Chapter 7



My vision slowly returns to me, and I can now make out the darkening shadows of my room. Glancing out the window, I can see the pigeons with their heads pulled down into their necks, those who haven't tucked them under their wings. All except for the one who keeps looking in at me, watching and waiting for me to leave. He doesn't like me to be in this room, but I can't think why. It's not as though he can come in if I leave.

I'm aware of a presence just outside in the hall. A second later, I can hear footsteps, and they don't belong to Donna. I watch, amazed and affronted, as the door creaks open, inch by inch. Light from the hallway spills into the room, and though I can't clearly see his facial features, the outline of his bulk tells me Jason has come to call.

He pushes the door away, letting it bump against the opposite wall, and leans casually against the doorjamb. "David."

I nod to acknowledge his greeting, but say nothing. He looks around, then reaches for the light switch next to him. Too late, I close my eyes against the invasion of harsh light on my sleeping retinas. I sit calmly, opening my eyes slowly, until they've adjusted to this ill treatment. I look down at myself, seeing what Jason would see. Except for a few dust smears on my trousers from the filthy floor, my clothing is no different than it had been earlier in the day. I look up to meet his eyes, waiting for him to tell me why he's here, in this very private room, without an invitation, without good cause. He could have sent someone else, after all.

Jason is still looking around the room, but leisurely. He's taking it all in, but obviously isn't searching for anything. "This is where you spend the time you should be spending with Donna, then?"

"Donna and I have very little to say to each other these days, Jason. I have more interesting conversations with that pigeon out there." I nod toward the window, and Jason lets out an almost silent chuckle.

"I've just returned from Hitchin," he says. "I believe we've found your watch."

I can no longer depend on the fugue to snatch me up and away from this cruel world. Sometime during this evening, my fugue had cleared up until it was no longer separated from my conscious mind. I remember everything now.

"I can remember where I lost it now," I admit to my friend, my superior, my mentor, my captor. "The poor thing had put up quite a fight. It broke my heart, you know. I so wanted to spare her."

"Why didn't you?"

"I had no control, Jason. I was powerless to stop it. I didn't know why, so I didn't know how."

It must make sense to him, for he nods and looks away. Freed from the prison of his eyes, I could continue. "She winked at me once, you know."

"Who did?" Jason frowns, trying valiantly to follow my words.

"Christine Martin, of course. Donna and I had gone to dinner there in Hitchin, and Miss Martin was there as well, with a few of her friends, I suppose. Young, attractive, fun-loving people, flirting outrageously with people they didn't know and would never actually meet."

"That's why you attacked her?"

"No. I can only guess I went after her because it was Erica all over again. They know the power they have over men, you know. They know we're fools because of their attentions, and so they set out to make such fools of as many men as they can. It's a power trip for them. Christine Martin was bold enough to flirt with me with Donna right by my side. Had I gone over there to take her up on what her wink suggested, she probably would have pissed herself."

"So you waited until you could catch her alone, with no witnesses about."

"I knew where she'd be. You mentioned yourself the sixth sense I had about certain things. This was just one example of that. I knew she'd be walking home from the restaurant that night, I knew just when to go out there."

"What did you tell Donna about where you were going?"

"I told her nothing. I thought I could go to Hitchin and be back before Donna even knew I was gone."

"What about Daphne Barrington?"

"She was nothing more than providence, Jason. I had gone off to ride my bike, just to get some fresh air and cool off. Donna and I had had words, and it was upsetting to me. She told me how annoying I was becoming. I had at first thought it was my imagination, but her words were right there inside my head again. Then I realized they were coming from someone else, that I was overhearing an argument between Daphne Barrington and her escort. She flounced off, and I began to follow her stealthily, I suppose thinking she was Donna."

"And you strangled her? With the garrotte you thought was missing from our evidence vault?"

"Exactly. The reason I kept insisting on the garrotte being found at the scene was because I actually had bagged it. Well, not really bagged it. I picked it up and stuffed it into my pocket. But that's the part I couldn't remember properly. I thought I had picked it up while we were investigating the call."

"Where is it now, David?"

I don't answer, but he follows my eyes to the milk crate. Keeping one eye on me, he moves to the crate and begins digging through it. I don't mind; I can see no reason he shouldn't see what's in there. He pulls out my bike chain with his fingertips, then takes an old newspaper from the crate and wraps it around the chain, slipping it into his jacket's pocket. I breathe a sigh of relief. There is no more reason to fear the milk crate.

"What really happened to Erica, David?"

I see no reason not to tell him, now that I remember. "She was coming on to the salesman who'd called us, trying to talk us into having a satellite dish installed. She loved flirting with phone solicitors, and I must have had my fill of it. I strangled her with the phone cord."

"And then?" He doesn't seem very surprised by my revelation.

I keep quiet, but as I look out the window, Jason must be drawing his own conclusions. He's a very intelligent detective, and I suspect they'll be digging up my back garden soon.

"So, you killed Erica because she was flirting with the cable guy. You killed Daphne Barrington because she was repeating what Donna had just finished bitching at you about. You killed Christine Martin because she flirted with you, just like Erica flirted with other men... It occurs to me that Tracy Broderick must be on your list. How is it you haven't killed her? She flirts with you constantly."

"I don't know, Jason, I really don't. I think it might be because she's such a predator. The others looked and acted so innocent, even while flirting... at least Tracy is upfront about it.

"There's a bit more to it than that, anyway, Jason," I say defensively when he says nothing. "You said yourself how much each woman resembled the other. They actually became Erica, over and over again. I was already in too deep, I had to keep killing her!"

Jason murmurs calming sounds, and I force myself to ease up. It's no good getting worked up about all of this now, it's been done. I can't take any of it back.

"I did notice that each of your victims looked less and less like Erica, and more and more like Donna."

I digest his words, knowing he wouldn't say it if it weren't true. It wasn't something I had thought of before, but he's right. I just hadn't seen it. Each time I killed another woman, her hair had been darker than her predecessor, her features less delicate, her body less waif-like. My criminal self had been evolving all this time. So where would I go from here?

Meanwhile, Jason has begun going through the end table. I'm curious now, because though I can remember things I've forgotten until tonight, I still can't remember what I've stashed in the table. I begin laughing as he pulls out a bottle of shampoo. Confused, or perhaps concerned, Jason throws a questioning look my way.

"I'll bet it's lavender-scented."

Jason shrugs and opens the bottle, sniffing. "Yes, it is. Donna's?"

"No, Jason. It was Erica's."

He asks no more questions about the shampoo, and as he pulls nothing else from the table, I can only assume there's nothing else there that will tighten a noose around my neck. "David," he says, then stops uncertainly.

"Go ahead, Jason. This is no time to be shy."

"We can get you help. We have some of the best resources available. I can't say you won't pay for your crimes, but the stresses of the job, unresolved emotional issues... we can get you through this."

"What would be the point, Jason?"

"I want to see you get better, David. I want to know that some day, you can put it all behind you somehow. Do your time, get some help... it need not end your life. Donna wouldn't want to see you give up."

I push myself to my feet, laughing hysterically. Jason is braced, no doubt in the event I lunge for him, but that's not my intention. I'm laughing almost to the point where I have no strength, but I must gather it now, because it's a heavy couch.

"David, where's Donna?"

I struggle, but succeed in lifting the small couch high enough to send it crashing through the window, upsetting the pigeons and causing a flurry of feathers to add to the confusion in the room. I feel Jason's hands tugging at my arms, but I manage to shake him off.

"David!"

I push through the shards of glass still remaining in the window pane, then stand on the small blacktopped roof and look back at him. I point to my right, indicating the direction in which Jason should look. At first, he doesn't seem to understand, and tries to follow me out to the roof. I shake my head furiously and point back into the room, then again to my right. Jason runs out of the room, down the hallway, and I can hear his anguished cry. I know he has found Donna's body, sprawled out and livid on our bed, her features as I saw them last: tongue protruding, eyes bulging, froth spilling from her swollen lips, marks from my hands encircling her neck.

I hear the sound of Jason's shoes pounding on the wooden floor of the hallway, and before he can get to this window, I turn and push myself off the roof, spread-eagled and aiming for the barbed garden fence below, making sure I hit it where it will do me the most good. If I have any luck at all, my heart will be pierced and it will be over quickly.
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