Robert Tanenbaum - Enemy within

"You're getting shocky from loss of blood. I have to get you warm. Close your eyes."

She unzipped the coverall and pulled it down to her waist, then lay partly on top of him, her naked breast pressing against his chest, her cheek against his.

After a long moment he remarked, "They warned us about this in the seminary."

"I bet, and it's every little Catholic girl's fantasy, too. Meanwhile, I won't tell the pope if you don't."

He sighed. "Speaking professionally, do you think I'm going to die down here?"

"No, provided we can get you out of here and you don't go into shock. You'll think this is nuts, but I can't stop worrying about my dog. My daughter is God knows where, you're bleeding like a pig, but I'm worrying about my dog. I must be some kind of monster." She whistled again, provoking weird echoes.

"No, that's natural," he said. "I once saw a woman embroidering a dress, working very carefully, like it was the most important thing in the world. That afternoon two of her children had disappeared. This was in Salvador. Everyone has their own way of coping with the enormities of life." He was quiet for a while. "Speaking of which, I always imagined myself dying outside, looking up at the stars. If I start to fade, I want you to hear my confession."

"Can I do that? I mean, is it legit?"

"Well, we're a priestly people, including you. As an added bonus, though, you'll get to find out what I did to get busted out of the upper zones of Jesuit-dom and stuck as assistant pastor for life in a little parish under the eye of a conservative archbishop."

"You're not going to die, Father," she said confidently. "You can't, not when I just gave you forty-six million dollars."

"Are you okay, Lucy?" asked Grale, concern in his tone and expression.

"I've had better days. Are those guys dead?" She saw that Grale was carrying a six-inch fillet knife with a heavy wooden handle, the kind they sell in little supply shops down by the fish market. He was wiping it absently with a rag.

"Oh, yeah. It's very fast, that way." He sighed and grinned. "They know for sure now, the both of them, if it's all true."

"How did you find me?" she asked.

"Oh, I was hanging out in the Spare Parts people tunnel trying to get a line on where Canman was, and I saw you come through, and I waited, and then that cop came by and then some guy who looked Chinese. It was a regular parade." He looked around and gestured to the space, smiling. "I've been hearing about this place for years. It's incredible, isn't it? A whole little world that no one knows about." He finished cleaning the blade and stuck it carefully into a leather sheath, then into the pocket of his jacket. His face and clothes were heavily spattered with blood.

She took a deep breath and said, "David, you're the bum slasher, aren't you?"

He nodded. "Uh-huh. Anyway, I came down the railroad tunnel, and the Chinese guy spotted me, I think, but I ducked into where it forked and lost him. Then I came through that hole in the floor, and I was there when those bombs went off. Was that Canman?"

She nodded. "Yes."

"I figured. Then the mole people jumped you all, and I didn't know what to do, and a couple of them grabbed you and dragged you away, so I followed them. And"-he hesitated, pulled uncomfortably at his chin-"I figured with two of them, I'd better wait until they were, you know, involved with you, so I could take one out right away. It worked out okay, but I guess it was worse for you. I'm sorry."

"That's all right, David. Thank you for rescuing me," she said as calmly as she could manage. She had started to shake, and the shaking got worse, as did the thoughts dashing themselves to fragments in her head, this Alice-in-Wonderland conversation she was having with good and beautiful David the mass murderer, down here in the tunnels with the cannibal rat people. He was good, he had saved her from, he was evil, I'm losing it, this is crazy, crazy, I will never, never…

It came out in a scream that echoed like screams do in horror movies, and she threw herself against him, sobbing hysterically. He hugged her and stroked her head, murmuring there, there, it's all right, no, it's all right.

When the sobbing had exhausted itself into disgusting, heaving snuffles, and she felt she could once again articulate language, she asked, "Why do you do it?"

"I'm not sure, really," he answered calmly. "I guess I just know. Not voices in my head or like that. I just know I have to. They're so miserable, they're suffering so much. It's mercy. Or they're evil, they're going to do bad things to the innocent. Like Doug. He was after little Lila for weeks."

"David, killing people is wrong." The phrase sounded absurd to her, but he seemed to take it seriously.

"Is it? I guess it depends who's doing the killing. God kills people all the time. St. James was called Matamoros, so it was okay to kill Moors back then and still be a saint. So many dead people. I saw whole villages murdered in Africa, kids, old grannies, chopped to pieces. And I couldn't do anything about it. It drove me crazy." He laughed. "I guess you think that's literal. I don't know. I don't feel crazy. And I prayed for guidance after Africa. Honestly, Lucy, I was so messed up. Give me something to do, I prayed, use me some way. I had a job on Fulton Street for a while, cleaning fish, so I had this knife, and one night I just followed this man. He was going through garbage bags, looking for pieces of food, and then I saw him picking up crack vials and crushing them and scraping the tiny grains that were left out so he could get enough to get high. But it was really low, not high. And it hit me: this soul would be better off released. And a kind of glow. I saw him kind of light up. I saw the soul part of him that hadn't been polluted by his life, and it wanted out, it wanted to be free, and I let it go. It's no pain, the way I do it. Just a little thrashing and then peace. I felt I was an instrument of God, like the kind of predator that takes sick animals that are suffering. Gosh, Lucy, you look awful. Your mouth is all bruised, and you're shaking."

He touched her lips delicately with his bloodstained hands.

"Are you going to kill me, David?"

She saw the startle, the shock on his face. "My God, no! Why would I want to kill you? You're beautiful and good and everyone loves you."

"Well, usually when you find out who the serial killer is," she said carefully, as to a small child, "he kills you to shut you up."

He seemed to find this amusing. "Is that what I am? I guess everybody has to have a label. But what if you're something that doesn't have one? You, for example. Or your mom. Is she a serial killer? No, you can tell them what you want. And I have no intention of hurting you. After you rest a bit, I'll take you back to the main branch. You can find your way back to your parents easy from there."

"Then I'd like to go now," she said, and struggled to her feet, wavering as dizziness washed through her. He gripped her arm.

They found her other boot under the corpse. He pulled it out and helped her on with it. Then they walked in silence down the dark passage.

"This is it," he said. "Just go to the right and you'll be-"

"Lucy!" came a shout. Her father. He'd seen her light.

She answered the shout. They heard running steps.

"I better go," Grale said. "Good-bye, Lucy."

"But what will you do?"

"Oh, I think I'll stick around here for a while. I like it down here. It's a simple life." He laughed. She could see his shining teeth, that glorious smile. "In fact, I think maybe I've finally found my ministry."

She kissed him then, on the mouth, pressing hard, and after a second or two of teeth-clunking surprise he kissed her back, and it was really her first real kiss, and very good it was, too, although the circumstances were not what she had dreamed of, and the person, while the right person, was not whom she had imagined him to be.