"How long do they keep the records?"
"Near as I could tell, they never get rid of them. They have records go back a couple of generations anyway. But the computer, it only has data for about the past fifteen, twenty years.
"They break it down by county?"
"Yes. This is Lake County. All the records for the region are in the DPW Building."
"On the computer too?"
"Yes. But all the computer has is the information that's on this form," she said, pushing a dull green piece of paper across to me. It looked like a police pedigree: name, age, date of birth, address, check-places for type of suspected abuse or neglect.
I scanned the paper. I'd seen it before. They all use the same form. "You actually see the computer?"
"The central data-bank's not there. But there's terminals all over the place."
"On-line access? Twenty-four hours a day?" She nodded.
"They segregate the local data?"
Blossom nodded again, watching closely now.
"Okay."
"Okay what?"
"Just okay. See you later tonight?"
"I'll be here."
"Blossom…"
"What?"
"Give me my pistol."
107
THE RAIN STARTED about ten. The building was dark, lights burning on the third floor. Rebecca was at the wheel, me next to her in the front seat, Virgil in the back. They both smoked in silence, waiting for me.
B&E. Back to myself, back to crime. Started to think like myself then. Working with what I knew. Knowing when a woman spreads her legs, it's not the same thing as opening up. Blossom was compartmentalized, and I hadn't looked inside all the boxes.
It was eleven before the lights went off. Almost midnight when we heard the back door open, close. A dark-colored compact came down the driveway, braked, took off slowly to the left.
"Cleaning lady," I said. "She must work six to midnight."
We gave it another two hours. A police cruiser went by in the darkness. Didn't stop. No foot patrols.
"Nothing anybody'd want in there," Virgil said. My birth certificate told how right he was.
108
THE RAIN was pounding harder as I drove back to Hammond. A light flicked on as I turned off the engine. Blossom was in her robe in the kitchen, no sleep-signs on her face.
"You want something to eat?"
"No, thanks."
"Have just some dry toast. You don't want to take this stuff on an empty stomach."
"What stuff?"
"What's it look like to you?" Moving her shoulder to indicate the kitchen table.
"It looks like three fat gray coffins and a red dot," I told her, sitting down.
"The big ones are Vitamin C. The red one's the beta-carotene."
"You bought this stuff?"
"This afternoon. While you were out prowling around."
"Thanks."
"It was the least I could do. You've been a good boy."
My eyes went up to her face, voice soft, wanting her to understand. "I'm not a boy."
She brought the toast over to the table, a glass of cold water in her other hand. Put them down. Smoothed her robe over her hips and sat on my lap, primly, one hand on the back of my neck for balance.
"All men are boys. Different kinds of boys. You're a bad boy."
"Blossom…"
"A bad boy. Not a mean one. Eat your toast. Take your vitamins."
I ate slowly, feeling her warm, solid weight on me. Only her feet and a piece of her calves showed under the hem of the robe. Dark nylon stocking on one leg, the other bare.
I swallowed the last vitamin. She bounced sweetly in my lap. "Let's go see," she said.
109
LATER. The rain slapped the house. Blossom's cheek against my chest, blonde hair trailing halfway down her back. Legs slightly parted, one sheathed in the dark stocking, the other bare.
"Tell me about him," she asked, a tiny tremor in her voice.
I didn't answer her, translating inside my head, putting it in a package.
"You know what DNA is?"
"Yes."
"One thing you'll always find around any lovers' lane, discarded condoms. The cops didn't collect them from the murder scene. They'd done that, maybe they'd have his fingerprints."
"You mean…"
"Yeah. He's not a mass murderer, he's a serial killer."
"What's the difference?"
"A mass murderer, he straps down, walks out the door to do his work. Hunting for humans. He's not coming back. Like that maniac who strolled into McDonald's, turned it into a splatter film. Those kind, they walk, understand? When they hear the music, they march. Like a Geiger counter. The ticks start to run close together, it's a hum in their head. They pull the trigger, make it stop. Leave a lot of bodies around."
"Like that girl who killed all those schoolkids? Just outside of Chicago?"
"Just like her. She had to do her work. Her work was done, she was too. That's why so many of them kill themselves. Right after their work is done. Not because they can't face going to jail. It's just…over. The humming stops. What they need is a lot of humans in the same place. Doesn't matter which ones."
"The one who killed my sister…"
"That's not him. He's the other side of the moon. The human-hunters, they kill to stop the humming in the head. This guy, he looks for it. Only way he can get it is kill. Then it starts. He wants to hear it again. That special song. The one only he hears. So he goes again."
"So he wouldn't kill himself?"
"Never."
"It was just…random, wasn't it, Burke? You don't think he was tracking anyone in particular…like my sister?"
"No. He's no man-stalker. I think he looked a long time before he did this. Started slow. They have trigger-signals. It's different for every one. Like a message, only for them. I talked to a guy once. Slasher-rapist. He told me, the women, they asked him to do it. Sent him a message. Not every woman, just some."
"What was the message…his message?"
"He said, if he could see the panty-line under their skirts, that was it."
"God."
"If there's a God, someone needs to sue him for malpractice."
She shuddered against me.
110
JUST BEFORE LIGHT. "Burke, do you know what his signal is?"
"I think so. Some of it anyway. It's his way of having sex. The only way that works for him. He knows he's a beast. A lonely beast, the only one of his species. He can't find a mate. He sees the mating act, sees sex. It's like they're laughing at him. Waving it in his face. When he started shooting, the first time, maybe it was rage. Like he was being mocked. Then one time, he fired, saw someone go down. And he got off. Came. Released. He went over the line then— now it's the only place where it can happen for him. He wouldn't go back if he could."
She shifted her weight against me, listening with her whole body. "One thing Mama always said— the most dangerous thing a working girl could do was laugh at a trick."
"She knew, your mother. This guy, I think he's rooted. Close to home. His base. He doesn't live in a furnished room, out of the back of an old car. Most serial killers, they're drivers. Nomads. Cover a lot of territory. Not this one. He's hit at least twice. Close by, each time. We'll check those news clips, maybe we'll know more. One thing I know already— he's not a team. He's more alone than anyone in the world."