The Feeder (16 page)

I asked her all of the obvious questions:

“Did you contact the store where you bought it? I’m sure it’s still under warranty,” I suggested politely. With her outdated hair helmet, she looked like a poor imitation of Patsy Cline.
Pasty Clone
, I called her secretly.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want her business, but when an electronic item such as a computer malfunctions less than a year after purchase, getting it replaced or repaired under warranty isn’t a problem. People generally came to me for help
after
warranties had expired or when they needed help in learning to use a computer.

“Warranty?” she snorted. “This is the second goddamn time I took it in there to be fixed and they keep giving it back to me in the same shape as when I gave it to them. I’m done dealing with them. It doesn’t work! Just fix the fucking thing! I don’t care what it costs!”

I accepted the job and took the laptop home with me that evening to find out what was ailing the thing. I found absolutely nothing wrong with it.

The following day when Pasty Clone returned, I explained that her computer was working perfectly from what I could see. I asked her to describe the problem she was having with it.

“Well, it doesn’t email and I can’t get it to find the things I want.”

I checked the settings in Windows Mail using one of my own email addresses and it worked fine. I noticed that she had no email account of her own configured and pointed this fact out to her.

“Yes, I do have an email address! My internet company gave me one!”

“And what is your email address?”

“How the fuck am I supposed to know? They’re the ones who set it up!”

“Well,” I explained as politely as possible, “your internet provider may have given you an address but you still have to set it up on here before you can access it.”

“No I don’t! They did it from their office! They said it was all ready to go!”

I felt a headache coming on. For a moment, I saw her entrails draped festively over the entrance of the shop. I closed my eyes to force the image away. When I opened them again, the same green and silver garlands framed the door as before. I masked a sigh of frustration with a subtle calming breath and tried again.

“Okay, so you mentioned that you couldn’t find things with it. What things?”

She looked at me like I was a complete idiot.

“I don’t know, anything. I want to find stuff on the internet but it’s totally useless.”

“Can you give me an example?”

“Like, I wanted to do a criminal record check on someone but it doesn’t work.”

“Did you get a membership at a site that offers that service?”

Again, with the computer-guy-is-a-complete-fucking-idiot look.

“Membership?” She shook her head, but her hair-shell didn’t move. “No, I pay my internet bill. That’s all the membership I’m getting for any internet stuff.”

I couldn’t believe my ears. Did I really have to try and explain the internet to this dumb bitch? Was this my punishment for being a mass murderer?

“Yes, you pay for your internet service but the services you access on the internet are something different entirely. Paying for an internet connection does not automatically give you free access to every site on the web.”

She glared at me. “I would say that it does. Otherwise I’m going with a different company.”

“I’m afraid that won’t make a difference. It’s the same no matter who your internet provider is.”

“So, are you going to fix this thing or not?”

“What exactly would you like me to do?”

“Make it so I can access the websites I want!”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“More like you won’t. I know you hackers can get into anything. I’m paying good money and all I want is for you to make it so that I can get into all the sites that are on my computer!”

“The sites aren’t actually
on
your computer. They are on the
internet
and they belong to the people who own those sites. Each site has its own pricing and membership policies.”

“So you refuse to fix this piece of shit then?” she barked.

I sighed, letting my frustration show this time. I saw red blood, glistening on the green and silver tinsel…

What lovely holiday colors.

I shook my head in defeat.

“I can’t fix your computer, ma’am.”

“Why the hell not?”

“Because your computer is not broken. I’m afraid you’ll have to pull your head out of your ass and learn how to actually use the fucking thing!”

The angry bitch stalked out of my shop with her hateful guts still inside her body, completely oblivious to the fact that she had been pushing the buttons of someone who had no qualms about turning her insides into Christmas decorations.

It was then that I realized I needed to take a break from work for a while. I had been finishing up jobs and not taking on any major ones in preparation for the holiday season. Pasty Clone was my final customer.

I closed for the holiday season a bit early that year and instead of the usual two weeks, I decided to leave it closed indefinitely until I could hire someone to manage the shop for me. I didn’t really depend on IWU for money anymore; my father had made some wise investments before his death, leaving me with a stock portfolio and a hefty sum of money. I continued to run the shop for no reason other than it gave me something to do.

I didn’t see much point to anything anymore, now that Camille was gone. I no longer had any late-night drunk-dialed phone calls to look forward to or long letters written on rainbow stationery, describing a life every bit as colorful as the paper.

The worst part of having Camille gone was the realization that I no longer had anyone to rescue.

Nobody needed me. It was disconcerting to feel not needed, especially when I’d never realized that I even wanted to be needed. I’d always thought of myself as a loner and a bit of a cold-hearted prick. If I were to psychoanalyze myself I’d have to guess that I’d been replacing my bitterness over being born a eunuch freak with the belief that I was somebody’s hero. I was nobody’s hero now that my damsel in distress was dead.

I felt like I could disappear from the face of the earth and nobody would miss me. I was self-employed, with enough money that I didn’t need to work. Nobody was expecting me to show up anywhere on Monday morning and nobody was waiting for me to come home at night. I could just fade from existence if I wanted to.

I thought about my father’s cabin at Harrison Lake. It was where I stayed when I went hunting or when I just felt like getting away from the city for a while. The place held more fond childhood memories for me than any other place, even this house. I had grown up there, hunting and target shooting with my father and fishing for trout in the lake’s frigid waters.

I wondered if I could make a life there. What if I decided to just walk away one day, sell this house, move to the woods and live like a hermit? It sounded more attractive the more I thought about it.

The problem was, I knew it wouldn’t be wise to live at the cabin full-time. It was my favorite getaway but removing myself completely from society, electronics, television and the internet didn’t seem like a wise move, given the dirty deeds I had done in California.

I needed to keep an eye on the news, just in case any more mention was made of The Feeder. I had been watching the news in Los Angeles since my return to Canada. As far as the press had reported, the case of The Feeder was officially closed. The city had reeled in shock from the news that the killer was none other than Detective Caleb Barton, the very man who had been trusted to solve the case.

Dead from an overdose, with a blood-alcohol level well beyond the fatal level, Caleb’s death was ruled accidental. There was some scattered speculation about suicide but the evidence was inconclusive. A search of the detective’s home revealed enough concrete evidence to link him to nearly all of The Feeder’s victims. The whole sordid story unraveled when one after another, prostitutes started coming forward to tell of their experiences with the pimp known as Diamond Vinnie. He was confirmed to have borrowed the identity of one of his victims, one Vincent Dimone, to use as a street name. Identification with Dimone’s name and Barton’s picture was found in Barton’s wallet. CNN had a field day with it, of course. If there was a memorial service for Barton, it hadn’t been made public. It appeared he was cremated and put to rest with as little fanfare as possible.

I silently applauded all the women who found the courage to come forward and tell the truth about that pimping pile of possum puke.

Camille was a Jane Doe until after Barton’s death. Finally she was identified and I was contacted. I arranged to have her remains transported back to Canada, where I had her cremated. She now sat on my bookcase on her very own shelf in a sparkly urn I’d had custom-made in her favorite colors – pink, purple and gold. The simple inscription read,

Camille Samantha Thompson

The beautiful half

Even though the Feeder case was closed, I thought it best to keep an eye on the media in case any new information steered them in my direction. Now that Cammie had been identified there would always be a direct connection between The Feeder and me.

I didn’t fit into society, but I couldn’t turn my back on the world to go and live like a hermit either. Hermits had beards. I’d never been the beard-growing type.

I was destined to live the rest of my life in limbo, with one foot in each world, keeping up to date on current events and escaping to my little mountain hideaway whenever possible. I had spent my entire life straddling the threshold between the two worlds of male and female; living as one gender but never fully belonging to either. I’d proven that I could convincingly play the role either of male or female as circumstances deemed necessary, just as I could function equally in the city or the seclusion of the mountains. I yearned for my mountain cabin, but permanent escape didn’t seem safe yet.

I sat in my father’s La-Z-Boy chair watching the weather network on TV. The same channel had been playing for a week but I still couldn’t tell you what the weather forecast was.

I gazed at the gun in my lap. I’d been carrying my .44 Magnum revolver around the house with me since I came home but I wasn’t sure why.

The .44 was one of my favorites of the seven handguns I had inherited from my father. With its six-inch barrel, it reminded me of the six-shooters gunfighters of the old West wore on low-slung gunbelts. I had a shoulder holster, but I liked to imagine myself on a dusty street, drawing for my life and shooting from the hip to gun down an evil adversary. Other times, I envisioned myself as Dirty Harry with a scumbag in my sights.

It was a good thing I spent most of my time alone because people would think I was nuts. Maybe I was nuts. It was hard to tell, since I didn’t have much basis for comparison.

I aimed the gun at the TV weather girl, keeping the sight centered on her chest as she moved around the screen.

I did my best Clint squint and growled. “Feel lucky, punk?”

I spun the cylinder, then put the muzzle to my temple and squeezed the trigger.

Click.

Round and round she goes. Who’s next? Dimitri? Vladimir? No takers?

I removed the one round I had loaded into the gun before locking it away in the safe. Russian Roulette was like any other gambling game. Only fools kept playing. The smart ones quit while they were ahead or didn’t play at all.

No need to be stupid. Okay, stupider.

Stupid? Or was I just chickenshit? Big tough serial killer I was, but didn’t even have the balls to end my own sorry life.

No balls – that had been my problem ever since I was born.

~ Chapter 23 ~

The Purging

I stood in front of my bedroom mirror looking at the reflection of Camille, wearing her trademark black stockings and garter belt.

I added some finishing touches to my makeup, marveling at how pretty I could look when I wanted to. I straightened my corset, shoving my ‘breasts’ forward. I had taped my chest together to give the appearance of cleavage, and then the padded cups of the corset completed the illusion.

Taping the chest was an old trick used by drag queens to make them look more like real women when stuffed into bras. Even with my scant amount of breast meat, I easily passed for a woman and the tape enhanced the look further. It had worked flawlessly in Los Angeles and it was working just as easily in Vancouver.

I had intended to stop the killing once I returned home, but for some reason I couldn’t.

The only time since Camille’s death that I had felt like I had a purpose in life was when I was ridding the world of scum.

The world was full of scum.

So full.

Camille had been killed by scum. I had killed the scum, along with a few other pieces of human filth. It was an exhilarating feeling, knowing that I was doing mankind a service by disposing of its garbage. Hunting and killing human filth was stopping me from deep-throating the barrel of my .44 and spraying my brains all over my living room.

My new mission gave me purpose and kept me living and breathing from one day to the next. Without a purpose I couldn’t care less if I lived or died.

If I couldn’t save Camille, then at least I might be able to save a few other women from suffering a similar fate. Maybe vigilante work was my true calling. Or maybe I was just different breed of psycho. I didn’t have anyone around who could tell me for sure.

I worked Surrey again that evening, finding my prey within the first half hour and dispatching him quickly and cleanly. He was just one of many perverts I had killed since my return to Canada. There was just so much scum in the world; so many sick fucks capable of despicable deeds. Somebody needed to stop them.

If not me, then who?

I had concluded that the only purpose I had left in my sad and lonely life was to do the world a favor by cleaning up garbage.