The Serial Killers Club Part 4

"Can't you just stick to the members?"

"He is a member."

"He?"

"I know, the guy freaks everyone out."

"Okay . . . whatever," is all he offers.

"Oh. Before I go, we got a new member tonight."

"And?"

"Well, I'm just saying, there's one more, and I was hoping maybe I could be given more time."

"That isn't going to happen."

Agent Wade's words are delivered with an undeniable finality.

I shrug in a fake casual way, not that he can see me do this. "Just asking."

I hang up.

It's time.

WELL EXECUTED.

I RUN ALL THE WAY. RUN ALL THE WAY. I'm pretty fit and can run forever if I want to. I wanted to be a long-distance athlete when I was younger. I wanted to run races that were maybe a hundred miles long, or maybe one lap was a hundred miles and I'd enter for a fifty-lap race and just start running. I would love to run right around the world, but Carole's place is closer, so I go there instead. I'm pretty fit and can run forever if I want to. I wanted to be a long-distance athlete when I was younger. I wanted to run races that were maybe a hundred miles long, or maybe one lap was a hundred miles and I'd enter for a fifty-lap race and just start running. I would love to run right around the world, but Carole's place is closer, so I go there instead.

I am soaked through to the skin by the time I arrive, and after a quick glance up to the thunderously wet sky, I get this crazy notion in my head that this is the sort of city where arsonists should come for rehab.

Carole is so big and mean looking that he doubts anyone would burglarize his tiny little apartment, so getting inside requires little in the way of skill or imagination. Fortunately for me, skillers believe themselves to be invulnerable to petty crime and think that they are so wild and scary that no one in their right mind would do something to upset them. They're as untouchable as English royalty. You should hear the outrage if any of them ever gets a parking ticket.

In Carole's case, the reality is he owns little to interest a thief, unless they're studying for a doctorate. Inside are endless rows of important-looking books. Their t.i.tles are the strong, no-nonsense, no-play-on-words type: Psychology: The Way Forward, Psychoa.n.a.lysis: The Way Back, Jungian Theory: From the Side On, Grimms' Book of Fairy Tales. Psychology: The Way Forward, Psychoa.n.a.lysis: The Way Back, Jungian Theory: From the Side On, Grimms' Book of Fairy Tales. The last one is, I'm pretty convinced, the only one Carole has read and managed to grasp. His apartment, a shabby ground-floor affair, a living room, a kitchen, and a bedroom, has a strong, sour, distasteful odor. It fills the apartment, and I become so sidetracked as to how Carole can live with this stench that I start ransacking the place in an attempt to find the source of the odor. Eventually I come across a tube of denture cement in his bathroom cabinet-it sits beside a special two-headed toothbrush and a tin of soothing powder for his gums. When I unscrew the lid on the denture cement tube, I arc my head back. The stuff smells of acid, and I swear I can feel it attacking my eyes. I then grin to myself as I realize that Carole isn't so perfect that he can't fall victim to what must be one of the greatest marketing ploys of this century. By making denture cement smell this bad, the manufacturer forces you to buy at least three times the amount of denture toothpaste in order to maintain any semblance of an odor-free mouth. I'm so wrapped up in this discovery that I almost don't hear the front door open. I freeze instantly. The next few moments are, as always, a question of my trying to balance my natural terror with the need to keep a level head. I try to give myself positive things to think about while I fight down an all-consuming onrush of terror. I try hard to concentrate on quarterbacks as they prepare to unleash a forty-yard throw while eight guys, each weighing three hundred pounds, try to jump on them. I think about the coolness and clearness of thought that requires. I also sometimes ponder the men who build the last floor of a towering new skysc.r.a.per. There they are, hundreds of feet up in the air, defying high winds and the relentless impeachment of gravity. They carry on mixing cement and sticking bricks on top of one another as if they haven't a care in the world, and that to me defines the word The last one is, I'm pretty convinced, the only one Carole has read and managed to grasp. His apartment, a shabby ground-floor affair, a living room, a kitchen, and a bedroom, has a strong, sour, distasteful odor. It fills the apartment, and I become so sidetracked as to how Carole can live with this stench that I start ransacking the place in an attempt to find the source of the odor. Eventually I come across a tube of denture cement in his bathroom cabinet-it sits beside a special two-headed toothbrush and a tin of soothing powder for his gums. When I unscrew the lid on the denture cement tube, I arc my head back. The stuff smells of acid, and I swear I can feel it attacking my eyes. I then grin to myself as I realize that Carole isn't so perfect that he can't fall victim to what must be one of the greatest marketing ploys of this century. By making denture cement smell this bad, the manufacturer forces you to buy at least three times the amount of denture toothpaste in order to maintain any semblance of an odor-free mouth. I'm so wrapped up in this discovery that I almost don't hear the front door open. I freeze instantly. The next few moments are, as always, a question of my trying to balance my natural terror with the need to keep a level head. I try to give myself positive things to think about while I fight down an all-consuming onrush of terror. I try hard to concentrate on quarterbacks as they prepare to unleash a forty-yard throw while eight guys, each weighing three hundred pounds, try to jump on them. I think about the coolness and clearness of thought that requires. I also sometimes ponder the men who build the last floor of a towering new skysc.r.a.per. There they are, hundreds of feet up in the air, defying high winds and the relentless impeachment of gravity. They carry on mixing cement and sticking bricks on top of one another as if they haven't a care in the world, and that to me defines the word heroic. heroic.

I can hear Carole moving around in his apartment, probably wondering why there's a window open and why some of his stuff has been scattered around. Like I say, skillers don't believe burglars will touch them, so he's probably working on a more lateral theory-maybe something like an animal has somehow found its way into his apartment. As I listen to him, I know I have between five and ten seconds before he finds me. This is the moment where I think, Quarterback builder, quarterback builder, and it goes round and round in my head until I get this surge of confidence and finally make up my mind that there is no turning back.

"h.e.l.lo? Anyone there?" Carole walks into his living room, switches on a side light. That's good. A low light is always good. A main light tends to add a starkness, the low light adds mystery and a black-and-white B-movie nuance. The real Carole Lombard would appreciate this.

Carole whistles. "Here, puss. . . . Hey . . . puss?"

I take one last calming breath and emerge from the bathroom, holding my hands up, making out I'm defenseless, harmless. "Carole, I've been thinking . . . about what you were saying back at the Club."

Carole stands there, struck dumb, completely thrown.

"And I came to the conclusion that you are way off the mark. W-a-a-a-a-y off the mark."

"What are you doing here?" Not such a know-it-all now. "You break in here, you little s.h.i.t?"

"Thing is, you've got it wrong." I persist in making my point. "Intelligence and insight hold as much weight as a gnat in a tornado. Insignificance is our only true standing in this world."

"You've got ten seconds to explain yourself, Douglas." I can see Carole is getting angry, more than a little jumpy, and he's going to react like all great pseudointellectuals in times of stress. He's going to go for me like a rabid dog.

"I just did explain myself. Perhaps you didn't quite grasp what I meant. Let me tell you in layman's terms."

It happens quickly. Carole's rage erupts. He comes at me, lurches forward. I am too fast, though, too agile, and I duck away from him, reaching for a book that lies on his coffee table, a thick and heavy tome ent.i.tled Get Smart, Get Even, Get a Life! Get Smart, Get Even, Get a Life! I swing it round and smash Carole on the back of the head with it. I hit him so hard that his false teeth fly out and almost hit a portrait of someone who I think is Einstein, and it is this moment that freezes him long enough, possibly through the sheer embarra.s.sment of it all, for me to take one step farther away from the electric chair. I swing it round and smash Carole on the back of the head with it. I hit him so hard that his false teeth fly out and almost hit a portrait of someone who I think is Einstein, and it is this moment that freezes him long enough, possibly through the sheer embarra.s.sment of it all, for me to take one step farther away from the electric chair.

With all things being equal, I know for certain that Carole could never be truly clever even if someone came along and beat the intelligence into him. Which is exactly what I attempt to do with an oversize copy of Encyclopedia Britannica. Encyclopedia Britannica. I don't enjoy this, but I do find a fallen page devoted to the African termite family, which is actually a lot more interesting than it sounds. I don't enjoy this, but I do find a fallen page devoted to the African termite family, which is actually a lot more interesting than it sounds.

Afterward, when I'm removing all trace of my being in Carole's apartment, I find the false teeth. I can't help myself and pretend to have a conversation with Carole's teeth, clacking them open and shut, making like I'm on Letterman.

"So, Dougie . . . tell me about this crusade of yours."

"Well, Dave . . . it's sort of hard to explain. Isn't really my idea, truth be told."

"C'mon, don't play the demure little guy with me. You pull this off and you're going to be a hero."

"I am? How d'you figure that?"

"You're ridding the world of serial killers. There aren't going to be any left after you're done. America will sleep a little easier in her bed thanks to you."

"A hero? Me?"

"Sure thing, Dougie. They're going to write books and make movies about you, women are going to hurl themselves at your feet. You will be so famous, even I will have to get in line for an autograph."

"Jeez. Never thought of it like that."

"Let's face it. You, sir, are the next all-American hero. Or small-American hero, in your case."

"Oh my, Dave-let's pause for some big ironic laughs, shall we?"

"Sorry, Doug . . . forgive me. Blame the writers on this show. In fact, I'll fire them right this minute."

"I'll make sure I give them my autograph before they leave."

I go to Carole's body and wedge the teeth back into his mouth. Only I put them in back to front, with the teeth facing into the throat, and fight to suppress a small giggle when I imagine the coroner trying to work out if Carole was either trying to eat himself to death or was just plain stupid.

When I get back to my apartment, Agent Wade is waiting in his car outside. He is listening to heavy metal on the radio but turns it off as I approach.

"How'd it go?" is all he asks.

"Like clockwork." I can't help crowing a little. "For a non-plan, it went according to plan."

"Anyone see you?"

"You kidding? You're talking to an old pro here."

"Sounds like you made a good start."

I'm not proud of myself, but I fake a confident look for Agent Wade's sake. "I guess I did."

"Still prefer it if you had a plan."

"I really don't need one. Tonight proves that."

"All the same . . ."

Agent Wade turns the loud rock music back on. It takes me a few seconds to realize that the conversation is over. I shrug and head for my apartment.

I can't deny that the thought of being a hero is starting to appeal to me. I lie in bed wondering who I should do next, and to my surprise, I feel a growing sense of antic.i.p.ation. I can feel myself basking in the warm glow of all-American-ness when I hear my bedroom door creak open.

I can hardly believe my eyes when Agent Wade walks in-smoking thoughtfully-and sits at the foot of my bed. I feel his weight make my mattress, and me, rise a few centimeters. He looks around my small bedroom, takes in the pale lilac decor, the battered oak wardrobe, the small set of pine drawers, the single bed.

Finally he looks at me.

"I don't like the non-plan plan."

I'm not sure what to say at first, try to gather my thoughts. "But it works."

"The FBI would fire me on the spot if they knew I was going in planless. It's like going into a shoot-out without your pants on."

"But you're not going in, I am."

"All the same, I'm in charge of this operation. And I say you start by mapping out a plan of action. And I want it in writing."

"Writing?"

"A thousand words minimum."

I sigh, hope he gets how annoyed I am. "I haven't got time to write reports."

Agent Wade's eyes blaze into mine. "What you'll do is what I tell you to do. Now get planning. And writing."

Agent Wade leaves my bedroom, and the warm glow I was experiencing earlier has turned cold enough to make me want to get up and switch on the heating.

WILLIAM HOLDEN.

APB: MISSING SERIAL KILLER.

CAROLE LOMBARD had killed fourteen. Prized open their skulls and dined on their brains. They were all college professors, men and women who quite possibly had a lot more to offer life than he ever would. Anyone who thought that they could "ingest" intellect and not have to do correspondence courses like the rest of us is one severely stupid person. You could tell this just from listening to Carole's stories at the Club. By far and away they were the most labored and tedious I had ever heard. He was technical and deliberate, with little or no rhythm, and he definitely could not get into his characters. His rank halitosis didn't help matters, either. had killed fourteen. Prized open their skulls and dined on their brains. They were all college professors, men and women who quite possibly had a lot more to offer life than he ever would. Anyone who thought that they could "ingest" intellect and not have to do correspondence courses like the rest of us is one severely stupid person. You could tell this just from listening to Carole's stories at the Club. By far and away they were the most labored and tedious I had ever heard. He was technical and deliberate, with little or no rhythm, and he definitely could not get into his characters. His rank halitosis didn't help matters, either.

I am convinced he won't be missed.

"So where's sewer mouth?" Tony looks around at me and the other nine members attending the next Club meeting. I immediately feel my heart stop. It's been three months since the previous skiller went missing, and I'd forgotten about that initial nausea-inducing wave of anxiety I always experience at the first meeting after their disappearance.

No one says anything as Tony eyes us in an imperiously calculating fashion and then speaks out of the corner of his mouth. "What time you got, Burt?"

"I make it a quarter after."

"I must be a little fast. I've got twenty after."

William Holden's soft tones make him sound like he is constantly whispering. This and his emphatically bald head complete his totally sinister appearance, and he comes across as the Identi-Kit serial killer. William has no hair whatsoever on his body, and although there's a medical term for it, I just tend to think of him as being one of nature's freaks.

"That's forty-five minutes late, ladies and gentlemen." Tony belches as he stares out at us. "I will not tolerate that kinda irregular timekeeping."

"What are you gonna do? Fine him?" Pointy-faced Tallulah Bankhead gives a thin-lipped, petulant smile. Apart from killing people, it seems the only other thing she enjoys in life is to goad people. I'm ashamed to admit that I once almost got into a fistfight with her when she kept interrupting one of my more imaginative eulogies on my killer's block.

"Or maybe make him write out a hundred times, 'I must not be late for meetings.'"

Everyone has learned to rise above Tallulah's petty taunts by now, so Tony just scowls at her and then looks over to me.

"You ride here with Carole sometimes, Dougie. He not on your bus tonight?"

"Uh . . . not that I noticed."

"Too busy leering at some chick, huh?" Chuck nudges my arm, and I give him a "well, you know me" smile. We're both pretty much the studs of the Club, and I think from the way everyone laughs along with Chuck that they all appreciate what he's implying here.

"What if Miss Lombard isn't late?" Cher leans forward, takes a hard puff on her cigarette. She speaks in a very definite and precise manner, just like the real Cher. "Maybe he isn't gonna turn up ever again."

Cher never calls anyone other than Mr. This or Miss That.

I was astonished when I first saw Cher walk into the Club, because she is the exact double of the real Cher. The absolute spitting image, same age, same height, same hair, same voice.

Tony eyes Cher curiously. "Care to emulsify on that?"

Cher holds Tony's look. "All I'm saying is that . . . well . . . maybe he's had enough of the Club."

I sit there secretly hoping to G.o.d that Tony buys this.

"Don't you dare f.u.c.king say that." Tony loves-absolutely loves-the Club.

"I just kinda wonder if things aren't getting a little predictable. You know, a little stale."

Chuck lights a Marlboro. "Must admit it's not as much fun as it used to be." He then whips off a one-liner, and I instantly crease up. "Mind you, they say the same about s.e.x with dodo birds." I laugh at everything Chuck says; he just hits my funny bone every time. My laugh almost drowns out James Mason's nervy comment.

"I guess you've just got to look at the members who have left over the years." James dunks a chamomile teabag into a cup of hot water. There are already two other teabags sitting in there diffusing, and it's an accepted fact he likes a strong taste. "They must have had a good reason." James doesn't usually say much at the meetings, and if he's worried enough to bother talking to us rather than the voices he hears in his head, then it puts me on edge. I truly wish he'd go back to whispering to his dead mother, as for one horrible moment I think someone is about to question the real reason why eight-make that nine-of the original members don't attend anymore.

Tony looks a little sullen. "And this is my fault?"

"Who else we gonna blame?" Tallulah keeps on spoiling for a fight, and it's obvious to anyone that she's in a real grouchy mood. I'd put it down to her period if I didn't know she'd hurl an ashtray at me-like she did the last time I raised that particular line of thought.

"No one's blaming anyone, Tony," William whispers. "But I do think we need to maybe offer a little more than we do."