Confession (5 page)

 

SIX

Monday, July 22, 7:30
P.M.

S
courge bolted into his house and slammed the front door behind him. Unable to catch his breath, he doubled over and waited for his chest to stop heaving, his racing thoughts to slow. A full minute passed before he could breathe and think normally again. He straightened, went back outside, and craned his neck, looking in every direction to ensure no one was there. His ears pricked, but he heard no sirens. He was sure Dr. Faith Clancy had spotted him inside her kitchen—­he'd certainly seen
her,
phone in hand, no doubt calling 911. Then he'd raced out the back and scrambled over the fence before the police could arrive.

He told himself to calm down. After all, he'd made it home safely. His breath still hitching occasionally, he retrieved the evening paper from the porch and went back inside, shutting the door behind him again. This time he engaged the dead bolt and chain.

How could he have been so careless? He knew Dr. Clancy's schedule, and yet he'd timed his scouting expedition to her house poorly. True, she usually returned home a good forty-­five minutes later, but he'd cut things far too close. Not everyone stuck to a routine as faithfully as he did.

Once more, accusing words replayed in his head.

It's not like you to get detoured by a pretty face. You should just throw that brochure away. Faith Clancy was never part of the plan, and you don't need more practice.

But he did! He wasn't ready for the Donovans. Not yet
.

And he had twenty-­three days left, so where was the harm?

Admit the real reason you chose her. You're letting your dick lead you around. You're no different than any other man.

In truth, his dick was hardening now, just thinking of the beautiful psychiatrist with the sad eyes. Well what of it? After the Donovans, he'd be headed for Mexico to live out Perry's dream of sun and sand and freedom. Before he retired, he deserved,
just once,
to kill for his own pleasure. He'd earned that right.

Perspiration beaded on Scourge's upper lip, tickling his skin in a most unpleasant way. He pulled out his linen handkerchief and dabbed his upper lip dry. Holding the scrap of linen by the corner, he hurried to deposit it in the dirty-­clothes hamper, then thoroughly washed his hands. After returning to the living room, he seated himself in a hard-­back chair and unfolded the evening paper. He read the headline, and a fine tremor started up in his hands, intensifying until his entire body shook—­so hard the chair seemed to vibrate beneath his thighs. He tried to swallow, but his throat was too dry. A strangled cry escaped his lips.

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Tuesday, July 23, 7:00
A.M.

S
courge woke up with damp hair clinging to the back of his neck and cold sweat dripping down his forehead. One of his arms was flung off the side of the bed. The other was smashed between his stomach and the mattress. From above, a lightbulb buzzed loud enough to make his teeth vibrate. But that wasn't the worst of the noise.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

His mind still clouded with sleep, he didn't immediately recognize the source of the metallic noise coming from above his head. His heart hesitated, then began to race.
Make it stop.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

The beats jolted down his spine one vertebra at a time, and his body jerked like a man in the electric chair.

Please make it stop.

His hand crept up, fished beneath his pillow, and caressed the book.
Still there.
The book hadn't abandoned him like his friends had. He banished all thoughts of abandonment from his mind, and his heartbeat slowed. He flipped onto his back, forced his eyes open.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Fucking ceiling fan.
For as long as he'd lived in these rooms, the fan above his bed had been making that noise—­why, he didn't know. Maybe the blades were loose. Maybe the fan wasn't seated properly in its mounting. He'd requested the fan be fixed, of course. In writing. Many times. He believed in going through proper channels, in following protocol. He'd never been the type to make undue trouble. And whenever he sent a note, his landlord responded promptly, promising to take care of the matter right away. But no one ever came to fix the fan.

This had been going on so long, Scourge was beginning to worry his landlord had nefarious motives. Last night, Scourge had been lying peacefully in his bed, about to doze off, when he suddenly envisioned the fan crashing down from the ceiling. Next he imagined a blade flying off, decapitating him, and a geyser of blood spraying his perfect white sheets. His throat had closed so tightly, he couldn't swallow his saliva. Drool had slipped from the corner of his mouth, like it was doing now. He wiped away the spittle.

It was time to write another note. Either fix the fan or find a new tenant.

An empty threat.

This place was set up perfectly for him. The apartment was well located, just around the corner from the lab where he worked, so he didn't have to take the bus. He truly did not like public transportation. Too many ­people, too many smells, not to mention the surfaces he'd have to touch—­handrails and doors, teeming with bacteria.

Also within walking distance—­Scourge's favorite diner, The Blue Moon Café. At The Blue Moon, everyone knew him by name. He was a big tipper, and Suzie had eventually learned just how he liked his place set: nice and neat, the silverware perfectly parallel. Suzie never took offense when he removed his antibacterial wipes and used them to clean the forks and knives. Sometimes she took one of the wipes and helped him. That was Suzie for you. Always ready with a friendly smile and clean silverware.

Of course, he had a truck, but that was only for Special Duty. He kept it parked inside a storage locker, registered to Bernadette Smith. He thought that was a nice homage to Sister. Anyway, he couldn't afford to be seen driving around town in that truck.

That was the kind of mistake that led to death row.

He wasn't a student of the craft for nothing. If Ted Bundy hadn't driven around every day in the same Volkswagen Beetle he used for Special Duty, he might never have been caught and executed. If Israel Keyes, who'd been almost as meticulous in his long-­term planning as Scourge, hadn't parked his rental car in front of an ATM camera, he'd be alive today. So no, he wasn't driving his truck on routine errands, and he wasn't discarding his cozy apartment, which was within walking distance of all his regular haunts, just because of a malfunctioning ceiling fan.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

Then again, until today, that sound had never made his hands shake. A drop of perspiration dripped from his forehead down the tip of his nose. He sniffed and turned his face to the side, toward the pungent odor seeping up from the sheets. The ammonia-­like smell gagged him, and he struggled to move air in and out of his lungs, breathing through his open mouth like a landed fish. As he writhed, the sheets stuck to his skin.

That's when he knew. The tacky moisture against his buttocks, his thighs, wasn't sweat at all.

It was urine.

He hadn't wet the bed since Sister died.

A tear slid down his cheek, then he started to sob.

I'm sorry. It was an accident.

Lazy. You lazy dirty boy. God doesn't want us to lie in our own urine. Maybe you defecated, too.

No! No. I didn't defecate. And I'm not lazy. I was asleep
.
I can't help what happens when I'm asleep.

He could feel the explosion of pain from Sister's flashlight slamming down on his back, then across his bare bottom.

Lazy.
Thwack.
Dirty.
Thwack.
Boy.
Thwack.
Sinner.
Thwack.
Scourge!
And then that echoing laugh.
That's what you are, a scourge among us, and from now on that's what you'll be called. Scourge
. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Click.

Clack.

Click.

He was on his knees beside the bed, desperately ripping off the sheets, trying to hide the evidence of his sin—­from his own eyes. But it was no use. The filthy urine stained his sheets like his shame stained his soul. Sister Bernadette was right to punish him. He longed to be punished.

He buried his face in the sheets and made himself inhale his sin, the way Sister would have him do if she were here. On trembling limbs, he rose and stumbled into the alcove that housed his stacked washer-­dryer unit. He stuffed the sheets into the wash, poured bleach into the dispenser until it overflowed into the bin, then added laundry detergent and fabric softener. He slammed the lid and dialed in
bulky load, extraheavy soil, extra rinse.
The machine shimmied to life, and his chest loosened, his shoulders lowered. He headed for the bathroom. He could fix this. All he had to do was get clean.

He could make this right.

He stripped. Turned the shower dial all the way to the left, and stood just shy of the jet, replacing the sheen of urine with sweat. His lungs opened fully. He could breathe normally at last. He dialed the water temperature back just enough that he could force himself to stand in the stream of scalding water. He'd forgotten the scrubber. The new one with the wooden handle he'd bought for cleaning the floors. He retrieved it from beneath the sink and jumped back in the shower.

A moment later, he'd soaped up the bristles and begun scraping the brush between his thighs. He was a dirty, filthy boy. But he could make himself clean. He stayed in the shower a long time. Eventually, the hot water ran out, but he didn't care. He stood in the spray and scrubbed until his skin was raw and bleeding. The cold water soothed his burning skin. Then he slapped his forehead with the back of his hand. The blood pooling in the drain had reminded him of work. He was going to be late.

“H
ave you ever had your blood drawn before?” Scourge asked.

According to Mrs. Wilhelmina Stovall's face sheet, she was seventy-­three years old. The caustic look she gave him served as her answer and indicated to him she was an impatient woman who didn't understand he was only doing his job. First of all, it was entirely possible that somewhere there was indeed a seventy-­three-­year-­old woman who had never had her blood drawn. Second of all, phlebotomy was important business, and he took his job seriously and always followed protocol.

Really, he took everything seriously.

Many ­people were afraid of needles and blood. According to the phlebotomist manual, he was supposed to ask every patient the same question. A good phlebotomist informed and reassured his patient. The question was standard. He never skipped it. Not even for seventy-­three-­year-­olds.

Managing to maintain a professional manner despite the nervous knot that had been forming in his gut since he'd woken up today, he said, “Make a fist please.”

“Oww!” she hollered, as he tightened the blue rubber tourniquet above her elbow, a fine mist of her saliva spraying him in the face. “You're not doing it right.”

“Sorry.” Again, best to be professional, but he cringed at the thought of the germs now saturating the air he breathed. When he thumped the veins in Wilhelmina's antecubital area, she squirmed, making his job more difficult. Her veins ran beneath her skin like thick ropes, rolling away from his touch, and he knew she was the sort who would complain if he didn't hit pay dirt on the first try. So he took his time, which should have made her grateful, but had the opposite effect instead. By now, she was practically snarling at him.

Perhaps a little small talk would help her relax, put her in a more friendly frame of mind. “Is Wilhelmina a family name?”

“Keep your flirtatious remarks to yourself, young man. I'm here to get my blood drawn, not start a relationship.”

His face flushed. She was making fun of him. “I was only trying to be polite.”

“I don't mind a little conversation, in fact I enjoy it, but let's stick to the news or weather. I don't like personal questions.”

Leaning forward, he thrust his tongue out between his lips, carefully studying her veins, somehow keeping his composure in the face of her imperious attitude. Finally, he thought he'd found a less roly-­poly target. He lifted the venipuncture needle, already encased in its hub, with the purple-­top tube in go position. He looked up and smiled at her, signaling the impending poke.

“D'ya hear they arrested that monster—­the Saint?” Her tone let him know she found the whole story titillating.
This
was the type of conversation she enjoyed.

He blinked hard, imagining her lips moving in reverse, and her words being sucked back inside her mouth. If no one said them aloud, maybe they weren't true. Maybe the police hadn't arrested anyone at all. Returning his focus to her veins, he said nothing.