The Haunting of the Gemini (16 page)

Eventually, Eddie told me about what he considered to be his masterwork, his murder of Patricia. Over several days, he relived how he'd killed her, savoring both the details of the crime and how much hearing them hurt me. Patricia was an unwanted presence in my life, sure, but I knew she was a victim, and to hear how she had died was excruciating for me. I kept him talking, though, because I thought it was important for people to know exactly what he had done and what he was thinking while he did it. About the night he became the soul collector.

* * *

It was nighttime in the park. The wind blew through the trees. People walked around, lovers kissed. He knew exactly where to wait. He had waited two years since his last attack, and now it was time. He told himself to get ready. Here she came. Don't move too fast, steady yourself. Look at her.

He could tell she had nothing, was nothing. Talking to herself every few seconds. The filth had no bra on, swinging her hips, trying to get fucked. She made him sick. He licked his lips and moved around the bushes to watch her in her tight pants. He could see her nipples through her black T-shirt, which had a flower design on the front. Flowers, which laid on her like she was in a coffin, like when they place a bouquet over a body's chest. He was her undertaker, coming to collect her body. His sweet, dear little sinner. She wanted him to fuck her.

He crept a little closer and she felt him. He smiled. He heard her ask someone for a smoke. He quickly rolled a piece of paper as though it were a cigarette and held it up enough to catch her eye. He had her now. He turned and walked ahead of her, his heart beating with joy. He didn't even have to turn around. He knew she would follow.

She did, and his joy grew, but then she spoke. He hated that. He never wanted his kills to speak.

“Why don't you stop walking? Where are you taking me?” she said.

He looked back. Just a little bit farther. She climbed the steps after him, her breasts jumping up and down as she tried to keep up. He reached into his back pocket, took out his ski mask, and put it on. She told him she thought it was sexy.

“Do you like me? Do you want me?” She was trying to turn him on. Come closer. She did and tried to take what she thought was the smoke. She rubbed herself on him, but he wasn't hard from that. He was hard from the thought of his next move. He pushed her away slightly, backing her up to get a good shot.

“I like you so much, I'm going to keep you forever.”

She saw the gun and said, “No, please.” He felt his eyes roll back in his head and his belly begin to fill. He shot her and she went down. He waited for her to die, because only then could he collect her soul. But she did not. She struggled and fought to get up. Silly girl. He shot her again. She fell again but kept trying to drag herself away from him. How dare she try to get away from her god!

He wanted to see the panic in her eyes, so he got down on his belly beside her and crawled along with her. She kept begging him, but that only turned him on more. That was when he decided that he needed to feel his knife plunge into her, so he could hear the sound of it piercing her flesh.

He pinned her down and slowly licked both sides of the knife blade. She tried to shield her face with her arms, and he laughed at her. As if that would stop him. He plunged the knife in . . . so many times he lost count. It felt so good, he couldn't stop. When he was finally done, he lay beside her and looked at his treasure. She was drenched in her own blood.

But not a drop had touched him. He watched her life run out—those last breaths were always so satisfying. He wanted nothing more than to lay beside his bride, his child, his best kill, his everything. He had waited so long for the perfect one. He saw his breath, despite the August heat, and wiped his mouth as he stretched out next to her, his other half that he would keep forever. He wanted to collect her soul and share their togetherness. Such a sweet moment, he thought.

She had only just begun to live under his thumb, to be his eternal and ever-after slave. He would never be hungry again. She filled his gut. He lay there and thought.

I am humanity.

I am tranquility.

I am the ocean, the sky.

I am your tears.

I am the brother of man—the other brother.

I am the air on your cheeks.

I am your last drop of blood.

Even though the park was full of homeless people and druggies, he and she were alone. He felt light-headed as he looked at his knife, still shiny with blood. He felt like it was Christmas morning, and he had just gotten the toy he'd been wanting all year. But now he had to get home. He wiped off the knife and put it in his jacket pocket, along with his mask.

He left the flesh behind for the pig cops to find and walked quickly out of the park—not because he was afraid of getting caught, but so that he could get home to be with his newly collected soul. He passed by people who all seemed to race by as though they couldn't see him. Figures and faces he couldn't make out flashed by as a voice inside told him how good he had done.

He closed the door to his room and put his gun and the knife in his desk drawer. He changed his clothes and jumped into bed, smelling the blood on a rag he held. Then he made love to his kill. Not the body, but the soul. He felt her next to him. So exciting.

He got up and looked at his body. He let his hand run over his chest. He had done it.

I accomplished it. I am the Zodiac.

The higher beast.

The hunger.

The hunter.

The master.

* * *

I thought Eddie telling me all this was a one-way confessional, but he did not want to play that way.

“Jackie, I have been meaning to ask you something.”

“What?” I said.

“Tell me what happened to you at age eight. Do you remember yet?”

“A lot happened to me,” I said quietly.

“Do you see it?” he pressed further. “Can you tell me?”

I heard a guard in the background yell for him to hang up the phone.

“Ooops. I have to go, Jackie. Time is up. Session over.” He paused. “Tomorrow, you get to lay on the couch, and I ask the questions. We'll play shrink . . .”

He laughed and hung up. I was left standing stunned in the middle of my kitchen. I had never mentioned my visions of Jane, never referred to reincarnation in any way.

He liked to shake me up. At the end of a different conversation, he told me that he sometimes sat in his cell and wondered what I was doing. “I stare at the ceiling and it begins to swirl around, like water, and I see you . . . I can see you . . .”

SIXTEEN

I had planned to have after-dinner coffee with a dear friend. As time rolled on, I kept trying for normalcy, so I made the plans days before. But instead of dressing to meet her, I put on a black hoodie and tucked a wrapped bundle into a tote bag. I walked down the West Side Highway, looking for a place to dump it. I heard people's thoughts as they walked past me. “What's with her face?” they asked themselves, unaware that I could hear every word. I kept searching and finally found a sewer. I threw the bundle down it as hard as I could, like I was afraid it would hurt me. “There,” I said, “you can't kill me again.”

I had just dumped every kitchen and utility knife from my house into the sewer. As I stared down the hole I came to myself, like a sleepwalker awakening to find herself in front of the refrigerator. I shook my head. I remembered the walk but had no idea where I was, which scared the hell out of me. I stopped a passerby and asked for directions to the subway. I felt like a child away from home and wanted to say, “Help me, I'm lost,” but I kept my mouth shut.

I stumbled in the direction the man pointed me. I didn't know how long I walked before I passed a night club that had thumping bass coming from inside and two huge bouncers standing outside.

“Hey, Patricia, you coming in tonight?” one of them hollered at me.

What?

The other one scowled at me. “No drunken shit tonight. I'm not in the mood,” he growled.

“I'm not Patricia,” I stuttered. “That's not my name. You got the wrong person.”

They laughed at me as I fled.

* * *

I found an all-night diner and stood outside, looking in at the light and the people. The activity made me feel less alone. I fumbled for my cell phone and tried to call Will. It didn't occur to me to call my friend and tell her I wouldn't be making our coffee date in a different part of the city. For a moment, I couldn't figure out what buttons to push. I finally succeeded, only to get his voice mail. I told him where I was and asked him to come pick me up, since I still had no idea how to get to the subway.

The diner seemed like a safe place to wait. It was crowded with late-night customers, many of them laughing as they relived their nights out on the town. They ignored me as I walked past on my way toward the one empty booth in the back. I sat down and cradled my pounding head in my hands.

“Well, are you going to just sit there? I don't have all day. What can I get you?”

I looked up to see an older woman, with curly red hair and flaming lipstick to match. Her face was lined with what I was sure were her own heartaches as well as the weary work of tending to hungry drunks on the night shift. I asked for strong coffee and a menu in what I thought was a polite manner. She did not.

“One strong cup of piss and find me a menu,” she yelled toward the kitchen. “We got a prima donna on our hands.”

She stomped off, and I headed for the bathroom to wash up. I shouldn't have bothered. The place reeked, and since there were no paper towels, I ended up wiping my hands on my own shirt. Still rubbing them dry, I walked back to my booth to find someone sitting there, his back to me.

“Excuse me, this is my seat, and I'm waiting for someone,” I said.

It was the tall man in black, immaculately dressed in a suit. He sipped a cup of coffee and told me to sit down.

He smiled at me. A perfect smile. “Come on, Jackie. Look around. This is New York City, the city that never sleeps.” He gestured around him. “I know what you're thinking. What am I doing in a dump like this?” I didn't take my eyes off him. “It takes all walks of life. Some I know, some I'm waiting to be acquainted with. You know, Jackie, when they cross my path I'll be there for them. No sir, I will not let them down.”

I stared at his face. This was the first time we had sat and had an actual conversation, so I took advantage of the opportunity to look at him without fearing for my life. His eyes were dark and intense and seemed to collect suffering. He reached over the table and grabbed my hand. I barely noticed the waitress bring my coffee.

“Jackie, I'm everywhere. I made history many times. I collect what is left over . . . Look at it like this. Credit me for your existence.”

What?

He tilted his head as if he were examining me for a crack he could use to get in. “Why, if it wasn't for me, who would you be? I made you who you are. I put you on the map . . . Oh, Jackie, don't look so confused. If evil didn't exist, how would the honorable become honorable?”

He pulled my hand closer to him, forcing me to look even more closely at him. I felt myself going into his world, being pulled into my psychic realm. I felt the change. Loud noise pierced my ears, and words started to echo in my skull.

“Jackie, look back over the counter at those cooks,” he ordered me. I turned, and instead of the two ordinary men sweating behind the grill I had noticed earlier, I saw a large man in a clown suit throwing together a ham sandwich. His stained gloves slapped down each slice of meat with a thump. He was standing next to a well-groomed, handsome man with dark hair. They were comparing notes.

The clown bragged—he'd strangled, mutilated, tortured. The other one grinned. “At least I wasn't a faggot, getting off on handcuffed guys.”

“Yeah, well, I fooled everyone,” the clown said. “I had them all under my own house. Their own little graveyard. I was a well-respected part of society. I had them all fooled.”

“Well, I had the brains,” said the handsome one. “I became that lawyer, even representing myself. I got up in court and stood near that jury and questioned that pig of a detective, made him even explain in detail what he saw—not leaving anything out. I was hungry for the kill, and it got me off. Better than sex!”

They went on, talking and laughing. My companion tugged at my hand to bring my attention back to him. He knew whom I had seen, since he was the one who showed them to me. He was making a point.
Look at the soldiers in my army. Eddie isn't the only one.
“You can wipe them off the earth but never clean away the acts. They live in my world and yours. Times change and others are born, giving me great joy.” His grip tightened, and his feet curled around mine under the table. He knew I wanted to run. “I am the Zodiac. You looked for the truth and found me. How does it feel, Jackie, to be in my world?”

Sweat dripped down my face and stung my eyes. He noticed my untouched coffee and dumped sugar into it. Then he added cream. It hit the flat black surface and turned to blood. Red rippled through my cup. He stuck his finger in and slowly stirred. His booted foot rode up my leg and his eyes glinted with pleasure. He took his dripping finger out of the cup of gore and reached toward me, wiping it across my lips.

Unlike with some of his previous visits to me, this time I knew I was in full psychic mode, and that no one else could see this tall man in black, this devil twin of Eddie. It wasn't real. But it
was
disgusting. I fought back the urge to gag.

“Take this, Jackie, and drink. This is my blood, the blood of sin and lust. The blood of evil. Be my Gemini. You will live forever in the heart and souls of the weak. You will finish my work of mass destruction, you have the unknown power. Lay with me by day and stalk by night. Look what God has put you through. Let me in . . .”

Enough. I jumped up, knocking over my coffee. There was no one across from me. The crowded babble of patrons returned to my ears. The cooks at the grill were two normal guys. The waitress stomped over with a soiled wet rag.

“What the hell does this look like, a fucking hotel? No sleeping in this joint. Come on, buy something or get going.”

“No, no . . .” I pleaded. I tossed six bucks on the table in the hope that would calm her down and shut her up. I needed to get home, and Will hadn't come. I would have to find the subway on my own. Where was the R train? She laughed at me as I headed for the exit. “Looking for Bellevue, lady? Just keep going toward Broadway; you'll run into it.”

Everyone heard that, and their stares followed me as I made my way awkwardly toward the door. As I opened it, I took a quick glance back. Were they still staring? Instead of a row of men at the counter, there now sat only a woman with a child—a little girl in a yellow raincoat. I looked at her, with her little legs dangling from the stool, and I remembered. I flashed back to when I was dragged away by a man. To choking for air as hands tightened around my neck.

I staggered outside, wheezing. I grabbed on to a pole just to stay upright. A man walked past, looking at me as if he thought I was just some common junkie in need of a fix. Then suddenly he stopped and came closer.

“It doesn't have to be like this,” he whispered and then walked away. The devil had overtaken that ordinary man, just to show me how powerful he was. No matter where I went or how fast I ran away, the devil could enter anyone and find me at any time. I was never safe. I eventually made my way to the subway station, praying the whole way that I would wake up from this nightmare. Somehow, I made it home. Will, who had not gotten my message, was waiting for me outside.

“Where were you?” he said.

“Hell,” I yelled. “I was in hell!”

“Jackie, look at me,” he said. “You can't take the sins away from the world. You'll die.”

“I already did, and I came back.” I yelled, almost in spite of myself, as I raced into the house and up to the bathroom. All I wanted was to soak in a hot bath, to be one with myself, to not share my body with anything or anyone. I slid into the hot water and tried to wash away the filth. By the time I got out, Will was in bed, worn out from concern for me. All he could manage to say was good night. I slid into bed next to him and curled into a fetal position.

And then there was a hand over my mouth. My body was pulled by an invisible force. I felt his body next to mine and his arm around me. This tall man in black, the Zodiac.

“Come to me, Jackie. Listen to my voice. Feel me.”

And I fell, farther and farther, down into darkness. I couldn't tell whether I was asleep, dying, or finally succumbing to his demands. And still I fell . . .

* * *

. . . I landed in what looked like the lobby of a hotel. A man rushed up and immediately shoved a small suitcase into my hands. He carried an identical one.

“Hurry, Patricia, no time to wait,” he said as he guided me to the elevator. We rode upward until he ushered me off and over to room 810. He hurriedly pushed open the door and told me to take off my own clothes and put on what was in the suitcase.

The brass snaps on the suitcase popped as I opened it. I pulled out a drab-green hospital gown designed to tie in the back. He shook his head at me. “Tsk, tsk. Put it on open in the front,” he said as he scurried around, getting things ready. I felt like I was late for a very important date.

He opened his own suitcase and began putting on medical scrubs and a cap. I followed his orders and pulled the gown's edges together, embarrassed.

“Nonsense,” he chided. “The body is not the body; it's a learning tool.”

He snapped on a pair of long black gloves. I could smell the heavy rubber. He impatiently turned down the bed and waved me toward it. I climbed in. The sun was so strong I could barely open my eyes. Instead, I used my ears and heard the sounds of metal objects clanging against one another. A microphone came on and amplified the man as he introduced himself to what sounded like a group of students. He explained what everyone was about to witness. And then I understood.

The sun was a large overhead lamp. The bed was a metal autopsy table with a drain. The pillow was a rubber block with a cutout to hold my neck in place.

“What we have here is a cadaver. A murder victim,” the man intoned into the microphone. My robe was pulled open. I no longer cared. Modesty was no longer a virtue.

I lay there as he cut into me. His voice started to float away and other things started to float in. Bits and pieces. Numbers. Room numbers. Room 810. 8-10. The eighth month and the tenth day. August tenth, the date of my death.

“Cause of death—two gunshots and over a hundred stab wounds.” He stuck his hands inside my opened body. I felt nothing. I was nothing but a slab of meat. My mind drifted away, back to times when I was happy. I had to go way, way back, that's for sure. Maybe when I was a teenager, when I would laugh as I ran around with my friends. I tried even further back, and earlier memories came closer, but the man's voice interrupted. He was still talking to his audience, and I could see him above me, pulling me apart.

He stopped talking and moved closer, staring at my face. Did he know I was still inside? That I was this corpse? Is this all there was? I felt tears fill my eyes and spill over onto my cheeks, one at a time. They were warm on my ice-cold skin. Did I get shock treatment and now was hallucinating? It could be. I could be alive. Or was that wishful thinking? The table was cold, and my life was oozing down its drain.