Deficiency (22 page)

"The FBI is here in more strength, convinced our man is still in our backyard. Their profiler is with them and she says the speed at which he is adding victims now and the fact that he has done so within the same vicinity indicates a major change in his M.O. In other words he is keeping himself here for one reason or another. I was going to call you at your office today and fill you in on all this, Doc. We might consider having an officer near you, considering all that's happened to you and Curt."

"What happened to the idea of my being bait?" she asked. "If we have a policeman on my tail, our guy won't return, will he?"

"Far, far too dangerous for you to think of doing that now. As you know better than anyone, we don't know how he does this, why, or if he really does anything? All we know at this point is young women are dying from these deficiencies and our suspect is either with them or around them at the time. Even if we catch this guy, can you imagine what it will be like trying to convict him of anything?"

"No," she said. "It might be easier to be a doctor than a lawyer after all."

He laughed.

"The only solid thing I have is what he did with you, impersonate a
policeman. This might be a form of biological terror, but no one I've spoken with at CDC or the FBI or anywhere can explain how any compound would deprive people of their vitamin stores and selectively to boot!" he exclaimed. It was the first time he sounded on the verge of hysterical frustration. Gone was the possibility of local law enforcement solving any crime. If anything, the bizarre nature of all of it made it far too complicated, even for the Feds.

"I understand," she said.

"I'm glad you do. I don't. Look, I'll just have a patrolman at your offices today and one will follow you about and be close by should you spot our guy or should he try to contact you again, okay? They won't be in your way. I promise."

"Okay," she said. With the way she was calling the sheriff's office, it almost amounted to the same thing anyway, she thought.

She looked at the time.

"I've got to get moving. I'm going to the office soon, but first I have to call my in-laws and then my own parents and tell them about Curt."

"I'd love to tap those calls, just so I hear how you explain it. In any case reassure them we're providing protection."

"Thanks," she said, smiling for the first time this morning. "If I come up with something good, I'll send it over to you."

He laughed and they concluded their conversation. After a moment to catch her breath, she called Curt's parents. His father answered.

"Good morning, Pop," she said. She had been calling Curt's father "Pop" ever since Curt had given her the engagement ring. Then she began to relate the events as close to any form of logic she could compose.

"What's that?" he asked after every revelation, partly because he really needed it repeated as a result of his faulty hearing, which he stubbornly refused to correct with an aid, and second because he needed to confirm he really understood what she was saying. "Why didn't you call us last night?" he demanded at the end of her attempt at any explanations. The best she could come up with was some sort of psychotic schizophrenic was out and about their hometown and Curt had intercepted him trying to break into her home.

"It was very late by the time I left the hospital. Curt was out of any danger," she explained.

"None of this makes any sense to me. I've been reading about these deaths that involve some sort of deficiency or another, but I still don't understand how you are involved," Bill Levitt said.

"Neither do I, Pop."

"Terri. I don't like being left out of the loop," he added sternly.

"You're not, believe me. There isn't much of a loop at the moment."

"Makes no sense," he repeated. "We'll head over to the hospital. You should have called us last night," he repeated, obviously disturbed.

"I'm sorry. I thought I was being sensible."

"I might be retired," he said, "but I'm not dead."

"I'm sorry," she chanted.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," she practically shouted.

"I'll see you later," he concluded.

Now, feeling worse, she punched out her parents' phone number, dreading their reaction even more. Everything she expected resulted: her mother's hysterical panic, her father's deep concern.

Somehow, her mother found a way to blame it on her delaying her marriage to Curt.

"A woman can't be alone in today's world," she declared with a formality and portentous air that made it sound like the title of an Oprah show. "You might be a doctor, but you're still a woman. Poor Curt," she followed. "We'll go right up there."

Terri was going to discourage that or at least have them go later, but then she thought, the more Curt is occupied, the less he will be worrying about her.

"You'll come home tonight, won't you, Terri?" her mother asked.

"I'll see, Ma."

"I'll fix your old room. You'll be safe," she insisted.

Here she was a physician responsible for the health and lives of hundreds of people and her mother wanted her home, sleeping in her old room, surrounded by her stuffed animals. Maybe, she thought, maybe I really did make a mistake coming back here to practice medicine.

Hyman warned me in so many ways. 'You can't be a prophet in your own land.'

If depression fell like raindrops, she was leaving the house in the midst of a torrential downpour.

He was never a late sleeper, especially after he had fed and felt invigorated the night before. Sometimes, immediately after he awoke, he would literally fall to the floor and do dozens of push-ups, hundreds of sit-ups before going for his jog. He was like that today, exploding with energy. He had gotten a wonderful rest. The room had proven to be as quiet as the ugly motel owner had predicted. The highway itself was lightly traveled and his room was a good distance from the road.

First, I'll go for my run, he thought, and then I'll find out from the motel owner where I could go for breakfast close by. It would be a big breakfast today. Maybe even steak and eggs. He got into his sweats, put on his running shoes, and opened the door.

It was a much cooler morning than he had anticipated. He could actually see his breath. The sky was clear and a darker shade of blue. Across the way the branches of trees denuded of their leaves turned the scene into a field of skeletons, bones growing out of tree trunks, scarecrows picked clean by oncoming winter, nature's vulture. The bark of many of the trees looked streaked with dried blood. A pair of crows seemed to be looking his way, nervously lifting and dropping their wings as if they were churning up energy for a quick getaway should it be required.

"Hey!" he screamed at them.

One flew off and then the other, after a moment of courage, followed quickly. They circled and disappeared to the right.

He laughed and then stepped completely out of the room. When he looked down the railroad car-designed motel building, he saw his was the only vehicle. He had been the only customer last night. The owner had been right about the drop-off of his business. How the hell did this guy exist? he wondered.

He could see the light was on in the office. Walking at a brisk pace to warm up, he started in that direction. When he reached it, he glanced at the newspaper machine at the front door and stopped instantly. The resemblance between him and the drawing on the front page was very clear, very sharp. So much so, it was as if he was looking into a mirror that reflected only one's highlights, but enough of them to make it clear that one was looking at oneself. He read that the police were looking for this man for questioning about the death of Paula Gilbert, a country singer who had performed at the Old Hasbrouck Inn. There were no other details about the man they were looking for, but what he had read and the picture drawn was enough to disturb him deeply. This was the first time such a thing had occurred, and he hated the idea of being the hunted.

That's what I do. That's my purpose, he wanted to shout.

His eyes lifted from the machine to the window of the office door. Through it he could see the motel owner staring down at the front page of the paper. He seemed to sense his presence and lifted his eyes, too. They confronted each other. Panic rose to the surface of the owner's face, coming out of it like a thick, red blotch. His eyes brightened like two tiny lights warning outsiders not to enter his thoughts, recording was taking place within.

Without hesitation, he lunged at the door and stepped into the office. The motel owner backed away from the counter.

"Good… morning…" he said, practically choking on each syllable. "How was, was your room?"

"Full of snakes," he replied.

"Whaaa."

"Snakes!" he shouted. "Snakes, everywhere. You put me in a den of snakes!"

The owner shook his head vigorously and continued to back up.

"What are you talking about? What snakes?"

In response, he moved quickly, practically leaping over the counter until he was at him, his hands grasping the man at the neck and practically lifting him off the floor as he drove him back into his living quarters, smashing the door open and pushing him in until he stumbled and fell to the floor, carrying him over with him as he went down.

The man struggled to break free and was doing well, his panic giving him unusual strength. Quickly, realizing the motel owner might break loose, he drove his knee onto the man's Adam's apple and pressed all of his weight there.

The motel owner's face began to explode with terror. His eyes bulged, rising like hard-boiled eggs being squeezed in the middle. His mouth contorted, the lips losing all their shape, and the blood that rose to the surface of his face seemed to jell and clog in the pores of his skin. His choking grew more and more intense. He clawed and swung and tried to buck like a wild horse so he could throw his aggressor off, but nothing worked. He began to lose consciousness. His tongue edged its way out from under his clenched teeth and peered about like a desperate thick-headed snake. It trembled along with the rest of him until he gasped a final time and then sunk into himself, dropping into his death like a rock sinking in water.

Still he pressed his knee into the dead man's throat as if he had to put a stamp of success on this kill. This sort of battle and killing wasn't something he liked doing. Killing the old lady was one thing. That was nearly effortless on his part. This was a whole different scene, a victim who put up real resistance, so much in fact that he was surprised himself at how successful he had been.

Producing death in the women he was with for sexual and feeding reasons came subtly at first and then with an ecstatic easiness that gave him pleasure. This sort of struggle with a man who could offer some opposition required a much bigger physical effort and was therefore far uglier to him. For one thing there was no sexual enjoyment, and for another it made him feel dirtier. The man's sweat was on his hands and the stench of his death, imagined or otherwise, was already rising up to his nostrils.

He stepped back and looked down at him.

Drool ran out of the sides of the man's mouth and down his chin. It was revolting. He hated him even more in death than he had in life.

"You know," he said, "when I first set eyes on you, I knew I was going to have to stamp you out. You're too ugly to live. And what kind of a life did you have anyway, huh?" he shouted at him, waiting as if he expected the corpse would smile and nod and agree he had no reason to be. He would be as grateful as the old lady had been. Or at least, he should be.

"This place…it's a world of death. You should have put yourself to sleep in one of the empty rooms.

"No, instead you were going to do me harm, weren't you? Me, who has ten times the reason to live than you do. You're… you're… an ant, a bug," he said and stepped on the man's swollen abdomen. The mushy feeling disgusted him.

He gazed around the pathetic-looking apartment. The furniture looked as if it had all been rejected by a thrift shop. Not even a charity would accept it. The rug was worn so thin, he could see floorboard beneath it in spots, and the sofa dripped stuffing and showed broken springs beneath. The room actually stunk with staleness.

"This putrid life you led, it disgusts me," he muttered. He seized the man's right ankle and pulled the body along the carpet, his head bobbing and turning as though he was saying, "NO! Stop!"

He deposited the corpse in a corner so no one could look through the door and see it lying there. He even sat him up, leaning him against the wall so there would be less of his legs in sight. His head fell forward and he stared down at the owner's coal-black hair, bald spots now quite visible.

"So much for your stupid dye job," he muttered.

Then, he stepped back and tried to remember what he was going to do before all this had exploded in his face.

Oh yes, jog, he thought and started out. When he looked at the paper on the counter again, he stopped. His gaze went from the drawing to the door and then back to the drawing. He couldn't go out there now. Not with that picture plastered everywhere. Someone was sure to spot him.

He backed away as if someone was coming to the door. It was as quiet and deserted looking as it had been, but this situation was no good. Get in the car and drive away, he thought. Go where people won't see the picture and read the description.

"Maybe we should reconsider when you take your vacation, Terri," Hyman Templeman said. She and her mentor met first thing every morning to go over what they knew to be the day's expected events. "As soon as Curt can travel, take him and disappear for a while."

"You know that will be a while anyway, Hyman. Curt needs to be kept calm."

"Go sneak him away to my cabin in Willowemac then," he suggested. "He likes to fish, doesn't he? You'd be out of it and yet not so far you couldn't get back here in a short time if you needed to for any reason. You could go up there tomorrow."

She started to shake her head.