds are?'
'I don't know-just like I don't know how he knows the details of my sister's disappearance, or even if he does. But I have to be the one to find out. You can see that, can't you?'
Chuck looked down at his shoes again. They gleamed like a new penny.
'For God's sake, Lee, put it all together. The gunshot, the text message, the-'
'Look, just give me a couple more days, okay?' Lee said. 'Please-I'm begging you.'
Chuck bit his lower lip and looked out the window at the darkened city. 'Okay, okay,' he said. 'Christ, even in school you could always get your way in the end. I'll let you stay-but for God's sake, Lee, be careful, will you?'
'I promise.'
What neither of them said was that all the vigilance in the world couldn't keep the Slasher from making his next move.
Lee went home and played the piano for two hours straight. He spent the entire first hour thrashing through a Bach partita he was working on. It was gritty, sweaty work-the Devil himself had taken up residence in the left- hand passages. What was really irritating was that he could just imagine Bach himself playing the damn thing without so much as a minute of practice.
'Goddamn genius,' he muttered as he grappled with a knotty modulation. No matter what he played, though, the same song kept intruding, running through his head: I'll take Manhattan…
He made a pot of coffee and drank it until his teeth ached, as he looked through his case notes. After several hours of this, he had to stop, but he was too caffeinated to sleep, so he turned on the radio. A Verdi opera was playing, and he wasn't in the mood for tremulous tenors and overwrought sopranos, so he tried television.
He watched the Turner Classic Movies's rerun of Gaslight for a while, but Charles Boyer's sadistic, tormenting husband routine irritated him. If only villains announced themselves so baldly, he thought. If only their evil intentions were so obviously displayed. He wanted to grab Ingrid Bergman and shake her, lovely as she was, scream at her to wake up and realize what was going on.
'Trying out a little projection, Campbell?' he muttered as he changed channels restlessly. Well, it's always easier from the outside looking in, isn't it? Everything is easier-spotting people's neuroses, destructive patterns, self-delusions. Much harder to spot your own. Physician, heal thyself, indeed.
There was nothing else good on the television, so around 2 A.M. he sat down at his computer and logged on to the Internet. The moment he typed in his password, an instant message appeared in the upper left-hand corner of his monitor. Lee's chest tightened when he saw the name on the screen:
Holyman. Hello there. What's the matter, can't sleep?
He took a deep breath and typed a reply: I like being up late.What about you?I'm what they call a night owl, I guess. What do you know-that's something else we have in common.
Do I know you?
No, but I know you.
Tell me what else we have in common?
We both have a fascination with death.
I hadn't realized that.
But it's so obvious.
Maybe you're right.
Humor him, Lee thought. Try to draw him out.
The only difference is that I've held the power of life and death in my hands, and you haven't.
Really?What do you mean?
You know what I mean.
Okay.
So how is it going?
How is what going?
The investigation, of course. Too bad about the cat.
Anger flooded Lee's body, making his stomach tighten. So he was behind Groucho's death. He decided not to give the man the satisfaction of a response.
How did you get my screen name?
Oh, please. Ask me something harder-like how did I manage to abduct a coed from a crowded campus.
Why did you do that to Sophia?
If you were any kind of decent Catholic you'd know.
I know what you took from them. Why did you take what you did?
There was a pause, and then the reply came.
I'm disappointed in you.
I'm sorry to hear that.
You have no idea what it feels like, to hold another person's life in your hands.
Tell me.
Do you think that'll give you another piece of the puzzle you need to catch me?
Not really. I'm just curious.
Curiosity killed the cat.
I'll take that chance.
Like your sister? Did she take chances?
Lee leaned back in his chair. This man was trying to get him-but had told him nothing important, except that he had done his research about Lee's family. He counted to ten and typed.
Why do you do it?
He tells me to do it.
Does it get easier or harder?
Easier. Much easier. The first time was the hardest.
Don't you feel bad for the women?
No. I just think of where they're going. I'm sending them to God-away from this world of sin and on to God. It is a great privilege, really.
But killing is forbidden by the Bible.
I am a Servant of God. He tells me who to kill.
Lee wondered if this was just a put-on. Was he saying this to set up an insanity defense later? I hear voices from God ordering me to kill, Your Honor. David Berkowitz-a.k.a. Son of Sam-had tried it, claiming his evil impulses were the result of urgings from the neighbor's rottweiler, but the jury hadn't bought it. Later he confessed the dog voice thing had occurred to him after his second killing. Berkowitz was highly intelligent, and so was this man.
Lee decided to go fishing, to play along. Maybe he'd find out something.
How did you know about my sister?
It was in all the papers.
Not the detail about the dress.
Oh, that.
How did you find that out?
Finders keepers.
