'Why?'
'We found Edward Deege.'
'He have anything?'
'If he had anything, we won't know it. He was dead.'
I leaned back and stared out the French doors. Sometimes the gulls will swing past, or hover on the wind, but now the sky was empty.
She said, 'Some construction guys found him in a Dump-ster up by the lake. It looks like he was beaten to death.'
'You don't know what happened?'
'He probably got into a beef with another homeless guy. You know how that goes. Maybe he was robbed, or maybe he snatched somebody's stash. Hollywood Division is working on it. I'm sorry.'
'What are you going to do about Ward?'
'I'll tip Stan Watts and let him follow up. Stan's a good guy. He'll try to go easy.'
'Great.'
'It's the only chance Dersh has.'
'Great.'
'You sure about that drink?'
'I'm sure. Maybe some other time.'
When Dolan finally spoke again, her voice was quiet.
'You know something, World's Greatest?'
'What?'
'You're not just mad about Ward.'
She hung up, leaving me to wonder what she meant.
20
That Day
The pain burns through him the way his skin burned when he was beaten as a child, burns so hot that his nerves writhe beneath his skin like electric worms burrowing through his flesh. It can get so bad that he has to bite his own arms to keep from screaming.
It is all about control.
He knows that.
If you can control yourself, they cannot hurt you.
If you can command yourself, they will pay.
The killer fills the first syringe with Dianabol, a methan-drostenolone steroid he bought in Mexico, and injects it into his right thigh. The next he fills with Somatropin, a synthetic growth hormone also from Mexico that was made for use with cattle. He injects this into his left thigh, and enjoys the burning sensation that always accompanies the injection. An hour ago, he swallowed two androstene tablets to increase his body's production of testosterone. He will wait a few more minutes, then settle onto the weight bench and work until his muscles scream and fail and only then will he rest. No pain, no gain, and he must gain strength and size and power, because there is still murder to be done.
He admires his naked body in the full-length mirror, and flexes. Rippling muscles. Cobblestone abs. Tattoos that desecrate his flesh. Pretty. He puts on the sunglasses. Better.
The killer lies back on the weight bench and waits for the chemicals to course through his veins. He is pleased that the
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L.A. REQUIEM 189
police have finally found Edward Deege's body. That is part of his plan. Because of the body, they will question the neighbors. Evidence he has placed will be discovered, and that is part of the plan also; a plan that he has crafted as carefully as he crafts his body, and his vengeance.
He cautions himself to be patient.
The military manuals say that no plan of action ever survives first contact with the enemy. One must be adaptable. One must allow the plan to evolve. '
His plan has already morphed several times—Edward Deege being one such morph—and will morph again. Take Dersh. All the attention on Dersh annoyed him until he realized that Dersh could become part of the plan, just like Deege. It was an epiphany. One sweet moment when, through Dersh, the plan changed from death to lifelong imprisonment. Humiliation. Shame.
Adaptability is everything.
He himself is morphing. Everyone thinks him so quiet. Everyone thinks him so contained.
He is what he needs to be.
The killer relaxes, letting his thoughts drift, but they do not drift to Dersh or the plan or his vengeance; they drift back to that horrible day. He should know better. He always goes back to that day as if to torture himself. Better to play the constant chess game of his plan than wallow in hurt, but for so many years hurt was all he had. His hurt defines him.
He feels the tears which he has never allowed anyone to see, and clenches shut his eyes. The wet creeps from beneath the sunglasses, leaving a trail of acid memories.
He feels the beating. The belt snaps against him until .his skin is numb. Fists pound his shoulders and back. He screams and begs and cries, but the people who love him most are the ones who hate him most.
190 ROBERT CRAIS
friendship. The man cares. Comfort. The restfollows so easily. Love. Dependence. Betrayal. Revenge. Regret.
He remembers that day so vividly. He can see every image as if the movie of his life were broken frame by frame, each picture stark and clear, colors brilliant and sharp. The day the hated ones took the man from him. Took him, destroyed him, killed him. That day, after all these years and all these changes, burns so deeply that every cell is branded.
He was fucked up for years until he gained control over himself. Mastered his feelings, and life. Mastered himself, contained himself, prepared himself so that he can do this:
The tears stop and he opens his eyes. He wipes away the residue, and sits up.
Control.
He is in control.
His loss must be repaid, and he has the means for that now. No longer weak, no longer helpless.
He has a plan of vengeance against the one who hurt him the most, and a list of the conspirators.
He is killing them one by one because payback is a motherfucker, and he is the baddest motherfucker to ever walk with the angels through the streets of this city.
The military calls this 'mission commitment.'
His mission commitment is second to none.
They will pay.
He rolls off the bench and flexes his muscles in the mirror until the skin pulls tight, his veins bulge, and the bright red arrows glow hotly on his deltoids.
Pike's Dream
