Born Bad (2 page)

A thought like that, I'm supposed to snap the rubber band. The one I have to wear around my wrist. I have to remind myself that those are bad thoughts.

T
hey taught me that inside. Before they let me go.

I never would have gone inside at all except for that bitch. I got caught lots of times. My mother always got me a lawyer. Nothing ever happened. They sent me to counseling twice. The important thing was, I never hurt anybody. I just looked at them, mostly. When I went inside one of their houses, they were never home. I only took panties. That's where bitches keep their secrets, in their panties. If you hold them, you know their secrets. They belong to you.

The last time they caught me was when the bitch got me sent away. The District Attorney. Not the real District Attorney, not the head man. A woman. While I was locked up, she got a search warrant for my room. My lawyer said she was able to get it in the middle of the night because I had my ninja outfit on when they caught me. And the piano-wire garrote.

They almost gave my mother a heart attack, charging in there like that. They found my stuff. My stalker's journal, my magazines, even the straight razor. The bitch D.A. told the judge I was dangerous. A ticking bomb, she said. They wouldn't let me out on bail.

T
hat's when the bitch tricked me. She had me brought to this room to talk to me. My lawyer was there. He said I didn't have to answer any questions. The bitch said she knew there was a reason why I went prowling. That's what she called it, prowling. It sounded good when she said it. Strong. Not like I was a freak or anything.

She had a theory, she said. About why I did it. If she was right, maybe I wasn't a criminal after all. Maybe I was a sick person. Maybe I needed help.

I started to say something, but my lawyer stopped me. We were just there to listen, he said. Just listen.

The bitch started talking about my mother. I saw what she was doing, so I explained the truth to her. It was all just normal discipline. Children need discipline. She never really hurt me. I love my mother.

My lawyer was shaking his head. Not to stop me, like he was sad or something.

T
he judge sentenced me to this place. For treatment, he said. I didn't know what it was going to be like.

But I bet the bitch knew.

I had to talk. All the time. Every day. Talk about what was inside my head, what I was feeling. They showed me pictures. Lots of pictures. Different kinds. Movies too. Videotapes. They would ask me, does this make me excited' Was I aroused?

After a few months, they put this cuff on me. Right around my…thing. They could tell when I got aroused. From the pictures. They had stories too. On tape. You sit in a chair and close your eyes and put on the earphones and the stories come.

I had to wear the cuff while I heard the stories.

They did something else to me too. Shock. They had this tape of a woman being tied up. And whipped. I watched it. They made me watch it. And when the cuff filled up, I got a shock.

After a while, I didn't get shocked anymore. I didn't get hard when I saw women get hurt.

They made me masturbate. Alone in my room. Over and over again. First I had to masturbate every time I thought about a woman getting hurt. I was the one who got hurt. My…thing was all red and raw. I had to have medicine for it. But they made me keep doing it.

After a while, I didn't have those thoughts anymore.

Then they made me masturbate to sex images. Sex with women. Romantic sex, they called it. They had movies of that too. Kissing, holding. Slow moving.

I had to see therapists too. They made me talk about my mother. About the closet. About being tied up; About the time she caught me playing with my…thing. And what she made me do. With her panties.

I have to wear a rubber band on my wrist. If I ever get a thought about hurting women, I snap it. It reminds me of the place, and the shocks.

M
y mother was killed while I was inside. She was mugged. Somebody followed her up in the elevator and pushed in the door right behind her. She got hit over the head with something hard and she died. Whoever killed her took money from her pocketbook and other stuff from the apartment.

I went to the funeral. The therapists said I shouldn't feel guilty because I hadn't been home. It wasn't my fault. I asked if the killer had sex with her after he hit her.

I live in the apartment now.

T
he woman in 16-F just came in. I could just barely see her in the living room. She walked into the bedroo
m
. She never raises the blinds in any room except the living room. Even there, she only keeps them open a little bit. I can never see much. In the bedroom, the window is open. Just a slit. I saw a flash of white. Maybe her panties, just coming off. I cranked up the zoom on the telescope, aiming right at the slit. Nothing. I waited. Another flash of white. I couldn't tell what it was.

The lousy bitch. A tease is worse than anything.

I
was only home about an hour when the buzzer rang. I knew who it was. My lousy bitch of a probation officer.

I have to let her in. My lawyer explained it to me. It's part of my probation. Like the treatment center was. If I don't do what they say, they can violate me. That's what my lawyer said: they can violate me.

If they do that, the judge could send me to prison. A real prison. For a long time.

I let her in. She sat down on the couch across from me. She crossed her legs. I could hear the nylon. I didn't look—I know how the bitch watches me.

She asked me about the job. I told her I like flowers. They always smell good. I like bringing them to people.

She asked me about counseling. I told her I still go. Twice a week. And once to the group, too.

She asked me about if it bothered me to have a woman probation officer. I told her no—I like women now.

When I said that, she said she wanted to see my bedroom. I was scared. But she walked in there by herself. When she saw the telescope, she got angry. I was afraid she was going to do something to me for a minute. I told her it was for astronomy. She said she didn't care what it was for, it better not be there the next time she came back.

The bitch. I wonder what's inside her. I'd like to take a look inside her. With the telescope.

A
fter she left, I was very stressed. I was shaking. I tried to be calm. She hadn't found my other stuff. I do a lot of research. I have books. Lock-picking.
Black Dragon Death Grip Techniques. Secrets of the Ninja.

There's a woman I write to. I never met her, but she sent me pictures. I send her a money order with every letter and she sends me a letter back. She is my slave. She does whatever I tell her to do. She is a bitch too, but a tame bitch. She knows better than to disobey me. I got her name from one of the guys in group therapy. He said it's an outlet, a release thing. So we don't get worked up and maybe hurt somebody for real.

Every time I get a letter from her, I want to hurt some bitch even worse.

•     •     •

I
looked out the window. The redhead in 18-H was home. She doesn't go out much. She has a man who comes to visit her. I always know when the man is coming. She gets dressed in sexy clothes. When he comes there, she treats him like a king. Brings him drinks, lights his cigar, sits on his lap. He's an old, fat man. Bitches always go for money.

She was just lying on her couch, watching TV. I saw her hand go between her legs. She knows I'm watching.

I
looked into 16-F. A long time. I couldn't tell if the blonde was home. Then I saw it, the flash of white.

T
hey are going to come for me soon. Coming to violate me, the bitches. All of them.

I have my list. I have my list of bitches. Everything about them. Some are from my delivery route. Only the ones where I actually got in the house. But I like the ones in the building across from me the best. I'm in their houses all the time, with my telescope.

I may only get one of them before they come for me. I'll get one. I'll have her. And then I'll always have her. In my mind. No matter where they put me, I can always have her. Again and again.

So I have to make a choice.

24-G is a whore. She deserves whatever happens to her.

19-E is a pig, a dirty slob of a bitch.

18-H lets a fat old man do anything he wants to her.

16-F, she's the worst bitch of all. The way she walks. The way she keeps me from seeing her. Just that flash of white.

That's what decided me. I need to know what that white flash is.

I
'm in the corridor now, right outside 16-F. It's late in the afternoon—she won't be home for another hour or so.

This is so easy.

The lock picks really work. I can hear the last tumbler fall. I'm going in now. The bitch isn't home, so there won't be a chain on the door.

I'm going to step inside and wait for her. Teach her a lesson.

The door opens. It's dark in here. But I'll find her secret. From the back room…a flash of white…

Teeth.

I gently touched the tiny pearl button on the door frame, watching my reflection in the mirror, knowing I was being watched from inside.

The mirror wasn't the only observer—I knew there was a video camera concealed somewhere too. I stood quietly, letting my soul radiate patience.

It didn't matter how long they made me wait. It didn't matter how closely they observed me. Nothing would make me impatient now—it had taken me a little more than four years to find that door.

Four years and almost thirty thousand dollars—the time and the money parceled out slowly, much of both wasted.

But now…I was close. I kept my mouth expressionless, willing the same emptiness into my eyes. Waiting.

The door opened. The man standing in the doorway was thick-bodied, competent looking. He made no attempt to conceal the shoulder holster under his suit jacket.

"Can I help you?" he said.

"I hope so," I told him. "I'd like to speak to Mr. Mason."

"Is he expecting you?" the man asked.

"Yes. I made an appointment. My name is—"

"If you'll just step over here and wait a bit," the man said, ushering me through the door, indicating where I was to stand, "I'll see if Mr. Mason is available."

I stood there waiting. Still waiting. Waiting still.
Stop that!
I commanded myself. I took a deep breath in through my nose, expanding my stomach. Then I let it out through my mouth as I snapped my abdominal muscles taut, exhaling the tension from my body. Calm. Calm and centered. Calm and…

The man returned. "If you'll just come with me…"

I followed him. He walked with a prizefighter's roll to his shoulders, confident in his upperbody strength. I rounded my shoulders, narrowed my silhouette. Radiating calm. Serenity. And safety to all.

The man stepped aside, moving his hand to wave me into the office. The room was huge, big enough for a half-dozen normal offices. The man behind the kidney-shaped glass desk was husky, his body covered with muscle slowly losing the battle to fat. He had a shaved head and a prominent scar on his right cheek.

"Right on time, Mr. Knight," he greeted me, motioning toward a padded leather chair set in front of the desk.

I sat down, slumping to visually reduce my size even more. I waited. Patient. Calm and patient. Quiet. No threat to anyone. So close, now…

"I understand you've already spoken to Roger Blue," the man who I guessed was Mr. Mason said.

I didn't answer, waiting.

"Is that right?" he asked, not even a trace of impatience in his silky voice.

"Yes," I told him. "That's right."

"Then you know what our services cost?"

"Fifty thousand dollars," I said. "In cash. No bill bigger than a hundred. No new bills, no consecutive serial numbers."

"Very good." The husky man smiled. "May I assume you have it with you?"

"Yes," I said, moving my right hand slowly so he could see the leather briefcase. "It's all here."

"Raymond will take care of that for you," Mr. Mason said, pointing with a stubby finger. A diamond glittered on his hand.

The man who had let me in took the briefcase out of my hand, then he walked out the door, closing it behind him.

I was alone with the husky man. "This will only take a few minutes," he said. "Can I offer you a drink?"

"No thank you," I told him.

It was almost eight minutes before the man he called Raymond came back. Raymond's hands were empty. He made some gesture I didn't understand. The husky man turned to me. "Are you ready?" he asked.

I nodded yes. The husky man got up from behind the big desk and walked up to me. I stood up too. "What's the name?" he asked me.

"Knight," I told him. "It's my real name."

"Okay," he said. "What do your friends call you? You know, the guys you hang out with?"

"Knight," I told him.

"Knight it is," he said. "Come on."

I followed him out of the office. Down the hall, he opened another door. Inside was a staircase. A staircase down. He went first. I was behind him. I could feel Raymond behind me.