Diana gives her answer, a rush attack.
The women collide, brutally punch and kick at each other. Grunts of effort and sharp cries of pain resound off the walls. The smell of sweat turns pungent as, for a full twenty seconds, they stand close, in nearly intimate contact, raining and blocking blows. Flesh is bruised. Blood spurts. Knuckles become raw and bum. Finally, exhausted from the struggle, the two fall back to try to control their labored breathing, each trying hard, too, not to show how badly she's been hurt. Finally Jess speaks: "This isn't sport, you know."
Diana squints. "For me it is."
"If we continue like this, one of us'll be killed."
"That's what a real fight's about," Diana replies.
Still in her fighting stance, Diana suddenly reaches up and pulls at her hair. A moment later she casts a wig down upon the floor, then grins as she reveals her closely shaven skull.
Jess stares at Diana, trying to decipher the meaning of this gesture.
Now she sees something in her opponent's icy blue eyes, a murderous look, savage, almost feral, that she never noticed before, even though the two had been friends for months. Suddenly Jess makes a decision. Turning her back on Diana, she strides across the room, opens the door, and exits without a word.
Diana, relaxing her stance, smiles knowingly. to leave a fight, turn one's back on an opponent wit tout ma ing the obligatory bow, is to deliver an unpardonable insult. And it will not be pardoned, she thinks.
My mistake, Mama, was to forget how passionate she could be. Her deeply submissive attachment made me forget that this was a girl who killed her mother, grandmother, and sister with an ax, then split all three of their bodies straight up from the crotch. That she might be jealous if I gave special attention to a patient-well, I should have thought of that and taken steps. But things got out of hand. I remember your words: "If a tool goes into business for itself, you gotta think about getting rid of it."
And that, sadly, Mama, is what I may have to do.
It is 8:00 P.m. A chilly evening in New York. Diana's nostrils quiver as they catch the smell of rotted leaves, a late-autumn smell rising from the dark, wet parkland below. Cold rain fell in the afternoon; now there are puddles on Riverside Drive.
Diana, jogging downtown, does not avoid these puddles. Rather, she runs straight through them. At this hour the drive is nearly deserted. On either side, graceful streetlamps bum sulfurous in the night.
Across the dark canopy of wet bushes and trees Diana catches sight of the Hudson River, its surface gleaming black like roiling oil. Beside the river, streams of cars, headlights streaking, speed along the West Side Highway.
Diana cannot hear these cars; they are too far away. All she can hear is the steady pat-pat-pat of her feet upon the wet pavement and a light buzzing sound inside her brain. Her quarry, unaware she is being tracked, also jogs, but two hundred feet ahead and a hundred feet below amidst the trees. Every so often Diana catches sight of her, a tall, thin light-haired woman dressed in a dark track suit, loping along a path that winds and turns through the narrow park. Diana is on a collision course with this woman. The point of intersection is a mile ahead. She feels an excitement different in quality from what she felt when carrying out missions for Doctor. This time it is her own enemy she is after, an opponent she knows well from numerous encounters.
She also knows that this quarry is most likely armed, a fact that enhances the thrill of the hunt. Diana intends to strike first, hard and fast from behind. The battle should be over before it is even joined. That is the method she was taught.
Although it is cold, Diana is lightly dressed. She wears a thin black long-sleeved T-shirt and black nylon running shorts. She also wears a nylon waist sack loaded with paraphernalia for her kilclass="underline" her weapon, an ice pick, which she will strap on to her forearm when she is ready; a caulking gun filled with glue to mark and desecrate her victim; and a shriveled flower plucked earlier from Doctor's garden, which she will leave as her signature beside a little wall she discovered near the killing site.
She has calculated everything. Only a half mile now to the place she carefully picked out. She increases her speed from a jogger's pace to a fast flat-out run. She bears right at the fork where the sidewalk that borders the drive meets a paved path that descends into the park. Once among the trees, she pulls out her weapon and fits it into the sheath strapped to her arm. She is now on an intersecting vector with her quarry, whom she sees clearly jogging a hundred yards ahead.
What luck! Jess is wearing a Walkman; she will not be able to hear Diana's steps. Diana looks around; no one else is on the path. She and Jess are alone in this narrow strip of park. Ahead, the great illuminated tower of Riverside Church soars into the night sky. Beyond a faint glow is cast by the city's lights.
A light rain begins to fall. Diana shivers slightly but runs on.
She notices that Jess has begun to pick up her pace. Diana speeds up even more. Pat-pat-pat go her feet. She feels her heartheat quicken as her ears find the sound of Jess's steps. Pit-pat pit-pat pit-pat. Jess is but a hundred feet ahead. Impossible now to stop. The rhythm is set. The momentum of attack is carrying her along. Diana pulls her pick from its sheath, holds it underhand as she swings her an-ns. Fifty feet now. Thirty. Twentyfive.
Jess is almost within her reach. In a burst of speed Diana overtakes her. And then, in a single violent motion, she raises her right arm and with full force plunges the pick sideways so that it enters Jess's brain directly through the ear.
Jess, stabbed, falls upon the path, and as she does, the buzzing inside Diana's head suddenly stops. Feeling hot, feverish with victory, Diana grabs hold of Jess's feet and drags her body into the thick, wet brush on the right. She pulls her through the fallen leaves to within a few feet of the ruined wall, then lets go of her, stands back, and stares down at her face.
At one time Jess was her friend, but when she, too, became Doctor's patient, Diana's liking of her turned to hate. Now that hate is purged. Her rival is but dead meat on the ground. Diana kneels to untie the string that secures Jess's sweatpants, then pulls them down to the girl's ankles. She grins when she sees the switchblade knife strapped against Jess's side. An opponent's weapon-what a fine trophy that will make!
As Diana uncaps her caulking gun and sets to work with the glue, her only regret is that now that her onetime friend is dead, she will never be able to give back the archery set she borrowed the week before.
She's down there in the basement now, brooding over her unauthorized kill. All right, you made her into a killing machine, so you've got to expect a certain amount of carryover. She's human after all. But to leave the wallflower signature and use the glue, methods reserved for your tormentors-that was crazy, that means she's out of control.
She can't even explain why she did it. A fit of jealousy? But it was Tool who got Jessica to come see you in the first place. Tool recruited her. She was Jessica's friend. She knew what therapy was. What did she expect? That you'd treat Jessica differently? That you wouldn't take her into your office and listen to her for an hour three times a week?
No, it had to be something more. This past autumn, when Jessica asked for the name of her shrink, Tool was quick to send her on.
Remember the way she beamed when she told you to expect the call?
What about their actual relationship? How much do you really know?
Could they have been more than gym buddies? Could they have been lovers?
Be rational about this; don't let the stress generate fantasies. The truth is you still don't know what they did all those times they went off together after martial arts class. Come to think of it, isn't it strange Jessica never mentioned Tool except the first time she called? "Diana Proctor gave me your name. We take a martial arts class together on the West Side. I'm looking for a good therapist.