Portrait Of The Psychopath As A Young Woman Part 45

She feels no pain.

She dies.

Epilogue.

(I).

The next morning, Kohls identified the killer's second to last victim as an electroph.o.r.esis technician named Wallace, who worked at the hospital's phlebotomy unit. In the bas.e.m.e.nt he found dozens of body parts. More body parts were detected via gasprobes in the back yard. In the killer's room, atop the dresser, was a small wooden cabinet. Tacked to the cabinet's interior door were newsclippings from several years ago, detailing the arraignment, trial, and conviction of Samuel Curtis Shade. Also detailed was the testimony of Kathleen Shade.

At the bottom of the box, congealed by karyolysis into a single ma.s.s, Kohls found close to a dozen severed male genitalia.

(II).

Spence didn't die. The .455 slug had broken his ribs and collapsed his right lung but a welltrained EMT crew managed to reinflate the lung and cessate the bleeding before the ambulance had even arrived at the hospital. Spence was promoted to the rank of captain, which didn't sit well with him because it would restrict his opportunity to work in the field. Kohls, however, who visited Spence on occasion, made an observation one evening.

"Hey, wouldn't you rather be a captain pushing f.u.c.king paperwork than a lieutenant pushing up f.u.c.kin' daisies?"

"Well, yeah," Spence reflected.

(III).

"How are you feeling?" Kathleen Shade asked.

Spence sat inclined in the hospital bed, holding the phone to his ear. "How do I feel? Like someone lowered a drawbridge on my chest. And that bullet I took? Ruined over $800 worth of clothes."

"Buy cheaper clothes."

Spence was aghast. "Me? No way."

In the background he thought he heard a television; it sounded like a baseball game. A disgruntled male voice yelled several times, "G.o.dd.a.m.n Yankees! You call that a pitch?"

"I read in the papers that you got promoted," Kathleen said.

"Yeah, but I might resign. I don't know if I want to be a cop anymore."

"I can't imagine you being anything else."

Spence thought about that. He wasn't sure what he wanted. He wasn't sure if he'd ever know. "How is Platt?" he asked.

"Oh, he's fine, but I think his team is losing. We're thinking about getting married."

"Good. I'm happy for you." Spence genuinely was. "Can I come to the wedding?"

"Sure, but you have to promise not to make a spectacle of yourself."

"You have my word. Just make sure no one parks in the church firelane, 'cos I'll have 'em towed."

"Somehow, I believe that."

Spence fidgeted. His chest itched. "Are you still going to write the book?"

"A militantfeminist opportunist like me? Of course."

"I never meant any of that stuff, you know."

"Don't tell me that, Spence. You'll ruin my conception of you."

Spence laughed briefly, then cringed from the pain. "You're going to mention me, aren't you?"

"You can bet your poker face and existential a.s.s that I will."

"I told you, I'm not an existentialist. I'm a-"

"Yeah," Kathleen recalled. "A solipsist." She laughed over the line. "You've got enough c.r.a.p to sink a ship."

"I know," Spence said.

"Are you really going to come to my wedding?"

"No," Spence said.

Kathleen paused. "What do you mean no?"

"The word denotes a negation, denial, or disagreement. It's an adverb. But I'm only kidding. Of course I'll come to your wedding. Oh, and I'll also say lots of good things about you when you interview me for your book."

"Get well soon, Spence. And keep in touch."

"I will," Spence said. "Good-bye."

(IV).

Simmons visited him regularly. He brought books and magazines and bantered about things of little consequence.

"You don't have to therapize me by making distracting small talk," Spence told the doctor.

"Oh, I know that. Who could ever therapize you, you, Jeffrey?" Simmons walked around the clean hospital room as if making a discreet inspection. "So when do you get to go home?" Jeffrey?" Simmons walked around the clean hospital room as if making a discreet inspection. "So when do you get to go home?"

"A couple of weeks."

Simmons looked at him. "And what then?"

Spence knew what he meant. "I don't know. I might quit."

"Fine. Start a business. Teach. Anything. You might even consider being a psychologist."

"Not likely," Spence said. "That would be even more depressing than being a cop."

Simmons turned from the window and cast Spence a reproving scowl. "It's really not that bad, you know. It really isn't."

"What?" Spence.

"If you let yourself really look look, Jeffrey, you'll see some of the most wonderful things. It really can be wonderful."

"What?" Spence repeated.

Simmons' hand opened toward the sunlit window.

"The world, Jeffrey."

THE END.

Edward Lee (seen here with his new electronic cigarette) has had more than 40 books published in the horror and suspense field, including CITY INFERNAL, THE GOLEM, and BLACK TRAIN. His movie, HEADER was released on DVD by Synapse Films, in June, 2009. Recent releases include the stories, "You Are My Everything" and "The Cyesologniac," the Lovecraftian novella "Trolley No. 1852," and the hardcore novel HAUNTER OF THE THRESHOLD. Currently, Lee is working on HEADER 3. Lee lives on Florida's St. Pete Beach. Visit him online at: