Psychopath (2 page)

"My battery is getting..." the woman started, sounding uncomfortable.

"I’d be happy to pay you something," Jonah said.  The offer was his way of leapfrogging the woman’s better judgment by transforming his request for the phone into the question of whether she ought to charge him to use it.  A generous person would offer it for free — which, of course, required offering it to begin with.

"Go ahead," she said.  "Evenings and weekends are no charge."

"Thank you."  He got out of his car and walked toward the woman’s door, stopping a respectful distance away.  Partly to trigger her instinct to nurture him, partly to discharge the electric energy coursing through his system, he stepped briskly foot-to-foot and shook his head and shoulders, as if freezing.

She reached out, handed him the phone.

He stood facing her, letting her take note of his chocolate-colored, quilted suede coat, his sky-blue turtleneck sweater, his pleated gray flannel slacks.  Nothing black.  Everything soft to the touch.  He dialed random digits and held the phone to his ear.

"You can use it in your car, if you like," she said.

Jonah knew the woman’s invitation to take her phone into his car reflected her unconscious wish that he would take
her
into his car.  He also knew that the more proper he was, the freer she would feel to fantasize about him and the more penetrable her personal boundaries would become.  "You’ve already been incredibly kind," he said.  "I’ll only be a moment."

She nodded, looked back at the map, and rolled up her window.

He spoke loudly to be certain she would overhear him.  The words reverberated in his ears. "Dr. Wrens," he said, then paused.  "A fever?  How high?"  He paused again.  "Let’s start her on some IV ampicillin and see how she does."  He nodded.  "Of course.  Tell her husband I’ll see her first thing in the morning."  He pretended to click the phone off and knocked quietly on the car window.

She lowered it.  "All set?"

He had obviously finished using the phone.  Her question meant she wanted something else from him, even though he doubted she would be able to put into words what that something was.  He felt a stiffening in his groin.  "All set," he said.  "Thank you so much."  He held the phone out, waiting to speak until she was holding the other end of it, until they were connected that little bit.  "Maybe I can return the favor," he said.  He waited another moment before letting go of the phone.  "You seem uncertain where you’re headed."

She laughed. "I seem lost," she said.

He laughed with her — a boyish, infectious laugh that broke the ice once and for all.  The beast was fully in control.  The pain in Jonah’s head seeped into his teeth and jaws.  "Where are you trying to go, if you don’t mind my asking?"  He rubbed his hands together, blew out a plume of frosty breath.

"Eagle Bay," she said.

Eagle Bay was a small town on the Adirondack Railroad, close to the Moose River recreation area.  Jonah had hiked nearby Panther Mountain.  "That’s easy," he said.  "I’ll scribble out directions."  He had chosen the word scribble to conjure the image of innocence, of a harmless man-child barely able to write, let alone plot and plan.

"I’d appreciate that," she said.

Jonah felt as though he had sufficiently weakened her defenses to push past them.  The average woman lacked the internal resolve to protect her boundaries, except in the face of obvious danger.  And this woman could not see him as an imminent threat. He was handsome and well-spoken.  He looked wealthy.  He was a physician.  He had been called by a local hospital to help someone in distress.  A woman in distress.  Now he wanted to help her.

He came around the front of the Saab, hugging himself.  Walking around the back of the car, leaving the woman’s field of vision, might make her wary.  He waited beside the passenger door, making no movement toward it.  The less overt his demand to be let inside, the better his chances.

She seemed to hesitate, again, her face registering what looked like a textbook struggle between the instinct for self-preservation and the quest for self-reliance.  Self-reliance won.  She reached across the passenger seat and pulled open the door.

Jonah climbed in.  He held out his hand.  It trembled.  "Jonah Wrens," he said.  "It must be ten below, with the wind chill."

"Anna," she said, shaking his hand.  "Anna Beckwith."  She looked confused as she let go, probably because Jonah’s hand felt warm and clammy, not cold.

"Do you have a pen and paper, Anna Beckwith?" Jonah asked.  Speaking her name would make them seem less like strangers.  Beckwith reached behind Jonah’s seat and rummaged through her handbag, finding a felt tip pen and leather address book.  She flipped to a blank page and handed the open book and pen to him.

Jonah noted that Beckwith wore no engagement ring or wedding band.  She did not smell of perfume.  He started writing out random directions, to nowhere. 
Stay on 90 East, to exit 54, Route 9 West
...  "I take it you’re not from around here," he said.

She shook her head.  "Washington, D.C."

"Are you a skier?" he asked, still writing.

"No," she said.

"A hiker?"

"I’m just visiting a friend."

"Good for you."  He glanced at her.  "Boyfriend?" he asked matter-of-factly.  He went back to writing.

"College roommate."

No boyfriend, Jonah thought.  No wedding band.  No perfume.  No lipstick.  And not the slightest hint of homosexuality in her manner or tone.  "Let me guess ..." he said.  "Mount Holyoke."

"Why would you guess a girl’s school?" Beckwith asked.

Jonah looked at her.  "I saw the Mount Holyoke sticker on your back window when I drove in."

She laughed again — an easy laugh that showed the last of her fear had melted away.  "Class of ’78."

Jonah did the math.  Beckwith was between forty-five and forty-six years old.  He could have asked her what she had studied at Holyoke or whether the college was close to her home or far away.  But answers to those questions would not give him access to her soul.  "Why a girl’s school?" he asked instead.

"I really don’t know," she said.

"You chose it," he pushed, smiling warmly to take the edge off his words.

"I just felt more comfortable."

I just felt more comfortable
.  Jonah stood at the threshold of Beckwith’s internal, emotional world.  He needed to buy enough time to cross it.  "Do you know Route 28?" he asked.

"I don’t," Beckwith said.

"No problem," Jonah said.  "I’ll, uh, draw everything out... for you."  Without thinking to, he drew a line up the page, then another, shorter line intersecting it at something close to a ninety degree angle.  He noticed the rudimentary cross on the page and took it as a symbol that God was still with him.  Hadn’t Jesus, after all, absorbed the pain of others?  And wasn’t that Jonah’s aim?  His thirst?  His cross to bear?  "Why would a coed campus have made you uncomfortable?" he asked Beckwith.

She didn’t respond.

He looked at her, saw a new hesitancy in her face.  "Sorry to pry.  My daughter’s thinking of Holyoke," he lied.

"You have a daughter?"

"You seem surprised."

"You don’t wear a wedding band."

She had been studying him.  She was coming closer.  Jonah felt his heart rate and breathing begin to slow.  "Her mother and I divorced when Caroline was five," he said.  Then he delivered Beckwith this talisman, harvested from Scott Carmady’s soul, now a part of his own:  "My wife was unfaithful to me.  I stayed longer than I should have."

That fabricated self-revelation was all the license Anna Beckwith needed to begin revealing her true self.  "I was always shy with boys," she said.  "I’m sure that’s the reason for Holyoke."

"You’ve never married," Jonah said.

"You sound so sure," Beckwith said playfully.

Jonah kept writing out his haphazard map, not wanting to interrupt the stream of emotion flowing between them.  "Just a guess," he said.

"You guessed right."

"I wasn’t exactly marriage material myself," he said.

"I had two brothers," she said.  "Both older.  Maybe that... I don’t know."

Jonah heard a whole world within the way Beckwith had said the word
older
.  There was resentment and powerlessness in it — and something more.  Shame.  "They made fun of you," he said.  He couldn’t resist looking at her again.  He watched her face lose its mask of maturity and become open and innocent and beautiful.  A little girl’s face.  He thought to himself that he could never kill a child.  And with that thought, the pain in his head fell off to a dull ache.

"They teased me quite a bit," she said.

"How old were you?"

"The worst of it?"  She shrugged.  "Ten?  Eleven?"

"And how old were they?"

"Fourteen and sixteen."

Beckwith suddenly looked anxious, in the same way Jonah’s other victims had — as if she didn’t understand why she would share such intimacies with a stranger.  But Jonah needed to hear more.  So he pushed ahead.  "What names did they call you?"  He closed his eyes, waiting for her emotional wound to ooze the sweet antidote to his violence.

"They called me..."  She stopped.  "I don’t want to go there."  She let out a long breath.  "If you could just give me the directions, I’d really appreciate it."

Jonah looked at her.  "The kids at school used to call me ’faggot,’ ’wimp,’ things like that."  Another lie.

She shook her head.  "From the looks of it, you’ve really shown them," she said.  "No one would call you a wimp now."

"Nice of you to say."  He looked out his window, as if pained by the memory of his childhood traumas.

"They called me...  ’prissy pussy pants,’" Beckwith said. 

Jonah turned back to her.  She was blushing.  "I know it doesn’t sound like the end of the world or anything," she went on, "but they just kept it up.  They wouldn’t let me be."

Jonah was with the eleven-year-old Beckwith now, seeing her in a pleated, navy blue wool skirt, proper white blouse, white socks, cordovan penny loafers.  It was no accident her brothers had teased her most intensely as she reached womanhood, when they would be, consciously or not, focused on her pants and the soft folds of skin beneath them.  And he intuited more toxic goings-on — from the way Beckwith had said that they
wouldn’t let her be
.  That sounded like code for sexual abuse.  He stared at her, hoping she would strip her psyche naked and bathe with him in the warm pool of her suffering.  "And besides the name-calling?" he said.

Beckwith stared back at him, the color slowly draining from her cheeks.

"How else were your brothers cruel to you, Anna?"

She shook her head.

"They tried to look at you?"

"I really have to get going," she said.

"They touched you," he said.

Suddenly, the little girl Beckwith disappeared, and the forty-five-year-old Beckwith sat rigidly in her place. "Honestly, it really isn’t any of your..."

Jonah wanted the little girl.  He needed the little girl.  "You can tell me," he said.  "You can tell me anything."

"No," she said.

Jonah could almost hear a bolt sliding home, locking him out.  "Please," he said.

"I need you to leave," Beckwith said.

"You shouldn’t feel embarrassed with me," Jonah said.  He was straining for air.  "I’ve heard everything there is to hear."  He tried to force a smile, but knew his expression had to look more wolfish than reassuring.

Beckwith squinted at him, then swallowed hard, as if she finally saw she was in the company of madness.

Jonah’s head had started to throb.  "Where was your father?" he asked, hearing the telltale anger seeping into his voice.  "Where was your mother?"

"Please," Beckwith said.  "Just let me leave."  Yet she didn’t try to escape.

"Why didn’t they help you?" Jonah asked.  He felt saliva drip from the corner of his mouth and saw in Beckwith’s face that she had seen it.

"If you let me go, I..." she started to plead.

The drill bits inside Jonah’s skull started grinding again.  "What did those little bastards do to you?" Jonah yelled.

"They..."  She started to cry.

Jonah leaned over her, bringing his mouth to her ear.  "What did they do?" he demanded.  "Don’t be ashamed.  It wasn’t your fault."

Beckwith’s face twisted into the panic and confusion that had seized Scott Carmady — horrified disbelief at what was happening.  "Please," she gasped.  "Please, God..."

Her pleading was simultaneously excruciating and exciting to Jonah, a terrible and irresistible window on the evil inside him.  He pressed his cheek to hers.  "Tell me," he whispered in her ear.  He felt her tears stream down his face.  And he began to cry himself.  Because he realized there was only one way to enter her soul.

He reached into his front pocket for the straightedge razor.  He opened it mercifully outside her view.  Then he placed a thumb under her chin and gently tilted her head back.  She offered no resistance.  He drew the blade quickly across each of her carotid arteries, severing them cleanly.  And he watched as Beckwith wilted like a three-day-old flower.

Blood began to drip down his cheek, mixing with his tears.  He could not have said anymore whether it was his blood or Beckwith’s, his tears or hers.  In this pure and final moment, all boundaries between him and his victim were evaporating.  He was free from the bondage of his own identity.

He wrapped his arms around Beckwith, drawing her tightly to him, groaning as he discharged the seed of life between their thighs, marrying them forever.  He kept her close as her frenzy faded to exhaustion, until he felt his muscles relax with hers, his heart slow with hers, his mind clear with hers — until he was completely at peace, at one with himself and the universe.

t w o

Morning, January 20, 2003

Canaan, Vermont

Dr. Craig Ellison sat down in the tufted leather chair behind his mahogany desk.   He was a kind-looking man, just past sixty, with a ring of white hair and age spots on his scalp.  He wore half-glasses, a simple gray suit, a pale yellow shirt, and a blue striped tie.  His office bore the trappings of his profession — a deeply-hued oriental rug, framed degrees from the University of Pennsylvania and Rochester Medical School, an analyst’s couch, dozens of tiny, primitive figures, reminiscent of Freud’s.  He looked across his desk.  "I trust your trip was uneventful."