John Sandford - Broken Prey

So Ignace had his feet up, reading the Idiot’s Guide to Etiquette, which he’d lifted off another reporter’s desk. When the phone rang, he assumed it was the desk asking for a rewrite.

A voice in a harsh, rustling whisper inquired, “Is this, I don’t know how you pronounce it, I apologize, Rough Ignacy?”

“That would be Roo-fay Ig-Nas,” Ignace said. “Who is this?”

“This is old Charlie Pope, calling to thank you for the write-up.”

Now Ignace sat up. “Who is this really? Is this Jack, you shithead?”

A whispery laugh: “Nope, it’s me, old Charlie Pope.”

Ignace had a notebook and a pencil out: “Okay, old Charlie Pope. Tell me something about the murders that wasn’t in the newspaper.”

A pause, then, “Wasn’t in the newspapers that I cut Adam Rice’s dick off.”

“What?”

“I cut his dick off,” the whisperer said. “You didn’t put that in the paper.”

“The cops haven’t said anything about that-I don’t believe it happened.”

“Believe it, Ruffe.” The whisper turned cold, ragged.

“We didn’t say what you killed the kid with. What’d you kill him with?”

“He come down the stairs in his pajamas. I didn’t even know he was up there until he started running. There was an aluminum baseball bat in the corner and when the kid went running into the kitchen, I picked up the bat and caught him right by the door and whacked him. Then I went back and finished with Daddy.”

The ring of truth pushed Ignace back in his chair. “With a baseball bat.”

“That’s right. When I got outside, I wiped it down with Adam Rice’s undershirt, so it wouldn’t have no fingerprints on it. That’s before I knew they were gonna pick up on me so fast. I threw it into that field of whatever-it-is off to the side of the farmhouse. Right by the driveway going up the hill.”

“I’m going to check that.”

“Check your ass off, Ruffe. By the way, you got something wrong in your story. I didn’t have a straight razor to cut their throats. I used a box cutter. But. As soon as you wrote about the straight razor, I got a hard-on. I said, I gotta get me one of those things. Now I got one. Got an old leather strop to sharpen it up, and I’m learning how to do that. Next guy I do, I’m gonna do with the razor.”

“Jesus Christ.” Ignace swallowed.

“He’s not here. It’s just me, old Charlie Pope.”

“You gotta. . let me, Jesus Christ.” Ignace was flabbergasted. He’d never been at a loss for words, and now he floundering. “Are you. . why did you. . uh. .”

“What do I want?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Mostly I just want to talk to somebody. I liked your story. And I tell you, I got this goddamn woman is driving me crazy. I don’t know what to do about her. I don’t want her to stop, but every time she starts to howl, I see blood. I want to take her, but. . then she’d be gone. I like it when she starts to howl. I mean, she does me up like nothin’ I’ve ever felt before. You know what I mean?”

“Not exactly.” Ignace was scribbling like mad, taking it all down in shorthand. “Are you saying that you can’t decide what you’re going to do? I mean, Jesus Christ, don’t hurt her. I mean how can you. .”

“How can I do it?” The whispery laugh again, like a ripple of paper: “Because it feels good. I just ain’t right, Ruffe. My head is fucked up. I know that. Everybody knows that. But what everybody doesn’t know is how good it feels. .”

“Jeez. .”

“Hey, you ever see any of those terrorist guys on TV? Cuttin’ somebody’s head off or something? Everybody says it’s because they’re Moslems or something. I know better-I can tell by looking at them. They like it. They’re having a good old time. That’s what gets their rocks off-it ain’t Mohammed. They like killing people. They’re like me. They’re like lots of us. And if you look at it that way, how many people are like us, it’s really pretty normal.”

Ignace was calculating now. Didn’t Jimmy Breslin have something to do with the.44-caliber killer, the Son of Sam? Didn’t he get more famous because of it? “Look: if you come in, I can cut a deal for you. I could cut a deal that would get you nothing but treatment. .”

“Uh-uh. I ain’t coming in, Ruffe. Never. I had treatment, remember? That fuckin’ treatment. . anyway, ain’t you gonna ask me what I’m gonna do next?”

“Okay. What’re you gonna do next?” Ignace was taking it all down in Gregg, word for word, trying to get it precisely right, every ain’t and nothin’ with a dropped g.

“I’m gonna hunt somebody down. Gonna take her out someplace, I’m gonna give her a head start, and then I’m gonna hunt her down. A woman this time. Take her out to the Boundary Waters, strip her out of her clothes, then turn her loose and watch her run. Give her a hope. A forlorn hope.”

Ignace could feel the skin tighten at the back of his neck: there was no longer a question in his mind-he was talking to Charlie Pope.

“But what’s all this bulls. . What’s all this stuff about hunting people? I mean, I’m sorry, but. .”

“That’s nuts.” The whispery laugh again: “Of course it is. I am nuts. You seem to have a hard time getting over that. Write it down: N-U-T-S. The state says I’m nuts, and I’m nuts. What’d they think I was gonna do, lift garbage cans all the rest of my life? Fuck ’em.” He laughed then, his ragged voice sounding as though a piece of paper were being torn through.

Ignace was writing frantically. “How did this get started? You never. . I mean, your reputation wasn’t for this kind of thing.”

“There were some Gods Down the Hall from me, at St. John’s. They made me see how much like God you can get to be, if you got the balls to go out and do it. I talked to them and they talked to me, and I can still hear their voices. They were right: it’s just like being God.”

“How are you staying ahead of the police?” A woman from the desk walked up, a piece of paper in her hand, and Ignace waved her away. She said, “We need. .”

Ignace said into the phone, “Hang on just a second,” turned to the woman and barked, “Go away. Go away.”

She persisted. “We need. .”

“Go the fuck away,” he shouted and, as she stepped backward, he went to the phone again. “I’m back.”

“Little trouble there, Ruffe?”

“I’m the night guy; they want me to do some horseshit. Listen, how’d you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t. I just kept calling your line every couple hours, until you answered.”

“I can’t hear you very well. .”

Louder: “I said, I kept calling your line every couple of hours. . that damn Rice tried to kick me, caught me one in the throat, I think he fucked me up. I can’t hardly eat nothin’.”

“You’re hurt?”

“Yeah, I’m hurt. Nobody said this was gonna be easy,” the whisperer said. “You can’t believe the shit I go through. I gotta plan, I gotta find the right person. I’m already watching two or three of these chicks, now I gotta decide which one to take. There are a lot of angles to figure out. You know, how much will they fight, will there be anybody around who might jump in to help them, maybe they got a gun, there’s all kinds of shit to figure out. Makes my head hurt. Hard work. But I’m gonna do it soon. Maybe tomorrow, maybe the next day.”

“What do you. .”

“I gotta go. I can see a cop car on the next street. I don’t want him looking at me. Maybe I’ll call again, after I do the next one.”

“Wait, wait. If you’d like to talk to a doctor, or a lawyer. .”

The whispery laughter, then, “Too late for that. But I do got one more thing for you, a message for the cops. I ain’t gonna quit. I’m gonna do twenty or thirty of them if I can. If they catch me, they better be ready for a fight, because I got me some guns and I know how to use them. They fucked with me all my life. Now I’m gonna fuck with everybody. I’m not going back to St. John’s. I’m not coming in alive.”