Wallflower (23 page)

The lynx nods eagerly.

"
The first part of your mission will be to pick out a person on one of the paths. Your target should be alone, big, male. A jogger would be fine, but a walker or an ordinary tourist will do as well. Stalk him for at least fifteen minutes. Make sure he's the one you
want
to hit. Then, when you see an opportunity, execute an attack.
Don't kill him; just stab him with one of the pins. A quick jab in his rump will do the trick. But remember, it won't count unless it makes him squeal. Approach from the back; stick him; then retreat and lose yourself in the woods. Move rapidly toward the West Side. Go to some stores; hang out awhile; then take a bus back. Don't come home on foot. So, girl—think you can do all that?"

The little lynx smiles. "Piece of cake."

"Is it now? I guarantee it won't be so easy. A hundred things can go wrong. Pick on an off-duty cop and you're in trouble. He'll shoot you if you don't run fast enough. Or what if your target shouts for help and there happens to be a good Samaritan around the bend? See, you have to think of everything, analyze the mission. Tell me, what are your most important decisions?"

Lynx gazes up at you. Her ice blue eyes burn with predatory lust. "Choosing the target," she whispers. "And deciding when to prick him."

Smart girl!
Sometimes you're so proud of her you want to kiss her all over. But instead you stroke her head, pet her the way Mama used to stroke and pet you, offering affection in exchange for loyalty and obedience. What the tool needs is tough love, not sex; sex she can provide for herself.

"Okay, go on back down to your room now, lie on your bed, close your eyes, and think the whole thing through. Remember, he's got to squeal. You'll take my little tape recorder with you, so you can bring me back some proof. Wear rubber gloves, of course, and leave the pin in. That'll slow him down in case he's the pursuing type. He'll have to pull it out first, and by then you'll be gone in a puff of smoke. So, tomorrow night?"

"Please, yes, Doctor," the little tool begs.

T
he plan was to make Carl think it was his idea, that recommending Diana for release had never crossed your mind. Sure, you'd done wonders with the little murderess, vacuuming out her brain, servicing and reinstalling her
superego, instilling remorse for her evil acts and a strong desire for redemption. You'd even made her into a leader in the wards, a girl the others turned to for settlement of minor disputes. And she'd become virtually indispensable in the hospital library, not to mention earning straight A's in her extension courses in library science. The little murderess has proved herself reliable, trustworthy, contrite, but no, Carl, it has never ever occurred to you she should be released.

"
Jeez, Bev. . . ." Carl turns away, starts stroking his pointy little beard. The wimpy mustache wasn't enough; this year he sees himself as Freud.
"
I mean, what're we doing here if we're not preparing them for release? Isn't our purpose to save their broken little souls?"

"Yes, of course. . . ." You furrow your brow. What a hoot, but you have to appear sincere. "Don't forget, Diana committed three murders, Carl. She axed her own mother. The public won't stand for it if all she's got to do is spend five years in cushy old Carlisle."

"Think so, Bev? I'm not so sure myself."

You can't believe it! He's actually thought the whole thing through!

". . .
those kinds of objections, you know, don't come from the public. It's the survivors who usually put up the stink. They write the judge. They lost their loved ones, and the killer's got to pay." Carl twinkles.
"
But here," he says,
"
we've got a unique situation. There
are
no survivors. There aren't any cousins, aunts, anyone who cared for any of them or even gave a rusty shit. Diana finished off her whole family. So what I anticipate is a quiet hearing in the judge's chambers with a sympathetic prosecutor going along. Let's go to the wall for her, Bev, and, while we're at it, show the state we can do what they pay us for. Diana's barely twenty-five. I hate to lose her, but she's entitled to a future. I talked to her this morning. She refers to 'the old me who did that very bad thing' and how, though she knows that 'old me' was definitely her, and wouldn't dream of not taking responsibility for her actions, she feels emotionally disassociated from the person she used to be and thoroughly incapable of doing what she knows she did. Thanks to
you, Bev, she's practically cured! And I thought I'd never see the day. Anyway, you know that people who kill close family members are almost never dangerous to anybody else."

Ha! That's what you think, twerp!

Carl turns slowly toward you again, places his hands ceremoniously on his desk. "Look, she's your case. Whatever you decide I'll back you up. But think about this: If you don't want to take on responsibility for initiating a release, and believe me, I can understand why you might not, I'll be happy, with your consent, to take that upon myself. Believe me, Bev, every shrink on staff will join the cause."

Carl's eyes dance merrily in their sockets.

R
emember what she was like that first time? Young Murderess Ready to Strike. She had the killer eyes, the kind you'd seen so often in sociopaths, the fear and hatred raging to get out. Those kinds of eyes tell you there's no compassion, no identification with another human's pain. You have those very eyes yourself sometimes but never show them to the world. They're turned inward, and over the years you've worked up a mask so you can play the healer and make the troubled girlies think you care about their wearisome anorexia or tedious bulimia attacks.

She, Diana, Tool-to-be, had the true killer's glow and, fairly rare in combination with that, a deep, deep need to submit. She was a storm trooper waiting impatiently for orders, a gladiator frothing at the mouth to fight. She craved authority, a coach, a savior, and as she met your eyes, she knew you would be the one to give structure to her rage, focus it down until it became a pure blue torch point of fire.

How could you both tell so much from just a glance? Because you'd been looking for each other all your lives. You'd been rummaging for years in prisons and mental hospitals, searching always for a certain look, and Diana had been seeking you, too, even though she didn't know she had. So when you walked into that little room, she saw in you the governess of her dreams, and you saw in her a fine young ward who would help you balance up all your old accounts.

It was, as they say, love at first blush.

"
They're calling you little murderess around the hospital," you told her, speaking passionately and looking straight into the little murderess's killer eyes.
"
They're frightened of you. They think you're dangerous. They say I'm a fool to sit down in here with you alone. But I am
not
afraid, Diana. I know you won't harm me. I understand why you did what you did, and I'm going to say this to you now, before you even speak a word: You were
right
to kill them, and you oughtn't to be feeling any guilt over it. None! None at all! They abused you and by doing so brought everything that happened upon themselves. Mother, grandmother, sister—are you supposed to bear unendurable suffering just because it comes from your blood relations? Everyone's got murderous feelings toward family members, but few have got the guts to take up an ax and pay them back. You're different. You
have
got the guts. So whatever happens between us now, Diana, I want you to know how much I respect you for your bravery."

Having made your passionate personal statement, you assumed a cooler, more professional demeanor. "Now listen carefully, we're going to be working together. I'm going to be your doctor and help make you well. After I prove to you that what you did was right, we're going to take a good hard look together at who you are and what you ought to be. You have a whole lifetime ahead of you, Diana. In a few years, when you're ready, I'll get you released, and then I'll show you how to realize your potential. I'm going to help you first by building you up, making you feel strong and confident. Now tell me—what do you feel about
what
I've just said? Tell me your true feelings. I want to hear."

The girl started to sob almost at once. You hugged her to you and urged her to weep on.

"It's okay. Let it out. Cry it all out of yourself. Clean yourself
out with the tears, Diana. You'll feel better afterwards, I
promise. . . ."

In the end, after the weeping gave way to sporadic little moans and sobs, she spoke the golden words you'd been waiting for: "I feel at last . . ."

"Go on, my dear."

"I've met—"

"Yes. Tell me, who've you met?"

"Finally someone—"

"Yes, go on."

"—who understands me. Really does."

"You believe that?"

"Oh, yes." She nodded shyly. "I do."

You immediately hugged her to you again, then gently rocked her in your arms. "That's right, Diana. You have, you have, sweet
girl."

And it was true! You did understand her! You truly, truly did!

T
he method was to envelop her in an alternate reality, a fictive world of your own creation existing parallel to the so-called real world, yet which to an outside observer would appear the same. To Diana, however, confined within your web, every so-called normal value would be subverted. Purposes, motives, principles, matters of morality and personal honor—in your alternate world such things would not have the same meanings as they did outside.

S
he's down there now in her dank little hole of a room in the basement, dreaming through her mission. She's imagining the feeling of popping the pin into the posterior of some unsuspecting man, the way it'll sink so nicely into his cushy ass. And then his yelp, squeal, cry, little chirp of pain, and how she'll record it as she runs by and how the pitch'll change because she'll be in motion. You smile to yourself: The exercise, if questioned, could be construed as a practical demonstration of the Doppler effect.

Y
ou went to watch her work out at her dojo at Broadway and 110th, a big hot, humid room on the second floor above a supermarket, where you were greeted by the deep-throated cries of zealous young fighters and the tangy aroma of their bodies at work.

Diana was in the first line with the best of them, energetically slashing at the air with her strong young arms. You loved the way Tool threw fast kicks and punches in unison with the others, mostly giant males. She looked so right among them, cute, too, in her white canvas
gi
jacket, white pants, and black
obi.
But you'd seen the backs of her hands after a workout, raw from hundreds of knuckle push-ups ordered by her instructor, and occasional marks, too, across her back from hits delivered with a bamboo stick, penalties for poorly executed exercises or that obscure and thus endlessly punishable offense of the dojo, insufficient respect.

There was another girl in the class that afternoon who caught your interest, reminding you of someone from your past. She had blond hair cut into a wedge, beautifully tanned skin, and a smile that lit up her entire face as she punched and kicked the air. You watched her carefully during combat exercises. She easily overpowered her opponents. She was taller than Diana, though just as perfectly proportioned, and her eyes were entirely different. While Diana had cold killer's eyes, this girl's eyes blazed clear gray like a warrior's. And while Diana had been trained to sneak-attack her targets from behind, this girl was the sort to approach hers from the front in fair, refereed competitions.

That evening, as you ministered to Diana's bleeding knuckles, you asked her the other girl's name.

"Oh, you must mean Jess," Diana said. "Sensei says she's the best fighter in the class."

R
emember Bertha Parce, Mama? That old mean bag of a bitch English teacher at Ashley-Burnett? Yes, that one, who enjoyed making fun of certain selected kids in front of all the others. Remember the time I told you about when she read a story of mine aloud to the entire class? The story I wrote about you, Mama, the true one about your opening night at the Fairmount Club Lounge, when Millie and I hid in back of the curtain behind the orchestra and you belted out those great Porter tunes,
"
You're the Top,"
"
I Get a Kick Out of You,"
"
I've Got You Under My Skin," and the crowd went wild.
"
More! More!" they shouted, and you grinned and belted out a couple more:
"
Let's Do It,"
"
So in Love," and, as your final encore,
"Another Op'nin; Another Show." Even then they clapped and howled and begged for more. God! Do you remember?

I wrote my story about that night, and everything I felt during it, the way my heart brimmed with pride in you, Mama, standing out there in your glittering sequin-trimmed crimson strapless, knocking all those fancy folks for a loop. And then how you brought me and Millie out.
"
I want you all to meet my two girls," you announced.
"
It's way past their bedtimes, but they wanted to be here to see if their old ma could really sing." And the crowd went berserk again! I remember one fat old man in particular, with slicked-back gray hair, who stood and clapped until the rest of them followed suit. And then some bosomy lady yelled,
"
Bravo! Bravo!" and you glowed, Mama, you positively lit up electric in the smoky, booze-scented dark of the lounge.