Ridley Pearson - The Angel Maker

As she disconnected the I.V. tube from both the needle in her forearm and the overhead I.V. bag, she considered using the needle in her own arm as a weapon-a needle was a needle, after all-but she feared he was too observant for that. He always stood there examining her prior to opening her cage. If he noticed the needle missing, if he sensed her intentions, all hope was lost. He would shock her into semiconsciousness, and her "weapon" would be lost. She would have only one chance to use the needle. She couldn't risk his catching on.

She prevented the I.V. from leaking by inverting it and reclamping it to the top of the chain-link cage. She fashioned a "fishing pole" from the tubing by doubling it on itself. She knotted her burlap line to the end of it.

Her blind eye gave her unexpected problems. She felt time slipping away. How much longer until he returned Michael to his cage? The more she tried to hurry, the more awkward her motions. She quickly realized that above all she had to remain calm. Steady.

The door banged. She glanced toward it in terror. Him-or just wind rattling its hinges as it often did? If he came in on her now … She studied the dogs, for their pacing and silence had become warning signs of The Keeper's approach. They showed no such signs at the moment. Sweat trickling down from her temples, she went back to work. She tied a few pieces of dry dog food onto her line to act as weights. They kept breaking apart and falling off. Her frustration grew to the point where she could hardly use her fingers. She had to stop, take a deep breath, and try again. Finally, she formed a small loop-a lassoon the end of her line, with enough weights to do the trick.

The door banged again, but the dogs remained complacent, dozing for the most part. The sweat now trickled down her jaw. She fed the tubing and line through the chain link, careful not to touch it. Any contact with the cage would trigger the shock collar. She jerked the tubing back and forth, driving her wighted line toward the far corner and the needle. e She couldn't judge distance well. She kept casting toward the needle but the end of her line didn't even come close. It took some practice. The tubing sagged if she tended it too far. The line hit the cement floor if she didn't keep it high enough. With each new attempt, her lasso inched toward the target.

The door, the wind, her imagination, all worked against her concentration. The harder her heart pounded, the more pain she felt in her wounds.

The loop hooked the needle! Slowly, she pulled it toward her.

Suddenly, the dogs sat up in unison, their ears perked, eyes alert. Him!

Himn Her bad eye screamed with pain as she squinted. Her good eye blurred with tears from over use. The needle was only halfway toward her. Come on! She pulled the line more quickly. The dogs paced anxiously-he was close.

Her hands shook. Panic overtook her. She tugged on the tubing and lost the needle, stranding it in the middle of the adjacent cage. To her, it looked as big as a Coke bottle, lying there. It called out: "Here I am! Look, she's trying to escape!"

Her hand brushed against the chain link. Her collar sounded a quick warning and then delivered a devastating jolt of electricity. She fell back, letting go of the tubing. It slid through the chain link, threatening to fall into the next pen. She snatched it back quickly, but in doing so made contact with the fence once again.

The dogs circled their cages frantically. He was coming! He was certain to see the needle!

She stuffed everything under the burlap and sat down on top of it and looked up, only to see the IN. bag still clipped to the top of her cage. This, of all things, would give her away.

Then she saw that the IN. needle in her had leaked blood onto her forearm. What to do? Think!! With the door coming open, with far too many loose ends to tie up, with no clear idea what she was doing, she pulled the I.V. bag down, its contents leaking out onto the floor. She grabbed the plastic tubing from beneath her and slipped the string off its end, leaving a knotted tangle-a mess-on the floor. Now it might look like an accident-it had tangled in her sleep.

With all these thoughts swirling inside her, she dared not look at the needle. Don't draw his attention to it. She looked away.

As the door opened fully and he stepped inside, she vomited.

Drenched in blood, he held a human heart in his outstretched hands. The heart looked so small. So pitiful.

"Nothing to worry about," he said strongly. The door banged shut behind him. The barking stopped. With the scent of blood in the air, all the dogs hurried to the front of their cages. Tegg moved down the center aisle. "Practice makes perfect," he stated. Sharon caught herself pulling at the shock collar-a forbidden action-not because she wanted out of it, which she did, but because she found it hard to breathe. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably; her hands went numb. "Who's been good?" he asked the dogs.

She screamed into the gag, but little sound came out. "What I bring you today, my friends," he addressed the dogs, "is an example of the human condition: the pursuit of perfection." He hoisted the dripping heart aloft as a kind of sacrificial offering. "Who's been good?" He sounded so normal: a father to his children.

She glanced at the needle; it seemed so insignificant now.

With the heart clutched in his hands, he said to her, "Be thankful this wasn't you." He tossed the heart up lightly and caught it playfully. It slapped into his gloved hands with a sucking sound. He did this several times, like a child with a ball.

He marched down the center aisle. "Felix, for you," he said as he made the dog sit. "Hold," he said. He dropped the heart in front of the dog. "Not yet," he said. "Not yet."

He walked back to the main door. It sang as it opened.

Felix's full attention was on the chunk of meat in front of him.

"Okay," Tegg commanded.

The dog lunged forward and ate the heart.

WEDNESDAY February 8

"Okay. I've been on the phone all morning consulting some of the best in the business: Dr. Christiansen here in Seattle; Shires in Denver; Rantner and McCullough at Quantico-and the picture is not a pretty one. If this guy has done three, he's done thirty. He likely views the runaways as street scum-but it's unlikely he knows he's killed them. He is trying to prove himself, as much as help those who need the organs. The fact that he's done at least two kidneys and a lung indicates this is not strictly business it's a competency test as well. He's in his early to middle-forties, married, with children."

Shoswitz buffed. She explained, "That's the demographic on veterinarians, Lieutenant. It's my job to play the averages. He's probably attempting to overcome some prior grievance. With a vet, the most obvious is being turned down by medical school." "He's playing doctor," Shoswitz said. "Exactly. Maybe he lost someone close to him either because of a failed organ transplant or, more likely, because of a lack of organ availability. He's now both proving his own abilities and making certain there are plenty of organs to go around so that It doesn't happen to anyone else. "He's had extensive medical training. He may have flunked out of medical school-that may be his grievance. He or an associate has or has had exposure to the runaway and homeless community. He can deal with these kids without raising suspicions."

"So what you're sayin amp;" Shoswitz tested, "is that these three deaths you turned up are the exception, not the rule."

"That's the opinion, yes. Cindy Chapman is more likely the rule: Harvest the organ, drug and electroshock the donor, and return him or her to the streets. A few of the unlucky ones didn't make it." "Thirty?" Shoswitz asked. "That was Dr. Rantner's minimum estimate based on pattern cycles, his expertise. Two of the victims, Sherman and Blumenthal, occurred within three weeks of each other, suggesting a three-week cycle. But the indication is that this has been going on for at least three years-if, as these bones indicate, the harvests are the work of the same person. Somewhere between twelve and fifteen a year. it could be two or three times that."